# Once a Week (magazine)/Series 1/Volume 10/"A crowning in"

“A CROWNING IN.”
A STORY OF THE BLACK COUNTRY.
To any one familiar with that part of the midland counties known as “The Black Country,” the mere mention of its name will bring before the mind the whole dreary spectacle, the blackness of desolation by day, the burning waste by night; while to those unacquainted with the scene, no description, however vivid, would convey a correct idea of its peculiar features.
In these days of constant railway travelling, when a distant town is often practically nearer than a neighbouring village, many who have never visited the black country have obtained a general idea of its characteristics while passing through it; and should their train have been a slow one, probably the short journey between Birmingham and Wolverhampton has given them all the acquaintance they wish to have with a scene so gloomy in the daylight, so appalling in the darkness. The flat, black ground, intersected by canals, upon whose foul and muddy water slow barges laden with coal or iron are drawn by lean horses, and even in some cases by women with scarcely a trace of their sex visible in dress or feature,—the short wide chimneys pouring forth smoke and flame, the machinery for working coal pits, and the débris from them and from the furnaces, all go to make one of the dreariest pictures conceivable. Perhaps the huts or hovels—built sometimes of mud, sometimes of mud and brick, and always more or less fallen or falling into decay—inhabited by the pitmen and other workmen of the place, are the saddest sight of all. By the doors of these desolate and ruinous dwellings little children are seen, looking like little savages, even to the colour of their skin, playing their dreary play among the cinders which cover the roads.
These pages are not the place for discussing the question; but it might well be asked if it is not possible that a country so blasted and disfigured, retaining no element of beauty, and in the very nature of its employments tending to brutalise rather than to elevate its population, may not by its influence be in some measure conducive to those crimes of diabolical atrocity which seem almost peculiar to this region, and which from time to time startle even those most accustomed to the details of crime into active indignation?
But the sights to which I have alluded are not the only things that render the black country terrible. It is liable to a peculiar danger of an appalling nature; and the circumstances under which I first heard of it, being in themselves not uninteresting, I make no apology for repeating them.
About five years ago I accepted an invitation to spend Christmas with a friend living in South Staffordshire. He was an iron master of considerable position, and, finding it necessary to live in the neighbourhood of his business, had built a house near to his works, and taken thither his young wife, who was a cousin of mine, in the early part of the year. I had never even passed through the county, and had no idea of its aspect, and only looked forward to a pleasant week with my friends.
Professional engagements kept me in London till late in the afternoon of the 24th of December, and in the early twilight of that winter day I began my journey. There was a bitter hard frost, the clouds gathering blackly seemed to promise a heavy fall of snow before morning, and I was much annoyed to find that the only train I could take was a slow one, stopping at every station. However, it was no use to complain; and wrapping myself up as warmly as possible in my rug, I composed myself for sleep soon after we started, and was fortunate enough to have an undisturbed slumber of some length.
When I awoke it was to a novel sight. On either side were the huge furnace fires of the black country shedding a lurid light far into the darkness; and the heaps of refuse, which looked grey and dead in the daylight, were now so many glowing hillocks of rod-hot embers. It was more like a dream than any waking sight I had ever had; and more like a vision of purgatory, or even a worse place, than like a dream. The train stopped, and upon inquiring the name of the station, I found that I had passed the station of ———, where I ought to have left the train, and where my friend had arranged to meet me with a carriage. Considerably vexed, I took up my carpet-bag and asked if I could have a conveyance to take me to my friend’s house; but the place was little more than a village, and nothing of the kind could be had. The station-master informed me, in answer to my impatient inquiries, that Mr. ——— lived about three miles off, and, giving me some directions as to the route, of which, being a stranger, I could make nothing, left me to take my chance.
I walked out of the station and then stood ​Page:010 Once a week Volume X Dec 1863 to Jun 64.pdf/374 ​Page:010 Once a week Volume X Dec 1863 to Jun 64.pdf/375