OLD AGE IN THE VILLAGE.
THE little grey church lies in a verdant hollow that is set about with tall elms and graceful beeches, and 'bounded by a shallow stream. Beyond this, the fields sweep -away in long undulations of sober brown fallow, of green young corn that twinkles to every breath of wind, or of stately golden grain according to the season. From the graveyard, where mounds cluster thick, the road leads upward, as the church's road should ever do, so that even from the font the Every Sunday morning, when the bells are ding-donging to The tree-tope, two old men come out of their garden gate, totter down the path, and pass in through the big door. They live in the cottage close by, which some squatter long ago squeezed in between the high road and the bank. The thatched roof leaks, the mud walls threaten to collapse, but its occupants say it will last their time, and crazy hut though it be, it is at least a home, which the "House "—that night- mare of the aged poor—is not. Jimmy, the elder of the twain, is a simple soul with a child's heart in the body of a giant ; his once powerful frame is bowed and shrunken now; long years of toil have bent his back until his head rests upon his breast. With his rugged face and long silver locks, he is a picturesque figure in white smock-frock, over which falls a beard scarcely less white. Jimmy seldom speaks, and is seldom spoken to, for he is almost stone-deaf, a fact which troubles him less than it does his house-mate. "Pooer ole man," the latter remarks plaintively, "if 'ee could on'y year 'iself a-trumpettin' about the 'ouse in they girt boots o' his'n ! It goos cane through my 'ead, it do ; but ther', it bain't a mossel o' use a-tellin"ee • on't." " Wiliam " is not unfrequently plaintive. There is some- -thing at once pathetic and grotesque about his appearance; his clothes have an obviously clerical cut, suggesting the idea that they had seen service in a higher sphere before they came into his possession. His lank, melancholy visage is seamed with wrinkles innumerable, and adorned by a shaggy black beard that age cannot bleach. He indulges in signifi- cant winks of his shrewd little eyes and portentous noddings • di. the head; should he so far forget himself as to smile, he .quickly resumes his habitual gloom, covering his momentary levity with a series of tremendous sighs calculated to affect the heart of the listener to the extent of at least a shilling. There is, however, some excuse for his sadness. His story, though by no means an uncommon one, yet possesses all the elements of a tragedy. Let us sit beside the two old peasants on the bank, when the birds carol in every greening tree, and listen to " Willum's " tale, told in his own homely speech :— "I war horned in that ther"ouse, an' ther' I've a-lived a matter o' seventy-eight 'ears, 'ceptin' when I went fur a few months to Henley on a job. Things was wunnerful comacal when I war young, bless 'ee. The baillies wur alias a-mania' arter the parson cos 'ee udn't pay 'is debts, an' parson war alias a-rannin' away from the baillies—many a time I've a- sin un a-cattin' acrass them fields—bat 'ee wur cotched at last, an' put into the Tower, so folks did say; I don't rightly 'know myself. 'Twurn't so long artar the war, an' livin' war just about dear ; sugar war as much as eevenpence the poun', in' salt war half-a-crownd the gallon, and bread a shillin' an' .ightpence,—ah, us lived 'ard then. I've a-yeard my father tell as 'ow 'ee war drawed fur to goo an' fight, but 'ee paid a substitoot to go fur 'n. They all come back as went from this village, narn of 'em wasn't killed. When I wur near about twen'y-two I got married ; that's fifty-six 'ear agoo, an' you med see the little stool now in the kitchen as I made my minus fur she to put 'er fit upon a-foor our Jarge wur harned ; I sha'n't never part wi' un. We on'y 'ad the one chile, an' as I wur a shepherd, an' yarned twelve shillin' wik an' summat at Michaelmas, we got along quite comfei'bie 'large 'ee married when 'es wur nineteen, then ther' was On', me an' my old 'ooman. It med be ten 'ear agoo as I wur fust took bad, but I'd got my club, so I neted to goo on that far a spell when I couldn't work. 'Twain% long afoor I 'ad to give up shepherdin' aitergither, an' fur six months I 'ad eight ahipint a-wik club-pay, t'other six, the lowance from the parish ; that's two shillin' an' two loaves, 'ee inlawa• My Imams ad yarn a bit more by workin' in the field, but she warn't strong, an' it wore 'er out, it did. She got one o' them cancers in 'er inside as no doctor caasn't cure, an' I war fast to bury 'er down tiler' in the churchyard. Ah, she suffered ter'ble, my pooer ole Kitty ! but she's at rest now; she 'ad 'er trouble in this life. I did what I could fur she, an' when she wur a-dyin' I sez to she, 'Be you 'appy, Kitty, be you a gwine to 'coven?' Ise,' she said, an' shucked 'er 'cad an' smiled, so I knowed 'twur all right wi"er. I lived on in the old 'wise, but 'twur that dull! Many a time I've a-cried nights to think as she'd a-left ma ; I never thought as she'd be took a-four me. She'd bin dead some nine months when I went in to pay my club as I'd a- belonged to fur six an' farty 'ear. When I got ther', the man as takes the money, 'ee sea to ma, 'We've made a noo rule, an' if so be as you wants to bide in this year club, you'll ha' to paay three pun' down, then you can bide in't as long as you live.' I began to shuck and trimble, fur wher' was I to git such a comenjous lot o' money ? But parson, 'e gin ma summat, an' ee wrote out a paper so as I could goo round the village a-c'llectin', one way an' another I scambled up it an' took it to the man, but 'twarn't a moseel o' use, fur, sez 'e, You can keenp yer money ; we made another rule a few days since, as no one can't bide in the club arter such an age, an' you be wover't I reckon.' So 'ee turned ma from the dooer, and back I come all 'mazed an"founded, wi' the tears a-runnin' down my cheeks ; since then, 'stead o' five shillin' a-wik, I've 'ad but two, an' two loaves—that's the lowance, 'ee knaws. They 'ucked three or fower on us ole chaps out o' club so as 'ee shouldn't bust. .A.h, 'twur a blow, a crool blow." " Willnm " shakes his head sadly, and, glancing at his silent companion, continues:—' Jimmy year. 'ee wur well-to-do, as you med say, onc't : 'ee 'ad a cottage of 'is own an' a vote fur Parlyment ; there wasn't so many as 'ad votesee in them days, 'ee knaws. But 'ee never put into narra club, didn't Jimmy, an' when 'ee got pas' work they wouldn't 'low un nothen"count of 'is 'ouse ; so 'ee went an' selled an to Master Parks the baker, who didn't gie tin no money for't, on'y tea an' sugar an' such-like fur three months or thereabouts, When that come to a head they wur fast to 'low un from the parish, an' now 'ee 'as same as me. I lets un bide along o' me cos it makes one rent an' oae fire 'stead o' two, luk 'ee. When coal an' rent be paid, ther' ain't much left out o' fower shillin' fur vittles, ah no, wunnerful little, wunnerful little,—we mos'n gen'ly 'as a bit o' bread an' lard an' a drop o' tea. It wun't stretch to clothes no 'ow ; I 'as just what folks gin ma an' ee 'as 'is smock ; 'tie a good un too, fur it cost 'un ten shillin' an' he've a-wore it these twen'y 'ear. Pooer ole man, the childern calls an an 'ud-me-dad,* but 'ee dwoan't mind 'em, cos 'ee cassn't year an' the slop keeups tan warm." " Willum " pauses, and leans his trembling, toil-worn hands upon his stick. The sun is setting behind the western woods, clear against the amber sky stands out the venerable tower- " in change unchanging "—where the clock is chiming the hour. As the notes float upward through the stillness the old man rouses himself. "'Tie a'most time we was a-bed. I likes to year the clock, it soundee so cheerful, 'specially o' nights. Whativer should us be wi'out church ? I minds some fower 'ear agoo, ther' war a talk o' them Parlyment folk a-doin' away wi't. Parson 'ad a girt paper sent to 'ee, fur arra body to put their names to as wur agin doin' away wi't, so I ups to parson an' sez I If you plaze, Sir, I've a-yeard as you've got a 'tition agin they Parlyment chaps as wants to take away chnreh from we pooer folks, an' I'd like to set my mark to't, fur 'twnd be a yunked job if so be as we'd got no church. Who'd christ'n us, who'd marry us, an' who'd bury us ?—that's what we must all come to, 'ee knaws.'" Ay, and to some—the patient, uncomplaining poor—the road to that quiet, green hollow is not easy after all.
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