dow-sash gives no concern. But
with the cold blasts and ceaseless rain of winter all this is changed.
The hedge next the road is usually only elder, and this, once the
leaves are off, is the thinnest, most miserable of shelters. The rain
comes through the hole in the thatch (we are speaking of the large class
of poor cottages), the mud floor is damp, and perhaps sticky. If the
floor is of uneven stones, these grow damp and slimy. The cold wind
comes through the ill-fitting sash, and drives with terrible force under
the door. Very often the floor is one step lower than the ground
outside, and consequently there is a constant tendency in rainy weather
for the water to run or soak in. The elm-tree overhead, that appeared so
picturesque in summer, is now a curse, for the great drops fall
perpetually from it upon the thatch and on the pathway in front of the
door. In great storms of wind it sways to and fro, causing no little
alarm, and boughs are sometimes blown off it, and fall upon the
roof-tree. The thatch of the cottage is saturated; the plants and
grasses that almost always grow on it, and the moss, are vividly, rankly
green; till all dripping, soaked, overgrown with weeds, the wretched
place looks not unlike a dunghill. Inside, the draught is only one
degree better than the smoke. These low chimneys, overshadowed with
trees, smoke incessantly, and fill the room with smother. To avoid the
draught, many of the cottages are fitted with wooden screens, which
divide the room, small enough before, into two parts, the outer of
which, towards the door, is a howling wilderness of draught and wet from
under the door; and the inner part close, stuffy, and dim with smoke
driven down the chimney by the shifting wind. Here the family are all
huddled up together close over the embers. Here the cooking is done,
such as it is. Here they sit in the dark, or in such light as is
supplied by the carefully hoarded stock of fuel, till it is time to go
to bed, and that is generally early enough. So rigid is the economy
practised in many of these cottages that a candle is rarely if ever
used. The light of the fire suffices, and they find their beds in the
dark. Even when a labourer has risen in the scale, and has some small
property, the enforced habits of early life cling to him; and I have
frequently found men who were really worth some little money sitting at
eight o'clock on a dark winter's night without a candle or lamp, their
feet close