LITERATURE.

Globe, Volume XXIV, Issue 2571, 4 July 1882, Page 4

LITERATURE.

A PILGKIM'S PKOOKKSJI.

(Coneludtd.)

Ho answers those who address him civilly, and In the singsong tone of an E >st Anglian. That depressed whine declares him a native of this county. ' Blow mi tight if ever I seed iiuoh a plough the deep pace ! It's a sorrowful talo I'd have to tell in many a county gaol If I couldn't show a olaaner pair of heels !' The old man started and almost fell as he looked round in apprehension at this Budden address. The beirded ruffian clapped him on the shoulder in a manner suggestive of an arrest,

' Are you wool-gathering, old chap, wi' a ticket o' leave from the lunatic asylum? No tammor; with me. Are you good for a tizzy ? harp's the word.' In quavering tones and with trembling eyelids the old man answered. ' Yes, Sharpe I am, Jonathan Sharpe. I'm gooin' to the wukhouse at Wickham. That's my parish, that theer fulla tell'd me. I'm nut good for quick walking, and how stammia' cowd 'ths nowadays ! I haen't; had no feed nowheert s'nea morning. That fulla in the. big house at Mullingford he sah'd as they're boun' to tek me in at Wiokham The ga), my darter, ehe died last week, and Squire jjeane, as I've wuked for as mai aud boy for these fifty year, he wudna give me wuk no more, 'lis a strange cowd time, master.'

Both explanatory and i.'ropitiatory was the sorrowful story, aid 6tUl more so 'she looks of the toil-worn speaker. Who kaowa but that such viliiiaoua hard-voiced tramps as this may not have dim intuitions of morality P This one would have laughed you to scorn if you had told him that he paid this old man, whose long tale of hard-working honesty was to end in the parish workhouse, a tribute of respect in passing him by. The vagabond looked at the lined face, tho shrunken cheeks and sunken ■eyet; then, releasing the old mat's collar, he disappeared with a grunt in the darkness ahead of him.

A smart dog cart, with a spsnklnz gray horse, rolled along the road swiftly. Had it not been for the flashing lamps, the old man "would have been ran over, Evidently he was getting deaf; or was it tho cold chilling hla nerves? The night falls; thtre is no moon. The heavy hobnailed boots, which seem to retard the wayfarer's steps, toil on mora and mora slowly. Tho bloating of sheep makes a far-away music in dull ears, bringing back days when he was a shepherd. Ah, those were good times surely! The sounds recall hla wandering senses. He looks about anxiously in the darkness; !.t is difficult to keep the the track of the ;roid, and he often stumbles. A light to be Benn at last, far, far away, and it does not movu. Jonathan Is spurred by a feeble impulse of hope. Zn that cottage ahead there may ba kindlydisposed folks who will give him rest, and suffer him to warm his benumbed limbs beside the fire. Still onwards he struggles patiently, with his eyes no longer staring blankly, but straining every nervti to keep the goal In view. At last he reaches the old turnpike honse, aad. with the supreme exhaustion of prolonged effort he lea as tottering againßt the wall. The ruddy light shining throach the latticed window rouses him, while the sound of children'.! chatter penetrates his ears. The shrill resonance of youthful voices is fail of consolation. Folks are not hard mostly where there lis a trcop of young claimants on their care. Jonathan knocks feebly. They are indeed used to wayfarers' calls here, bat not to tho visits of saeh old or mild faced ones. * Will yeow tek me In a whiln, nsitaia P I don't fare ta think I oan git no further toaiight. My bad leg it are all sori-nged up

with oowd, I'm boun' for the wukhouse at J Wiokham. 'lis a stammin' oowd night, J missis.' l The woman, with a young baby in her | arms and two little ones clinging to her skirts, looked stornly at the humbla appli oant. Poor boul, f.he was corely beset with domestic worries, tend she did not welcome any addition to them. • My rnastor ha be out wi' tha ship. B a'll urgufy rarely if I lets a tram in, I'll warrsntj but yeow seem 3 to have a cowd ohill on yeow. Ocrno in a bit, owd chap.' P'r'spa tha shophoid'ull make no iciquiration 'Svoiit yeow.' The five is a good one, and the hearth is wide. 'lha children promptly make room for the no«comer. The eldest of thetioop peshes har own three-legged stool Into a corner, and brings forward the father's * rmchair. Tho old man's teeth cease to chatser, and he begins to look about Mm in a mora comprehending way. Tha flaxsn • haired maiden, called Susanna by her mother, watcheo him with keen interest. j • Have yeow hnrted it ? ' she Eays at last, rubbing one hand gently down tho corduroy leg, which seems to have so little Ufa in it. •Ay, that ba an owd matter. 'Twere cutted with a new koind of mow machine ono harvest time. 'Twere Squiro Deane'a lad B 3 druv It over me for a game. They guv'd me wuk for all that, wi' half-pay till last week. Then my darter as lived with me she died, and the 'ssessor he said timmy, says he, " Yoow man gow to the wukhouse now.' Bavß I, ' I heen't hard it from Squire Deane'« Etlf, and I'll rot if I'll gow whiles he gives he wuk' Ths fulla he is sa big and purday ho wants to be tuk down a peg. The Uquire he wrot word from Lunnon as the baily chap was to do what he thowt wa* roight. So he sot to and made an out-hawl of me and Billy Davis, as wuked in the farm yard foddering cattle and tarring ship. Tha fulla ho tahned up ecalv cos we wudna go at un's fast word, i'a think that I shod live to be a paupuss ! 'Twullna ba long in these oowd times.' The woman with the baby in her arms is listening to this relation. The annals of agricultural lifa have reoordod many Buoh edicts of superannuation In her hearing. Her (sympathy eeems to wear a cold face. Bat to the sSaid child such a cruel tale is new. • I'hey tnk granny 'to the wukhouse, and sho died, snd taey berryed har without t-'llia' us on it,' The old man shakes hla head, Blowly utretching out his hands to the blaza. The child's intelligence seams to encourage his. She does not frighten him. ' Sea, yes; they does it to all on üb. The machine it gets wored ont, the blood It dries up, and our bones they rattles, and all the good is tuk out of us. Then they sends wahd the money 'ull be pahd no more, and wa mua g;> to the wukhouse to get a laßt room 'tween four elm boards. Ay, any canker? bits of wood Is good enough for the likes of us,' Tho woman moves about the room in a busy noisy way, clattering the tea things. The old man thinks her movements betoken disapproval of his rebellious words. ' I'm snaffling a bit, missis. I'll bide quiet if yeow lets me stay the fire, 'ctra'e Crod 'tis a cowd time.' The woman makes no answer, as she is disposing the baby to rest in its cradle. The demure Susanna is methodically setting cups and plates for the evening meal; and the old man's blear eyes watch her proceedings with a certain wistful look of anxiety. His requirements from life are small; but hunger and tMrst as woll as ools are yst sensible perceptions. Nature is strenuously asserting his debts to his inner man, and tha eight of tha big home-baked loaf, which looks like dirty dough, the unsavoury smolllng cheese, and cold pudding are matters of absorbing interest Even the children are hushed by the appearance of eatables on the scene. Jonathan's hungry eyes ask if he k to be permitted a share of these good things. All goad is by comparison, and with an assertive void in our stomachs, we are not ready to be nice aboat flavors. Vr hen the meal is ready the woman portions food to each child, and fills the mugs with tea undiluted by milk —an uninviting enough beverage even when sweetened by the coarse brown sugar. 1 Here, master, draa to the table and buokle to. 'Tls gittin dark, and the shepherd 'nil nut stay in tha tunnips much loiter ; and he's right down roiled if he finds tha house tcpritlvvy when he comes homo. I uater cad keep things straight; but nowadays with aal tha brats its wusser every year. Wos a matter ?' As the old man rises to obey hor injunction he staggors, and only saves himself a fall by clutching the table. ' I ha' tramped ower far. My leg is lug some and full of misery. I'ool not pet furder on the road to-night. 'Haps yeow'vo a barn handy wheer I cud sleep?' Tha old man accepts the food she sets before him without further words. The child Susanna forgets to eat her own meal in watobing the yellow tusks gnawing ravenously at the sticky bread. ' Yeow looks very owd,' she says at last, looking with a comparative gaze from the claws that did duty for hands to her own little fleshy members. • Yes, I have trudged a long whoile in life, I'm Beventy-eight coma Milemas. I've dono a goodish bit af wuk in my time ; bnt I have sew all my seed this side of the grave now. • I'm gooin' to be laid by tha wall wi'out having rep a grain. Ay, life's a poor pennorth for some an us.' After the meal is over the woman his to rouse her guest, who appears to have fallen into an open-eyed lethargy. Be has not eaten much after all, though he oommenced to feed so ravenously. With a dull look of dismay he rises at her bidding. He is so loth to leave the fire. 'My thanks to yeow, missis. I count yeow didn't look for a payment. I guv my last copper fur breakfast.' The woman, who is anxious to get rid of him before the appearance of the shepherd, bide Susanna show the old man the way to a barn at the back of the house. ' I dussn't ax yeow to Bleep inside. The shed it are a bit ruinated ; bnt it has a ruff to It as 'ull keep snow ont. It anew last night, and I rayther think there'll be another fall before morning. Good night to yeow. Susanna, put a handkercher over yer head.' But rim-anna has disappeared, for some unknown reason she has clambered up the steep stairs to the upper chambers. A reiterated ' Susann-ar! Susann-ar! ' with a rise and fill of voice, brings the child hurrying down. Outside in the darkness she takes possession of one of the old man's hands in her warm little fist. ' Y< ow'ra key cold. Feyther wudna let yeow sleap in my bad, I'm affeard; and it are chuck full with four on us.' She feels a shudder puss through the feeble old frame as they face the frosty air.' ' Nuver yeow moind, I orfan used to tleep in a barn ; ony nowadays 'tis a strange cowd time.' As she drops his hand at tho door of the rude shelter little Susanna fumbles in her pocket. ' Yeow said yeow'd got no money, so I went and busted my box wheer I keeps my pennies. 'lis all my awn, aldoe it aren't much. I'm right sorry yeow're so tewly and cowd. Good night, owd man.' She turns, and with fleet steps retraces her way. The tears are in her eyes at the recollection of surrendered penoe. In tha barn there was very little straw and a great many rats. Jonathan Bcraped all the material he could find together in tho corner most remote from the doorless opening, and nestled down ia the loose stalka. For long hours he watohed the rising stars, which, as the night crept on, grew more lustrous and more numerous. The woman was wrong; there would be no mora snow to-night. It was the small hours before the weary eyes closed, for the old wound in the infirm foot throbbed and ached with a iierce pain. The frost had set dull nerves aflame, or else the tension of musoles used in walking had been overstrained. The morning broke cold and gray ; olouds had swept up from the east, veiling the glory of the sun. Every now and again a gust of wind searohed the remote oorners of tho barn, lifting the soant gray hair from Jonathan's head, and toying malloiously with the long stalks of straw which covered him. With the dawning light he rallied his strength, impressed with the nece*slty of preserving his poor remnant of life. He must get to the workhouse shelter as soon as possible, for there was a stormy time coming. , The cottage where he had rested last evening was wrapped in profound stillness as he tottered past it. He looked up at tha higher windows and felt fondly for his six

coppers. In wblch room was the little Susanna slumbering in a row with other curly heads ? Yes, those ooppers would give h:m a morning meal. Only six miles now to his fina" home. Six miles, perhaps, to you and I do not seem an endless distance ; but to a feebleold man, who in the past six years has not walked so many, they muy contain animmen sity of space, an incalculable number of footsteps. He eat out bravely, but it was such o slow, slow progress. Every now i'.nd again ho drew t, breath of disappointment hs he loako.i back, and saw how short the distance between him and the turnpike house still was. It is nine o'olock and the daylight is bread, as broad as it would be at all during the next twenty-four hours. The clouds lower more and m;re, and the old ehophord instinct pra sages snow. Three hours now sinca h* started, and he had muao somothing over a milo of progress. Think of that, you who i are hale and hoarty. They had not told him what a desolate road it was, and : t_ was so many years since he had been at ■ - ickham, that its dreariness had faded out of his memory. He strained his dim sight to see a human habitation before him; but there was nothing to denote the presence of his kind. The hedges gave no shelter now, for they were still lower than before, and enclosed twenty, thirty, forty aores of land, without break or hindranoe of trees. The wind blew wildly across these wide traots, and appeared to gather sharpness from the snow which it swept up. It seemed liko a great broom, making a clean floor of all the fields before the impending fall was suffered to desoend. A brougham and pair, with luggage surmounting the carriage, passed the old man. As it whirled swiftly by he caught a glimpse of feathers and furs. He could not hear the well-fed well-clothed ocoupants grumbling at the cold. There was a small station not very far off, and the line of the railway meandering aoross the oountry every now and again ran parallel with the highway for a few hundred yards. A train whizzed past once, and Jonathan stood still and looked at the snorting engine with wonderment. Ho had never been in a train in his life. Now it ia eleven o'olock, and the old man is well-nigh spent. He has sat down near a milestone, whioh declares Wickham to be five miles off. There is a waggon with a handsoma team of horses coming towards him. He will ask where he can get something to eat. The yokel who drives the huge cbeanuts is wrappod up in loose sacks, and Bits enthroned on a mountain of swedes whioh he conveys to slistant sheep. ' Boun* for Wickeam wukhouse ? I thout yeow warn't a tramper when I see yeow ooorn along at that paice. Yeowr looks dwn't auctioneer yeowr wits. Yeow wants a bite of bread and cheese. There aren't no house nigher nor Billy Manning's, a mile fudder, and he wun't make yeow willcorne. Yeow seems a shaky ohap to bo on the road. Is It the rheumatics as makes yeow lame ?' Jonathan in a weary way details his olroamatanoes once more. The story seems to himself to have lost its bitter taste with frequent repetition. • It's laitish for a chap of yer years to set up in the wukhouse. By gom ! yeow shew a good spirit to yeowr bally fulla. He wnr a scaly scamp and no mistake. They're emirt as carrots they Squire's 'sessoEs in these days. Pretty goings-on theymakes wif farms, a-sweating the land to bring out suvrins. The next lot as comes arter 'ull find a thirsty soil. Here, owd chap, take Bnaoks of my Dread and porkling. My missis she guv'd ma a extry share cos of tho cowd.' The giver drives on, not waiting to receive Jonathan's thanks, wLich are slow in coming. It is three o'clock, and Billy Manning's cottage is oloße at hand. This is the second turnpike h U6e, and not much over three miles from Wickham town. There is a benoh outiide, and Jonathan rests for a few minutes before making application for a draught of. water. A young girl brings It to him in a mug. • Yeow looks f»irly done, and yeow aren t a tramp, surely V She speaks almost in a whisper, looking timidly baokwards over her Bhyulder, Jonathan's cracked voice responds. ' No, no ; I'm no hulliday trampar. I'm gooin' to keep company with the wukhouse till I'm knooked up for good and a*. Seventy-eight come harvest time, and I've wuked hard all my life. It's Christmas tomorrow, and they Bay they gives better fare. I'm kiander unasy till I gets theer. I slep in a barn last night. Ay, 'tis a mortal cowd time.' She looks at him with gentle pity, bnt shrinks back as a rude voice within shouts, * Shot that door, yeow domrned slut!' The wind has gone down, having swept up white banks besida the hedges. The fresh snow is falling in small soft flikee, but their thin, well-congealed epecks sting Jonathan's hands and ioy touch. He staggers a little now from side to Bide, and the leg that drags after him makes a line on the fallen snow. It is never lifted from the ground. The blood flows sluggishly in his veins and he feels Bleepy. This last perception tells him he must not sit down. It is dusk, and he says to himself— - 41 shall be in the wukhouse morning. Christmas food and fire, maybe a bit of bacoa. I'm nigh home now.' I think he was wandering a little then. He is not muoh more than a mile from the town, and already he thinks he can Bee lights twfnkling. There are step? behind him. Very few tramps have passed him today. Most of them have found a refuge somewhere on Christmas eve. The pair be him are walking smartly. When he hears them It is too late for him to shrink into the hedge. * juown with your dust, old boy, says one, laying a heavy hand upon him.' It Is easy to see that these are desperate characters, the vilert of the vile. ' Apartments to let in the attics, Joe, I thinks' The old man's eyes are looking from one to the other in a half-dazed way. The first speaker, a pock-marked Individual with a greasy forelock, the so-oalled * aggerawator, In costermonger dioleot, shakos his head with decisive emphasis. * Blast you, I'll none be jiggered by any shamming Abraham. I'm not a cuttomer for the Wiokham big house to-night, if I can get a bender out of any passenger as cares for tho good of his oountry. My light it's oui at every tommy shop in Wickham. I must pay down on the nail for my grub.' With one hand he gripped the old man, shaking his tottering form, while ha searched his pockets with the other. Jonathan struggled feebly. ' btoir that, cr I'll give you a tasteof the balmy whioh won't bo oured th's side of kingdom come.' The eix ooppers were soon found and appropriated. Then the cupidity of the second vagrant was excited by the sight of a neatspotted neotle. , ' I'm gooin' to tha wukhouse. Let roe go decent. My darter she guv'd me the neckarchar, and she are dead. I've wuked hard all my life, and now the baily ho wot't pah me no more.' ' Out of collar, are ye ? You looks about fit for the knacker's. They'll soon wipe off your score at the Union yonder, and the Que;n 'nil be the better of yer olothes. Off with your smook ; they'll give yer a berryin" sheet wi'out charge in Wickham workhouse.' The ruffians laughed in unison at their jokes, while their miserable victim struggled out of his garment. He breathed hard all time, and the tears trickled down his furrowed face as the well-beloved necktie was torn from him. ' They'll have to mend yer bellows if they means to keep yer in the Union. Good night to ye, old boy. We're mighty obliged for the loan of yer clothes. We hopea yer'll Bleep warm and sound. A. merry Christmas to yer!' The boisterous merriment died away in the distance, but there stood Jonathan Sharps, clasping hs stick and peering after them with a vacant smile. The snow rested on his ecint white hair and crept down his collar. His bare throat was unprotected by any necktie, and his lean shoulders were outlined beneath the ; thin waistcoat. • Good evening, gentlemen; a marry Christmas to yeow both I O, I'll sleep sound and warm to-morrow, never fear.' No answer. A hare darted aero, s his path, and he started forward In wild terror, muttering continually the same words,— ' I must be getting on, for 'tis Christmastime.' His hands were quits numb, and his breath : tame ever more laboriously, A ledge of snow froze on the ridge of his uhouldera, but he still feebly shuffled hie feet aloog the

highway. The lights in the distance shone more brightly, bat his head was bent npon his breast, and he did not see them. It grow dai'ker, and now and then the cry of tome animal or th» flutter of a bird roused hi a-. Midnight has swallowed up the town lii • silence when he raaphes its outskirts. At every shadow on the pavement he starts, yet mechanically holding on hia way, still muttering in a feeble croak, as he went forwards, the ead cm laint, — •It be mortal cowd. I'll •be in the wukhonss bsfoi'o daylight.' No, no, Jooathan Sharpe ; never again wi.U you wake in any land of work. Christmas morning camo with sunshine on itii first breath. In the clear twilight of diiwn, on a foneral couch of buow at the workhouse door an old, old man lay pillowed on the sttpg. He was quite dead when the first sunbeams shot over hia head. An everlasting day haa broken for him, and the shadows have fled away for ever. His ' cowd time * is over, and his day cf rest has oonie. He salutes the happy morn in a conntry which we believe fcnows no workhouse.