صور الصفحة
PDF
النشر الإلكتروني

and again, may seem to your refined taste insipid and absurd, the plots improbable, the language of the personages introduced that of the cheap theatre; yet the influence of such a periodical as this is not all for evil. Within the lowliest heart there is a touch of pure romance, which softens and responds to the call made on its sympathies by the record of the loves and sorrows of others. That coarsely clad factory girl, working all the week amidst companions whose manners and conversation are not very edifying at the best, spells through the closely printed pages of her "Gusher" with perfect contentment; she believes with the utmost good faith in the probability of the incidents, and correctness in detail, of all the literary feast placed before her.

If she, like you and I, were always wise, she would spend her spare time in attending science classes, or frequenting the highly instructive and eminently religious discourses provided on Sunday evenings at certain of our Board Schools, instead of revelling in imaginative descriptions of how the great folks of the West-end of society live, and move, and have their being. Let her alone; grudge not the poor pennyworth of startling fiction, contributed by writers as poor as herself perhaps, conceived in a garret, after a frugal dinner consisting of a red herring, and washed down by half-a-pint of fourpenny ale. Is there not something almost pathetic and touching in this writing by the poor for the amusement of the still poorer? Perhaps the author of "Mad Love" has at this moment his only coat at his "uncle's," whilst he is vividly depicting the magnificent costume of Lord Lancelot Chandos; he imbibes smallest of beer, and makes his hero quaff unlimited champagne; his wife's best dress has been turned again and again, yet his heroine must parade in the most gorgeous apparel. If, however, our authors are indigent hacks, at least their stories are generally sound in morality, and that is more than can be said for half the gilt-backed trash which passes current as high-class fiction; and helps to crowd the shelves of modern libraries until it passes away to its proper recipient-the waste paper dealer.

Laugh and sneer then as you may, so long as we readers of the "Gusher" are unable to purchase a "Debrett," and place it on our parlour table to give us more correct information about the peerage, and so long as we have time and means to spare, we intend going on perusing with satisfaction our five romances for a penny, and at the same time acquiring, "to a certain extent," a glimmering from our East of that strange world far away in the West. The curtain now falls upon the story, this time without the often repeated announcement-"To be continued in our next "-which has so often left our readers in a maze of perplexity and doubt, only to be satisfactorily cleared up by the next number of our beloved serial. Long may it flourish !

W.H.T.

JUST A WEE THING.

PATTER, patter, little feet,
In the room above my head;
Not a sound is half so sweet,
There is music in their tread.
Happily they trip along,
Airy, fairy, light and gay,
Keeping time to an old song,
Bringing back a by-gone day.

As I listen to the sound,

What a vision greets my eye!
Just a wee thing toddling round,
With its mother standing by.
Love is lighting up her face
With a beauty most divine;
Over all the crowning grace,—
Child and mother both are mine.

Swiftly pass the years away,
Deeper loves our lives illume,
As we, watching, day by day,

See the bud change into bloom;
See the child and maiden grow,
Bright, and beautiful, and fair,
And our souls the rapture know,
Angels would be glad to share.

Now that time returns once more,
As I sit and hear the feet
Pattering lightly on the floor,
Music in their every beat,

Telling of the long ago,

When its mother was a child,

All her hair a golden glow

Round a face that brightly smiled.

All so like, yet not the same

For that child is mother now;
Glorying in another name,

Wifehood's beauty on her brow;
In her eyes that lovely pride,
Only mothers' eyes can show ;
Such as I have oft descried

In her mother's, long ago.

For those little pattering feet,
Making music o'er my head,
All the blessedness repeat

That the past on me has shed.
Mother, and her mother there,

Watch the darling's glorious glee! Shield them, God, from every care, Pour Thy blessings on the three !

J. A. L.

ROBERT ROBERTS, BACHELOR.

My first acquaintance with this worthy individual-for worthy I do indeed esteem him, although for a long time his merits were overshadowed by his vices-was in the autumn of 1856.

At that time I was employed as cashier in a large drapery establishment at Barchester, and Mr. Roberts came into the house as a "young man." They were all called "young men," from old Mr. Everard, the manager, with "his high top bald with dry antiquity," down to young Smithers, the junior assistant, whose signs of beard were about as apparent as those in the palm of one's hand, notwithstanding that he shaved night and morning with grave persistency.

Mr. Roberts made his appearance in the young men's sitting room after the shop was closed, and I then had my first conversation with him. He commenced by asking me what sort of beer was to be had in Barchester, at the same time expressing a fervent hope that he should meet with some as good as the Liverpool stingo, which was by no means to be despised, although he opined that there was no drink in the world which could compare with that brewed at Wrexham, for that was "cwrw dda" and no mistake.

The information at my command being somewhat limited, and of a hearsay character, he pledged his word that he would find out for himself where the best was to be obtained, and having made the discovery, he should confine his patronage solely to that house; for, as he justly observed, the man who brewed good beer was a benefactor to his species, and was deserving of all the encouragement and support which could possibly be bestowed upon him; and, as a true-born Welshman, he would back his discernment in judging of the various samples he might meet with, and his constancy to the best when found.

I endeavoured to change the conversation by asking in what part of Wales his mountain-home might be. He said he came from near Llanysmynech, and his mother brewed very good beer, the only defect. of which consisted in occasional absence of body. I then enquired about his last situation in Liverpool. It was a poorish berth, he informed me, but it possessed the great advantage of being contiguous to a public house, a little house round the corner, where could be procured the best stingo in all Liverpool; and it was with evident regret that he confided to me that, although living so near for five months, he had only discovered the little house round the corner just three weeks before

he got the "swap"-meaning before being discharged from his situation. Upon this, I enquired if there was any connection between his devotion to malt liquor and the loss of his employment. "Not a bit of it," said Mr. Roberts. "One day the trade was very quiet, and the governor was prowling up and down the shop, when all of a sudden he said, 'you young men from this pillar to that make out your accounts,' and so I left, and came straight away to Barchester." I expressed surprise at such summary treatment, but he said it was customary with many drapery houses to engage their assistants on the understanding that no notice should be required; "and now," he added, "I must go and get some beer. Will you come with me?" I declined, and told him he could no doubt get one of the other young men to accompany him; but he elected to go alone, for he observed that it was a rule with him never to make more than one friend in any house in which he lived. "I like you, Mr. Wilkins, and hope we shall always be good friends; please call me Bob, of course all the other fellows will have to say Mr. Roberts."

From the first I conceived a strong liking for Mr. Roberts-or Bob, as I must now call him—notwithstanding that our dispositions and tastes were entirely opposite. He was such a fine, manly-looking young fellow, with his broad back (and it was the broadest I ever saw), and his cheerful, honest face, that I thought him to be the handsomest young man I had ever beheld. Not that his features were particularly good; he was very low-browed, with a splendid mass of dark curly hair, twinkling black eyes, an enormous lower jaw, and a mouth like a cavern; but despite these drawbacks I held, and still hold, Bob to be the best-looking young man of my acquaintance.

In business he proved to be very industrious, and when three months had elapsed he was recommended by Mr. Everard for an advance of salary. This to Bob meant more beer, and he had now discovered what he deemed to be the best tap, at a small suburban public house, in which resort most of his leisure hours, and all his spare cash, were spent. The name of the house, Bob confided to me in secrecy, was "The Rising Sun," but he did not wish the other fellows to know.

I managed to get him to stay at home occasionally to assist in a small glee-party which I had formed among the young men, but Bob's musical efforts were generally voted a nuisance. He was the possessor of a huge bass voice, but it was so very rough and uncultivated that

"To hear him, you'd believe

An ass was practising recitative."

And, moreover, his powerful and profound tones aroused great jealousy in the breast of young Smithers, who, although but a mild baritone, had a good knowledge of music and was too useful to offend, so that I was obliged to let Bob go to his beloved beer, to which he generously raised no objection.

Bob's habits, apart from his devotion to beer, were, in other respects, fairly exemplary. He was a regular attendant at the Welsh Baptist Chapel. and never entered a public-house on Sunday. The afternoon of that day he invariably devoted to writing a long letter to his mother.

Whatever he could find to say was a puzzle to me; but Bob was a simple fellow who, having fixed on a plan, rarely swerved. His duty appeared to be to fill a large sheet of paper, and he filled it. I did not observe that he ever received a letter in return, but that circumstance never deterred him from fulfilling his duty. At last, however, there came a letter for Mr. Roberts. The address was badly written and ill-spelt, but the contents had a most powerful effect upon Bob. As he read it a change came over his broad, jovial countenance, and big tears coursed each other rapidly down his cheeks. The grief of my friend was so intense that my own eyes involuntarily filled with tears, and I could not speak. I took Bob's hand in mine and pressed it warmly, while his great chest heaved with a distress which was painful to witness. On recovering my self-control, I said, "why Bob, old fellow, whatever can be the matter?" He handed me the letter, but as the contents were in the Welsh language I had to wait until such time as he could explain that his mother was very ill, and a neighbour had written that if he wished to see her again alive he must go down home without delay. "Oh, Jem," he said, "I love her so dearly, and I have not been so kind to her as I ought to have been ;" and the poor fellow sobbed as if his heart would break. I offered to go to our employer's room and get him leave of absence for a week. Bob thanked me, but he said he had scarcely any money left. I lent him a small sum, and having procured him a holiday, accompanied him to the station. In a day or two I received a note from Bob, with the welcome intelligence that his mother was much better, and she would be glad if I could obtain a holiday and spend a few days with her son in the country.

On my naming the matter to my employer he at once gave his consent, and emphasised the same with a welcome gratuity. As I was leaving the counting-house he said, "by-the-bye, Mr. Wilkins, perhaps you will bring your influence to bear upon Mr. Roberts. I understand from Mr. Everard that he has some very good qualities, and I think it a great pity that he should allow a miserable love of beer to endanger all his future prospects."

I departed with a merry heart, and, on arriving at Llanysmynech station, was much gratified to see Bob's broad face lighted up with the sunniest of smiles. A two miles walk across the fields brought us to his mother's house. It was a very humble farmhouse, but the interior was comfortable, and the extreme cleanliness of the stone floor and the brightness of the kitchen dresser bore evidence to the willingness of the red-armed Welsh girl who officiated as servant.

Mrs. Roberts was in her little parlour, and she received me with much kindness. She had not been much accustomed to talk in the English language, but Bob was at hand to suggest a word now and then, and we got on famously. She had been ill, very ill indeed, she said, with the spasms; but by the help of the Lord and a drop of warm beer with some ginger in it she had found great relief. Bob laughingly remarked that he hoped he should never hear me speak disrespectfully of beer again.

« السابقةمتابعة »