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Second Edition
Wireless and
Mobile Networks
Concepts and Protocols
Wireless and
Second Edition
Mobile Networks
Concepts and Protocols
• Chapter 6: It provides various protocols and standards (WiMAX) used in WMAN along with
some applications. Some of the broadband wireless networks – LMDS, MMDS, and WATM – are
also covered in this chapter.
• Chapter 7: It covers WWAN communication protocols including GSM, CDMA, CDPD, GPRS,
routing techniques, media access algorithms, satellite communications, and interworking of
WLAN and WWAN.
• Chapter 8: Emerging wireless ad hoc networks such as sensor networks, vehicle networks,
mesh networks, and their protocols are described in this chapter.
• Chapter 9: It presents some important research issues in wireless networks that include
modulation, resource management, QoS provisioning, routing, addressing, flow control,
congestion control, security, etc.
• Chapter10: It covers Delay Tolerant Network (DTN) architecture, issues and challenges need
to be addressed for DTNs, bundle layer, bundle protocol and DTN applications.
• Chapter 11: It presents Fourth Generation (4G) overview, features, Long-Term Evolution
(LTE), LTE challenges, characteristics, Benefits of LTE, LTE Architecture, LTE Supporting Tech-
nologies, LTE Applications, and LTE Advanced.
• Chapter 12: It provides Wireless Network Security requirements, wireless security threats,
Wired Equivalent Privacy (WEP), Robust Secure Network (RSN), and Virtual Private Network
(VPN).
Acknowledgments
At the outset, we thank God for the grace and divine power that always showed a ray of light at the
time of writing this book and helped us to complete it smoothly. We could never have done this
without the faith we have in the Almighty.
Our sincere thanks to Reva Institute of Technology and Management, Bangalore, and
Basaveshwar Engineering College, Bagalkot, for offering the encouragement, support, and facilities
during the phase of writing the book. Without their support, it would not have been possible for us
to complete this project successfully.
Preface vii
We are immensely grateful and thankful to Honorable Chairman P. Shyamraju, Reva Group of
Institutions, and Bhaskar N Raju, Managing Director of DivyaSree Developers Pvt. Ltd., Bangalore,
for their support and help in the completion of the book. We are also thankful to Honorable Chair-
man Veeranna C. Charantimath; Chairman, B.V.V. Sangha; and to all the Governing Council mem-
bers of B.V.V. Sangha and Basaveshwar Engineering College, Bagalkot for their support and help
in the completion of the book.
We express our gratitude to Prof. P. Venkataram and Prof. Y. Narahari of IISc, Bangalore, for
constant support given to us in pursuing research activities and during book writing.
We are thankful to Dr. R.N. Herkal, Principal, Basaveshwar Engineering College, Bagalkot;
Dhanamjaya, Public Relation Officer, Reva Institute of Technology and Management, Bangalore;
and Dr. P.N. Kulkarni, Head of the Department of Electronics and Communication Engineering,
Basaveshwar Engineering College, Bagalkot for extending and rendering all the cooperation and
facilities to write this book in their respective colleges.
We wish to express our sincere gratitude to all staff of Electronics and Communication
Engineering Department, Reva Institute of Technology and Management, Bangalore, and
Basaveshwar Engineering College, Bagalkot, for their support during the writing of this book.
We are very much thankful to Dr. B.P. Vijay Kumar, Professor and Head, Department of Computer
Science Engineering, Reva Institute of Technology and Management, Bangalore, and the wireless
information systems research laboratory members, P.I. Basarkod, R.C. Biradar, J.D. Mallapur,
Nandini Sidnal, V.R. Budyal, Mylarareddy, A.V. Sutagundar, M.N. Birje, Lokesh B.B., Manjula R.B., and
D.S. Albur for their constant help, support, and reviewing the manuscript of the book.
We appreciate Prof. S.M. Iddalagi, Sridhar K., BEC, Bagalkot, for helping us in preparing the
problems and solutions for the book.
We also express our sincere thanks to Saraswati, Librarian, Reva Institute of Technology and
Management, Bangalore, S.G. Karkun, Librarian, Basaveshwar Engineering College, Bagalkot, for
extending the library facilities.
We are also greatly thankful to our family members, Bharathi Manvi, Sanket Manvi, Rajani
M.K., Saachi M.K., relatives, and friends for their love and moral support for successful comple-
tion of the book. We thank our parents for their encouragement.
Finally we thank Wiley-India publishers for their continuing support, especially Paras Bansal
(Executive Publisher) and Meenakshi Sehrawat (Executive Editor).
We welcome all comments and suggestions for future enhancement of the book.
Preface v
1 Fundamentals of Wireless Communication 1
Learning Objectives 1
1.1 Digital Communications 2
1.2 Wireless Communication System 2
Wireless Communication Limitations 5
1.3 Wireless Media 6
Wireless and Radio 6
Wireless and Infrared 9
1.4 Frequency Spectrum 11
Radio Frequency Spectrum 11
Infrared Frequency Spectrum 13
1.5 Technologies in Digital Wireless Communication 13
Coding 13
Wireless Modulation Schemes 19
Orthogonal Frequency Division Multiplexing (OFDM) 27
Diversity Techniques 27
Multiple-Input and Multiple-Output (MIMO) 31
1.6 Wireless Communication Channel Specifications 32
Duplexing Methods 32
Multiple Access Methods 34
1.7 Types of Wireless Communication Systems 34
Traditional Communications Systems 34
Cellular Communication Systems 36
Summary 38
Key Words 39
Objective Type Exercises 39
Review Questions 41
Problems 42
Answers 43
Bibliography 43
Problems 106
Answers 107
Bibliography 107
Protocols 314
Technologies 324
Applications 324
8.4 Wireless Mesh Networks 325
Network Architecture 326
Protocols 329
Technologies 334
Applications 334
8.5 Vehicular Ad Hoc Networks (VANETs) 335
Unique Characteristics of VANETs 335
Network Architecture 337
Protocols 337
Technologies 339
Applications 339
Summary 340
Key Words 340
Objective Type Exercises 341
Review Questions 343
Answers 344
Bibliography 345
Index 471
Fundamentals of Wireless Communication
1
LEARNING OBJECTIVES
W ireless systems have a unique capability of maintaining the same contact number even
if one moves from one location to another. This has made them increasingly popular.
The wireless telephones are not only convenient but also provide flexibility and versatility;
there have been a growing number of wireless phone subscribers as well as service providers.
A combination of wireless communication and computer technologies has revolutionized the
world of telecommunications.
Wireless and mobile communications have found usefulness in areas such as commerce,
education, defense, etc. According to the nature of a particular application, they can be used
in home-based and industrial systems or in commercial and military environment. There can
be many novel applications of such a wireless system, for example, a bracelet worn can
constantly monitor the body parameters and take needful actions (like informing the family
physician about the problem). In a commercial system, the wireless communications can be
employed for purchase or selling of goods and services, playing audio and video, payment
of telephone bills, payment of electricity bills, airline/railway/bus reservations, etc.
The difference between wireless and mobile devices is not much and they are used inter-
changeably. However, mobile just means portable. A laptop is a mobile device, as is a personal
digital assistant (PDA). A desktop would be a mobile device if you had the inclination to carry
2 Chapter 1/Fundamentals of Wireless Communication
it around with you. A wireless device has some sort of network connectivity. A cell phone is
wireless, and a laptop or a PDA would be wireless if they had a wireless modem. Similarly,
applications are wireless when they connect and exchange data with a network.
Wireless is the next giant leap in information services. This new paradigm for connectivity
enables businesses to operate faster, better, more cost-effectively, and more profitably through
the use of always ON, always connected, and always available content and applications. With
the tremendous increase in wireless applications, mobile phones, PDAs, and other mobile
devices, the merging of computing and telecommunication technologies is no longer a labo-
ratory experiment but a fundamental part of modern business. This chapter briefly describes
some of the principles of wireless communication that are quite extensively used in this
book.
Source Channel
Source encoder encoder Modulation
Transmitter
Source Channel
Information Demodulation
decoder decoding
Receiver
continuous stream of bits. Methods for source encoding are waveform coding, linear predic-
tive coding, etc. The channel encoder encodes the signal for error correction and detection
by adding some redundant bits. Methods for channel encoding are hamming codes, cyclic
codes, block codes, etc. The encoded signal is modulated by using the digital modulation
schemes such as binary phase shift keying (BPSK), quadrature phase shift keying (QPSK),
minimum shift keying (MSK), Gaussian MSK (GMSK), etc. The modulated signal is sent over
the wireless medium. The receiver demodulates and decodes (channel decoding and source
decoding) the signal to obtain the transmitted information.
The main design goals of the transmitter and the receiver are to mitigate distortion and
noise from the channel. Performance metric for analog systems is fidelity, whereas digital
systems are analyzed based on data rate and bit error probability as performance metrics.
Fidelity describes how close is the received signal to the original signal. Fidelity defines
acceptability. Data rates over channels with noise have a fundamental capacity limit. Data
rate is limited by signal power, noise power, distortion, and bit error probability. Without
distortion or noise, we can have maximum data rate with zero bit error probability. Bit error
probability is defined as the ratio of the number of bits, elements, characters, or blocks
incorrectly received to the total number of bits, elements, characters, or blocks sent during a
specified time interval. For example, if 10 bits are altered when 10,000 bits are transmitted,
the bit error probability equals 10/10,000 = 10−3 .
An important parameter in communication channel is bandwidth. For digital communi-
cations, bandwidth of a channel is defined as the maximum number of bits transmitted in
a second (bits per second or bps) whereas for analog systems bandwidth is defined in terms
of hertz (Hz). Shannon capacity defines maximum possible data rate for systems with noise
and distortion. In noisy channel, data rate C is defined as
where B is the bandwidth in Hz and S/N is the signal-to-noise ratio. For example, a channel
of B = 3000 Hz, S/N = 30 dB (ideal parameters for the analog telephone system) can never
transmit much more than 30 kbps.
Other documents randomly have
different content
build up your fortune on the ruin of your fellow men. You say one o’
these new finishing frames will do the work of four, may be of six
men. Aye, also is there talk of looms that shall need neither skill nor
care. It may be true, I know not. But oh! it will be a sore day for this
hillside, and all the country round when that day shall be. What is to
become of those who now keep a decent roof over their heads, and
tho’ times be bad can still give bit and sup to wife and bairns. You
may make new machines but you cannot make new men to order.
And see to it that it be not now with thee as in the days of Pharaoh of
old, when Aaron’s rod swallowed up the rods of the wise men and the
sorcerers, and thy rod too be swallowed up. If that came to pass of
which I have read and heard, there will be no room in this valley for
men of but moderate means. Yo’ may build a mill, but bigger men
will build bigger mills, and the bigger mills will swallow up the less,
and thou and thy son, and even Mary yonder may be fain, thou in thy
old age and they in their prime, to take wage at another’s hand, and
to do a hireling’s task in another’s mill.”
“If I do may I be—”
“William,” said my mother, before my father could conclude, and
we could only guess what awful doom my father was about to invoke
upon himself. But enough had been said. Whether the mind of our
household’s head were the more moved by the picture of his friends
and neighbours reduced to want, or by the picture of himself and his
working for others, who had always puts out work ourselves, I know
not; but from that day forth there was no more thought for many a
long day of any change in the ways we had used of old, and, for the
new machines, my mother died in the belief that the curse of
Scripture was upon them.
CHAPTER II.
IT WAS not often my father missed the Audit Dinner at the
Dartmouth Arms, but for some reason I do not remember, he could
not go to the November Audit of 1811. So I went in his place, as was
but my due, seeing that in the course of time and nature the
homestead would be mine, and I tenant to my lord in my father’s
stead. So to the dinner I went in great state and no little fluster,
having donned my Sunday clothes, and showing as fine a leg (though
I say it that should not) as ever passed Slaithwaite Church. I went by
the churchyard corner where old Mr. Meeke rested in his grave, and I
did not fail to doff my beaver, for was I not taught all I ever knew at
the Free School, founded by Mr. Meeke, and I was, too, ever a lover
of the Church, though we had joined the Hard–bedders. There had
been a wedding that day, and I should have been there, but none
were invited save only family friends, owing to times being so bad.
Jack o’ Jamie’s had wed Sue Lumb, and I knew Jack o’ Jamie’s and
Sue both, as indeed I knew every mother’s son and lass in
Slaithwaite; and my mother could tell their pedigree for generations
back. Opposite the door of the Dartmouth Arms I came across a
crowd different from ordinary, for in the midst was Jack donned in
his Sunday best, and a great white rosette at his breast, and there
was Sue with a white veil over her head and clinging to Jack’s arm
and crying and coaxing, and Jack fuming and swearing and waving
his arms and shaking his fist at his own father. Sure a rare sight for a
wedding day, and I stayed to hear what might be the meaning of it
all. I knew Jack for a decent, hard working lad that kept his father, a
drunken neer–do–weel, from the rates. Old Jamie had a hang–dog
look to be sure, as he kept away from his son’s reach and cowered
behind his new daughter–in–law.
“It’s too bad,” Jack was crying, “It’s too bad; yo’ all know ’at awn
kept mi father awmost even sin’ aw could addle a meg, an’ him doing
nowt but tidy th’ house up an’ go a rattin’ with th’ dog an’ happen
bring a rabbit home betimes—an’ aw never grudged him owt, for he’s
mi own father, an’ mi mother ’at’s dead an’ gone left him to me. But,
its too bad aw say—gise ’ang, it ud make a worm turn—here its mi
wedding day, an’ aw thowt we’d have a bite an’ sup by ordinar. So aw
off to Ned o’ Bill’s an’ bowt three p’und o’ good wheat flour, tho’ it’s
well known, what price it’s at, an’ ill aw could spare th’ brass. But a
felly doesn’t get wed every day. We calc’lated it ud mak ten cakes, an’
that ud be one round apiece an’ two to put bye for Sunday. Mi father
baked ’em hissen three days sin’, for we thowt we munnot eit ’em till
they were stale, new uns crumble so—an’ aw bowt a piece of th’ skirt
o’ beef at lay me in five good shillin’—so when aw set off to take Sue
here to th’ chuch aw left mi father to watch th’ beef afore t’ fire, an’
we borrowed some plates an’ knives an’ forks an’ three chairs, for aw
thowt we’d all have a feast at ’ud make th’ weddin’ party remember
mi weddin’ day as long as they lived. An’ after th’ knot wer’ teed an’
we were walkin’ th’ village so all could see what a lass awd gotten, we
just looked in at th’ house door to see if th’ meat were nearly done—
an would yo’ believe it, th’ owd glutton ’ud supped welly a gallon o’
th’ weddin’ ale an’ were wipin’ his chops wi t’ back o’ his coat sleeve,
’at weren’t his own, but borrowed o’ mi uncle Ben; an’ ther’ were
nobbut four cakes left an’ a good p’und cut off th’ joint an’ th’ pan as
bare o’ gravy as if it had been new scoured. Oh! tha’ brussen guts; if
tha’ weren’t mi own father!” And here Jack shook his fist over
Jamie’s head, and Sue tried to turn aside his wrath and to play the
peace–maker, as a good woman ever will.
“For shame o’ thissen,” said one; “It ’ud sarve thi reight to put thee
i’ th’ stocks,” said another; “Let’s stang him,” a woman cried. “Many
a decent body’s been cucked for less,” said Moll o’ Stuarts, who knew
what the cucking stool meant full well. And all felt that Jamie
Thewlis had done as scurvy a trick as ever he had done in a scurvy
life. Even those that drank with him, the loafers and vagabonds of
the village, got to the outskirts of the crowd, and left him alone to his
defence.
“Yo’ see it were this way,” said Thewlis, when he could get a
hearing. “Th’ table’ wor set all ready for th’ weddin’ party. Aw’d laid a
clean cloth on th’ table. There were a plate an’ a knife an’ fork for
every one that were comin’. Th’ house were tidied up an’ as clean yo’
could had etten yor dinner off th’ floor. Then Jack started off to fetch
Susan. Th’ cakes were on th’ table, one bi each plate. Aw put th’ joint
on th’ jack afore th’ fire just as he’d told me bi th’ clock. Then aw set
me dahn to watch it. It wor a grand joint. Aw could ha’ fair hugged it
when aw took it up, so plump an’ red and firm, wi’ streaks o’ fat
runnin’ in an’ among th’ lean like rivers o’ cream in a bank o’
strawberries. Th’ fire were just reight, banked down an’ hot, an’ aw
ca–ered me dahn first o’ one side o’ th’ hearth an’ then on t’ other,
an’ began to watch th’ hands o’ t’ clock an’ wish it wor dinner time.
Dinner time it were bi reights, but we’d put th’ dinner back so’s Jim
an’ his frien’s could walk through th’ village. Then th’ skin o’ th’ joint
began to crack, an’ th’ fat to fizzle an’ ooze ‘aat an spit. Aw looked at
th’ clock. Aw’ll swear th’ han’s hedn’t moved for half–an–hour, an’
yet it were tickin’ reg’lar—aw nivver felt hauf as hungry i’ mi life
afore. Aw’d had no breakfas’, for awd said to mi sen it ’ud nivver do
to shame yar Jack’s weddin’ dinner bi not doin’ reight bi it. Then all
at once th’ jack gay’ a click an’ summut splurted aat, an’ all at once
there wer’ a smell at fair made mi belly leap inside me. But aw’d
promised yar Jack at aw’d do fair—so aw went to th’ cellar–head to
see if ther’ wer’ happen a crust or owt to stay mi innards, but ther’
wer’ nowt. Then ther’ wer’ another click, an’ another spurt, an’ th’
room wer’ fair full o’ th’ smell. It awmost turned me dizzy. Aw looked
at th’ clock agen, an’ guise ’ang me, if th’ hand had stirred aboon an
inch, an’ dinner seemed as far off as ivver. Then aw thowt awd fetch
th’ ale. So aw got th’ jug an’ a milkin’ can an’ started off to th’ Globe.
Aw tried hard to strap a gill, but th’ owd skin–flint wouldn’t trust me.
Aw’d awmost talked her into it when t’ thowt cam’ into mi head at
happen one o’ th’ naybors ’at hedn’t bin axed to th’ weddin’ might be
after th’ joint; an’ aw span home as fast as aw could for fear o’ spillin’.
Then when aw oppened th’ door ther’ war’ a fair blast o’ th’ smell o’
gravy right i’ mi face. It just took mi breath away, an’ aw had to tak’ a
pull at th’ jug to steady misen. That heartened me up a bit, an’ aw
just took one o’ th’ cakes, mi own at wer’ to be an’ set i’ my own place
at th’ table, so it were no robbery,—an aw put it i’ th’ pan under th’
meat; an’, by gow, it wer’ a sop an’ gradely. Aw think aw mun ha’ put
too much salt on it, for aw felt as dry as a lime–kiln. Then aw had
another swig at th’ jug, an’ looked aat for th’ weddin’, but aw could
see no’ signs on ’em. Then aw bethowt me at th’ fiddler were’ nobbut
a little un, an’ could mak’ hauf a cake do, so aw made hauf a sop.
Then th’ gravy began to run red an’ brown into th’ pan, an’ ow knew
th’ meat wer’ near enuff—an’ still ther’ wer’ no signs o’ anybody.
Howsomever, aw thought my share shouldn’t be spoiled for any
tomfoolery such as walkin’ th’ village wi’ a lass o’ my arm, as if yo’
couldn’t do that ony time. So aw just cut a slice aat an’ put it on a
shive an et it o’ mi knee, an’ had a swallow out o’ th’ piggin’ to make
it equal wi’ th’ jug. Then aw thowt aw meight as well be hanged for a
sheep as a lamb, an’ aw ate mi fill. Tha’ ma’ poise me, Jack, if tha’
likes, but tha’ll noan poise th’ meat out o’ me, that’s one comfort. It’s
th’ first time for six months ’at mi back an’ mi belly ha’ not shakken
hands, an’ aw’ll ta’ thi poisin’, an’ thank yo’ for it.”
But long before Jamie had done his story he was out of danger of a
hiding. There was not one there that did not feel hungry with the
very story, and the party trudged homewards with a laugh and a
cheer to make out as best they could on what was left—Jamie,
forgiven and impenitent, not last in the joking throng.
The partition of the upper story of the Dartmouth Arms had been
removed, and thereby room was made for the poorer tenantry who
came this year in great numbers, many there being who came to
plead the hard times and escape their remit, but joined in the rude
scramble for the thick slices of meat and bread and the brimming
pewters that were their yearly gift from the lord. But in the long
room, on the top floor, was more decent seeming and good manners;
for the tenants of the larger holdings at that time paid to the host of
the inn each man eighteenpence that there might be a well–spread
board. Mr. Joseph Scott, who lived at Woodsome (none of my lord’s
family being then in residence), did sit at the head of the table, and
gave us the health of the king, which we drank with a good will, for
there was none that did not grieve for the old man so sore stricken in
his latter days. Then did Mr. Scott call upon us to toast His Royal
Highness, the Prince Regent, and many did drink the health with a
hip, hip, hurrah but for my part, though I hate to waste good liquor, I
poured my ale into the spitoon, for stories not a few had come to our
ears of the wild doings of the Prince and of his cruel treatment of his
consort. Mr. Fox, to be sure, and other leaders of the Whigs in
Parliament, did excuse the wildness of the Prince, and some did even
bear a railing tongue against the hapless princess; but for me, who
am perhaps too little learned to judge of princes and courts, I
deemed such naughtiness should not be in high places more than in
men of less degree, and my loyalty went into the sawdust. But I took
a double draughty to the health of my lord and his lady.
There was no lack of subjects for our tongues to wag upon when
the ale had loosed them, and a well–lined waist set the oil of gladness
on our faces. There was, for one, the never failing theme of Lord
Wellington’s doings among the Dons. But a few days previous,
General Marmont had raised the siege of Ciudad Rodrigo, and our
spirits had been greatly stirred by the discovery of one of his
dispatches, in which he boasted that he would have pursued the
British forces to the lines of Lisbon “if the moment designed for the
catastrophe of England had arrived.” That put our English up, and
was as good as a score of recruiting sergeants to our army.
Catastrophe, we knew well, might come to us as it has done to other
nations; but never, we vowed, should or could it come through a
frog–eating Frenchman. We gladly turned from that topic to news
nearer home. There was the great fight at Thissleton Gap, for
instance, which showed what British grit and muscle and pluck could
do; and we were all ready to wager all we had that if you searched
France from north to south you could find no champion like Crib,
who had near been the death of Molineux in a fight near Grantham,
breaking his jaw, and leaving him senseless on the field. There had
not been a bed to be had for love or money for twenty miles round
Thissleton Gap the night before the fight, said the “Leeds Mercury,”
and all the nobility and gentry of the county had been there; and
after his great victory Crib, carrying away a purse of £400, had
driven to London in a carriage and four, the postillions decked with
blue ribands and streamers, and the whole populace in every town
and hamlet by the way turning out to cheer the wearer of the belt.
Then, too, there was much talk of the progress making with the
cutting of the new canal that was to tie the eastern and the western
seas; and we had not yet done marvelling at the boring of the
waterway under Stanedge. Then, again, we must gossip to one
another anent that strange portent of the skies, the wondrous comet,
that still made our early morns so beautiful and yet so fraught with
dread. The wise men said its tail was over twenty million miles long,
as it streamed away from Charles’s Wain across the distant sky, and
Mr. Mellor, the schoolmaster, did try to show me how the calculation
had been made; whilst Mr. Varley, of the corn mill, who had a merry
wit, did say that coals would soon be cheaper, for the Welsh were
counting on the comet coming so near, they might toast their cheese
by it. Mr. Mellor was somewhat ruffled that his serious discourse
should be turned to levity, and said that as perchance Mr. Varley
could not be expected to understand the deep subtleties of
astronomy, he would try him on a subject nearer his heart.
“I will, to–morrow,” said Mr. Mellor, “bring to your house twenty
golden guineas, and in return you shall give me your written bond to
give me therefor, one grain of good wheat, two grains and no more
on the day following, four on the next, and so on each day thereafter
for six months by the calendar, every day doubling the number of the
day before.”
“Done, and done to it,” cried Mr. Varley, and all the company
exclaimed that so rare a bargain the miller never made in his life
before and for an hour after that I saw Mr. Varley was doing sums in
his head, and chuckling feebly to himself but in time he ceased to
laugh, and his brow wrinkled and his eye was anxious, and he was
seen to add figures secretly in his bulky pocket–book, and ever as he
worked he grew sadder; till at length he cried that not all the corn
that grew that year in Yorkshire could pay his wager, and he was fain
to fill our measures round with best ale to be quit of his bargain. And
all that went away sober that night told their wives how the
schoolmaster had bested the miller, and were the more resolved their
lads should mind their books and be good at figuring. And I was very
glad that my old master had come off with so great credit, for
Mr. Varley, by reason of being the lord’s agent, was something prone
to give himself an air.
But Mr. Webster was not too pleased that Mr. Varley should have
jested of the comet. It had exercised him sore in the searching of the
Scriptures, and oftentimes had he pointed to its presence in the
heavens, and many a restless night had he given to my mother.
Mr. Webster would have it that the comet did foretell the coming
of the Son of Man in a cloud with power and great glory, and the
good man rejoiced thereat, seeing nought to cause us grief, but rather
joy, that there were “great earthquakes in divers places, and famines
and pestilences, and fearful sights and great signs from heaven.” And
he would exultingly call us to witness the fulfilment of prophesy for
that there were signs in the sun, and in the moon, and in the stars,
and upon the earth distress of nations, with perplexity; the sea and
the waves roaring; men’s hearts failing them for fear and for looking
after those things which were coming on earth. But my mother lived
to laugh at her fears, and even to wear a dress that became the
fashion, of which the body was of pale red silk, a star of gold thread
standing for the comet’s head, and a fan shaped tail of silver spangles
spreading out in likeness of the comet’s tail.
It was my great honour after the dinner, and whilst the company
sat over their cups, to be invited to the head of the table by Mr.
Joseph Scott, of Woodsome, who was then lately become a
magistrate, a handsome man of some forty years. He asked most
kindly after the health of my father and mother, and bade the tapster
who waited on the upper end of the table charge me a bumper of the
wine of Oporto, which did fill my heart with a great warmth. Then
when I would have returned to my seat by the schoolmaster he bade
me remain, and I listened with all my ears to the talk of my betters. I
noticed that Mr. Scott spoke mostly with Mr. William Horsfall, of
Marsden. I knew Mr. Horsfall well by sight, having seen him often on
the road as he went to or returned from market, a man in his prime,
with a keen, resolute look; not easily turned from his purpose, I
warrant you. Impatient of opposition, I judged him even then,
brusque, and a little petulant, but not unkindly of heart as I had
heard, for those that worked for him had ever a good name for him—
but a masterful man.
The talk between these two was much of the coolness there then
was between America and England. Mr. Horsfall was very bitter
about this. “It is all the fault of those accursed Orders in Council,” he
said. “Before our benighted Government issued the Orders in
Council, America took twelve million pounds worth of our
manufactures—now not one penny–worth. Withdraw the Orders and
you conciliate America; you bind her to us by the closest tie of all, the
tie of self–interest. So long as these Orders remain in force it is futile
to talk of negotiations. It is beating the air. We are alienating our
own flesh and blood, we are running grave risk of having another
enemy on our hands, and that of our own household, our cousins if
not our brothers. Here are we pulling our own nose to spite
Napoleon’s face. It is suicidal, it is criminal!”—and I know not how
many other hard names Mr. Horsfall hurled at the poor Government
whilst Mr. Scott, with the ink scarce dry on his commission, fidgetted
in his seat and was, I thought, hard put to it to defend the
Government. At last when Mr. Horsfall grew more vehement in his
denunciation of ministers, Mr. Scott bade him remember that it was
the Whigs who in January, 1807, issued the first counterblast to
Napoleon’s Berlin Decree; and then did these two Englishmen, the
one a Whig and the other a Tory, get so warm about Whiggery and
Toryism that I had much to do to get to the truth of the matter. In a
lull of the storm I did so far presume upon the great condescension
that Mr. Scott had shewn to me, for my father’s sake, as to ask him
what these same Orders in Council might be, and how they bore
upon us humble folk in Slaithwaite, for save that every one did speak
of them as the cause of much of our bad trade and sore distress, I
knew little for certain about them. “You must know then,” explained
Mr. Scott, “that in 1806 Napoleon issued from Berlin a proclamation,
addressed to all the world, declaring the island of Great Britain in a
state of blockade, all British subjects, wherever found, prisoners of
war, and all British goods, wherever taken, lawful prize, and
excluding from all the ports of France every vessel which had
touched at any British port, no matter to what nation such vessel
might belong.”——
“But surely, sir,” I said timidly, for I knew little of such great
matters, “surely, that was to declare war on all the countries of the
world.”
“‘Rem acu tetigisti’—thou hast touched the point with a pin,” cried
Mr. Mellor, who had drawn near, whereat I blushed mightily, for I
knew a little of the Latin, thank to much persistence of my good
dominie, and by this time all the company had ceased their jesting
and coffing and idle gossip, and all ears were cocked to hear what
Mr. Scott and our neighbour Horsfall were so hot about.
“Then did the Whig Government,” continued Mr. Scott,
triumphantly, “issue an Order in Council, declaring that England was
authorized by the Berlin Decree to blockade the whole seaboard of
France; to prohibit all vessels which had touched at a French port
from entering our harbours, and making their cargoes fair prize. It
was that Order which estranged America, and has made it so that all
our foreign trade has been cut off as with a knife.”
“Nay but,” said Mr. Horsfall, “you should not forget to say that Mr.
Percival, your Tory minister, has not only continued the Order but
extended it; that the Whigs have admitted the error of their policy,
that petition after petition has gone from the manufacturers of
Yorkshire, praying for a Repeal of the Order’s, and that Mr.
Brougham is never weary striving for that good end. But we know
how it is—the war may ruin us manufacturers, but it pays the
landowner. It keeps up the price of corn and stock, it finds pay and
promotion for the young bloods of the aristocracy, it distracts the
minds of the people at home from domestic reforms, it keeps up the
hideous system of privilege, by which peer and prelate batten on the
spoils of a people oppressed to the limits of endurance, and it is
mighty convenient to keep Napoleon as a bogy man to frighten the
people withal when they cry for reform.” And then did these two
good men at it again hammer and tongs, and others joined in, and
the ale and the wine talked louder than sense and knowledge, and
you could make neither head nor tail of all the talk. But presently
they simmered down, and Mr. Horsfall was drinking to the health of
Mrs. Scott, whom he vowed he knew when she was the beauty of
Storthes Hall, as if nothing had come between them to raise a dust,
and all the more that, as good chance would have it, they hit on a
subject on which they had little variance.
“I hear,” said Mr. Scott, “that you are trying these new finishing
frames of the Taylor’s, at Ottiwell’s.”
“I am that,” said Mr. Horsfall, “and well content I am with them.
They finish the cloth better far than the best croppers ever did or
could, and one machine can do the work of four men.”
“Then you will need less men,” said Mr. Scott, “and this is no time
to be sacking men—I remember what happened twenty years ago
when Grimshaw, of Manchester, arranged with Dr. Cartwright, the
new Bishop Blaize as they called him, to set up four hundred looms
at Manchester to be run by a steam engine. Grimshaw received
hundreds of threatening letters, he was fired at more than once, his
wife nearly fell into a decline from constant fear, and just when the
mill was built, for four hundred looms, and part of the machines
were in, mill and looms and all were swallowed up in a fire, and who
made the fire you may well guess. It ruined Grimshaw, and now he
goes about saying he wishes Bishop Blaize had been in blazes ’fore
ever he had tempted him with his fine stories. But you Whigs will
never be content with the wisdom of our forefathers. You must have
something new fangled, either in mill or state“—and so they off again
into politics; and having promised my mother to be home by milking
time, and fearful if I stayed longer the fumes of the tobacco and the
wine would be too much for an unseasoned head, I took my leave of
Mr. Scott and won my way into the open air.
By the stepping–stones that crossed the river, who should I see but
Soldier Jack and a merry party that had been out with the harriers.
They had come trooping down Kitchen Fold from over Crosland
Moor way, and were in high feather, shouting and singing, while the
hounds bayed in chorus. Soldier Jack was no man’s lad, a bye–blow.
He had been left on the Workhouse steps tied in a bundle, and
nought to show who was his father or who his mother. Then when he
was a lad of ten years old the Overseer had ’prenticed him out to a
shoemaker in Huddersfield, but he had been a sore trial to his master
—disappearing and appearing when he liked, and neither fair words
nor the strap, of which his master was not sparing if Jack spoke
truth, availing to make him follow the old adage and stick to the last.
Then one fine day the recruiting sergeant, in all his bravery, had put
up at the Rose and Crown, and called on all gallant lads to take the
king’s shilling and fight for glory and their country. “That’s the
colour for me to dye,” thought Jack, and braving the law, which
would have laid him by the heels for breaking his writings, he ’listed
in a foot regiment, and was off for the wars with a heart as light as
the heels he showed his master. Then many a year passed. Jack was
unseen and forgotten in the haunts of his youth, when lo! he
appeared, from God knows where, straight as a picking rod, brown as
a berry, minus the left arm, and with a limp of his right leg; but
otherwise sound as a bell and tight as a drum. He had some money,
in the coinage of all the countries of Europe well nigh; and, as I heard
tell, right royally did Jack live while his money lasted. He had no
fixed quarters in the early days of his return from the wars, but of
recent years he had dwelt much among the Burn Platters, an
uncanny race of outlaws that some said were Frenchmen and some
said were gypsies, that lived at Burn Platts on the moors on the edge
of Slaithwaite, and of whose savagery and evil ways many stories
were told. But Soldier Jack ever kept himself spruce and trim, and
was a welcome visitor at every house on all that country side. How he
lived none did know for gospel. At times in his cups he talked
mysteriously of golden crosses and rare stones that he had lighted on
in the sack of holy houses in Spain; but this, I think, was mere
embroidery of his adventures. Lord! what a life had been
Soldier Jack’s—what sieges he had seen, what pitched battles he had
fought in, what prisoners he had taken, what forlorn hopes he had
led, what distressed damsels he had rescued, how many haughty
hidalgos he had slain with his own hand! Even Lord Wellington
himself had been under obligation to him, and he had all but seized
with his own hands the awful person of Napoleon himself. How he
lived I say I know not. Belike he had some small pension from the
king. At haymaking time, too, he turned a good cock and an honest
penny, despite his one arm. He never missed a market or a fair, could
be trusted above the common to carry a message, and was something
of a farrier. But set job he had none, and yet never wanted. To be
sure he had free quarters in nigh every hostelry all the country
round, and if truth were told could hang up his hat when he would,
for good and all, at the Black Bull; for widow Walker, who kept that
house, was known to be widowing, and a fair and buxom dame
withal.
Now on this night of the Rent Audit Soldier Jack was pleased to
leave the hunters and walk homewards with me, though his
comrades were clamorous for him to join them in another bout at the
ale. Though times were never so bad, it went hard with the weavers if
they could not leave their shuttles and follow the hounds; and
somehow they had ever wherewith to guzzle at the inn. But Jack was
maybe wearied with the trail, and we took our way past the church
and up the hill towards Holm. For some short distance Jack walked
with never a word, though I wanted news of the hunt, where they had
killed, and whose hound showed the truer scent. Then without
prelude Jack began.
“Ben, I want a word with thee. You and me has ever been friends,
and your mother, God bless her, ever the soft word and the open
hand. And yo’r father, a good man, though over hard on the slips o’
youth”—now Jack was forty if a week—“But there are things brewing
it is right yo’ should know on; for them tha’s ’kin to yo’ are like to be
tangled in em.”
“Whatever do yo’ mean, Jack?” I asked, trying to speer at him in
the gloom, for I thought maybe the ale had got into his head.
“There’s a deal o’ sufferin’ about these parts, Ben. More nor yo’
think on. Yo’ happen think ’at because th’ lads about are after th’
hounds an’ have a bit to spend on drink ’at they’re better off nor they
are. But yo’ see I’m more about nor yo’ an’ more intimate like. Folk is
sellin’ their bits o’ stuff quiet like. Mony a decent woman ’at wouldn’t
have it known has sent me wi’ ’owd keepsakes an’ heirlooms like to
th’ silversmith i’ Huddersfelt an’ Owdham. They put a brave face on
it an’ talk little, but aw know there’s scores o’ fam’lies i’ this valley
and on these hill sides, ’at’s welly clammin’! It isn’t them as goes
‘afore the overseers ’at’s the worst off. There’s scores an’ scores livin’
on the town ’at go reg’lar every week for th’ town ’lowance. They’n
got th’ length o’ th’ ovverseer’s foot, an’ its not for the like o’ me to
blame ’em.”
“Crows shouldn’t pike crows’ ’een, eh Jack?” I put in.
“Th’ ovverseer’s fair game,” continued Jack, unmoved. “But he’s a
fool for all his stuck up ways. Aw tell yo’ ’at there’s hundreds awmost
sucking their finger ends, like bears do their paws, ’at winnot go on
to th’ parish. An’ mark yo’, th’ poor ha’ borne wi’ slack work an’
mullocked on as best they could, as long as they thought th’ wars and
bad harvests were to blame. An’ they’ve bided in hope, for harvests
winnot all be bad, an’ we’st beat the little Corporal yet. But now th’
mesters are for makin’ bad worse wi’ this new machinery. They’re
crying ‘Every man for hissen an’ devil take the hindmost.’ They’re
bringing wood and iron to do the work of willing hands and arms,
an’, by gow, the lads about won’t see their craft ruined, an’ them an’
theirs pined to death, wi’out a blow struck. Aw tell yo’, Ben, there’s
mischief brewin’, or my name’s not Soldier Jack; an’ if yo’ want to
know more, yo’ mun ask yon mettlesome cousin o’ yours, Judd
Mellor, o’ th’ Brigg.”—
“What! George Mellor?” I cried; “why, what has he to do with it?”
For such an ending to the soldier’s tale I never thought nor dreamed
of.
“I’ve said my say, Ben, and yo’ll get no more out o’ me. It’s no use
pumpin’ at a dry well tha’ knows. So aw’ll say good neet, an’ my duty
to thi father an’ mother.” And resisting my entreaty that he would go
onwards to our house and take pot luck at supper, Jack wheeled off
into the dark, and I heard his stride, firm and martial still, despite
the gamey leg, as he made across a footpath to the left, and his voice
humming a stave of Lillibulero.
CHAPTER III.
IT WAS the Christmas Eve of 1811, a night beautiful, bright and
clear. The moon was high in the heavens, and a myriad stars
gemmed the sky. Flakes of snow fell gently, like the lighting of
grasshoppers, but not so thick as to cloud the air. It was cold, but not
bitterly cold. The snow crunched cheerfully under your feet, the
hedges were rather frosted than cumbered; but the wild waste of hill
all around and above Slaithwaite was white with a coverlet smoothed
as with careful hands. The little homesteads on the hillsides stood
out stark and black on the pale setting, their slender lights of lamp or
candle declaring that many this night waked, who every other night
in the year went to bed with the sun. We sat in the house, kitchen you
would call it now—all our household save only ’Siah, who, we made
no doubt, was faithful to his yearly custom of honouring Christmas
by getting more ale than was good for him. Only a candle burned on
the table, but the fire was piled high, and cast a lurid light about the
room, the yule log saved from last year’s fire blazing bravely. My
father was fidgeting and looking at the clock. He would have rather
been in bed. We had had our supper, but a great currant loaf and a
round of cheese was on the table, and the biggest pitcher of all our
ware was ready for Martha to fill from the barrel in the cellar, when
the right moment should come. Mother and Mary had speculated,
and wondered and then wondered again as to whether the Church
singers would this year sing a verse or two by our door. My mother
argued they would not, as a mark of reprobation for our joining the
Baptists. Mary, who knew that the hearts of the young men of a
choir, church or chapel, are not in the keeping of vicar or minister,
had her own reasons for maintaining a contrary view. My father
stoutly declared he did not care a brass farthing one way or another.
Meat and drink and five good shillings were waiting them, he said,
and if they were fools enough to turn up their noses at good victuals
and good brass, that was their look out, not his. All the same we all
knew he would have felt it keenly that our house should be passed
over for the first time within the memory of any of us. Then came the
further problem—which set would be likely to reach us first, the
church, who must sing first at the Vicarage and Dr. Dean’s, and at
Sammy Sykes’s, who was churchwarden; or the waits from Powle
Moor, who had further to come and a rougher way. Anyhow we
hoped devoutly the two parties would not arrive together. We could
hear, in the still night, the sound of music in the air, sad and wistful,
floating among the hills. However we should soon be out of doubt,
for midnight was hard upon us.
The old clock warned the hour with a staggering click, and its clear
metallic voice had rung out but six of the twelve hours, when we
heard a footfall on the carpet of snow in the yard. There was no
murmur of voices, none of the hawking and tuning and chuntering of
a band of lads and lasses, but right out upon the still air, firm, strong
and deep baritone, as from a singer well set up and fearless, music of
itself, and with instrument neither of string nor reed to back it, came
the grand old words and tune, like which no other words and tune do
ever stir my heart—
“Christians awake! Salute the happy morn,
Whereon the Saviour of Mankind was born.
Rise to adore the mystery of love
Which hosts of angels chanted from above;
With them the joyful tidings first begun
Of God Incarnate and the Virgin’s Son.”
And then again.
“Of God Incarnate and the Virgin’s Son.”
Who could it be? Some lone wanderer surely that had stolen a
march on church and chapel alike.
“It’s happen ’Siah,” hazarded Martha. No ’Siah had a voice like a
frog.
“It’s th’ sexton,” said my father.
Now the sexton was sixty years old, with a piping treble, and the
voice of our midnight visitor was rounded, full and mellow.
I looked to Mary for a hazard, for no thought of who it could be
came to my mind, and I was not best pleased that anyone should
outstrip the choirs. And as I looked the voice without took up
another strain.
“Then to the watchful shepherds it was told
Who heard the Angelic herald’s voice ‘Behold.’”
And Mary’s face was a sight to see. She had dropped her knitting
on her lap, and her hands were crossed over the work, and her face
was as though the morning sun shone on it, and a soft smile was on
her parted lips, a look half–glad, half sorry, was in her eyes and her
bosom seemed to flutter.
“It’s George,” she said, very softly, “George Mellor, fra’ th’ Brigg.”
And then came a thundering knock at the door, and my father rose
to open it right heartily, and in came my cousin, George Mellor, with
a great red muffler round his neck, and his coat all flaked with snow,
and his short brown beard and moustache wet with half–melted
flakes; now stamping his feet and now kicking them against the
door–post, and bringing with him a gust of cold air and a sprinkling
of tiny feathery sprays that whisked in at his back.
“A merry Christmas to you, Uncle William, and a happy New
Year.” “And to you, aunt, with my mother’s love.” This with a hearty
smacking kiss. “And to you, Mary, and here’s a Christmas Box for
you,” and I thought George would have kissed Mary too, but she was
away to the other side of the table.
And so all round, with a noble smack at Martha’s lips, Martha
being nothing loth, and giving kiss for kiss with a good will that set
us all laughing. “A right proper lad is George Mellor, and knows how
to win a lass,” I heard Martha tell ’Siah afterwards, when she was
rating him by way of curing his aching head.
And a right proper man George Mellor was. Six feet by the stick,
and with shoulders well back, and strong, firm, warm hands that
gripped you to make you tingle. His eyes were brown and full of fire,
and dark auburn hair curled close upon a rounded head. He had a
temper, if you like, but he never bore malice, and I never knew him
do or say a mean thing, and if he was at times unjust he was quick to
make amends. He was a prime favourite of my mother. Her own
sister was George Mellor’s mother. His father was dead, and my Aunt
Mellor, to my mother’s surprise and indignation, had married
John Wood, of Longroyd Bridge, a cloth finisher, in middle life,
somewhat younger than my aunt, and a man it was hard to like.
Whatever could have possessed my aunt capped us all. She had a bit
of money of her own, and could have pulled along in a middling way
without a second marriage. But my father said, “You mun wait till
yo’re a widow yoursen, if yo want to know what makes a widdow get
wed again.” Anyhow Aunt Matty had a hard time of it, for
John Wood was a hard man, cold–blooded and spiteful. He soon
found out that he could hurt his wife through George, and he always
seemed to rub George the wrong way. The lad ran away once, and
none of us knew what became of him till long afterwards, not even
his own mother, who nigh fretted herself into her grave over him.
But he turned up again as suddenly as he had vanished, taller,
stouter, firmer set, quieter. John Wood thought his spirit was
broken, made him so quiet. But he found out his mistake when he
began to slur at him.
“See here, John Wood,” George had said, for he would never call
him father, “I have come back home for my mother’s sake, because it
was made clear to me my place was by her side. I will work for you,
and do my duty by you, and I will pay you fair for my board and ask
no favour of you as man or lodger. But you must speak me fair, and
treat my mother kindly, or you’ll rue the day you ever crossed
George Mellor.” He had a quiet way with him when he was most
roused, a sort of cold heat, had George; though over what you would
have thought concerned him least, he would flare up and flush, and
his eye would blaze and out his words would come like a pent–up
torrent. I never feared George when he was in a temper, but it was
dangerous to cross him when his cheek and lips paled and his words
came soft and slow.
“Aw walked up th’ cut side,” he explained. “It seemed an age since
aw saw yo’ all; an’ our house’s none too cheerful just now. Trade’s
fearful bad, an’ John Wood’s as sore as a boil—an’ I bowt this sprig o’
mistletoe of a hawker for yo’ to hang on th’ bowk, an’ who’ should let
you Christmas in if not your own nevvy, Aunt Bamforth.”
“Sakes alive, aw nivvir thowt on it,” cried my mother all of a
sudden. “Ben, whip outside this minnit—doesn’t ta see George’s hair
is awmost red an’ it’s black for luck—whatever could’st ta be
thinking’ on, George?” And so nothing must do but I must step
outside and enter with due Christmas greetings, to cross the luck,
and the waits from Powle Moor arriving at the very nick of time, we
all went in together; and Mary and George and myself were soon
busy enough handing round the cheese and cake and ale.
George and I slept together that night, and next morning, we all,
save my mother and Martha, who must stop at home to cook the
dinner, went to church, for we wouldn’t for anything have missed
hearing the Christmas hymn; and near all Slaithwaite was there,
Methodie and Baptists and all; and even folk that went nowhere,
Owenwites they called them, made a point of going to church that
one morning of the year. They said it was to give them an appetite for
the beef and plum pudding; but I think it was more by way of
keeping up a sort of nodding acquaintance with what they felt they
might have to fall back on after all, for you may ever notice that the
parson treads very close on the heels of the doctor.
Now after dinner my father must needs have a glass of hot spirits
and water, and presently was fast asleep in his chair, and I would
have been glad to have done likewise, for I was not used to sitting up
half the night, and had dozed off more than once in church, only to
be roused with a start by a nudge from Mary. But George was all for a
walk over Stanedge to stretch his legs and get a mouthful of home–
fed air after the foul smells of the town. I thought Mary pouted a bit,
and asked her to go with us, but she said two were company and
three were none, and George maybe was too fine to walk out with a
country lass. I expected George to disclaim any such slanderous
thoughts, but he only laughed and said something about the wind
being too nipping for the roses on Mary’s cheeks. So off we two set
towards Marsden at a good swinging pace. When we had dropped
down into the village, and were thinking of calling at the Red Lion to
get a glass of ale and a snack, whom should we come on but
Mr. Horsfall, of Marsden.
“What, Ben, lad!” he said to me heartily and shaking my hand most
warmly—“A right good Christmas to you, and my compliments to my
good friends at Holme.” A pleasant man was Mr. Horsfall when he
liked, but one you must not lightly sour or cross. He had an iron
hand, folk said, but he kept it gloved.
“And who’s your friend, Ben?”
I made George known to him, and Mr. Horsfall could tell him of
knowing his mother, my aunt, when she was a blithe young girl
courting with my uncle Mellor that was dead. But what surprised me
was that George, generally so cheery and ready to meet civility more
than half–way, seemed to freeze up and would scarce give his hand
in greeting to Mr. Horsfall.
“It’ll be cold on the top, Ben,” said Mr. Horsfall. “Come along to
Ottiwells and taste our spiced ale. My wife will be glad to have a
crack with yau, and it’ll be cozier by th’ fireside nor ovver th’ top I’ll
warrant you.”
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