Chambers's Journal of Popular Literature, Science, and Art, No. 698

We see from experience that the more men have to do the more they can do. And this paradox is only reasonable, for it is the necessity of great work that forces upon us systematic habits, and teaches us to economise the power that is in us. With the cares of an empire on their shoulders, prime-ministers can make time to write novels, Homeric studies, anti-papal pamphlets. It is the busy-idle man who never loses an opportunity of assuring you that 'he has not a moment in the day to himself, and that really he has no time to look round him.' Of course idle people have no time to spare, because they have never learned how to save the odd minutes of the day, and because their vital energy is expended in fuss rather than in work.

'He hath no leisure,' says George Herbert, 'who useth it not;' that is to say, he who does not save time for his work when he can, is always in a hurry. One of the most sublime conceptions of the Deity we can form is that He is never idle, and never in a hurry.

The following words from a newspaper description of the sublime calmness of power manifested by the huge hydraulic crane used to lift Fraser's celebrated eighty-one ton gun, we take as our type of the powerful man who knows how to economise his vital force instead of wasting it by fussing: 'Is there not something sublime in a hydraulic crane which lifts a Titanic engine of destruction weighing eighty-one tons to a considerable height above the pier, with as noiseless a calm and as much absence of apparent stress or strain as if it had been a boy-soldier's pop-gun? When we further read of the hydraulic monster holding up its terrible burden motionless in mid-air until it is photographed, and then lowering it gently and quietly on a sort of extemporised cradle without the least appearance of difficulty, one can readily understand that the mental impression produced on the bystanders must have been so solemn as to manifest itself in most eloquent silence.' With the same freedom from excitement and difficulty does the strong man who saves his force for worthy objects, raise up morally and physically depressed nations, take cities, or what is harder to do still, rule his own spirit. It is the fashion nowadays to say that people are killed or turned into lunatics by overwork, and no doubt there is much truth in the complaint. Nevertheless it would seem that vital force is wasted almost as much by the idle man as by him who overworks himself at high-pressure for the purpose of 'getting on.' It is indolence which exhausts, by allowing the entrance of fretful thoughts into the mind; not action, in which there is health and pleasure. We never knew a man without a profession who did not seem always to be busy. It may be he was occupied in worrying about the dinner or the place where he should spend his holiday – which he did not work for – in correcting his wife, in inventing pleasures, and abusing them when found, in turning the house upside down by doing little jobs foolishly supposed to be useful. And women too, when stretched on the rack of a too-easy chair, are they not forced to confess that there is as much vital force required to enable them to endure the 'pains and penalties of idleness,' as would, if rightly directed, render them useful, and therefore happy? The fact is there are far more who die of selfishness and idleness than of overwork, for where men break down by overwork it is generally from not taking care to order their lives and obey the physical laws of health.

Let us consider a few of the many ways in which we waste the stuff that life is made of. It has been well said that 'the habit of looking on the bright side of things is worth far more than a thousand pounds a year;' and certainly it is a habit that must add many years to the lives of those who acquire it. Really every fit of despondency and every rage take so much out of us, that any one who indulges in either without a great struggle to prevent himself doing so should be characterised as little less than – to use an American expression – 'a fearful fool.' How silly it seems even to ourselves after cooling, to have acquired a nervous headache, and to have become generally done up, stamping round the room and shewing other signs of foolish anger, because the dinner was five minutes late, or because some one's respect for us did not quite rise to the high standard measured by our egotism! As if it were not far more important that we should save our vital energy, and not get into a rage, than that the dinner should be served exactly to the moment.

One day a friend of Lord Palmerston asked him when he considered a man to be in the prime of life; his immediate reply was 'Seventy-nine. But,' he added with a playful smile, 'as I have just entered my eightieth year, perhaps I am myself a little past it!' How is it that such men work on vigorously to the end? Because they treasure their ever-diminishing vital force. They studiedly refrain from making a pull on the constitution. Reaching the borders of seventy years of age, they as good as say to themselves: 'We must now take care what we are about.' Of course, they make sacrifices, avoid a number of treacherous gaieties, and living simply, they perhaps give some cause of offence, for the world does not approve of singularity. But let those laugh who win. They hold the censorious observations of critics in derision, and maintain the even tenor of their way. In other words, they conserve their vital force, and try to keep above ground as long as possible. Blustering natures forgetful of the great truth, that 'power itself hath not one-half the might of gentleness,' miss the ends for which they strive just because the force that is in them is not properly economised.

Then as regards temper: any man who allows that to master him wastes as much energy as would enable him to remove the cause of anger or overcome an opponent. The little boy of eight years old who in the country is often seen driving a team of four immense dray-horses, is one of the innumerable instances of the power of reason over mere brute-force, which should induce violent tempers to become calm from policy, if from no higher motive.

Many people squander their life's energy by not living enough in the present. They enjoy themselves badly and work badly, because they are either regretting mistakes committed in the past, or anticipating future sorrows. Now, certainly no waste of force is so foolish as this, because if our mistakes are curable, the same energy would counteract their bad effects as we expend in regretting; and if they are incurable, why think any more about them? None but a child cries over spilt milk. The mischief is done, and let it be forgotten, only taking care for the future. Sometimes people keep fretting about troubles that may never take place, and spend life's energy on absolutely nothing. Real worry from Torturations of various sorts is quite enough, and causes a greater draught on our vital force than hard work. Let us not, therefore, aggravate matters by anticipations of troubles that are little better than visionary.

In looking ahead, it is of immense importance not to enter into any transaction in which there are wild risks of cruel disaster. There we touch on the grand worry of the age. A violent haste to get rich! Who shall say how much the unnaturally rapid heart-beats with which rash speculators in shares in highly varnished but extremely doubtful undertakings receive telegraphic messages of bad or good fortune, must use up their life's force? Hearts beating themselves to death! Rushing to trains, jumping up-stairs, eating too fast, going to work before digestion has been completed – these are habits acquired naturally in days when it is the fashion to live at high-pressure; but such habits are surely not unavoidable, and would be avoided if we thoroughly valued our vital force.

There are persons of a nervous temperament who seem to be always upon wires. Nature has given them energy; but their physique is in many cases inadequate to supply the demands made upon it. The steam is there, but the boiler is too weak. Duke d'Alva, according to Fuller, must have been of this nature. 'He was one of a lean body and visage, as if his eager soul, biting for anger at the clog of his body, desired to fret a passage through it.' The same thought was wittily expressed by Sydney Smith when he exclaimed: 'Why, look there, at Jeffrey; and there is my little friend – , who has not body enough to cover his mind decently with; his intellect is improperly exposed.' Now these are just the sort of people who should not kill themselves, for though wrapped in small parcels, they are good goods. They owe it as a duty to themselves and others not to allow their fiery souls 'to fret their pygmy bodies to decay' – not to throw too much zeal into trifles, in order that they may have a supply of life-force for things important. He who desires to wear well must take for his motto 'Nothing in excess.' Such a one, as we have had occasion more than once to urge, avoids dinners of many courses, goes to bed before twelve o'clock, and does not devote his energy to the endurance of overheated assemblies. When young men around him have got athletics on the brain, he keeps his head and health by exercising only moderately. He is not ambitious of being in another's place, but tries quietly to adorn his own. 'Give me innocence; make others great!' When others are killing themselves to get money, and to get it quickly, that with it they may make a show, he prays the prayer of Agur: 'Give me neither poverty nor riches,' for he thinks more of the substance than of the shadow. This is the truly wise and successful man, and to him shall be given, by the Divine laws of nature, riches (that is, contentment) and honour (that is, self-respect), and a long life, because he did not waste the steam by which the machine was worked. In homely proverb, he 'kept his breath to cool his porridge,' and most probably was a disciple of Izaak Walton.

At this point, perhaps the secret thoughts of some who have not yet learned how 'it is altogether a serious matter to be alive,' may take this shape. 'What after all,' they may ask, 'is the good of economising life's force? Often I hardly know what to do with myself, nor have I much purpose in life beyond eating, drinking, and sleeping.' To such thoughts we should give somewhat of the following answer: There is a work for every single person in the world, and his happiness as well as his duty lies in doing that work well. This is a consideration which should communicate a zest to our feelings about life. We should rejoice, as experience teaches us that each of us has the means of being useful, and thus of being happy. None is left out, however humble may be our position and limited our faculties, for we all can do our best; and though success may not be ours, it is enough if we have deserved it. Certainly if there be any purpose in the universe, a day will come when we shall all have to answer such questions as these: 'You were given a certain amount of life-force; what have you done with it? Where are your works? Did you try to make the little corner in which you were placed happier and better than it was before you came into it?' It is said that Queen Elizabeth when dying exclaimed: 'My kingdom for a moment;' and one day we shall all think nothing so valuable as the smallest amount of that force without which we cannot live.

THE LAST OF THE HADDONS

CHAPTER XXIII. – NANCY DEAN

The moon was but just rising, and the shadows were getting deep when I drew near to a clump of trees at the end of the long lane, as it was not inaptly called. I was a little sobered by my walk, and perhaps the least bit disappointed at having come upon no living creature for whom I might do some kindness in Philip's name. I stood hesitating a moment; not liking to go on, yet still more averse to turning back with my purpose unfulfilled, when suddenly the opportunity came.

I saw something or some one moving amongst the trees; presently I became aware that it was a woman, retreating gmore into the shade, as though to avoid notice. Her movements appeared so mysterious that I stood silent a moment, my pulses throbbing a little quicker than usual; then I advanced a few steps, and said: 'Have you lost your way? Can I be of any service?'

No answer.

'Can I help you in any way?'

'No.'

I approached a little nearer towards the spot whence the voice issued; angry and discordant, or it sounded so to me in contrast with the solemn peaceful stillness around. 'Do not shrink from me; I am only a woman; and as you see, alone,' I said.

'What do you want here – and what do you want with me?'

She had come out from the shadow now; and stood looking at me in the soft gray evening light, defiantly, sullenly, but a little curiously too. I returned her gaze, and saw enough to know that if ever a human soul needed sympathy and help, this one did now.

'What do you want?' she repeated.

'I want you, and I think you want me. Thank God for bringing us together!'

She stared at me for a moment, then sullenly replied: 'I'm not one for thanking Him; and I'm not the one for such as do.'

'You are the one for me,' I said, answering her in her own short decided manner; perceiving that she would bear it better than anything approaching to softness.

She uttered a little defiant laugh.

'You're a lady; and I suppose you want to play at reforming me and all the rest of it. You all like to shew off your goodness that way! But it's all been tried on me over and over again. Ladies as was so good, it a most made their hair stand on end to look at me, have tried, and it was all no use; they always had to give in.'

'I do not mean to give in.'

'Don't be too sure;' adding with another hard laugh: 'Why, I was the very worst they had up there; and if they as was so perfect couldn't' —

'Let a woman who is not perfect be your friend.'

'Friend! What do you mean? How can you be my friend – unless' – She shrank back a moment, then bent eagerly forward again, gazing wildly into my face. 'You must have done something wrong yourself, to make you talk like that,' she whispered hoarsely.

Of course I had done wrong many and many a time, and not at the moment perceiving her whole meaning, I quietly replied: 'Yes.'

'And that brought you here to-night!' she ejaculated, adding in a low voice a vow, which seemed almost a curse, against herself if she betrayed me. 'Tell me what it is you've done; and tell me how I can help you?'

'I will tell you about myself presently; and we shall be able to help each other; do not doubt it,' I returned, drawing her towards a fallen tree, and getting her to sit down by my side, holding her hand fast locked in mine the while.

'You can't help me, as I can see,' she musingly replied. 'I've been up there for three months and more; but nothing come of it.'

'Up there?' I asked, beginning now to apprehend her meaning. 'Do you mean at the Home for the reception of poor women who have yielded to temptation?'

'Yes; though I never heard it put that way before. You need not tell me you are not one of the good ones, any more. Well, I was one of the thieves they take in to reform. I'd been to jail six months; and one of the ladies on the watch for girls when they come out, got hold of me, and persuaded me to go up there for a time and be made different.'

'How' – I was going to say – 'kind of her;' but I saw the time had not come for that. She did not notice my interruption, and went on.

'Well, then, I run away, and got caught again, and persuaded to go back to the Home, as they call it, once more. So I made one more try. But it was no use. To-night I run away again; and I don't mind what becomes of me now. Who cares?'

'I care.' It was no use, I thought, attempting to talk of the Eternal love until she could believe in the human. Whether the fault was her own or not, I could not at this juncture tell; but one thing was plain, being 'cared for' was what this woman craved more than anything besides. The misery of that half-defiant 'Who cares?' appealed direct to my heart.

'How can you care for me when you have never known me?' – suspiciously. 'How can that be?'

'I do not know how it can be; I only know that it is; and I mean to make you believe it. You are exactly the woman I was seeking to-night. I want you.'

'What for? Do you really want some one to help you?' she eagerly asked, turning her wild eyes suddenly upon me again. Even the moon, which was shedding its silvery light upon us, could not soften the wild sadness of her eyes.

'Are they after you? What is it you have done?'

I placed my fingers on her lips for a moment, to prevent her once more repeating the oath that she might be trusted.

'Tell me,' she whispered.

I reflected a moment, then replied: 'Yes, I will tell you why it was absolutely necessary to find some one like you to-night, if you will first give me a promise to be my friend afterwards, and let me be yours?'

She promised. Then with a trembling voice I told her that night had brought a letter to me from my lover abroad, whom I had not seen for nearly ten years, and that in it he told me that he had at last earned enough to make us independent for the future, and that he was on his way home to marry me.

'And your trouble is that you haven't been true to him? You have gone wrong, and want to hide away, and' —

'I have been true to him, and I have nothing to hide. But – my happiness was so much more than I deserved – it was greater than I could bear, unless I could lighten some heavy heart to-night, and I shall always believe that I was led here to you.'

'Are you mad?' – struggling to free herself.

But I held fast. 'You promised – you promised!'

'More fool me. How can I be your friend? How can you be mine? What do you mean? Let me go.'

'No.'

'You'll have to. What tie could there be between you and me?'

'Our womanhood.'

'You don't know!' – with a bitter laugh. 'And you're but a fine lady after all, talking about things you don't understand.'

'I am certainly not a fine lady. I am better off now; but I have lived upon bread-and-water as well as you have.'

'Without deserving it?' – eagerly.

'I cannot say as much as that. I have not the slightest doubt I did deserve it, in one way or another. At anyrate it did me no harm whatever to go into training a little. A great deal depends upon one's way of taking things, you know.'

'I can't make you out.'

'Never mind about making me out. Try to trust me; do try.'

'I've a good mind to trust you – in real earnest. There's something about you that makes me feel – I should like you to know,' she said musingly. Then after a few moments, during which I left her undisturbed, she added: 'Yes, you shall know; though there isn't another soul I'd tell as much to. I never took that ring at all!'

'A ring you were supposed to have taken?'

'Yes; they thought I stole it. I was in service, Miss' —

'My name is Haddon – Mary Haddon.'

'And mine is Nancy Dean.'

'Go on, Nancy.'

'Well I was in service, me and another young girl who was nursemaid; and one day the mistress missed a ring. I know now that Emma had the ring, and when there was a fuss about it, she slipped it into my box. She came to worse afterwards, and told me the truth about it when I saw her after I left prison. She hadn't stolen the ring either. It was given her by mistress's son. But when one of the children said she saw her with it, and she was suspected of stealing it, she slipped it into my box, rather than get Master James in trouble, never believing that my box would be searched too; and meaning to tell me about it afterwards. But Master James he had a grudge against me, because I hadn't been so ready to listen to his love-talk, and I think he meant the ring to be found in my box. I know he told Emma to put it there, and made her think he wouldn't have anything more to do with her if she confessed the truth. Besides he threatened to deny that he had given it to her, and then she would have to go to prison instead of me. Well I didn't say much to her then; she was a poor miserable creature already, and didn't want hard words from me to beat her down any lower.'

'It was very hard for you, poor Nancy; but' – laying my hand gently on hers again – 'it might have been harder. I mean if you had really done what you were believed to have done.'

'It was harder for another reason,' she replied grimly. 'Wait till I've told you all. My mother lived away down in Leicestershire, a respectable shepherd's wife, who prided herself upon bringing her girls up honest and good. The first letter I got in prison came from my married sister, to tell me that my wickedness had broke mother's heart, and saying that it was no use my ever going back there again, for not one of them would own me; and father he would never forgive me for being the death of mother. My sister had married a well-to-do farmer, and was ashamed of me before she thought I had done wrong, for being in service; so she did not spare me afterwards. A disgrace to the family, she called me, and said they one and all hoped never to see nor hear from me again. I came out of prison a desperate woman! As I just told you, when I came out of prison I was met by one of the ladies on the watch for such as me, and I was brought down to the place up there.'

'You could not at anyrate doubt her motive,' I said cheerfully.

A half-smile played about her lips as she went on without noticing my interruption: 'Then they begun at me. I was dressed up in them things. You've seen us parading off to church, I warrant – people never forget to stare – so you know what it is out of doors, walking along two and two with the matron in front dressed up fine to shew the difference! But indoors it's worse – worse a deal than ever prison was. Mrs Gower (that's the matron) has it all to herself, and – There; I don't think it has ever done any good to them as are as wicked as they are thought to be, and it just drove me wild. Out of fifteen of us, there wasn't many who could say they were better for being there. The sharp ones pretend to be reformed straight off; it is the only thing to do if you want to come off easy and get sent off to a situation with a character. I gave them a great deal of trouble. I knew I wasn't quite so bad as they thought me; but I didn't care about setting up for good in the way some of them did neither. So I soon got to be thought the worst character they had in the place; and then they shewed me off as the bad one to the visitors – a sort of curiosity. Mrs Gower liked to have a wicked one to shew among the good ones, I think. So I began to feel a bit proud of it, and did little pranks on purpose to amuse them. There wasn't so very much harm in them neither, only they were against the rules. But to-day I was fetched in to be shewn to the committee. I didn't mind them; making up a face all ready for them; and they put up their glasses to look at me, and I think they was satisfied that no place could have a wickeder one nor me to shew. I was laughing to myself, when all in a moment I saw a face among them that I knew. It was my old mistress's son, who had tried so hard to make me go wrong, and then took his revenge by making me out to be a thief. The thought came into my head to tell them that he had been the cause of all my trouble. But I'd hardly begun when I was ordered to stand down as a liar as well as a thief. Of course they wasn't going to believe that a respectable gentleman like him could do anything so wicked. Besides, there was his face to look at; there wasn't a gentler and kinder-looking gentleman there than he was. And he called me "Poor thing," and said he hoped they wouldn't have me punished, for he did not mind – everybody knew him! Well, I managed to give them a bit of my mind before I was got out of the room. I could ha' borne the punishment and all that easy enough, if there had been anything to come of it. But I knew it was no use; I should only get more and more hardened, as they called it; so I got out of the window of the room I was locked up in and cut. That's my story, and the whole truth.'

'Poor Nancy! The story is a very sad one; all the sadder because you do not see where you, as well as others, have been to blame.'

'Do you think I stole the ring, then?'

'No; not for a moment. I believe you.' I hurriedly thought over what was the next best thing to say, so as to do justice to those who, however mistaken in their way of treating her especial case, had meant to benefit her, and at the same time be true to her. I saw what they had apparently failed to see – she could be touched.