A CROW-BOY'S MIND.

Nelson Examiner and New Zealand Chronicle, Volume XXX, Issue 42, 23 September 1871, Page 9

A CROW-BOY'S MIND.

[From AH the Year Round^ It is uot easy in any country, and especially in England, where caste, though theoretically non-existing, is a practical fact, for the different classes of society to understand each other intimately. And not only class, but sex and age form a barrier that it is difficult to overpass. Women continually complain that men do not uuderstaud them, and men bring the same accusation against women. The ; rich, although they may sympathise with, and be kind and charitable to the poor, do not know the right method of getting into their confidence, and very seldom take possession of their sympathies ; and \ the poor, in like manner, have idiosyncrasies which prevent them from thinking with the thoughts of the rich, or as thoroughly ! confiding in them as they would in people in their own rank of life. The workman walks in a different mental atmosphere from that which surrounds his employer; and the employer, however willing to cultivate friendly feelings, is seldom able to establish intimate relations between himself and the people to whom he pays wages. What does my lord know of his gamekeeper, or the gamekeeper of my lord ? What does Dives know about Lazarus, or Lazarus about Dives ? What does the wise man know of the fool, and vice versa? Or the honest man — prosperous in fine linen and broad-cloth — of the shabby thief who steals his pockethankerchief, or of the more dashiug rascal, who breaks into houses — or forges notes ? Nothing. There is a shodowy, impalpable, invisable, but real and unmistakable, veil between them, which, though it does not hide each from the other, distorts the vision like a false medium. We neither see ourselves as others see us, nor do we see others as they really exist. It was once my fancy to try and get into the mind and thought of a crow-boy, aged about fifteen, and a very difficult task I found it. lam not sure that I succeeded, and that my labour was not thrown away. The difficulties that beset the attempt were the disparity of age and of social condition. I endeavoured to take off the armour of caste, and approach, him as fellow-creature to fellowcreature; but though I carefully, a3 I thought, divested myself of my coat of mail, he was long before he took off his, possibly because he did not know that he wore any. I first established a talking acquaintance with him, in my daily walks across the fields where he was stationed, to a favourite piece of woodland scenery, which I haunted for its beauty. Our discourse was of the weather and of the crows, and often of his appetite and his dinner, if I came across him at noon, when it was his euston to sit upon a stile if the weather were cloudy, and under a tree if it were warm and sunny, cutting-his haunch of bread and bacon with a single-bladed pochet-knife. Sometimes I endeavoured to draw him into conversation about a little boat, which when not engaged with his more important business of his dinner, or iv throwing stones and shooting at the crows, he amused himself by scooping out of a clump of wood. For a long time, however, my success was but indifferent. He was by no meaus stupid, nor unusually shy, had a frank, open face, and such a development of brain, as, with proper education, might haye fitted him for playing any part in the world, with fully the average credit, if not with more. But the armour of caste was upon him, as he seemed to have no more confidence in me than the crows had in him ; and, though he answered my questions iv the friendliest spirit, there was something in his manner which implied that there would be little use in my talking to him or his talking to me, that in short there could be no companionship of thought between two persons so differently placed. But I | was not discouraged by a reticence, which was instinctive rather than wilful, and I endeavoured as well as I could to warm him into confidence. If he had been only seven or eight years old, I should have tried the effect of a fairy tale, which I have always found to be an infallible recipe for opening the hearts of very little people of both sexes, but he was in the third year of his teens, and, worse than all, had indulged in the masculine vice of smoking, and was consequently j too much of a little man in his own estimation to believe in dragons, ogres, and

fairies, though possibly he believed in ghosts and witches. I ascertained that he could not read without great difficulty. Consequently it was of no use to bribe him with Robinson Crusoe; or a history of adventure with lions, tigers, pirates, or robbers ; or tales of travel and shipwreck, which tolerably educated boys are so fond of! reading. How was Ito show him that I was his friend ? A gift of money might help ; but it involved the danger of demoralization, which I was anxious not to incur. At last an idea struck me. Coming upon him one sunny forenoon, as he sat on a bank busily scooping away at his little boat with his unusually blunt knife, I told him that I had something for him in my pocket. " Sixpence ? " inquired he. " No — something better." " A shilling ? " " No, not money — something better still." Thus speaking, I drew from my pocket a knife with two big blades of different sizes, two small blades, a corkscrew, a girablet, and a saw. The sight of this sevenfold treasure drew from him the sharp and joyous exclamation, " Oh, my !" while his eyes sparkled to twice their usual brightness and bigness. " Oh, my ! and is it for me ? " "Yes, for you! I bought it in Lon-. don on purpose to give it you ; but they say it's unlucky to make presents of knives or cissors because they cut friendship. Will you buy it for a penny ? " " I ain't got a penny," said he ; " but I shall have one on Saturday." "Well, I shall trust you till then. Meanwhile you can have the knife." He took it from my hand, opened each ! blade successively, and looked for a few minutes with a satisfaction that was really unspeakable at every little apparatus ; then shut them one after the other ; then opened them again ; then shut them up ; and, finally, catching sight of a flock of crows, broke into a shout, less intended for scaring away the birds than as an expression of glee at his new acquisition. Wordsworth says of the sonnet " that with that key Shakespeare uulocked his heart." I thought to myself that with that many-bladed knife 1 had fairly opened my way into that crow-boy's confidence. And so it turned out. Little more passed between us that day, aud I left him alone with his treasure. From that time forth he seemed to have no secrets from me, and talked unreservedly, as to a person of his own age, unless when I prompted him with questions, and led him on to topics which would not naturally have presented themselves to his mind, and which, when presented, only seemed of importance to him because I deemed them so. He did not disclose himself to me all at once, but gradually as bur mutual humour allowed. His name was Tom Beck. He was the fifth of a family of eleven — four boys and seven girls — of whom eight survived. His farmer was a farm-labourer, earning fourteen shillings a week. His mother had been a servant-of-all-work in a small family, and added something, though not much, to the family income by taking in washing. They had a little garden and a pig ; got presents of tea and flannel occasionally from a charitable society ; had the privilege of picking up sticks for fuel in the neighbouring woods and plantations ; got coal half price from the coal store established by the squire and the parish gentry ; and managed to jog along somehow. His elder brother was a labourer, and married, and the younger children all began to earn a little as soon aa they were ten years old, by weeding in the season, if it were only sixpence or a shilling a week. Tom himself earned four shillings a week as a crow-boy, but had to be at his post seven days in the week in the spring season, as the crows "didn't take no account of Sundays." All tho family slept in one room. He had never been to any school but a Sunday school ; could read a little, but could not write or read writing. Had never heard of the multiplication table, but knew that twice two were four, and twice ten twenty. Did not know how many eight times eight were, but could count up, he thought, on his fingers, or with stones or bits of stick. Had heard the Bible read, and could repeat the Creed and the Lord's Prayer. Had heard of the Mount of Olives, but did not know where it was. He had never heard of the Alps, the Pyrenees, or the Andes. Had heard of the River Jordan. Had never heard of the Thames, the Rhine, or the Mississipi. Had heard

of the Dead Sea. Did not know whether it was in England or not. Had never heard of the Atlantic Ocean. Had heard of Jesus Christ; everybody had. He was the sou of iVbraham and the Virgin Mary. He (Torn Beck) was a ChristianAll of us were Christians, except the doga and horses, and birds and animals. Some dogs were as good as Christians — " they knowed such a deal " — and he sometimes thought as how the old cVows were Christians ; they we so uncommon sharp. Had often seen an old crow fasten itself upon a sheep's back, and pull the wool out of its back to help build its nest with. Thought that was more like a Christian than a crow — it was so jolly knowing. Crows were not frightened by scarecrows, as he had often seen them sit on the old hats atop of them, and caw, caw, as much as to say, " We don't care, we don't, for such stupid old rubbish as this !" He I thought all birds were too cunning to be ! afraid after the first " go." Just at first they might be scared, but after a day or so they got used to scarecrows, and lie had known starlings build their nests in them. He once took three starlings out of a nest, in the stupidest old guy of a scarecrow he had ever seen. If scarecrows were of any use there would be no need of crow-boys. His master would not lefc him a gun to shoot at the birds. He wished he would. Said he was not old enough ; but he knowed better, and would like nothing so much as to blaze away at them. Crows were afraid of stones and guns, but as for dudmen (scarecrows), the crows precious soon found out as they could do 'em no harm. Had heard of heaven — a place where all the people as were poor in this world were to be rich, and wear golden crowns, and where the squires and such like were to be poor, and not able to get so much as a drop of water when they were thirsty, let alone beer. He did not think this arrangement was unfair. He would like, however, to be rich in this world, and run the chance of the next. Had heard of the devil. Did not understand much about him. Thought he had great eyes like the red lights of a i steam-engiue, horns on his head, and a long tail, with which he could lash down a « whole plantation of trees if he liked. Could not say as he was much afeard of him. ,His father warn't. He believed people would be punished if they did wrong, especially if they was found oufc. Hadn't though much about it. Where was the use ? Parsons understood it. He didn't, and wasn't a going to try till he was older, and then he supposed he should kuow as much about it as other folks. Had never thought much of what he would like to be when a man. Supposed he should be a farm-labourer, like his father and his brother. AVouldn't mind if he were a soldier. Should rather like it, but was not sure. All the chaps as he heard on, who went for soldiers, went because they had got into scrapes with the "gak." His brother always talked of going for a soldier when he was out of luck, afore he got married. If he, Tom, could be what -he liked, he thought he should be a gamekeeper or a poacher. Them was the chaps that lived a jolly life, especially the gamekeepers. Didn't see auy harm iv poaching. As why ? The suoire didn't feed the partridges, the pheasants, and the hares, as he did his horses and dogs. Besides, why should the squires have all the fun j 5 He didn't see why a poor boy mightn't have a shot, if he liked. It was better to be a gamekeeper thau a poacher, because the gamekeeper was never sent to quod as the poachers was. Poachers wasn't always caught, however, 'cos many gamekeepers was poachers themselves once, and didn't like to be too hard upon their chums. Did he know any poachers ? Yes, a good many, but he wasn't a going to tell on 'em He often in the long winter nights went to the Fox and Goose, the beershop in the village, where they used to meet, and have a smoke aud a pint o' beer, and sing songs. They saug such songs as All Bound my Hat, Down in Cupid's Garden, Success to the Barley Mow, Betsy Baker, and Cease liude Boreas. Had heard 'em sing 'Tis My Delight on a Shiny night. It was a poaching song ; but they didn't often sing about poaching. They liked to j sing about the gals, and going a courting. A favourite song was the Honest Ploughman. Almost everybody as he knowed on could sing it ; he could sing some on it himself, not all. He had it by heart, and could say some oif, but didn't like to sing just then, with only one man listening to

him, and no baccy and beer about. He liked to hear a good song, and so did father. Father could sing prime, though he often said as the hard times had took ail the singing out of him. He supposed he should have to labour on the farm when he growed up. Would rather do that than be a groom, or a coachman, or a gentleman's servant. He'd like to be a gamekeeper better than anything else in the world, because gamekeepers had to do with, birds and auimals, and he was fond on 'em. He was uncommon fond o' dogs, but not of horses. Had a terrier-bitch of his own, which was a famous one for rats. Was offered five shillings for her but he wouldn't sell her, no, not for five pounds. Had never seen five pounds all at once, but knew it was a lot of tin, and should like to have it; hut would not part with Trip for five pounds, nor for six neither. She had four pups last week, and he wouldn't mind Belling the pups for a shilling apiece. He had a weasel once as he had tamed, aud it used to sleep in his lap and crawl up his arm to sit upon his shoulder ; but it fell in one day with a wild weasel, and ran i away with it, and he never saw it again. He was very fond of birds-nesting, and mew the eggs of all the birds, and the most likely place to find 'em in. Of all the birds in the air, the hawk was the hravest and the prettiest, though the gamekeepers were main savage against them for killing the partridges and pheasants. He thought as how hawks bad as much right to live as partridges, and as how the shooting of too many hawks was bad, unless people would shoot off the sparrers and the finches. The finches did no more harm than hawks did ; hawks didn't do no harm to farmers that he knowed on ; but them finches and sparrers did gobble up Buch lots of grains and buds as no one knowed but them as watched 'em. Howls, too, was nobby birds, aud oughtn't to be shot. He liked to hear 'em in the night, enjoyin' of 'emselves. A howl was as jolly bird as ever was. Tes, if he was a gamekeeper, he knowed he'd have to shoot the owls, all of 'em did ; along of the game ; but as most likely he never should have the luck to be a gamekeeper, he "wouldn't shoot a howl, eveu if he had a gun. He'd much rather shoots the crows and the sparrers, and them finches as picked out all the buds off the apple and pear trees, and the gooseberry and currant bushes. Eat grubs ? No they didn't. He knowed they didn't, not one on 'em. Tes, he thought he should like to have larnin', if he could get it. But there warn't a school nearer than five miles of his father's cottage ; and ten miles walking every day, specially in the rain, warn't no treat. The readin' and spellin' at the Sunday school didn't do much good. He forgot in the week most o' what he had lamed on the Sunday. Would like to be able to write, at least he thought so, but he warn't quite sure. Father and mother couldn't write, leather couldn't read. What would his father do "when he was too old to work. Why, go to the 'ouse, to be sure— the union. His granfather was in the union now, and his grandfather's father had been in the 'ouse, and had died in it. He supposed that he should have to go there, if he growed to he an old man, and couldn't work. Why not? It was his right. Them as paid the poor-rates had a right to live. They warn't dogs or donkeys to be left to die in a ditch. No, he had never been in London. His sister had. She lived there ; was a cook to a gentleman as kept a Bhop in Whitechapel. Oh my, didn't she dress, that was all ! Came down to see the old folks once or twice a year, and such a dasher! Such a thingumbob, a chignon some call it, as big as a drumhead cabbage, stuck atop of her poll ; and a silk dress, too, and a parasol. It made mother stare, it did, to see how she was rigged out. No ; she never gave any of her money to mother, but brought father a little baccy fora Christmas-box. Should like to go to London to live, but hadn't no chance. He couldn't do anything as London folks wanted, except run errands perhaps ; but liked crow-mindiug far better nor that. Was larnin' to do all kinds of farm work when he had a chance. Could do a little hedgin' and ditchin', and had once tried to plough, but warn't strong enough. He thought when he was about eighteen or nineteen he should be able to earn good wages, as much as twelve or fourteen shillings a week. He should he a man then, and could do as he liked — smoke, drink, and get married. Too

young to get married at nineteen ? No ; the chaps hereabouts didn't think so, nor the gals neither. Such was my crow-boy's mind as exhibited by himself in many communications. Such was Tom Beck, such were his wishes and hopes, and such his views of the world and things in general. It will be seen that he was not vicious, nor stupid, but only inert and ill-developed ; and that the seeds of good were abundantly latent in. him, if there had been any spring-time and sunshine to draw them forth. Will the new Education Act reach him, and such as he, and inspire the agricultural labouring class with the self-res-pect that springs from true knowledge, however limited it may be ? It is to be hoped so. A labourer who labours until his back is bowed with age and sorrow, with no resources after that time but public charity, may be a very good man in his humble and wretched way, but he is not a good citizen of a free and progressive State, or an ornament to our civilization. The raw material of the English peasant class is as good as that of any peasantry in the world — perhaps, better than most — but it has not hitherto been manufactured, into a. particularly excellent article, except, now and then, the article " soldier," when the raw material happened to be drunk or desperate, or in the muzzy state that lies between the two. The Scottish peasantry, who are well educated, and have been for the last two centuries and more, are not contented to remain peasants. Why should there be a difference between them and their English fellow-labourers ? And if there be a difference between the two, may not education remove it ?