Authors: George W. M. Reynolds,James Malcolm Rymer
perhaps stern to the wretchedness
of others - how could that old hag possess the means of teaching her a pleasant
and profitable mode of earning money? The soul of Ellen was purity itself -
although she dwelt in that low, obscene, filthy, and disreputable
neighbourhood. She seemed like a solitary lily in the midst of a black morass
swarming with reptiles!
The words of the old woman were therefore unintelligible to
that fair young creature of seventeen and yet she intuitively reproached
herself for pondering upon them. Oh! mysterious influence of an all-wise and
all-seeing Providence, that thus furnishes warnings against dangers yet unseen!
She tried to avert her thoughts from the contemplation of
her own misery, and of the tempting offer made to her by the wrinkled harridan
in the adjoining house; and so she busied herself with thinking of the
condition of the other lodgers in the same tenement which she and her father
inhabited. She then perceived that there were others in the world - as wretched
and as badly off as herself; but, in contradiction to the detestable maxim of
Rochefoucauld - she found no consolation in this conviction.
In the attics were Irish families, whose children ran all
day, half naked, about the court and lane, paddling with their poor cold bare
feet in the puddle or the snow, and apparently thriving in dirt, hunger, and
privation. Ellen and her father occupied the two rooms on the second floor. On
the first floor, In the front room, lived two families - an elderly man and
woman, with their grown-up sons and daughters; and with one of those sons were
a wife and young children. Eleven souls thus herded together, without shame, in
a room eighteen feet wide! These eleven human beings, dwelling in so swine-like
a manner, existed upon twenty-five shillings a week, the joint earnings of all
of them who were able to work. In the back chamber on the same floor was a
tailor, with a paralytic wife and a complete tribe of children. This poor
wretch worked for a celebrated Clothing Mart, and sometimes toiled for twenty
hours a-day - never less than seventeen, Sunday included - to earn - what?
Eight shillings a week.
He made mackintoshes at the rate of one shilling and
three-pence each; and he could make one each day. But then he had to find
needles and thread; and the cost of these, together with candles, amounted to
nine-pence a week.
He thus had eight shillings remaining for himself, after
working like a slave, without recreation or rest, even upon the sabbath,
seventeen hours every day.
A week contains a hundred and sixty-eight hours. And he
worked a hundred and nineteen hours each week!
And earned eight shillings!!
A decimal more than three farthings an hour!!!
On the ground floor of the house the tenants were no better
off. In the front room dwelt a poor costermonger, or hawker of fruit, who
earned upon an average seven shillings a week, out of which he was compelled to
pay one shilling to treat the policeman upon the beat where he took his stand.
His wife did a little washing, and perhaps earned eighteen-pence. And that was
all this poor couple with four children had to subsist upon. The back
room on the ground floor was occupied by the landlady of the house. She paid
twelve shillings a week for rent and taxes, and let the various rooms for an aggregate
of twenty-one shillings. She thus had nine shillings to live upon, supposing
that every one of her lodgers paid her - which was never the case.
Poor Ellen, in reflecting in this manner upon the condition
of her neighbours, found herself surrounded on all sides by misery. Misery was
above - misery below : misery was on the right and on the left.. Misery was the
genius of that dwelling, and of every other in that court. Misery was the cold
and speechless companion of the young girl as she sate in that icy chamber :
misery spread her meal, and made her bed, and was her chambermaid at morning
and at night!
Eleven o'clock struck by St. Luke's church; and Mr. Monroe
returned to his wretched abode. It had begun to rain shortly after Ellen had
returned home; and the old man was wet to the skin.
"Oh! my dear father!" exclaimed the poor girl, -
"you are wet, and there is not a morsel of fire in the grate."
"And I have no money, dearest," returned the
heart-broken father, pressing his thin lips upon the forehead of his daughter.
"But I am not cold, Nell - I am not cold!"
Without uttering a word, Ellen hastened out of the room, and
begged a few sticks from one lodger, and a little coal from another. It would
shame the affluent great, did they know how ready are the miserable - miserable
poor to assist each other!
With her delicate taper fingers - with those little white
hinds which seemed never made to do menial service, the young girl laid the
fire; and when she saw the flame blazing cheerfully up the chimney, she turned
towards the old man - and smiled!
She would not for worlds have begged any thing for herself -
but for her father - oh! she would have I submitted to any degradation!
And then for a moment a gleam of something like happiness
stole upon that hitherto mournful scene, I as the father and daughter partook
of their frugal - very frugal and sparing meal together.
As soon as it was concluded, Ellen rose, kissed her parent
affectionately, wished him "good night," and retired into her own
miserable, cold, and naked chamber.
She extinguished her candle in a few moments, to induce her
father to believe that she had sought repose; but when she knew that the old
man was asleep, she lighted the candle once more, and seated herself upon the
old mattress, to embroider a few blossoms upon the silk which had been confided
to her at the establishment in Finsbury.
From the neighbouring houses the sounds of boisterous
revelry fell upon her ears. She was too young and inexperienced to know that
this mirth emanated from persons perhaps as miserable as herself, and that they
were only drowning care in liquor, instead of encountering their miseries face
to face. The din of that hilarity and those shouts of laughter, therefore made
her sad.
Presently that noise grew fainter and fainter; and at length
it altogether ceased. The clock of St. Luke's church struck one; and all was
then silent around.
A lovely moon rode high in the heavens; the rain had ceased,
and the night was beautiful - but bitter, bitter cold.
Wearied with toil, the young maiden threw down her work,
and, opening the casement, looked forth from her wretched chamber. The gentle
breeze, though bearing on its wing the chill of ice, refreshed her; and as she
gazed upwards to the moon, she wondered within herself whether the spirit of
her departed mother was permitted to look down upon her from the empyrean
palaces on high. Tears - large tears trickled down her cheeks; and she was too
much overcome by her feelings even to pray.
While she was thus endeavouring to divert her
thoughts from the appalling miseries of earth to the transcendent glories of
heaven, she was diverted from her mournful reverie by the sound of a window
opening in a neighbouring house; and in a few moments violent sobs fell upon
her ears. Those sobs, evidently coming from a female bosom, were so acute, so
heart-rending, so full of anguish, that Ellen was herself overcome with grief.
At length those indications of extreme woe ceased gradually, and then these
words;- "Oh my God! what will become of my starving babes!" fell upon
Ellen's ears. She was about to inquire into the cause of that profound
affliction, when the voice of a man was heard. to exclaim gruffly, "Come -
let's have no more of this gammon: we must all go to the workus in the morning
- that's all!" And then the window was closed violently.
The workhouse! That word sounded like a fearful knell upon
Ellen's ears. Oh! for hours and hours together had that poor girl meditated
upon the condition of her father and herself, until she had traced, in
imagination, their melancholy career up to the very door of the workhouse. And
there she had stopped: she dared think no more - or she would have gone mad,
raving mad! For she had heard of the horrors of those asylums for the poor; and
she knew that she should be separated from her father on the day when their
stern destinies should drive them to that much-dreaded refuge. And to part from
him - from the parent whom she loved so tenderly, and who loved her so well ;-
no - death were far preferable!
The workhouse! How was it that the idea of this fearful home
- more dreaded than the prison, less formidable than the grave - had taken so
strong a hold upon the poor girl's mind? Because the former tenant of the
miserable room which now was hers had passed thence to the workhouse: but ere
she went away, she left behind her a record of her feelings in anticipation of
that removal to the pauper's home!
Impelled by an influence which she could not control - that
species of impulse which urges the timid one to gaze upon the corpse of the
dead, even while shuddering at the aspect of death - Ellen closed the window,
and read for the hundredth time the following lines, which were pencilled in a
neat hand upon the whitewashed wall of the naked chamber:-
"I HAD A TENDER MOTHER ONCE.
I HAD a tender mother once.
Whose eyes so sad and mild
Beamed tearfully yet kindly on
Her little orphan child.
A father's care I never knew;
But in that mother dear.
Was centred every thing to love,
To cherish, and revere!
I loved her with that fervent love
Which daughters only know;
And often o'er my little head
Her bitter tears would flow.
Perhaps she knew that death approached
To snatch her from my side;
And on one gloomy winter day
This tender mother died.
They laid her in the pauper's ground,
And hurried o'er the prayer
It nearly broke my heart to think
That they should place her there.
And now It seems I see her still
Within her snowy shroud;
And in the dark and silent night
My spirit weeps aloud.
I know not how the years have passed
Since my poor mother died;
But I too have an orphan girl,
That grows up by my side.
O God! thou know'st I do not crave
To eat the bread of sloth:
I labour hard both day and night,
To earn enough for both!
But though I starve myself for her,
Yet hunger wastes her form:-
My God! and must that darling child
Soon feed the loathsome worm?
'Tis vain - for I can work no more -
My eyes with toil are dim;
My fingers seem all paralyzed,
And stiff is every limb!
And now there is but one resource;
The pauper's dreaded doom!
To hasten to the workhouse, and
There find a living tomb.
I know that they will separate
My darling child from me;
And though twill break our hearts, yet both
Must bow to that decree!
Henceforth our tears must fall apart.
Nor flow, together more;
And from to-day our prayers may not
Be mingled as before!
O God! is this the Christian creed,
So merciful and mild?
The daughter from the mother snatched,
The mother from her child!
Ah! we shall ne'er be blessed again
Till death has closed our eyes.
And we meet in the pauper's ground
Where my poor mother lies.-
Though sad this chamber, it is bright
To what must be our doom;
The portal of the workhouse is
The entrance of the tomb!
Ellen read these lines till her eyes were dim
with tears. She then retired to her wretched couch; and she slept through sheer
fatigue. But dreams of hunger and of cold filled up her slumbers ;-and yet
those dreams were light beside the waking pangs which realised the visions!
The young maiden slept for three hours, and then arose
unrefreshed, and paler than she was on the preceding day. It was dark: the moon
had gone down; and some time would yet elapse ere the dawn. Ellen washed
herself in water upon which the ice floated; and the cold piercing breeze of
the morning whistled through the window upon her fair and delicate form.
As soon as she was dressed, she lighted her candle and crept
gently into her father's room. The old man slept soundly. Ellen flung his
clothes over her arm, took his boots up in her hand, and stole noiselessly back
to her own chamber. She then brushed those garments, and cleaned those boots,
all bespattered with thick mud as they were; and this task - so hard for her
delicate and diminutive hands - she performed with the most heart-felt
satisfaction.
As soon as this occupation was finished she sate down once
more to work.
Thus that poor girl knew no rest!
THE ROAD TO RUIN
ABOUT two months after the period when we
first introduced Ellen Monroe to our readers, the old woman of whom we have
before spoken, and who dwelt in the same court as that poor maiden and her
father, was sitting at work in her chamber.
The old woman was ill-favoured in countenance, and vile
in heart. Hers was one of those hardened dispositions which know no pity, no
charity, no love, no friendship, no yearning after any thing proper to human
fellowship.
She was poor and wretched;- and yet
she
, in all her misery, had a large
easy chair left to sit upon, warm blankets to cover her at night, a Dutch clock
to tell her the hour, a cupboard in which to keep her food, a mat whereon to
let her feet, and a few turves burning in the grate to keep her warm. The walls
of her room were covered with cheap prints, coloured with glaring hues, and
representing the exploits of celebrated highwaymen and courtezans; scenes upon
the stage in which favourite actresses figured, and execrable imitations of
Hogarth's "Rake's Progress." The coverlid of her bed was of
patchwork, pieces of silk, satin, cotton, and other stuffs, all of different
patterns, sizes, and shapes, being sewn together - strange and expressive
remnants of a vicious and faded luxury! Upon the chimney-piece were two or
three scent-bottles, which for years had contained no perfume, and in the
cupboard was a champagne-bottle, in which the hag now kept her gin. The pillow
of her couch was stuffed neither with wool nor feathers - but with well-worn
silk stockings, tattered lace collars, faded ribands, a piece of a muff and a
boa, the velvet off a bonnet, and old kid gloves. And - more singular than all
the other features of her room - the old hag had a huge Bible, with silver
clasps, upon a shelf!
This horrible woman was darning old stockings, and
stooping over her work, when a low knock at the door of her chamber fell upon
her ear. That knock was not imperative and commanding, but gentle and timid;
and therefore the old woman did not hurry herself to say, "Come in!"
Even after the door had opened and the visitor had entered the room, the old
hag proceeded with her work for a few moments.
At length raising her head, she beheld Ellen Monroe.
She was not surprised: but as she gazed upon that fair thin
face whose roundness had yielded to the hand of starvation, and that blue eye
whose fire was subdued by long and painful vigils, she said, "And so you
have come at last? I have been expecting you every day!"
"Expecting me! and why?" exclaimed Ellen,
surprised at these words, which appeared to contain a sense of dark and
mysterious import that was ominous to the young girl.
"Yes - I have expected you,'' repeated the old
woman. "Did I not tell you that when you had no money, no work, and no
bread, and owed arrears of rent, you would come to me?"
"Alas! and you predicted truly," said Ellen
with a bitter sigh. "All the miseries which you have detailed have fallen
upon me ;- and more! for my father lies ill upon the
one mattress
that remains to us!"
"Poor creature!" exclaimed the old woman,
endeavouring to assume a soothing tone; then, pointing to a foot-stool near
her, she added, "Come and sit near me that we may talk together upon your
sad condition."
Ellen really believed that she had excited a feeling of
generous and disinterested sympathy in the heart of that hag; and she therefore
seated herself confidently upon the stool, saying at the same time, "You
told me that you could serve me: if you have still the power, in the name of
heaven delay not, for - for - we are starving!"
The old woman glanced round to assure herself that the
door of her cupboard was closed; for in that cupboard were bread and meat, and
cheese. Then, turning her eyes upwards, the hag exclaimed, "God bless us
all, dear child! I am dying of misery myself, and have not a morsel to give you
to eat!"
But when she had uttered these words, she cast her eyes upon
the young girl who was now seated familiarly as it were, by her side, and
scanned her from head to foot, and from foot to head. In spite of the wretched
and scanty garments which Ellen wore, the admirable symmetry of her shape was
easily descried; and the old woman thought within herself how happy she should
be to dress that sweet form in gay and gorgeous garments, for her own
unhallowed purposes.
"You do not answer me," said Ellen. "Do not
keep me in suspense - but tell me whether it is in your power to procure me
work?"
The old hag's countenance wore a singular expression when
these last words fell upon her ears. Then she began to talk to the poor
starving girl in a manner which the latter could not comprehend, and which we
dare not describe. Ellen listened for some time, as if she were hearing a
strange language which she was endeavouring to make out; and then she cast a
sudden look of doubt and alarm upon the old hag. The wretch grew somewhat more
explicit; and the poor girl burst-into an agony of tears, exclaiming, as she
covered her blushing cheeks with her snow-white hands - "No: never -
never!"
Still she did not fly from that den and from the presence of
that accursed old hag, because she was so very, very wretched, and had no hope
elsewhere.
There was a long pause; and the old bag and the young girl
sate close to each other, silent and musing. The harridan cast upon her pale
and starving companion a look of mingled anger and surprise; but the poor
creature saw it not - for she was intent only on her own despair.
Suddenly a thought struck the hag.
"I can do nothing for you, miss, since you will not
follow my advice," she said, after awhile: "and yet I am acquainted
with a statuary who would pay you well for casts of your countenance for his
Madonnas, his actresses, his Esmeraldas, his queens, his princesses, and his
angels."
These words sounded upon the ears of the unhappy girl like a
dream; and parting, with her wasted fingers, the ringlets that clustered round
her brow, she lifted up her large moist eyes in astonishment towards the face
of the aged hag.
But the old woman was serious in her offer.
"I repeat - will you sell your countenance to a
statuary?" she said. "It is a good one; and you will obtain a
handsome price for it."
Ellen was literally stupefied by this strange proposal; but
when she had power to collect her ideas into one focus, she saw her father
pining upon a bed of sickness, and surrounded by all the horrors of want and
privation;- and she herself - the unhappy girl - had not tasted food for nearly
thirty hours. Then, on the other side, was her innate modesty ;- but this was
nothing in the balance compared to the poignancy of her own and her parent's
sufferings.
So she agreed to accompany the old hag to the house of the
statuary in Leather Lane, Holborn. But first she hurried home to see if her
father required any thing - a vain act of filial tenderness, for if he did she
had nothing to give. The old man slept soundly - worn out with suffering, want,
and sorrowful meditation; and the landlady of the house promised to attend to
him while Ellen was absent.
The young maiden then returned to the old woman and they
proceeded together to the house of the statuary.
Up two flights of narrow and dark stairs, precipitate as
ladders, did the trembling and almost heartbroken girl follow the hag. They
then entered a spacious depository of statues modelled in plaster of Paris. A
strange assembly of images was that! Heathen gods seemed to fraternize with
angels, Madonnas, and Christian saints; Napoleon and Wellington stood
motionless side by side ; George the Fourth and Greenacre occupied the same
shelf; William Pitt and Cobbett appeared to be contemplating each other with
silent admiration; Thomas Paine elbowed a bishop; Lord Castlereagh seemed to be
extending his hand to welcome Jack Ketch; Cupid pointed his arrow at the bosom
of a pope; in a word, that strange pell-mell of statues was calculated to
awaken ideas of a most wild and ludicrous character, in the imagination of one
whose thoughts were not otherwise occupied.
The statuary was an Italian; and as he spoke the English
language imperfectly, he did not waste much time over the bargain, With the
cool criticism of a sportsman examining a horse or a dog, the statuary gazed
upon the young maiden; then, taking a rule in his hand, he measured her head.;
and with a pair of blunt compasses he took the dimensions of her features.
Giving a nod of approval, be consulted a large book which lay open upon a desk;
and finding that he had orders for a queen, an opera-dancer, and a Madonna, he
declared that he would take three casts of his new model's countenance that
very morning.
The old woman whispered words of encouragement in Ellen's
ear, as they all three repaired to the workshop, where upwards of twenty men
were employed in making statues. Some were preparing the clay models over which
the plaster of Paris was to be laid: others joined legs and arms to trunks ;-
some polished the features of the countenances: others effaced the seams that
betrayed the various joints in the complete statues. One fixed wings to angels'
backs - another swords to warriors' sides: a third repaired a limb that had
been broken; a fourth stuck on a new nose in the place of an old one knocked
off.
Ellen was stretched at full length upon a table; and a wet
cloth was placed over her face. The statuary then covered it with moist clay ;-
and the process was only complete when she was ready to faint through
difficulty of breathing. She rested a little while; and then the second cast
was taken. Another interval to recover breath - and the third and last mould
was formed.
The statuary seemed well pleased with this trial of his new
model; and placing a sovereign in the young maiden's hand, he desired her to
return in three days, as he should require her services again. The poor
trembling creature's eyes glistened with delight as she balanced the gold in
her little hand; and she took her departure, accompanied by the hag, with a
heart comparatively light.
"You will have plenty to do there," said the old
woman, as they proceeded homewards: "I have introduced you to a good
thing. You must therefore divide your first day's earnings with me."
Ellen really felt grateful to the selfish harridan and
having changed her gold for silver coin at a shop where she stopped to buy
provisions, she counted ten shillings in the withered and sinewy hand which the
hag thrust forth.
Thus for three months did Ellen earn the means of a
comfortable subsistence, by selling her countenance to the statuary. And that
countenance might me seen belonging to the statues of Madonnas in catholic
chapels; opera dancers, and actresses in theatrical clubs; nymphs holding lamps
in the halls of public institutions; and queens in the staircase windows
of insurance offices.
She never revealed to her father the secret spring of
that improved condition which soon restored him to health; but assured him that
she had found more needle-work, and was well paid for it. The old man had too
good an opinion of his daughter to suspect her of crime or frailty; and he
believed her innocent and well-meant falsehood the more readily, inasmuch as he
saw her constantly engaged with her needle when he was at home.
Three months passed away; and already had a little air
of comfort succeeded to the former dismal aspect of those two chambers which
the father and daughter occupied, when the statuary died suddenly.
Ellen's occupation was once more gone; and, after
vainly endeavouring to obtain needle-work - for that which she did in the
presence of her father was merely a pretence to make good her tale to him - she
again repaired to the abode of the old hag who had introduced her to the
statuary.
The aged female was, if possible, more wrinkled and
hideous than before; the contrast between her and her fair young visitant was
the more striking, inasmuch as the cheeks of the latter bad recovered their
roundness, and her form its plumpness by means of good and sufficient food.
"You have come to me again," said the hag.
"Doubtless I should have never seen you more if you had not wanted my
services."
"The statuary is dead," returned Ellen.
"and his left behind him an immense fortune. His son has therefore
declined the business, and has discharged every one in the employment of his
late father."
"And what would you have me do for you,
miss?" demanded the old woman. "I am not acquainted with another
statuary."
Ellen heaved a deep sigh.
The hag contemplated her for some time in silence, and
then exclaimed, "Your appearance has improved; you have a tinge of the
carnation upon your cheeks; and your eyes have recovered their brightness. I
know an artist of great repute, who will be glad of you as a copy for his
shepherdesses, his huntresses, his sea-nymphs, and heathen goddesses. Let us
lose no time in proceeding to his residence."
This proposal was far more agreeable to the maiden than
the one which had led her into the service of the statuary; and she did not for
a moment hesitate to accompany the old woman to the abode of the artist.