NIGHTS OF THE ROUND TABLE.
Tins is a series of stories, connected by the ordinary agency of a family of different ages and pursuits, who are respectively called upon for their experience. The largest, and luckily the best part of the volume, is composed of the autobiography of Miss Jane Harding; who delights her audience by stories of "when I was a little girl." Her part consists of her own history and experience as an infant—of the homely life of a poor and respectable widow of a Spitalfields weaver—a visit to Windsor, and a sight of old George the Third; and the more elaborate and very clever history of the three Janes, who in succession patronize the Jane of the degree below. Lady Jane, for instance, the daughter of the Marquis of Aulmerle, patronizes Miss Jane Harding, the daughter of her father's agent and man of business ; Miss Jane Harding again patronizes Jane Ford, the daughter or grand daughter of the Marquis's gardener. Patronage is paid for in flattery and subservience. As the parties grow older, the game becomes higher, and the qualities of the three Janes are developed. The result is curious, and improving. The story is told with a nature and truth and skill which are found to be wanting in works of far higher pretension. The moral effect is all that might be wished. We cannot desire to infuse better notions into youth, than such as are inspired, rather than inculcated, by the authoress of the Nights of the Round Table.
The extract we can most conveniently make, is from the history of the blind old Widow of Spitalfields. It isnn affecting tale of the struggle of independence of feeling and principle against po- verty, affection against the selfishness of privation. It is gratifying to think that instances of so noble a spirit are not rare; but most lamentable that the prosperity of a state should be balaneed by the necessity of such trials visiting a most valuable portion of the community.
THE SPITALFIELDS WIDOW.
" Tell your story to little Jane, while I visit your neighbours, Bell's mother and Mrs. Briinde. Before taking her to see our good old King, I have brought her to see one of the happiest of his subjects ; tell her your story." " Ay, my. dear ; and do bless you, call also on Martha Reding, or she will be jealous ; and she smiled again. " These are the kind neighbours that do for me," said the sagacious old woman, " not the less readily, my dear, that I am noticed, and their services to me acknowledged, by a lady like your niother. I cannot ask the young ladies, your sisters, to call on my Spitalfields gossips ; but your mother knows their trim, and can allow for them, and she makes them doubly attentive to me ' • yet they are worthy, honest, poor folks. I have got Mrs. Harding and her friends good, faithful servants from such families; and now for my story, my dear. Why, after all, it is nothing ; but I shall tell it you, since your soother bids me.
" I was the daughter of a labourer in Essex—one of a large, poor family. I Caine to London for service, and found it ; for Essex girls had a good name, and I was a stirring, likely lass' then—I mean for work. I remained in service fif- teen years, the last ten of which I spent in your grandmother's nursery—happy and easy years they were; and, indeed, my dear, I have since fisired, that young women are only too easy and well off in the families of gentlefolks, and that this sometimes snakes them discontented as poor men's wives ; yet a home of one's own has many delights too to counterbalance its hardships.
" John Rushton and I were long acquainted; for' though bred a silk weaver, he was an Essex tad originally. We were not rash in marrying young—your grandmother helped to prevent that folly ; we were both above thirty, and liad put something beforehand to begin housekeeping. Wages were better then, and hours shorter for the poor weaver, though the ladies maybe did not buy their gowns quite so often' nor so cheaply. This was the chamber of our first house, my dear, but we had a large kitchen. below ; aml when your soother, then about your age, brought me that tea-tray, as a marriage gift, on her first visit to Hannah's home, she saw these very same old things you are looking on now, nice things then. I believe, my dear, n poor couple, when they marry, and get a home of their own_, are as proud of their morn and their goods as e'er a lady and gentleman of their castle,. their grounds, and their carriages' and why should they not ? I am not seeing it now, but to me this small chamber, many a day, looked a gladsome place. Look round it, my dear : it has held coffins and cradles, and heard the voice of bridal joy; and the groans of sore affliction ; the weeping of a bereaved mother, and the feeble wail of an aged widow ; bet don't look sad, neither—for deep content is here : —the voice of thanksgiving for all,—for the grief as well as the joy has been breathed in the watches of tbe night from this poor chamber. Oh ! if it were not so, what a hardened, heart- less creature were I, if you knew all the blessings that in a long life I have tasted !" This was said in a low, earnest voice ; amf the Widow went on more
" I had five children ; either the air of London, or some fatal Constitu-
tional taint, nir them one by one. No one saw the other save the two Younger; and they also drooped, pined, and went at last; ' I. spent. snore on these infants than was proper for poor folks. Could I retain our little store or any part of it untouched, and see them pine ? But doctors did them lade good. Cotild. I have carried them to a purer air ! But, alas ! I could not take.theni to Essex ; and I have, indeed, in those days, grudged to see fine, healthy, young women rolling by in coaches, while I sank beneath the weight of the Stekly baby which. I carried abroad, both of us gasping for a mouthful of fresher air. My own health failed about this time ; but I struggled to bear up. Your grandmother lent us a child's little carriage; and on Sundays, when John Rushton had leisure from toil, we alternately dragged our poor pale babies as far off as we could out of London into the country. Oh! how I sighed for the sweet breath of the meadows of Essex for my children ! but they were taken to a yet purer air, and I was taught resignation.
" But ere this, times were become hard with us ; a low rate of wages brought
on long, weary hours of work ; and languor and sickness .followed them, and.uti- fitted for tire increased ncreased exertion necessary to gain any thing like what my hus- band had once earned; still we were better off than many of our neighbours ; for if our early store was gone, we had our household goods, and no debts." There was a pause in the narrative, and a low sigh was breathed ere it was re- sumed.
"John Rushton had shared much joy, and grief with me • and now, together, we were to taste of poverty-,ay, and of WOFEe evils. Though it be quite true that drinking only aggravates every evil of the poor, He who made us, best can judge of the despair and strong temptation with which my poor roan had to contend. He met with his fellows in public-houses to try to better themselves, and mend the tithes; and I fear they only made themselves worse and the times
'
no better; for my dear, unless the Parliament could have bought all our silks, and paid us well for them, and taken more from us, what could t Parliament do for us ? I never loved these meetings, but what could I say ?—an industrious and careful man and a kind husband he had been many a day : and it was ray part to bear and forbear now. When things were at the worst with us' it pleased God to afflict him with long and sore sickness and mercifully to show Trim his folly—in- deed he had ever seen it, and bitterly lamented it too ; but now he was a sincere penitent, and an amended life proved his contrition. He hail laboured hard many a day to maintain me and my children ; and now it was my turn to work for him, and to comfort him ; and I was blessed in being able to do both. He died on that bed which we had purchased twenty years before, neither obliged to pa- rish nor hospital, in peace and forgiveness with all mankind, and most of all with me. My friends, among whom, my dear, were your own kind relations, I know thought poor John's death a great blessing for their old Hannah, but they did not say so to her ; and, though I could scarcely rejoice even in the release of my poor man from sorrow and suffering, yet I was not so impatient of the hand that afflicted as the affluent widow might have been. Still this was a trial— the greatest of my life. When, after a hard day's work, I returned at night to my poor invalid, there was a kind of happiness in performing ray loving service about him. There was a living being waiting and wearying for me to speak comfort to him, and a spark of fire in the little &rate ;—now all was become silent and desolate; and I thought, if it had been God's will, I would not have exchanged my hard day's work, and the anxious flutter of heart with which I wont to hasten home then, for the chill torpor and void which weighed on me now. But, my dear, your mother bade me tell you my story, and I am telling you only my own feelings--very idle that ; I will keep to the story now. In John's last illness, I had contracted some few debts, for the first time of my life. Sickness, alas ! is craving, and capricious in its appetites ; and how could I re- fuse any thing that my credit could procure for him ? I sold the few silver tea- spoons of which I had once been so proud, and a few other things ; but I el:Mid not bring myself to part With our good Essex bedding, and these other little use- ful articles about you - for I had noticed, among my poor neighbours, that, when the room begins to Le stripped of its furniture, an comfort, self-respect, and well-doing, fast follow. Alas! pawnbrokers' money goes short way. By hard work, I got clear of all my encumbrances. Providenee be blessed! I owed no man any thing when it pleased God to lay me aside." She tried here to lift the palsied arm, as if in devout thankfulness.
The doctor said I had overworked myself,—and one thing or another. But, to be sure, after losing the use of the limbs, the poor eyes were of less value. I repined, I fear, too much; and coals of fire were heapedon my thank- less head ; for, from that day when all became to my mind dark and desolate, I have never known want, nor the fear of want." Words were breathing on the lips of the pious woman that were not intended for my ear. I cast down my eyes in reverence of her piety, unable to look on those sightless orbs whose power I felt as if they read my inmost heart. "But you are happy now?" let last whispered.
"Indeed I am, my dear: nor, excepting under the immediate pressure of affliction, have I ever been much otherwise. At what the world would have called my worst times, I was not very unhappy ; for neither gross vice nor ab- solute want were ever known within our threshold. While my husband lay bedrid, our silk trade was all knocked up ; but, luckily, I could turn my hand to several things. I fear it was greediness of fine work, which paid me well, that cost me my eyes. From two families, who needed charriv, I got con- stant employment ; and there is much kindness ever going about in that world of middle life where the wants of the poor are understood. "Saturday nights, like this same, wont to be a blessed, welcome time to me. My employers were not among the great ; but those to whom I had done a faithful week's work, or a day's work, knew I had a bedrid husband to provide for, and often gave me what they could spare,—if not money, yet to me money's worth. No, I was never unhappy,—I had a pleased and grateful feeling, even working on often till far in Sunday morning, washing up our own few things, and cleaning our room after I came late home; and I hope the God, who has said that He delighteth more in mercy than in sacrihce,' forgives mo this Sabbath-breach ; and also if, instead of going to church in my old bonnet and shoes—I might be too proud—I remained by the side of my poor sick man on my thrice-blessed day of rest, good thoughts not far from us, even in this lone chamber. No, indeed, my dear, I have never been to call unhappy ; and, sit- ting here alone, with poor Bobby, (her canary-bird,) my sole living companion now' and thinking it all over and over, I feel as if the times that still lie nearest and dearest to my heart, and are more sweet than bitter in remembrance, are precisely those which, in passing, seemed my darkest days."
Previous page
