of wretched-looking cottages, which, from
one among them being underlet by its tenant
—a little old man, on parish allowance, of
the name of Wipester—as a conventicle on
Sundays for the use of a flourishing sect in
the parish known as Ranters, my husband
(between ourselves) always designated Rant
Row. The Simmons house in particular,
which stood a little apart at the extreme
end of the Row, he called Cant Corner. The
Simmonses were great holders by the
conventicle; and when he was well, old
Benjamin, Mrs. Appleby's uncle, not unfrequentiy
held forth there as one of its preachers.

His house, however, had one advantage
over most of its neighbours. It had one bedroom,
and a staircase landing large enough
to serve for another, or at least large enough
to admit of one bed being placed there.
Besides his lame girl, so frequently alluded
to by Mrs. Appleby, Benjamin Simmons had
two sons, lads of sixteen and seventeen,
belonging to his first family. One of these
lads was the usual occupant of the bed on
the landing, and the other slept in the family
room, with his father and mother and six'
little half brothers and sisters. At the time
of my visit, that room was thus occupied.

Two little children, in the crisis of the
fever, were lying in one of the numerous
beds; they were twin boys of five years old.
A little girl, of about three, lay very ill upon
her mother's lap. The baby, who ailed nothing
but impatience at being unnoticed, was
screaming in the cradle, and the two remaining
healthy children, kept away from school
for fear of infection, were playing in a corner,
while, moving his grey head from side to
side upon his uneasy bed, was stretched the
figure of Benjamin Simmons, looking a great
deal more like the grandfather than the
father of his family. He was talking deliriously,
and seemed to be preaching in the
conventicle, as far as I could gather: so,
going up to the twins' bedside, I stooped
down to listen for their breathing, which was
getting every moment more and more
imperceptible.

Mrs. Simmons observing me said, in the
conventicle manner, " Ah, Mrs. Turnover,
ma'am, I don't think they're long for this
world. The doctor's young man " (meaning
his assistant who wouldn't have been flattered)
"was here a while ago, and he said if they
didn't wake soon, I musn't expect 'em to
wake any more."

As I watched the fading away of the twin
innocents out of the unwholesome chamber,
where was mingled together so much of
health and disease; and as I thought that perchance,
had it been otherwise, they might
have been spared to lead honest, hopeful
lives, I never felt greater pity. I answered
sadly. "I fear, indeed, they are almost gone.
I assure you, Mrs. Simmons, that I am truly
sorry — such fine little fellows, too!"

Mrs. Appleby was sobbing over the baby;
but Mrs. Simmons, wiping away a few stray
tears of insignificant account, said (again in
the conventicle manner) as I had heard poor
mothers say so often, " Ah, well, ma'am, 'tis
what we must all come to, so 'tis no use
a-cryin'—they never could go better."

The words almost stung me; and, but for
the miserable aspect of the room, and the
reasons it suggested for the apathy which
dictated them, I felt that I must have replied
something harshly. As it was, I softly
assented, and after a little while, occupied in
what Mrs. Appleby termed " a division " for
the better arrangement of the sick chamber,
I took my leave.

"They never could go better! " Is not
the apathy, from which springs the far too
constant utterance of this phrase, bred of
the blunted sympathies and the uprooted
awe and reverence consequent on the thick,
corrupted atmosphere of cottage homes?

I will relate two more out of the many,
many incidents that occurred during my
residence in Lightlands, exemplifying how
fast those two characteristics of unspoilt
human nature, implanted in our minds for
the wisest purposes, are wearing out among
the blunted, barbarously-housed poor people.

One day I went to see an old woman of
the name of Nowl, who was what is called
an old maid: a great rarity among her
class. She was a very ignorant, but a very
well-disposed woman, and was particularly
fond of being read to. When I went in, she
chanced to be over her dinner with another
old lady, a neighbour, who had just dropped
in, so I would have withdrawn—for my husband
and I naturally never liked to interrupt
anybody at meal-times. However, she particularly
desired me to sit down, and, as
usual, asked me to read her a chapter. I
read it: and then the two old ladies resumed
their dinner of bread and onions, and weak,
washy tea, chatting to me the while. On a
sudden I remembered that I had not asked
for Silas Barnes, Alice Nowl's lodger; and
on my doing so, without answering me, she
rose from her chair, flung aside the curtains
of the bed against which I sat, and which
always stood there, and disclosed to me the
outline of a corpse, startlingly discernible
under the sheet which covered it. It was
her lodger, who had been dead a day or two,
and of whose illness I had not even heard,
for I had been away from home for two or
three weeks, and had only just returned.

The other example of the carelessness with
which death has come to be regarded among
the poor was this. A young soldier came
home on sick leave, to stay with his father
and mother. He was consumptive, like the
rest of his family: of whom, besides his
parents, only one sister was living. This
sister happened to be at home also during
the time of his stay, for she was out of place
on account of ill health. All these four
grown people occupied the same bed-chamber,