Children's hearts are light. Of course I was pleased at the notion of a walk, and by the time I had been out half an hour I had persuaded myself that something might come to pass to prevent my going to the nunnery after all; and I was ready to observe and enjoy all the sights of the way. We had not gone far before I heard a great whining and grunting behind us, and looking round I perceived that we were followed by two lusty, well-fed pigs, which showed every desire for a better acquaintance. I had a dislike to hogs, and was always a little afraid of them. I pressed closer to my uncle, who was leading me by the hand, the twins going before us, and Sambo following with a great can, the use of which I did not understand.
"What is it?" said my uncle—then seeing the direction of my eyes. "Oh, the pigs; they will not hurt you. Why a country maid should not fear pigs, surely. But you wonder why they follow us; I will show you."
He took from his pockets some crusts of bread which he threw to the pigs, and of which they partook with little grunts of content and much shaking of broad ears and curly tails. I even fancied they cast glances of positive regard and affection from their queer little eyes. Their repast being ended, they turned and trotted back, I suppose, to wait for some other patron.
"Those are St. Anthony's pigs," said my uncle. "The proctors of St. Anthony's Hospital are used to take from the market people such pigs as are ill-fed and unfit for meat. These have the ear slit and a bell tied round their necks, and being thus, as it were, made free of the city, they wander about at will, and being fed by charitable persons become very tame and familiar, and learn to know and watch for their patrons, as you see. But these fellows are growing so fat, I fear I shall not have them to feed much longer. As soon as they grow plump and well-liking, the proctor takes them up and they are slaughtered for the use of the hospital."
It seemed to me rather odd even then, I remember, that a saint should be a patron of pigs, but I could not help thinking I should have liked St. Anthony far better than St. Dominic, who tore the poor sparrow in pieces for coming into church. We had now gone quite a little way from home, when we passed an abbey or convent shut in behind a high wall, and I saw that there was an open space before us.
In effect, we soon came to a great green field, where were collected many fine cows, some lying down chewing the cud, others in the milker's hands, and still others patiently waiting their turn. A sturdy, farmer-looking man was overseeing the work, and a neat woman was straining the milk and pouring it warm and rich into the vessels brought for its reception. I noticed that she gave good measure and many a kind word to the feeble old bodies and little children who brought their jugs and their half-pence. *
"Well, Dame Goodman," said my uncle, "you are busy as ever."
* This was that tract now known as Goodman's fields.
"Oh, yes, your worship, we are always busy at this hour," answered the dame. "More people come to us at night than in the morning. Where is your half-penny, Cicely Higgins?"
"I have none to-night," answered a pale scared-looking child. "Mother has been sick all week, and we have no money."