LITERATURE.

Globe, Volume VI, Issue 623, 17 June 1876, Page 3

LITERATURE.

FAIRY.

Old Salford is fast disappearing beneath the levelling hands of the _ Improvement Commissioners; and it is little to be regretted, since some of the vilest slums it has ever been my lot to walk into—and they were many —were in that borough. Down by the river it used to be worst of all. In the hot summer and autumn months, when the Irwell had half dried up in its shallow bed, and vast banks of deposited filth lay exposed to the broiling heat of the sun, the stench emanating from that hot-bed of disease was something frightful. It is slightly better now, but all the efforts of the Commissioners can only make it a little less nasty, since it can never be, nor can it ever deserve the name of, a river; it is only an open sewer. It is with one of these river-side streets that we have to deal. It was called Sunny - view. Oh ! mockery of a name. The only view was in front; a wretched tumble-down wall, scarcely breast-high ; below that the river; and across that black stream, the gloomy blank front of an old spinning-mill. Sunny view, indeed ! It was very little sun they got there, for the row of houses rejoicing in that name was built up on each side by a huge mill, that cast a dark shade upon the poor wretched habitations lying between them. The houses were hovels ; the ground in front was a puddle in wet weather, and a drying-ground for the scanty clothes ol the inhabitants in dry. Not a door shut true ; not a window could boast a, hasp ; and many a pane of glass was wanting, and its place taken by a bundle of rags or a piece of paper, or left gaping. The roofs let in the rain, the walls rained tears, when the cold damp autumn days were on. The floors were cracked flags; the stairs were all broken and worn ; the plaster had left the walls, and the bare bricks showed through. They were not lit for human beings todive in; and yet each of these tenements held two or three families, one for each room; generally the same room being bedroom, kitchen, and sitting-room all in one. The inhabitants of this place were dirty; they were ragged, they were povei-ty-stricken for the most part, and ([often had scarce aught to live on ; but they were cheerful, and even gay in general, and took life as they found it, bravely, and apparently ignorant of there being any merit in cleanliness and godliness, for I am afraid few ever went to church or chapel. Sunnyview was of course overrun with children, as such places nearly always are. _ There was one family, however, rather different from the rest. They were poor, ‘it true, but they were clean. The husband in this case was not a drunkard, as nearly every one else in the row was ; nor was his wife as slatternly and idle, or as fond of gossip, as her neigh hours. The one room they inhabited was clean and tidy, and though, by reason of the husband s infirmity—ho having lost an arm, and

' thereby being rendered unfit for his trade, that of machine-turner—they were not rich, yet they always had something to eat and drink, and often a little for their less thrifty neighbours. This couple had one child, a little girl of about six years of age, with flaxen hair and soft blue eyes, with the softest and most winning expression in "them I ever beheld. She was the pet and idol of the whole of that street. She was not like most of the other children, dirty and rough, but quiet and sedate, with that air of wisdom that we see sometimes in children, and which the old women call * old-fashioned ; ’ sure sign, they say, of an early death. The men used to bring her toys home when they received their wagas on Saturday; and many a little ribbon, o]T other knickknack, had the mothers brought home from Saturday night’s marketing, with, which to deck out little * Fairy,’ as they called her, on the Sunday. Poor and tawdiy, most of them, and of no great value ; but it is not value we look at in a gift—is it not the heart of the giver ? The way I became acquainted with Fairy was this, I was parish doctor for the district in which she - lived, and my avocations, as you may guess, frequently led me into the dirtiest and worst parts of the place : one of these was Sunnyview. There was an epidemic of scarlet fever at the time, and it was in the streets along the river-side that it raged with the greatest virulence and fastest. It soon reached Sunnyview. Nearly every child in the row had it, and among the rest, little Fairy was seized. I never had a better or more obedient patient than that little child. She used to listen with such an air of preternatural wisdom to what I said; and they told me afterwards that whenever they wished to give her any thing, she used to ask : ‘ Did doctor say I must have it ? ’ And unless they could answer ‘Yes,’ she would not take it. Fairy got over this illness (though many others in the street died), and was running about as usual in a few weeks. Through Sunnyview was a short-cut for me from one part of my district to another, and thus it often happened that I saw my bright-haired little friend. * That is my doctor,’ she would say, when she saw mo coming, to her playmates, and leaving them, would run to meet me. I used to bring her sweets in my pockets sometimes, and when she had received them, she would walk with me to the end of the row, prattling in her grave, womanish way, as we went along. Arrived there, she always said: ‘Good-bye, my doctor,’ and then turned round and rejoined her playmates. I soon got to look out for her whenever I took that route, and always felt better when I had seen her. It was a relief from the constant ingratitude and lamentings of my patients ; for, believe me, of all the thankless and wearying occupations of this life, that of a parish doctor j is but too often the most thankless, the most wearying, and the most sickening. For the clergyman, they will make some attempt at tidiness, in readiness for his visit; for the doctor, none. They let him see everything, and take no trouble to put themselves in any better state for his visit. The constant struggle to instil any ideas of decency or cleanliness in those squalid houses is heart-wearying. |But to return to Fairy. As I said, I used to look forward with pleasure to the sight of her innocent face, as I went my round, and but seldom failed to see it. But the end came soon. }

The wall which separated the front of the row from the river was getting into a sad state. All the mortar had gone from between the bricks, and the coping-stones were quite loose. I had several times seen the children standing on these stones, and shaking them with their feet as they did so, making them rock on the smooth tops of the bricks, and had as often warned the mothers that some accident would happen if they did not stop it. But no one took any notice. They called them off once or twice, but the reckless youngsters were on again as soon as the mothers’ backs were turned.

One day, as I turned the corner of the houses, the children were at this game again, and among the rest, Fairy was standing on one stone, rocking it with all her might; and laughing for glee. I saw with dismay that the stone had worked quite loose from its neighbors, and was only about threequarters way on the ledge of bricks, and overhung the steep fall to the river in an extremely dangerous fashion. I walked quietly forward, so as not to startle Fairy ; but ere I could reach her, she had seen me.

‘ Look at me, my doctor,’ she called out, beginning to dance on the stone, ‘So nice ; look at me ! ’

Even as she said it, the stone rocked off the ledge ; and ere I could grasp her clothes, the child had fallen down to the river’s brink, the heavy stone on the - top of her. With a cry of horror and dismay, I leaped over the wall, and rushed to where she lay. The stone was lying across her body. With a great exertion of strength, I lifted it off her, and took up the little body in my arms. She was quite insensible. Her head had come in contact with a sharp stone, and the fair hair was all dabbled with blood. I carried her into her home, amidst her wailings and lamentations of the neighbors, and laying her on the bed, proceeded to examine the extent of the injuries she had received. Though the blow had been enough to stun her, the cut in her head was not deep, and was soon bound up. I could find no other bones broken, just then, andsat down by the bed until she should come round. In a few seconds she opened her eyes, and seeing me, smiled faintly. ‘My doctor,’ she whispered. ‘ Do you feel pain anywhere, Fairy ? Does your head hurt you ? ’ I asked. ‘A little,’ she replied ; ‘but oh, I feel so queer all over ! ’ ‘She’s like too,’ said one of the women, ‘ after that fall. Here, darling, sit up, and drink this drop of water ;’ bending over her with a cup, and putting her arm under the child’s head.

Fairy tried to raise herself. ‘Draw your feet up, my dear,’ said another, ‘ and try to sit up.’ Fairy tried once more, but the feet and body never moved. ‘ Oh, my doctor,’ she said, turning to me, her blue eyes full of tears, 1 1 can’t. I feel as if I hadn’t got no feet., I can’t move my legs ;’ and her piteous looks and tones struck my heart with alarm. I pushed the woman aside hastily, and again bent over the girl. Fool that I was ; I had never thought of this ; and my countenance showed my anxiety, for all talking ceased, and every one watched me eagerly. It was as I had thought, when her words suddenly struck on my ears. There never could be more feeling in her legs, She would

never rise from that bed again alive. The poor child’s back was broken, and life was' but a question of a few hours at the most. I turned away as I made this sad discovery, and my eyes were wet with tears. ‘ls it very bad, doctor ?’ said-one of the women in an awe-struck whisper. *So bad,’ I replied huskily, * that she has not many hours to live.’ The words went from mouth to mouth aU round the room, and every eye was moist. After staying a little while longer, and giving such directions as I thought best for easing my little patient, I left, promising to call again at night. When I returned, the neighbours were still there, but now on each side of the bed were the father and mother of the dying child. Yes, she was dying, dying fast, I could see, as I entered, the painful drawing of the face that betokens dissolution—painful to witness, I mean, though not always painful to the dying one. _ ‘ Here's my doctor,’ murmured Fairy, as I came up to the bed. ‘AmI so ill, doctor ? They say I am dying ; but that only means going up among all those bright angels they tell us about up yonder. I don’t see why they should cry for that. I have no pain at all. I only feel sleepy. Let me put my head on your arm, doctor. —Dada ! what are you going for, dada ?’ she cried, as the weeping father, overcome by his emotion, was leaving the room. ‘ Don’t go, dada; I want you here to hold my hand. It is getting so dark, and I am frightened of the dark.— Mammy ! you hold my other hand—hold it tight. That’s it,’ with a sigh of relief, as the poor parents did as she wished. * Doctor, ’ she went on in a minute, ‘ is it up among those angels that Jesus is ? They tell us so at school. They say he loves little children. Does he love me ? Will he love me as much as my dada and mammy do ?’

‘Yes, more.’ * More ! Shall you be there too, some day, dada?’

.‘I hope so,’ sobbed the heart broken father.

‘ And mammy and my doctor too ? Oh that will be nice.—Dada, hold my hand tight. You’re letting go, dada. It’s getting so dark, I can’t see you. Where are you all ? Kiss me, dada, and mammy—and—you—too —my doctor. I can’t—see—you— now, Jesus—bright—angels, Dada—mam’ A short gasp for breath, and then the fair head fell back on my shoulder, and .the sweet eyes closed in their long eternal sleep. * Poor Fairy! ’