“And still to love, though pressed with ill,In wintry age to feel no chill,With me is to be lovely still.”On the last evening, when his long life of fourscore years and eight was almost at its lowest ebb, the love for his fellow-men that had thrown a radiance on his whole life was not dim, nor was the natural force of his mind abated. “I shall sadly miss,” his son recorded in his journal, “his warm and intelligent sympathy. Nothing was so acceptable to him, even up to the time of my visiting him last night, as an account of any improvements in progress in the Post-office.” A few days earlier he had exclaimed that he could not have believed that a death-bed could be so pleasant. He knew nothing of that melancholy state when life becomes a burthen and death remains a dread. Much of his happiness arose, he said, from his full confidence in the benevolence of the Creator. He composed the following lines:—ASPIRATIONS ON A DEATH-BED, ON THE PATIENT’S WINDOW BEING OPENED.Aura veni.“Come, gentle breeze, come, air divine,Comfort this drooping heart of mine!Ah! solace flows with heaven’s own breath,Which cheers my soul that sank in death.The works of God all speak His praise;To Him eternal anthems raise;This air of heavenly love’s a token,Let pensive musing now be broken,Prayer for far greater boons be spoken.God, couldst Thou find my soul a placeWithin the realms of boundless grace—The humblest post among the ranksOf those that give Thee endless thanks—Then would my leaping powers rejoiceTo sing Thy name with heart and voice;Then toil my character to rear,By following Thy commands on purer, loftier sphere.And may I rest my humble frameOn Love supreme, which crowns Thy name.”“His last parting with this world was to take one by one the hand of each of his children, and, after placing it near his heart, to kiss it, and point upwards with a radiant expression of intense love and happiness.”Much as Rowland Hill owed to his father, he owed scarcely less to his mother. She, though the inferior of her husband in quick intelligence and originality, was his superior in shrewd common sense and in firmness of purpose. She was as practical as he was theoretical, and as cautious as he was rash. To his father Rowland owed his largeness of view and hisboldness of conception. But it was his mother from whom he derived his caution, his patience, and his unwearying prudence. Had he not had such a father, he would not have devised his plan of Penny Postage. Had he not had such a mother, he would not have succeeded in making what seemed the scheme of an enthusiast a complete and acknowledged success. He was never weary in his old age of sounding her praises, and acknowledging how much he owed to her. He could scarcely speak of her without the tears starting into his eyes, while his utterances, broken through strong emotion, could hardly discharge the fulness of his heart. The last record that I have of my conversations with him ends with her praises. “My mother was,” he said, “a most admirable woman in every respect. She had great natural intellect. She had a willingness to exert herself for the good of her family, and she did exert herself beyond her powers.” My record thus ends:—“Here he became so affected that I thought a longer talk might be hurtful to him, and so I came away.”SARAH HILL.(MOTHER OF SIR ROWLAND HILL.)Her husband was no less mindful of her high merits. “Her children arise up, and call her blessed;—her husband also, and he praiseth her.” After her death he more than once told his daughter that the only merit he claimed in bringing up his family was that of letting their mother do exactly as she liked. “It was to her influence—an influence of the most beneficial kind—that he attributed the merit of their becoming good and useful members of society.” “As a theme for eloquence,” he one day wrote to one of his sons, “you may sound the trumpet of past success and long experience in yourtranscendentmother.” “She was,” said her daughter, “a large-hearted woman, taking upon herself all duties that lay within her reach, whether properly belongingto her or not.” To her great courage her son thus bears testimony:—“Many instances fell under my own observation, but the one I mention was of earlier date. Happening to be present when, in the midst of a violent thunderstorm, an imperious mistress ordered her terrified maidservant to go and take down the clothes that were hanging out to dry, my mother at once volunteered for the service, and performed it in full, though not without imminent risk of her life; for before she could regain the house a tree, from which she had detached one of the lines, was struck by lightning.”[16]She had been as a mere child the most dutiful of daughters. She was the most devoted and unselfish of wives and mothers. Yet by strangers all her merits were not quickly seen. Her warm heart was hidden beneath cold and reserved manners. Outsiders were astonished at the extraordinary degree of affection that her children felt for her. Some of this coldness of manner, and all the hidden warmth of heart were inherited from her by her famous son. She had had but a small chance of getting much book-learning, yet she took a strong interest in her husband’s studies and pursuits. Her son said that she possessed remarkable sagacity and no small readiness in contrivance. It was not, however, by inventiveness or by originality that she was distinguished. In those qualities her husband was strong. She was strong where he was weak. If he had every sense but common sense, she had common sense in a high degree. She had with it an unusual strength of character—a strength that made itself none the less felt because it was quiet. “We must not forget,” wrote one of her sons to his brother, when the death of her youngest child was looked for, and they were alldreading the terrible blank that would arise, “we must not forget that mother is not an ordinary woman—her powers of self-control and conformity to existing circumstances are unusually great.” She was not wanting in honest ambition. She did not, indeed, look for any high position for her sons. She smiled incredulously when one of her boys told her that the day would come when she should ride in his carriage. But she was resolved that her children should not sink through poverty out of that middle class into which they were born. She was most anxious that they should have the advantages of that education which had never fallen to her lot. It was her doing that her husband left trade, for which he was but ill-fitted, and started a school. In the step that he thus took she saw the best means of getting their own children taught. She was unwearying in her efforts to add to her husband’s scanty income, and most rigid in her economy. She longed to provide for him and for her children that freedom of action which is only enjoyed by those who have freedom from debt. Her eldest son has thus recorded his recollections of her during the terrible year 1800, when he was but a child of eight years:—“Well do I remember that time of dearth, and even famine. As I was the eldest, my mother, in the absence of her husband, opened her heart now and then to me; and I knew how she lay in wakefulness, passing much of the night in little plans for ensuring food and clothing to her children by the exercise of the strictest parsimony. How she accomplished her task I know not; I cannot imagine; but certain it was that we never wanted either wholesome food or decent raiment, and were always looked upon by the poor of the neighbourhood as gentlefolk. Her achievement she regarded in after and more prosperous years with honest pride and gratulation. Nor was she less anxious for our instruction than for our physical comforts. She had but little reading, but possessed a quick and lively apprehension and natural good taste. She was clever at figures, working by mental arithmetic; not pursuing rules, butacting on her natural sagacity. She was honourable and high-minded, and had a great contempt for the unreal in religion, morals, or manners; shabby gentility and dirt, especially when concealed, excited her disapprobation. In her youth she was comely, not to say handsome. I remember her, fair-haired and fair-complexioned. She was the tenderest of parents.”Her merits as the mistress of a household were thus summed up by Rowland Hill. “I scarcely think there ever was a woman out of France who could make so much out of so little.”The husband and wife each supplied in character that in which the other was wanting. In Rowland was seen a remarkable combination of the strong qualities of each parent. His father, however, had a two-fold influence on his character. Almost as much as he nourished his intellect and one side of his moral nature by sympathy, so he increased another side by the strong feeling of antipathy that he unconsciously raised. The son was shocked with his father’s want both of method and steady persistence, with the easy way in which he often set on one side matters that troubled him, and with the complacency with which he still regarded his theories, however much they were buffeted and bruised by practice. Here Rowland set before him his mother’s best qualities. He had, indeed, received them in large measure from nature, but he cultivated them from his earliest youth with a steadiness that never fell off or wearied. He went, perhaps, into the opposite extreme of that which he shunned, and gained a certain rigidity of character which at times appeared to be excessive.I have seen a letter from his mother’s brother, Bailie Lea, written years ago to one of his nieces, in which he recalls, he says, “times, some seventy years ago, longbefore any of you were born.” He describes with some humour how he had helped young Tom Hill in his courtship. He adds, “The happy hour began to draw nigh, the gown was bought, made, and fitted on; the knot tied, the work was done, and it speaks for itself in every quarter of the globe.” With honest and just pride in his sister, the old man adds, “But Tom Hill could not have accomplished the half of what appears with any other woman for a wife than Sally Lea.” Certainly Rowland Hill always believed that he himself could not have accomplished the half of what he did had he not had such a mother. I know not whether my grandfather had any rivals. A charming story that is told of his old age leads me to think that he must have had at least one. His wife, when they had been married close on fifty years, one day called him, with a Birmingham plainness of speech, “An old fool!” A child who was staying in the house overheard him, as he left the room and slowly went up the stairs, muttering to himself, “Humph! she called me an old fool—an old fool!” Then he stopped, and was silent for a few moments, till suddenly rubbing his hands together, he exclaimed, “A lucky dog I was to get her, though!” His memory had carried him back full fifty years, before the ring was bought and the gown made, when young Tom Hill had still to win the heart and hand of Sarah Lea. A few years after her death he was one day missing. Some hours passed by, and nothing could be heard of the aged man who numbered now his fourscore years and four. At length he was seen trudging slowly homewards. He had gone on foot full five miles to his wife’s grave, and on foot he was making his way back.His marriage had been delayed for a short timeby the riots in which the chapels of the dissenters, and many of their houses, were burnt to the ground by a brutal Church-and-King mob. With several of his companions he had hurried off to defend the house of their revered pastor, but their services were unhappily declined. Priestley declared that it was the duty of a Christian minister to submit to persecution. The rest of the story of this eventful scene I shall tell in the words of his eldest son:—“His companions went away, perhaps to escort their good pastor and his family, whose lives would not have been secure against the ruffians coming to demolish their home and property. My father barred the doors, closed the shutters, made fast the house as securely as he could against the expected rioters, and then awaited their arrival. He has often described to me how he walked to and fro in the darkened rooms, chafing under the restriction which had been put on him and his friends. He was present when the mob broke in, and witnessed the plunder and destruction, and the incendiary fire by which the outrage was consummated. Lingering near the house, he saw a working man fill his apron with shoes, with which he made off. My father followed him, and, as soon as the thief was alone, collared him, and dragged him to the gaol, where he had the mortification to witness the man quietly relieved of his booty, and then suffered to depart, the keeper informing my father that he had had orders to take in no prisoners that night! The mob, which had begun by attacking dissenters as public enemies, burning down their chapels and their houses, and making spoil of their goods, soon expanded their views, and gave unmistakable signs that the distinction between dissenter and churchman had had its hour, and was to be superseded in favour of the doctrine now so well known, ‘La propriété, c’est un vol.’ When matters came to this pass the magistrates swore-in special constables. My father was one of this body; and, like his comrades, compendiously armed with half a mop-stick by way of truncheon, he marched with them to the defence of Baskerville House, in Birmingham, which was under attack by the mob. The special constables at first drove all before them, in spite of the immense disparity of numbers; but after a time, becoming separated in themêlée, they sustained a total defeat. Some were very severely bruised, and one died of the injuries which he received in the fight. My father, although notconscious at the time of having received a blow, could not the next morning raise his arm. He was always of opinion that if they had had a flag, or some signal of that kind, round which they could have rallied, the fortune of the day would have been reversed.”The blow that he had received was at all events so severe that his marriage had to be put off for a fortnight. For three or four years the young couple lived at Birmingham.[17]They then removed to Kidderminster, where Rowland was born in the freehold house that had belonged to three generations of his family.[18]It was not, however, to remain long in his father’s hands. The French war ruined the manufacture in which he had engaged, and in the great straits to which he was before long reduced, he was able to retain nothing of his small inheritance. He left Kidderminster, and removed to Wolverhampton, where he found employment. His salary however was so small that it was only by means of the severest thrift that he managed to keep his head above water. It was in the stern school of poverty that Rowland was brought up from his earliest years. Like Garrick, he was “bred in a family whose study was to make four pence do as much as others made four pence half-penny do.”THE BIRTH-PLACE OF SIR ROWLAND HILL, KIDDERMINSTER.His father had taken an old farm-house, called Horsehills, that stood about a mile from Wolverhampton. It had long been empty, and the rent was so low that at first it excited his suspicions. It was not till he had signed the lease that he was informed that the house was haunted. He cared much about a low rent, and nothing about ghosts. On such terms he would have been only too glad to find a haunted house each time he changed his place of abode. He lived here till Rowland was seven years old. When the child had become a man of eighty he put on record many of the memories that he still retained of this home of his early days. Here it was that they were living during the terrible dearth of 1800, of which for many a year, men, he says, could hardly talk without a shudder. He could remember how one day during this famine when they were dining on bread and butter and lettuce, a beggar came to the door. His mother took from the dish one of the slices and sent it to the man. He refused it because there was not butter enough for him. The half-starved people took to plundering the fields of the potatoes, and the owners, in order to secure them, set about to dig them up and store them. Late rains, moreover, had followed the hot weather, and the roots had begun to sprout. Rowland writes, “I remember that when our crop of late potatoes was dug up, we children were set to spread them over the floor of the only room that could be spared. It was one of the parlours.” Likely enough they were thus brought into the house as a safer place against the rioters than any outhouse. Bread riots broke out. Most of the judges declaimed on the winter circuits against the forestallers. “A violent clamour was excited against corn-dealers and farmers,which being joined in by the mob, artificial scarcity became the cry. Farmers were threatened, and their barns and ricks in many places were set on fire.”[19]One band of rioters came to Horsehills, thinking no doubt that, as it was a farm-house, the occupier was a farmer. “The house was entered, and a demand made for bread; but the poor fellows, hungry as they doubtless were, listened to explanations; and upon one of them saying, ‘Oh, come away; look at the missis how bad her (she) looks,’ they all quietly withdrew.” I have heard my father say that so terrible had been the dearth, and so painful were the memories it raised, that they had all come to look upon bread as something holy. Once, when a mere child, he had seen a play-fellow wantonly waste a piece of bread by throwing it about. He was seized with alarm lest some terrible judgment from Heaven should come, not only upon the one guilty person, but upon all who were in his company. He feared lest the roof might fall down upon them. It may have been during this time of famine that Rowland, for the first time in his life, and perhaps for the last time, wished to go into debt. He was one day telling me how slowly and painfully he had, in his boyhood, saved up his money in order to buy useful articles of which he stood in need. I asked him whether he had never been tempted by the pastrycook. “No,” he answered; but yet, he added with a smile, according to a story that was told of him, he once had been. He had gone, when a very little child, to a woman who kept a stall in Wolverhampton market-place, and had asked her to let him have a half-penny-worth of sweets on trust. When she refused, he then begged her to lend him a half-penny, with which he would buy the sweets.One adventure in these days of his childhood impressed itself most deeply on his memory. His father, who had gone one day on business to a town some miles off, was very late in returning. His mother became uneasy, and set off quite alone to meet her husband. Soon after she had started, he returned, but though he had come by the way along which she had gone, he had not met her. He in his turn was full of alarm. He sent off his eldest boy, a lad of nine, in one direction. The two next boys, Edwin and Rowland, who were at most eight and six years old, he bade go by one road to Wolverhampton, and come back by another. He himself took a third way. The boys set out, not indeed without fear, but nevertheless “with a conviction that the work must be done.” The two younger lads had first to go along a dark lane. They then came to a spot where, underneath the cross-ways, there lay buried, as they knew, the body of a lad who had ended his life with his own hand. The place was known as Dead Boy’s Grave. Next they had to pass near the brink of a gravel pit, “to them an awful chasm, which they shuddered by as they could.” At length they made their round, and not far off midnight, as Rowland believed, reached home. There to their great joy they found the rest gathered together. The eldest boy, who had been alone, though a lad of great courage, had suffered not a little from fear. Neither he, nor his father, had met the mother, who reached home before them. As she had been going along the lane, she had been alarmed, she said, by a man who started up on the other side of the hedge. In her fright she had cleared the opposite fence at a bound, and had made her way home over the fields. The next day her husband went with her to the spot, but though he was an active and muscularman, he failed to make in his strength the leap which she had made in the terror which comes from weakness.Rowland Hill was fond of talking in his old age of his childhood, of which he retained a very clear memory. He remembered how one day in the autumn of 1801, his brothers came back from school with the news that the mail coach had driven into Wolverhampton decked with blue ribbons. Tidings had just arrived of peace with France.[20]The whole country was in a blaze with bonfires and illuminations. Rowland and his brothers, when it grew dark, set fire to the stump of an old tree, and so bore their part in the general rejoicings. When war broke out again with France he was living in Birmingham. “Old Boney,” became the terror of all English children, as “Malbrook,” a hundred years before, had been the terror of all French children. Within half-a-mile of his father’s house, “the forging of gun-barrels was almost incessant, beginning each day long before dawn, and continuing long after nightfall; the noise of the hammers being drowned ever and anon by the rattle from the proof-house.” Their own house each time felt the shock, and his mother’s brewings of beer were injured by the constant jars. On the open ground in front of the house, one division of the Birmingham Volunteers was drilled each Sunday morning. Sunday drilling, in this season of alarms, went on throughout the length and breadth of the land. The press-gang now and then came so far as this inland town. He could remember the alarm they caused him and his brothers. They were fearful not so much for themselves as for their father.One day a captured French gun-boat was draggedinto Birmingham, and shown at a small charge. Hitherto he had seen no vessel bigger than a coal barge. For the first time he saw a real anchor and ship guns. As he returned home with his brothers, they talked over the loss of the Royal George, and other “moving accidents by flood.” He could “well remember the mingled joy and grief at the great, but dearly-bought, victory of Trafalgar.” The following verses of a rude ballad that was sung in the streets remained fixed in his memory:—“On the nineteenth[21]of October,Eighteen hundred and five,We took from the French and SpaniardsA most glorious prize.“We fought for full four hours,With thundering cannon balls;But the death of gallant NelsonWas by a musket ball.“Britannia and her heroesWill long bemoan their loss;For he was as brave an Admiral,As e’er the ocean crossed.”Other memories of his carried back those who heard him talk in his latter years to a state of life that was very unlike the present. The baker who supplied them with bread kept his reckoning by tallies. Their milk-woman had just such another score as that which was presented to Hogarth’s Distressed Poet. A travelling tailor used to come his rounds, and, in accordance with the common custom, live in their house while he was making clothes for the family. In every show of feats of horsemanship, the performance always ended with the burlesque of the Tailor riding to Brentford to votefor John Wilkes. Whenever any disaster came upon the country, there were still found old people who solemnly shook their heads, and gravely pointed it out as another instance of the divine wrath for the great sin that the nation had committed when it made the change of style.The changes that he saw in the currency were very great. In his early childhood, gold pieces—guineas, half guineas, and seven shilling bits,—were not uncommon, but they began to disappear, and before long were scarcely ever seen. When one did come to hand, it was called a stranger. About the year 1813, one of his brothers sold a guinea for a one pound note and eight shillings in silver. As the gold began to be hoarded, these one pound notes took their place. Bank of England notes were in Birmingham looked upon with suspicion, for they were more often forged than provincial notes. The silver coins of the realm were so well worn, that hardly any of them bore even a trace of an effigy or legend. “Any that were still unworn were called pretty shillings and the like,” and were suspected by the lower class of dealers as something irregular. Together with the state currency, tokens circulated to a great extent. There were Bank of England tokens, of the value of five shillings, three shillings, and one shilling and sixpence. The parish of Birmingham had its notes for one pound, and five shillings, and its workhouse shilling, as the coin was called. It had been issued by the guardians as a convenient means of distributing out-of-door relief. All these coins and tokens were more or less forged. The coins of the realm stood lowest in point of security, then the Bank of England tokens; while the parish tokens were hardly ever imitated, and were everywhere received with confidence. Forgery was constantly carried on. One daring and notorious forger and coiner, named Booth, longdefied the police. His house stood in the midst of an open plain, some miles from Birmingham, and was very strongly barricaded. The officers had more than once forced an entry; but so careful had been his watch, that, by the time they had been able to break in, all proofs of his crime had been destroyed. Rowland Hill had seen him riding into town, on his way to the rolling-mills, with the metal in his saddle-bags. The boy took more than a common interest in the man, as in this very rolling-mill one of his own brothers was employed. One day the messenger whom Booth had sent with the metal had forgotten to bring a pattern. “Taking out a three-shilling piece, the man inserted it in one slit after another of the gauge, until he found the one which exactly corresponded with its thickness, and this he gave as the guide.” His long freedom from punishment rendered the coiner careless, and he was at last surprised. The whole Birmingham police force was mustered, and a troop of dragoons was got from the barracks. A ladder had been brought, and an entrance was made through the tiling of the roof. It seemed as if they were once more too late, for at first nothing could be found. One of the “runners,” however, in mounting the ladder, had through the bars of an upper window seen Booth hurriedly thrusting papers, that no doubt were forged notes, into the fire. A hole was broken into the chimney, and in it were found one whole note, and one partly burnt. The prisoners were taken to Birmingham, and thence were sent by the magistrates to Stafford, under the guard of a small body of horse. Booth was hanged.It is scarcely wonderful that criminals openly defied the laws, for the police-force of Birmingham was very small. The town contained in the early years of this century about seventy thousand inhabitants. Yet thewhole police-force for day duty consisted of less than twenty men. By night, guard was kept by the usual body of “ancient and most quiet watchmen.” The town, moreover, like all other towns, was but dimly lighted with its oil-lamps. Rowland was about seventeen years old when, “with almost unbounded delight, I first saw,” he writes, “streets illuminated by gas.” Yet the peace was, on the whole, not ill kept. From 1803 to 1833 there were but three riots, and of these only one was at all serious. The town had not even in those days a Recorder, and the criminals were sent to the Assizes at Warwick. The stage-coaches, as Rowland well remembered, were all furnished with strong staples, to which the fetters of prisoners were fast locked. He had himself, when he was still a little lad, sat on the coach beside a man thus fettered. The fellow made light of his position. “He had,” he said, “only robbed a hen-roost, and they couldn’t touch his neck for that.” Some idle gossip, seeing Rowland thus sitting by the thief, at once spread the report that the boy on the coach was going to Warwick on the charge of robbing his master.I have been carried away in my narrative not a little distance from the quiet home in the neighbourhood of Wolverhampton. The old farm-house was endeared to Rowland Hill by one memory, for here it was that he first met with his future wife. Her father, Mr. Joseph Pearson, was a manufacturer of Wolverhampton. “I regarded him throughout life,” said his son-in-law, “with esteem and affection. He was in the town, near to which he resided, the recognised leader of the Liberal party, and, at a later period, when the town became enfranchised, was the standing Chairman of the Committee for returning the Liberal candidate. He had always been a staunch Liberal, to usethe modern term, and I doubt not was regarded by his Tory neighbours as a Jacobin; for so all were held who either preferred Fox to Pitt, or ventured to question the justice or necessity of the war of 1793. I have been told that during the course of that war he once took part in a meeting held in the market-place of the town to petition for peace, when cannon, brought out in apprehension, or feigned apprehension, of a tumult, stood pointed at the assembly.” He had once, when a young man, during his year of office as constable of the borough, faced a mob of colliers bent on bull-baiting. He pulled up the stake, and put a stop for that day to the sport. About the same time Basil Montagu had to flee for his life from a country town, where he, too, had spoilt sport by saving an innocent man from the gallows. Mr. Pearson took great pleasure in Thomas Hill’s society. In social position he was, indeed, above him, for he was a man of considerable property, and a magistrate for the county. In Mrs. Hill’s rice-puddings, in the making of which she was “a notable woman,” and in her husband’s talk, he found, however, enough to satisfy him.Rowland was but a year older than Mr. Pearson’s eldest daughter. The beginning of his courtship he has himself told in the following words:—“Mr. Pearson’s visit led to intimacy between the families, especially as regards the children; and as his eldest daughter had attained the age of five, while I was no more advanced than six, the two were naturally thrown much together, and, in fact, took the first step towards that intimacy and affection which some twenty-five years later were cemented by marriage. One whimsical little passage in these earliest days I must record. Under the high road, in the part nearest to my father’s house, ran what is in the midland counties called a culver (that is a long low arch), placed there for the passage of the rivulet, which turned my little water-wheel. Into this culver my brother and I occasionally crept by way of adventure,and at times to hear the noise of a wagon as it rumbled slowly overhead. Into this ‘cool grot and mossy cell’ I once led my new companion, both of us necessarily bending almost double; and I cannot but look back upon the proceeding as probably our earliest instance of close association and mutual confidence. Many years later we revisited the spot together, but found the passage completely silted up, so as to be inaccessible to future wooers, however diminutive.”At the age of three or four, Rowland was nearly carried off by the scarlet fever. So ill he was that for a short while his father and mother thought that he had ceased to breathe. The attack left him weak for some years. “I have never overcome,” he wrote in his eighteenth year, “and most probably never shall quite overcome, the effects of that illness. Ever since I can remember I have suffered much from sickness.” He had to pass many hours of every day lying on his back. He used to beguile the time by counting. He assisted himself, as he said, by a kind of topical memory. “My practice was to count a certain number, generally a hundred, with my eye fixed on one definite place, as a panel of the door, or a pane in the window, and afterwards, by counting-up the points, to ascertain the total.” He here first showed that love of calculation which so highly distinguished him in after life. His health remained so feeble that he had passed his seventh birthday before he was taught his letters. Backward though he was in book-learning, he was really a forward child. At the age of five he had made himself a small water-wheel, rude enough no doubt. Yet it worked with briskness in a little stream near his father’s house. A water-wheel had always a great charm for him. He had been taken to see one before he was three years old, and he used to cry to be taken to see it again. When he was an old man he would go miles out of his way to see one at work. The yearafter he made his wheel, when he was now six, he and his brother Edwin, a boy of eight, built themselves a small model-forge of brick and mortar. The wheel was about two feet and a-half across, and was pretty fairly shaped. It was turned by a stream from the spout of the pump. The axle, which they made out of the stem of a cherry-tree, cost them a good deal of trouble:—“We attempted to connect our machinery by means of a crank with the handle of the pump, expecting that if we once gave it a start the water would turn the wheel, while this would not only work the forge, but also maintain, by its operation on the pump, the stream necessary to its own movement. In short, we looked for a perpetual motion, and were greatly disappointed to find motion at an end as soon as our own hands were withdrawn from the pump. When we mentioned our perplexity to my father, after informing us that our attempt was hopeless, and giving us such explanation as we could understand, he consoled us under our discomfiture by telling us that many persons, much older and wiser than ourselves, had expended time, labour, and money, in the same fruitless quest.”[22]A few years after this his father himself came across one of these dreamers. He was taken by a friend to see a machine for producing perpetual motion. The inventor boasted of his success. “There,” he said, “the machine is.” “Does it go?” the visitor asked. “No, it does not go, but I will defy all the world to showwhyit does not go.”The lads happily had a fair supply of tools. Their father, in his boyhood, had been fond of using them, and had kept some of them so carefully that they were quite serviceable for his sons. In three old looms that had belonged to their grandfather they found an abundant supply of materials.Their life at Horsehills, if somewhat hard, was farfrom being unhappy. A few years after they had left the neighbourhood, Rowland and his elder brothers passed through Wolverhampton on the top of a stagecoach. At a certain point of the road the three boys stood up in order to get a glimpse of their old home. A gentleman seated by them, on learning what they were gazing at, said, “to our no small gratification,” as Rowland remembered, “that we must have been good lads when we lived there, since we were so fond of the place.”CHAPTER II.When Rowland Hill was seven years old a great change took place in the family life. His mother had always thought very highly of her husband’s powers and learning. She knew that he was fit for some higher kind of work than any he had hitherto done. She longed, moreover, to procure for her children a better education than any that then seemed likely to be within their reach. One of their friends, Mr. Thomas Clark, kept a school in Birmingham, of which he was willing to dispose. He also had been a member of Dr. Priestley’s congregation, and in the midst of the riots had shown great courage. “Church and King” had been the cry of the mob, and “Church and King” chalked on the house-door was no small safeguard against its fury. Some friendly hand had written these words on the door of the schoolmaster’s house. As soon as he saw them he at once rubbed them out. With this brave and upright man Thomas Hill became in later years closely connected by marriage. His elder daughter married one of Mr. Clark’s sons. Mrs. Hill persuaded her husband to give up his business in Wolverhampton, and to buy the school. They removed it to a convenient house called Hill Top, on the outskirts of Birmingham. Here Rowland passed the next sixteen years of his life. Here—“His parents, with their numerous offspring, dwelt,A virtuous household, though exceeding poor!Pure livers were they all, austere and grave.”The purchase-money must have been paid off by instalments. I have before me, as I write, a card of the terms. The charges were moderate. Day-scholars paid four guineas or five pounds a year, and boarders twenty guineas or twenty-five guineas, according to age. The address that the new schoolmaster published is somewhat curious. It is as follows:—ADDRESS.“T. Hill, sensible of the severe responsibility attached to the office of a public preceptor, resolves, if entrusted with that charge, to devote himself to the duties of it with assiduity, perseverance, and concentrated attention, as indispensable to reputation and success. To ensure the co-operation of his pupils, he will make it his study to excite their reasoning powers, and to induce in them habits of voluntary application; for this purpose, varying the ordinary course of instruction, and, as occasion shall offer, drawing their attention to subjects more particularly fitted to interest their feelings; he will always endeavour, by kindness and patience, firmness and impartiality to secure for himself their affection and esteem. And as he aspires to exhibit models of education, possessing higher excellencies than mechanical dexterity or mere intellectual acuteness; his anxious aim will be to make instruction in art and science, the culture of the understanding, and of the physical powers, subservient to the nobler intention of fostering and maturing the virtues of the heart.”Rowland was at once placed in the school, and thus at the age of seven his formal education began. His health still continued weak, and his studies were too often broken in upon by illness. He was fortunate enough, however, to find at his new home, in an outbuilding, a workshop, fitted with benches, a vice, and a blacksmith’s forge. “Here,” he said, “we spent much of our spare time, and most of our spare cash, which latter, however, was but very scanty.” The want of pence, indeed, often troubled him full sore. “Ever since I can remember,” as he wrote in a Journal which hebegan to keep in his eighteenth year, “I have had a taste for mechanics.... In works of the fingers I chiefly excel.” But the best mechanician wants materials, and materials cost money. One Good Friday morning he and his brother Matthew turned dealers. They had been sent with a basket to buy hot cross buns for the household. As they went along, the street-vendors were calling out, after the Birmingham fashion—“Hot cross buns! Hot cross buns!One a penny, two a penny, hot cross buns!Sugar ’em, and butter ’em, and clap ’em in your muns.”The two lads, as they came home, began in jest to repeat the cry. Matthew was an admirable mimic, and had caught it exactly. To their surprise they found themselves beset with purchasers. “Not having face enough to reject demands which we had provoked, perhaps not unwilling to carry on the jest, we soon emptied our basket, and had to return for more, deeming ourselves, however, well recompensed for the additional trouble by the profits arising from the difference between the wholesale price, at which we had been allowed to purchase, and the retail price at which we had sold.” The elder of these two lads the town, as years went on, received as its Recorder; to the younger it raised a statue in his life-time.This was not the first time that Rowland had turned dealer. Not long after his family had moved to Hill Top his mother gave him a little plot of land for his garden. It was covered with a crop of hoarhound. This he was going to clear away to make room for his flowers, but he was told that it had a money value. “I cut it properly, tied it up in bundles, and, borrowing a basket of my mother, set off one morning on amarket-day—Thursday, as I remember—with my younger brother Arthur as my sole companion, for the market-place of the town; and, taking my stand like any other caterer, soon disposed of my wares, receiving eightpence in return. Fortunately I was saved the tediousness of retail dealing, the contents of my basket being purchased in the gross by a woman who had taken her stand near, and who, I hope, cleared a hundred per cent. by the transaction, though she disparaged her bargain by warning me to tell my mother, ‘She must tie up bigger bunches next time.’”By the age of nine he had saved half-a-guinea, which he laid out on a box of colours. His first great purchase, however, was, as he told me, the volumes of Miss Edgeworth’s “Parent’s Assistant.” These cost him fifteen shillings. “Hers was a name which he could never mention but with gratitude and respect.” I once asked him what were the books that had chiefly formed his character. He answered that he thought he owed most to Miss Edgeworth’s stories. He read them first when he was about eight or nine years old, and he read them a great many times. He said, and the tears came into his eyes as he spoke, that he had resolved in these early days to be like the characters in her stories, and to do something for the world. “I had always had,” he said to me at another time, “a very strong desire to do something to make myself remembered.”“While yet a child, and long before his time,Had he perceived the presence and the powerOf greatness.”Most of his spare money was laid out, however, in the purchase of tools and materials. With such old wood as they could lay hands on, and such new wood as they could afford to buy, he and his brothers setabout building a flat-bottomed boat in which they meant to sail through the Birmingham and Worcester Canal into the Severn, and up the Severn to their uncle at Shrewsbury. They had no more misgivings about their scheme than Robinson Crusoe had about his escape from his island in his canoe. Yet there was certainly one great bar to their plan, of which, however, they knew nothing. The canal, at this time, had not been carried half-way to the Severn. They finished their boat, and, though it was found to be too frail for the canal, nevertheless it carried the bold voyagers across a horse-pond.In the occupations of the workshop, and even in his regular education, Rowland suffered interruption, not only from frequent attacks of illness, but also from the need that his father was under of employing his children part of each day in household work. He could not afford to keep many servants. While Rowland all his life regretted that he had been taken away from school at an early age, yet the hours that he had passed in the discharge of domestic duties he never looked upon as time misspent.
“And still to love, though pressed with ill,In wintry age to feel no chill,With me is to be lovely still.”
“And still to love, though pressed with ill,In wintry age to feel no chill,With me is to be lovely still.”
“And still to love, though pressed with ill,In wintry age to feel no chill,With me is to be lovely still.”
“And still to love, though pressed with ill,
In wintry age to feel no chill,
With me is to be lovely still.”
On the last evening, when his long life of fourscore years and eight was almost at its lowest ebb, the love for his fellow-men that had thrown a radiance on his whole life was not dim, nor was the natural force of his mind abated. “I shall sadly miss,” his son recorded in his journal, “his warm and intelligent sympathy. Nothing was so acceptable to him, even up to the time of my visiting him last night, as an account of any improvements in progress in the Post-office.” A few days earlier he had exclaimed that he could not have believed that a death-bed could be so pleasant. He knew nothing of that melancholy state when life becomes a burthen and death remains a dread. Much of his happiness arose, he said, from his full confidence in the benevolence of the Creator. He composed the following lines:—
ASPIRATIONS ON A DEATH-BED, ON THE PATIENT’S WINDOW BEING OPENED.Aura veni.“Come, gentle breeze, come, air divine,Comfort this drooping heart of mine!Ah! solace flows with heaven’s own breath,Which cheers my soul that sank in death.The works of God all speak His praise;To Him eternal anthems raise;This air of heavenly love’s a token,Let pensive musing now be broken,Prayer for far greater boons be spoken.God, couldst Thou find my soul a placeWithin the realms of boundless grace—The humblest post among the ranksOf those that give Thee endless thanks—Then would my leaping powers rejoiceTo sing Thy name with heart and voice;Then toil my character to rear,By following Thy commands on purer, loftier sphere.And may I rest my humble frameOn Love supreme, which crowns Thy name.”
ASPIRATIONS ON A DEATH-BED, ON THE PATIENT’S WINDOW BEING OPENED.
Aura veni.
“Come, gentle breeze, come, air divine,Comfort this drooping heart of mine!Ah! solace flows with heaven’s own breath,Which cheers my soul that sank in death.The works of God all speak His praise;To Him eternal anthems raise;This air of heavenly love’s a token,Let pensive musing now be broken,Prayer for far greater boons be spoken.God, couldst Thou find my soul a placeWithin the realms of boundless grace—The humblest post among the ranksOf those that give Thee endless thanks—Then would my leaping powers rejoiceTo sing Thy name with heart and voice;Then toil my character to rear,By following Thy commands on purer, loftier sphere.And may I rest my humble frameOn Love supreme, which crowns Thy name.”
“Come, gentle breeze, come, air divine,Comfort this drooping heart of mine!Ah! solace flows with heaven’s own breath,Which cheers my soul that sank in death.The works of God all speak His praise;To Him eternal anthems raise;This air of heavenly love’s a token,Let pensive musing now be broken,Prayer for far greater boons be spoken.God, couldst Thou find my soul a placeWithin the realms of boundless grace—The humblest post among the ranksOf those that give Thee endless thanks—Then would my leaping powers rejoiceTo sing Thy name with heart and voice;Then toil my character to rear,By following Thy commands on purer, loftier sphere.And may I rest my humble frameOn Love supreme, which crowns Thy name.”
“Come, gentle breeze, come, air divine,
Comfort this drooping heart of mine!
Ah! solace flows with heaven’s own breath,
Which cheers my soul that sank in death.
The works of God all speak His praise;
To Him eternal anthems raise;
This air of heavenly love’s a token,
Let pensive musing now be broken,
Prayer for far greater boons be spoken.
God, couldst Thou find my soul a place
Within the realms of boundless grace—
The humblest post among the ranks
Of those that give Thee endless thanks—
Then would my leaping powers rejoice
To sing Thy name with heart and voice;
Then toil my character to rear,
By following Thy commands on purer, loftier sphere.
And may I rest my humble frame
On Love supreme, which crowns Thy name.”
“His last parting with this world was to take one by one the hand of each of his children, and, after placing it near his heart, to kiss it, and point upwards with a radiant expression of intense love and happiness.”
Much as Rowland Hill owed to his father, he owed scarcely less to his mother. She, though the inferior of her husband in quick intelligence and originality, was his superior in shrewd common sense and in firmness of purpose. She was as practical as he was theoretical, and as cautious as he was rash. To his father Rowland owed his largeness of view and hisboldness of conception. But it was his mother from whom he derived his caution, his patience, and his unwearying prudence. Had he not had such a father, he would not have devised his plan of Penny Postage. Had he not had such a mother, he would not have succeeded in making what seemed the scheme of an enthusiast a complete and acknowledged success. He was never weary in his old age of sounding her praises, and acknowledging how much he owed to her. He could scarcely speak of her without the tears starting into his eyes, while his utterances, broken through strong emotion, could hardly discharge the fulness of his heart. The last record that I have of my conversations with him ends with her praises. “My mother was,” he said, “a most admirable woman in every respect. She had great natural intellect. She had a willingness to exert herself for the good of her family, and she did exert herself beyond her powers.” My record thus ends:—“Here he became so affected that I thought a longer talk might be hurtful to him, and so I came away.”
SARAH HILL.(MOTHER OF SIR ROWLAND HILL.)
SARAH HILL.
(MOTHER OF SIR ROWLAND HILL.)
Her husband was no less mindful of her high merits. “Her children arise up, and call her blessed;—her husband also, and he praiseth her.” After her death he more than once told his daughter that the only merit he claimed in bringing up his family was that of letting their mother do exactly as she liked. “It was to her influence—an influence of the most beneficial kind—that he attributed the merit of their becoming good and useful members of society.” “As a theme for eloquence,” he one day wrote to one of his sons, “you may sound the trumpet of past success and long experience in yourtranscendentmother.” “She was,” said her daughter, “a large-hearted woman, taking upon herself all duties that lay within her reach, whether properly belongingto her or not.” To her great courage her son thus bears testimony:—
“Many instances fell under my own observation, but the one I mention was of earlier date. Happening to be present when, in the midst of a violent thunderstorm, an imperious mistress ordered her terrified maidservant to go and take down the clothes that were hanging out to dry, my mother at once volunteered for the service, and performed it in full, though not without imminent risk of her life; for before she could regain the house a tree, from which she had detached one of the lines, was struck by lightning.”[16]
“Many instances fell under my own observation, but the one I mention was of earlier date. Happening to be present when, in the midst of a violent thunderstorm, an imperious mistress ordered her terrified maidservant to go and take down the clothes that were hanging out to dry, my mother at once volunteered for the service, and performed it in full, though not without imminent risk of her life; for before she could regain the house a tree, from which she had detached one of the lines, was struck by lightning.”[16]
She had been as a mere child the most dutiful of daughters. She was the most devoted and unselfish of wives and mothers. Yet by strangers all her merits were not quickly seen. Her warm heart was hidden beneath cold and reserved manners. Outsiders were astonished at the extraordinary degree of affection that her children felt for her. Some of this coldness of manner, and all the hidden warmth of heart were inherited from her by her famous son. She had had but a small chance of getting much book-learning, yet she took a strong interest in her husband’s studies and pursuits. Her son said that she possessed remarkable sagacity and no small readiness in contrivance. It was not, however, by inventiveness or by originality that she was distinguished. In those qualities her husband was strong. She was strong where he was weak. If he had every sense but common sense, she had common sense in a high degree. She had with it an unusual strength of character—a strength that made itself none the less felt because it was quiet. “We must not forget,” wrote one of her sons to his brother, when the death of her youngest child was looked for, and they were alldreading the terrible blank that would arise, “we must not forget that mother is not an ordinary woman—her powers of self-control and conformity to existing circumstances are unusually great.” She was not wanting in honest ambition. She did not, indeed, look for any high position for her sons. She smiled incredulously when one of her boys told her that the day would come when she should ride in his carriage. But she was resolved that her children should not sink through poverty out of that middle class into which they were born. She was most anxious that they should have the advantages of that education which had never fallen to her lot. It was her doing that her husband left trade, for which he was but ill-fitted, and started a school. In the step that he thus took she saw the best means of getting their own children taught. She was unwearying in her efforts to add to her husband’s scanty income, and most rigid in her economy. She longed to provide for him and for her children that freedom of action which is only enjoyed by those who have freedom from debt. Her eldest son has thus recorded his recollections of her during the terrible year 1800, when he was but a child of eight years:—
“Well do I remember that time of dearth, and even famine. As I was the eldest, my mother, in the absence of her husband, opened her heart now and then to me; and I knew how she lay in wakefulness, passing much of the night in little plans for ensuring food and clothing to her children by the exercise of the strictest parsimony. How she accomplished her task I know not; I cannot imagine; but certain it was that we never wanted either wholesome food or decent raiment, and were always looked upon by the poor of the neighbourhood as gentlefolk. Her achievement she regarded in after and more prosperous years with honest pride and gratulation. Nor was she less anxious for our instruction than for our physical comforts. She had but little reading, but possessed a quick and lively apprehension and natural good taste. She was clever at figures, working by mental arithmetic; not pursuing rules, butacting on her natural sagacity. She was honourable and high-minded, and had a great contempt for the unreal in religion, morals, or manners; shabby gentility and dirt, especially when concealed, excited her disapprobation. In her youth she was comely, not to say handsome. I remember her, fair-haired and fair-complexioned. She was the tenderest of parents.”
“Well do I remember that time of dearth, and even famine. As I was the eldest, my mother, in the absence of her husband, opened her heart now and then to me; and I knew how she lay in wakefulness, passing much of the night in little plans for ensuring food and clothing to her children by the exercise of the strictest parsimony. How she accomplished her task I know not; I cannot imagine; but certain it was that we never wanted either wholesome food or decent raiment, and were always looked upon by the poor of the neighbourhood as gentlefolk. Her achievement she regarded in after and more prosperous years with honest pride and gratulation. Nor was she less anxious for our instruction than for our physical comforts. She had but little reading, but possessed a quick and lively apprehension and natural good taste. She was clever at figures, working by mental arithmetic; not pursuing rules, butacting on her natural sagacity. She was honourable and high-minded, and had a great contempt for the unreal in religion, morals, or manners; shabby gentility and dirt, especially when concealed, excited her disapprobation. In her youth she was comely, not to say handsome. I remember her, fair-haired and fair-complexioned. She was the tenderest of parents.”
Her merits as the mistress of a household were thus summed up by Rowland Hill. “I scarcely think there ever was a woman out of France who could make so much out of so little.”
The husband and wife each supplied in character that in which the other was wanting. In Rowland was seen a remarkable combination of the strong qualities of each parent. His father, however, had a two-fold influence on his character. Almost as much as he nourished his intellect and one side of his moral nature by sympathy, so he increased another side by the strong feeling of antipathy that he unconsciously raised. The son was shocked with his father’s want both of method and steady persistence, with the easy way in which he often set on one side matters that troubled him, and with the complacency with which he still regarded his theories, however much they were buffeted and bruised by practice. Here Rowland set before him his mother’s best qualities. He had, indeed, received them in large measure from nature, but he cultivated them from his earliest youth with a steadiness that never fell off or wearied. He went, perhaps, into the opposite extreme of that which he shunned, and gained a certain rigidity of character which at times appeared to be excessive.
I have seen a letter from his mother’s brother, Bailie Lea, written years ago to one of his nieces, in which he recalls, he says, “times, some seventy years ago, longbefore any of you were born.” He describes with some humour how he had helped young Tom Hill in his courtship. He adds, “The happy hour began to draw nigh, the gown was bought, made, and fitted on; the knot tied, the work was done, and it speaks for itself in every quarter of the globe.” With honest and just pride in his sister, the old man adds, “But Tom Hill could not have accomplished the half of what appears with any other woman for a wife than Sally Lea.” Certainly Rowland Hill always believed that he himself could not have accomplished the half of what he did had he not had such a mother. I know not whether my grandfather had any rivals. A charming story that is told of his old age leads me to think that he must have had at least one. His wife, when they had been married close on fifty years, one day called him, with a Birmingham plainness of speech, “An old fool!” A child who was staying in the house overheard him, as he left the room and slowly went up the stairs, muttering to himself, “Humph! she called me an old fool—an old fool!” Then he stopped, and was silent for a few moments, till suddenly rubbing his hands together, he exclaimed, “A lucky dog I was to get her, though!” His memory had carried him back full fifty years, before the ring was bought and the gown made, when young Tom Hill had still to win the heart and hand of Sarah Lea. A few years after her death he was one day missing. Some hours passed by, and nothing could be heard of the aged man who numbered now his fourscore years and four. At length he was seen trudging slowly homewards. He had gone on foot full five miles to his wife’s grave, and on foot he was making his way back.
His marriage had been delayed for a short timeby the riots in which the chapels of the dissenters, and many of their houses, were burnt to the ground by a brutal Church-and-King mob. With several of his companions he had hurried off to defend the house of their revered pastor, but their services were unhappily declined. Priestley declared that it was the duty of a Christian minister to submit to persecution. The rest of the story of this eventful scene I shall tell in the words of his eldest son:—
“His companions went away, perhaps to escort their good pastor and his family, whose lives would not have been secure against the ruffians coming to demolish their home and property. My father barred the doors, closed the shutters, made fast the house as securely as he could against the expected rioters, and then awaited their arrival. He has often described to me how he walked to and fro in the darkened rooms, chafing under the restriction which had been put on him and his friends. He was present when the mob broke in, and witnessed the plunder and destruction, and the incendiary fire by which the outrage was consummated. Lingering near the house, he saw a working man fill his apron with shoes, with which he made off. My father followed him, and, as soon as the thief was alone, collared him, and dragged him to the gaol, where he had the mortification to witness the man quietly relieved of his booty, and then suffered to depart, the keeper informing my father that he had had orders to take in no prisoners that night! The mob, which had begun by attacking dissenters as public enemies, burning down their chapels and their houses, and making spoil of their goods, soon expanded their views, and gave unmistakable signs that the distinction between dissenter and churchman had had its hour, and was to be superseded in favour of the doctrine now so well known, ‘La propriété, c’est un vol.’ When matters came to this pass the magistrates swore-in special constables. My father was one of this body; and, like his comrades, compendiously armed with half a mop-stick by way of truncheon, he marched with them to the defence of Baskerville House, in Birmingham, which was under attack by the mob. The special constables at first drove all before them, in spite of the immense disparity of numbers; but after a time, becoming separated in themêlée, they sustained a total defeat. Some were very severely bruised, and one died of the injuries which he received in the fight. My father, although notconscious at the time of having received a blow, could not the next morning raise his arm. He was always of opinion that if they had had a flag, or some signal of that kind, round which they could have rallied, the fortune of the day would have been reversed.”
“His companions went away, perhaps to escort their good pastor and his family, whose lives would not have been secure against the ruffians coming to demolish their home and property. My father barred the doors, closed the shutters, made fast the house as securely as he could against the expected rioters, and then awaited their arrival. He has often described to me how he walked to and fro in the darkened rooms, chafing under the restriction which had been put on him and his friends. He was present when the mob broke in, and witnessed the plunder and destruction, and the incendiary fire by which the outrage was consummated. Lingering near the house, he saw a working man fill his apron with shoes, with which he made off. My father followed him, and, as soon as the thief was alone, collared him, and dragged him to the gaol, where he had the mortification to witness the man quietly relieved of his booty, and then suffered to depart, the keeper informing my father that he had had orders to take in no prisoners that night! The mob, which had begun by attacking dissenters as public enemies, burning down their chapels and their houses, and making spoil of their goods, soon expanded their views, and gave unmistakable signs that the distinction between dissenter and churchman had had its hour, and was to be superseded in favour of the doctrine now so well known, ‘La propriété, c’est un vol.’ When matters came to this pass the magistrates swore-in special constables. My father was one of this body; and, like his comrades, compendiously armed with half a mop-stick by way of truncheon, he marched with them to the defence of Baskerville House, in Birmingham, which was under attack by the mob. The special constables at first drove all before them, in spite of the immense disparity of numbers; but after a time, becoming separated in themêlée, they sustained a total defeat. Some were very severely bruised, and one died of the injuries which he received in the fight. My father, although notconscious at the time of having received a blow, could not the next morning raise his arm. He was always of opinion that if they had had a flag, or some signal of that kind, round which they could have rallied, the fortune of the day would have been reversed.”
The blow that he had received was at all events so severe that his marriage had to be put off for a fortnight. For three or four years the young couple lived at Birmingham.[17]They then removed to Kidderminster, where Rowland was born in the freehold house that had belonged to three generations of his family.[18]It was not, however, to remain long in his father’s hands. The French war ruined the manufacture in which he had engaged, and in the great straits to which he was before long reduced, he was able to retain nothing of his small inheritance. He left Kidderminster, and removed to Wolverhampton, where he found employment. His salary however was so small that it was only by means of the severest thrift that he managed to keep his head above water. It was in the stern school of poverty that Rowland was brought up from his earliest years. Like Garrick, he was “bred in a family whose study was to make four pence do as much as others made four pence half-penny do.”
THE BIRTH-PLACE OF SIR ROWLAND HILL, KIDDERMINSTER.
THE BIRTH-PLACE OF SIR ROWLAND HILL, KIDDERMINSTER.
His father had taken an old farm-house, called Horsehills, that stood about a mile from Wolverhampton. It had long been empty, and the rent was so low that at first it excited his suspicions. It was not till he had signed the lease that he was informed that the house was haunted. He cared much about a low rent, and nothing about ghosts. On such terms he would have been only too glad to find a haunted house each time he changed his place of abode. He lived here till Rowland was seven years old. When the child had become a man of eighty he put on record many of the memories that he still retained of this home of his early days. Here it was that they were living during the terrible dearth of 1800, of which for many a year, men, he says, could hardly talk without a shudder. He could remember how one day during this famine when they were dining on bread and butter and lettuce, a beggar came to the door. His mother took from the dish one of the slices and sent it to the man. He refused it because there was not butter enough for him. The half-starved people took to plundering the fields of the potatoes, and the owners, in order to secure them, set about to dig them up and store them. Late rains, moreover, had followed the hot weather, and the roots had begun to sprout. Rowland writes, “I remember that when our crop of late potatoes was dug up, we children were set to spread them over the floor of the only room that could be spared. It was one of the parlours.” Likely enough they were thus brought into the house as a safer place against the rioters than any outhouse. Bread riots broke out. Most of the judges declaimed on the winter circuits against the forestallers. “A violent clamour was excited against corn-dealers and farmers,which being joined in by the mob, artificial scarcity became the cry. Farmers were threatened, and their barns and ricks in many places were set on fire.”[19]One band of rioters came to Horsehills, thinking no doubt that, as it was a farm-house, the occupier was a farmer. “The house was entered, and a demand made for bread; but the poor fellows, hungry as they doubtless were, listened to explanations; and upon one of them saying, ‘Oh, come away; look at the missis how bad her (she) looks,’ they all quietly withdrew.” I have heard my father say that so terrible had been the dearth, and so painful were the memories it raised, that they had all come to look upon bread as something holy. Once, when a mere child, he had seen a play-fellow wantonly waste a piece of bread by throwing it about. He was seized with alarm lest some terrible judgment from Heaven should come, not only upon the one guilty person, but upon all who were in his company. He feared lest the roof might fall down upon them. It may have been during this time of famine that Rowland, for the first time in his life, and perhaps for the last time, wished to go into debt. He was one day telling me how slowly and painfully he had, in his boyhood, saved up his money in order to buy useful articles of which he stood in need. I asked him whether he had never been tempted by the pastrycook. “No,” he answered; but yet, he added with a smile, according to a story that was told of him, he once had been. He had gone, when a very little child, to a woman who kept a stall in Wolverhampton market-place, and had asked her to let him have a half-penny-worth of sweets on trust. When she refused, he then begged her to lend him a half-penny, with which he would buy the sweets.
One adventure in these days of his childhood impressed itself most deeply on his memory. His father, who had gone one day on business to a town some miles off, was very late in returning. His mother became uneasy, and set off quite alone to meet her husband. Soon after she had started, he returned, but though he had come by the way along which she had gone, he had not met her. He in his turn was full of alarm. He sent off his eldest boy, a lad of nine, in one direction. The two next boys, Edwin and Rowland, who were at most eight and six years old, he bade go by one road to Wolverhampton, and come back by another. He himself took a third way. The boys set out, not indeed without fear, but nevertheless “with a conviction that the work must be done.” The two younger lads had first to go along a dark lane. They then came to a spot where, underneath the cross-ways, there lay buried, as they knew, the body of a lad who had ended his life with his own hand. The place was known as Dead Boy’s Grave. Next they had to pass near the brink of a gravel pit, “to them an awful chasm, which they shuddered by as they could.” At length they made their round, and not far off midnight, as Rowland believed, reached home. There to their great joy they found the rest gathered together. The eldest boy, who had been alone, though a lad of great courage, had suffered not a little from fear. Neither he, nor his father, had met the mother, who reached home before them. As she had been going along the lane, she had been alarmed, she said, by a man who started up on the other side of the hedge. In her fright she had cleared the opposite fence at a bound, and had made her way home over the fields. The next day her husband went with her to the spot, but though he was an active and muscularman, he failed to make in his strength the leap which she had made in the terror which comes from weakness.
Rowland Hill was fond of talking in his old age of his childhood, of which he retained a very clear memory. He remembered how one day in the autumn of 1801, his brothers came back from school with the news that the mail coach had driven into Wolverhampton decked with blue ribbons. Tidings had just arrived of peace with France.[20]The whole country was in a blaze with bonfires and illuminations. Rowland and his brothers, when it grew dark, set fire to the stump of an old tree, and so bore their part in the general rejoicings. When war broke out again with France he was living in Birmingham. “Old Boney,” became the terror of all English children, as “Malbrook,” a hundred years before, had been the terror of all French children. Within half-a-mile of his father’s house, “the forging of gun-barrels was almost incessant, beginning each day long before dawn, and continuing long after nightfall; the noise of the hammers being drowned ever and anon by the rattle from the proof-house.” Their own house each time felt the shock, and his mother’s brewings of beer were injured by the constant jars. On the open ground in front of the house, one division of the Birmingham Volunteers was drilled each Sunday morning. Sunday drilling, in this season of alarms, went on throughout the length and breadth of the land. The press-gang now and then came so far as this inland town. He could remember the alarm they caused him and his brothers. They were fearful not so much for themselves as for their father.
One day a captured French gun-boat was draggedinto Birmingham, and shown at a small charge. Hitherto he had seen no vessel bigger than a coal barge. For the first time he saw a real anchor and ship guns. As he returned home with his brothers, they talked over the loss of the Royal George, and other “moving accidents by flood.” He could “well remember the mingled joy and grief at the great, but dearly-bought, victory of Trafalgar.” The following verses of a rude ballad that was sung in the streets remained fixed in his memory:—
“On the nineteenth[21]of October,Eighteen hundred and five,We took from the French and SpaniardsA most glorious prize.“We fought for full four hours,With thundering cannon balls;But the death of gallant NelsonWas by a musket ball.“Britannia and her heroesWill long bemoan their loss;For he was as brave an Admiral,As e’er the ocean crossed.”
“On the nineteenth[21]of October,Eighteen hundred and five,We took from the French and SpaniardsA most glorious prize.“We fought for full four hours,With thundering cannon balls;But the death of gallant NelsonWas by a musket ball.“Britannia and her heroesWill long bemoan their loss;For he was as brave an Admiral,As e’er the ocean crossed.”
“On the nineteenth[21]of October,Eighteen hundred and five,We took from the French and SpaniardsA most glorious prize.
“On the nineteenth[21]of October,
Eighteen hundred and five,
We took from the French and Spaniards
A most glorious prize.
“We fought for full four hours,With thundering cannon balls;But the death of gallant NelsonWas by a musket ball.
“We fought for full four hours,
With thundering cannon balls;
But the death of gallant Nelson
Was by a musket ball.
“Britannia and her heroesWill long bemoan their loss;For he was as brave an Admiral,As e’er the ocean crossed.”
“Britannia and her heroes
Will long bemoan their loss;
For he was as brave an Admiral,
As e’er the ocean crossed.”
Other memories of his carried back those who heard him talk in his latter years to a state of life that was very unlike the present. The baker who supplied them with bread kept his reckoning by tallies. Their milk-woman had just such another score as that which was presented to Hogarth’s Distressed Poet. A travelling tailor used to come his rounds, and, in accordance with the common custom, live in their house while he was making clothes for the family. In every show of feats of horsemanship, the performance always ended with the burlesque of the Tailor riding to Brentford to votefor John Wilkes. Whenever any disaster came upon the country, there were still found old people who solemnly shook their heads, and gravely pointed it out as another instance of the divine wrath for the great sin that the nation had committed when it made the change of style.
The changes that he saw in the currency were very great. In his early childhood, gold pieces—guineas, half guineas, and seven shilling bits,—were not uncommon, but they began to disappear, and before long were scarcely ever seen. When one did come to hand, it was called a stranger. About the year 1813, one of his brothers sold a guinea for a one pound note and eight shillings in silver. As the gold began to be hoarded, these one pound notes took their place. Bank of England notes were in Birmingham looked upon with suspicion, for they were more often forged than provincial notes. The silver coins of the realm were so well worn, that hardly any of them bore even a trace of an effigy or legend. “Any that were still unworn were called pretty shillings and the like,” and were suspected by the lower class of dealers as something irregular. Together with the state currency, tokens circulated to a great extent. There were Bank of England tokens, of the value of five shillings, three shillings, and one shilling and sixpence. The parish of Birmingham had its notes for one pound, and five shillings, and its workhouse shilling, as the coin was called. It had been issued by the guardians as a convenient means of distributing out-of-door relief. All these coins and tokens were more or less forged. The coins of the realm stood lowest in point of security, then the Bank of England tokens; while the parish tokens were hardly ever imitated, and were everywhere received with confidence. Forgery was constantly carried on. One daring and notorious forger and coiner, named Booth, longdefied the police. His house stood in the midst of an open plain, some miles from Birmingham, and was very strongly barricaded. The officers had more than once forced an entry; but so careful had been his watch, that, by the time they had been able to break in, all proofs of his crime had been destroyed. Rowland Hill had seen him riding into town, on his way to the rolling-mills, with the metal in his saddle-bags. The boy took more than a common interest in the man, as in this very rolling-mill one of his own brothers was employed. One day the messenger whom Booth had sent with the metal had forgotten to bring a pattern. “Taking out a three-shilling piece, the man inserted it in one slit after another of the gauge, until he found the one which exactly corresponded with its thickness, and this he gave as the guide.” His long freedom from punishment rendered the coiner careless, and he was at last surprised. The whole Birmingham police force was mustered, and a troop of dragoons was got from the barracks. A ladder had been brought, and an entrance was made through the tiling of the roof. It seemed as if they were once more too late, for at first nothing could be found. One of the “runners,” however, in mounting the ladder, had through the bars of an upper window seen Booth hurriedly thrusting papers, that no doubt were forged notes, into the fire. A hole was broken into the chimney, and in it were found one whole note, and one partly burnt. The prisoners were taken to Birmingham, and thence were sent by the magistrates to Stafford, under the guard of a small body of horse. Booth was hanged.
It is scarcely wonderful that criminals openly defied the laws, for the police-force of Birmingham was very small. The town contained in the early years of this century about seventy thousand inhabitants. Yet thewhole police-force for day duty consisted of less than twenty men. By night, guard was kept by the usual body of “ancient and most quiet watchmen.” The town, moreover, like all other towns, was but dimly lighted with its oil-lamps. Rowland was about seventeen years old when, “with almost unbounded delight, I first saw,” he writes, “streets illuminated by gas.” Yet the peace was, on the whole, not ill kept. From 1803 to 1833 there were but three riots, and of these only one was at all serious. The town had not even in those days a Recorder, and the criminals were sent to the Assizes at Warwick. The stage-coaches, as Rowland well remembered, were all furnished with strong staples, to which the fetters of prisoners were fast locked. He had himself, when he was still a little lad, sat on the coach beside a man thus fettered. The fellow made light of his position. “He had,” he said, “only robbed a hen-roost, and they couldn’t touch his neck for that.” Some idle gossip, seeing Rowland thus sitting by the thief, at once spread the report that the boy on the coach was going to Warwick on the charge of robbing his master.
I have been carried away in my narrative not a little distance from the quiet home in the neighbourhood of Wolverhampton. The old farm-house was endeared to Rowland Hill by one memory, for here it was that he first met with his future wife. Her father, Mr. Joseph Pearson, was a manufacturer of Wolverhampton. “I regarded him throughout life,” said his son-in-law, “with esteem and affection. He was in the town, near to which he resided, the recognised leader of the Liberal party, and, at a later period, when the town became enfranchised, was the standing Chairman of the Committee for returning the Liberal candidate. He had always been a staunch Liberal, to usethe modern term, and I doubt not was regarded by his Tory neighbours as a Jacobin; for so all were held who either preferred Fox to Pitt, or ventured to question the justice or necessity of the war of 1793. I have been told that during the course of that war he once took part in a meeting held in the market-place of the town to petition for peace, when cannon, brought out in apprehension, or feigned apprehension, of a tumult, stood pointed at the assembly.” He had once, when a young man, during his year of office as constable of the borough, faced a mob of colliers bent on bull-baiting. He pulled up the stake, and put a stop for that day to the sport. About the same time Basil Montagu had to flee for his life from a country town, where he, too, had spoilt sport by saving an innocent man from the gallows. Mr. Pearson took great pleasure in Thomas Hill’s society. In social position he was, indeed, above him, for he was a man of considerable property, and a magistrate for the county. In Mrs. Hill’s rice-puddings, in the making of which she was “a notable woman,” and in her husband’s talk, he found, however, enough to satisfy him.
Rowland was but a year older than Mr. Pearson’s eldest daughter. The beginning of his courtship he has himself told in the following words:—
“Mr. Pearson’s visit led to intimacy between the families, especially as regards the children; and as his eldest daughter had attained the age of five, while I was no more advanced than six, the two were naturally thrown much together, and, in fact, took the first step towards that intimacy and affection which some twenty-five years later were cemented by marriage. One whimsical little passage in these earliest days I must record. Under the high road, in the part nearest to my father’s house, ran what is in the midland counties called a culver (that is a long low arch), placed there for the passage of the rivulet, which turned my little water-wheel. Into this culver my brother and I occasionally crept by way of adventure,and at times to hear the noise of a wagon as it rumbled slowly overhead. Into this ‘cool grot and mossy cell’ I once led my new companion, both of us necessarily bending almost double; and I cannot but look back upon the proceeding as probably our earliest instance of close association and mutual confidence. Many years later we revisited the spot together, but found the passage completely silted up, so as to be inaccessible to future wooers, however diminutive.”
“Mr. Pearson’s visit led to intimacy between the families, especially as regards the children; and as his eldest daughter had attained the age of five, while I was no more advanced than six, the two were naturally thrown much together, and, in fact, took the first step towards that intimacy and affection which some twenty-five years later were cemented by marriage. One whimsical little passage in these earliest days I must record. Under the high road, in the part nearest to my father’s house, ran what is in the midland counties called a culver (that is a long low arch), placed there for the passage of the rivulet, which turned my little water-wheel. Into this culver my brother and I occasionally crept by way of adventure,and at times to hear the noise of a wagon as it rumbled slowly overhead. Into this ‘cool grot and mossy cell’ I once led my new companion, both of us necessarily bending almost double; and I cannot but look back upon the proceeding as probably our earliest instance of close association and mutual confidence. Many years later we revisited the spot together, but found the passage completely silted up, so as to be inaccessible to future wooers, however diminutive.”
At the age of three or four, Rowland was nearly carried off by the scarlet fever. So ill he was that for a short while his father and mother thought that he had ceased to breathe. The attack left him weak for some years. “I have never overcome,” he wrote in his eighteenth year, “and most probably never shall quite overcome, the effects of that illness. Ever since I can remember I have suffered much from sickness.” He had to pass many hours of every day lying on his back. He used to beguile the time by counting. He assisted himself, as he said, by a kind of topical memory. “My practice was to count a certain number, generally a hundred, with my eye fixed on one definite place, as a panel of the door, or a pane in the window, and afterwards, by counting-up the points, to ascertain the total.” He here first showed that love of calculation which so highly distinguished him in after life. His health remained so feeble that he had passed his seventh birthday before he was taught his letters. Backward though he was in book-learning, he was really a forward child. At the age of five he had made himself a small water-wheel, rude enough no doubt. Yet it worked with briskness in a little stream near his father’s house. A water-wheel had always a great charm for him. He had been taken to see one before he was three years old, and he used to cry to be taken to see it again. When he was an old man he would go miles out of his way to see one at work. The yearafter he made his wheel, when he was now six, he and his brother Edwin, a boy of eight, built themselves a small model-forge of brick and mortar. The wheel was about two feet and a-half across, and was pretty fairly shaped. It was turned by a stream from the spout of the pump. The axle, which they made out of the stem of a cherry-tree, cost them a good deal of trouble:—
“We attempted to connect our machinery by means of a crank with the handle of the pump, expecting that if we once gave it a start the water would turn the wheel, while this would not only work the forge, but also maintain, by its operation on the pump, the stream necessary to its own movement. In short, we looked for a perpetual motion, and were greatly disappointed to find motion at an end as soon as our own hands were withdrawn from the pump. When we mentioned our perplexity to my father, after informing us that our attempt was hopeless, and giving us such explanation as we could understand, he consoled us under our discomfiture by telling us that many persons, much older and wiser than ourselves, had expended time, labour, and money, in the same fruitless quest.”[22]
“We attempted to connect our machinery by means of a crank with the handle of the pump, expecting that if we once gave it a start the water would turn the wheel, while this would not only work the forge, but also maintain, by its operation on the pump, the stream necessary to its own movement. In short, we looked for a perpetual motion, and were greatly disappointed to find motion at an end as soon as our own hands were withdrawn from the pump. When we mentioned our perplexity to my father, after informing us that our attempt was hopeless, and giving us such explanation as we could understand, he consoled us under our discomfiture by telling us that many persons, much older and wiser than ourselves, had expended time, labour, and money, in the same fruitless quest.”[22]
A few years after this his father himself came across one of these dreamers. He was taken by a friend to see a machine for producing perpetual motion. The inventor boasted of his success. “There,” he said, “the machine is.” “Does it go?” the visitor asked. “No, it does not go, but I will defy all the world to showwhyit does not go.”
The lads happily had a fair supply of tools. Their father, in his boyhood, had been fond of using them, and had kept some of them so carefully that they were quite serviceable for his sons. In three old looms that had belonged to their grandfather they found an abundant supply of materials.
Their life at Horsehills, if somewhat hard, was farfrom being unhappy. A few years after they had left the neighbourhood, Rowland and his elder brothers passed through Wolverhampton on the top of a stagecoach. At a certain point of the road the three boys stood up in order to get a glimpse of their old home. A gentleman seated by them, on learning what they were gazing at, said, “to our no small gratification,” as Rowland remembered, “that we must have been good lads when we lived there, since we were so fond of the place.”
When Rowland Hill was seven years old a great change took place in the family life. His mother had always thought very highly of her husband’s powers and learning. She knew that he was fit for some higher kind of work than any he had hitherto done. She longed, moreover, to procure for her children a better education than any that then seemed likely to be within their reach. One of their friends, Mr. Thomas Clark, kept a school in Birmingham, of which he was willing to dispose. He also had been a member of Dr. Priestley’s congregation, and in the midst of the riots had shown great courage. “Church and King” had been the cry of the mob, and “Church and King” chalked on the house-door was no small safeguard against its fury. Some friendly hand had written these words on the door of the schoolmaster’s house. As soon as he saw them he at once rubbed them out. With this brave and upright man Thomas Hill became in later years closely connected by marriage. His elder daughter married one of Mr. Clark’s sons. Mrs. Hill persuaded her husband to give up his business in Wolverhampton, and to buy the school. They removed it to a convenient house called Hill Top, on the outskirts of Birmingham. Here Rowland passed the next sixteen years of his life. Here—
“His parents, with their numerous offspring, dwelt,A virtuous household, though exceeding poor!Pure livers were they all, austere and grave.”
“His parents, with their numerous offspring, dwelt,A virtuous household, though exceeding poor!Pure livers were they all, austere and grave.”
“His parents, with their numerous offspring, dwelt,A virtuous household, though exceeding poor!Pure livers were they all, austere and grave.”
“His parents, with their numerous offspring, dwelt,
A virtuous household, though exceeding poor!
Pure livers were they all, austere and grave.”
The purchase-money must have been paid off by instalments. I have before me, as I write, a card of the terms. The charges were moderate. Day-scholars paid four guineas or five pounds a year, and boarders twenty guineas or twenty-five guineas, according to age. The address that the new schoolmaster published is somewhat curious. It is as follows:—
ADDRESS.“T. Hill, sensible of the severe responsibility attached to the office of a public preceptor, resolves, if entrusted with that charge, to devote himself to the duties of it with assiduity, perseverance, and concentrated attention, as indispensable to reputation and success. To ensure the co-operation of his pupils, he will make it his study to excite their reasoning powers, and to induce in them habits of voluntary application; for this purpose, varying the ordinary course of instruction, and, as occasion shall offer, drawing their attention to subjects more particularly fitted to interest their feelings; he will always endeavour, by kindness and patience, firmness and impartiality to secure for himself their affection and esteem. And as he aspires to exhibit models of education, possessing higher excellencies than mechanical dexterity or mere intellectual acuteness; his anxious aim will be to make instruction in art and science, the culture of the understanding, and of the physical powers, subservient to the nobler intention of fostering and maturing the virtues of the heart.”
ADDRESS.
“T. Hill, sensible of the severe responsibility attached to the office of a public preceptor, resolves, if entrusted with that charge, to devote himself to the duties of it with assiduity, perseverance, and concentrated attention, as indispensable to reputation and success. To ensure the co-operation of his pupils, he will make it his study to excite their reasoning powers, and to induce in them habits of voluntary application; for this purpose, varying the ordinary course of instruction, and, as occasion shall offer, drawing their attention to subjects more particularly fitted to interest their feelings; he will always endeavour, by kindness and patience, firmness and impartiality to secure for himself their affection and esteem. And as he aspires to exhibit models of education, possessing higher excellencies than mechanical dexterity or mere intellectual acuteness; his anxious aim will be to make instruction in art and science, the culture of the understanding, and of the physical powers, subservient to the nobler intention of fostering and maturing the virtues of the heart.”
Rowland was at once placed in the school, and thus at the age of seven his formal education began. His health still continued weak, and his studies were too often broken in upon by illness. He was fortunate enough, however, to find at his new home, in an outbuilding, a workshop, fitted with benches, a vice, and a blacksmith’s forge. “Here,” he said, “we spent much of our spare time, and most of our spare cash, which latter, however, was but very scanty.” The want of pence, indeed, often troubled him full sore. “Ever since I can remember,” as he wrote in a Journal which hebegan to keep in his eighteenth year, “I have had a taste for mechanics.... In works of the fingers I chiefly excel.” But the best mechanician wants materials, and materials cost money. One Good Friday morning he and his brother Matthew turned dealers. They had been sent with a basket to buy hot cross buns for the household. As they went along, the street-vendors were calling out, after the Birmingham fashion—
“Hot cross buns! Hot cross buns!One a penny, two a penny, hot cross buns!Sugar ’em, and butter ’em, and clap ’em in your muns.”
“Hot cross buns! Hot cross buns!One a penny, two a penny, hot cross buns!Sugar ’em, and butter ’em, and clap ’em in your muns.”
“Hot cross buns! Hot cross buns!One a penny, two a penny, hot cross buns!Sugar ’em, and butter ’em, and clap ’em in your muns.”
“Hot cross buns! Hot cross buns!
One a penny, two a penny, hot cross buns!
Sugar ’em, and butter ’em, and clap ’em in your muns.”
The two lads, as they came home, began in jest to repeat the cry. Matthew was an admirable mimic, and had caught it exactly. To their surprise they found themselves beset with purchasers. “Not having face enough to reject demands which we had provoked, perhaps not unwilling to carry on the jest, we soon emptied our basket, and had to return for more, deeming ourselves, however, well recompensed for the additional trouble by the profits arising from the difference between the wholesale price, at which we had been allowed to purchase, and the retail price at which we had sold.” The elder of these two lads the town, as years went on, received as its Recorder; to the younger it raised a statue in his life-time.
This was not the first time that Rowland had turned dealer. Not long after his family had moved to Hill Top his mother gave him a little plot of land for his garden. It was covered with a crop of hoarhound. This he was going to clear away to make room for his flowers, but he was told that it had a money value. “I cut it properly, tied it up in bundles, and, borrowing a basket of my mother, set off one morning on amarket-day—Thursday, as I remember—with my younger brother Arthur as my sole companion, for the market-place of the town; and, taking my stand like any other caterer, soon disposed of my wares, receiving eightpence in return. Fortunately I was saved the tediousness of retail dealing, the contents of my basket being purchased in the gross by a woman who had taken her stand near, and who, I hope, cleared a hundred per cent. by the transaction, though she disparaged her bargain by warning me to tell my mother, ‘She must tie up bigger bunches next time.’”
By the age of nine he had saved half-a-guinea, which he laid out on a box of colours. His first great purchase, however, was, as he told me, the volumes of Miss Edgeworth’s “Parent’s Assistant.” These cost him fifteen shillings. “Hers was a name which he could never mention but with gratitude and respect.” I once asked him what were the books that had chiefly formed his character. He answered that he thought he owed most to Miss Edgeworth’s stories. He read them first when he was about eight or nine years old, and he read them a great many times. He said, and the tears came into his eyes as he spoke, that he had resolved in these early days to be like the characters in her stories, and to do something for the world. “I had always had,” he said to me at another time, “a very strong desire to do something to make myself remembered.”
“While yet a child, and long before his time,Had he perceived the presence and the powerOf greatness.”
“While yet a child, and long before his time,Had he perceived the presence and the powerOf greatness.”
“While yet a child, and long before his time,Had he perceived the presence and the powerOf greatness.”
“While yet a child, and long before his time,
Had he perceived the presence and the power
Of greatness.”
Most of his spare money was laid out, however, in the purchase of tools and materials. With such old wood as they could lay hands on, and such new wood as they could afford to buy, he and his brothers setabout building a flat-bottomed boat in which they meant to sail through the Birmingham and Worcester Canal into the Severn, and up the Severn to their uncle at Shrewsbury. They had no more misgivings about their scheme than Robinson Crusoe had about his escape from his island in his canoe. Yet there was certainly one great bar to their plan, of which, however, they knew nothing. The canal, at this time, had not been carried half-way to the Severn. They finished their boat, and, though it was found to be too frail for the canal, nevertheless it carried the bold voyagers across a horse-pond.
In the occupations of the workshop, and even in his regular education, Rowland suffered interruption, not only from frequent attacks of illness, but also from the need that his father was under of employing his children part of each day in household work. He could not afford to keep many servants. While Rowland all his life regretted that he had been taken away from school at an early age, yet the hours that he had passed in the discharge of domestic duties he never looked upon as time misspent.