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Modern Perl Programming 1st Edition Michael Saltzman
Digital Instant Download
Author(s): Michael Saltzman
ISBN(s): 9780130089656, 0130089656
Edition: 1
File Details: PDF, 23.86 MB
Year: 2002
Language: english
 MODERN

PROGRAMMING

► In-depth coverage of references-

the cornerstone of advanced
Perl programming

► Complete application examples,

not just code snippets

^ CGI, networking, GUIs, and object

development

► Enterprise database integration

applicable to all databases including
Oracle* and Sybase*

MICHAEL SALTZMAN
 Digitized by the Internet Archive
in 2018 with funding from
Kahle/Austin Foundation

https://archive.0rg/details/modernperlprograOOOOsalt
MODERN PERL
PROCRAMMINC

MICHAEL SALTZMAN

ISBN O-lB-aOfl'ltS-t
90

Prentice Hall PTR

Upper Saddle River, NJ 07458
www.phptr.com 9 78 130 089656
 Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

CIP data available

Production Supervisor: Wil Mara

Executive Editor: Jill Harry
Editorial Assistant. Sarah Hand
Marketing Manager: Dan DePasquale
Buyer: Maura Zaldivar
Cover Designer: Talar Boorujy
Composition: Sean Donahue

© 2002 Prentice Hall PTR

PH
PTR A Division of Pearson Education, Inc.
Upper Saddle River, NJ 07458

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, in any form or by any means, without permission in writing from
the author and publisher.

The publisher offers discounts on this book when ordered in bulk quantities. For more information contact: Corporate Sales
Department, Prentice Hall PTR, One Lake Street, Upper Saddle River, NJ 07458. Phone: 800-382-3419; FAX: 201-236-7141; E-
mail: [email protected].

Printed in the United States of America

10 987654321

ISBN 0-13-008965-6

Pearson Education LTD.

Pearson Education Australia PTY, Limited
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Pearson Education Canada, Ltd.
Pearson Educacion de Mexico, S.A. de C.V.
Pearson Education—Japan
Pearson Education Malaysia, Pte. Ltd
Pearson Education, Upper Saddle River, New Jersey
 TABLE OF CONTENTS

PREFACE .XVII
What Is Perl?.xvii
Why program in Perl?.xvii
Why did I write this book?.xvii
Who should read this book?.xviii
Overview of the Book.xviii
Chapter Summaries.xviii
Chapter 1: A Perl Tutorial.xviii
Chapter 2: Simple I/O.xviii
Chapter 3; Perl Operators.xviii
Chapter 4: Arrays and Array Functions.xix
Chapter 5: Hashes.xix
Chapter 6: Regular Expressions.xix
Chapter 7: Subprograms.xix
Chapter 8: Generating Reports in Perl.xix
Chapter 9: Accessing System Resources.xx
Chapter 10: Perl References.xx
Chapter 11: Object-Oriented Programming.xx
Chapter 12: Client/Server Applications.xx
Chapter 13: CGI Applications.xx
Chapter 14: Graphical User Interfaces with the Tk. pm Module.xx
Chapter 15: Accessing Real Databases in Perl.xx
Chapter 16: Debugging Perl Scripts.xxi
Conventions Used in this Book.xxi
Spelling.xxi
Fonts.xxi
Unix vs. Windows.xxi
Filenames for Perl scripts.xxii
User input.xxii
Displaying programs.xxii
Standard input and standard output redirections.xxiii

iii
IV Table of Contents

The newline character.xxiii

Writing style.xxiv
Displaying files.xxiv
Source files.xxiv
Acknowledgments.xxiv

CHAPTER 1
A TUTORIAL INTRODUCTION TO PERL.1
1.1 Getting Started.. 1
1.1.1 The first Perl program.2
1.1.2 Some elementary I/O.4
1.2 Perl Variables.6
1.2.1 Scalars.7
1.2.2 Arrays.7
1.2.3 Array functions.9
1.2.4 Arrays and STDIN. 11
1.2.5 Associative arrays. 12
1.3 Control Flow Constructs. 14
1.3.1 if, else, elsif. 14
1.3.2 unless. 15
1.3.3 while. 15
1.3.4 until. 16
1.3.5 for. 16
1.3.6 foreach. 17
1.3.7 Statement modifiers .. 17
1.3.8 What is true and what is false?. 18
1.4 Altering Loop Control Flow. 18
1.4.1 last. 18
1.4.2 next.20
1.4.3 redo.20
1.4.4 Labeled blocks.20
1.5 A Few Special Perl Variables.21
1.5.1 $_.21
1.5.2 $.22
1.6 Regular Expressions.22
1.6.1 Pattern matching.22
1.6.2 Substitutions.24
1.7 Writing Your Own Functions.24
Exercises.27
Table of Contents V

CHAPTER 2

INPt/TAND OUTPUT IN PERL.29

2.1 Filehandles.29
2.1.1 Builtin filehandles.29
2.1.2 The print function.31
2.1.3 The printf function.32
2.1.4 sprintf.34
2.2 Creating Your Own Filehandles.35
2.2.1 open.35
2.2.2 die.37
2.2.3 Closing files.38
2.2.4 Pipes.38
2.2.4.1 Opening pipe files.38
2.3 File Operators.40
2.4 The St at Function. 41
2.5 Other Filehandles.42
2.5.1 The ARGV filehandle.42
2.5.1.1 The eof function.43
2.5.2 The null filehandle: <>.44
2.5.3 The DATA filehandle.45
Exercises.47

CHAPTER 3

OPERATORS IN PERL.49
3.1 Perl Operators.49
3.1.1 Assignment operators.52
3.1.2 Increment and decrement operators.52
3.1.3 Modulus (remainder) operator.54
3.1.4 Conditional expression.54
3.1.5 Range operator.55
3.1.6 String operators.56
3.1.7 Relational operators.57
3.1.8 Logical operators.59
3.1.9 Bit manipulation operators.60
3.1.10 Regular expression operators.61
3.1.11 Some string functions.62
3.1.12 The comma operator.64
Exercises.67
VI Table of Contents

CHAPTER 4

ARRAYS AND ARRAY FV/NCTIONS.69

4.1 Introduction.69
4.1.1 Arrays are dynamic.69
4.1.2 Treating an array in a scalar context.71
4.1.3 Selecting an element from an array.71
4.1.4 Arrays and lists.72
4.1.5 Array slices.73
4.2 The @ARGV Array.74
4.3 Array Functions...74
4.3.1 push and pop.75
4.3.2 shift and unshift. 75
4.3.3 reverse.76
4.3.4 split.77
4.3.5 join.78
4.3.6 sort.79
4.3.7 grep.82
4.3.8 splice.83
Exercises.85

CHAPTER 5

HASHES.87
5.1 Introduction.87
5.1.1 Hashes as dual arrays.88
5.1.2 A hashing algorithm.89
5.1.3 Builtin hashing.92
5.2 Sorting Hashes.94
5.2.1 Sorting by keys.94
5.2.2 Sorting by values.94
5.3 Hash Solutions to Common Problems.96
5.3.1 Finding unique words in a file.96
5.3.2 Reverse lookups.96
5.3.3 Selecting the top n elements from a list.98
5.4 Builtin Associative Arrays. 100
5.4.1 The %ENV hash. 100
5.4.2 The %iNChash. 101
5.5 Reading from a File into a Hash. 101
Exercises. 103
Table of Contents vii

CHAPTER 6

RECV/LAR EXPRESSIONS.105
6.1 Introduction. 105
6.2 The Match Operator. 105
6.3 Regular Expression Metacharacters. 107
6.3.1 Single-character matches. 107
6.3.2 Within square brackets. 108
6.3.3 Multiple-character matches. 109
6.3.4 Other special symbols. 110
6.4 Anchoring Patterns. 110
6.5 Remembering Parts of Matches. 112
6.6 Greedy Regular Expressions. 114
6.7 Substitutions. 114
6.7.1 The g modifier. 115
6.7.2 The i modifier. 116
6.7.3 The e modifier. 117
6.7.4 Thera modifier. 117
6.8 Backtracking. 118
6.9 The tr Operator. 118
Exercises. 123

CHAPTER 7

SVBPROCRAMS.125
7.1 Introduction. 125
7.1.1 Organization of subroutines. 125
7.2 Passing Arguments to Subroutines. 127
7.2.1 local vs. ray. 129
7.2.2 Typeglobs. 129
7.3 Returning Values from Subroutines. 133
7.3.1 Returning a scalar. 133
7.3.2 Returning an array. 135
7.3.3 Returning other types. 137
7.4 Perl Libraries. 137
7.4.1 The require function. 137
7.4.1.1 The ©INC array. 138
7.5 The Perl Standard Library. 139
7.6 Packages. 139
7.6.1 Modules and use. 141
7.7 Predefined Subroutines. 142
Exercises. 145
viii Table of Contents

CHAPTER 8

CENERATINC REPORTS IN PERL.147

8.1 Introduction. 147

8.2 format. 148
8.2.1 A different view. 150
8.2.2 Multi-line formattin. 151
8.3 Top-of-page formatting. 152
8.4 The select Function. 154
8.4.1 Special formatting variables: $~ and . 154
8.5 Bottom-of-Page Formatting. 155
Exercises. 157

CHAPTER 9

ACCESSINC SYSTEM RESOURCES.159

9.1 Introduction. 159
9.2 File and Directory System Calls.159
9.2.1 mkdir. 160
9.2.2 chdir. 160
9.2.3 opendir, readdir, and closedir. 161
9.2.4 unlink and rename. 162
9.3 Process Creation. 163
9.3.1 exec. 163
9.3.2 fork and wait. 164
9.3.3 system. 165
9.3.4 Back quotes. 165
9.4 Updating Files.167
9.4.1 tell. 167
9.4.2 seek. 168
9.4.3 Modifying records. 169
Exercises. 173

CHAPTER 10

PERL REFERENCES.175
10.1 Introduction. 175
10.1.1 What is a reference?. 175
10.1.2 Scalar references. 176
10.1.3 Array references. 176
Table of Contents IX

10.1.3.1 Prototypes.. 178

10.1.4 Hash references. 179
10.1.4.1 A relaxed notation. 180
10.1.5 References to subroutines. 181
10.2 Anonymous References. 183
10.2.1 Anonymous arrays. 183
10.2.2 Anonymous hashes. 183
10.2.3 Anonymous scalars. 184
10.3 Complex Data Structures. 184
10.3.1 Two-dimensional arrays. 184
10.3.2 Complex hashes. 187
10.3.3 Two-dimensional hashes. 188
10.4 Collections of Records. 192
10.4.1 Sorting based on a key field. 194
10.4.2 References to references. 195
Exercises. 199

CHAPTER 11

OBJECT-ORIENTED PROCRAMMINC.201
11.1 Introduction.201
11.2 The Vocabulary of Object Orientation.201
11.3 Defining and Using Objects.202
11.3.1 Information hiding.205
11.3.2 Accessor and mutator methods.206
11.3.3 Other instance methods.207
11.3.4 Writing an accessor and a mutator as one method.207
11.3.5 Destructors.208
11.3.6 Class methods.209
11.4 Inheritance.211
11.4.1 SUPER.211
11.4.2 Polymorphism.213
Exercises.215

CHAPTER 12

CLIENT/JERVER APPLICATIONS.217
12.1 Introduction.217
12.1.1 TCP networks.217
12.1.2 Internet addresses.218
12.1.3 Ports.218
12.1.4 Sockets.218
X Table of Contents

12.1.5 Socket.pm.220
12.2 Writing Clients.220
12.2.1 A daytime client.220
12.2.2 An echo client.221
12.2.3 An FTP client.222
12.3 Writing Servers.224
12.3.1 A daytime server.224
12.3.2 An expression server.226
12.4 Iterative Servers. 227
Exercises.229

CHAPTER 13

CCI PROCRAMMINC WITH PERL.231

13.1 Introduction.231
13.1.1 CGI languages.231
13.1.2 HTML forms.232
13.1.3 Web servers.233
13.1.4 Web browsers.233
13.1.5 Starting a CGI program.233
13.2 HTML and Forms.233
13.2.1 Form tags.235
13.2.2 GET method vs. post method.236
13.2.3 HTML form element names.238
13.2.4 URL encoding.238
13.3 Relationship between Server and CGI Script.239
13.3.1 A Perl CGI script.239
13.3.2 Here strings.242
13.3.3 Environment variables.243
13.4 cgi-lib .pi and cgi .pm.244
13.5 CGI Scripts and Databases.244
Exercises.251

CHAPTER 14

CRAPHICAL V/5ER INTERFACES

WITH THE Tk. PM MODV/LE.253
14.1 Introduction.253
14.1.1 Widgets.254
14.1.2 Event-driven programming.254
14.1.3 A simple example.255
Table of Contents XI

14.2 Geometry Management. . . . ..257

14.2.1 pack.257
14.2.2 grid.260
14.2.3 place: Absolute coordinates.261
14.3 Buttons.262
14.3.1 Images/Bitmaps.262
14.3.2 Button callbacks.263
14.3.3 The Checkbutton widget.263
14.3.4 Radio buttons.265
14.4 Other Widgets.266
14.4.1 The Entry widget.267
14.4.2 List boxes.. . 268
14.4.3 text widget.270
14.4.4 Scrollbars.271
14.4.5 Dialog boxes.273
14.4.6 Menus.275
14.5 Frames.278
14.5.1 Top-level windows.280
14.6 Binding.282
Exercise.285

CHAPTER 15

ACCE551NC REAL DATABAJEJ IN PERL.287

15.1 Introduction.287
15.1.1 WhatisDBI?.288
15.1.2 WhatisDBD?.288
15.1.3 The DBI architecture.288
15.2 A Review of SQL and Relational Databases.289
15.2.1 Accessing a relational database.290
15.2.2 Retrieving data from a relational database.291
15.2.3 Data modification commands.292
15.3 Accessing a Database from Perl.292
15.3.1 Database handles.292
15.3.2 Executing a query.293
15.3.3 Binding output columns.294
15.3.4 Accessing database metadata.295
15.3.5 Dynamic requests.297
15.4 Adding a Graphical Front-End.299
15.5 Accessing a Real Database via a Web Form.303
xii Table of Contents

CHAPTER 16

DEBV/CCINC PERLKRIPTJ.307
16.1 Introduction.307
16.2 Using the print Function.307
16.2.1 The warn function.308
16.2.2 The eval function.309
16.3 Command-Line Options.311
16.3.1 The -c option.311
16.3.2 The -e option.311
16.3.3 The-n option.312
16.3.4 The -v option.312
16.3.5 The-w option.312
16.4 Executing Portions of Your Code. 313
16.4.1 The-X option.314
16.4.2 The_end_word.314
16.4.3 The DATA filehandle.315
16.4.4 Documenting Perl code.316
16.5 Quoting.318
16.6 Useful Perl Modules.320
16.6.1 strict.pm.320
16.6.2 strict vars.320
16.6.3 strict refs.321
16.6.4 strict subs.322
16.6.5 diagnostics. pm.323
16.6.6 Carp.pm. 323
16.7 The Perl Debugger.324
16.8 Useful Perl Functions.325
16.8.1 The ord function.325
16.8.2 The chr function. 326
16.8.3 The hex and oct functions.327
16.8.4 pack and unpack.327

INDEX.331
 PREFACE

Welcome to the world of Perl programming. I know that few of you enjoy reading the pref¬
ace, but it may help to at least browse through it to make the reading of the actual text a
little easier. In this section I will tell you a little about Perl and a lot about conventions used
in this book. But first, I have a few questions to answer.

What Is Perl?
Perl is a programming language that was created by Larry Wall in the early 1980s. The lan¬
guage has gained widespread popularity over the last few decades. In the beginning, Perl
was used by a small group of Unix system administrators who needed a language, superior
to the Unix shell, to do various system administration tasks. With the exponential growth
of the Internet and the popularity of the World Wide Web’s Common Gateway Interface
(CGI) programming paradigm, the number of Perl programmers has also grown exponen¬
tially.

Why program in Perl?

Being familiar with many programming languages. I’m in a good position to judge them. I
have had my favorite languages throughout the years: Fortran, PL/1, C, C-H-t-, Java, and of
course, Perl. Too many people argue about which language is the best. No language can be
all things to all people. Each language has its strengths and weaknesses. However, no lan¬
guage that I know has the expressive capability and ease of use of Perl. You, of course, can
decide for yourself when you finish reading this book.

Why did I write this book?

I have been an instructor of computer programming languages for more than three decades.
In that time, I have had the occasion to learn many languages. My typical approach would
be to buy a book on the subject, plow through it, and write as many programs as I could to
test out various features of the language.

xiii
Random documents with unrelated
content Scribd suggests to you:
 “I call it too early for thee to be traipsing through t’ wet grass with
Henry Bradley.”
“Let us keep to facts, dear father. The grass was quite dry—too
dry. Joel was wishing for rain; he said, ‘Master so pampered his
cattle, that they perfectly thought scorn of half-cured grass.’”
“Thou art trying to slip by my question and I’m not going to let
thee do it. What was John Henry Bradley doing wi’ thee in the low
meadow this morning?”
“He brought me a letter from my brother Dick. Dick and Harry
have been in London together, and they stayed four days with Aunt
Josepha. They liked her very much. They took her to the opera and
the play and she snubbed O’Connell and some other famous men
and told them to let her alone, that she had two innocent lads in her
care—and so on. You know.”
“Was he making love to thee?”
“You should not ask me a question of that kind, dad.”
“Thou need not tell me, what I should, or should not do. I hed
learned all that, before thou wer born. And I’ll tell thee plainly that I
will not hev any lovemaking between thee and Harry Bradley.”
“Very well, father. If you are going to the stable will you tell
someone to have my saddle horse at the door in half-an-hour?”
“To be sure, I will. If tha wants a ride and will go to Yoden Bridge,
I’ll go with thee.”
“I would like that but I promised to help Faith Foster, who is
making clothing for the naked, shivering babies in Annis village.
When Oddy’s little girl died a week ago, there wasn’t a night-gown in
the house to bury it in. Its mother tore a breadth out of her one
petticoat and folded her baby in it.”
“Oh, Katherine Annis! Surely that tale is not true!” cried Madam.
“Alas, it is too true! The baby’s one little gown was not fit even for
the grave.”
The Squire sat down and covered his face with his hands and
when Katherine left the room he looked up pitifully at his wife. And
she stooped and kissed him and as she did so comforted him with
broken words of affection and assurances that it was not his fault
—“thou hast pinched us all a bit to keep the cottage looms busy,”
she said, “thou couldn’t do more than that, could thou, Antony?”
“I thought I was doing right. Is there any other way?”
“Thou could build—like the rest.”
He did not answer the remark but stood up hurriedly, saying, “I
must go and order Katherine’s mount and she will expect me to put
her up. After that I may go to Yoden Bridge.”
Madam sighed and turned hopelessly away. “When will he listen to
reason?” she whispered, but there was no answer.
 CHAPTER II—THE PROSPECT OF
LONDON LIFE
“Men who their duties know,
But know their rights, and knowing dare maintain.”

“The blind mole casts

Copp’d hills toward heaven, to tell the earth is throng’d
By man’s oppression and the poor worm doth die for’t.”

I
T is during the hungry years of the thirties and forties of the
nineteenth century that the great body of Englishmen and
Englishwomen reveal themselves most nobly and clearly in their
national character. They were years of hunger and strife but it is
good to see with what ceaseless, persistent bravery they fought for
their ideals year after year, generation after generation, never losing
hope or courage but steadily working and waiting for the passage of
that great Reform Bill, which would open the door for their
recognition at least as members of the body politic.
Yet this Reform Bill terrified the aristocracy and great land holders
and they were sure that its passage would sweep away both the
monarchy and the House of Lords. What else could be looked for if
the franchise was given to the laborer and the mechanic? The Bill
had been well received by the House of Commons, but rejected by
the House of Lords on the twentieth day of the previous October;
and the condition of the country was truly alarming.
Madam Annis reminded her daughter of this fact but Katherine
was not to be frightened. “Your father,” she said, “has just told us
about the riot and outrages at Derby and the burning of Nottingham
Castle by a frantic mob and the press says—‘the people in London
are restless and full of passion.’ Still more to be wondered at is the
letter which Thomas Attwood, the great banker, has just sent to the
Duke of Wellington. In this letter he dared to threaten the
government, to tell them he would march on London with a hundred
thousand men, in order to inquire why the Reform Bill was hindered
and delayed. This morning’s paper comments on this threat and
says, The Duke of Wellington is not afraid of this visit, but would
rather it was not paid.’ All the way up to London there is rioting. It is
not a fit journey for thee to take. Mind what I say.”
“Oh, mother, only think! I might have been in the Ladies’ Gallery,
in the House. I might have heard Mr. Macaulay’s answer to the
Lord’s denial, with his grand question to the Commons, ‘Ought we to
abandon the Reform Bill because the Lords have rejected it? No! We
must respect the lawful privileges of their House, but we ought also
to assert our own.’ No wonder the Commons cheered, and cheered,
and cheered him. Oh, how gladly I would have helped them!”
“You are going too far and too fast, Katherine.”
“Father ought to have been in the House on the third of February
and it is now the seventh of March: Is that right?”
“A great many landed men will not go to this session. The Reform
Bill, re-written by Lord Russell, is to come up again and father does
not want to vote either for, or against it.”
“Why?”
“He hes his reasons. I doan’t know that his reasons are any
business of thine.”
“Harry Bradley was explaining things to me this morning, and I am
for the Reform Bill. I am sure the people are right.”
“I wouldn’t say as much on thy opinion. Wisdom wasn’t born wi’
thee and I doan’t expect she will die wi’ thee. I think if thou went to
London this spring thou would make more enemies than thou could
manage. Father is following my advice in staying home, and London
isn’t a fit place for a young girl like thee and the way there is full of
rioters. Thy father is a landed man and he doesn’t believe in giving
every weaver and hedger and ditcher a voice in the government of
England.”
“Harry Bradley says, some of their leaders and speakers are very
clever eloquent men.”
“I wouldn’t talk nonsense after Harry Bradley. Who’s Harry
Bradley?”
“He is my friend, mother. We have been friends nearly twenty
years.”
“Not you! It is not yet eighteen years since thou showed thy face
in this world.”
“I was speaking generally, mother.”
“Eh, but there’s something wrong in that way! A lot o’ bother can
come out of it. I wouldn’t mind anything Harry Bradley says, thy
father won’t hev any nonsense about him. I can tell thee that!”
“Father is so set in his own way. No one suits him lately. We met
Captain Chandos last Monday, and he would hardly notice him.”
“Well, then, there are plenty of folk no one can suit, and varry
often they can’t suit themselves.”
“Oh, I don’t care about Chandos, mother; but I feel angry when
Harry is slighted. You see, mother, I might come to marry Harry
Bradley.”
“I do hope thou won’t be so far left to thysen, as that would
mean.”
“Then you would be wise to let me go to London. A girl must have
a lover, or she feels out in the cold, and Harry is the best specimen
of a man round about Annis.”
“All right. Let me tell thee that I hev noticed that the girls who
never throw a line into the sea of marriage, do a deal better than
them that are allays fishing.”
“Perhaps so, but then there is the pleasure of throwing the line.”
“And perhaps the pleasure of being caught by some varry
undesireable fisherman for tha needn’t think that women are the
only fishers. The men go reg’lar about that business and they will
soon find out that thou hes a bit o’ money o’ thy awn and are well
worth catching. See if they doan’t.”
“Mother, I want to go to London and see the passing of the great
Reform Bill. I am in love with those brave men Earl Grey and Lord
Russell and Mr. Macaulay, who dared to speak up for the poor, before
all England.”
“I rather think they are all married men, Katherine, and marrying
for love is an unwise and generally an unprofitable bit of business.”
“Business and Love have nothing to do with each other.”
“Eh, but they hev!”
“I shall marry for love.”
“Well, then, marry for love, but love wisely.”
“Money is only one thing, mother.”
“To be sure, but it is a rayther important thing.”
“You might persuade father that he had better take me to London
out of Harry’s way. Dear mammy, do this for your little girl, won’t
you? You can always get round father in some way or other.”
“I will ask thy father again but I shall take no roundabout way.
Straightforrard is the best. And I am above a bit astonished at thee,
a Yorkshire lass, thinking of any crooked road to what thou wants! If
tha can’t get thy way openly and fairly make up thy mind any other
way isn’t worth while, for it will be full of ups and downs, and lonely
bits, and stony bits, and all sorts and kinds of botherations. Keep
these words in thy mind.”
“I will.”
“Then I’ll ask thy father again, to take thee with him to London—if
he goes himsen—if he does not go at all, then——”
“I must find out some other way, and really the most
straightforward way would be to marry Harry Bradley, and go to
London with him as a wedding trip.”
“Thou must stop talking nonsense or else it will stop my talking
one word for thy wish.”
 “I was just joking, mother.”
“Always keep everything straight between thysen and thy mother.
The first deception between me and thee opens the gates of
Danger.”
“I will never forget that, mother. And if I should go away I ask you
to take my place with Faith Foster, who is making clothing for the
poor in the village.”
“Well, Katherine, what with one thing and what with another, I
doan’t know what tha wants. Does tha know thysen?”
“Well, I think it would look better if the Hall should trouble itself a
little about the suffering in the village. Faith Foster is the only person
doing anything. I was helping her, but——”
“I should think thou would have told thysen that it was varry
forrard in a young person putting herself in my place without even a
word to me on the matter. She ought to hev come and told me what
was needed and offered her help to me. Thy father is Lord of the
Manor of Annis, and it is his business to see the naked clothed. I
wonder at thee letting any one take my place and then asking me to
help and do service for them. That is a bit beyond civility, I think.”
“It was very thoughtless. I am sorry I did it. I was so touched by
Faith’s description of the hunger and nakedness in Abram Oddy’s
family, that I thought of nothing but how to relieve it.”
“Well, well! It is all right, someway or other. I see father coming
towards the house. I wonder what he is wanting.”
“And he is walking so rapidly and looks so happy, something must
have pleased him. I will go away, mother. This may be a good hour
for our request.”
“Why our?”
Katherine had disappeared. She left the room by one door as the
squire entered by the other. Madam rose to meet him but before she
could speak the squire had kissed her and was saying in glad eager
tones, “I hev hurried a bit, my Joy, to tell thee that both thysen and
Katherine can go wi’ me to London. I had a lump of good fortune
this afternoon. Mark Clitheroe sent me the thousand pounds he
owed, when he broke up five years ago. He told me he wouldn’t die
till he had paid it; and I believed him. The money came to-day and it
came with a letter that does us both credit.”
“However has Clitheroe made a thousand pounds to spare since
his smash-up? Thou said, it wer a varry complete ruin.”
“It was all of that, yet he tells me, he will be able to pay the last
farthing he owes to anyone, during this year some time.”
“It caps me! How hes he made the money?”
“Why, Annie, his father built a factory for him and filled it with the
finest power-looms and he says he hes been doing a grand business.
Old Clitheroe hed allays told him he was wasting time and good
brass in hand weaving but Mark would hev his awn way, and
somehow his awn way took him to ruin in three years. I was his
main creditor. Well, well! I am both astonished and pleased, I am
that! Now get thysen and Katherine ready for London.”
“I doan’t really want to go, Antony.”
“But I cannot do without thee. Thou wilt hev to go, and there is
Katherine, too! Ten to one, she will need a bit of looking after.”
“When art thou going to start?”
“Not for a month. I must see to the sowing of the land—the land
feeds us. I thought, though, it would be right to give thee the bit o’
change and pleasure to think about and talk about.”
“Where does thou intend to stay while in London?”
“I am thinking of the Clarendon Hotel for thee and mysen. I
suppose Katherine can be comfortable and welcome at her sister’s.”
“Certainly she can. Jane isn’t anything but kind at heart. It is just
her you-shallness that makes her one-sided to live with. But
Katherine can hold her own side, without help, she can that! And if
thou art bound for London, then London is the place where my heart
will be and we will go together.”
“Thou art a good wife to me, Annie.”
 “Well, then, I promised thee to be a good wife, and I’m Yorkshire
enough to keep a promise—good or bad. I am glad thou art going to
the Clarendon. It is a pleasant house but thy sister Josepha is a bit
overbearing, isn’t she, Antony?”
“She does not overbear me. I am her eldest brother. I make her
remember that. Howiver, I shall hev to listen to such a lot o’ strong
language in the House that I must hev only thee about me when I
can get away from committees, and divisions, taking of votes, and
the like.”
By this time the squire had filled his pipe, and seated himself in
his favorite corner on that side of the hearth, that had no draughts
whichever way the wind blew. Then Madam said: “I’ll leave thee a
few minutes, Antony. I am going to tell Katherine that thou art going
to take her to London.”
“Varry well. I’ll give thee five minutes, then thou must come back
here, for I hev something important to tell thee.”
“Katherine will want to come back here with me. She will be
impatient to thank thee for thy goodness and to coax some
sovereigns in advance for a new dress and the few traveling things
women need when they are on the road.”
“Then thou hed better advise her to wait until supper time. When
the day’s work is all done I can stand a bit of cuddling and petting
and I doan’t mind waring a few sovereigns for things necessary. Of
course, I know the little wench will be happy and full o’ what she is
going to see, and to do, and to hear. Yet, Annie, I hev some
important thoughts in my mind now and I want thy help in coming
to their settlement.”
“Antony Annis! I am astonished at thee, I am that! When did thou
ever need or take advice about thy awn business? Thou hes sense
for all that can be put up against thy opinion, without asking advice
from man or woman—‘specially woman.”
“That may be so, Annie, perhaps it is so, but thou art different.
Thou art like mysen and it’s only prudent and kind to talk changes
over together. For thou hes to share the good or the bad o’ them, so
it is only right thou should hev time to prepare for whatever they
promise. Sit thee down beside me. Now, then, this is what happened
just as soon as I hed gotten my money—and I can assure thee, that
a thousand pounds in a man’s pocket is a big set up—I felt all my six
feet four inches and a bit more, too—well, as I was going past the
Green to hev a talk wi’ Jonathan Hartley, I saw Mr. Foster come to
his door and stand there. As he was bare-headed, I knew he was
waiting to speak to me. I hev liked the man’s face and ways iver
since he came to the village, and when he offered his hand and
asked me to come in I couldn’t resist the kindness and goodness of
it.”
“Thou went into the preacher’s house?”
“I surely did, and I am glad of it. I think a deal o’ good may come
from the visit.”
“Did thou see his daughter?”
“I did and I tell thee she is summat to see.”
“Then she is really beautiful?”
“Yes, and more than that. She was sitting sewing in a plain, small
parlor but she seemed to be sitting in a circle of wonderful peace. All
round her the air looked clearer than in the rest of the room and
something sweet and still and heavenly happy came into my soul.
Then she told me all about the misery in the cottages and said it had
now got beyond individual help and she was sure if thou knew it,
and the curate knew it, some proper general relief could be carried
out. She had began, she said, ‘with the chapel people,’ but even they
were now beyond her care; and she hoped thou would organize
some society and guide all with thy long and intimate knowledge of
the people.”
“What did thou say to this?”
“I said I knew thou would do iverything that it was possible to do.
And I promised that thou would send her word when to come and
talk the ways and means over with thee and a few others.”
“That was right.”
 “I knew it would be right wi’ thee.”
“Katherine says that our Dick is in love wi’ the preacher’s
daughter.”
“I wouldn’t wonder, and if a man hedn’t already got the only
perfect woman in the world for his awn you could not blame him.
No, you could not blame him!”
“Thou must hev stayed awhile there for it is swinging close to five
o’clock.”
“Ay, but I wasn’t at the preacher’s long. I went from his house to
Jonathan Hartley’s, and I smoked a pipe with him, and we hed a
long talk on the situation of our weavers. Many o’ them are speaking
of giving-in, and going to Bradley’s factory, and I felt badly, and I
said to Jonathan, ‘I suppose thou is thinking of t’ same thing.’ And
he looked at me, Annie, and I was hot wi’ shame, and I was going to
tell him so, but he looked at me again, and said:
“‘Nay, nay, squire, thou didn’t mean them words, and we’ll say
nothing about them’; so we nodded to each other, and I wouldn’t be
sure whether or not we wer’ not both nearer tears than we’d show.
Anyway, he went on as if nothing had happened, telling me about
the failing spirit of the workers and saying a deal to excuse them.
‘Ezra Dixon’s eldest and youngest child died yesterday and they are
gathering a bit of money among the chapel folk to bury them.’ Then
I said: ‘Wait a minute, Jonathan,’ and I took out of my purse a five
pound note and made him go with it to the mother and so put her
heart at ease on that score. You know our poor think a parish
funeral a pitiful disgrace.”
“Well, Antony, if that was what kept thee, thou wert well kept.
Faith Foster is right. I ought to be told of such sorrow.”
“To be sure we both ought to know, but tha sees, Annie, my
dearie, we hev been so much better off than the rest of weaving
villages that the workers hev not suffered as long and as much as
others. But what’s the use of making excuses? I am going to a big
meeting of weavers on Saturday night. It is to be held in t’ Methodist
Chapel.”
 “Antony! Whatever art thou saying? What will the curate say?
What will all thy old friends say?”
“Annie, I hev got to a place where I don’t care a button what they
say. I hev some privileges, I hope, and taking my awn way is one o’
them. The curate hes been asked to lend his sanction to the
meeting, and the men are betting as to whether he’ll do so or not. If
I was a betting man I would say ‘No’!”
“Why?”
“His bishop. The bishops to a man were against the Reform Bill.
Only one is said to have signed for it. That is not sure.”
“Then do you blame him?”
“Nay, I’m sorry for any man, that hesn’t the gumption to please
his awn conscience, and take his awn way. However, his career is in
the bishop’s hand, and he’s varry much in love with Lucy
Landborde.”
“Lucy Landborde! That handsome girl! How can he fashion himself
to make up to Lucy?”
“She thinks he is dying of love for her, so she pities him. Women
are a soft lot!”
“It is mebbe a good thing for men that women are a soft lot. Go
on with thy story. It’s fair wonderful.”
“Mr. Foster will preside, and they’ll ask the curate to record
proceedings. St. George Norris and Squire Charington and the Vicar
of Harrowgate will be on the platform, I hear. The vicar is going to
marry Geraldine Norris next week to a captain in the Guards.”
“I declare, Antony, thou finds out iverything going on.”
“To be sure. That is part o’ my business as Lord of the Manor. Well
tha sees now, that it is going to be a big meeting, especially when
they add to it a Member of Parliament, a Magistrate, and a Yorkshire
Squire.”
“Who art thou talking about now?”
“Mysen! Antony Annis! Member of Parliament, Squire of Annis and
Deeping Wold, and Magistrate of the same district.”
 “Upon my word, I had forgotten I was such a big lady. And I am
to go to London with thee. I am as set up about that as a child
would be. I think I ought to go and tell Katherine.”
“Mebbe it would be the kind thing. Sharing a pleasure doubles it;”
and as the squire uttered the words, Katherine rather impetuously
opened the parlor door.
“O daddy!” she cried as she pulled a chair to his side. “What are
you talking about? I know it is about London; are you going to take
me there with you? Say yes. Say it surely.”
“Give me a kiss and I will take both thee and thy mother there
with me.”
“How soon, daddy? How soon?”
“As soon as possible. We must look after the poor and the land
and then we can go with a good heart.”
“Let us talk it all over. Where are you going to stay?”
“Nay, my dear lass. I am talking to thy mother now and she is on
a different level to thee. Run away to thy room and make up thy
mind about thy new dress and the other little tricks thou wants.”
“Such as a necklace and a full set of amber combs for my hair.”
“Nay, nay! I hev no money for jewelry, while little childer and
women all round us are wanting bread. Thou wouldn’t suit it and it
wouldn’t be lucky to thee. Run away now, I’ll talk all thou wants to-
morrow.”
“Verry well, dear daddy. Thy word is enough to build on. I can sit
quiet and arrange my London plans, for a promise from thee is as
sure as the thing itself.”
Then the squire laughed and took a letter out of his pocketbook.
“It is good for a thousand pounds, honey,” he said, “and that is a bit
of security for my promise, isn’t it?”
“Not a penny’s worth. Thy promise needs no security. It stands
alone as it ought to do.”
She rose as she spoke and the squire rose and opened the door
for her and then stood and watched her mount the darkening
stairway. At the first reach, she turned and bent her lovely face and
form towards him. The joyful anticipations in her heart transfigured
her. She was radiant. Her face shone and smiled; her white throat,
and her white shoulders, and her exquisite arms, and her firm quick
feet seemed to have some new sense given them. You would have
said that her body thought and that her very voice had a caress in it
as she bridged the space between them with a “Thank you, dear,
dear daddy! You are the very kindest father in all the world!”
“And thou art his pet and his darling!” With these words he went
back to his wife. “She is justtip-on-top,” he said. “There’s no girl I
know like her. She sits in the sunlight of my heart. Why, Annie, she
ought to make a better marriage than Jane, and Jane did middling
well.”
“Would thou think Harry Bradley a good match?”
“I wouldn’t put him even in a passing thought with Katherine.
Harry Bradley, indeed! I am fairly astonished at thee naming the
middle class fellow!”
“Katherine thinks him all a man should be.”
“She will change her mind in London.”
“I doubt that.”
“Thou lets her hev opinions and ideas of her awn. Thou shouldn’t
do it. Jane will alter that. Jane will tell her how to rate men and
women. Jane is varry clever.”
“Jane is no match for Katherine. Dost thou think Antony Annis will
be?”
“I wouldn’t doubt it.”
“Then don’t try conclusions with her about Harry Bradley, and
happen then thou may keep thy illusion. Katherine’s fault is a grave
one, though it often looks like a virtue.”
“I doan’t see what thou means. Faults are faults, and virtues are
virtues. I hev niver seen a fault of any kind in her, unless it be
wanting more guineas than I can spare her just now, but that is the
original sin o’ women as far as I can make out. Whativer is this fault
that can look like a virtue?”
“She overdoes everything. She says too little, or too much; she
does too little, or too much; she gives too little, or too much. In
everything she exceeds. If she likes anyone, she is unreasonable
about them; if she dislikes them, she is unjust.”
“I doan’t call that much of a fault—if thou knew anything about
farming thou would make little of it. Thou would know that it is the
richest land that hes the most weeds in its crop. The plow and the
harrow will clear it of weeds and the experience of life will teach
Katherine to be less generous with both her feelings and her
opinions. Let her overdo, it is a fault that will cure itself.”
“And in the meantime it makes her too positive and insisting. She
thinks she is right and she wants others to be right. She is even a bit
forceable——”
“And I can tell thee that women as well as men need some force
of character, if they mean to do anything with their lives. Why-a!
Force is in daily life all that powder is to shot. If our weavers’ wives
hed more force in their characters, they wouldn’t watch their
children dying of hunger upon their knees and their hearths, they
would make their stubborn men go to any kind of a loom. They
wouldn’t be bothering themselves about any Bill in Parliament, they
would be crying out for bread for their children. We must see about
the women and children to-morrow or we shall not be ready for
Faith Foster’s visit.”
“To be sure, but we need not think of it to-night. I’m heart weary,
Antony. Nobody can give sympathy long unless they turn kind words
into kind actions.”
“Then just call Katherine and order a bit of supper in. And I’d like
a tankard of home-brewed, and a slice or two of cold mutton. My
word, but the mutton bred in our rich meadows is worth eating!
Such a fine color, so tender and juicy and full of rich red gravy.”
“I think thou would be better without the tankard. Our ale is four
years old, and tha knows what it is at that age. It will give thee a
rattling headache. The cask on now is very strong.”
“To be sure it is. A man could look a lion in the face after a couple
of glasses of it.”
“I advise thee to take a glass of water, with thy mutton to-night.”
“No, I won’t. I’ll hev a glass of sherry wine, and thou can be my
butler. And tell Katherine not to talk about London to-night. I hevn’t
got my intentions ready. I’d be making promises it would not be
right to keep. Tha knows——!”
“Yes, I know.”
Katherine had not yet been promoted to a seat at the late supper
table, and only came to it when specially asked. So Madam found
her ungowned, and with loosened hair, in a dressing-sacque of blue
flannel. She was writing a letter to a school friend, but she
understood her mother’s visit and asked with a smile—
“Am I to come to supper, mother? Oh, I am so glad.”
“Then, dearie, do not speak of London, nor the poor children, nor
the selfish weavers.”
“Not selfish, mother. They believe they are fighting for their rights.
You know that.”
“I doan’t know it. I doan’t believe it. Their wives and children
ought to be more to them than their awn way which is what they
really want. Doan’t say a word about them.”
“I will not. I am going to tell father about the Arkroyds, who
owned Scar Top House so long.”
“Father will like to hear anything good about Colonel Arkroyd. He
is the last of a fine Yorkshire family. Who told thee anything about
him?”
“Before I came to my room I went to give Polly some sugar I had
in my pocket for her, and I met Britton, who had just come from the
stable. He turned and went with me and he was full of the story and
so I had to listen to it.”
“Well, then, we will listen to it when thou comes down. Father is
hungry, so don’t keep him waiting, or he will be put out of his way.”
 “I will be down in five minutes, and father is never cross with me.”
Indeed, when Madam went back to the parlor, a servant was
bringing in the cold mutton and Madam had the bottle of sherry in
her hand. A few minutes later Katherine had joined her parents, and
they were sitting cozily round a small table, set in the very warmth
and light of the hearthstone. Then Madam, fearing some unlucky
word or allusion, said as quickly as possible—
“Whatever was it thou heard about Colonel Ark-royd, Katherine?”
“Ay! Ay! Colonel Arkroyd! Who has anything to say about him?”
asked the squire. “One of the finest men alive to-day.”
“I heard a strange thing about his old house, an hour ago.”
“But he sold Scar Top House, and went to live in Kendal. A man
from Bradford bought it, eh?”
“Yes, a man with a factory and six hundred looms, they say.
Father, have you noticed how crowded our rookery is with the birds’
nests this spring?”
“I doan’t know that I hev noticed the number of the nests, but
nobody can help hearing their noisy chattering all over Annis.”
“Do you remember the rookery at Scar Top?”
“Yes. I often hed a friendly threep with Ark-royd about it. He
would insist, that his rookery hed the largest congregation. I let him
think so—he’s twenty years older than I am—and I did hear that the
Bradford man had bought the place because of the rookery.”
“So he did. And now, father, every bird has left it. There was not
one nest built there this spring. Not one!”
“I never heard the like. Whoever told thee such a story?”
“The whole village knows it. One morning very early every rook in
Scar Top went away. They went altogether, just before daybreak.
They went to Saville Court and settled in a long row of elm trees in
the home meadow. They are building there now and the Bradford
man——”
“Give him his name. It is John Denby. He was born in Annis—in
my manor—and he worked for the colonel, near twenty years.”
 “Very well. John Denby and Colonel Arkroyd have quarreled about
the birds, and there is likely to be a law suit over them.”
“Upon my word! That will be a varry interesting quarrel. What
could make birds act in such a queer way? I niver knew them to do
such a thing before.”
“Well, father, rooks are very aristocratic birds. Denby could not get
a caw out of the whole flock. They would not notice Denby, and they
used to talk to Arkroyd, whenever he came out of the house. Denby
used to work for Colonel Arkroyd, and the rooks knew it. They did
not consider him a gentleman, and they would not accept his
hospitality.”
“That is going a bit too far, Katherine.”
“Oh, no! Old Britton told me so, and the Yorkshire bird does not
live who has not told Britton all about itself. He said further, that
rooks are very vain and particularly so about their feathers. He
declared they would go far out of their way in order to face the wind
and so prevent ruffling their feathers.”
“Rooks are at least a very human bird,” said Madam; “our rooks
make quite a distinction between thee and myself. I can easily notice
it. The male birds are in a flutter when thou walks through the
rookery, they moderate their satisfaction when I pay them a call and
it is the female birds who do the honors then.”
“That reminds me, mother, that Britton told me rooks intermarried
generation after generation, and that if a rook brought home a
strange bride, he was forced to build in a tree the community
selected, at some distance from the rookery. If he did not do this,
his nest was relentlessly torn down.”
“Well, my Joy, I am glad to learn so much from thee. How do the
rooks treat thee?”
“With but moderate notice, father, unless I am at Britton’s side.
Then they ‘caw’ respectfully, as I take my way through their colony.
Britton taught me to lift my hat now and then, as father does.” The
squire laughed, and was a bit confused. “Nay, nay!” he said. “Britton
hes been making up that story, though I vow, I would rayther take
off my hat to gentlemanly rooks than to some humans I know; I
would that! There is one thing I can tell thee about rooks, Britton
seems to have forgot; they can’t make a bit of sunshine for
themselves. If t’ weather is rainy, no bird in the world is more
miserable. They sit with puffed out feathers in uncontrollable
melancholy, and they hevn’t a caw for anybody. Yet I hev a great
respect for rooks.”
“And I hev a great liking for rook pies,” said Madam. “There is not
a pie in all the records of cookery, to come near it. Par excellence is
its name. I shall miss my rook pies, if we go away this summer.”
“But we shall have something better in their place, dear mother.”
“Who can tell? In the meantime, sleep will be the best thing for
all. To-morrow is a new day. Sleep will make us ready for it.”
 CHAPTER III—THE REALIZATION
OF TROUBLE
“Beneath this starry arch,
Naught resteth, or is still;
And all things have their march,
As if by one great will.
Move on! Move all!
Hark to the footfall!
On, on! forever!”

T
HE next morning Katherine came to her mother full of
enthusiasm. She had some letters in her hand and she said: “I
have written these letters all alike, mother, and they are ready
to send away, if you will give me the names of the ladies you wish
them to go to.”
“How many letters hast thou written?”
“Seven. I can write as many as you wish.”
“Thou hes written too many already.”
“Too many!”
“Yes, tha must not forget, that this famine and distress is over all
Yorkshire—over all England. Every town and village hes its awn sick
and starving, and hes all it can do to look after them. Thy father told
me last night he hed been giving to all the villages round us for a
year back but until Mr. Foster told him yesterday he hed no idea that
there was any serious trouble in Annis. Tha knows, dearie, that
Yorkshire and Lancashire folk won’t beg. No, not if they die for want
of begging. The preacher found out their need first and he told
father at once. Then Jonathan Hartley admitted they were all
suffering and that something must be done to help. That is the
reason for the meeting this afternoon.”
“Oh, dear me!”
“Jonathan hes been preparing for it for a week but he did not tell
father until yesterday. I will give thee the names of four ladies that
may assist in the way of sending food—there is Mrs. Benson, the
doctor’s wife—her husband is giving his time to the sick and if she
hedn’t a bit of money of her awn, Benson’s family would be badly
off, I fear. She may hev the heart to do as well as to pinch and
suffer, but if she hesn’t, we can’t find her to blame. Send her an
invitation. Send another to Mistress Craven. Colonel Craven is with
his regiment somewhere, but she is wealthy, and for anything I
know, good-hearted. Give her an opportunity. Lady Brierley can be
counted on in some way or other and perhaps Mrs. Courtney. I can
think of no others because everyone is likely to be looking for
assistance just as we are. What day hev you named for the
meeting?”
“Monday. Is that too soon?”
“About a week too soon. None of these ladies will treat the
invitation as a desirable one. They doubtless hev many engagements
already made. Say, next Saturday. It is not reasonable to expect
them to drop iverything else and hurry to Annis, to sew for the
hungry and naked.”
“O mother! Little children! Who would not hurry to them with food
and clothing?”
“Hes thou been with Faith Foster to see any children hungry and
naked?”
“No, mother; but I do not need to see in order to feel. And I have
certainly noticed how few children are on the street lately.”
“Well, Katherine, girls of eighteen shouldn’t need to see in order to
feel. Thank God for thy fresh young feelings and keep them fresh as
long as thou can. It will be a pity when thou begins to reason about
them. Send letters to Mrs. Benson, Mrs. Craven, Lady Brierley, and
Mrs. Courtney, and then we shall see what comes from them. After
all, we are mere mortals!”
“But you are friendly with all these four ladies?”
“Good friends to come and go upon. By rights they ought to stand
by Annis—but ‘ought’ stands for nothing.”
“Why ought, mother?”
“Thy father hes done ivery one o’ them a good turn of one kind or
the other but it isn’t his way to speak of the same. Now send off thy
letters and let things slide until we see what road they are going to
take. I’m afraid I’ll hev to put mysen about more than I like to in this
matter.”
“That goes without saying but you don’t mind it, do you, mother?”
“Well, your father took me on a sudden. I hedn’t time to think
before I spoke and when my heart gets busy, good-by to my head.”
“Mrs. Courtney has not been here for a long time.”
“She is a good deal away but I saw her in London last year every
now and then. She is a careless woman; she goes it blind about
everything, and yet she wants to be at the bottom of all county
affairs.”
“Mother, could we not do a little shopping today?”
“At the fag end of the week? What are you talking about?
Certainly not. Besides, thy father is worried about the meeting this
afternoon. He says more may come of it than we can dream of.”
“How is that?”
“Why, Katherine, it might end in a factory here, or it might end in
the weavers heving to leave Annis and go elsewhere.”
“Cannot they get work of some other kind, in, or near by Annis?”
“Nay, tha surely knows, that a weaver hes to keep his fingers soft,
and his hands supple. Hard manual work would spoil his hands
forever for the loom, and our men are born weavers. They doan’t
fashion to any other work, and to be sure England hes to hev her
weavers.”
 “Mother, would it not be far better to have a factory? Lately, when
I have taken a walk with father he always goes to the wold and
looks all round considering just like a man who was wondering about
a site for a building. It would be a good thing for us, mother, would
it not?”
“It seems so, but father does not want it. He says it will turn Annis
into a rough village, full of strangers, with bad ways, and also that it
will spoil the whole country-side with its smoke and dirt.”
“But if it makes money?”
“Money isn’t iverything.”
“The want of it is dreadful.”
“Thy father got a thousand pounds this morning. If he does not
put most of it into a factory, he will put it into bread, which will be
eaten to-day and wanted again to-morrow. That would make short
work of a thousand pounds.”
“Have you reminded father of that?”
“I doan’t need to. Father seems an easy-going man but he thinks
of iverything; and when he hes to act no one strikes the iron quicker
and harder. If thou saw him in London, if thou heard him in the
House, brow-beating the Whigs and standing up for Peel and
Wellington and others, thou would wonder however thou dared to
tease, and contradict, and coax him in Annis. Thou would that! Now
I am going to the lower summer house for an hour. Send away thy
letters, and let me alone a bit.”
“I know. I saw father going down the garden. He is going to the
summer house also; he intends to tell you, mother, what he is going
to say to-night. He always reads, or recites his speeches to you. I
have heard him sometimes.”
“Then thou ought to be ashamed to speak of it! I am astonished
at thy want of honor! If by chance, thou found out some reserved
way of thy father it should have been held by thee as a sacred,
inviolable secret. Not even to me, should thou have dared to speak
of it. I am sorry, indeed, to hev to teach thee this point of
childhood’s honor. I thought it would be natural to the daughter of
Antony and Annie Annis!”
“Mother! Forgive me! I am ashamed and sorry and oh, do not, for
my sake, tell father! My dear, dear father! You have made it look like
mocking him—I never thought how shameful it could look—oh, I
never thought about it! I never spoke of it before! I never did!”
“Well, then, see thou never again listens to what was not intended
for thee to hear. It would be a pretty state of things, if thy father
hed to go somewhere out of the way of listeners to get a bit of
private talk with me.”
“Mother, don’t be so cruel to me.”
“Was thou trying to compliment me or was thou scorning a bit
about thy father’s ways? If thou thought I would feel complimented
by being set above him that thought was as far wrong as it could
possibly get.”
“Mother! Mother! You will break my heart! You never before spoke
this way to me—Oh, dear! Oh, dear!”
For a few minutes Madam let her weep, then she bent over the
crouching, sobbing girl, and said, “There now! There now!”
“I am so sorry! So sorry!”
“Well, dearie, sorrow is good for sin. It is the only thing sorrow is
good for. Dry thy eyes, and we will niver name the miserable subject
again.”
“Was it really a sin, mother?”
“Hes thou forgotten the fifth commandment? That little laugh at
thy father’s saying his speeches to me first was more than a bit
scornful. It was far enough from the commandment ‘Honor thy
father and thy mother.’ It wasn’t honoring either of us.”
“I can never forgive myself.”
“Nay! nay! Give me a kiss and go and look after thy letters; also
tell Yates dinner must be on the table at one o’clock no matter what
his watch says.” Then Katherine walked silently away and Madam
went to the lower summer house, and the dinner was on the table at
one o’clock. It was an exceedingly quiet meal, and immediately after
it, the squire’s horse was brought to the door.
“So thou art going to ride, Antony!” said Mistress Annis, and the
squire answered, “Ay, I hev a purpose in riding, Annie.”
“Thou art quite right,” was the reply, for she thought she divined
his purpose and the shadow of a smile passed between them. Then
he looked at his watch, mounted his horse and rode swiftly away.
His wife watched him out of sight and, as she turned into the house,
she told herself with a proud and happy smile, “He is the best and
the handsomest man in the West Riding, and the horse suits him! He
rides to perfection! God bless him!”
It was a point with the squire to be rigidly punctual. He was never
either too soon, or too late. He knew that one fault was as bad as
the other, though he considered the early mistake as the worst. It
began to strike two as he reached the door of the Methodist Chapel,
and saw Jonathan Hartley waiting there for him; and they walked at
once to a rude platform that had been prepared for the speakers.
There were several gentlemen standing there in a group, and the
Chapel was crowded with anxious hungry-looking men.
It was the first time that Squire Annis had ever stepped inside a
Methodist Chapel. The thought was like the crack of a whip in his
conscience but at that moment he would not listen to any claim or
reproof; for either through liking or disliking, he was sensitive at
once to Bradley’s tall, burly predominance; and could not have said,
whether it was pleasant or unpleasant to him. However, the moment
he appeared, there was loud handclapping, and cries of “Squire
Annis! Squire Annis! Put him in the chair! He’s our man!”
Then into the squire’s heart his good angel put a good thought,
and he walked to the front of the platform and said, “My men, and
my friends, I’ll do something better for you. I’ll put the Reverend
Samuel Foster in the chair. God’s servant stands above all others,
and Mr. Foster knows all about your poverty and affliction. I am a bit
ashamed to say, I do not.” This personal accusation was cut short by
cries of “No! No! No! Thou hes done a great deal,” and then a cheer,
that had in it all the Yorkshire spirit, though not its strength. The
men were actually weak with hunger.
Mr. Foster took the chair to which the squire led him without any
affectations of demur, and he was gladly welcomed. Indeed there
were few things that would have pleased the audience more. They
were nearly all Methodists, and their preacher alone had searched
out their misery, and helped them to bear it with patience and with
hope. He now stretched out his hands to them and said—“Friends,
just give us four lines, and we will go at once to business”; and in a
sweet, ringing voice, he began Newman’s exquisite hymn—

“Leave God to order all thy ways,

And hope in Him whate’er betide,
Thoul’t find Him in the evil days,
An all sufficient Strength and Guide.”

The words came fresh and wet with tears from every heart, and it
was a five minutes’ interlude of that complete surrender, which God
loves and accepts.
After a moment of intense silence, the preacher said, “We are met
to-day to try and find out if hand-loom weaving must go, or if both
hand-loom weaving and power-loom weaving have a chance for the
weaver in them. There are many hand-loom weavers here present.
They know all its good points and all points wherein it fails but they
do not know either the good or bad points of power-loom weaving,
and Mr. John Thomas Bradley has come to tell you something about
this tremendous rival of your household loom. I will now introduce
Mr. John.” He got no further in his introduction, for Bradley stepped
forward, and with a buoyant good-nature said, “No need, sir, of any
fine mastering or mistering between the Annis lads and mysen. We
hev thrashed each ither at football, and chated each ither in all kinds
of swapping odds too often, to hev forgotten what names were
given us at our christening. There’s Israel Swale, he hes a bigger mill
than I hev now-a-days, but he’s owing me three pence half-penny
and eleven marbles, yet whenever I ask him for my brass and my
marbles he says—‘I’ll pay thee, John Thomas, when we play our
next game.’ Now listen, lads, next Whitsunday holidays I’ll ask him to
come and see me, and I’ll propose before a house full of company—
and all ready for a bit of fun—that we hev our game of marbles in
the bowling alley, and I’ll get Jonathan Hartley to give you all an
invitation to come and see fair play between us. Will you come?”
Noisy laughing acceptances followed and one big Guisely weaver
said, “He’d come too, and see that Israel played a straight game for
once in his life.”
“I’m obliged to thee, Guisely,” answered Bradley, “I hope thou’lt
come. Now then, lads, I hev to speak to you about business, and if
you think what I say is right, go and do what I say, do it boldly; and
if you aren’t sure, then let it alone:—till you are driven to it. I am
told that varry few of the men here present iver saw a power loom.
And yet you mostly think ill o’ it. That isn’t a bit Yorkshire. You treat
a man as you find him, you ought to do the same to a machine, that
is almost a man in intelligence—that is the most perfect bit of beauty
and contrivance that man iver made since man himsen was fitted wi’
fingers and thumbs by the Great Machinist of heaven and earth.”
“What is it fashioned like, Bradley?”
“It is an exceedingly compact machine and takes up little room. It
is easily worked and it performs every weaving operation with
neatness and perfection. It makes one hundred and seventy picks a
minute or six pieces of goods in a week—you know it was full work
and hard work to make one piece a week with the home loom, even
for a strong man. It is made mostly of shining metal, and it is a
perfect darling. Why-a! the lads and lassies in Bradley mill call their
looms after their sweethearts, or husbands, or wives, and I wouldn’t
wonder if they said many a sweet or snappy word to the looms that
would niver be ventured on with the real Bessie or the real Joe.
“Think of your old cumbersome wooden looms, so hard and heavy
and dreary to work, that it wasn’t fit or right to put a woman down
to one. Then go and try a power loom, and when you hev done a
day’s work on it, praise God and be thankful! I tell you God saw the
millions coming whom Yorkshire and Lancashire would hev to clothe,
and He gave His servant the grave, gentle, middle-aged preacher
Edmund Cartwright, the model of a loom fit for God’s working men
and women to use. I tell you men the power loom is one of God’s
latest Gospels. We are spelling yet, with some difficulty, its first good
news, but the whole world will yet thank God for the power loom!”
Here the preacher on the platform said a fervent “Thank God!” But
the audience was not yet sure enough for what they were to thank
God, and the few echoes to the preacher’s invitation were strangely
uncertain for a Yorkshire congregation. A few of the Annis weavers
compromised on a solemn “Amen!” All, however, noticed that the
squire remained silent, and they were “not going”—as Lot Clarke
said afterwards—“to push themsens before t’ squire.”
Then Jonathan Hartley stepped into the interval, and addressing
Bradley said, “Tha calls this wonderful loom a power-loom. I’ll
warrant the power comes from a steam engine.”
“Thou art right, Jonathan. I wish tha could see the wonderful
engine at Dalby’s Mill in Pine Hollow. The marvelous creature stands
in its big stone stable like a huge image of Destiny. It is never still,
but never restless, nothing rough; calm and steady like the waves of
the full sea at Scarboro’. It is the nervous center, the life, I might
say, of all going on in that big building above it. It moves all the
machinery, it gives life to the devil, * and speeds every shuttle in
every loom.”

* The devil, a machine containing a revolving cylinder armed

with knives or spikes for tearing, cutting, or opening raw
materials.

“It isn’t looms and engines we are worrying about, Bradley,” said a
man pallid and fretful with hunger. “It is flesh and blood, that can’t
stand hunger much longer. It’s our lile lads and lasses, and the
babies at the mother’s breast, where there isn’t a drop o’ milk for
their thin, white lips! O God! And you talk o’ looms and engines”—
and the man sat down with a sob, unable to say another word.
 Squire Annis could hardly sit still, but the preacher looked at him
and he obeyed the silent wish, as in the meantime Jonathan Hartley
had asked Bradley a question, to partly answer the request made.
“If you want to know about the workers, all their rooms are large
and cheerful, with plenty of fresh air in them. The weaving rooms
are as light and airy as a bird cage. The looms are mostly managed
by women, from seventeen to thirty, wi’ a sprinkling o’ married men
and women. A solid trade principle governs t’ weaving room—so
much work, for so much money—but I hev girls of eighteen in my
mill, who are fit and able to thread the shuttles, and manage two
looms, keeping up the pieces to mark, without oversight or help.”
Here he was interrupted by a man with long hair parted in the
middle of the forehead, and dressed in a suit of fashionable cut, but
cheap tailoring. “I hev come to this meeting,” he cried out, “to ask
your parliamentary representative if he intends to vote for the
Reform Bill, and to urge the better education of the lower classes.”
“Who bid thee come to this meeting?” asked Jonathan Hartley.
“Thou has no business here. Not thou. And we weren’t born in
Yorkshire to be fooled by thee.”
“I was told by friends of the people, that your member would
likely vote against Reform.”
“Put him out! Put him out!” resounded from every quarter of the
building, and for the first time since the meeting opened, there was
a touch of enthusiasm. Then the squire stepped with great dignity to
the front of the platform.
“Young men,” he said with an air of reproof, “this is not a political
meeting. It is not even a public meeting. It is a gathering of friends
to consider how best to relieve the poverty and idleness for which
our weavers are not to blame—and we do not wish to be
interrupted.”
“The blame is all wi’ you rich landowners,” he answered; “ivery
one o’ you stand by a government that robs the poor man and
protects the rich. I am a representative of the Bradford Socialists.”
 “Git out! Git out! Will tha? If tha doesn’t, I’ll fling thee out like any
other rubbish;” and as the man made no attempt to obey the
command given, Hartley took him by the shoulder, and in spite of his
protestations—received with general jeers and contempt—put him
outside the chapel.
Squire Annis heartily approved the word, act and manner of
Hartley’s little speech. The temperature of his blood rose to fighting
heat, and he wanted to shout with the men in the body of the
chapel. Yet his countenance was calm and placid, for Antony Annis
was Master at Home, and could instantly silence or subdue whatever
his Inner Man prompted that was improper or inconvenient.
He thought, however, that it was now a fit time-for him to
withdraw, and he was going to say the few words he had so well
considered, when a very old man rose, and leaning on his staff,
called out, “Squire Annis, my friend, I want thee to let me speak five
minutes. It will varry likely be t’ last time I’ll hev the chance to say a
word to so many lads altogether in this life.” And the squire smiled
pleasantly as he replied, “Speak, Matthew, we shall all be glad to
listen to you.”
“Ill be ninety-five years old next month, Squire, and I hev been
busy wi’ spinning and weaving eighty-eight o’ them. I was winding
bobbins when I was seven years old, and I was carding, or combing,
or working among wool until I was twenty. Then I got married, and
bought from t’ squire, on easy terms, my cottage and garden plot,
and I kept a pig and some chickens, and a hutch full o’ rabbits,
which I fed on the waste vegetables from my garden. I also had
three or four bee skeps, that gave us honey for our bread, with a
few pounds over to sell; t’ squire allays bought the overbit, and so I
was well paid for a pretty bed of flowers round about the house. I
was early at my loom, but when I was tired I went into my garden,
and I smoked a pipe and talked to the bees, who knew me well
enough, ivery one o’ them. If it was raining, I went into t’ kitchen,
and smoked and hed a chat wi’ Polly about our awn concerns. I hev
had four handsome lassies, and four good, steady lads. Two o’ the
lads went to America, to a place called Lowell, but they are now
well-to-do men, wi’ big families. My daughters live near me, and
they keep my cottage as bright as their mother kept it for over fifty
years. I worked more or less till I was ninety years old, and then
Squire Annis persuaded me to stop my loom, and just potter about
among my bees and flowers. Now then, lads, thousands hev done
for years and years as much, even more than I hev done and I hev
never met but varry few Home-loom weavers who were dissatisfied.
They all o’ them made their awn hours and if there was a good race
anywhere near-by they shut off and went to it. Then they did extra
work the next day to put their ‘piece’ straight for Saturday. If their
‘piece’ was right, the rest was nobody’s business.”
“Well, Matthew,” said the squire, “for many a year you seldom
missed a race.”
“Not if t’ horses were good, and well matched. I knew the names
then of a’ the racers that wer’ worth going to see. I love a fine horse
yet. I do that! And the Yorkshire roar when the victor came to mark!
You could hear it a mile away! O squire, I can hear it yet!
“Well, lads, I hev hed a happy, busy life, and I hev been a good
Methodist iver sin’ I was converted, when I was twelve years old.
And I bear testimony this day to the goodness and the faithfulness
of God. He hes niver broken a promise He made me. Niver one!
“Thousands of Home-loom spinners can live, and have lived, as I
did and they know all about t’ life. I know nothing about power-loom
weaving. I dare say a man can make good or bad o’ it, just as he
feels inclined; but I will say, it brings men down to a level God
Almighty niver intended. It is like this—when a man works in his awn
home, and makes his awn hours, all the world, if he be good and
honest, calls him A Man; when he works in a factory he’s nobbut
‘one o’ the hands.’”
At these words Matthew sat down amid a little subdued
inexpressible mixture of tense feeling and the squire said—“In three
weeks or less, men, I am going to London, and I give you my word,
that I shall always be found on the side of Reform and Free Trade.
When I return you will surely have made up your minds and formed
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