Collected Works of Frances Trollope

by Frances Milton Trollope

  “Climb up! I tell you,” said the brute, clenching his fist at him, “and if you bother me with any more questions, I’ll just give you this in your mouth to stop your jabbering.”

  Had Michael counted twenty years instead of ten, he could not more resolutely have screwed his spirit to endurance than he did as he now clambered up, and placed himself, as he was directed, in the back part of the vehicle, not another syllable passed his lips. For four hours the slow but sore-footed cart-horse, jogged on through a lane, that would have made any pace beyond a walk, intolerable. At the end of that time, the cart stopped before the door of a lonely public-house that formed a corner, round which the road turned off at nearly a right angle, and stretched across one of those wild and desolate moors which are, perhaps, only to be found in such perfection of dark and stoney ruggedness in Derbyshire. Michael, as he descended from the cart, looked out upon the unlimited expanse of dreariness, and shuddered; but his mind had not been sufficiently filled with the remembrance of brighter objects, to give the scene as full effect upon him, as it might have produced on others.

  The “Mucklestone Moor,” haunted by the black dwarf, was a pleasant spot compared to it; for there the barren heath was only strewed with fragments of stones around one certain spot whence rose, doubtless with some pretence to picturesque dignity, “a huge column of unhewn granite.” But on the Ridgetop Moor of Derbyshire, no object reared itself above the rest, either to attract or relieve the eye. As far as sight could reach, the wild heath was encumbered with a crowded layer of large and shapeless gray stones, defying the air of heaven to nourish vegetation among them, and making any effort of man to remove the congregated mass, desperate and unavailing. Arid, rugged, desolate, was the desert that spread around; and to those who knew the nature of the operations carrying on in every direction near it, no great stretch of imagination would have been necessary to suggest the idea of fitness, and sympathy between the district, and the most influential portion of its population. This is, indeed, a fitness that seems often found. Where towering mountains scale the heavens the hardy natives show a spirit pure and clear as the sweet air by which they live. In the rich valleys of the East the lazy peasant eats his rice, purchased with easy labour, and is content to dream away his being in the sultry shade. And in the flinty region of our northern moors, the race of Millocrats batten, and grow fat, as if they were conscious of, and rejoiced in the local sympathy.

  A stunted elderly lad of all work, came forth on hearing the rumbling of the wheels. “Ask the dame if she has got two beds in one room!” said Mr. Parsons, descending from the driving-seat, of which he had had quite as much as he desired. The message brought out a hideous crone, whose sharp visage looked as if it had drawn itself up into points and angles while battling with the rough blasts that roared, whistled, and moaned about her dwelling.

  “And who be you?” was her first salutation. To which Mr. Parsons only nodded graciously in reply.

  “Dear me! Be it you, sir?” exclaimed the woman. “I ax your pardon, for not knowing your honour at a glance. Beds? Ay, ay, plenty of beds, sir. — Please to walk in. Who is this fine young’un? He can’t have nothing to do with the mills, any way.”

  “This a fine holiday suit, dame, that Sir Matthew has been pleased to bestow upon him,” replied Mr. Parsons, “and if he had behaved himself a little better, be might have lived like a prince to the end of his days; but he is an untoward chap, and chose to cry, when he should have laughed. And so, you see, the fine folks at the lodge got tired of him.’

  “What then! — This be the boy, be it, as we have had so many talking about? He was to be made a gentleman of by Sir Matthew Dowling? And so he is turned off, is he?”

  This was said as the old woman led the way to the receiving-room, that is to say, the kitchen of the mansion, and here, though the season was still warm elsewhere, a large fire was burning. That its warmth was welcome might be gathered from the fact, that the only persons in possession of the room were sitting or standing close beside it. The guests, before the arrival of the new comers, amounted only to three, namely, a young woman pacing her way to a distant service, a stout lad, her brother, who travelled with her, to carry her box and guard her from harm; and a venerable looking man with gray hair, but having withal bright eyes, and a florid skin, and bearing in his dress and demeanour, the appearance of a thriving agriculturist.

  It was with so bustling a movement, that the landlady pushed back the little round table on which stood the farmer’s mug of beer, and there was so much of respect in the manner with which she wiped the chair brought forward for Mr. Parsons, that the fact of his being a person of consequence, became notorious to all. The farmer quietly ‘ pushed back his chair, to follow the table, the young woman modestly squeezed herself very closely into the chimney-corner, and her brother fairly bolted, standing with eyes and mouth widely opened, to gaze at ease upon the distinguished society into which it had been his chance to fall. Mr. Parsons took his place among them, as such a great man ought to do. That is to say, he looked neither to the right nor to the left, but made himself comfortable without taking the trouble of considering whether any other person were present, or not. Michael crept in after him, and when the more important part of the company had arranged themselves, he was observed standing alone in the most distant part of the room.

  “What dost stand shivering there for, my boy?” said the old farmer, in north-country dialect, so broad as to be dangerous for south-country folks to spell, “I could be after thinking there was some mistake here. Surely you ought not to be standing, while some other folks are sitting.”

  This observation, though the genuine result of the old man’s notions of vulgar, and the reverse, might not have been so bluntly spoken, had he not felt himself affronted by the unceremonious style in which his place before the fire had been taken from him. Michael probably did not understand the full meaning of the remark, nevertheless he looked dreadfully terrified, and fixed his eyes upon the back part of Mr. Parson’s august head, his face being fortunately turned from him, with an expression of desperate fear, that seemed to puzzle the good farmer.

  “Well now, don’t he look like as well-behaved and pretty a young gentleman as one would wish to see?” continued the fariner, turning to the young girl, “and yet there’s no mistaking that t’other’s his master.”

  “Fine feathers makes fine birds, for them as can see no farther,” cried Parsons contemptuously, and turning one of his threatening scowls upon the old man. “But wait a bit, Goodman Goose, and you’ll find out perhaps, as all is not gold as glitters.”

  “Poor little fellow!” exclaimed the farmer, on meeting the superintendent’s ill-omened eye. “I wish, with all my heart, master, that nobody cared no more for your ugly looks than I do.”

  “Dame Pritchard,” said Parsons, without appearing to hear him, “Let the boy and me have a bit of supper, d’ye hear. Spite of his fine clothes, however, which were but a gift of charity, the boy is neither better nor worse, than one of our factory children.”

  I would not have thought it!” said the old man, apparently satisfied, and turning to his mug.

  “No, I dare say,” retorted Parsons, with a sneer. “Such chaps as you, seldom finds out what’s what, or who’s who, before they are told.” From this moment no further interest was expressed about little Michael. ~ He was a factory boy, and what good was there in asking any further questions? So a thick slice of bread, and a scrap of bacon were set before him, and as soon as the more elaborate supper of Mr. Parsons was concluded, he with great affability took the little fellow by the hand, and preceded by Dame Pritchard and a candle, conducted him to a pallet bed in the same chamber as his own.

  For the first moment after he was left alone with the boy, the superintendent felt a strong inclination to make him pay for the affronts he had been the cause of his receiving below. But the same wisdom which had cut short his indignation there, checked him now; and having locked the chamber door, and given
Michael a stimulating kick to hasten his undressing, he carefully packed in a bundle the Dowling Lodge suit which he took off, leaving in its place beside the bed, the result of his hasty shoppings at Ashleigh.

  When roused from his slumbers at day-break the following morning, Michael found these new garments ready for him, and for a moment his heart sunk at the change, for though new, they were of the very lowest kind, and formed as strong a contrast as was well possible with the dress he had laid aside on preparing for his night’s rest. But the human mind will often show symptoms of philosophy even at ten years old; which truth was made evident by the manner in which the young apprentice invested himself in his new suit, cheering his spirit as he did so, with the recollection that a person going to be bound to a trade like that of stocking-weaving, would look very ridiculous in such a dress as had been just taken away from him.

  Early as it was, Mrs. Pritchard was ready in the kitchen with “a pot of hot tea” for Mr. Parsons; Michael received a fitting hunch of bread, the covered cart was brought up to the door, and the ill-matched pair set off again upon their journey.

  It might seem paradoxical to say, that the temper of Mr. Parsons was irritated by the patient, unsuspicious, and submissive demeanour of his helpless charge; yet such, nevertheless, was the fact. It was many years since the bones of Mr. Parsons had been exposed to any conveyance more rough and rude than Sir Matthew’s jockey cart, which was constructed with excellent and efficient springs; the movement, therefore, of the covered vehicle which had brought his aching joints to the “Crooked Billet” on Ridgetop Moor, was equally unwonted and disagreeable; and now that the peaceable demeanour of his little companion had convinced him that it was altogether unnecessary, he felt ready to twist his neck round, as an atonement for all he had endured.

  Ere they had advanced a mile further, however, his spirit found a species of consolation that was perfectly congenial to it. The drear dark desert that spread before them, dimly visible as far as the eye could reach through the chilling mist of the morning, was just such a region as his heart desired for the dwelling of the young plague who had caused him so jolting a journey; and here too the covering of the rough machine was far from unwelcome, so that Mr. Parsons, as he drove slowly and cautiously onward amidst the deep ruts, and rumbling stones, looked out upon the bleak desolation of the scene, with a feeling that almost approached to complacency.

  At length the moor was passed, and for a few miles their joints enjoyed the luxury of a turnpike-road. The country too, seemed softening into a species of wild beauty, that might, in some degree, atone for its bleakness. But ere this had lasted for more than a couple of hours, the horse’s head was again turned aside from the main road, and by a steep and very rough descent, they gradually approached the level of a stream, running through so very narrow a valley, as in many places to afford barely space enough for the road, between the brook and the precipitate heights which shut it in.

  On reaching this level, the road, which for the last quarter of a mile had seemed to be leading them into the little river itself, turned abruptly, and by an angle so acute, following the indented curve of the lofty hill, that they speedily appeared to be shut in on all sides by the towering hills that suddenly, and as if by magic reared themselves in every direction round. It is hardly possible to conceive a spot more effectually hidden from the eyes of all men, than this singular valley. Hundreds may pass their lives within a few miles of it, without having the least idea that such a spot exists; for, from the form of the hills it so happens, that it is possible to wander for hours over their summits, without discovering it; one undulation rising beyond another, so as to blend together beneath the eye, leaving no opening by which this strip of water-level in their very centre, can be discerned.

  For about another half mile, the narrow cart-road runs beside the stream without encountering any single object, except its lofty barrier and the brook itself, more remarkable than here and there a reed of higher growth than common, or a plant of Foxglove, that by its gay blossom seems to mock the desolate sadness of the spot. Another turn, however, still following the wavy curvings of the mountain’s base, for mountain there it seems to be, opens another view, and one that speaks to many senses at once, the difference between the melancholy caused by nature, and that produced by the work of man. A wide spreading cotton-factory here rears its unsightly form, and at one glance makes the happy wanderer whose foot is free to turn which way he will, feel how precious is the power of retracing his steps back again along the beguiling path that has led him to it.

  This was a joy for which our little Michael sighed in vain. On jogged the cart, and nearer it came at every jolt to the object which he most hated to look upon. But then came also the cheering thought, that he was no longer a mere factory boy, but about to become an apprentice to a good and profitable trade, in which hereafter he might expect to get money enough for himself, for mother, and Teddy too! Nevertheless, he certainly did wish, at the very bottom of his heart, that the stocking-weaving business was not carried on in a building so very like a cotton factory! But though Michael saw this hated cotton factory, he as yet saw but a small portion of the horrors which belonged to the spot he had reached. His position in the vehicle made it impossible for him to look round, and perceive how completely all the acts that might be committed in that Deep Valley, were hid from the eye of every human being but those engaged in them. Neither could he recognise in the dismal building detached, yet connected both with the manager’s house and the factory, the Prison Prentice-house which served as HOME to hundreds of little aching hearts, each one endowed by nature with light spirits, merry thoughts, and fond affections; but all of whom rose to their daily toil under circumstances which rendered enjoyment of any kind both morally and physically impossible.

  The gradations by which all the misery that awaited him was disclosed, were, however, neither lingering nor uncertain. The cart stopped, Parsons got out, and then calling forward his companion, seized him roughly by the arm, and swung him through the door which opened to receive them.

  “Soh! This is the chap you are going to bestow upon us, is it, Mr. Parsons?” said a fellow, whose aspect must have withered hope in the gayest spirit that youth and joy ever produced between them. “Has he nimble fingers?”

  “He can move ’em quick enough when he’ve got a mind for it,” replied Parsons. “But you must not spare the strap, I can tell you, for a more obstinate hard-skinned little devil, never crossed the threshold of a factory.”

  “Never mind, Mr. Parsons, we know how to manage all those matters, you may depend upon it. We possess many advantages over you, sir. No parents here you know, to come bothering us about bones and bruises. Here they all count at what they are worth, and no more. Children is plenty, Mr. Parsons; and that’s about the best thing we have got in our favour; for it can’t be denied but we all of us, at times, finds that we have managed to complete more work than ’tis easy to dispose of.”

  “No doubt of that, Mr. Woodcomb. But you had better hand off the boy, if you please, and then we’ll settle our little matter of business, and I’ll be off. Your roads are none of the best, sir, and I must make my way back to the Crooked Billet to-night.”

  “Not till you have had a bit, and a drop with us, Mr. Parsons. They are at supper in the Prentice-house now, and our young master shall be handed in at once.”

  So saying, the scowling manager opened a door in the farther corner of the room, and made Michael a sign that he was to pass through it. The child obeyed, but he trembled in every joint. Feelings of deeper terror than had ever reached his heart before, were creeping over him. His lips moved not, but his very soul seemed to whisper within him, “Mother! Mother!”

  Yet at that moment the unhappy boy knew not what was before him; the influence under which he cowered thus, was like that produced by the leaden dimness of a coming storm upon the birds, who droop their pinions and seem ready to fall to the earth, even before a single hailstone has touched them.


  A long low passage led to another door, which was again opened by the condescending hand of Mr. Woodcomb; through this he thrust the poor Michael, and having either by a word or a sign made known to the governor of the Prentice-house, that he had brought an accession to his wretched crew, he retired, closing the door behind him.

  Michael heard the door close, and looked up. The room he was in was so long as almost to appear like a gallery, and from one end to the other of it a narrow deal board stretched out, having room for about two hundred to sit down at once. The whole of this table was now occupied by a portion of the apprentice children, both boys and girls, belonging to Deep Valley Mill, and their appearance might have wrung the heart of any being who looked upon them, however blessedly wide his own destiny might lead him from the melancholy troop. But to Michael, the spectacle was appalling; and, young as he was, he seemed to feel that the filthy, half-starved wretches before him, were so many ghostly representations of what he was himself to be. A sickness like that’ of death came over him, and he would have given a limb, only for freedom to stretch himself down upon the floor and see no more. But the master of the ceremonies at this feast of misery bore a huge horsewhip in his hand, without which indeed it is said, he seldom appeared on the premises, and with it an eye that seemed to have the power of quelling with a single glance, the will of every little wretch it looked upon.