Page:Once a Week Dec 1861 to June 1862.pdf/466

456 “Go on, Steenie,” he said, in a low hoarse voice. “Begin where I told you.”

And Stephen Hadfield, much moved and in rather broken tones, commenced to read:

“gathered all together and took his journey into a far country, and there wasted his substance in riotous living.”

He was reading from the New Testament—the story of the Prodigal Son. He continued for some verses further.

“Stop!” said the old man. Then he turned to Wilford, and cried, almost savagely: “Now, Prodigal! what have you to say?”

Wilford came to the side of the bed. There was a look of deep suffering in his face. He sank upon his knees with a piteous moan.

“Forgive me, father!” and he tried to take the old man’s hand. It was drawn away abruptly.

Mr. Hadfield, however, glanced at his second son, Stephen. There seemed to be an understanding between them as to what was next to be done. Stephen laid down the Book on the bed, and placed a hand-bell within his father’s reach, and then, motioning all to leave the room, quitted it himself, closing the door upon old Mr. Hadfield and his eldest son.

taps at your casement, cousin, In her delicate robe of green! And full of delight at the coming May, The village children are pointing the way, Where under the hedges, and on the damp ground, And mid grassy meads, where they love to be found, Are the wild, wild flowerets seen!

Don’t you remember, my cousin, When we went, as blithely as they, Into the dell where the snowdrop grows, And the fragrant violet early blows; Or where, on the sandbank so wild and high, The starry primrose saluteth the sky, With the daffodils bold and gay?

Yes, you remember, my cousin; With a trembling lip and a sigh, You are murmuring, Times have changed, since we These spots went roaming, with some such glee As that merry urchin’s who runs to tell He has found a haunt, where the bright bluebell Is trying to rival the sky!

I, too, am sighing, my cousin; It is not the times that have changed! But I, who have made myself grey and old, Nought in life’s lottery winning but gold,— And you, who fondle a child on your lap, With your tresses hid ’neath a widow’s cap, And who look at me now estranged!

But still remember, dear cousin, That if winter flouts us awhile, And withers our hopes with its stormy skies— The snows will melt and fresh verdure arise, And the icy shadows its tempests fling Wlll hurry away, when awakening Spring Comes chasing them hence, with her smile.

And as over the past we linger, Its pleasures we yet may renew! Ay, give me your hand, my cousin; we know By life’s narrow pathway will always grow Some cheerful blossoms, which we may find If we do but seek with contented mind, And hearts that accept with grateful praise Their tiniest buds to garland our days, And keep spring-time the whole year through.

been hailed and beckoned to from many parts lately, to look and see what the working men and women are doing in those parts; and what I have observed has impressed me so strongly, that I cannot but ask some of the most practical-minded of my readers to come up my mountain, and take a seat beside me on my sofa of moss, and gaze abroad over land and sea, and consult together as to whether there is anything that we can do in a matter of pressing urgency.

We will take the nearer scenes first. Almost under our feet there are smoke clouds hanging; but they are not so dense as usual, for the Lancashire mills are not all at work. From many of the tall chimneys there is no smoke at all: for there is no cotton to spin. The same thing is the case over yonder, where those slim spires rise, not very far off. At Coventry there is plenty of silk to be had; but the lack is of demand for ribbons. As Peeping Tom pries round the corner there, through his inquisitive-looking spectacles, let us too see what the neighbours are doing.

In both the cotton and silk districts many of the work-people’s dwellings are empty. The landlord detains the loom, and has turned the key, and put it in his pocket. The late residents are in the workhouse. They held on at home as long as they could; but the hunger and cold became too pinching; and they are warming themselves at the workhouse fires. In others of these dwellings the people are at home. Some are rubbing up their furniture,—having nothing else to do; and the women are not cooking; for there is no fire in the grate, and no food in the cupboard. Here is one patching clothes, to look decent to the last. There is another, trying to get a place, however humble, for her growing girl, that the child may get fed if she cannot earn wages: but the market of domestic service is just now overstocked; ill-qualified maidens cannot expect to get into a gentleman’s house; and the shopkeepers are turning away their maids of all work, till trade revives. So mothers and daughters go home again, hungry and hopeless. Every day they sell one more article which they had considered indispensable, or don’t sell it because there is nobody to buy. I need not describe further. I will only just observe that the women thus hankering after work and food in the manufacturing districts are scores of thousands.

We will see what is doing in the workhouses before we turn in another direction. It is not a pleasant sight,—that of the young women and girls. They do not, on the whole, answer to the usual description of English maidenhood. Some new-comers are modest, and intent upon their work; but there is a boldness, a carelessness, an