CHAPTER XX.

"I could so like to go to little Jacob weddin'," said Mrs. Ogden one day in her little home at the Cream-pot, "but I'm like as if I were 'feard to leave our Jacob for one single day. He's just same as a childt, an' to-morrow's his pay-day, an' I couldn't like anybody else to pay him his week's wage. But what I suppose they'll be just as well wed as if I'd been there, for that matter."

It seems to us quite a pity that Mrs. Ogden could not contrive to be at Wenderholme church on the wedding-day, for she would have been well received by Mrs. Stanburne at the breakfast given by that lady at Wenderholme Cottage, but ever since "our Jacob misfortin'" no power on earth could get her away from the Cream-pot, and all reasoning on the subject was trouble thrown away. Little Jacob's wedding-day passed like all other monotonous days for Mrs. Ogden, so far as action or variety was concerned, but she thought of him from morning till night. As for the elder Jacob, he tranquilly pursued his digging in the garden, looking forward with eager anticipation to the payment of his week's wages on the same evening, for he had some consciousness of the lapse of time, especially towards the close of the week. On Thursdays he began to ask if it were not Saturday, on Fridays the question became frequent, and on Saturday itself his mother had to promise a hundred times that she would pay his wages at six o'clock. His old habits of energy and perseverance were still visible in his daily work. He labored conscientiouslyto make the garden produce as much as spade labor could do for it, he carefully economized every inch of ground, and did all that mere physical labor could for its advantage. On the other hand, wherever the intelligence of a gardener was necessary, his shattered intellect was constantly at fault, and he committed the wildest havoc. He rooted up the garden-flowers as weeds, and could only recognize one or two of the most familiar and most productive plants. He knew the carrot, for example, and the potato, and these he cultivated in his own strange way. His mother sacrificed the little Cream-pot garden to him entirely, and got the vegetables for house use from Milend, and the fruit from Wenderholme, so that he could destroy or cultivate at his own absolute will and pleasure, and this he did with the cunning and self-satisfaction of the insane.

The evening of that day when little Jacob was married, his grandmother had a new idea about her afflicted son. "Jacob," she said to him when the time for payment came, and his eyes were glistening as he clutched the golden coin, "Jacob, thou shouldn't let thy money lie by same as that without gettin' interest for it. There's twenty pound in thy purse by this. Lend me thy twenty pound, an' I'll give thee five per cent, that'll make a pound a-year interest for thee."

When the magical word "interest" sounded in his ear for the first time since the break-down of his mental faculties, uncle Jacob's face assumed a look of intelligence which startled his mother and gave her a gleam of hope. "Interest, interest!" he said, and paused as if lost in thought; then he added, "Compound interest! doubles up, compound interest, doubles up fast!" These words, however, must have been mere reminiscences of his former state, for he proved utterly incapable of understanding the nature of even simple interest as a weekly payment. Mrs. Ogden offered him sixpence as a week's interest for his money, but he asked for a sovereign being accustomed to weekly payments of one pound, and heseemed troubled and irritated when it was not given to him. He understood the pound a week for his digging, but he could not grasp any more complicated idea. His constant secret occupation, when not at work, was to handle his accumulating sovereigns. In this way, notwithstanding his insanity and his incapability of imagining the great fortune he had heaped up when in health, he enjoyed money as much as ever, for the mere quantity has really very little to do with the delight of the passion of avarice. It is theincreasewhich gives delight, not the quantity, and Jacob Ogden's private store was incessantly increasing, so much indeed that his mother had to give him a money-box. When the weekly sovereigns became numerous, he was incapable of counting them, but he had a certain sense of quantity and a keen satisfaction in the evident increase of his store.

Little Jacob's marriage was strangely simple, considering the wealth of one of the two families and the station of the other; but the elder Jacob's condition, and recent events in the life of Colonel Stanburne, had so sobered everybody that there was not the slightest desire on either side for any demonstration or display. As it concerned Lady Helena, this simplicity was not displeasing to her, for reasons of her own. She was glad, in her own mind, that Mrs. Ogden did not come, for she keenly dreaded the old lady's strange sayings on a semi-public occasion like the present, and the privacy of the marriage was a good excuse for not inviting many of her own noble friends. The bridesmaids were the Prigley girls and a young sister of Lady Helena. Mr. Prigley performed the ceremony, and there was not a stranger in the little Wenderholme church, except a reporter for the "Sootythorn Gazette," who furnished a brilliant account of this "marriage in high life," which we have no disposition to quote.

If Mrs. Ogden had chosen to bring to bear upon poor Edith all the weight of her terrible critical power as a supreme judge of housekeeping accomplishments, I am afraidthat the young lady would have come out of the ordeal ignominiously for she could neither darn a stocking properly nor make a potato-pie, but criticism is often mollified by personal favor and partiality; and the old lady never goes farther in the severity of censure than to say, "Little Jacob wife is not much of a housekeeper, but she was never brought up to it you know; and they'll have plenty to live upon, so it willn't matter so much as it would 'ave done if they'd been poorer people."

Poverty is certainly not the evil which the young couple need apprehend, for the condition of Jacob Ogden the elder being considered permanent, a judicial decision transferred his income to his brother Isaac, after deducting £1,000 a year for his maintenance, which was paid to his mother; an entirely superfluous formality, as she accumulated the whole of it for her grandson, and kept Jacob Ogden well supplied with all that he needed, or had intelligence to desire, out of her own little independent fortune. Isaac Ogden was now charged with the management of the business and estates. It then became apparent how splendidly successful the life of the cotton-manufacturer had been. At the time of the opening of this history, he was already earning, or rathernetting, since the operatives earned it for him, an income larger than the salary of a Prime Minister, and successive years raised him to a pecuniary equality with the Lord Chancellor, the Archbishop of Canterbury, and the Governor-General of India. At the time of his cerebral catastrophe, he was at the height of his success; and his numerous rills and rivers of income, flowing from properties of all kinds, from shares, from the print-works at Whittlecup, and from his enormous mill at Shayton, made, when added together, an aggregate far surpassing the national allowance to princes of royal blood. In a word, at the time of what Mrs. Ogden always called "our Jacob's misfortin'," "our Jacob" had just got past £50,000 a year, and was beginning to encourage the notimprobable anticipation that his income would get up to the hundred thousand before he died. Such as it was already, it exceeded by exactly one thousand times the pittance for which, as the slave of his own disordered imagination, he was now toiling from morning till night.

Nothing is more difficult than to get rid of a great business. Such mills as Jacob Ogden's are very difficult to let, and to close them entirely would be to throw a whole neighborhood out of work and diminish the value of property within a considerable radius. There was nothing for it, therefore, but to keep the business going, so Mr. Isaac Ogden threw aside his habits of leisure at Twistle Farm and came to live at Milend. He managed the work for some time with considerable energy; but he had been so long unused to the employment, that this business life, with its incessant claims upon time and attention, required a constant effort of the will, and he felt himself incapable of continuing it indefinitely. Young Jacob helped him energetically; but the vast concern which his uncle had established, with the addition of the print-works at Whittlecup, required more looking after than even he was equal to; so in order that Isaac Ogden might have some leisure at Twistle Farm, and be able to join the militia at the annual training, the calico business at Whittlecup had to be given up. It could not be sold during old Jacob Ogden's life; but it was let, together with Arkwright Lodge, to Mr. Joseph Anison, on terms exceedingly advantageous to the latter, who will be able, after all, to give handsome dowries to his younger daughters, and to leave Miss Margaret the richest old maid in Whittlecup.

Young Jacob and his wife established themselves at Wenderholme, but she soon complained that he was too much away on business, and declared her intention of accompanying him on his journeys to Milend, which she has ever since been in the habit of doing. When at Milend (which has been much beautified and improved), they go a great deal to theCream-pot, where old Mrs. Ogden still devotes herself to the care of her unfortunate son. "I'm thankful to God," she says, "that our Jacob is so 'appy with his misfortin'. Every time I give him his sovereign of a Saturday night he's as 'appy and proud as a little lad ten year old. And he's as well in 'ealth as anybody could wish for." Young Jacob and Edith are both very attentive to him, but it is thought better not to bring him to Wenderholme again, nor even to Milend. This makes it a great tie for poor Mrs. Ogden, but she fulfils her duty with a noble self-abnegation, and tends "our Jacob" with the most minute and unrelaxing care. As for her fine carriage, she made a wedding-present of it to Edith, and has never been in it since, not even to do a little knitting. Her life is the simple old life that she was accustomed to in her youth, and it suits her health so well, that if all old women that one hears of did not finish some day by dying, one might almost expect her to prolong her sojourn permanently upon the earth, in the green "Cream-pot" fields. But the recent death of old Sarah at Twistle Farm has been a serious warning, and the new Shayton clergyman is a frequent visitor at the Cream-pot. Dr. Bardly is not so much in request, on account of his heterodox views, and because Mrs. Ogden's physical condition is still excellent, whatever may be her spiritual state.

The Colonel and Lady Helena made a tour on the continent in the autumn, and visited the little French city where he had earned his living as a teacher of English.

Young Jacob and Edith accompanied them as far as Geneva, and on their way from Paris it was decided that they should stop at Auxerre, and go thence to Avallon, which was not very far from the monastery ofLa Pierre qui Vire. The Colonel desired to see Philip Stanburne once again.

Through narrow and rocky valleys, indescribably picturesque, and full of a deep melancholy poetry of their own, they journeyed a whole day, and came at last to the confines of the monastery, in a wild stony desert amongst the hills, through which flowed a rapid stream. The ladies could not enter, but young Jacob and the Colonel passed through the simple gateway. A monk received them in silence, and, in answer to a question of the Colonel, put his finger upon his lips. He then went to ask permission to speak from his superior.

The monk promised to lead the Colonel to Philip Stanburne. They passed along wild paths cut in the rock and the forest, with rudely carved bas-reliefs of the chief scenes of the Passion erected at stated distances. They saw many monks engaged in the most laborious manual occupations: some were washing linen in the clear river; others were road-making, with picks and wheel-barrows; others were hard at work as masons, building the walls of some future portion ofthe monastery, or the enclosures of its fields. All worked and were silent, not even looking at the strangers as they passed. At length the three came to a little wood, and, having passed through the wood, to a small field on the steep slope of a hill. In the field two monks were ploughing in their monastic dress, with a pair of white oxen.

Suddenly the Angelus rang from the belfry of the monastery, and its clear tones filled the quiet valley where these monks had made their home. All the monks heard it, and all who heard it fell instantaneously on their knees in the midst of their labor, wherever they might happen to be. The masons dropped their stones and trowels, the washermen prayed with the wet linen still in their grasp, the ploughman knelt between the handles of his plough, and the driver with the goad in his right hand. The Colonel's guide dropped upon the ploughed earth, and prayed. All in the valley prayed.

When this was over, the two Englishmen were led forward towards the oxen, and before the slow animals had resumed their toil, the Colonel had recognized their driver. So this was the life he had chosen—a life of rudest labor, with the simplest food and the severest discipline—a life of toil and silence. He knew the Colonel at once, but dared not speak to him, and placed his fingers on his lips, and goaded his oxen forward, and resumed his weary march.

A special permission having been procured, the monk talked with John Stanburne freely, saying that he loved his new life and the hardships of it, dwelling with quiet enthusiasm on the beautiful discipline of his order, and leading him over the rude and picturesque lands which had been reclaimed by the industry of his brethren.

But when they parted, there came a great pang of regret in Philip Stanburne's heart for the free English life that he had lost—a pang of regret for Stanithburn, and that Alice should not be mistress there instead of Lady Helena.

And after the service in the humble chapel of the monastery—a service singularly devoid of the splendors of the Catholic worship—a monk lay prostrate across the threshold, doing penance. And all his brethren passed over him, one by one.

Cambridge: Press of John Wilson & Son.

"The style of this writer is a truly admirable one, light and picturesque, without being shallow, and dealing with all subjects in a charming way. Whenever our readers see or hear of one of Mr. Hamerton's books, we advise them to read it."—Springfield Republican.

THE INTELLECTUAL LIFE. Square 12mo. Price $2.00.

"Not every day do we take hold of a book that we would fain have always near us, a book that we read only to want to read again and again, that is so vitalized with truth, so helpful in its relation to humanity, that we would almost sooner buy it for our friend than spare him our copy to read. Such a book is 'The Intellectual Life,' by Philip Gilbert Hamerton, itself one of the rarest and noblest fruits of that life of which it treats. (Here we must beg the pardon of our younger readers, since what we have to say about this book is not for them, but for their parents, and older brothers and sisters, though we can have no better wish for them than that they may soon be wise and thoughtful enough to enjoy it too.)

"Just how much this book would be worth to each individual reader it would be quite impossible to say, but we can hardly conceive of any human mind, born with the irresistible instincts toward the intellectual life, that would not find in it not only ample food for deep reflection, but also living waters of the sweetest consolation and encouragement.

"We wonder how many readers of this noble volume, under a sense of personal gratitude, have stopped to exclaim with its author, in a similar position, 'Now the only Crœsus that I envy is he who is reading a better book than this.'"—From the Children's Friend.

THOUGHTS ABOUT ART. New Edition, Revised, with Notes and an Introduction. "Fortunate is he who at an early age knows whatartis."—Goethe.Square 12mo. Price $2.00.

"The whole volume is adapted to give a wholesome stimulus to the taste for art, and to place it in an intelligent and wise direction. With a knowledge of the principles, which it sets forth in a style of peculiar fascination, the reader is prepared to enjoy the wonders of ancient and modern art, with a fresh sense of their beauty, and a critical recognition of the sources of their power."—New York Tribune.

"Beginning with a recommendation to capable artists to write on art, and illustrating his arguments on this point by some forcible illustrations, Mr. Hamerton proceeds to discuss the different styles of painting, defines the place of landscape among the fine arts, treats of the relation between photography and painting, makes some curious comparisons between word-painting and color-painting, speaks of the painter in his relation to society, and finally offers some practical and valuable suggestions concerning picture-buying and the choice of furniture of artistic patterns for our houses. All these subdivisions of the general subject are touched airily and pleasantly, but not flippantly, and the book is delightful from beginning to end."—New York Commercial Advertiser.

A PAINTER'S CAMP. A new edition, in 1 vol. 16mo Price $1.50. Square 12mo. Price $2.00.

"We are not addicted to enthusiasm, but the little work before us is really so full of good points that we grow so admiring as to appear almost fulsome in its praise.... It has been many a day since we have been called upon to review a work which gave us such real pleasure."—Philadelphia Evening Telegraph.

"If any reader whose eye chances to meet this article has read 'The Painter's Camp,' by Mr. Philip Gilbert Hamerton, he will need but little stimulus to feel assured that the same author's work, entitled 'Thoughts about Art,' is worth his attention. The former, I confess, was so unique that no author should be expected to repeat the sensation produced by it. Like the 'Adventures of Robinson Crusoe,' or the 'Swiss Family Robinson,' it brought to maturer minds, as those do to all, the flavor of breezy out-of-door experiences,—an aroma of poetry and adventure combined. It was full of art, and art-discussions too; and yet it needed no rare technical knowledge to understand and enjoy it."—Joel Benton.

"They ('A Painter's Camp' and 'Thoughts about Art') are the most useful books that could be placed in the hands of the American art public. If we were asked where the most intelligent, the most trustworthy, the most practical, and the most interesting exposition of modern art and cognate subjects is to be found, we should point to Hamerton's writings."—The Atlantic Monthly.

THE UNKNOWN RIVER: An Etcher's Voyage of Discovery. With an original Preface for the American edition, and thirty-seven plates etched by the author. One elegant 8vo volume, bound in cloth, extra, gilt, and gilt edges. Price $6.00. (A cheaper edition now ready.)

"Wordsworth might like to come back to earth for a summer, and voyage with Philip Gilbert Hamerton down some 'Unknown River! If this supposition seem extravagant to any man, let him buy and read 'The Unknown River, an Etcher's Voyage of Discovery,' by P. G. Hamerton. It is not easy to write soberly about this book while fresh from its presence. The subtle charm of the very title is indescribable; it lays hold in the outset on the deepest romance in every heart; it is the very voyage we are all yearning for. When, later on, we are told that this 'Unknown River' is the Arroux, in the eastern highlands of France, that it empties into the Loire, and has on its shores ancient towns of historic interest, we do not quite believe it. Mr. Hamerton has flung a stronger spell by his first word than he knew.

"It is not too much to say that this book is artistically perfect, perfectly artistic, and a poem from beginning to end; the phrasing of its story is as exquisite as the etching of its pictures; each heightens the other; each corroborates the other; and both together blend in harmonious and beautiful witness to what must have been one of the most delicious journeys ever made by a solitary traveller. The word solitary, however, has no meaning when applied to Hamerton, poet, painter, adventurous man, all in one, and with a heart for a dog! There is no empty or barren spot on earth for such as he. The book cannot be analyzed nor described in any way which will give strangers to it any idea of its beauty."—Scribner's Monthly.

CHAPTERS ON ANIMALS. With Twenty Illustrations byJ. VeyrassatandKarl Bodmer. Square 12mo. Price $2.00.

"This is a choice book. No trainer of animals, no whipper-in of a kennel, no master of fox-hounds, no equine parson, could have written this book. Only such a man as Hamerton could have written it, who, by virtue of his great love of art, has been a quick and keen observer of nature, who has lived with and loved animal nature, and made friends and companions of the dog and horse and bird. And of such, how few there are! We like to amuse ourselves for an idle moment with any live thing that has grace and color and strength. We like to show our wealth in fine equipages; to be followed by a fond dog at our heel, to hunt foxes and bag birds, but we like all this merely in the way of ostentation or personal pleasure. But as for caring really for animals, so as to study their happiness, to make them, knowing us, love us, so as to adapt ourselves to themselves, is quite another thing. Mr. Hamerton has observed to much purpose, for he has a curious sympathy with the 'painful mystery of brute [Transcriber's note: This is where the text ends.]

FOOTNOTES:[1]This publisher was not a member of the firm of Messrs. W. Blackwood & Sons, who afterwards purchased the copyright ofWenderholme, nor was the story ever offered to him; but his opinion had great influence with the author on account of his large experience.[2]Careful.[3]Spent.[4]Slake; it is good slake—it slakes thirst well. The expression was actually used by a carter, to whom a gentleman gave champagne in order to ask his opinion of the beverage.[5]Till.[6]Almost.[7]Quiet.[8]Seek.[9]"Some and glad" is a common Lancashire expression, meaning "considerably glad."[10]The possessive is omitted in the genuine Lancashire dialect.[11]Perhaps.[12]All the. In Lancashire the wordallis abbreviated, as in Scotland, to a', but pronouncedo.[13]Value.[14]Without.[15]Push beyond.[16]For the information of some readers, it may be well to explain that the epaulettes of flank companies, which were of a peculiar shape, used to be called wings.[17]The reader who cares to attain the perfection of Mrs. Ogden's pronunciation will please to bear in mind that she pronounced thedwell in "soldiers" (thus, sol-di-ers), and did not replace it with ag, according to the barbarous usage of the polite world.[18]The reader will please to bear in mind thatwhomeansshein the pure Lancashire dialect.[19]Half.[20]The reader will remember that the best part of the estate had been mortgaged to Mr. Jacob Ogden.[21]Where hast thou been.[22]Nothing but what is right.[23]Have.[24]The engraved copper rollers used in calico-printing. The larger printing firms sink immense sums in these rollers, far surpassing the above estimate for Mr. Anison, who was only in a moderate way of business.[25]Fain is a combination of happy and proud. It answers very nearly to a certain sense of the French word "content."[26]Any thing.[27]A common form of sobriquet in Lancashire.

[1]This publisher was not a member of the firm of Messrs. W. Blackwood & Sons, who afterwards purchased the copyright ofWenderholme, nor was the story ever offered to him; but his opinion had great influence with the author on account of his large experience.

[2]Careful.

[3]Spent.

[4]Slake; it is good slake—it slakes thirst well. The expression was actually used by a carter, to whom a gentleman gave champagne in order to ask his opinion of the beverage.

[5]Till.

[6]Almost.

[7]Quiet.

[8]Seek.

[9]"Some and glad" is a common Lancashire expression, meaning "considerably glad."

[10]The possessive is omitted in the genuine Lancashire dialect.

[11]Perhaps.

[12]All the. In Lancashire the wordallis abbreviated, as in Scotland, to a', but pronouncedo.

[13]Value.

[14]Without.

[15]Push beyond.

[16]For the information of some readers, it may be well to explain that the epaulettes of flank companies, which were of a peculiar shape, used to be called wings.

[17]The reader who cares to attain the perfection of Mrs. Ogden's pronunciation will please to bear in mind that she pronounced thedwell in "soldiers" (thus, sol-di-ers), and did not replace it with ag, according to the barbarous usage of the polite world.

[18]The reader will please to bear in mind thatwhomeansshein the pure Lancashire dialect.

[19]Half.

[20]The reader will remember that the best part of the estate had been mortgaged to Mr. Jacob Ogden.

[21]Where hast thou been.

[22]Nothing but what is right.

[23]Have.

[24]The engraved copper rollers used in calico-printing. The larger printing firms sink immense sums in these rollers, far surpassing the above estimate for Mr. Anison, who was only in a moderate way of business.

[25]Fain is a combination of happy and proud. It answers very nearly to a certain sense of the French word "content."

[26]Any thing.

[27]A common form of sobriquet in Lancashire.

Back to Index Next