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Crying for the Light Volume III
Crying for the Light Volume III
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CONTENTS OF VOL. III.
CHAPTER PAGE
XXII. AT THE CATTLE-SHOW 1
XXIII. THE FUNERAL 36
XXIV. THE HONEYMOON 48
XXV. A REVELATION 65
XXVI. THE ITALIAN COUNTESS 82
XXVII. IN BRUSSELS 114
XXVIII. A COUNTRYMAN IN TOWN 131
XXIX. THE COLONEL 159
XXX. ROSE RETIRES FROM THE STAGE 183
XXXI. CHIEFLY ABOUT THE LAND 201
XXXII. CONSULTATION 223
XXXIII. THE FINAL RESOLVE 247
CHAPTER XXII.
AT THE CATTLE-SHOW.
Again we are at Sloville, on the occasion of the anniversary of the
flourishing Agricultural Society of the county—an occasion which fills
the town with rosy-faced, ruined British farmers; which blocks up all the
leading streets with flocks and herds of oxen and sheep from a thousand
hills, and which not a little astonishes and vexes the soul of the
true-born son of the soil, as he contemplates new-fangled machinery of
every variety and for every purpose; alarms him with ominous forebodings
of a time when, Othello-like, he will find his occupation gone, and the
rascally steam-engine doing the work, and taking the bread out of the
mouth of an honest man. He thinks of Swing and sighs. That mysterious
personage had a way of putting down threshing-machines which was
satisfactory for a time; but, alas! steam is king, and it is vain to
fight with him. It is steam quite as much as the wickedness of the
landlord, incredible as it may seem to the Radical politician, which has
emptied the country and filled the town. It would be all right if steam
would work off our surplus population. Alas! it does nothing of the
kind, and each year the labourer finds himself of less account; nor can
there be any change for the better till we get the people back on to the
land, away from the crowded city with its ever-increasing drudgery and
toil. Perhaps when they have settled Ireland our wise men of Gotham may
look at home. There is plenty for them to do there. It is high time
that we do something for our bold peasantry, once their country’s pride.
It is a fine, bright, sparkling morning, one rare in England, but to be
made the most of when it comes. There are no clouds in the sky, and
there is scarce a breath of air to bring them down from the vasty deep
above. Every hedgerow is bright with flowers, and musical with the song
of birds. Overnight there was a shower, which laid the dust and added a
touch of freshness to the emerald meadows. On every side ancient oaks
and wide-reaching elms cast a grateful shade. What can be dearer than an
English landscape on such a day? Even the thatched clay cottage, with
its roses and honeysuckle, looks picturesque, and the brown cows suggest
more than milk as they lie chewing the cud, apparently at peace with
themselves and all below. Here and there amidst the trees is the
red-brick manor-house, or the old-fashioned farmhouse, or the gray spire
of the village church, where from time immemorial the tribes have
repaired. Yesterday, it were, they were teaching there the Mass; now the
Mass is unsung, and we have the doctrines and Articles of the Church of
England, which seem sadly at variance with one and another. To-morrow
what shall we hear there? Who can say? Man and his opinions change only
in our villages, the face of Nature remains the same. You travel all the
world over, and you come back to your native village to find it ever the
same, only a little smaller, that is all.
From the lodge of a neighbouring hall rides forth a cavalcade; Sir Watkin
Strahan, well-mounted, is the leader of the party. A fair girl, the rich
merchant’s daughter, is by his side; on the other is the rich merchant
himself. Behind them follows a groom in livery, perhaps the best rider
of the lot. As they leave the gate the keeper hands Sir Watkin an
ill-written epistle on a dirty piece of paper, which Sir Watkin
indignantly tears to pieces without reading. ‘If the contents are of
importance,’ he says to himself, ‘they will come before him in a more
legitimate manner.’
‘’Tis that old woman from the workhouse,’ says the lodge-keeper to the
groom, who gives a knowing smile in reply as he passes out. ‘She’s a
good deal arter the maister,’ she replies, ‘but he’s not one to take up
with the likes of her.
CHAPTER PAGE
XXII. AT THE CATTLE-SHOW 1
XXIII. THE FUNERAL 36
XXIV. THE HONEYMOON 48
XXV. A REVELATION 65
XXVI. THE ITALIAN COUNTESS 82
XXVII. IN BRUSSELS 114
XXVIII. A COUNTRYMAN IN TOWN 131
XXIX. THE COLONEL 159
XXX. ROSE RETIRES FROM THE STAGE 183
XXXI. CHIEFLY ABOUT THE LAND 201
XXXII. CONSULTATION 223
XXXIII. THE FINAL RESOLVE 247
CHAPTER XXII.
AT THE CATTLE-SHOW.
Again we are at Sloville, on the occasion of the anniversary of the
flourishing Agricultural Society of the county—an occasion which fills
the town with rosy-faced, ruined British farmers; which blocks up all the
leading streets with flocks and herds of oxen and sheep from a thousand
hills, and which not a little astonishes and vexes the soul of the
true-born son of the soil, as he contemplates new-fangled machinery of
every variety and for every purpose; alarms him with ominous forebodings
of a time when, Othello-like, he will find his occupation gone, and the
rascally steam-engine doing the work, and taking the bread out of the
mouth of an honest man. He thinks of Swing and sighs. That mysterious
personage had a way of putting down threshing-machines which was
satisfactory for a time; but, alas! steam is king, and it is vain to
fight with him. It is steam quite as much as the wickedness of the
landlord, incredible as it may seem to the Radical politician, which has
emptied the country and filled the town. It would be all right if steam
would work off our surplus population. Alas! it does nothing of the
kind, and each year the labourer finds himself of less account; nor can
there be any change for the better till we get the people back on to the
land, away from the crowded city with its ever-increasing drudgery and
toil. Perhaps when they have settled Ireland our wise men of Gotham may
look at home. There is plenty for them to do there. It is high time
that we do something for our bold peasantry, once their country’s pride.
It is a fine, bright, sparkling morning, one rare in England, but to be
made the most of when it comes. There are no clouds in the sky, and
there is scarce a breath of air to bring them down from the vasty deep
above. Every hedgerow is bright with flowers, and musical with the song
of birds. Overnight there was a shower, which laid the dust and added a
touch of freshness to the emerald meadows. On every side ancient oaks
and wide-reaching elms cast a grateful shade. What can be dearer than an
English landscape on such a day? Even the thatched clay cottage, with
its roses and honeysuckle, looks picturesque, and the brown cows suggest
more than milk as they lie chewing the cud, apparently at peace with
themselves and all below. Here and there amidst the trees is the
red-brick manor-house, or the old-fashioned farmhouse, or the gray spire
of the village church, where from time immemorial the tribes have
repaired. Yesterday, it were, they were teaching there the Mass; now the
Mass is unsung, and we have the doctrines and Articles of the Church of
England, which seem sadly at variance with one and another. To-morrow
what shall we hear there? Who can say? Man and his opinions change only
in our villages, the face of Nature remains the same. You travel all the
world over, and you come back to your native village to find it ever the
same, only a little smaller, that is all.
From the lodge of a neighbouring hall rides forth a cavalcade; Sir Watkin
Strahan, well-mounted, is the leader of the party. A fair girl, the rich
merchant’s daughter, is by his side; on the other is the rich merchant
himself. Behind them follows a groom in livery, perhaps the best rider
of the lot. As they leave the gate the keeper hands Sir Watkin an
ill-written epistle on a dirty piece of paper, which Sir Watkin
indignantly tears to pieces without reading. ‘If the contents are of
importance,’ he says to himself, ‘they will come before him in a more
legitimate manner.’
‘’Tis that old woman from the workhouse,’ says the lodge-keeper to the
groom, who gives a knowing smile in reply as he passes out. ‘She’s a
good deal arter the maister,’ she replies, ‘but he’s not one to take up
with the likes of her.
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