Ruth | Page 4

importance that surprises the
modern traveller.
A hundred years ago its appearance was that of picturesque grandeur.

The old houses, which were the temporary residences of such of the
county families as contented themselves with the gaieties of a
provincial town, crowded the streets, and gave them the irregular but
noble appearance yet to be seen in the cities of Belgium. The sides of
the streets had a quaint richness, from the effect of the gables, and the
stacks of chimneys which cut against the blue sky above; while, if the
eye fell lower down, the attention was arrested by all kinds of
projections in the shape of balcony and oriel; and it was amusing to see
the infinite variety of windows that had been crammed into the walls
long before Mr. Pitt's days of taxation. The streets below suffered from
all these projections and advanced stories above; they were dark, and
ill-paved with large, round, jolting pebbles, and with no side-path
protected by kerb-stones; there were no lamp-posts for long winter
nights; and no regard was paid to the wants of the middle class, who
neither drove about in coaches of their own, nor were carried by their
own men in their own sedans into the very halls of their friends. The
professional men and their wives, the shopkeepers and their spouses,
and all such people, walked about at considerable peril both night and
day. The broad, unwieldy carriages hemmed them up against the
houses in the narrow streets. The inhospitable houses projected their
flights of steps almost into the carriage-way, forcing pedestrians again
into the danger they had avoided for twenty or thirty paces. Then, at
night, the only light was derived from the glaring, flaring oil-lamps,
hung above the doors of the more aristocratic mansions; just allowing
space for the passers-by to become visible, before they again
disappeared into the darkness, where it was no uncommon thing for
robbers to be in waiting for their prey.
The traditions of those bygone times, even to the smallest social
particular, enable one to understand more clearly the circumstances
which contributed to the formation of character. The daily life into
which people are born, and into which they are absorbed before they
are well aware, forms chains which only one in a hundred has moral
strength enough to despise, and to break when the right time
comes--when an inward necessity for independent individual action
arises, which is superior to all outward conventionalities. Therefore, it
is well to know what were the chains of daily domestic habit, which

were the natural leading strings of our forefathers before they learnt to
go alone.
The picturesqueness of those ancient streets has departed now. The
Astleys, the Dunstans, the Waverhams--names of power in that
district--go up duly to London in the season, and have sold their
residences in the county town fifty years ago, or more. And when the
county town lost its attraction for the Astleys, the Dunstans, the
Waverhams, how could it be supposed that the Domvilles, the Bextons,
and the Wildes would continue to go and winter there in their
second-rate houses, and with their increased expenditure? So the grand
old houses stood empty awhile; and then speculators ventured to
purchase, and to turn the deserted mansions into many smaller
dwellings, fitted for professional men, or even (bend your ear lower,
lest the shade of Marmaduke, first Baron Waverham, hear) into shops!
Even that was not so very bad, compared with the next innovation on
the old glories. The shopkeepers found out that the once fashionable
street was dark, and that the dingy light did not show off their goods to
advantage; the surgeon could not see to draw his patients' teeth; the
lawyer had to ring for candles an hour earlier than he was accustomed
to do when living in a more plebeian street. In short, by mutual consent,
the whole front of one side of the street was pulled down, and rebuilt in
the flat, mean, unrelieved style of George the Third. The body of the
houses was too solidly grand to submit to alteration; so people were
occasionally surprised, after passing through a commonplace-looking
shop, to find themselves at the foot of a grand carved oaken staircase,
lighted by a window of stained glass, storied all over with armorial
bearings. Up such a stair--past such a window (through which the
moonlight fell on her with a glory of many colours)--Ruth Hilton
passed wearily one January night, now many years ago. I call it night;
but, strictly speaking, it was morning. Two o'clock in the morning
chimed forth the old bells of St. Saviour's. And yet, more than a dozen
girls still sat in the room into which Ruth entered, stitching away as if
for very life, not daring to gape,