Crying for the Light; Or, Fifty Years Ago. Vol. 3 [of 3]

by J. Ewing Ritchie

‘They ha’ got £500 of my money,’ said an angry agriculturist, as he banged away, and banged in vain, at the doors, on which a notice was posted to the effect ‘that in consequence of a temporary difficulty the Bank had suspended business for a few days.’

‘They might ha’ given a fellar a hint,’ exclaimed another aggravated individual.

Every minute the crowd increased. Of widows who had put into the Bank their little all—many of them in tears—and of many who had overdrawn their accounts and trembled at what the result might be to themselves, never had there been got together a more excited crowd. Would the Bank open its doors again? Was it possible that they were actually shut? If the Bank were bankrupt, what would be the dividend to be paid? It was the one great topic of discourse at the market, or in the streets, or in the shops and hotels; indeed wherever man met man, even at church doors.

The Church was hit rather hard, for the money had been nearly raised for the erection of a new church, and all the money subscribed for the purpose had been placed in the Bank. The funds of all the working men’s societies had also been placed there, and they were gone—all the hard-earned savings of a life, all the wise provision of the small tradesman or the thrifty operative against a rainy day. Everywhere was grief and disappointment and despair. It was a sorry sight to see the manager, whom everyone in the town regarded as a friend. Never was man more popular or trusted. He always wore a smile upon his face; that smile was gone—vanished as the last rose of summer. He shut himself up, and was to be seen in the streets no more. He had no conception of what was to happen till there came to him a telegram, as he was sitting down to breakfast with his smiling wife and ruddy, fat-cheeked little ones, that he was not to open the Bank doors. And they were never opened again, with the result that many other doors were closed as well, that millowners had to stop, that their workmen had to be discharged, that for many a poor widow had to resort to the workhouse, and that when matters came to be inquired into closely, it was found that the family at the Hall had been the main cause of the calamity which had suddenly overwhelmed the town and neighbourhood.

Bitter were the denunciations made against them. It was unpleasant. The widow and her daughters wisely fled. They had not been to blame; they were utterly ignorant of the matter—had nothing to do with it in any way, but the public of Sloville regarded them as the worst of robbers, nevertheless. Her ladyship felt that her influence was gone, and she and the young ladies moved to a more congenial neighbourhood, where her ladyship’s Christian graces flourished more than ever, and where she was deemed by the select few who gathered at her ladyship’s dreary parties as one who had been deeply tried in the furnace of affliction, and who had come out of it as refined gold. It was held, however, as a matter of regret, that on her ladyship’s daughters the painful visitation of Providence produced no such hallowed and sanctifying effect. To make matters worse, one of them betook herself to a convent, where, as she told her friends—some of whom, however, rather doubted her statement—she found a peace and happiness she had never known before.

In due time there was a sale at the Hall, at which all the townspeople attended, glad to run up and down from one room to another, to tread the antique stairs, the stately corridors, and to seat themselves on seats and on sofas, some of which were as old as the days of Queen Anne. Jews from Wardour Street came down in shoals, to pick up articles of bijoutry and virtu, to get hold of the old-fashioned ancestors in enormous waistcoats and knee-breeches and full-bottomed wigs, to do duty elsewhere. Filthy hands dogs’-eared the choice books in the library, while snobs bought the deceased Baronet’s carefully-selected stock of wine at absurdly extravagant rates. Everything went to the hammer—carriages and horses, and all the outdoor effects, all the farming and agricultural stock. The sale lasted a week, and brought so many people from far and near as to give quite a stimulus, and to give to the place somewhat of its former gaiety. Shopkeepers and hotel-keepers once more began to smile, and thus, in time, the effect of the sad disaster seemed to pass away.

The only thing to be regretted was that the old Hall was doomed. No gentleman would buy it, as it was too near to the town, and no townsman was rich enough to buy such a place to live in. Further, as the Hall was in a tumble-down state, and required a good deal of repair of an expensive character, it was pulled down, and the material distributed all over the county. In time a manufactory occupied the site of the old Hall, and long rows of dull red cottages grew up where once there were velvet lawns, and gravel walks, and beds of roses.

And thus there vanished for ever from the face of the earth another of

‘The stately homes of England—
How beautiful they stand
Amidst their tall ancestral trees,
Through all the pleasant land.’

It is not always that the stately home is the scene of domestic felicity. It is not true that it is unknown in the humble workman’s home. It is to be believed that, as the workman’s home is elevated, it will be redolent not merely of manly virtues—the ability to fight the battle of life and win—but of the graces which at one time the upper ten seemed to consider as their exclusive privilege; and thus, if the cottager waxes strong, we need not deplore that the stately home with all its high-born associations has passed away.