PLATE IV. The Family Of Mr. And Mrs. Blenkinsop
Among the Mobility, the Blenkinsops are what in the more elevated ranks would be termed, parvenus. Two generations back they were very respectable people; but a series of misfortunes, commencing with the failure of Messrs. Flykite and Co. which occurred some years ago, has reduced them to their present position. We shall not dwell on the steps of their descent. Tales of distress, unless they are invested with a certain je ne sais quoi, which gives them an air of elegance, are extremely uninteresting.
Suffice it, then, to say, that Blenkinsop,—that is to say, the father of our Blenkinsops,—was a mechanic, in a country town. In his early youth his conduct was exemplary; but yielding at length to the force of temptation, he was so unfortunate as to be guilty of—matrimony. For a time all went well; but punishment is sure, sooner or later, to overtake the evil-doer, as, one fine morning, it overtook Blenkinsop. An improvement in machinery threw him suddenly out of employ, and after ten years' reckless indulgence in domestic felicity, he found himself with a wife and six children, and without wages. He was now, of course, obliged to break up his establishment. The Union offered its benevolent institution for his accommodation, but the asylum was proffered in vain. Its salutary regulations were repugnant to his fastidious taste. Among other things, its corrective arrangements displeased him. The rod of affliction, he impertinently said, he could kiss, but not that which was to flog his children.
He had also an unreasonable objection to the system of separate maintenance, and put a most perverse construction on a certain moral precept which seemed to forbid it; as if that applied to paupers! He therefore spurned the parochial paradise, and betook himself, in hopes of finding something to do, to London. The only piece of good fortune that befell him there was, that the small-pox provided for three of his family. The same complaint, too, affecting the eyes of his wife—
But we are violating the principle which we have prescribed to ourselves. Let us be brief. Mrs. Blenkinsop labours under a privation of vision; her husband under a paralytic state of the extremities; and the whole family are mendicants.
It is the divine Shakspere who thus sings:—
"Sweet are the uses of Adversity;
Which, like the toad, ugly and venomous,
Wears yet a precious jewel in his head."
The jewel of adversity, therefore, is the moral which it furnishes to the reflective mind: as in the persons of the young Blenkinsops it offered to the pretty little Adeline, daughter of Sir William and Lady Grindham. The elegant child was exercising her observant and contemplative faculties at the window of the magnificent drawing-room in ———— Street.
The fond eye of her Papa was resting, in tranquil admiration, on her graceful proportions; that of her Mamma, which would otherwise have been similarly employed, was directed towards an expensive mirror.
"Oh! dear Papa," suddenly exclaimed Adeline, "look, do look!"
"At what, my love?" replied the doting parent.
"Oh! Papa—those poor children!"
"What of them, dearest?"
"Poor little things!—how they shiver! Do look at them."
Sir William advanced to the window, and, elevating his eye-glass, directed his attention on the objects which had so powerfully excited the sympathy of Adeline:—they were the Blenkinsops!
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"Oh!" said Sir William; "ah!—yes, I see, love."
"See, Papa" pursued Adeline, "that poor little boy holding the girl's cloak,—he is all in rags! And look how the girl is crying! And the tall boy—how wretchedly ill he looks!"
"I see, dear."
"Oh, but, Papa, those two have no shoes nor stockings; and they seem so hungry. May I give them this shilling, Papa? to go and get something to eat?"
"My dear Adeline," answered the Baronet, "those children are beggars."
"Yes, Papa, I know that; do let us give the poor things something."
"Beggars, Adeline, ought never to be encouraged, we should soon be eaten up by them if they were. They have no business there, it is contrary to law; and I am surprised that the policeman does not take them up.
"Take them up, Papa?" said Adeline, the phrase producing an association of ideas in her youthful mind; "Dr. Goodman said in his sermon that we ought to take poor people in."
"Dr. Goodman is a—that is, dear, he means that the poor should be taken in—charge by the—I mean that they should be properly provided for."
"What did you say, Papa?"
"Provided for; taken care of. There are places, you know, on purpose for them. That large building that we passed yesterday in the carriage is one of them. It is called a workhouse."
"What, that place where the funny man with the great cocked-hat was standing at the door, Papa?"
"You mean the beadle? Yes, dear."
"And do they give them food there?"
"Certainly; that is, a coarser kind of food, fit for such people."
"And things to put on?"
"And things to put on, too. They have clothes made on purpose for them. That man that you saw sweeping in front of the house was wearing a suit."
"But what a fright he was, Papa. He looked as if he had been dressed up to be laughed at. I should not like to be dressed so if I were a man."
"No, dear, nor is it meant that he should. It would never do to make a workhouse too delightful; for one great use of such places is to prevent people from becoming poor, just as houses of correction are intended to keep them from turning thieves. So the persons who go into one are not dressed and fed, and otherwise treated, so as to make their situation at all enviable. The consequence is, that those who know what they have to expect in such an asylum, learn not to be extravagant and careless, for fear they should become poor themselves."
"But can all people help being poor, Papa?"
"Most of them, my love; and those who cannot—can't be helped."
"But those poor children, Papa,—why don't they go into the workhouse?"
"Why, perhaps, they prefer remaining where they are. To be sure, they ought not be allowed to do so. Still, however, they are of some use. Everything has its use, you know, Adeline." Sir William was connected with the Society for the Diffusion of Useful Knowledge.
"But what use are beggars of, Papa," demanded Adeline, "when they do not work?"
"Do you not recollect, dear," responded Sir William, "what Farmer Gibbs puts up in his corn-fields just after they have been sown?"
"Yes, Papa, he fixes one of those great birds, those rooks, to a stick, to frighten the other rooks away from coming and eating the wheat."
"Just so, my love. Well; many years ago, before you were born, a man who had been guilty of highway robbery or other very bad things, used to be dealt with much in the same way, that is, he was hung up on a tree in chains, after he was dead, for a warning to other thieves."
"Oh, Papa! how dreadful!"
"Yes, my love, it was very unpleasant; and, besides, as the man could no longer feel, it was no punishment to him; and so, you know, the example was in a great measure lost. When bad people see other bad people suffering for what they have done, that it is that terrifies them. Now when you see a beggar in the streets, all cold and naked and uncomfortable, what do you say?"
"I say, 'Poor man! how I wish I could relieve you.'"
"Well, dearest, it is always proper to be kind, and all that; but what you ought to say, too, is, 'How glad I am that I am so well off, and have a nice house and good clothes, and plenty to eat and drink; and how dreadful it must be to stand shivering in the snow without any shoes, selling Congreve matches! I will take care to keep all the money I get, and not to spend it like an extravagant little girl, for fear one of these days, I should come to be like that person.' Beggars, my sweet, are—shall you remember, do you think, what beggars are, if I tell you?"
"Yes, Papa."
"Beggars, Adeline, are Living Scarecrows."
THOUGHTS ON A JUVENILE MENDICANT BY A LADY OF FASHION.
Alas! I faint, I sink, I fall I
Some fragrant odour quickly bring;
What could thy bosom thus appal?—
Dost ask?—Behold yon little thing!
Art thou a father's darling joy?
Art thou a tender mother's hope?
If so, oh how, my little boy,
How are they circumstanced for soap?
Thy hands—thy face—in what a state!
In what a shocking plight thy head!
Oh! cease my nerves to lacerate
Imagination,—Demon dread!
Cease to suggest that Zephyrs mild
Mid these luxuriant tresses straying,
Have met, perchance, that horrid child,
And with its tangled locks been playing!
Away, distracting thought, away,
That e'en these fingers fair might close
On some infected coin, which may
Have haply passed through hands like those!
Augustus Montague Fitzroy,
Illustrious infant! Can it be
That such an object of a boy,
Is made of flesh and blood like thee?