Chapter 02 – National Differences in Political Economy

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National Differences in Political Economy 2

Learning objectives
This chapter discusses differences in
Understand how the national political, economic, and legal
political systems of systems, highlighting the ways in which
countries differ. managers in global settings need to be
sensitive to these differences.
Understand how the
economic systems of Political differences are described along two
countries differ. dimensions: collectivist vs. individualist
and democratic vs. totalitarian. Economic
Understand how the legal systems are explored in terms of market
systems of countries differ. characteristics: market economies,
command economies, and mixed
Explain the implications for economies. Legal systems are discussed in
management practice of terms of the protections they offer for
national differences in business: intellectual property, product
political economy. safety, liability and contracts.
 Chapter 02 – National Differences in Political Economy

The opening case describes the

economic growth in the East
African nation of Ghana over the
last decade. In 2011, Ghana
Chapter 02 – National Differences in Political Economy

became Africa’s newest start-up of oil production in the country.

middle-income nation,for
to the global demand thanks
two The closing
Poland has case exploresstrong
experienced the reasons why
economic
of its major exports—gold and growth during the recent global recession
cocoa—as well as the recent while the rest of the world has struggled.

2-1
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Education.
Chapter 02 - National Differences in Political Economy

OUTLINE OF CHAPTER 2: NATIONAL DIFFERENCES IN POLITICAL

ECONOMY

Opening Case: Ghana: An African Dynamo

Introduction

Political Systems
Collectivism and Individualism
Democracy and Totalitarianism

Country Focus: Venezuela under Hugo Chávez, 1999–2013

Economic Systems Market

Economy Command
Economy Mixed
Economy

Legal Systems
Different Legal Systems
Differences in Contract Law
Property Rights and Corruption
The Protection of Intellectual Property
Product Safety and Product Liability

Country Focus: Corruption in Nigeria

Management Focus: Did Walmart Violate the Foreign Corrupt Practices Act?
Management Focus: Starbucks Wins Key Trademark Case in China

Implications for Managers

Critical Thinking and Discussion Questions

Closing Case: Poland’s Economy

2-2
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Education.
Chapter 02 - National Differences in Political Economy

CLASSROOM DISCUSSION POINT

Ask students to think about the two dimensions used to describe political systems:
Collectivist-Individualist and Democratic-Totalitarian. Begin by drawing the following
scale on the board:
Individualist Collectivist

Democratic Totalitarian

Then ask students to provide some examples of what might describe a collectivist system
—where does Canada’s national healthcare system put it, which countries might be
considered democratic, where should China be placed, and so on.

Finally, move to a discussion of how differences in political economy present both

opportunities and threats for business. Managers must analyze each national market that
they participate in and identify specific ways in which the political economy of that nation
could support or threaten the company’s business model.

If there are foreign students in the class or students with foreign experience, you might
draw on their observations of differences these dimensions impose on the practice of
business.

OPENING CASE: Ghana: An African Dynamo

Summary

The East African nation of Ghana has emerged as one of the fastest-growing countries in
sub-Saharan Africa over the last decade, becoming the continent’s newest middle-income
nation. Driving this growth has been the strong demand for two of the country’s major
exports—gold and cocoa—as well as the start of oil production in recent years.
Overcoming military coups and corruption, the country’s recent leaders have embraced a
stable political environment, which has helped drive the country’s economic success and
dramatically reduce widespread governmental corruption. Discussion of the case can
revolve around the following questions:

1. How did the political and economic policies implemented over the last 20 years help
Ghana prosper? What does this mean for existing and potential investors in the country?

2. How important is the privatization of state-owned enterprises to the country’s booming

economy?

2-3
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McGraw-Hill Education.
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right to them. Be that as it may, our friends of Woodburn Grange saw
their swarm hanging before them. There was a quick running for a sheet
and an empty hive. The inside of the hive was rubbed with a mixture of
beer and crushed black-currant leaves, or balm, and Sam Davis quietly
approached them, put down two bricks on the sheet, cut off carefully the
bough on which the swarm hung; deposited it on the sheet between the
two bricks; and then set the hive over it. The skill with which this was
done, without irritating the bees, showed that Davis was an experienced
hand at this operation. The bees seemed to settle themselves pretty
tranquilly in their new home, but Mrs. Woodburn observed that a number
of them continued to fly about the end of the bough whence the part
covered with the swarm had been cut off. “Yes,” said Davis, “they will
come and try to find it, and worship the place where the queen alighted
several days yet.”
“Ay,” said Betty, who had generally some religious fancy to attach to
every curious occurrence, “that’s just the way with many in their
religion. They go and worship blindly for a few days; but it’s only for a
few, and then it’s all over with them.”
George Woodburn often thought of Betty’s quaint remarks long after
others had forgotten them, for he found something in them; and in the
course of the following spring, after Thorsby’s conversion, he thought of
these two occasions. “The harnet fled at me, and fled at me,” said Betty,
“like the owd enemy.” “This is just as he seems to have done at
Thorsby!” said George to himself. And then the bees worshipping the
bough where the queen-bee sat, for a few days, and only for a few, as
Betty said. How completely that applied to Thorsby! His career of pulpit
eloquence and repentant zeal had been as brief as it had been dazzling. It
was like the taking fire of dry furze on a common. It was an all-
consuming flame for a brief period, and was gone, leaving a bare and
blackened waste. Letty had watched with a sad terror the decrease and
disappearance of this impetuous blaze of the soul. For a time there was a
transition state in Thorsby, which, to a spectator only concerned to
observe the singularities of character, would have been an interesting
study. In a morning he would be up as early as three o’clock, would go
down into the kitchen, where there was always a raking-coal burning,
break it up, and commence reading the Bible aloud, and with a somewhat
singing tone, accompanied by an occasional shake of the head, as from
some very impressive thought, and often with gushing showers of tears.
Before the servants came down, he would return to his bed, and to a
sound sleep, which would continue till ten o’clock, or later. Letty, now
accustomed to this habit, got a cup of coffee herself on going down, and
then waited patiently for her husband’s appearance. He would come
down sad and thoughtful, as it seemed, breakfast with few words, and
away to his warehouse. At noon he would return all life and gaiety, and
in the evening go off to his club. Yes, he was again an associate of his
old associates!—the sow had returned to its wallowing in the mire! Yet
this did not prevent him being up the following morning, and reading
aloud in his Bible with tears and tones of pious feeling.
Such an incongruous condition could not last. The different elements
of his strange character were in conflict. The religious sentiment was
maintaining its last efforts against the levity and love of pleasure in that
unstable heart. For awhile Thorsby was the wonder once more of his
townsmen, but this time it was the wonder and the scorn. Sad was the
heart and the life of poor Letty; sad was the mood of mind in the once
happy Woodburn Grange. Thorsby had lost all power over his own
actions, yet he had not lost all feeling. Many were the paroxysms of
remorse and tears which his wife had to witness, at first with some faint
hopes, at last only with anguish and despair. Thorsby avoided being seen
in the streets as much as possible, stole by back ways to his warehouse,
and at night renewed the orgies of his dissolute club.
George Woodburn spoke out his mind to the unfortunate man most
indignantly, most sternly; and seeing that it had no effect, he entreated
Letty to leave him, and return to Woodburn Grange. Mr. Woodburn, who
had many things now to harass him, drove over in the day, while
Thorsby was at the warehouse, and insisted that Letty should return with
him, and leave the wretched man to his inevitable course. But Letty,
worn and jaded as she now seemed by her constant wretchedness,
refused positively to leave her husband. “No,” she said, “to the last
moment I will stay by him, and try every means to save him.”
Mrs. Heritage, who had once effected so happy a result in him, again
ventured a visit to him. It was twelve o’clock in the day. The remains of
breakfast still stood on the table; and Thorsby, in his morning-gown and
slippers, was lying on the sofa, and reading a novel. The bloated, sickly,
demoralised aspect of the man struck Mrs. Heritage with painful
astonishment. He did not rise to receive her, but with a scowling, savage
sort of look begged to know to what he owed the honour of this visit.
 “It is from a tender concern for thee, Henry Thorsby, and thy dear
wife, that I have wished to come.”
“You can bestow your tender care on my wife, then,” said Thorsby:
“she is in the house.”
“But, first,” said Mrs. Heritage, in her soft and gentle voice, “I would
like to speak a word or two to thee. I would ask thee if thou knowest
whither thou art going now? What must be the awful ultimatum of thy
present unhappy course?”
“Yes, madam, I know very well where I am going—to hell, madam, to
hell!”
“And canst thou reconcile thyself to such a thought—to the loss of thy
precious soul—to the affliction thou must bring on thy wife, thy mother,
thy child, and all that love thee?”
“Let all that alone, Mrs. Heritage,” said Thorsby. “Don’t torture me
with talk of my wife, my mother, or my child. I know all that as well as
you do; but if a man is born to be damned, not all the preachers or
preacheresses on earth can save him.”
Mrs. Heritage sat for a moment stupified by the defiant wickedness
before her; but, recovering herself, said, “No, all the powers on earth
cannot save thee; but these are not all the powers—God can save thee.”
“But I know, madam,” said Thorsby, fiercely, “that He won’t save me.
My day of grace is over. I know myself better than you do, with all your
spirit-moving—better than that old fogie, David Qualm,—and yet he
came pretty near the truth, when he said, ‘Unstable as water, thou shalt
not excel.’ Madam, even you cannot make an empty sack stand upright;
and this sack you are talking to is empty, empty—empty of all grace as
the Devil himself. And so, good morning!”
With that, Thorsby rose up, flung down his book, and stalked out of
the room. Never in all her experience had the good Friend beheld such a
case of hardened bedevilment; never had her strong, clear mind felt its
power so baffled.
That day Letty received a note from her husband, saying that
important business at the warehouse in London required his immediate
presence, and that he was gone by the coach: he might be some weeks
away. Letty sat for some time as thunderstruck. Suddenly she sprang up,
and ran upstairs. His travelling portmanteaus were there; she could
discover no linen nor clothes taken away. His dressing-case stood as
usual on his table. What could it mean? Had he gone off in disgust at the
visit of Mrs. Heritage? Surely that could not have caused him to go off
without any change of clothes. A frightful idea came over her—had he
gone to drown or destroy himself? She had seen him exhibit, more than
once, symptoms of delirium tremens. She flung on a shawl, seized her
bonnet, and away to the warehouse. Thomas Barnsdale said he certainly
was gone by coach. What the important business could be was quite
unknown to him: he had heard of nothing pressing, and he thought he
should have done had there been such.
“But what will he do without clothes? I must send after him a supply.”
“He must have taken clothes, ma’am,” said Thomas Barnsdale. “He
took a large new portmanteau with him, for the porter carried it to the
coach.”
Letty was more and more confounded. Then this flight was
preconcerted! She left the warehouse without a word, and returned home
with a heart loaded to its last power of endurance with misery. What
should she do? Go after him? No. Seek counsel from her parents, and
brother, and sister? No. She shrunk from communicating and diffusing
her distress. She sat down and wrote to him at the London warehouse a
letter which must have touched a harder heart than Thorsby’s. Return of
post brought a letter full of expressions of love and regret, that he was
obliged to go away so suddenly, but bidding her be of good cheer, and
make herself happy till his return.
That letter did not much lighten Letty’s trouble. The late conduct and
habits of Thorsby, and this going away evidently on a concerted plan,
were things not to be got over. Very, very sad was that once so gay heart.
But Letty determined not to give up all hope lightly. She wrote again to
her husband, and received again a cheerful, loving reply. She resolved to
set herself to look after the business with Thomas Barnsdale, and by
attendance at the counting-house, to dissipate the thoughts which
haunted her solitude. Thomas Barnsdale seemed pleased at her thinking
of business, and explained matters concerning which he wanted advice,
but which Mr. Thorsby of late did not give. Letty caught up the main
ideas of the business rapidly, and Barnsdale said it would be the
salvation of the concern if she gave her attention to it. Most of the day
she spent at the counting-house, and the nurse and little Leonard came to
her every now and then. The correspondence betwixt her and her
husband went on with a fair and even loving tone.
But one day Thomas Barnsdale received her in the counting-house
with a very distressed air, closed the door after her, and having carefully
locked it, produced a letter, saying that he was compelled to break to her
very unhappy news.
“What!” exclaimed Letty, springing from her chair, “is Henry dead?
Oh, tell me quickly—what is it?”
“No, madam,” said Barnsdale; “but I lament to say, he is dead to
shame and honour.”
Letty seized the letter and read. It was one in confidence from the
agent at the London warehouse, a respectable and trustworthy man, to
say, that Mr. Thorsby was actually living in Bond-street with a young
woman whom he had brought up from Castleborough with him. Letty let
fall the letter, and sank into the chair. Long she sat as in a swoon, yet her
eyes were open and gazing on the opposite wall. Barnsdale was alarmed
and was about to run for help, but suddenly Letty seized him by the arm,
and heaving a deep, deep sigh, said, woefully,—“This is beyond all!—
beyond all! How have I deserved this?”
“Dear madam,” said Mr. Barnsdale, “this is intolerable—it is not to be
endured. Though I lose my office, I will instantly to London. I will drag
that woman from his house. I will compel this unhappy man to return
home.”
“No! no! Mr. Barnsdale, that must not be,” said Letty, drawing her
hand across her brow as if bewildered. “I am so dizzy!—but that must
not be. Stay you here. You cannot leave this post. I will go myself.”
“You go, madam! No, you cannot—must not.”
“Yes, I will go myself. O God, what a misery! But run, Mr. Barnsdale,
secure the whole inside of the three o’clock coach, if possible. I will be
ready.”
Barnsdale looked aghast, perplexed to absolute despair; but Letty
hastened away, and sent off the carriage post-haste for her brother
George. She then set to work, ordered the nurse to be ready with the
child for an instant journey to London; put up a few things for herself,
and awaited her brother. In less than two hours he was there, and the
awful disclosure made. George was furious. Like Barnsdale, he was for
going off at once and inflicting summary vengeance on the traitor. “What
a viper! what a devil!” he exclaimed; “but he shall repent this foul, this
diabolical wrong. Oh, my poor, dear Letty!” and he embraced his sister
with passionate tears.
But Letty succeeded in showing him that it was better for her to go.
She would take the child—that would move him if anything would—and
George should accompany her to support her when it was necessary.
George set off in haste for a change of linen and overcoat, and at three
o’clock the sad party were seated in the London coach. Barnsdale had
luckily secured the whole inside, so that, the nurse travelling
occasionally outside well wrapped up, George and Letty could talk freely
on their melancholy topic, and the child could lie during the night on the
front seat as snug as in his cradle.
We must not describe that sad, long, and for the most part silent
journey. About ten in the morning the coach drove into the court of that
old-fashioned, but then greatly frequented inn, the Swan-with-Two-
Necks, in Lad-lane. There they descended, washed, redressed, and made
such a breakfast as people in their state of mind could. George sent out
into Wood-street to inquire if Mr. Thorsby was yet at the warehouse, and
received for reply that he was not expected till twelve o’clock. A coach
was at once ordered, and the whole party entered it and drove to Bond-
street. It was stopped within fifty yards of the house sought, and George
and Letty descended and walked on, followed by the nurse and child,
which looked as bright as a child of six months can after a night’s
journey, through which it had slept like a top, and in a world whose
trouble does not concern it. Arrived at the door, Letty seemed as though
she would sink, but George encouraged her to hold up and go through it
in reliance on God. The door was opened by a servant, who asked their
names, and said she would inquire if Mr. Thorsby were in. But Letty did
not give her the opportunity of bringing a “No;” she took the child in her
arms, and followed on the servant’s heels.
“You had better wait here, ma’am,” said the servant.
“Go on!” said Letty, authoritatively.
The girl looked astonished, but obeyed. Ascending the first flight of
stairs, she opened a door into a large and handsomely furnished room,
and said, “A lady, sir!”
 Letty stepped in, and stood with the child on her arm. There sat the
delinquent husband, in his morning-gown and slippers, reading the
newspaper, and on the opposite side of the breakfast-table sat a very
handsome young woman, of by no means unamiable appearance. The
sight of Letty, however, produced a wondrous change. Thorsby started to
his feet, and stood as rooted to the ground. His look was that rather of a
ghost than of a living man. Pale as death, he trembled from head to foot
like an aspen leaf. His female friend stood, a monument of terror, shame,
and confusion. It was evident that she knew Mrs. Thorsby perfectly. But
Letty, with a calmness with which heaven itself must have endowed her,
advanced to Thorsby, and said, holding up the child towards him, “My
dear Henry, I am not come to reproach you, but to reclaim you. Let this
young woman retire, I would speak to you alone.”
Thorsby made a hasty movement with his hand, and the young woman
as hastily retired, evidently glad to escape.
“My dear Henry,” said Letty, pale as marble, yet bearing up with
wonderful firmness, “this little child wants its father; your loving and
ever-faithful wife wants her husband; your poor, afflicted, and now very
sick mother, wants her son. There, take your child, embrace it, love it,
and come home with us.”
Thorsby gasped, as for breath. He would have spoken, but he could
not. He seized the child convulsively, and, bursting into a passion of sobs
and tears, covered it with kisses. He sat down, and, bending over it, wept
excessively. Letty softly fell on her knees at his feet, laid her hand on his,
looked up to him with streaming eyes, and there was a long silence. As
the storm of Thorsby’s emotion somewhat subsided, Letty said, “And
now, dear Henry, let us go. Let that unhappy girl return to her friends, or
be provided for; let her not be cast forth to utter ruin. And for us, let us
return to our own home, to a new life, and to constant prayers for
unfailing strength to do our duty. Come, come! let us away at once.”
“No, Letty, no!” exclaimed Thorsby, with a haggard look; “I can never
return. I am a disgraced man. I can never show my face in our own town
again. Go! be as happy as you can! I will give you everything; but return
—for me—never!”
“And yet you must return, dear Henry. I cannot let you go to perdition.
I have vowed to take you for better for worse, and I will stand by you to
the very worst. Think not of temporary shame—think of your own
precious, eternal soul! Think of your child, your mother. Think of me, if
you yet—if you ever loved me!”
“Loved you!” Thorsby stamped on the ground. “Letty Woodburn, I
never loved but you! That name has been my life, my inspiration, my
shield, but at last it failed me. Satan was too strong in me. Never, never,
can I again pollute you by my presence. I am a God-abandoned man! He
has lifted me up only to cast me down beyond redemption. Nothing,
nothing, can restore me.”
“Remember the prodigal son,” said Letty. “Remember the all, all-
forgiving Father. Oh, return, return! and all may yet be well. If you will
not return, think! what good shall my life do me? What shall be the sad,
awful career of this dear babe without a father—with only the sad, sad
story of one! Come, oh, come home. George is here; he will show you
how all will forgive and forget.”
“George!” exclaimed Thorsby, and seeming inspired with sudden
madness; “George! let him not come in—I cannot bear it. If he comes”—
he snatched a pistol from a side-table—“if he comes here, I will put this
bullet through my brain.”
Letty stood terror-stricken. She saw that all hope of inducing him to
face his old connections was hopeless.
“Put that down,” said Letty, sternly; “you terrify me. George will not
come unasked; and if you will not return to Castleborough, I will come
and live in London.”
“You!” said Thorsby. “You, who love the country so, whose heart has
so many ties there!”
“I can do it willingly,” said Letty. “I can be very happy with you and
dear little Leonard anywhere. My greatest ties are here.”
“It cannot be,” said Thorsby, assuming an awful look. “Angels of light
and devils cannot dwell together. I say, once for all, go, and leave me to
my fate, or I will end it on this spot.”
Letty started back with the child in her arms, which clung affrighted to
her bosom, and with a wild and long-fixed look, said, “Then farewell!
but oh, no, not for ever! not for ever!” and with that she opened the door,
gave one other last look at the unhappy man as he stood ghastly and
motionless—a look of misery beyond all words—then disappeared.
George saw her coming, still and tearless, clasping the child to her heart,
and he knew that her loving attempt had failed. He supported her
tenderly to the cab, and drove back to the inn.
“Let us get home, dear George,” she said, as they entered the inn; “I
would not die here,” and she shuddered.
“Die!” said George. “No, dearest, you shall not die. You will not die
for the faithlessness of a bad man; you must live for us and for your
child. But we will away home at once.”
He laid his unhappy sister on the sofa, and rang for wine. “Take some
refreshment, dear Letty, and we will be off at once.” Letty took a glass of
wine mechanically, and closing her eyes, looked like a beautiful corpse.
George ordered a post-chaise, and so they posted all the way down. Letty
lay through the journey as in a sort of trance, with a passive marble look,
but still conscious, and answering in a whisper to her brother’s anxious
questions. This state continued after they reached home.
“It is a blessing of God,” said the physicians who were called in; “the
enormous strain of the mind has exhausted her animal powers—and it is
well: a different action, and the brain must have felt the shock, and could
not have borne it. Let her remain so. If she can take nourishment, well;
but for some time let her rest. Let us hope that no violent reaction will
take place, when we shall have to fear delirium, and, perhaps, actual
insanity.”
The news of these events—of the heroic endeavours of Letty to
reclaim her husband, and of her present critical state—brought her
mother and sister instantly to her side. Under their tender care the
judicious system of the physicians was carefully carried out; and in a few
days’ time tears were seen stealing beneath the eyelashes of Letty; her
mother gently kissed her, and she raised her arms and clasped them
round her neck. Without opening her eyes, she was conscious of the
presence of Ann, and put out her hand to clasp her, and then she lay and
wept long and silently. Her dear, watching relations soon found that she
was perfectly conscious of all that had passed; but a wondrous calm had
come over her, and she said to her mother and Ann, “Do not be anxious
about me. I shall soon be better. I must live as one of God’s children, to
bear His rod, and to seek to save the lost. Promise me never to blame
him in my presence. Join with me in prayer daily, nightly, incessant
prayer, for his recovery. That is the business of my life now. If I succeed
in the end it will be worth all the earth can send of sorrow and suffering.”
 In a few weeks Letty was about again. A pale, thin, serious, but
energetic-looking woman. Could that be the once laughing, blithe,
singing Letty? It was the same bright, pure spirit, saddened but ennobled
by the ordeal of trial and distress, and by a life’s aim the noblest and
most sacred that ever lifted a womanly soul into the regions of a wisdom
beyond her years. She soon returned her attention to business. Closely
veiled, she walked silently through the quietest streets from her house to
the warehouse; but the marked respect, the lifted hats of the gentlemen,
the regardful and sympathising looks of ladies, and the deep curtseys of
humbler women, as she passed, showed what a sensation the narrative of
her doings and sufferings had created in the place. Thomas Barnsdale, by
his silent, respectful attention, showed the same effect on him. One of
the first papers that he put into her hand, was a deed of gift, regularly
drawn by a legal hand, and duly executed by Thorsby, making over to
her and their son the whole of the property and trade in Castleborough.
He had reserved only to himself the business in London, which, as a
commission business, received the goods manufactured at
Castleborough, and exported them on a percentage. This deeply affected
Letty. It showed that amid all the weakness and impulsive folly of her
husband, there were great redeeming qualities in him, and she was more
than ever resolved to hope for his final recovery, and to devote her life to
that object. Her father, tremendously incensed against him, told her to
leave the business to Barnsdale, and the house to Thorsby’s mother, and
come back to Woodburn Grange, where the tenderest love awaited her.
But Letty held to her wiser course. Old Mrs. Thorsby, already in ill
health, was completely broken down by these last unhappy events, and
could not last long. Letty would not leave her, but attended her with
every loving care. To make the business more secure, she gave Thomas
Barnsdale a certain share in it, of which he was equally deserving, from
his faithfulness and unwearied attention to its interests.
Not many weeks, however, passed without another blow from the evil
fate which now seemed to be pursuing Thorsby and his family. Letty
received a letter from her husband, informing her that his agent in New
York had absconded with 5000l. of his money, and left the goods in the
warehouse there very much exposed. He was that moment departing for
Liverpool to embark for America. When he might return was uncertain;
but if God could hear the prayer of such a wretch, he prayed for all His
blessings on her and their dear child. Letty, struck as with a sudden
wound, hastened to the counting-house to inform Mr. Barnsdale of this
startling news. She found that he already was in possession of it.
“What is the extent of the hazard?” she asked. “Will it ruin us?”
“Oh no;” said Mr. Barnsdale. “If the money is not recovered—as very
likely it may not: that continent is vast; it is very much like hunting a
needle in a truss of hay, hunting a rogue in it—then there are 5000l.
gone. The stock, I see, in the New York store is, or should be, about
5000l. more in value: 10,000l.”
“That is a great deal,” said Letty.
“Yes; a great deal too much to lose,” replied Barnsdale; “but we can
bear a good deal more than that. It may hamper our money accounts a
little; but I am happy to say that Mr. Heritage has sent me word that he is
prepared to assist us at a pinch to a large amount. That, madam, we owe
to his high esteem of you.” He might have added, and to his own
confidence-inspiring character. “And,” added Mr. Barnsdale, “do not let
this event distress you. In my opinion it may prove the very reverse of
what it seems. Mr. Thorsby has wonderful energies in his nature,
strangely linked, it must be said, with sad weaknesses; but let him once
be roused in some important cause, and the latent forces will be sure to
come out. See what a wonderful eloquence he displayed, before
unknown to everybody—unknown to himself. I am sure he will pursue
this unblushing rogue to the very extremities of the earth. He has all the
spirit of the hunter in him, and nothing in the world could be so
beneficial to him as such an excitement and chase.”
“Pray God it may be so,” said Letty.
“Amen and Amen,” said Barnsdale, with much devotion.
The very next day, Mrs. Heritage, to her extreme surprise, received a
letter, dated Liverpool, from Thorsby. In this he made a late but earnest
apology for his former rude return to her well-intentioned admonitions,
and now begged, as a parting favour, a few lines from her as “a comfort
to him on the deep waters.”
Mrs. Heritage sat for a short time in silence, and then wrote this reply:
—
“F H T ,
“I think I may address thee as friend when our dear
Redeemer so addressed his betrayer, Judas Iscariot. Thou
askest me for comfort on the deep waters; but what comfort
can there be to an alien from God? What peace can there be to
the wicked? Yes! I will pray for thee! as thou desirest. I will
pray earnestly that God will send thee troubles upon troubles.
That he will toss thee with tempests on the ocean, and chase
thee with misfortunes on land. I will pray that thou mayst
suffer wrong, and robbery, and deceit, and betrayal. That thou
mayst drink to the dregs of that cup of injury, and shame, and
sorrow, that thou hast been so lavishly pouring out for others
who should have been dear to thee as thy own soul. I forget—
thy own soul is not dear to thee; more and sadder pity. I will
pray for heart-soreness, and weariness of soul, for perils in
cities and in deserts upon thee. For shattered prospects, ruined
hopes, ruin of goods and good name, and for pursuit of
measures and cruelties unto the verge of death. Mayst thou be
solitary and forsaken, as thou hast left others of whom thou
wert not worthy; may sickness overtake thee where there is
none to tend or soothe. May the blackness and the shadow of
death overtake thy soul and overwhelm thee with the terrors
of hell. May its torments seize on thy vitals and consume all
that is within thee of vile, and base, and unholy. And when the
tempest and the earthquake have done their mission on thee,
mayst thou be favoured to hear the still, small voice, which
comes only to the ear opened by a pardoning God. All these
woes I wish thee, not from anger or a spirit of unworthy
vengeance, but from that love which is over all, and yearns
after all that lives. Knowest thou not that the hard ground
must first be torn up and rent in pieces by the plough and
harrows of the husbandman before it can receive the seed of a
new harvest? May the hard ground of thy heart, Henry
Thorsby, be thus ploughed up and harrowed in sunder, for so
only do I believe that it can be reduced to that soft and plastic
state in which the seed of divine grace can once more grow.
And that it may be so will be the daily prayer, the earnest
wrestlings of the soul of one who would rejoice over thy
recall to the paths of virtue and of heaven, as over a dearly
beloved son. Thy friend in the truth, and the love which is
indestructible and unfathomable,
“R H .”
 Thorsby received and read this letter in a profound silence: in silence
he arose, thrust it into his pocket, and walked solemnly on board. The
winds are bearing him away on a long and arduous pilgrimage. Let us
leave him awhile to the unseen but ever-present hand which pursues with
the scourge, but forgets not the balm.
 CHAPTER IX.
ALL WRONG AT WOODBURN.
Summer was once more shining and breathing its perfumes over the
country round Woodburn. The pleasant fields stood full of flower-
embroidered grass; of green corn waving and billowing in the scented
breeze. The trees shed their verdurous gloom beneath them; the red wild
rose, and the snowy discs of the elder flowers, mingled their odours with
the yellow-and-red honeysuckle blossoms in the fresh hawthorn hedges.
The larks carolled high in the blue air; brooks ran glittering down to the
river, and the river glided on in stately beauty. All was beautiful and
happy in nature as ever, but over the Grange lay a stillness, within was a
stillness. Betty Trapps, pursuing her accustomed household duties,
neither sung that “very cutting” song—“Once I freedah engyed,” nor the
equally favourite hymn—“We are marching through Emmanuel’s land.”
Mr. Woodburn wore a grave and sad air; Mrs. Woodburn sat knitting in
deep thought, or watched her cheese-making, without any of her former
jollity. Ann was with Letty in Castleborough, and George was taking his
solitary rides over the farm, as if something lay on his heart which had
banished that cheerful countenance so natural to him. There were no
preparations for any festive gathering in the hayfield. “The light of other
days” had disappeared like a dream.
The conduct of Thorsby had verified all the instinctive prescience in
Betty Trapps’s nature. Letty, the loved and loving creature of gladness,
the sunshine of that once happy home; the flitting shape, the ringing,
singing voice of joy in it, was a deserted wife, and the once jocose and
sportive Thorsby, a disgraced and shameless fugitive. Nor was that all;
those shadows which Mrs. Heritage had foreseen in the hayfield fête, had
not only fallen on Woodburn Grange, but on other spots around. Fair
Manor itself had not escaped. There was the only child there, then the
hope and happiness of her house, now a serious and nervous woman,
who had passed through a severe baptism, and now shrunk from
intercourse beyond her own family walls. Awaking from the impassioned
dreams of her London visit, she found that she had wounded another too
deeply to leave peace in her own bosom. She had candidly stated to
Edmund Barrington, that great as was her affection for him, she never
could be happy in the consciousness of the affliction she had occasioned
to a most worthy, faithful, and noble heart, nor under the sense of the
deep blame, which all those most dear to her, or most connected with the
attachments and the memories of her youth, awarded her. She had
resolved, therefore, to do the only penance which should mark her sense
of her wrong, and satisfy her innermost feeling of sacred duty—never to
marry; but to devote herself as soon as her health should be restored, if
indeed her shattered nerves should ever again regain their healthy tone,
to the works of the good Samaritan.
Her mother had, through Mrs. Barrington, explained to that family the
severe shock and shattering through which her daughter had gone, and
the sensitive state of her nervous system still. She returned to Edmund
Barrington the diamond-clasped bracelet which he had given Millicent,
and which under no circumstances could she wear, but she entreated that
all other little mutual gifts might be retained as memorials of a
friendship, which both she and her daughter trusted would still and for
ever remain unbroken.
It is only justice to say that these communications were received in the
most beautiful spirit. Both Edmund Barrington and his sisters wrote to
Millicent in the most kind and sympathizing terms. Edmund declared
himself willing to await the time when full health might bring happier
thoughts to Millicent, and his sisters expressed their sincere sorrow that
the tender conscience of Millicent had dissipated to them so many
pleasant hopes. They declared that they should never cease to recollect
with pleasure the happy time of her visit, or to regret the prospect of
losing her as a sister. No hope, however, was held out by Millicent of a
change in her present sentiments; and in no very long time not only those
amiable women, but their brother too, had selected their partners for life,
and were scattered into their respective homes, amid all the solaces and
distinctions of an enormous affluence.
Millicent Heritage regained her former estimation amongst her friends
by a knowledge of this conscientious renunciation of all selfish
happiness for herself; and the sense of this did much to renew her vigour
of frame, though it did not banish the grave and thoughtful expression
from her face and manner. She was often seen mounted on her favourite
mare, May Dew, followed by Tom Boddily, taking her way towards the
Grange, where she was always received with love by Mrs. Woodburn
and by Ann, when at home, and by Mr. Woodburn and George with
much kindly regard. Many, too, were her visits to Bilts’ Farm, and her
long conversations with Elizabeth Drury, which seemed always to fill her
with a renewed spirit of peace and satisfaction.
The only gleam of the past happy days seemed to be on the head of the
wise and loving Ann Woodburn. The effect of his father’s changed
views, revealed on his deathbed, had been on Sir Henry Clavering such
as she had hoped. He had thought deeply on this unexpected confession.
The peace with which he had seen his father depart had made a deep
impression on his mind through his affectionate nature. He had arrived
soon so far, that he felt that there was something beyond the mere
teachings of physical nature and the wisdom of the schools which we
need to enable us to push off our spiritual bark into the unknown with
confidence. He accepted, therefore, like his father, the Saviour which the
Gospel proclaims, though ponderous difficulties lay betwixt his
conceptions of this Saviour as a messenger of God, and as God in Christ
reconciling the world to Himself. But Ann, filled now with the brightest
hopes, helped him along this valley of stumbling and of huge stones
fallen from the bald rocks of long past ages. She put into his hands
Paley’s “Evidences,” Butler’s “Analogy,” and other ably reasoned works
of her Church, and marked with deep satisfaction their gradual effect.
She no longer talked of leaving Sir Henry to his freedom of choice for a
wife. She found herself daily drawn into a nearer and more kindred unity
with him. All real obstacles to their marriage were, in fact, surmounted,
and that event was regarded as at hand, when these unhappy
circumstances connected with Letty’s fortunes, and others yet to be
related, made her beg that the marriage might be a little delayed, that it
might be celebrated under happier auspices, if possible. Meantime, the
political difficulties of the period, and irritated condition of the people at
large, and of the manufacturing population in particular, kept Sir Henry
actively engaged in his magisterial duties. He generally looked in at the
Grange in going to and returning from Castleborough; and whilst Ann
was there, at Letty’s, he frequently went in and dined with them. Every
day tended to present the excellence of his heart and the clear solidity of
his mind more attractively to the whole Woodburn family. Ann only was
held back from the goal of her earthly happiness by the cloud that lay on
her most beloved ones.
The settlement of Mr. Trant Drury in their immediate neighbourhood
had not proved such a source of satisfaction as had been hoped for.
Those dictatorial and hurrying qualities in his character, which farmer
Barrowclouch had noticed, soon began to press themselves unpleasantly
on most of those around him. That he was a first-rate agriculturist of a
particular school there could be no question; but it was a school
essentially different from that which prevailed in all that part of the
country. It was a country naturally fertile, varied in its features, and
rendered extremely pleasant by the fine and free-grown fences, the
scattered hedge-row trees, and patches of wood. With all these, Mr.
Drury made war to the knife—no, to the hatchet and the saw. He
expressed his great surprise that any agriculturists could yet be found
who would sacrifice so much of their valuable land to the mere growth
of useless bushes and almost worthless hedge-row trees. As to the woods
and plantations, they might remain, and be made profitable by liberal
thinning; but as for the hedges, he would have them all pared down to
the shortest state possible to be fences at all, and the hedge-row trees, he
would cut down every one of them. He would leave only here and there
on the land a spreading tree for shelter for the cattle from the sun in
summer; but as for hedges, they were useful only as a means of
separating fields, and these he would cut to the quick, and narrow as
much as possible; nay, he would cut down half of the hedges altogether,
and leave the fields—especially the tillage fields—four of five times
their present size. He calculated that nearly a tenth of the superficies of
the country might be thus brought into profitable culture. As for the
hedge-row trees, he said they were so frequently lopped on their trunks
as they grew, to prevent their spreading too widely, that as timber they
were a congeries of knots, and of no use but for firewood. In fact, he
would have reduced the whole country to a condition as bare as the back
of your hand; for beauty or the picturesque had no organ in his brain,—
their place was engrossed by the organ of profit.
“Now, of what mortal use,” he would say to Mr. Woodburn, as he rode
over his farm, or through the neighbourhood with him,—“of what mortal
use are these little shapeless crofts and paddocks with their fences
running in all sorts of ways but straight lines,—these little, often
triangular plots, with their meandering huge hawthorn hedges, actually
turning and doubling on themselves? Sweep all these crooked,
scrambling fences away, and have some fine, large, shapely pastures
instead. And here is a brook now—do look at it. Would any one have
supposed, with the present value of land, that it should be allowed to turn
and twine about as it does, forming what the Scotch call links, and as we
may call them bows and loops, positively occupying three times the
ground which it would if reduced to a straight, handsome course, as it
soon might be?”
Mr. Woodburn replied “that in truth they might remove some of the
rambling fences, and enlarge those little plots to advantage, but he
should be sorry to see all those beautiful hawthorn hedges now throwing
out their odorous sprays of wild roses and eglantine, cut close like the
cropped bristly head of a parish pauper.”
“Beauty!” said Mr. Trant Drury,—“beauty! My dear sir, we cannot live
by beauty. We cannot pay rent by beauty. The interests of this densely
populated country cannot be maintained by empty notions of beauty.
When you want to go to market with your produce, see what your crop
of beauty will bring you. No, sir; as much corn, cattle, hay, potatoes, and
the like substantials, for which we labour, and from which we must hope
to live, as you please. The greatest possible return for the greatest
possible amount of labour and skill expended;—that is my doctrine and
my practice; and they are the only principles that will in the long run
make this country what it ought to be.”
“But man cannot live by bread alone,” said Mr. Woodburn; “that is a
principle established by an authority which I hope, Mr. Drury, you
consider as of as much validity as your modern save-all doctrine.”
“I bow to the wisdom of our Lord,” said Mr. Drury; “but what He
undoubtedly meant was, not your visionary thing beauty, but divine
grace,—‘Man shall not live by bread alone, but by every word which
proceedeth out of the mouth of God.’”
“Very true,” said Mr. Woodburn; “and out of that divine mouth issued
these divine words: ‘Behold the lilies of the field, how they grow.’ He
who made beauty as well as material food, and showered it on the earth,
and continues so to shower it, knew and knows that we want food for
every part of our nature. ‘Meats for the belly, and the belly for meats; but
God shall destroy both it and them.’ Now, according to my notions,
every part of us demands its proper food. Food for the support of the
body, grace for the life of the soul, beauty for the imagination, love for
the heart, and truth for the intellect. To feed only the body, and to devote
all our labours and our lands only to this purpose, is, in my opinion, to
make ourselves no better than the beasts that perish.”
Mr. Drury smiled contemptuously. “That is all very well for you, Mr.
Woodburn, who live at ease on your own land; but that sort of doctrine
won’t do for tenant-farmers.”
Mr. Woodburn thought it as good for tenant-farmers as for anybody
else; and should be very sorry to see the tenant-farmers allowed to follow
such a system of agricultural economy, as would make the whole country
as bare as a drill-ground, and as ugly as sin. He had seen this style of
cultivation carried out in some parts of the country, and he would sooner
emigrate to the American forests than live in such a featureless district.
He thought, to cut down hedges almost to the ground, and exterminate
every tree, was by no means beneficial to cattle or sheep, which in cold
weather, and especially during the sharp east winds of early spring,
required shelter as well as food.
After one or two conversations of this kind Woodburn thought Mr.
Drury would say no more to him on this subject, but he was greatly
mistaken; for Mr. Trant Drury was one of those people that we now and
then come across, who carry their hobbies to a perfect monomania. They
are always on the same subject, in all places and with all persons.
Though they may have told you the same thing fifty times, they never
seem to recollect it, but treat it as perfectly new, and go over the whole
ground with merciless pertinacity. After a few inflictions of the all-profit
and threadbare country doctrine, Mr. Woodburn began to wince visibly,
and to say rather crustily, “Oh! Mr. Drury, you have told us all that again
and again.”
“But you don’t benefit by it,” Mr. Drury would say.
“No, nor ever shall, so far as I am concerned,” Mr. Woodburn would
reply.
To George Woodburn and Elizabeth Drury, who had become deeply
attached to each other, and with the mutual consent of parents on both
sides, this disagreement of tastes in their fathers was a subject of the
greatest concern and anxiety. George quietly begged of Mr. Drury not to
say anything to his father on agricultural topics, for that nothing would
induce him to adopt any new notions; but then Mr. Trant Drury’s whole
thought, feeling, taste, and conversation were agricultural. New modes of
tillage, new implements, new manures, new kinds of vegetables for
winter feed,—these made up the furniture, stock, and staple of his mind.
His imagination stood as thickly planted with those ideas as his rick-yard
with ricks, his fold-yard with cattle, or his fields with crops. George
Woodburn listened patiently to his perpetual talk on these subjects, and
admitted to a certain extent the value of them: but as to cutting down
hawthorn hedges and hedge-row trees, he stood out as firmly as his
father. When Mr. Drury was riding his indefatigable hobby in that
direction, he remained quiet and let the stream flow over him. His after-
conversations with Elizabeth were a rich compensation for this otherwise
rather severe martyrdom. Every day showed Elizabeth in a more
loveable character. Her lively, cheerful manner, combined with a
beautifully intellectual and religious sentiment, and great intelligence,
made her the beloved friend of Ann and Mrs. Woodburn; and Mr.
Woodburn looked on her with pride as his future daughter-in-law. He
only regretted that such a woman should be the daughter of what he
began in his own house to term such an unmitigated bore.
Mr. Trant Drury went to work vigorously on his own farm to
exemplify his peculiar code of agriculture, and, as he said, to set an
example to the benighted farmers around. His landlady, who lived in
London, readily granted him permission to pare down his fences and fell
hedge-row trees as he pleased. As the property was her own, but would
go, at her death, for want of direct issue, to another branch of the family,
she was at liberty to do this. The very first autumn and winter, Mr. Drury
had men cutting close the fences, and felling all the trees but the oaks,
which must stand till the proper season for peeling, in spring. Part of this
timber he was allowed to employ in extending his outbuildings, and in
making new gates, gateposts, hurdles, &c. Part went to the wood-
merchant, its proceeds to be remitted to the landlady.
Mr. Woodburn saw with indignation the destruction of these hedges
and trees, the wide, bare gap in the general beauty of the landscape thus
created, and his feelings were partaken by many others of the
neighbouring country and town, who denounced Mr. Drury as a Goth,
and hoped there would be no imitators of this unloveable sort of thrift.
Mr. Woodburn could not restrain himself, on the next visit of Elizabeth
Drury, from speaking in a sarcastically jeering manner of this frightful
system, as he called it, of her father. Elizabeth, to whose ideas of beauty
it was as great an outrage as to Mr. Woodburn’s, burst into tears; and
Mrs. Woodburn intreated her husband to desist, saying, that Miss Drury
was not responsible for the acts of her father, and did all in her power, by
affectionate kindness, to make Elizabeth forget it. Mr. Woodburn’s own
natural goodness of heart caused him to express his regret for having hurt
her feelings, and adding that certainly Elizabeth must as much regret it as
he did. But there was a poisoned arrow fixed into her sensitive heart,
which nothing could effectually extract. She had begged and entreated
that the but thinly scattered trees on the farm might be spared, but in
vain. She witnessed their fall with grief, which she could not conceal,
and had thus incurred a considerable degree of anger from her father. She
had heard the mortifying remarks of the Heritages and other friends; but
the ground of painful feeling and of comment which it had laid in the
mind of all the Woodburns, and especially of Mr. Woodburn, was a
source of real unhappiness. She felt afraid to go to the Grange when Mr.
Woodburn was in the house, and when she did meet him there, or
elsewhere, she thought he looked coldly on her. She was conscious that
her very presence brought to his mind this piece of Vandalism—the blot
on the face of the country, as he termed it. She heard of his by no means
measured remarks upon it amongst his neighbours; for though a quiet
and courteous man, he was strong in his feelings.
George never alluded to the subject in her company, and never omitted
one of his usual visits to the farm. He even sat and heard Mr. Drury’s
conversation on the subject, for nothing could prevent him continually
introducing it, and remained passive, and making but now and then an
incidental reply, endeavouring to divert the discussion to something more
agreeable to the ladies. But nothing could turn Mr. Trant Drury long. He
would say, “Well, I find my plans don’t meet with the approbation of my
neighbours, eh? They would like all to live in a wood, and pay rent,
where they do pay rent, for growing their landlord’s timber. Ah! they
shall see in a while! They shall see by my rick-yards how the matter
stands.”
To George, as to Elizabeth, this was a bitter drop which had fallen into
their cup. They saw that a strong antagonism would assuredly grow up
betwixt their fathers. All their ideas of rural economy were so totally and
irreconcileably opposed. Bitterly did Elizabeth deplore their ever coming
into such close and permanent contact; bitterly did she repent having
proposed their removal hither. By her marriage with George, she would
have come amongst her friends here without one painful circumstance.
But the change was made, and these two faithful hearts resolved that no
family dissension which might arise should break or weaken the sacred
tie of their own souls. They endeavoured, each of them, so to arrange
their visits to each other’s house, as to come as little in the way of each
other’s father as possible, without seeming to make an actual coldness or
breach. But this was a most difficult plan of operations to manage. If Mr.
Drury did not see George for several days, he would say—
 “Well, George Woodburn seems to avoid us. He is like his father, I
suppose. He takes part with him, and can’t forgive this ridding my farm
of its lumber and rubbish.”
“No, dear father,” Elizabeth would say, “George does not concern
himself about it; but he is very busy—and I wish, however, you would
not mention the subject so often to him. It looks as though you wished to
remind him of his father’s vexation. Oh, do, dear father, let the matter be
a tabooed subject. There is plenty to talk of besides.”
“Plenty to talk of!—to be sure there is. But I have no notion of people
having such thin skins, such tender ears, that they can’t bear to hear of a
tree falling or of a hedge being lopped. And I am sure I very seldom refer
to the thing.”
“Only every time that George Woodburn is here, dear father. Though
he does not trouble himself about it, it must become tiresome to him.”
“So he finds my company tiresome, does he, eh? A nice young man!
Perhaps he’ll find yours tiresome soon, Elizabeth, if he be so difficult to
please. So that’s the way the wind blows, eh? Um—um!”—or rather an
indescribable noise made with his mouth shut and through his nose.
At Woodburn Grange, Mr. Woodburn would say—
“Have you seen Miss Drury lately?”
“Yes; she was here this morning.”
“Oh, she was! She takes care that I don’t see her. I suppose she’s not
pleased with me because I don’t like the devastations of that father of
hers. I suppose she takes up the cudgels for him. Well, I am sorry for it—
I am sorry indeed that such a sweet, good creature has such a father. As
for poor Mrs. Drury, she does not seem to have a soul of her own. She is
just like a scared automaton, if an automaton could be scared. She must
have had a pretty life of it with such a man.”
If George were in, he would quietly get up and go out, and then Mrs.
Woodburn, or Ann, if at home, would say, “Pray don’t make such
remarks, dear father—or husband—don’t you see how painful they are to
George; and as for Elizabeth Drury, she loves and honours you most
sincerely. Oh, what a misfortune that ever they came so near us!”
In the meantime, Mr. Trant Drury went on his way in his own way,
which was of unwavering, confident comfortableness in his assurance
that all which he thought and did was right. To him all adverse criticism
was ignorance, all opposition envy. He lamented the benighted condition
of his bucolic neighbours, and was certain that he should show them all
their deficiencies. Mr. Drury had, in the north, been a high authority, and
he soon let it be known that it was the same Mr. Trant Drury, whose
letters in the “Farmers’ Journal,” and in the York and Doncaster
newspapers, on all agricultural topics were so well known. “Eh! so this is
the great Mr. Drury of Yorkshire,” said Sir Roger Rockville, and Sir
Benjamin Bullockshed, and Squire Swagsides, “that we have got among
us: that is very fortunate.” Mr. Drury soon took the opportunity to make
the public aware of this great fact still further, by some letters in the
Castleborough papers, containing remarks on the improvements which
might obviously be introduced into that part of the country. He was very
soon consulted by landowners on the nature of such improvements,
which they hoped would lead to an augmentation of rents. Mr. Drury
soon became much in request for valuations of stock and crops in cases
of farms passing from one tenant to another, in matters of drainage and
manures, and treatment of woods,—and in all these departments he was
really extremely skilful. He attended public meetings in different
counties of an agricultural character, and made speeches which went
through the newspapers far and wide.
It was soon made known by himself that he had been consulted by Sir
Roger Rockville, Sir Benjamin Bullockshed, Sir Timothy Sheepshanks,
Lord Rancliffe, the Earl Manvers, and others, on the condition of their
estates. Not one of them, however, we are well informed, could be
brought to listen to cropping all their fences close, and knocking down
all their hedge-row trees, except Sir Benjamin Bullockshed, and one or
two of his neighbours. In the rest, Mr. Drury said, the old feudal notions
of things were too strongly rooted to allow of their ridding their lands of
any trees. Mr. Woodburn, when he heard that Mr. Drury had actually
become the steward of Sir Benjamin Bullockshed, and was going to
display his science on his farms, blessed his stars that that estate lay at
some distance, and that the odious disfigurement and stripping bare of
nature would not often offend his eyes.
In the meantime, Mr. Drury, in the late autumn, had certainly a fine
rick-yard and cattle-yard to show. His sheep were in fine condition, and
he had an ample supply of turnips and mangel wurzel for winter feed. He
had also sown several acres of carrots for his horses and cattle, then a
matter of wonder and curiosity to his neighbours, as applied to that
purpose, having before been thought of only for culinary use. With the
working-men, the labourers of the neighbourhood, Mr. Drury was by no
means in favour. He had brought with him a great variety of machinery,
thrashing and winnowing machines, tedding and raking machines, which
at that day, when such machinery was little known, were looked upon as
all intended to supersede manual labour. They were beheld with an evil
eye, and the indignant labourers were heard to wish that the earth would
open and swallow up these godless and man-starving inventions. Besides
this, Mr. Drury kept a very sharp eye on every man who worked for him.
He had a bailiff, or headman, who timed all the men as they arrived in
the morning, and noted the exact minute down, and a half, or even a
quarter of an hour, on any day was deducted at the end of the week. He
was always riding about on that tall roan horse of his, and so continually
at their heels, or ready to drop upon them at any minute. They nick-
named him Drury the Fire-eater, and wondered what they had done that
the devil had sent him into their country.
The following spring a circumstance occurred which pre-eminently
delighted not only the labourers, but the farmers around, and in no small
degree Mr. Woodburn himself. Mr. Drury had written so much on the
necessity of cleaning, dressing your fields, of extirpating to the utmost
every species of couch-grass and weed, and that your growing crops
should be as free from them as your gardens; he had made so many
cutting remarks on the slovenliness of some of the neighbouring farms,
and characterised the style of cultivation thereabout as lax, that it was
with singular pleasure and merriment that they observed several of his
corn crops, and one six-acre field in particular, as thickly mixed with
docks as if the seed had purposely been sown half-and-half. There was a
going and riding from all quarters to witness this wonderful sight. It was
the talk at market, and Mr. Drury was accosted with much country wit on
the occasion. “Is that,” asked farmers, “a part of your new plans, Mister
Drury? Are these a new sort of carrots of yourn?” Carrots being just
introduced by Mr. Drury, this was received with much laughter. Mr.
Drury replied angrily, and in the words of Scripture, “An enemy hath
done this.”
But who was this enemy! It was certain that Mr. Drury had his
enemies in abundance amongst the labourers; but these men were too
regularly engaged in hard work to collect such a quantity of dock seed,
and to sow it so completely. There was a touch of ingenuity in it, too,
which seemed beyond their habitual dulness. The suspicion turned in
another direction.
 In the autumn, on proceeding to get his potatoes, it was discovered by
the men that the rows had been extensively plundered, by the potatoes
being extracted from the sides of the rows, the tops being left standing,
and the earth at the sides carefully put back and trampled hard. There
was ingenuity there, too.
Mr. Drury not only set a man to watch at night, but he watched with
him, and they soon captured, in the fact, a sort of half-witted, wandering
vagabond fellow of Castleborough, named Ned King. This Ned King, a
thin shangling fellow, dirty and ragged, and seldom without a pipe in his
mouth, was reckoned only half-witted, but, at the same time, he had a
cunning about him of no ordinary calibre. He was accustomed to ramble
the streets, and early in the morning turn over with his feet or his hands,
as carefully as a hen scratching in the chaff at a barn-door, the dust and
scraps of paper swept out of the shops. It was said that he had
occasionally recovered thus one-pound and even five-pound notes. It was
certain that one day, in a main street, he was seen to stoop down and pick
up a half-guinea in gold. A person close behind said, “That is mine!”
“Oh!” said Ned, keeping the piece in his closed hand, “is yours a straight
or a crooked one?” The man immediately imagined that it must be a
crooked one, or so stupid a fellow would not have thought of it. “A
crooked one, to-be sure,” said the man. “Then it is not yours,” added
King, opening his hand, “for this is straight;” and the claimant
disappeared amid the jeers of the people.
Ned being caught, begged hard to be let go, saying, he would make
Mr. Drury amends; but such was not Mr. Drury’s creed. He was for the
most summary punishment of all such depredators, and King was carried
before the magistrates, and thence to the House of Correction for three
months. The extraordinary crop of docks on Mr. Drury’s farm was no
sooner talked of, than many people recollected seeing King here and
there all round the country collecting, as he said, bird-seeds of different
sorts; but they noticed him particularly gathering dock-seeds, which he
said were for birds, but which nobody had ever known collected for such
a purpose. It was shown by some of King’s neighbours that he had whole
sack-bags of such seeds in his possession during the winter. But his
having collected such seeds, and his having whole bags of them, did not
prove that he had sown Mr. Drury’s corn-fields with them. There was no
moral doubt whatever that he had done it; but it had been done so
adroitly, that no one had ever seen him about Mr. Drury’s farm at night.
He must have done it in midnights when every soul was fast asleep.
 Mr. Drury had him up before the magistrates; and brought plenty of
evidence of his having collected dock-seed for six or seven miles round,
and of his having sacks full of it; but when the magistrates called on him
to show how he had disposed of it, Ned grinned, and said, “How was he
to know? He was always selling seeds and yarbs (herbs) to all sorts of
people, and he did not know their names.” The old proverb of any fool
taking a horse to water, and not all England being able to make him
drink, was verified in Ned’s case. Nobody could convict him, and he was
too shrewd to convict himself. The magistrates were compelled to
dismiss him with a threat, and everybody said Mr. Drury had better have
let Ned alone, he would do him some other ill-turn. And this soon
appeared to be the case, for Mr. Drury’s field-gates were continually
found wide open in a morning, and cattle and sheep let in or let out, and
the greatest damage done. Sheep and cattle were found eating up and
treading down the corn crops, and his horses were gone off, and were
discovered in some neighbouring parish.
In this case the able and acute Mr. Trant Drury had found his match in
the half-witted Ned King, the fool of Castleborough, much to the
delectation of farmers and labourers all round Woodburn.
 CHAPTER X.
WOODBURN AND ROCKVILLE AT WAR.
Once more spring; and though many things had occurred to sadden the
hearts once so light at Woodburn, there were yet days there when
something of the old charm seemed to come back. There were hearts and
minds all the more bound together by sympathy in sorrow, and by a
common endurance of the petty enmity of proud and ignorant
neighbours. One fine May Sunday evening, Mr. and Mrs. Degge had
come in to tea at the Grange. Sir Henry Clavering was there; and after
tea a walk was proposed down by the river-side to a copse, where two
nightingales were continually heard, evening and night, singing against
each other in marvellous rivalry. Mr. and Mrs. Degge, Sir Henry, George,
Ann, and Letty, set out for this walk. A more delicious evening never
shed its charms on such a company. A light breeze blew the odours of
legions of flowers towards them as they slowly wandered down the
valley. They had then to cross some fields, and pass through a farm-yard,
before reaching the copse in question. These fields and this copse were
on Sir Roger Rockville’s land; and as they approached the gate leading
into the fields, they saw, to their surprise, a board erected, declaring that
there was no road that way. As this was, and always had been, a road far
beyond the memory of man, and as no legal measures had been taken to
stop it, the gentlemen were quite confident that it could not be legally
stopped. They, therefore, went on, passed through the farm-yard, saw no
one, and reached the copse.
As they were standing beneath some trees just within it, and were
listening to the songs of the emulative birds, suddenly a gun was
discharged over their heads, and one of the birds fell at their feet. In the
greatest astonishment and indignation, the three gentlemen rushed
towards the place whence the discharge came, but could discern no one.
The ladies had picked up the poor little musician, now with its feathers
dabbled with its blood, and all its wondrous music hushed for ever, and
were in the highest state of pity and resentment.
The party took its way back in a mood of extreme exasperation at the
barbarous deed, which they attributed to some one of Sir Roger’s
keepers, and that the poor bird had fallen a martyr to the baronet’s known
feelings against them. As they entered the farm-yard, two young men
came towards them, one having a gun on his shoulders. This one
addressed the party without any sign of courtesy.
“Did not you see the board up by the gate?”
“Yes!” it was replied. “We saw it, but it has no business there. This is
an old road, and has not, to our certain knowledge, been legally
stopped.”
“I tell you,” said the young man, in an excited tone, “there is no road
—never was a road, and no one shall come this way.”
“Pray, who are you, young man?” said Sir Henry Clavering.
“Who am I? I am the son of the tenant here.”
“Then let me tell you,” said Sir Henry, “that I am Sir Henry Clavering,
a magistrate. This is Mr. Degge, another magistrate, who must have
heard of any intention to stop this road by legal means. You young men
are new here,—your father has only entered on this farm at Lady Day.
We are old inhabitants, and know that this has always been a road.”
“I don’t care,” said the young farmer, “who you are. I tell you there is
no road here. I am ordered by Sir Roger to let nobody pass here, and I
won’t, and”—clapping his gun with one hand, as the other rested it on
his shoulder—“if any one comes after this notice, I’ll give him what
shall prevent him coming again.”
“Do you know,” said Mr. Degge, “what you are saying and doing?
With a gun in your hand, menacing death or disablement to any one
coming upon a lawful road?”
“Yes, I know what I say; and if you want to know more, this is my
legal adviser”—pointing to the other man, who had a town look about
him.
“So,” said Mr. Degge, “you are a lawyer; and do you approve of such
language as this?”
“I say,” replied the lawyer, “resist force by force.”
“Then,” said Mr. Degge, “you are a very dangerous and unlawyerlike
adviser, and this matter cannot rest here.” And with that the party walked
on.
 On inquiry, it was found that the lawyer was the brother of the young
farmer, and a mere lawyer’s clerk in Castleborough. Sir Henry Clavering
immediately wrote to Sir Roger Rockville, detailing what had taken
place, and requesting to know whether these proceedings were really
sanctioned by him. In reply, Sir Roger said that the road through the
farm-yard in question was a great nuisance, and he had told the farmer
that he might get it stopped if he could, but that he had not authorised
him to use any menace or violence. Sir Henry requested to know whether
Sir Roger denied the ancient right of road, and whether he had ordered
the board to be put up? To these questions Sir Roger gave no reply. Sir
Henry and Mr. Degge, therefore, issued a warrant for the farmer to
appear before the bench, on a given day, in order to have him bound over
to keep the peace.
When the day arrived, it was found that never had there been so full an
assembly of magistrates for years. It was evident that Sir Roger had
mustered all his friends. The man was called up, and charged by Sir
Henry Clavering with the menaces already mentioned. He replied, that
he had only done as he was ordered by his landlord. Sir Henry looked
round, but though Sir Roger’s friends were there in great force, he
himself was absent. As the man swore positively that Sir Roger had
ordered him to turn everybody back, and, if they would not go, to use
force, and had sent the warning-board for him to put up, Sir Henry
produced and read Sir Rogers letter, declaring that he had not authorised
the farmer to use any menace or violence. This was a poser, and the
responsibility of the act was thrown wholly on the man, who was
declared by Sir Henry to be perjured. He added, that he should prosecute
him for the perjury; but he now demanded that he should be bound to
keep the peace towards every one for twelve months, under a very heavy
penalty. But here the united power of Sir Henry and Mr. Degge failed
against the whole bench, who were unanimous in declaring that it would
be quite sufficient if the young man promised that he would not thus
offend again. And on a ready promise on his part, he was discharged.
Mr. Degge told the magistrates that they had taken a very heavy
responsibility upon themselves, as, from what he had seen of the young
man’s temperament, he believed him to be so excitable that, under the
least provocation, he might do some serious mischief to some one, and
that he should, for public security, feel himself compelled to sue for a
mandamus requiring them to show cause for neglecting the very
necessary precaution of binding the delinquent to keep the peace.
 This announcement produced an evident damp on the assembled
justices; but the man was already discharged, and there was no help for
it. But even before Sir Henry could issue a warrant to summon the man
to answer the charge of perjury, a fresh encounter had produced a
repetition of the very same conduct in him. All the people of the
neighbourhood were incensed at the clandestine attempt to stop this road,
and made constant use of it, though round about, in going to Rockville;
and in a very short time the effect of the reiterated irritation of this
popular opposition had produced actual insanity in the young farmer,
whose mother, it was found, was already confined in a lunatic asylum,
and whither he himself had to be conducted. This melancholy visitation
of course stopped all proceedings on the part of Sir Henry and Mr.
Degge, even against the magistrates. The road was left peaceably open;
but the condition of mind originated by this constant clashing of views
betwixt what might be called the Woodburn and Rockville parties, was
one very prejudicial to the happiness of the neighbourhood, and ominous
of results of no agreeable kind.
END OF VOL. II.
BRADBURY, EVANS, AND CO., PRINTERS, WHITEFRIARS.