THE UNIVERSITY
OF ILLINOIS
LIBRARY
From the collection of
Julius Doerner, Chicago
Purchased, 1918.
623
D55o
cop.4
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sponsible for its return on or before the
Latest Date stamped below.
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are reasons for disciplinary action and may
result in dismissal from the University.
University of Illinois Library
JAN 0 2 I5«8
JAN 03 1183
:Jv
THE LIBRARY
OF THE
UNIVERSITY Or ILLINOIS
LITTLE NELL AND HER GRANDFATHER.
THE
OLD CURIOSITY SHOP
AND
REPRINTED PIECES.
By CHARLES DICKENS.
WITH ORIGINAL ILLUSTRATIONS
By S. EYTINGE, Jr.
BOSTON:
JAMES R. OSGOOD AND COMPANY,
Late Ticknor & Fields, and Fields, Osgood, & Co.
1875.
Gad's Hill Place, Hick am by Rochester, Kent,
Second April, 1867.
By a special arrangement made with me and my English Publishers (partners *
with me in the copyright of my works), Messrs. Ticknor and Fields, of Boston,
have become the only authorized representatives in America of the whole series
of my books.
CHARLES DICKENS.
Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1867, by
TICKNOR AND FIELDS,
in die Clerk's Office of the District Court of the District of Massachusetts.
University Press : Welch, Bigelow, & Co.,
Cambridge.
<27 X7 C/ct-vx.
^3
G^-,4*' '
CONTENTS.
FACE
The Old Curiosity Shop . 7- 3*9
Reprinted Pieces : —
The Long Voyage 323
The Begging- Letter Writer 328
A Child's Dream of a Star 333
Our English Watering-Place 335
Our French Watering-Place 340
Bill-Sticking 348
“ Births. Mrs. Meek, of a Son ” 355
Lying Awake 358
The Poor Relation's Story . 362
The Child’s Story 368
The School-boy’s Story 370
Nobody’s Story 376
The Ghost of Art 379
Out of Town 383
Out of the Season 387
A Poor Man’s Tale of a Patent 392
The Noble Savage 395
A Flight 399
The Detective Police 405
Three 44 Detective ” Anecdotes ......... 416
On Duty with Inspector Field 421
Down with the Tide 429
A Walk in a Workhouse 434
Prince Bull. A Fairy Tale 439
637730
CONTENTS.
A Plated Article 442
Our Honorable Friend 448
Our School 451
Our Vestry 456
Our Bore 460
A Monument of French Folly 464
A Christmas Tree . . . . 471
. C i • - i. KJ
LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS.
[Engraved under the superintendence of A. V. S. Anthony.]
I. Little Nell and her Grandfather .... Frontispiece
II. Quilp, Mrs. Quilp, and Mrs. Jiniwin .... Page 30
III. Quilp’s Boy 34
IV. Kit, his Mother, Jacob, and the Baby 55
V. Mr. and Mrs. Garland and Whisker 71
VI. Codlin and Short .84
VII. The Schoolmaster ... 112
VIII. Mrs. Jarley _ 129
IX. Sampson and Sally Brass
X. “The Single Gentleman” 163.
XI. Mr. Chuckster 241
XII. Dick Swiveller and the Marchioness 249
XIII. The Long Voyage . 327
XIV. Old Cheeseman 374
XV. Ghost of Art 382
XVI. Our Bore 461
THE
OLD CURIOSITY SHOP.
IT y
■ '*/ ■ ) ^ : 8 ’ 1 '} >:■ Tj rr : (;
PREFACE
♦ —
•
In April, 1840, I issued the first number of a new weekly pub-
lication, price threepence, called Master Humphrey’s Clock.
It was intended to consist, for the most part, of detached papers,
but was to include one continuous story, to be resumed from time
to time with such indefinite intervals between each period of re-
sumption as might best accord with the exigencies and capabilities
of the proposed Miscellany.
The first chapter of this tale appeared in the fourth number of
Master Humphrey’s Clock, when I had already been made un-
easy by the desultory character of that work, and when, I believe,
my readers had thoroughly participated in the feeling. The com-
mencement of a story was a great satisfaction to me, and I had
reason to believe that my readers participated in this feeling too.
Hence, being pledged to some interruptions and some pursuit of
the original design, I cheerfully set about disentangling myself from
those impediments as fast as I could ; and — that done — from that
time until its completion The Old Curiosity Shop was written
and published from weefc: to week, in weekly parts.
When the story was finished, in order that it might be freed from
the encumbrance of associations and interruptions with which it had
no kind of concern, I caused the few sheets of Master Humphrey’s
Clock, which had been printed in connection with it, to be can-
celled ; and, like the unfinished tale of the windy night and the
notary in The Sentimental Journey, they became the property of
the trunkmaker and the butterman. I was especially unwilling, I
confess, to enrich those respectable trades with the opening paper
PREFACE.
of the abandoned design, in which Master Humphrey described
himself and his manner of life. Though I now affect to make the
confession philosophically, as referring to a bygone emotion, I am
conscious that my pen winces a little even while I write these words.
But it was done, and wisely done, and Master Humphrey’s Clock,
as originally constructed, became one of the lost books of the earth,
— which, we all know, are far more precious than any that can be
read for lc^ve or money.
In reference to the tale itself I desire to say very little here.
The many friends it won me, and the many hearts it turned to me
when they were full of private sorrow, invest it with an interest
in my mind which is not a public one, and the rightful place of
which appears to be u a more removed ground.”
I will merely observe, therefore, that, in writing the book, I had
it always in my fancy to surround the lonely figure of the child with
grotesque and wild but not impossible companions, and to gather
about her innocent face and pure intentions associates as strange
and uncongenial as the grim objects that are about her bed when
her history is first foreshadowed.
Master Humphrey (before his devotion to the trunk and butter
business) was originally supposed to be the narrator of the story.
As it was constructed from the beginning, however, with a view to
separate publication when completed, his demise did not involve the
necessity of any alteration.
I have a mournful pride in one recollection associated with “ little
Nell.” While she was yet upon her wanderings, not then con-
cluded, there appeared in a literary journal an essay of which she
was the principal theme, so earnestly, so eloquently, and tenderly
appreciative of her and of all her shadowy kith and kin, that it
would have been insensibility in me, if I could have read it without
an unusual glow of pleasure and encouragement. Long afterwards,
and when I had come to know him well, and to see him stout of
heart going slowly down into his grave, I knew the writer of that
essay to be Thomas Hood.
THE
OLD CURIOSITY SHOP.
CHAPTER I.
Although I am an old man, night
is generally my time for walking. In
the summer I often leave home early in
the morning, and roam about fields and
lanes all day, or even escape for days
or weeks together ; but, saving in the
country, I seldom go out until after dark,
though, Heaven be thanked, I love its
light, and feel the cheerfulness it sheds
upon the earth, as much as any creature
living.
I have fallen insensibly into this
habit, both because it favors my infirm-
ity, and because it affords me greater
opportunity of speculating on the char-
acters and occupations of those who
fill the streets. The glare and hurry of
broad noon are not adapted to idle pur-
suits like mine ; a glimpse of passing
faces, caught by the light of a street
lamp, or a shop window, is often better
for my purpose than their full revelation
in the daylight ; and, if I must add the
truth, night is kinder in this respect
than day, which too often destroys an
air-built castle at the moment of its
completion, without the least ceremony
or remorse.
That constant pacing to and fro, that
never-ending restlessness, that inces-
sant tread of feet wearing the rough
stones smooth and glossy, — is it not
a wonder how the dwellers in narrow
ways can bear to hear it ! Think of a
sick man, in such a place as Saint Mar-
tin’s Court, listening to the footsteps,
and, in the midst of pain and weariness,
obliged, despite himself (as though it
were a task he must perform), to detect
the child’s step from the man’s, the slip-
shod beggar from the booted exquisite,
the lounging from the busy, the dull
heel of the sauntering outcast from the
quick tread of an expectant pleasure-
seeker, — think of the hum and noise
being always present to his senses, and
of the stream of life that will not stop,
pouring on, on, on, through all his rest-
less dreams, as if he were condemned
to lie, dead but conscious, in a noisy
churchyard, and had no hope of rest for
centuries to come !
Then the crowds forever passing and
repassing on the bridges (on those which
are free of toll at least) where many
stop on fine evenings looking listlessly
down upon the water, with some vague
idea that by and by it runs between
green banks which grow wider and
wider until at last it joins the broad vast
sea, — where some halt to rest from
heavy loads, and think, as they look
over the parapet, that to smoke and
lounge away one’s life, and lie sleeping
in the sun upon a hot tarpaulin, in a
dull, slow, sluggish barge, must be hap-
piness unalloyed, — and where some,
and a very different class, pause with
heavier loads than they, remembering
to have heard or read in some old time
that drowning was not a hard death,
but of all means of suicide the easiest
and best.
Covent Garden Market at sunrise too,
in the spring or summer, when the fra-
grance of sweet flowers is in the air,
overpowering even the unwholesome
steams of last night’s debauchery, and
driving the dusky thrush, whose cage
has hung outside a garret window all
12
THE OLD CURIOSITY SHOP.
night long, half mad with joy! Poor,
bird ! the only neighboring thing at all
akin to the other little captives, some
of whom, shrinking from the hot hands
of drunken purchasers, lie drooping on
the path already, while others, soddened
by close contact, await the time when
they sliall be watered and freshened up
to please more sober company, and
make old clerks who pass them on
their road to business wonder what has
filled their breasts with visions of the
country.
But my present purpose is not to
expatiate upon my walks. The story I
am about to relate arose out of one
of these rambles ; and thus I have
been led to speak of them by way of
preface.
One night I had roamed into the city,
and was walking slowly on in my usual
way, musing upon a great many things,
when I was arrested by an inquiry the
purport of which did not reach me, but
which seemed to be addressed to my-
self, and was preferred in a soft sweet
voice that struck me very pleasantly.
I turned hastily round, and found at my
elbow a pretty little girl, who begged to
be directed to a certain street at a con-
siderable distance, and indeed in quite
another quarter of the town.
“ It is a very long way from here,”
said I, “ my child.”
“ I know that, sir,” she replied, tim-
idly. “ I am afraid it is a very long
way; for I came from there to-night.”
“Alone?” said I, in some surprise.
“ O yes, I don’t mind that, but I
am a little frightened now, for I have
lost my road.”
“And what made you ask it of me?
Suppose I should tell you wrong.”
“ I am sure you will not do that,”
said the little creature, “ you are such
a very old gentleman, and walk so slow
yourself.”
I cannot describe how much I was
impressed by this appeal, and the en-
ergy with which it was made, which
brought a tear into the child’s clear
eye, and made her slight figure tremble
as she looked up into my face.
“ Come,” said I, “ I ’ll take you
there.”
She put her hand in mine, as con-
fidingly as if she had known me from
her cradle, and we trudged away to-
gether, — the little creature accommodat-
ing her pace to mine, and rather seem-
ing to lead and take care of me than I
to be protecting her. . I observed that
every now and then $he stole a curious
look at my face as if to make quite
sure that I was not deceiving her, and
that these glances (very sharp and keen
they were too) seemed to increase her
confidence at every repetition.
For my part, my curiosity and inter-
est were, at least, equal to the child’s;
for child she certainly was, although I
thought it probable from what I could
make out, that her very small and deli-
cate frame imparted a peculiar youth-
fulness to her appearance. Though
more scantily attired than she might
have been, she was dressed with per-
fect neatness, and betrayed no marks
of poverty or neglect.
“ Who has sent you so far by your-
self? ” said I.
“ Somebody who is very kind to me,
sir.”
“And what have you been doing?”
“That I must not tell,” said the
child.
There was something in the manner
of this reply which caused me to look
at the little creature with an involun-
tary expression of surprise ; for I won-
dered what kind of errand it might be,
that occasioned her to be prepared for
questioning. Her quick eye seemed
to read my thoughts. As it met mine,
she added that there was no harm in
what she had been doing, but it was a
great secret, — a secret which she did
not even know herself.
This was said with no appearance of
cunning or deceit, but with an unsus-
picious frankness that, bore the impress
of truth. She walked on, as before,
growing more familiar with me as w^e
proceeded, and talking cheerfully by
the w ay ; but she said no more about
her home, beyond remarking that w f e
were going quite a new road, and ask-
ing if it were a short one.
While we were thus engaged, I re-
volved in my mind a hundred differ-
ent explanations of the riddle, and re-
jected them every one. I really felt
THE OLD CURIOSITY SHOP.
i3
ashamed to take advantage of' the in-
genuousness or grateful feeling of the
child, for the purpose of gratifying my
curiosity. I love these little people ;
and it is not. a slight thing when they,
who are so fresh from God, love us.
As I had felt pleased, at first, by her
confidence, I determined to deserve it,
and to do credit to the nature which
had prompted her to repose it in me.
There was no reason, however, why
I should refrain from seeing the per-
son who had inconsiderately sent her
to so great a distance by night and
alone ; and, as it was not improbable
that if she found herself near home
she might take farewell of me and
deprive me of the opportunity, I avoid-
ed the most frequented ways and took
the most intricate. Thus it was not
until we arrived in the street itself
that she knew where we were. Clap-
ping her hands with pleasure, and run-
ning on before me for a short distance,
my little acquaintance stopped at a
door, and, remaining on the step till I
came up, knocked at it when I joined
her.
A part of this door was of glass, un-
protected by any shutter ; which I did
not observe at first, for all was very
dark and silent: within, and I was
anxious (as indeed the child was also)
for an answer to our summons. When
she had knocked twice or thrice, there
was a noise as if some person were mov-
ing inside, and at length a faint light
appeared through the glass, which, as
it approached very slowly, — the bearer
having to make his way through a
great many scattered articles, — ena-
bled me to see, both what kind of per-
son it was who advanced, and what
kind of place it was through which he
came.
He was a little old man with long
gray hair, whose face and figure, as he
held the light above his head and
looked before him as he approached,
I could plainly see. Though much
altered by age, I fancied I could recog-
nize in his spare and slender form some-
thing of that delicate mould which I
had noticed in the child. Their bright
blue eyes were certainly alike, but his
face was so deeply furrowed, and so
very full of care, that here all resem-
blance ceased.
The place through which he made his
way at leisure was one of those recepta-
cles for old and curious things which
seem to crouch in odd corners of this
town, and to hide their musty treasures
from the public eye in jealousy and dis-
trust. There were suits of mail, stand-
ing like ghosts in armor, here and
there ; fantastic carvings brought from
monkish cloisters ; rusty weapons of
various kinds ; distorted figures in china
and wood and iron and ivory ; tapestry
and strange furniture that might have
been designed in dreams. The haggard
aspect of the little old man was wonder-
fully suited to the place. He might have
groped among old churches and tombs
and deserted houses, and gathered all
the spoils with his own hands. There
was nothing in the whole collection but
was in keeping with himself, — nothing
that looked older or more worn than
he.
As he turned the key in the lock, he
surveyed me with some astonishment,
which was not diminished when he
looked from me to my companion. The
door being opened, the child addressed
him as her grandfather, and told him the
little story of our companionship.
“ Why, bless thee, child,” said the old
man, patting her on the head, “ how
couldst thou miss thy way ? What if I
had lost thee, Nell !”
“ I would have found my way back
to you, grandfather,” said the child,
boldly; “never fear.”
The old man kissed her ; then turned
to me and begged me to walk in. I did
so. The door was closed and locked.
Preceding me with the light, he led
rfle through the place I had already
seen from without into a small sitting-
room behind, in which was another door
opening into a kind of closet, where I
saw a little bed that a fairy might have
slept in, it looked so very small and
was so prettily arranged. The child
took a candle and tripped into this lit-
tle room, leaving the old man and me
together.
“ You must be tired, sir,” said he as
he placed a chair near the fire ; “ how
• can I thank you? ”
THE OLD CURIOSITY SHOP.
i4
“ By taking more care of your grand-
child another time, my good friend,”
I replied.
“ More care ! ” said the old man in
a shrill voice, — “more care of Nelly !
Why, who ever loved a child as I love
Nell?”
He said this with such evident sur-
prise that I was perplexed what answer
to make ; the more so because, coupled
with something feeble and wandering
in his manner, there were in his face
marks of deep and anxious thought,
which convinced me that he could not
be, as I had been at first inclined to sup-
pose, in a state of dotage or imbecility.
“I don’t think you consider — ”1
began.
“ 1 don’t consider ! ” cried the old
man, interrupting me, — “I don’t con-
sider her ! Ah, how little you know of
the truth ! Little Nelly, little Nelly ! ”
It would be impossible for any man
— I care not what his form of speech
might be — to express more affection
than the dealer in curiosities did in
these four words. I waited for him to
speak again, but he rested his chin upon
his hand, and, shaking his head twice or
thrice, fixed his eyes upon the fire.
While we were sitting thus in silence,
the door of the closet opened, and the
child returned ; her light brown hair
hanging loose about her neck, and her
face flushed with the haste she had
made to rejoin us. She busied her-
self, immediately, in preparing supper.
While she was thus engaged I remarked
that the old man took an opportunity of
observing me more closely than he had
done yet. I was surprised to see that,
all this time, everything was done by the
child, and that there appeared to be no
other persons but ourselves in the house.
I took advantage of a moment when she
W'as absent to venture a hint on this
point, to which the old man replied that
there were few grown persons as trust-
worthy or as careful as she.
“ It always grieves me,” I observed,
roused by what I took to be his selfish-
ness, — “ it always grieves me to con-
template the initiation of children into
the ways of life when they are scarcely
more than infants. It checks their con-
fidence and simplicity, — two of the best.
ualities that Heaven gives them, — and
emands that they share our sorrows
before they are capable of entering into
our enjoyments.”
“ It will never check hers,” said the
old man, looking steadily at me: “the
springs are too deep. Besides, the chil-
dren of the poor know but few pleasures.
Even the cheap delights of childhood
must be bought and paid for.”
“But — forgive me for saying this
— you are surely not so very poor,”
said I.
“ She is not my child, sir,” returned
the old man. “ Her mother was, and
she was poor. I save nothing, — not
a penny, — though I live as you see,
but” — he laid his hand upon my arm
and leant forward to whisper — “she
shall be rich one of these days, and a
fine lady. Don’t you think ill of me,
because I use her help. She gives it
cheerfully as you see, and it would
break her heart if she knew that I suf-
fered anybody else to do for me what
her little hands could undertake. I
don’t consider ! ” he cried with sudden
querulousness ; “ why, God knows that
this one child is the thought and object
of my life, and yet he never prospers
me, — no, never ! ”
At this juncture, the subject of our
conversation again returned ; and the
old man, motioning to me to approach
the table, broke off, and said no more.
We had scarcely begun our repast
when there was a knock at the door by
which I had entered ; and Nell, burst-
ing into a hearty laugh, which I was
rejoiced to hear, for it was childlike
and full of hilarity, said it was, no
doubt, dear old Kit come back at
last.
“ Foolish Nell ! ” said the old man,
fondling with her hair. “ She always
laughs at poor Kit.”
The child laughed again more heart-
ily than before, and I could not help
smiling from pure sympathy. The
little old man took up a candle and
went to open the door. When he
came back, Kit was at his heels.
Kit was a shock-headed, shambling,
awkward lad, with an uncommonly wide
mouth, very red cheeks, a turned-up
nose, and certainly the most comical ex-
THE OLD CURIOSITY SHOP.
*5
presslon of face I ever saw. He stopped
short at the door on seeing a stranger,
twirled in his hand a perfectly round
old hat without any vestige of a brim,
and, resting himself now on one leg,
and now on the other, and changing
them constantly, stood in the doorway,
looking into the parlor with the most
extraordinary leer I ever beheld. I
entertained a grateful feeling towards
the boy from that minute, for I felt
that he was the comedy of the child’s
life. . /
“A long way, wasn’t it, Kit?” said
the little old man.
“ Why, then, it was a goodish stretch,
master,” returned Kit.
“ Did you find the house easily? ”
“Why, then, not over and above
easy, master,” said Kit.
“ Of course you have come back hun-
gry?”
“Why, then, I do consider myself
rather so, master,” was the answer.
The lad had a remarkable manner of
standing sideways as he spoke, and
thrusting his head forward over his
shoulder, as if he could not get at his
voice without that accompanying ac-
tion. I think he would have amused
one anywhere, but the child’s exquisite
enjoyment of his oddity, and the relief
it was to find that there was something
she associated with merriment, in a
place that appeared so unsuited to her,
were quite irresistible. It was a great
point, too, that Kit himself was flat-
tered by the sensation he created, and
after several efforts to preserve his
gravity, burst into a loud roar, and
so stood with his mouth wide open
and his eyes nearly shut, laughing vio-
lently.
The old man had again relapsed into
his former abstraction and took no
notice of what passed ; but I remarked
that, when her laugh was over, the
child’s bright eyes were dimmed with
tears, called forth by the fulness of
heart with which she welcomed her un-
couth favorite after the little anxiety of
the night. As for Kit himself (whose
laugh had been all the time one of that
sort which very little would change into
a cry) he carried a large slice of bread
and meat and a mug of beer into a
corner, and applied himself to dispos-
ing of them with great voracity.
“Ah ! ” said the old man, turning to
me with a sigh as if I had spoken to
him but that moment, “you don’t know
what you say, when you tell me that I
don’t consider her.”
“ You must not attach too great
weight to a remark founded on first
appearances, my friend,” said I.
“ No,” returned the old man thought-
fully, — “no. Come hither, Nell.”
The little girl hastened from her seat,
and put her arm about his neck.
“Do I love thee, Nell?” said he.
“ Say, — do I love thee, Nell, or no ? ”
The child only answered by her
caresses, and laid her head upon his
breast.
“ Why dost thou sob,” said the grand-
father, pressing her closer to him and
glancing towards me. “ Is it because
thou know’st I love thee, and dost not
like that I should seem to doubt it by
my question? Well, well; then let ua
say I love thee dearly.”
“Indeed, indeed you do,” replied
the child with great earnestness ; “ Kit
knows you do.”
Kit, who, in despatching his bread
and meat, had been swallowing two
thirds of his knife at every mouthful
with the coolness of a juggler, stopped
short in his operations on being thus
appealed to, and bawled, “ Nobody is n’t
such a fool as to say he doos n’t” ; af->
ter which he incapacitated himself for
further conversation by taking a most;
prodigious sandwich at one bite.
“ She is poor now,” said the old man,
patting the child’s cheek ; “ but, I say
again, the time is coming when she
shall be rich. It has been a long time
coming, but it must come at last ; a
very long time, but it surely must come.
It has come to other men who do noth-
ing but waste and riot. When will it
come to me ! ”
“ I am very happy as I am, grand-
father,” said the child.
“ Tush, tush ! ” returned the old
man, “thou dost not know, — how
shouldst thou ! ” Then he muttered
again between his teeth, “ The time
must come, I am very sure it must. It
will be all the better for coming late ” ;
i6
THE OLD CURIOSITY SHOP.
and then he sighed and fell into his for-
mer musing state, and, still holding the
child between his knees, appeared to
be insensible to everything around him.
By this time it wanted but a few min-
utes of midnight, and I rose to go :
which recalled him to himself.
“ One moment, sir,” he said. “ Now,
Kit, near midnight, boy, and you still
here ! Get home, get home, and be
true to your time in the morning, for
there ’s work to do. Good night !
There, bid him good night, Nell, and
let him be gone ! ”
“Good night, Kit,” said the' child,
her eyes lighting up with merriment
and kindness.
“ Good night, Miss Nell,” returned
the boy.
“And thank this gentleman,” inter-
posed the old man, “ but for whose
care I might have lost my little girl to-
night.”
“No, no, master,” said Kit; “that
won’t do, that won’t.”
“ What do you mean? ” cried the old
man.
“/’dhave found her, master,” said
Kit, — “1 ’d have found her. I ’d bet
that I ’d find her if she was above
ground. I would, as quick as anybody,
master ! Ha, ha, ha ! ”
Once more opening his mouth and
shutting his eyes, and laughing like a
stentor, Kit gradually backed to the
door, and roared himself out.
Free of the room, the boy was not
slow in taking his departure. When he
had gone, and the child was occupied
in clearing the table, the old man said, —
“ I have n’t seemed to thank you, sir,
« enough for what you have done to-night ;
but I do thank you, humbly and heart-
ily ; and so does she ; and her thanks
are better worth than mine. I should
be sorry that you went away and
thought I was unmindful of your good-
ness, or careless of her : I am not in-
deed.”
I was sure of that, I said, from what
I had seen. “ But,” I added, “ may I
ask you a question ? ”
“ Ay, sir,” replied the old man, “what
is it ? ”
“This delicate child,” said I, “with
so much beauty and intelligence, — has
she nobody to care for her but you?
Has she no other companion or ad-
viser?”
“ No,” he returned, looking anxiously
in my face, — “no, and she wants no
other.”
“ But are you not fearful,” said I,
“ that you may misunderstand a charge
so tender ? I am sure you mean well,
but are you quite certain that you know
how to execute such a trust as this?
I am an old man, like you, and I am
actuated by an old man’s concern in
all that is young and promising. Do
you not think that what I have seen
of you and this little creature to-night
must have an interest not wholly free
from pain ? ”
“ Sir,” rejoined the old man after a
moment’s silence, “ I have no right to
feel hurt at what you say. It is true
that in many respects I am the child,
and she the grown person, — that you
have seen already. But, waking or
sleeping, by night or day, in sickness or
health, she is the one object of my care ;
and if you knew of how much care,
you would look on me with different
eyes, you would indeed. Ah ! it ’s a
weary life for an old man, — a weary,
weary life, — but there is a great end to
gain, and that I keep before me.”
Seeing that he was in a state of ex-
citement and impatience, I turned to
put on an outer coat which I had thrown
off, on entering the room, purposing to
say no more. I was surprised to see
the child standing patiently by, with a
cloak upon her arm, and in her hand a
hat and stick.
“Those are not mine, my dear,”
said I.
“ No,” returned the child, quietly,
“ they are grandfather’s.”
“But he is not going out to-night.”
“O yes he is,” said the child, with
a smile.
“And what becomes of you, my pret-
ty one?”
“Me! I stay here of course. I al-
ways do.”
I looked in astonishment towards
the old man ; but he was, or feigned to
be, busied in the arrangement of his
dress. From him I looked back to
the slight, gentle figure of the child.
THE OLD CURIOSITY SHOP.
*7
Alone ! In that gloomy place all the
long, dreary night !
She evinced no consciousness of my
surprise, but cheerfully helped the old
man with his cloak, and, when he. was
ready, took a candle to light us out.
Finding that we did not follow as she
expected, she looked back with a smile
and waited for us. The old man showed
by his face that he plainly understood
the cause of my hesitation, but he mere-
ly signed to me with an inclination of
the head to pass out of the room before
him, and remained silent. I had no
resource but to comply.
When we reached the door, the child,
setting down the candle, turned to say
good night and raised her face to kiss
me. Then she ran to the old man,
who folded her in his arms and bade
God bless her.
“ Sleep soundly, Nell,” he said in a
low voice, “and angels guard thy bed !
Do not forget thy prayers, my sweet.”
“ No indeed,” answered the child fer-
vently, “ they make me feel so happy ! ”
“ That ’s well ; I know they do ; they
should,” said the old man. “ Bless thee
a hundred times ! Early in the morning
I shall be home.”
“ You ’ll not ring twice,” returned the
child. “The bell wakes me, even in
the middle of a dream.”
With this they separated. The child
opened the door (now guarded by a shut-
ter which I had heard the boy put up
before he left the house), and with anoth-
er farewell, whose clear and tender note
I have recalled a thousand times, held it
until we had passed out. The old man
paused a moment while it was gently
closed and fastened on the inside, and,
satisfied that this was done, walked on
at a slow pace. At the street corner he
stopped. Regarding me with a troubled
countenance, he said that our ways were
widely different, and that he must take
his leave. I would have spoken, but,
summoning up more alacrity than might
have been expected in one of his appear-
ance, he. hurried away. I could see,
that, twice or thrice, he looked back as
if to ascertain if I were still watching
him, or perhaps to assure himself that I
was not following, at a distance. The
<?bs<jurity of the night favored his disap-
2
pearance, and his figure was soon beyond
my sight.
I remained standing on the spot where
he had left me, unwilling to depart, and
yet unknowing why I should loiter
there. I looked wistfully into the street
we had lately quitted, and, after a time,
directed my steps that way. I passed
and repassed the house, and stopped,
and listened at the door. All was dark,
and silent as the grave.
Yet I lingered about, and could not
tear myself away ; thinking of all possi-
ble harm that might happen to the child,
— of fires, and robberies, and even mur-
der, — and feeling as if some evil must
ensue if I turned my back upon the
place. The closing of a door or window
in the street brought me before the cu-
riosity dealer’s once more. I crossed
the road, and looked up at the house, to
assure myself that the noise had not
come from there. No, it was black,
cold, and lifeless as before.
There were few passengers astir ; the
street was sad and dismal, and pretty
well my own. A few stragglers from the
theatres hurried by, and now and then' I
turned aside to avoid some noisy drunk-
ard as he reeled homewards ; but these
interruptions were not frequent and soon
ceased. The clocks struck one. Still I
paced up and down, promising myself
that every time should be the last, and
breaking faith with myself on some new
plea as often as I did so.
The more I thought of what the old
man had said, and of his looks and
bearing, the less I could account for
what I had seen and heard. I had a
strong misgiving that his nightly absence
was for no good purpose. I had only
come to know the fact through the inno-
cence of the child ; and, though the old
man was by at the time and saw my
undisguised surprise, he had preserved
a strange mystery on the subject, and
offered no word of explanation. _ These
reflections naturally recalled again, more
strongly than before, his haggard face,
his wandering manner, his restless anx-
ious looks. His affection for the child
might not be inconsistent with villany of
the worst kind ; even that very affection
was, in itself, an extraordinary contradic-
tion, or how could he leave her thus?
x8
THE OLD CURIOSITY SHOP.
Disposed as I was to think badly of him,
I never doubted that his love for her was
real. I could not admit the thought,
remembering what had passed between
us, and the tone of voice in which he
had called her by her name.
“ Stay here of course,” the child had
said in answer to my question ; “ I al-
ways do ! ” What could take him from
home by night, and every night ! I
called up all the strange tales I had
ever heard, of dark and secret deeds
committed in great towns and escaping
detection for a long series of years.
Wild as many of these stories were, I
could not find one adapted to this mys-
tery, which only became the more im-
penetrable, in proportion as I sought to
solve it.
Occupied with such thoughts as these,
and a crowd of others all tending to
the same point, I continued to pace the
street for two long hours. At length the
rain began to descend heavily ; and
then, overpowered by fatigue, though
no less interested than I had been at
first, I engaged the nearest coach and
so got home. A cheerful fire was blaz-
ing on the hearth, the lamp burnt
brightly, my clock received me with its
old familiar welcome ; everything was
quiet, warm, and cheering, and in hap-
? y contrast to the gloom and darkness
had quitted.
I sat down in my easy-chair, and, fall-
ing back upon its ample cushions, pic-
tured to myself the child in her bed ;
alone, unwatched, uncared for (save by
angels), yet sleeping peacefully. So
very young, so spiritual, so slight and
fairy-like a creature passing the long
dull nights in such an uncongenial
place, — I could not dismiss it from my
thoughts.
We are so much in the habit of allow-
ing impressions to be made upon us by
external objects, which should be pro-
duced by reflection alone, but which,
without such visible aids, often escape
us, that I am not sure I should have
been so thoroughly possessed by this one
subject, but for the heaps of. fantastic
things I had seen huddled together in
the curiosity dealer’s warehouse. These,
crowding on my mind, in connection
with the child, and gathering round her,
as it were, brought her condition palpa-
bly before me. I had her image, with-
out any effort of imagination, surround-
ed and beset by everything that was
foreign to its nature, and furthest re-
moved from the sympathies of her sex
and age. If these helps to my fancy
had all been wanting, and I had been
forced to imagine her in a common
chamber, with nothing unusual or un-
couth in its appearance, it is very prob-
able that I should have been less im-
pressed with her strange and solitapr
state. As it was, she seemed to exist in
a kind of allegory ; and, having these
shapes about her, claimed my interest
so strongly that (as I have already re-
marked) I could not dismiss her from
my recollection, do what I would.
“ It would be a curious speculation,”
said I, after some restless turns across
and across the room, “to imagine her
in her future life, holding her solitary
way among a crowd of wild, grotesque
companions, — the only pure, fresh,
youthful object in the throng. It would
be curious to find — ”
I checked myself here, for the theme
was carrying me along with it at a great
pace, and I already saw before me a
region on which I was little disposed to
enter. I agreed with myself that this
was idle musing, and resolved to go to
bed, and court forgetfulness.
But all that night, waking or in my
sleep, the same thoughts recurred, and
the same images retained possession of
my brain. I had, ever before me, the
old dark murky rooms, — the gaunt
suits of mail with their ghostly silent
air, — the faces all awry, grinning from
wood and stone, — the dust, and rust,
and worm that lives in wood, — and
alone in the midst of all this lumber
and decay and ugly age, the beautiful
child in her gentle slumber, smiling
through her light and sunny dreams.
CHAPTER II.
After combating, for nearly a week,
the feeling w'hich impelled me to revisit
the place I had quitted under the cir-
cumstances already detailed, I yielded
THE OLD CURIOSITY SHOP.
19
to it at length ; and, determining that
this time I would present myself by the
light of day, bent my steps thither early
in the afternoon.
I walked past the house, and took
several turns in the street, with that
kind of hesitation which is natural to a
man who is conscious that the visit he
is about to pay is unexpected, and may
not be very acceptable. However, as
the door of the shop was shut, and it
did not appear likely that I should be
recognized by those within, if I contin-
ued merely to pass up and down before
it, I soon conquered this irresolution,
and found myself in the curiosity deal-
er’s warehouse.
The old man and another person
were together in the back part, and
there seemed to have been high words
between them, for their voices, which
were raised to a very loud pitch, sud-
denly stopped on my entering, and the
old man, advancing hastily towards me,
said in a tremulous tone that he was
very glad I had come.
“You interrupted us at a critical mo-
ment,” he said, pointing to the man
whom I had found in company with
him. “ This fellow will murder me one
of these days. He would have done so,
long ago, if he had dared.”
“ Bah ! You would swear away my
life if you could,” returned the other,
after bestowing a stare and a frown on
me ; “we all know that ! ”
“I almost think I could,” cried the
old man, turning feebly upon him. “If
oaths or prayers or words could rid
me of you, they should. I would be
quit of you, and would be relieved if
you were dead.”
“ I know it,” returned the other.
“ I said so, did n’t I ? But neither
oaths nor prayers nor words will kill
me, and therefore I live, and mean to
live.”
“ And his mother died ! ” cried the
old man, passionately clasping his hands
and looking upward ; “ and this is Heav-
en’s justice ! ”
The other stood lounging with his
foot upon a chair, and regarded him
with a contemptuous sneer. He was a
young man of one-and-twenty or there-
abouts ; well made, and certainly hand-
some, though the expression of his face
was far from prepossessing, having, in
common with his manner and even his
dress, a dissipated, insolent air which
repelled one.
“ Justice or no justice,” said the
young fellow, “ here I am and here I
shall stop till such time as I think fit
to go, unless you send for assistance to
put me out, — which you won’t do, I
know. I tell you again that I want to
see my sister.”
“ Your sister ! ” said the old man,
bitterly.
“Ah! You can’t change the rela-
tionship,” returned the other. “If you
could, you ’d have done it long ago. I
want to see my sister, that you keep
cooped up here, poisoning her mind
with your sly secrets, and pretending an
affection for her that you may work her
to death, and add a few scraped shil-
lings every week to the money you can
hardly count. I want to see her ; and
I will.”
“ Here ’s a moralist to talk of poisoned
minds ! Here ’s a generous spirit to
scorn scraped-up shillings ! ” cried the
old man, turning from him to me. “ A
profligate, sir, who has forfeited every
claim, not only upon those who have the
misfortune to be of his blood, but upon
society which knows nothing of him
but his misdeeds. A liar too,” he add-
ed, in a lower voice as he drew closer
to me, “ who knows how dear she is to
me, and seeks to wound me even there,
because there is a stranger by.”
“ Strangers are nothing to me, grand-
father,” said the young fellow, catching
at the words, “nor I to them, I hope.
The best they can do is to keep an eye
to their business and leave me to mine.
There ’s a friend of mine waiting outside,
and as it seems that I may have to wait
some time, I ’ll call him in, with your
leave.”
Saying this, he stepped to the door,
and, looking down the street, beckoned
several times to some unseen person,
who, to judge from the air of impatience
with which these signals were accompa-
nied, required a great quantity of per-
suasion to induce him to advance. At
length there sauntered up, on the oppo-
site side of the way, — with a bad pre-
20
THE OLD CURIOSITY SHOP.
tence of passing by accident, — a figure
conspicuous for its dirty smartness,
which, after a great many frowns and
jerks of the head, in resistance of the
invitation, ultimately crossed the road
and was brought into the shop.
“There. It’s Dick Swiveller,” said
the young fellow, pushing him in. “ Sit
down, Swiveller.”
“ But is the old min agreeable?” said
Mr. Swiveller in an undertone.
“ Sit down,” repeated his compan-
ion.
Mr. Swiveller complied, and, looking
about him with a propitiatory smile,
observed that last week was a fine week
for the ducks, and this week was a fine
week for the dust ; he also observed
that, while standing by the post at the
street corner, he had observed a pig
with a straw in his mouth issuing out
of the tobacco-shop, from which appear-
ance he augured that another fine week
for the ducks was approaching, and that
rain would certainly ensue. He further-
more took occasion to apologize for any
negligence that might be perceptible in
his dress, on the ground that last night
he had had “the sun very strong in his
eyes”; by which expression he was
understood to convey to his hearers, in
the most delicate manner possible, the
information that he had been extremely
drunk.
“ But what,” said Mr. Swiveller with
a sigh, — “what is the odds so long as the
fire of soul is kindled at the taper of
conwiviality, and the wing of friendship
never moults a feather ! What is the
odds so long as the spirit is expanded
by means of rosy wine, and the present
moment is the least happiest of our
existence ! ”
“ You needn’t act the chairman here,”
said his friend, half aside.
“ Fred! ” cried Mr. Swiveller, tapping
his nose, “ a word to the wise is suffi-
cient for them, —we maybe good and
happy without riches, Fred. Say not
another syllable. I know my cue ; smart
is the word. Only one little whisper,
Fred, — is the old min friendly? ”
“ Never you mind,” replied his friend.
“ Right again, quite right,” said Mr.
Swiveller; “caution is The word, and
caution is the act.” With that, he
winked as if in preservation of some
deep secret, and, folding his arms and
leaning back in his chair, looked up at
the ceiling with profound gravity.
It was perhaps not very unreasonable
to suspect, from what had already passed,
that Mr. Swiveller was not quite re-
covered from the effects of the powerful
sunlight to which he had made allusion ;
but if no such suspicion had been awak-
ened by his speech, his wiry hair, dull
eyes, and sallow face would still have
been strong witnesses against him. His
attire was not, as he had himself hinted,
remarkable for the nicest arrangement,
but was in a state of disorder which
strongly induced the idea that he had
gone to bed in it. It consisted of a
brown body-coat with a great many
brass buttons up the front and only one
behind, a bright check neckerchief, a
plaid waistcoat, soiled white trousers,
and a very limp hat, worn with the
wrong side foremost, to hide a hole in
the brim. The breast of his coat was
ornamented with an outside pocket, from
which there peeped forth the cleanest
end of a very large and very ill-favored
handkerchief ; his dirty wristbands were
pulled down as far as possible, and
ostentatiously folded back over his
cuffs ; he displayed no gloves, and
carried a yellow cane having at the top
a bone hand with the semblance of a
ring on its little finger and a black ball
in its grasp. With all these personal
advantages (to which may be added a
strong savor of tobacco-smoke, and a
prevailing greasiness of appearance),
Mr. Swiveller leant back in his chair
with his eyes fixed on the ceiling, and
occasionally, pitching his voice to the
needful key, obliged the company with
a few bars of an intensely dismal air,
and then, in the middle of a note, re-
lapsed into his former silence.
The old man sat himself down in a
chair, and, with folded hands, looked
sometimes at his grandson and some-
times at his strange companion, as if
he were utterly powerless, and had no
resource but to leave them to do as
they pleased. The young man reclined
against a table at no great distance from
his friend, in apparent indifference to
everything that had passed ; and I -
THE OLD CURIOSITY SHOP.
21
who felt the difficulty of any interfer-
ence, notwithstanding that the old man
had appealed to me, both by words and
looks — made the best feint I could of
being occupied in examining some of
the goods that were disposed for sale,
and paying very little attention to the
persons before me.
The silence was not of long duration,
for Mr. Swiveller, after favoring us with
several melodious assurances that his
heart was in the highlands, and that he
wanted but his Arab steed as a prelimi-
nary, to the achievement of great feats
of valor and loyalty, removed his eyes
from the ceiling and subsided into prose
again.
“ Fred,” said Mr. Swiveller, stopping
short as if the idea had suddenly oc-
curred to him, and speaking in the same
audible whisper as before, “ is the old
min friendly?”
“What does it matter?” returned
his friend, peevishly.
“ No, but is he ? ” said Dick.
“Yes, of course. What do I care
whether he is or not ! ”
Emboldened, as it seemed, by this
reply to enter into a more general con-
versation, Mr. Swiveller plainly laid
himself out to captivate our attention.
He began by remarking that soda-
water, though a good thing in the
abstract, was apt to lie cold upon the
stomach unless qualified with ginger, or
a small infusion of brandy, which latter
article he held to be preferable in all
cases, saving for the one consideration
of expense. Nobody venturing to dis-
pute these positions, he proceeded to
observe that the human hair was a great
retainer of tobacco-smoke, and that the
young gentlemen of Westminster and
Eton, after eating vast quantities of
apples to conceal any scent of cigars
from their anxious friends, were usually
detected in consequence of their heads
possessing this remarkable property ;
whence he concluded that if the Royal
Society would turn their attention to
the circumstance, and endeavor to find
in the resources of science a means of
preventing such untoward revelations,
they might indeed be looked upon as
benefactors to mankind. These opin-
ions being equally incontrovertible with
those he had already pronounced, he
went on to inform us that Jamaica rum,
though unquestionably an agreeable
spirit of great richness and flavor, had
the drawback of remaining constantly
present to the taste next day ; and
nobody being venturous enough to
argue this point either, he increased in
confidence and became yet more com-
panionable and communicative.
“ It ’s a devil of a thing, gentlemen,”
said Mr. Swiveller, “ when relations fall
out and disagree. If the wing of friend-
ship should never moult a feather, the
wing of relationship should never be
clipped, but be always expanded and
serene. Why should a grandson and
grandfather peg away at each other with
mutual wiolence, when all might be bliss
and concord? Why not jine hands and
forgit it? ”
“ Hold your tongue,” said his friend.
“Sir,” replied Mr. Swiveller, “don’t
ou interrupt the chair. Gentlemen,
ow does the case stand, upon the pres-
ent occasion? Here is a jolly old
grandfather, — I say it with the utmost
respect, — and here is a wild young
grandson. The jolly old grandfather
says to the wild young grandson, * I
have brought you up and educated you,
Fred; I have put you in the way of
getting on in life ; you have bolted a
little out of the course, as young fellows
often do ; and you shall never have
another chance, nor the ghost of half a
one.’ The wild young grandson makes
answer to this and says, ‘ You ’re as
rich as rich can be ; you have been at
no uncommon expense on my account ;
you ’re saving up piles of money for my
little sister that lives with you in a se-
cret stealthy, hugger-muggering kind
of way and with no manner of enjoy-
ment, — why can’t you stand a trifle for
your grown-up relation ? ’ The jolly
old grandfather unto this retorts, not
only that he declines to fork out with
that cheerful readiness which is always
so agreeable and pleasant in a gentle-
man of his time of life, but that he will
blow up, and call names, and make re-
flections whenever they meet. Then
the plain question is, Ain’t it a pity that
this state of things should continue, and
how much better would it be for the old
22
THE OLD CURIOSITY SHOP .
gentleman to hand over a reasonable
amount of tin, and make it all right and
comfortable ? ”
Having delivered this oration with a
great many waves and flourishes of the
hand, Mr. Swiveller abruptly thrust the
head of his cane into his mouth as if
to prevent himself from impairing the
effect of his speech by adding one other
word.
“ Why do you hunt and persecute
me, God help me?” said the old man,
turning to his grandson. “ Why do
you bring your profligate companions
here ? How often am I to tell you that
my life is one of care and self-denial,
and that I am poor?”
“ How often am I to tell you,” re-
turned the other, looking coldly at him,
“that I know better?”
“ You have chosen your own path,”
said the old man. “ Follow it. Leave
Nell and I to toil and work.”
“ Nell will be a woman soon,” re-
turned the other, “and, bred in your
faith, she ’ll forget her brother unless
he shows himself sometimes.”
“Take care,” said the old man with
sparkling eyes, “ that she does not for-
get you when you would have her mem-
ory keenest. Take care that the day
don’t come when you walk barefoot in
the streets, and she rides by in a gay
carriage of her own.”
“You mean when she has your mon-
ey?” retorted the other. “ How like a
poor man he talks ! ”
“ And yet,” said the old man, drop-
ping his voice and speaking like one
who thinks aloud, “ how poor we are,
and what a life it is ! The cause is a
young child’s, guiltless of all harm or
wrong, but nothing goes well with it !
Hope and patience, hope and pa-
tience ! ”
These words were uttered in too low
a tone to reach the ears of the young
men. Mr. Swiveller appeared to think
that they implied some mental struggle
consequent upon the powerful effect of
his address, for he poked his friend with
his cane and whispered his conviction
that he had administered “ a clincher,”
and that he expected a commission on
the profits. Discovering his mistake
after a while, he appeared to grow rath-
er sleepy and discontented, and had
more than once suggested the propriety
of an immediate departure, when the
door opened, and the child herself ap-
peared.
CHAPTER III.
The child was closely followed by an
elderly man of remarkably hard features
and forbidding aspect, and so low in
stature as to be quite a dwarf, though
his head and face were large enough for
the body of a giant. His black eyes
were restless, sly, and cunning ; his
mouth and chin, bristly with the stubble
of a coarse hard beard; and his com-
plexion was one of that kind which
never looks clean or wholesome. But
what added most to the grotesque
expression of his face was a ghastly
smile, which, appearing to be the mere
result of habit, and to have no connec-
tion with any mirthful or complacent
feeling, constantly revealed the few dis-
colored fangs that were yet scattered in
his mouth, and gave him the aspect of a
panting dog. His dress consisted of a
large high-crowned hat, a worn dark
suit, a pair of capacious shoes, and a
dirty white neckerchief sufficiently limp
and crumpled to disclose the greater
portion of his wiry throat. Such hair
as he had was of a grizzled black, cut
short and straight upon his temples,
and hanging in a frowzy fringe about
his ears. His hands, which were of a
rough coarse grain, were very dirty ; his
finger-nails were crooked, long, and
yellow.
There w r as ample time to note these
particulars, for, besides that they w^ere
sufficiently obvious without very close
observation, some moments elapsed be-
fore any one broke silence. The child
advanced timidly towards her brother
and put her hand in his ; the dwarf (if
we may call him so) glanced keenly at
all present ; and the curiosity dealer,
who plainly had not expected his un-
couth visitor, seemed disconcerted and
embarrassed.
“ Ah ! ” said the dwarf, who, with his
hand stretched out above his. eyes, had
been surveying the young man atten-
THE OLD CURIOSITY SHOP.
33
tively, “ that should be your grandson,
neighbor I ”
“ Say rather that he should not be,”
replied the old man. “ But he is.” >
“And that?” said the dwarf, point-
ing to Dick Swiveller.
“ Some friend of his, as welcome here
as he,” said the old man.
“And that?” inquired the dwarf,
wheeling round and pointing straight
at me.
“ A gentleman who was so good as to
bring Nell home the other night when
she lost her way, coming from your
house.”
The little man turned to the child as
if to chide her or express his wonder,
but, as she was talking to the young
man, held his peace, and bent his head
to listen.
“ Well, Nelly,” said the young fellow
aloud. “ Do they teach you to hate
me, eh?”
“ No, no. For shame. O no ! ” cried
the child.
“To love me, perhaps?” pursued her
brother with a sneer.
“To do neither,” she returned.
“They never speak to me about you.
Indeed they never do.”
“ I dare be bound for that,” he said,
darting a bitter look at the grandfather.
“ I dare be bound for that, Nell. O,
I believe you there ! ”
“ But I love you dearly, Fred,” said
the child.
“ No doubt ! ”
“ I do indeed, and always will,” the
child repeated with great emotion ; “ but
O, if you would leave off vexing him
and making him unhappy, then I could
love you more.”
“ I see ! ” said the young man, as he
stooped carelessly over the child, and,
having kissed her, pushed her from him.
“There, get you away now you have said
your lesson. You need n’t whimper.
We part good friends enough, if that’s
the matter.”
He remained silent, following her
with his eyes, until she had gained her
little room and closed the door ; and
then, turning to the dwarf, said ab-
ruptly, —
“Hark’ee, Mr. — ”
“ Meaning me ? ” returned the dwarf.
“ Quilp is my name. You might re-
member. It ’s not a long one, — Daniel
Quilp.”
“Hark’ee, Mr. Quilp, then,” pur-
sued the other. “You have some in-
fluence with my grandfather there.”
“ Some,” said Mr. Quilp, emphati-
cally.
“ And are in a few of his mysteries
and secrets.”
“A few,” replied Quilp, with equal
dryness.
“ Then let me tell him once for all,
through you, that I will come into and
go out of this place as often as I like, so
long as he keeps Nell here ; and that,
if he wants to be quit of me, he must
first be quit of her. What have I done
to be made a bugbear of, and to be
shunned and dreaded as if I brought
the plague ? He ’ll tell you that I have
no natural affection ; and that I care no
more for Nell, for her own sake, than I
do for him. Let him say so. I care for
the whim, then, of coming to and fro
and reminding her of my existence. I
will see her when I please. That’s
my point. I came here to-day to main-
tain it, and I ’ll come here again fifty
times with the same object and always
with the same success. I said I would
stop till I had gained it. I have done
so, and now my visit ’s ended. Come,
Dick.”
“ Stop ! ” cried Mr. Swiveller, as his
companion turned towards the door.
“ Sir ! ”
“ Sir, I am your humble servant,”
said Mr. Quilp, to whom the monosyl-
lable was addressed.
“ Before I leave the gay and festive
scene, and halls of dazzling light, sir,”
said Mr. Swiveller, “ I will, with your
permission, attempt a slight remark.
I came here, sir, this day, under the
impression that the old min was friend-
ly.”
“ Proceed, sir,” said Daniel Quilp ;
for the orator had made a sudden
stop.
“ Inspired by this idea and the senti-
ments it awakened, sir, and feeling as a
mutual friend that badgering, baiting, and
bullying was not the sort of thing cal-
culated to expand the souls and promote
the social harmony of the contending
24
THE OLD CURIOSITY SHOP.
parties, I took upon myself to suggest a
course which is the course to be adopted
on the present occasion. Will you allow
me to whisper half a syllable, sir? ”
Without waiting for the permission
he sought, Mr. Swiveller stepped up to
the dwarf, and, leaning on his shoulder
and stooping down to get at his ear,
said in a voice which was perfectly
audible to all present, —
“The watchword to the old min is
— fork.”
“ Is what?” demanded Quilp.
" Is fork, sir, fork,” replied Mr. Swiv-
eller, slapping his pocket. “You are
awake, sir?”
The dwarf nodded. Mr. Swiveller
drew back and nodded likewise, then
drew a little farther back and nodded
again, and so on. By these means he
in time reached the door, where he gave
a great cough to attract the dwarf’s
attention and gain an opportunity of
expressing, in dumb show, the closest
confidence and most inviolable secrecy.
Having performed the serious panto-
mime that was necessary for the due
conveyance of these ideas, he cast him-
self upon his friend’s track, and van-
ished.
“ Humph ! ” said the dwarf, with a
sour look and a shrug of his shoulders,
“so much for dear relations. Thank
God I acknowledge none ! Nor need
you either,” he added, turning to the
old man, “if you were not as weak as
a reed, and nearly as senseless.”
“ What would you have me do ? ”
he retorted in a kind of helpless des-
peration. “ It is easy to talk and
sneer. What would you have me
do?”
“ What would / do if I was in your
case?” said the dwarf.
“ Something violent, no doubt.”
“You’re right there,” returned the
little man, highly gratified by the com-
pliment, for such he evidently consid-
ered it ; and grinning like a devil as he
rubbed his dirty hands together. “ Ask
Mrs. Quilp, pretty Mrs. Quilp, obedi-
ent, timid, loving Mrs. Quilp. But
that reminds me, — I have left her all
alone, and she will be . anxious and
know not a moment’s peace till I re-
turn. I know she ’s always in that con-
dition when I ’m away, though she
doesn’t dare to say so, unless I lead
her on and tell her she may speak
freely, and I won’t be angry with her.
O, well-trained Mrs. Quilp ! ”
. The creature appeared quite horrible,
with his monstrous head and little body,
as he rubbed his hands slowly round
and round and round again, — with
something fantastic even in his manner
of performing this slight action, — and,
dropping his shaggy brows and cocking
his chin in the air, glanced upward with
a stealthy look of exultation that an imp
might have copied and appropriated to
himself.
“ Here,” he said, putting his hand
into his breast and sidling up to the
old man as he spoke ; “ I brought it
myself for fear of accidents, as, being in
gold, it was something large and heavy
for Nell to carry in her bag. She need
be accustomed to such loads betimes,
though, neighbor, for she will carry
weight when you are dead.”
“ Heaven send she may ! I hope
so,” said the old man with something
like a groan.
“Hope so!” echoed the dwarf, ap-
proaching close to his ear. “ Neighbor,
I would I knew in what good invest-
ment all these supplies are sunk. But
you are a deep man, and keep your
secret close.”
“ My secret ! ” said the other with a
haggard look. “Yes, you’re right —
I — I — keep it close — very close.”
He said no more, but, taking the
money, turned away with a slow, uncer-
tain step, and pressed his hand upon
his head like a weary and dejected man.
The dwarf watched him sharply, w^hile
he passed into the little sitting-room
and locked it in an iron safe above the
chimney-piece ; and, after musing for a
short space, prepared to take his leave,
observing that, unless he made good
haste, Mrs. Quilp would certainly be in
fits on his return.
“ And so, neighbor,” he added, “ I *11
turn my face homewards, leaving my
love for Nelly and hoping she may
never lose her w>ay again, though Iier
doing so has procured me an honor I
didn’t expect.” With that, he bowed
and leered at me, and with a keen
THE OLD CURIOSITY SHOP.
25
glance ' around which seemed to com-
prehend every object within his range
of vision, however small or trivial, went
his way.
I had several times essayed to go
myself, but the old man had always
opposed it and entreated me to remain.
As he renewed his entreaties on our
being left alone, and adverted with
many thanks to the former occasion of
our being together, I willingly yielded
to his persuasions, and sat down, pre-
tending to examine some curious minia-
tures and a few old medals which he
placed before me. It needed no great
pressing to induce me to stay, for if my
curiosity had been excited on the occa-
sion of my first visit, it certainly was
not diminished now.
Nell joined us before long, and, bring-
ing some needle-work to the table, sat
by the old man’s side. It was pleasant
to observe the fresh flowers in the room,
the pet bird with a green bough shading
his little cage, the breath of freshness and
youth which seemed to rustle through
the old dull house and hover round
the child. It was curious, but not so
pleasant, to turn from the beauty and
grace of the girl to the stooping figure,
care-worn face, and jaded aspect of the
old man. As he grew weaker and more
feeble, what would become of this lonely
little creature? Poor protector as he
was, say that he died, — what would her
fate be then ?
The old man almost answered my
thoughts, as he laid his hand on hers,
and spoke aloud.
“ I ’ll be of better cheer, Nell,” he
said ; “ there must be good fortune in
store for thee : I do not ask it for my-
self, but thee. Such miseries must fall
on thy innocent head without it, that I
cannot believe but that, being tempted,
it will come at last ! ”
She looked cheerfully into his face,
but made no answer.
“When I think,” said he, “of the
many years — many in thy short life —
that thou hast lived alone with me ; of
thy monotonous existence, knowing no
companions of thy own age nor any
childish pleasures ; of the sol it vide in
which thou hast grown to be what thou
art, and in which thou hast lived apart
from nearly all thy kind but one old
man ; I sometimes fear I have dealt .
hardly by thee, Nell.”
“ Grandfather ! ” cried the child in .
unfeigned surprise.
“Not in intention, — no, no,” said
he. “I have ever looked forward to
the time that should enable thee to mix
among the gayest and prettiest, and.
take thy station with the best. But I
still look forward, Nell, I still look for-
ward, and if I should be forced to leave
thee, meanwhile, how have I fitted
thee for struggles with the world ? .The
poor bird yonder is as well qualified to
encounter it, and be turned adrift upon
its mercies. Hark ! I hear Kit outside.
Go to him, Nell, go to him.”
She rose, and, hurrying away, stopped,
turned back, and put her arms about
the old man’s neck, then left him and
hurried away again, — but faster this
time to hide her falling tears.
“A word in your ear, sir,” said the
old man in a hurried whisper. “ I have
been rendered uneasy by what you said
the other night, and can only plead that
I have done all for the best, — that it is
too late to retract, if I could (though I
cannot), — and that I hope to triumph
yet. All is for her sake. I have borne
great poverty myself, and would spare her
the sufferings that poverty carries with
it. I would spare her the miseries that
brought her mother, my own dear child,
to an early grave. I would leave her,
— not with resources which could be
easily spent or squandered away, but
with what would place her beyond the
reach of want forever. You mark me,
sir? She shall have no pittance, but a
fortune — Hush ! I can say no more,
than that, now or at any other time,
and she is here again ! ”
The eagerness with which all this was
poured into my ear, the trembling of
the hand with which he clasped my
arm, the strained and starting eyes he
fixed upon me, the wild vehemence and
agitation of his manner, filled me with
amazement. All that I had heard and
seen, and a great part of what he had
said himself, led me to suppose that he
was a wealthy man. I could form no
comprehension of his character, unless
he were one of those miserable wretches
26
THE OLD CURIOSITY SHOP.
who, having made gain the sole end
and object of their lives, and having
succeeded in amassing great riches, are
constantly tortured by the dread of pov-
erty, and beset by fears of loss and
ruin. Many things he had said, which
I had been at a loss to understand,
were quite reconcilable with the idea
thus presented to me, and at length I
concluded that beyond all doubt he was
one of this unhappy race.
The opinion was not the result of
hasty consideration, for which indeed
there was no opportunity at that time,
as the child came back directly, and
soon occupied herself in preparations
for giving Kit a writing lesson, of which
it seemed he had a couple every week,
and one regularly on that evening, to
the great mirth and enjoyment both of
himself and his instructress. To relate
how it was a long time before his mod-
esty could be so far prevailed upon as
to admit of his sitting down in the par-
lor, in the presence of an unknown gen-
tleman, — how, when he did sit down,
he tucked up his sleeves and squared
his elbows and put his face close to the
copy-book and squinted horribly at the
lines, — how, from the very first mo-
ment of having the pen in his hand, he
began to wallow in blots, and to daub
himself with ink up to the very roots of
his hair, — how, if he did by accident
form a letter properly, he immediately
smeared it out again with his arm in
his preparations to make another, —
how, at every fresh mistake, there was
a fresh burst of merriment from the
child and a louder and not less hearty
laugh from poor Kit himself, — and
how there was all the way through,
notwithstanding, a gentle wish on her
art to teach, and an anxious desire on
is to learn ; — to relate all these partic-
ulars would no doubt occupy more
space and time than they deserve. It
will be sufficient to say that the lesson
was given, — that evening passed and
night came on, — that the old man
again grew restless and impatient, —
that he quitted the house secretly at
the same hour as before, — and that
the child was once more left alone with-
in its gloomy walls.
And now, that I have carried this
history so far in my own character and
introduced these personages to the
reader, I shall for the convenience of
the narrative detach myself from its fur-
ther course, and leave those who have
prominent and necessary parts in it ta
speak and act for themselves.
CHAPTER IV.
Mr. and Mrs. Quilp resided on Tow-
er Hill ; and in her bower on Tower
Hill Mrs. Quilp was left to pine the
absence of her lord, when he quitted
her on the business which he has been
already seen to transact.
Mr. Quilp could scarcely be said to be
of any particular trade or calling, though
his pursuits were diversified and his oc-
cupations numerous. He collected the
rents of whole colonies of filthy streets
and alleys by the water-side, advanced
money to the seamen and petty officers
pf merchant vessels, had a share in the
ventures of divers mates of East-India-
men, smoked his smuggled cigars un-
der the very nose of the Custom House,
and made appointments on ’Change
with men in glazed hats and round jack-
ets pretty well every day. On the Surrey
side of the river was a small, rat-infest-
ed, dreary yard called “ Quilp’s Wharf,”
in which were a little wooden counting-
house burrowing all awry in the dust
as if it had fallen from the clouds and
ploughed into the ground ; a few frag-
ments of rusty anchors, several large
iron rings, some piles of rotten wood,
and two or three heaps of old sheet
copper, crumpled, cracked, and bat-
tered. On Quilp’s Wharf, Daniel Quilp
was a ship-breaker ; yet to judge from
these appearances he must either have
been a ship-breaker on a very small
scale, or have broken his ships up very
small indeed. Neither did the place
present any extraordinary aspect of life
or activity, as its only human occupant
was an amphibious boy in a canvas
suit, whose sole change of occupation
was from sitting on the head of a pile
and throwing stones into the mud when
the tide was out, to standing with his
hands in his pockets gazing listlessly on
THE OLD CURIOSITY SHOP.
27
the motion and on the bustle of the
river at high-water.
The dwarfs lodging on Tower Hill
comprised, besides the needful accom-
modation for himself and Mrs. Quilp, a
small sleeping closet for that lady’s
mother, who resided with the couple
and waged perpetual war with Daniel ;
of whom, notwithstanding, she stood in
no slight dread. Indeed, the ugly crea-
ture contrived, by some means or other,
— whether by his ugliness or his fe-
rocity or his natural cunning is no great
matter, — to impress with a wholesome
fear of his anger most of those with
whom he was brought into daily con-
tact and communication. Over nobody
had he such complete ascendency as
Mrs. Quilp, herself — a pretty little mild-
spoken, blue-eyed woman, who, having
allied herself in wedlock to the dwarf
in one of those strange infatuations of
which examples are by no means scarce,
erformed a sound practical penance for
er folly every day of her life.
It has been said that Mrs. Quilp was
pining in her bower. In her bower she
was, but not alone, for besides the old
lady, her mother, of whom mention has
recently been made,, there were present
some half-dozen ladies of the neighbor-
hood who had happened by a strange
accident (and also by a little under-
standing among themselves) to drop in
one after another, just aboat tea-time.
This being a season favorable to con-
versation, and the room being a cool,
shady, lazy kind of place, with some
plants at the open window shutting out
the dust, and interposing pleasantly
enough between the tea-table within
and the old Tower without, it is no
wonder that the ladies felt an inclina-
tion to talk and linger, especially when
there are taken into account the addi-
tional inducements of fresh butter, new
bread, shrimps, and water-cresses.
Now, the ladies being together under
these circumstances, it was extremely
natural that the discourse should turn
upon the propensity of mankind to tyr-
annize over the weaker sex, and the duty
that devolved upon the weaker sex to
resist that tyranny and assert their rights
and dignity. It was natural for four
reasons : firstly, because Mrs. Quilp,
being a young woman and notoriously
under the dominion of her husband,
ought to be excited to rebel ; secondly,
because Mrs. Quilp’s parent was known
to be laudably shrewish in her disposi-
tion, and inclined to resist male author-
ity ; thirdly, because each visitor wished
to show for herself how superior she
was in this respect to the generality of
her sex ; and, fourthly, because the com-
pany, being accustomed to scandalize
each other in pairs, were deprived of
their usual subject of conversation, now
that they were all assembled in close
friendship, and had consequently no
better employment than to attack the
common enemy.
Moved by these considerations, a
stout lady opened the proceedings by
inquiring, with an air of great concern
and sympathy, how Mr. Quilp was ;
whereunto Mr. Quilp’s wife’s mother
replied, sharply, “ O, he was well
enough, — nothing much was ever the
matter with him, — and ill weeds were
sure to thrive.’' All the ladies then
sighed in concert, shook their heads
gravely, and looked at Mrs. Quilp as at
a martyr.
“Ah!” said the spokeswoman, “I
wish you ’d give her a little of your ad-
vice, Mrs. Jiniwin,” — Mrs. Quilp had
been a Miss Jiniwin, it should be ob-
served. “ Nobody knows better than
you, ma’am, what us women owe to
ourselves.”
.“.Owe indeed, ma’am !” replied Mrs.
Jiniwin. “When my poor husband,
her dear father, was alive, if he had
ever ventur’d a cross word to me, I ’d
have — ” the good old lady did not
finish the sentence, but she twisted off
the head of a shrimp with a vindictive-
ness which seemed to imply that the
action was in some degree a substitute
for words. In this light it was clearly
understood by the other party, who im-
mediately replied with great approba-
tion, “ You quite enter into my feelings,
ma’am, and it ’s jist what I ’d do my-
self.”
“ But you have no call to do it,” said
Mrs. Jiniwin. “ Luckily for you, you
have no more occasion to do it than I
had.”
“ No woman need have, if she Was
28
THE OLD CURIOSITY SHOP.
true to herself,” rejoined the stout
lady.
“Do you hear that, Betsy?” said
Mrs. Jiniwin, in a warning voice.
“ How often have I said the very same
words to you, and almost gone down on
my knees when I spoke ’em ! ”
Poor Mrs. Quilp, who had looked in
a state of helplessness from one face of
condolence to another, colored, smiled,
and shook her head doubtfully. This
was the signal for a general clamor,
which, beginning in a low murmur, grad-
ually swelled into a great noise in which
everybody spoke at once, and all said
that she, being a young woman, had no
right to set up her opinions against the
experiences of those who knew so much
better ; that it was very wrong of her
not to take the advice of people who
had nothing at heart but her good ;
that it was next door to being down-
right ungrateful to conduct herself in
that manner ; that if she had no respect
for herself, she ought to have some for
other women, all of whom she com-
promised by her meekness ; and that if
she had no respect for other women,
the time would come when other wo-
men would have no respect for her;
and she would be very sorry for that,
they could tell her. Having dealt out
these admonitions, the ladies fell to a
more powerful assault than they had yet
made upon the mixed tea, new bread,
fresh butter, shrimps, and water-cresses,
and said that their vexation was so great
to see her going on like that, that they
could hardly bring themselves to eat a
single morsel.
“It ’s all very fine to talk,” said Mrs.
Quilp with much simplicity, “ but I
know that if I was to die to-morrow,
Quilp could marry anybody he pleased,
— now that he could, I know ! ”
There was quite a scream of indig-
nation at this idea. Marry whom he
pleased ! They would like to see him
dare to think of marrying any of them ;
they would like to see the faintest ap-
proach to such a thing. One lady (a
widow) was quite certain she should
stab him if he hinted at it.
“Very well,” said Mrs. Quilp, nod-
ding her head, “ as I said just now,
it ’s very easy to talk, but I say again
that I know — that I ’m sure — Quilp
has such a way with him when he
likes, that the best-looking woman here
couldn’t refuse him if I was dead, and
she was free, and he chose to make
love to her. Come ! ”
Everybody bridled up at this re-
mark, as much as to say, “ I know you
mean me. Let him try, — that’s all.”
And yet for some hidden reason they
were all angry with the widow, and each
lady whispered in her neighbor’s ear
that it was very plain the said widow
thought herself the person referred to,
and what a puss she was !
“ Mother knows,” said Mrs. Quilp,
“ that what I say is quite correct, for
she often said so before we were mar-
ried. Did n’t you say so, mother?”
This inquiry involved the respected
lady in rather a delicate position, for
she certainly had been an active party
in making her daughter Mrs. Quilp,
and, besides, it was not supporting the
family credit to encourage the idea that
she had married a man whom nobody
else would have. On the other hand,
to exaggerate the captivating qualities
of her son-in-law would be to weaken
the cause of revolt in which all her
energies were deeply engaged. Beset
by these opposing considerations, Mrs.
J[iniwin admitted the powers of insinua-
tion, but denied the right to govern, and,
with a timely compliment to the stout
lady, brought back the discussion to the
point from which it had strayed.
“ O, it’s a sensible and proper thing
indeed, what Mrs. George has said ! ”
exclaimed the old lady. “ If women
are only true to themselves ! — But
Betsy is n’t, and more ’s the shame
and pity.”
“ Before I ’d let a man order me
about as Quilp orders her,” said Mrs.
George, — “ before I ’d consent to stand
in awe of a man as she does of him,
I ’d — I ’d kill myself, and write a let-
ter first to say he did it ! ”
This remark being loudly commend-
ed and approved of, another lady (from
the Minories) put in her word.
“ Mr. Quilp may be a very nice man,”
said this lady, “ and I suppose there ’s
no doubt he is, because Mrs. Quilp
says he is, and Mrs. Jiniwin says he is.
THE OLD CURIOSITY SHOP.
and they ought to know, or nobody
does. But still he is not quite a —
■what one calls a handsome man, nor
quite a young man neither, which might
be a little excuse for him if anything
could be ; whereas his wife is young,
and is good-looking, and is a woman, —
which is the great thing after all.”
This last clause, being delivered with
extraordinary pathos, elicited a coire-
sponding murmur from the hearers, stim-
ulated by which the lady went on to re-
mark, that if such a husband was cross
and unreasonable with such a wife,
then —
“ If he is ! ” interposed the mother,
putting down her teacup and brushing
the crumbs out of her lap, preparatory
to making a solemn declaration. “ If
he is ! He is the greatest tyrant that
ever lived, she dare n’t call her soul her
own, he makes her tremble with a word
and even with a look, he frightens her
to death, and she has n’t the spirit to
give him a word back, — no, not a single
word.”
Notwithstanding that the fact had
been notorious beforehand to all the
tea-drinkers, and had been discussed
and expatiated on at every tea-drinking
in the neighborhood for the last twelve
months, this official communication was
no sooner made than they all began to
talk at once and to vie with each other
in vehemence and volubility. Mrs.
George remarked that people would
talk, that people had often said this to
her before, that Mrs. Simmons then
and there present had told her so twen-
ty times, that she had always said,
“ No, Henrietta Simmons, unless I see
it with my own eyes and hear it with
my own ears, I never will believe it.”
Mrs. Simmons corroborated this testi-
mony and added strong evidence of her
own. The lady from the Minories re-
counted a successful course of treatment
under which she had placed her own
husband, who, from manifesting one
month after marriage unequivocal symp-
toms of the tiger, had by this means
become subdued into a perfect lamb.
Another lady recounted her own per-
sonal struggle and final triumph, in the
course whereof she had found it neces-
sary to call in her mother and two
29
aunts, and to weep incessantly night
and day for six weeks. A third, who
in the general confusion could secure
no other listener, fastened herself upon
a young woman still unmarried who
happened to be amongst them, and con-
jured her, as she valued her own peace
of mind and happiness, to profit by this
solemn occasion, to take example from
the weakness of Mrs. Quilp, and from
that time forth to direct her whole
thoughts to taming and subduing the
rebellious spirit of man. The noise
was at its height, and half the company
had elevated their voices into a perfect
shriek in order to drown the voices of
the other half, when Mrs. J ini win was
seen to change color and shake her fore-
finger stealthily, as if exhorting them to
silence. Then, and not until then, Dan-
iel Quilp himself, the cause and occa-
sion of all this clamor, was observed to
be in the room, looking on and listen-
ing with profound attention.
“Go on, ladies, go on,” said Daniel.
“ Mrs. Quilp, pray ask the ladies to
stop to supper, and have a couple of
lobsters and something light and pala-
table.”
“I — I — didn’t ask them to tea,
Quilp,” stammered his wife. “ It ’s
quite an accident.”
“ So much the better, Mrs. Quilp ;
these accidental parties are always the
pleasantest,” said the dwarf, rubbing
his hands so hard that he seemed to be
engaged in manufacturing, of the dirt
with which they were encrusted, little
charges for popguns. “What! Not
going, ladies! You are not going,
surely ! ”
His fair enemies tossed, their heads
slightly as they sought their respective
bonnets and shawls, but left all verbal
contention to Mrs. Jiniwin, who, finding
herself in the position of champion,
made a faint struggle to sustain the
character.
“ And why not stop to supper, Quilp,”
said the old lady, “if my daughter had
a mind ? ”
“ To be sure,” rejoined DanieL
“ Why not ? ”
“ There ’s nothing dishonest or wrong
in a supper, I hope?” said Mrs. Jini-
win.
3 °
THE OLD CURIOSITY SHOP.
“ Surely not,” returned the dwarf.
“ Why should there be ? Nor anything
unwholesome either, unless there ’s lob-
ster-salad or prawns, which I ’m told
are not good for digestion.”
“ And you wouldn’t like your wife to
be attacked with that, or anything else
that would make her uneasy, would
you ?” said Mrs. Jiniwin.
“ Not for a score of worlds,” replied
the dwarf with a grin. ‘‘Not even to
have a score of mothers-in-law at the
same time, — and what a blessing that
would be ! ”
‘‘My daughter’s your wife, Mr. Quilp,
certainly,” said the old lady with a
giggle, meant for satirical and to imply
that he needed to be reminded of the
fact, — “ your wedded wife.”
“ So she is certainly. So she is,” ob-
served the dwarf.
“ And she has a right to do as she
likes, I hope, Quilp,” said the old lady,
trembling, partly with anger and partly
with a secret fear of her impish son-in-
law.
“ Hope she has ! ” he replied. “ Oh !
Don’t you know she has? Don’t you
know she has, Mrs. Jiniwin?”
“ I know she ought to have, Quilp,
and would have if she was of my way of
thinking.”
“ Why ain’t you of your mother’s way
of thinking, my dear?” said the dwarf,
turning round and addressing his wife.
“ Why don’t you always imitate your
mother, my dear? She ’s the ornament
of her sex, — your father said so every
day of his life, I am sure he did.”
“ Her father was a blessed creetur,
Quilp, and worth twenty thousand of
some people,” said Mrs. Jiniwin, —
“ twenty hundred million thousand.”
“ I should like to have known him,”
remarked the dwarf. “ I dare say he
was a blessed creature then ; but I ’m
sure he is now. It was a happy re-
lease. I believe he had suffered a long
time ? ”
The old lady gave a gasp, but noth-
ing came of it. Quilp resumed, with
the same malice in his eye and the
same sarcastic politeness on his tongue.
“ You look ill, Mrs. Jiniwin ; I know
you have been exciting yourself too
much, — talking perhaps, for it is your
weakness. Go to bed. Do go to
bed.”
“ I shall go when I please, Quilp,
and not before.”
“ But please to go now. Do please to
go now,” said the dwarf.
The old woman looked angrily at
him, but retreated as he advanced, and,
falling back before him, suffered him to
shut the door upon her and bolt her out
among the guests, who were by this
time crowding down stairs. Being left
alone with his wife, who sat trembling
in a corner with her eyes fixed upon the
ground, the little man planted himself
before her, at some distance, and, fold-
ing his arms, looked steadily at her for
a long time without speaking.
“ O you nice creature ! ” were the
words with which he broke silence ;
smacking his lips as if this were no fig-
ure of speech, and she were actually a
sweetmeat. ** O you precious darling !
O you de-licious charmer ! ”
Mrs. Quilp sobbed; and, knowing the
nature of her pleasant lord, appeared
quite as much alarmed by these compli-
ments as she would have been by the
most extreme demonstrations of vio-
lence.
“ She ’s such,” said the dwarf, with a
ghastly grin, — “ such a jewel, such a
diamond, such a pearl, such a ruby,
such a golden casket set with gems of
all sorts ! She ’s such a treasure 1 I ’m
so fond of her ! ”
The poor little woman shivered from
head to foot ; and, raising her eyes to his
face with an imploring look, suffered
them to droop again, and sobbed once
more.
“ The best of her is,” said the dwarf,
advancing with a sort of skip, which,
what with the crookedness of his legs,
the ugliness of his face, and the mockery
of his manner, was perfectly goblin-
like, — ‘‘the best of her is that she’s
so meek, and she ’s so mild, and she
never has a will of her own, and she has
such an insinuating mother ! ”
Uttering these latter words with a
gloating maliciousness, within a hun-
dred degrees of which no one but him-
self could possibly approach, Mr. Quilp
planted his two hands on his knees, and,
straddling his legs out very wide apart,
THE OLD CURIOSITY SHOP .
3 *
stooped slowly down, and down, and
down, until, by screwing his head very
much on one side, he came between his
wife’s eyes and the floor.
“ Mrs. Quilp!”
“Yes, Quilp.”
“Am I nice to look at?. Should I
be the handsomest creature in the world
if I had but whiskers ? Am I quite a
lady’s man as it is? — am I, Mrs.
Quilp?”
Mrs. Quilp dutifully replied, “Yes,
Quilp,” and, fascinated by his gaze,
remained looking timidly at him, while
he treated her with a succession of such
horrible grimaces as none but himself
and nightmares had the power of assum-
ing. During the whole of this perform-
ance, which was somewhat of the long-
est, he preserved a dead silence, ex-
cept when, by an unexpected skip or
leap, he made his wife start backward
with an irrepressible shriek. Then he
chuckled.
“Mrs. Quilp,” he said at last.
“Yes, Quilp,” she meekly replied.
Instead of pursuing the theme he had
in his mind, Quilp rose, folded his arms
again, and looked at her more sternly
than before, while she averted her eyes
and kept them on the ground.
“ Mrs. Quilp.”
“Yes, Quilp.’’
“ If ever you listen to these beldames
again, I ’ll bite you.”
With this laconic threat, which he ac-
companied with a snarl that gave him
the appearance of being particularly in
earnest, Mr. Quilp bade her clear the
tea-board away, and bring the rum.
The spirit being set before him in a
huge case-bottle, which had originally
come out of some ship’s locker, he or-
dered cold water and the box of cigars ;
and, these being supplied, he settled
himself in an arm-chair with his large
head and face squeezed up against the
back, and his little legs planted on the
table.
“ Now, Mrs. Quilp,” he said ; “ I
feel in a smoking humor, and shall
probably blaze away all night. But sit
where you are, if you please, in case I
want you.”
His wife returned no other reply than
the customary, “ Yes, Quilp,” and the
small lord of the creation took his first
cigar and mixed his first glass of grog.
The sun went down and the stars peeped
out, the Tower turned from its own
proper colors to gray and from gray to
black, the room became perfectly dark
and the end of the cigar a deep fiery
red, but still Mr. Quilp went on smok-
ing and drinking in the same position,
and staring listlessly out of window with
the dog-like smile always on his face,
save when Mrs. Quilp made some in-
voluntary movement of restlessness or
fatigue; and then it expanded into a
grin of delight.
CHAPTER V.
Whether Mr. Quilp took any sleep
by snatches of a few winks at a time, or
whether he sat with his eyes wide open
all night long, certain it is that he kept
his cigar alight, and kindled every fresh
one from the ashes of that which was
nearly consumed, without requiring the
assistance of a candle. Nor did the
striking of the clocks, hour after hour,
appear to inspire him with any sense
of drowsiness or any natural desire to
go to rest, but rather to increase his
wakefulness, which he showed, at every
such indication of the progress of the
night, by a suppressed cackling in his
throat, and a motion of his shoulders,
like one who laughs heartily, but at the
same time slyly and by stealth.
At length the day broke, and poor
Mrs. Quilp, shivering with the cold of
early morning and harassed by fatigue
and want of sleep, was discovered sit-
ting patiently on her chair, raising her
eyes at intervals in mute appeal to the
compassion and clemency of her lord,
and gently reminding him, by an occa-
sional cough, that she was still unpar-
doned and that her penance had been of
long duration. But her dwarfish spouse
still smoked his cigar and drank his
rum without heeding her ; and it was
not until the sun had some time risen,
and the activity and noise of city day
were rife in the street, that he deigned
to recognize her presence by any word
or sign. He might not have done so
THE OLD CURIOSITY SHOP.
even then, but for certain impatient
tappings at the door, which seemed to
denote that some pretty hard knuckles
were actively engaged upon the other
side.
“ Why, dear me ! ” he said, looking
round with a malicioas grin, “ it ’s day !
Open the door, sweet Mrs. Quilp ! ”
His obedient wife withdrew the bolt,
and her lady mother entered.
Now, Mrs. Jiniwin bounced into the
room with great impetuosity ; for, sup-
posing her son-in-law to be still abed,
she had come to relieve her feelings by
pronouncing a strong opinion upon his
general conduct and character. Seeing
that he was up and dressed, and that
the room appeared to have been occu-
pied ever since she quitted it on the
previous evening, she stopped short, in
some embarrassment.
Nothing escaped the hawk’s eye of
the ugly little man, who, perfectly un-
derstanding what passed in the old
lady’s mind, turned uglier still in the
fulness of his satisfaction, and bade her
good morning, with a leer of triumph.
“ Why, Betsy,” said the old woman,
“you have n’t been a — you don’t mean
to say you ’ve been a — ”
“Sitting up all night?” said Quilp,
supplying the conclusion of the sen-
tence. “ Yes, she has ! ”
“ All night ! ” cried Mrs. Jiniwin.
“Ay, all night. Is the dear old
lady deaf?” said Quilp, with a smile
of which a frown was part. “ Who
says man and wife are bad company ?
Ha, ha ! The time has flown,”
“ You ’re a brute ! ” exclaimed Mrs.
Jiniwin.
“ Come, come,” said Quilp, wilfully
misunderstanding her, of course, “ you
must n’t call her names. She ’s mar-
ried now, you know. And though she
did beguile the time and keep me from
my bed, you must not be so tenderly
careful of me as to be out of humor
with her. Bless you fora dear old lady.
Here ’s your health ! ”
“ I am rmich obliged to you,” re-
turned the old woman, testifying by a
certain restlessness in her hands a ve-
hement desire to shake her matronly
fist at her son-in-law. “ Q, I ’m very
. much obliged to you 1 ”
“ Grateful soul ! ” cried the dwarf.
“ Mrs. Quilp.”
“Yes, Quilp,” said the timid sufferer.
“ Help your mother to get breakfast,
Mrs. Quilp. I am going to the wharf
this morning; the earlier the better,
so be quick.”
Mrs. Jiniwin made a faint demon-
stration of rebellion by sitting down in
a chair near the door and folding her
arms as if in a resolute determination
to do nothing. But a few whispered
words from her daughter, and a kind in-
quiry from her son-in-law whether she
felt faint, with a hint that there was
abundance of cold water in the next
apartment, routed these symptoms ef-
fectually, and she applied herself to
the prescribed preparations with sullen
diligence.
While they were in progress, Mr.
Quilp withdrew to the adjoining room,
and, turning back his coat-collar, pro-
ceeded to smear his countenance with a
damp towel of very unwholesome ap-
pearance, which made his complexion
rather more cloudy than it had been
before. But, while he was thus en-
gaged, his caution and inquisitiveness
did not forsake him. With a face as
sharp and cunning as ever, he often
stopped, even in this short process, arid
stood listening for any conversation in
the next room of which he might be
the theme.
“ Ah ! ” he said after a short effort of
attention, “ it was not the towel over
my ears ; I thought it vras n’t. I ’m a
little hunchy viliain and a monster, am
I, Mrs. Jiniwin ? Oh ! ” _
The pleasure of this discovery called
up the old dog-like smile in full force.
When he had quite done with it, he
shook himself in a very dog-like manner,
and rejoined the ladies.
Mr. Quilp now walked up to the front
of a looking-glass, and was standing
there, putting on his neckerchief, when
Mrs. Jiniwin, happening to be behind
him, could not resist the inclination she
felt to shake her fist at her tyrant. son-in-
law. It was the gesture of an instant,
but as she did so and accompanied the
action with a menacing look, she met
his eye in the glass, catching her in the
very act. The same glance at the mirrpx
QUILP, MRS. QUILP, AND MRS. JINIWIN,
THE LIBRARY
0f THE
UNIVERSITY OF !l«$
THE OLD CURIOSITY SHOP.
33
conveyed to her the reflection of a hor-
ribly grotesque and distorted face, with
the tongue lolling out ; and the next in-
stant the dwarf, turning about, with a
perfectly bland and placid look, inquired,
in a tone of great affection, —
“ How are you now, my dear old dar-
ling?”
Slight and ridiculous as the incident
was, it made him appear such a little
fiend, and withal such a keen and
knowing one, that the old woman felt
too much afraid of him to utter a single
word, and suffered herself to be led
with extraordinary politeness to the
breakfast-table. Here he by no means
diminished the impression he had just
produced, for he ate hard eggs, shell
and all, devoured gigantic prawns with
the heads and tails on, chewed tobacco
and water-cresses at the same time and
with extraordinary greediness, drank
boiling tea without winking, bit his
fork and spoon till they bent again, and
in short performed so many horrifying
and uncommon acts that the women
were nearly frightened out of their wits,
and began to doubt if he were really a
human creature. At last, having gone
through these proceedings and many
others which were equally a part of his
system, Mr. Quilp left them, reduced
to a very obedient and humbled state,
and betook himself to the river-side,
where he took boat for the wharf on
which he had bestowed his name.
It was flood-tide when Daniel Quilp
sat himself down in the wherry to cross
to the opposite shore. A fleet of barges
were coming lazily on, some sideways,
some head first, some stern first ; all in
a wrong-headed, dogged, obstinate way,
bumping up against the larger craft,
running under the bows of steamboats,
getting into every kind of nook and
corner where they had no business, and
being crunched on all sides like so
many walnut-shells ; while each, with
its pair of long sweeps struggling and
splashing in the water, looked like some
lumbering fish in pain. In some of the
vessels at* anchor all hands were busily
engaged in coiling ropes, spreading out
sails to dry, taking in or discharging
their cargoes ; in others, no life was
visible but two or three tarry boys, and
3
perhaps a barking dog, running to and
fro upon the deck or scrambling up^to
look over the side and bark the louder
for the view. Coming slowly on through
the forest of masts was a great steam-
ship, beating the water in short, im-
patient strokes with her heavy pad-
dles, as though she wanted room to
breathe, and advancing in her huge
bulk like a sea monster among the
minnows of the Thames. On either
hand were long black tiers of colliers ;
between them vessels slowly working
out of harbor with sails glistening in
the sun, and creaking noise on board,
re-echoed from a hundred quarters.
The water and all upon it was in active
motion, dancing and buoyant and bub-
bling up ; while the old gray Tower and
piles of building on the shore, with
many a church-spire shooting up be-
tween, looked coldly on, and seemed to
disdain their chafing, restless neighbor.
Daniel Quilp, who was not much af-
fected by a bright morning, save in so
far as it spared him the trouble of car-
rying an umbrella, caused himself to
be put ashore hard by the wharf, and
proceeded thither, through a narrow
lane, which, partalcing of the amphibi-
ous character of its frequenters, had as
much water as mud in its composition,
and a very liberal supply of both. Ar-
rived at his destination, the first object
that presented itself to his view was a
pair of very imperfectly shod feet ele-
vated in the air with the soles upwards,
which remarkable appearance was ref-
erable to the boy, who, being of an
eccentric spirit, and having a natural
taste for tumbling, was now standing on
his head, and contemplating the aspect
of the river under these uncommon cir-
cumstances. He was speedily brought
on his heels by the sound of his mas-
ter’s voice, and as soon as his head
was in its right position, Mr. Quilp, to
speak expressively in the absence of a
better verb, “ punched it ” for him.
“ Come, you let me alone,” said the
boy, parrying Quilp’s hand with both his
elbows alternately. “ You ’ll get some-
thing you won’t like if you don’t, and so
I tell you.”
“ You dog,” snarled Quilp, “ I ’ll beat
you with an iron rod, I ’ll scratch you
34
THE OLD CURIOSITY SHOP.
with a rusty nail, I ’ll pinch your eyes,
if you talk to me — I will ! ”
With these threats he clenched his
hand again, and dexterously diving in
between the elbows, and catching the
boy’s head as it dodged from side to
side, gave it three or four good hard
knocks. Having now carried his point
and insisted on it, he left off.
“ You won’t do it again,’] said the boy,
nodding his head and drawing back, with
the elbows ready in case of the worst ;
“now!”
“ Stand still, you dog,” said Quilp.
“ I won’t do it again, because I ’ve
done it as often as I want. Here.
Take the key.”
“ Why don’t you hit one of your
size?” said the boy, approaching very
slowly.
“ Where is there one of my size, you
dog ? ” returned Quilp. “ Take the key,
or I ’ll brain you with it,” — indeed he
gave him a smart tap with the handle as
he spoke. “ Now, open the counting-
house.”
The boy sulkily complied, muttering
at first, but desisting when he looked
round and saw that Quilp was follow-
ing him with a steady look. And here
it may be remarked, that between this
boy and the dwarf there existed a
strange kind of mutual liking. How
born or bred, or how nourished upon
blows and threats on one side, and re-
torts and defiances on the other, is not
to the purpose. Quilp would certainly
suffer nobody to contradict him but
the boy, and the boy would assuredly
not have submitted to be so knocked
about by anybody but Quilp, when he
had the power to run away at any
time he chose.
“Now,” said Quilp, passing into the
wooden counting-house, “you mind the
wharf. Stand upon your head again, and
I ’ll cut one of your feet off.”
The boy made no answer, but directly
Quilp had shut himself in, stood on his
head before the door, then walked on his
hands to the back and stood on his head
there, and then to the opposite side and
repeated the performance. There were,
indeed, four sides to the counting-house,
but he avoided that one where the win-
dow was, deeming it probable that Quilp
would be looking out of it. This was
prudent, for in point of fact the dwarf,
knowing his disposition, was lying in
wait at a little distance from the sash
armed with a large piece of wood,
which, being rough and jagged and
studded in many parts with broken
nails, might possibly have hurt him.
It was a dirty little box, this counting-
house, with nothing in it but an old rick-
ety desk and two stools, a hat-peg, an
ancient almanac, an inkstand with no ink
and the stump of one pen, and an eight-
day clock which had n’t gone for eigh-
teen years at least, and of which the
minute-hand had been twisted off for
a toothpick. Daniel Quilp pulled his
hat over his brows, climbed on to the
desk (which had a flat top), and, stretch-
ing his short length upon it, went to sleep
with the ease of an old practitioner ; in-
tending, no doubt, to compensate himself
for the deprivation of last night’s rest, by
a long and sound nap.
Sound it might have been, but long it
was not, for he had not been asleep a
quarter of an hour when the boy
opened the door and thrust in his
head, which was like a bundle of bad-
ly picked oakum. Quilp was a light
sleeper and started up directly.
“Here ’s somebody for you,” said the
boy.
“Who?”
“ I don’t know.”
“ Ask ! ” said Quilp, seizing the trifle
of wood before mentioned and throwing
it at him with such dexterity that it was
well theboy disappearedbefore it reached
the spot on which he had stood. “ Ask,
you dog.”
Not caring to venture within range of
such missiles again, the boy discreetly
sent, in his stead, the first cause of the
interruption, who now presented herself
at the door.
“What, Nelly ! ” cried Quilp.
“Yes,” said the child, hesitating
whether to enter or retreat ; for the
dwarf, just roused, with his dishevelled
hair hanging all about him, and a yel-
low handkerchief over his head, was
something fearful to behold; “it’s
only me, sir.”
“Come in,” said Quilp, without get-
ting off the desk. “Come in. Stay.
>
QUILP’S BOY
■
THE LIBRARY
OF THE
UNIVERSITY Or ILLINOIS
THE OLD CURIOSITY SHOP .
35
Just look out into the yard, and see
whether there ’s a boy standing on his
head.”
“ No, sir,” replied Nell. “He’s on
his feet.”
“You’re sure he is? ’’said Quilp.
“Well. Now, come in and shut the
door. What ’s your message, Nelly? ”
The child handed him a letter. Mr.
Quilp, without changing his position
otherwise than to turn over a little more
on his side, and rest his chin on his
hand, proceeded to make himself ac-
quainted with its contents.
CHAPTER VI.
Little Nell stood timidly by, with
her eyes raised to the countenance of
Mr. Quilp as he read the letter, plainly
showing by her looks that while she en-
tertained some fear and distrust of the
little man, she was much inclined to
laugh at his uncouth appearance and
grotesque attitude. And yet there was
visible on the part of the child a painful
anxiety for his reply, and a conscious-
ness of his power to render it disagree-
able or distressing, which was strongly
at variance with this impulse, and re-
strained it more effectually than she
could possibly have done by any efforts
of her own.
That Mr. Quilp was himself per-
plexed, and that in no small degree, by
the contents of the letter, was sufficient-
ly obvious. Before he had got through
the first two or three lines, he began to
open his eyes very wide and to frown
most horribly ; the next two or three
caused him to scratch his head in an
uncommonly vicious manner ; and when
he came to the conclusion he gave a
long, dismal whistle indicative of surprise
and dismay. After folding and laying
it down beside him, he bit the nails of
all his ten fingers with extreme voraci-
ty ; and, taking it up sharply, read it
again. The second perusal was to all
appearance as unsatisfactory as the first,
and plunged him into a profound rev-
ery from which he awakened to another
assault upon his nails and a long stare
at the child, who, with her eyes turned
towards the ground, awaited his further
pleasure.
“ Halloa here ! ” he said at length, in
a voice, and with a suddenness, which
made the child start as though a gun
had been fired off at her ear. “Nelly!”
“ Yes, sir ! ”
“ Do you know what ’s inside this
letter, Nell?”
“ No, sir ! ”
“ Are you sure, quite sure, quite cer-
tain, upon your soul ? ”
“Quite sure, sir.”
“ Do you wish you may die if you do
know, hey? ” said the dwarf.
“ Indeed I don’t know,” returned the
child.
“ Well ! ” muttered Quilp as he
marked her earnest look. “ I believe
you. Humph! Gone already? Gone
in four-and-twenty hours ! What the
devil has he done with it ! That ’s the
mystery ! ”
This reflection set him scratching his
head and biting his nails once more.
While he was thus employed, his fea-
tures gradually relaxed into what was
with him a cheerful smile, but which
in any other man would have been a
ghastly grin of pain ; and when the
child looked up again, she found that he
was regarding her with extraordinary
favor and complacency.
“ You look very pretty to-day, Nelly,
charmingly pretty. Are you tired,
Nelly?”
“No, sir. I’m in a hurry to get
back, for he will be anxious while I am
away.”
“There’s no hurry, little Nell, no
hurry at all,” said Quilp. “ How
should you like to be my number two,
Nelly ? ”
“ To be what, sir? ”
“ My number two, Nelly ; my sec-
ond ; my Mrs. Quilp,” said the dwarf.
The child looked frightened, but
seemed not to understand him, which
Mr. Quilp observing, hastened to ex-
plain his meaning more distinctly.
“ To be Mrs. Quilp the second, when
Mrs. Quilp the first is dead, sweet
Nell,” said Quilp, wrinkling up his eyes
and luring her towards him with his
bent forefinger, — “ to be my wife, my
little cherry-cheeked, red-lipped wife.
36
THE OLD CURIOSITY SHOP.
Say that Mrs. Quilp lives five years, or
only four, you ’ll be just the proper age
forme. Ha, ha ! Be a good girl, Nelly,
a very good girl, and see if one of these
days you don’t come to be Mrs. Quilp
of Tower Hill.”
So far from being sustained and stim-
ulated by this delightful prospect, the
child shrunk from him, and trembled.
Mr. Quilp, either because frightening
anybody afforded him a constitutional
delight, or because it was pleasant to
contemplate the death of Mrs. Quilp
number one, and the elevation of Mrs.
Quilp number two to her post and title,
or because he was determined for pur-
poses of his own to be agreeable and
good-humored at that particular time,
only laughed and feigned to take no
heed of her alarm.
“ You shall come with me to Tower
Hill, and see Mrs. Quilp that is, di-
rectly,” said the dwarf. “ She ’s very
fond of you, Nell, though not so fond
as I am. You shall come home with
me.”
“ I must go back indeed,” said the
child. “ He told me to return directly
I had the answer.”
“But you haven’t it, Nelly,” retort-
ed the dwarf, “and won’t have it, and
can’t have it, until I have been home,
so you see that to do your errand, you
must go with me. Reach me yonder
hat, my dear, and we’ll go directly.”
With that Mr. Quilp suffered himself
to roll gradually off the desk until his
short legs touched the ground, when he
got upon them and led the way from the
counting-house to the wharf outside,
where the first objects that presented
themselves were the boy who had stood
on his head and another young gentle-
man of about his own stature, rolling
in the mud together, locked in a tight
embrace, and cuffing each other with
mutual heartiness.
“It’s Kit!” cried Nelly, clasping
her hands, — “ poor Kit, w r ho came with
me ! O, pray stop them, Mr. Quilp ! ”
“I’ll stop ’em,” cried Quilp, diving
into the little counting-house and re-
turning with a thick stick, “ I ’ll stop
’em. Now, my boys, fight aw'ay. I ’ll
fight you both, I ’ll take both of you,
both together, both together! ”
With w'hich defiances the dwarf flour-
ished his cudgel, and dancing round
the combatants and treading upon them
and skipping o^er them, in a kind of
frenzy, laid about him, how on one and
now on the other, in a most desperate
manner, always aiming at their heads
and dealing such blows as none but the
veriest little savage would have inflict-
ed. This being warmer w>ork than they
had calculated upon, speedily cooled the
courage of the belligerents, who scram-
bled to their feet and called for quarter.
“I ’ll beat you to a pulp, you dogs,”
said Quilp, vainly endeavoring to get
near either of them for a parting blow'.
“ I ’ll bruise you till you ’re copper-col-
ored. I ’ll break your faces till you
haven’t a profile between you, I will.”
“Come, you drop that stick or it’ll
be w’orse for you,” said his boy, dodg-
ing round him and watching an op-
portunity to rush in; “you drop that
stick.”
“ Come a little nearer, and I ’ll drop
it on your skull, you dog,” said Quilp
with gleaming eyes ; “ a little nearer, —
nearer yet.”
But the boy declined the invitation
until his master w'as apparently a lit-
tle off his guard, w'hen he darted in,
and, seizing the weapon, tried to w’rest
it from his grasp. Quilp, who was as
strong as a lion, easily kept his hold un-
til the boy was tugging at it with his ut-
most powder, when he suddenly let it go
and sent him reeling backwards, so that
he fell violently upon his head. The suc-
cess of this manoeuvre tickled Mr. Quilp
beyond description, and he laughed and
stamped upon the ground as at a most
irresistible jest.
“Never mind,” said the boy, nodding
his head and rubbing it at the same
time ; “you see if ever I offer to strike
anybody again because they say you ’re
a uglier dwarf than can be seen any-
wheres for a penny, that ’s all.”
“ Do you mean to say I ’m not, you
dog? ” returned Quilp.
“ No ! ” retorted the boy.
“ Then what do you fight on my
wharf for, you villain?” said Quilp.
“ Because he said so,” replied the
boy, pointing to Kit, “not because you
ain’t.”
THE OLD CURIOSITY SHOP.
37
“Then why did he say,” bawled Kit,
“that Miss Nelly was ugly, and that
she and my master was obliged to do
whatever his master liked? Why did
he say that? ”
“ He said what he did because he ’s a
fool, and you said what you did because
you ’re very wise and clever, — almost
too clever to live, unless you’re very
careful of yourself, Kit,” said Quilp
with great suavity in his manner, but
still more of quiet malice about his eyes
and mouth. “ Here ’s sixpence for you,
Kit. Always speak the truth. At all
times. Kit, speak the truth. Lock the
counting-house, you dog, and bring me
the key.”
The other boy, to whom this order
was addressed, did as he was told, and
was rewarded for his partisanship in
behalf of his master by a dexterous
rap on the nose with the key, which
brought the water into his eyes. Then
Mr. Quilp departed, with the child and
Kit in a boat, and the boy revenged
himself by dancing on his head at inter-
vals on the extreme verge of the wharf,
during the whole time they crossed the
river.
There was only Mrs. Quilp at home,
and she, little expecting the return of
her lord, was just composing herself for
a refreshing slumber when the sound of
his footsteps roused her. She had barely
time to seem to be occupied in some
needle-work when he entered, accom-
panied by the child, having left Kit
down stairs.
“Here’s Nelly Trent, dear Mrs.
Quilp,” said her husband. “A glass
of wine, my dear, and a biscuit, for
she has had a long walk. She ’ll sit
with you, my soul, while I write a
letter.”
Mrs. Quilp looked tremblingly in her
spouse's face to know what this unusual
courtesy might portend, and, obedient
to the summons she saw in his gesture,
followed him into the next room.
“ Mind what I say to you,” whispered
Quilp. “ See if you can get out of her
anything about her grandfather, or what
they do, or how they live, or what he
tells her. I ’ve my reasons for know-
ing, if I can. You women talk more
freely to one another than you do to
us, and you have a soft, mild way with
you that’ll win upon her. Do you
hear?”
“Yes, Quilp.”
“ Go, then. What ’s the matter
now? ”
“Dear Quilp,” faltered his wife, “I
love the child — if you cotild do without
making me deceive her — ”
The dwarf, muttering a terrible oath,
looked round as if for some weapon with
which to inflict condign punishment up-
on his disobedient wife. The submis-
sive little woman hurriedly entreated
him not to be angry, and promised to
do as he bade her.
“ Do you hear me,” whispered Quilp,
nipping and pinching her arm ; “ worm
yourself into her secrets ; I know you
can. I ’m listening, recollect. If you ’re
not sharp enough, I ’ll creak the door,
and woe betide you if I have to creak it
much. Go ! ”
Mrs. Quilp departed according to or-
der. Her amiable husband, ensconcing
himself behind the partly opened door,
and applying his ear close to it, began
to listen with a face of great craftiness
and attention.
Poor Mrs. Quilp was thinking, how-
ever, in what manner to begin, or what
kind of inquiries she could make ; it was
not until the door, creaking in a very
urgent manner, warned her to proceed
without further consideration, that the
sound of her voice was heard.
“ How very often you have come
backwards and forwards lately to Mr.
Quilp, my dear.”
“ I have said so to grandfather a
hundred times,” returned Nell, inno-
cently.
“And what has he said to that? ”
“ Only sighed, and dropped his head,
and seemed so sad and wretched that if
you could have seen him I am sure you
must have cried ; you could not have
helped it more than I, I know. How
that door creaks ! ”
“ It often does,” returned Mrs. Quilp
with an uneasy glance towards it. “ But
your grandfather, — he used not to be
so wretched?”
“ O no ! ” said the child, eagerly, —
“ so different ! we were once so happy
and he so cheerful and contented I
38
THE OLD CURIOSITY SHOP.
You cannot think what a sad change
has fallen on us since.”
“ I am very, very sorry to hear you
speak like this, my dear ! ” said Mrs.
Quilp. And she spoke the truth.
“ Thank you,” returned the child,
kissing her cheek ; “ you are always
kind to me, and it is a pleasure to talk
to you. I can speak to no one else
about him, but poor Kit. I am very
happy still, — I ought to feel happier
perhaps than I do, — but you cannot
think how it grieves me sometimes to
see him alter so.”
“ He’ll alter again, Nelly,” said
Mrs. Quilp, “ and be what he was be-
fore.”
“O, if God would only let that come
about ! ” said the child, with streaming
eyes ; “ but it is a long time now since
he first began to — I thought I saw
that door moving ! ”
“ It ’s the wind,” said’ Mrs. Quilp,
faintly. “ Began to — ? ”
“ To be so thoughtful and dejected,
and to forget our old way of spending
the time in the long evenings,” said the
child. “ I used to read to him by the
fireside, and he sat listening, and when
I stopped and we began to talk, he told
me about my mother, and how she once
looked and spoke just like me when she
was a little child. Then he used to
take me on his knee, and try to make
me understand that she was not lying
in her grave, but had flown to a beau-
tiful country beyond the sky, where
nothing died or ever grew old, — we
were very happy once ! ”
“Nelly, Nelly!” said the poor wo-
man, “ I can’t bear to see one as young
as you so sorrowful. Pray don’t cry.”
“ I do so very seldom,” said Nell,
“ but I have kept this to myself a long
time, and I am not quite well, I think,
for the tears come into my eyes and I
cannot keep them back. I don’t mind
telling you my grief, for I know you
will not tell it to any one again.”
Mrs. Quilp turned away her head
and made no answer.
“Then,” said the child, “we often
walked in the fields and among the
green trees ; and when we came home
at night, we liked it better for being
tired, and said what a happy place it
was. And if it was dark and rather
dull, we used to say, what did it matter
to us, for it only made us remember our
last walk with greater pleasure, and
look forward to our next one. But
now we never have these walks, and
though it is the same house, it is darker
and much more gloomy than it used to
be. Indeed ! ”
She paused here, but though the door
creaked more than once, Mrs. Quilp
said nothing.
“ Mind you don’t suppose,” said the
child, earnestly, “ that grandfather is
less kind to me than he was. I think
he loves me better every day, and is
kinder and more affectionate than he
was the day before. You do not know
how fond he is of me ! ”
“ I ’m sure he loves you dearly,” said
Mrs. Quilp.
“ Indeed, indeed he does ! ” cried
Nell, “as dearly as I love him. But I
have not told you the greatest change
of all, and this you must never breathe
again to any one. He has no sleep or
rest but that which he takes by day in
his easy-chair ; for every night, and
nearly all night long, he is away from
home.”
“Nelly?”
“Hush!” said the child, laying her
finger on her lip and looking round.
“ When he comes home in the morning,
which is generally just before day, I let
him in. Last night he was very late,
and it was quite light. I saw that his
face was deadly pale, that his eyes were
bloodshot, and that his legs trembled
as he walked. When I had gone to
bed again, I heard him groan. I got
up and ran back to him, and heard him
say, before he knew that I was there,
that he could not bear his life much
longer, and if it was not for the child,
would wish to die. What shall I do !
O, what shall I do ! ”
The fountains of her heart were
opened ; the child, overpowered by the
weight of her sorrows and anxieties, by
the first confidence she had ever shown,
and the sympathy with which her little
tale had been received, hid her face
in the arms of her helpless friend, and
burst into a passion of tears.
In a few moments Mr. Quilp re-
THE OLD CURIOSITY SHOP.
39
turned, and expressed the utmost sur-
prise to find her in this condition,
which he did very naturally and with
admirable effect ; for that kind of act-
ing had been rendered familiar to him
by long practice, and he was quite at
home in it.
“ She ’s tired you see, Mrs. Quilp,”
said the dwarf, squinting in a hideous
manner to imply that his wife was to
follow his lead. “ It ’s a long way
from her home to the wharf, and then
she was alarmed to see a couple of
young scoundrels fighting, and was
timorous on the water besides. All
this together has been too much for
her. Poor Nell ! ”
Mr. Quilp unintentionally adopted
the very best means he could have
devised for the recovery of his young
visitor, by patting her on the head.
Such an application from any other
hand might not have produced a re-
markable effect ; but the child shrunk
so quickly from his touch, and felt such
an instinctive desire to get out of his
reach, that she rose directly and de-
clared herself ready to return.
“ But you ’d better wait and dine
with Mrs. Quilp and me,” said the
dwarf.
“ I have been away too long, sir, al-
ready,” returned Nell, drying her eyes.
“ Well,” said Mr. Quilp, “ if you will
go, you will, Nelly. Here ’s the note.
It ’s only to say that I shall see him
to-morrow, or may be next day, and
that I could n ’t do that little business
for him this morning. Good by, Nelly.
Here, you, sir ; take care of her, d’ ye
hear? ”
Kit, who appeared at the summons,
deigned to make no reply to so need-
less an injunction, and, after staring at
Quilp in a threatening manner, as if
he doubted whether he might not have
been the cause of Nelly shedding tears,
and felt more than half disposed to
revenge the fact upon him on the mere
suspicion, turned about and followed
his young mistress, who had by this
time taken her leave of Mrs. Quilp and
departed.
‘‘You ’re a keen questioner, ain’t you,
Mrs. Quiip ? ” said the dwarf, turning
upon her as soon as they were left alone.
“ What more could I do?” returned
his wife, mildly.
“ What more could you do ! ” sneered
Quilp. “ Could n’t you have done some-
thing less? couldn’t you have done
what you had to do, without appearing
in your favorite part of the crocodile,
you minx.”
“ I am very sorry for the child, Quilp,”
said his wife. “ Surely I ’ve done
enough. I ’ve led her on to tell her
secret, when she supposed we were
alone ; and you were by, God forgive
me.”
“You led her on ! You did a great
deal truly ! ” said Quilp. “ What did
I tell you about making me creak the
door? It’s lucky for you that from
what she let fall I ’ve got the clew I
want, for if I had n’t, I ’d have visited
the failure upon you.”
Mrs. Quilp, being fully persuaded of
this, made no reply. Her husband
added, with some exultation, —
“But you may thank your fortunate
stars, — the same stars that made you
Mrs. Quilp, — you may thank them that
I ’m upon the old gentleman’s track and
have got a new light. So let me hear
no more about this matter, now, or at
any other time, and don’t get anything
too nice for dinner, for I sha’n’t be
home to it.”
So saying, Mr. Quilp put his hat
on and took himself off, and Mrs. Quilp,
who was afflicted beyond measure by
the recollection of the part she had
just acted, shut herself up in her cham-
ber, and, smothering her head in the
bedclothes, bemoaned her fault more
bitterly than many less tender-hearted
persons would have mourned a much
greater offence ; for, in the majority
of cases, conscience is an elastic and
very flexible article, which will bear a
deal of stretching and adapt itself to a
great variety of circumstances. Some
people by prudent management and
leaving it off piece by piece, like a
flannel waistcoat in warm weather, even
contrive, in time, to dispense with it
altogether; but there be others who
can assume the garment and throw
it off at pleasure ; and this, being the
greatest and most convenient improve-
ment, is the one most in vogue.
4 °
THE OLD CURIOSITY SHOP.
CHAPTER VII.
“Fred,” said Mr. Swiveller, “re-
member the once popular melody of
‘ Begone, dull care ’ ; fan the sinking
flame of hilarity with the wing of friend-
ship ; and pass the rosy wine ! ”
Mr. Richard Swiveller’s apartments
were in the neighborhood of Drury
Lane, and, in addition to this conven-
iency of situation, had the advantage of
being over a tobacconist’s shop, so that
he was enabled to procure a refreshing
sneeze at any time by merely stepping
out on the staircase, and was saved the
trouble and expense of maintaining a
\J snuffbox. It was in these apartments
that Mr. Swiveller made use of the
expressions above recorded, for the con-
solation and encouragement of his de-
sponding friend ; and it may not be un-
interesting or improper to remark, that
even these brief observations partook
in a double sense of the figurative and
poetical character of Mr. Swiveller’s
mind, as the rosy wine was in fact rep-
resented by one glass of cold gin and
water, which was replenished, as occa-
sion required, from a bottle and jug up-
on the table, and was passed from one
to another in a scarcity of tumblers,
which, as Mr. Svviveller’s was a bache-
lor’s establishment, may be acknowl-
edged without a blush. By a like pleas-
ant fiction his single chamber w'as al-
ways mentioned in the plural number.
In its disengaged times, the tobacco-
nist had announced it in his window as
“apartments” for a single gentleman,
and Mr. Swiveller, following up the
hint, never failed to speak of it as his
rooms, his lodgings, or his chambers,
conveying to his hearers a notion of in-
definite space, and leaving their, imagi-
nations to wander through long suites
of lofty halls, at pleasure.
In this flight of fancy Mr. Swiveller
was assisted by a deceptive piece of
furniture, in reality a bedstead, but in
semblance a bookcase, which occupied
a prominent situation in his chamber,
and seemed to defy suspicion and chal-
lenge inquiry. There is no doubt that,
by day, Mr. Sw'iveller firmly believed
this secret convenience to be a bookcase
and nothing more ; that he closed his
eyes to the bed, resolutely denied the
existence of the blankets, and spurned
the bolster from his thoughts. No word
of its real use, no hint of its nightly ser-
vice, no allusion to its peculiar proper-
ties, had ever passed between him and
his most intimate friends. Implicit
faith in the deception was the first ar-
ticle of his creed. To be the friend of
Swiveller you must reject all circumstan-
tial evidence, all reason, observation,
and experience, and repose a blind
belief in the bookcase. It w'as his pet
weakness, and he cherished it.
“Fred !” said Mr. Swiveller, finding
that his former adjuration had been
productive of no effect. “Pass the
rosy ! ”
Young Trent, with an impatient ges-
ture, pushed the glass towards him,
and fell again into the moody attitude
from which he had been unwillingly
roused.
“ I ’ll give you, Fred,” said his friend,
stirring the mixture, “ a little sentiment
appropriate to the occasion. Here’s
May the — ”
“ Pshaw' ! ” interposed the other.
“You worry me to death with your
chattering. You can be merry under
any circumstances.”
“ Why, Mr. Trent,” returned Dick,
“ there is a proverb which talks about
being merry and w'ise. There are some
people who can be merry and can’t be
wise, and some who can be wise (or
think they can) and can’t be merry.
I ’m one of the first sort. If the prov-
erb ’s a good ’un, I suppose it ’s better
to keep to half of it than none ; at
all events I ’d rather be merry and not
wise, than like you — neither one nor
t’other.”
“Bah !” muttered hisfriend, peevishly.
“ With all my heart,” said Mr. Swiv-
eller. “In the polite circles I believe
this sort of thing is n’t usually said to a
gentleman in his own apartments, but
never mind that. Make yourself at
home.” Adding to this retort an obser-
vation to the effect that his friend ap-
peared to be rather “ cranky ” in point
of temper, Richard Swiveller finished
the rosy and applied himself to the com-
position of another glassful, in which,
after tasting it w’ith great relish, he
THE OLD CURIOSITY SHOP .
4i
proposed a toast to an imaginary com-
pany.
“ Gentlemen, I ’ll give you, if you
please, Success to the ancient family of
the Swivellers, and good luck to Mr.
Richard in particular, — Mr. Richard,
gentlemen,” said Dick with great em-
E hasis, “ who spends all his money on
is friends and is Bah ! * d for his pains.
Hear, hear ! ”
“ Dick ! ” said the other, returning to
his seat after having paced the room
twice or thrice, “ will you talk seriously
for two minutes, if I show you a way
to make your fortune with very little
trouble? ”
“You’ve shown me so many,” re-
turned Dick ; “ and nothing has come
of any of ’em but empty pockets — ”
“You’ll tell a different story of this
one, before a very lorfg time is over,”
said his companion, drawing his chair to
the table. “You saw my sister Nell? ”
“ What about her ? ” returned Dick.
“ She has a pretty face, has she
not? ”
“ Why, certainly,” replied Dick. “ I
must say for her, that there ’s not any
very strong family likeness between her
and you.”
“Has she a pretty face?” repeated
his friend, impatiently.
“Yes,” said Dick, “she has a pretty
face, a very pretty face. What of
that ? ”
“ I ’ll tell you,” returned his friend.
“ It ’s very plain that the old man and
I will remain at daggers-drawn to the
end of our lives, and that I have noth-
ing to expect from him. You see that,
I suppose ? ”
“A bat might see that, with the sun
shining,” said Dick.
“ It ’s equally plain that the money
which the old flint — rot him — first
taught me to expect that I should share
with her at his death will all be hers, is
it not ? ”
“ I should say it was,” replied Dick ;
“ unless the way in which I put the case
to him made an impression. It may
have done so. It was powerful, Fred.
‘ Here is a jolly old grandfather ’ — that
was strong, I thought — very friendly
and natural. Did it strike you in that
way ? ”
“ It did n’t strike him” returned the
other, “ so we need n’t discuss it. Now
look here. Nell is nearly fourteen.”
“ Fine girl of her age, but small,”
observed Richard Swiveller parentheti-
cally.
“ If I am to go on, be quiet for one
minute,” returned Trent, fretting at the
very slight interest the other appeared to
take in the' conversation. “Now I’m
coming to the point.”
“ That ’s right,” said Dick.
“The girl has strong affections, and,
brought up as she has been, may at her
age be easily influenced and persuaded.
If I take her in hand, I will be bound
by a very little coaxing and threatening
to bend her to my will. Not to beat
about the bush (for the advantages of
the scheme would take a week to tell),
what ’s to prevent your marrying her? ”
Richard Swiveller, who had been
looking over the rim of the tumbler
while his companion addressed the fore-
going remarks to him with great energy
and earnestness of manner, no sooner
heard these words, than hh evinced the
utmost consternation, and with difficulty
ejaculated the monosyllable, —
“ What ! ”
“ I say, what’s to prevent,” repeated
the other, with a steadiness of manner,
of the effect of which upon his compan-
ion he was well assured by long expe-
rience, — “ what ’s to prevent your mar-
rying her ? ”
“ And she * nearly fourteen ’ ! ” cried
Dick.
“ I don’t mean marrying her now,”
returned the brother, angrily ; “ say in
two years’ time, in three, in four. Does
the old man look like a long-liver?”
“ He don’t look like it,” said Dick,
shaking his head ; “ but these old peo-
ple — there’s no trusting ’em, Fred.
There ’s an aunt of mine down in Dor-
setshire that was goqjg to die when I
was eight years old, and hasn’t kept
her word yet. They ’re so aggravat-
ing, so unprincipled, so spiteful ; unless
there’s apoplexy in the family, Fred,
you can’t calculate upon ’em, and even
then they deceive you just as often as
not.”
“ Look at the w’orst side of the ques-
tion then,” said Trent as steadily as
a/
42
THE OLD CURIOSITY SHOP.
before, and keeping his eyes upon his
friend. “ Suppose he lives.”
“ To be sure,” said Dick. “ There ’s
the rub.”
“ I say,” resumed his friend, “suppose
he lives, and I persuaded, or if the word
sounds more feasible, forced Nell to a
secret marriage with you. What do you
think would come of that ? ”
“ A family and an annual income of
nothing to keep ’em on,” said Richard
Swiveller after some reflection.
“ I tell you,” returned the other with
an increased earnestness, which, whether
it were real or assumed, had the same
effect on his companion, “ that he lives
for her, that his whole energies and
thoughts are bound up in her, that he
would no more disinherit her for an act
of disobedience than he would take me
into his favor again for any act of obedi-
ence or virtue that I could possibly be
guilty of. He could not do it. You or
any other man with eyes in his head
may see that, if he chooses.”
“ It seems improbable, certainly,”
said Dick, musing.
“It seems improbable because it is
improbable,” his friend returned. “ If
you would furnish him with an addi-
tional inducement to forgive you, let
there be an irreconcilable breach, a
most deadly quarrel, between you and
me, — let there be a pretence of such a
thing, I mean, of course, — and he ’ll do
so fast enough. As to Nell, constant
dropping will wear away a stone ; you
know you may trust to me as far as she
is concerned. So, whether he lives or
dies, what does it come to ? That you
become the sole inheritor of the wealth
of this rich old hunks ; that you and I
spend it together ; and that you get, into
the bargain, a beautiful young wife.”
“ I suppose there’s no doubt about
his being rich,” said Dick.
“ Doubt ! Did, you hear what he let
fall the other day when we were there ?
Doubt ! What will you doubt next,
Dick? ”
It would be tedious to pursue the
conversation through all its artful wind-
ings, or to develop the gradual approach-
es by which the heart of Richard Swiv-
eller was gained. It is sufficient to
know, that vanity, interest, poverty, and
every spendthrift consideration urged
him to look upon the proposal with
favor, and that where all other induce-
ments were wanting, the habitual care-
lessness of his disposition stepped in
and still weighed down the scale on the
same side. To these impulses must be
added the complete ascendency which
his friend had long been accustomed
to exercise over him, — an ascendency
exerted in the beginning sorely at the
expense of the unfortunate Dick’s purse
and prospects, but still maintained with-
out the slightest relaxation, notwith-
standing that Dick suffered for all his
friend’s vices, and was, in nine cases
out of ten, looked upon as his designing
tempter, when he was indeed nothing
but his thoughtless, light-headed tool.
The motives on the other side were
something deeper than any which Rich-
ard Swiveller entertained or understood ;
but these, being left to their own devel-
opment, require no present elucidation.
The negotiation was concluded very
pleasantly, and Mr. Swiveller was in
the act of stating in flowery terms that
he had no insurmountable objection to
marrying anybody plentifully endowed
with money or movables, who could
be induced to take him, when he was
interrupted in his observations by a
knock at the door, and the consequent
necessity of crying, “ Come in.”
The door was opened, but nothing
came in except a soapy arm and a strong
gush of tobacco. The gush of tobacco
came from the shop down stairs, and
the soapy arm proceeded from the body
of a servant-girl, who, being then and
there engaged in cleaning the stairs, had
just drawn it out of a warm pail to take
in a letter, which letter she now held in
her hand ; proclaiming aloud, with that
quick perception of surnames peculiar to
her class, that it was for Mister Snivel-
ling.
Dick looked rather pale and foolish
when he glanced at the direction, and
still more so when he came to look at
the inside ; observing that this was one
of the inconveniences of being a lady’s
man, and that it was very easy to talk
as they had been talking, but he had
quite forgotten her.
“ Her. Who ? ” demanded Trent
THE OLD CURIOSITY SHOP.
43
“ Sophy Wackles,” said Dick.
“Who’s she?”
“ She ’s all my fancy painted her, sir,
that’s what she is,” said Mr. Swiveller,
taking a long pull at “the rosy” and
looking gravely at his friend. “ She is
lovely, she ’s divine. You know her.”
“ I remember,” said his companion,
carelessly. “ What of her ? ”
“ Why, sir,” returned Dick, “ between
Miss Sophia Wackles and the humble
individual who has now the honor to
address you, warm and tender senti-
ments have been engendered, — sen-
timents of the most honorable and in-
spiring kind. The Goddess Diana, sir,
that calls aloud for the chase, is not
more particular in her behavior than
Sophia Wackles ; I can tell you that.”
“Am I to believe there’s anything
real in what you say?” demanded his
friend. “ You don’t mean to say that
any love-making has been going on ? ”
“ Love-making, yes. Promising, no,”
said Dick. “There can be no action
for breach, that ’s one comfort. I ’ve
never committed myself in writing,
Fred.”
“ And what ’s in the letter, pray ? ”
“ A reminder, Fred, for to-night, — a
small party of twenty, — making two
hundred light fantastic toes in all, sup-
posing every lady and gentleman to
have the proper complement. I must
go, if it ’s only to begin breaking off the
affair, — I ’ll do it, don’t you be afraid.
I should like to know whether she left
this herself. If she did, unconscious
of any bar to her happiness, it’s affect-
ing, Fred.”
To solve this question, Mr. Swiveller
summoned the handmaid and ascer-
tained that Miss Sophy Wackles had
indeed left the letter with her own
hands ; that she had come accompa-
nied, for decorum’s sake no doubt, by a
younger Miss Wackles-; and that, on
learning that Mr. Swiveller was at
home, and being requested to walk up
stairs, she was extremely shocked, and
professed that she would rather die.
Mr. Swiveller heard this account with a
degree of admiration not altogether con-
sistent with the project in which he had
just concurred ; but his friend attached
very little importance to his behavior in
this respect, probably because he knew
that he had influence sufficient to con-
trol Richard Swiveller’s proceedings in
this or any other matter, whenever he
deemed it necessary, for the advance-
ment of his own purposes, to exert it.
CHAPTER VIII.
Business disposed of, Mr. Swiveller
was inwardly reminded of its being nigh
dinner-time, and, to the intent that his
health might not be endangered by
longer abstinence, despatched a mes-
sage to the nearest eating-house requir-
ing an immediate supply of boiled beef
and greens for two. With this demand,
however, the eating-house (having ex-
perience of its customer) declined to
comply, churlishly sending back for an-
swer, that if Mr. Swiveller stood in need
of beef, perhaps he would be so obliging
as to come there and eat it, bringing
with him, as grace before meat, the
amount of a certain small account which
had been long outstanding. Not at all
intimidated by this rebuff, but rather
sharpened in wits and appetite, Mr.
Swiveller forwarded the same message
to another and more distant eating-
house, adding to it, by way of rider, that
the gentleman was induced to send so
far, not only by the great fame and pop-
ularity its beef had acquired, but in con-
sequence of the extreme toughness of
the beef retailed at the obdurate cook’s
shop, which rendered it quite unfit, not
merely for gentlemanly food, but for any
human consumption. The good effect
of this politic course was demonstrated
by the speedy arrival of a small pewter
pyramid, curiously constructed of plat-
ters and covers, whereof the boiled-beef
plates formed the base, and a foaming
quart-pot the apex ; the structure, being
resolved into its component parts, af-
forded all things requisite and necessary
for a hearty meal, to which Mr. Swivel-
ler and his friend applied themselves
with great keenness and enjoyment.
“ May the present moment,” said
Dick, sticking his fork into a large car-
buncular potato, “ be the worst of our
lives ! I like this plan of sending ’em
44
THE OLD CURIOSITY SHOP.
with the peel on : there ’s a charm in
drawing a potato from its native element
(if I may so express it) to which the
rich and powerful are strangers. Ah !
* Man wants but little here below, nor
wants that little long 1 ’ How true that
is! — after dinner.”
“ I hope the eating-house keeper
will want but little and that he may
not w'ant that little long,” returned his
companion ; “ but I suspect you ’ve no
means of paying for this ! ”
“ I shall be passing presently, and I ’ll
call,” said Dick, winking his eye sig-
nificantly. “The waiter’s quite help-
less. The goods are gone, Fred, and
there’s an end of it.”
In point of fact, it would seem that
the waiter felt this wholesome truth, for
when he returned for the empty plates
and dishes, and was informed by Mr.
Swiveller with dignified carelessness
that he would call and settle when he
should be passing presently, he displayed
some perturbation of spirit, and mut-
tered a few remarks about “ payment on
delivery,” and “ no trust,” and other un-
pleasant subjects, but was fain to con-
tent himself with inquiring at what hour
it was likely the gentleman would call,
in order that, being personally responsi-
ble for the beef, greens, and sundries,
he might take care to be in the way at
the time. Mr. Swiveller, after mentally
calculating his engagements to a nicety,
replied that he should look in at from
two minutes before six to seven minutes
past ; and the man disappearing with
this feeble consolation, Richard Swivel-
ler took a greasy memorandum-book
from his pocket and made an entry
therein.
“ Is that a reminder, in case you
should forget to call? ” said Trent, with
a sneer.
“Not exactly, Fred,” replied the
imperturbable Richard, continuing to
write with a business-like air. “ I enter
in this little book the names of the
streets that I can’t go down while the
shops are open. This dinner to-day
closes Long Acre. I bought a pair of
boots in Great Queen Street last week,
and made that no thoroughfare too.
There ’s only one avenue to the Strand
left open now, and I shall have to stop
up that to-night with a pair of gloves.
The roads are closing so fast in every
direction, that, in about a month’s time,
unless my aunt sends me a remittance,
I shall have to go three or four miles
out of town to get over the way.”
“ There ’s no fear of her failing, in
the end?” said Trent.
“Why, I hope not,” returned Mr.
Swiveller, “but the average number of
letters it takes to soften her is six, and
this time we have got as far as eight
without any effect at all. I ’ll write
another to-morrow morning. I mean
to blot it a good deal, and shake some
water over it out of the pepper-castor,
to make it look penitent. ‘ I ’m in such
a state of mind that I hardly know what
I write’ — blot — ‘if you could see me
at this minute shedding tears for my
ast misconduct ’ — pepper-castor — ‘my
and trembles when I think ’ — blot
again — if that don’t produce the effect,
it ’s all over.”
By this time Mr. Swiveller had fin-
ished his entry, and he now replaced
his pencil in its little sheath and closed
the book, in a perfectly grave and seri-
ous frame of mind. His friend discov-
ered that it was time for him to fulfil
some other engagement, and Richard
Swiveller was accordingly left alone, in
company with the rosy wine and his
own meditations touching Miss Sophy
Wackles.
“ It ’s rather sudden,” said Dick, shak-
ing his head with a look of infinite wis-
dom, and running on (as he was accus
tomed to do) with scraps of verse as i #
they were only prose in a hurry ; “ whe&
the heart of a man is depressed with
fears, the mist is dispelled when Mis*
Wackles appears : she ’s a very nic«
girl. She ’s like the red red rose that ’s
newly sprung in June, — there’s no
denying that, — she ’s also like a melo-
dy that ’s sweetly played in tune. It ’a
really very sudden. Not that there ’s
any need, on account of Fred’s lijtle
sister, to turn cool directly, but it is
better not to go too far. If I begin to
cool at all, I must begin at once, I see
that. There ’s the chance of an action
for breach, that ’s one reason. There’s
the chance of Sophy’s getting another
husband, that ’s another. There ’s the
THE OLD CURIOSITY SHOP.
45
chance of — no, there’s no chance of
that, but it ’s hs well to be on the safe
side.”
This undeveloped consideration was
the possibility, which Richard Swiveller
sought to conceal even from himself, of
his not being proof against the charms
of Miss Wackles, and in some unguard-
ed moment, by linking his fortunes to
hers forever, of putting it out of his own
power to further the notable scheme to
which he had so readily become a party.
For all these reasons, he decided to
pick a quarrel with Miss Wackles with-
out delay, and, casting about for a pre-
text, determined in favor of groundless
jealousy. Having made up his mind
on this important point, he circulated
the glass (from his right hand to his left,
and back again) pretty freely, to enable
him to act his part with the greater dis-
cretion, and then, after making some
slight improvements in his toilet, bent
his steps towards the spot hallowed by
the fair object of his meditations.
This spot was at Chelsea, for there
Miss Sophia Wackles resided with her
widowed mother and two sisters, in
conjunction with whoni she maintained
a very small day-school for young ladies
of proportionate dimensions ; a circum-
stance which was made known to the
neighborhood by an oval board over
the front first-floor window, whereon
appeared, in circumambient flourishes,
the words “ Ladies* Seminary,” and
which was further published and pro-
claimed at intervals, between the hours
of half past nine and ten in the morning,
by a straggling and solitary young lady
of tender years standing on the scraper
on the tips of her toes, and making futile
attempts to reach the knocker with a
spelling-book. The several duties of
instruction in this establishment were
thus discharged. English grammar,
composition, geography, and the use of
the dumb-bells, by Miss Melissa Wack-
les ;• writing, arithmetic, dancing, music,
and general fascination, by Miss Sophy
Wackles; the art of needle-work, mark-
ing, and samplery, by Miss Jane Wack-
les ; corporal punishment, fasting, and
other tortures and terrors, by Mrs.
Wackles. Miss Melissa Wackles was
the eldest daughter, Miss Sophy the
next, and Miss Jane the youngest.
Miss Melissa might have seen five-and-
thirty summers or thereabouts, and
verged on the autumnal ; Miss Sophy
was a fresh, good-humored, buxom
girl of twenty; and Miss Jane num-
bered scarcely sixteen years. Mrs.
Wackles was an excellent, but rather
venomous, old lady of threescore.
To this Ladies’ Seminary, then, Rich-
ard Swiveller hied, with designs obnox-
ious to the peace of the fair Sophia,
who, arrayed in virgin white, embel-
lished by no ornament but one blushing
rose, received him, on his arrival, in the
midst of very elegant not to say brilliant
preparations, — such as the embellish-
ment of the room with the little flower-
pots which always stood on the window-
sill outside, save in windy weather, when
they blew into the area ; the choice
attire of the day-scholars, who were
allowed to grace the festival ; the un-
wonted curls of Miss Jane Wackles, who
had kept her head during the whole of
the preceding day screwed up tight in a
yellow play-bill ; and the solemn gen-
tility and stately bearing of the old lady
and her eldest daughter, which struck
Mr. Swiveller as being uncommon, but
made no further impression upon him.
The truth is, — and, as there is no
accounting for tastes, even a taste so
strange as this may be recorded without
being looked upon as a wilful and ma-
licious invention, — the truth is, that
neither Mrs. Wackles nor her eldest
daughter had at any time greatly fa-
vored the pretensions of Mr. Swiveller,
they being accustomed to make slight
mention of him as “a gay young man,”
and to sigh and shake their heads omi-
nously whenever his name was men-
tioned. Mr. Swiveller’s conduct in re-
spect to Miss Sophy having been of
that vague and dilatory kind which is
usually looked upon as betokening no
fixed matrimonial intentions, the young
lady herself began, in course of time, to
deem it highly desirable that it should
be brought to an issue one way or other.
Hence, she had at last consented to
play off, against Richard Swiveller, a
stricken market-gardener known to be
ready with his offer on the smallest
encouragement, and hence — as this oc-
46
THE OLD CURIOSITY SHOP.
casion had been specially assigned for
the purpose — that great anxiety on her
part for Richard Swiveller’s presence
which had occasioned her to leave the
note he has been seen to receive. “ If
he has any expectations at all or any
means of keeping a wife well,” said
Mrs. Wackles to her eldest daughter,
“ he ’ll state ’em to us now or never.”
“If he really cares about me,” thought
Miss Sophy, “he must tell me so to-
night.”
But all these sayings and doings and
thinkings, being unknown to Mr. Swiv-
eller, affected him not in the least ; he
was debating in his mind how he could
best turn jealous, and wishing that
Sophy were, for that occasion only, far
less pretty than she was, or that she
were her own sister, which would have
served his turn as well, when the com-
pany came, and among them the mar-
ket-gardener, whose name was Cheggs.
But Mr. Cheggs came not alone or
unsupported, for he prudently brought
along with him his sister, Miss Cheggs,
who, making straight to Miss Sophy,
and taking her by both hands, and kiss-
ing her on both cheeks, hoped in an
audible whisper that they had not come
too early.
“ Too early, no ! ” replied Miss So-
phy.
“ O my dear,” rejoined Miss Cheggs
in the same whisper as before, “ I ’ve
been so tormented, so worried, that it ’s
a mercy we were not here at four o’clock
in the afternoon. Alick has been in suck
a state of impatience to come ! You ’d
hardly believe that he was dressed be-
fore dinner-time and has been look-
ing at the clock and teasing me ever
since. It ’s all your fault, you naughty
thing.”
Hereupon Miss Sophy blushed, and
Mr. Cheggs (who was bashful before
ladies) blushed too, and Miss Sophy’s
mother and sisters, to prevent Mr.
Cheggs from blushing more, lavished
civilities and attentions upon him, and
left Richard Swiveller to take care of
himself. Here was the very thing he
wanted ; here was good cause, reason,
and foundation for pretending to be
angry ; but having this cause, reason,
and foundation which he had come ex-
pressly to seek, not expecting to find,
Richard Swiveller was angry in sound
earnest, and wondered what the devil
Cheggs meant by his impudence.
However, Mr. Swiveller had Miss
Sophy’s hand for the first quadrille
(country-dances being low, were utterly
proscribed), and so gained an advantage
over his rival, who sat despondingly in
a corner and contemplated the glorious
figure of the young lady as she moved
through the mazy dance. Nor was this
the only start Mr. Swiveller had of the
market-gardener ; for, determining to
show the family what quality of man
they trifled with, and influenced per-
haps by his late libations, he performed
such feats of agility and such spins and
twirls as filled the company with aston-
ishment, and in particular caused a very
long gentleman, who was dancing with a
very short scholar, to stand quite trans-
fixed by wonder and admiration. Even
Mrs. Wackles forgot for the moment to
snub three small young ladies who were
inclined to be happy, and could not re-
press a rising thought, that to have such
a dancer as that in the family would be
a pride indeed.
At this momentous crisis, Miss
Cheggs proved herself a vigorous and
useful ally ; for, not confining herself to
expressing by scornful smiles a contempt
for Mr. Swiveller’s accomplishments,
she took every opportunity of whisper-
ing into Miss Sophy’s ear expressions
of condolence and sympathy on her be-
ing worried by such a ridiculous crea-
ture, declaring that she was frightened to
death lest Alick should fall upon him,
and beat him, in the fulness of his
wrath, and entreating Miss Sophy to
observe how the eyes of the said Alick
gleamed with love and fury, — passions,
it may be observed, which, being too
much for his eyes, rushed into his nose
also, and suffused it with a crimson
glow.
“You must dance with Miss Cheggs,”
said Miss Sophy to Dick Swiveller, after
she had herself danced twice with Mr.
Cheggs, and made great show of en-
couraging his advances. “ She ’s such
a nice girl, — and her brother’s quite
delightful.”
“Quite delightful, is he?” muttered
THE OLD CURIOSITY SHOP.
47
Dick. “ Quite delighted, too, I should
say, from the manner in which he ’s
looking this way.”
Here Miss Jane (previously instruct-
ed for the purpose) interposed her many
curls and whispered her sister to ob-
serve how jealous Mr. Cheggs was.
“ Jealous ! Like his impudence ! ”
said Richard Swiveller.
“ His impudence, Mr. Swiveller ! ”
said Miss Jane, tossing her head.
“Take care he don’t hear you, sir, or
you may be sorry for it.”
“O, pray, Jane — ” said Miss So-
phy.
“ Nonsense ! ” replied her sister,
“why shouldn’t Mr. Cheggs be jeal-
ous if he likes? I like that, certainly.
Mr. Cheggs has as good a right to be
jealous as anybody else has, and perhaps
he may have a better right soon, if he
has n’t already. You know best about
that, Sophy ! ”
Though this was a concerted plot be-
tween Miss Sophy and her sister, origi-
nating in humane intentions, and hav-
ing for its object the inducing Mr.
Swiveller to declare himself in time, it
failed in its effect ; for Miss Jane, being
one of those young ladies who are
prematurely shrill and shrewish, gave
such undue importance to her part, that
Mr. Swiveller retired in dudgeon, re-
signing his mistress to Mr. Cheggs,
and conveying a defiance into his looks
which that gentleman indignantly re-
turned.
“Did you speak to me, sir?” said
Mr. Cheggs, following him into a corner.
— “Have the kindness to smile, sir, in
order that we may not be suspected. —
Did you speak to me, sir?”
Mr. Swiveller looked with a supercil-
ious smile at Mr. Cheggs’s toes, then
raised his eyes from them to his ankle,
from that to his shin, from that to his
knee, and so on very gradually, keep-
ing up his right leg, until he reached his
waistcoat, when he raised his eyes from
button to button until he reached his
chin, and, travelling straight up the
middle of his nose, came at last to his
eyes, when he said abruptly, —
“ No, sir, I did n’t.”
“ Hem ! ” said Mr. Cheggs, glan-
cing over his shoulder, “have the good-
ness to smile again, sir. Perhaps you
wished to speak to me, sir.”
“ No, sir, I didn’t do that, either.”
“ Perhaps you may have nothing to
say to me now. sir,” said Mr. Cheggs,
fiercely.
At these words, Richard Swiveller
withdrew his eyes from Mr. Cheggs’s
face, and travelling down the middle of
his nose, and down his waistcoat, and
down his right leg, reached his toes
again, and carefully surveyed them ;
this done, he crossed over, and coming
up the other leg, and thence approaching
by the waistcoat as before, said, when
he had got to his eyes, “ No, sir, I
have n’t.”
“ O, indeed, sir ! ” said Mr. Cheggs.
“ I ’m glad to hear it. You know
where I ’m to be found, I suppose, sir,
in case you shoxild have anything to say
to me? ”
“ I can easily inquire, sir, when I
want to know.”
“ There ’s nothing more we need say,
I believe, sir? ”
“ Nothing more, sir.” With that
they closed the tremendous dialogue by
frowning mutually. Mr. Cheggs has-
tened to tender his hand to Miss Sophy,
and Mr. Swiveller sat himself down in
a corner in a very moody state.
Hard by this corner Mrs. Wackles
and Miss Wackles were seated, looking
on at the dance ; and unto Mrs. and
Miss Wackles Miss Cheggs occasion-
ally darted, when her partner was oc-
cupied with his share of the figure, and
made some remark or other which was
gall and wormwood to Richard Swiv-
eller’s soul. _ Looking into the eyes of
Mrs. and Miss Wackles for encourage-
ment, and sitting very upright and un-
comfortable on a couple of hard stools,
were two of the day-scholars ; and
when Miss Wackles smiled, and Mrs.
Wackles smiled, the two little girls on
the stools sought to curry favor by
smiling likewise, in gracious acknowl-
edgment of which attention the old
lady frowned them down instantly, and
said, that if they dared to be guilty of
such an impertinence again, they should
be sent under convoy to their respec-
tive homes. This threat caused one
of the young ladies, she being of a
4 8
THE OLD CURIOSITY SHOP.
weak and trembling temperament, to
shed tears, and for this offence they
were both filed off immediately, with
a dreadful promptitude that struck ter-
ror into the souls of all the pupils.
“ I ’ve got such news for you,” said
Miss Cheggs, approaching once more.
“ Alick has been saying such things to
Sophy. Upon my word, you know,
it ’s quite serious and in earnest, that ’s
clear.”
“ What ’s he been saying, my dear ? ”
demanded Mrs. Wackles.
“ All manner of things,” replied Miss
Cheggs ; “ you can’t think how out he
has been speaking ! ”
Richard Swiveller considered it ad-
visable to hear no more, but taking ad-
vantage of a pause in the dancing, and
the approach of Mr. Cheggs to pay
his court to the old lady, swaggered
with an extremely careful assumption
of extreme carelessness towards the
door, passing on the way Miss Jane
Wackles, who, in all the glory of her
curls, was holding a flirtation (as good
practice when no better was to be had)
with a feeble old gentleman who lodged
in the parlor. Near the door sat Miss
Sophy, still fluttered and confused by
the attentions of Mr. Cheggs, and by
her side Richard Swiveller lingered for
a moment to exchange a few parting
words.
“My boat is on the shore and my
bark is on the sea, but before I pass
this door I will say farewell to thee,”
murmured Dick, looking gloomily upon
her.
“ Are you going?” said Miss Sophy,
whose heart sunk within her at the re-
sult of her stratagem, but who affected
a light indifference notwithstanding.
“Am I going!” echoed Dick, bit-
terly. “Yes, lam. What then?”
“Nothing, except that it ’s very
early,” said Miss Sophy ; “ but you are
your own master of course.”
“ I would that I had been my own
mistress, too,” said Dick, “before I
had ever entertained a thought of you.
Miss Wackles, I believed you true, and
I was blest in so believing, but now I
mourn that e’er I knew a girl so fair,
yet so deceiving.”
Miss Sophy bit her lip and affected
to look with great interest after Mr.
Cheggs, who was quaffing lemonade in
the distance.
“ I came here,” said Dick, rather
oblivious of the purpose with which he
had really come, “ with my bosom ex-
panded, my heart dilated, and my sen-
timents of a corresponding description.
I go away with feelings that may be
conceived, but cannot be described,
feeling within myself the desolating
truth that my best affections have ex-
perienced, this night, a stifler ! ”
“ I am sure I don’t know what you
mean, Mr. Swiveller,” said Miss So-
phy with downcast eyes. “I’m very
sorry if — ”
“Sorry, ma’am ! ” said Dick, — “ sor-
ry in the possession of a Cheggs ! But
I wish you a very good night ; con-
cluding with this slight remark, that
there is a young lady growing up at
this present moment for me, who has
not only great personal attractions but
reat wealth, and who has requested
er next of kin to propose for my hand,
which, having a regard for some mem-
bers of her family, I have consented
to promise. It ’s a gratifying circum-
stance which you ’ll be glad to hear, that
a young and lovely girl is growing into
a woman expressly on my account, and
is now saving up for me. I thought
I ’d mention it. I have now merely to
apologize for trespassing so long upon
your attention. Good night ! ”
“There ’s one good thing springs out
of all this,” said Richard Swiveller to
himself, when he had reached home and
was hanging over the candle with the
extinguisher in his hand, “ which is,
that I now go heart and soul, neck and
heels, with Fred in all his scheme about
little Nelly, and right glad he ’ll be to
find me so strong upon it. Fie shall
know all about that to-morrow, and in
the mean time, as it ’s rather late, I ’ll
try and get a wink or two of the balmy.”
“The balmy” came almost as soon
as it w r as courted. In a very few min-
utes Mr. Swiveller was fast asleep,
dreaming that he had married Nelly
Trent and come into the property, and
that his first act of power was to lay
waste the market-garden of Mr. Cheggs
and turn it into a brick-field.
THE OLD CURIOSITY SHOP .
49
CHAPTER IX.
The child, in her confidence with
Mrs. Quilp, had but feebly described
the sadness and sorrow of her thoughts,
or the heaviness of the cloud which
overhung her home, and cast dark shad-
ows on its hearth. Besides that it was
very difficult to impart to any person
not intimately acquainted with the life
she led an adequate sense of its gloom
and loneliness, a constant fear of in
some way committing or injuring the
old man to whom she was so tenderly
attached, had restrained her, even in
the midst of her heart’s overflowing,
and made her timid of allusion to the
main cause of her anxiety and distress.
For it was not the monotonous days,
uncheckered by variety and uncheered
by pleasant companionship, it was not
the dark dreary evenings or the long
solitary nights, it was not the absence
of every slight and easy pleasure for
which young hearts beat high, or the
knowing nothing of childhood but its
weakness and its easily wounded spirit,
that had wrung such tears from Nell.
To see the old man struck down be-
neath the pressure of some hidden grief,
to mark his wavering and unsettled
state, to be agitated at times with a
dreadful fear that his mind was wander-
ing, and to trace in his words and looks
• the dawning of despondent madness, —
to watch and wait and listen for confirma-
tion of these things day after day, and
to feel and know that, come what might,
they were alone in the world with no
one to help or advise or care about
them, — these were causes of depression
and anxiety that might have sat heavily
on an older breast, with many influences
at work to cheer and gladden it, but
how heavily on the mind of a young
child, to whom they were ever present,
and who was constantly surrounded by
all that could keep such thoughts in
restless action !
And yet, to the old man’s vision, Nell
was still the same. When he could,
for a moment, disengage his mind from
the phantom that haunted and brooded
on it always, there was his young com-
panion with the same smile for him, the
same earnest words, the same merry
4
laugh, the same love and care, that,
sinking deep into his soul, seemed to
have been present to him through his
whole life. And so he went on, content
to read the book of her heart from the
page first presented to him, little dream-
ing of the story that lay hidden in its
other leaves, and murmuring within
himself that at least the child was
happy.
She had been once. She had gone
singing through the dim rooms, and
moving with gay and lightsome step
among their dusty treasures, making
them older by her young life, and sterner
and more grim by her gay and cheer-
ful presence. But now the chambers
were cold and gloomy, and when she
left her own little room to while away
the tedious hours, and sat in one of
them, she was still and motionless as
their inanimate occupants, and had no
heart to startle the echoes — hoarse
from their long silence — with her
voice.
In one of these rooms was a window
looking into the street, where the child
sat, many and many a long evening,
and often far into the night, alone and
thoughtful. None are so anxious as
those who watch and wait. At these
times mournful fancies came flocking
on her mind, in crowds.
She would take her station here at dusk,
and watch the people as they passed up
and down the street, or appeared at the
windows of the opposite houses, won-
dering whether those rooms were as
lonesome as that in which she sat, and
whether those people felt it compa-
ny to see her sitting there, as she did
only to . see them look out and draw
in their heads again. There was a
crooked stack of chimneys on one of
the roofs, in which, by often looking at
them, she had fancied ugly faces that
were frowning over at her and trying to
peer into the room ; and she felt glad
when it grew too dark to make them
out, though she was sorry, too, when
the man came to light the lamps in
the street, for it made it late, and very
dull inside. Then she would draw in
her head to look round the room and
see that everything was in its place and
had n’t moved ; and, looking out into the
5 °
THE OLD CURIOSITY SHOP.
street again, would, perhaps, see a man
passing with a coffin on his back, and
two or three others silently following him
to a house where somebody lay dead ;
which made her shudder and think of
such things, until they suggested afresh
the old man’s altered face and manner,
and a new train of fears and specula-
tions. If he were to die, — if sudden
illness had happened to him, and he
were never to come home again, alive,
— if, one night, he should come home,
and kiss and bless her as usual, and
after she had gone to bed and had fall-
en asleep and was perhaps dreaming
pleasantly and smiling in her sleep,
he should kill himself, and his blood
come creeping, creeping on the ground
to her own bedroom door — These
thoughts were too terrible to dwell
upon, and again she would have re-
course to the street, now trodden by few-
er feet, and darker and more silent than
before. The shops were closing fast,
and lights began to shine from the up-
er windows, as the neighbors went to
ed. By degrees these dwindled away
and disappeared, or were replaced, here
and there, by a feeble rush-candle
which was to burn all night. Still,
there was one late shop at no great
distance, which sent forth a ruddy glare
upon the pavement even yet, and looked
bright and companionable. But in a
little time this closed, the light was
extinguished, and all was gloomy and
quiet, except when some stray footsteps
sounded on the pavement, or a neigh-
bor, out later than his wont, knocked
lustily at his house door to rouse the
sleeping inmates.
When the night had worn away thus
far (and seldom now until it had), the
child would close the window, and steal
softly down stairs, thinking as she went,
that if one of those hideous faces below,
which often mingled with her dreams,
were to meet her by the way, rendering
itself visible by some strange light of its
own, how terrified she would be. But
these fears vanished before a well-
trimmed lamp and the familiar aspect of
her own room. After praying fervently,
and with many bursting tears, for the
old man and the restoration of his
peace of mind and the happiness they
had once enjoyed, she would lay her
head upon the pillow and sob herself to
sleep, often starting up again, before
the daylight came, to listen for the bell,
and respond to the imaginary summons
which had roused her from her slum-
ber.
One night, the third after Nelly’s in-
terview with Mrs. Quilp, the old man,
who had been weak and ill all day, said
he should not leave home. The child’s
eyes sparkled at the intelligence, but her
joy subsided when they reverted to his
worn and sickly face.
“Two days,” he said, “two whole,
clear days have passed, and there is no
reply. What did he tell thee, Nell?”
“ Exactly what I told you, dear
grandfather, indeed.”
“True,” said the old man, faintly.
“Yes. But tell me again, Nell. My
head fails me. What was it that he
told thee? Nothing more than that he
would see me to-morrow or next day?
That was in the note.”
“Nothing more,” said the child.
“ Shall I go to him again to-morrow,
dear grandfather? Very early? I will
be there and back before breakfast.”
The old man shook his head, and,
sighing mournfully, drew her towards
him.
“ ’T would be of no use, my dear, no
earthly use. But if he deserts me,
Nell, at this moment, — if he deserts
me now, when I should, with his assist-
ance, be recompensed for all the time
and money I have lost, and all the ago-
ny of mind I have undergone, which
makes me what you see, — I am ruined,
and — worse, far worse than that —
have ruined thee, for whom I ventured
all. If we are beggars — ! ”
“What if we are?” said the child,
boldly. “ Let us be beggars and be
happy.”
“Beggars — and happy!” said the
old man. “Poor child!”
“Dear grandfather,” cried the girl,
with an energy which shone in her
flushed face, trembling voice, and im-
passioned gesture, “ I am not a child
in that, I think, but even if I am, O
hear me pray that we may beg, or work
in open roads or fields to earn a scanty
living, rather than live as we do now.”
THE OLD CURIOSITY SHOP .
Si
** Nelly ! ” said the old man.
“ Yes, yes, rather than live as we do
now,” the child repeated, more ear-
nestly than before. “If you are sorrow-
ful, let me know why and be sorrowful
too ; if you waste away and are paler
and weaker every day, let me be your
nurse and try to comfort you ; if you
are poor, let us be poor together ; but
let me be with you, do let me be with
you ; do not let me see such change and
not know why, or I shall break my
heart and die. Dear grandfather, let
us leave this sad place to-morrow, and
beg our way from door to door.”
The old man covered his face with
his hands, and hid it in the pillow of
the couch on which he lay.
“ Let us be beggars,” said the child,
passing an arm round his neck. “ I have
no fear but we shall have enough ; I am
sure we shall. Let us walk through
country places, and sleep in fields and
under trees, and never think of money
again, or anything that can make you
sad, but rest at nights, and have the sun
and wind upon our faces in the day,
and thank God together ! Let us never
set foot in dark rooms or melancholy
houses any more, but wander up and
down wherever we like to go ; and
when you are tired, you shall stop to
rest in the pleasantest place that we
can find, and I will go and beg for
both.”
The child’s voice was lost in sobs as
she dropped upon the old man’s neck ;
nor did she weep alone.
These were not words for other ears,
nor was it a scene for other eyes. And
yet other ears and eyes were there and
greedily taking in all that passed, and
moreover they were the ears and eyes
of no less a person than Mr. Daniel
Quilp, who, having entered unseen
when the child first placed herself at
the old man’s side, refrained — actu-
ated, no doubt, by motives of the pur-
est delicacy — from interrupting the
conversation, and stood looking on with
his accustomed grin. Standing, how-
ever, being a tiresome attitude to a gen-
tleman already fatigued with walking,
and the dwarf being one of that kind of
persons who usually make themselves
at home, he soon cast his eyes upon a
chair, into which he skipped with un-
common agility, and perching himself
on the back, with his feet upon the seat,
was thus enabled to look on and listen
with greater comfort to himself, besides
gratifying at the same time that taste
for doing something fantastic and mon-
key-like which on all occasions had
strong possession of him. Here, then,
he sat, one leg cocked carelessly over
the other, his chin resting on the palm
of his hand, his head turned a little on
one side, and his ugly features twisted
into a complacent grimace. And in
this position the old man, happening
in course of time to look that way, at
length chanced to see him, to his un-
bounded astonishment.
The child uttered a suppressed shriek
on beholding this agreeable figure. In
their first surprise both she and the old
man, not knowing w'hat to say, and half
doubting its reality, looked shrinkingly
at it. Not at all disconcerted by tins
reception, Daniel Quilp preserved the
same attitude, merely nodding twice or
thrice with great condescension. At
length the old man pronounced his
name, and inquired how he came
there.
“Through the door,” said Quilp,
pointing over his shoulder with his
thumb. “ I ’m not quite small enough
to get through keyholes. I wish I
was. I want to have some talk with
you, particularly, and in private, — with
nobody present, neighbor. Good by,
little Nelly.”
Nell looked at the old man, who nod-
ded to her to retire, and kissed her cheek.
“Ah ! ” said the dwarf, smacking his
lips, “ what a nice kiss that was, — just
upon the rosy part. What a capital
kiss ! ”
Nell was none the slower in going
away for this remark. Quilp looked
after her with an admiring leer, and
when she had closed the door, fell to
complimenting the old man upon her
charms.
“ Such a fresh, blooming, modest little
bud, neighbor,” said Quilp, nursing his
short leg, and making his eyes twinkle
very much, — “ such a chubby, rosy,
cosey little Nell ! ”
The old man answered by a forced
52
THE OLD CURIOSITY SHOP.
smile, and was plainly struggling with
a feeling of the keenest and most ex-
quisite impatience. It was not lost
upon Quilp, who delighted in tortur-
ing him, or indeed anybody else when
he could.
“ She ’s so,” said Quilp, speaking very
slowly, and feigning to be quite absorbed
in the subject, — ‘‘so small, so compact,
so beautifully modelled, so fair, with such
blue veins, and such a transparent skin,
and such little feet, and such winning
ways — but bless me, you’re nervous!
Why, neighbor, what’s the matter? I
swear to you,” continued the dwarf,
dismounting from the chair and sitting
down in it, with a careful slowness of
gesture very different from the rapidi-
ty with which he had sprung up un-
heard, — “I swear to you that I had
no idea old blood ran so fast or kept
so warm. I thought it was sluggish in
its course, and cool, quite cool. I am
pretty sure it ought to be. Yours
must be out of order, neighbor.”
“ I believe it is,” groaned the old man,
clasping his head with both hands.
“ There ’s burning fever here, and
something now and then to which I
fear to give a name.”
The dwarf said never a w’ord, but
watched his companion as lie paced
restlessly up and down the room, and
resently returned to his seat. Here
e remained, with his head bowed up-
on his breast for some time, and then,
suddenly raising it, said, —
“ Once, and once for all, have you
brought me any money ? ”
“ No ! ” returned Quilp.
“ Then,” said the old man, clenching
his hands desperately, and looking up-
ward, “the child and I are lost ! ”
“ Neighbor,” said Quilp, glancing
sternly at him, and beating his hand
twice or thrice upon the table to at-
tract his wandering attention, “ let me
be plain with you, and play a fairer
game than when you held all the
cards, and I saw but the backs and
nothing more. You have no secret
from me, now.”
The old man looked up, trembling.
“You are surprised,” said Quilp.
“ Well, perhaps that ’s natural. You
have no secret from me now, I say;
no, not one. For now I know that
all those sums of money, that all those
loans, advances, and supplies that you
have had from me, have found their way
to — shall I say the word ? ”
“ Ay ! ” replied the old man, “ say it
if you will.”
“To the gaming-table,” rejoined
Quilp, “ your nightly haunt. This was
the precious scheme to make your for-
tune, was it ? this was the secret certain
source of wealth in which I was to have
sunk my money' (if I had been the fool
you took me for) ; this was your inex-
haustible mine of gold, your El Do-
rado, eh?”
“ Yes,” cried the old man, turning up-
on him with gleaming eyes, “it was. It
is. It will be, till I die.”
“That I should have been blinded,”
said Quilp, looking contemptuously at
him, “ by a mere shallow gambler ! ”
“ I am no gambler, ’’cried the old man,
fiercely. “ I call Heaven to witness that
I never played for gain of mine or love
of play ; that at every piece I staked I
whispered to myself that orphan’s name,
and called on Heaven to bless the ven-
ture ; — which it never did. Whom did
it prosper ? Who were those with whom
I played? Men who lived by plunder,
profligacy, and riot, squandering their
gold in doing ill, and propagating vice
and evil. My winnings would have been
from them ; my winnings would have
been bestowed to the last farthing on
a young, sinless child, whose life they
would have sweetened and made hap-
py. What would they have contract-
ed ? The means of corruption, wretch-
edness, and misery. Who would not
have hoped in such a cause? — tell me
that ! Who would not have hoped as
I did?”
“ When did you first begin this mad l
career ? ” asked Quilp, his taunting in-
clination subdued, for a moment, by
the old man’s grief and wildness.
“When did I first begin?” he re- I
joined, passing his hand across his |
brow. “When was it that I first be- ;
an? When should it be but when I
egan to think how little I had saved,
how long a time it took to save at all,
how short a time I might have at my
age to live, and how she would be left
THE OLD CURIOSITY SHOP.
S3
to the rough mercies of the world, with
barely enough to keep her from the
sorrows that wait on poverty; then it
was that I began to think about it.”
“After you first came to me to get
your precious grandson packed off to
sea?” said Quilp.
“ Shortly after that,” replied the old
man. “ I thought of it a long time,
and had it In my sleep for months.
Then I began. I found no pleasure in
it, I expected none. What has it ever
brought to me but anxious days and
sleepless nights, but loss of health and
peace of mind, and gain of feebleness
and sorrow ! ”
“ You lost what money you had laid
by, first, and then came to me. While
I thought you were making your for-
tune (as you said you were) you were
making yourself a beggar, eh? Dear
me ! And so it comes to pass that I
hold every security you could scrape to-
gether, and a bill of sale upon the —
upon the stock and property,” said
Quilp, standing up and looking about
him, as if to assure himself that none of
it had been taken away. “ But did you
never win ? ”
“ Never ! ” groaned the old man.
“Never won back my loss ! ”
“ I thought,” sneered the dwarf, “ that
if a man played long enough, he was
sure to win at last, or, at the worst, not
to come off a loser.”
“And so he is,” cried the old man,
suddenly rousing himself from his state
of despondency, and lashed into the
most violent excitement, — “ so he is. I
have felt that from the first, I have al-
ways known it, I ’ve seen it, I never felt
it half so strongly as I feel it now.
Quilp, I have dreamed, three nights, of
winning the same large sum. I never
could dream that dream before, though
I have often tried. Do not desert me,
now I have this chance. I have no
resource but you ; give me some help ;
let me try this one last hope.”
The dwarf shrugged his shoulders
and shook his head.
“ See, Quilp, good, tender-hearted
Quilp,” said the old man, drawing
some scraps of paper from his pocket
with a trembling hand, and clasping the
dwarfs arm, — “only see here. Look at
these figures, the result of long calcula
tion and painful and hard experience.
I must win. I only want a little help
once more, a few pounds, but twoscore
pounds, dear Quilp.”
“ The last advance was seventy,”
said the dwarf; “and it went in one
night.”
“I know it did,” answered the old
man, “but that was the very worst for-
tune of all, and the time had not come
then. Quilp, consider, consider,” the
old man cried, trembling so much, the
while, that the papers in his hand flut-
tered as if they were shaken by the
wind, “that orphan child! If I were
alone, I could die with gladness, — per-
haps even anticipate that doom which
is dealt out so unequally, coming as it
does on the proud and happy in their
strength, and shunning the needy and
afflicted and all who court it in their
despair, — but what I have done has
been for her. Help me for her sake I
implore you, — not for mine, for hers ! ”
“ I ’m sorry l ’ve got an appointment
in the city,” said Quilp, looking at his
watch with perfect self-possession, “or
I should have been very glad to have
spent half an hour with you, while you
composed yourself, — very glad.”
“Nay, Quilp, good Quilp,” gasped
the old man, catching at his skirts, —
“you and I have talked together, more
than once, of her poor mother’s story.
The fear of her coming to poverty has
perhaps been bred in me by that. Do
not be hard upon me, but take that in-
to account. You are a great gainer by
me. Oh, spare me the money for this
one last hope ! ”
“ I could n’t do it, really,” said Quilp,
with unusual politeness, “though I tell
you what, — and this is a circumstance
worth bearing in mind as showing how
the sharpest among us may be taken in
sometimes, — I was so deceived by the
penurious way in which you lived, alone
with Nelly — ”
“All done to save money for tempt-
ing fortune, and to make her triumph
greater,” cried the old man.
“Yes, yes, I understand that now?”
said Quilp ; “but I was going to say, I
was so deceived by that, your miserly
way, the reputation you had, among
54
THE OLD CURIOSITY SHOP.
those who knew you, of being rich, and
your repeated assurances that you would
make of my advances treble and quad-
ruple the interest you paid me, that I ’d
have advanced you, even now, what
you want, on your simple note of hand,
if I hadn’t unexpectedly become ac-
quainted with your secret way of life.”
“Who is it,” retorted the old man,
desperately, “that, notwithstanding all
my caution, told you. Come. Let me
know the name, — the person.”
The crafty dwarf, bethinking himself
that his giving up the child would lead
to the disclosure of the artifice he had
employed, which, as nothing was to be
gained by it, it was well to conceal,
stopped short in his answer and said,
“Now, who do you think?”
“ It was Kit; it must have been the
boy. He played the spy, and you tam-
pered with him? ” said the old man.
“ How came you to think of him?”
said the dwarf, in a tone of great commis-
eration. “ Yes, it was Kit. Poor Kit ! ”
So saying, he nodded in a friendly
manner, and took his leave, stopping
when he had passed the outer door a
little distance, and grinning with ex-
traordinary delight.
“ Poor Kit ! ” muttered Quilp. “ I
think it was Kit who said I was an ug-
lier dwarf than could be seen anywhere
for a penny, wasn’t it? Ha, ha, ha!
Poor Kit ! ”
And with that he went his way, still
chuckling as he went.
CHAPTER X.
Daniel Quilp neither entered nor
left the old man’s house unobserved.
In the shadow of an archway nearly
opposite, leading to one of the many
passages which diverged from the main
street, there lingered one who, having
taken up his position when the twilight
first came on, still maintained it with
undiminished patience, and leaning
against the wall with the manner of a
person who had a long time to wait, and,
being well used to it, was quite resigned,
scarcely changed his attitude for the
hour together.
This patient lounger attracted little
attention from any of those who passed,
and bestowed as little upon them. His
eyes were constantly directed towards
one object, — the window at which the
child was accustomed to sit. If he
withdrew them for a moment, it was
only to glance at a clock in some neigh-
boring shop, and then to strain his
sight once more in thef old quarter,
with increased earnestness and atten-
tion.
It has been remarked, that this per-
sonage evinced no weariness in his place
of concealment ; nor did he, long as his
waiting was. But as the time went cm
he manifested some anxiety and sur-
prise, glancing at the clock more fre-
quently and at the window less hope-
fully than before. At length the clock
was hidden from his sight by some en-
vious shutters, then the church-steeples
proclaimed eleven at night, then the
quarter past, and then the conviction
seemed to obtrude itself on his mind
that it was of no use tarrying there any
longer.
That the conviction was an unwel-
come one, and that he was by no means
willing to yield to it, was apparent from
his reluctance to quit the spot, from the
tardy steps with which he often left it,
still looking over his shoulder at the
same window, and from the precipita-
tion with which he as often returned,
when a fancied noise, or the changing
and imperfect light, induced^ him to
suppose it had been softly raised. At
length he gave the matter up, as hope-
less for that night, and suddenly break-
ing into a run, as though to force him-
self away, scampered off at his utmost
speed, nor once ventured to look behind
him, lest he should be tempted back
again.
Without relaxing his pace, or stop-
ping to take breath, this mysterious
individual dashed on through a great
many alleys and narrow ways, until he
at length arrived in a square-paved
court, when he subsided into a walk,
and, making for a small house from the
window of which a light wa§ shining,
lifted the latch of the door and passed
in.
“ Bless us ! ” cried a woman, turning
THE LIBRARY
OF THE
UNIVERSITY Or ILLINOIS
KIT,
HIS MOTHER, JACOB, AND THE BABY.
i
THE OLD CURIOSITY SHOP.
55
sharply round, “who ’s that ? O, it ’s
you, Kit ! ”
“Yes, mother, it ’s me.”
“ Why, how tired you look, my
dear ! ”
“ Old master ain’t gone out to-night,”
said Kit; “and so she hasn’t been at
the window at all.” With which words
he sat down by the fire, and looked
very mournful and discontented.
The room in which Kit sat himself
down, in this condition, was an extreme-
ly poor and homely place, but with that
air of comfort about it, nevertheless,
which — or the spot must be a wretched
one indeed — cleanliness and order can
always impart in some degree. Late as
the Dutch clock showed it to be, the
poor woman was still hard at work at
an ironing-table ; a young child lay
sleeping in a cradle near the fire ; and
another, a sturdy boy of two or three
years old, very wide awake, with a
very tight nightcap on his head, and a
nightgown very much too small for
him on his body, was sitting bolt up-
right in a clothes-basket, staring over
the rim with his great round eyes, and
looking as if he had thoroughly made
up his mind never to go to sleep any
more; which, as he had already de-
clined to take his natural rest, and
had been brought out of bed in conse-
quence, opened a cheerful prospect for
his relations and friends. It was rath-
er a queer-looking family, — Kit, his
mother, and the children being all
strongly alike.
Kit was disposed to be out of temper,
as the best of us are too often ; but he
looked at the youngest child who was
sleeping soundly, and from him to his
other brother in the clothes-basket, and
from him to their mother, who had been
at work without complaint since morn-
ing, and thought it would be a better
and kinder thing to be good-humored.
So he rocked the cradle with his foot,
made a face at the rebel in the clothes-
basket, w’hich put him in high good-
humor directly, and stoutly determined
to be talkative and make himself agree-
able.
“ Ah, mother ! ” said Kit, taking out
his clasp-knife and falling upon a great
piece of bread and meat which she had
had ready for him hours before, “ what
a one you are ! There ain’t many such
as you, I know.”
“ I hope there are many a great deal
better, Kit,” said Mrs. Nubbles ; “and
that there are, or ought to be, accordin’
to what the parson at chapel says.”
“ Much he knows about it,” re-
turned Kit, contemptuously. “Wait
till he ’s a widder and works like you
do, and gets as little, and does as much,
and keeps his spirits up the same, and
then I ’ll ask him what ’s o’clock, and
trust him for being right to half a
second.”
“ Well,” said Mrs. Nubbles, evading
the point, “your beer’s down thereby
the fender, Kit.”
“ I see,” replied her son, taking up
the porter-pot. “ My love to you, moth-
er. And the parson’s health, too, if you
like. I don’t bear him any malice, not
I ! ”
“Did you tell me, just now, that your
master hadn’t gone out to-night? ” in-
quired Mrs. Nubbles.
“Yes,” said Kit, “worse luck.”
“You should say better luck, I
think,” returned his mother, “because
Miss Nelly won’t have been left alone.”
“Ah!” said Kit, “I forgot that. I
said worse luck, because I ’ve been
watching ever since eight o’clock, and
seen nothing of her.”
“I wonder what she’d say,” cried
his mother, stopping in her work, and
looking round, “if she knew that every
night when she — poor thing — is sitting
alone at that window, you are watching
in the open street for fear any harm
should come to her, and that you never
leave the place or come home to your
bed, though you ’re ever so tired, till
such time as you think she ’s safe in
hers.”
“ Never mind what she ’d say,” re-
plied Kit, with something like a blush
on his uncouth face; “she’ll never
know nothing, and, consequently, she ’ll
never say nothing.”
Mrs. Nubbles ironed away in silence
for a minuter or two, and, coming to
the fireplace for another iron, glanced
stealthily at Kit while she rubbed it on
a board and dusted it with a duster, but
said nothing until she had returned to
56
THE OLD CURIOSITY SHOP.
her table again ; when, holding the iron
at an alarming short distance from her
cheek, to test its temperature, and look-
ing round with a smile, she observed, —
“ I know what some people would
say, Kit — ”
“ Nonsense,” interposed Kit, with a
perfect apprehension of what was to
follow.
“ No, but they would indeed. Some
people would say that you ’d fallen in
love with her, I know they would.”
To this Kit only replied by bashfully
bidding his mother ‘‘get out,” and
forming sundry strange figures with his
legs and arms, accompanied by sym-
pathetic contortions of his face. Not
deriving from these means the relief
which he sought, he bit off an immense
mouthful from the bread and meat, and
took a quick drink of the porter ; by
which artificial aids he choked himself
and effected a diversion of the subject.
“ Speaking seriously, though, Kit,”
said his mother, taking up the theme
afresh after a time, “ for of course I was
only in joke just now, it’s very good
and thoughtful, and like you, to do this
and never let anybody know it, though
some day I hope she may come to
know it, for I ’m sure she would be very
grateful to you and feel it very much.
It ’s a cruel thing to keep the dear
child shut up there. I don’t wonder
that the old gentleman wants to keep
it from you.”
“ He don’t think it ’s cruel, bless
ou,” said Kit, “and don’t mean it to
e so, or he would n’t do it, — I do con-
sider, mother, that he would n’t do it
for all the gold and silver in the world.
No, no, that he would n’t. I know him
better than that.”
“ Then what does he do it for, and
why does he keep it so close from you ? ”
said Mrs. Nubbles.
“ That I don’t know,” returned her
son. “ If he had n’t tried to keep it so
close, though, I should never have found
it out ; for it was his getting me away at
night, and sending me off so much ear-
lier than he used to, that first made me
curious to know what was going on.
Hark ! what ’s that? ”
“ ft’s only somebody outside.”
“ It’s somebody crossing over here,”
said Kit, standing up to listen, “and
coming very fast, too. He can’t have
gone out after I left, and the house
caught fire, mother ! ”
The boy stood, for a moment, really
bereft, by the apprehension he had con-
jured up, of the power to move. The
footsteps drew nearer, the door was
opened with a hasty hand, and the child
herself, pale and breathless, and hastily
wrapped in a few disordered garments,
hurried into the room.
“ Miss Nelly ! What is the matter ! ”
cried mother and son together.
“ I must not stay a moment,” she
returned. “ Grandfather has been taken
very ill. I found him in a fit upon the
floor — ”
“ I ’ll run for a doctor,” said Kit,
seizing his brimless hat. “ I ’ll be
there directly, I’ll — ”
“No, no,” cried Nell, “there is one
there ; you ’re not wanted, you — you —
must never come near us any more ! ”
“ What ! ” roared Kit.
“ Never again,” said the child.
“ Don’t ask me why, for I don’t know.
Pray don’t ask me why, pray don’t be
sorry, pray don’t be vexed with me ! I
have nothing to do with it indeed ! ”
Kit looked at her with his eyes
stretched wide, and opened and shut
his mouth a great many times, but
couldn’t get out one word.
“ He complains and raves of you,”
said the child. “ I don’t know what you
have done, but I hope it ’s nothing very
bad.”
“ / done ? ” roared Kit.
“He cries that you’re the cause of
all his misery,” returned the child with
tearful eyes ; “ he screamed and called
for you ; they say you must not come
near him or he will die. You must not
return to us any more. I came to tell
you. I thought it would be better that
I should come than somebody quite
strange. O Kit, what have you done ?
you in whom I trusted so much, and
who were almost the only friend I
had ! ”
The unfortunate Kit looked at his
young mistress harder and harder, and
with eyes growing wider and wider, but
was perfectly motionless and silent.
“I have brought his money for the
THE OLD CURIOSITY SHOP.
57
week,” said the child, looking to the
woman and laying it on the table,
“ and — and — a little more, for he was
always good and kind to me. I hope
he will be sorry and do well somewhere
else and not take this to heart too much.
It grieves me very much to part with
him like this, but there is no help. It
must be done. Good night ! ”
With the tears streaming down her
face, and her slight figure trembling
with the agitation of the scene she had
left, the shock she had received, the
errand she had just discharged, and a
thousand painful and affectionate feel-
ings, the child hastened to the door,
and disappeared as rapidly as she had
come.
The poor woman, who had no cause
to doubt her son, but every reason for
relying on his honesty and truth, was
staggered, notwithstanding, by his not
having advanced one word in his de-
fence. Visions of gallantry, knavery,
robbery, and of the nightly absences
from home, for which he had accounted
so strangely, having been occasioned
by some unlawful pursuit, flocked into
her brain and rendered her afraid to
question him. She rocked herself up-
on a chair, wringing her hands and
weeping bitterly; but Kit made no at-
tempt to comfort her, and remained
quite bewildered. The baby in the
cradle woke up and cried ; the boy in
the clothes-basket fell over on his back,
with the basket upon him, and was seen
no more ; the mother wept louder yet
and rocked faster ; but Kit, insensible to
all the din and tumult, remained in a
state of utter stupefaction.
CHAPTER XI.
Quiet and solitude were destined to
hold uninterrupted rule no longer be-
neath the roof that sheltered the child.
Next morning the old man was in a
raging fever accompanied with delirium ;
and, sinking under the influence of this
disorder, he lay for many weeks in im-
minent peril of his life. There was
watching enough, now, but it was the
watching of strangers who made a
greedy trade of it, and who, in the inter-
vals of their attendance upon the sick
man, huddled together with a ghastly
good-fellowship, and ate and drunk and
made merry ; for disease and death
were their ordinary household gods.
Yet, in all the hurry and crowding of
such a time, the child was more alone
than she had ever been before, — alone in
spirit, alone in her devotion to him who
was wasting away upon his burning bed,
alone in her unfeigned sorrow and her
unpurchased sympathy. Day after day,
and night after night, found her still by
the pillow of the unconscioussufferer, still
anticipating his every want, still listen-
ing to those repetitions of her name, and
those anxieties and cares for her, which
were ever uppermost among his feverish
wanderings.
The house was no longer theirs.
Even the sick-chamber seemed to be
retained on the uncertain tenure of Mr.
Quilp’s favor. The old man’s illness
had not lasted many days when he took
formal possession of the premises, and
all upon them, in virtue of certain legal
powers to that effect, which few Under-
stood and none presumed to call in
question. This important step secured,
with the assistance of a man of law
whom he brought with him for the pur-
pose, the dwarf proceeded to establish
himself and his coadjutor in the house,
as an assertion of his claim against
all comers ; and then set about making
his quarters comfortable, after his own
fashion.
To this end, Mr. Quilp encamped in
the back parlor, having first put an
effectual stop to any further business by
shutting up the shop. Having looked
out, from among the old furniture, the
handsomest and most commodious chair
he could possibly find (which he re-
served for his own use), and an espe-
cially hideous and uncomfortable one
(which he considerately appropriated
to the accommodation of his friend),
he caused them to be carried into this
room, and took up his position in great
state. The apartment was very far
removed from the old man’s chamber,
but Mr. Quilp deemed it prudent, as
a precaution against infection from fe-
ver, and a means of wholesome fumi-
58
THE OLD CURIOSITY SHOP.
gation, not only to smoke himself, with-
out cessation, but to insist upon it that
his legal friend did the like. Moreover,
he sent an express to the wharf for the
tumbling boy, who, arriving with all
despatch, was enjoined to sit himself
down in another chair just inside the
door, continually to smoke a great pipe
which the dwarf had provided for the
purpose, and to take it from his lips
under any pretence whatever, were it
only for one minute at a time, if he
dared. These arrangements complet-
ed, Mr. Quilp looked round him with
chuckling satisfaction, and remarked
that he called that comfort.
The legal gentleman, whose melodi-
ous name was Brass, might have called
it comfort also but for two drawbacks ;
one was, that he could by no exertion
sit easy in his chair, the seat of which
was very hard, angular, slippery, and
sloping ; the other, that tobacco-smoke
always caused him great internal dis-
composure and annoyance. But as he
was quite a creature of Mr. Quilp’s,
and had a thousand reasons for concili-
ating* his good opinion, he tried to
smile, and nodded his acquiescence
with the best grace he could assume.
This Brass was an attorney of no
very good repute, from Bevis Marks
in the city of London. He was a tall,
meagre man, with a nose like a wen,
a protruding forehead, retreating eyes,
and hair of a deep red. He wore a
long black surtout reaching nearly to
his ankles, short black trousers, high
shoes, and cotton stockings of a bluish
gray. He had a cringing manner, but
a very harsh voice ; and his blandest
smiles were so extremely forbidding,
that, to have had his company under
the least repulsive circumstances, one
would have wished him to be out of
temper, that he might only scowl.
Quilp looked at his legal adviser,
and seeing that he was winking very
much in the anguish of his pipe, that
he sometimes shuddered when he hap-
pened to inhale its full flavor, and
that he constantly fanned the smoke
from him, was quite overjoyed and
rubbed his hands with glee.
“ Smoke away, you dog,” said Quilp,
turning to the boy; “fill your pipe
again and smoke it fast, down to the
last whiff, or I ’ll put the sealing-waxed
end of it in the fire and rub it red hot
upon your tongue.”
Luckily the boy was case-hardened,
and would have smoked a small lime-
kiln, if anybody had treated him with
it. Wherefore, he only muttered a
brief defiance of his master, and did
as he was ordered.
“ Is it good, Brass, is it nice, is it
fragrant, do you feel like the Grand
Turk?” said Quilp.
Mr. Brass thought that, if he did,
the Grand Turk’s feelings were by no
means to be envied, but he said it
was famous, and he had no doubt he
felt very like that Potentate.
“ This is the way to keep off fever,”
said Quilp; “this is the way to keep
off every calamity of life ! We ’ll never
leave off, all the time we stop here —
smoke away, you dog, or you shall
swallow the pipe ! ”
“ Shall we stop here long, Mr. Quilp?”
inquired his legal friend, when the
dwarf had given his boy this gentle ad-
monition.
“We must stop, I suppose, till the
old gentleman up stairs is dead,” re-
turned Quilp.
“ He, he, he ! ” laughed Brass. “ O,
very good ! ”
“ Smoke away !” cried Quilp. “Nev-
er#stop ! you can talk as you smoke.
Don’t lose time.”
“ He, he, he ! ” cried Brass, faintly, as
he again applied himself to the odious *
pipe. “ But if he should get better,
Mr. Quilp ? ”
“Then we shall stop till he does,
and no longer,” returned the dwarf.
“ How kind it is of you, sir, to wait
till then ! ” said Brass. “ Some peo-
ple, sir, would have sold or removed
the goods, — O dear, the very instant
the law allowed ’em. Some people,
sir, would have been all flintiness and
granite. Some people, sir, would
have — ”
“ Some people would have spared
themselves the jabbering of such a
parrot as you,” inteiposed the dwarf.
“ He, he, he ! ” cried Brass. “ You
have such spirits!”
The smoking sentinel at the door
THE OLD CURIOSITY SHOP.
59
interposed in this place, and without
taking his pipe from his lips, growled, —
“ Here ’s the gal a cornin’ down.”
“ The what, you dog ? ” said Quilp.
“ The gal,” returned the boy. “ Are
you deaf? ”
“ Oh ! ” said Quilp, drawing in his
breath with great relish as if he were
taking soup, “you and I will have such
a settling presently ; there ’s such a
scratching and bruising in store for you,
my dear young friend ! Aha ! Nelly !
How is he now, my duck of dia-
monds?”
“ He ’s very bad,” replied the weep-
ing child.
“What a pretty little Nell!” cried
Quilp.
“ O, beautiful, sir, beautiful indeed,”
said Brass. “ Quite charming ! ”
“ Has she come to sit upon Quilp’s
knee ? ” said the dwarf, in what he meant
to be a soothing tone, “ or is she going
to bed in her own little room inside
here? Which is poor Nelly going to
do?”
“ What a remarkable pleasant way
he has with children ! ” muttered Brass,
as if in confidence between himself and
the ceiling ; “ upon my word, it ’s quite
a treat to hear him.”
“ I ’m not going to stay at all,” fal-
tered Nell. “ I want a few things out
of that room, and then I — I — won’t
come down here any more.”
“ And a very nice little room it is ! ”
said the dwarf, looking into it as the
child entered. “Quite a bower ! You
’re sure you ’re not going to use it?
You ’re sure you ’re not coming back,
Nelly?”
“ No,” replied the child, hurrying
away with the few articles of dress she
had come to remove ; “ never again !
Never again ! ”
“ She ’s very sensitive,” said Quilp,
looking after her, — “ very sensitive ;
that ’s a pity. The bedstead is much
about my size ; I think I shall make it
my little room.”
Mr. Brass encouraging this idea, as
he would have encouraged any other
emanating from the same source, the
dwarf walked in to try the effect. This
he did by throwing himself on his
back upon the bed, with his pipe in his
mouth, and then kicking up his legs
and smoking violently. Mr. Brass ap-
plauding this picture very much, and
the bed being soft and comfortable,
Mr. Quilp determined to use it, both
as a sleeping-place by night and as a
kind of divan by day ; and, in order
that it might be converted to the latter
purpose at once, remained where he
was, and smoked his pipe out. The
legal gentleman, being by this time
rather giddy and perplexed in his ideas
(for this was one of the operations of
the tobacco on his nervous system), took
the opportunity of slinking away into
the open air, where, in course of time,
he recovered sufficiently to return with
a countenance of tolerable composure.
He was soon led on by the malicious
dwarf to smoke himself into a relapse,
and in that state stumbled upon a set-
tee, where he slept till morning.
Such were Mr. Quilp’s first proceed-
ings on entering upon his new property.
He was, for some days, restrained by
business from performing any particular
pranks, as his time was pretty well oc-
cupied between taking, with the Assist-
ance of Mr. Brass, a minute inventory
of all the goods in the place, and go-
ing abroad upon his other concerns,
which happily engaged him for several
hours at a time. His avarice and cau-
tion being now thoroughly awakened,
however, he was never absent from the
house one night ; and his eagerness for
some termination, good or bad, to the
old man’s disorder, increasing rapidly
as the time passed by, soon began to
vent itself in open murmurs and ex-
clamations of impatience.
Nell shrunk timidly from all the
dwarf’s advances towards conversation,
and fled from the very sound of his
voice ; nor were the lawyer’s smiles
less terrible to her than Quilp’s gri-
maces. She lived in such continual
dread and apprehension of meeting one
or other of them on the stairs or in the
passages, if she stirred from her grand-
father’s chamber, that she seldom left
it, for a moment, until late at night,
when the silence encouraged her to ven-
ture forth and breathe the purer air of
some empty room.
One night, she had stolen to her
6o
THE OLD CURIOSITY SHOP.
usual window, and was sitting there
very sorrowfully, — for the old man had
been worse that day, — when she thought
she heard her name pronounced by a
voice in the street. Looking down, she
recognized Kit, whose endeavors to at-
tract her attention had roused her from
her sad reflections.
“Miss Nell ! ” said the boy, in a
low voice.
“Yes,” replied the child, doubtful
whether she ought to hold any commu-
nication with the supposed culprit, but
inclining to her old favorite still ; “ what
do you want? ”
“ I have wanted to say a word to you
for a long time,” the boy replied, “but
the people below have driven me away
and w'ould n’t let me see you. You
don’t believe — I hope you don’t really
believe — that I deserve to be cast off
as I have been ; do you, miss ? ”
“I must believe it,” returned the
child, “or why would grandfather have
been so angry with you ? ”
“ I don’t know,” replied Kit. “I ’m
sure I ’ve never deserved it from him,
no, nor from you. I can say that,
with a true and honest heart, any way.
And then to be driven from the door,
when I only came to ask how old mas-
ter was ! ”
“They never told me that,” said the
child. “ I did n’t know it indeed. I
wouldn’t have had them do it for the
world.”
“ Thank ’ee, miss,” returned Kit;
“ it ’s comfortable to hear you say that.
I said I never would believe that it was
your doing.”
“That was right!” said the child,
eagerly.
“ Miss Nell,” cried the boy, coming
under the window, and speaking in a
lower tone, “there are new masters
down stairs. It ’s a change for you.”
“ It is indeed,” replied the child.
“And so it will be for him, when he
gets better,” said the boy, pointing to-
wards the sick-room.
“ — If he ever does,” added the child,
unable to restrain her tears.
“O, he’ll do that, he’ll do that,”
said Kit; “I’m sure he will. You
must n’t be cast down, Miss Nell. Now,
don’t be, pray I ”
These words of encouragement and
consolation were few and roughly said,
but they affected the child and made
her, for the moment, weep the more.
“He’ll be sure to get better now,”
said the boy, anxiously, “if you don’t
give way to low spirits and turn ill your-
self, which would make him worse and
throw him back, just as he was recover-
ing. When he does, say a good word,
say a kind word for me, Miss Nell ! ”
“ They tell me I must not even men-
tion your name to him for a long, long
time,” rejoined the child. “ I dare not ;
and even if I might, what good would a
kind word do you, Kit? We shall be
very poor. We shall scarcely have
bread to eat.”
“ It ’s not that I may be taken back,”
said the boy, “ that I ask the favor of
you. It is n’t for the sake of food and
wages that I ’ve been waiting about, so
long, in hopes to see you. Don’t think
that I ’d come in a time of trouble to
talk of such things as them.”
The child looked gratefully and kind-
ly at him, but waited that he might
speak again.
“ No, it ’snot that,” said Kit, hesitat-
ing ; “it’s something very different
from that. I have n’t got much sense,
I know, but if he could be brought to
believe that I ’d been a faithful servant
to him, doing the best I could, and
never meaning harm, perhaps he
might n’t — ”
Here Kit faltered so long that the
child entreated him to speak out, and
quickly, for it was very late, and time
to shut the window.
“ Perhaps he might n’t think it over
venturesome of me to say, — well, then,
to say this,” cried Kit with sudden
boldness. “ This home is gone from
you and him. Mother and I have got
a poor one; but that’s better than :
this, with all these people here ; and
why not come there, till he ’s had time
to look about, and find a better? ”
The child did not speak. Kit, in the
relief of having made his proposition,
found his tongue loosened, and spoke
out in its favor with his utmost elo-
quence.
“You think,” said the boy, “that
it’s very small and inconvenient. So
THE OLD CURIOSITY SHOP.
61
it is, but it ’s very clean. Perhaps you
think it would be noisy, but there ’s not
a quieter court than ours in all the town.
Don’t be afraid of the children: the
baby hardly ever cries, and the other
one is very good ; besides, / ’d mind
’em. They wouldn’t vex you much,
I ’m sure. Do try, Miss Nell, do try.
The little front room up stairs is very
pleasant. You can see a piece of the
church-clock, through the chimneys,
and almost tell the time. Mother says
it would be just the thing for you, and
so it would, and you ’d have her to wait
upon you both, and me to run of er-
rands. We don’t mean money, bless
you ; you ’re not to think of that !
Will you try him, Miss Nell? Only
say you’ll try him. Do try to make old
master come, and ask him first what l
have done, — will you only promise that,
Miss Nell?”
Before the child could reply to this
earnest solicitation, the street door
opened, and Mr. Brass, thrusting out
his nightcapped head, called in a surly
voice, “Who’s there?” Kit immedi-
ately glided away, and Nell, closing
the window softly, drew back into the
room.
Before Mr. Brass had repeated his
inquiry many times, Mr. Quilp, also
embellished with a nightcap, emerged
from the same door, and looked care-
fully up and down the street, and up at
all the windows of the house, from the
opposite side. Finding that there was
nobody in sight, he presently returned
into the house with his legal friend,
protesting (as the child heard from the
staircase) that there was a league and
plot against him ; that he was in danger
of being robbed and plundered by a
band of conspirators who prowled about
the house at all seasons ; and that he
would delay no longer, but take imme-
diate steps for disposing of the property
and returning to his own peaceful roof.
Having growled forth these and a great
many other threats of the same nature,
he coiled himself once more in the
child’s little bed, and Nell crept softly
up the stairs.
It was natural enough that her short
and unfinished dialogue with Kit should
leo.vc a strong impression on her mind,
and influence her dreams that night and
her recollections for a long, long time.
Surrounded by unfeeling creditors, and
mercenary attendants upon the sick, and
meeting, in the height of her anxiety and
sorrow, with little regard or sympathy
even from tj^ie women about her, it is
not surprising that the affectionate
heart of the child should have been
touched to the quick by one kind and
generous spirit, however uncouth the
temple in which it dwelt. Thank
Heaven that the temples of such spirits
are not made with hands, and that they
may be even more worthily hung with
poor patchwork than with purple and
fine linen !
CHAPTER XII.
At length the crisis of the old man’s
disorder was past, and he began to
mend. By very slow and feeble de-
grees his consciousness came back ;
but the mind was weakened and its
functions were impaired. He was pa-
tient and quiet ; often sat brooding,
but not despondently, for a long space ;
was easily amused, even by a sunbeam
on the wall or ceiling ; made no com-
plaint that the days were long, or the
nights tedious ; and appeared, indeed,
to have lost all count of time and ev-
ery sense of care or weariness. He
would sit, for hours together, with
Nell’s small hand in his, playing with
the fingers and stopping sometimes to
smooth her hair or kiss her brow ; and,
when he saw that tears were glistening
in her eyes, would look, amazed, about
him for the cause, and forget his won-
der even while he looked.
The child and he rode out, — tfte old
man propped up with pillows, and the
child beside him. They were hand in
hand as usual. The noise and motion
in the streets fatigued his brain at first,
but he was not surprised, or curious, or
leased, or irritated. He was asked if
e remembered this or that. “ O yes,”
he said, “ quite well ; why not? ” Some-
times he turned his head, and looked,
with earnest gaze and outstretched neck,
after some stranger in the crowd, until
he disappeared from sight ; but to the
6 2
THE GLD CURIOSITY SHOP.
question why he did this he answered
not a word.
He was sitting in his easy-chair one
day, and Nell upon a stool beside him,
when a man outside the door inquired
if he might enter. “Yes,” he said with-
out emotion, “it was Quiljp, he knew.
Quiip was master there. Of course he
might come in.” And so he did.
“ I ’m glad to see you well again at
last, neighbor,” said the dwarf, sitting
down opposite to him. “You’re quite
strong now?”
“Yes,” said the old man, feebly, —
“yes.”
“ I don’t want to hurry you, you
know, neighbor,” said the dwarf, raising
his voice, for the old man’s senses were
duller than they had been ; “ but as
soon as you can arrange your future
proceedings, the better.”
“Surely,” said the old man. “The
better for all parties.”
“ You see,” pursued Quiip, after a
short pause, “ the goods being once
removed, this house would be uncom-
fortable, — uninhabitable, in fact.”
“You say true,” returned the old
man. “Poor Nell, too, — what would
she do? ”
“ Exactly,” bawled the dwarf, nodding
his head; “that’s very well observed.
Then will vou consider about it, neigh-
bor ? ”
“ I will, certainly,” replied the old
man. “We shall not stop here.”
“ So I supposed,” said the dwarf.
“ I have sold the things. They have
not yielded quite as much as they might
have done, but pretty well, — pretty
well. To-day ’s Tuesday. When shall
they be moved ? There ’s no hurry ;
shall we say this afternoon ? ”
“ Say Friday morning,” returned the
old man.
“ Very good,” said the dwarf. “ So
be it, — with the understanding that I
can’t go beyond that day, neighbor, on
any account.”
“ Good,” returned the old man. “ I
shall remember it.”
Mr. Quiip seemed rather puzzled by
the strange, even spiritless way in which
all this was said ; but as the old man
nodded his head and repeated, “ On Fri-
day morning. I shall remember it,” he
had no excuse for dwelling on the sub-
ject any further, and so took a friendly
leave, with many expressions of good-
will and many compliments to his friend
on his looking so remarkably well, and
went below stairs to report progress to
Mr. Brass.
All that day, and all the next, the old
man remained in this state. He wan-
dered up and down the house and into
and out of the various rooms, as if with
some vague intent of bidding them adieu,
but he referred neither by direct allu-
sions nor in any other manner to the
interview of the morning or the necessity
of finding some other shelter. An in-
distinct idea he had, that the child was
desolate and in want of help; for he
often drew her to his bosom and bade
her be of good cheer, saying that they
would not desert each other ; but he
seemed unable to contemplate their real
position more distinctly, and was still
the listless, passionless creature that
suffering of mind and body had left
him.
We call this a state of childishness,
but it is the same poor hollow mockery
of it that death is of sleep. Where, in
the dull eyes of doting men, are the
laughing light and life of childhood, the
gayety that has known no check, the
frankness that has felt no chill, the hope
that has never withered, the joys that
fade in blossoming ? Where, in the
sharp lineaments of rigid and unsightly
death, is the calm beauty of slumber,
telling of rest for the waking hours that
are past, and gentle hopes and loves for
those which are to come? Lay death
and sleep down, side by side, and say
w’ho shall find the two akin. Send forth
the child and childish man together,
and blush for the pride that libels our
own old happy state, and gives its title
to an ugly and distorted image.
Thursday arrived, and there was no
alteration in the old man. But a change
came upon him that evening, as he and
the child sat silently together.
In a small dull yard below his window
there was a tree, — green and flourishing
enough, for such a place, — and as the
air stirred among its leaves, it threw a
rippling shadow on the white wall. The
old man sat watching the shadows as
THE OLD CURIOSITY SHOP.
63
they trembled in this patch of light,
until the sun went down ; and when it
was night, and the moon was slowly
rising, he still sat in the same spot.
To one who had been tossing on a
restless bed so long, even these few
green leaves and this tranquil light,
although it languished among chimneys
and house-tops, were pleasant things.
They suggested quiet places afar off,
and rest and peace.
The child thought, more than once,
that he was moved, and had forborne
to speak. But, now, he shed tears, —
tears that it lightened her aching heart
to see, — and, making as though he
would fall upon his knees, besought her
to forgive him.
“Forgive you — what?” said Nell,
interposing to prevent his purpose.
“ O grandfather, what should I for-
give ? ”
“ All that is past, all that has come
upon thee, Nell, all that was done in
that uneasy dream,” returned the old
man.
“ Do not talk so,” said the child.
“ Pray do not. Let us speak of some-
thing else.”
“ Yes, yes, we will,” he rejoined.
“ And it shall be of what we talked of
long ago — many months — months is
it, or weeks, or days? which is it,
Nell ? ”
“ I do not understand you,” said the
child.
“ It has come back upon me to-day ;
it has all come back since we have been
sitting here. I bless thee for it, Nell ! ”
“For what, dear grandfather ? ”
“For what you said when we were
first made beggars, Nell. Let us speak
softly. Hush ! for if they knew our
purpose down stairs, they would cry
that I was mad and take thee from me.
We will not stop here another day.
We will go far away from here.”
“ Yes, let us go,” said the child, ear-
nestly. “ Let us begone from this
place, and never turn back or think of it
again. Let us wander barefoot through
the world, rather than linger here.”
“We will,” answered the old man.
“We will travel afoot through the fields
and woods, and by the side of rivers,
and trust ourselves to God in the places
where he dwells. It is far better to lie
down at night beneath an open sky like
that yonder — see how bright it is! —
than to rest in close rooms which are
always full of care and weary dreams.
Thou and I together, Nell, may be
cheerful and happy yet, and learn to
forget this time, as if it had never
been.”
“We will be happy,” cried the child.
“ We never can be here.”
“No, we never can again — never
again — that ’s truly said,” rejoined the
old man. “ Let us steal away to-morrow
morning, — early and softly, that we may
not be seen or heard, — and leave no
trace or track for them to follow by.
Poor Nell ! thy cheek is pale, and thy
eyes are heavy with watching and weep-
ing — with watching and weeping for
me — I know — for me ; but thou wilt
be well again, and merry too, when we
are far away. To-morrow morning,
dear, we ’ll turn our faces from this
scene of sorrow, and be as free and
happy as the birds.”
And then the old man clasped his
hands above her head, and said, in a
few broken words, that from that time
forth they would wander up and down
together, and never part more until
Death took one or other of the twain.
The child’s heart beat high with hope
and confidence. She had no thought of
hunger, or cold, or thirst, or suffering.
She saw, in this, but a return of the
simple pleasures they had once enjoyed,
a relief from the gloomy solitude in
which she had lived, an escape from the
heartless people by whom she had been
surrounded in her late time of trial, the
restoration of the old man’s health and
peace, and a life of tranquil happiness.
Sun and stream and meadow and sum-
mer days shone brightly in her view,
and there was no dark tint in - all the
sparkling picture.
The old man had slept for some
hours soundly in his bed, and she was
yet busily engaged in preparing for
their flight. There were a few articles
of clothing for herself to carry, and a
few for him, — old garments, such as
became their fallen fortunes, laid out to
wear, and a staff to support his feeble
steps, put ready for his use. But this
6 4
THE OLD CURIOSITY SHOP .
was not all her task ; for now she must
visit the old rooms for the last time.
And how different the parting with
them was from any she had expected,
and most of all from that which she had
oftenest pictured to herself ! How could
she ever have thought of bidding them
farewell in triumph, when the recollec-
tion of the many hours she had passed
among them rose to her swelling heart,
and made her feel the wish a cruelty,
— lonely and sad though many of those
hours had been ! She sat down at the
window where she had spent so many
evenings, — darker far than this, — and
every thought of hope or cheerfulness
that had occurred to her in that place
came vividly upon her mind, and blotted
out all its dull and mournful associa-
tions in an instant.
Her own little room, too, where she
had so often knelt down and prayed at
night, — prayed for the time which she
hoped was dawning now, — the little
room where she had slept so peacefully,
and dreamed such pleasant dreams ; it
was hard not to be able to glance round
it once more, and to be forced to leave
it without one kind look or grateful tear.
There were some trifles there — poor,
useless things — that she would have
liked to take away ; but that was impos-
sible.
This brought to her mind her bird,
her poor bird, who hung there yet.
She wept bitterly for the loss of this
little creatiire, until the idea occurred
to her — she did not know how, or why,
it came into her head — that it might,
by some means, fall into the hands of
Kit, who would keep it for her sake, and
think, perhaps, that she had left it be-
hind in the hope that he might have it,
and as an assurance that she was grate-
ful to him. She was calmed and com-
forted by the thought, and went to rest
with a lighter heart.
From many dreams of rambling
through light and sunny places, but
with some vague object unattained which
ran indistinctly through them all, she
awoke to find that it was yet night, and
that the stars were shining brightly in
the sky. At length the day began to
glimmer, and the stars to grow pale and
dim. As soon as she was sure of this,
she arose and dressed herself for the
journey.
The old man was yet asleep, and as
she was unwilling to disturb him, she
left him to slumber on, until the sun
rose. He was anxious that they should
leave the house without a minute’s loss
of time, and was soon ready.
The child then took him by the hand,
and they trod lightly and cautiously
down the stairs, trembling whenever a
board creaked, and often stopping tc
listen. The old man had forgotten a
kind of wallet which contained the light
burden he had to carry ; and the going
back a few steps to fetch it seemed an
interminable delay.
At last they reached the passage on
the ground-floor, where the snoring of
Mr. Quilp and his legal friend sounded
more terrible in their ears than the
roars of lions. The bolts of the door
were rusty and difficult to unfasten
without noise. When they were all
drawn back, it was found to be locked,
and, worst of all, the key was gone.
Then the child remembered, for the
first time, one of the nurses having told
her that Quilp always locked both the
house doors at night, and kept the keys
on the table in his bedroom.
It was not without great fear and trepi-
dation, that little Nell slipped off her
shoes, and gliding through the store-
room of old curiosities, where Mr.
Brass — the ugliest piece of goods in all
the stock — lay sleeping on a mattress,
passed into her own little chamber.
Here she stood, for a few moments,
quite transfixed with terror at the sight of
Mr. Quilp, who was hanging so far out of
bed that he almost seemed to be stand-
ing on his head, and who, either from
the uneasiness of this posture, or in one
of his agreeable habits, was gasping and
growling with his mouth wide open, and
the whites (or rather the dirty yellows)
of his eyes distinctly visible. It was
no time, however, to ask whether any-
thing ailed him ; so, possessing herself
of the key, after one hasty glance about
the room, and repassing the prostrate
Mr. Brass, she rejoined the old man in
safety. They got the door open without
noise, and, passing into the street, stoo4
still.
THE OLD CURIOSITY SHOP .
“ Which way ? ” said the child.
The old man looked, irresolutely and
helplessty, first at her, then to the right
and left, then at her again, and shook
his head. It was plain that she was
thenceforth his guide and leader. The
child felt it, but had no doubts or mis-
giving, and, putting her hand in his, led
him gently away.
It was the beginning of a day in
June, the deep blue sky unsullied by a
cloud, and teeming with brilliant light.
The streets were, as yet, nearly free
from passengers, the houses and shops
were closed, and the healthy air of
morning fell like breath from angels on
the sleeping town.
The old man and the child passed on
through the glad silence, elate with
hope and pleasure. They were alone
together, once again ; every object was
bright and fresh ; nothing reminded
them, otherwise than by contrast, of the
monotony and constraint they had left
behind ; church towers and steeples,
frowning and dark at other times, now
shone and dazzled in the sun ; each
humble nook and corner rejoiced in
light ; and the sky, dimmed only by ex-
cessive distance, shed its placid smile
on everything beneath.
Forth from the city, while it yet slum-
bered, went the two poor adventurers,
wandering they knew not whither.
CHAPTER XIII.
Daniel Quilp. of Tower Hill, and
Sampson Brass of Bevis Marks in the
city of London, Gentleman, one of her
Majesty’s attorneys of the Courts of
King’s Bench and Common Pleas at
Westminster, and a solicitor of the
High Court of Chancery, slumbered on,
unconscious and unsuspicious of any
mischance, until a knocking at the street
door, often repeated and gradually
mounting up from a modest single rap
to a perfect battery of knocks, fired in
long discharges with a very short inter-
val between, caused the said Daniel
Quilp to struggle into a horizontal posi-
tion, and to stare at the ceiling with a
drowsy indifference, betokening that he
5
heard the noise and rather wondered at
the same, but could n’t be at the trouble
of bestowing any further thought upon
the subject.
As the knocking, however, instead of
accommodating itself to his lazy state,
increased in vigor and became more
importunate, as if in earnest remon-
strance against his falling asleep again,
now that he had once opened his eyes,
Daniel Quilp began by degrees to com-
prehend the possibility of there being
somebody at the door ; and thus he
gradually came to recollect that it was
Friday morning and he had ordered
Mrs. Quilp to be in waiting upon him at
an early hour.
Mr. Brass, after writhing about, in a
great many strange attitudes, and often
twisting his face and eyes into an ex-
pression like that which is usually pro-
duced by eating gooseberries very early
in the season, was by this time awake
also. Seeing that Mr. Quilp invested
himself in his every-day garments, he
hastened to do the like, putting on his
shoes before his stockings, and thrusting
his legs into his coat-sleeves, and mak-
ing such other small mistakes in his
toilet as are not uncommon to those
who dress in a hurry, and labor under
the agitation of having been suddenly
roused.
While the attorney was thus engaged,
the dwarf was groping under the table,
muttering desperate imprecations on
himself, and mankind in general, and
all inanimate objects to boot, which
suggested to Mr. Brass the question,
“What’s the matter?”
.“The key,” said the dwarf, looking
viciously at him, “ the door-key, — that ’s
the matter. D’ ye know anything of
it? ”
“ How should I know anything of it,
sir? ” returned Mr. Brass.
“ How should you ? ” repeated Quilp,
with a sneer. “You’re a nice lawyer,
ain’t you? Ugh, you idiot ! ”
Not caring to represent to the dwarf,
in his present humor, that the loss of a
key by another, person could scarcely be
said to affect his (Brass’s) legal knowl-
edge in any material degree, Mr. Brass
humbly suggested that it must have
been forgotten overnight, and was,
66
THE OLD CURIOSITY SHOP.
doubtless, at that moment in its native
keyhole. Notwithstanding that Mr.
Quilp had a strong conviction to the
contrary, founded on his recollection of
having carefully taken it out, he was
fain to admit that this was possible, and
therefore went grumbling to the door,
where, sure enough, he found it.
Now, just as Mr. Quilp laid his hand
upon the lock, and saw with great aston-
ishment that the fastenings were undone,
the knocking came again with most
irritating violence, and the daylight,
which had been shining through the
keyhole, was intercepted on the outside
by a human eye. The dwarf was very
much exasperated, and, wanting some-
body to wreak his ill-humor upon, de-
termined to dart out suddenly, and fa-
vor Mrs. Quilp with a gentle acknowl-
edgment of her attention in making that
hideous uproar.
With this view, he drew back the
lock very silently and softly, and, open-
ing the door all at once, pounced out
upon the person on the other side,
who had at that moment raised the
knocker for another application, and at
whom the dwarf ran head first, throw-
ing out his hands and feet together,
and biting the air in the fulness of his
malice.
So far, however, from rushing upon
somebody who offered no resistance and
implored his mercy, Mr. Quilp was no
sooner in the arms of the individual
whom he had taken for his wife than he
found himself complimented with two
staggering blows on the head, and two
more, of the same quality, in the chest ;
and, closing with his assailant, such a
shower of buffets rained down upon his
person as sufficed to convince him that
he was in skilful and experienced hands.
Nothing daunted by this reception, he
clung tight to his opponent, and bit
and hammered away with such good-
will and heartiness that it was at least
a couple of minutes before he was dis-
lodged. Then, and not until then,
Daniel Quilp found himself, all flushed
and dishevelled, in the middle of the
street, with Mr. Richard Swiveller per-
forming a kind of dance round him,
and requiring to know “ whether he
wanted any more.”
“There’s plenty more of it at the
same shop,” said Mr. Swiveller, by
turns advancing and retreating in a
threatening attitude, — “a large and
extensive assortment always on hand ;
country orders executed with prompti-
tude and despatch. Will you have a
little more, sir? Don’t say no, if you ’d
rather not.”
“ I thought it was somebody else,”
said Quilp, rubbing his shoulders.
“ Why did n’t you say who you were? ”
“Why did n’t you say whoj you were ?”
returned Dick, “ instead of flying out of
the house like a Bedlamite ? ”
“It was you that — that knocked,”
said the dwarf, getting up with a short
groan, “was it?”
“Yes, I am the man,” replied Dick.
“ That lady had begun when I came, but
she knocked too soft, so I relieved her.”
As he said this, he pointed towards Mrs.
Quilp, who stood trembling at a little dis-
tance.
“ Humph ! ” muttered the dwarf, dart-
ing an angry look at his wife, “ I thought
it was your fault ! And you, sir — don’t
you know there has been somebody ill
here, that you knock as if you ’d beat
the door down ? ”
“ Damme ! ” answered Dick, “ that ’s
why I did it. I thought there was some-
body dead here.”
“You came for some purpose, I sup-
pose,” said Quilp. “What is it you
want?”
“ I want to know how the old gentle-
man is,” rejoined Mr. Swiveller, “and
to hear from Nell herself, with whom I
should like to have a little talk. 1’ma
friend of the family, sir ; at least, I ’m
the friend of one of the family, and that ’s
the same thing.”
“ You ’d better walk in then,” said the ;
dwarf. “ Go on, sir, go on. Now, Mrs.
Quilp — after you, ma’am.”
Mrs. Quilp hesitated, but Mr. Quilp
insisted. And it was not a contest of
politeness, or by any means a matter of
form, for she knew very well that her
husband wished to enter the house in
this order, that he might have a favor-
able opportunity of inflicting a few
pinches on her arms, which were sel-
dom free from impressions of his fin-
gers in black and blue colors. Mr.
THE OLD CURIOSITY SHOP. 67
Swiveller, who was not in the secret,
was a little surprised to hear a sup-
pressed scream, and, looking round, to
see Mrs. Quilp following him with a
sudden jerk ; but he did not remark
on these appearances, and soon forgot
them.
“ Now, Mrs. Quilp,” said the dwarf
when they had entered the shop, “ go
you up stairs, if you please, to Nelly’s
room, and tell her that she ’s wanted.”
“ You seem to make yourself at home
here,” said Dick, who was unacquainted
with Mr. Quilp’s authority.
“I am at home, young gentleman,”
returned the dwarf.
Dick was pondering what these words
might mean, and still more what the pres-
ence of Mr. Brass might mean, when
Mrs. Quilp came hurrying down stairs,
declaring that the rooms above were
empty.
“ Empty, you fool ! ” said the dwarf.
“I give you my word, Quilp,” an-
swered his trembling wffe, “ that I
have been into every room, and there ’s
not a soul in any of them.”
“ And that,” said Mr. Brass, clapping
his hands once, with an emphasis, “ ex-
plains the mystery of the key ! ”
Quilp looked frowningly at him, and
frowningly at his wife, and frowningly
at Richard Swiveller ; but, receiving no
enlightenment from any of them, hur-
ried up stairs, whence he soon hurried
down again, confirming the report
which had been already made.
“It ’s a strange way of going,” he said,
glancing at Swiveller, — “very strange not
to communicate with me who am such a
close and intimate friend of his ! Ah !
he ’ll write to me no doubt, or he ’ll bid
N elly write. Y es, yes, that ’s what he ’ll
do. Nelly’s very fond of me. Pretty
Nell!”
Mr. Swiveller looked, as he was, all
open-mouthed astonishment. Still glan-
cing furtively at him, Quilp turned to
Mr. Brass and observed, with assumed
carelessness, that this need not inter-
fere with the removal of the goods.
“ For, indeed,” he added, “ we knew
that they ’d go away to-day, but not that
they ’d go so early or so quietly. But
they have their reasons, they have their
reasons.”
“ Where in the Devil’s name are they
gone? ” said the wondering Dick.
Quilp shook his head and pursed up
his lips, in a manner which implied that
he knew very well, but was not at lib-
erty to say.
“And what,” said Dick, looking at
the confusion about him, — “ what do
you mean by moving the goods ? ”
“That I have bought ’em, sir,” re-
joined Quilp. “Eh? What then?”
“ Has the sly old fox made his for-
tune, then, and gone to live in a tranquil
cot in a pleasant spot, with a distant
view of the changing sea?” said Dick,
in great bewilderment.
“ Keeping his place of retirement
very close, that he may not be visited
too often by affectionate grandsons
and their devoted friends, eh?” added
the dwarf, rubbing his hands hard ;
“/ say nothing, but is that your mean-
ing?”
Richard Swiveller was utterly aghast
at this unexpected alteration of circum-
stances, which threatened the complete
overthrow of the project in which he
bore so conspicuous a part, and seemed
to nip his prospects in the bud. Hav-
ing only received from Frederick Trent,
late on the previous night, information
of the old man’s illness, he had come
upon a visit of condolence and inquiry
to Nell, prepared with the first instal-
ment of that long train of fascinations
which was to fire her heart at last. And
here, when he had been thinking of all
kinds of graceful and insinuating ap-
proaches, and meditating on the fear-
ful retaliation which was slowly work-
ing against Sophy Wackles, — here
were Nell, the old man, and all the
money gone, melted away, decamped
he knew not whither, as if with a fore-
knowledge of the scheme, and a resolu-
tion to defeat it in the very outset, be-
fore a step was taken.
In his secret heart, Daniel Quilp was
both surprised and troubled by the
flight which had been made. It had
not escaped his keen eye that some :n-
dispensable articles of clothing wera
gone with the fugitives, and, knowing
the old man’s weak state of mind, he
marvelled what that course of pro-
ceeding might be in which he had so
68
THE OLD CURIOSITY SHOP.
readily procured the concurrence of the
child. It must not be supposed (or it
would be a gross injustice to Mr.
Quilp) that he was tortured by any
disinterested anxiety on behalf of ei-
ther. His uneasiness arose from a
misgiving that the old man had some
secret store of money which he had not
suspected ; and the bare idea of its es-
caping his clutches overwhelmed him
with mortification and self-reproach.
In this frame of mind, it was some
consolation to him to find that Richard
Swiveller was, for different reasons, evi-
dently irritated and disappointed by
the same cause. It was plain, thought
the dwarf, that he had come there, on
behalf of his friend, to cajole or fright-
en the old man out of some small frac-
tion of that wealth of which they sup-
posed him to have an abundance.
Therefore, it was a relief to vex his
heart with a picture of the riches the
old man hoarded, and to expatiate on
his cunning in removing himself even
beyond the reach of importunity.
“Well,” said Dick, with a blank
look, “ I suppose it ’s of no use my
staying here.”
“Not the least in the world,” re-
joined the dwarf.
“You’ll mention that I called, per-
haps?” said Dick.
Mr. Quilp nodded, and said he cer-
tainly would, the very first time he saw
them.
“And say,” added Mr. Swiveller, —
“ say, sir, that I was wafted here upon
the pinions of concord ; that I came to
remove, with the rake of friendship,
the seeds of mutual wiolence and heart-
burning, and to sow in their place the
germs of social harmony. Will you
have the goodness to charge yourself
with that commission, sir?”
“ Certainly ! ” rejoined Quilp.
“ Will you be kind enough to add to
it, sir,” said Dick, producing a very
small limp card, “that that is my ad-
dress, and that I am to be found at
home every morning. Two distinct
knocks, sir, will produce the slavey at
any time. My particular friends, sir,
are accustomed to sneeze when the door
is opened, to give her to understand
that they are my friends and have no
interested motives in asking if I ’m at
home. I beg your pardon ; will you
allow me to look at that card again ? ”
“ O, by all means,” rejoined Quilp.
“ By a slight and not unnatural mis-
take, sir,” said Dick, substituting
another in its stead, “ I had handed
you the pass-ticket of a select convivial
circle, called the Glorious Apollers, of
which I have the honor to be Perpet-
ual Grand. That is the proper docu-
ment, sir. Good morning.”
Quilp bade him good day. The per-
petual Grand Master of the Glorious
Apollers, elevating his hat in honor of
Mrs. Quilp, dropped it carelessly on
the side of his head again, and disap-
peared with a flourish.
By this time certain vans had arrived
for the conveyance of the goods, and
divers strong men in caps were balan-
cing chests of drawers and other trifles of
that nature upon their heads, and per-
forming muscular feats which height-
ened their complexions considerably.
Not to be behindhand in the bustle,
Mr. Quilp went to work with surprising
vigor ; hustling and driving the peo-
ple about, like an evil spirit ; setting
Mrs. Quilp upon all kinds of arduous
and impracticable tasks ; carrying great
weights up and down, with no apparent
effort ; kicking the boy from the wharf,
whenever he could get near him ; and
inflicting, with his loads, a great many
sly bumps and blows on the shoulders
of Mr. Brass, as he stood upon the
door-steps to answer all the inquiries of
curious neighbors ; which was his de-
partment. His presence and example
diffused such alacrity among the per-
sons employed, that, in a few hours, the
house was emptied of everything but
pieces of matting, empty porter-pots,
and scattered fragments of straw.
Seated, like an African chief, on one
of these pieces of matting, the dwarf
was regaling himself in the parlor with
bread and cheese and beer, when he
observed, without appearing to do so,
that a boy was prying in at the outer
door. Assured that it was Kit, though
he saw little more than his nose, Mr.
Quilp hailed him by his name ; where-
upon Kit came in and demanded what
he wanted.
THE OLD CURIOSITY SHOP. 69
“ Come herej you sir,” said the dwarf.
** Well, so your old master and young
mistress have gone?”
“Where?” rejoined Kit, looking
round.
“ Do you mean to say you don’t know
where? ” answered Quilp, sharply.
“Where have they gone, eh?”
“ I don’t know,” said Kit.
“ Come,” retorted Quilp, “ let ’s have
no more of this ! Do you mean to say
that you don’t know they went away
by stealth, as soon as it was light this
morning? ”
“No,” said the boy, in evident sur-
prise.
“You don’t know that?” cried Quilp.
“ Don’t I know that you were hanging
about the house the other night, like a
thief, eh ? Were n’t you told then ? ”
“ No,” replied the boy.
“You were not?”' said Quilp.
“What were you told then? What
were you talking about ? ”
Kit, who knew no particular reason
why he should keep the matter secret
now, related the purpose for which he
had come on that occasion, and the
proposal he had made.
“ Oh ! ” said the dwarf, after a little
consideration. “ Then I think they ’ll
come to you yet.”
“Do you think they will? ” cried Kit,
eagerly.
“Ay, I think they will,” returned the
dwarf. “ Now, when they do, let me
know ; d’ ye hear? Let me know, and
I ’ll give you something. I want to do
’em a kindness, and I can’t do ’em a
kindness unless I know where they are.
You hear what I say ? ”
Kit might have returned some answer
which would not. have been agreeable
to his irascible questioner, if the boy
from the wharf, who had been skulking
about the room in search of anything
that might have been left about by acci-
dent, had not happened to cry, “ Here ’s
a bird ! What ’s to be done with
this?” .
“ Wring its neck,” rejoined Quilp.
“ O no, don’t do that,” said Kit,
stepping forward. “Give it to me.”
“ O yes, I dare say,” cried the other
boy. “ Come ! You let the cage alone,
and let me wring its neck, will you ? He
said I was to do it. You let the cage
alone, will you ? ”
“ Give it here, give it to me, you
dogs,” roared Quilp. “ Fight for it,
you dogs, or I ’ll wring its neck my-
self ! ”
Without further persuasion, the two
boys fell upon each other, tooth and
nail, while Quilp, holding up the cage
in one hand, and chopping the ground
with his knife in an ecstasy, urged them
on by his taunts and cries to fight more
fiercely. They were a pretty equal
match, and rolled about together, ex-
changing blows which were by no means
child’s play, until at length Kit, plant-
ing a well-directed hit in his adversary’s
chest, disengaged himself, sprung nim-
bly up, and, snatching the cage from
Quilp’s hands, made off with his prize.
He did not stop once until he reached
home, where his bleeding face occa-
sioned great consternation, and caused
the elder child to howl dreadfully.
“Goodness gracious, Kit ! what is the
matter? what have you been doing?”
cried Mrs. Nubbles.
“ Never you mind, mother,” answered
her son, wiping his face on the jack-
towel behind the door. “I’m not hurt,
don’t you be afraid for me. I ’ve been
a fightin’ for a bird, and won him, —
that ’sail. Hold your noise, little Jacob.
I never see such a naughty boy in all my
days ! ”
“You have been a fighting for a
bird ! ” exclaimed his mother.
“ Ah ! fightin’ for. a bird ! ” replied
Kit, “ and here he is, — Miss Nelly’s
bird, mother, that they was a goin’
to wring the neck of! I stopped that,
though, — ha, ha, ha! They wouldn’t
wTing his neck and me by, — no, no.
It wouldn’t do, mother, it wouldn’t
do at all Ha, ha, ha ! ”
Kit, laughing , so heartily, with his
swollen and bruised face looking out of
the towel, made little Jacob laugh, and
then his mother laughed, and then the
baby crowed and kicked with great
glee, and then they all laughed in con-
cert, — partly because of Kit’s triumph,
and partly because they were very fond
of each other. When this fit was over,
Kit exhibited the bird to both children,
as a great and precious rarity, — it was
7 o
THE OLD CURIOSITY SHOP.
only a poor linnet, — and, looking about
the wall for an old nail, made a scaffold-
ing of a chair and table, and twisted it
out with great exultation.
“ Let me see,” said the boy ; “ I think
I ’ll hang him in the winder, because
it ’s more light and cheerful, and he can
see the sky there, if he looks up very
much. He ’s such a one to sing, I can
tell you ! ”
So the scaffolding was made again,
and Kit, climbing up with the poker
for a hammer, knocked in the nail and
hung up the cage, to the immeasurable
delight of the whole family. When it
had been adjusted and straightened a
great many times, and he had walked
backwards into the fireplace in his
admiration of it, the arrangement was
pronounced to be perfect.
“And now, mother,” said the boy,
“ before I rest any more, I ’ll go out
and see if I can find a horse to hold,
and then I can buy some bird-seed, and
a bit of something nice for you, into the
bargain.”
CHAPTER XIV.
As it was very easy for Kit to per-
suade himself that the old house was
in his way, his way being anywhere, he
tried to look upon his passing it once
more as a matter of imperative and
disagreeable necessity, quite apart from
any desire of his own, to which he could
not choose but yield. It is not uncom-
mon for people who are much better fed
and taught than Christopher Nubbles
had ever been to make duties of their
inclinations in matters of more doubtful
propriety, and to take great credit for
the self-denial with which they gratify
themselves.
There was no need of any caution
this time, and no fear of being detained
by having to play out a return match
with Daniel Quilp’s boy. The place
was entirely deserted, and looked as
dusty and dingy as if it had been so for
months. A rusty padlock was fastened
on the door, ends of discolored blinds
and curtains flapped drearily against the
half-opened upper windows, and the
crooked holes cut in the closed shutters
below were black with the darkness of
the inside. Some of the glass in the
window he had so often watched had
been broken in the rough hurry of the
morning, and that room looked more
deserted and dull than any. A group
of idle urchins had taken possession of
the door-steps. Some were plying the
knocker and listening with delighted
dread to the hollow sounds it spread
through the dismantled house ; others
were clustered about the keyhole, watch-
ing half in jest and half in earnest for
“the ghost,” which an hour’s gloom,
added to the mystery that hung about
the late inhabitants, had already raised.
Standing all alone in the midst of the
bu iness and bustle of the street, the
house looked a picture of cold desola-
tion ; and Kit, who remembered the
cheerful fire that used to burn there on
a winter’s night and the no less cheerful
laugh that made the small room ring,
turned quite mournfully away.
It must be especially observed, in
justice to poor Kit, that he was by no
means of a sentimental turn, and per-
haps had never heard that adjective in
all his life. He was only a soft-hearted,
grateful fellow, and had nothing genteel
or polite about him ; consequently, in-
stead of going home again, in his grief,
to kick the children and abuse his
mother (for when your finely strung
people are out of sorts they must have
everybody else unhappy likewise), he
turned his thoughts to the vulgar expe-
dient of making them more comfortable
if he could.
Bless us, what a number of gentle-
men on horseback there were, riding up
and down, and how few of them wanted
their horses held ! A good city specu-
lator or a parliamentary commissioner
could have told to a fraction, from
the crowds that were cantering about,
what sum of money was realized in
London, in the course of a year, by
holding horses alone. And undoubt-
edly it would have been a very large
one, if only a twentieth part of the gen-
tlemen without grooms had had. occa-
sion to alight ; but they had not, and it
is often an ill-natured circumstance, like
this, which spoils the most ingenious
estimate in the world.
me library
OF THE
UNIVERSITY 6 F ILLINOIS
THE OLD CURIOSITY SHOP .
7 *
Kit walked about, now with quick
steps, and now with slow ; now linger-
ing as some rider slackened his horse’s
pace and looked about him ; and now
darting at full speed up a by-street as
he caught a glimpse of some distant
horseman going lazily up the shady
side of the road, and promising to stop
at every door. But on they all went,
one after another, and there was not a
penny stirring. “I wonder,” thought
the boy, “ if one of these gentlemen
knew there was nothing in the cup-
board at home, whether he ’d stop on
purpose, and make believe that he
wanted to call somewhere, that I might
earn a trifle?”
He was quite tired out with pacing
the streets, to say nothing of repeated
disappointments, and was sitting down
upon a step to rest, when there ap-
proached towards him a little clatter-
ing, jingling four-wheeled chaise, drawn
by a little obstinate-looking rough-coat-
ed pony, and driven by a little fat,
placid-faced old gentleman. Beside the
little old gentleman sat a little old lady,
plump and placid like himself ; and the
pohy was coming along at his own pace
and doing exactly as he pleased with
the whole concern. If the old gentle-
man remonstrated by shaking the reins,
the pony replied by shaking his head.
It was plain that the utmost the pony
would consent to do, was to go in his
own way up any street that the old gen-
tleman particularly wished to traverse ;
but that it was an understanding between
them that he must do this after his own
fashion or not at all.
As they passed where he sat. Kit
looked so wistfully at the little turnout
that the old gentleman looked at him.
Kit rising and putting his hand to his
hat, the old gentleman intimated to the
pony that he wished to stop, to which
proposal the pony (who seldom object-
ed to that part of his duty) graciously
acceded.
“ I beg your pardon, sir,” said Kit.
“ I ’m sorry you stopped, sir. I only
meant did you want your horse minded.”
“ I ’m going to get down in the next
street,” returned the old gentleman.
“ If you like to come on after us, you
may have the job.”
Kit thanked him, and joyfully obeyed.
The pony ran off at a sharp angle to in-
spect a lamp-post on the opposite side
of the way, and then went off at a tan-
gent to another lamp-post on the other
side. Having satisfied himself that
they were of the same pattern and
materials, he came to a stop, apparent-
ly absorbed in meditation.
“Will you go on, sir,” said the old
gentleman, gravely, “ or are we to
wait here for you till it’s too late for
our appointment? ”
The pony remained immovable.
“O you naughty Whisker,” said the
old lady. “ Fie upon you ! I am
ashamed of such conduct.”
The pony appeared to be touched by
this appeal to his feelings, for he trotted
on directly, though in a sulky manner,
and stopped no more until he came
to a door whereon was a brass plate
with the words “ Witherden — Notary.”
Here the old gentleman got out and
helped out the old lady, and then took
from under the seat a nosegay resem-
bling in shape and dimensions a full-
sized warming-pan with the handle cut
short off. This the old lady carried
into the house with a staid and state-
ly air, and the old gentleman (who had
a club-foot) followed close upon her.
They went, as it was easy to tell from
the sound of their voices, into the front
parlor, which seemed to be a kind of
office. The day being very warm and
the street a quiet one, the windows
were wide open, and it was easy to hear
through the Venetian blinds all that
passed inside.
At first there was a great shaking of
hands and shuffling of feet, succeeded
by the presentation of the nosegay ; for
a voice, supposed by the listener to be
that of Mr. Witherden the notary, was
heard to exclaim a great many times,
“O, delicious!” “O, fragrant in-
deed ! ” and a nose, also supposed to
be the property of that gentleman, was
heard to inhale the scent with a snuffle
of exceeding pleasure.
“I brought it in honor of the occa-
sion, sir,” said the old lady.
“Ah! an occasion indeed, ma’am;
an occasion which does honor to me,
1 ma’am, honor to me,” rejoined Mr.
72
THE OLD CURIOSITY SHOP.
Witherden, the notary. “I have had
many a gentleman articled to me,
ma’am, many a one. Some of them are
now rolling in riches, unmindful of their
old companion and friend, ma’am ; oth-
ers are in the habit of calling upon
me to this day and saying, ‘ Mr. Wither-
den, some of the pleasantest hours I
ever spent in my life were spent in this
office, — were spent, sir, upon this very
stool ’ ; but there was never one among
the number, ma’am, attached as I have
been to many of them, of whom I au-
gured such bright things as I do of your
only son.”
* “ O dear ! ” said the old lady. “ How
happy you do make us when you tell us
that, to be sure ! ”
“ I tell you, ma’am,” said Mr. With-
erden, “what I think as an honest man,
which, as the poet observes, is the no-
blest work of God. I agree with the
poet in every particular, ma’am. The
mountainous Alps on the one hand,
or a humming-bird on the other, is
nothing, in point of workmanship,
to an honest man — or woman — or
woman.”
“ Anything that Mr. Witherden can
say of me,” observed a small, quiet
voice, “ I can say, with interest, of him,
I am sure.”
“ It ’s a happy circumstance, a truly
happy circumstance,” said the notary,
“ to happen too upon his eight-and-
twentieth birthday, and I hope I know
how to appreciate it. I trust, Mr. Gar-
land, my dear sir, that we may mutually
congratulate each other upon this au-
spicious occasion.”
To this the old gentleman replied
that he felt assured they might. There
appeared to be another shaking of hands
in consequence, and when it was over
the old gentleman said, that, though he
said it who should not, he believed no
son had ever been a greater comfort to
his parents than Abel Garland had been
to his.
“ Marrying as his mother and I did,
late in life, sir, after waiting for a great
many years, until we were well enough
off, — coming together when we were
no longer young, and then being blessed
with one child who has always been
dutiful and affectionate, — why, it ’s a I
source of great happiness to us both,
sir.”
“Of course it is ; I have no doubt of
it,” returned the notary, in a sympa-
thizing voice. “ It ’s the contempla-
tion of this sort of thing that makes
me deplore my fate in being a bachelor.
There was a young lady once, sir, the
daughter of an outfitting warehouse of
the first respectability — but that ’s a
weakness. Chuckster, bring in Mr.
Abel’s articles.”
“You see, Mr. Witherden,” said the
old lady, “ that Abel has not been
brought up like the run of young men.
He has always had a pleasure in
our society, and always been with us.
Abel has never been absent from us for
a day ; has he, my dear ? ”
“ Never, my dear,” returned the old
gentleman, “except when he went to
Margate one Saturday with Mr. Tom-
kinley, that had been a teacher at that
school he went to, and came back upon
the Monday ; but he was very ill after
that, you remember, my dear ; it was
quite a dissipation.”
“ He was not used to it, you know,”
said the old lady ; “ and he could n’t
bear it, that ’s the truth. Besides, he
had no comfort in being there without
us, and had nobody to talk to or enjoy
himself with.”
“That was it, you know,” interposed
the same small, quiet voice that had
spoken once before. “ I was quite
abroad, mother, quite desolate, and to
think that the sea was between us, —
O, I never shall forget what I felt when
I first thought that the sea was between
us ! ”
“ Very natural under the circumstan-
ces,” observed the notary. “ Mr.
Abel’s feelings did credit to his na-
ture, and credit to your nature, ma’am,
and his father’s nature, and human
nature. I trace the same current now,
flowing through all his quiet and un-
obtrusive proceedings. I am about to
sign my name, you observe, at the
foot of the articles which Mr. Chuck-
ster will witness ; and, placing my
finger upon this blue wafer with the
vandyked corners, I am constrained to
remark in a distinct tone of voice —
don’t be alarmed, ma’am, it is merely a
THE OLD CURIOSITY SHOP.
73
form of law — that I deliver this as my
act and deed. Mr. Abel will place his
name against the other wafer, repeating
the same cabalistic words, and the busi-
ness is over. Ha, ha, ha ! You see
how easily these things are done ! ”
There was a short silence, apparent-
ly, while Mr. Abel went through the
prescribed form, and then the shaking
of hands and shuffling of feet were re-
newed, and shortly afterwards there was
a clinking of wineglasses and a great
talkativeness on the part of everybody.
In about a quarter of an hour Mr.
Chuckster (with a pen behind his ear
and his Face inflamed with wine) ap-
peared at the door, and, condescending
to address Kit by the jocose appellation
of “ Young Snob,” informed him that
the visitors were coming out.
Out they came forthwith, — Mr. With-
erden, who was short, chubby, fresh-
colored, brisk, and pompous, leading
the old lady with extreme politeness,
and the father and son following them,
arm-in-arm. Mr. Abel, who had a
quaint, old-fashioned air about him,
looked nearly of the same age as his
father, and bore a wonderful resem-
blance to him in face and figure, though
wanting something of his full, round
cheerfulness, and substituting in its
place a timid reserve. In all other re-
spects, in the neatness of the dress, and
even in the club-foot, he and the old
gentleman were precisely alike.
Having seen the old lady safely in
her seat, and assisted in the arrange-
ment of her cloak and a small basket
which formed an indispensable portion
of her equipage, Mr. Abel got into a
little box behind, which had evidently
been made for his express accommoda-
tion, and smiled at everybody present
by turns, beginning with his mother and
ending with the pony. There was then
a great to-do to make the pony hold up
his head, that the bearing-rein might be
fastened. At last even this was effected ;
and the old gentleman, taking his seat
and the reins, put his hand in his pocket
to find a sixpence for Kit.
He had no sixpences, neither had the
old lady, nor Mr. Abel, nor the notary,
nor Mr. Chuckster. The old gentle-
man thought a shilling too much, but
there was no shop in the street to get
change at, so he gave it to the boy.
“ There,” he. said, jokingly, “ I ’m
coming here again next Monday at the
same time, and mind you ’re here, my
lad, to work it out.”
“Thank you, sir,” said Kit. “I’ll
be sure to be here.”
He was quite serious, but they all
laughed heartily at his saying so, es-
pecially Mr. Chuckster, who roared out-
right and appeared to relish the joke
amazingly. As the pony, with a pre-
sentiment that he was going home, or a
determination that he would not go any-
where else (which was the same thing),
trotted away pretty nimbly, Kit had no
time to justify himself, and went his
way also. Having expended his treas -
ure in such purchases as he knew would
be most acceptable at home, not for-
getting some seed for the wonderful
bird, he hastened back as fast as he
could, so elated with his success and
great good-fortune, that he more than
half expected Nell and the old mail
would have arrived before him.
CHAPTER XV.
Often, while they were yet pacing
the silent streets of the town on the
morning of their departure, the child
trembled with a mingled sensation of
hope and fear, as, in some far-off figure
imperfectly seen in the clear distance,
her fancy traced a likeness to honest
Kit. But although she would gladly
have given him her hand and thanked
him for what he had said at their last
meeting, it was always a relief to find,
when they came nearer to each other,
that the person who approached was
not he, but a stranger ; for even if she
had not dreaded the effect which the
sight of him might have wrought upon
her fellow-traveller, she felt that to bid
farew r ell to anybody now, and most of
all to him who had been so faithful and
so true, was more than she could bear.
It was enough to leave dumb things be-
hind, and objects that were insensible
both to her love and sorrow. To have
parted from her only other friend, upon
74
THE OLD CURIOSITY SHOP .
the threshold of that wild journey, would
have wrung her heart indeed.
Why is it that we can better bear to
part in spirit than in body, and, while
we have the fortitude to act farewell,
have not the nerve to say it? On the
eve of long voyages or an absence of
many years, friends who are tenderly
attached will separate w'ith the usual
look, the usual pressure of the hand,
planning one final interview for the
morrow, while each well knows that it
is but a poor feint to save the pain of
uttering that one word, and that the
meeting will never be. Should possibil-
ities be worse to bear than certainties ?
We do not shun our dying friends : the
not having distinctly taken leave of one
among them, whom we have left in all
kindness and affection, will often em-
bitter the whole remainder of a life.
The town was glad with morning
light. Places that had shown ugly and
distrustful all night long, now wore a
smile ; and sparkling sunbeams, dancing
on chamber windows, and twinkling
through blind and curtain before sleep-
ers’ eyes, shed light even into dreams,
and chased away the shadows of the
night. Birds in hot rooms, covered up
close and dark, felt it was morning, and
chafed and grew restless in their little
cells ; bright-eyed mice Crept back to
their tiny homes and nestled timidly
together ; the sleek house-cat, forgetful
of her prey, sat winking at the rays of
sun starting through keyhole and cranny
in the door, and longed for her stealthy
run and warm sleek bask outside. The
nobler beasts, confined in dens, stood
motionless behind their bars, and gazed
on fluttering boughs, and sunshine peep-
ing through some little window, with
eyes in which old .forests gleamed,
then trod impatiently the track their
prisoned feet had worn, and stopped
and gazed again. Men in their dun-
geons stretched their cramped cold
limbs, and cursed the stone that no
bright sky could warm. The flowers
that sleep by night opened their gentle
eyes and turned them to the day. The
light, creation’s mind, was everywhere,
and all things owned its power.
The two pilgrims, often pressing each
other’s hands, or exchanging a smile or
cheerful look, pursued their way in si-
lence. Bright and happy as it was,
there was something solemn in the long
deserted streets, from which, like bod-
ies without souls, all habitual character
and expression had departed, leaving
but one dead uniform repose, that made
them all alike. All was so still at that
early hour, that the few pale people
whom they met seemed as much un-
suited to the scene as the sickly lamp
which had been here and there left
burning was powerless and faint in the
full glory of the sun.
Before they had penetrated very far
into the labyrinth of men’s abodes
which yet lay between them and the
outskirts, this aspect began to melt
away, and noise and bustle to usurp
its place. Some straggling carts and
coaches, rumbling by, first broke the
charm, then others came, then others
yet more active, then a crowd. The
wonder was, at first, to see a trades-
man’s room window open, but it was
a rare thing to see one closed ; then,
smoke rose slowly from the chimneys,
and sashes were thrown up to let in
air, and doors were opened, and ser-
vant-girls, looking lazily in all direc-
tions but their brooms, scattered brown
clouds of dust into the eyes of shrink-
ing passengers, or listened disconso-
lately to milkmen who spoke of country
fairs, and told of wagons in the mews,
with awnings and all things complete,
and gallant swains to boot, which
another hour would see upon their
journey.
4 This quarter passed, they came upon
the haunts of commerce and great
traffic, where many people were resort-
ing, and business was already rife.
The old man looked about him with a
startled and bewildered gaze, for these
were places that he hoped to shun.
He pressed his finger on his lip, and
drew the child along by narrow courts
and winding ways, nor did he seem at
ease until they had left it far behind, |
often casting a backward look towards
it, murmuring that ruin and self-murder
were crouching in every street, and
would follow if they scented them ; and
that they could not fly too fast.
Again, this quarter passed, they came
THE OLD CURIOSITY SHOP.
75
upon a straggling neighborhood, where
the mean houses, parcelled off in rooms,
and windows patched with rags and
paper, told of the populous poverty
that sheltered there. The shops sold
goods that only poverty could buy, and
sellers and buyers were pinched and
griped alike. Here were poor streets
where faded gentility essayed, with
scanty space and shipwrecked means,
to make its last feeble stand, but tax-
gatherer and creditor came there as
elsewhere, and the poverty that yet
faintly struggled was hardly less squal-
id and manifest than that which had
long ago submitted and given up the
game.
This was a wide, wide track, — for the
humble followers of the camp of wealth
pitch iheir tents round about it for many
a mile, — but its character was still
the same. Damp, rotten houses, many
to let, many yet building, many half
built and mouldering away, — lodgings,
where it would be hard to tell which
needed pity most, those who let or those
who came to take, — children, scantily
fed and clothed, spread over every street,
and sprawling in the dust, — scolding
mothers, stamping their slipshod feet
with noisy threats upon the pavement,
— shabby fathers, hurrying with dis-
irited looks to the occupation which
rought them “daily bread” and little
more, — mangling- women, washerwo-
men, cobblers, tailors, chandlers, driving
their trades in parlors and kitchens and
back rooms and garrets, and sometimes
ail of them under the same roof, — brick-
fields skirting gardens paled with staves
of old casks, or timber pillaged from
houses burnt down, and blackened and
blistered by the flames, — mounds of
dock-weed, nettles, coarse grass, and
oyster-shells, heaped in rank confusion,
^ small dissenting chapels to teach,
with no lack of illustration, the miseries
z>f earth, and plenty of new churches,
erected with a little superfluous wealth,
to show the way to heaven.
At length these streets, becoming
more straggling yet, dwindled and
dwindled away, until there were only
small garden-patches bordering the
road, with many a summer-house, inno-
cent of paint and built of old timber or
some fragments of a boat, green as the
tough cabbage-stalks that grew about
it, and grottoed at the seams with toad-
stools and tight-sticking snails. To
these succeeded pert cottages, two and
two, with plots of ground in front, laid
put in angular beds with stiff box bor-
ders and narrow paths between, where
footstep never strayed to make the
gravel rough. Then came the public-
house, freshly painted in green and
white, with tea-gardens and a bowling-
green, spurning its old neighbor with
the horse-trough where the wagons
stopped ; then fields ; and then some
houses, one by one, of goodly size, with
lawns, some even with a lodge where
dwelt a porter and his wife. Then
came a turnpike ; then fields again, with
trees and haystacks ; then a hill, and,
on the top of that, the traveller might
stop, and — looking back at old St.
Paul’s looming through the smoke, its
cross peeping above the cloud (if the
day were clear) and glittering in the
sun ; and casting his eyes upon the
Babel out which it grew, until he traced
it down to the farthest outposts of the
invading army of bricks and mortar
whose station lay for the present nearly
at his feet — might feel at last that he
was clear of London.
Near such a spot as this, and in a
pleasant field, the old man and his
little guide (if guide she were who
knew not whither they were bound) sat
down to rest. She had had the precau-
tion to furnish her basket with some
slices of bread and meat, and here they
made their frugal breakfast.
The freshness of the day, the singing
of the birds, the beauty of the waving
grass, the deep-green leaves, the wild-
flowers, and the thousand exquisite
scents and sounds that floated in the
air — deep joys to most of us, but most
of all to those whose life is in a crowd,
or who live solitarily in great cities as
in Ijie bucket of a human well — sunk
into their breasts and made them very
glad. The child had repeated her art-
less prayers once that morning, more
earnestly, perhaps, than she had ever
done in all her life, but as she felt all
this, they rose to her lips again. The
old man took off his hat ; he had no
?6
THE OLD CURIOSITY SHOP .
memory for the words, but he said
amen, and that they were very good.
There had been an old copy of the
Pilgrim’s Progress, with strange plates,
upon a shelf at home, over which she
had often pored whole evenings, won-
dering whether it was true in every
word, and where those distant countries
with the curious names might be. As
she looked back upon the place they
had left, one part of it came strongly on
her mind.
“ Dear grandfather,” she said, “ only
that this place is prettier and a great
deal better than the real one, if that in
the book is like it, I feel as if we were
both Christian, and laid down on this
grass all the cares and troubles we
brought with us, never to take them
up again.”
“No, never to return, — never to
return,” replied the old man, waving
his hand toward the city. “Thou and
I are free of it now, Nell. They shall
never lure us back.”
“Are you tired?” said the child.
“Are you sure you don’t feel ill from
this long walk ? ”
“ I shall never feel ill again, now that
we are once away,” was his reply.
“Let us be stirring, Nell. We must
be farther away, — a long, long way
farther. We are too near to stop, and
be at rest. Come ! ”
There was a pool of clear water in
the field, in which the child laved her
hands and face, and cooled her feet,
before setting forth to walk again. She
would have the old man refresh himself
in this way too, and, making him sit
down upon the grass, cast the water on
him with her hands, and dried it with
her simple dress.
“ I can do nothing for myself, my
darling,” said the grandfather. “ I
don’t know how it is I could once, but
the time ’s gone. Don’t leave me,
Nell; say that thou ’It not leave me.
I loved thee all the while, indeed I <lid.
If I lose thee too, my dear, I must
die!”
He laid his head upon her shoulder,
and moaned piteously. The time had
been, and a very few days before, when
the child could not have restrained her
tears and must have wept with him.
*
But now she soothed him. with gentle
and tender words, smiled at his think-
ing they could ever part, and rallied
him cheerfully upon the jest. He was
soon calmed and fell asleep, singing to
himself in a low voice, like a little child.
He awoke refreshed, and they con-
tinued their journey. The road was
pleasant, lying between beautiful pas-
tures and fields of corn, above which,
poised high in the clear blue sky, the
lark trilled out her happy song. The
air came laden with the fragrance it
caught upon its way, and the bees, up-
borne upon its scented breath, hummed
forth their drowsy satisfaction as they
floated by.
They were now in the open country.
The houses were very few and scattered
at long intervals, often miles apart.
Occasionally they came upon a cluster
of poor cottages, some with a chair or
low board put across the open door to
keep the scrambling children from the
road, others shut up close, while all
the family were working in the fields.
These were often the commencement of
a little village ; and after an interval
came a wheelwright’s shed, or perhaps
a blacksmith’s forge ; then a thriving
farm with sleepy cows lying about the
yard, and horses peering over the low
wall and scampering away when har-
nessed horses passed upon the road, as
though in triumph at their freedom.
There were dull pigs, too, turning up
the ground in search of dainty food, and
grunting their monotonous grumblings
as they prowled about or crossed each
other in their quest ; plump pigeons,
skimming round the roof or strutting on
the eaves ; and ducks and geese, far
more graceful in their own conceit,
waddling awkwardly about the edges
of the pond or sailing glibly on its sur-
face. The farm-yard passed, then came
the little inn, the humbler beer-shop,
and the village tradesman’s ; then the
lawyer’s and the parson’s, at whose
dread names the beer-shop trembled ;
the church then peeped out modestly
from a clump of trees ; then there were
a few more cottages; then the cage
and pound, and not unfrequently, on a
bank by the wayside, a deep old dusty
well. Then came the trim -hedged
THE OLD CURIOSITY SHOP.
77
fields on either hand, and the open road
again.
They walked all day, and slept that
night at a small cottage where beds
were let to travellers. Next morning
they were afoot again, and, though
jaded at first and very tired, recovered
before long, and proceeded briskly for-
ward.
They often stopped to rest, but only
for a short space at a time, and still
kept on, having had but slight refresh-
ment since the morning. It was nearly
five o’clock in the afternoon, when,
drawing near another cluster of labor-
ers’ huts, the child looked wistfully in
each, doubtful at which to ask for per-
mission to rest awhile and buy a
draught of milk.
It was not easy to determine, for she
was timid and fearful of being repulsed.
Here was a crying child and there a
noisy wife. In this, the people seemed
too poor ; in that, too many. At length
she stopped at one where the family
were seated round a table, — chiefly be-
cause there was an old man sitting in a
cushioned chair beside the hearth, and
she thought he was a grandfather and
would feel for hers.
. There were, besides, the cottager and
his wife, and three young sturdy chil-
dren, brown as berries. The request
was no sooner preferred than granted.
The eldest boy ran out to fetch some
milk, the second dragged two stools
towards the door, and the youngest
crept to his mother’s gown, and looked
at the strangers from beneath his sun-
burnt hand.
“God save, you, master,’.’ said the
old cottager in a thin, piping voice ;
“ are you travelling far ? ”
“ Yes, sir, a long way,” replied the
child ; for her grandfather appealed to
her.
“From London?” inquired the old
man.
The child said yes.
Ah ! he had been in London many a
, time, — used to go there often once,
with wagons.. It was nigh two-and-
thirty year since he had been there
last, and he did hear say there were
great changes. Like enough ! He had
changed himself since then. Two-and-
thirty year was a long time, and eighty-
four a great age, though there was some
he had known that had lived to very
hard upon a hundred, and not so
hearty as he, neither, — no, nothing
like it.
“ Sit thee down, master, in the elbow-
chair,” said the old man, knocking his
stick upon the brick floor, and trying to
do so sharply. “ Take a pinch out o’
that box ; I don’t take much myself,
for it comes dear, but I find it wakes
me up sometimes, and ye ’re but a boy
to me. I should have a son pretty
nigh as old as you if he ’d lived, but they
’listed him for a so’ger ; he come back
home, though, for all he had but one
poor leg. He always said he ’d be
buried near the sundial he used to
climb upon when he was a baby, did
my poor boy, and his words come true ;
you can see the place with your own
eyes; we ’ve kept the turf up, ever
since.”
He shook his head, and, looking at
his daughter with watery eyes, said she
need n’t be afraid that he was going to
talk about that any more. He did n’t
wish to trouble nobody, and if he had
troubled anybody by what he said, he
asked pardon, that was all.
The milk arrived, and, the child pro^
ducing her little basket and selecting
its best fragments for her grandfather,
they made a hearty meal. The furni-
ture of the room was very homely, of
course, — a few rough chairs and a table,
a corner cupboard with their little stock
of crockery and delf, a gaudy tea-tray,
representing a lady in bright red, walk-
ing out with a very blue parasol, a few
common, colored Scripture subjects in
frames upon the wall and chimney, an
old dwarf clothes-press and an eight-
day clock, with a few bright saucepans
and a kettle, comprised the whole.
But everything was clean and neat, and
as the child glanced round, she felt a
tranquil air of comfort and content to
which she had long been unaccustomed.
“ How far is it to any town or vil-
lage ? ” she asked of the husband.
“ A matter of good five mile, my
dear,” was the reply ; “ but you ’re not
going on to-night ? ”
“Yes, yes, Nell,” said the old man,
?8
THE OLD CURIOSITY SHOP .
hastily, urging her too by signs. “ Far-
ther on, farther on, darling, —farther
away, if we walk till midnight.”
“ There ’s a good barn hard by, mas-
ter,” said the man, “or there ’s travel-
lers’ lodging, I know, at the Plow an’
Harrer. Excuse me, but you do seem
a little tired, and unless you ’re very
anxious to get on — ”
“Yes, yes, we are,” returned th.e old
man, fretfully. “ Farther away, dear
Nell, pray, farther away.”
“We must go on, indeed,” said the
child, yielding to his restless wish.
“We thank you very much, but we
cannot stop so soon. I ’m quite ready,
grandfather.”
But the woman had observed, from
the young wanderer’s gait, that one of
her little feet was blistered and sore,
and, being a woman and a mother too,
she would not suffer her to go until
she had washed the place and applied
some simple remedy, which she did so
carefully and with such a gentle hand
— rough-grained and hard though it
was with work — that the child’s heart
was too full to admit of her saying more
than a fervent “ God bless you ! ” nor
could she look back nor trust herself to
speak, until they had left the cottage
some distance behind. When she
turned her head, she saw that the whole
family, even the old grandfather, were
standing in the road watching them as
they went, and so, with many waves of
the hand, and cheering nods, and on
one side, at least, not without tears,
they parted company.
They, trudged forward, more slowly
and painfully than they had done yet,
for another mile or thereabouts, when
they heard the sound of wheels behind
them, and, looking round, observed an
empty cart approaching pretty briskly.
The driver, on coming up to them,
stopped his horse and looked earnestly
at Nell.
“ Did n’t you stop to rest at a cottage
yonder?” he said.
“ Yes, sir,” replied the child.
“ Ah ! They asked me to look out
for you,” said the man. “I’m going
your way. Give me your hand, — jump
up, master.”
This was a great relief, for they were
very much fatigued and could scarcely
crawl along.. To them the jolting cart
was a luxurious carriage, and the ride
the most delicious in the world. Nell
had scarcely settled herself on a little
heap of straw in one corner, when she
fell asleep, for the first time that day.
She was awakened by the stopping of
the cart, which was about to turn up a
by-lane. The driver kindly got down
to help her out, and, pointing to some
trees at . a very short distance before
them, said that the town lay there, and
that they had better take the path which
they would see leading through the
churchyard. Accordingly, towards this
spot they directed their weary steps.
CHAPTER XVI.
The sun was setting when they
reached the wicket-gate at which the
path, began, and, as the rain falls upon
the just and unjust alike, it shed its
warm tint even upon the resting-places
of the dead, and bade them be of good
hope for its rising on the morrow. The
church was old and gray, with ivy cling-
ing to the walls and round the porch.
Shunning the tombs, it crept about the
mounds, beneath which slept poor hum-
ble men, twining for them the first
wreaths they had ever won, but wreaths
less liable to wither, and far more lasting
in their kind, than some which were
graven deep in stone and marble, and
told in pompous terms of virtues meekly
hidden for many a year, and only re-
vealed at last to executors and mourn-
ing legatees.
The clergyman’s horse, stumbling with
a dull blunt sound among the graves,
was cropping the grass, at once deriv-
ing orthodox consolation from the dead
parishioners, and enforcing last Sun-
day’s text, that this was what all flesh
came to. A lean ass who had sought to
e?g)ound it also, without being qualified
and ordained, was pricking his ears in
an empty pound hard by, and looking
with hungry eyes upon his priestly
neighbor.
The old man and the child quitted
the gravel path, and strayed among the
THE OLD CURIOSITY SHOP .
79
iombs; for there the ground was soft,
and easy to their tired feet. As they
passed behind the church, they heard
voices near at hand, and presently came
on those who had spoken.
They were two men who were seated
in easy attitudes upon the grass,- and so
busily engaged as to be at first uncon-
scious of intruders. It was not difficult
to divine that they were of a class of
itinerant showmen, — exhibitors of the
freaks of Punch, — for, perched cross-
legged upon a tombstone behind them,
was a figure of that hero himself, his
nose and chin as hooked, and his face
as beaming, as usual. Perhaps his im-
perturbable character was never more
strikingly developed, for he preserved
his usual equable smile notwithstanding
that his body was dangling in a most
uncomfortable position, all loose and
limp and shapeless, while his long peak-
ed cap, unequally balanced against his
exceedingly slight legs, threatened every
instant to bring him toppling down.
In part scattered upon the ground at
the feet of the two men, and in part
jumbled together in a long flat box,
were the other persons of the drama.
The hero’s wife and one child, the
hobby-horse, the doctor, the foreign
gentleman, who, not being familiar with
the language, is unable in the repre-
sentation to express his ideas otherwise
than by the utterance of the word
“ Shallabalah ” three distinct times, the
.radical neighbor, who will by no means
admit that a tin bell is an organ, the
executioner, and the devil, were all
here. Their owners had evidently come
to that spot to make some needful
repairs in the stage arrangements, for
one of them was engaged in binding
together a small gallows with thread,
while the other was intent upon, fixing
a new black wig, with the aid of a small
hammer and some tacks, upon the head
of the radical neighbor, who had been
beaten bald.
They raised their eyes when the old
man and his young companion were
close upon them, and, pausing in their
work, returned their looks of curiosity.
One of them, the actual exhibiter no
doubt, was a little merry-faced man,
with a twinkling eye and a red nose, I
who seemed to have unconsciously im-
bibed something of his hero’s character.
The other — that was he who took the
money — had rather a careful and cau-
tious look, which was perhaps insepara-
ble from his occupation also.
The merry man was the first to greet
the strangers with a nod ; and, following
the old man’s eyes, he observed that
perhaps that was the first time he had
ever seen a Punch off the stage. (Punch,
it may be remarked, seemed to be point-
ing with the tip of his cap to a most
flourishing epitaph, and to be chuckling
over it with all his heart.)
“ Why do you come here to do this ? ”
said the old man, sitting down beside
them, and looking at the figures with
extreme delight.
“ Why, you see,” rejoined the little
man, “ we ’re putting up for to-night at
the public-house yonder, and it would
n’t do to let ’em see the present com-
pany undergoing repair.”
“No!” cried the old man, making
signs to Nell to listen. “ Why not, eh ?
why not? ”
“ Because it would destroy all the
delusion, and take away ail the interest,
wouldn’t it?” replied the little man.
“ Would you care a ha’penny for the
Lord Chancellor, if you know’d him in
private and without his wig? Certainly
not.”
“ Good ! ” said the old man, ventur-
ing to touch one of the puppets, and
drawing away his hand with a shrill
laugh. “ Are you going to show ’em
to-night? are you?”
“That is the intention, governor,”
replied the other, “and unless I’m
much mistaken, Tommy Codlin is a
calculating at this minute what we ’ve
lost through your coming upon us.
Cheer up, Tommy, it can’t be much.”
The little man accompanied these
latter words with a wink, expressive of
the estimate he had formed of the trav-
ellers’ finances.
To this Mr. Codlin, who had a sur-
ly, grumbling manner, replied, as he
twitched Punch off the tombstone and
flung him into the box, —
“I don’t care if we haven’t lost a
farden, but you’re too If you
stood in front of the curtain and
So
THE OLD CURIOSITY SHOP.
public’s faces as I do, you ’d know
human natur’ better.”
“Ah! it’s been the spoiling of you,
Tommy, your taking to that branch,”
rejoined his companion. “ When you
played the ghost in the reg’lar drama
in the fairs, you believed in everything
— except ghosts. But now you ’re a
universal mistruster. / never see a man
so changed.”
“ Never mind,” said Mr. Codlin,
with the air of a discontented philoso-
pher. “I know better now, and p’r’aps
I ’m sorry for it.”
Turning over the figures in the box,
like one who knew and despised them,
Mr. Codlin drew one forth and held it
up for the inspection of his friend.
“ Look here ; here ’s all this Judy’s
clothes falling to pieces again. You
haven’t got a needle and thread, I sup-
pose?”
The little man shook his head, and
scratched it ruefully as he contemplated
this severe indisposition of a principal
performer. Seeing that they were at a
loss, the child said, timidly, —
“ I have a needle, sir, in my basket,
and thread, too. Will you let me try
to mend it for you ? I think I can do
it neater than you could.”
Even Mr. Codlin had nothing to urge
against a proposal so seasonable Nel-
ly, kneeling down beside the box, was
soon busily engaged in her task, and
accomplishing it to a miracle.
While she was thus engaged, the
merry little man looked at her with an
interest which did not appear to be di-
minished when he glanced at her help-
less companion. When she had finished
her work, he thanked her, and inquired
whither they were travelling.
“ N — no farther to-night, I think,”
said the child, looking towards her
grandfather.
“ If you’re wanting a place to stop
at,” the man remarked, “ I should ad-
vise you to take up at the same house
with us. That ’s it, — the long, low
white house there. It ’s very cheap.
The old man, notwithstanding his
fatigue, would have remained in the
churchyard all night, if his new acquaint-
ance had stayed there too. As he yield-
ed to this suggestion a ready and rap-
turous assent, they all rose and walked
away together, — he keeping close to the
box of puppets, in which he was quite
absorbed, the merry little man carrying
it slung over his arm by a strap attached
to it for the purpose, Nelly having hold
of her grandfather’s hand, and Mr. Cod-
lin sauntering slowly behind, casting
up at the church-tower and neighboring
trees such looks as he was accustomed
in town practice to direct to drawing-
room and nursery windows, when seek-
ing for a profitable spot on which to
plant the show.
The public-house was kept by a fat
old landlord and landlady, who made no
objection to receiving their new guests,
but praised Nelly’s beauty and were at
once prepossessed in her behalf. There
was no other company in the kitchen
but the two showmen, and the child felt
very thankful that they had fallen upon
such good quarters. The landlady was
very much astonished to learn that they
had come all the way from London, and
appeared to have no little curiosity
touching their further destination. The
child parried her inquiries as well as she
could, and with no great trouble, for,
finding that they appeared to give her
pain, the old lady desisted.
“ These two gentlemen have ordered
supper in an hour’s time,” she said,
taking her into the bar ; “and your best
plan will be to sup with them. Mean-
while you shall have a little taste of
something that ’ll do you good, for I’m
sure you must want it after all you ’ve
gone through to-day. Now, don’t look
after the old gentleman, because when
you ’ve drank that, he shall have some
too.”
As nothing could induce the child to
leave him alone, however, or to touch
anything in which he was not the first
and greatest sharer, the old lady was
obliged to help him first. When they
had been thus refreshed, the whole
house hurried away into an empty
stable where the show stood, and
where, by the light of a few flaring
candles, stuck round a hoop which hung
by a line from the ceiling, it was to be
forthwith exhibited.
And now Mr. Thomas Codlin, the
misanthrope, after blowing away at the
THE OLD CURIOSITY SHOP.
Si
Pan’s pipes until he was intensely
wretched, took his station on one side
of the checked drapery which concealed
the mover of the figures, and, putting his
hands in his pockets, prepared to reply
to all questions and remarks of Punch,
and to make a dismal feint of being his
most intimate private friend, of believ-
ing in him to the fullest and most un-
limited extent, of knowing that he en-
joyed day and night a merry and glori-
ous existence in that temple, and that
he was at all times and under every cir-
cumstance the same intelligent and joy-
ful person that the spectators then be-
held him. All this Mr. Codlin did with
the air of a man who had made up his
mind for the worst and was quite re-
signed, his eye slowly wandering about
during the briskest repartee to observe
the effect upon the audience, and par-
ticularly the impression made upon the
landlord and landlady, which might be
productive of very important results in
connection with the supper.
Upon this head, however, he had no
cause for any anxiety, for the whole per-
formance was applauded to the echo,
and voluntary contributions were show-
ered in with a liberality which testified
yet more strongly to the general delight.
Among the laughter none was more
loud and frequent than the old man’s.
Nell’s was unheard, for she, poor child,
with her head drooping on his shoulder,
had fallen asleep, and slept too soundly
to be roused by any of his efforts to
awaken her to a participation in his
glee.
The supper w r as very good, but she
was too tired to eat, and yet would not
leave the old man until she had kissed
him in his bed. He, happily insensible
to every care and anxiety, sat listening,
with a vacant smile and admiring face,
to all that his new friends said; and it
was not until they retired yawning to
their room, that he followed the child
up stairs.
It was but a loft, partitioned into two
compartments, where they were to rest,
but they were well pleased with their
lodging and had hoped for none so
ood. The old man was uneasy when
e had lain down, and begged that
Nell would come and sit at his bedside
6
as she had done for so many nights.
She hastened to him, and sat there till
he slept.
There was a little window, hardly
more than a chink in the wall, in her
room, and when she left him, she
opened it, quite wondering at the si-
lence. The sight of the old church and
the graves about it in the moonlight,
and the dark trees whispering among
themselves, made her more thoughtful
than before. She closed the window
again, and, sitting down upon the bed,
thought of the life that was before
them.
She had a little money, but it was
very little, and when that was gone,
they must begin to beg. There was
one piece of gold among it, and an
emergency might come when its worth
to them would be increased a hundred-
fold. It would be best to hide this
coin, and never produce it unless their
case was absolutely desperate, and no
other resource was left them.
# Her resolution taken, she sewed the
piece of gold into her dress, and, going
to bed with a lighter heart, sunk into a
deep slumber.
CHAPTER XVII.
Another bright day, shining in
through the small casement, and claim-
ing fellowship with the kindred eyes of
the child, awoke her. At sight of the
strange room and its unaccustomed ob-
jects she started up in alarm, wonder-
ing how she had been moved from the
familiar chamber in which she seemed
to have . fallen asleep last night, and
whither she had been conveyed. But
another glance around called to her
mind all that had lately passed, and
she sprung from her bed, hoping and
trustful.
It was yet early, and, the old man be-
ing still asleep, she walked out into the
churchyard, brushing the dew from the
long grass with her feet, and often turn-
ing aside into places where it grew
longer than in others, that she might
not tread upon the graves. She felt a
curious kind of pleasure in lingering
among these houses of the dead, and
82
THE OLD CURIOSITY SHOP.
read the inscriptions on the tombs of
the good people (a great number of good
people were buried there), passing on
from one to another with increasing in-
terest.
It was a very quiet place, as such a
place should be, save for the cawing of
the rooks who had built their nests
among the branches of some tall old
trees, and were calling to one another,
high up in air. First, one sleek bird,
hovering near his ragged house as it
swung and dangled in the wind, uttered
his hoarse cry, quite by chance, as it
would seem, and in a sober tone as
though he were but talking to himself.
Another answered, and he called again,
but louder than before ; then another
spoke, and then another ; and each time
the first, aggravated by contradiction,
insisted on his case more strongly.
Other voices, silent till now, struck in
from boughs lower down and higher up
and midway, and to the right and left,
and from the tree-tops ; and others, ar-
riving hastily from the gray church-tur-
rets and old belfry window, joined the
clamor, which rose and fell, and swelled
and dropped again, and still went on ;
and all this noisy contention amidst a
skimming to and fro, and lighting on
fresh branches, and frequent change of
place, which satirized the old restless-
ness of those who lay so still beneath
the moss and turf below, and the strife
in which they had worn away .their
lives.
Frequently raising her eyes to the
trees whence these sounds came down,
and feeling as though they made the
place more quiet than perfect silence
would have done, the child loitered
from grave to grave, now stopping to
replace with careful hands the bramble
which had started from some green
mound it helped to keep in shape, and
now peeping through one of the low
latticed windows into the church, with
its worm-eaten books upon the desks,
and baize of whitened green moulder-
ing from the pew sides and leaving
the naked wood to view. There were
the seats where the poor old people
sat, worn, spare, and yellow like them-
selves, the rugged font where children
had their names, the homely altar where
they knelt in after life, the plain black
trestles that bore their weight on their
last visit to the cool old shady church.
Everything told of long use and quiet,
slow decay. The very bell-rope in the
porch was frayed into a fringe, and
hoary with old age.
She was looking at a humble stone
which told of a young man who had
died at twenty-three years old, fifty-five
years ago, when she heard a faltering
step approaching, and, looking round,
saw a feeble woman bent with the
weight of years, who tottered to the
foot of that same grave and asked her
to read the writing on the stone. The
old woman thanked her when she had
done, saying that she had had the words
by heart for many a long, long year, but
could not see them now.
“Were you his mother?” said the
child.
“ I was his wife, my dear.”
She the wife of a young man of three-
and- twenty ! Ah, true ! It was fifty-
five years ago.
“You wonder to hear me say that,”
remarked the old woman, shaking her
head. “You’re not the first. Older
folk than you have wondered at the
same thing before now. Yes, I was his
wife. Death doesn’t change us more
than life, my dear.”
“Do you come here often?” asked
the child.
“ I sit here very often in the summer-
time,” she answered. “ I used to come
here once to cry and mourn, but that
was a weary while ago, bless God ! ”
“ I pluck the daisies, as they grow,
and take them home,” said the old wo-
man after a short silence. “ I like no
flowers so well as these, and have n’t for
five-and-fifty years. It’s a long time,
and I ’m getting very old ! ”
Then growing garrulous upon a
theme which was new to one listener,
though it were but a child, she told her
how she had wept and moaned and
prayed to die herself, when this hap-
pened ; and how, when she first came to
that place, a young creature strong in
love and grief, she had hoped that her
heart was breaking as it seemed to be.
But that time passed by, and although
she continued to be sad when she came
THE OLD CURIOSITY SHOP.
83
there, still she could bear to come, and
so went on until it was pain no longer,
but a solemn pleasure, and a duty she
had learned to like. And now that five-
and-fifty years were gone, she spoke of
the dead man as if he had been her
son or grandson, with a kind of pity for
his youth, growing out of her own old
age, and an exalting ofhis strength and
manly beauty, as compared with her own
weakness and decay ; and yet she spoke
about him as her husband too, and,
thinking of herself in connection with
him, as she used to be and not as she
was now, talked of their meeting in
another world as if he were dead but
yesterday, and she, separated from her
former self, were thinking of the happi-
ness of that comely girl who seemed to
have died with him.
The child left her gathering the flow-
ers that grew upon the grave, and
thoughtfully retraced her steps.
The old man was by this time up and
dressed. Mr. Codlin, still doomed to
contemplate the harsh realities of exist-
ence, was packing among his linen the
candle-ends which had been saved from
the previous night’s performance ; while
his companion received the compliments
of all the loungers in the stable-yard,
who, unable to separate him from the
master-mind of Punch, set him down as
next in importance to that merry outlaw,
and loved him scarcely less. When he
had sufficiently acknowledged his pop-
ularity, he came in to breakfast, at which
meal they all sat down together.
“ And where are you going to-day? ”
said the little man, addressing himself
to -Nell.
“Indeed I hardly know; we have
not determined yet,” replied the child.
“ We ’re going on to the races,” said
the little man. “ If that ’s your way,
and you like to have us for company,
let us travel together. If you prefer
going alone, only say the word, and
you’ll find that we sha’n’t trouble you.”
“We’ll go with you,” said the old
man. “ Nell, — with them, with them.”
The child considered for a moment,
and reflecting that she must shortly beg,
and could scarcely hope to do so at a
better place than where crowds of rich
ladies and gentlemen were assembled
together for purposes of enjoyment and
festivity, determined to accompany these
men so far. She therefore thanked the
little man for his offer and said, glan-
cing timidly towards his friend, that if
there was no objection to their accom-
panying them as far as the race town —
“Objection!” said the little man.
“ Now be gracious for once, Tommy,
and say that you ’d rather they went
with us. I know you would. Be gra-
cious, Tommy.”
“Trotters,” said Mr. Codlin, who
talked very slowly and ate very greedily,
as is not uncommon with philosophers
and misanthropes, “you’re too free.”
“Why, what harm can it do?” urged
the other.
“No harm at all in this particular
case, perhaps,” replied Mr. Codlin;
“but the principle ’s a dangerous one,
and you ’re too free, I tell you.”
“ Well, are they to go with us or
not ? ”
“Yes, they are,” said Mr. Codlin;
“ but you might have made a favor of it,
might n’t you?”
The real name of the little man was
Harris, but it had gradually merged into
the less euphonious one of Trotters,
which, with the prefatory adjective,
Short, had been conferred upon him
by reason of the small size of his legs.
Short Trotters, however, being a com-
pound name, inconvenient of use in
friendly dialogue, the gentleman on
whom it had been bestowed was known
among his intimates either as “ Short ”
or “Trotters,” and was seldom accosted
at full length as Short Trotters, except
in formal conversations and on occa-
sions of ceremony.
Short, then, or Trotters, as the reader
pleases, returned unto the remonstrance
of his friend, Mr. Thomas Codlin, a
jocose answer calculated to turn aside
his discontent ; and applying himself
with great relish to the cold boiled
beef, the tea, and bread and butter,
strongly impressed upon his companions
that they should do the like. Mr. Cod-
lin indeed required no such persuasion,
as he had already eat as much as he
could possibly carry and was now moist-
ening his clay with strong ale, whereof
he took deep draughts with a silent
8 4
THE OLD CURIOSITY SHOP.
relish, and invited nobody to partake, —
thus again strongly indicating his mis-
anthropical turn of mind.
Breakfast being at length over, Mr.
Codlin called the bill, and, charging the
ale to the company generally (a practice
also savoring of misanthropy), divided
the sum total into two fair and equal
parts, assigning one moiety to himself
and friend, and the other to Nelly and
her grandfather. These being duly dis-
charged, and all things ready for their
departure, they took farewell of the land-
lord and landlady and resumed their jour-
ney.
And here Mr. Codlin’s false position
in society, and the effect it wrought upon
his wounded spirit, were strongly illus-
trated ; for whereas he had been last
night accosted by Mr. Punch as “mas-
ter,” and had by inference left the
audience to understand that he main-
tained that individual for his own luxu-
rious entertainment and delight, here
he was, now, painfully walking beneath
the burden of that same Punch’s temple,
and bearing it bodily upon his shoulders
on a sultry day and along a dusty road.
In place of enlivening his patron with a
constant fire of wit or the cheerful rattle
of his quarter-staff on the heads of his
relations and acquaintance, here was
that beaming Punch utterly devoid of
spine, all slack and drooping in a dark
box, with his legs doubled up round his
*ieck, and not one of his social qualities
vemaining.
Mr. Codlin trudged heavily on, ex-
thanging a word or two at intervals with
Short, and stopping to rest and growl oc-
casionally. Short led the way, with the
flat box, the private luggage (which was
Sot extensive) tied up in a bundle, and a
brazen trumpet slung from his shoulder-
blade. N ell and her grandfather walked
next him on either hand, and Thomas
Codlin brought up the rear.
When they came to any town or vil-
lage, or even to a detached house of
good appearance, Short blew a blast
upon the brazen trumpet and carolled
a fragment of a song in that hilarious
tone common to Punches and their con-
sorts. If people hurried to the windows,
Mr. Codlin pitched the temple, and
hastily unfurling the drapery, and con-
cealing Short therewith, flourished hys-
terically on the pipes and performed
an air. Then the entertainment began
as soon as might be ; Mr. Codlin hav-
ing the responsibility of deciding on its
length and of protracting or expediting
the time for the hero’s final triumph
over the enemy of mankind, according
as he judged that the after-crop of half-
pence would be plentiful or scant. When
it had been gathered in to the last far-
thing, he resumed his load, and on they
went again.
Sometimes they played out the toll
across a bridge or ferry, and once ex-
hibited by particular desire at a turn-
pike, where the collector, being drunk
in his solitude, paid down a shilling to
have it to himself. There was one small
place of rich promise in which their hopes
were blighted, for a favorite character in
the play, having gold-lace upon his coat,
and being a meddling, wooden-headed
fellow, was held to be a libel on the
beadle, for which reason the authorities
enforced a quick retreat ; but they were
generally well received, and seldom
left a town without a troop of ragged
children shouting at their heels.
They made a long day’s journey,
despite these interruptions, and were
yet upon the road when the moon was
shining in the sky. Short beguiled
the time with songs and jests, and made
the best of everything that happened.
Mr. Codlin, on the other hand, cursed
his fate, and all the hollow things of
earth (but Punch especially), and limped
along with the theatre on his back, a
prey to the bitterest chagrin.
They had stopped to rest beneqth
a finger-post where four roads met, and
Mr. Codlin in his deep misanthropy
had let down the drapery and seated
himself in the bottom of the show, in-
visible to mortal eyes, and disdainful
of the company of his fellow-creatures,
when two monstrous shadows were
seen stalking towards them from a
turning in the road by which they had
come. The child was at first quite
terrified by the sight of these gaunt
giants, — for such they looked as they
advanced with lofty strides beneath the
shadow of the trees, — but Short, tell-
ing her there was nothing to fear, blew
CODLIN AND SHORT.
the library
OF THE
UHlVERSttt OF ILUHCIS
THE OLD CURIOSITY SHOP. 85
a blast upon the trumpet, which was
answered by a cheerful shout.
“It’s Grinder’.s lot, ain’t it?” cried
Mr. Short, in a loud key.
“ Yes,” replied a couple of shrill
voices.
“ Come on then,” said Short. “ Let ’s
have a look at you. I thought it was
you.”
Thus invited, “ Grinder’s lot ” ap-
proached with redoubled speed, and
soon came up with the little party.
Mr. Grinder’s company, familiarly
termed a lot, consisted of a young
gentleman and a young lady on stilts,
and Mr. Grinder himself, who used his
natural legs '••for pedestrian purposes
and carried at his back a drum. The
public costume of the young people
was of the Highland kind, but the
night being damp and cold, the young
gentleman wore over his kilt a man’s
pea-jacket reaching to his ankles, and
a glazed hat ; the young lady too was
muffled in an old cloth pelisse and
had a handkerchief tied about her head.
Their Scotch bonnets, ornamented with
plumes of jet black feathers, Mr. Grinder
carried on his instrument.
“Bound for the races, I see,” said
Mr. Grinder coming up out of breath.
“ So are we. How are you, Short ? ”
With that they shook hands in a very
friendly manner. The young people,
being too high up for the ordinary sal-
utations, saluted Short after their own
fashion. The young gentleman twisted
up his right stilt and patted him on the
shoulder, and the young lady rattled
her tambourine.
“ Practice ? ” said Short, pointing to
the stilts.
“ No,” returned Grinder. “ It comes
either to walkin’ in ’em or carryin’ of
’em, and they like walkin’ in ’em best.
It’s wery pleasant for the prospects.
Which road are you takin’ ? We go
the nighest.”
“Why, the fact is,” said Short,
“ that we are going the longest way,
because then we could stop for the
night a mile and a half on. But three
or four mile gained to-night is so many
saved to-morrow, and if you keep on,
I think our best way is to do the
same.”
“Whereas your partner?” inquired
Grinder.
“ Here he is,” cried Mr. Thomas
Codlin, presenting his head and face
in the proscenium of the stage, and
exhibiting an expression of counte-
nance not often seen there ; “and he ’ll
see his partner boiled alive before
he ’ll go on to-night. That ’s what he
says.”
“ Well, don’t say such things as
them, in a spear which is dewoted to
something pleasanter,” urged Short.
“ Respect associations, Tommy, even
if you do cut up rough.”
“ Rough or smooth,” said Mr. Cod-
lin, beating his hand on the little foot-
board, where Punch, when suddenly
struck with the symmetry of his legs
and their capacity for silk stockings, is
accustomed to exhibit them to popu-
lar admiration, — “rough or smooth, I
won’t go farther than the mile and a
half to-night. I put up at the Jolly
Sandboys and nowhere else. If you
like to come there, come there. If
you like to go on by yourself, go on
by yourself, and do without me if you
can.”
So saying, Mr. Codlin disappeared
from the scene, and, immediately pre-
senting himself outside the theatre,
took it on his shoulders at a jerk, and
made off with most remarkable agil-
ity.
Any further controversy being now
out of the question, Short was fain to
part with Mr. Grinder and his pupils,
and to follow his morose companion.
After lingering at the finger-post for a
few minutes to see the stilts frisking
away in the moonlight and the bearer
of the drum toiling slowly after them, he
blew a few notes upon the trumpet as
a parting salute, and hastened with all
speed to follow Mr. Codlin. With this
view he gave his unoccupied hand to
Nell, and bidding her be of good cheer
as they would soon be at the end of
their journey for that night, and stimu-
lating the old man with a similar assur-
ance, led them at a pretty swift pace
towards their destination, which he was
the less unwilling to make for, as the
moon was now overcast, and the clouds
were threatening rain.
86
THE OLD CURIOSITY SHOP.
CHAPTER XVIII.
The Jolly Sandboys was a small
roadside inn of pretty ancient date,
with a sign, representing three Sand-
boys increasing their jollity with as
many jugs of ale and bags of gold,
creaking and swinging on its post on
the opposite side of the road. As the
travellers had observed that day many
indications of their drawing nearer and
nearer to the race town, such as gypsy
camps, carts laden with gambling booths
and their appurtenances, itinerant show-
men of various kinds, and beggars and
trampers of every degree, all wending
their way in the same direction, Mr.
Codlin was fearful of finding the accom-
modations forestalled. This fear in-
creasing as he diminished the distance
between himself and the hostelry, he
quickened his pace, and, notwithstand-
ing the burden he had to carry, main-
tained a round trot until he reached the
threshold. Here he had the gratifica-
tion of finding that his fears were with-
out foundation, for the landlord was
leaning against the door-post, looking
lazily at the rain, which had by this
time begun to descend heavily, and no
tinkling of cracked bell, nor boisterous
shout, nor noisy chorus, gave note of
company within.
“All alone?” said Mr. Codlin, put-
ting down his burden and wiping his
forehead.
“All alone as yet,” rejoined the
landlord, glancing at the sky, “but we
shall have more company to-night I ex-
pect. Here, one of you boys, carry that
show into the barn. Make haste in
out.of the wet, Tom. When it came on
to rain, I told ’em to make the fire up,
and there’s a glorious blaze in the
kitchen, I can tell you.”
‘ Mr. Codlin followed with a willing
mind, and soon found that the landlord
had not commended his preparations
without good reason. A mighty fire
was blazing on the hearth and roaring
up the wide chimney with a cheerful
sound, which a large iron caldron, bub-
bling and simmering in the heat, lent
its pleasant aid to swell. There was a
deep-red, ruddy blush upon the room,
and when the landlord stirred the fire,
sending the flames skipping and leaping
up, — when he took off the lid of the
iron pot and there rushed out a savory
smell, while the bubbling sound grew
deeper and more rich, and an unctuous
steam came floating out, hanging in a de-
licious mist above their heads, — when
he did this, Mr. Codlin’s heart was
touched. He sat down in the chimney-
corner, and smiled.
Mr. Codlin sat smiling in the chim-
ney-corner, eying the landlord as with
a roguish look he held the cover in
his hand, and, feigning that his do-
ing so was needful to the welfare of the
cookery, suffered the delightful steam
to tickle the nostrils of his guest. The
glow of the fire was upon the landlord’s
bald head, and upon his twinkling eye,
and upon his watering mouth, and up-
on his pimpled face, and upon his round
fat figure. Mr. Codlin drew his sleeve
across his lips, and said, in a murmuring
voice, “ What is it ? ”
“ It ’s a stew of tripe,” said the land-
lord, smacking his lips, “ and cow-heel,”
smacking them again, “ and bacon,”
smacking them once more, “ and steak,”
smacking them for the fourth time,
“and peas, cauliflowers, new potatoes,
and sparrowgrass, all working up to-
gether in one delicious gravy.” Having
come to the climax, he smacked his lips
a great many times, and, taking a long
hearty sniff of the fragrance that was
hovering about, put on the cover again,
with the air of one whose toils on earth
were over.
“At what time will it be ready?”
asked Mr. Codlin, faintly.
“It’ll be done to a turn,” said the
landlord, looking up at the clock, — and
the very clock had a color in its fat
white face, and looked a clock for Jolly
Sandboys to consult, — “it’ll be done
to a turn at twenty-two minutes before
eleven.”
“ Then,” said Mr. Codlin, “ fetch
me a pint of warm ale, and don’t let
nobody bring into the room even so
much as a biscuit till the time arrives.”
Nodding his approval of this decisive
and manly course of procedure, the
landlord retired to draw the beer, and,
presently returning with it, applied him-
self to warm the same in a small tin
THE OLD CURIOSITY SHOP. 87
vessel shaped funnel-wise, for the con-
venience of sticking it far down in the
fire and getting at the bright places.
This was soon done, and he handed it
over to Mr. Codlin, with that creamy
froth upon the surface which is one
of the happy circumstances attendant
on mulled malt.
Greatly softened by this soothing
beverage, Mr. Codlin now ' bethought
him of his companions, and acquainted
mine host of the Sandboys that their
arrival might be shortly looked for.
The rain was rattling against the win-
dows and pouring down in torrents,
and such was Mr. Codlin’s extreme
amiability of mind that he more than
once expressed his earnest hope that
they would not be so foolish as to get
wet.
At length they arrived, drenched with
the rain, and presenting a most miser-
able appearance, notwithstanding that
Short had sheltered the child as well
as he could under the skirts of his own
coat, and they were nearly breathless
from the haste they had made. But
their steps were no sooner heard upon
the road than the landlord, who had
been at the outer door anxiously watch-
ing for their coming, rushed into the
kitchen and took the cover off. The
effect was electrical. They all came in
with smiling faces, though the wet was
dripping from their clothes upon the
floor, and Short’s first remark was,
“ What a delicious smell ! ”
It is not very difficult to forget rain
and mud by the side of a cheerful fire,
and in a bright room. They were fur-
nished with slippers and such dry gar-
ments as the house or their own bundles
afforded, and, ensconcing themselves,
as Mr. Codlin had already done, in the
warm chimney-corner, soon forgot their
late troubles, or only remembered them
as enhancing the delights of the present
time. Overpowered by the warmth and
comfort and the fatigue they had under-
gone, Nelly and the old man had not
long taken their seats here when they
fell asleep.
“Who are they?” whispered the
landlord.
Short shook his head, and wished he
knew himself
“ Don’t you know? ” asked the host,
turning to Mr. Codlin.
“Not I,” he replied. “They ’re no
good, I suppose.”
“ They ’re no harm,” said Short ;
“ depend upon that. I tell you what,
it ’s plain that the old man ain’t in his
right mind — ”
“ If you haven’t got anything newer
than that to say,” growled Mr. Codlin,
glancing at the clock, “ you ’d better let
us fix our minds upon the supper, and
not disturb us.”
“ Hear me out, won’t you?” retorted
his friend. “ It ’s very plain to me,
besides, that they’re not used to this
way of life. Don’t tell me that that
handsome child has been in the habit
of prowling about as she ’s done these
last two or three days. I know bet-
ter.”
“ Well, who does tell you she has? ”
growled Mr. Codlin, again glancing at
the clock and from it to the caldron.
“Can’t you think of anything more
suitable to present circumstances than
saying things and then contradicting
’em? ”
“ I wish somebody would give you
your supper,” returned Short, “for
there ’ll be no peace till you ’ve got it.
Have you seen how anxious the old
man is to get on ? — always wanting to
be furder away, furder away. Have
you seen that?”
“ Ah ! what then? ” muttered Thom-
as Codlin.
“This, then,” said Short. “ He has
given his friends the slip. Mind what
I say, — he has given his friends the
slip, and persuaded this delicate young
creetur, all along of her fondness for
him, to be his guide and travelling com-
panion — where to, he knows no more
than the man in the moon. Now, I ’m
not a going to stand that.”
“ You ’re not a going to stand that ! ”
cried Mr. Codlin, glancing at the clock
again, and pulling his hair with both
hands in a kind of frenzy, but whether
occasioned by his companion’s obser-
vation or the tardy pace of time, it was
difficult to determine. “ Here ’s a
world to live in ! ”
“ I,” repeated Short, emphatically
and slowly, “am not a going to stand
88
THE OLD CURIOSITY SHOP.
it. I am not a going to see this fair
young child a falling into bad hands,
and getting among people that she ’s
no more fit for than they are to get
among angels as their ordinary chums.
Therefore, when they dewelop an in-
tention of parting company from us, I
shall take measures for detaining of ’em
and restoring ’em to their friends, who,
I dare say, have had their disconsola-
tion pasted up on every wall in Lon-
don by this time.”
“Short,” said Mr. Codlin, who, with
his head upon his hands and his elbows
on his knees, had been shaking himself
impatiently from side to side up to this
point, and occasionally stamping on the
ground, but who now looked up with
eager eyes, “ it ’s possible that there
may be uncommon good sense in what
you ’ve said. If there is, and there
should be a reward, Short, remember
that we ’re partners in everything ! ”•
His companion had only time to nod
a brief assent to this position, for the
child awoke at the instant. They had
drawn close together during the pre-
vious whispering, and now hastily sep-
arated and were rather awkwardly en-
deavoring to exchange some casual re-
marks in their usual tone, when strange
footsteps were heard without, and fresh
company entered.
These were no other than four very
dismal dogs, who came pattering in,
one after the other, headed by an old
bandy dog of particularly mournful as-
pect, who, stopping when the last of
his followers had got as far as the door,
erected himself upon his hind legs, and
looked, round at his companions, who
immediately stood upon their hind
legs, in a grave and melancholy row.
Nor was this the only remarkable cir-
cumstance about these dogs, for each
of them wore a kind of little coat of
some gaudy color, trimmed with tar-
nished spangles, and one of them had a
Cap upon his head, tied very carefully
under his chin, which had fallen down
upon his nose and completely obscured
one eye. Add to this, that the gaudy
coats were all wet through and discol-
ored with rain, and that the wearers
were splashed and dirty, and some idea
may be formed of the unusual appear-
ance of these new visitors to the Jolly
Sandboys,
Neither Short nor the landlord nor
Thomas Codlin, however, was the least
surprised, merely remarking that these
were Jerry’s dogs and that Jerry could
not be far behind. So there the dogs
stood, patiently winking and gaping
and looking extremely hard at the boil-
ing pot, until Jerry himself appeared,
when they all dropped down at once
and walked about the room in their
natural manner. This posture, it must
be confessed, did not much improve
their appearance, as their own personal
tails and their coat-tails — both capital
things in their way — did not agree to-
gether.
Jerry, the manager of these dancing
dogs, was a tall, black-whiskered man
in a velveteen coat, who seemed well
known to the landlord and his guests,
and accosted them with great cordiality.
Disencumbering himself of a barrel or-
gan, which he placed upon a chair, and re-
taining in his hand a small whip where-
with to awe his company of comedians,
he came up to the fire to dry himself,
and entered into conversation.
“Your people don’t usually travel
in character, do they?” said Short,
pointing to the dresses of the dogs.
“It must come expensive if they
do.”
“ No,” replied Jerry, — “ no ; it ’s not
the custom with us. But we ’ve been
playing a little on the road to-day, and
we come out with a new wardrobe at
the races, so I did n’t think it worth
while to stop to undress. Down, Pe-
dro ! ”
This was addressed to the dog with
the cap on, who, being a new member of
the company, and not quite certain of
his duty, kept his unobscured eye anx-
iously on his master, and was perpetu-
ally starting upon his hind legs when
there was no occasion, and falling down
again.
“ I ’ve got a animal here,” said Jerry,
putting his hand into the capacious
pocket of his coat, and diving into one
corner, as if he were feeling for a small
orange or an apple or some such arti-
cle, — “a animal here, wot I think you
know something of, Short ! ”
THE OLD CURIOSITY SHOP.
89
“ Ah ! ” cried Short, “ let ’s have a
look at him.”
“ Here he is,” said Jerry, producing
a little terrier from his pocket. “ He
was once a Toby of yours, wam’t he?”
In some versions of the great drama
of Punch there is a small dog, — a mod-
em innovation, — supposed to be the
private property of that gentleman,
whose name is always Toby. This
Toby has been stolen in youth from
another gentleman, and fraudulently
sold to the confiding hero, who, having
no guile himself, has no suspicion that
it lurks in others ; but Toby, entertain-
ing a grateful recollection of his old
master, and scorning to attach himself
to any new patrons, not only refuses to
smoke a pipe at the bidding of Punch,
but, to mark his old fidelity more strong-
ly, seizes him by the nose and wrings
the same with violence, at which in-
stance of canine attachment the spec-
tators are deeply affected. This was
the character which the little terrier in
question had once sustained. If there
had been any doubt upon the subject,
he would speedily have resolved it by
his conduct ; for not only did he, on
seeing Short, give the strongest tokens
of recognition, but, catching sight of the
flat box, he barked so furiously at the
pasteboard nose which he knew was
inside, that his master was obliged to
gather him up and put him into his
pocket again, to the great relief of the
whole company.
The landlord now busied himself in
laying the cloth, in which process Mr.
Codlin obligingly assisted by setting
forth his own knife and fork in the
most convenient place and establish-
ing himself behind them. When every-
thing was ready, the landlord took off
the cover for the last time, and then in-
deed there burst forth such a goodly
promise of supper that, if he had offered
to put it on again or had hinted at
postponement, he would certainly have
been sacrificed on his own hearth.
However, he did nothing of the kind,
but instead thereof assisted a stout ser-
vant-girl in turning the contents of the
caldron into a large tureen, — a proceed-
ing which the dogs, proof against vari-
ous hot splashes which fell upon their
noses, watched with terrible eagerness.
At length the dish was lifted on the ta-
ble, and, mugs of ale having been pre-
viously set round, little Nell ventured
to say grace, and supper began.
At this juncture the poor dogs were
standing on their hind legs quite sur-
prisingly. The child, having pity on
them, was about to cast some morsels
of food to them before she tasted it her-
self, hungry though she was, when their
master interposed.
“ No, my dear, no ; not an atom from
anybody’s hand but mine, if you please.
That dog,” said Jerry, pointing out the
old leader of the troop, and speaking in
a terrible voice, “ lost a half-penny to-
day. He goes without his supper.”
The unfortunate creature dropped
upon his fore-legs directly, wagged his
tail, and looked imploringly at his mas-
ter.
“ You must be more careful, sir,”
said Jerry, walking coolly to the chair
where he had placed the organ, and set-
ting the stop. “ Come here. Now, sir,
you play away at that, while we have
supper, and leave off if you dare ! ”
The dog immediately began to grind
most mournful music. His master, hav-
ing shown him the whip, resumed his
seat and called up the others, who, at
his directions, formed in a row, stand-
ing upright as a file of soldiers.
“Now, gentlemen,” said Jerry, look-
ing at them attentively. “The dog
whose name ’s called, eats. The dogs
whose names ain’t called, keep quiet.
Carlo ! ”
The lucky individual whose name was
called snapped up the morsel thrown
towards him, but none of the others
moved a muscle. In this manner they
were fed at the discretion of their mas-
ter. Meanwhile the dog in disgrace
ground hard at the organ, sometimes
in quick time, sometimes in slow, but
never leaving off for an instant. When
the knives and forks rattled very much,
or any of his fellows got an unusually
large piece of fat, he accompanied the
music with a short howl, but he imme-
diately checked it on his master look-
ing round, and applied himself with
increased diligence to the Old Hun-
dredth.
90
THE OLD CURIOSITY SHOP .
CHAPTER XIX.
Supper was not yet over, when there
arrived at the Jolly Sandboys two more
travellers, bound for the same haven as
the rest, who had been walking in the
rain for some hours, and came in shin-
ing and heavy with water. One of
these was the proprietor of a giant
and a little lady without legs or arms,
who had jogged forward in a van ; the
other, a silent gentleman who earned
his living by showing tricks upon the
cards, and who had rather deranged
the natural expression of his counte-
nance by putting small leaden lozen-
ges into his eyes and bringing them
out at his mouth, which was one of
his professional accomplishments. The
name of the first of these new-comers
was Vuffin; the other, probably as a
pleasant satire upon his ugliness, was
called Sweet William. To render them
as comfortable as he could, the land-
lord bestirred himself nimbly, and in a
very short time both gentlemen were
perfectly at their ease.
“How’s the Giant?” said Short,
when they all sat smoking round the
fire.
“ Rather weak upon his legs,” re-
turned Mr. Vuffin. “ I begin to be
afraid he ’s going at the knees.”
“ That ’s a bad lookout,” said Short.
“Ay, bad indeed,” replied Mr. Vuf-
fin, contemplating the fire with a sigh.
“ Once get a giant shaky on his legs, and
the public care no more about him than
they do for a dead cabbage-stalk.”
“ What becomes of the old giants?”
said Short, turning to him again after a
little reflection.
“ They ’re usually kept in carawans to
wait upon the dwarfs,” said Mr. Vuffin.
“The maintaining of ’em must come
expensive, when they can’t be shown,
eh ? ” remarked Short, eying him doubt-
fully.
“ It’s better that than letting ’em go
upon the parish or about the streets,”
said Mr. Vuffin. “Once make a giant
common, and giants will never draw
again. Look at wooden legs. If there
was only one man with a wooden leg,
what a property he ' d be ! ”
“ So he would ! ” observed the land-
lord and Short both together. “ That ’s
very true.”
“ Instead of which,” pursued Mr. Vuf-
fin, “ ifyou was to advertise Shakespeare
played entirely by wooden legs, it ’s my
belief you wouldn’t draw a sixpence.”
“ I don’t suppose you would,” said
Short. And the landlord said so too.
“This shows, you see,” said Mr. Vuf-
fin, waving his pipe with an argumenta-
tive air, — “ this shows the policy of keep-
ing the used-up giants still in the cara-
wans, where they get food and lodging
for nothing, all their lives, and in gen-
eral very glad they are to stop there.
There was one giant — a black ’un —
as left his carawan some year ago, and
took to carrying coach-bills about Lon-
don, making himself as cheap as cross-
ing-sweepers. He died. I make no in-
sinuation against anybody in particular,”
said Mr. Vuffin, looking solemnly round ;
“but he was ruining the trade, — and
he died.”
The landlord drew his breath hard,
and looked at the owner of the dogs,
who nodded and said gruffly that he
remembered.
“I know you do, Jerry,” said Mr.
Vuffin, with profound meaning. “ I
know you remember it, Jerry, and the
universal opinion was, that it served
him right. Why, I remember the
time when old Maunders, as had three-
and-twenty wans, — I remember the
time when old Maunders had in his
cottage in Spa Fields, in the winter-
time when the season was over, eight
male and female dwarfs setting down
to dinner every day, who was w’aited
on by eight old giants in green coats,
red smalls, blue cotton stockings, and
high-lows; and there was one dwarf
as had grown elderly and wicious, w r ho,
whenever his giant wasn’t quick
enough to please him, used to stick
pins in his legs, not being able to
reach up any higher. I know that ’s
a fact, for Maunders told it me him-
self.”
“ What about the dwarfs, when they
get old?” inquired the landlord.
“The older a dw^arf is, the better
worth he is,” returned Mr. Vuffin. “A
gray-headed dwarf, w'ell wrinkled, is
bcycnd all suspicion. But a giant.
THE OLD CURIOSITY SHOP.
9i
weak in the legs and not standing up-
right ! — keep him in the carawan, but
never show him, — never show him, for
any persuasion that can be offered.”
While Mr. Vuffin and his two friends
smoked their pipes and beguiled the
time with such conversation as this, the
silent gentleman sat in a warm corner,
swallowing, or seeming to swallow, six-
ennyworth of half-pence for practice,
alancing a feather upon his nose, and
rehearsing other feats of dexterity of
that kind, without paying any regard
whatever to the company, who in their
turn left him utterly unnoticed. At
length the weary child prevailed upon
her grandfather to retire, and they with-
drew, leaving the company yet seated
round the fire, and the dogs fast asleep
at a humble distance.
After bidding the old man good night,
Nell retired to her poor garret, but had
scarcely closed the door, when it was
gently tapped at. She opened it di-
rectly, and was a little startled by the
sight of Mr. Thomas Codlin, whom she
had left to all appearance fast asleep
down stairs.
“What is the matter?” said the
child.
“Nothing’s the matter, my dear,”
returned her visitor. “I ’m your friend.
Perhaps you have n’t thought so, but
it ’s me that ’s your friend, not him.”
“ Not who ? ” the child inquired.
“ Short, my dear. I tell you what,”
said Codlin, “for all his having a kind
of way with him that you ’d be very
apt to like, I ’m the real, open-hearted
man. I mayn’t look it, but I am in-
deed.”
The child began to be alarmed, con-
sidering that the ale had taken effect
upon Mr. Codlin, and that this commen-
dation of himself was the consequence.
“ Short ’s very well and seems kind,”
resumed the misanthrope, “ but he over-
does it. Now I don’t.”
Certainly if there were any fault in
Mr. Codlin’s usual deportment, it was
that he rather underdid his kindness to
those about him than overdid it. But
the child was puzzled and could not tell
what to say.
“Take my advice,” said Codlin;
“don’t ask me why, but take it. As
long as you travel with us, keep as near
me as you can. Don’t offer to leave us,
— not on any account, — but always stick
to me and say that I ’m your friend. Will
you bear that in mind, my dear, and al-
ways say that it was me that was your
friend? ”
“Say so where — and when?” in-
quired the child, innocently.
“ O, nowhere in particular,” replied
Codlin, a little put out as it seemed by
the question ; “I’m only anxious that
you should think me so, and do me
justice. You can’t think what an inter-
est I have in you. Why didn’t you
tell me your little history, — that about
you and the poor old gentleman ? I ’m
the best adviser that ever was, and so
interested in you, — so much more in-
terested than Short. I think they’re
breaking up down stairs. You need n’t
tell Short, you know, that we ’ve had
this little talk together. God bless
you. Recollect the friend. Codlin ’s
the friend, not Short. Short ’s very
well as far as he goes, but the real
friend is Codlin, not Short.”
Eking out these professions with a
number of benevolent and protecting
looks and great fervor of manner,
Thomas Codlin stole away on tiptoe,
leaving the child in a state of extreme
surprise. She was still ruminating up-
on his curious behavior, when the floor
of the crazy stairs and landing cracked
beneath the tread of the other travel-
lers, who were passing to their beds.
When they had all passed, and the
sound of their footsteps had died away,
one of them returned, and after a little
hesitation and rustling in the passage,
as if he were doubtful what door to
knock at, knocked at hers.
“ Yes?” said the child from within.
“It’s me, — Short,” a voice called
through the keyhole. “ I only wanted
to say that we must be off early to-
morrow morning, my dear, because,
unless we get the start of the dogs
and the conjurer, the villages won’t be
worth a penny. You ’ll be sure to be
stirring early and go with us ? I ’ll
call you.”
The child answered in the affirma-
tive, and, returning his “good-night,”
heard him creep away. She felt some
92
THE OLD CURIOSITY SHOP.
uneasiness at the anxiety of these men,
increased by the recollection of their
whispering together down stairs and
their slight confusion when she awoke,
nor was she quite free from a misgiv-
ing that they were not the fittest com-
panions she could have stumbled on.
Her uneasiness, however, was nothing,
weighed against her fatigue ; and she
soon forgot it in sleep.
Very early next morning Short ful-
filled his promise, and, knocking softly
at her door, entreated that she would
get up directly, as the proprietor of
the dogs was still snoring, and if they
lost no time they might get a good deal
in advance both of him and the con-
jurer, who was talking in his sleep, and,
from what he could be heard to say,
appeared to be balancing a donkey in
his dreams. She started from her bed
without delay, and roused the old man
with so much expedition that they were
both ready as soon as Short himself, to
that gentleman’s unspeakable gratifica-
tion and relief.
After a very unceremonious and
scrambling breakfast, of which the staple
commodities were bacon and bread and
beer, they took leave of the landlord
and issued from the door of the Jolly
Sandboys. The morning was fine and
warm, the ground cool to the feet after
the late rain, the hedges gayer and more
green, the air clear, and everything
fresh and healthful. Surrounded by
these influences, they walked on pleas-
antly enough.
They had not gone very far, when the
child w'as again struck by the altered
behavior of Mr. Thomas Codlin, who,
instead of plodding on sulkily by him-
self as he had theretofore done, kept
close to her, and when he had an op-
portunity of looking at her unseen by
his companion, warned her by certain
wry faces and jerks of the head not to
put any trust in Short, but to reserve
all confidences for Codlin. Neither did
he confine himself to looks and gestures,
for when she and her grandfather were
walking on beside the aforesaid Short,
and that little man was talking with his
accustomed cheerfulness on a variety of
indifferent subjects, Thomas Codlin tes-
tified his jealousy and distrust by follow-
ing close at her heels, and occasionally
admonishing her ankles with the legs of
the theatre, m a very abrupt and painful
manner.
All these proceedings naturally made
the child more watchful and suspicious,
and she soon observed, that, whenever
they halted to perform outside a village
alehouse or other place, Mr. Codlin,
while he went through his share of the
entertainments, kept his eye steadily
upon her and the old man, or, with a
show of great friendship and considera-
tion, invited the latter to lean upon his
arm, and so held him tight until the
representation was over and they again
went forward. Even Short seemed to
change in this' respect, and to mingle
with his good-nature something of a de-
sire to keep them in safe custody. This
increased the child’s misgivings, and
made her yet more anxious and uneasy.
Meanwhile they were drawing near
the town where the races were to begin
next day ; for, ‘from passing numerous
groups of gypsies and trampers on the
road, wending their way towards it, and
straggling out from every by-way and
cross-country lane, they gradually fell
into a stream of people, some walking
by the side of covered carts, others with
horses, others with donkeys, others toil-
ing on with heavy loads upon their
backs, but all tending to the same point.
The public-houses by the wayside, from
being empty and noiseless as those in
the remoter parts had been, now sent
out boisterous shouts and clouds of
smoke ; and from the misty windows
clusters of broad red faces looked down
upon the road. On every piece of waste
or common ground, some small gambler
drove his noisy trade, and bellowed to
the idle passers by to stop and try their
chance ; the crowd grew thicker and
more noisy ; gilt gingerbread in blank-
et-stalls exposed its glories to the dust ;
and often a four-horse carriage, dashing
by, obscured all objects in the gritty
cloud it raised, and left them, stunned
and blinded, far behind.
It was dark before they reached the
town itself, and long indeed the few last
miles had been. Here all was tumult
and confusion ; the streets were filled
with throngs of people ; many stran-
THE OLD CURIOSITY SHOP.
93
gers were there, it seemed by the looks
they cast about ; the church-bells rang
out their noisy peals ; and flags streamed
from windows and house-tops. In the
large inn-yards waiters flitted to and fro
and ran against each other, horses clat-
tered on the uneven stones, carriage
steps fell rattling down, and sickening
smells from many dinners came in a
heavy, lukewarm breath upon the sense.
In the smaller public-houses,, fiddles
with all their might and main were
squeaking out the tune to staggering
feet ; drunken men, oblivious of the
burden of their song, joined in a sense-
less howl, which drowned the tinkling
of the feeble bell and made them savage
for their drink ; vagabond groups as-
sembled round the doors to see the
stroller woman dance, and add their up-
roar to the shrill flageolet and deafening
drum.
Through this delirious scene, the
child, frightened and repelled by all she
saw, led on her bewildered charge,
clinging close to her conductor, and
trembling lest in the press she should
be separated from him and left to find
her way alone. Quickening their steps
to get clear of all the roar and riot, they
at length passed through the town, and
made for the race-course, which was
upon an open heath, situated on an
eminence, a full mile distant from its
farthest bounds.
Although there were many people
here, none of the best favored or best
clad, busily erecting tents and driving
stakes into the ground and hurrying to
and fro with dusty feet and many a
grumbled oath, — although there were
tired children cradled on heaps of straw
between the wheels of carts, crying
themselves to sleep, and poor lean
horses and donkeys just turned loose,
grazing among the men and women,
and pots and kettles, and half-lighted
fires, and ends of candles flaring and
wasting in the air, — for all this, the
child felt it an escape from the town,
and drew her breath more freely. After
a scanty supper, the purchase of which
reduced her little stock so low that she
had only a few half-pence with which to
buy a breakfast on the morrow, she and
the old man lay down to rest in a corner
of a tent, and slept, despite the busy
preparations that were going on around
them all night long.
And now they had come to the time
when they must beg their bread. Soon
after sunrise in the morning she stole
out from the tent, and, rambling into
some fields at a short distance, plucked
a few wild roses and such humble
flowers, purposing to make them into
little nosegays and offer them to the
ladies in the carriages when the com-
pany arrived. Her thoughts were not
idle while she was thus employed.
When she returned and was seated
beside the old man in one corner of the
tent, tying her flowers together while
the two men lay dozing in another cor-
ner, she plucked him by the sleeve, and,
slightly glancing towards them, said in
a low voice, —
“ Grandfather, don’t look at those I
talk of, and don’t seem as if I spoke of
anything but what I am about. What
was that you told me before we left the
old house ? That if they knew what we
were going to do, they would say that
you were mad, and part us ? ”
The old man turned to her with an
aspect of wild terror ; but she checked
him by a look, and bidding him hold
some flowers, while she tied them up,
and so bringing her lips closer to his ear,
said, —
“ I know that was what you told me.
You needn’t speak, dear. I recollect
it very well. It was not likely that I
should forget it. Grandfather, these
men suspect that we have secretly left
our friends, and mean to carry us before
some gentleman and have us taken care
of and sent back. If you let your hand
tremble so, we can never get away from
them, but if you ’re only quiet now, we
shall do so easily.”
“How?” muttered the old man.
“Dear Nelly, how? They will shut
me up in a stone room, dark and cold,
and chain me up to the wall, Nell,
flog me with whips, and never let me
see thee more ! ”
“You ’re trembling again,” said the
child. “ Keep close to me all day.
Never mind them ; don’t look at them,
but me. I shall find a time when we
can steal away. When I do, mind you
94
THE OLD CURIOSITY SHOP.
come with me, and do not stop or speak
a word. Hush! That ’s all.”
“ Halloa ! what are you up to, my
dear?” said Mr. Codlin, raising his
head, and yawning. Then observing
that his companion was fast asleep, he
added in an earnest whisper, “ Codlin ’s
the friend, remember, not Short.”
“ Making some nosegays,” the child
replied ; “I am going to try and sell
some, these three days of the races.
Will you have one — as a present, I
mean ? ”
Mr. Codlin would have risen to re-
ceive it, but the child hurried towards
him and placed it in his hand. He
stuck it in his button-hole, with an air of
ineffable complacency for a misanthrope,
and, leering exultinglyat the unconscious
Short, muttered, as he laid himself down
again, “ Tom Codlin ’s the friend by
G— ! ”
As the morning wore on, the tents
assumed a gayer and more brilliant ap-
pearance, and long lines of carriages
came rolKng softly on the turf. Men
who had lounged about all night in
smock-frocks and leather leggings came
out in silken vests and hats and plumes
as jugglers or mountebanks ; or in gor-
geous liveries as soft-spoken servants at
gambling booths ; or in sturdy yeoman
dress as decoys at unlawful games.
Black-eyed gypsy girls, hooded in showy
handkerchiefs, sallied forth to tell for-
tunes, and pale slender women, with
consumptive faces, lingered upon the
footsteps of ventriloquists and conjur-
ers, and counted the sixpences with
anxious eyes long before they were
gained. As many of the children as
could be kept within bounds were
stowed away, with all the other signs of
dirt and poverty, among the donkeys,
carts, and horses ; and as many as could
not be thus disposed of ran in and out
in all intricate spots, crept between peo-
ple’s legs and carriage wheels, and came
forth unharmed from under horses’
hoofs. The dancing-dogs, the stilts,
the little lady and the tall man, and all
the other attractions, with organs out
of number and bands innumerable,
emerged from the holes and corners in
which they had passed the night, and
flourished boldly in the sun.
Along the uncleared course Short led
his party, sounding the brazen trumpet
and revelling in the voice of Punch ;
and at his heels went Thomas Codlin,
bearing the show as usual, and keeping
his eye on Nell)' and her grandfather,
as they rather lingered in the rear.
The child bore upon her arm the little
basket with her flowers, and sometimes
stopped, with timid and modest looks,
to offer them at some gay carriage ; but,
alas ! there were many bolder beggars
there, — gypsies who promised hus-
bands, and other adepts in their trade, —
and although some ladies smiled gently
as they shook their heads, and others
cried to the gentlemen beside them,
“See, what a pretty face!” they let
the pretty face pass on, and never
thought that it looked tired or hungry.
There was but one lady who seemed
to understand the child, and she was
one who sat alone in a handsome car-
riage, while two young men in dashing
clothes, who had just dismounted from
it, talked and laughed loudly at a little
distance, appearing to forget her quite.
There were many ladies all around, but
they turned their backs, or looked anoth-
er way, or at the two young men (not
unfavorably at them), and left her to
herself. She motioned away a gypsy-
woman urgent to tell her fortune, saying
that it was told already, and had been
for some years, but called the child
towards her, and, taking her flowers,
ut money into her trembling hand, and
ade her go home and keep at home for
God’s sake.
Many a time they went up and down
those long, long lines, seeing everything
but the horses and the race ; when the
bell rung to clear the course, going
back to rest among the carts and don-
keys, and not coming out again until
the heat was over. Many a time, too,
was Punch displayed in the full zenith
of his humor, but all this while the eye
of Thomas Codlin was upon them, and
to escape without notice was impracti-
cable.
At length, late in the day, Mr. Cod-
lin pitched the show in a convenient
spot, and the spectators were soon in
the very triumph of the scene. The
child, sitting down with the old man
THE OLD CURIOSITY SHOP.
95
close behind it, had been thinking how
strange it was that horses, who were
such fine honest creatures, should seem
to make vagabonds of all the men they
drew about them, when a loud laugh at
some extemporaneous witticism of Mr.
Short’s, having allusion to the circum-
stances of the day, roused her from
her meditation, and caused her to look
around.
If they were ever to get away unseen,
that was the very moment. Short was
plying the quarter-staves vigorously and
knocking the characters in the fury of
the combat against the sides of the
show, the people were looking on with
laughing faces, and Mr. Codlin had
relaxed into a grim smile as his roving
eye detected hands going into waistcoat-
pockets, and groping secretly for six-
pences. If they were ever to get away
unseen, that was the very moment.
They seized it and fled.
They made a path through booths
and carriages and throngs of people,
and never once stopped to look behind.
The bell was ringing, and the course
was cleared by the time they reached
the ropes, but they dashed across it,
insensible to the shouts and screeching
that assailed them for breaking in upon
its sanctity, and, creeping under the
brow of the hill at a quick pace, made
for the open fields.
CHAPTER XX.
Day after day as he bent his steps
homeward, returning from some new
effort to procure employment, Kit raised
his eyes to the window of the little room
he had so much commended to the
child, and hoped to see some indica-
tion of her presence. His own earnest
wish, coupled with the assurance he
had received from Quilp, filled him
vvith the belief that she would yet ar-
rive to claim the humble shelter he had
offered, and from the death of each
day’s hope another hope sprung up to
live to-morrow.
“ I think they must certainly come
to-morrow, eh, mother?” said Kit, lay-,
ing aside his hat with a weary air and
sighing as he spoke. “ They have been
gone a week. They surely couldn’t
stop away more than a week, could
they, now?”
The mother shook her head, and re-
minded him how often he had been
disappointed already.
“ For the matter of that,” said Kit,
“you speak true and sensible enough,
as you always do, mother. Still, I do
consider that a week is quite long enough
for ’em to be rambling about ; don’t you
say so?”
“ Quite long enough, Kit ; longer
than enough ; but they may not come
ba«k for all that.”
Kit was for a moment disposed to be
vexed by this contradiction, and not the
less so from having anticipated it in his
own mind and knowing how just it was.
But the impulse was only momentary,
and the vexed look became a kind one,
before it had crossed the room.
“ Then what do you think, mother,
has become of ’em? You don’t think
they’ve gone to sea, anyhow?”
“Not gone for sailors, certainly,” re-
turned the mother with a smile. “ But
I can’t help thinking that they have
gone to some foreign country.”
“ I say,” cried Kit, with a rueful face,
“ don’t talk like that, mother.”
“I am afraid they have, and that’s
the truth,” she said. “ It’s the talk of
all the neighbors, and there are some,
even, that know of their having been
seen on board ship, and can tell you the
name of the place they’ve gone too,
which is more than I can, my dear, for
it ’s a very hard one.”
“I don’t believe it,” said Kit ; “not
a word of it. A set of idle chatterboxes,
how should they know? ”
“They may be wrong, of course,” re-
turned the mother. “ I can’t tell about
that, though I don’t think it ’s at all un-
likely that they ’re in the right, for the
talk is, that the old gentleman had put
by a little money that nobody knew of,
not even that ugly little man you talk
to me about, — what ’s his name, —
Quilp ; and that he and Miss Nell
have gone to live abroad where it can’t
be taken from them, and they will never
be disturbed. That don’t seem very
far out of the way, now, d\ it ? ”
9 6
THE OLD CURIOSITY SHOP.
Kit scratched his head mournfully,
in reluctant admission that it did not,
and, clambering up to the old nail, took
down the cage and set himself to clean
it, and to feed the bird. His thoughts
reverting from this occupation to the
little old gentleman who had given him
the shilling, he suddenly recollected
that that was the very day — nay, near-
ly the very hour — at which the little
old gentleman had said he should be
at the notary’s house again. He no
sooner remembered this, than he hung
up the cage with great precipitation,
and, hastily explaining the nature of his
errand, went off at full speed to the ap-
pointed place.
. It was some two minutes after the
time when he reached the spot, which
was a considerable distance from his
home, but by great good luck the little
old gentleman had not yet arrived ; at
least, there was no pony-chaise to be
seen, and it was not likely that he had
come and gone again in so short a
space. Greatly relieved to find that he
was not too late, Kit leant against a
lamp-post to take breath, and waited
the advent of the pony and his charge.
Sure enough, before long the pony
came trotting round the corner of the
street, looking as obstinate as pony
might, and picking his steps as if he
were spying about for the cleanest
places, and would by no means dirty
his feet or hurry himself inconveniently.
Behind the pony sat the little old gen-
tleman, and by the old gentleman’s side
sat the little old lady, carrying just such
a nosegay as she had brought before.
The old gentleman, the old lady, the
pony, and the chaise came up the street
in perfect unanimity, until they arrived
within some half a dozen doors of the
notary’s house, when the pony, de-
ceived by a brass plate beneath a tailor’s
knocker, came to a halt, and maintained,
by a sturdy silence, that that was the
house they wanted.
“Now, sir, will you have the good-
ness to go on ; this is not the place,”
said the old gentleman.
The pony looked with great attention
into a fire-plug which was near him, and
appeared to be quite absorbed in con-
templating it.
“ O dear, such a naughty Whisker ! ”
cried the old lady. “After being so
good too, and coming along so well ! I
am quite ashamed of him. I don’t know
what we are to do with him, I really
don’t.”
The pony, having thoroughly satisfied
himself as to the nature and properties
of the fire-plug, looked into the air after
his old enemies the flies ; and as there
happened to be one of them tickling his
ear at that moment, he shook his head
and whisked his tail, after which he
appeared full of thought but quite com-
fortable and collected. The old gen-
tleman, having exhausted his powers of
persuasion, alighted to lead him ; where-
upon the pony, perhaps because he
held this to be a sufficient concession,
perhaps because he happened to catch
sight of the other brass plate, or perhaps
because he was in a spiteful humor,
darted off with the old lady and stopped
at the right house, leaving the old gen-
tleman to come panting on behind.
It was then that Kit presented him-
self at the pony’s head, and touched his
hat with a smile.
“ Why, bless me,” cried the old gen-
tleman, “ the lad is here ! My dear, do
you see? ”
“ I said I’d be here, sir,” said Kit,
patting Whisker’s neck. “ I hope you
’ve had a pleasant ride, sir. He ’s a
very nice little pony.”
“ My dear,” said the old gentleman.
“ This is an uncommon lad ; a good
lad, I ’m sure.”
“I’m sure he is,” rejoined the old
lady. “ A very good lad, and I am
sure he is a good son.”
Kit acknowledged these expressions
of confidence by touching his hat again
and blushing very much. The old gen-
tleman then handed the old lady out,
and, after looking at him with an ap-
proving smile, they went into the house,
— talking about him as they went, Kit
could not help feeling. Presently Mr.
Witherden, smelling very hard at the
nosegay, came to the window and looked
at him, and after that Mr. Abel came
and looked at him, and after that the
old gentleman and lady came and looked
at him again, and after that they all
came and looked at him together, ">vhich
THE OLD CURIOSITY SHOP.
97
Kit, feeling very much embarrassed
by, made a pretence of not observing.
Therefore he patted the pony more and
more ; and this liberty the pony most
handsomely permitted.
The faces had not disappeared from
the window many moments, when Mr.
Chuckster, in his official coat, and with
his hat hanging on his head just as it
happened to fall from its peg, appeared
upon the pavement, and, telling him
he was wanted inside, bade him go in
and he would mind the chaise the while.
In giving him this direction Mr. Chuck-
ster remarked that he wished that he
might be blessed if he could make out
whether he (Kit) was “precious raw”
or “ precious deep,” but intimated, by
a distrustful shake of the head, that he
inclined to the latter opinion.
Kit entered the office in a great tre-
mor, for he was not used to going among
strange ladies and gentlemen, and the
tin boxes and bundles of dusty papers
had in his eyes an awful and venerable
air. Mr. Witherden, too, was a bustling
gentleman who talked loud and fast,
and all eyes were upon him, and he was
very shabby.
“Well, boy,” said Mr. Witherden,
“you came to work out that shilling,
— not to get another, hey ? ”
“No indeed, sir,” replied Kit, taking
courage to look up. “ I never thought
of such a thing.”
“ Father alive?” said the notary.
“Dead, sir.”
“ Mother? ”
“ Yes, sir.”
“ Married again, — eh ? ”
Kit made answer, not without some
indignation, that she was a widow with
three children, and that as to her mar-
rying again, if the gentleman knew her
he would n’t think of such a thing. At
this reply Mr. Witherden buried his
nose in the flowers again, and whis-
pered behind the nosegay to the old
gentleman that he believed the lad was
as honest a lad as need be.
“ Now,” said Mr. Garland, when they
had made some further inquiries of
him, “ I am not going to give you any-
thing — ”
“Thank you, sir,” Kit replied, and
quite seriously too, for this announce-
7
ment seemed to free him from the sus-
picion which the notary had hinted.
“ — But,” resumed the old gentle-
man, “ perhaps I may want to know
something more about you, so tell me
where you live, and I ’ll put it down in
my pocket-book.”
Kit told him, and the old gentleman
wrote down the address with his pencil.
He had scarcely done so, when there
was a great uproar in the street ; and
the old lady, hurrying to the window,
cried that Whisker had run away, upon
which Kit darted out to the rescue, and
the others followed.
It seemed that Mr. Chuckster had
been standing with his hands in his
pockets looking carelessly at the pony,
and occasionally insulting him with
such admonitions as, “Stand still,” —
“Be quiet,” — “Woa-a-a,” and the like,
which by a pony of spirit cannot be
borne. Consequently, the pony being
deterred by no considerations of duty
or obedience, and not having before
him the slightest fear of the human eye,
had at length started off, and was at
that moment rattling down the street,
— Mr. Chuckster, with his hat off and
a pen behind his ear, hanging on in the
rear of the chaise, and making futile at-
tempts to draw it the other way, to the
unspeakable admiration of all behold-
ers. Even in running away, however,
Whisker was perverse, for he had not
gone very far when he suddenly stopped,
and, before assistance could be rendered,
commenced backing at nearly as quick
a pace as he had gone forward. By
these means Mr. Chuckster was pushed
and hustled to the office again in a most
inglorious manner, and arrived in a
state of great exhaustion and discom-
fiture.
The old lady then stepped into her
seat, and Mr. Abel (whom they had
come to fetch) into his. The old gen-
tleman, after reasoning with the pony
on the extreme impropriety of his con-
duct, and making the best amends in
his power to Mr. Chuckster, took his
place also, and they drove away, wav-
ing a farewell to the notary and his
clerk, and more than once turning to
nod kindly to Kit as he watched them
frqm the road.
9 8
THE OLD CURIOSITY SHOP.
CHAPTER XXI.
Kit turned away and very soon forgot
the pony, and the chaise, and the little
old lady, and the little old gentleman,
and the little young gentleman to boot,
in thinking what could have become of
his late master and his lovely grand-
child, who were the fountain-head of all
his meditations. Still casting about for
some plausible means of accounting for
their non -appearance, and of persuading
himself that they must soon return, he
bent his steps towards home, intending
to finish the task which the sudden rec-
ollection of his contract had interrupted,
and then to sally forth once more to
seek his fortune for the day.
When he came to the comer of the
court in which he lived, lo and behold,
there was the pony again ! Yes, there
he was, looking more obstinate than
ever ; and alone in the chaise, keeping
a steady watch upon his every wink,
sat Mr. Abel, who, lifting up his eyes by
chance and seeing Kit pass by, nodded
to him as though he would have nodded
his head off.
Kit wondered to see the pony again,
so near his own home too, but it never
occurred to him for what purpose the
pony might have come there, or where
the old lady and the old gentleman had
gone, until he lifted the latch of the
door, and walking in, found them seated
in the room in conversation with his
mother, at which unexpected sight he
ulled off his hat and made his best
ow in some confusion.
“We are here before you, you see,
Christopher,” said Mr. Garland, smiling.
“ Yes, sir,” said Kit ; and as he said
it, he looked towards his mother for an
explanation of the visit.
“ The gentleman ’s been kind enough,
my dear,” said she, in reply to this
mute interrogation, “to ask me whether
you were in a good place, or in any
place at all ; and when I told him no,
you were not in any, he was so good as
to say that — ”
“ That we wanted a good lad in our
house,” said the old gentleman and the
old lady both together, “ and that per-
haps we might think of it, if we found
everything as we would wish it to be.’*
As this thinking of it plainly meant
the thinking of engaging Kit, he imme-
diately partook of his mother’s anxiety
and fell into a great flutter ; for the
little old couple were very methodical
and cautious, and asked so many ques-
tions that he began to be afraid there
was no chance of his success.
“You see, my good woman,” said
Mrs. Garland to Kit’s mother, “ that
it ’s necessary to be very careful and
particular in such a matter as this, for
we ’re only three in family, and are very
quiet, regular folks, and it would be a
sad thing if we made any kind of mis-
take, and found things different from
what we hoped and expected.”
To this Kit’s mother replied, that
certainly it was quite true, and quite
right, and quite proper, and Heaven
forbid that she should shrink, or have
cause to shrink, from any inquiry into
her character or that of her son, who
was a very good son, though she was
his mother, in which respect, she was
bold to say, he took after his father,
who was not only a good son to his
mother, but the best of husbands and
the best of fathers besides, which Kit
could and would corroborate, she knew,
and so w'ould little Jacob and the baby
likewise if they were old enough, which
unfortunately they were not, though, as
they did n’t know what a loss they had
had, perhaps it was a great deal better
that they should be as young as they
were ; and so Kit] s mother wound up
a long story by wiping her eyes with her
apron, and patting little Jacob’s head,
who was rocking the cradle and staring
with all his might at the strange lady
and gentleman.
When Kit’s mother had done speak-
ing, the old lady struck in again, and
said that she was quite sure she was a
very honest and very respectable per-
son, or she never would have expressed
herself in that manner, and that cer-
tainly the appearance of the children
and the cleanliness of the house de-
served great praise and did her the
utmost credit, whereat Kit’s mother
dropped a courtesy and became con-
soled. Then the good woman entered
into a long and minute account of Kit’s
life and history from the earliest period
THE OLD CURIOSITY SHOP .
99
down to that time, not omitting to make
mention of his miraculous fall out of a
back-parlor window, when an infant of
tender years, or his uncommon sutfer-
ings in a state of measles, which were
illustrated by correct imitations of the
plaintive manner in which he called for
toast and water, day and night, and
said, “ Don’t cry, mother, I shall soon
be better”; for proof of which state-
ments reference was made to Mrs.
Green, lodger, at the cheesemonger’s
round the corner, and divers other
ladies and gentlemen in various parts
of England and Wales (and one Mr.
Brown, who was supposed to be then
a corporal in the East Indies, and who
could, of course, be found with very lit-
tle trouble), within whose personal
knowledge the circumstances had oc-
curred. This narration ended, Mr;
Garland put some questions to Kit re-
specting his qualifications and general
acquirements, while Mrs. Garland no-
ticed the children, and hearing from
Kit’s mother certain remarkable cir-
cumstances which had attended the
birth of each, related certain other
remarkable circumstances which had
attended the birth of her own son, Mr.
Abel, from which it appeared that both
Kit’s mother and herself had been,
above and beyond all other women of
what condition or age soever, peculiar-
ly hemmed in with perils and dangers.
Lastly, inquiry was made into the nature
and extent of Kit’s wardrobe, and, a
small advance being made to improve
the same, he was formally hired at an
annual income of Six Pounds, over and
above his board and lodging, by Mr.
and Mrs. Garland, of Abel Cottage,
Finchley.
It would be difficult to say which
party appeared most pleased with this
arrangement, the conclusion of which
was hailed with nothing but pleasant
looks and cheerful smiles on both sides.
It was settled that Kit should repair to
his new abode on the nex^ day but one,
in the morning; and finally, the little
old couple, after bestowing a bright
half-crown on little Jacob, and another
on the baby, took their leaves ; being
escorted as far as the street by their
new attendant, who held the obdurate
pony by the bridle while they took
their seats, and saw them drive away
with a lightened heart.
“Well, mother,” said Kit, hurrying
back into the house, “ I think my for-
tune ’s about made now.”
“ I should think it was indeed, Kit,”
rejoined his mother. “ Six pound a
year ! Only think ! ”
“ Ah ! ” said Kit, trying to maintain
the gravity which the consideration of
such a sum demanded, but grinning
with delight in spite of himself. “There’s
a property ! ”
Kit drew a long breath when he had
said this, and putting his hands deep
into his pockets, as if there were one
ear’s wages at least in each, looked at
is mother, as though he saw through
her, and down an immense perspective
of sovereigns beyond.
“ Please God we ’ll make such a lady
of you for Sundays, mother ! such a
scholar of Jacob, such a child of the
baby, such a room of the one up stairs !
Six pound a year ! ”
“ Hem ! ” croaked a strange voice.
“What’s that about six pound a year?
What about six pound a year?” And
as the voice made this inquiry, Daniel
Quilp walked in with Richard Swiveller
at his heels.
“ Who said he was to have six pound
a year?” said Quilp, looking sharply
round. “Did the old man say it, or
did little Nell say it? And what’s he
to have it for, and where are they,
eh?”
The good woman was so much alarmed
by the sudden apparition of this un-
known piece of ugliness, that she
hastily caught the baby from its cradle
and retreated into the farthest corner
of the room ; while little Jacob, sitting
upon his stool with his hands on his
knees, looked full at him in a species of
fascination, roaring lustily all the time.
Richard Swiveller took an easy obser-
vation of the family over Mr. Quilp’s
head, and Quilp himself, with his hands
in his pockets, smiled in an exquisite
enjoyment of the commotion he occa-
sioned.
“ Don’t be frightened, mistress,” said
Quilp, after a pause. “Your son
knows me; I don’t eat babies; I don’t
IOO
THE OLD CURIOSITY SHOP.
like ’em. It will be as well to stop that
young screamer, though, in case I should
be tempted to do him a mischief,
Holloa, sir! Will you be quiet?”
Little Jacob stemmed the course of
two tears which he was squeezing out
of his eyes, and instantly subsided into
a silent horror.
“ Mind you don’t break out again,
you villain,” said Quilp, looking stern-
ly at him, “or I ’ll make faces at you
and throw you into fits, I will. Now,
you sir, why have n’t you been to me as
you promised ? ”
“ What should I come for ? ” retorted
Kit. “ I hadn’t any business with you,
no more than you had with me.”
“ Here, mistress,” said Quilp, turning
quickly away, and appealing from Kit
to his mother. “When did his old
master come or send here last ? Is he
here now? If not, where ’s he gone? ”
“ He has not been here at all,” she
replied. “ I wish we knew where they
have gone, for it would make my son a
good deal easier in his mind, and me too.
If you ’re the gentleman named Mr.
Quilp, I should have thought you ’d
have known, and so I told him only
this very day.”
“ Humph ! ” muttered Quilp, evi-
dently disappointed to believe that this
was true. “That’s what you tell this
gentleman too, is it?”
“ If the gentleman comes to ask the
same question, I can’t tell him anything
else, sir; and I only wish I could, for
our own sakes,” was the reply.
Quilp glanced at Richard Swiveller,
and observed that, having met him on
the threshold, he assumed that he had
come in search of some intelligence of
the fugitives. He supposed he was
right ?
“Yes,” said Dick, “that was the
object of the present expedition. I
fancied it possible — but let us go ring
fancy’s knell, /’ll begin it.”
“You seem disappointed,” observed
Quilp.
“A baffler, sir, a baffler, that’s all,”
returned Dick. “ I have entered upon
a speculation which has proved a baf-
fler ; and a Being of brightness and
beauty will be offered up a sacrifice at
Cheggs’s altar. That’s all, sir.”
The dwarf eyed Richard with a
sarcastic smile, but Richard, who had
been taking a rather strong lunch with
a friend, observed him not, and contin-
ued to deplore his fate with mournful
and despondent looks. Quilp plainly
discerned that there was some secret
reason for this visit and his uncommon
disappointment, and, in the hope there
might be means of mischief lurking
beneath it, resolved to worm it out.
He had no sooner adopted this resolu-
tion, than he conveyed as much honesty
into his face as it was capable of express-
ing, and sympathized with Mr. Swivel-
ler exceedingly.
“I’m disappointed myself,” said
Quilp, “out of mere friendly feeling for
them ; but you have real reasons, pri-
vate reasons I have no doubt, for your
disappointment, and therefore it comes
heavier than mine.”
“ Why, of course it does,” Dick
observed testily.
“Upon my word, I ’m very sorry,
very sorry. I ’m rather cast down my-
self. As we are companions in adver-
sity, shall we be companions in the sur-
est way of forgetting it ? If you had no
particular business, now, to lead you in
another direction,” urged Quilp, pluck-
ing him by the sleeve, and looking sly-
ly up into his face out of the corners
of his eyes, “ there is a house by the
water-side where they have some of
the noblest Schiedam — reputed to be
smuggled, but that ’s between ourselves
— that can be got in all the world.
The landlord knows me. There ’s a
little summer-house overlooking the
river, where we might take a glass of
this delicious liquor with a whiff of the
best tobacco, — it ’s in this case, and of
the rarest quality, to my certain knowl-
edge, — and be perfectly snug and
happy, could we possibly contrive it ;
or is ther^ any very particular engage-
ment that peremptorily takes you an-
other way, Mr. Swiveller, eh ? ”
As the dwarf spoke, Dick’s face re-
laxed into a compliant smile, and his
eyebrows slowly unbent. By the time
he had finished, Dick was looking down
at Quilp in the same sly manner as
Quilp was looking up at him, and there
remained nothing more to be done but
THE OLD CURIOSITY SHOP.
to set out for the house in question.
This they did straightway. The mo-
ment their backs were turned, little
Jacob thawed, and resumed his crying
from the point where Quilp had frozen
him.
The summer-house of which Mr.
Quilp had spoken was a rugged wooden
box, rotten and bare to see, which over-
hung the river’s mud, and threatened
to slide down into it. The tavern to
which it belonged was a crazy building,
sapped and undermined by the rats,
and only upheld by great bars of wood
which were reared against its walls, and
had propped it up so long that even they
were decaying and yielding with their
load, and of a windy night might be
heard to creak and crack as if the whole
fabric were about to come toppling
down. The house stood — if anything
so old and feeble could be said to stand
— on a piece of waste ground, blighted
with the unwholesome smoke of facto-
ry chimneys, and echoing the clank of
iron wheels and rush of troubled water.
Its internal accommodations amply
fulfilled the promise of the outside.
The rooms were low and damp, the
clammy walls were pierced with chinks
and holes, the rotten floors had sunk
from their level, the very beams started
from their places and warned the timid
stranger from their neighborhood.
To this inviting spot, entreating him
to observe its beauties as they passed
along, Mr. Quilp led Richard Swiveller,
and on the table of the summer-house,
scored deep with many a gallows and
initial letter, there soon appeared a
wooden keg, full of the vaunted liquor.
Drawing it off into the glasses with the
skill of a practised hand, and mixing it
with about a third part of water, Mr.
Quilp assigned to Richard Swiveller
his portion, and, lighting his pipe from
an end of a candle in a very old and
battered lantern, drew himself together
upon a seat and puffed away.
“ Is it good ? ” said Quilp, as Richard
Swiveller smacked his lips. “ Is it strong
and fiery? Does it make you wink,
and choke, and your eyes water, and
your breath come short, — does it ? ”
“Does it?” cried Dick, throwing
away part of the contents of his glass,
iox
and filling it up with water. “ Why,
man, you don’t mean to tell me that you
drink such fire as this ? ”
“ No ! ” rejoined Quilp. “ Not drink
it ! Look here. And here. And here,
again. Not drink it !”
As he spoke, Daniel Quilp drew off
and drank three small glassfuls of the
raw spirit, and then with a horrible
grimace took a great many pulls at his
pipe, and, swallowing the smoke, dis-
charged it in a heavy cloud from his
nose. This feat accomplished, he drew
himself together in his former position,
and laughed excessively.
“Give us a toast!” cried Quilp,
rattling on the table in a dexterous
manner with his fist and elbow alter-
nately, in a kind of tune. “A woman, a
beauty. Let’s have a beauty for our
toast, and empty our glasses to the last
drop. Her name, come ! ”
“If you want a name,” said Dick,
“here ’s Sophy Wackles.”
“ Sophy Wackles,” screamed the
dwarf. “Miss Sophy Wackles that is,
Mrs. Richard Swiveller that shall be, —
that shall be. Ha, ha, ha ! ”
“ Ah ! ” said Dick, “ you might have
said that a few weeks ago, but it won’t
do now, my buck. Immolating herself
upon the shrine of Cheggs — ”
“ Poison Cheggs, cut Cheggs’s ears
off,” rejoined Quilp. “ I won’t hear of
Cheggs. Her name is Swiveller or
nothing. I ’ll drink her health again,
and her father’s, and her mother’s, and
to all her sisters and brothers, — the
glorious family of the Wackleses ; all
the Wackleses in one glass. Down with
it to the dregs ! ”
“ Well,” said Richard Swiveller,
stopping short in the act of raising the
glass to his lips and looking at the
dwarf in a species of stupor as he
flourished his arms and legs about ;
“you’re a jolly fellow, but of all the
jolly fellows I ever saw or heard of, you
have the queerest and most extraordi-
nary way with you, upon my life you
have.”
This candid declaration tended rather
to increase than restrain Mr. Quilp’s
eccentricities ; and Richard Swiveller,
astonished to see him in such a roister-
ing vein, and drinking not a little him-
102
THE OLD CURIOSITY SHOP .
self, for company, began imperceptibly
to become more companionable and
confiding, so that, being judiciously led
on by Mr. Quilp, he grew at last very
confiding indeed. Having once got
him into this mood, and knowing now
the key-note to strike whenever he was
at a loss, Daniel Quilp’s task was com-*
paratively an easy one, and he was soon
in possession of the whole details of the
scheme contrived between the easy Dick
and his more designing friend.
“Stop!” said Quilp. “That’s the
thing, that’s the thing. It can be
brought about ; it shall be brought
about. There’s my hand upon it; I’m
your friend from this minute.”
“ What ! do you think there ’s still a
chance? ” inquired Dick, in surprise at
this encouragement.
“ A chance ! ” echoed the dwarf, “ a
certainty ! Sophy Wackles may be-
come a Cheggs or anything else she
likes, but not a Swiveller. O you lucky
dog ! He ’s richer than any Jew alive ;
you ’re a made man. I see in you now
nothing but Nelly’s husband, rolling in
gold and silver. I ’ll help you. It shall
be done. Mind my words, it shall be
done.”
“ But how?” said Dick.
“There’s plenty of time,” rejoined
the dwarf, “ and it shall be done.
We ’ll sit down and talk it over again
all the way through. Fill your glass
while I ’m gone. I shall be back di-
rectly, directly.”
With these hasty words, Daniel Quilp
withdrew into a dismantled skittle-
ground behind the public-house, and,
throwing himself upon the ground, actu-
ally screamed and rolled about in un-
controllable delight.
“ Here ’s sport ! ” he cried, — “ sport
ready to my hand, all invented and ar-
ranged, and only to be enjoyed. It was
this shallow-pated fellow who made my
bones ache t’other day, was it ? It was
his friend and fellow-plotter, Mr. Trent,
that once made eyes at Mrs. Quilp, and
leered and looked, was it ? After labor-
ing for two or three years in their pre-
cious scheme, to find that they’ve got a
beggar at last, and one of them tied for
life. Ha, ha, ha ! He shall marry Nell.
He shall have her, and I ’ll be the first
man, when the knot ’s tied hard and
.fast, to tell ’em what they ’ve gained,
and what I ’ve helped ’em to. Here
will be a clearing of old scores ; here will
be a time to remind ’em what a capital
friend I was, and how I helped ’em to
the heiress. Ha, ha, ha ! ”
In the height of his ecstasy, Mr.
Quilp had like to have met with a disa-
greeable check, for, rolling very near a
broken dog-kennel, there leapt forth a
large fierce dog, who, but that his chain
was of the shortest, would have given
him a disagreeable salute. As it was,
the dwarf remained upon his back in
erfect safety, taunting the dog with
ideous faces, and triumphing over him
in his inability to advance another inch,
though there were not a couple of feet
between them.
“Why don’t you come and bite me?
why don’t you come and tear me to
pieces, you coward?” said Quilp, hiss-
ing, and worrying the animal till he was
nearly mad. “You ’re afraid, you bully ;
you ’re afraid, you know you are.”
The dog tore and strained at his chain
with starting eyes and furious bark, but
there the dwarf lay, snapping his fingers
with gestures of defiance and contempt.
When he had sufficiently recovered
from his delight, he rose, and, with his
arms akimbo, achieved a kind of de-
mon-dance round the kennel, just with-
out the limits of the chain, driving the
dog quite wild. Having by this means
composed his spirits and put himself in
a pleasant train, he returned to his un-
suspicious companion, whom he found
looking at the tide with exceeding grav-
ity, and thinking of that same gold and
silver which Mr. Quilp had mentioned.
CHAPTER XXII.
The remainder of that day and the
whole of the next were a busy time for
the Nubbles family, to whom every-
thing connected with Kit’s outfit and
departure was matter of as great mo-
ment as if he had been about to pene-
trate into the interior of Africa, or to
take a cruise round the world. It
would be difficult to suppose that there
THE OLD CURIOSITY SHOP.
103
ever was a box which was opened and
shut so many times within four-and-
twenty hours as that which contained
his wardrobe and necessaries ; and, cer-
tainly there never was one which to
two small eyes presented such a mine
of clothing as this mighty chest, with
its three shirts and proportionate al-
lowance of stockings and pocket-hand-
kerchiefs, disclosed to the astonished
vision of little Jacob. At last it was
conveyed to the carrier’s, at whose
house, at Finchley, Kit was to find it
next day ; and, the box being gone,
there remained but two questions for
consideration, — firstly, whether the car-
rier would lose, or dishonestly feign to
lose, the box upon the road ; and, sec-
ondly, whether Kit’s mother perfectly
understood how to take care of herself
in the absence of her son.
“I don’t think there ’s hardly a chance
of his really losing it, but carriers are
under great temptation to pretend they
lose things, no doubt,” said Mrs. Nub-
bles, apprehensively, in reference to the
first point.
“ No doubt about it,” returned Kit,
with a serious look ; “ upon my word,
mother, I don’t think it was right to
trust it to itself. Somebody ought to
have gone with it, I ’m afraid.”
“ We can’t help it now,” said his
mother ; “ but it was foolish and wrong.
People ought n’t to be tempted.”
Kit inwardly resolved that he would
never tempt a carrier any more, save
with an empty box ; and, having formed
this Christian determination, he turned
his thoughts to the second question.
“ You know you must keep up your
spirits, mother, and not be lonesome
because I ’m not at home. I shall very
often be able to look in when I come
into town I dare say, and I shall send
you a letter sometimes, and when the
quarter comes round, I can get a holiday
of course ; and then see if we don’t take
little Jacob to the play, and let him
know what oysters means.”
“ I hope plays may n’t be sinful, Kit,
but I ’m a’most afraid,” said Mrs.
Nubbles.
“ I know who has been putting that
in your head,” rejoined her son, discon-
solately; “that’s Little Bethel again.
Now I say, mother, pray don’t take to
going there regularly, for if I was to
see your good-humored face, that has
always made home cheerful, turned into
a grievous one, and the baby trained
to look grievous too, and to call itself a
young sinner (bless its heart) and a
child of the Devil (which is calling its
dead father names), — if I was to see
this, and see little Jacob looking griev-
ous likewise, I should so take it to
heart that I ’m sure I should go and
’list for a soldier, and run my head on
purpose against the first cannon-ball I
saw coming my way.”
“O Kit, don’t talk like that.”
“ I would indeed, mother ; and unless
you want to make me feel very wretched
and uncomfortable, you ’ll keep that
bow on your bonnet, which you ’d more
than half a mind to pull off last week.
Can you suppose there ’s any harm in
looking as cheerful and being as cheer-
ful as our poor circumstances will per-
mit ? Do I see anything in the way
I ’m made w'hich calls upon me to be
a snivelling, solemn, whispering chap,
sneaking about as if I could n’t help it,
and expressing myself in a most un-
pleasant snuffle ? On the contrairy,
don’t I see every reason why I should
n’t? Just hear this! Ha, ha, ha!
Ain’t that as nat’ral as walking, and as
good for the health ? Ha, ha, ha !
Ain’t that as nat’ral as a sheep’s bleat-
ing, or a pig’s grunting, or a horse’s
neighing, or a bird’s singing? Ha, ha,
ha ! Is n’t it, mother? ”
There was something contagious in
Kit’s laugh, for his mother, who had
looked grave before, first subsided into
a smile, and then fell to joining in it
heartily, which occasioned Kit to say
that he knew it was natural, and to
laugh the more. Kit and his mother,
laughing together in a pretty loud key,
w*oke the baby, w'ho, finding that there
was something very jovial and agree-
able in progress, was no sooner in its
mother’s arms than it began to kick
and laugh most vigorously. This new
illustration of his argument so tickled
Kit that he fell backward in his chair
in a state of exhaustion, pointing at
the baby and shaking his sides till he
rocked again. After recovering twice
104
THE OLD CURIOSITY SHOP.
or thrice, and as often relapsing, he
wiped his eyes and said grace ; and a
very cheerful meal their scanty supper
was.
With more kisses and hugs and
tears than many young gentlemen who
start upon their travels, and leave
well-stocked homes behind them, would
deem within the bounds of probability
(if matter so low could be herein set
down), Kit left the house at an early
hour next morning, and set out to walk
to Finchley; feeling a sufficient pride
in his appearance to have warranted
his excommunication from Little Bethel
from that time forth, if he had ever been
one of that mournful congregation.
Lest anybody should feel a curiosity
to know how Kit was clad, it may be
briefly remarked that he wore no liv-
ery, but was dressed in a coat of pep-
per-and-salt with waistcoat of canary
color, and nether garments of iron-
gray ; besides these glories, he shone
in the lustre of a new pair of boots and
an extremely stiff and shiny hat, which,
on being struck anywhere with the
knuckles, sounded like a drum. And in
this attire rather wondering that he at-
tracted so little attention, and attribut-
ing the circumstance to the insensibility
of those who got up early, he made his
way towards Abel Cottage.
Without encountering any more re-
markable adventure on the road than
meeting a lad in a brimless hat, the ex-
act counterpart of his old one, on whom
he bestowed half the sixpence he pos-
sessed, Kit arrived in course of time at
the carrier’s house, where, to the last-
ing honor of human nature, he found
the box in safety. Receiving from the
wife of this immaculate man a direc-
tion to Mr. Garland’s, he took the box
upon his shoulder and repaired thither
directly.
To be sure, it was a beautiful little
cottage with a thatched roof and little
spires at the gable-ends, and pieces of
stained glass in some of the windows,
almost as large as pocket-books. On
one side of the house was a little sta-
ble, just the size for the pony, with a
little room over it, just the size for Kit.
White curtains were fluttering, and birds,
in cages that looked as bright as if they
were made of gold, were singing at the
windows ; plants were arranged on
either side of the path, and clustered
about the door ; and the garden was
bright with flowers in full bloom, which
shed a sweet odor all round, and had
a charming and elegant appearance.
Everything, within the house and with-
out, seemed to be the perfection of
neatness and order. In the garden
there was not a weed to be seen, and,
to judge from some dapper gardening-
tools, a basket, and a pair of gloves
which were lying in one of the walks,
old Mr. Garland had been at work in it
that very morning.
Kit looked about him, and admired,
and looked again, and this a great many
times before he could make up his mind
to turn his head another way and ring
the bell. There was abundance of time
to look about him again, though, when
he had rung it, for nobody came ; so, af-
ter ringing twice or thrice, he sat down
upon his box and waited.
He rung the bell a great many times,
and yet nobody came. But at last, as
he was sitting upon the box, thinking
about giants’ castles, and princesses
tied up to pegs by the hair of their
heads, and dragons bursting out from
behind gates, and other incidents of the
like nature, common in story-books to
youths of low degree on their first visit
to strange houses, the door was gently
opened, and a little servant-girl, very
tidy, modest, and demure, but very
pretty too, appeared.
“ I suppose you’re Christopher, sir,”
said the servant-girl. Kit got off the
box, and said yes, he was.
‘‘I’m afraid you ’ve rung a good
many times, perhaps,” she rejoined ;
“but w'e could n’t hear you, because
we ’ve been catching the pony.”
Kit rather wondered what this meant,
but as he could n’t stop there, asking
questions, he shouldered the box again,
and followed the girl into the hall,
where, through a back door, he de-
scried Mr. Garland leading Whisket
in triumph up the garden, after that
self-willed pony had (as he afterwards
learned) dodged the family round a small
paddock in the rear, for one hour and
three quarters.
THE OLD CURIOSITY SHOP.
The old gentleman received him very
kindly, and so did the old lady, whose
previous good opinion of him was great-
ly enhanced by his wiping his boots on
the mat until the soles of his feet burnt
again. He was then taken into the
pai*lor to be inspected in his new
clothes; and when he had been sur-
veyed several times, and had afforded by
his appearance unlimited satisfaction,
he was taken into the stable (where
the pony received him with uncommon
complaisance) ; and thence into the lit-
tle chamber he had already observed,
which was very clean and comfortable ;
and thence into the garden, in which the
old gentleman told him he would be
taught to employ himself, and where he
told him, besides, what great things he
meant to do to make him comfortable
and happy, if he found he deserved it.
All these kindnesses Kit acknowledged
with various expressions of gratitude,
and so many touches of the new hat
that the brim suffered considerably.
When the old gentleman had said all
he had to say in the way of promise and
advice, and Kit had said all he had to
say in the way of assurance and thank-
fulness, he «vvas handed over again to
the old lady, who, summoning the little
servant-girl (whose name was Barbara),
instructed her to take him down stairs
and give him something to eat and
drink, after his walk.
Down stairs, therefore, Kit went ;
and at the bottom of the stairs there
was such a kitchen as was never before
seen or heard of out of a toy-shop win-
dow, with everything in it as bright and
glowing, and as precisely ordered too,
as Barbara herself. And in this kitch-
en Kit sat himself down at a table as
white as a tablecloth, to eat cold meat,
and drink small ale, and use his knife
and fork the more awkwardly, because
there was an unknown Barbara looking
on and observing him.
It did not appear, however, that
there was anything remarkably tremen-
dous about this strange Barbara, who,
having lived a very quiet life, blushed
very much, and was quite as embar-
rassed and uncertain what she ought
to say or do as Kit could possibly be.
When he had sat for some little time,
105
attentive to the ticking of the sober
clock, he ventured to glance curiously
at the dresser, and there, among
the plates and dishes, were Bar-
bara’s littk work-box with a sliding
lid to shut in the balls of cotton, and
Barbara’s prayer-book, and Barbara’s
hymn-book, and Barbara’s Bible. Bar-
bara’s little looking-glass hung in a
good light near the window, and Bar-
bara’s bonnet was on a nail behind the
door. F rom all these mute signs and to-
kens of herpresence,he naturallyglanced
at Barbara herself, who sat as mute as
they, shelling peas into a dish ; and just
when Kit was looking at her eyelashes
and wondering — quite in the simplicity
of his heart — what color her eyes might
be, it perversely happened that Barbara
raised her head a little to look at him,
when both pair of eyes were hastily
withdrawn, and Kit leant over his
plate, and Barbara over her pea-shells,
each in extreme confusion at having
been detected by the other.
CHAPTER XXIII.
Mr. Richard Swiveller, wending
homewards from the Wilderness (for
such was the appropriate name of
Quilp’s choice retreat), after a sinuous
and corkscrew fashion, with many
checks and stumbles ; after stopping
suddenly and staring about him, then
as suddenly running forward for a few
paces, and as suddenly halting again
and shaking his head ; doing everything
with a jerk, and nothing by premedita-
tion, — Mr. Richard Swiveller, wending
his way homewards after this fashron,
which is considered by evil-minded men
to be symbolical of intoxication, and is
not held by such persons to denote that
state of deep wisdom and reflection in
which the actor knows himself to be,
began to think that possibly he had
misplaced his confidence, and that the
dwarf might not be precisely the sort of
person to whom to intrust a secret of
such delicacy and importance. And
being led and tempted on by this re-
morseful thought into a condition which
the evil-minded class before referred to
THE OLD CURIOSITY SHOP .
106
would term the maudlin state or stage
of drunkenness, it occurred to Mr.
Swiveller to cast his hat upon the
ground, and moan, crying aloud that he
was an unhappy orphan, and that if he
had not been an unhappy orphan, things
had never come to this.
“Left an infant by my parents, at an
early age,” said Mr. Swiveller, bewail-
ing his hard lot, “cast upon the world
in my tenderest period, and thrown up-
on the mercies of a deluding dwarf, who
can wonder at my weakness ! Here ’s
a miserable orphan for you. Here,”
said Mr. Swiveller, raising his voice to
a high pitch, and looking sleepily round,
“ is a miserable orphan ! ”
“ Then,” said somebody hard by,
“let me be a father to you.”
Mr. Swiveller swayed himself to and
fro to preserve his balance, and, looking
into a kind of haze which seemed to
surround him, at last perceived two
eyes dimly twinkling through the mist,
which he observed after a short time
were in the neighborhood of a nose and
mouth. Casting his eyes down towards
that quarter in which, with reference to
a man’s face, his legs are usually to be
found, he observed that the face had
a body attached ; and when he looked
more intently, he was satisfied that the
person was Mr. Quilp, who indeed had
been in his company all the time, but
whom he had some vague idea of hav-
ing left a mile or two behind.
“You have deceived an orphan, sir,”
said Mr. Swiveller, solemnly.
“I ! I ’m a second father to you,”
replied Quilp.
“ You my father, sir ! ” retorted Dick.
“ Being all right myself, sir, I request to
be left alone, — instantly, sir.”
“What a funny fellow you are!”
cried Quilp.
“Go, sir,” returned Dick, leaning
against a post and waving his hand.
“Go, deceiver, go. Some day, sir,
p’r’aps you ’ll waken from pleasure’s
dream, to know the grief of orphans for-
saken. Will you go, sir.”
The dwarf taking no heed of this ad-
juration, Mr. Swiveller advanced with
the view of inflicting upon him condign
chastisement. But forgetting his pur-
pose or changing his mind before he
came close to him, he seized his hand
and vowed eternal friendship, declaring
with an agreeable frankness that from
that time forth they were brothers in
everything but personal appearance.
Then he told his secret all over again,
with the addition of being pathetic on
the subject of Miss Wackles, who, he
gave Mr. Quilp to understand, was the
occasion of any slight incoherency he
might observe in his speech at that mo-
ment, which was attributable solely to
the strength, of his affection, and not to
rosy wine or other fermented liquor.
And then they went on arm-in-arm very
lovingly together.
“ I ’m as sharp,” said Quilp to him at
parting, — “as sharp as a ferret, and as
cunning as a weasel. You bring Trent
to me ; assure him that I ’m his friend,
though I fear he a little distrusts me (I
don’t know why, I have not deserved
it ) ; and you ’ve both of you made your
fortunes — in perspective.”
“That’s the worst of it,” returned
Dick. “ These fortunes in perspective
look such a long way off.”
“ But they look smaller than they
really are, on that account,” said Quilp,
pressing his arm. “You fll have no
conception of the value of your prize
until you draw close to it. Mark that.”
“ D’ ye think not ? ” said Dick.
“ Ay, I do ; and I am certain of what
I say, that ’s better,” returned the dwarf.
“You bring Trent to me. Tell him
I am his friend and yours, — why
shouldn’t I be?”
“There’s no reason why you shouldn’t,
certainly,” replied Dick, “and perhaps
there are a great many why you should ;
at least there would be nothing strange
in your wanting to be my friend, if you
were a choice spirit, but then you know
you ’re not a choice spirit.”
“ I not a choice spirit ! ” cried Quilp.
“ Devil a bit, sir,” returned Dick. “ A
man of your appearance could n’t be.
If you’re any spirit at all, sir, you’re
an evil spirit. Choice spirits,” added
Dick, smiting himself on the breast,
“ are quite a different looking sort of
people, you may take your oath of that,
sir.”
Quilp glanced at his free-spoken friend
with a mingled expression of cunning
"HE OLD CURIOSITY SHOP.
107
and dislike, and, wringing his hand al-
most at the same moment, declared that
he was an uncommon character and had
his warmest esteem. With that they
parted, — Mr. Swiveller to make the best
of his way home and sleep himself so-
ber ; and Quilp to cogitate upon the
discovery he had made, and exult in the
prospect of the rich field of enjoyment
and reprisal it opened to him.
It was not without great reluctance
and misgiving that Mr. Swiveller, next
morning, his head racked by the fumes
of the renowned Schiedam, repaired to
the lodging of his friend Trent (which
was in the roof of an old house in an
old ghostly inn), and recounted by very
slow degrees what had yesterday taken
place between him and Quilp. Nor
was it without great surprise and much
speculation on Quilp’s probable mo-
tives, nor without many bitter com-
ments on Dick Swiveller’s folly, that
his friend received the tale.
“ I don’t defend myself, Fred,” said
the penitent Richard; “but the fellow
has such a queer way with him, and is
such an artful dog, that first of all he set
me upon thinking whether there was
any harm in telling him, and while I
was thinking, screwed it out of me. If
you had seen him drink and smoke, as
I did, you could n’t have kept anything
from him. He ’s a Salamander, you
know, that ’s what he is.”
Without inquiring whether Salaman-
ders were of necessity good confidential
agents, or whether a fire-proof man was,
as a matter of course, trustworthy, Fred-
erick Trent threw himself into a chair,
and, burying his head in his hands, en-
deavored to fathom the motives which
had led Quilp to insinuate himself into
Richard Swiveller’s confidence ; for that
the disclosure was of his seeking and
had not been spontaneously revealed by
Dick, was sufficiently plain' from Quilp’s
seeking his company and enticing him
away.
The dwarf had twice encountered him
when he was endeavoring to obtain in-
telligence of the fugitives. This, per-
haps, as he had not shown any previous
anxiety about them, was enough to
awaken suspicion in the breast of a
creature so jealous and distrustful by
nature, setting aside any additional im-
pulse to curiosity that he might have
derived from Dick’s incautious man-
ner. But knowing the scheme they had
planned, why should he offer to assist
it? This was a question more difficult
of solution ; but as knaves generally
overreach themselves by imputing their
own designs to others, the idea im-
mediately presented itself that some cir-
cumstances of irritation between Quilp
and the old man, arising out of their
secret transactions, and not unconnect-
ed perhaps with his sudden disappear-
ance, now rendered the former desirous
of revenging himself upon him by seek-
ing to entrap the sole object ofthis love
and anxiety into a connection of which
he knew he had a dread and hatred.
As Frederick Trent himself, utterly re-
gardless of his sister, had this object at
heart, only second to the hope of gain,
it seemed to him the more likely to be
Quilp’s main principle of action. Once
investing the dwarf with a design of his
own in abetting them, which the attain-
ment of their purpose would serve, it
was easy to believe him sincere and
hearty in the cause ; and as there could
be no doubt of his proving a powerful
and useful auxiliary, Trent determined
to accept his invitation and go to his
house that night, and, if what he said
and did confirmed him in the impression
he had formed, to let him share the labor
of their plan, but not the profit.
Having revolved these things in his
mind and arrived at this conclusion,
he communicated to Mr. Swiveller as
much of his meditations as he thought
proper (Dick would have been perfectly
satisfied with less), and, giving him the
day to recover himself from his late sal-
amandering, accompanied him at even-
ing to Mr. Quilp’s house.
Mightily glad Mr. Quilp was to see
them, or mightily glad he seemed to
be ; and fearfully polite Mr. Quilp was
to Mrs. Quilp and Mrs. J ini win ; and
very sharp was the look he cast, on his
wife to observe how she was affected by
the recognition of young Trent. Mrs.
Quilp was as innocent as her own
mother of any emotion, painful or pleas-
ant, which the sight of him awakened,
but as her husband’s glance made her
io3
THE OLD CURIOSITY SHOP.
timid and confused, and uncertain what
to do or what was required of her, Mr.
Quilp did not fail to assign her embar-
rassment to the cause he had in his
mind, and, while he chuckled at his
penetration, was secretly exasperated
by his jealousy.
Nothing of this appeared, however.
On the contrary, Mr. Quilp was all
blandness and suavity, and presided
over the case-bottle of rum with ex-
traordinary open-heartedness.
“ Why, let me see,” said Quilp. “It
must be a matter of nearly two^ years
since we were first acquainted.”
“Nearer three, I think,” said Trent.
“ Ne2frer three ! ” cried Quilp. “ How
fast time flies ! Does it seem as long as
that to you, Mrs. Quilp?”
“Yes, I think it seems full three
years, Quilp,” was the unfortunate re-
ply. “O, indeed, ma’am,” thought
Quilp, “you have been pining, have
you? Very good, ma’am.”
“It seems to me but yesterday that
you went out to Demerara in the Mary
Anne,” said Quilp; “but yesterday, I
declare. Well, I like a little wildness.
I was wild myself once.’’
Mr. Quilp accompanied this admis-
sion with such an awful wink, indicative
of old rovings and backslidings, that
Mrs. Jiniwin was iridignant, and could
not forbear from remarking under her
breath that he might at least put oft his
confessions until his wife was absent ; for
which act of boldness and insubordina-
tion Mr. Quilp first stared her out of
countenance, and then drank her health
ceremoniously.
“ I thought you ’d come back di-
rectly, Fred. I always thought that,”
said Quilp, setting down his glass.
“ And when the Mary Anne returned
with you on board, instead of a letter
to say what a contrite heart you had,
and how happy you were in the situa-
tion that had been provided for you, I
was amused, exceedingly amused. Ha,
ha, ha ! ” .
The young man smiled, but not as
though the theme was the most agree-
able one that could have been selected
for his entertainment ; and for that rea-
son Quilp pursued it.
“I always will say,” he resumed,
“ that when a rich relation, having two
young people — sisters or brothers, or
brother and sister — dependent on him,
attaches himself exclusively to one, and
casts off the other, he does wrong.”
The young man made a movement
of impatience, but Quilp went on as
calmly as if he were discussing some
abstract question in which nobody
present had the slightest personal in-
terest. t
“It’s very true,” said Quilp, that
your grandfather urged repeated for-
giveness, ingratitude, riot, and ex-
travagance, and all that ; but, as I told
him, ‘ These are common faults.’ ‘ But
he’s a scoundrel,’ said he. ‘Grant-
ing that,’ said I (for the sake of argu-
ment, of course), ‘ a great many young
noblemen and gentlemen are scoun-
drels too!’ But he wouldn’t be con-
vinced.”
“ I wonder at that, Mr. Quilp, said
the young man, sarcastically.
“Well, so did I at the time,” re-
turned Quilp, “but he was always, ob-
stinate. He was in a manner a friend
of mine, but he was always obstinate
and w’rong-headed. Little Nell is a
nice girl, a charming girl, but you ’re
her brother, Frederick. You’re her
brother, after all ; as you told him the
last time you met, he can’t alter that.’
“ He would if he could, confound him
for that and all other kindnesses,” said
the young man, impatiently. “But
nothing can come of this subject now,
and let us have done with it in the
Devil’s name.”
“ Agreed,” returned Quilp, — “ agreed
on my part, readily. Why have I al-
luded to it? Just to show you, Fred-
erick, that I have always stood your
friend. You little knew who was your
friend and who your foe ; now did you ?
You thought I was against you, and
so there has been a coolness between
us ; but it was all on your side, entirely
on your side. Let ’s shake hands again,
Fred.”
With his head sunk down between
his shoulders, and a hideous grin over-
spreading his face, the dwarf stood up
and stretched his short arm across the
table. After a moment’s hesitation, the
young man stretched out his to meet
THE OLD CURIOSITY SHOP.
109
it ; Quilp clutched his fingers in a grip
that for the moment stopped the cur-
rent of the blood within them, and,
pressing his other hand upon his lip,
and frowning towards the unsuspicious
Richard, released them and sat down.
This action was not lost upon Trent,
who, knowing that Richard Swiveller
was a mere tool in his hands, and knew
no more of his designs than he thought
proper to communicate, saw that the
dwarf perfectly understood their rela-
tive position, and fully entered into the
character of his friend. It is something
to be appreciated, even in knavery.
This silent homage to his superior
abilities, no less than a sense of the
power with which the dwarf’s quick
perception had already invested him,
inclined the young man towards that
ugly worthy, and determined him to
profit by his aid.
It being now Mr. Quilp’s cue to
change the subject with all convenient
expedition, lest Richard Swiveller in
his heedlessness should reveal anything
which it was inexpedient for the women
to know, he proposed a game at four-
handed cribbage ; and partners being
cut for, Mrs. Quilp fell to Frederick
Trent, and Dick himself to Quilp.
Mrs. Jiniwin, being very fond of cards,
was carefully excluded by her son-in-
law from any participation in the game,
and had assigned to her the duty of
occasionally replenishing the glasses
from the case-bottle; Mr. Quilp from
that moment keeping one eye constant-
ly upon her, lest she should by any
means procure a taste of the same, and
thereby tantalizing the wretched old
lady (who was as much attached to the
case-bottle as the cards) in a double
degree, and most ingenious manner.
But it was not to Mrs. Jiniwin alone
that Mr. Quilp’s attention was restrict-
ed, as several other matters required his
constant vigilance. Among his various
eccentric habits he had a humorous one
of always cheating at cards, which ren-
dered necessary on his part, not only a
close observance of the game, and a
sleight of hand in counting and scoring,
but also involved the constant correc-
tion, by looks and frowns and kicks
under the table, of Richard Swiveller,
who, being bewildered by the rapidity
with which his cards were told and the
rate at which the pegs travelled down
the board, could not be prevented from
sometimes expressing his surprise and
incredulity. Mrs. Quilp too was the
partner of young Trent, and for every
look that passed between them, and
every word they spoke, and every card
they played, the dwarf had eyes and
ears ; not occupied alone with what was
passing above the table, but with sig-
nals that might be exchanging beneath
it, which he laid all kinds of traps to
detect ; besides often treading on his
wife’s toes to see whether she cried out
or remained silent under the infliction,
in which latter case it would have been
quite clear that Trent had been tread-
ing on her toes before. Yet, in the
midst of all these distractions, the one
eye was upon the old lady always, and
if she so much as stealthily advanced a
teaspoon towards a neighboring glass
(which she often did), for the purpose
of abstracting but one sup of its sweet
contents, Quilp’s hand would overset it
in the very moment of her triumph, and
Quilp’s mocking voice implore her to
regard her precious health. And in
any one of these his many cares, from
first to last, Quilp never flagged nor
faltered.
At length, when they had played a
great many rubbers, and drawn pretty
freely upon the case-bottle, Mr. Quilp
warned his lady to retire to rest, and
that submissive wife complying, and
being followed by her indignant moth-
er, Mr. Swiveller fell asleep. The
dwarf beckoning his remaining com-
anion to the other end of the room,
eld a short conference with him in
whispers.
“ It ’s as well not to say more than
one can help before our worthy friend,”
said Quilp, making a grimace towards
the slumbering Dick. “ Is it a bargain
between us, Fred? Shall he marry lit-
tle rosy Nell by and by ? ”
“You have some end of your own
to answer, of course,” returned the
other.
“Of course I have, dear Fred,” said
Quilp, grinning to think how little he
suspected what the real end was. “ It ’s
iio
THE OLD CURIOSITY SHOP.
retaliation perhaps ; perhaps whim. I
have influence, Fred, to help or oppose.
Which way shall I use it ? There are
a pair of scales, and it goes into one.”
“Throw it into mine, then,” said
•Trent.
“It’s done, Fred,” rejoined Quilp,
stretching out his clenched hand, and
opening it as if he had let some weight
fall out. “It’s in the scale from this
time, and turns it, Fred. Mind that.”
“Where have they gone?” asked
Trent.
Quilp shook his head, and said that
point remained to be discovered, which
it might be, easily. When it was, they
would begin their preliminary advances.
He would visit the old man, or even
Richard Swiveller might visit him, and
by affecting a deep concern in his be-
half, and imploring him to settle in
some worthy home, lead to the child’s
remembering him with gratitude and
favor. Once impressed to this extent,
it would be easy, he said, to win her in
a year or two, for she supposed the old
man to be poor, as it was a part of his
jealous policy (in common with many
other misers) to feign to be so to those
about him.
“He has feigned it often enough to
me, of late,” said Trent.
“ O, and to me too ! ” replied the
dwarf. “ Which is more extraordinary,
as I know how rich he really is.”
“ I suppose you should,” said Trent.
“ I think I should, indeed,” rejoined
the dwarf ; and in that, at least, he
spoke the truth.
After a few more whispered words,
they returned to the table, and the
young man, rousing Richard Swiveller,
informed him that he was waiting to
depart. This was welcome news to
Dick, who started up directly. After a
few words of confidence in the result of
their project had been exchanged, they
bade the grinning Quilp good night.
Quilp crept to the window as they
passed in the street below, and listened.
Trent was pronouncing an encomium
upon his wife, and they were both won-
dering by what enchantment she had
been brought to marry such a misshapen
wretch as he. The dwarf, after watch-
ing their retreating shadows with a
wider grin than his face had yet dis-
played, stole softly in the dark to bed.
In this hatching of their scheme,
neither Trent nor Quilp had had one
thought about the happiness or misery
of poor innocent Nell. It would have
been strange if the careless profligate,
who was the butt of both, had been
harassed by any such consideration ;
for his high opinion of his own merits
and deserts rendered the project rather
a laudable one than otherwise; and if
he had been visited by so unwonted a
guest as reflection, he would — being a
brute only in the gratification of his ap-
petites — have soothed his conscience
with the plea that he did not mean to
beat or kill his wife, and would there-
fore, after all said and done, be a very
tolerable average husband.
CHAPTER XXIV.
It was not until they were quite ex-
hausted, and could no longer maintain
the pace at which they had fled from the
race-ground, that the old man and the
child ventured to stop, and sit down to
rest upon the borders of a little wood.
Here, though the course was hidden
from their view, they could yet faintly
distinguish the noise of distant shouts,
the hum of voices, and the beating of
drums. Climbing the eminence which
lay between them and the spot they had
left, the child could even discern the
fluttering flags and white tops of booths i
but no person was approaching towards
them, and their resting-place was soli-
tary and still.
Some time elapsed before she could
reassure her trembling companion, or
restore him to a state of moderate
tranquillity. His disordered imagina-
tion represented to him a crowd of
persons stealing towards them beneath
the cover of the bushes, lurking in
every ditch, and peeping from the
boughs of every rustling tree. He was
haunted by apprehensions of being led
captive to some gloomy place where he
would be chained and scourged., and,
worse than all, where Nell could neve*
come to see him, save through iron
THE OLD CURIOSITY SHOP.
ii
bars and gratings in the wall. His ter-
rors affected the child. Separation
from her grandfather was the greatest
evil she could dread ; and, feeling for
the time as though, go where they
would, they were to be hunted down,
and could never be safe but in hiding,
her heart failed her, and her courage
drooped.
In one so young, and so unused to
the scenes in which she had lately
moved, this sinking of the spirit was
not surprising. But Nature often en-
shrines gallant and noble hearts in weak
bosoms, — oftenest, God bless her, in
female breasts, — and when the child,
casting her tearful eyes upon the old
man, remembered how weak he was,
and how destitute and helpless he would
be if she failed him, her heart swelled
within her, and animated her with new
strength and fortitude.
“We are quite safe now, and have
nothing to fear, indeed, dear grandfa-
ther,” she said.
“ Nothing to fear ! ” returned the
old man. “ Nothing to fear if they
took me from thee ! Nothing to fear
if they parted us ! Nobody is true
to me. No, not one. Not even
Nell ! ”
“Oh! do not say that,” replied the
child, “ for if ever anybody was true at
heart, and earnest, I am. I am sure
you know I am.”
“Then how,” said the old man, look-
ing fearfully round, — “ how can you bear
to think that we are safe, when they are
searching for me everywhere, and may
come here, and steal upon us, even
while we’re talking?”
“ Because I ’m sure we have not
been followed,” said the child. “ Judge
for yourself, dear grandfather ; look
round and see how quiet and still it is.
We are alone together, and may ram-
ble where we like. Not safe ! Could
I feel easy — did I feel at ease — when
any danger threatened you? ”
“True, true,” he answered, pressing
her hand, but still looking anxiously
about. “What noise was that?”
“ A bird,” said the child, “flying in-
to the wood, and leading the way for us
to follow. You remember that we said
we would walk in woods and fields, and
by the side of rivers, and how happy
we would be, — you remember that?
But here, while the sun shines above
our heads, and everything is bright and
happy, we are sitting sadly down, and
losing time. See what a pleasant path ;
and there ’s the bird, — the same bird;
now he flies to another tree, and stays
to sing. Come ! ”
When they rose up from the ground,
and took the shady track which led
them through the wood, she bounded on
before, printing her tiny footsteps in the
moss, which rose elastic from so light
a pressure and gave it back as mir-
rors throw off breath ; and thus she
lured the old man on, with many a back-
ward look and merry beck, now point-
ing stealthily to some lone bird as it
perched and twittered on a branch that
strayed across their path, now stopping
to listen to the songs that broke the
happy silence, or watch the sun as it
trembled through the leaves, and, steal-
ing in among the ivied trunks of stout
old trees, opened long paths of light. As
they passed onward, parting the boughs
that clustered in their way, the serenity
which th*e child had first assumed stole
into her breast in earnest. The old
man cast no longer fearful looks behind,
but felt at ease, and cheerful ; for the
farther they passed into the deep green
shade, the more they felt that the tran-
quil mind of God was there, and shed
its peace on them.
At length the path, becoming clearer
and less intricate, brought them to the
end of the wood, and into a public
road. Taking their way along it for a
short distance, they came to a lane, so
shaded by the trees on either hand that
they met together overhead, and arched
the narrow way. A broken finger-post
announced that this led to a village
three miles off; and thither they re-
solved to bend their steps.
The miles appeared so long that
they sometimes thought they must
have missed their road. But at last,
to their great joy, it led downward
in a steep descent, with overhanging
banks, over which the footpaths led ;
and the clustered houses of the vil-
lage peeped from the woody hollow
below.
112
THE OLD CURIOSITY SHOP.
It was a very small place. The men
and boys were playing at cricket on the
green ; and as the other folks were look-
ing on, they wandered up and down, un-
certain where to seek a humble lodging.
There was but one old man in the little
garden before his cottage, and him they
were timid of approaching, for he was
the schoolmaster, and had “School”
written up over his window in black
letters on a white board. He was a
pale, simple-looking man, of a spare
and meagre habit, and sat among his
flowers and beehives, smoking his pipe,
in the little porch before his door.
“ Speak to him, dear,” the old man
whispered.
“ I am almost afraid to disturb him,”
said the child, timidly. “ He does not
seem to see us. Perhaps if we wait a
little, he may look this way.”
They waited, but the schoolmaster
cast no look towards them, and still
sat thoughtful and silent, in the little
porch. He had a kind face. In his
plain old suit of black, he looked pale
and meagre. They fancied, too, a lone-
ly air about him and his house, but
perhaps that was because the other
people formed a merry company upon
the green, , and he seemed the only soli-
tary man in all the place.
They were very tired ; and the child
would have been bold enough to address
even a schoolmaster, but for something
in his manner which seemed to denote
that he was uneasy or distressed. As
they stood hesitating at a little distance,
they saw that he sat for a few minutes
at a time like one in a brown study,
then laid aside his pipe and took a few
turns in his garden, then approached
the gate and looked towards the green,
then took up his pipe again with a
sigh, and sat down thoughtfully as be-
fore.
As nobody else appeared and it would
soon be dark, Nell at length took cour-
age, and when he had resumed his pipe
and seat, ventured to draw near, lead-
ing her grandfather by the hand. The
slight noise they made in raising the
latch of the wicket-gate caught his at-
tention. He looked at them kindly, but
seemed disappointed too, and slightly
shook his head.
Nell dropped a courtesy, and told him
they were poor travellers who sought a
shelter for the night, which they. would
gladly pay for, so far as their means
allowed. The schoolmaster looked ear-
nestly at her as she spoke, laid aside
his pipe and rose directly.
# “ If you could direct us anywhere,
sir,” said the child, “ we should take it
very kindly.”
“ You have been walking a long way,”
said the schoolmaster.
“ A long way, sir,” the child re-
plied.
“ You ’re a young traveller, my child,”
he said, laying his hand gently on her
head. “ Your grandchild, friend ? ”
“Ay, sir,” cried the old man, “and
the stay and comfort of my life.”
“ Come in,” said the schoolmaster.
Without further preface he conducted
them into his little schoolroom, which
w'as parlor and kitchen likewise, and
told them they were welcome to remain
under his roof till morning. Before
they had done thanking him, he spread
a coarse white cloth upon the table,
with knives and platters ; and, bringing
out some bread and cold meat and a
jug of beer, besought them to eat and
drink.
The child looked round the room as
she took her seat. There were a couple
of forms, notched and cut and inked
all over ; a small deal desk perched on
four legs, at which no doubt the master
sat ; a few dog’s-eared books upon a
high shelf ; and beside them a motley
collection of peg-tops, balls, kites, fish-
ing-lines, marbles, half-eaten apples,
and other confiscated property of idle
urchins. Displayed on hooks upon the
wall, in all their terrors, were the cane
and ruler ; and near them, on a small
shelf of its own, the dunce’s cap, made
of old newspapers and decorated with
glaring wafers of the largest size. But
the great ornaments of the walls were
certain moral sentences, fairly copied in
good round text, and w'ell-worked sums
in simple addition and multiplication,
evidently achieved by the same hand,
which were plentifully pasted all round
the room ; for the double purpose, as
it seemed, of bearing testimony to the
excellence of the school, and kindling a
THE SCHOOLMASTER,
THE LIBRARY
OF THE
UNIVERSITY OF ILLINOIS
THE OLD CURIOSITY SHOP.
113
worthy emulation in the bosoms of the
scholars.
“Yes,” said the old schoolmaster,
observing that her attention was caught
by these latter specimens. “ That ’s
beautiful writing, my dear.”
“Very, sir,” replied the child) modest-
ly; “ is it yours ? ”
“ Mine ! ” he returned, taking out his
spectacles and putting them on to have
a better view of the triumphs so dear to
his heart. “ / could n’t write like that,
now-a-days. No. They ’re all done by
Dne hand ; a little hand it is, not so old
as yours, but a very clever one.”
As the schoolmaster said this, he saw
that a small blot of ink had been thrown
on one of the copies, so he took a pen-
knife from his pocket, and, going up to
the wall, carefully scraped it out. When
he had finished, he walked slowly back-
ward from the writing, admiring it as
Dne might contemplate a beautiful pic-
ture, but with something of sadness
in his voice and manner which quite
touched the child, though she was un-
acquainted with its cause.
“ A little hand, indeed,” said the poor
schoolmaster. “ Far beyond all his
companions, in his learning and his
sports, too, how did he ever come to be
so fond of me ! That I should love him
is no wonder, but that he should love
me — ” and there the schoolmaster
stopped, and took off his spectacles to
wipe them, as though they had grown
dim.
. “ I hope there is nothing the matter,
pir,” said Nell, anxiously.
“ Not much, my dear,” returned the
schoolmaster. “ I hoped to have seen
him on the green to-night. He was al-
ways foremost among them. But he ’ll
be there to-morrow.”
“ Has he been ill ? ” asked the child,
with a child’s quick sympathy.
“ Not very. They said he was wan-
dering in his head yesterday, dear boy,
and so they said the day before. But
that ’s a part of that kind of disorder ;
it ’s not a bad sign, — not at all a bad
sign.”
The child was silent. He walked
to the door, and looked wistfully out.
The shadows of night were gathering,
and all was still.
“ If he could lean upon anybody’s
arm, he would come to me, I know,”
he said, returning into the room. “ He
always came into the garden to say
ood night. But perhaps his illness
as only just taken a favorable turn, and
it ’s too late for him to come out, for it ’s
very damp, and there ’s a heavy dew.
It’s much better he shouldn’t come to-
night.”
The schoolmaster lighted a candle,
fastened the window-shutter, and closed
the door. But after he had done this,
and sat silent a little time, he took down
his hat, and said he would go and sat-
isfy himself, if Nell would sit up till he
returned. The child readily complied,
and he went out.
She sat there half an hour or more,
feeling the place very strange and lonely ;
for she had prevailed upon the old man
to go to bed, and there was nothing to
be heard but the ticking of an old clock,
and the whistling of the wind among
the trees. When he returned, he took
his seat in the chimney-corner, but
remained silent for a long time. At
length he turned to her, and, speaking
very gently, hoped she would say a
prayer that night for a sick child.
“My favorite scholar ! ” said the poor
schoolmaster, smoking a pipe he had
forgotten to light, and looking mourn-
fully round upon the walls.* “It is a
little hand to have done all that, and
waste away with sickness. It is a very,
very little hand ! ”
CHAPTER XXV.
After a sound night’s rest in a
chamber in the thatched roof, in which
it seemed the sexton had for some years
been a lodger, but which he had late-
ly deserted for a wife and a cottage of
his own, the child rose early in the
morning, and descended to the room
where she had supped last night. As
the schoolmaster had already left his
bed and gone out, she bestirred herself
to make it neat and comfortable, and
had just finished its arrangement when
the kind host returned.
He thanked her many times, and said
3
THE OLD CURIOSITY SHOP.
114
that the old dame who usually did such
offices for him had gone to nurse the
little scholar whom he had told her of.
The child asked how he was, and hoped
he was better.
“ No,” rejoined the schoolmaster,
shaking his head sorrowfully, “ no bet-
ter. They even say he is worse.”
“ I am very sorry for that, sir,” said
the child.
The poor schoolmaster appeared to
be gratified by her earnest manner, but
yet rendered more uneasy by it, for he
added hastily that anxious people often
magnified an evil and thought it greater
than it was. “ For my part,” he said,
in his quiet, patient way, “ I hope
it’s not so. I don’t think he can be
worse.”
The child asked his leave to prepare
breakfast, and, her grandfather coming
down stairs, they all three partook of it
together. While the meal was in prog-
ress, their host remarked that the old
man seemed much fatigued, and evi-
dently stood in need of rest.
“ If the journey you have before you
is a long one,” he said, “ and don’t
press you for one day, you ’re very wel-
come to pass another night here. I
should really be glad if you would,
friend.”
He saw that the old man looked at
Nell, uncertain whether to accept or
decline his offer ; and added, —
“ I shall be glad to have your young
companion with me for one day. If
you can do a charity to a lone man, and
rest yourself at the same time, do so.
If you must proceed upon your journey,
I wish you well through it, and will
walk a little way with you before school
begins.”
“ What are we to do, Nell? ” said the
old man, irresolutely ; “ say what we ’re
to do, dear.”
It required no great persuasion to
induce the child to answer that they
had better accept the invitation and
remain. She was happy to show her
gratitude to the kind schoolmaster by
busying herself in the performance of
such household duties as his little cot-
tage stood in need of. When these
were done, she took some needle-work
from her basket, and sat herself down
upon a stool beside the lattice, where
the honeysuckle and woodbine en-
twined their tender stems, and, steal-
ing into the room, filled it with their
delicious breath. Her grandfather was
basking in the sun outside, breathing the
perfume of the flowers, and idly watch-
ing the clouds as they floated on before
the light summer wind.
As the schoolmaster, after arranging
the two forms in due order, took his
seat behind his desk and made other
preparations for school, the child was
apprehensive that she might be in the
way, and offered to withdraw to her
little bedroom. But this he would not
allow, and, as he seemed pleased to
have her there, she remained, busying
herself with her work.
“ Have you many scholars, sir? ” she
asked.
The poor schoolmaster shook his
head, and said that they barely filled
the two forms.
“Are the others clever, sir?” asked
the child, glancing at the trophies on
the wall.
“Good boys,” returned the school-
master, — “ good boys enough, my dear,
but they ’ll never do like that.”
A small white-headed boy with a sun-
burnt face appeared at the door while
he was speaking, and, stopping there to
make a rustic bow, came in and took
his seat upon one of the forms. The
white-headed boy then put an open
book, astonishingly dog’s-eared, upon
his knees, and, thrusting his hands into
his pockets, began counting the mar-
bles with which they were filled, — dis-
playing in the expression of his face a
remarkable capacity of totally abstract-
ing his mind from the spelling on which
his eyes were fixed. Soon afterwards
another white-headed little boy came
straggling in, and after him a red-headed
lad, and after him two more with white
heads, and then one with a flaxen poll,
and so on until the forms were occu-
pied by a dozen boys or thereabouts,
with heads of every color but gray, and
ranging in their ages from four years old
to fourteen years or more ; for the legs
of the youngest were a long way from
the floor when he sat upon the form,
and the eldest was a heavy, good-tem-
THE OLD CURIOSITY SHOP .
pered, foolish fellow, about half a head
taller than the schoolmaster.
At the top of the first form — the
post of honor in the school — was the
vacant place of the little sick scholar,
and at the head of the row of pegs on
which those who came in hats or caps
were wont to hang them up, one was
left empty. No boy attempted to vio-
late the sanctity of seat or peg, but
many a one looked from the empty
spaces to the schoolmaster, and whis-
pered his idle neighbor behind his
hand.
Then began the hum of conning over
lessons and getting them by heart, the
whispered jest and stealthy game, and
all the noise and drawl of school ; and
in the midst of the din sat the poor
schoolmaster, the very image of meek-
ness and simplicity, vainly attempting to
fix his mind upon the duties of the day,
and to forget his little friend. But the
tedium of his office reminded him more
strongly of the willing scholar, and his
thoughts were rambling from his pupils,
it was plain.
None knew this better than the idlest
boys, who, growing bolder with impu-
nity, waxed louder and more daring;
playing odd-or-even under the master’s
eye, eating apples openly and without
rebuke, pinching each other in sport
or malice without the least reserve,
and cutting their autographs in the
very legs of his desk. The puzzled
dunce, who stood beside it to say his
lesson out of book, looked no longer
at the ceiling for forgotten words, but
drew closer to the master’s elbow and
boldly cast his eye upon the page ; the
wag of the little troop squinted and
made grimaces (at the smallest boy of
course), holding no book before his face,
and his approving audience knew no
constraint in their delight. If the mas-
ter did chance to rouse himself and
seem alive to what was going on, the
noise subsided for a moment, and no
eyes met his but wore a studious and a
deeply humble look ; but the instant
he relapsed again, it broke out afresh
and ten times louder than before.
Oh ! how some of those idle fellows
longed to be outside, and how they
looked at the open door and window,
lr S
as if they half meditated rushing vio-
lently out, plunging into the woods, and
being wild boys and savages from that
time forth. What rebellious thoughts
of the cool river, and some shady bath-
ing-place beneath willow- trees with
branches dipping in the water, kept
tempting and urging that sturdy boy,
who, with his shirt-collar unbuttoned
and flung back as far as it could go, sat
fanning his flushed face with a spell-
ing-book, wishing himself a whale, or a
tittlebat, or a fly, or anything but a
boy at school on that hot broiling day !
Heat ! ask that other boy, whose seat,
being nearest to the door, gave him
opportunities of gliding out into the
garden and driving his companions to
madness by dipping his face into the
bucket of the well and then rolling on
the grass, — ask him if there were ever
such a day as that, when even the bees
were diving deep down into the cups
of flowers and stopping there, as if
they had made up their minds to retire
from business and be manufacturers of
honey no more. The day was made
for laziness, and lying on one’s back
in green places, and staring at the sky
till its brightness forced one to shut
one’s eyes and go to sleep ; and was
this a time to be poring over musty
books in a dark room, slighted by the
very sun itself? Monstrous !
Nell sat by the window occupied with
her work, but attentive still to all that
passed, though sometimes rather timid
of the boisterous boys. The lessons
over, writing time began ; and there
being but one desk, and that the mas-
ter’s, each boy sat at it in turn and
labored at his crooked copy, while the
master walked about. This was a qui-
eter time ; for he would come and look
oyer the writer’s shoulder, and tell
him mildly to observe how such a let-
ter was turned in such a copy on the
wall, praise such an up-stroke here
and such a down-stroke there, and bid
him take it for his model. Then he
would stop and tell them what the
sick child had said last night, and how
he had longed to be among them once
again ; and such was the poor school-
master’s gentle and affectionate man-
ner, that the boys seemed quite re-
n6
THE OLD CURIOSITY SHOP.
morseful that they had worried him so
much, and were absolutely quiet ; eat-
ing no apples, cutting no names, in-
flicting no pinches, and making no gri-
maces, for full two minutes afterwards.
“ I think, boys,” said the schoolmas-
ter when the clock struck twelve, “ that
I shall give an extra half-holiday this
afternoon.”
At this intelligence the boys, led on
and headed by the tall boy, raised a
great shout, in the midst of which the
master was seen to speak, but could
not be heard. As he held up his
hand, however, in token of his wish
that they should be silent, they were
considerate enough to leave off, as soon
as the longest-winded among them were
quite out of breath.
“You must promise me first,” said the
schoolmaster, “ that you ’ll not be noisy,
or at least, if you are, that you ’ll go
away and be so, — away out of the vil-
lage I mean. I ’m sure you would n’t
disturb your old playmate and com-
panion.”
There was a general murmur (and
perhaps a very sincere one, for they
were but boys) in the negative ; and
the tall boy, perhaps as sincerely as
any of them, called those about him
to witness that he had only shouted in
a whisper.
“ Then pray don’t forget, there ’s my
dear scholars,” said the schoolmaster,
“ what I have asked you, and do it as a
favor to me. Be as happy as you can,
and don’t be unmindful that you are
blessed with health. Good by, all ! ”
“ Thank ’ee, sir,” and “ Good by, sir,”
were said a great many times in a varie-
ty of voices, and the boys went out very
slowly and softly. But there was the
sun shining, and there were the birds
singing, as the sun only shines and
the birds only sing on holidays and
half-holidays ; there were the trees
waving to all free boys to climb and
nestle among their leafy branches ; the
hay, entreating them to come and scat-
ter it to the pure air ; the green corn,
gently beckoning towards wood and
stream ; the smooth ground, rendered
smoother still by blending lights and
shadows, inviting to runs and leaps,
^nd long walks God knows whither.
It was more than boy could bear,
and with a joyous whoop the whole
cluster took to their heels and spread
themselves about, shouting and laugh-
ing as they went.
“ It ’s natural, thank Heaven ! ” said
the poor schoolmaster, looking after
them. “ I ’m very glad they did n’t
mind me ! ”
It is difficult, however, to please every-
body, as most of us would have discov-
ered, even without the fable which bears
that moral ; and in the course of the
afternoon several mothers and aunts of
pupils looked in to express their entire
disapproval of the schoolmaster’s pro-
ceeding. A few confined themselves to
hints, such as politely inquiring what
red-letter day or saint’s day the alma-
nac said it was ; a few (these were the
profound village politicians) argued that
it was a slight to the throne and an af-
front to Church and State, and savored of
revolutionary principles, to grant a half-
holiday upon any lighter occasion than
the birthday of the monarch ; but the
majority expressed their displeasure on
private grounds and in plain terms,
arguing that to put the pupils on this
short allowance of learning w'as nothing
but an act of downright robbery and
fraud ; and one old lady, finding that
she could not inflame or irritate the
peaceable schoolmaster by talking to
him, bounced out of his house and
talked at him for half an hour outside
his owrn wfindow', to another old lady,
saying that of course he would deduct
this half-holiday from his weekly charge,
or of course he w'ould naturally expect
to have an opposition started against
him ; there was no want of idle chaps
in that neighborhood (here the old lady
raised her voice), and some chaps who
were too idle even to be schoolmasters,
might soon find that there were other
chaps put over their heads, and so she
would have thewi take care, and look
pretty sharp about them. But all these
taunts and vexations failed to elicit one
word from the meek schoolmaster, who
sat with the child by his side, — a little
more dejected perhaps, but quite silent
and uncomplaining.
Towards night an old woman came
tottering up the garden as speedily as
THE OLD CURIOSITY SHOP.
117
she could, and, meeting the schoolmaster
at the door, said he was to go to Dame
West’s directly, and had best run on
before her. He and the child were on
the point of going out together for a
walk, and without relinquishing her
hand, the schoolmaster hurried away,
leaving the messenger to follow as she
might.
They stopped at a cottage door, and —
the schoolmaster knocked softly at it
with his hand. It was opened without
loss of time. They entered a room
where a little group of women were
gathered about one, older than the rest,
who was crying very bitterly, and sat
wringing her hands and rocking herself
to and fro.
“O dame!” said the schoolmaster,
drawing near her chair, “is it so bad as
this? ”
“He’s going fast,” cried the old
woman; “ my grandson ’s dying. It’s
all along of you. You shouldn’t see
him now, but for his being so earnest
on it. This is what his learning has
brought him to. O dear, dear, dear,
what can I do ! ”
“ Do not say that I am in any fault,”
urged the gentle schoolmaster. “ I am
not hurt, dame. No, no. You are in
great distress of rqind, and don’t mean ■
what you say. I am sure you don’t.”
“I do,” returned the old woman;
“ I mean it all. If he had n’t been por-
ing over his books out of fear of you, he
would have been well and merry now, I
know he would.”
The schoolmaster looked round upon
the other women, as if to entreat some
one among them to say a kind word for
him, but they shook their heads, and
murmured to each other that they never
thought there was muchgood in learning,
and that this convinced them. Without
saying a word in reply, or giving them
a look of reproach, he followed the old
woman who had summoned him (and
who had now rejoined them) into an-
other room, where his infant friend,
half dressed, lay stretched upon a bed.
He was a very young boy, quite a
little child. His hair still hung in curls
about his face, and his eyes were very
bright ; but their light was of Heaven,
not earth. The schoolmaster took a
seat beside him, and, stooping over the
pillow, whispered his name. The boy
sprung up, stroked his face with his
hand, and threw his wasted arms around
his neck, crying out that he was his
dear kind friend.
“ I hope I always was. I meant to
be, God knows,” said the poor school-
master.
“ Who is that?” said the boy, seeing
Nell. “ I am afraid to kiss her, lest I
should make her ill. Ask her to shake
hands with me.”
The sobbing child came closer up,
and took the little languid hand in hers.
Releasing his again after a time, the
sick boy laid him gently down.
“You remember the garden, Harry,”
whispered the schoolmaster, anxious to
rouse him, for a dulness seemed gather-
ing upon the child, “and how pleasant
it used to be in the evening time ? You
must make haste to visit it again, for I
think the very flowers have missed you,
and are less gay than they used to be.
You will come soon, my dear, very soon
now, — won’t you ? ”
The boy smiled faintly, — so very,
very faintly, — and put his hand upon
his friend’s gray head. He moved his
lips too, but no voice came from them ;
no, not a sound.
In the silence that ensued, the hum
of distant voices borne upon the evening
air came floating through the open win-
dow- “What’s that?” said the sick
child, opening his eyes.
“ The boys at play upon the green.”
He took a handkerchief from his pil-
low, and tried to wave it above his head.
But the. feeble arm dropped powerless
down.
“Shall I do it?” said the school-
master.
“ Please wave it at the window,”
was the faint reply. “ Tie it to the
lattice. Some of them may see it there.
Perhaps they ’ll think of me, and look
this way.”
He raised his head, and glanced from
the fluttering signal to his idle bat, that
lay with slate and book and other boy-
ish property upon a table in the room.
And then he laid him softly down once
more, and asked if the little girl were
there, for he could not see her.
i iS
THE OLD CURIOSITY SHOP.
She stepped forward, and pressed
the passive hand that lay upon the
coverlet. The two old friends and
companions, — for such they were,
though they were man and child, —
held each other in a long embrace, and
then the little scholar turned his face
towards the wall, and fell asleep.
The poor schoolmaster sat in the
same place, holding the small cold
hand in his, and chafing it. It was
but the hand of a dead child. He felt
that ; and yet he chafed it still, and
could not lay it down.
CHAPTER XXVI.
Almost broken-hearted, Nell with-
drew with the schoolmaster from the
bedside and returned to his cottage.
In the midst of her grief and tears she
was yet careful to conceal their real
cause from the old man, for the dead
boy had been a grandchild, and left but
one aged relative to mourn his prema-
ture decay.
She stole away to bed as quickly as
she could, and when she was alone,
gave free vent to the sorrow with which
her breast was overcharged. But the
sad scene she had witnessed was not
without its lesson of content and grati-
tude ; of content with the lot which
left her health and freedom ; and grati-
tude that she was spared to the one
relative and friend she loved, and to
live and move in a beautiful world, when
so many young creatures — as young
and full of hope as she — were stricken
down and gathered to their graves.
How many of the mounds in that old
churchyard where she had lately strayed
grew green above the graves of chil-
dren ! And though she thought as a
child herself, and did not perhaps suffi-
ciently consider to what a bright and
happy existence those who die young
are borne, and how in death they lose
the pain of seeing others die around
them, bearing to the tomb some, strong
affection of their hearts (which makes
the old die maqy times in one long
life), still she thought, wisely enough,
to draw a plain and easy moral from
what she had seen that night, and to
store it deep in her mind.
Her dreams were of the little scholar :
not coffined andcovered up, but mingling
with angels, and smiling happily. The
sun, darting his cheerful rays into the
room, awoke her ; and now there re-
mained but to take leave of the poor
schoolmaster and wander forth once
^more.
By the time they were ready to de-
part, school had begun. In the dark-
ened room, the din of yesterday was
going on again ; a little sobered and
softened down, perhaps, but only a very
little, if at all. The schoolmaster rose
from his desk and walked with them
to the gate.
It was with a trembling and reluctant
hand that the child held out to him
the money which the lady had given
her at the races for her flowers ; falter-
ing in her thanks, as she thought how
small the sum was, and blushing as she
offered it. But he bade her put it up,
and, stooping to kiss her cheek, turned
back into his house.
They had not gone half a dozen paces
when he was at the door again. The
old man retraced his steps to shake
hands, and the child did the same.
“ Good fortune and happiness go with
you ! ” said the poor* schoolmaster. “ I
am quite a solitary man now. If you
ever pass this way again, you ’ll not
forget the little village school.”
“We shall never forget it, sir,” re-
joined Nell ; “ nor ever forget to be
grateful to you for your kindness to us.”
“ I have heard such words from the
lips of children very often,” said the
schoolmaster, shaking his head, and
smiling thoughtfully, “ but they were
soon forgotten. I had attached one
young friend to me, the better friend
for being young — but that’s over —
God bless you ! ”
They bade him farewell very many
times, and turned away, walking slowly
and often looking back, until they could
see him no more. At length they had
left the village far behind, and even
lost sight of the smoke among the trees.
They trudged onward now, at a quicker
pace, resolving to keep the main road,
and go wherever it might lead them.
THE OLD CURIOSITY SHOP.
But main roads stretch a long, long
way. With the exception of two or
three inconsiderable clusters of cottages
which they passed without stopping,
and one lonely roadside public-house
where they had some bread and cheese,
this highway had led them to nothing,
late in the afternoon, and still length-
ened out far in the distance, the same
dull, tedious, winding course that they
had been pursuing all day. As they
had no resource, however, but to go
forward, they still kept on, though at a
much slower pace, being very weary and
fatigued.
The afternoon had worn away into a
beautiful evening, when they arrived at
a point where the road made a sharp
turn and struck across a common. On
the border of this common, and close to
the hedge which divided it from the
cultivated fields, a caravan was drawn
up to rest ; upon which, by reason of its
situation, they came so suddenly that
they could not have avoided it if they
would.
It was not a shabby, dingy, dusty
cart, but a smart little house upon
wheels, with white dimity curtains fes-
tooning the windows, and window-shut-
ters of green picked out with panels of
a staring red, in which happily con-
trasted colors the whole concern shone
brilliant. Neither was it a poor caravan
drawn by a single donkey or emaciated
horse, for a pair of horses in pretty good
condition were released from the shafts
and grazing on the frowzy grass. Nei-
ther was it a gypsy caravan, for at the
open door (graced with a bright brass
knocker) sat a Christian lady, stout and
comfortable to look upon, who wore a
large bonnet trembling with bows. And
that it was not an unprovided or desti-
tute caravan, was clear from this lady’s
occupation, which was the very pleasant
and refreshing one of taking tea. The
tea things, including a bottle of rather
suspicious character and a cold knuckle
of ham, were set forth upon a drum,
covered with a white napkin ; and there,
as if at the most convenient round table
in all the world, sat this roving lady,
taking her tea and enjoying the pros-
pect.
It happened that at that moment the
119
lady of the caravan had her cup (which,
that everything about her might be of a
stout and comfortable kind, was a break-
fast cup) to her lips, and that, having
her eyes lifted to the sky in her enjoy-
ment of the full flavor of the tea, not
unmingled possibly with just the slight-
est dash or gleam of something out of
the suspicious bottle, — but this is mere
speculation and not distinct matter of
history, — it happened that being thus
agreeably engaged, she did not see the
travellers when they first came up. It
was not until she was in the act of set-
ting down the cup, and drawing a long
breath after the exertion of causing its
contents to disappear, that the lady of
the caravan beheld an old man and a
young child walking slowly by, and
glancing at her proceedings with eyes of
modest but hungry admiration.
“Hey? ’’ cried the lady of the cara-
van, scooping the crumbs out of her
lap and swallowing the same before
wiping her lips. “ Yes, to be sure.
Who won the Helter-Skelter Plate,
child ! ”
“ Won what, ma’am ? ” asked Nell.
“ The Helter-Skelter Plate at the
races, child, — the plate that was run
for on the second day.”
“ On the second day, ma’am?"
“Second day! Yes, second day,”
repeated the lady with an air of impa-
tience. “ Can’t you say who won the
Helter-Skelter Plate when you ’re
asked the question civilly ? ”
“ I don’t know, ma’am.”
“ Don’t know ! ” repeated the lady of
the caravan. “ Why, you were there.
I saw you with my own eyes.”
Nell was not a little alarmed to hear
this, supposing that the lady might be
intimately acquainted with the firm of
Short and Codlin ; but what followed
tended to reassure her.
“And very sorry I was,” said the
lady of the caravan, “ to see you in com-
pany with a Punch ; a low, practical,
wulgar wretch, that people should scorn
to look at.”
“ I was not there by choice,” returned
the child. “ We did n’t know our way,
and the two men were very kind to us,
and let us travel with them. Do you
— do you know them, ma’am ?”
120
THE OLD CURIOSITY SHOP.
“ Know ’em, child ! ” cried the lady
of the caravan, in a sort of shriek, —
“ know them l But you ’re young and
inexperienced, and that ’s your excuse
for asking sich a question. Do I look
as if I know’d ’em? does the caravan
look as if it know’d ’em ? ”
“ No, ma’am, no,” said the child,
fearing she had committed some griev-
ous fault. I beg your pardon.”
It was granted immediately, though
the lady still appeared much ruffled and
discomposed by the degrading suppo-
sition. The child then explained that
they had left the races on the first day,
and were travelling to the next town on
that road, where they purposed to spend
the night. As the countenance of the
stout lady began to clear up, she ven-
tured to inquire how far it was. The
reply — which the stout lady did not
come to, until she had thoroughly ex-
plained that she went to the races on
the first day in a gig, and as an expe-
dition of pleasure, and that her pres-
ence there had no connection with
any matters of business or profit — was,
that the town was eight miles off.
This discouraging information a lit-
tle dashed the child, who could scarcely
repress a tear as she glanced along the
darkening road. Her grandfather made
no complaint, but he sighed heavily as
he leaned upon his staff, and vainly
tried to pierce the dusty distance.
The lady of the caravan was in the
.act of gathering her tea equipage to-
gether, preparatory to clearing the table,
but noting the child’s anxious manner,
she hesitated and stopped. The child
courtesied, thanked her for her informa-
tion, and, giving her hand to the old
man, had already got some fifty yards
or so away, when the lady of the cara-
van called to her to return.
“Come nearer, nearer still,” said
she, beckoning to her to ascend the
steps. “Are you hungry, child?”
“ Not very, but we are tired, and it ’s
— it is a long way — * ”
“ Well, hungry or not, you had bet-
ter have some tea,” rejoined her new
acquaintance. “ I suppose yoq are
agreeable to that, old gentleman ? ”
The grandfather humbly pulled off his
hat and thanked her. The lady of the
caravan then bade him come up thtf
steps likewise ; but the drum proving
an inconvenient table for two, they de-
scended again and sat upon the grass,
where she handed down to them the tea-
tray, the bread and butter, the knuckle
of ham, and in short everything of which
she had partaken herself, except the bot-
tle, which she had already embraced
an opportunity of slipping into her
pocket.
“ Set ’em out near the hind wheels,
child ; that’s the best place,” said their
friend, superintending the arrangements
from above. “ Now hand up the tea-
pot for a little more hot water and a
pinch of fresh tea, and then both of you
eat and drink as much as you can, and
don’t spare anything ; that ’s all I ask
of you.”
They might perhaps have carried out
the lady’s wish, if it had been less
freely expressed, or even if it had not
been expressed at all. But as this di-
rection relieved them from any shadow
of delicacy or uneasiness, they made
a hearty meal and enjoyed it to the
utmost.
While they were thus engaged, the
lady of the caravan alighted on the
earth, and with her hands clasped
behind her, and her large bonnet trem-
bling excessively, walked up and down
in a measured tread and very stately
manner, surveying the caravan from time
to time with an air of calm delight, and
deriving particular gratification from the
red panels and the brass knocker. When
she had taken this gentle exercise for
some time, she sat down upon the steps
and called “ George ” ; whereupon a
man in a carter’s frock, who had been
so shrouded in a hedge up to this time
as to see everything that passed, without
being seen himself, parted the twigs
that concealed him, and appeared in a
sitting attitude, supporting on his legs
a baking-dish and a half-gallon stone
bottle, and bearing in his right hand a
knife, and in his left a fork.
“Yes, missus,” said George.
“ How did you find the cold pie,
George ? ”
“ It warn’t amiss, mum.”
“ And the beer ? ” said the lady of the
caravan, with an appearance of being
THE OLD CURIOSITY SHOP.
121
more interested in this question than
the last ; “ is it passable, George ? ”
“It’s more flatterer than it might
be,” George returned ; “but it ain’t so
bad for all that.”
To set fhe mind of his mistress at
rest, he took a sip (amounting in quan-
tity to a pint or thereabouts) from the
stone bottle, and then smacked his lips,
winked his eye, and nodded his head.
No doubt with the same amiable desire,
he immediately resumed his knife and
fork, as a practical assurance that the
beer had wrought no bad effect upon
his appetite.
The lady of the caravan looked on
approvingly for some time, and then
said, —
“ Have you nearly finished? ”
“Wery nigh, mum.” And indeed,
after scraping the dish all round with
his knife, and carrying the choice brown
morsels to his mouth, and after taking
such a scientific pull at the stone bottle
that, by degrees almost imperceptible
to the sight, his head went farther and
farther back until he lay nearly at his
full length upon the ground, this gen-
tleman declared himself quite disen-
gaged, and came forth from his re-
treat.
“ I hope I have n’t hurried you,
George,” said his mistress, who ap-
eared to have a great sympathy with
is late pursuit.
“ If you have,” returned the follower,
wisely reserving himself for any favora-
ble contingency that might occur, “we
must make up for it next time, that’s
all.”
“We are not a heavy load, George ? ”
“ That ’s always what the ladies say,”
replied the man, looking a long way
round, as if he were appealing to nature
in general against such monstrous prop-
ositions. “ If. you see a woman a driv-
ing, you ’ll always perceive that she
never will keep her whip still ; the horse
can’t go fast enough for her. If cattle
have got their proper load, you never
can persuade a woman that they ’ll not
bear something more. What is the
cause of this here ! ”
“ Would these two travellers make
much difference to the horses, if we
took them with us ? ” asked his mis-
tress, offering no reply to the philosoph-
ical inquiry, and pointing to Nell and
the old man, who were painfully pre-
paring to resume their journey on foot.
“They ’d make a difference in course,”
said George, doggedly.
“ Would they make much difference?”
repeated his mistress. “ They can’t be
very heavy.”
“ The weight o’ the pair, mum,” said
George, eying them with the look of a
man who was calculating within half an
ounce or so, “would be a trifle under
that of Oliver Cromwell.”
Nell was very much surprised that
the man should be so accurately ac-
quainted with the weight of one whom
she had read of in books as having
lived considerably before their time,
but speedily forgot the subject in the joy
of hearing that they were to go forward
in the caravan, for which she thanked
its lady with unaffected earnestness.
She helped with great readiness and
alacrity to put away the tea things and
other matters that were lying about,
and, the horses being by that time har-
nessed, mounted into the vehicle, fol-
lowed by her delighted grandfather.
Their patroness then shut the door and
sat herself down by her drum at an open
window ; and, the steps being struck by
George and stowed under the carriage,
away they went, with a great noise of
flapping and creaking and straining ;
and the bright brass knocker, which
nobody ever knocked at, knocking one
perpetual double-knock of its own ac-
cord as they jolted heavily along.
CHAPTER XXVII.
When they had travelled slowly for-
ward for some short distance, Nell ven-
tured to steal a look round the cara-
van and observe it more closely. One
half of it — that moiety in which the
comfortable proprietress was then seat-
ed — was carpeted, and so partitioned
off at the farther end as to accom-
modate a sleeping-place, constructed
after the fashion of a berth on board
ship, which was shaded, like the little
windows, with fair white curtains, and
122
THE OLD CURIOSITY SHOP.
looked comfortable enough, though by
what kind of gymnastic exercise the
lady of the caravan ever contrived to get
into it, was an unfathomable mystery.
The other half served for a kitchen,
and was fitted up with a stove whose
small chimney passed through the roof.
It held also a closet or larder, several
chests, a great pitcher of water, and a
few cooking utensils and articles of
crockery. These latter necessaries hung
upon the wails, which, in that portion
of the establishment devoted to the lady
of the caravan, were ornamented with
such gayer and lighter decorations as a
triangle and a couple of well-thumbed
tambourines.
The lady of the caravan sat at one
window in all the pride and poetry "of
the musical instruments, and little Nell
and her grandfather sat at the other in
all the humility of the kettle and sauce-
pans, while the machine jogged on
and shifted the darkening prospect very
slowly. At first the two travellers spoke
little, and only in whispers ; but as they
grew more familiar with the place, they
ventured to converse with greater free-
dom, and talked about the country
through which they were passing, and
the different objects that presented
themselves, until the old man fell
asleep; which the lady of the caravan
observing, invited Nell to come and
sit beside her.
“Well, child,” she said, “how do
you like this way of travelling?”
Nell replied that she thought it was
vecy pleasant indeed, to which the lady
assented in the case of people who
had their spirits. For herself, she said,
she was troubled with. a lowness in
that respect which required a constant
stimulant ; though whether the aforesaid
stimulant was derived from the suspi-
cious bottle of which mention has been
already made, or from other sources,
she did not say.
“That’s the happiness of you young
people,” she continued. “ You don’t
know what it is to be low in your feel-
ings. You always have your appetites
too, and what a comfort that is.”
Nell thought that she could some-
times dispense with her own appetite
very conveniently ; and thought, more-
over, that there was nothing, either in
the lady’s personal appearance or in her
manner of taking tea, to lead to the
conclusion that her natural relish for
meat and drink had at all failed her.
She silently assented, however, as in
duty bound, to what the lady had said,
and waited until she should speak
again.
Instead of speaking, however, she sat
looking at the child for a long time in
silence, and then, getting up, brought
out from a corner a large roll of can-
vas about a yard in width, which she
laid upon the floor and spread open
with her foot until it nearly reached from
one end of the caravan to the other.
“There, child,” she said, “ read that.”
Nell walked down it, and read aloud,
in enormous black letters, the inscrip-
tion, “ Jarley’s Wax-Work.”
“ Read it again,” said the lady, com-
placently.
‘ ‘ J arley ’s W ax- W ork, ’ ’ repeated N ell.
“ That ’s me,” said the lady. “ I am
Mrs. J arley.”
Giving the child an encouraging look,
intended to reassure her and let her
know, that, although she stood in the
presence of the original Jarley, she
must not allow herself to be utterly
overwhelmed and borne down, the lady
of the caravan unfolded another scroll,
whereon was the inscription, “ One
hundred figures the full size of life ” ;
and then another scroll, on which was
written. “The only stupendous collec-
tion of real wax- work in the world”;
and then several smaller scrolls with
such inscriptions as, “Now exhibiting
within” — “The genuine and only
Jarley” — “Jarley’s unrivalled collec-
tion” — “Jarley is the delight of the
Nobility and Gentry” — “The Royal
Family are the patrons of Jarley.”
When she had exhibited these levia-
thans of public announcement to the
astonished child, she brought forth
specimens of the lesser fry, in the
shape of handbills, some of which were
couched in the form of parodies on
popular melodies, as “Believe me if
all Jarley’s wax-work so rare” — “I
saw thy show in youthful prime” —
“Over the water to Jarley”; while,
to consult all tastes, others were com-
THE OLD CURIOSITY SHOP.
123
posed with a view to the lighter and
more facetious spirits, as a parody on
the favorite air of “ If I* had a don-
key,” beginning,
“ If I know’d a donkey wot would n’t go
To see Mrs. Jarley’s wax-work show,
Do you think I ’d acknowledge him ?
O no, no !
Then run to Jarley’s — ”
besides several compositions in prose,
purporting to be dialogues between the
Emperor of China and an oyster, or the
Archbishop of Canterbury and a dissen-
ter on the subject of church-rates, but
all having the same moral, namely, that
the reader must make haste to Jarley’s,
and that children and servants were
admitted at half-price. When she had
brought all these testimonials of her
important position in society to bear
upon her young companion, Mrs. Jar-
ley rolled them up, and, having put
them carefully away, sat down again,
and looked at the child in triumph.
“ Never go into the company of a
filthy Punch any more,” said Mrs. Jar-
ley, “after this.”
“ I never saw any wax-work, ma’am,”
said Nell. “ Is it funnier than Punch? ”
“Funnier!” said Mrs. Jarley, in a
shrill voice. “ It is not funny at
all.”
“O,” said Nell, with all possible hu-
mility.
“ It isn’t funny at all,” repeated
Mrs. Jarley. “ Its calm and — what’s
that word again — critical ? — no —
classical, that ’s it, — it ’s calm and
classical. No low beatings and knock-
ings about, no jokings and squeakings
like your precious Punches, but always
the same, with a constantly unchang-
ing air of coldness and gentility; and
so like life, that if wax-work only spoke
and walked about, you’d hardly know
the difference. I won’t go so far as to
say, that, as it is, I ’ve seen wax-work
quite like life, but I ’ve certainly seen
some life that was exactly like wax-
work.” _
“Is it here, ma’am?” asked Nell,
whose curiosity was awakened by this
description.
“ Is what here, child?”
“ The wax-work, ma’am.”
“ Why, bless you, child, what are
you thinking of? How could such a
collection be here, where you see every-
thing except the inside of one little cup-
board and a few boxes? It’s gone on
in the other wans to the assembly-
rooms, and there it ’ll be exhibited the
day after to-morrow. You are going to
the same town, and you ’ll see it I dare
say. It’s natural to expect that you ’ll
see it, and I ’ve no doubt you will. I
suppose you could n’t stop away if you
was to try ever so much.”
“ I shall not be in the town, I think,
ma’am,” said the child.
“Not there ! ” cried Mrs. Jarley.
“Then where will you be?”
“I — I — don’t quite know. I am
not certain.”
“ You don’t mean to say that you ’re
travelling about the country without
knowing where you ’re going to? ” said
the lady of the caravan. “What curi-
ous people you are ! What line are
you in ? You looked to me at the
races, child, as if you were quite out
of your element, and had got there by
accident.”
“We were there quite by accident,”
returned Nell, confused by this abrupt
questioning. “We are poor people,
ma’am, and are only wandering about.
W e have nothing to do, — I wish we
had.”
“ You amaze me more and more,”
said Mrs. Jarley, after remaining for
some time as mute as one of her own
figures. “ Why, what do you call your-
selves ? Not beggars ? ”
“ Indeed, ma’am, I don’t know what
else we are,” returned the child.
“Lord bless me,” said the lady of
the caravan. “ I never heard of such a
thing. Who’d have thought it ! ”
She remained so long silent after this
.exclamation, that Nell feared she felt
her having been induced to bestow her
protection and conversation upon one
so poor, to be an outrage upon her dig-
nity that nothing could repair. This
persuasion was rather confirmed than
otherwise by the tone in which she at
length broke silence and said, —
“And yet you can read. And write
too, I should n’t wonder ? ”
“Yes, ma’am,” said the child, fearful
of giving new offence by the confession.
24
THE OLD CURIOSITY SHOP.
“Well, and what a thing that is,”
returned Mrs. Jarley. “ / can’t ! ”
Nell said “ Indeed,” in a tone which
might imply, either that she was rea-
sonably surprised to find the genuine
and only Jarley, who was the delight of
the Nobility and Gentry and the pecu-
liar pet of the Royal Family, destitute
of these familiar arts ; or that she pre-
sumed so great a lady could scarcely
stand in need of such ordinary accom-
plishments. In whatever way Mrs.
Jarley received the response, it did not
provoke her to further questioning, or
tempt her into any more remarks at the
time, for she relapsed into a thoughtful
silence, and remained in that state so
long that Nell withdrew to the other
window and rejoined her grandfather,
who was now awake.
At length the lady of the caravan
shook off her fit of meditation, and,
summoning the driver to come under
the window at which she was seated,
held a long conversation with him in a
low tone of voice, as if she were asking
his advice on an important point, and
discussing the pros and cons of some
very weighty matter. This conference
at length concluded, she drew in her
head again, and beckoned Nell to ap-
proach.
“And the old gentleman too,” said
Mrs. Jarley; “for I want to have a
word with him. Do you want a
good situation for your granddaughter,
master? If you do, I can put her in
the way of getting one. What do you
say? ”
“ I can’t leave her,” answered the
old man. “We can’t separate. What
would become of me without her?”
“ I should have thought you were
old enough to take care of yourself, if
you ever will be,” retorted Mrs. Jarley,
sharply.
“ But he never will be,” said the
child, in an earnest whisper. “ I fear
he never will be again. Pray do not
speak harshly to him. We are very
thankful to you,” she added aloud ;
“ but neither of us could part from the
other, if all the wealth of the world were
halved between us.”
Mrs. Jarley was a little disconcerted
by this reception of her proposal, and
looked at the old man, who tenderly
took Nell’s hand and detained it in his
own, as if she could have very well dis-
pensed with his company or even his
earthly existence. After an awkward
pause, she thrust her head out of the
window again, and had another confer-
ence with the driver upon some point
on which they did not seem to agree
quite so readily as on their former topic
of discussion ; but they concluded at last,
and she addressed the grandfather again.
“ If you’re really disposed to employ
yourself,” said Mrs. Jarley, “there
would be plenty for you to do in the
way of helping to dust the figures, and
take the checks, and so forth. What I
want your granddaughter for, is to point
’em out to the company ; they would be
soon learnt, and she has a way with her
that people wouldn’t think unpleasant,
though she does come after me ; for
I ’ve been always accustomed to go
round with visitors myself, which I
should keep on doing now, only that
my spirits make a little ease absolutely
necessary. It ’s not a common offer,
bear in mind,” said the lad)', rising into
the tone and manner in which she was
accustomed to address her audiences :
“ it ’s Jarley’s wax-work, remember.
The duty ’s very light and genteel, the
company particular select, the exhibi-
tion takes place in assembly-rooms,
town halls, large rooms at inns, or auc-
tion galleries. There is none of your
open-air wagrancy at Jarley’s, recollect ;
there is no tarpaulin and sawdust at
Jarley’s, remember. Every expectation
held out in the handbills is realized to
the utmost,, and the whole forms an
effect of imposing brilliancy hitherto
unrivalled in this kingdom. Remember
that the price of admission is only six-
pence, and that this is an opportunity
which may never occur again ! ”
Descending from the sublime, when
she had reached this point, to the de-
tails of common life, Mrs. Jarley re-
marked that, with reference to salary,
she could pledge herself to no specific
sum until she had sufficiently tested
Nell’s abilities, and narrowly watched
her in the performance of her duties.
But board and lodging, both for her
and her grandfather, she bound herself
THE OLD CURIOSITY SHOP.
to provide, and she furthermore passed
her word that the board should always
be good in quality, and in quantity plen-
tiful.
Nell and her grandfather consulted
together, and while they were so en-
gaged Mrs. Jarley with her hands be-
hind her walked up and down the cara-
van, as she had walked after tea on the
dull earth, with uncommon dignity and
self-esteem. Nor will this appear so
slight a circumstance as to be unworthy
of mention, when it is remembered that
the caravan was in uneasy motion all
the time, and that none but a person of
great natural stateliness and acquired
grace could have forborne to stagger.
“ Now, child,” cried Mrs. Jarley,
coming to a halt as Nell turned towards
her.
“We are very much obliged to you,
ma’am,” said Nell, “and thankfully
accept your offer.”
“And you’ll never be sorry for it,”
returned Mrs. Jarley. “ I ’m pretty sure
of that. So, as that ’s all settled, let us
have a bit of supper.”
In the mean while, the caravan blun-
dered on as if it, too, had been drinking
strong beer and was drowsy, and came
at last upon the paved streets of a town
which were clear of passengers, and
quiet, for it was by this time near mid-
night, and the townspeople were all
abed. As it was too late an hour to re-
pair to the exhibition-room, they turned
aside into a piece of waste ground that
lay just within the old town gate, and
drew up there for the night, near to an-
other caravan, which, notwithstanding
that it bore on the lawful panel the
great name of Jarley, and was employed
besides in conveying from place to place
the wax-work which was its country’s
pride, was designated by a grovelling
stamp-office as a “ Common Stage
Wagon” and numbered too — seven
thousand odd hundred — as though its
precious freight were mere flour or
coals !
This ill-used machine being empty
(for it had deposited its burden at the
place of exhibition, and lingered here
until its services were again required)
was assigned to the old man as his
sleeping-place for the night ; and with-
125
in its wooden walls Nell made him up
the best bed she could from the mate-
rials at hand. For herself, she was to
sleep in Mrs. Jarley ’s own travelling-
carriage, as a signal mark of that lady’s
favor and confidence.
She had taken leave of her grand-
father and was returning to the other
wagon, when she was tempted by the
pleasant coolness of the night to linger
for a little while in the air. The moon
was shining down upon the old gate-
way of the town, leaving the low arch-
way very black and dark ; and with a
mingled sensation of curiosity and fear,
she slowly approached the gate, and
stood still to look up at it, wondering to
see how dark and grim and old and
cold it looked.
There was an empty niche from which
some old statue had fallen or been car-
ried away hundreds of years ago, and
she was thinking what strange people it
must have looked down upon when it
stood there, and how many hard strug-
gles might have taken place, and how
many murders might have been done,
upon that silent spot, when there sud-
denly emerged from the black shade
of the arch a man. The instant he
appeared she recognized him. Who
could have failed to recognize, in that
instant, the ugly, misshapen Quilp !
The street beyond was so narrow,
and the shadow of the houses on one
side of the way so deep, that he seemed
to have risen out of the earth. But
there he was. The child withdrew into
a dark corner, and saw him pass close
to her. He had a stick in his hand, and
when he. had got clear of the shadow of
the gateway, he leant upon it, looked
back — directly, as it seemed, towards
where she stood — and beckoned.
To her? O no, thank God, not to
her ; for as she stood, in an extremity
of fear, hesitating whether to scream for
help, or come from her hiding-place and
fly, before he should draw nearer, there
issued slowly forth from the arch an-
other figure, — that of a boy, — who car-
ried on his back a trunk.
“ Faster, sirrah ! ” said Quilp, look-
ing up at the old gateway, and showing
in the moonlight like some monstrous
image that had come down from its
126
THE OLD CURIOSITY SHOP.
niche and was casting a backward
glance at its old house, — “ faster ! ”
“It’s a dreadful heavy load, sir,”
the boy pleaded. “ I ’ve come on very
fast, considering.”
“ You have come fast, considering ! ”
retorted Quilp. “ You creep, you dog ;
you crawl, you measure distance like a
worm. There are the chimes now, —
half past twelve.”
He stopped to listen, and then, turn-
ing upon the boy with a suddenness
and ferocity that made him start, asked
at what hour that London coach passed
the corner of the road. The boy re-
plied, at one.
“Come on, then,” said Quilp, “or I
shall be too late. Faster, — do you hear
me? Faster.”
The boy made all the speed he could,
and Quilp led onward, constantly turn-
ing back to threaten him, and urge him
to greater haste. Nell did not dare to
move until they were out of sight and
hearing, and then hurried to where she
had left her grandfather, feeling as if
the very passing of the dwarf so near
him must have filled him with alarm
and terror. But he was sleeping sound-
ly, and she softly withdrew.
As she was making her way to her
own bed, she determined to say nothing
of this adventure, as, upon whatever
errand the dwarf had come (and she
feared it must have been in search of
them), it was clear by his inquiry about
the London coach that he was on his
way homeward, and as he had passed
through that place, it was but reasona-
ble to suppose that they were safer from
his inquiries there than they could be
elsewhere. These reflections did not re-
move her own alarm ; for she had been
too much terrified to be easily com-
posed, and felt as if she were hemmed
in by a legion of Quilps, and the very
air itself were filled with them.
The delight of the Nobility and Gen-
try and the patronized of Royalty had,
by some process of self-abridgment
known only to herself, got into her
travelling bed, where she was snoring
peacefully, while the large bonnet,
carefully disposed upon the drum, was
revealing its glories by the light of a
dim lamp that swung from the roof.
The child’s bed was already made upon
the floor, and it was a great comfort to
her to hear the steps removed as soon
as she had entered, and to know that
all easy communication between per-
sons outside and the brass knocker was
by this means effectually prevented.
Certain guttural sounds, too, which
from time to time ascended through the
floor of the caravan, and a rustling of
straw in the same direction, apprised
her that the driver was couched upon
the ground beneath, and gave her an
additional feeling of security.
Notwithstanding these protections,
she could get none but broken sleep
by fits and starts all night, for fear
of Quilp, who throughout her uneasy
dreams was somehow connected with
the wax-work, or was wax-work him-
self, or was Mrs. Jarley and wax- work
too, or was himself, Mrs. Jarley, wax-
work, and a barrel-organ all in one, and
yet not exactly any of them, either. At
length, towards break of day, that deep
sleep came upon her which succeeds to
weariness and over-w r atching, and which
has no consciousness but one of over-
powering and irresistible enjoyment.
CHAPTER XXVIII.
Sleep hung upon the eyelids of the
child so long that, when she awoke,
Mrs. Jarley was already decorated with
her large bonnet, and actively engaged
in preparing breakfast. She received
Nell’s apology for being so late with
perfect good-humor, and said that she
should not have roused her if she had
slept on until noon.
“ Because it does you good,” said
the lady of the caravan, “ when you ’re
tired, to sleep as long as ever you can,
and get the fatigue quite off ; and that ’s
another blessing of your time of life, —
you can sleep so very sound.”
“ Have you had a bad night, ma’am?”
asked Nell.
“ I seldom have anything else, child,”
replied Mrs. Jarley, with the air of a
martyr. “I sometimes wonder how I
bear it.”
Remembering the snores which had
THE OLD CURIOSITY SHOP.
127
proceeded from that cleft in the caravan
in which the proprietress of the wax-
work passed the night, Nell rather
thought she must have been dreaming
of lying awake. However, she ex-
pressed herself very sorry to hear such
a dismal account of her state of health,
and shortly afterwards sat down with
her grandfather and Mrs. Jarley to
breakfast. The meal finished, Nell
assisted to wash the cups and saucers,
and put them in their proper places ;
and, these household duties performed,
Mrs. Jarley arrayed herself in an ex-
ceedingly bright shawl for the purpose
of making a progress through the streets
of the town.
“ The wan will come on to bring the
boxes,” said Mrs. Jarley, “and you
had better come in it, child. I am
obliged to walk, very much against my
will ; but the people expect it of me, and
public characters can’t be their own mas-
ters and mistresses in such matters as
these. How do I look, child?”
Nell returned a satisfactory reply,
and Mrs. Jarley, after sticking a great
many pins into various parts of her
figure, and making several abortive at-
tempts to obtain a full view of her own
back, was at last satisfied with her ap-
pearance, and went forth majestically.
The caravan followed at no great dis-
tance. As it went jolting through the
streets, Nell peeped from the window,
curious to see in what kind of place they
were, and yet fearful of encountering at
every turn the dreaded face of Quilp.
It was a pretty large town, with an open
square, which they were crawling slowly
across, and in the middle of which was
the Town Hall, with a clock-tower and
a weathercock. There were houses
of stone, houses of red brick, houses
of yellow brick, houses of lath and
plaster ; and houses of wood, many
of them very old, with withered faces
carved upon the beams, and staring down
into the street. These had very little
winking windows, and low-arched doors,
and, in some of the narrower ways,
quite overhung the pavement. The
streets were very clean, very sunny, very
empty, and very dull. A few idle men
lounged about the two inns and the
empty market-place and the trades- I
men’s doors, and some old people were
dozing in chairs outside an almshouse
wall ; but scarcely any passengers who
seemed bent on going anywhere, or to
have any object in view, went by ; and
if perchance some straggler did, his
footsteps echoed on the hot bright pave-
ment for minutes afterwards. Nothing
seemed to be going on but the clocks,
and they had such drowsy faces, such
heavy lazy hands, and such cracked
voices, that they surely must have
been too slow. The very dogs were all
asleep, and the flies, drunk with moist
sugar in the grocer’s shop, forgot their
wings and briskness, and baked to death
in dusty corners of the window.
Rumbling along with most unwonted
noise, the caravan stopped at last at
the place of exhibition, where Nell dis-
mounted amidst an admiring group
of children, who evidently supposed
her to be an important item of the
curiosities, and were fully impressed
with the belief that her grandfather
was a cunning device in wax. The
chests were taken out with all conven-
ient despatch, and taken in to be un-
locked by Mrs. Jarley, who, attended by
George and another man in velveteen
shorts and a drab hat ornamented with
turnpike tickets, were waiting to dispose
their contents (consisting of red fes-
toons and other ornamental devices in
upholstery work) to the best advantage
in the decoration of the room.
They all got to work without loss of
time, and very busy they were. As the
stupendous collection were yet con-
cealed by cloths, lest the envious dust
should injure their complexions, Nell
bestirred herself to assist in the em-
bellishment of the room, in which her
grandfather also was of great service.
The two men, being well used to it, did
a great deal in a short time ; and Mrs.
Jarley served out the tin tacks from a
linen pocket, like a toll-collector’s, which
she wore for the purpose, and encour-
aged her assistants to renewed exertion.
While -they were thus employed, a
tallish gentleman with a hook nose and
black hair, dressed in a military surtout
very short and tight in the sleeves, and
which had once been frogged and braid-
ed all over, but was now sadly shorn of
128
THE OLD CURIOSITY SHOP.
its garniture and quite threadbare, —
dressed too in ancient gray pantaloons
fitting tight to the leg, and a pair of
pumps in the winter of their existence,
— looked in at the door, and smiled
affably. Mrs. Jarley’s back being then
towards him, the military gentleman
shook his forefinger as a sign that her
myrmidons w r ere not to apprise her
of his presence, and, stealing up close
behind her, tapped her on the neck,
and cried playfully, “ Boh ! ”
“ What, Mr. Slum ! ” cried the lady
of the wax-work. “ Lor ! who ’d have
thought of seeing you here ! ”
“’Pon my soul and honor,” said Mr.
Slum, “that’s a good remark. ’Pon
my soul and honor, that ’s a wise remark.
Who would have thought it ! George,
my faithful feller, how are you ? ”
George received this advance with a
surly indifference, observing that he was
well enough for the matter of that, and
hammering lustily all the time.
“ I came here,” said the military gen-
tleman, turning to Mrs. Jarley, — “ ’pon
my soul and honor, I hardly know what
I came here for. It would puzzle me
to tell you, it would by Gad. I wanted
a little inspiration, a little freshening
up, a little change of ideas, and —
’Pon my soul and honor,” said the
military gentleman, checking himself
and looking round the room, “what a
devilish classical thing this is ! By
Gad, it’s quite Minervian!”
“It’ll look well enough when it
comes to be finished,” observed Mrs.
Jarley.
“ Well enough ! ” said Mr. Slum.
“ Will you believe me when I say it’s
the delight of my life to have dabbled
in poetry, when I think I ’ve exercised
my pen upon this charming theme?
By the way — any orders? Is there
any little thing I can do for you ? ”
“ It comes so very expensive, sir,”
replied Mrs. Jarley, “ and I really don’t
think it does much good.”
“ Hush ! No, no ! ” returned Mr.
Slum, elevating his hand. “.No fibs,
I ’ll not hear it. Don’t say it don’t do
good. Don’t say it. I know better ! ”
“I don’t think it does,” said Mrs.
Jarley.
“ Ha, ha ! ” cried Mr. Slum, “you ’re
giving way, you ’re coming down. Ask
the perfumers, ask the blacking-makers,
ask the hatters, ask the old lottery-
office keepers, — ask any man among
’em what my poetry has done for him,
and, mark my words, he blesses the
name of Slum. If he ’s an honest man,
he raises his eyes to heaven, and blesses
the name of Slum, — mark that ! You
are acquainted with Westminster Ab-
bey, Mrs. Jarley?”
“ Yes, surely.”
“Then, upon my soul and honor,
ma’am, you ’ll find in a certain angle of
that dreary pile, called Poet’s Corner,
a few smaller names than Slum,” re-
torted that gentleman, tapping himself
expressively on the forehead to imply
that there was some slight quantity of
brains behind it. “I’ve got a little
trifle here, now,” said Mr. Slum, taking
off his hat w'hich was full of scraps of
paper, — a little trifle here, thrown off in
the heat of the moment, which I should
say was exactly the thing you wanted to
set this place on fire with. It’s an acros-
tic, — the name at this moment is W’ar-
ren, but the idea’s a convertible one,
and a positive inspiration for Jarley.
Have the acrostic?”
“ I suppose it ’s very dear,” said Mrs.
Jarley.
“Five shillings,” returned Mr. Slum,
using his pencil as a toothpick.
“ Cheaper than any prose.”
“ I couldn’t give more than three,”
said Mrs. Jarley.
“ — And six,” retorted Slum. “Come.
Three and six.”
Mrs. Jarley was not proof against
the poet’s insinuating manner, and Mr.
Slum entered the order in a small note-
book as a three-and-sixpenny one. Mr.
Slum then withdrew to alter the acros-
tic, after taking a most affectionate
leave of his patroness, and promising to
return, as soon as he possibly could,
with a fair copy for the printer.
As his presence had not interfered
with or interrupted the preparations,
they were now far advanced, and were
completed shortly after his departure.
When the festoons were all put up as
tastily as they "might be, the stupendous
collection was uncovered, and therq
were displayed, on a raised platform
me library
OF TtiF
Mimwr Bf mmols
THE OLD CURIOSITY SHOP.
129
some two feet from the floor, running
round the room and parted from the
rude public by a crimson rope breast
high, divers sprightly effigies of cele-
brated characters, singly and in groups,
clad in glittering dresses of various
climes and times, and standing more
or less unsteadily upon their legs, with
their eyes very wide open, and their
nostrils very much inflated, and the
muscles of their legs and arms very
strongly developed, and all their coun-
tenances expressing great surprise. All
the gentlemen were very pigeon-breast-
ed and very blue about the beards ; and
all the ladies were miraculous figures ;
and all the ladies and all the gentlemen
were looking intensely nowhere, and
staring with extraordinary earnestness
at nothing.
When Nell had exhausted her first
raptures at this glorious sight, Mrs.
Jarley ordered the room to be cleared
of all but herself and the child, and,
sitting herself down in an arm-chair
in the centre, formally invested Nell
with a willow wand, long used by her-
self for pointing out the characters, and
was at great pains to instruct her in her
duty.
“That,” said Mrs. Jarley in her ex-
hibition tone, as Nell touched a figure
at the beginning of the platform, “is an
unfortunate Maid of Honor, in the Time
of Queen Elizabeth, who died from
pricking her finger in consequence of
working upon a Sunday. Observe the
blood which is trickling from her finger ;
also the gold-eyed needle of the period,
with which she is at work.”
All this Nell repeated twice or thrice,
pointing to the finger and the needle at
the right times ; and then passed on to
the next.
“That, ladies and gentlemen,” said
Mrs. Jarley, “is Jasper Packlemerton
of atrocious memory, who courted and
married fourteen wives, and destroyed
them all by tickling the soles of their
feet when they were sleeping in the con-
sciousness of innocence and virtue. On
being brought to the scaffold and asked
if he was sorry for what he had done,
he replied, yes, he was sorry for having
let ’em off so easy, and hoped all Chris-
tian husbands would pardon him the
offence. Let this be a warning, to all
young ladies to be particular in the
character of the gentlemen of their
choice. Observe that his fingers are
curled as if in the act of tickling, and
that his face is represented with a wink,
as he appeared when committing his
barbarous murders.”
When Nell knew all about Mr. Pack-
lemerton, and could say it without falter-
ing, Mrs. Jarley passed on to the fat man,
and then to the thin man, the tall man,
the short man, the old lady who died of
dancing at a hundred and thirty-two, the
wild boy of the woods, the woman who
poisoned fourteen families with pickled
walnuts, and other historical characters
and interesting but misguided individ-
uals. And so well did Nell profit by
her instructions, and so apt was she to
remember them, that by the time they
had been shut up together for a couple
of hours, she was in full possession of
the history of the whole establishment,
and perfectly competent to the enlight-
enment of visitors.
M rs. J arley was not slow to express her
admiration at this happy result, and car-
ried her young friend and pupil to inspect
the remaining arrangements within doors,
by virtue of which the passage had been
already converted into a grove of green
baize, hung with the inscriptions she had
already seen (Mr. Slum’s productions),
and a highly ornamented table placed at
the upper end for Mrs. Jarley herself, at
which she was to preside and take the
money, in company with his Majesty
King George the Third, Mr. Grimaldi
as clown, Mary Queen of Scotts, an
anonymous gentleman of the Quaker
ersuasion, and Mr. Pitt holding in his
and a correct model of the bill for the
imposition of the window duty. The
preparations without doors had not
been neglected either : a nun of great
personal attractions was telling her
beads on the little portico over the
door ; and a brigand with the blackest
possible head of hair, and the clearest
possible complexion, was at that mo-
ment going round the town in a cart,
consulting the miniature of a lady.
It now only remained that Mr. Slum’s
compositions should be judiciously dis-
tributed ; that the pathetic effusions
9
i 3 o
THE OLD CURIOSITY SHOP.
should find their way to all private
houses and tradespeople ; and that the
parody commencing, “ If I know’d a
donkey,” should be confined to the
taverns, and circulated only among the
lawyers’ clerks and choice spirits of
the place. When this had been done,
and Mrs. Jarley had waited upon the
boarding-schools in person, with a
handbill composed expressly for them,
in which it was distinctly proved that
wax-work refined the mind, cultivated
the taste, and enlarged the sphere of
the human understanding, that inde-
fatigable lady sat down to dinner, and
drank out of the suspicious bottle to a
flourishing campaign.
CHAPTER XXIX.
Unquestionably Mrs. Jarley had
an inventive genius. In the midst of
the various devices for attracting visitors
to the exhibition, little Nell was not
forgotten. The light cart in which the
brigand usually made his perambula-
tions being gayly dressed with flags
and streamers, and the brigand placed
therein, contemplating the miniature of
his beloved as usual, Nell was accom-
modated with a seat beside him, deco-
rated with artificial flowers, and in this
state and ceremony rode slowly through
the town every morning, dispersing
handbills from a basket, to the sound
of drum and trumpet. The beauty of
the child, coupled with her gentle and
timid bearing, produced quite a sensa-
tion in the little country place. The
brigand, heretofore a source of exclu-
sive interest in the streets, became a
mere secondary consideration, and to
be important only as a part of the show
of which she was the chief attraction.
Grown-up folks began to be interested
in the bright-eyed girl, and some score
of little boys fell desperately in love,
and constantly left enclosures of nuts
and apples, directed in small-text, at
the wax-work door.
This desirable impression was not
lost on Mrs. Jarley, who, lest Nell
should become too cheap, soon sent the
brigand out alone again, and kept her
in the exhibition-room, where she de-
scribed the figures every half-hour to
the great satisfaction of admiring audi-
ences. And these audiences were of
a very superior description, including
a great many young ladies’ boarding-
schools, whose favor Mrs. Jarley had
been at great pains to conciliate, by
altering the face and costume of Mr.
Grimaldi, as clown, to represent Mr.
Lindley Murray as he appeared when
engaged in the composition of his Eng-
lish Grammar, and turning a murderess
of great renown into Mrs. Hannah
More, — both of which likenesses were
admitted by Miss Monflathers, who was
at the head of the head Boarding and
Day Establishment in the town, and
who condescended to take a Private
View with eight chosen young ladies,
to be quite startling from their extreme
correctness. Mr. Pitt in a nightcap and
bedgown, and without his boots, repre-
sented the poet Cowper with perfect ex-
actness : and Mary Queen of Scots in a
dark wig, white shirt-collar, and male at-
tire, was such a complete image of Lord
Byron that the young ladies quite
screamed when they saw it. Miss Mon-
flathers, however, rebuked this enthusi-
asm, and took occasion to reprove Mrs.
Jarley for not keeping her collection
more select ; observing that his Lord-
ship had held certain opinions quite in-
compatible with wax-work honors, and
adding something about a Dean and
Chapter, which Mrs. Jarley did not
understand.
Although her duties were sufficiently
laborious, Nell found in the lady of the
caravan a very kind and considerate
person, who had not only a peculiar
relish for being comfortable herself, but
for making everybody about her com-
fortable also ; which latter taste, it may
be remarked, is, even in persons who
live in much finer places than caravans,
a far more rare and uncommon one than
the first, and is not by any means its
necessary consequence. As her popu-
larity procured her various little fees
from the visitors, on which her patroness
never demanded any toll, and as her
grandfather too was well treated and
useful, she had no cause of anxiety in
connection with the wax-work, beyond
THE OLD CURIOSITY SHOP.
that which sprung from her recollection
of Quilp, and her fears that he might
return and one day suddenly encounter »
them.
Quilp, indeed, was a perpetual night-
mare to the child, who was constantly
haunted by a vision of his ugly face and
stunted figure. She slept, for their
better security, in the room where the
wax-figures were, and she never retired
to this place at night but she tortured
herself — she could not help it — with
imagining a resemblance, in some one
or other of their death-like faces, to the
dwarf, and this fancy would sometimes
so gain upon her that she would almost
believe he had removed the figure and
stood within the clothes. Then there
were so many of them with their great
glassy eyes ; and, as they stood one
behind the other all about her bed, they
looked so like living creatures, and yet so
unlike in their grim stillness and silence,
that she had a kind of terror of them
for their own sakes, and would often lie
watching their dusky figures until she
was obliged to rise and light a candle,
or go and sit at the open window and
feel a companionship in the bright stars.
At these times she would recall the old
house and the window at which she
used to sit alone ; and then she would
think of poor Kit and all his kindness,
until the tears came into her eyes, and
she would weep and smile together
Often and anxiously, at this silent
hour, her thoughts reverted to her
grandfather, and she would winder
how much he remembered of their
former life, and whether he was ever
really mindful of the change in their
condition, apd of their late helplessness
and destitution. When they were wan-
dering about, she seldom thought of
this, but now she could not help con-
sidering what would become of them if
he fell sick, or her own strength were to
fail her. He was very patient and will-
ing, happy to execute any little task,
and glad to be of use ; but he was in
the same listless state, with no prospect
of improvement, — a mere child, — a
oor, thoughtless, vacant creature, — a
armless, fond old man, susceptible of
tender love and regard for her, and of
pleasant and painful impressions, but
131
alive to nothing more. It made her
very sad to know that this was so, — so
sad to see it that sometimes when he
sat idly by, smiling and nodding to her
when she looked round, or when he
caressed some little child and carried it
to and fro, as he was fond of doing by
the hour together, perplexed by its sim-
ple questions, yet patient under his own
infirmity, and seeming almost conscious
of it too, and humbled even before the
mind of an infant, — so sad it made her
to see him thus, that she would burst
into tears, and, withdrawing into some
secret place, fall down upon her knees,
and pray that he might be restored.
But the bitterness of her grief was
not in beholding him in this condition,
when he was at least content and tran-
quil, nor in her solitary meditations on
his altered state, though these were
trials for a young heart. Cause for
deeper and heavier sorrow was yet to
come.
One evening, a holiday night with
them, Nell and her grandfather went
out to walk. They had been rather
closely confined for some days, and, the
weather being warm, they strolled a
long distance. Clear of the town, they
took a footpath which struck through
some pleasant fields, judging that it
would terminate in the road they quitted
and enable them to return that way. It
made, however, a much wider circuit
than they had supposed, and thus they
were tempted onward until sunset,
when they reached the track of which
they were in search, and stopped to
rest.
It had been gradually getting over-
cast, and now the sky was dark and
lowering, save where the glory of the
departing sun piled up masses of gold
and burning fire, decaying embers of
which gleamed here and there through
the black veil, and shone redly down
upon the earth. The w'ind began to
moan in hollow murmurs, as the sun
went down, carrying glad day elsewhere ;
and a train of dull clouds, coming up
against it, menaced thunder and light-
ning. Large drops of rain soon began
to fall ; and, as the storm-clouds came
sailing onward, others supplied the void
they left behind, and spread over all the
132
THE OLD CURIOSITY SHOP.
sky. Then was heard the low rumbling
of distant thunder, then the lightning
quivered, and then the darkness of an
hour seemed to have gathered in an
instant.
Fearful of taking shelter beneath a
tree or hedge, the old man and the
child hurried along the high-road, hop-
ing to find some house in which they
could seek a refuge from the storm,
which had now burst forth in earnest,
and every moment increased in vio-
lence. Drenched with the pelting rain,
confused by the deafening thunder, and
bewildered by the glare of the forked
lightning, they would have passed a
solitary house without being aware of
its vicinity, had not a man, who was
standing at the door, called lustily to
them to enter.
“Your ears ought to be better than
other folks’ at any rate, if you make so
little of the chance of being struck
blind,” he said, retreating from the
door, and shading his eyes with his
hands as the jagged lightning came
again. “What were you going past
for, eh?” he added, as he closed the
door, and led the way along a passage
to a room behind.
“We didn’t see the house, sir, till
we heard you calling,” Nell replied.
“ No wonder,” said the man, “with
this lightning in one’s eyes, by the by.
You had better stand by the fire here,
and dry yourselves a bit. You can call
for what you like if you want anything.
If you don’t want anything, you ’re not
obliged to give an order. Don’t be
afraid of that. This is a public-house,
that ’s all. The Valiant Soldier is pret-
ty well known hereabouts.”
“ Is this house called the Valiant
Soldier, sir?” asked Nell.
“ I thought everybody knew that,”
replied the landlord. “ Where have
you come from, if you don’t know the
Valiant Soldier as well as the church
catechism? This is the Valiant Soldier
by James Groves, — Jem Groves, — hon-
est Jem Groves, as is a man of un-
blemished moral character, and has a
good dry skittle-ground. If any man
has got anything to say again Jem
Groves, let him say it to Jem Groves,
and Jem Groves can accommodate him
with a customer on any terms from four
pound a side to forty.”
With these words, the speaker tapped
himself on the waistcoat, to intimate
that he was the Jem Groves so highly
eulogized ; sparred scientifically at a
counterfeit Jem Groves, who was spar-
ring at society in general from a black
frame over the chimney-piece ; and,
applying a half-emptied glass of spirits
and water to his lips, drank Jem Groves’s
health.
The night being warm, there was a
large screen drawn across the room,
for a barrier against the heat of the fire.
It seemed as if somebody on the other
side of this screen had been insinuating
doubts of Mr. Groves’s prowess, and
had thereby given rise to these egotis-
tical expressions, for Mr. Groves wound
up his defiance by giving a loud knock
upon it with his knuckles, and pausing
for a reply from the other side.
“ There ain’t many men,” said Mr.
Groves, no answer being returned,
“who would ventur’ to cross Jem
Groves under his own roof. There ’s
only one man, I know, that has nerve
enough for that, and that man ’s not a
hundred mile from here neither. But
he ’s worth a dozen men, and I let him
say of me whatever he likes in conse-
quence, — he knows that.”
In return for this complimentary ad-
dress, a very gruff hoarse voice bade
Mr. Groves “ hold his nise and light a
candle.” And the same voice remarked
that the same gentleman “ need n’t
waste his breath in brag, for most peo-
le knew pretty well what sort of stuff
e was made of.”
“Nell, they’re — they’re playing
cards,” whispered the old man, sudden-
ly interested. “ Don’t you hear them ? ”
“ Look sharp with that candle,” said
the voice ; “ it ’s as much as I can do
to see the pips on the cards as it is ;
and get this shutter closed as quick as
you can, will you ? Your beer will be
the worse for to-night’s thunder, I ex-
pect. — Game ! Seven and sixpence to
me, old Isaac. Hand over.”
“Do you hear, Nell, — do you hear
them ? ” whispered the old man again,
with increased earnestness, as the
money chinked upon the table.
THE OLD CURIOSITY SHOP.
133
“ I have n’t seen such a storm as
this,” said «. sharp, cracked voice of
most disagreeable quality, when a tre-
mendous peal of thunder had died
away, “ since the night when old Luke
Withers won thirteen times running,
on the red. We all said he had the
Devil’s luck and his own ; and as it was
the kind of night for the Devil to be
out and busy, I suppose he was looking
over his shoulder, if anybody could
have seen him.”
“Ah!” returned the gruff voice;
“ for all old Luke’s winning through
thick and thin of late years, I remem-
ber the time when he was the unlucki-
est and unfortunatest of men. He nev-
er took a dice-box in his hand, or held
a card, but he was plucked, pigeoned,
and cleaned out completely.”
“ Do you hear what he says? ” whis-
pered the old man. “Do you hear
that, Nell?”
The child saw with astonishment and
alarm that his whole appearance had
undergone a complete change. His
face was flushed and eager, his eyes
were strained, his'teeth set, his breath
came short and thick, and the hand he
laid upon her arm trembled so violently
that she shook beneath its grasp.
“ Eear witness,” he muttered, look-
ing upward, “that I always said it;
that I knew it, dreamed of it, felt it
was the truth, and that it must be so !
What money have we, Nell? Come !
I saw you with money yesterday. What
money have we ? Give it to me.”
“ No, no ; let me keep it, grandfa-
ther,” said the frightened child. “ Let
us go away from here. Do not mind
the rain. Pray let us go.”
“Give it to me, I say,” returned the
old man, fiercely. “ Hush, hush, don’t
cry, Nell. If I spoke sharply, dear, I
did n’t mean it. It ’s for thy good. I
have wronged thee, Nell, but I will
right thee yet, I will indeed. Where
is the money ? ”
“Do not take it,” said the child.
“Pray do not take it, dear. For both
our sakes let me keep it, or let me
throw it away, — better let me throw it
away than you take it now. Let us
go; do let us go.”
“ Give me the money,” returned the
old man ; “ I must have it. There —
there — that’s my dear Nell. I’ll
right thee one day, child, — I ’ll right
thee, never fear ! ”
She took from her pocket a little
purse. He seized it with the same
rapid impatience which had character-
ized his speech, and hastily made his
way to the other side of the screen. It
was impossible to restrain him, and the
trembling child followed close behind.
The landlord had placed a light upon
the table, and sjteas engaged in drawing
the curtain of the window. The speak-
ers whom they had heard were two
men, who had a pack of cards and some
silver money between them, while upon
the screen itself the games they had
played were scored in chalk. The man
with the rough voice was a burly fellow
of middle age, with large black whis-
kers, broad cheeks, a coarse wide mouth,
and bull neck, which was pretty freely
displayed, as his shirt-collar was only
confined by a loose red neckerchief.
He wore his hat, which was of a brown-
ish-white, and had beside him a thick
knotted stick. The other man, whom
his companion had called Isaac, was of
a more slender figure, — stooping, and
high in the shoulders, — with a very
ill-favored face, and a most sinister and
villanous squint.
“ Now’, old gentleman,” said Isaac,
looking round. “ Do you know either
of us ? This side of the screen is pri-
vate, sir.”
“No offence, I hope,” returned the
old man.
“ But by G — , sir, there is offence,”
said the other, interrupting him, “when
you intrude yourself upon a couple of
gentlemen who are particularly en-
gaged.”
“ I had no intention to offend,” said
the old man, looking anxiously at the
cards. “ I thought that — ”
“ But you had no right to think, sir,”
retorted the other. “ What the devil
has a man at your time of life to do with
thinking ? ”
“ Now, bully boy,” said the stout man,
raising his eyes from his cards for the
first time, “can’t you let him speak?”
The landlord, who had apparently re-
solved to remain neutral until he knew
134
THE OLD CURIOSITY SHOP.
which side of the question the stout
man would espouse, chimed in at this
place with, “ Ah, to be sure, can’t you
let him speak, Isaac List ? ”
“Can’t I let him speak?” sneered
Isaac in reply, mimicking as nearly as
he could, in his shrill voice, the tones
of the landlord. “ Yes, I can let him
speak, Jemmy Groves.”
“Well then, do it, will you?” said
the landlord.
Mr. List’s squint assumed a porten-
tous character, which sefemed to threat-
en a prolongation of this controversy,
when his companion, who had been
looking sharply at the old man, put a
timely stop to it.
“ Who knows,” said he, with a cun-
ning look, “ but the gentleman may
have civilly meant to ask if he might
have the honor to take a hand with
us ? ”
“ I did mean it,” cried the old man.
“That is what I mean. That is what
I want now ! ”
“ I thought so,” returned the same
man. “ Then who knows but the
gentleman, anticipating our objection
to play for love, civilly desired to play
for money ? ”
The old man replied by shaking the
little purse in his eager hand, and then
throwing it down upon the table, and
gathering up the cards as a miser would
clutch at gold.
“ O, that indeed,” said Isaac; “if
that ’s what the gentleman meant, I
beg the gentleman’s pardon. Is this
the gentleman’s little purse ? A very
pretty little purse. Rather a light
purse,” added Isaac, throwing it into
the air and catching it dexterously,
“but enough to amuse a gentleman for
half an hour or so.”
“ We ’ll make a four-handed game of
it, and take in Groves,” said the stout
man. “ Come, Jemmy.”
The landlord, who conducted himself
like one who was well used to such little
parties, approached the table and took
his seat. The child, in a perfect agony,
drew her grandfather aside, and im-
plored him, even then, to come away.
“ Come ; and we may be so happy,”
said the child.
“ We will be happy,” replied the old
man, hastily. “ Let me go, Nell. The
means of happiness are on the cards
and in the dice. We must rise from
little winnings to great. There ’s little
to be won here ; but great will come in
time. I shall but win back my own,
and it ’s all for thee, my darling.”
“ God help us ! ” cried the child.
“ Oh ! what hard fortune brought us
here ! ”
“ Hush ! ” rejoined the old man, lay-
ing his hand upon her mouth ; “ Fortune
will not bear chiding. We must not
reproach her, or she shuns us ; I have
found that out.”
“ Now, mister,” said the stout man.
“If you ’re not coming yourself, give
us the cards, will you? ”
“ I am coming,” cried the old man.
“ Sit thee down, Nell, — sit thee down
and look on. Be of good heart, it ’s all
for thee — all — every penny. I don’t
tell them, no, no, or else they would n’t
play, dreading the chance that such a
cause must give me. Look at them.
See what they are and what thou art.
Who doubts that we must win ! ”
“The gentleman has thought better
of it, and is n’t coming,” said Isaac,
making as though he would rise from
the table. “ I ’m sorry the gentle-
man ’s daunted, — nothing venture noth-
ing have, — but the gentleman knows
best.”
“Why, I am ready. You have all
been slow but me,” said the old man.
“ I wonder who ’s more anxious to
begin than I.”
As he spoke he drew a chair to the
table ; and the other three closing
round it at the same time, the game
commenced.
The child sat by, and watched its
progress with a troubled mind. Re-
gardless of the run of luck, and mind-
ful only of the desperate passion which
had its hold upon her grandfather,
losses and gains were to her alike.
Exulting in some brief triumph, or cast
down by a defeat, there he sat so wild
and restless, so feverishly and intensely
anxious, so terribly eager, so ravenous
for the paltry stakes, that she could
have almost better borne to see him
dead. And yet she was the innocent
cause of all this torture, and he, gam-
THE OLD CURIOSITY SHOP.
135
bling with such a savage thirst for gain
as the most insatiable gambler never
felt, had not one selfish thought !
On the contrary, the other three, —
knaves and gamesters by their trade, • —
while intent upon their game, were yet
as cool and quiet as if every virtue had
been centred in their breasts. Some-
times one would look up to smile to
another, or to snuff the feeble candle,
or to glance at the lightning as it shot
through the open window and flutter-
ing curtain, or to listen to some louder
peal of thunder than the rest, with a
kind of momentary impatience, as if it
put him out ; but there they sat, with
a calm indifference to everything but
their cards, perfect philosophers in ap-
pearance, and with no greater show of
passion or excitement than if they had
been made of stone.
The storm had raged for full three
hours ; the lightning had grown fainter
and less frequent ; the thunder, from
seeming to roll and break above their
heads, had gradually died away into a
deep hoarse distance ; and still the game
went on, and still the anxious child was
quite forgotten.
CHAPTER XXX.
At length the play came to an end,
and Mr. Isaac List rose the only win-
ner. Mat and the landlord bore their
losses with professional fortitude. Isaac
pocketed his gains with the air of a
man who had quite made up his mind
to win, all along, and was neither sur-
prised nor pleased.
Nell’s little purse was exhausted ;
but, although it lay empty by his side,
and the other players had now risen
from the table, the old man sat por-
ing over the cards, dealing them as
they had been dealt before, and turn-
ing up the different hands to see what
each man would have held if they had
still been playing. He was quite ab-
sorbed in this occupation, when the
child drew near and laid her hand upon
his shoulder, telling him it was near
midnight.
“ See the curse of poverty, Nell,”
he said, pointing to the packs he had
spread out upon the table. “If I
could have gone on a little longer, only
a little longer, the luck would have
turned on my side. Yes, it ’s as plain
as the marks upon the cards. See
here — and there — and here again.”
“ Put them away,” urged the child.
“ Try to forget them.”
“ Try to forget them !” he rejoined,
raising his haggard face to hers, and re-
garding her with an incredulous stare.
“To forget them ! How are we ever to
grow r rich if I forget them ? ”
The child could only shake her head.
“ No, no, Nell,” said the old man,
patting her cheek ; “they must not be
forgotten. We must make amends for
this as soon as we can. Patience, —
patience, and we ’ll right thee yet, I
promise thee. Lose to-day, win to-
morrow. And nothing can be won
without anxiety and care, — nothing.
Come, I am ready.”
“Do you know what the time is?”
said Mr. Groves, who was smoking with
his friends. “ Past twelve o’clock — ”
“ — And a rainy night,” added the
stout man.
“ The Valiant Soldier, by James
Groves. Good beds. Cheap enter-
tainment for man and beast,” said Mr.
Groves, quoting his sign-board. “Half
past twelve o’clock.”
“ It ’s very late,” said the uneasy
child. “ I wish we had gone before.
What will they think of us ! It will be
two o’clock by the time we get back.
What would it cost, sir, if we stopped
here ? ”
“ Two good beds, one and sixpence ;
supper and beer, one shilling : total, two
shillings and sixpence,” replied the
Valiant Soldier.
Now Nell had still the piece of gold
sewn in her dress ; and w'hen she came to
consider the lateness of the hour, and
the somnolent habits of Mrs. Jarley, and
to imagine the state of consternation in
which they would certainly throw that
good lady by knocking her up in the
middle of the night, — and when she
reflected, on the other hand, that if they
remained where they were, and rose
early in the morning, they might get
back before she awoke, and could plead
i 3 6
THE OLD CURIOSITY SHOP.
the violence of the storm by which they
had been overtaken, as a good apology
for their absence, — she decided, after
a great deal of hesitation, to remain.
She therefore took her grandfather
aside, and telling him that she had still
enough left to defray the cost of their
lodging, proposed that they should stay
there for the night.
“ If I had had but that money before,
— if I had only known of it a few min-
utes ago ! ” muttered the old man.
“We will decide to stop here if you
please,” said Nell, turning hastily to
the landlord.
“I think that’s prudent,” returned
Mr. Groves. “ You shall have your
suppers directly.”
Accordingly, when Mr. Groves had
smoked his pipe out, knocked out the
ashes, and placed it carefully in a corner
of the fireplace, with the bowl down-
wards, he brought in the bread and
cheese and beer, with many high enco-
miums upon their excellence, and bade
his guests fall to, and make themselves
at home. Nell and her grandfather ate
sparingly, for both were occupied with
their own reflections ; the other gentle-
men, for whose constitutions beer was
too weak and tame a liquid, consoled
themselves with spirits and tobacco.
As they would leave the house very
early in the morning, the child was anx-
ious to pay for their entertainment be-
fore they retired to bed. But as she
felt the necessity of concealing her little
hoard from her grandfather, and had
to change the piece of gold, she took it
secretly from its place of concealment,
and embraced an opportunity of follow-
ing the landlord when he went out of
the room, and tendered it to him in the
little bar.
“Will you give me the change here
if you please ? ” said the child.
Mr. James Groves was evidently sur-
prised, and looked at the money, and
rung it, and looked at the child, and at
the money again, as though he had a
mind to inquire how she came by it.
The coin being genuine, however, and
changed at his house, he probably felt,
like a wise landlord, that it was no
business of his. At any rate, he count-
ed out the change, and gave it her.
The child was returning to the room
where they had passed the evening,
when she fancied she saw a figure just
gliding in at the door. There was
nothing but a long dark passage be-
tween this door and the place where
she had changed the money, and, being
very certain that no person had passed
in or out while she stood there, the
thought struck her that she had been
watched.
But by whom? When she re-entered
the room, she found its inmates exactly
as she had left them. The stout fellow
lay upon two chairs, resting his head on
his hand, and the squinting man reposed
in a similar attitude on the opposite
side of the table. Between them sat
her grandfather, looking intently at the
winner with a kind of hungry admira-
tion, and hanging upon his words as if
he were some superior being. She was
puzzled for a moment, and looked round
to see if any else were there. No.
Then she asked her grandfather in a
whisper whether anybody had left the
room while she was absent. “ No,” he
said, “ nobody.”
It must have been her fancy then ;
and yet it was strange, that, without
anything, in her previous thoughts to
lead to it, she should have imagined
this figure so very distinctly. She was
still wondering and thinking of it, when
a girl came to light her to bed.
The old man took leave of the com-
pany at the same time, and they went
up stairs together. It w'as a great ram-
bling house, with dull corridors and w-ide
staircases, which the flaring candles
seemed to make more gloomy. She
left her grandfather in his chamber, and
followed her guide to another, which
was at the end of a passage, and ap-
proached by some half-dozen crazy
steps. This was prepared for her. The
girl lingered a little while to talk, and
tell her grievances. She had not a good
place, she said ; the wages were low,
and the work was hard. She was going
to leave it in a fortnight ; the child
could n’t recommend her to another,
she supposed? Indeed, she was afraid
another would be difficult to get after
living there, for the house had a very
indifferent character ; there was far too
THE OLD CURIOSITY SHOP.
* 37
much card-playing, and such like. She
was very much mistaken if some of the
people who came there oftenest were
quite as honest as they might be, but
she would n’t have it known that she
had said so for the world. Then there
were some rambling allusions to a re-
jected sweetheart, who had threatened
to go a soldiering, a final promise of
knocking at the door early in the morn-
ing, and “ Good night.”
The child did not feel comfortable
when she was left alone. She could
not help thinking of the figure stealing
through the passage down stairs ; and
what the girl had said, did not tend to
reassure her. The men were very ill-
looking. They might get their living
by robbing and murdering travellers.
Who could tell?
Reasoning herself out of these fears,
or losing sight of them for a little while,
there came the anxiety to which the
adventures of the night gave rise. Here
was the old passion awakened again in
her grandfather’s breast, and to what
further distraction it might tempt him
Heaven only knew. What fears their
absence might have occasioned already !
Persons might be seeking for them even
then. Would they be forgiven in the
morning, or turned adrift again ! Oh !
why had they stopped in that strange
place? It would have been better,
under any circumstances, to have gone
on !
At last, sleep gradually stole upon
her, — a broken, fitful sleep, troubled
by dreams of falling from high towers,
and waking with a start and in great
terror. A deeper slumber followed
this — and then — What ! That fig-
ure in the room !
A figure was there. Yes, she had
drawn up the blind to admit the light
when it should dawn, and there, between
the foot of the bed and the dark case-
ment, it crouched and slunk along, grop-
ing its way with noiseless hands, and
stealing round the bed. She had no
voice to cry for help, no pow’er to move,
but lay still, watching it.
On it came, — on, silently and stealth-
ily, to the bed’s head, — the breath so
near her pillow that she shrunk back
into it, lest those wandering hands
should light upon her face. Back again
it stole to the window, then turned its
head towards her.
The dark form was a mere blot upon
the lighter darkness of the room, but she
saw the turning of the head, and felt
and knew how the eyes looked and the
ears listened. There it remained, mo-
tionless as she. At length, still keeping
the face towards her, it busied its hands
in something, and she heard the chink
of money.
Then, on it came again, silent and
stealthy as before, and, replacing the
garments it had taken from the bedside,
dropped upon its hands and knees, and
crawled away. How slowly it seemed
to move, now that she could hear but
not see it creeping along the floor ! It
reached the door at last, and stood upon
its feet. The steps creaked beneath its
noiseless tread, and it was gone.
The first impulse of the child was to
fly from the terror of being by herself
in that room — to have somebody by —
not to be alone — and then her power of
speech would be restored. With no
consciousness of having moved, she
gained the door.
There was the dreadful shadow, paus-
ing at the bottom of the steps.
She could not pass it ; she might have
done so, perhaps, in the darkness, with-
out being seized, but her blood curdled
at the thought. The figure stood quite
still, and so did she ; not boldly, but of
necessity ; for going back into the room
was hardly less terrible than going on.
The rain beat fast and furiously with-
out, and ran down in plashing streams
from the thatched roof. Some summer
insect, with no escape into the air, flew
blindly to and fro, beating its body
against the walls and ceiling, and filling
the silent place with murmurs. The
figure moved again. The child invol-
untarily did the same. Once in her
grandfather’s room, she would be safe.
It crept along the passage until it
came to the very door she longed so
ardently to reach. The child, in the
agony of being so near, had almost
darted forward with the design of burst-
ing into the room and closing it behind
her, when the figure stopped again.
The idea flashed suddenly upon her
THE OLD CURIOSITY SHOP.
138
— what if it entered there, and had a
design upon the old man’s life ! She
turned faint and sick. It did. It went
in. There was a light inside. The
figure was now within the chamber,
and she, still dumb, — quite dumb, and
almost senseless, — stood looking on.
The door was partly open. Not
knowing what she meant to do, but
meaning to preserve him or be killed
herself, she staggered forward and
looked in.
What sight was that which met her
view !
The bed had not been lain on, but
was smooth and empty. And at a ta-
ble sat the old man himself, — the only
living creature there, — his white face
pinched and sharpened by the greedi-
ness which made his eyes unnaturally
bright, counting the money of whicii
his hands had robbed her.
CHAPTER XXXI.
With steps more faltering and un-
steady than those with which she had
approached the room, the child with-
drew from the door, and groped her
way back to her own chamber. The
terror she had lately felt was nothing
compared with that which now op-
pressed her. No strange robber, no
treacherous host conniving at the plun-
der of his guests, or stealing to their
beds to kill them in their sleep, no
nightly prowler, however terrible and
cruel, could have awakened in her bo-
som half the dread which the recogni-
tion of her silent visitor inspired. The
gray-headed old man, gliding like a
ghost into her room and acting the
thief while he supposed her fast asleep,
then bearing off his prize and hanging
over it with the ghastly exultation she
had witnessed, was worse — immeas-
urably worse, and far more dreadful,
for the moment, to reflect upon — than
anything her wildest fancy could have
suggested. If he should return, — there
was no lock or bolt upon the door, and
if, distrustful of having left some money
yet behind, he should come back to
seek for more, — a vague awe and hor-
ror surrounded the idea of his slinking
in again with stealthy tread, and turn-
ing his face toward the empty bed,
while she shrank down close at his feet
to avoid his touch, which was almost
insupportable. She sat and listened.
Hark ! A footstep on the stairs, and
now the door was slowly opening. It
was but imagination, yet imagination
had all the terrors of reality; nay, it
was worse, for the reality would have
come and gone, and there an end, but
in imagination it was always coming,
and never went away.
The feeling which beset the child was
one of dim, uncertain honor. She had
no fear of the dear old grandfather, in
whose love for her this disease of the
brain had been engendered ; but the
man she had seen that night, wrapt in
the game of chance, lurking in her
room, and counting the money by the
glimmering light, seemed like another
creature in his shape, a monstrous dis-
tortion of his image, a something to
recoil from, and be the more afraid of,
because it bore a likeness to him, and
kept close about her, as he did. She
could scarcely connect her own affec-
tionate companion, save by his loss,
with this old man, so like yet so unlike
him. She had wept to see him dull
and quiet. How much greater cause
she had for weeping now!
The child sat watching and thinking
of these things, until the phantom in
her mind so increased in gloom and
terror that she felt it would be a relief
to hear the old man’s voice, or, if he
were asleep, even to see him, and ban-
ish some of the fears that clustered
round his image. She stole down the
stairs and passage again. The door was
still ajar as she had left it, and the can-
dle burning as before.
She had her own candle in her hand,
prepared to say, if he were waking, that
she was uneasy and could not rest, and
had come to see if his were still alight.
Looking into the room, she saw him
lying calmly on his bed, and so took
courage to enter.
Fast asleep, — no passion in the face,
no avarice, no anxiety, no wild desire ;
all gentle, tranquil, and at peace. This
was not the gambler, or the shadow in
THE OLD CURIOSITY SHOP.
i39
her room ; this was not even the worn
and jaded man whose face had so often
met her own in the gray morning light ;
this was her dear old friend, her harmless
fellow-traveller, her good, kind grand-
father.
She had no fear as she looked upon
his slumbering features, but she had a
deep and weighty sorrow, and it found
its reljef in tears.
“ God bless him ! ” said the child,
stooping softly to kiss his placid cheek.
“ I see too well now, that they would
indeed part us if they found us out, and
shut him up from the light of the sun
and sky. He has only me to help him.
God bless us both ! ”
Lighting her candle, she retreated as
silently as she had come, and, gaining
her own room once more, sat up during
the remainder of that long, long, miser-
able night.
At last the day turned her waning
candle pale, and she fell asleep. She
was quickly roused by the girl who had
shown her up to bed ; and, as soon as
she was dressed, prepared to go down to
her grandfather. But first she searched
her pocket and found that her money
was all gone, — not a sixpence remained.
The old man was ready, and in a few
seconds they were on their road. The
child thought he rather avoided her eye,
and appeared to expect that she would
tell him of her loss. She felt she must
do that, or he might suspect the truth.
“ Grandfather,” she said in a tremu-
lous voice, after they had walked about
a mile in silence, “do you think they
are honest people at the house yon-
der? ”
“ Why ? ” returned the old man, trem-
bling. “ Do I think them honest, — yes,
they played honestly.”
“ I ’ll tell you why I ask,” rejoined
Nell. “ I lost some money last night,
— out of my bedroom I am sure. Un-
less it was taken by somebody in jest, —
only in jest, dear grandfather, which
would make me laugh heartily if I could
but know it — ”
“Who would take money in jest?”
returned the old man, in a hurried man-
ner. “Those who take money, take it
to keep. Don’t talk of jest.”
“ Then it was stolen out of my room,
dear,” said the child, whose last hope
was destroyed by the manner of this
reply.
“ But is there no more, Nell?” said
the old man, — “no more anywhere?
Was it all taken? every farthing of it?
was there nothing left ? ”
* “ Nothing,” replied the child.
“We must get more,” said the old
man; “we must earn it, Nell, hoard it
up, scrape it together, come by it some-
how. Never mind this loss. Tell no-
body of it, and perhaps we may regain
it. Don’t ask how. We may regain
it, and a great deal more ; but tell no-
body, or trouble may come of it. And
so they took it out of thy room, when
thou wert asleep ! ” he added, in a com-
passionate tone, very different from the
secret, cunning way in which he had
spoken until now. “ Poor Nell, poor
little Nell!”
The child hung down her head and
wept. The sympathizing tone in which
he spoke was quite sincere ; she was
sure of that. It was not the lightest
part of her sorrow to know that this
was done for her.
“ Not a word about it to any one but
me,” said the old man ; “ no, not even
to me,” he added, hastily, “ for it can do
no good. All the losses that ever were
are not worth tears from thy eyes, dar-
ling. Why should they be, when we
will win them back? ”
“ Let them go,” said the child, look-
ing up. “ Let them go, once and for-
ever, and I would never shed another
tear if every penny had been a thousand
pounds.”
“Well, well,” returned the old man,
checking^ himself as some impetuous
answer rose to his lips, “ she knows no
better. I should be thankful for it.”
“But listen to me,” said the child,
earnestly, “will you listen to me?”
“Ay, ay, I’ll listen,” returned the
old man, still without looking at her ;
“a pretty voice. It has always a sweet
sound to me. It always had when it
was her mother’s, poor child.”
“Let me persuade you, then, — O,
do let me persuade you,” said the child,
“to think no more of gains or losses,
and to try no fortune but the fortune we
pursue together.”
140
THE OLD CURIOSITY SHOP.
“We pursue this aim together,” re-
torted her grandfather, still looking
away, and seeming to confer with him-
self. “ Whose image sanctifies the
game ? ”
“ Have we been worse off,” resumed
the child, “ since you forgot these cares,
and we have been travelling on togeth-
er? Have we not been much better
and happier without a home to shelter
us, than ever we were in that unhappy
house, when they were on your mind? ”
“ She speaks the truth,” murmured
the old man, in the same tone as before.
“It must not turn me, but it is the
truth, — no doubt it is.”
. “ Only remember what we have been
since that bright morning when we
turned our backs upon it for the last
time,” said Nell, — “only remember
what we have been since we have been
free of all those miseries, — what peaceful
days and quiet nights we have had, —
what pleasant times we have known, —
what happiness we have enjoyed. If
we have been tired or hungry, we have
been soon refreshed, and slept the
sounder for it. Think what beautiful
things we have seen, and how contented
we have felt. And why was this blessed
change ? ”
He stopped her with a motion of his
hand, and bade her talk to him no more
just then, for he was busy. After a time
he kissed her cheek, still motioning her
to silence, and walked on, looking far
before him, and sometimes stopping
and gazing with a puckered brow upon
the ground, as if he were painfully try-
ing to collect his disordered thoughts.
Once she saw tears in his eyes. When
he had gone on thus for sometime, he
took her hand in his as he was accus-
tomed to do, with nothing of the vio-
lence or animation of his late manner ;
and so, by degrees so fine that the child
could not trace them, settled down into
his usual quiet way, and suffered her to
lead him where she would.
When they presented themselves in
the midst of the stupendous collection,
they found, as Nell had anticipated,
that Mrs. Jarley was not yet out of bed,
and that, although she had suffered
some uneasiness on their account over-
night, and had indeed sat up for them
until past eleven o’clock, she had re-
tired in the persuasion, that, being
overtaken by storm at some distance
from home, they had sought the nearest
shelter, and would not return before
morning.. Nell immediately applied
herself with great assiduity to the deco-
ration and preparation of the room, and
had the satisfaction of completing her
task, and dressing herself neatly, before
thebeloved of the Royal Family came
down to breakfast.
“We haven’t had,” said Mrs. Jarley
when the meal was over, “ more than
eight of Miss Monflathers’s young la-
dies all the time we ’ve been here, and
there ’s twenty-six of ’em, as I was told
by the cook when I asked her a ques-
tion or two and put her on the free-list.
We must try ’em with a parcel of new
bills, and you shall take it, my dear,
and see what effect that has upon ’em.”
The proposed expedition being one
of paramount importance, Mrs. Jarley
adjusted Nell’s bonnet with her own
hands, and declaring that she certainly
did look very pretty, and reflected credit
on the establishment, dismissed her
with many commendations, and certain
needful directions as to the turnings on
the right which she was to take, and
the turnings on the left which she was
to avoid. Thus instructed, Nell had
no difficulty in finding out Miss Mon-
flathers’s Boarding and Day Establish-
ment, which was a large house, with a
high wall, and a large garden-gate with
a large brass plate, and a small grating
through which Miss Monflathers’s par-
lor-maid inspected all visitors before
admitting them ; for nothing in the
shape of a man — no, not even a milk-
man — was suffered, without special
license, to pass that gate. Even the
tax-gatherer, who was stout,' and wore
spectacles and a broad-brimmed hat,
had the taxes handed through the grat-
ing. More obdurate than gate of ada-
mant or brass, this gate of Miss Mon-
flathers’s frowned on all mankind. The
very butcher respected it as a gate of
mystery, and left off whistling when he
rang the bell.
As Nell approached the awful door,
it turned slowly upon its hinges with a
creaking noise, and forth from the sol-
THE OLD CURIOSITY SHOP.
141
emn grove beyond came a long file of
oung ladies, two and two, all with open
ooks in their hands, and some with
parasols likewise. And last of the good-
ly procession came Miss Monflathers,
bearing herself a parasol of lilac silk,
and supported by two smiling teachers,
each mortally envious of the other, and
devoted unto Miss Monflathers.
Confused by the looks and whispers
of the girls, Nell stood with downcast
eyes and suffered the procession to pass
on, until Miss Monflathers, bringing
up the rear, approached her, when she
courtesied and presented her little pack-
et; on receipt whereof Miss Monflath-
ers commanded that the line should
halt.
“You ’re the wax-work child, are you
not? ” said Miss Monflathers.
“Yes, ma’am,” replied Nell, color-
ing deeply, for the young ladies had
collected about her, and she was the
centre on which all eyes were fixed.
“And don’t you think you must be
a very wicked little child,” said Miss
Monflathers, who was of rather uncer-
tain temper, and lost no opportunity of
impressing moral truths upon the ten-
der minds of the young ladies, “to be
a wax-work child at all ?”
Poor Nell had never viewed her po-
sition in this light, and, not knowing
what to say, remained silent, blushing
more deeply than before.
“ Don’t you know,” said Miss Mon-
flathers, “that it’s very naughty and
unfeminine, and a perversion of the
properties wisely and benignantly trans-
mitted to us, with expansive powers to
be roused from their dormant state
through the medium of cultivation ? ”
The two teachers murmured their re-
spectful approval of this home-thrust,
and looked at Nell as though they
would have said that there indeed Miss
Monflathers had hit her very hard.
Then they smiled and glanced at Miss
Monflathers, and then, their eyes meet-
ing, they exchanged looks which plainly
said that each considered herself smiler
in ordinary to Miss Monflathers, and
regarded the other as having no right
to smile, and that her so doing was an
act of presumption and impertinence.
“ Don’t you feel how naughty it is of
ou,” resumed Miss Monflathers, “ to
e a wax-work child, when you might
have the proud consciousness of assist-
ing, to the extent of your infant powers,
the manufactures of your country ; of
improving your mind by the constant
contemplation of the steam-engine ;
and of earning a comfortable and inde-
pendent subsistence of from two and
ninepence to three shillings per week?
Don’t you know that the harder you are
at work, the happier you are? ”
“‘How doth the little — * ” mur-
mured one of the teachers, in quotation
from Doctor Watts.
“Eh?” said Miss Monflathers, turn-
ing smartly round. “ Who said that ? ”
Of course the teacher who had not
said it indicated the rival who had,
whom Miss Monflathers frowningly
requested to hold her peace; by that
means throwing the informing teacher
into raptures of joy.
“The little busy bee,” said Miss.
Monflathers, drawing herself up, “is
applicable only to genteel children.
*In books, or work, or healthful play ’
is quite right as far as they are con-
cerned ; and the work means painting
on velvet, fancy needle-work, or em-
broidery. In such cases as these,”
pointing to Nell with her parasol, “and
in the case of all poor people’s children,
we should read it thus : —
‘ In work, work, work. In work alway
Let my first years be past,
That 1 may give for ev’ry day
Some good account at last.’ ”
A deep hum of applause rose not only
from the two teachers, but from all the
pupils, who were equally astonished to
hear Miss Monflathers improvising af-
ter this brilliant style ; for, although she
had been long known as a politician, she
had never appeared before as an origi-
nal poet. Just then somebody hap-
pened to discover that Nell was crying,
and all eyes were again turned towards
her.
There were indeed tears in her eyes,
and, drawing out her handkerchief to
brush them away, she happened to let
it fall. Before she could stoop to pick
it up, one young lady, of about fifteen
or sixteen, who had been standing a
142
THE OLD CURIOSITY SHOP.
little apart from the others, as though
she had no recognized place among
them, sprang forward and put it in her
hand. She was gliding timidly away
again, when she was arrested by the
governess.
“ It was Miss Edwards who did that,
I know,” said Miss Monflathers predic-
tively. “ Now I am sure that was Miss
Edwards.”
It was Miss Edwards, and everybody
said it was Miss Edwards, and Miss Ed-
wards herself admitted that it was.
“ Is it not,” said Miss Monflathers,
putting down her parasol to take a se-
verer view of the offender, “a most
remarkable thing, Miss Edwards, that
you have an attachment to the lower
classes which always draws you to
their sides? or rather, is it not a most
extraordinary thing that all I say
and do will not wean you from pro-
pensities which your original station in
life have unhappily rendered habitual
to you, you extremely vulgar-minded
girl?”
“ I really intended no harm, ma’am,”
said a sweet voice. “ It was a momen-
tary impulse, indeed.”
“An impulse ! ” repeated Miss Mon-
flathers, scornfully. “ I wonder that you
presume to speak of impulses to me ” —
both the teachers assented — “I am as-
tonished ” — both the teachers were as-
tonished — “ I suppose it is an impulse
which induces you to take the part of
every grovelling and debased person
that comes in your way” — both the
teachers supposed so too.
“ But I would have you know, Miss
Edwards,” resumed the governess in a
tone of increased severity, “ that you can-
not be permitted, — if it be only for the
sake of preserving a proper example and
decorum in this establishment, — that
you cannot be permitted, and that you
shall not be permitted, to fly in the
face of your superiors in this exceed-
ingly gross manner. If you have no
reason to feel a becoming pride before
wax-work children, there are young
ladies here who have, and you must
either defer to those young ladies or
leave the establishment, Miss Ed-
wards.”
This young lady, being motherless and
poor, was apprenticed at the school,
taught for nothing, teaching others
what she learnt for nothing, boarded
for nothing, lodged for nothing, and
set down and rated as something im-
measurably less than nothing, by all
the dwellers in the house. The ser-
vant-maids felt her inferiority, for they
were better treated, — free to come and
go, and regarded in their stations with
much more respect. The teachers were
infinitely superior, for they had paid to
go to school in their time, and were paid
now. The pupils cared little for a com-
panion who had no grand stories to tell
about home ; no friends to come with
post-horses, and be received in all hu-
mility, with cake and wine, by the
governess ; no deferential servant to
attend and bear her home for the holi-
days; nothing genteel to talk about,
and nothing to display. But why was
Miss Monflathers always vexed and irri-
tated with the poor apprentice, — how
did that come to pass?
Why, the gayest feather in Miss Mon-
flathers’s cap, and the brightest glory of
Miss Monflathers’ s school, was a baro-
net’s daughter, — the real live daughter
of a real live baronet, — who, by some
extraordinary reversal of the laws of na-
ture, was not only plain in features but
dull in intellect, while the poor appren-
tice had both a ready wit and a hand-
some face and figure. It seems incredi-
ble. Here was Miss Edwards, who on-
ly paid a small premium which had been
spent long ago, every day outshining and
excelling the baronet’s daughter, who
learned all the extras (or was taught
them all) and whose half-yearly bill
came to double that of any other young
lady’s in the school, making no account
of the honor and reputation of her pupil-
age. Therefore, and because she was a
dependant, Miss Monflathers had a great
dislike to Miss Edwards, and was spite-
ful to her, and aggravated by her, and,
when she had compassion on little Nell,
verbally fell upon and maltreated her as
we have already seen.
“You will not take the air to-day,
Miss Edwards,” said Miss Monflath-
ers. “ Have the goodness to retire to
your .own room, and not to leave it
without permission.”
THE OLD CURIOSITY SHOP.
i43
The poor girl was moving hastily away,
when she was suddenly, in nautical
phrase, “brought to” by a subdued
shriek from Miss Monflathers.
“ She has passed me without any sa-
lute !” cried the governess, raising her
eyes to the sky. “ She has actually
passed me without the slightest ac-
knowledgment of my presence ! ”
The young lady turned and courtesied.
Nell could see that she raised her dark
eyes to the face of her superior, and that
their expression, and that of her whole
attitude for the instant, was one of mute
but most touching appeal against this
ungenerous usage. Miss Monflathers
only tossed her head in reply, and the
great gate closed upon a bursting
heart.
“As for you, you wicked child,” said
Miss Monflathers, turning to Nell,
“ tell your mistress that if she presumes
to take the liberty of sending to me any
more, I will write to the legislative
authorities and have her put in the
stocks, or compelled to do penance in
a white sheet ; an^ you may depend
upon it that you shall certainly expe-
rience the treadmill if you dare to come
here again. Now, ladies, on.”
The procession filed off, two and
two, with the books and parasols, and
Miss Monflathers, calling the baronet’s
daughter to walk with her and smooth
her ruffled feelings, discarded the two
teachers, — who by this time had ex-
changed their smiles for looks of sym-
pathy, — and left them to bring up the
rear, and hate each other a little more
for being obliged to walk together.
CHAPTER XXXII.
Mrs. Jarley’s wrath, on first learn-
ing that she had been threatened with
the indignity of stocks and penance,
passed all description. The genuine
and only Jarley exposed to public scorn,
jeered by children, and flouted by
beadles ! The delight of the Nobility
and Gentry shorn of a bonnet which a
Lady Mayoress might have sighed to
wear, and arrayed in a white sheet as
a spectacle of mortification and humili-
ty! And Miss Monflathers, the auda-
cious creature who presumed, even in
the dimmest and remotest distance of
her imagination, to conjure up the
degrading picture. “ I am a’most in-
clined,” said Mrs. Jarley, bursting with
the fulness of her anger and the weak-
ness of her means of revenge, “to turn
atheist when I think of it ! ”
But instead of adopting this course
of retaliation, Mrs. Jarley, on second
thoughts, brought out the suspicious
bottle, and ordering glasses to be set
forth upon her favorite drum, and
sinking into a chair behind it, called
her satellites about her, and to them
several times recounted, word for word,
the affronts she had received. This
done, she begged them in a kind of
deep despair to drink ; then laughed,
then cried, then took a little sip her-
self, then laughed, and cried again, and
took a little more; and so, by degrees,
the worthy lady went on, increasing
in smiles and decreasing in tears, until
at last she could not laugh enough at
Miss Monflathers, who, from being an
object of dire vexation, became one
of sheer ridicule and absurdity.
“ For which of us is best off, I won-
der,” quoth Mrs. Jarley, “she or me !
It ’s only talking, wben all is said and
done ; and if she talks of me in the
stocks, why, I can talk of her in the
stocks, which is a good deal funnier, if
we come to that. Lord, what does it
matter, after all ! ”
Having arrived at. this comfortable
frame of mind (to which she had been
greatly assisted by certain short inter-
jectional remarks of the philosophic
George), Mrs. Jarley consoled Nell
with many kind words, and requested
as a personal favor that whenever she
thought of Miss Monflathers, she would
do nothing else but laugh at her, all
the days of her life.
So ended Mrs. Jarley’s wrath, which
subsided long before the going down
of the sun. Nell’s anxieties, however,
were of a deeper kind, and the checks
they imposed upon her cheerfulness were
not so easily removed.
That evening, as she had dreaded,
her grandfather stole away, and did not
come back until the night was far spent.
144
THE OLD CURIOSITY SHOP.
Worn out as she was, and fatigued in
mind and body, she sat up alone, count-
ing the minutes until he returned, —
penniless, broken-spirited, and wretch-
ed, but still hotly bent upon his infatua-
tion.
“Get me money,” he said wildly, as
they parted for the night. “ I must
have money, Nell. It shall be paid
thee back with gallant interest one day,
but all the money that comes into thy
hands must be mine, — not for myself,
but to use for thee. Remember, Nell,
to use for thee ! ”
What could the child do, with the
knowledge she had, but give him every
penny that came into her hands, lest he
should be tempted on to rob their ben-
efactress ? If she told the truth (so
thought the child), he would be treated
as a madman ; if she did not supply him
with money, he would supply himself;
supplying him, she fed the fire that
burnt him up, and put him perhaps
beyond recovery. Distracted by these
thoughts, borne down by the weight of
the sorrow which she dared not tell,
tortured by a crowd of apprehensions
whenever the old man was absent, and
dreading alike his stay and his return,
the color forsook her cheek, her eye
grew dim, and her heart was oppressed
and heavy. All her old sorrows had
come back upon her, augmented by new
fears and doubts ; by day they were ever
resent to her mind ; by night they
overed round her pillow, and haunted
her in dreams.
It was natural that, in the midst of
her affliction, she should often revert to
that sweet young lady of whom she had
only caught a hasty glance, but whose
sympathy, expressed in one slight, brief
action, dwelt in her memory like the
kindnesses of years. She would often
think, if she had such a friend as that
to whom to tell her griefs, how much
lighter her heart would be, — that if she
were but free to hear that voice, she
would be happier. Then she would
wish that she were something better,
that she were not quite so poor and
humble, that she dared address her
without fearing a repulse ; and then feel
that there was an immeasurable dis-
tance between them, and have no hope
that the young lady thought of her any
more.
It was now holiday-time at the schools,
and the young ladies had gone home, and
Miss Monflathers was reported to be
flourishing in London, and damaging
the hearts of middle-aged gentlemen ;
but nobody said anything about Miss
Edwards, whether she had gone home,
or whether she had any home to go to,
w-hether she was still at the school, or
anything about her. But one evening,
as Nell was returning from a lonely
walk, she happened to pass the inn
where the stage-coaches stopped, just
as one drove up, and there was the
beautiful girl she so well remembered,
pressing forward to embrace a young
child whom they were helping down
from the roof.
Well, this was her sister, her little
sister, much younger than Nell, whom
she had not seen (so the story went af-
terwards) for five years, and to bring
whom to that place on a short visit, she
had been saving her poor means all that
time. Nell felt a# if her heart would
break when she saw them meet. They
went a little apart from the knot of
people who had congregated about the
coach, and fell upon each other’s neck,
and sobbed, and wept with joy. Their
plain and simple dress, the distance
which the child had come alone, their
agitation and delight, and the tears
they shed, would have told their history
by themselves.
They became a little more composed
in a short time, and went away, not so
much hand in hand as clinging to each
other. “Are you sure you’re happy,
sister?” said the child as they passed
where Nell was standing. “ Quite
happy now,” she answered. “ But
always ? ” said the child. “ Ah, sister,
why do you turn away your face ? ”
Nell could not help following at a
little distance. They went to the house
of an old nurse, where the elder sister
had engaged a bedroom for the child.
“ I shall come to you early every morn-
ing,” she said, “ and we can be togeth-
er all the day.” — “ Why not at night-
time, too? Dear sister, would they be
angry with you for that ? ”
Why were the eyes of little Nell wet.
THE OLD CURIOSITY SHOP.
*45
that night, with tears like those of the
two sisters ? Why did she bear a grate-
ful heart because they had met, and
feel it pain to think that they would
shortly part? Let us not believe that
any selfish reference — unconscious
though it might have been — to her
own trials awoke this sympathy, but
thank God that the innocent joys of
others can strongly move us, and that
we, even in our fallen nature, have one
source of pure emotion which must be
prized in heaven !
By morning’s cheerful glow, but
oftener still by evening’s gentle light,
the child, with a respect for the short
and happy intercourse of these two sis-
ters which forbade her to approach
and say a thankful word, although she
yearned to do so, followed them at a
distance in their walks and rambles,
stopping when they stopped, sitting on
the grass when they sat down, rising
when they went on, and feeling it a
companionship and delight to be so
near them. Their evening walk was
by a river’s side. ^ Here, every night,
the child was, too, ’unseen by them, un-
thought of, unregarded ; but feeling as
if they were her friends; as if they had
confidences and trusts together ; as if
her load were lightened and less hard to
bear ; as if they mingled their sorrows,
and found mutual consolation. It was
a weak fancy perhaps, the childish fancy
of a young and lonely creature ; but,
night after night, and still the sisters
loitered in the same place, and still the
child followed with a mild and softened
heart.
She was much startled, on returning
home one night, to find that Mrs. Jar-
ley had commanded an announcement
to be prepared to the effect that the
stupendous collection would only remain
in its present quarters one day longer ;
in fulfilment of which threat (for all
announcements connected with public
amusements are well known to be irrev-
ocable and most exact), the stupendous
collection shut up next day.
“ Are we going from this place direct-
ly, ma’am?” said Nell.
“ Look here, child,” returned Mrs.
Jarley. “ That ’ll inform you.” And so
saying, Mrs. Jarley produced another
announcement, wherein it was stated,
that, in consequence of numerous in-
quiries at the wax-work door, and in
consequence of crowds having been dis-
appointed in obtaining admission, the
exhibition would be continued for one
week longer, and would reopen next
day.
“For now that the schools are gone,
and the regular sight-seers exhausted,”
said Mrs. Jarley, “we come to the
General Public, and they want stimulat-
ing.”
Upon the following day at noon, Mrs.
Jarley established herself behind the
highly ornamented table, attended by
the distinguished effigies before men-
tioned, and ordered the doors to be
thrown open for the readmission of a
discerning and enlightened public. But
the first day’s operations were by no
means of a successful character, inas-
much as the general public, though
they manifested a lively interest in Mrs.
Jarley personally, and such of her wax-
en satellites as were to be seen for noth-
ing, were not affected by any impulses
moving them to the payment of sixpence
a head. Thus, notwithstanding that a
great many people continued to stare at
the entry and the figures therein dis-
played, and remained there with great
perseverance, by the hour at a time,
to hear the barrel-organ played and
to read the bills, and notwithstanding
that they were kind enough to recom-
mend their friends to patronize the ex-
hibition in the like manner, until the
doorway was regularly blockaded by
half the population of the town, who,
when they went off duty, were relieved
by the other half, it was not found that
the treasury was any the richer, or that
the prospects of the establishment were
at all encouraging.
In this depressed state of the classical
market, Mrs. Jarley made extraordinary
efforts to stimulate the popular taste
and whet the popular curiosity. Cer-
tain machinery in the body of the nun
on the leads over the door was cleaned
up and put in motion, so that the fig-
ure shook its head paralytically all
day long, to the great admiration of a
drunken, but very Protestant, barber
over the way, who looked upon the said
io
146
THE OLD CURIOSITY SHOP.
paralytic motion as typical of the de-
grading effect wrought upon the human
mind by the ceremonies of the Romish
Church, and discoursed upon that theme
with great eloquence and morality.
The two carters constantly passed in
and out of the exhibition-room, under
various disguises, protesting aloud that
the sight was better worth the money
than anything they had beheld in all
their lives, and urging the by-standers,
with tears in their eyes, not to neglect
such a brilliant gratification. Mrs. Jar-
ley sat in the pay-place, chinking silver
moneys from noon till night, and sol-
emnly calling upon the crowd to take
notice that the price of admission was
only sixpence, and that the departure
of the whole collection, on a short tour
among the Crowned Heads of Europe,
was positively fixed for that day week.
“ So be in time, be in time, be in
time,” said Mrs. Jarley, at the close of
every such address. “ Remember that
this is Jarley’s stupendous collection of
upwards of one Hundred Figures, and
that it is the only collection in the
world ; all others being impostors and
deceptions. Be in time, be in time, be
in time ! ”
CHAPTER XXXIII.
As the course of this tale requires
that we should become acquainted,
somewhere hereabouts, with a few par-
ticulars connected with the domestic
economy of Mr. Sampson Brass, and
as a more convenient place than the
present is not likely to occur for that
purpose, the historian takes the friendly
reader by the hand, and springing with
him into the air, and cleaving the same
at a greater rate than ever Don Cleo-
phas Leandro Perez Zambullo and his
familiar travelled through that pleasant
region in company, alights with him
upon the pavement of Bevis Marks.
The intrepid aeronauts alight before
a small dark house, once the residence
of Mr. Sampson Brass.
In the parlor window of this little
habitation, which is so close upon the
footway that the passenger who takes
the wall brushes the dim glass with his
coat-sleeve, — much to its improvement,
for it is very dirty, — in this parlor win-
dow in the days of its occupation by
Sampson Brass, there hung, ail awry
and slack, and discolored by the sun, a
curtain of faded green, so threadbare
from long service as by no means to
intercept the view of the little dark
room, but rather to afford a favorable
medium through which to observe it
accurately. There was not much to
look at. A rickety table, with spare
bundles of papers, yellow and ragged
from long carriage in the pocket, osten-
tatiously displayed upon its top ; a
couple of stools set face to face on
opposite sides of this crazy piece of
furniture ; a treacherous old chair by
the fireplace, whose withered arms had
hugged full many a client, and helped
to squeeze him dry ; a second-hand wig-
box, used as a depository for blank
writs and declarations and other small
forms of law, once the sole contents of
the head which belonged to the wig
which belonged to the box, as they were
now of the box itself ; two or three
common books of practice ; a jar of ink,
a pounce-box, a stunted hearth-broom,
a carpet trodden to shreds, but still
clinging with the tightness of despera-
tion to its tacks, — these, with the yel-
low wainscot of the wails, the smoke-
discolored ceiling, the dust and cob-
webs, were among the most prominent
decorations of the office of Mr. Samp-
son Brass.
But this was mere still - life of no
greater importance than the plate,
“ Brass, Solicitor,” upon the door, and
the bill, “ First floor to let to a single
gentleman,” which was tied to the
knocker. The office commonly held
two examples of animated nature, more
to the purpose of this history, and in
whom it has a stronger interest and
more particular concern.
Of these, one was Mr. Brass himself,
who has already appeared in these
pages. The other was his clerk, assist-
ant, housekeeper, secretary, confidential
plotter, adviser, intriguer, and bill-of-
cost increaser, — Miss Brass, a kind of
amazon at common law, of whom it
may be desirable to offer a brief de-
scription.
Wf U8fi4fiy
SAMPSON AND* SALLY BRASS.
THE OLD CURIOSITY SHOP.
H7
Miss Sally Brass, then, was a lady of
thirty-five or thereabouts, of a gaunt
and bony figure, and a resolute bear-
ing, which if it repressed the softer
emotions of love, and kept admirers at
a distance, certainly inspired a feeling
akin to awe in the breasts of those male
strangers who had the happiness to ap-
proach her. In face she bore a striking
resemblance to her brother Sampson ;
so exact, indeed, was the likeness be-
tween them, that, had it consorted with
Miss Brass’s maiden modesty and gen-
tle womanhood to have assumed her
brother’s clothes in a frolic and sat
down beside him, it would have been
difficult for the oldest friend of the
family to determine which was Samp-
son and which Sally, especially as the
lady carried upon her upper lip certain
reddish demonstrations, which, if the
imagination* had been assisted by her
attire, might have been mistaken for
a beard. These were, however, in all
probability, nothing more than eye-
lashes in a wrong place, as the eyes of
Miss Brass were quite free from any
such natural impertinences. In com-
plexion Miss Brass was sallow, — rather
a dirty sallow, so to speak, — but this
hue was agreeably relieved by the
healthy glow which mantled in the
extreme tip of her laughing nose. Her
voice was exceedingly impressive, —
deep and rich in quality, and, once
heard, not easily forgotten. Her usual
dress was a green gown, in color not
unlike the curtain of the office window,
made tight to the figure, and terminat-
ing at the throat, where it was fastened
behind by a peculiarly large and mas-
sive button. Feeling, no doubt, that
simplicity and plainness are the soul
of elegance, Miss Brass wore no collar
or kerchief except upon her head,
which was invariably ornapiented with
a brown gauze scarf, like the wing of
the fabled vampire, and which, twisted
into any form that happened to sug-
gest itself, formed an easy and graceful
head-dress.
Such was Miss Brass in person. In
mind, she was of a strong and vigorous
turn, having from her earliest youth
devoted herself with uncommon ardor
to the study of the law ; not wasting
her speculations upon its eagle flights,
which are rare, but tracing it attentively
through all the slippery and eel-like
crawlings in which it commonly pur-
sues its way. Nor had she, like many
persons of great intellect, confined her-
self to theory, or stopped short where
practical usefulness begins ; inasmuch
as she could engross, fair-copy, fill up
printed forms with perfect accuracy,
and, in short, transact any ordinary duty
of the office, down to pouncing a skin
of parchment or mending a pen. It
is difficult to understand how, pos-
sessed of these combined attractions,
she should remain Miss Brass; but
whether she had steeled her heart
against mankind, or whether those who
might have wooed and won her were
deterred by fears that, being learned in
the law, she might have too near her
fingers’ ends those particular statutes
which regulate what are familiarly
termed actions for breach, certain it is
that she was still in a state of celibacy,
and still in daily occupation of her old
stool opposite to that of her brother
Sampson. And equally certain it is,
by the way, that between these two
stools a great many people had come to
the ground.
One morning Mr. Sampson Brass sat
upon his stool copying some legal pro-
cess, and viciously digging his pen
deep into the paper, as if he were writ-
ing upon the very heart of the party
against whom it was directed ; and
Miss Sally Brass sat upon her stool,
making a new pen preparatory to draw-
ing out a little bill, which was her fa-
vorite occupation ; and so they sat in
silence for a long time, until Miss Brass
broke silence.
“Have you nearly done, Sammy?’*
said Miss Brass ; for in her mild and
feminine lips, Sampson became Sammy,
and all things were softened down.
“No,” returned her brother. “It
would have been all done, though, if
you had helped at the right time.”
“O yes, indeed,” cried Miss Sally;
“you want my help, don’t you? — you y
too, that are going to keep a clerk ! ”
“ Am I going to keep a clerk for my
own pleasure, or because of my own
wish, you provoking rascal 1 ” said Mr,
THE OLD CURIOSITY SHOP.
t48
Brass, putting his pen in his mouth, and
grinning spitefully at his sister. “ What
do you taunt me about going to keep a
clerk for ? ”
It may be observed in this place, lest
the fact of Mr. Brass calling a lady a
rascal should occasion any wonder-
ment or surprise, that he was so habitu-
ated to having her near him in a man’s
capacity, that he had gradually accus-
tomed himself to talk to her as though
she were really a man. And this feel-
ing was so perfectly reciprocal, that not
only did Mr. Brass often call Miss Brass
a rascal, or even put an adjective before
the rascal, but Miss Brass looked upon
it as quite a matter of course, and was
as little moved as any other lady would
be by being called an angel.
“ What do you taunt me, after three
hours’ talk last night, with going to keep
a clerk for?” repeated Mr. Brass, grin-
ning again with the pen in his mouth,
like some nobleman’s or gentleman’s
crest. “ Is it my fault ? ”
“All I know is,” said Miss Sally,
smiling dryly, for she delighted in noth-
ing so much as irritating her brother,
“ that if every one of your clients is to
force us to keep a clerk, whether we
want to or not, you had better leave off
business, strike yourself off the roll, and
get taken in execution as soon as you
can.”
“ Have we got any other client like
him ? ” said Brass. “ Have we got
another client like him, now, — will you
answer me that ? ”
“Do you mean in the face?” said
his sister.
“ Do I mean in the face ! ” sneered
Sampson Brass, reaching over to take
up the bill-book, and fluttering its
leaves rapidly. “Look here — Daniel
Quilp, Esquire — Daniel Quilp, Esquire
— Daniel Quilp, Esquire — all through.
Whether should I take a clerk that he
recommends, and says, ‘ This is the man
for you,’ or lose all this, — eh ? ”
Miss Sally deigned to make no reply,
but smiled again, and went on with her
work.
“ But I know what it is,” resumed
Brass, after a short silence. “You ’re
afraid you won’t have as long a finger
in the business as you ’ve been used to
have. Do you think I don’t see through
that?”
“ The business wouldn’t go on very
long, I expect, without me,” returned
his sister, composedly. “ Don’t you be
a fool and provoke me, Sammy, but
mind what you ’re doing, and do it.”
Sampson Brass, who was at heart in
reat fear of his sister, sulkily bent over
is writing again, and listened as she
said, —
“ If I determined that the clerk
ought not to come, of course he
wouldn’t be allowed to come. You
know that well enough, so don’t talk
nonsense.”
Mr. Brass received this observation
with increased meekness, merely re-
marking, under his breath, that he
didn’t like that kind of joking, and that
Miss Sally would be “ a much better fel-
low ” if she forebore to aggravate him.
To this compliment Miss Sally replied,
that she had a relish for the amusement,
and had no intention to forego its grati-
fication. Mr. Brass not caring, as it
seemed, to pursue the subject any fur-
ther, they both plied their pens at a
great pace, and there the discussion
ended.
While they were thus employed, the
window was suddenly darkened, as by
some person standing close against it.
As Mr. Brass and Miss Sally looked up
to ascertain the cause, the top sash was
nimbly lowered from without, and Quilp
thrust in his head.
“ Hallo ! ” he said, standing on tip-
toe on the window-sill, and looking
down into the room. “Is there any-
body at home? Is there any of the
Devil’s ware here? Is Brass at a pre-
mium, eh? ”
“ Ha, ha, ha ! ” laughed the lawyer,
in an affected ecstasy. “ O, very good,
sir ! O, very good indeed ! Quite ec-
centric ! Dear me, what humor he has !”
“ Is that my Sally ? ” croaked the
dwarf, ogling the fair Miss Brass. “Is
it Justice with the bandage off her eyes,
and without the sword and scales ? Is
it the Strong Arm of the Law? Is it
the Virgin of Bevis?”
“ What an amazing flow of spirits ! ”
cried Brass. “ Upon my word, it ’s
quite extraordinary ! ”
THE OLD CURIOSITY SHOP.
“ Open the door,” said Quilp. “ I ’ve
got him here. Such a clerk for you,
Brass, such a prize, such an ace of
trumps. Be quick and open the door,
or, if there ’s another lawyer near and
he should happen to look out of win-
dow, he ’ll snap him up before your
eyes, he will.”
It is probable that the loss of the phoe-
nix of clerks, even to a rival practitioner,
would not have broken Mr. Brass’s
heart ; but, pretending great alacrity,
he rose from his seat, and going to the
door, returned, introducing his client,
who led by the hand no less a person
than Mr. Richard Swiveller.
“There she is,” said Quilp, stopping
short at the door, and wrinkling up his
eyebrows as he looked towards Miss
Sally ; “ there is the woman I ought to
have married ; there is the beautiful
Sarah ; there is the female who has all
the charms of her sex and none of their
weaknesses. O Sally, Sally ! ”
To this amorous address Miss Brass
briefly responded, “ Bother ! ”
“ Hard-hearted as the metal from
which she takes her name,” said Quilp.
“ Why don’t she change it, — melt down
the brass, and take another name ? ”
“ Hold your nonsense, Mr. Quilp,
do,” returned Miss Sally, with a grim
smile. “ I wonder you ’re not ashamed
of yourself before a strange young
man ! ”
“The strange young man,” said
Quilp, handing Dick Swiveller forward,
“ is too susceptible himself not to un-
derstand me well. This is Mr. Swivel-
ler, my intimate friend, — a gentleman
of good family and great expectations,
but who, having rather involved him-
self by youthful indiscretion, is content
for a time to fill the humble station of a
clerk, — humble, but here most enviable.
What a delicious atmosphere ! ”
If Mr. Quilp spoke figuratively, and
meant to imply that the air breathed by
Miss Sally Brass was sweetened and
rarefied by that dainty creature, he had
doubtless good reason for what he said.
But if he spoke of the delights of the
atmosphere of Mr. Brass’s office in a
literal sense, he had certainly a peculiar
taste, as it was of a close and earthy
kind, and, besides being frequently im-
pregnated with strong whiffs of the sec-
ond-hand wearing apparel exposed fl»r
sale in Duke’s Place and Houndsditch,
had a decided flavor of rats and mice,
and a taint of mouldiness. Perhaps
some doubts of its pure delight pre-
sented themselves to Mr. Swiveller, as
he gave vent to one or two short, abrupt
sniffs, , and looked incredulously at the
grinning dwarf.
“Mr. Swiveller,” said Quilp, “being
pretty well accustomed to the agricultu-
ral pursuits of sowing wild oats, Miss
Sally, prudently considers that half a
loaf is better than no bread. To be
out of harm’s way he prudently thinks
is something too, and therefore he ac-
cepts your brother’s offer. Brass, Mr.
Swiveller is yours.”
“ I am very glad, sir,” said Mr.
Brass, — “ very glad indeed. Mr. Swi-
veller, sir, is fortunate to have your
friendship. You may be very proud,
sir, to have the friendship of Mr. Quilp.”
Dick murmured something about nev-
er wanting a friend or a bottle to give
him, and also gasped forth his favor-
ite allusion to the wing of friendship
and its never moulting a feather ; but
his faculties appeared to be absorbed
in the contemplation of Miss Sally
Brass, at whom he stared with blank
and rueful looks, which delighted the
watchful dwarf beyond measure. As
to the divine Miss Sally herself, she
rubbed her hands as men of business
do, and took a few turns up and down
the office with her pen behind her ear.
“ I suppose,” said the dwarf, turning
briskly to his legal friend, “ that Mr.
Swiveller enters upon his duties at
once ? It ’s Monday morning.”
“At once, if you please, sir, by all
means,” returned Brass.
“Miss Sally will teach him law',
the delightful study of the law,” said
Quilp ; “ she ’ll be his guide, his friend,
his companion, his Blackstone, his Coke
upon Littleton, his Young Lawyer’s
Best Companion.”
“He is exceedingly eloquent,” said
Brass, like a man abstracted, and look-
ing at the roofs of the opposite houses,
with his hands in his pockets: “he
has an extraordinary flow of language.
Beautiful, really.”
THE OLD CURIOSITY SHOP.
iso
“With Miss Sally,” Quilp went on,
“and the beautiful fictions of the law,
his days will pass like minutes. 'J’hose
charming creations of the poet, John
Doe and Richard Roe, when they first
dawn upon him, will open a new world
for the enlargement of his mind and the
improvement of his heart.”
“ O, beautiful, beautiful ! Beau-ti-ful
indeed ! ” cried Brass. “ It ’s a treat
to hear him ! ”
“Where will Mr. Swiveller sit?”
said Quilp, looking round.
“ Why, we ’ll buy another stool, sir,”
returned Brass. “We hadn’t any
thoughts of having a gentleman with us,
sir, until you were kind enough to sug-
gest it, and our accommodation ’s not
extensive. We ’ll look about for a sec-
ond-hand stool, sir. In the mean time,
if Mr. Swiveller will take my seat, and
try his hand at a fair copy of this eject-
ment, as I shall be out pretty well all
the morning — ”
“Walk with me,” said Quilp. “I
have a word or two to say to you on
points of business. Can you spare the
time ? ”
“ Can I spare the time to walk with
you, sir? You’re joking, sir, you’re
joking with me,” replied the lawyer,
putting on his hat. “I’m ready, sir,
quite ready. My time must be fully
occupied indeed, sir, not to leave me
time to walk with you. It ’s not every-
body, sir, who has an opportunity of
improving himself by the conversation
of Mr. Quilp.”
The dwarf glanced sarcastically at
his brazen friend, and, with a short
dry cough, turned upon his heel to bid
adieu to Miss Sally. After a very gal-
lant parting on his side, and a very cool
and gentlemanly sort of one on hers,
he nodded to Dick Swiveller, and with-
drew with the attorney.
Dick stood at the desk in a state of
utter stupefaction, staring with all his
might at the beauteous Sally, as if she
had been some curious animal whose
like had never lived. When the dwarf
got into the street, he mounted again
upon the window-sill, and looked into
the office for a moment with a grinning
face, as a man might peep into a cage.
Dick glanced upward at him, but with-
out any token of recognition ; and long
after he had disappeared, still stood
gazing upon Miss Sally Brass, seeing
or thinking of nothing else, and rooted
to the spot.
Miss Brass, being by this time deep
in the bill of costs, took no notice what-
ever of Dick, but went scratching on,
with a noisy pen, scoring down the
figures with evident delight, and work-
ing like a steam-engine. There stood
Dick, gazing now at the green gown,
now at the brown head-dress, now at
the face, and now at the rapid pen, in
a state of stupid perplexity, wondering
how he got into the company of that
strange monster, and whether it was
a dream and he would ever wake. At
last he heaved a deep sigh, and began
slowly pulling off his coat.
Mr. Swiveller pulled off his coat, and
folded it up with great elaboration,
staring at Miss Sally all the time ; then
put on a blue jacket with a double row
of gilt buttons, w'hich he had originally
ordered for aquatic expeditions, but
had brought with him that morning for
office purposes ; and still keeping his
eye upon her, suffered himself to drop
down silently upon Mr. Brass’s stool.
Then he underwent a relapse, and, be-
coming powerless again, rested his chin
upon his hand, and opened his eyes so
wide that it appeared quite out of the
question that he could ever close them
any more.
When he had looked so long that he
could see nothing, Dick took his eye.s
off the fair object of his amazement,
turned over the leaves of the draft he
was to copy, dipped his pen into the
inkstand, and at last, and by slow ap-
proaches, began to write. But he had
not written half a dozen words, when,
reaching over to the inkstand to take a
fresh dip, he happened to raise his eyes.
There was the intolerable brown head-
dress, — there was the green gown, —
there, in short, was Miss Sally Brass,
arrayed in all her charms, and more
tremendous than ever.
This happened so often that Mr.
Swiveller by degrees began to feel
strange influences creeping over him,
— horrible desires to annihilate this
Sally Brass, — mysterious promptings
THE OLD CURIOSITY SHOP.
151
to knock her head-dress off and try how
she looked without it. There was a
very large ruler on the table, — a large,
black, shining ruler. Mr. Swiveller
took it up and began to rub his nose
with it.
From rubbing his nose with the ruler,
to poising it in his hand and giving it
an occasional flourish after the toma-
hawk manner, the transition was easy
and natural. In some of these flour-
ishes it went close to Miss Sally’s head ;
the ragged edges of the head-dress
fluttered with the wind it raised ; ad-
vance it but an inch, and that great
brown knot was on the ground : yet
still the unconscious maiden worked
away, and never raised her eyes.
Well, this was a great relief. It was
a good thing to write doggedly and ob-
stinately until he was desperate, and
then snatch up the ruler and whirl it
about the brown head-dress with the
consciousness that he could have it off
if he liked. It was a good thing to
draw it back, and rub his nose very
hard with it, if he thought Miss Sally
was going to look up, and to recom-
pense himself with more hardy flour-
ishes when he found she was still ab-
sorbed. By these means Mr. Swivel-
ler calmed the agitation of his feelings,
until his applications to the ruler be-
came less fierce and frequent, and he
could even write as many as half a
dozen consecutive lines without having
recourse to it, — which was a great
victory.
CHAPTER XXXIV.
In course of time, that is to say,
after a couple of hours or so of dili-
gent application, Miss Brass arrived
at the conclusion of her task, and re-
corded the fact by wiping her pen upon
the green gown, and taking a pinch
of snuff from a little round tin box
which she carried in her pocket. Hav-
ing disposed of this temperate refresh-
ment, she arose from her stool, tied
her papers into a formal packet with
red tape, and, taking them under her
arm, marched out of the office.
Mr. Swiveller had scarcely sprung
| off his seat and commenced the per-
formance of a maniac hornpipe, when
he was interrupted, in the fulness of
his joy at being again alone, by the
opening of the door, and the reappear-
ance of Miss Sally’s head.
“ I am going out,” said Miss Brass.
“Very good, ma’am,” returned Dick.
“And don’t hurry yourself on my ac-
count to come back, ma’am,” he added
inwardly.
“If anybody comes on office busi-
ness, take their messages, and say
that the gentleman who attends to that
matter isn’t in at present, will you?”
said Miss Brass.
“ I will, ma’am,” replied Dick.
“I sha’n’t be very long,” said Mis*
Brass, retiring.
“ I ’m sorry to hear it, ma’am,” re-
joined Dick, when she had shut the
door. “ I hope you may be unexpect-
edly detained, ma’am. If you could
manage to be run over, ma’am, but
not seriously, so much the better.”
Uttering these expressions of good-
will with extreme gravity, Mr. Swivel-
ler sat down in the client’s chair and
pondered ; then took a few turns up
and down the room and fell into the
chair again.
“ So I ’m Brass’s clerk, am I ? ” said
Dick. “ Brass’s clerk, eh ? And the
clerk of Brass’s sister, — clerk to a fe-
male Dragon. Very good, very good !
What shall I be next? Shall I be a
convict in a felt hat and a gray suit,
trotting about a dock-yard with my
number neatly embroidered on my
uniform, and the order of the garter
on my leg, restrained from chafing my
ankle by a twisted belcher handker-
chief? > Shall I be that ? Will that
do, or is it too genteel ? Whatever you
please, have it your own way, of course.”
As he was entirely alone, it may be
presumed that, in these remarks, Mr.
Swiveller addressed himself to his fate
or destiny, whom, as we learn by the
precedents, it is the custom of heroes
to taunt in a very bitter and ironical
manner when they find themselves in
situations of an unpleasant nature.
This is the more probable from the
circumstance of Mr. Swiveller direct-
ing his observations to the ceiling, which
152
THE OLD CURIOSITY SHOP.
these bodiless personages are usually
supposed to inhabit, — except in theat-
rical cases, when they live in the heart
of the great chandelier.
“ Quilp offers me this place, which
he says he can insure me,” resumed
Dick, after a thoughtful silence, and
telling off the circumstances of his
position, one by one, upon his fingers ;
“ Fred, who, I could have taken my
affidavit, would not have heard of such
a thing, backs Quilp to my astonish-
ment, and urges me to take it also, —
staggerer number one ! My aunt in
the country stops the supplies, and
writes an affectionate note to say that
she has made a new will, and left me
out of it, — staggerer number two !
No money; no credit; no support
from Fred, who seems to turn steady
all at once ; notice to quit the old
lodgings, — staggerers three, four, five,
and six ! Under an accumulation of
staggerers, no man can be considered
a free agent. No man knocks himself
down ; if his destiny knocks him down,
his destiny must pick him up again.
Then I ’m very glad that mine has
brought all this upon itself, and I shall
be as careless as I can and make my-
self quite at home to spite it. So go
on, my buck,” said Mr. Swiveller, tak-
ing his leave of the ceiling with a sig-
nificant nod, “and let us see which of
us will be tired first ! ”
Dismissing the subject of his down-
fall with these reflections, which were
no doubt very profound, and are indeed
not altogether unknown in certain sys-
tems of moral philosophy, Mr. Swivel-
ler shook off his despondency and as-
sumed the cheerful ease of an irrespon-
sible clerk.
As a means towards his composure
and self-possession, he entered into a
more minute examination of the office
than he had yet had time to make ;
looked into the wig-box, the books,
and ink-bottle ; untied and inspected
all the papers ; carved a few devices on
the table with the sharp blade of Mr.
Brass’s penknife ; and wrote his name
on the inside of the w’ooden coal-scut-
tle. Having, as it were, taken formal
possession of his clerkship in virtue of
these proceedings, he opened the win-
dow and leaned negligently out of it
until a beer-boy happened to pass, whom
he commanded to set down his tray
and to serve him with a pint of mild
porter, which he drank upon the spot
and promptly paid for, with the view
of breaking ground for a system of
future credit, and opening a correspon-
dence tending thereto, without loss of
time. Then three or four little boys
dropped in, on legal errands from three
or four attorneys of the Brass grade,
whom Mr. Swiveller received and dis-
missed with about as professional a
manner, and as correct and comprehen-
sive an understanding of their business,
as would have been shown by a clown
in a pantomime under similar circum-
stances. These things done and over,
he got upon his stool again and tried
his hand at drawing caricatures of Miss
Brass with a pen and ink, whistling
very cheerfully all the time.
He was occupied in this diversion
when a coach stopped near the door,
and presently afterwards there was a
loud double-knock. As this was no
business of Mr. Swiveller’s, the per-
son not ringing the office-bell, he pur-
sued his diversion with perfect compo-
sure, notwithstanding that he rather
thought there was nobody else in the
house.
In this, however, he was mistaken ; for,
after the knock had been repeated with
increased impatience, the door was
opened, and somebody with a very
heavy tread went up the stairs and in-
to the room above. Mr. Swiveller was
wondering whether this might be an-
other Miss Brass, twin-sister to the
Dragon, when there came a rapping of
knuckles at the office door.
“ Come in ! ” said Dick. “ Don’t
stand upon ceremony. The business
will get rather complicated if I ’ve
many more customers. Come in ! ”
“ O, please,” said a little voice very
low down in the doorway, “will you
come and show the lodgings?”
Dick leant over the table, and de-
scried a small slipshod girl in a dirty
coarse apron and bib, which left noth-
ing of her visible but her face and
feet. She might as well have been
dressed in a violin-case.
THE OLD CURIOSITY SHOP.
153
“ Why, who are you? ” said Dick.
To which the only reply was, “ O,
please, will you come and show the
lodgings ? ”
There never was such an old-fashioned
child in her looks and manner. She
must have been at work from her cra-
dle. She seemed as much afraid of
Dick as Dick was amazed at her.
“ I have n’t got anything to do with the
lodgings,” said Dick. “ Tell ’em to call
again.”
“ O, but please will you come and
show the lodgings,” returned the girl;
“ it ’s eighteen shillings a week and
us finding plate and linen. Boots and
clothes is extra, and fires in winter
time is eightpence a day.”
“ Why don’t you show ’em yourself?
You seem to know all about ’em,” said
Dick.
“ Miss Sally said I was n’t to, because
people would n’t believe the attendance
was good if they saw how small I was
first.” •
“Well, but they’ll see how small
you are afterwards, won’t they?” said
Dick.
“ Ah ! But then they ’ll have taken
’em for a fortnight, certain,” replied the
child with a shrewd look ; “and people
don’t like moving when they ’re once
settled.”
“ This is a queer sort of thing,” mut-
tered Dick, rising. “ What do you mean
to say you are, — the cook ? ”
“ Yes, I do plain cooking,” replied the
child. “ I ’m housemaid too ; I do all
the work of the house.”
“ I suppose Brass and the Dragon and
I do the dirtiest part of it,” thought
Dick. And he might have thought
much more, being in a doubtful and
hesitating mood, but that the girl again
urged her request, and certain mysterious
bumping sounds on the passage and
staircase seemed to give note of the
applicant’s impatience. Richard Swiv-
eller, therefore, sticking a pen behind
each ear, and carrying another in his
mouth as a token of his great impor-
tance and devotion to business, hurried
out to meet and treat with the single
gentleman.
He was a little surprised to perceive
that the bumping sounds were occa-
sioned by the progress up stairs of the
single gentleman’s trunk, which, being
nearly twice as wide as the staircase,
and exceedingly heavy withal, it was
no easy matter for the united exertions
of the single gentleman and the coach-
man to convey up the steep ascent.
But there they were, crushing each
other, and pushing and pulling with
all their might, and getting the trunk
tight and fast in all kinds of impossi-
ble angles, and to pass them was out
of the question ; for which sufficient
reason, Mr. Swiveller followed slowly
behind, entering a new protest on ev-
ery stair against the house of Mr.
Sampson Brass being thus taken by
storm.
To these remonstrances, the single
gentleman answered not a word, but
when the trunk was at last got into the
bedroom, sat down upon it and wiped
his bald head and face with his hand-
kerchief. He was very warm, and well
he might be ; for, not to mention the
exertion of getting the trunk up stairs,
he was closely muffled in winter gar-
ments, though the thermometer had
stood all day at eighty-one in the
shade.
“ I believe, sir,” said Richard Swivel-
ler, taking his pen out of his mouth,
“ that you desire to look at these apart-
ments. They are very charming apart-
ments, sir. They command an uninter-
rupted view of — of over the way, and
they are within one minute ’s w r alk of —
of the corner of the street. There is
exceedingly mild porter, .sir, in the
immediate vicinity, and the contingent
advantages are extraordinary.”
“ What ’s the rent ? ” said the single
gentleman.
“ One pound per week,” replied Dick,
improving on the terms.
“ I ’ll take ’em.”
“ The boots and clothes are extras,”
said Dick; “and the fires in winter
time are — ”
“Are all agreed to,” answered the
single gentleman.
“Two weeks certain,” said Dick,
“are the — ”
“Two weeks!” cried the single
gentleman gruffly, eying him from top
to toe. “Two years. I shall live here
THE OLD CURIOSITY SHOP.
i54
for two years. Here. Ten pounds
down. The bargain ’s made.”
“Why, you see,” said Dick, “my
name ’s not Brass, and — ”
“ Who said it was ? My name ’s not
Brass. What then?”
“The name of the master of the
house is,” said Dick.
“ I ’m glad of it,” returned the single
gentleman; “it’s a good name for a
lawyer. Coachman, you may go. So
may you, sir.”
Mr. Svviveller was so much confound-
ed by the single gentleman riding
roughshod over him at this rate, that he
stood looking at him almost as hard as
he had looked at Miss Sally. The
single gentleman, however, was not in
the slightest degree affected by this
circumstance, but proceeded with per-
fect composure to unwind the shawl
which was tied round his neck, and
then to pull off his boots. Freed of
these encumbrances, he went on to
divest himself of his other clothing,
which he folded up, piece by piece, and
ranged in order on the trunk. Then
he pulled down the window-blinds,
drew the curtains, wound up his watch,
and quite leisurely and methodically
got into bed.
“Take down the bill,” were his part-
ing words, as he looked out from be-
tween the curtains ; “ and let nobody
call me till I ring the bell.”
With that the curtains closed, and he
seemed to snore immediately.
“ This is a most remarkable and
supernatural sort of house !” said Mr.
Swiveller, as he walked into the office
with the bill in his hand. “ She drag-
ons in the business, conducting them-
selves like professional gentlemen ;
plain cooks of three feet high appearing
mysteriously from underground ; stran-
gers walking in and going to bed with-
out leave or license in the middle of
the day ! If he should be one of the
miraculous fellows that turn up now
and then, and has gone to sleep for two
years, I shall be in a pleasant situation.
It’s my destiny, however, and I hope
Brass may like it. I shall be sorry if
he don’t. But it ’s no business of mine,
— I have nothing whatever to do with
it !”
CHAPTER XXXV.
Mr. Brass on returning home re-
ceived the report of his clerk with much
complacency and satisfaction, and was
particular in inquiring after the ten-
pound note, which, proving on examina-
tion to be a good and lawful note of the
Governor and Company of the Bank of
England, increased his good-humor con-
siderably. Indeed he so overflowed with
liberality and condescension, that, in
the fulness of his heart, he invited Mr.
Swiveller to partake of a bowl of punch
with him at that remote and indefinite
period which is currently denominated
“ one of these days,” and paid him
many handsome compliments on the
uncommon aptitude for business which
Iris conduct on the first day of his devo-
tion to it had so plainly evinced.
It was a maxim with Mr. Brass that
the habit of paying compliments kept a
man’s tongue oiled without any ex-
pense ; and, as that useful rpember
ought never to grow rusty or creak in
turning on its hinges in the case of a
practitioner of the law, in whom it
should be always glib and easy, he lost
few opportunities of improving himself
by the utterance of handsome speeches
and eulogistic expressions. And this
had passed into such a habit with him,
that, if he could not be correctly said to
have his tongue at his fingers’ ends, he
might certainly be said to have it any-
where but in his face ; which being, as
we have already seen, of a harsh and
repulsive character, was not oiled so
easily, but frowned above all the smooth
speeches, — one of .nature’s beacons,
warning off those who navigated the
shoals and breakers of the World, or
of that dangerous strait the Law, and
admonishing them to seek less treach-
erous harbors and try their fortune else-
where.
While Mr. Brass by turns over-
whelmed his clerk with compliments,
and inspected the ten-pound note. Miss
Sally showed little emotion and that of
no pleasurable kind, for as the tendency
of her legal practice had been to fix her
thoughts on small gains and gripings,
and to whet and sharpen her natural
wisdom, she was not a little disap-
THE OLD CURIOSITY SHOP.
iS5
pointed that the single gentleman had
obtained the lodgings at such an easy
rate, arguing that when he was seen to
have set his mind upon them, he should
have been at the least charged double
or treble the usual terms, and that, in
exact proportion as he pressed forward,
Mr. Swiveller should have hung back.
But neither the good opinion of Mr.
Brass nor the dissatisfaction of Miss
Sally, wrought any impression upon
that young gentleman, who, throwing
the responsibility of this and all other
acts and deeds thereafter to be done
by him upon his unlucky destiny, was
quite resigned and comfortable, fully
prepared for the worst, and philosophi-
cally indifferent to the best.
“Good morning, Mr. Richard,” said
Brass, on the second day of Mr. Swiv-
eller’s clerkship. “ Sally found you a
second -handstool, sir, yesterdayevening,
in Whitechapel. She ’s a rare fellow at
a bargain, I can tell you, Mr. Richard.
You’ll find that a first-rate stool, sir,
take my word for it.”
“ It ’s rather a crazy one to look at,”
said Dick.
“You’ll find it a most amazing stool
to sit down upon, you may depend,”
returned Mr. Brass. “It was bought
in the open street just opposite the
hospital, and as it has been standing
there a month or two, it has got rather
dusty and a little brown from being in
the sun, that’s all.”
“ I hope it hasn’t got any fevers or
anything of that sort in it,” said Dick,
sitting himself down discontentedly
between Mr. Sampson and th£ chaste
Sally. “ One of the legs is longer than
the others.”
“ Then we get a bit of timber in, sir,”
retorted Brass. “ Ha, ha, ha ! We
get a bit of timber in, sir, and that’s
another advantage of my sister’s going
to market for us. Miss Brass, Mr.
Richard is the — ”
“Will you keep quiet?” interrupted
the fair subject of these remarks, look-
ing up from her papers. “ How am I
to work if you keep on chattering? ”
“ What an uncertain chap you are !”
returned the lawyer. “ Sometimes
you ’re all for a chat. At another time
you’re all for work. A man never
knows what humor he ’ll find you
in.”
“ I’m in a working humor now,”
said Miss Sally, “so don’t disturb me,
if you please. And don’t take him,”
Miss Sally pointed with the feather
of her pen to* Richard, “off his busi-
ness. He won’t do more than he can
help, I dare saj\”
Mr. Brass had evidently a strong in-
clination to make an angry reply, but
was deterred by prudent or timid con-
siderations, as he only muttered some-
thing about aggravation and a vaga-
bond ; not associating the terms with
any individual, but mentioning them
as connected with some abstract ideas
which happened to occur to him. They
went on writing for a long time in
silence after this, — in such a dull si-
lence that Mr. Swiveller (who required
excitement) had several times fallen
asleep, and written divers strange words
in an unknown character with his eyes
shut, when Miss Sally at length broke
in upon the monotony of the office by
pulling out the little tin box, taking a
noisy pinch of snuff, and then express-
ing her opinion that Mr. Richard Swiv-
eller had “ done it.”
“ Done what, ma’am ? ” said Richard.
“ Do you know,” returned Miss Brass,
“that the lodger isn’t up yet, — that
nothing has been seen or heard of him
since he went to bed yesterday after-
noon ? ”
“ Well, ma’am,” said Dick, “ I sup-
pose he may sleep his ten pound out, in
peace and quietness, if he likes.”
“ Ah ! I begin to think he ’ll never
wake,” observed Miss Sally.
“ It ’s a very remarkable circum-
stance,” said Brass, laying down his
pen ; “ really, very remarkable. Mr.
Richard, you ’ll remember, if this gen-
tleman should be found to have hung
himself to the bed-post, or any unpleas-
ant accident of that kind should happen,
— you ’ll remember, Mr. Richard, that
this ten-pound note was given to you in
part payment of two years’ rent ? You ’ll
bear that in mind, Mr. Richard. You
had better make a note of it, sir, in case
you should ever be called upon to give
evidence.’’
Mr. Swiveller took a large sheet of
156
THE OLD CURIOSITY SHOP .
foolscap, and, with a countenance of
profound gravity, began to make a very
small note in one corner.
“ We can never be too cautious,” said
Mr. Brass. “ There is a deal of wicked-
ness going about the world, — a deal of
wickedness. Did the gentleman hap-
pen to say, sir, — but never mind that
at present, sir ; finish that little memo-
randum first.”
Dick did so, and handed it to Mr.
Brass, who had dismounted from his
stool, and was walking up and down
the office.
“ O, this is the memorandum, is it? ”
said Brass, running his eye over the
document. ‘‘Very good. Now, Mr.
Richard, did the gentleman say any-
thing else ? ”
“ No.”
“Are you sure, Mr. Richard,” said
Brass, solemnly, “that the gentleman
said nothing else ?”
“Devil a word, sir,” replied Dick.
“ Think again, sir,” said Brass ; “ it ’s
my duty, sir, in the position in which I
stand, and as an honorable member of
the legal profession, — the first profes-
sion in this country, sir, or in any other
country, or in any of the planets that
shine above us at night and are sup-
posed to be inhabited, — it ’s my duty,
sir, as an honorable member of that pro-
fession, not to put to you a leading
question in a matter of this delicacy and
importance. Did the gentleman, sir,
w'ho took the first floor of you yesterday
afternoon, and who brought with him a
box of property, — a box of property, —
say anything more than is set down in
this memorandum ? ”
“ Come, don’t be a fool,” said Miss
Sally.
Dick looked at her, and then at Brass,
and then at Miss Sally again, and still
said “ No.”
“ Pooh, pooh ! Deuce take it, Mr.
Richard, how dull you are ! ” cried
Brass, relaxing into a smile. “ Did he
say anything about his property? —
there ! ”
“ That ’s the way to put it,” said Miss
Sally, nodding to her brother.
“Did he say, for instance,” added
Brass, in a kind of comfortable, cosey
tone, — “ I don’t assert that he did say
so, mind ; I only ask you to refresh
your memory, — did he say, for in-
stance, that he w r as a stranger in Lon-
don, — that it was not his humor or
within his ability to give any references,
— that he felt we had a right to re-
quire them, — and that, in case any-
thing should happen to him, at any
time, he particularly desired that what-
ever property he had upon the premises
should be considered mine, as some
slight recompense for the trouble and
annoyance I should sustain, — and were
you, in short,” added Brass, still more
comfortably and cosily than before, —
“ were you induced to accept him on
my behalf, as a tenant, upon those con-
ditions ? ”
“ Certainly not,” replied Dick.
“ Why, then, Mr. Richard,” said
Brass, darting at him a supercilious and
reproachful look, “ it ’s my opinion that
you ’ve mistaken your calling, and will
never make a lawyer.”
“ Not if you live a thousand years,”
added Miss Sally. Whereupon the
brother and sister took each a noisy
pinch of snuff from the little tin box,
and fell into a gloomy thoughtfulness.
Nothing further passed, up to Mr.
Swiveller’s dinner-time, which w ? as at
three o’clock, and seemed about three
weeks in coming. At the first stroke of
the hour, the new clerk disappeared.
At the last stroke of five he reappeared,
and the office, as if by magic, became
fragrant with the smell of gin and w'ater
and lemon-peel.
“Mr. Richard,” said Brass, “this
man ’s not up yet. Nothing wTll wake
him, sir. What’s to be done?”
“ I should let him have his sleep
out,” returned Dick.
“ Sleep out ! ” cried Brass. “ Why,
he has been asleep now six-and-twenty
hours. We have been moving chests
of drawers over his head, we have
knocked double knocks at the street
door, w r e have made the servant-girl
fall dow'n stairs several times, (she ’s a
light weight, and it don’t hurt her
much,) but nothing w'akes him.”
“ Perhaps a ladder,” suggested Dick,
“ and getting in at the first-floor win-
dow — ”
“ But then there ’s a door between ;
THE OLD CURIOSITY SHOP .
157
besides, the neighborhood would be up
in arms,” said Brass.
“ What do you say to getting on the
roof of the house through the trap-door,
and dropping down the chimney ? ” sug-
gested Dick.
“ That would be an excellent plan,”
said Brass, “ if anybody would be,” —
and here he looked very hard at Mr.
Swiveller, — “would be kind and friend-
ly and generous enough to undertake
it. I dare say it would not be anything
like as disagreeable as one supposes.”
Dick had made the suggestion, think-
ing that the duty might possibly fall
within Miss Sally’s department. As he
said nothing further, and declined tak-
ing the hint, Mr. Brass was fain to pro-
pose that they should go up stairs to-
gether, and made a last effort to awaken
the sleeper by some less violent means,
which, if they failed on this last trial,
must positively be succeeded by strong-
er measures. Mr. Swiveller, assenting,
armed himself with his stool and the
large ruler, and repaired with his em-
ployer to the scene of action, where
Miss Brass was already ringing a hand-
bell with all her might, and yet without
producing the smallest effect upon their
mysterious lodger.
“ There are his boots, Mr. Richard!”
said Brass.
“ Very obstinate-looking articles they
are too,” quoth Richard Swiveller.
And truly they were as sturdy and bluff a
pair of boots as one would wish to see ;
as firmly planted on the ground as if
their owner’s legs and feet had been in
them ; and seeming, with their broad
soles and blunt toes, to hold possession
of their place by main force.
“ I can’t see anything but the cur-
tain of the bed,” said Brass, applying
his eye to the keyhole of the door. “ Is
he a strong man, Mr. Richard ? ”
“ Very,” answered Dick.
“ It would be an extremely unpleas-
ant circumstance if he was to bounce
out suddenly,” said Brass. “ Keep the
stairs clear. I should be more than a
match for him, of course, but I ’m the
master of the house, and the laws of
hospitality must be respected. — Hallo
there ! Hallo, hallo ! ”
While Mr. Brass, with his eye curi-
ously twisted into the keyhole, uttered
these sounds as a means of attracting
the lodger’s attention, and while Miss
Brass plied the hand-bell, Mr. Swivel-
ler put his stool close against the wall
by the side of the door, and mounting
on the top and standing bolt upright, so
that if the lodger did make a rush, he
would most probably pass him in its on-
ward fury, began aviolentbattery with the
ruler upon the upper panels of the door.
Captivated with his own ingenuity, and
confident in the strength of his position,
which he had taken up after the method
of those hardy individuals who open
the pit and gallery doors of theatres
on crowded nights, Mr. Swiveller rained
down such a shower of blows that the
noise of the bell was drowned ; and the
small servant, who lingered on the stairs
below, ready to fly at a moment’s notice,
was obliged to hold her ears lest she
should be rendered deaf for life.
Suddenly the door was unlocked on
the inside, and flung violently open.
The small servant fled to the coal-cel-
lar ; Miss Sally dived into her own bed->
room ; Mr. Brass, who was not remark-
able for personal courage, ran into the
next street, and, finding that nobody fol-
lowed him, armed with a poker or other
offensive weapon, put his hands in his
pockets, walked very slowly all at once,
and whistled.
Meanwhile, Mr. Swiveller, on the top
of the stool, drew himself into as flat a
shape as possible against the wall, and
looked, not unconcernedly, down upon
the single gentleman, who appeared at
the door growling and cursing in a very
awful manner, and with the boots in
his hand, seemed to have an intention
of hurling them down stairs on specu-
lation. This idea, however, he aban-
doned. He was turning into his room
again, still growling vengefully, when
his eyes met those of the watchful Rich-
ard.
“ Have you been making that horrible
noise?” said the single gentleman.
“ I have been helping, sir,” returned
Dick, keeping his eye upon him, and
waving the ruler gently in his right
hand, as an indication of what the sin-
gle gentleman had to expect if he at-
tempted any violence.
THE OLD CURIOSITY SHOP.
158
“ How dare you, then ? ” said the lodg-
er. “Eh?”
To this Dick made no other reply
than by inquiring whether the lodger
held it to be consistent with the conduct
and character of a gentleman to go to
sleep for six-and-twenty hours at a
stretch, and whether the peace of an
amiable and virtuous family was to
weigh as nothing in the balance.
“Is my peace nothing ? ” said the
single gentleman.
“Is their peace nothing, sir?” re-
turned Dick. “ I don’t wish to hold
out any threats, sir, — indeed the law
does not allow of threats, for to threaten
is an indictable offence, — but if ever
you do that again, take care you ’re not
sat upon by the coroner and buried in a
cross-road before you wake. We have
been distracted with fears that you were
dead, sir,” said Dick, gently sliding to
the ground ; “ and the short and the long
of it is, that we cannot allow single gen-
tlemen to come into this establishment
and sleep like double gentlemen without
paying extra for it.”
“ Indeed ! ” cried the lodger.
“Yes, sir, indeed,” returned Dick,
yielding to his destiny and saying what-
ever came uppermost ; “an equal quan-
tity of slumber was never got out of one
bed and bedstead, and if you ’re going
to sleep in that way, you must pay for a
double-bedded room.”
Instead of being thrown into a greater
passion by these remarks, the lodger
lapsed into a broad grin, and looked at
Mr. Swiveller with twinkling eyes. He
was a brown-faced, sun-burnt man, and
appeared browner and more sunburnt
from having a white nightcap on. As
it was clear that he was a choleric fel-
low in some respects, Mr. Swiveller was
relieved to find him in such good-hu-
mor, and, to encourage him in it, smiled
himself
The lodger, in the testiness of being
so rudely roused, had pushed his night-
cap very much on one side of his bald
head. This gave him a rakish, eccentric
air, which, now that he had leisure to
observe it, charmed Mr. Swiveller ex-
ceedingly ; therefore, by way of propi-
tiation, he expressed his hope that the
gentleman was going to get up, and,
further, that he would never do so any
more.
“ Come here, you impudent rascal ! ”
was the lodger’s answer as he re-entered
his room.
Mr. Swiveller followed him in, leav-
ing the stool outside, but reserving the
ruler in case of a surprise. He rather
congratulated himself on his prudence,
when the single gentleman, without
notice or explanation of any kind,
double-locked the door.
“ Can you drink anything? ” was his
next inquiry.
Mr. Swiveller replied that he had
very recently been assuaging the pangs
of thirst, but that he was still open to
“a modest quencher,” if the materials
were at hand. Without another word
spoken on either side, the lodger took
from his great trunk a kind of temple,
shining as of polished silver, and placed
it carefully on the table.
Greatly interested in his proceedings,'
Mr. Swiveller observed him closely.
Into one little chamber of this temple
he dropped an egg ; into another, some
coffee ; into a third, a compact piece of
raw steak from a neat tin case ; into a
fourth he poured some water. Then,
with the aid of a phosphorus-box and
some matches, he procured a light and
applied it to a spirit-lamp which had a
place of its own below the temple ; then
he shut down the lids of all the little
chambers ; then he opened them ; and
then, by some wonderful and unseen
agency, the steak was done, the egg was
boiled, the coffee was accurately pre-
pared, and his breakfast was ready.
“ Hot water,” said the lodger, hand-
ing it to Mr. Swiveller, with as much
coolness as if he had a kitchen fire
before him, “ extraordinary rum, sugar,
and a travelling-glass. Mix for your-
self. And make haste.”
Dick complied, his eyes wandering all
the time from the temple on the table,
which seemed to do everything, to the
great trunk, which seemed to hold every-
thing. The lodger took his breakfast
like a man who was used to work these
miracles, and thought nothing of them.
“ The man of the house is a lawyer,
is he not ? ” said the lodger.
Dick nodded. The rum was amazing.
THE OLD CURIOSITY SHOP.
i59
“ The woman of the house, — what ’s
she?”
“A dragon,” said Dick.
The single gentleman, perhaps be-
cause he had met with such things in
his travels, or perhaps because he was
a single gentleman, evinced no surprise,
but merely inquired, “Wife or sister?”
“Sister,” said Dick. “So much the
better,” said the single gentleman, “he
can get rid of her when he likes.”
“ I want to do as I like, young man,”
he added, after a short silence: “logo
to bed when I like, get up when I like,
come in when I like, go out when I
like, — to be asked no questions, and
be surrounded by no spies. In this last
respect, servants are the devil. There ’s
only one here.”
“And a very little one,” said Dick.
“And a very little one,” repeated the
lodger. “Well, the place will suit me,
will it? ”
“Yes,” said Dick.
“ Sharks, I suppose ? ” said the
lodger.
Dick nodded assent, and drained his
glass.
“ Let them know my humor,” said
the single gentleman, rising. “ If they
disturb me, they lose a good tenant.
If they know me to be that, they know
enough. If they try to know more, it ’s
a notice to quit. It ’s better to under-
stand these things at once. Good day.”
“ I beg your pardon,” said Dick,
halting in his passage to the door,
which the lodger prepared to open.
“When he who adores thee has left
but the name — ”
“ What do you mean ? ”
“ — But the name,” said Dick, —
“has left but the name, — in case of
letters or parcels — ”
“I never have any,” returned the
lodger.
“ Or in case anybody should call.”
“ Nobody ever calls on me.”
“If any mistake should arise from
not having the name, don’t say it was
rriy fault, sir,” added Dick, still linger-
ing. — “ O blame not the bard — ”
“ I ’ll blame nobody,” said the lodger,
with such irascibility that in a moment
Dick found himself on the staircase,
and the locked door between them.
Mr. Brass and Miss Sally were lurk-
ing hard by, having been, indeed, only
routed from the keyhole by Mr. Swiv-
eller’s abrupt exit. As their utmost
exertions had not enabled them to over-
hear a word of the interview, however,
in consequence of a quarrel for prece-
dence, which, though limited of neces-
sity to pushes and pinches and such
quiet pantomime, had lasted the whole
time, they hurried him down to the
office to hear his account of the conver-
sation.
This Mr. Swiveller gave them, —
faithfully as regarded the wishes and
character of the single gentleman, and
poetically as concerned the great trunk,
of which he gave a description more re-
markable for brilliancy of imagination
than a strict adherence to truth ; declar-
ing, with many strong asseverations,
that it contained a specimen of every
kind of rich food and wine known in
these times, and in particular that it
was of a self-acting kind, and served up
whatever was required, as he supposed,
by clock-work. He also gave them to
understand that the cooking apparatus
roasted a fine piece of sirloin of beef,
weighing about six pounds avoirdu-
pois, in two minutes and a quarter, as
he had himself witnessed, and proved
by his sense of taste; and further, that,
however the effect was produced, he
had distinctly seen water boil and bub-
ble up when the. single gentleman
winked ; from which facts he (Mr.
Swiveller) was led to infer that the
lodger was some great conjurer or
chemist, or both, whose residence un-
der that roof could not fail at some
future day to shed a great credit and
distinction on the name of Brass, and
add a new interest to the history of
Bevis Marks.
There was one point which Mr.
Swiveller deemed it unnecessary to en-
large upon, and that was the fact of the
modest quencher, which, by reason of
its intrinsic strength, and its coming
close upon the heels of the temperate
beverage he had discussed at dinner,
awakened a slight degree of fever, and
rendered necessary two or three other
modest quenchers at the public-house,
in the course of the evening.
i6o
THE OLD CURIOSITY SHOP.
CHAPTER XXXVI.
As the single gentleman, after some
weeks’ occupation of his lodgings, still
declined to correspond, by word or ges-
ture, either with Mr. Brass or his sis-
ter Sally, but invariably chose Richard
Swiveller as his channel of communi-
cation, and as he proved himself in
all respects a highly desirable inmate,
paying for everything beforehand, giv-
ing very little trouble, making no noise,
and keeping early hours, Mr. Richard
imperceptibly rose to an important po-
sition in the family, as one who had in-
fluence over this mysterious lodger, and
could negotiate with him, for good or
evil, when nobody else durst approach
his person.
If the truth must be told, even Mr.
Swiveller’s approaches to the single
gentleman were of a very distant kind,
and met with small encouragement ;
but, as he never returned from a mono-
syllabic conference with the unknown,
without quoting such expressions as
“ Swiveller, I know I can rely upon
you,” “ 1 have no hesitation in say-
ing, Swiveller, that I entertain a regard
for you,” “ Swiveller, you are my
friend, and will stand by me I am
sure,” with many other short speeches
of the same familiar and confiding kind,
purporting to have been addressed by
the single gentleman to himself, and to
form the staple of their ordinary dis-
course, neither Mr. Brass nor Miss
Sally for a moment questioned the ex-
tent of his influence, but accorded to
him their fullest and most unqualified
belief.
But quite apart from, and indepen-
dent of, this source of popularity, Mr.
Swiveller had another, which promised
to be equally enduring, and to lighten
his position considerably.
He found favor in the eyes of Miss
Sally Brass. Let not the light scorners
of female fascination erect their ears to
listen to a new tale of love which shall
serve them for a jest ; for Miss Brass,
however accurately formed to be be-
loved, was not of the loving kind.
That amiable virgin, having clung to
the skirts of the Law from her earliest
youth, having sustained herself by
their aid, as it were, in her first running
alone, and maintained a firm grasp
upon them ever since, had passed her
life in a kind of legal childhood. She
had been remarkable, when a tender
prattler, for an uncommon talent in
counterfeiting the walk and manner of
a bailiff : in which character she had
learned to tap her little playfellows on
the shoulder, and to carry them off to
imaginary sponging-houses, with a cor-
rectness of imitation which was the
surprise and delight of all who wit-
nessed her performances, and which
was only to be exceeded by her exqui-
site manner of putting an execution in-
to her doll’s house, and taking an exact
inventory of the chairs and tables.
These artless sports had naturally
soothed and cheered the decline of her
widowed father : a most exemplary
gentleman (called “old Foxey” by
his friends from his extreme sagacity),
who encouraged them to the utmost,
and whose chief regret on finding that
he drew near to Houndsditch church-
yard was, that his daughter could
not take out an attorney’s certificate
and hold a place upon the roll.
Filled with this affectionate and touch-
ing sorrow, he had solemnly confided
her to his son Sampson as an inval-
uable auxiliary ; and from the old
gentleman’s decease to the period
of which we treat, Miss Sally Brass
had been the prop and pillar of his
business.
It is obvious that, having devoted
herself from infancy to this one pursuit
and study, Miss Brass could know but
little of the world, otherwise than in
connection with the law ; and that from
a lady gifted with such high tastes,
proficiency in those gentler and softer
arts in which women usually excel was
scarcely to be looked for. Miss Sally’s
accomplishments were all of a mascu-
line and strictly legal kind. They be-
gan with the practice of an attorney
and they ended with it. She was in a
state of lawful innocence, so to speak,
The Law had been her nurse. And, as
bandy-legs or such physical deformities
in children are held to be the conse-
quence of bad nursing, so, if in a mind
so beautiful any moral twist or bandi-
THE OLD CURIOSITY SHOP.
161
ness could be found, Miss Sally Brass’s
nurse was alone to blame.
It was on this lady, then, that Mr.
Swiveller burst in full freshness as
something new and hitherto undreamed
of, lighting up the office with scraps of
song and merriment, conjuring with
inkstands and boxes of wafers, catching
three oranges in one hand, balancing
stools upon his chin and penknives on
his nose, and constantly performing a
hundred other feats with equal ingenu-
ity ; for with such unbendings did Rich-
ard, in Mr. Brass’s absence, relieve the
tedium of his confinement. These so-
cial qualities, which Miss Sally first
discovered by accident, gradually made
such an impression upon her, that she
would entreat Mr. Swiveller to relax as
though she were not by, which Mr.
Swiveller, nothing loath, would read-
ily consent to do. By these means a
friendship sprung up between them.
Mr. Swiveller gradually came to look
upon her as her brother Sampson did,
and as he would have looked upon any
other clerk. He imparted to her the
mystery of going the odd man or plain
Newmarket for fruit, ginger-beer, baked
potatoes, or even a modest quencher,
of which Miss Brass did not scruple to
partake. He would often persuade her
to undertake his share of writing in ad-
dition to her own ; nay, he would some-
times reward her with a hearty slap on
the back, and protest that she was a
devilish good fellow, a jolly dog, and so
forth; all of which compliments Miss
Sally would receive in entire good part
and with perfect satisfaction.
One circumstance troubled Mr. Swiv-
eller’s mind very much, and that was
that the small servant always remained
somewhere in the bowels of the earth
under Bevis Marks, and never came to
the surface unless the single gentleman
rang his bell, when she would answer it
and immediately disappear again. She
never went out, or came into the office,
or had a clean face, or took off the
coarse apron, or looked out of any one
of the windows, or stood at the street
door for a breath of air, or had any rest
or enjoyment whatever. Nobody ever
came to see her, nobody spoke of her,
nobody cared about her. Mr. Brass
had said once, that he believed she was
a “love-child,” (which means anything
but a child of love,) and that was all
the information Richard Swiveller could
obtain.
“ It’s of no use asking the dragon,”
thought Dick one day, as he sat con-
templating the features of Miss Sally
Brass. “ I suspect if I asked any ques-
tions on that head, our alliance would
be at an end. I wonder whether she is
a dragon, by the by, or something in the
mermaid way. She has rather a scaly
appearance. But mermaids are fond
of looking at themselves in the glass,
which she can’t be. And they have a
habit of combing their hair, which she
has n’t. No, she ’s a dragon.”
“Where are you going, old fellow,”
said Dick aloud, as Miss Sally wiped
her pen as usual on the green dress and
uprose from her seat.
“To dinner,” answered the dragon.
“ To dinner ! ” thought Dick, “ that ’s
another circumstance. I don’t believe
that small servant ever has anything to
eat.”
“ Sammy won’t be home,” said Miss
Brass. “ Stop till I come back. I
sha’n’t be long.”
Dick nodded, and followed Miss
Brass— with his eyes to the door, and
with his ears to a little back parlor,
where she and her brother took their
meals.
“ Now,” said Dick, walking up and
down with his hands in his pockets,
“ I ’d give something, — if I had it, —
to know how they use that child, and
where they keep her. My mother must
have been a very inquisitive woman ; I
have no doubt I ’m marked with a note
of interrogation somewhere. My feel-
ings I smother, but thou hast been the
cause of this anguish my — upon my
word,” said Mr. Swiveller, checking
himself and falling thoughtfully into the
client’s chair, “ I should like to know
how they use her ! ”
After running on in this way for
some time, Mr. Swiveller softly opened
the office door, with the intention of
darting across the street for a glass of
the mild porter. At that moment he
caught a parting glimpse of the brown
head-dress of Miss Brass flitting down
n
162
THE OLD CURIOSITY SHOP.
the kitchen stairs. “ And by Jove ! ”
thought Dick, “ she ’s going to feed the
Marchioness. Now or never!”
First peeping over the hand-rail and
allowing the head-dress to disappear in
the darkness below, he groped his way
down, and arrived at the door of a back
kitchen immediately after Miss Brass
had entered the same, bearing in her
hand a cold leg of mutton. It was a
very dark, miserable place, very low and
very damp ; the walls disfigured by a
thousand rents and blotches. The water
was trickling out of a leaky butt, and a
most wretched cat was lapping up the
drops with the sickly eagerness of star-
vation. The grate, which was a wide one,
was wound and screwed up tight, so as
to hold no more than a little thin sand-
wich of fire. Everything was locked
up ; the coal-cellar, the candle-box, the
salt-box, the meat-safe, were all pad-
locked. There was nothing that a bee-
tle could have lunched upon. The
pinched and meagre aspect of the place
would have killed a chameleon : he
would have known, at the first mouth-
ful, that the air was not eatable, and
must have given up the ghost in de-
spair.
The small servant stood with humil-
ity in presence of Miss Sally, and hung
her head.
“Are you there? ” said Miss Sally.
“Yes, ma’am,” was the answer m a
weak voice.
“ Go farther away from the leg of
mutton, or you’ll be picking it, I know,”
said Miss Sally.
The girl withdrew into a corner,
while Miss Brass took a key from her
pocket, and opening the safe, brought
from it a dreary waste of cold potatoes,
looking as eatable as Stonehenge.
This she placed before the small ser-
vant, ordering her to sit down before it,
and then, taking up a great carving-
knife, made a mighty show of sharpen-
ing it upon the carving-fork.
“ Do you see this ?” said Miss Brass,
slicing off about two square inches of
cold mutton, after all this preparation,
and holding it put on the point pf the
fork.
The small servant looked hard enough
at i$ with her hungry eyes to see every
shred of it, small as it was, and an-
swered, “Yes.”
“Then don’t you ever go and say,”
retorted Miss Sally, “that you hadn’t
meat here. There, eat it up.”
This was soon done. “ Now, do you
want any more ? ” said Miss Sally.
The hungry creature answered with
a faint “No.” They were evidently
going through an established form.
“ You ’ve befen helped once to meat,”
said Miss Brass, summing up the facts;
“you have had as much as you can eat,
you ’re asked if you want any more, and
you answer, ‘No!’ Then don’t you
ever go and say you were allowanced,
mind that.”
With those words, Miss Sally put the
meat away and locked the safe, and
then drawing near to the small servant,
overlooked her while she finished the
potatoes.
It was plain that some extraordinary
grudge was working in Miss Brass’s
gentle breast, and that it was this which
impelled her, without the smallest
present cause, to rap the child with the
blade of the knife, now on her hand,
now on her head, and now on her back,
as if she found it quite impossible to
stand so close to her without adminis-
tering a few slight knocks. But Mr.
Swiveller was not a little surprised to
see his fellow-clerk, after walking slow-
ly backwards towards the door, as if she
were trying to withdraw herself from
the room, but could not accomplish it,
dart suddenly forward, and falling oil
the small servant, give her some hard
blows with her clenched hand. The vic-
tim cried, but in a subdued manner as if
she feared to raise her voice ; and Miss
Sally, comforting herself with a pinch
of snuff, ascended the stairs, just as
Richard had safely reached the office.
CHAPTER XXXVII.
The single gentleman, among his
other peculiarities, — and he had a very
plentiful stock, of which he every day
furnished some new specimen, — took
a most extraordinapr and remarkable
ipterest in the exhibition of Punch. If
WE LIBRARY
OF THE
university gf aiiMois
THE SINGLE GENTLExMAN.
THE OLD CURIOSITY SHOP.
163
the sound of a Punch’s voice, at ever
so remote a distance, reached Bevis
Marks, the single gentleman, though in
bed and asleep, would start up, and,
hurrying on his clothes, make for the
spot with all speed, and presently return
at the head of a long procession of idlers,
having in the midst the theatre and
its proprietors. Straightway, the stage
would be set up in front of Mr. Brass’s
house ; the single gentleman would
establish himself at the first floor win-
dow ; and the entertainment would pro-
ceed, with all its exciting accompani-
ments of fife and drum and shout, to the
excessive consternation of all sober vota-
ries of business in that silent thorough-
fare. It might have been expected that
when the play was done, both players
and audience would have dispersed ; but
the epilogue was as bad as the play, for
no sooner was the Devil dead, than the
manager of the puppets and his partner
were summoned by the single gentle-
man to his chamber, where they were
regaled with strong waters from his
private store, and where they held with
him long conversations, the purport of
which no human being could fathom.
But the secret of these discussions was
of little importance. It was sufficient
to know, that while they were proceed-
ing the concourse without still lingered
round the house; that boys beat upon
the drum with their fists, and imitated
Punch with their tender voices ; that
the office window was rendered opaque
by flattened noses ; and the keyhole of
the street door luminous with eyes ;
that every time the single gentleman or
either of his guests was seen at the
upper window, or so much as the end
of one of their noses was visible, there
was a great shout of execration from the
excluded mob, who remained howling
and yelling, and refusing consolation,
until the exhibitors were delivered up
to them to be attended elsewhere. It
was . sufficient, in short, to know that
Bevis Marks was revolutionized by
these popular movements, and that
peace and quietness fled from its pre-
cincts.
Nobody was rendered more indignant
by these proceedings than Mr. Samp-
son Brass, who, as he could by no
means afford to lose so profitable an
inmate, deemed it prudent to pocket
his lodger’s affront along with his cash,
and to annoy the audiences who clus-
tered round his door by such imperfect
means of retaliation as were open to
him, and which were confined to the
trickling down of foul water on their
heads from unseen watering-pots, pelt-
ing them with fragments of tile and
mortar from the roof of the house, and
bribing the drivers of hackney cabriolets
to come suddenly round the corner and
dash in among them precipitately. It
may, at first sight, be matter of surprise
to the thoughtless few that Mr. Brass,
being a professional gentleman, should
not have legally indicted some party or
parties, active in the promotion of the
nuisance ; but they will be good enough
to remember, that as doctors seldom
take their own prescriptions, and di-
vines do not always practise what they
preach, so lawyers are shy of meddling
with the law on their own account ;
knowing it to be an edged tool of uncer-
tain application, very expensive in the
working, and rather remarkable for its
properties of close shaving than for its
always shaving the right person.
“ Come,” said Mr. Brass one after-
noon, “this is two days without a Punch.
I ’m in hopes he has run through ’em
all, at last.”
“Why are you in hopes?” returned
Miss Sally. “ What harm do they
do ? ”
“ Here ’s a pretty sort of a fellow ! ”
cried Brass, laying down his pen in
despair. “Now here ’s an aggravating
animal ! ”
“Well, what harm do they do?”
retorted Sally.
“ What harm ! ” cried Brass. “ Is it
no harm to have a constant hallooing
and hooting under one’s very nose,
distracting one from business, and mak-
ing one grind one’s teeth with vexa-
tion ? Is it no harm to be blinded and
choked up, and have the king’s highway
stopped with a set of screamers and
roarers whose throats must be made
of— of— ”
“ Brass,” suggested Mr. Swiveller.
“Ah! of brass,” said the lawyer,
glancing at his clerk, to assure himself
164
THE OLD CURIOSITY SHOP .
that he had suggested the word in good
faith, and without any sinister inten-
tion. “ Is that no harm ? ”
The lawyer stopped short in his in-
vective, and listening for a moment,
and recognizing the well-known voice,
rested his head upon his hand, raised
his eyes to the ceiling, and muttered
faintly, —
“ There ’s another ! ”
Up went the single gentleman’s win-
dow directly.
“There ’s another,” repeated Brass;
“ and if I could get a break and four
blood horses to cut into the Marks
when the crowd is at its thickest, I ’d
give eighteenpence and never grudge
it!”
The distant squeak was heard again.
The single gentleman’s door burst open.
He ran violently down the stairs, out
into the street, and so past the window,
without any hat, towards the quarter
whence the sound proceeded, — bent, no
doubt, upon securing the strangers’ ser-
vices directly.
“ I wish I only knew who his friends
were,” muttered Sampson, filling his
pocket with papers; “if they’d just
get up a pretty little Commission de hi-
natico at the Gray’s Inn Coffee House,
and give me the job, I ’d be content to
have the lodgings empty for one while,
at all events.”
With which words, and knocking his
hat over his eyes as if for the purpose
of shutting out even a glimpse of the
dreadful visitation, Mr. Brass rushed
from the house and hurried away.
As Mr. Swiveller was decidedly fa-
vorable to these performances, upon
the ground that looking at a Punch, or
indeed looking at anything out of win-
dow, was better than working ; and as
he had been, for this reason, at some
pains to awaken in his fellow-clerk a
sense of their beauties and manifold
deserts, both he and Miss Sally rose as
with one accord and took up their po-
sitions at the window : upon the sill
whereof, as in a post of honor, sundry
young ladies and gentlemen who were
employed in the dry nurture of babies,
and who made a point of being present,
with their young charges, on such oc-
casions, had already established them-
selves as comfortably as the circumstam
ces would allow.
The glass being dim, Mr. Swiveller,
agreeably to a friendly custom which
he had established between them,
hitched off the brown head-dress from
Miss Sally’s head, and dusted it care-
fully therewith. By the time he had
handed it back, and its beautiful wearer
had put it on again (which she did with
perfect composure and indifference), the
lodger returned with the show and show-
men at his heels, and a strong addition
to the body of spectators. The exhib-
itor disappeared with all speed behind
the drapery ; and his partner, station-
ing himself by the side of the theatre,
surveyed the audience with a remarka-
ble expression of melancholy, which
became more remarkable still when he
breathed a hornpipe tune into that sweet
musical instrument which is popularly
termed a mouth-organ, without at all
changing the mournful expression of the
upper part of his face, though his mouth
and chin were, of necessity, in lively
spasms.
The drama proceeded to its close,
and held the spectators enchained in
the customary manner. The sensation
which kindles in large assemblies, when
they are relieved from a state of breath-
less suspense and are again free to speak
and move, was yet rife, when the lodg-
er, as usual, summoned the men up
stairs.
“Both of you,” he called from the
window ; for only the actual exhibitor
— a little fat man — prepared to obey
the summons. “ I want to talk to you.
Come both of you ! ”
« “ Come, Tommy,” said the little
man.
“I ain’t a talker,” replied the other.
“Tell him so. What should I go and
talk for? ”
“Don’t you see the gentleman ’s got
a bottle and glass up there ? ” returned
the little man.
“And couldn’t ybu have said so, at
first?” retorted the other with sudden
alacrity. “Now, what are you waiting
for ? Are you going to keep the gentle-
man expecting us all day? have n’t you
no manners? ”
With this remonstrance, the nwlan-
THE OLD CURIOSITY SHOP.
choly man, who was no other than Mr.
Thomas Codlin, pushed past his friend
and brother in the craft, Mr. Harris,
otherwise Short or Trotters, and hur-
ried before him to the single gentleman’s
apartment.
“ Now, my men,” said the single gen-
tleman ; “ you have done very well.
What w ill you take ? Tell that little
man behind to shut the door.”
“ Shut the door, can’t you ? ” said
Mr. Codlin, turning gruffly to his friend.
“You might have knowed that the gen-
tleman wanted the door shut, without
being told, I think.”
Mr. Short obeyed, observing under
his breath that his friend seemed un-
usually “ cranky,” and expressing a
hope, that there was no dairy in the
neighborhood, or his temper would cer-
tainly spoil its contents.
The gentleman pointed to a couple of
chairs, and intimated by an emphatic
nod of his head that he expected them
to be seated. Messrs. Codlin and
Short, after looking at each other with
considerable doubt and indecision, at
length sat down, — each on the ex-
treme edge of the chair pointed out to
him, — and held their hats very tight,
while the single gentleman filled a
couple of glasses from a bottle on the
table beside him, and presented them
in due form.
“You ’re pretty well browned by the
sun both of you,” said their entertainer.
“ Have you been travelling? ”
Mr. Short replied in the affirmative
with a nod and a smile. Mr. Codlin
added a corroborative nod and a short
groan, as ijf he still felt the weight of
the Temple on his shoulders.
“To fairs, markets, races, and so
forth, I suppose ?” pursued the single
gentleman.
“Yes, sir,” returned Short, “pretty
nigh all over the West of England.”
“ I have talked to men of your craft
from North, East, and South,” re-
turned their host, in rather a hasty man-
ner ; “but I never lighted on any from
the West before.”
“ It ’s our reg’lar summer circuit is
the West, master,” said Short ; “ that ’s
where it is. We takes the East of Lon-
don in the spring and winter, and the
165
West of England in the summer time.
Many ’s the hard day’s walking in rain
and mud, and with never a penny
earned, we ’ve had dowm in the West.” %
“ Let me fill your glass again.”
“ Much obleeged to you, sir, I think I
will,” said Mr. Codlin, suddenly thrust-
ing in his own and turning Short’s
aside. “ I ’m the sufferer, sir, in all
the travelling, and in all the staying at
home. In town or country, wet or dry,
hot or cold, Tom Codlin suffers. But
Tom Codlin is n’t to complain for all
that. O no ! Short may complain,
but if Codlin grumbles by so much as a
word, — O dear, down with him, down
with him directly. It is n’t his place
to grumble. That ’s quite out of the
question.”
“Codlin ain’t without his useful-
ness,” observed Short with an arch
look, “but he don’t always keep his
eyes open. He falls asleep sometimes
you know. Remember them last races,
Tommy.”
“Will you never leave off aggravat-
ing a man ? ” said Codlin. “ It ’s very
like I was asleep when five-and-ten-
pence was collected, in one round, is n’t
it? I was attending to my business,
and could n’t have my eyes in twenty
places at once, like a peacock, no more
than you could. If I ain’t a match for
an old man and a young child, you ain’t
neither, so don’t throw that out against
me, for the cap fits your head quite as
correct as it fits mine.”
“You may as well drop the subject,
Tom,” said Short. “ It is n’t particu-
lar agreeable to the gentleman, I dare
say.”
“ Then you should n’t have brought
it up,” returned Mr. Codlin ; “and I
ask the gentleman’s pardon on your
account, as a giddy chap that likes to
hear himself talk, and don’t much care
what he talks about, so that he does
talk.”
Their entertainer had sat perfectly
quiet in the beginning of this dispute,
looking first at one man and then at
the other, as if he were lying in wait
for an opportunity of putting some fur-
ther question, or reverting to that from
which the discourse had strayed. But,
from the point where Mr. Codlin was
t66
THE OLD CURIOSITY SHOP.
charged with sleepiness, he had shown
an increasing interest in the discussion,
which now attained a very high pitch.
“You are the two men I want,” he
' said, — “the two men I have been looking
for, and searching after ! Where are that
old man and that child you speak of?”
“Sir?” said Short, hesitating and
looking towards his friend.
“The old man and his grandchild
who travelled with you, — where are
they? It w'ill be worth your while to
speak out, I assure you ; much better
worth your while than you believe.
They left you, you say, at those races
as I understand. They have been
traced to that place, and there lost sight
of. Have you no clew, can you suggest
no clew, to their recovery ? ”
“Did I always say, Thomas,” cried
Short, turning with a look of amaze-
ment to his friend, “ that there was
sure to be an inquiry after them two
travellers ? ”
“ You said ! ” returned Mr. Codlin.
“ Did I always say that that ’ere blessed
child was the most interesting I ever
see? Did I always say I loved her,
and doted on her ? Pretty creetur, I
think I hear her now, ‘ Codlin ’s my
friend,’ she says with a tear of gratitude
a trickling down her little eye, — ‘ Cod-
lin’s my friend,’ she says, ‘not Short.
Short ’s very well,’ she says ; ‘ I ’ve no
quarrel with Short ; he means kind, I
dare say ; but Codlin,’ she says, ‘ has
the feelings for my money, though he
may n’t look it.’ ”
Repeating these words with great
emotion, Mr. Codlin rubbed the bridge
of his nose with his coat-sleeve, and
shaking his head mournfully from side
to side, left the single gentleman to in-
fer that, from the moment when he lost
sight of his dear young charge, his
peace of mind and happiness had fled.
“Good Heaven!” said the single
gentleman, pacing up and down the
room, “ have I found these men at last,
only to discover that they can give me
no information or assistance ! it w'ould
have been better to have lived on, in
hope, from day to day, and never to
have lighted on them, than to have my
expectations scattered thus.”
“Stay a minute,” said Short. “A
man of the name of Jerry — you know
Jerry, Thomas? ”
“ O, don’t talk to me of Jerrys ! ” re-
plied Mr. Codlin. “ How can I care a
pinch of snuff for Jerrys, when I think
of that ’ere darling child ? ‘ Codlin ’s
my friend,’ she says, ‘ dear, good, kind
Codlin, as is always a devising pleas-
ures for me ! I don’t object to % Short,’
she says, ‘but I cotton to Codlin.’
Once,” said that gentleman, reflective-
ly, “she called me Father Codlin. I
thought I should have bust ! ”
“A man of the name of Jerry, sir,”
said Short, turning from his selfish col-
league to their new acquaintance, “ wot
keeps a company of dancing-dogs, told
me, in a accidental sort of a way, that
he had seen the old gentleman in*con-
nection with a travelling wax- work, un-
beknown to him. As they ’d give us
the slip, and nothing had come of it,
and this was down in the country that
he’d been seen, I took no measures
about it, and asked no questions ; but
I can, if you like.”
“Is this man in town?” said the
impatient single gentleman. “ Speak
faster.”
“ No he isn’t, but he will be to-mor-
row, for he lodges in our house,” re-
plied Mr. Short, rapidly.
“Then bring him here,” said the sin-
gle gentleman. “ Here ’s a sovereign
apiece. If I can find these people
through your means, it is but a prelude
to twenty more. Return to me to-mor-
row, and keep your own counsel on this
subject ; though I need hardly tell you
that, for you’ll do so for your own
sakes. Now, give me your address,
and leave me.”
The address was given, the two men
departed, the crowd went with them,
and the single gentleman for two mortal
hours walked in uncommon agitation
up and down his room, over the won-
dering heads of Mr. Swiveller and Miss
Sally Brass.
CHAPTER XXXVIII.
Kit, — for it happens at this juncture,
not only that we have breathing time to
follow his fortunes, but that the neces-
THE OLD CURIOSITY SHOP.
167
sities of these adventures so adapt them-
selves to our ease and inclination as to
call upon us imperatively to pursue the
track we most desire to take, — Kit,
while the matters treated of in the last
fifteen chapters were yet in progress,
was, as the reader may suppose, grad-
ually familiarizing himself more and
more with Mr. and Mrs. Garland, Mr.
Abel, the pony, and Barbara, and grad-
ually coming to consider them one and
all as his particular private friends,
and Abel Cottage, Finchley, as his own
proper home.
Stay, — the words are written, and
may go, but if they convey any notion
that Kit, in the plentiful board and
comfortable lodging of his new abode,
began to think slightingly of the poor
fare and furniture of his old dwelling,
they do their office badly and commit
injustice. Who so mindful of those he
left at home — albeit they were but a
mother and two young babies — as Kit?
What boastful father in the fulness of
his heart ever related such wonders of
his infant prodigy, as Kit never wearied
of telling Barbara, in the evening time,
concerning little Jacob ? Was there
ever such a mother as Kit’s mother, on
her son’s showing ? or was there ever
such comfort in poverty as in the pov-
erty of Kit’s family, if any correct judg-
ment might be arrived at, from his own
glowing account ?
And let me linger in this place, for an
instant, to remark that if ever house-
hold affections and loves are graceful
things, they are graceful in the poor.
The ties that bind the wealthy and the
proud to home may be forged on earth,
but those which link the poor man to
his humble hearth are of the truer met-
al and bear the stamp of Heaven. The
man of high descent may love the halls
and lands of his inheritance as a part
of himself, as trophies of his birth and
power ; his associations with them are
associations of pride and wealth and
triumph ; the poor man’s attachment to
the tenement he holds, which strangers
have held before, and may to-morrow
occupy again, has a worthier root,
struck deep into a purer soil. His
household gods are of flesh and blood,
with no alloy of silver, gold, or precious
stone ; he has no property but in the
affections of his own heart ; and when
they endear bare floors and walls, de-
spite of rags and toil and scanty fare,
that man has his love of home from
God, and his rude hut becomes a solemn
place.
Oh ! if those who rule the destinies of
nations would, but remember this, — if
they would but think how hard it is for
the very poor to have engendered in
their hearts that love of home from
which all domestic virtues spring, when
they live in dense and squalid masses
where social decency is lost, or rather
never found, — if they would but turn
aside from the wide thoroughfares and
great houses, and strive to improve the
wretched dwellings, in by-ways where
only Poverty may walk, — many low
roofs would point more truly to the sky
than the loftiest steeple that now rears
proudly up from the midst of guilt and
crime and horrible disease, to mock
them by its contrast. In hollow voices
from Workhouse, Hospital, and Jail,
this truth is preached from day to day,
and has been proclaimed for years. It
is no light matter, no outcry from the
working vulgar, no mere question of
the people’s health and comforts that
may be whistled down on Wednesday
nights. In love of home the love of
country has its rise ; and who are the
truer patriots, or the better in time of
need, those who venerate the land, own-
ing its wood and stream and earth, and
all that they produce, or those who
love their country, boasting not a foot
of ground in all its wide domain !
Kitknew nothing about such questions,
but he knew that his old home was a very
poor place, and that his new one was
very unlike it ; and yet he was constant-
ly looking back with grateful satisfac-
tion and affectionate anxiety, and often
indited square-folded letters to his
mother, enclosing a shilling or eighteen-
pence or such other small remittance,
which Mr. Abel’s liberality enabled him
to make. Sometimes, being in the
neighborhood, he had leisure to call
upon her, and then great was the joy
and pride of Kit’s mother, and extreme-
ly noisy the satisfaction of little Jacob
and the baby, and cordial the congratula-
1 68
THE OLD CURIOSITY SHOP.
tions of the whole court, who listened
with admiring ears to the accounts of
Abel Cottage, and could never be told
too much of its wonders and magnifi-
cence.
Although Kit was in the very highest
favor with the old lady and gentleman,
and Mr. Abel and Barbara, it is certain
that no member of the family evinced
such a remarkable partiality for him as
the self-willed pony, who, from being
the most obstinate and opinionated
pony on the face of the earth, was, in
his hands, the meekest and most tract-
able of animals. It is true that, in exact
roportion as he became manageable
y Kit, he became utterly ungovernable
by anybody else, (as if he had deter-
mined to keep him in the family at all
risks and hazards,) and that, even under
the guidance of his favorite, he would
sometimes perform a great variety of
strange freaks and capers, to the ex-
treme discomposure of the old lady’s
nerves ; but as Kit always represented
that this was only his fun, or a way he
had of showing his attachment to his
employers, Mrs. Garland gradually suf-
fered herself to be persuaded into the
belief, in which she at last became so
strongly confirmed, that if, in one of
these ebullitions, he had overturned the
chaise, she would have been quite satis-
fied that he did it with the very best in-
tentions.
Besides becoming in a short time a
perfect marvel in all stable matters, Kit
soon made himself a very tolerable gar-
dener, a handy fellow within doors, and
an indispensable attendant on Mr.
Abel, who every day gave him some
new proof of his confidence and ap-
probation. Mr. Witherden the notary,
too, regarded him with a friendly eye ;
and even Mr. Chuckster would some-
times condescend to give him a slight
nod, or to honor him with that peculiar
form of recognition which is called “ tak-
ing a sight,” or to favor him with some
other salute combining pleasantry with
patronage.
One morning Kit drove Mr. Abel to
the notary’s office, as he sometimes did,
and having set him down at the house,
was about to drive off to a livery-stable
hard by, when this same Mr. Chuckster
emerged from the office door, and cried,
“ Woa-a-a-a-a-a ! ” — dwelling upon the
note a long time, for the purpose of
striking terror into the pony’s heart,
and asserting the supremacy of man
over the inferior animals.
“ Pull up, Snobby,” cried Mr. Chuck-
ster, addressing himself to Kit. “You ’re
wanted inside here.”
“ Has Mr. Abel forgotten anything,
I wonder?” said Kit as he dismounted.
“ Ask no questions, Snobby,” re-
turned Mr. Chuckster, “but go and see.
Woa-a-a then, will you? If that pony
was mine, I ’d break him.”
“ You must be very gentle with him,
if you please,” said Kit, “or you’ll
find him troublesome. You’d better
not keep on pulling his ears, please. I
know he won’t like it.”
To this remonstrance Mr. Chuckster
deigned no other answer than address-
ing Kit with a lofty and distant air as
“ young feller,” and requesting him to
cut, and come again with all speed.
The “young feller ” complying, Mr.
Chuckster put his hands in his pockets,
and tried to look as if he were not mind-
ing the pony, but happened to be loung-
ing there by accident.
Kit scraped his shoes very carefully,
(for he had not yet lost his reverence
for the bundles of papers and the tin
boxes), and tapped at the office door,
which was quickly opened by the notary
himself.
“O come in, Christopher,” said Mr.
Witherden.
“ Is that the lad?” asked an elderly
gentleman, but of a stout, bluff figure,
who was in the room.
“ That ’s the lad,” said Mr. Wither-
den. “ He fell in with my client, Mr.
Garland, sir, at this very door. I have
reason to think he is a good lad, sir,
and that you may believe what he says.
Let me introduce Mr. Abel Garland,
sir, his young master ; my articled
pupil, sir, and most particular friend ; —
my most particular friend, sir,” repeated
the notary, drawing out his silk hand-
kerchief and flourishing it about his
face.
“Your servant, sir,” said the stranger
gentleman.
“ Yours, sir, I ’m sure,” replied Mr
THE OLD CURIOSITY SHOP.
Abel, mildly. “You were wishing to
speak to Christopher, sir? ”
“Yes, I was. Have I your permis-
sion ? ”
“ By all means.”
“My business is no secret ; or I should
rather say it need be no secret here,”
said the stranger, observing that Mr.
Abel and the notary were preparing to
retire. “ It relates to a dealer in curi-
osities with whom he lived, and in
whom I am earnestly and warmly in-
terested. I have been a stranger to
this country, gentlemen, for very many
years, and if I am deficient in form and
ceremony, I hope you will forgive me.”
“ No forgiveness is necessary, sir, — -
none whatever,” replied the notary.
And so said Mr. Abel.
“ I have been making inquiries in the
neighborhood in which his old master
lived,” said the stranger, “and I learn
that he was served by this lad. I have
found out his mother’s house, and have
been directed by her to this place as the
nearest in which I should be likely to
find him. That ’s the cause of my pre-
senting myself here this morning.”
“I am very glad of any cause, sir,”
said the notary, “which procures me
the honor of this visit.”
“Sir,” retorted the stranger, “you
speak like a mere man of the world, and
I think you something better. There-
fore, pray do not sink your real charac-
ter in paying unmeaning compliments
to me.”
“ Hem!” coughed the notary. “You
’re a plain speaker, sir.”
“And a plain dealer,” returned the
stranger. “ It may be my long absence
and inexperience that lead me to the
conclusion ; but if plain speakers are
scarce in this part of the world, I fancy
plain dealers are still scarcer. If my
speaking should offend you, sir, my
dealing, I hope, will make amends.”
Mr. Witherden seemed a little dis-
concerted by the elderly gentleman’s
mode of conducting the dialogue ; and
as for Kit, he looked at him in open-
mouthed astonishment; wondering what
kind of language he would address to
him, if he talked in that free-and-easy
way to a notary. It was no harshness,
however, though with something of con-
169
stitutional irritability and haste, that he
turned to Kit and said, —
“ If you think, my lad, that I am pur-
suing these inquiries with any other
view than that of serving and reclaim-
ing those I am in search of, you do me
a very great wrong, and deceive your-
self. Don’t be deceived, I beg of you,
but rely upon my assurance. The fact
is, gentlemen,” he added, turning again
to the notary and his pupil, “that I am
in a very painful and wholly unexpected
position. I came to this city with a
darling object at my heart, expecting to
find no obstacle or difficulty in the way
of its attainment. I find myself sud-
denly checked and stopped short, in the
execution of my design, by a mystery
which I cannot penetrate. Every effort
I have made to penetrate it has only
served to render it darker and more ob-
scure ; and I am afraid to stir openly in
the matter, lest those whom I anxiously
pursue should fly still farther from me.
I assure you that if you could give me
any assistance, you would not be sorry
to do so, if you knew how greatly I
stand in need of it, and what a load it
would relieve me from.”
There was a simplicity in this con-
fidence which occasioned it to find a
quick response in the breast of the good-
natured notary, who replied, in the same
spirit, that the stranger had not mista-
ken his desire, and that if he could be
of service to him, he would, most read-
ily. .
Kit was then put under examination
and closely questioned by the unknown
gentleman touching his old master, and
the child, their lonely way of life, their
retired habits, and strict seclusion. The
nightly absence of the old man, the sol-
itary existence of the child at those
times, his illness and recovery, Quilp’s
possession of the house, and their sud-
den disappearance, were all the subjects
of much questioning and answer. Fi-
nally, Kit informed the gentleman that
the premises were now to let, and that
a board upon the door referred all in-
quirers to Mr. Sampson Brass, Solicitor,
of Bevis Marks, from whom he might
perhaps learn some further particulars.
“Not by inquiry,” said the gentle-
man, shaking his head. “ I live there.”
l’JO
THE OLD CURIOSITY SHOP.
“Live at Brass’s the attorney’s!”
cried Mr. Witherden in some surprise ;
having professional knowledge of the
gentleman in question.
“ Ay,” was the reply. “ I entered on
his lodgings t’other day, chiefly because
I had seen this very board. It matters
little to me where I live, and I had a
desperate hope that some intelligence
might be cast in my way there which
would not reach me elsewhere. Yes, I
live at Brass’s, — more shame for me, I
suppose?”
“That’s a mere matter of opinion,”
said the notary, shrugging his shoulders.
“ He is looked upon as rather a doubt-
ful character.”
“ Doubtful? ” echoed the other. “I
am glad to hear there ’s any doubt about
it. I supposed that had been thorough-
ly settled long ago. But will you let
me speak a word or two with you in
private ? ”
Mr. Witherden consenting, they
walked into that gentleman’s private
closet, and remained there, in close
conversation, for some quarter of an
hour, when they returned into the outer
office. The stranger had left his hat in
Mr. Witherden’s room, and seemed to
have established himself in this short
interval on quite a friendly footing.
“ I ’ll not detain you any longer now,”
he said, putting a crown into Kit’s hand,
and looking towards the notary. “ You
shall hear from me again. Not a word
of this, you know, except to your mas-
ter and mistress.”
“ Mother, sir, would be glad to
know — ” said Kit, faltering.
“ Glad to know what ? ”
“Anything — so that it was no harm
— about Miss Nell.”
“Would she? Well, then, you may
tell her if she can keep a secret. But
mind, not a word of this to anybody
else. Don’t forget that. Be particu-
lar.”
“ I ’ll take care, sir,” said Kit.
“ Thank ’ee, sir, and good morning.”
Now, it happened that the gentle-
man, in his anxiety to impress upon
Kit that he was not to tell anybody
what had passed between them, fol-
lowed him out to the door to repeat his
caution, and it further happened that at
that moment the eyes of Mr. Richard
Swiveller were turned in that direc-
tion, and beheld his mysterious friend
and Kit together.
It was quite an accident, and the way
in which it came about was this. Mr.
Chuckster, being a gentleman of a cul-
tivated taste and refined spirit, was
one of that Lodge of Glorious Apollos
whereof Mr. Swiveller was Perpetual
Grand. Mr. Swiveller passing through
the street in the execution of some
Brazen errand, and beholding one of
his Glorious Brotherhood intently gaz-
ing on a pony, crossed over to give him
that fraternal greeting with which Per-
petual Grands are, by the very consti-
tution of their office, bound to cheer
and encourage their disciples. He had
scarcely bestowed upon him his bless-
ing, and followed it with a general re-
mark touching the present state and
prospects of the weather, when, lifting
up his eyes, he beheld the single gen-
tleman of Bevis Marks in earnest con-
versation with Christopher Nubbles.
“Hallo!” said Dick, “who wthat?”
“ He called to see my governor this
morning,” replied Mr. Chuckster ; “be-
yond that, I don’t know him from
Adam.”
“ At least you know his name ? ” said
Dick.
To which Mr. Chuckster replied with
an elevation of speech becoming a Glo-
rious Apollo, that he was “ everlast-
ingly blessed ” if he did.
“All I know, my dear feller,” said Mr.
Chuckster, running his fingers through
his hair, “ is, that he is the cause of my
having stood here twenty minutes, for
which I hate him with a mortal and un-
dying hatred, and would pursue him to
the confines of eternity if I could afford
the time.”
While they were thus discoursing,
the subject of their conversation (who
had not appeared to recognize Mr.
Richard Swiveller) re-entered the
house, and Kit came down the steps
and joined them ; to whom Mr. Swiv-
eller again propounded his inquiry with
no better success.
“ He is a very nice gentleman, sir,”
said Kit, “and that ’s all / know about
him.”
THE OLD CURIOSITY SHOP.
171
Mr. Chuckster waxed wroth at this
answer, and without applying the re-
mark to any particular case, mentioned,
as a general truth, that it was expedient
to break the heads of snobs, and to
tweak their noses. Without expressing
his concurrence in this sentiment, Mr.
Swiveller, after a few moments of ab-
straction, inquired which way Kit was
driving, and, being informed, declared
it was his way, and that he would tres-
pass on him for a lift. Kit would gladly
have declined the proffered honor, but
as Mr. Swiveller was already established
in the seat beside him, he had no means
of doing so, otherwise than by a forci-
ble ejectment, and therefore drove brisk-
ly off, — so briskly, indeed, as to cut
short the leave-taking between Mr.
Chuckster and his Grand Master, and
to occasion the former gentleman some
inconvenience from having his corns
squeezed by the impatient pony.
As Whisker was tired of standing,
and Mr. Swiveller was kind enough to
stimulate him by shrill whistles and
various sporting cries, they rattled off
at too sharp a pace to admit of much
conversation : especially as the pony,
incensed by Mr. Swiveller’s admoni-
tions, took a particular fancy for the
lamp-posts and cart-wheels, and evinced
a strong desire to run on the pavement
and rasp himself against the brick walls.
It was not, therefore, until they had
arrived at the stable, and the chaise
had been extricated from a very small
doorway, into which the pony dragged
it under the impression that he could
take it along with him into his usual
stall, that Mr. Swiveller found time to
talk.
“It’s hard work,” said Richard.
“What do you say to some beer?”
Kit at first declined, but presently
consented, and they adjourned to the
neighboring bar together.
“We’ll drink our friend what’s-his-
name,” said Dick, holding up the bright
frothy pot, “ that was talking to you
this morning, you know — /know him
— a good fellow, but eccentric — very
— here’s what’s-his-name.”
Kit pledged him.
“ He lives in my house,” said Dick ;
“ at least in the house occupied by the
firm in which I ’m a sort of a — of a
managing partner, — a difficult fellow
to get anything out of, but we like him,
— we like him.”
“ I must be going, sir, if you please,”
said Kit, moving away.
“ Don’t be in a hurry, Christopher,”
replied his patron, “we ’ll drink your
mother.”
“ Thank you, sir.”
“ An excellent woman that mother
of yours, Christopher,” said Mr. Swiv-
eller. “Who ran to catch me when I
fell, and kissed the place to make it
well ? My mother. A charming wo-
man. He ’s a liberal sort of fellow. We
must get him to do something for your
mother. Does he know her, Christo-
pher? ”
Kit shook his head, and glancing slyly
at his questioner, thanked him, and made
off before he could say another word.
“Humph ! ” said Mr. Swiveller, pon-
dering, “this is queer. Nothing but
mysteries in connection with Brass’s
house. I ’ll keep my own counsel,
however. Everybody and anybody has
been in my confidence as yet, but now
I think I ’ll set up in business for my-
self. Queer, — very queer ! ”
After pondering deeply and with a
fctce of exceeding wisdom for some time,
Mr. Swiveller drank some more of the
beer, and summoning a small boy who
had been watching his proceedings,
poured forth the few remaining drops
as a libation on the gravel, and bade
him carry the empty vessel to the bar
with his compliments, and above all
things to lead a sober and temperate
life, and abstain from all intoxicating
and exciting liquors. Having given
him this piece of moral advice for his
trouble (which, as he wisely observed,
was far better than half-pence) the Per-
petual Grand Master of the Glorious
Apollos thrust his hands into his pock-
ets and sauntered away, still pondering
as he went.
CHAPTER XXXIX.
All that day, though he waited for
Mr. Abel until evening, Kit kept clear
I 7 2
THE OLD CURIOSITY SHOP.
of his mother’s house, determined not
to anticipate the pleasures of the mor-
row, but to let them come in their full
rush of delight ; for to-morrow was the
great and long-looked- for epoch in his
life, — to-morrow was the end of his
first quarter, — the day of receiving,
for the first time, one fourth part of his
annual income of Six Pounds in one
vast sum of Thirty Shillings, - to-mor-
row was to be a half-holiday devoted
to a whirl of entertainments, and little
Jacob was to know what oysters meant,
and to see a play.
All manner of incidents combined in
favor of the occasion. Not only had Mr.
and Mrs. Garland forewarned him that
they intended to make no deduction for
his outfit from the great amount, but to
pay it him unbroken in all its gigantic
grandeur ; not only had the unknown
gentleman increased the stock by the
sum of five shillings, which was a per-
fect godsend and in itself a fortune ;
not only had these things come to pass
which nobody could have calculated
upon, or in their wildest dreams have
hoped ; but it was Barbara’s quarter
too, — Barbara’s quarter, that very day,
— and Barbara had a half-holiday as
well as Kit, and Barbara’s mother was
going to make one of the party, and to
take tea with Kit’s mother, and culti-
vate her acquaintance.
To be sure Kit looked out of his win-
dow very early that morning to see
which way the clouds were flying, and
to be sure Barbara would have been
at hers too, if she had not sat up so
late overnight, starching and ironing
small . pieces of muslin, and crimping
them into frills, and sewing them on to
other pieces to form magnificent wholes
for next day’s wear. But they were
both up very early for all that, and had
small appetites for breakfast and less
for dinner, and were in a state of great
excitement when Barbara’s mother
came in, with astonishing accounts of
the fineness of the weather out of doors
(but with a very large umbrella, not-
withstanding, for people like Barbara’s
mother seldom make holiday without
one), and when the bell rung for them
to go up stairs and receive their quar-
ter’s money in gold and silver.
Well, wasn’t Mr. Garland kind when
he said, “ Christopher, here ’s your
money, and you have earned it well ” ?
and was n’t Mrs. Garland kind when
she said, “Barbara, here’s yours, and
I’m much pleased with you”? and
did n’t Kit sign his name bold to his
receipt, and did n’t Barbara sign her
name all a-trembling to hers? and
was n’t it beautiful to see how Mrs.
Garland poured out Barbara’s mother
a glass of wine? and didn’t Barbara’s
mother speak up when she said, “ Here’s
blessing you, ma’am, as a good lady,
and you, sir, as a good gentleman, and,
Barbara, my love to you, and here ’s
towards you, Mr. Christopher ” ? and
was n’t she as long drinking it as if it
had been a tumblerful ? and didn’t she
look genteel, standing there with her
gloves on ? and was n’t there plenty of
laughing and talking among them as
they reviewed all these things upon the
top of the coach ? and did n’t they pity
the people who hadn’t got a holiday?
But Kit’s mother, again — wouldn’t
anybody have supposed she had come
of a good stock and been a lady all her
life ? There she was, quite ready to
receive them, with a display of tea-
things that might have warmed the
heart of a china-shop ; and little Jacob
and. the baby in such a state of per-
fection that their clothes looked as
good as new, though Heaven knows
they were old enough ! Didn’t she say
before they had sat down five minutes
that Barbara’s mother was exactly the
sort of lady she expected? and didn’t
Barbara’s mother say that Kit’s mother
was the very picture of what she had
expected ? and did n’t Kit’s mother com-
pliment Barbara’s mother on Barbara,
and did n’t Barbara’s mother compli-
ment Kit’s mother on Kit ? and was n’t
Barbara herself quite fascinated with
little Jacob, and did ever a child show
off when he was wanted as that child
did, or make such friends as he made ?
“And we are both widows too?”
said Barbara’s mother. “We must
have been made to know each other.”
“ I have n’t a doubt about it,” re-
turned Mrs. Nubbles. “And what a
pity it is we didn’t know each other
sooner 1 ”
THE CURIOSITY SHOP.
i73
“ But then, you know, it ’s such a
pleasure,” said Barbara’s mother, “to
have it brought about by one’s son and
daughter, that it ’s fully made up for.
Now, ain’t it?”
“ To this Kit’s mother yielded her
full assent, and, tracing things back from
effects to causes, they naturally reverted
to their deceased husbands, respecting
whose lives, deaths, and burials they
compared notes, and discovered sundry
circumstances that tallied with wonder-
ful exactness, — such as Barbara’s father
having been exactly four years and ten
months older than Kit’s father, and one
of them having died on a Wednesday
and the other on a Thursday, and tfoth
of them having been of a very fine make
and remarkably good-looking, with other
extraordinary coincidences. These rec-
ollections being of a kind calculated to
cast a shadow on the brightness of the
holiday, Kit diverted the conversation
to general topics, and they v^ere soon in
great force again, and as merry as be-
fore. Among other things, Kit told
them about his old place, and the
extraordinary beauty of Nell (of whom
he had talked to Barbara a thousand
times already) ; but the last-named cir-
cumstance failed to interest his hearers
to anything like the extent he had sup-
posed, and even his mother said (look-
ing accidentally at Barbara at the same
time), that there was no doubt Miss Nell
was very pretty, but she was but a child,
after all, and there were many young
women quite as pretty as she ; and
Barbara mildly observed that she should
think so, and that she never could help
believing Mr. Christopher must be un-
der a mistake, — which Kit wondered at
very much, not being able to conceive
what reason she had for doubting him.
Barbara’s mother, too, observed that it
was very common for young folks to
change at about fourteen or fifteen, and,
whereas they had been very pretty be-
fore, to grow up quite plain ; which
truth she illustrated by many forcible
examples, especially one of a young
man, who, being a builder with great
prospects, had been particular in his
attentions to Barbara, but whom Bar-
bara would have nothing to say to ;
which (though everything happened for
the best) she almost thought was a pity.
Kit said he thought so too, and so he
did honestly, and he wondered what
made Barbara so silent all at once, and
why his mother looked at him as if he
should n’t have said it.
However, it was high time now to be
thinking of the play ; for which great
preparation was required in the way of
shawls and bonnets, not to mention one
handkerchief full of oranges and an-
other of apples, which took some time
tying up, in consequence of the fruit
having a tendency to roll out at the
corners. At length everything was
ready, and they went off very fast ;
Kit’s mother carrying the baby, who
was dreadfully wide awake, and Kit
holding little Jacob in one hand, and
escorting Barbara with the other, — a
state of things which occasioned the
two mothers, who walked behind, to
declare that they looked quite family
folks, and caused Barbara to blush and
say, “Now don’t, mother!” But Kit
said she had no call to mind what they
said ; and indeed she need not have
had, if she had known how very far
from Kit’s thoughts any love-making
was. Poor Barbara !
At last they got to the theatre, which
was Astley’s ; and in some two min-
utes after they had reached the yet un-
opened door, little Jacob was squeezed
flat, and the baby had received divers
concussions, and Barbara’s mother’s um-
brella had been carried several yards
off, and passed back to her over the
shoulders of the people, and Kit had
hit a man on the head with the hand-
kerchief of apples for “scrowdging”
his parent with unnecessary violence,
and there was a great uproar. But
when they were once past the pay-place,
and tearing away for very life with their
checks in their hands, and, above all,
when they were fairly in the theatre,
and seated in such places that they
couldn’t have had better if they had
picked them out, and taken them be-
forehand, all this was looked upon as
quite a capital joke, and an essential
part of the entertainment.
Dear, dear, what a place it looked,
that Astley’s ! with all the paint, gild-
ing, and looking-glass ; the vague smell
174
THE OLD CURIOSITY SHOP.
of horses suggestive of coming won-
ders ; the curtain that hid such gor-
geous mysteries ; the clean white saw-
dust down in the circus ; the company
coming in and taking their places ;
the fiddlers looking carelessly up at
them while they tuned their instru-
ments, as if they did n’t want the play
to begin, and knew it all beforehand !
What a glow was that, which burst
upon them all when that long, clear,
brilliant row of lights came slowly up ;
and what the feverish excitement when
the little bell rang, and the music began
in good earnest, with strong parts for
the drums, and sweet effects for the
triangles ! Well might Barbara’s moth-
er say to Kit’s mother that the gallery
was the place to see from, and wonder
it was n’t much dearer than the boxes ;
well might Barbara feel doubtful wheth-
er to laugh or cry, in her flutter of de-
light.
Then the play itself! the horses
which little Jacob believed from the
first to be alive, and the ladies and
gentlemen of whose reality he could be
by no means persuaded, having never
seen or heard anything at all like them,
— the firing, which made Barbara wink,
— the forlorn lady, who made her cry,
— the tyrant, w'ho made her tremble, —
the man who sang the song with the
lady’s-maid, and danced the chorus,
who made her laugh, — the pony who
reared up on his hind legs when he saw
the murderer, and wouldn’t hear of
walking on all fours again until he was
taken into custody, — the clown who
ventured on such familiarities with the
military man in boots, — the lady who
jumped over the nine-and-twenty rib-
bons, and came down safe upon the
horse’s back, — everything was delight-
ful, splendid, and surprising ! Little
Jacob applauded till his hands were
sore ; Kit cried “ an-kor ” at the end of
everything, the three-act piece includ-
ed ; and Barbara’s mother beat her
umbrella on the floor, in her ecstasies,
until it was nearly worn down to the
gingham.
In the midst of all these fascinations,
Barbara’s thoughts seemed to have
been still running on what Kit had said
at tea-time ; for, when they were com-
ing out of the play, she asked him, with
an hysterical simper, if Miss Nell was
as handsome as the lady who jumped
over the ribbons.
“As handsome as her ?” said Kit.
“Double as handsome.”
“O Christopher ! I ’m sure she was
the beautifullest creature ever was,”
said Barbara.
“Nonsense!” returned Kit. “She
was well enough, I don’t deriy that ;
but think how she was dressed and
painted, and what a difference that
made. Why you are a good deal bet-
ter looking than her, Barbara.”
“ O Christopher ! ” said Barbara,
looking down.
“You are, any day,” said Kit, “and
so ’s your mother.”
Poor Barbara !
What was all this, though, — even all
this, — to the extraordinary dissipation
that ensued, when Kit, walking into an
oyster-shop as bold as if he lived there,
and not so much as looking at the coun-
ter or the man behind it, led his party
into a box, — a private box, fitted up
with red curtains, white tablecloth, and
cruet-stand complete, — and ordered a
fierce gentleman with whiskers, who
acted as waiter and called him — him,
Christopher Nubbles — “ Sir,” to bring
three dozen of his largest-sized oysters,
and to look sharp about it ! Yes, Kit
told this gentleman to look sharp, and
he not only said he would look sharp,
but he actually did, and presently came
running back with the newest loaves,
and the freshest butter, and the largest
oysters, ever seen. Then said Kit to
this gentleman, “A pot of beer,” —
just so, — and the gentleman, instead of
replying, “Sir, did you address that
language to me?” only said, “Pot o’
beer, sir? yes, sir,” and went off and
fetched it, and put it on the table in a
small decanter-stand, like those which
blind men’s dogs carry about the streets
in their mouths, to catch the half-pence
in ; and both Kit’s mother and Bar-
bara’s mother declared as he turned
away, that he was one of the slimmest
and gracefullest young men she had
ever looked upon.
Then they fell to work upon the sup-
per in earnest ; and there was Barbara,
THE OLD CURIOSITY SHOP .
. x 75
that foolish Barbara, declaring that she
couldn’t eat more than two, and want-
ing more pressing than you would be-
lieve before she would eat four ; though
her mother and Kit’s mother made up
for it pretty well, and ate and laughed
and enjoyed themselves so thoroughly
that it did Kit good to see them, and
made him laugh and eat likewise from
strong sympathy. But the greatest
miracle of the night was little Jacob,
who ate oysters as if he had been born
and bred to the business, sprinkled the
pepper and the vinegar with a discretion
beyond his years, and afterwards built
a grotto on the table with the shells.
There was the baby, too, who had never
closed an eye all night, but had sat as
good as gold, trying to force a large
orange into his mouth, and gazing in-
tently at the lights in the chandelier, —
there he was, sitting up in his mother’s
lap, staring at the gas without winking,
and making indentations in his soft vis-
age with an oyster-shell, to that degree
that a heart of iron must have loved
him ! In short, there never was a more
successful supper ; and when Kit or-
dered in a glass of something hot to finish
with, and proposed Mr. and Mrs. Gar-
land before sending it round, there were
not six happier people in all the world.
But all happiness has an end, — hence
the chief pleasure of its next beginning,
— and as it was now growing late, they
agreed it was time to turn their faces
homewards. So, after going a little out
of their way to see Barbara and Bar-
bara’s mother safe to a friend’s house
where they were to pass the night, Kit
and his mother left them at the door,
with an early appointment for returning
to Finchley next morning, and a great
many plans for next quarter’s enjoy-
ment. Then Kit took little Jacob on
his back, and, giving his arm to his
mother and a kiss to the baby, they all
trudged merrily home together.
CHAPTER XL.
Full of that vague kind of penitence
which holidays awaken next morning.
Kit turned out at sunrise, and, with his
faith in last night’s enjoyments a little
shaken by cool daylight and the return
to every-day duties and occupations,
went to meet Barbara and her mother
at the appointed place. And being
careful not to awaken any of the little
household, who were yet resting from
their unusual fatigues, Kit left his
money on the chimney-piece, with an
inscription in chalk calling his mother’s
attention to the circumstance, and
informing her that it came from her
dutiful son ; and went his way, with a
heart something heavier than his
pockets, but free from any very great
oppression notwithstanding.
O these holidays ! why will they
leave us some regret? why cannot we
push them back, only a week or two in
our memories, so as to put them at once
at that convenient distance whence they
may be regarded either with a calm
indifference or a pleasant effort of
recollection ? why will they hang about
us, like the flavor of yesterday’s wine,
suggestive of headaches and lassitude,
and those good intentions for the future,
which, under the earth, form the ever-
lasting. pavement of a large estate, and,
upon it, usually endure until dinner-
time or thereabouts?
Who will wonder that Barbara had a
headache, or that Barbara’s mother was
disposed to be cross, or that she slightly
underrated Astley’s, and thought the
clown was older than they had taken
him to be last night? Kit was not
surprised to hear her say so, — not he.
He had already had a misgiving that
the inconstant actors in that dazzling
vision had been doing the same thing
the night before last, and would do it
again that night, and the next, and for
weeks and months to come, though
he would not be there. Such is the
difference between yesterday and to-day.
We are all going to the play, or coming
home from it. *
However, the sun himself is weak
when he first rises, and gathers strength
and courage as the day gets on. By
degrees, they began to recall circum-
stances more and more pleasant in their
nature, until, what between talking,
walking, and laughing, they readied
Finchley in such good heart that
176
THE OLD CURIOSITY SHOP.
Barbara’s mother declared she never
felt less tired or in better spirits. And
so said Kit. Barbara had been silent
all the way, but she said so too. Poor
little Barbara ! She was very quiet.
They were at home in such good time
that Kit had rubbed down the pony, and
made him as spruce as a race-horse,
before Mr. Garland came down • to
breakfast ; which punctual and industri-
ous conduct the old lady and the old
gentleman and Mr. Abel highly ex-
tolled. At his usual hour (or rather at
his usual minute and second, for he was
the soul of punctuality) Mr. Abel
walked out, to be overtaken by the
London coach, and Kit and the old
gentleman went to work in the
garden.
This was not the least pleasant of
Kit’s employments. On a fine day they
were quite a family party ; the old lady
sitting hard by with her work-basket on
a little table ; the old gentleman dig-
ging, or pruning, or clipping about with
a large pair of shears, or helping Kit
in some way or other with great assidui-
ty ; and Whisker looking on from his
paddock in placid contemplation of
them all. To-day they were to trim
the grape-vine, so Kit mounted half-
way up a short ladder, and began to
snip and hammer away, while the old
gentleman, with a great interest in his
proceedings, handed up the nails and
shreds of cloth as he wanted them.
The old lady and Whisker looked on
as usual.
“Well, Christopher,” said Mr. Gar-
land, “ and so you have made a new
friend, eh?”
“I beg your pardon, sir?” returned
Kit, looking down from the ladder.
“You have made a new friend, I hear
from Mr. Abel,” said the old,gentleman,
“ at the office ! ”
“ O — yes, sir, yes. He behaved very
handsome, sir.”
“I’m glad to hear it,” returned the
old gentleman, with a smile. “ He is
disposed to behave more handsomely
still, though, Christopher.”
“ Indeed, sir ! It ’s very kind in
him, but I don’t want him to, I ’m
sure,” said Kit, hammering stoutly at
an obdurate nail.
“ He is rather anxious,” pursued the
old gentleman, “ to have you in his dwn
service — take care what you ’re doing,
or you will fall down and hurt your-
self.”
“To have me in his service, sir!”
cried Kit, who had stopped short in his
work and faced about on the ladder like
some dexterous tumbler. “ Why, sir,
I don’t think he can be in earnest when
he says that.”
“O, but he is indeed,” said Mr.
Garland; “and he has told Mr. Abel
so.”
“ I never heard of such a thing ! ”
muttered Kit, looking ruefully at his
master and mistress. “ I wonder at
him ; that I do.”
“You see, Christopher,” said Mr.
Garland, “ this is a point of much im-
portance to you, and you should under-
stand and consider it in that light.
This gentleman is able to give you
more money than I ; not, I hope, to
carry through the various relations of
master and servant, more kindness and
confidence, but certainly, Christopher,
to give you more money.”
“Well,” said Kit, “after that, sir — ”
“Wait a moment,” interposed Mr.
Garland. “ That is not all. You were
a very faithful servant to your old em-
ployers, as I understand, and should
this gentleman recover them, as it is
his purpose to attempt doing by every
means in his power, I have no doubt
that you, being in his service, would
meet with your reward. Besides,”
added the old gentleman, with stronger
emphasis, — “besides havingthe pleasure
of being again brought into communi-
cation with those to whom you seem to
be so very strongly and disinterestedly
attached. You must think of all this,
Christopher, and not be rash or hasty
in your choice.”
Kit did suffer one twinge, one mo-
mentary pang, in keeping the resolution
he had already formed, when this last
argument passed swiftly into his thoughts,
and conjured up the realization of all
his hopes and fancies. But it was gone
in a minute, and he sturdily rejoined
that the gentleman must look out for
somebody else, as he did think he might
have done at first.
THE OLD CURIOSITY SHOP.
177
“ He has no right to think that I ’d
be led away to go to him, sir,” said
Kit, turning round again after half a
minute’s hammering. “ Does he think
I ’m a fool ? ”
“ He may, perhaps, Christopher, if
you refuse his offer,” said Mr. Garland,
gravely.
“Then let him, sir,” retorted Kit ;
“what do I care, sir, what he thinks?
why should I care for his thinking, sir,
when I know that I should be a fool,
and worse than a fool, sir, to leave the
kindest master and mistress that ever
was or can be, who took me out of the
streets a very poor and hungry lad in-
deed, — poorer and hungrier perhaps
than ever you think for, sir, — to go to
him or anybody? If Miss Nell was to
come back, ma’am,” added Kit, turn-
ing suddenly to his mistress, “why, that
would be another thing, and perhaps if
she wanted me, I might ask you now
and then to let me work for her when
all was done at home. But when she
comes back, I see now that she ’ll be
rich as old master always said she would,
and being a rich young lady, what
could she want of me? No, no,” add-
ed Kit, shaking his head sorrowfully,
“she ’ll never want me any more, and,
bless her, I hope she never may, though
I should like to see her, too ! ”
Here Kit drove a nail into the wall
very hard, — much harder than was
necessary, — and, having done so, faced
about again.
“ There ’s the pony, sir,” said Kit, —
“Whisker, ma’am, (and he knows so
well I ’m talking about him that he be-
gins to neigh directly, sir,) — would he
let anybody come near him but me,
ma’am ? Here ’s the garden, sir, and
Mr. Abel, ma’am. Would Mr. Abel
part with me, sir, or*is there anybody
that could be fonder of the garden,
ma’am? It would break mother’s
heart, sir, and even little Jacob would
have sense enough to cry his eyes out,
ma’am, if he thought that Mr. Abel
could wish to part with me so soon, af-
ter having told me, only the other day,
that he hoped we might be together for
years to come — ”
There is no telling how long Kit
might have stood upon the ladder, ad-
dressing his master and mistress by
turns, and generally turning towards
the wrong person, if Barbara had not
at that moment come running up to say
that a messenger from the office had
brought a note, which, with an expres-
sion of some surprise at Kit’s oratori-
cal appearance, she put into her mas-
ter’s hand.
“O,” said the old gentleman after
reading it, “ ask the messenger to walk
this way.” Barbara tripping off to do
as she was bid, he turned to Kit and
said that they would not pursue the
subject any further, and that Kit could
not be more unwilling to part with
them than they would be to part with
Kit, — a sentiment which the old lady
very generously echoed.
“ At the same time, Christopher,”
added Mr. Garland, glancing at the
note in his hand, “ if the gentleman
should want to borrow you now and
then for an hour or so, or even a day or
so, at a time, we must consent to lend „
you, and you must consent to be lent. —
O, here is the young gentleman. How
do you do, sir ? ”
This salutation was addressed to Mr.
Chuckster, who, with his hat extremely
on one side, and his hair a long way be-
yond it, came swaggering up the walk.
“ Hope I see you well, sir,” returned
that gentleman. “ Hope I seeyou well,
ma’am. Charming box this, sir. De-
licious country to be sure.”
“You want to take Kit back with
you, I find? ” observed Mr. Garland.
“ I ’ve got a chariot-cab waiting on
purpose,” replied the clerk. “ A very
spanking gray in that cab, sir, if you ’re
a judge of horse-flesh.”
Declining to inspect the spanking
gray, on the plea that he was but poor-
ly acquainted with such matters, and
would but imperfectly appreciate his
beauties, Mr. Garland invited Mr.
Chuckster to partake of a slight repast
in the way of lunch. That gentleman
readily consenting, certain cold viands,
flanked with ale and wine, were speedi-
ly prepared for his refreshment. At this
repast Mr. Chuckster exerted his ut-
most abilities to enchant his entertain-
ers, and impress them with a convic-
tion of the mental superiority of those
12
THE OLD CURIOSITY SHOP.
178
who dwelt in town ; with which view he
led the discourse to the small scandal
of the day, in which he was justly con-
sidered by his friends to shine prodig-
iously. Thus, he was in a condition to
relate the exact circumstances of the
difference between the Marquis of Miz-
zler and Lord Bobby, which it appeared
originated in a disputed bottle of cham-
pagne, and not in a pigeon-pie, as er-
roneously reported in the newspapers ;
neither had Lord Bobby said to the
Marquis of Mizzler, “ Mizzler, one of
us two tells a lie, and I ’m not the man,”
as incorrectly stated by the same au-
thorities ; but, “Mizzler, you know
tvhere I ’m to be found, and, damme,
sir, find me if you want me,” — which,
of course, entirely changed the aspect
of this interesting question, and placed
it in a very different light. He also ac-
quainted them with the precise amount
of the income guaranteed by the Duke
of Thigsberry to Violetta Stetta of the
Italian Opera, which it appeared was
payable quarterly, and not half-yearly,
as the public had been given to under-
stand, and which w r as prelusive, and
not zVzclusive (as had been monstrously
stated) of jewelry, perfumery, hair-pow-
der for five footmen, and two daily
changes of kid gloves for a page. Hav-
ing entreated the old lady and gentle-
man to set their minds at rest on these
absorbing points, for they might rely on
his statement being the correct one,
Mr. Chuckster entertained them with
theatrical chitchat and the court circu-
lar ; and so wound up a brilliant and
fascinating conversation which he had
maintained alone, and without any as-
sistance whatever, for upwards of three
quarters of an hour.
“And now that the nag has got his
wind again,” said Mr. Chuckster, rising
in a graceful manner, “I’m afraid I
must cut my stick.”
Neither Mr. nor Mrs. Garland offered
any opposition to his tearing himself
away, (feeling, no doubt, that such a
man could ill be spared from his proper
sphere of action,) and therefore Mr.
Chuckster and Kit were shortly after-
wards upon their way to town ; Kit be-
ing perched upon the box of the cabrio-
let beside the driver, and Mr. Chuckster
seated in solitary state inside, with one
of his boots sticking out at each of the
front windows.
When they reached the notary’s
house, Kit followed into the office, and
was desired by Mr. Abel to sit down
and wait, for the gentleman who wanted
him had gone out, and perhaps might
not return for some time. This antici-
pation was strictly verified, for Kit had
had his dinner, and his tea, and had
read all the lighter matter in the Law-
List, and the Post-Office Directory, and
had fallen asleep a great many times,
before the gentleman whom he had seen
before came in ; which he did at last in
a very great hurry.
He was closeted with Mr. Witherden
for some little time, and Mr. Abel had
been called in to assist at the confer-
ence, before Kit, wondering very much
what he was wanted for, was summoned
to attend them.
“Christopher,” said the gentleman,
turning to him directly he entered the
room, “ I have found your old master
and young mistress.”
“ No, sir ! Have you, though ? ” re-
turned Kit, his eyes sparkling with
delight. “ Where are they, sir? How
are they, sir ? Are they — are they
near here ? ”
“ A long way from here,” returned the
gentleman, shaking his head. “ But I
am going away to-night to bring them
back, and I want you to go with me.”
“ Me, sir?” cried Kit, full of joy and
surprise.
“ The place,” said the strange gentle-
man, turning thoughtfully to the notary,
“indicated by this man of the dogs, is —
how far from here, — sixty miles ? ”
“ From sixty to seventy.”
“ Humph ! If we travel post all night,
we shall reach tliere in good time to-
morrow morning. Now, the only ques-
tion is, — as they will not know me, and
the child, God bless her, would think
that any stranger pursuing them had
a design upon her grandfather’s liber-
ty, — can I do better than take this lad,
whom they both know and will readh
ly remember, as an assurance to them
of my friendly intentions?”
“ Certainly not,” replied the notary.
“ Take Christopher by all means.”
THE OLD CURIOSITY SHOP.
179
“ I beg your pardon, sir,” said Kit,
who had listened to this discourse with a
lengthening countenance, “ but if that ’s
the reason, I ’m afraid I should do more
harm than good. Miss Nell, sir, she
knows me, and would trust in me, I am
sure; but old master — I don’t know
why, gentlemen; nobody does — would
not bear me in his sight after he had been
ill, and Miss Nell herself told me that I
must not go near him or let him see me
any more. I should spoil all that you
were doing if I went, I ’m afraid. I ’d
give the world to go, but you had bet-
ter not take me, sir.”
“Another difficulty!” cried the im-
etuous gentleman. “Was ever man so
eset as I ? Is there nobody else that
knew them, nobody else in whom they
had any confidence? Solitary as their
lives were, is there no one person who
would serve my purpose?”
“/j there, Christopher?” said the
notary.
“Not one, sir,” replied Kit. “Yes,
though, — there ’s my mother.”
“Did they know her?” said the sin-
gle gentleman.
“ Know her, sir ! why, she was al-
ways coming backwards and forwards.
They were as kind to her as they
were to me. Bless you, sir, she ex-
pected they ’d come back to her house.”
“ Then where the devil is the wo-
man?” said the impatient gentleman,
catching up his hat. “Why isn’t she
here ? Why is that woman always out
of the way when she is most wanted?”
In a word, the single gentleman was
bursting out of the office, bent upon lay-
ing violent hands on Kit’s mother, for-
cing her into a post-chaise, and carrying
her off, when this novel kind of abduc-
tion was with some difficulty prevented
by the joint efforts of Mr. Abel and the
notary, who restrained him by dint of
their remonstrances, and persuaded him
to sound Kit upon the probability of her
being able and willing to undertake such
a journey on so short a notice.
This occasioned some doubts on the
part of Kit, and some violent demon-
strations on that of the single gentle-
man, and a great many soothing speech-
es on that of the notary and Mr. Abel.
The upshot of the business was, that Kit,
after weighing the matter in his mind and
considering it carefully, promised on be-
half of his mother, that she should be
ready within two hours from that time
to undertake the expedition, and en-
gaged to produce her in that place, in
all respects equipped and prepared for
the journey, before the specified period
had expired.
Having given this pledge, which was
rather a bold one, and not particularly
easy of redemption, Kit lost no time
in sallying forth and taking measures
for its immediate fulfilment.
CHAPTER XLI.
Kit made his way through the crowd-
ed streets, dividing the stream of peo-
ple, dashing across the busy road-ways,
diving into lanes and alleys, and stop-
ping or turning aside for nothing, until
he came in front of the Old Curiosity
Shop, when he came to a stand, partly
from habit and partly from being out of
breath.
It was a gloomy autumn evening, and
he thought the old place had never
looked so dismal as in its dreary twi-
light. The windows broken, the rusty
sashes rattling in their frames, the de-
serted house a dull barrier dividing the
glaring lights and bustle of the street
into two long lines, and standing in the
midst cold, dark, and empty, — present-
ed a cheerless spectacle which mingled
harshly with the bright prospects the
boy had been building up for its late in-
mates, and came like a disappointment
or misfortune. Kit would have had a
good fire roaring up the empty chim-
neys, lights sparkling and shining
through the windows, people moving
briskly to and fro, voices in cheerful
conversation, something in unison with
the new hopes that were astir. He had
not expected that the house would wear
any different aspect, — had known in-
deed that it could not, — but coming
upon it in the midst of eage’* ^..oughts
and expectations, it checked the cur-
rent in its flow, and darkened it with a
mournful shadow.
Kit, however, fortunately for himself,
i8o
THE OLD CURIOSITY SHOP.
was not learned enough or contempla-
tive enough to be troubled with pres-
ages of evil afar off, and, having no
mental spectacles to assist his vision in
this respect, saw nothing but the dull
house, which jarred uncomfortably up-
on his previous thoughts. So, almost
wishing that he had not passed it,
though hardly knowing why, he hurried
on again, making up by his increased
speed for the few moments he had lost.
“ Now, if she should be out,” thought
Kit, as he approached the poor dwell-
ing of his mother, “ and I not able
to find her, this impatient gentleman
would be iri a pretty taking. And sure
enough there ’s no light, and the door ’s
fast. Now, God forgive me for saying
so, but if this is Little Bethel’s doing.
I wish Little Bethel was — was farther
off,” said Kit, checking himself, and
knocking at the door.
A second knock brought no reply
from within the house, but caused a
woman over the way to look out and
inquire who that was a wanting Mrs.
Nubbles.
“Me,” said Kit. “She’s at — at
Little Bethel, I suppose ? ” getting out
the name of the obnoxious conventicle
with some reluctance, and laying a spite-
ful emphasis upon the words.
The neighbor nodded assent.
“ Then pray tell me where it is,” said
Kit, “for I have come on a pressing
matter, and must fetch her out, even if
she was in the pulpit.”
It was not very easy to procure a
direction to the fold in question, as
none of the neighbors were of the flock
that resorted thither, and few knew any-
thing more of it than the name. At last,
a gossip of Mrs. Nubbles’s, who had ac-
companied her to chapel on one or two
occasions when a comfortable cup of tea
had preceded her devotions, furnished
the needful information, which Kit had
no sooner obtained than he started off
again.
Little Bethel might have been nearer,
and might have been in a straighter
road, though in that case the reverend
gentleman who presided over its congre-
gation would have lost his favorite allu-
sion to the crooked ways by which it
was approached, and which enabled
him to liken it to Paradise itself, in con-
tradistinction to the parish church and
the broad thoroughfare leading there-
unto. Kit found it, at last, after some
trouble, and pausing at the door to take
breath, that he might enter with becom-
ing decency, passed into the chapel.
It was not badly named in one respect,
being in truth a particularly little Beth-
el, — a Bethel of the smallest dimen-
sions, — with a small number of small
pews, and a small pulpit, in which a
small gentleman (by trade a Shoemaker,
and by calling a Divine) was delivering
in a by no means small voice a by no
means small sermon, judging of its di-
mensions by the condition of his audi-
ence, which, if their gross amount were
but small, comprised a still smaller
number of hearers, as the majority were
slumbering.
Among these was Kit’s mother, who,
finding it matter of extreme difficulty
to keep her eyes open after the fatigues
of last night, and feeling their inclina-
tion to close strongly backed and sec-
onded by the arguments of the preacher,
had yielded to the drowsiness that over-
powered her, and fallen asleep ; though
not so soundly but that she could, from
time to time, utter a slight and almost
inaudible groan, as if in recognition of
the orator’s doctrines. The baby in
her arms was as fast asleep as she ; and
little Jacob, whose youth prevented him
from recognizing in this prolonged spir-
itual nourishment anything half as in-
teresting as oysters, was alternately very
fast asleep and very wide awake, as his
inclination to slumber, or his tenor of
being personally alluded to in the dis-
course, gained the mastery over him.
“And now I ’m here,” thought Kit,
gliding into the nearest empty pew
which was opposite his mother’s, and on
the other side of the little aisle, “ how am
I ever to get at her, or persuade her to
come out? I might as well be twenty
miles off. She ’ll never wake till it ’s
all over, and there goes the clock again !
If he would but leave off for a minute,
or if they ’d only sing ! ”
But there was little encouragement to
believe that either event would happen
for a couple of hours to come. The
preacher went on telling them what he
THE OLD CURIOSITY SHOP.
i8i
meant to convince them of before he
had done, and it was clear that if he
only kept to one half of his promises
and forgot the other, he was good for
that time at least.
In his desperation and restlessness
Kit cast his eyes about the chapel, and,
happening to let them fall upon a little
seat in front of the clerk’s desk, could
scarcely believe them when they showed
him — Quilp !
He rubbed them twice or thrice, but
still they insisted that Quilp was there,
and there indeed he was, sitting with
his hands upon his knees, and his hat
between them, on a little wooden brack-
et, with the accustomed grin on his
dirty face, and his eyes fixed upon the
ceiling. He certainly did not glance at
Kit or at his mother, and appeared
utterly unconscious of their presence ;
still, Kit could not help feeling, directly,
that the attention of the sly little fiend
was fastened upon them and upon
nothing else.
But, astounded as he was by the ap-
parition of the dwarf among the Little
Bethelites, and not free from a misgiv-
ing that it was the forerunner of some
trouble or annoyance, he was compelled
to subdue his wonder and to take active
measures for the withdrawal of his par-
ent, as the evening was now creeping
on, and the matter grew serious. There-
fore, the next time little Jacob woke,
Kit set himself to attract his wandering
attention, and this not being a very
difficult task (one sneeze effected it), he
signed to him to rouse his mother.
Ill-luck would have it, however, that,
just then, the preacher, in a forcible
exposition of one head of his discourse,
leaned over upon the pulpit-desk, so
that very little more of him than his
legs remained inside ; and, while lie
made vehement gestures with his right
hand, and held on with his left, stared,
or seemed to stare, straight into little
Jacob’s eyes, threatening him by his
strained look and attitude, — so it ap-
peared to the child, — that if he so much
as moved a muscle, he, the preacher,
would be literally, and not figuratively,
“ down upon him ” that instant. In
this fearful state of things, distracted by
the sudden appearance of Kit and fas-
cinated by the eyes of the preacher, the
miserable Jacob sat bolt upright, wholly
incapable of motion, strongly disposed
to cry, but afraid to do so, and returning
his pastor’s gaze until his infant eyes
seemed starting from their sockets.
“ If I must do it openly, I must,”
thought Kit. With that, he walked
softly out of his pew and into his moth-
er’s, and, as Mr. Swiveller would have
observed if he had been present, “col-
lared” the babywithoutspeakingaword.
“ Hush, mother ! ” whispered Kit.
“ Come along with me, I ’ve got some-
thing to tell you.”
“ Where am I ?” said Mrs. Nubbles.
“ In this blessed Little Bethel,” re-
turned her son, peevishly.
“ Blessed indeed!” cried Mrs. Nub-
bles, catching at the word. “ O Chris-
topher, how have I been edified this
night ! ”
“Yes, yes, I know,” said Kit, hastily ;
“but come along, mother, everybody ’s
looking at us. Don’t make a noise —
bring Jacob — that ’s right ! ”
“ Stay, Satan, stay ! ” cried the
preacher, as Kit was moving off.
“The gentleman says you ’re to stay,
Christopher,” whispered his mother.
“Stay, Satan, stay!” roared the
preacher again. “Tempt not the wo-
man that doth incline her ear to thee,
but hearken to the voice of him that
calleth. He hath a lamb from the fold ! ”
cried the preacher, raising his voice still
higher and pointing to the baby. “ He
beareth off a Jamb, a precious lamb !
He goeth about, like a wolf in the
night season, and inveigleth the tender
lambs ! ”
Kit was the best-tempered fellow in
the world, but considering this strong
language, and being somewhat excited
by the circumstances in which he was
placed, he faced round to the pulpit
with the baby in his arms, and replied
aloud, —
“ No, I don’t. He ’s my brother.”
“ He ’s my brother ! ” cried the
preacher.
“ He is n’t,” said Kit, indignantly.
“How can you say such a thing? —
and don’t call me names if you please ;
what harm have I done ? I should n’t
have come to take ’em away unless I
182
THE OLD CURIOSITY SHOP.
was obliged, you may depend upon that.
I wanted to do it very quiet, but you
would n’t let me. Now, you have the
goodness to abuse Satan and them as
much as you like, sir, and to let me
alone, if you please.”
So saying, Kit marched out of the
chapel, followed by his mother and little
Jacob, and found himself in the open
air, with an indistinct recollection of
having seen the people wake up and
look surprised, and of Quilp having
remained, throughout the interruption,
in his old attitude, without moving his
eyes from the ceiling, or appearing to
take the smallest notice of anything
that passed.
“O Kit ! ” said his mother, with her
handkerchief to her eyes, “what have
you done ! I never can go there again,
— never ! ”
“I’m glad of it, mother. What was
there in the little bit of pleasure you
took last night that made it necessary
for you to be low-spirited and sorrow-
ful to-night ? That ’s the way you do.
If you ’re happy or merry ever, you
come here to say, along with that
chap, that you ’re sorry for it. More
shame for you, mother, I was going to
say.”
“ Hush, dear i ” said Mrs. Nubbles ;
“ you don’t mean what you say, I know,
but you ’re talking sinfulness.”
“Don’t mean it? But I do mean
it ! ” retorted Kit. “ I don’t believe,
mother, that harmless cheerfulness and
good-humor are thought greater sins
in heaven than shirt-collars are, and I
do believe that those chaps are just
about as right and sensible in putting
down the one as in leaving off the other,
— that ’s my belief. But I won’t say
anything more about it, if you ’ll prom-
ise not to cry, that ’s all ; and you take
the baby that ’s a lighter weight, and
give me little Jacob ; and as we go
along (which we must do pretty quick)
I ’ll tell you the news I bring, which
will surprise you a little I can tell you.
There, — that ’s right. Now you look
as if you ’d never seen Little Bethel in
all your life, as I hope you never will
again ; and here ’s the baby ; and, lit-
tle Jacob, you get atop of my back and
catch hold of me tight round the neck.
and whenever a little Bethel parson
calls you a precious lamb or says your
brother ’S one, you tell him it ’s the
truest thing he *s said for a twelve-
month, and that if he ’d got a little
more of the lamb himself, and less of
the mint-sauce, — not being quite so
sharp and sour over it, — I should like
him all the better. That ’s what you
’ve got to say to him , Jacob ! ”
Talking on in this way, half in jest
and half in earnest, and cheering up
his mother, the children, and himself,
by the one simple process of determin-
ing to be in a good-humor, Kit led them
briskly forward ; and on the road home
he related what had passed at the no-
tary’s house, and the purpose with which
he had intruded on the solemnities of
Little Bethel.
His mother was not a little startled
on learning what service was required
of her, and presently fell into a confu-
sion of ideas, of which the most promi-
nent were that it was a great honor and
dignity to ride in a post-chaise, and that
it was a moral impossibility to leave
the children behind. But this objection,
and a great many others, founded on
certain articles of dress being* at the
wash, and certain other articles having
no existence in the wardrobe of Mrs.
Nubbles, were overcome by Kit, who
opposed to each and every of them the
pleasure of recovering Nell, and the
delight it would be to bring her back
in triumph.
“ There ’s only ten minutes now,
mother,” said Kit when they reached
home. “ There ’s a bandbox. Throw
in what you want, and • we ’ll be off
directly.”
To tell how Kit then hustled into the
box all sorts of things which could, by
no remote contingency, be wanted, and
how he left out everything likely to be
of the smallest use ; how a neighbor
was persuaded to come and stop with
the children, and how the children at
first cried dismally, and then laughed
heartily on being promised all kinds of
impossible and unheard-of toys ; how
Kit’s mother would n’t leave off kissing
them, and how Kit could n’t make up
his mind to be vexed with her for doing
it ; would take more time and room than
THE OLD CURIOSITY SHOP .
183
you and I can spare. So, passing over
all such matters, it is sufficient to say,
that, within a few minutes after the two
hours had expired, Kit and his mother
arrived at the notary’s door, where a
post-chaise was already waiting.
“ With four horses, I declare ! ” said
Kit, quite aghast at the preparations.
“ Well, you are going to do it, mother !
Here she is, sir. Here ’s my mother.
She ’s quite ready, sir.”
“ That ’s well,” returned the gentle-
man. “ Now, don’t be in a flutter,
ma’am ; you ’ll be taken great care of.
Where ’s the box with the new clothing
and necessaries for them ? ”
“ Here it is,” said the notary. “ In
with it, Christopher.”
“ All right, sir,” replied Kit. “Quite
ready now, sir.”
“ Then come along,” said the single
gentleman. And thereupon he gave
his arm to Kit’s mother, handed her
into the carriage as politely as you
please, and took his seat beside her.
Up went the steps, bang went the
door, round whirled the wheels, and off
they rattled, with Kit’s mother hang-
ing out at one window, waving a damp
pocket-handkerchief and screaming out
a great many messages to little Jacob
and the baby, of which nobody heard a
word.
Kit stood in the middle of the road,
and looked after them with tears in his
eyes, — not brought there by the de-
parture he witnessed, but by the return
to which he looked forward. “ They
went away,” he thought, “ on foot with
nobody to speak to them or say a kind
word at parting, and they ’ll come back,
drawn by four horses, with this rich
gentleman for their friend, and all their
troubles over ! She ’ll forget that she
taught me to write — ”
Whatever Kit thought about, after
this, took some time to think of, for he
stood gazing up the lines of shining
lamps, long after the chaise had disap-
eared, and did not return into the
ouse until the notary and Mr. Abel,
who had themselves lingered outside
till the sound of the wheels was no
longer distinguishable, had several times
wondered what could possibly detain
him.
CHAPTER XLII.
It behooves us to leave Kit for a
while, thoughtful and expectant, and to
follow the fortunes of little Nell, resum-
ing the thread of the narrative at the
oint where it was left some chapters
ack.
In one of those wanderings in the
evening time, when, following the two
sisters at a humble distance, she felt, in
her sympathy with them and her recog-
nition in their trials of something akin
to her own loneliness of spirit, a com-
fort and consolation which made such
moments a time of deep delight, though
the softened pleasure they yielded was
of that kind which lives and dies in
tears, — in one of those wanderings at
the quiet hour of twilight, when sky,
and earth, and air, and rippling water,
and sound of distant bells, claimed
kindred with the emotions of the sol-
itary child, and inspired her with sooth-
ing thoughts, but not of a child’s world
or its easy joys, — in one of those ram-
bles which had now become her only
pleasure or relief from care, light had
faded into darkness and evening deep-
ened into night, and still the young
creature lingered in the gloom, feeling
a companionship in nature, so serene
and still, when noise of tongues and
glare of garish lights would have been
solitude indeed.
The sisters had gone home, and she
was alone. She raised her eyes to the
bright stars, looking down so mildly
from the wide worlds of air, and, gazing
on them, found new stars burst upon
her view, and more beyond, and more
beyond again, until the whole great
expanse sparkled with shining spheres,
rising higher and higher in immeasur-
able space, eternal in their numbers
as in their changeless and incorruptible
existence. She bent over the calm riv-
er, and saw them shining in the same
majestic order as when the dove beheld
them gleaming through the swollen
waters upon the mountain-tops down
far below, and dead mankind, a million
fathoms deep.
The child sat silently beneath a tree,
hushed in her very breath by the still-
ness of the night, and all its attendant
4
THE OLD CURIOSITY SHOP.
wonders. The time and place awoke
reflection, and she thought with a quiet
hope — less hope, perhaps, than resig-
nation — on the past, and present, and
what was yet before her. Between the
old man and herself there had come a
gradual separation, harder to bear than
any former sorrow. Every evening, and
often in the daytime too, he was ab-
sent, alone ; and although she well knew
where he went, and why, — too well
from the constant drain upon her scanty
purse and from his haggard looks, — he
evaded all inquiry, maintained a strict
reserve, and even shunned her pres-
ence.
She sat meditating sorrowfully upon
this change, and mingling it, as it were,
with everything about her, when the
distant church-clock bell struck nine.
Rising at the sound, she retraced her
steps, and turned thoughtfully towards
the town.
She had gained a little wooden
bridge, which, thrown across the
stream, led into a meadow in her way,
when she came suddenly upon a ruddy
light, and, looking forward more atten-
tively, discerned that it proceeded from
what appeared to be an encampment of
gypsies, who had made a fire in one
corner at no great distance from the
path, and were sitting or lying round it.
As she was too poor to have any fear
of them, she did not alter her course,
(which, indeed, she could not have
done without going a long way round,)
but quickened her pace a little, and
kept straight on.
A movement of timid curiosity im-
pelled her, when she approached the
spot, to glance towards the fire. There
was a form between it and her, the
outline strongly developed against the
light, which caused her to stop abruptly.
Then, as if she had reasoned with her-
self and were assured that it could not
be, or had satisfied herself that it was
not, that of the person she had sup-
posed, she went on again.
But at that instant the conversation,
whatever it was, which had been carry-
ing on near this fire was resumed, and
the tones of the voice that spoke — she
could not distinguish words — sounded
as familiar to her as her own.
She turned and looked back. The
person had been seated before, but was
now in a standing posture, and leaning
forward on a stick on which he rested
both hands. The attitude was no less
familiar to her than the tone of voice
had been. It was her grandfather.
Her first impulse was to call to him ;
her next to wonder who his associates
could be, and for what purpose they
were together. Some vague apprehen-
sion succeeded, and, yielding to the
strong inclination it awakened, she
drew nearer to the place ; not advan-
cing across the open field, however, but
creeping towards it by the hedge.
In this way she advanced within a
few feet of the fire, and standing among
a few young trees, could both see and
hear, without much danger of being ob-
served.
There were no women or children, as
she had seen in other gypsy camps they
had passed in their wayfaring, and but
one gypsy, — a tall, athletic man, who
stood with his arms folded leaning
against a tree at a little distance off,
looking now at the fire, and now, under
his black eyelashes, at three other men
who were there, with a watchful but
half-concealed interest in their conver-
sation. Of these, her grandfather was
one ; the others she recognized as the
first card-players at the public-house on
the eventful night of the storm, — the
man whom they had called Isaac List,
and his gruff companion. One of the
low, arched gypsy-tents, common to
that people was pitched hard by, but it
either was, or appeared to be, empty.
“Well, are you going?” said the
stout man, looking up from the ground
where he was lying at his ease, into her
grandfather’s face. “You were in a
mighty hurry a minute ago. Go, if
you like. You’re your own master, I
hope? ”
“Don’t vex him,” returned Isaac
List, who was squatting like a frog on
the other side of the fire, and had so
screwed himself up that he seemed to
be squinting all over ; “ he didn’t mean
any offence.”
“You keep me poor, and plunder me,
and make a sport and jest of me be-
sides,” said the old man, turning from
THE OLD CURIOSITY SHOP .
one to the other. “Ye ’ll drive me mad
among ye.”
The utter irresolution and feebleness
of the gray-h aired child, contrasted with
the keen and cunning looks of those in
whose hands he was, smote upon the
little listener’s heart. But she con-
strained herself to attend to all that
passed and to note each look and word.
“ Confound you, what do you mean ? ”
said the stout man, rising a little, and
supporting himself on his elbow. “ Keep
you poor ! You’d keep us poor, if you
could, wouldn’t you? That’s the way
with you whining, puny, pitiful players.
When you lose, you ’re martyrs ; but I
don’t find that when you win, you look
upon the other losers in that light. As
to plunder ! ” cried the fellow, raising
his voice, “ damme, what do you mean
by such ungentlemanly language as plun-
der, eh ? ”
The speaker laid himself down again
at full length, and gave one or two
short, angry kicks, as if in further ex-
pression of his unbounded indignation.
It was quite plain that he acted the
bully, and his. friend the peacemaker,
for some particular purpose ; or rather,
it would have been to any one but
the weak -old man ; for they exchanged
glances quite openly, both with each
other, and with the gypsy, who grinned
his approval of the jest until his white
teeth shone again.
The old man stood helplessly among
them for a little time, and then said,
turning to his assailant, —
“ You yourself were speaking of plun-
der, just now, you know. Don’t be so
violent with me. You were, were you
not ? ”
“ Not of plundering among present
company ! Honor among — among
gentlemen, sir,” returned the other,
who seemed to have been very near
giving an awkward termination to the
sentence.
“Don’t be hard upon him, Jowl,”
said Isaac List. “ He ’s very sorry for
giving offence. There, — go on with
what you were saying, — go on.”
“ I ’m a jolly old tender-hearted lamb,
I am,” cried Mr. Jowl, “to be sitting
here at my time of life giving advice,
when I know it won’t be taken, and
185
that I shall get nothing but abuse for
my pains. But that ’s the way I ’ve
gone through life. Experience has
never put a chill upon my warm-heart-
edness.”
“ I tell you he ’s very sorry, don’t
I?” remonstrated Isaac List, “and
that he wishes you’d go on.”
“ Does he wish it? ” said the other.
“Ay,” groaned the old man, sitting
down, and rocking himself to and fro.
“Go on, go on. It ’s in vain to fight
with it; I can’t do it; go on.”
“ I go on then,” said Jowl, “where I
left off when you got up so quick. If
you ’re persuaded that it ’s time for luck
to turn, as it certainly is, and find that
you haven’t means enough to try it,
(and that’s where it is, for you know,
yourself, that you never have the funds
to keep on long enough at a sitting),
help yourself to what seems put in your
way on purpose. Borrow it, I say, and
when you ’re able, pay it back again.”
“Certainly,” Isaac List struck in, “if
this good lady as keeps the wax-works
has money, and does keep it in a tin
box when she goes to bed, and doesn’t
lock her door for fear of fire, it seems
a easy thing ; quite a Providence, I
should call it, — but then I’ve been
religiously brought up.”
“You see, Isaac,” said his friend,
growing more eager, and drawing him-
self closer to the old man, while he
signed to the gypsy not to come be-
tween them, — “you see, Isaac, stran-
gers are going in and out, every hour of
the day. Nothing would be more like-
ly than for one of these strangers to get
under the good lady’s bed, or lock him-
self in the cupboard. Suspicion would
be very wide, and would fall a long way
from the mark, no doubt. I ’d give him
his revenge to the last farthing he
brought, whatever the amount was.”
“ But could you ? ” urged Isaac List.
“Is your bank strong enough?”
“Strong enough!” answered the
other, with assumed disdain. “ Here,
you sir, give me that box out of the
straw ! ”
This was addressed to the gypsy, who
crawled into the low tent on all fours,
and after some rummaging and rustling,
returned with a cash-box, which the
THE OLD CURIOSITY SHOP.
1 86
man who had spoken opened with a
key he wore about his person.
“Do you see this?” he said, gather-
ing up the money in his hand, and let-
ting it drop back into the box, between
his fingers, like water. “Do you hear
it? Do you know the sound of gold?
There, put it back, — and don’t talk
about banks again, Isaac, till you ’ve
got one of your own.”
Isaac List, with great apparent hu-
mility, protested that he had never
doubted the credit of a gentleman so
notorious for his honorable dealing
as Mr. Jowl, and that he had hinted at
the production of the box, not for the
satisfaction of his doubts, for he could
have none, but with a view to being
regaled with a sight of so much wealth,
which, though it might be deemed by
some but an unsubstantial and vision-
ary pleasure, was to one in his circum-
stances a source of extreme delight,
only to be surpassed by its safe deposi-
tory in his own personal pockets. Al-
though Mr. List and Mr. Jowl ad-
dressed themselves to each other, it
was remarkable that they both looked
narrowly at the old man, who, with his
eyes fixed up'on the fire, sat brooding
over it, yet listening eagerly — as it
seemed, from a certain involuntary
motion of the head, or twitching of the
face from time to time — to all they
said.
“ My advice,” said Jowl, lying down
again, with a careless air, “ is plain, —
I have given it, in fact. I act as a
friend. Why should I help a man to
the means perhaps of winning all I
have, unless I considered him my
friend? It’s foolish, I dare say, to be
so thoughtful of the welfare of other
people, but that ’s my constitution, and
I can’t help it; so don’t blame me,
Isaac List.”
“ / blame you ! ” returned the person
addressed. “Not for the world, Mr.
Jowl. I wish I could afford to be as
liberal as you ; and, as you say, he
might pay it back if he won, — and if
he lost — ”
“ You ’re not to take that into consid-
eration at all,” said Jowl. “ But sup-
pose he did, (and nothing ’s less likely,
from all I know of chances,) why, it ’s
better to lose other people’s money than
one’s own, I hope?”
“Ah!” cried Isaac List, rapturous-
ly, “the pleasures of winning! The
delight of picking up the money, —
the bright, shining yellow-boys, — and
sweeping ’em into one’s pocket ! The
deliciousness of having a triumph at
last, and thinking that one didn’t stop
short and turn back, but went half-way
to meet it ! The — But you ’re not
going, old gentleman?”
“ I ’ll do it,” said the old man, who
had risen and taken two or three hur-
ried steps away, and now returned as
hurriedly. “ I ’ll have it, every pen-
ny.”
“Why, that’s brave,” cried Isaac,
jumping up and slapping him on the
shoulder ; “ and I respect you for hav-
ing so much young blood left. Ha, ha,
ha ! Joe Jowl ’s half sorry he advised
you now. We ’ve got the laugh against
him. Ha, ha, ha ! ”
“ He gives me my revenge, mind,”
said the old man, pointing to him ea-
gerly with his shrivelled hand ; “ mind,
— he stakes coin against coin, down to
the last one in the box, be there many
or few. Remember that ! ”
“ I ’m witness,” returned Isaac.
“ I ’ll see fair between you.”
“ I have passed my word,” said Jowl,
with feigned reluctance, “ and I ’ll keep
it. When does this match come off?
I wish it was over. — To-night ? ”
“ I must have the money first,” said
the old man; “and that I’ll have to-
morrow — ”
“ Why not to-night ? ” urged Jowl.
“It’s late now, and I should be
flushed and flurried,” said the old man.
“It must be softly done. No, to-mor-
row night.”
“ Then to-morrow be it,” said Jowl.
“A drop of comfort here. Luck to the
best man ! Fill ! ”
The gypsy produced three tin cups,
and filled them to the brim with bran-
dy. The old man turned aside and
muttered to himself before he drank.
Her own name struck upon the listen-
er’s ear, coupled with some wish so fer-
vent that he seemed to breathe it in an
agony of supplication.
“ God be merciful to us ! ” cried the
THE OLD CURIOSITY SHOP .
child within herself, “and help us in
this trying hour ! What shall I do to
save him ! ”
The remainder of their conversation
was carried on in a lower tone of voice,
and was sufficiently concise; relating
merely to the execution of the project,
and the best precautions for diverting
suspicion. The old man then shook
hands with his tempters and withdrew.
They watched his bowed and stoop-
ing figure as it retreated slowly, and
when he turned his head to look back,
which he often did, waved their hands,
or shouted some brief encouragement.
It was not until they had seen him
gradually diminish into a mere speck
upon the distant road, that they turned
to each other, and ventured to laugh
aloud.
“So,” said Jowl, warming his hands
at the fire, “it’s done at last. He
wanted more persuading than I expect-
ed. It ’s three weeks ago since we first
put this in his head. What ’ll he bring,
do you think? ”
“ Whatever he brings, it ’s halved
between us,” returned Isaac List.
The other man nodded. “ We must
make quick work of it,” he said', “and
then cut his acquaintance, or we may be
suspected. Sharp ’s the word.”
List and the gypsy acquiesced. When
they had all three amused themselves
a little with their victim’s infatuation,
they dismissed the subject as one which
had been sufficiently discussed, and be-
gan to talk in a jargon which the child
did not understand. As their discourse
appeared to relate to matters in which
they were warmly interested, however,
she deemed it the best time for escap-
ing unobserved ; and crept away with
slow and cautious steps, keeping in the
shadow of the hedges, or forcing a path
through them or the dry ditches, until
she could emerge upon the road at a
point beyond their range of vision.
Then she fled homewards as quickly
as she could, torn and bleeding from
the wounds of thorns and briers, but
more lacerated in mind, and threw her-
self upon her bed, distracted.
The first idea that flashed upon her
mind was flight, instant flight ; drag-
ging him from that place, and rather
187
dying of want upon the roadside, than
ever exposing him again to such terrible
temptations. Then, she remembered
that the crime was not to be committed
until next night, and there was the in-
termediate time for thinking, and re-
solving what to do. Then, she was
distracted with a horrible fear that he
might be committing it at that moment ;
with a dread of hearing shrieks and
cries piercing the silence of the night ;
with fearful thoughts of what he might
be tempted and led on to do, if he were
detected in the act, and had but a wo-
man to struggle with. It was impossi-
ble to bear such torture. She stole to
the room where the money was, opened
the door, and looked in. God be
praised ! He was not there, and she
was sleeping soundly.
She went back to her own room, and
tried to prepare herself for bed. But
who could sleep ? Sleep ! who could lie
passively down, distracted by such ter-
rors? They came upon her more and
more strongly yet. Half undressed,
and with her hair in wild disorder, she
flew to the old man’s bedside, clasped
him by the wrist, and roused him from
his sleep.
“ What ’s this ! ” he cried, starting up
in bed, and fixing his eyes upon her
spectral face.
“ I have had a dreadful dream,”
said the child, with an energy that noth-
ing but such terrors could have inspired.
“ A dreadful, horrible dream. I have
had it once before. It is a dream of
gray-haired men like you, in darkened
rooms by night, robbing the sleepers of
their gold. Up, up!” The old man
shook in every joint, and folded his
hands like one who prays.
“ Not to me,” said the child, “ not to
me, — to Heaven, to save us from such
deeds ! This dream is too real. I can-
not sleep, I cannot stay here, I cannot
leave you alone under the roof where
such dreams come. Up ! We must fly.”
He looked at her as if she were a
spirit, — she might have been, for all
the look of earth she had, — and trem-
bled more and more.
“ There is no time to lose ; I will
not lose one minute,” said the child.
Up ! and away with me ! ”
THE OLD CURIOSITY SHOP.
1 88
“ To-night ? ” murmured the old man.
“Yes, to-night,” replied the child.
“ To-morrow night will be too late.
The dream will have come again.
Nothing but flight can save us. Up ! ”
The old man rose from his bed, —
his forehead bedewed with the cold
sweat of fear, — and, bending before the
child as if she had been an angel mes-
senger sent to lead him where she
would, made ready to follow her. She
took him by the hand and led him on.
As they passed the door of the room he
had proposed to rob, she shuddered
and looked up into his face. What a
white face was that, and with what a
look did he meet hers !
She took him to her own chamber,
and, still holding him by the hand as if
she feared to lose him for an instant,
gathered together the little stock she
had, and hung her basket on her arm.
The old man took his wallet from her
hands and strapped it on his shoulders,
— his staff, too, she had brought away,
— and then she led him forth.
Through the strait streets, and nar-
row crooked outskirts, their trembling
feet passed quickly. Up the steep hill
too, crowned by the old gray castle,
they toiled with rapid steps, and had
not once looked behind.
But as they drew nearer the ruined
walls, the moon rose in all her gentle
glory, and, from their venerable age,
garlanded with ivy, moss, and waving
grass, the child looked back upon the
sleeping town, deep in the valley’s
shade, and on the far-off river with its
winding track of light, and on the dis-
tant hills ; and as she did so, she clasped
the hand she held less firmly, and,
bursting into tears, fell upon the old
man’s neck.
CHAPTER XLIII.
Her momentary weakness past, the
child again summoned the resolution
which had until now sustained her, and,
endeavoring to keep steadily in her view
the one idea that they were flying from
disgrace and crime, and that her grand-
father’s preservation must depend sole-
ly on her firmness, unaided by one
word of advice or any helping hand,
urged him onward and looked back no
more.
While he, subdued and abashed,
seemed to crouch before her, and to
shrink and cower down, as if in the pres-
ence of some superior creature, the child
herself was sensible of a new feeling with-
in her, which elevated her nature, and
inspired her with an energy and con-
fidence she had never known. There
was no divided responsibility now ; the
whole burden of their two lives had fall-
en upon her, and henceforth she must
think and act for both. “ I have saved
him,” she thought. “ In all dangers
and distresses, I will remember that.”
At any other time, the recollection of
having deserted the friend who had
shown them so much homely kindness,
without a word of justification — the
thought that they were guilty, in ap-
pearance, of treachery and ingratitude
— even the having parted from the two
sisters — w’ould have filled her with
sorrow and regret. But now all other
considerations were lost in the new un-
certainties and anxieties of their wild
and wandering life ; and the very des-
peration of their condition roused and
stimulated her.
In the pale moonlight, which lent a
wanness of its own to the delicate face
where thoughtful care already mingled
with the winning grace and loveliness
of youth, the too bright eye, the spirit-
ual head, the lips that pressed each
other with such high resolve and cour-
age of the heart, the slight figure firm
in its bearing, and yet so very weak, told
their silent tale ; but told it only to the
wind that rustled by, which, taking up
its burden, carried, perhaps to some
mother’s pillow', faint dreams of child-
hood fading in its bloom, and resting in
the sleep that knows no waking.
The night crept on apace ; the moon
went down ; the stars grew pale and
dim ; and morning, cold as they, slowly
approached. Then, from behind a dis-
tant hill, the noble sun rose up, driving
the mists in phantom shapes before it*
and clearing the earth of their ghostly
forms till darkness came again. When
it had climbed higher into the sky, and
there was warmth in its cheerful beams,
THE OLD CURIOSITY SHOP. 189
they laid them down to sleep, upon a
bank, hard by some water.
But Nell retained her grasp upon the
old man’s arm, and long after he was
slumbering soundly, watched him with
untiring eyes. Fatigue stole over her
at last ; her grasp relaxed, tightened,
relaxed again ; and they slept side by
side.
A confused sound of voices, mingling
with her dreams, awoke her. A man
of very uncouth and rough appearance
was standing over them, and two of his
companions were looking on, from a
long heavy boat which had come close
to the bank while they were sleeping.
The boat had neither oar nor sail, but
was towed by a couple of horses, who,
with the rope to which they were har-
nessed slack and dripping in the water,
were resting on the path.
“ Holloa ! ” said the man, roughly.
“What’s the matter here?”
“We were only asleep, sir,” said
Nell. “We have been walking all
night.”
“A pair of queer travellers to be
walking all night,” observed the man
who had first accosted them. “ One of
you is a trifle too old for that sort of
work, and the other a trifle too young.
Where are you going? ”
Nell faltered, and pointed at hazard
towards the west, upon which the man
inquired if she meant a certain town
which he named. Nell, to avoid more
questioning, said, “Yes, that was the
place.”
“Where have you come from?” was
the next question ; and this being an
easier one to answer, Nell mentioned
the name of the village in which their
friend the schoolmaster dwelt, as being
less likely to be known to the men or to
provoke further inquiry.
“ I thought somebody had been
robbing and ill-using you, might be,”
said the man. “ That ’s all. Good
day.”
Returning his salute and feeling
greatly relieved by his departure, Nell
looked after him as he mounted one of
the horses, and the boat went on. It
had not gone very far, when it stopped
again, and she saw the men beckoning
to her.
“ Did you call to me? ” said Nell, run-
ning up to them.
“ You may go with us if you like,” re-
plied one of those in the boat. “We ’re
going to the same place.”
The child hesitated for a moment.
Thinking, as she had thought with
great trepidation more than once be-
fore, that the men whom she had seen
with her grandfather might, perhaps,
in their eagerness for fhe booty, follow
them, and, regaining their influence
over him, set hers at naught ; and that,
if they went with these men, all traces
of them must surely be lost at that
spot ; determined to accept the offer.
The boat came close to the bank again,
and before she had had any more time
for consideration, she and her grandfa-
ther were on board, and gliding smooth-
ly down the canal.
The sun shone pleasantly on the bright
water, which was sometimes shaded by
trees, and sometimes open to a wide ex-
tent of country, intersected by running
streams, and rich with wooded hills, cul-
tivated land, and sheltered farms. Now
and then, a village with its modest spire,
thatched roofs, and gable-ends would
peep out from among the trees ; and,
more than once, a distant town, with
great church-towers looming through
its smoke, and high factories or work-
shops rising above the mass of houses,
would come in view, and, by the length
of time it lingered in the distance,
show them how slowly they trav'
elled. Their way lay, for the most
part, through the low grounds and
open plains ; and except these distant
places, and occasionally some men
working in the fields, or lounging on
the bridges under which they passed, —
to see them creep along, nothing en-
croached on their monotonous and se-
cluded track.
Nell was rather disheartened, when
they stopped at a kind of wharf late
in the afternoon, to learn from one of
the men that they would not reach
their place of destination until next
day, and that, if she had no provision
with her, she had better buy it there.
She had but a few pence, having al-
ready bargained with them for some
bread, but even of these it was neces-
190
THE OLD CURIOSITY SHOP .
sary to be very careful, as they were on
their way to an utterly strange place,
with no resource whatever. A small
loaf and a morsel of cheese, therefore,
were all she could afford, and with
these she took her place in the boat
again, and, after half an hour’s delay,
during which the men were drinking
at the public-house, proceeded on the
journey.
They brought*some beer and spirits in-
to the boat with them, and, what with
drinking freely before and again now,
were soon in a fair way of being quar-
relsome and intoxicated. Avoiding the
small cabin, therefore, which was very
dark and filthy, and to which they
often invited both her and her grandfa-
ther, Nell sat in the open air with the
old man by her side, listening to their
boisterous hosts with a palpitating heart,
and almost wishing herself safe on shore
again, though she should have to walk all
night.
They were, in truth, very rugged, noi-
sy fellows, and quite brutal among them-
selves, though civil enough to their two
assengers. Thus, when a quarrel arose
etween the man who was steering and
his friend in the cabin, upon the question
who had first suggested the propriety of
offering Nell some beer, and when the
quarrel led to a scuffle in which they
beat each other fearfully, to her inex-
pressible terror, neither visited his dis-
leasure upon her, but each contented
imself with venting it on his adver-
sary, on whom, in addition to blows,
he bestowed a variety of compliments,
which, happily for the child, were con-
veyed in terms to her quite unintelli-
gible. The difference was finally ad-
justed by the man who had come out
of the cabin knocking the other into it
head-first, and taking the helm into his
own hands, without evincing the least
discomposure himself, or causing any
in his friend, who, being of a tolerably
strong constitution and perfectly inured
to such trifles, went to sleep as he was,
with his heels upwards, and in a couple
of minutes or so was snoring comforta-
bly.
By this time it was night again, and
though the child felt cold, being but
poorly clad, her anxious thoughts were
far removed from her own suffering or
uneasiness, and busily engaged in en-
deavoring to devise some scheme for
their joint subsistence. The same spir-
it w’hich had supported her on the pre-
vious night upheld and sustained her
now. Her grandfather lay sleeping
safely at her side, and the crime to
which his madness urged him was
not committed. That was her comfort.
How every circumstance of her short,
eventful life came thronging into her
mind, as they travelled on ! Slight
incidents, never thought of, or remem-
bered until now; faces seen once and
ever since forgotten ; words, scarcely
heeded at the time ; scenes of a year
ago and those of yesterday mixing up
and linking themselves together ; famil-
iar places shaping themselves out in the
darkness from things which, when ap-
proached, were, of all others, the most
remote and most unlike them ; some-
times, a strange confusion in her mind
relative to the occasion of her being
there, and the place to which she was
going, and the people she was with ;
and imagination suggesting remarks and
questions which sounded so plainly in
her ears that she would start, and turn,
and be almost tempted to reply ; — all
the fancies and contradictions common
in watching and excitement and restless
change of place, beset the child.
She happened, while she was thus
engaged, to encounter the face of the
man on deck, in whom the sentimental
stage of drunkenness had now succeeded
to the boisterous, and who, taking from
his mouth a short pipe, quilted over
with string, for its longer preservation,
requested that she would oblige him
with a song.
“ You ’ve got a very pretty voice, a
very soft eye, and a very strong mem-
ory,” said this gentleman. “ The voice
and eye I ’ve got evidence for, and the
memory ’s an opinion of my own ; and
I ’m never wrong. Let me hear a song
this minute.”
“ I don’t think I know one, sir,” re-
turned Nell.
“You know forty-seven songs,” said
the man, with a gravity which admitted
of no altercation on the subject. “ Forty-
seven ’s your number. Let me hear one
THE OLD CURIOSITY SHOP .
of ’em, — the best. Give me a song this
minute.”
Not knowing what might be the con-
sequences of irritating her friend, and
trembling with the fear of doing so, poor
Nell sang him some little ditty which
she had learned in happier times, and
which was so agreeable to his ear that,
on its conclusion, he in the same peremp-
tory manner requested to be favored
with another, to which he was so oblig-
ing as to roar a chorus to no particular
tune, and with no words at all, but
which amply made up in its amazing
energy for its deficiency in other re-
spects. The noise of this vocal per-
formance awakened the other man, who,
staggering upon deck and shaking his
late opponent by the hand, swore that
singing was his pride and joy and chief
delight, and that he desired no better
entertainment. With a third call, more
imperative than either of the two former,
Nell felt obliged to comply, and this
time a chorus was maintained, not only
by the two men together, but also by
the third man on horseback, who, being
by his position debarred from a nearer
participation in the revels of the night,
roared when his companions roared,
and rent the very air. In this way,
with little cessation, and singing the
same songs again and again, the tired
and exhausted child kept them in good-
humor all that night ; and many a cot-
tager, who was roused from his soundest
sleep by the discordant chorus as it
floated away upon the wind, hid his
head beneath the bedclothes and trem-
bled at the sounds.
At length the morning dawned. It
was no sooner light than it began to
rain heavily. As the child could not
endure the intolerable vapors of the
cabin, they covered her, in return for
her exertions, with some pieces of
sail-cloth and ends of tarpaulin, which
sufficed to keep her tolerably dry, and
to shelter her grandfather besides. As
the day advanced, the rain increased.
At noon it poured down more hopelessly
and heavily than ever, without the faint-
est promise of abatement.
They had, for some time, been grad-
ually approaching the place for which
they were bound. The water had be-
come thicker and dirtier ; other barges,
coming from it, passed them' frequently ;
the paths of coal-ash, and huts of staring
brick, marked the vicinity of some great
manufacturing town ; while scattered
streets and houses, and smoke from
distant ^furnaces, indicated that they
were already in the outskirts. Now,
the clustered roofs, and piles of build-
ings, trembling with the working of en-
gines, and dimly resounding with their
shrieks and throbbings ; the tall chim-
neys vomiting forth a black vapor, which
hung in a dense, ill-favored cloud above
the house-tops and filled the air with
gloom ; the clank of hammers beating
upon iron ; the roar of busy streets and
noisy crowds, gradually augmenting un-
til all the various sounds blended into
one and none was distinguishable for
itself, — announced the termination of
their journey.
The boat floated into the wharf to
which it belonged. The men were
occupied directly. The child and her
grandfather, after waiting in vain to
thank them, or ask them whither they
should go, passed through a dirty lane
into a crowded street, and stood, amid
its din and tumult, and in the pouring
rain, as strange, bewildered, and con-
fused, as if they had lived a thousand
years before, and were raised from the
dead and placed there by a miracle.
CHAPTER XLIV.
The throng of people hurried by, in
two opposite streams, with no symptom
of cessation or exhaustion ; intent upon
their own affairs ; and undisturbed in
their business speculations by the roar
of carts and wagons laden w r ith clashing
wares, the slipping of horses’ feet upon
the wet and greasy pavement, the rat-
tling of the rain on windows and um-
brella-tops, the jostling of the more
impatient passengers, and all the noise
and tumult of a crowded street in the
high tide of its occupation ; while the
two poor strangers, stunned and be-
wildered by the hurry they beheld but
had no part in, looked mournfully on,
feeling, amidst the crowd, a solitude
192
THE OLD CURIOSITY SHOP .
which has no parallel but in the thirst
of the shipwrecked mariner, who, tost
to and fro upon the billows of a mighty
ocean, his eyes blinded by looking
on the water which hems him in on
every side, has not one drop to cool
his burning tongue.
They withdrew into a low archway
for shelter from the rain, and watched
the faces of those who passed, to find
in one among them a ray of encourage-
ment or hope. Some frowned, some
smiled, some muttered to themselves,
some made slight gestures, as if antici-
pating the conversation in which they
would shortly be engaged, some wore
the cunning look of bargaining and
plotting, some were anxious and eager,
some slow and dull ; in some counte-
nances were written gain ; in others,
loss. It was like being in the confi-
dence of all these people, to stand quiet-
ly there, looking into their faces as they
flitted past. In busy places, where
each man has an object of his own, and
feels assured that every other man has
his, his character and purpose are writ-
ten broadly in his face. In the public
walks and lounges of a town, people
go to see and to be seen, and there the
same expression, with little variety, is
repeated a hundred times. The work-
ing-day faces come nearer to the truth,
and let it out more plainly.
Falling into that kind of abstraction
which such a solitude awakens, the child
continued to gaze upon the passing crowd
with a wondering interest, amounting
almost to a temporary forgetfulness of
her own condition. But cold, wet, hun-
ger, want of rest, and lack of any place
in which to lay her aching head, soon
brought her thoughts back to the point
whence they had strayed. No one
passed who seemed to notice them, or
to whom she durst appeal. After some
time, they left their place of refuge
from the weather, and mingled with the
concourse.
Evening came on. They were still
wandering up and down, with fewer
people about them, but with the same
sense of solitude in their own breasts,
and the same indifference from all
around. The lights in the streets and
shops made them feel yet more desolate,
for, with their help, night and darkness
seemed to come on faster. Shivering
with the cold and damp, ill in body, and
sick to death at heart, the child needed
her utmost firmness and resolution even
to creep along.
Why had they ever come to this noisy
town, when there were peaceful country
places, in which, at least, they might
have hungered and thirsted with less
suffering than in its squalid strife !
They were but an atom, here, in a
mountain heap of misery, the very sight
of which increased their hopelessness
and suffering.
The child had not only to endure the
accumulated hardships of their destitute
condition, but to bear the reproaches of
her grandfather, who began to murmur
at having been led away from their late
abode, and demand that they should
return to it. Being now penniless, and
no relief or prospect of relief appearing,
they retraced their steps through the
deserted streets, and went back to the
wharf, hoping to. find the boat in which
they had come, and to be allowed to
sleep on board that night. But here
again they were disappointed, for the
gate was closed, and some fierce dogs,
barking at their approach, obliged them
to retreat.
“We must sleep in the open air to-
night, dear,” said the child, in a weak
voice, as they turned away from this last
repulse ; “ and to-morrow we will beg
our way to some quiet part of the coun-
try, and try to earn our bread in very
humble work.”
“ Why did you bring me here ? ” re-
turned the old man, fiercely. “ I can-
not bear these close, eternal streets. We
came from a quiet part. Why did you
force me to leave it?”
“ Because I must have that dream I
told you of no more,” said the child,
with a momentary firmness that lost
itself in tears : “ and we must live
among poor people, or it will come
again. Dear grandfather, you are old
and weak, I know : but look at me. I
never will complain, if you will not, but
I have some suffering indeed.”
“ Ah ! poor, houseless, wandering,
motherless child ! ” cried the old man,
clasping his hands and gazing as if foJ
THE OLD CURIOSITY SHOP .
i93
the first time upon her anxious face, her
travel-stained dress, and bruised and
swollen feet. “Has all my agony of care
brought her to this at last? Was l a
happy man once, and have I lost happi-
ness and all I had, for this ? ”
“If we were in the country now,”
said the child, with assumed cheerful-
ness, as they walked on, looking about
them for a shelter, “we should find
some good old tree, stretching out his
green arms as if he loved us, and nod-
ding and rustling as if he would have
us fall asleep, thinking of him while he
watched. Please God, we shall be
there soon, — to-morrow or next day at
^he farthest, — and in the mean time let
us think, dear, that it was a good thing
we came here ; for we are lost in the
crowd and hurry of this place, and if
any cruel people should pursue us, they
could surely never trace us farther.
There ’s comfort in that. And here ’s
a deep old doorway, — very dark, but
quite dry, and warm too, for the wind
don’t blow in here — What ’s that ? ”
Uttering a half-shriek, she recoiled
from a black figure which came sudden-
ly out of the dark recess in which they
were about to take refuge, and stood
still looking at them.
“ Speak again,” it said ; “do I know
the voice?”
“ No,” replied the child, timidly ; “we
are strangers, and, having no money for
a night’s lodging, were going to rest
here.”
There was a feeble lamp at no great
distance, — the only one in the place,
which was a kind of square yard, but
sufficient to show how poor and mean
it was. To this the figure beckoned
them, at the same time drawing within
its rays, as if to show that it had no de-
sire to conceal itself or take them at an
advantage.
The form was that of a man, misera-
bly clad and begrimed with smoke,
which, perhaps by its contrast with the
natural color of his skin, made him look
paler than he really was. That he was
naturally of a very wan and pallid as-
pect, however, his hollow cheeks, sharp
features, and sunken eyes, no less than
a certain look of patient endurance, suf-
ficiently testified. His voice was harsh
by nature, but not brutal ; and though
his face, besides possessing the charac-
teristics already mentioned, was over-
shadowed by a quantity of long dark
hair, its expression was neither fero-
cious nor bad.
“ How came you to think of resting
there ? ” he said. “ Or how,” he added,
looking more attentively at the child,
“do you come to want a place of rest
at this time of night ? ”
“ Our misfortunes,” the grandfather
answered, “ are the cause.”
“ Do you know,” said the man, look-
ing still more earnestly at Nell, “ how
wet she is, and that the damp streets
are not a place for her? ”
“ I know it well, God help me,” he
replied. “ What can I do ! ”
The man looked at Nell again, and
gently touched her garments, from
which the rain was running off in little
streams. “ I can give you warmth,”
he said, after a pause ; “ nothing else.
Such lodging as I have is in that house,”
pointing to the doorway from which he
had emerged, “ but she is safer and
better there than here. The fire is in a
rough place, but you can pass the night
beside it safely, if you ’ll trust yourselves
to me. You see that red light yonder ? ”
They raised their eyes, and saw a
lurid glare hanging in the dark sky ;
the dull reflection of some distant fire.
“ It ’s not far,” said the man. “ Shall
I take you there? You were going to
sleep upon cold bricks ; I can give you
a bed of warm ashes, — nothing better.”
Without waiting for any further reply
than he saw in their looks, he took Nell
in his arms, and bade the old man fol-
low.
Carrying her as tenderly, and as easily
too, as if she had been an infant, and
showing himself both swift and sure of
foot, he led the way through what ap-
peared to be the poorest and most
wretched quarter of the town ; not
turning aside to avoid the overflowing
kennels or running water-spouts, but
holding his course, regardless of such
obstructions, and making his way
straight through them. They had pro-
ceeded thus, in silence, for some quar-
ter of an hour, and had lost sight of
the glare to which he had pointed, in
13
194
THE OLD CURIOSITY SHOP.
the dark and narrow ways by which
they had come, when it suddenly burst
upon them again, streaming up from
the high chimney of a building close
before them.
“ This is the place,” he said, paus-
ing at a door to put Nell down and take
her hand. “ Don’t be afraid. There ’s
nobody here will harm you.”
It needed a strong confidence in this
assurance to induce them to enter, and
what they saw inside did not diminish
their apprehension and alarm. In a
large and lofty building, supported by
pillars of iron, with great black aper-
tures in the upper walls, open to the
external air, echoing to the roof with
the beating of hammers and roar of
furnaces, mingled with the hissing of
red-hot metal plunged in water, and a
hundred strange unearthly noises never
heard elsewhere, — in this gloomy place,
moving like demons among the flame
and smoke, dimly and fitfully seen,
flushed and. tormented by the burning
fires, and wielding great weapons, a
faulty blow from any one of which must
have crushed some workman’s skull,
a number of men labored like giants.
Others, reposing upon heaps of coals
or ashes, with their faces turned to the
black vault above, slept or rested from
their toil. Others, again, opening the
white-hot furnace doors, cast fuel on the
flames which came rushing and roaring
forth to meet it, and licked it up like
oil. Others drew forth, with clashing
noise, upon the ground, great sheets of
glowing steel, emitting an insupport-
able heat, and a dull deep light like
that which reddens in the eyes of
savage beasts.
Through these bewildering sights
and deafening sounds, their conductor
led them to where, in a dark portion
of the building, one furnace burnt by
night and day, — so, at least, they gath-
ered from the motion of his lips, for as
et they could only see him speak, not
ear him. The man who had been
watching this fire, and whose task was
ended for the present, gladly withdrew,
and left them with their friend, who,
spreading Nell’s little cloak upon a
heap of ashes, and showing her where
she could hang her outer clothes to dry,
signed to her and the old man to lie
down and sleep. For himself, he took
his station on a rugged mat before the
furnace door, and, resting his chin up-
on his hands, watched the flame as it
shone through the iron chinks, and the
white ashes as they fell into their bright
hot grave below.
The warmth of her bed, hard and
humble as it was, combined with the
great fatigue she had undergone, soon
caused the tumult of the place to fall
with a gentler sound upon the child’s
tired ears, and was not long in lulling
her to sleep. The old man was stretched
beside her, and with her hand upon his
neck she lay and dreamed.
It was yet night when she awoke, nor
did she know how long, or for how
short a time, she had slept. But she
found herself protected, both from any
cold air that might find its way into the
building, and from the scorching heat,
by some of the workmen’s clothes ; and,
glancing at their friend, saw that he sat
in exactly the same attitude, looking
with a fixed earnestness of attention to-
wards the fire, and keeping so very still
that he did net even seem to breathe.
She lay in the state between sleeping
and waking, looking so long at his mo-
tionless figure that at length she almost
feared he had died as he sat there ; and,
softly rising and drawing close to him,
ventured to whisper in his ear.
He moved, and glancing from her to
the place she had lately occupied, as if
to assure himself that it was really the
child so near him, looked inquiringly
into her face.
“ I feared you were ill,” she said.
“ The other men are all in motion, and
you are so very quiet.”
“They leave me to myself,” he re-
plied. “ They know my humor. They
laugh at me, but don’t harm mean
it. See yonder there, — that ’s my
friend.”
“ The fire ? ” said the child.
“It has been alive as long as I have,”
the man made answer. “We talk and
think together all night long.”
The child glanced quickly at him in
her surprise, but he had turned his eyes
in their former direction, and was mus-
ing as before.
THE OLD CURIOSITY SHOP.
*95
“ It ’s like a book to me,” he said, —
“ the only book I ever learned to read ;
and many an old story it tells me. It ’s
music, for I should know its voice
among a thousand, and there are other
voices in its roar. It has its pictures
too. You don’t know how many strange
faces and different scenes I trace in the
red-hot coals. It’s my memory, that
fire, and shows me all my life.”
The child, bending down to listen to
his words, could not help remarking
with what brightened eyes he continued
to speak and muse.
“Yes,” he said, with a faint smile;
“ it was the same when I was quite a
baby, and crawled about it, till I fell
asleep. My father watched it then.”
“ Had you no mother ? ” asked the
child.
“No, she was dead. Women work
hard in these parts. She worked her-
self to death, they told me, and, as they
said so then, the fire has gone on say-
ing the same thing ever since. I sup-
pose it was true. I have always be-
lieved it.”
“ Were you brought up here, then,”
said the child.
“ Summer and winter,” he replied.
“ Secretly at first ; but when they found
it out, they let him keep me here. So
the fire nursed me, — the same fire. It
has never gone out.”
“ You are fond of it ? ” said the child.
“ Of course I am. He died before it.
I saw him fall down, — just there, where
those ashes are burning now, — and
wondered, I remember, why it didn’t
help him.”
“ Have you been here ever since ? ”
asked the child.
“ Ever since I came to watch it ; but
there was a while between, and a very
cold dreary while it was. It burnt all
the time, though, and roared and leaped
when I came back, as it used to do
in our play-days. You may guess,
from looking at me, what kind of child
I was, but for all the difference between
us I was a child, and when I saw you
in the street to-night, you put me in
m,ind of myself, as l was after he died,
and made me wish to bring you to
the fire. I thought of those old times
again, when I saw you sleeping by it.
You should be sleeping now. Lie down
again, poor child ; lie down again ! ”
With that he led her to her rude
couch, and, covering her with the clothes
with which she had found herself envel-
oped when she woke, returned to his
seat, whence he moved no more unless to
feed the furnace, but remained motion-
less as a statue. The child continued
to watch him for a little time, but soon
yielded to the drowsiness that came
upon her, and, in the dark strange place
and on the heap of ashes, slept as peace-
fully as if the room had been a palace
chamber, and the bed a bed of down.
When she awoke again, broad day
was shining through the lofty openings
in the walls, and, stealing in slanting
rays but midway down, seemed to make
the building darker than it had been
at night. The clang and tumult were
still going on, and the remorseless fires
were burning fiercely as before ; for few
changes of night and day brought rest
or quiet there.
Her friend parted his breakfast — a
scanty mess of coffee and some coarse
bread — with the child and her grand-
father, and inquired whither they were
going. < She told him that they sought
some distant country place, remote from
towns or even other villages, and with
a faltering tongue inquired what road
they would do best to take.
“ I know little of the country,” he
said, shaking his head, “for such as I
pass all our lives before our furnace
doors, and seldom go forth to breathe.
But there are such places yonder.”
“And far from here ?” said Nell.
“Ay, surely. How could they be
near us, and be green and fresh? The
road lies, too, through miles and miles,
all lighted up by fires like ours, — a
strange black road, and one that would
frighten you by night.”
“We are here and must go on,” said
the child, boldly ; for she saw that the
old man listened with anxious ears to
this account.
“Rough people — paths never made
for little feet like yours — a dismal,
blighted way — is there no turning back,
my child? ”
“There is none,” cried Nell, press-
ing forward. “ If you can direct us.
196
THE OLD CURIOSITY SHOP.
do. If not, pray do not seek to turn
us from our purpose. Indeed you do
not know the danger that we shun, and
how right and true we are in flying
from it, or you would not try to stop us ;
I am sure you would not.”
“God forbid, if it is so !” said their
uncouth protector, glancing from the
eager child to her grandfather, who
hung his head and bent his eyes upon
the ground. “I ’ll direct you from the
door the best I can. I wish I could do
more.”
He showed them, then, by which
road they must leave the town, and
what course they should hold when
they had gained it. He lingered so
long on these instructions that the
child, with a fervent blessing,* tore
herself away, and stayed to hear no
more.
But before they had reached the
corner of the lane, the man came
running after them, and, pressing her
hand, left something in it, — two old,
battered, smoke-incrusted penny pieces.
Who knows but they shone as brightly
in the eyes of angels as golden gifts
that have been chronicled on tombs?
And thus they separated ; the child
to lead her sacred charge farther from
guilt and shame ; and the laborer to at-
tach a fresh interest to the spot where
his guests had slept, and read new
histories in his furnace fire.
CHAPTER XLV.
In all their journeying, they had
never longed so ardently, they had nev-
er so pined and wearied, for the freedom
of pure air and open country, as now.
No, not even on that memorable morn-
ing, when, deserting their old home,
they abandoned themselves to the mer-
cies of a strange world, and left all the
dumb and senseless things they had
known and loved behind, — not even
then had they so yearned for the fresh
solitudes of wood, hillside, and field
as now, when the noise and dirt and
vapor of the great manufacturing town
reeking with lean misery and hungry
wretchedness, hemmed them in on ev-
ery side, and seemed to shut out hope,
and to render escape impossible.
“Two days and nights!” thought
the child. “ He said two days and
nights we should have to spend among
such scenes as these. O, if we live to
reach the country once again, if we get
clear of these dreadful places, though it
is only to lie down and die, with what
a grateful heart I shall thank God for
so much mercy ! ”
With thoughts like this, and with
some vague design of travelling to a
great distance among streams and
mountains, where only very poor and
simple people lived, and where they
might maintain themselves by very hum-
ble helping work in farms, free from
such terrors as that from which they
fled, — the child, with no resource but
the poor man’s gift, and no encourage-
ment but that which flowed from her
own heart, and its sense of the truth
and right of what she did, nerved her-
self to this last journey and boldly pur-
sued her task.
“We shall be very slow to-day,
dear,” she said, as they toiled painfully
through the streets. “My feet are sore,
and I have pains in all my limbs from
the wet of yesterday. I saw that he
looked at us and thought of that when
he said how long we should be upon
the road.”
“It was a dreary way he told us
of,” returned her grandfather, piteously.
“ Is there no other road ? Will you
not let me go some other way than
this? ”
“Places lie beyond these,” said the
child, firmly, “ where we may live in
peace, and be tempted to do no harm.
We will take the road that promises to
have that end, and we would not turn
out of it, if it were a hundred times
worse than our fears lead us to expect.
We would not, dear, would we ?”
“ No,” replied the old man, waver-
ing in his voice no less than in his
manner. “No. Let us go on. I am
ready. I am quite ready, Nell.”
The child walked with more difficulty
than she had led her companion to ex-
pect, for the pains that racked her joints
were of no common severity, and ev-
ery exertion increased them. But they
THE OLD CURIOSITY SHOP .
J 97
wrung from her no complaint or look
of suffering ; and though the two trav-
ellers proceeded very slowly, they did
proceed. Clearing the town in course
of time, they began to feel that they
were fairly on their way. _
A long suburb of red brick houses, —
some with patches of garden-ground,
where coal-dust and factory smoke
darkened the shrinking leaves and
coarse rank flowers, and where the
struggling vegetation sickened and sank
under the hot breath of kiln and fur-
nace, making them by its presence
seem yet more blighting and unwhole-
some than in the town itself, — a long,
flat, straggling suburb passed, they
came, by slow degrees, upon a cheerless
region, where not a blade of grass was
seen to grow, where not a bud put
forth its promise in the spring, where
nothing green could live but on the sur-
face of the stagnant pools, which here
and there lay idly sweltering by the
black roadside.
Advancing more and more into the
shadow of this mournful place, its dark
depressing influence stole upon their
spirits, and filled them with a dismal
gloom. On every side, and far as the
eye could see into the heavy distance,
tall chimneys, crowding on each other,
and presenting that endless repetition
of the same dull, ugly form which is
the horror of oppressive dreams, poured
out their plague of smoke, obscured the
light, and made foul the melancholy
air. On mounds of ashes by the way-
side, sheltered only by a few rough
boards, or rotten pent-house roofs,
strange engines spun and writhed like
tortured creatures, clanking their iron
chains, shrieking in their rapid whirl
from time to time as though in torment
unendurable, and making the ground
tremble with their agonies. Disman-
tled houses here and there appeared,
tottering to the earth, propped up by
fragments of others that had fallen down,
unroofed, windowless, blackened, deso-
late, but yet inhabited. Men, women,
children, wan in their looks and ragged
in attire, tended the engines, fed their
tributary fires, begged upon the road, or
scowled half-naked from the doorless
houses. Then came more of the wrath-
ful monsters, whose like they almost
seemed to be in their wildness and
their untamed air, screeching and turn-
ing round and round again ; and still,
before, behind, and to the right and left,
was the same interminable perspective
of brick towers, never ceasing in their
black vomit, blasting all things living or
inanimate, shutting out the face of day,
and closing in on all these horrors with
a dense dark cloud.
But night-time in this dreadful spot !
— night, when the smoke was changed
to fire ; when every chimney spurted up
its flame ; and places that had been
dark vaults all day now shone red hot,
with figures moving to and fro within
their blazing jaws, and calling to one
another with hoarse cries, — night, when
the noise of every strange machine
was aggravated by the darkness ; when
the people near them looked wilder
and more savage ; when bands of un-
employed laborers paraded the roads,
or clustered by torchlight round their
leaders, who told them, in stern lan-
guage, of their wrongs, and urged them
on to frightful cries and threats ; when
maddened men, armed with sword and
firebrand, spurning the tears and pray-
ers of women who would restrain them,
rushed forth on errands of terror and de-
struction, to work no ruin half so surely
as their own, — night, when carts came
rumbling by, filled with rude coffins
(for contagious disease and death had
been busy with the living crops) ; when
orphans cried, and distracted women
shrieked and followed in their wake, —
night, when some called for bread, and
some for drink to drown their cares, and
some with tears, and some with stag-
gering feet, and some with bloodshot
eyes, went brooding home, — night,
which, unlike the night that Heaven
sends on earth, brought with it no
peace, nor quiet, nor signs of blessed
sleep ; — who shall tell the terrors of the
night to the young wandering child !
And yet she lay down, with nothing
between her and the sky ; and with no
fear for herself, for she was past it now,
put up a prayer for the poor old man.
So very weak and spent she felt, so
very calm and unresisting, that she had
no thought of any wants of her own, but
igS
7 HE OLD CURIOSITY SHOP.
prayed that God would raise up some
friend for him. She tried to recall the
way they had come, and to look in the
direction where the fire by which they
had slept last night was burning. She
had forgotten to ask the name of the
oor man, their friend, and when she
ad remembered him in her prayers, it
seemed ungrateful not to turn one look
towards the spot where he was watch-
ing.
A penny loaf was all they had had
that day. It was very little, but even
hunger was forgotten in the strange
tranquillity that crept over her senses.
She lay down, very gently, and, with a
quiet smile upon her face, fell into a
slumber. It was not like sleep— and
yet it must have been, or why those
pleasant dreams of the little scholar all
night long !
Morning came. Much weaker, di-
minished powers even of sight and hear-
ing, and yet the child made no com-
plaint, — perhaps would have made none,
even if she had not had that induce-
ment to be silent travelling by her
side. She felt a hopelessness of their
ever being extricated together from that
forlorn place ; a dull conviction that she
was very ill, perhaps dying ; but no fear
or anxiety.
A loathing of food that she was not
conscious of until they expended their
last penny in the purchase of another
loaf prevented her partaking even of
this poor repast. Her grandfather ate
greedily, which she was glad to see.
Their way led through the same
scenes as yesterday, with no variety or
improvement. There was the same
thick air, difficult to breathe, the same
blighted ground, the same hopeless
prospect, the same misery and distress.
Objects appeared more dim, the noise
less, the path more rugged and uneven,
for sometimes she stumbled, and be-
came roused, as it were, in the effort
to prevent herself from falling. Poor
child ! the cause was in her tottering
feet.
Towards the afternoon, her grandfa-
ther complained bitterly of hunger.
She approached one of the wretched
hovels by the wayside, and knocked
with her hand upon the door.
“ What would you have here ? ” said
a gaunt man, opening it.
“ Charity. A morsel of bread.”
“Do you see that?” returned the
man, hoarsely, pointing to a kind of
bundle on the ground. “ That ; s a dead
child. I and five hundred other men
were thrown out of work three months
ago. That is my third dead child, and
last. Do you think / have charity to
bestow, or a morsel of bread to spare ? ”
The child recoiled from the door, and
it closed upon her. Impelled by strong
necessity, she knocked at another, a
neighboring one, which, yielding to the
slight pressure of her hand, flew open.
It seemed that a couple of poor fami-
lies lived in this hovel, for two women,
each among children of her own, occu-
pied different portions of the room. In
the centre stood a grave gentleman in
black, who appeared to have just en-
tered, and who held by the arm a boy.
“Here, woman,” he said, “here’s
your deaf and dumb son. You may
thank me for restoring him to you. He
was brought before me, this morning,
charged with theft ; and with any other
boy it would have gone hard, I assure
you. But, as I had compassion on his
infirmities, and thought he might have
learnt no better, I have managed to
bring him back to you. Take more
care of him for the future.”
“ And won’t you give me back my
son ? ” said the other woman, hastily
rising and confronting him. “Won’t
you give me back my son, sir, who was
transported for the same offence ? ”
“Was he deaf and dumb, woman?”
asked the gentleman, sternly.
“ Was he not, sir ? ”
“ You know he was not.”
“He was,” cried the woman. “He
was deaf, dumb, and blind, to all that
was good and right, from his cradle.
Her boy may have learnt no better 1
where did mine learn better? where
could he ? who was there to teach him
better, or where was it to be learnt?”
“ Peace, woman,” said the gentle-
man, “your boy was in possession of
all his senses.”
“ He was,” cried the mother; “and
he was the more easy to be led astray
because he had them. If you save this
THE OLD CURIOSITY SHOP.
199
boy because he may not know right from
wrong, why did you not save mine who
was never taught the difference ? You
gentlemen have as good right to punish
her boy, that God has kept in ignorance
of sound and speech, as you have to
punish mine, that you kept in ignorance
yourselves. How many of the girls and
boys — ah, men and women too — that
are brought before you, and you don’t
pity, are deaf and dumb in their minds,
and go wrong in that state, and are
punished in that state, body and soul,
while you gentlemen are quarrelling
among yourselves whether they ought
to learn this or that? Be a just man,
sir, and give me back my son ! ”
“You are desperate,” said the gen-
tleman, taking out his snuffbox, “and
I am sorry for you.”
“ I am desperate,” returned the wo-
man, “and you have made me so.
Give me back my son, to work for these
helpless children. Be a just man, sir,
and, as you have had mercy upon this
boy, give me back my son ! ”
The child had seen and heard enough
to know that this was not a place at
which to ask for alms. She led the old
man softly from the door, and they pur-
sued their journey.
With less and less of hope or strength,
as they went on, but with an undimin-
ished resolution not to betray by any
word or sign her sinking state, so long
as she had energy to move, the child,
throughout the remainder of that hard
day, compelled herself to proceed ; not
even stopping to rest as frequently as
usual, to compensate in some measure
for the tardy pace at which she was
obliged to walk. Evening was draw-
ing on, but had not closed in, when —
still travelling among the same dismal
objects — they came to a busy town.
Faint and spiritless as they were, its
streets were insupportable. After hum-
bly asking for relief at some few doors,
and being repulsed, they agreed to
make their way out of it as speedily as
they could, and try if tlfb inmates of
any lone house beyond would have
more pity on their exhausted state.
They were dragging themselves along
through the last street, and the child felt
that the time was close at hand when her
enfeebled powers would bear no more.
There appeared before them, at this
juncture, going in the same direction
as themselves, a traveller on foot, who,
with a portmanteau strapped to his
back, leaned upon a stout stick as he
walked, and read from a book which he
held in his other hand.
It was not an easy matter to come up
with him and beseech his aid, for he
walked fast, and was a little distance
in advance. At length he stopped to
look more attentively at some passage
in his book. Animated with a ray of
hope, the child shot on before her
grandfather, and, going close to the
stranger without rousirtg him by the
sound of her footsteps, began, in a few
faint words, to implore his help.
He turned his head. The child
clapped her hands together, uttered a
wild shriek, and fell senseless at his
feet.
CHAPTER XLVI.
It was the poor schoolmaster. No
other than the poor schoolmaster.
Scarcely less moved and surprised by
the sight of the child than she had been
on recognizing him, he stood, for a
moment, silent and confounded by this
unexpected apparition, without even the
presence of mind to raise her from the
ground.
But, quickly recovering his self-pos-
session, he threw down his stick and
book, and, dropping on one knee be-
side her, endeavored, by such simple
means as occurred to him, to restore
her to herself; while her grandfather,
standing idly by, wrung his hands, and
implored her with many endearing ex-
pressions to speak to him, were it only
a word.
“ She is quite exhausted,” said the
schoolmaster, glancing upward into his
face. “ You have taxed her powers
too far, friend.”
“She is perishing of want,” rejoined
the old man. “ I never thought how
weak and ill she was, till now.”
Casting a look upon him, half re-
proachful and half compassionate, the
schoolmaster took the child in his
200
THE OLD CURIOSITY SHOP.
arms, and, bidding the old man gather
up her little basket and follow him
directly, bore her away at his utmost
speed.
There was a small inn within sight,
to which, it would seem, he had been
directing his steps when so unexpect-
edly overtaken. Towards this place he
hurried with his unconscious burden,
and rushing into the kitchen, and call-
ing upon the company there assem-
. bled to make way for God’s sake, de-
posited it on a chair before the fire.
The company, who rose in confusion
on the schoolmaster’s entrance, did as
people usually do under such circum-
stances. Everybody called for his or
her favorite remedy, which nobody
brought ; each cried for more air, at
the same time carefully excluding what
air there was by closing round the
object of sympathy ; and all wondered
why somebody else didn’t do what
it never appeared to occur to them
might be done by themselves.
The landlady, however, who pos-
sessed more readiness and activity than
any of them, and who had withal a
quicker perception of the merits of the
case, soon came running in with a little
hot brandy and water, followed by her
servant-girl, carrying vinegar, hartshorn,
smelling-salts, and such other restora-
tives ; which, being duly administered,
recovered the child so far as to enable
her to thank them in a faint voice, and
to extend her hand to the poor school-
master, who stood, with an anxious
face, hard by. Without suffering her
to speak another word, or so much as
to stir a finger any moje, the women
straightway carried her off to bed ; and
having covered her up warm, bathed
her cold feet, and wrapt them in flannel,,
they despatched a messenger for the
doctor.
The doctor, who was a red-nosed gen-
tleman with a great bunch of seals
dangling below a waistcoat of ribbed
black satin, arrived with all speed, and,
taking his seat by the bedside of poor
Nell, drew out his watch, and felt her
pulse. Then he looked at her tongue,
then he felt her pulse again, and while
he did so, he eyed the half-emptied
wineglass as if in profound abstraction.
“ I should give her,” said the doc-
tor at length, “ a teaspoonful, every
now and then, of hot brandy and wa-
ter.”
“ Why, that ’s exactly what we ’ve
done, sir ! ” said the delighted land-
lady.
“ I should also,” observed the doc-
tor, who had passed the foot-bath on
the stairs, — “I should also,” said the
doctor, in the voice of an oracle, “ put
her feet in hot water, and wrap them
up in flannel. I should likewise,” said
the doctor, with increased solemnity,
“give her something light for supper,
— the wing of a roasted fowl now — ”
“ Why, goodness gracious me, sir,
it ’s cooking at the kitchen fire this
instant ! ” cried the landlady. And so
indeed it was, for the schoolmaster had
ordered it to be put down, and it was
getting on so well that the doctor might
have smelt it if he had tried, — perhaps
he did.
“You may then,” said the doctor,
rising gravely, “ give her a glass of hot
mulled port wine, if she likes wine — ”
“And a toast, sir?” suggested the
landlady.
“ Ay,” said the doctor, in the tone or
a man who makes a dignified conces-
sion. “And a toast — of bread. But
be very particular to make it of bread,
if you please, ma’am.”
With which parting injunction, slow-
ly and portentously delivered, the doctor
departed, leaving the whole house in
admiration of that wisdom which tal-
lied so closely with their own. Every-
body said he was a very shrewd doctor
indeed, and knew perfectly what peo-
ple’s constitutions were ; which there
appears some reason to suppose he
did.
While her supper was preparing, the
child fell into a refreshing sleep, from
which they were obliged to rouse her
when it was ready. As she evinced ex-
traordinary uneasiness on learning that
her grandfather was below stairs, and
was greatly troubled at the thought of
their being apart, he took his supper
with her. Finding her still very rest-
less on this head, they made him up a
bed in an inner room, to which he pres-
ently retired. The key of this chamber
THE OLD CURIOSITY SHOP .
201
happened by good fortune to be on that
side of the door which was in Nell’s
room. She turned it on him when the
landlady had withdrawn, and crept to
bed again with a thankful heart.
The schoolmaster sat for a long time
smoking his pipe by the kitchen fire,
which was now deserted, thinking, with
a very happy face, on the fortunate
chance which had brought him so op-
portunely to the child’s assistance, and
parrying, as well as in his simple way
he could, the inquisitive cross-examina-
tion of the landlady, who had a great
curiosity to be made acquainted with
every particular of Nell’s life and his-
tory. The poor schoolmaster was so
open-hearted, and so little versed in
the most ordinary cunning or deceit,
that she could not have failed to suc-
ceed in the first five minutes, but that
he happened to be unacquainted with
what she wished to know, and so he told
her. The landlady, by no means sat-
isfied with this assurance, which she
considered an ingenious evasion of the
question, rejoined that he had his rea-
sons of course. Heaven forbid that
she should wish to pry into the affairs
of her customers, which indeed were
no business of hers, who had so many
of her own. She had merely asked a
civil question, and to be sure she knew
it would meet with a civil answer. She
was quite satisfied, — quite. She had
rather, perhaps, that he would have
said at once that he did n’t choose to
be communicative, because that would
have been plain and intelligible. How-
ever, she had no right to be offended
of course. He was the best judge, and
had a perfect right to say what he
pleased ; nobody could dispute that, for
a moment. O dear, no !
“ I assure you, my good lady,” said
the mild schoolmaster, “ that I have
told you the plain truth, — as I hope to
be saved, I have told you the truth.”
“ Why, then, I do believe you are in
earnest,” rejoined the landlady, with
ready good-humor, “ and I ’m very
sorry I have teased you. But curiosity,
you know, is the curse of our sex, and
that’s the fact.”
The landlord scratched his head, as
if he thought the curse sometimes in-
volved the other sex likewise ; but he
was prevented from making any remark
to that effect, if he had it in contempla-
tion to do so, by the schoolmaster’s
rejoinder.
“You should question me for half a
dozen hours at a sitting, and welcome,
and I would answer you patiently for
the kindness of heart you have shown
to-night, if I could,” he said. “As it
is, please to take care of her in the
morning, and let me know early how
she is ; and to understand that I am
paymaster for the three.”
So, parting with them on most friend-
ly terms, not the less cordial perhaps
for this last direction, the schoolmaster
went to his bed, and the host and host-
ess to theirs.
The report in the morning was, that
the child was better, but was extremely
weak, and would at least require a day’s
rest, and careful nursing, before she
could proceed upon her journey. The
schoolmaster received this communica-
tion with perfect cheerfulness, observ-
ing that he had a day to spare, — two
days, for that matter, — and could very
well afford to wait. As the patient was
to sit up in the evening, he appointed
to visit her in her room at a certain
hour, and, rambling out with his book,
did not return until the hour arrived.
Nell could not help weeping when
they were left alone ; whereat, and at
sight of her pale face and wasted figure,
the simple schoolmaster shed a few
tears himself, at the same time showing
in very energetic language how foolish
it was to do so, and how very easily it
could be avoided, if one tried.
“ It makes me unhappy even in the
midst of all this kindness,” said the
child, to think that we should be a bur-
den upon you. How can I ever thank
you ? If I had not met you so far from
home, I must have died, and he would
have been left alone.”
“We’ll not talk about dying,” said
the schoolmaster ; “ and as to burdens,
I have made my fortune since you slept
at my cottage.”
“ Indeed ! ” cried the child, joyfully.
“ O yes,” returned her friend. “ I
have been appointed clerk and school-
master to a village a long way from
202
THE OLD CURIOSITY SHOP .
here, — and a long way from the old
one as you may suppose, — at five-and-
thirty pounds a year. Five-and-thirty
pounds ! ”
“ I am very glad,” said the child, —
“ so very, very glad.”
“ I am on my way there, now,” re-
sumed the schoolmaster. “ They al-
lowed me the stage-coach hire, — out-
side stage-coach hire all the way. Bless
you, they grudge me nothing. But as
the time at which I am expected there
left me ample leisure, I determined to
walk instead. How glad I am to think
I did so ! ”
“ How glad should we be ! ”
“Yes, yes,” said the schoolmaster,
moving restlessly in his chair; “cer-
tainly, that ’s very true. But you —
where are you going, where are you
coming from, what have you been do-
ing since you left me, what 'had you
been doing before? Now, tell me, —
do tell me. I know very little of the
world, and perhaps you are better fitted
to advise me in its affairs than I am
qualified to give advice to you ; but I am
very sincere, and I have a reason (you
have not forgotten it) for loving you. I
have felt since that time as if my love
for him who died had been transferred
to you who stood beside his bed. If
this,” he added, looking upwards, “ is
the beautiful creation that springs from
ashes, let its peace prosper with me, as
I deal tenderly and compassionately by
this young child ! ”
The plain, frank kindness of the hon-
est schoolmaster, the affectionate ear-
nestness of his speech and manner, the
truth which was stamped upon his
every word and look, gave the child a
confidence in him, which the utmost
arts of treachery and dissimulation
could never have awakened in her
breast. She told him all, — that they
had no friend or relative ; that she
had fled with the old man to save him
from a madhouse and all the miseries
he dreaded ; that she was flying, now,
to save him from himself ; and that
she sought an asylum in some remote
and primitive place, where the tempta-
tion before which he fell would never
enter, and her late sorrows and distress-
es could have no place.
The schoolmaster heard her with as-
tonishment. “This child ! ” he thought,
— “ has this child heroically persevered
under all doubts and dangers, struggled
with poverty and suffering, upheld and
sustained by strong affection and the
consciousness of rectitude alone ! And
yet the world is full of such heroism.
Have I yet to learn that the hardest
and best-borne trials are those which
are never chronicled in any earthly rec-
ord, and are suffered every day ? And
should I be surprised to hear the story
of this child ? ”
What more he thought or said mat-
ters not. It was concluded that Nell
and her grandfather should accompany
him to the village whither he was
bound, and that he should endeavor to
find them some humble occupation by
which they could subsist. “We shall
be sure to succeed,” said the school-
master, heartily. “The cause is too
good a one to fail.”
They arranged to proceed upon their
journey next evening, as a stage- wag-
on, which travelled for some distance
on the same road as they must take,
would stop at the inn to change horses,
and the driver for a small gratuity
would give Nell a place inside. A
bargain was soon struck when the wag-
on came ; and in due time it rolled
away, with the child comfortably be-
stowed among the softer packages, her
grandfather and the schoolmaster walk -
ing on beside the driver, and the land-
lady and all the good folks of the inn
screaming out their good wishes and
farewells.
What a soothing, luxurious, drowsy
way of travelling, to lie inside that
slowly moving mountain, listening to
the tinkling of the horses’ bells, the
occasional smacking of the carter's whip,
the smooth rolling of the great broad
wheels, the rattle of the harness, the
cheery good-nights of passing travellers
jogging past on little short-stepped
horses, — all made pleasantly indistinct
by the thick awning, which seemed
made for lazy listening under, till one
fell asleep ! The very going to sleep,
still with an indistinct idea, as the head
jogged to and fro upon the pillow, of
moving onward with no trouble or
THE OLD CURIOSITY SHOP.
203
fatigue, and hearing all these sounds
like dreamy music, lulling to the senses,
— and the slow waking up, and finding
one’s self staring out through the breezy
curtain half-opened in the front, far up
into the cold bright sky with its count-
less stars, and downward at the driver’s
lantern, dancing on like its namesake
Jack of the swamps and marshes, and
sideways at the dark grim trees, and
forward at the long bare road rising up,
up, up, until it stopped abruptly at a
sharp high ridge as if there were no
more road, and all beyond was sky, —
and the stopping at the inn to bait, and
being helped out, and going into a room
with fire and candles, and winking very
much, and being agreeably reminded
that the night was cold, and anxious for
very comfort’s sake to think it colder
than it was! — What a delicious jour-
ney was that journey in the wagon !
Then the going on again, — so fresh
at first, and shortly afterwards so sleepy.
The waking from a sound nap as the
mail came dashing past like a highway
comet, with gleaming lamps and rattling
hoofs, and visions of a guard behind,
standing up to keep his feet warm, and
of a gentleman in a fur cap opening his
eyes and looking wild and stupefied.
The stopping at the turnpike where the
man was gone to bed, and knocking
at the door until he answered with a
smothered shout from under the bed-
clothes in the little room above, where
the faint light was burning, and present-
ly came down, night-capped and shiver-
ing, to throw the gate wide open, and
wish all wagons off the road, except by
day. The cold, sharp interval between
night and morning, — the distant streak
of light widening and spreading, and
turning from gray to white, and from
white to yellow, and from yellow to
burning red. The presence of day, with
all its cheerfulness and life, — men and
horses at the plough, birds in the trees
and hedges, and boys in solitary fields,
frightening them away with rattles.
The coming to a town, — people busy
in the market ; light carts and chaises
round the tavern yard; tradesmen stand-
ing at their doors ; men running horses
up and down the street for sale ; pigs
plunging and grunting in the dirty
distance, getting off with long strings at
their legs, running into clean chemists’
shops and being dislodged with brooms
by ’prentices ; the night coach changing
horses ; the passengers cheerless, cold,
ugly, and discontented, with three
months’ growth of hair in one night ;
the coachman fresh as from a bandbox,
and exquisitely beautiful by contrast.
So much bustle, so many things in mo-
tion, such a variety of incidents, — when
was there a journey with so many de-
lights as that journey in the wagon !
Sometimes walking for a mile or two
while her grandfather rode inside, and
sometimes even prevailing upon the
schoolmaster to take her place and lie
down to rest, Nell travelled on very
happily until they came to a large town,
where the wagon stopped, and where
they spent a night. They passed a large
church ; and in the streets w'ere a num-
ber of old houses, built of a kind of earth
or plaster, crossed and recrossed in a
great many directions with black beams,
which gave them a remarkable and
very ancient look. The doors, too, were
arched and low, some with oaken por-
tals and quaint benches, \Vhere the for-
mer inhabitants had sat on summer
evenings. The windows were latticed
in little diamond panes, that seemed to
wink and blink upon the passengers
as if they were dim of sight. They had
long since got clear of the smoke and
furnaces, except in one or two soli-
tary instances, where a factory planted
among fields withered the space about
it, like a burning mountain. When
they had passed through this town,
they entered again upon the. country,
and began to draw near their place of
destination.
It was not so near, however, but that
they spent another night upon the road,
— not that their doing so was quite an
act of necessity, but that the schoolmas-
ter, when they approached within a few
miles of his village, had a fidgety sense
of his dignity as the new clerk, and was
unwilling to make his entry in dusty
shoes and travel-disordered dress. It
was a fine, clear, autumn morning,
when they came upon the scene of his
promotion, and stopped to contemplate
its beauties.
204
THE OLD CURIOSITY SHOP.
“ See, here ’s the church ! ” cried
the delighted schoolmaster, in a low
voice; “and that old building close
beside it is the schoolhouse, I ’ll be
sworn. Five-and-thirty pounds a year
in this beautiful place ! ”
They admired everything, — the old
gray porch, the mullioned windows, the
venerable gravestones dotting the green
churchyard, the ancient tower, the very
weathercock ; the brown thatched roofs
of cottage, barn, and homestead, peep-
ing from among the trees ; the stream
that rippled by the distant watermill ;
the blue Welsh mountains far away. It
was for such a spot the child had wea-
ried in the dense, dark, miserable
haunts of labor. Upon her bed of
ashes, and amidst the squalid horrors
through which they had forced their
way, visions of such scenes — beautiful
indeed, but not more beautiful than this
sweet reality — had been always present
to her mind. They had seemed to melt
into a dim and airy distance, as the
prospect of ever beholding them again
rew fainter ; but, as they receded, she
ad loved and panted for them more.
“ I must leave you somewhere for a
few minutes,” said the schoolmaster, at
length breaking the silence into which
they had fallen in their gladness. “ I
have a letter to present, and inquiries to
make, you know. Where shall I take
you? To the little inn yonder?”
“Let us wait here,” rejoined Nell.
“The gate is open. We will sit in the
church-porch till you come back.”
“ A good place too,” said the school-
master, leading the way towards it,
disencumbering himself of his portman-
teau, and placing it on the stone seat.
“ Be sure that I come back with good
news, and am not long gone.”
So the happy schoolmaster put on a
bran-new pair of gloves which he had
carried in a little parcel in his pocket
all the way, and hurried off, full of
ardor and excitement.
The child watched him from the
orch until the intervening foliage hid
im from her view, and then stepped
softly out into the old churchyard, — so
solemn and quiet that every rustle of
her dress upon the fallen leaves, which
strewed the path and made her foot-
steps noiseless, seemed an invasion of
its silence. It was a very aged, ghostly
place. The church had been built many
hundreds of years ago, and had once
had a convent or monastery attached ;
for arches in ruins, remains of oriel win-
dows, and fragments of blackened walls,
were yet standing ; while other portions
of the old building, which had crumbled
away and fallen down, were mingled
with the churchyard earth and over-
grown with grass, as if they too claimed
a burying-place, and sought to mix
their ashes with the dust of men. Hard
by these gravestones of dead years, and
forming a part of the ruin which some
pains had been taken to render habita-
ble in modern times, were two small
dwellings with sunken windows and
oaken doors, fast hastening to decay,
empty and desolate.
Upon these tenements the attention
of the child became exclusively riveted.
She knew not why. The church, the
ruin, the antiquated graves, had equal
claims at least upon a stranger’s
thoughts, but from the moment when
her eyes first rested on these two dwell-
ings, she could turn to nothing else.
Even when she had made the circuit
of the enclosure, and, returning to the
porch, sat pensively waiting for their
friend, she took her station where she
could still look upon them, and felt as if
fascinated towards that spot.
CHAPTER XLVII.
Kit’s mother and the single gentle-
man, — upon whose track it is expedient
to follow with hurried steps, lest this
history should be chargeable with in-
constancy, and the offence of leaving
its characters in situations of uncertain-
ty and doubt, — Kit’s mother and the
single gentleman, speeding onward in
the post-chaise-and-four whose depart-
ure from the notary’s door we have
already witnessed, soon left the town
behind them, and struck fire from the
flints of the broad highway.
The good woman, being not a little
embarrassed by the novelty of her
situation, and certain maternal appre-
THE OLD CURIOSITY SHOP.
205
hensions that perhaps by this time little
Jacob, or the baby, or both, had fallen
into the fire, or tumbled down stairs,
or had been squeezed behind doors, or
had scalded their windpipes in endeav-
oring to allay their thirst at the spouts
of tea-kettles, preserved an uneasy si-
lence ; and meeting from the window
the eyes of turnpike-men, omnibus-
drivers, and others, felt, in the new
dignity of her position, like a mourner
at a funeral, who, not being greatly
afflicted by the loss of the departed,
recognizes his every-day acquaintance
from the window of the mourning coach,
but is constrained to preserve a decent
solemnity and the appearance of being
indifferent to all external objects.
To have been indifferent to the com-
panionship of the single gentleman
would have been tantamount to being
gifted with nerves of steel. Never did
chaise enclose, or horses draw, such a
restless gentleman as he. He never
sat in the same position for two minutes
together, but was perpetually tossing
his arms and legs about, pulling up the
sashes and letting them violently down,
or thrusting his head out of one window
to draw it in again and thrust it out of
another. He carried in his pocket, too,
a fire-box of mysterious and unknown
construction ; and as sure as ever Kit’s
mother closed her eyes, so surely —
whisk, rattle, fizz — there was the sin-
gle gentleman consulting his watch by
a flame of fire, and letting the sparks
fall down among the straw as if there
were no such thing as a possibility of
himself and Kit’s mother being roasted
alive before the boys could stop their
horses. Whenever they halted to
change, there he was, — out of the
carriage without letting down the steps,
bursting about the inn-yard like a light-
ed cracker, pulling out his watch by
lamplight and forgetting to look at it
before he put it up again, and in short
committing so many extravagances that
Kit’s mother was quite afraid of him.
Then, when the horses were to, in he
came like a Harlequin, and before they
had gone a mile, out came the watch
and the fire-box together, and Kit’s
mother was wide awake again, with no
hope of a wink of sleep for that stage.
“Are you comfortable?” the single
gentleman would say after one of these
exploits, turning sharply round.
“ Quite, sir, thank you.”
“Are you sure ? Ain’t you cold? ”
“ It is a little chilly, sir,” Kit’s
mother would reply.
“ I knew it ! ” cried the single gen-
tleman, letting down one of the front
glasses. “ She wants some brandy and
water ! Of course she does. How
could I forget it? Hallo ! Stop at the
next inn, and call out for a glass of hot
brandy and water.”
It was in vain for Kit’s mother to
protest that she stood in need of noth-
ing of the kind. The single gentleman
was inexorable ; and whenever he had
exhausted all other modes and fashions
of restlessness, it invariably occurred to
him that Kit’s mother wanted brandy
and water.
In this way they travelled on until
near midnight, when they stopped to
supper, for which meal the single
gentleman ordered everything eatable
that the house contained ; and because
Kit’s mother didn’t eat everything at
once, and eat it all, he took it into his
head that she must be ill.
“You’re faint,” said the single
gentleman, who did nothing himself
but walk about the room. “I see
what ’s the matter with you, ma’am.
You’re faint.”
“ Thank you, sir, I ’m not indeed.”
“ I know you are. I ’m sure of it.
I drag this poor woman from the bosom
of her family at a minute’s notice, and
she goes on getting fainter and fainter
before my eyes. I ’m a pretty fellow I
How many children have you got,
ma’am ? ”
“Two, sir, besides Kit.”
“Boys, ma’am?”
“ Yes, sir.”
“ Are they christened ? ”
“ Only half baptized as yet, sir.”
“ I ’m godfather to both of ’em. Re-
member that, if you please, ma’am. You
had better have some mulled wine.”
“I couldn’t touch a drop indeed,
sir.”
“You must,” said the single gentle-
man. “ I see you want it. I ought to
have thought of it before.”
206
THE OLD CURIOSITY SHOP.
Immediately flying to the bell, and
calling for mulled wine as impetuously
as if it had been wanted for instant use
in the recovery of some person appar-
ently drowned, the single gentleman
made Kit’s mother swallow a bumper
of it at such a high temperature that
the tears ran down her face, and then
hustled her off to the chaise again,
where — not impossibly from the effects
of this agreeable sedative — she soon
became insensible to his restlessness,
and fell fast asleep. Nor were the hap-
py effects of this prescription of a tran-
sitory nature, as, notwithstanding that
the distance was greater, and the jour-
ney longer, than the single gentleman
had anticipated, she did not awake un-
til it was broad day, and they were clat-
tering over the pavement of a town.
“This is the place ! ” cried her com-
panion, letting down all the glasses.
“ Drive to the wax-work ! ”
The boy on the wheeler touched his
hat, and setting spurs to his horse, to
the end that they might go in brilliant-
ly, all four broke into a smart canter,
and dashed through the streets with a
noise that brought the good folks won-
dering to their doors and windows, and
drowned the sober voices of the town-
clocks as they chimed out half past
eight. They drove up to a door round
which a crowd of persons were collect-
ed, and there stopped.
“ What ’s this? ’ said the single gen-
tleman thrusting out his head. “ Is
anything the matter here ? ”
“ A wedding, sir, a wedding ! ” cried
several voices. “ Hurrah ! ”
The single gentleman, rather bewil-
dered by finding himself the centre of
this noisy throng, alighted with the
assistance of one of the postilions, and
handed out Kit’s mother, at sight of
whom the populace cried out, “Here’s
another wedding ! ” and roared and
leaped for joy.
“ The world has gone mad, I think,”
said the single gentleman, pressing
through the concourse with his sup-
posed bride. “ Stand back here, will
you, and let me knock.”
Anything that makes a noise is satis-
factory to a crowd. A score of dirty
hands were raised directly to knock for
him, and seldom has a knocker of equal
powers been made to produce more deaf-
ening sounds than this particular engine
on the occasion in question. Having
rendered these voluntary services, the
throng modestly retired a little, prefer-
ring that the single gentleman should
bear their consequences alone.
“ Now, sir, what do you want ? ” said
a man with a large white bow at his
button-hole, opening the door, and con-
fronting him with a very stoical aspect.
“Who has been married here, my
friend? ” said the single gentleman.
“ I have.”
“You ! and to whom, in the Devil’s
name?”
“What right have you to ask?” re-
turned the bridegroom, eying him from
top to toe.
“ What right ! ” cried the single gen-
tleman, drawing the arm of Kit’s moth-
er more tightly through his own, for
that good woman evidently had it in
contemplation to run away. “ A right
you little dream of. Mind, good peo-
ple, if this fellow has been marrying a
minor, — tut, tut, that can’t be. Where
is the^child you have here, my good
fellow. You call her Nell. Where is
she ? ”
As he propounded this question,
which Kit’s mother echoed, somebody
in a room near at hand uttered a great
shriek, and a stout lady in a white dress
came running to the door, and support-
ed herself upon the bridegroom’s arm.
“ Where is she ! ” cried this lady.
“ What news have you brought me ?
What has become of her?”
The single gentleman started back,
and gazed upon the face of the late
Mrs. Jarley (that morning wedded to
the philosophic George, to the eternal
wrath and despair of Mr. Slum, the
poet), with looks of conflicting appre-
hension, disappointment, and incredu-
lity. At length he stammered out, —
“ I ask you where she is? What do
you mean ? ”
“O sir!” cried the bride, “if you
have come here to do her any good,
why were n’t you here a week ago? ”
“ She is not — not dead ? ” said the
person to whom she addressed herself,
turning very pale.
THE OLD CURIOSITY SHOP.
207
“ No, not so bad as that.”
“I thank God,” cried the single gen-
tleman, feebly. “ Let me come in.”
They drew back to admit him, and
when he had entered, closed the door.
“ You see in me, good people,” .he
said, turning to the newly married
couple, “one to whom life itself is not
dearer than the two persons whom I
seek. They would not know me. My
features are strange to them, but if they
or either of them are here, take this
good woman with you and let them see
her first, for her they both know. If
you deny them from any mistaken regard
or fear for them, judge of my intentions
by their recognition of this person as
their old humble friend.”
“ I always said it ! ” cried the bride.
“ I knew she was not a common child !
Alas, sir ! we have no power to help
you, for all that we could do has been
tried in vain.”
With that, they related to him, with-
out disguise or concealment, all that
they knew of Nell and her grandfather,
from their first meeting with them down
to the time of their sudden disappear-
ance ; adding (which was quite true)
that they had made every possible effort
to trace them, but without success;
having been at first in great alarm for
their safety, as well as on account of the
suspicions to which they themselves
might one day be exposed in conse-
quence of their abrupt departure. They
dwelt upon the old man’s imbecility of
mind, upon the uneasiness the child had
always testified when he was absent,
upon the company he had been sup-
posed to keep, and upon the increased
depression which had gradually crept
over her and changed her both in health
and spirits. Whether she had missed
the old man in the night, and, knowing
or conjecturing whither he had bent his
steps, had gone in pursuit, or whether
they had left the house together, they
had no means of determining. Certain
they considered it, that there was but
slender prospect left of hearing of them
again, and that, whether their flight
originated with the old man or with
the child, there was now no hope of
their return.
To all this the single gentleman lis-
tened with the air of a man quite borne
down by grief and disappointment. He
shed tears when they spoke of the
grandfather, and appeared in deep af-
fliction.
Not to protract this portion of our
narrative, and to make short work of a
long story, let it be briefly written that
before the interview came to a close, the
single gentleman deemed he had suffi-
cient evidence of having been told the
truth, and that he endeavored to force
upon the bride and bridegroom an ac-
knowledgment of their kindness to the
unfriended child, which, however, they
steadily declined accepting. In the end,
the happy couple jolted away in the
caravan to spend their honeymoon in a
country excursion ; and the single gen-
tleman and Kit’s mother stood ruefully
before their carriage door. •
“Where shall we drive you, sir?”
said the postboy.
“ You may drive me,” said the single
gentleman, “to the — ” He was not
going to add “ inn,” but he added it for
the sake of Kit’s mother ; and to the inn
they went.
Rumors had already got abroad that
the little girl who used to show the wax-
work was the child of great people, who
had been stolen from her parents in
infancy, and had only just been traced.
Opinion was divided whether she was
the daughter of a prince, a duke, an
earl, a viscount, or a baron, but all
agreed upon the main fact, and that the
single gentleman was her father; and
all bent forward to catch a glimpse,
though it were only of the tip of his
noble nose, as he rode away, despond-
ing, in his four-horse chaise.
What would he have given to know,
and what sorrow would have been saved
if he had only known, that at that mo-
ment both child and grandfather were
seated in the old church-porch, patiently
awaiting the schoolmaster’s return !
CHAPTER XLVIII.
Popular rumor concerning the sin-
gle gentleman and his errand, travelling
from mouth to mouth, and waxing
208
THE OLD CURIOSITY SHOP.
stronger in the marvellous as it was
bandied about, — for your popular ru-
mor, unlike the rolling stone of the
proverb, is one which gathers a deal of
moss in its wanderings up and down, —
occasioned his dismounting at the inn
door to be looked upon as an exciting
and attractive spectacle, which could
scarcely be enough admired, and drew
together a large concourse of idlers,
who having recently been, as it were,
thrown out of employment by the closing
of the wax-work and the completion of
the nuptial ceremonies, considered his
arrival as little else than a special prov-
idence, and hailed it with demonstra-
tions of the liveliest joy.
Not at all participating in the general
sensation, but wearing the depressed
and wearied look of one who sought to
meditate on his disappointment in si-
lence and privacy, the single gentleman
alighted, and handed out Kit’s mother
with a gloomy politeness which im-
pressed the lookers-on extremely. That
done, he gave her his arm and escorted
her into the house, while several active
waiters ran on before, as a skirmishing
party, to clear the way and to show the
room which was ready for their recep-
tion.
“ Any room will do,” said the single
gentleman. “ Let it be near at hand,
that’s all.”
“ Close here, sir, if you please to walk
this way.”
“ Would the gentleman like this
room?” said a voice, as a little out-of-
the-way door at the foot of the well
staircase flew briskly open and a head
popped out. “ He ’s quite welcome to
it. He ’s as welcome as flowers in May,
or coals at Christmas. Would you like
this room, sir? Honor me by walking
in. Do me the favor, pray.”
“ Goodness gracious me ! ” cried Kit’s
mother, falling back in extreme surprise,
‘‘only think of this 1 ”
She had some reason to be aston-
ished, for the person who proffered the
gracious invitation was no other than
Daniel Quilp. The little door out of
which he had thrust his head was close
to the inn larder; and there he stood,
bowing with grotesque politeness, as
much at his ease as if the door were that
of his own house, blighting all the legs
of mutton and cold roast fowls by his
close companionship, and looking like
the evil genius of the cellars, come from
underground upon some work of mis-
chief.
‘‘Would you do me the honor?” said
Quilp.
“ I prefer being alone,” replied the
single gentleman.
“ Oh ! ” said Quilp. And with that
he darted in again with one jerk and
clapped the little door to, like a figure
in a Dutch clock when the hour strikes.
“ Why, it was only last night, sir,”
whispered Kit’s mother, “ that I left
him in Little Bethel.”
“ Indeed ! ” said her fellow-passenger.
“ When did that person come here, wait-
er? ”
“ Come down by the night-coach, this
morning, sir.”
“Humph ! And when is he going?”
“Can’t say, sir, really. When the
chambermaid asked him just now if he
should want a bed, sir, he first made
faces at her, and then wanted to kiss
her.”
“ Beg him to walk this way,” said the
single gentleman. “ I should be glad
to exchange a word with him, tell him.
Beg him to come at once, do you
hear? ”
The man stared on receiving these
instructions, for the single gentleman
had not only displayed as much aston-
ishment as Kit’s mother at sight of the
dwarf, but, standing in no fear of him,
had been at less pains to conceal his
dislike and repugnance. He departed
on his errand, however, and immediately
returned, ushering in its object.
“Your servant, sir,” said the dwarf.
“ I encountered your messenger half-
way. I thought you ’d allow me to pay
my compliments to you. I hope you’re
well. I hope you ’re very well.”
There was a short pause, while the
dwarf, with half-shut eyes and puckered
face, stood waiting for an answer. Re-
ceiving none, he turned towards his
more familiar acquaintance.
“ Christopher’s mother ! ” he cried.
“ Such a dear lady, such a worthy wo-
man, so blest in her honest son 1 How
is Christopher’s mother? Have change
THE OLD CURIOSITY SHOP.
209
of air and scene improved her? Her
little family too, and Christopher? Do
they thrive? Do they flourish? Are
they growing into worthy citizens,
eh ? ”
Making his voice ascend in the scale
with every succeeding question, Mr.
Quilp finished in a shrill squeak, and
subsided into the panting look which
was customary with him, and which,
whether it were assumed or natural,
had equally the effect of banishing all
expression from his face, and rendering
it, as far as it afforded any index to
his mood or meaning, a perfect blank.
“ Mr. Quilp,” said the single gentle-
man.
The dwarf put his hand to his great
flapped ear, and counterfeited the clos-
est attention.
“We two have met before — ”
“Surely,” cried Quilp, nodding his
head, “ O, surely, sir. Such an honor
and pleasure — it’s both, Christopher’s
mother, it ’s both — is not to be forgot-
ten so soon. By no means ! ”
“You may remember that the day I
arrived in London, and found the house
to which I drove empty and deserted, I
was directed by some of the neighbors to
you, and waited upon you without stop-
ping for rest or refreshment ? ”
“ How precipitate that was, and yet
what an earnest and vigorous meas-
ure ! ” said Quilp, conferring with him-
self, in imitation of his friend Mr.
Sampson Brass.
“ I found,” said the single gentleman,
“ you, most unaccountably, in possession
of everything that had so recently be-
longed to another man, and that other
man, who up to the time of your en-
tering upon his property had been
looked upon as affluent, reduced to
sudden beggary, and driven from house
and home.”
“We had warrant for what we did, my
good sir,” rejoined Quilp ; “we had our
warrant. Don’t say driven, either. He
Went of his own accord, — vanished in the
night, sir.”
“No matter,” said the single gentle-
man, angrily. “ He was gone.”
“ Yes, he was gone,” said Quilp, with
the same exasperating composure. “No
doubt he was gone. The only ques-
14
tion was, where. And it ’s a question
still.”
“ Now, what am I to think,” said the
single gentleman, sternly regarding him,
“ of you, who, plainly indisposed to give
me any information then, — nay, obvious-
ly holding back, and sheltering your-
self with all kinds of cunning, trickery,
and evasion, — are dogging my footsteps
now ? ”
“ I dogging ! ” cried Quilp.
“Why, are you not?” returned his
questioner, fretted into a state of the
utmost irritation. “Were you not a
few hours since sixty miles off, and in
the chapel to which this good woman
goes to say her prayers?”
“She was there too, I think?” said
Quilp, still perfectly unmoved. “ I
might say, if I was inclined to be rude,
how do I know but you are dogging
my footsteps. Yes, I was at chapel.
What then? I’ve read in books that
pilgrims were used to go to chapel be-
fore they went on journeys, to put up
petitions for their safe return. Wise
men ! Journeys are very perilous, —
especially outside the coach. Wheels
come off, horses take fright, coachmen
drive too fast, coaches overturn. I al-
ways go to chapel before I start on
journeys. It ’s the last thing I do on
such occasions, indeed.”
That Quilp lied most heartily in this
speech, it needed no very great pene-
tration to discover, although, for any-
thing that he suffered to appear in his
face, voice, or manner, he might have
been clinging to the truth with the
quiet constancy of a martyr.
“ In the name of all that ’s calculated
to drive one crazy, man,” said the unfor-
tunate single gentleman, “ have you not,
for some reason of your own, taken up-
on yourself my errand? Don’t you know
with what object I have come here? and
if you do know, can you throw no light
upon it ? ”
“ You think I ’m a conjurer, sir,” re-
plied Quilp, shrugging up his shoulders.
“ If I was, I should tell my own fortune
— and make it.”
“ Ah ! we have said all we need say, I
see,” returned the other, throwing him-
self impatiently upon a sofa. “ Pray
leave us, if you please.”
210
THE OLD CURIOSITY SHOP.
“ Willingly,” returned Quilp. “ Most
willingly. Christopher’s mother, my
good soul, farewell. A pleasant jour-
ney — back , sir. Ahem ! ”
With these parting words, and with
a grin upon his features altogether in-
describable, but which seemed to be
compounded of every monstrous gri-
mace of which men or monkeys are
capable, the dwarf slowly retreated and
closed the door behind him.
“Oho!” he said, when he had re-
gained his own room, and sat himself
down in a chair with his arms akimbo.
“Oho! Are you there, my friend?
In-deed ! ”
Chuckling as though in very great
glee, and recompensing himself for the
restraint he had lately put upon his
countenance by twisting it into all
imaginable varieties of ugliness, Mr.
Quilp, rocking himself to and fro in his
chair, and nursing his left leg at the
same time, fell into certain meditations,
of which it may be necessary to relate
the substance.
First, he reviewed the circumstances
which had led to his repairing to that
spot, which were briefly these. Drop-
ping in at Mr. Sampson Brass’s office
on the previous evening, in the absence
of that gentleman and his learned sis-
ter, he had lighted upon Mr. Swiveller,
who chanced at the moment to be
sprjnkling a glass of warm gin and
water on the dust of the law, and to be
moistening his clay, as the phrase goes,
rather copiously. But as clay in the
abstract, when too much moistened,
becomes of a weak and uncertain con-
sistency, breaking down in unexpected
{ daces, retaining impressions but faint-
y, and preserving no strength or stead-
iness of character, so Mr. Swiveller’ s
clay, having imbibed a considerable
quantity of moisture, was in a very
loose and slippery state, insomuch that
the various ideas impressed upon it
were fast losing their distinctive char-
acter, and running into each other. It
•is not uncommon for human clay in this
condition to value itself, above all things,
upon its great prudence and sagacity ;
and Mr. Swiveller, especially prizing
himself upon these qualities, took oc-
casion to remark that he had made
strange discoveries, in connection with
the single gentleman who lodged above,
which he had determined to keep within
his own bosom, and which neither tor-
tures nor cajolery should ever induce
him to reveal. Of this determination
Mr. Quilp expressed his high approval,
and, setting himself in the same breath
to goad Mr. Swiveller on to further
hints, soon made out that the single
gentleman had been seen in communi-
cation with Kit, and that this was the
secret which was never to be disclosed.
Possessed of this piece of informa-
tion, Mr. Quilp directly supposed that
the single gentleman above stairs must
be the same individual who had waited
on him, and, having assured himself by
further inquiries that this surmise was
correct, had no difficulty in arriving at
the conclusion that the intent and ob-
ject of his correspondence with Kit was
the recovery of his old client and the
child. Burning with curiosity to know
what proceedings were afoot, he re-
solved to pounce upon Kit’s mother as
the person least able to resist his arts,
and consequently the most likely to be
entrapped into such revelations as he
sought ; so, taking an abrupt leave of
Mr. Swiveller, he hurried to her house.
The good woman being from home, he
made inquiries of a neighbor, as Kit
himself did soon afterwards, and being
directed to the chapel, betook himself
there, in order to waylay her, at the
conclusion of the service.
He had not sat in the chapel more
than a quarter of an hour, and, with his
eyes piously fixed upon the ceiling, was
chuckling inwardly over the joke of his
being there at all, when Kit himself ap-
peared. Watchful as a lynx, one glance
showed the dwarf that he had come on
business. Absorbed in appearance, as
we have seen, and feigning a profound
abstraction, he noted every circunl-
stance of his behavior, and when he
withdrew with his family, shot out after
him. In fine, he traced them to the
notary’s house ; learnt the destination
of the carriage from one of the postil-
ions ; and knowing that a fast night-
coach started for the same place, at the
very hour which was on the point of
striking, from a street hard by, darted
THE OLD CURIOSITY SHOP.
21t
round to the coach office without more
ado, and took his seat upon the roof.
After passing and repassing the carriage
on the road, and being passed and re-
passed by it sundry times in the course
of the night, according as their stop-
pages were longer or shorter, or their rate
of travelling varied, they reached the
town almost together. Quilp kept the
chaise in sight, mingled with the crowd,
learnt the single gentleman’s errand
and its failure, and having possessed
himself of all that it was material to
know, hurried off, reached the inn be-
fore him, had the interview just now
detailed, and shut himself up in the lit-
tle room in which he hastily reviewed
all these occurrences.
“ You are there, are you, my friend? ”
he repeated, greedily biting his nails.
“ I am suspected and thrown aside, and
Kit ’s the confidential agent, is he ? I
shall have to dispose of him, I fear. If
we had come up with them this morn-
ing,” he continued, after a thoughtful
pause, “ I was ready to prove a pretty
good claim. I could have made my
profit. But for these canting hypocrites,
the lad and his mother, I could get this
fiery gentleman as comfortable into my
net as our old friend — our mutual
friend, ha ! ha ! — and chubby, rosy
Nell. At the worst it ’s a golden op-
portunity, not to be lost. Let us find
them first, and I ’ll find means of drain-
ing you of some of your superfluous
cash, sir, while there are prison bars
and bolts and locks to keep your friend
or kinsman safely. I hate your vir-
tuous people!” said the dwarf, throwing
off a bumper of brandy, and smacking
his lips. “Ah! I hate ’em every one!”
This was not a mere empty vaunt,
but a deliberate avowal of his real senti-
ments ; for Mr. Quilp, who loved no-
body, had by little and little come to hate
everybody nearly or remotely connected
with his ruined client: — the old man
himself, because he had been able to
deceive him and elude his vigilance ;
the child, because she was the object of
Mrs. Quilp’s commiseration and con-
stant self-reproach ; the single gentle-
man, because of his unconcealed aver-
sion to himself ; Kit and his mother,
most mortally, for the reasons already
shown. Above and beyond that gen-
eral feeling of opposition to them, which
would have been inseparable from his
ravenous desire to enrich himself by
these altered circumstances, Daniel
Quilp hated them every one.
In this amiable mood, Mr. Quilp en-
livened himself and his hatreds with
more brandy, and then, changing his
quarters, withdrew to an obscure ale-
house, under cover of which seclusion
he instituted all possible inquiries that
might lead to the discovery of the old
man and his grandchild. But all was
in vain. Not the slightest trace or clew
could be obtained. They had left the
town by night ; no one had seen them
go ; no one had met them on the road ;
the driver of no coach, cart, or wagon
had seen any travellers answering their
description ; nobody had fallen in with
them or heard of them. Convinced at
last that for the present all such attempts
were hopeless, he appointed two or
three scouts, with promises of large
rewards in case of their forwarding him
any intelligence, and returned to Lon-
don by next day’s coach.
It was some gratification to Mr. Quilp
to find, as he took his place upon the
roof, that Kit’s mother was alone in-
side ; from which circumstance he de-
rived in the course of the journey much
cheerfulness of spirit, inasmuch as her
solitary condition enabled him to terri-
fy her with many extraordinary annoy-
ances ; such as hanging over the side of
the coach at the risk of his life, and
staring in with his great goggle eyes,
which seemed in hers the more horrible
from his face being upside down ; dodg-
ing her in this way from one window to
another ; getting nimbly down whenever
they changed horses, and thrusting his
head in at the window with a dismal
squint ; — which ingenious tortures had
such an effect upon Mrs. Nubbles, that
she was quite unable for the time to
resist the belief that Mr. Quilp did in
his own person represent and embody,
that Evil Power who was so vigorously
attacked at Little Bethel, and who, by
reason of her backslidings in respect of
Astley’s and oysters, was now frolick-
some* and rampant.
Kit, having been apprised by letter
212
THE OLD CURIOSITY SHOP.
of his mother’s intended return, was
waiting for her at the coach-office ; and
great was his surprise when he saw,
leering over the coachman’s shoulder
like some familiar demon, invisible to
all eyes but his, the well-known face of
Quilp.
“How are you, Christopher?”
croaked the dwarf from the coach-top.
“All right, Christopher. Mother ’s in-
side.”
“Why, how did he come here,
mother?” whispered Kit.
“ I don’t know how he came or why,
my dear,” rejoined Mrs. Nubbles, dis-
mounting with her son’s assistance,
“but he has been a terrifying of me out
of my seven senses all this blessed
day.”
“ He has? ” cried Kit.
“You wouldn’t believe it, that you
wouldn’t,” replied his mother, “but
don’t say a word to him, for I really
don’t believe he ’s human. Hush !
Don’t turn round as if I was talking
of him, but he ’s a squinting at me now
in the full blaze of the coach-lamp, quite
awful ! ”
In spite of his mother’s injunction,
Kit turned sharply round to look. Mr.
Quilp was serenely gazing at the stars,
quite absorbed in celestial contempla-
tion.
“ O, he ’s the artfullest creetur ! ”
cried Mrs. Nubbles. “But come away.
Don’t speak to him for the world.”
“Yes, I will, mother. What non-
sense. I say, sir — ”
Mr. Quilp affected to start, and looked
smilingly round.
“You let my mother alone, will
you?” said Kit. “How dare you
tease a poor lone woman like her, mak-
ing her miserable and melancholy as
if she hadn’t got enough to make her
so, without you. Ain’t you ashamed of
yourself, you little monster?”
“ Monster ! ” said Quilp, inwardly,
with a smile. “ Ugliest dwarf that
could be seen anywhere for a penny —
monster — ah ! ”
“You show her any of your impu-
dence again,” resumed Kit, shoulder-
ing the bandbox, “ and I tell you what,
Mr. Quilp, I won’t bear with you any
more. You have no right to do it.
I ’m sure we never interfered with you.
This is n’t the first time ; and if ever
you worry or frighten her again, you ’ll
oblige me (though I should be very sor-
ry to do it, on account of your size) to
beat you.”
Quilp said not a word in reply, but
walking up so close to Kit as to bring
his eyes within two or three inches of
his face, looked fixedly at him, retreat-
ed a little distance without averting
his gaze, approached again, again with-
drew, and so on for half a dozen times,
like a head in a phantasmagoria. Kit
stood his ground as if in expectation of
an immediate assault, but finding that
nothing came of these gestures, snapped
his fingers and walked away ; his moth-
er dragging him off as fast as she could,
and, even in the midst of his news of
little Jacob and the baby, looking anx-
iously over her shoulder to see if Quilp
were following.
CHAPTER XLIX.
Kit’s mother might have spared her-
self the trouble of looking back so of-
ten, for nothing was further from Mr.
Quilp’s thoughts than any intention of
pursuing her and her son, or renewing
the quarrel with which they had parted.
He went his way, whistling from time
to time some fragments of a tune ; and,
with a face quite tranquil and composed,
jogged pleasantly towards home ; enter-
taining himself as he went with visions
of the fears and terrors of Mrs. Quilp,
who, having received no intelligence of
him for three whole days and two nights,
and having had no previous notice of
his absence, was doubtless by that time
in a state of distraction, and constantly
fainting away with anxiety and grief.
This facetious probability was so con-
genial to the dwarfs humor, and so
exquisitely amusing to him, that he
laughed as he went along until the tears
ran down his cheeks ; and more than
once, when he found himself in a by-
street, vented his delight in a shrill
scream, which, greatly terrifying any
lonely passenger who happened to be
walking on before him expecting nothing
so little, increased his mirth, and made
THE OLD CURIOSITY SHOP.
213
him remarkably cheerful and light-
hearted.
Jn this happy flow of spirits Mr. Quilp
reached Tower Hill, when, gazing up
at the window of his own sitting-room,
he thought he descried more light than
is usual in a house of mourning. Draw-
ing nearer, and listening attentively, he
could hear several voices in earnest con-
versation, among which he could dis-
tinguish, not only those of his wife
and mother-in-law, but the tongues of
men.
“ Ha ! ” cried the jealous dwarf,
“ what ’s this ! Do they entertain
such visitors while I ’m away ? ”
A smothered cough from above was
the reply. He felt in his pockets for
his latch-key, but had forgotten it.
There was no resource but to knock at
the door.
“A light in the passage,” said Quilp,
peeping through the keyhole. “A
very soft knock ; and, by your leave,
my lady, I may yet steal upon you una-
wares. So-ho ! ”
A very low and gentle rap received
no answer from within. But after a
second application to the knocker, no
louder than the first, the door was softly
opened by the boy from the wharf,
whom Quilp instantly gagged with one
hand, and dragged into the street with
the other.
“You’ll throttle me, master,” whis-
pered the boy. “ Let go, will you.”
“Who’s up stairs, you dog?” re-
torted Quilp, in the same tone. “Tell
me. And don’t speak above your
breath, or I ’ll choke you in good ear-
nest.”
The boy could only point to the win-
dow, and reply with a stifled giggle,
expressive of such intense enjoyment
that Quilp clutched him by the throat
again, and might have carried his threat
into execution, or at least have made
very good progress towards that end,
but for the boy’s nimbly extricating
himself from his grasp, and fortifying
himself behind the nearest post, at
which, after some fmitless attempts to
catch him by the hair of his head, his
master was obliged to come to a parley.
“ Will you answer me?” said Quilp.
“ What ’s going on, above?”
“ You won’t let one speak,” replied
the boy. “ They — ha, ha, ha ! — they
think you ’re — you ’re dead. Ha, ha,
ha ! ”
“ Dead ! ” cried Quilp, relaxing into
a grim laugh himself. “No. Do they ?
Do they, really, you dog?”
“ They think you ’re — you ’re
drowned,” replied the boy, who in his
malicious nature had a strong infusion
of his master. “You was last seen on
the brink of the wharf, and they think
you tumbled over. Ha, ha ! ”
The prospect of playing the spy under
such delicious circumstances, and of
disappointing them all by walking in
alive, gave more delight to Quilp than
the greatest stroke of good fortune could
possibly have inspired him with. He
was no less tickled than his hopeful
assistant, and they both stood for some
seconds grinning and gasping, and
wagging their heads at each other, on
either side of the post, like an unmatch-
able pair of Chinese idols.
“ Not a word,” said Quilp, making
towards the door on tiptoe. “Not a
sound, not so much as a creaking
board, or a stumble against a cobweb.
Drowned, eh, Mrs. Quilp? Drowned ! ”
So saying, he blew out the candle,
kicked off his shoes, and groped his
way up stairs ; leaving his delighted
young friend in an ecstasy of summer-
sets on the pavement.
The bedroom door on the staircase
being unlocked, Mr. Quilp slipped in,
and planted himself behind the door of
communication between that chamber
and the sitting-room, which standing
ajar to render both more airy, and hav-
ing a very convenient chink (of which
he had often availed himself for pur-
poses of espial, and had indeed enlarged
with his pocket-knife), enabled him not
only to hear, but to see distinctly, what
was passing.
Applying his eye to this convenient
place, he descried Mr. Brass seated at
the table, with pen, ink, and paper, and
the case-bottle of rum — his own case-
bottle, and his own particular Jamaica —
convenient to his hand ; with hot water,
fragrant lemons, white lump sugar, and
all things fitting ; from which choice
materials, Sampson, by no means in-
214
THE OLD CURIOSITY SHOP.
sensible to their claims upon his atten-
tion, had compounded a mighty glass
of punch reeking hot ; which he was at
that very moment stirring up with a
teaspoon, and contemplating with looks
in which a faint assumption of senti-
mental regret struggled but weakly with
a bland and comfortable joy. At the
same table, with both her elbows upon
it, was Mrs. Jiniwin ; no longer sipping
other people’s punch feloniously with
teaspoons, but taking deep draughts
from a jorum of her own ; while her
daughter — not exactly with ashes on
her head, or sackcloth on her back, but
preserving a very decent and becoming
appearance of sorrow, nevertheless —
was reclining in an easy-chair, and
soothing her grief with a smaller allow-
ance of the same glib liquid. There
were also present a couple of water-
side men, bearing between them cer-
tain machines called drags. Even these
fellows were accommodated with a stiff
glass apiece ; and as they drank with a
great relish, and were naturally of a
red-nosed, pimpled-faced, convivial look,
their presence rather increased than de-
tracted from that decided appearance
of comfort which was the great char-
acteristic of the party.
“ If I could poison that dear old lady’s
rum and water,” murmured Quilp, “ I ’d
die happy.”
“ Ah ! ” said Mr. Brass, breaking the
silence, and raising his eyes to the
ceiling with a sigh, “ who knows but
he may be looking down upon us now !
Who knows but he may be surveying
of us from — from somewheres or an-
other, and contemplating us with a
watchful eye! O Lor!”
Here Mr. Brass stopped to drink half
his punch, and then resumed ; looking
at the other half, as he spoke, with a
dejected smile.
“ I can almost fancy,” said the law-
yer, shaking his head, “ that I see his
eye glistening down at the very bottom
of my liquor. When shall we look
upon his like again? Never, never!
One minute we are here,” — holding
his tumbler before his eyes, — “ the
next we are there,” — gulping down
its contents, and striking himself em-
phatically a little below the chest, —
“in the silent tomb. To think that I
should be drinking his very rum ! It
seems like a dream.”
With the view, no doubt, of testing
the reality of his position, Mr. Brass
pushed his tumbler as he spoke to-
wards Mrs. Jiniwin for the purpose of
being replenished ; and turned towards
the attendant mariners.
“The search has been quite unsuc-
cessful, then ? ”
“Quite, master. But I should say
that if he turns up anywhere, he ’ll
come ashore somewhere about Grinidge
to-morrow, at ebb tide. Eh, mate?”
The other gentleman assented, ob-
serving that he was ‘expected at the
Hospital, and that several pensioners
w r ould be ready to receive him when-
ever he arrived.
“ Then we have nothing for it but
resignation,” said Mr. Brass, — “noth-
ing but resignation and expectation.
It w'ould be a comfort to have his
body ; it w'ould be a dreary comfort.”
“ O, beyond a doubt,” assented Mrs.
Jiniwin, hastily ; “ if we once had that,
we should be quite sure.”
“With regard to the descriptive ad-
vertisement,” said Sampson Brass, tak-
ing up his pen. “ It is a melancholy
pleasure to recall his traits. Respect-
ing his legs, now — ?”
“ Crooked, certainly,” said Mrs. Jini-
win.
“ Do you think they were crooked? ”
said Brass, in an insinuating tone. “I
think I see them now coming up the
street very wide apart, in nankeen pan-
taloons a little shrunk and without
straps. Ah ! what a vale of tears we
live in. Do we say crooked ? ”
“ I think they were a little so,” ob-
served Mrs. Quilp, with a sob.
“ Legs crooked,” said Brass, writ-
ing as he spoke. “ Large head, short
body, legs crooked — ”
“Very crooked,” suggested Mrs.
Jiniwin.
“We’ll not say very crooked,
ma’am,” said Brass, piously. “Let
us not bear hard ^ipon the weaknesses
of the deceased. He is gone, ma’am,
to where his legs will never come in
question. We will content ourselves
w’ith crooked, Mrs. Jiniwin.”
THE OLD CURIOSITY SHOP.
215
“ I thought you wanted the truth,”
said the old lady. “That’s all.”
“Bless your eyes, how I love you,”
muttered Quilp. “ There she goes
again. Nothing but punch ! ”
** This is an occupation,” said the
lawyer, laying down his pen and emp-
tying his glass, “which seems to bring
him before my eyes like the Ghost of
Hamlet’s father, in the very clothes
that he wore on work-a-days. His
coat, his waistcoat, his shoes and stock-
ings, his trousers, his hat, his wit and
humor, his pathos and his umbrella,
— all come before me like visions of my
youth. His linen ! ” said Mr. Brass,
smiling fondly at the wall, — “ his linen
which was always of a particular color,
for such was his whim and fancy, —
how plain I see his linen now ! ”
“ You had better go on, sir,” said
Mrs. Jiniwin, impatiently.
“ True, ma’am, true,” cried Mr.
Brass. “ Our faculties must not freeze
with grief. I ’ll trouble you for a
little more of that, ma’am. A question
now arises with relation to his nose.”
“ Flat,” said Mrs. Jiniwin.
“ Aquiline ! ” cried. Quilp, thrusting
in his head, and striking the feature
with his fist, — “ aquiline, you hag.
Do you see it? Do you call this flat?
Do you? Eh?”
“ O capital, capital ! ” shouted Brass,
from the mere force of habit. “ Excel-
lent ! How very good he is ! He ’s a
most remarkable man, — so extremely
whimsical ! Such an amazing power
of taking people by surprise ! ”
Quilp paid no regard whatever to
these compliments, nor to the dubious
and frightened look into which the
lawyer gradually subsided, nor to the
shrieks of his wife and mother-in-law,
nor to the latter’s running frpm the
room, nor to the former’s fainting away.
Keeping his eye fixed on Sampson
Brass, he walked up to the table, and
beginning with his glass, drank off the
contents, and went regularly round un-
til he had emptied the other two, when
he seized the case-bottle, and, hugging
it under his arm, surveyed him with a
most extraordinary leer.
“ Not yet, Sampson,” said Quilp.
“Not just yet I ”
“ O, very good indeed ! ” cried Brass,
recovering ms spirits a little. “ Ha,
ha, ha ! O, exceedingly good ! There ’s
not another man alive who could carry
it off like that. A most difficult posi-
tion to carry off. But he has such a
flow of good-humor, — such an amazing
flow ! ”
“ Good night,” said the dwarf, nod-
ding expressively.
“ Good night, sir, good night,” cried
the lawyer, retreating backwards to-
wards the door. “ This is a joyful
occasion indeed, extremely joyful. Ha,
ha, ha ! O, very rich, very rich indeed,
re-markably so ! ”
Waiting until Mr. Brass’s ejacula-
tions died away in the distance (for he
continued to pour them out, all the way
down stairs), Quilp advanced towards
the two men, who yet lingered in a kind
of stupid amazement.
“ Have you been dragging the river
all day, gentlemen ? ” said the dwarf,
holding the door open with great polite-
ness.
“ And yesterday, too, master.”
“ Dear me, you ’ve had a deal of trou-
ble. Pray consider everything yours
that you find upon the — upon the
body. Good night.”
The men looked at each other, but
had evidently no inclination to argue
the point just then, and shuffled out of
the room. This speedy clearance ef-
fected, Quilp locked the doors ; and,
still embracing the case-bottle with
shrugged-up shoulders and folded arms,
stcfod looking at his insensible wife
like a dismounted nightmare.
CHAPTER L.
.Matrimonial differences are usually
discussed by the parties concerned in
the form of dialogue, in which the lady
bears at least her full half-share. Those
of Mr. and Mrs. Quilp, however, were
an exception to the general rule ; the
remarks which they occasioned being
limited to a long soliloquy on the part
of the gentleman, with perhaps a few
deprecatorv observations from the lady,
not extending beyond a trembling mon-
2l6
THE OLD CURIOSITY SHOP.
osyllable uttered at long intervals, and
in a very submissive and 'humble tone.
On the present occasion, Mrs. Quilp
did not for a long time venture even on
this gentle defence, but, when she had
recovered from her fainting-fit, sat in a
tearful silence, meekly listening to the
reproaches of her lord and master.
Of these Mr. Quilp delivered himself
with the utmost animation and rapidity,
and with so many distortions of limb
and feature, that even his wife, although
tolerably well accustomed to his pro-
ficiency in these respects, was wellnigh
beside herself with alarm. But the Ja-
maica rum, and the joy of having occa-
sioned a heavy disappointment, by de-
grees cooled Mr. Quilp’s wrath ; which,
from being at savage heat, dropped
slowly to the bantering or chuckling
point, at which it steadily remained.
“ So you thought I was dead and
gone, did you?” said Quilp. “You
thought you were a widow, eh? Ha,
ha, ha, you jade ! ”
“ Indeed, Quilp,” returned his wife.
“ I ’m very sorry — ”
“Who doubts it ! ” cried the dwarf.
“You very sorry! to be sure you are.
Who doubts that you ’re very sorry ! ”
“ I don’t mean sorry that you have
come home again alive and well,” said
his wife, “ but sorry that I should have
been led into such a belief. I am glad
to see you, Quilp ; indeed I am.”
In truth Mrs. Quilp did seem a great
deal more glad to behold her lord than
might have been expected, and did
evince a degree of interest in his safety
which, all things considered, was rather
unaccountable. Upon Quilp, however,
this circumstance made no impression
further than as it moved him to snap
his fingers close to his wife’s eyes, w r ith
divers grins of triumph and derision.
“ How could you go away so long,
without saying a word to me or letting
me hear of you or know anything about
you ? ” asked the poor little woman,
sobbing. “ How could you be so cruel,
Quilp ? ”
“ How could I be so cruel ! cruel ! ”
cried the dwarf. “ Because I was in
the humor. I ’m in the humor now.
I shall be cruel when I like. I ’m go-
ing away again.”
“Not again ! ”
“Yes, again. I ’m going away now.
I ’m off directly. I mean to go and
live wherever the fancy seizes me, — at
the wharf, at the counting-house, and
be a jolly bachelor. You were a wid-
ow in anticipation. Damme,” screamed
the dwarf, “ I ’ll be a bachelor in ear-
nest.”
“You can’t be serious, Quilp,” sobbed
his wife.
“ I tell you,” said the dwarf, exulting
in his project, “ that I ’ll be a bachelor,
a devil-may-carebachelor ; and I ’ll have
my bachelor’s hall at the counting-
house, and at such times come near it
if you dare. And mind too that I don’t
pounce in upon you at unseasonable
hours again, for I ’ll be a spy upon
you, and come and go like a mole or a
weasel. Tom Scott, — where’s Tom
Scott ? ”
“ Here I am, master,” cried the voice
of the boy, as Quilp threw up the win-
dow.
“Wait there, you dog,” returned the
dwarf, “to carry a bachelor’s portman-
teau. Pack it up, Mrs. Quilp. Knock
up the dear old lady to help ; knock
her up. Hallo there ! Hallo ! ”
With these exclamations, Mr. Quilp
caught up the poker, and, hurrying to
the door of the good lady’s sleeping-
closet, beat upon it therewith until she
awoke in inexpressible terror, thinking
that her amiable son-in-law surely in-
tended to murder her in justification of
the legs she had slandered. Impressed
with this idea, she was no sooner fairly
awake than she screamed violently, and
would have quickly precipitated her-
self out of the window and through a
neighboring skylight, if her daughter
had not hastened in to undeceive her,
and implore her assistance. Somewhat
reassured by her account of the service
she was required to render, Mrs. Jini-
win made her appearance in a flannel
dressing-gown ; and both mother and
daughter, trembling with terror and
cold, — for the night was now far ad-
vanced, — obeyed Mr. Quilp’s direc-
tions in submissive silence. Prolong-
ing his preparations as much as possi-
ble, for their greater comfort, that ec-
centric gentleman superintended the
THE OLD CURIOSITY SHOP.
217
packing of his wardrobe, and, having
added to it with his own hands a plate,
knife and fork, spoon, teacup and sau-
cer, and other small household matters
of that nature, strapped up the portman-
teau, took it on his shoulders, and ac-
tually marched off without another
word, and with the case-bottle (which
he had never once put down) still
tightly clasped under his arm. Con-
signing his heavier burden to the care
of Tom Scott when he reached the
street, taking a dram from the bottle
for his own encouragement, and giving
the boy a rap on the head with it as a
small taste for himself, Quilp very de-
liberately led the way to the wharf, and
reached it at between three and four
o’clock in the morning.
“Snug!” said Quilp, when he had
groped his way to the wooden counting-
house, and opened the door with a key
he carried about with him. “ Beauti-
fully snug ! Call me at eight, you dog.”
With no more formal leave-taking or
explanation, he clutched the portman-
teau, shut the door on his attendant,
and climbing on the desk, and, rolling
himself up as round as a hedgehog in
an old boat-cloak, fell fast asleep.
Being roused in the morning at the
appointed time, and roused with diffi-
culty after his late fatigues, Quilp in-
structed Tom Scott to make a fire in
the yard of sundry pieces of old timber,
and to prepare some coffee for break-
fast ; for the better furnishing of which
repast he intrusted him with certain
small moneys, to be expended in the
purchase of hot rolls, butter, sugar,
Yarmouth bloaters, and other articles
of housekeeping ; so that in a few min-
utes a savory meal was smoking on the
board. With this substantial comfort,
the dwarf regaled himself to his heart’s
content ; and being highly satisfied
with this free and gypsy mode of life
(which he had often meditated, as offer-
ing, whenever he chose to avail himself
of it, an agreeable freedom from the re-
straints of matrimony, and a choice
means of keeping Mrs. Quilp and her
mother in a state of incessant agitation
and suspense), bestirred himself to im-
prove his retreat, and render it more
commodious and comfortable.
With this view, he issued forth to a
place hard by, where sea-stores were
sold, purchased a second-hand ham-
mock, and had it slung in seaman-like
fashion from the ceiling of the counting-
house. He also caused to be erected,
in the same mouldy cabin, an old ship’s
stove with a rusty funnel to carry the
smoke through the roof, and these ar-
rangements completed, surveyed them
with ineffable delight.
“ I ’ve got a country-house like Rob-
inson Crusoe,” said the dwarf, ogling
the accommodations ; “a solitary, se-
questered, desolate-island sort of spot,
where I can be quite alone when I have
business on hand, and be secure from
all spies and listeners. Nobody near
me here but rats, and they are fine,
stealthy, secret fellows. I shall be as
merry as a grig among these gentry.
I ’ll look out for one like Christo-
pher, and poison him. Ha, ha, ha !
Business, though, — business. We must
be mindful of business in the midst of
pleasure, and the time has flown this
morning, I declare.”
Enjoining Tom Scott to await his re-
turn, and not to stand upon his head,
or throw a summerset, or so much as
walk upon his hands meanwhile, on
pain of lingering torments, the dwarf
threw himself into a boat, and crossing
to the other side of the river, and then
speeding away on foot, reached Mr.
Swiveller’s usual house of entertain-
ment in Bevis Marks just as that gen-
tleman sat down alone to dinner in its
dusky parlor.
“Dick,” said the dwarf, thrusting
his head in at the door, — “my pet,
my pupil, the apple of my eye, hey,
hey ! ”
“ O, you ’re there, are you? ” returned
Mr. Swiveller. “ How are you? ”
“How’s Dick?” retorted Quilp.
“ How ’s the cream of clerkship, eh ? ”
“ Why, rather sour, sir,” replied Mr.
Swiveller. “ Beginning to border up-
on cheesiness, in fact.”
“What’s the matter?” said the
dwarf, advancing. “ Has Sally proved
unkind. ‘ Of all the girls that are so
smart, there ’s none like — ’ eh, Dick ! ”
“ Certainly not,” replied Mr. Swivel-
ler, eating his dinner with great gravity,
218
THL OLD CURIOSITY SHOP.
“ none like her. She ’s the sphinx of
private life, is Sally B.”
“You’re out of spirits,” said Quilp,
drawing up a chair. “ What ’s the mat-
ter?”
“The law don’t agree with me,” re-
turned Dick. “It isn’t moist enough,
and there’s too much confinement. I
have been thinking of running away.”
“ Bah ! ” said the dwarf. “ Where
would you run to, Dick ? ”
“I don’t know,” returned Mr. Swiv-
eller. “Towards Highgate, I suppose.
Perhaps the bellsmight strike up, ‘ Turn
again, Swiveller, Lord Mayor of Lon-
don.’ Whittington’s name was Dick.
I wish cats were scarcer.”
Quilp looked at his companion with
his eyes screwed up into a comical
expression of curiosity, and patiently
awaited his further explanation ; upon
which, however, Mr. Swiveller appeared
in no hurry to enter, as he ate a very
long dinner in. profound silence, finally
pushed away his plate, threw himself
back into his chair, folded his arms,
and stared ruefully at the fire, in which
some ends of cigars were smoking on
their own account, and sending up a
fragrant odor.
“ Perhaps you’d like a bit of cake,”
said Dick, at last turning to the dwarf.
“You’re quite welcome to it. You
ought to be, for it’s of your mak-
ing.”
“ What do you mean? ” said Quilp.
Mr. Swiveller replied by taking from
his pocket a small and very greasy par-
cel, slowly unfolding it, and displaying
a little slab of plum cake, extremely in-
digestible in appearance, and bordered
with a paste of white sugar an inch and
a half deep.
“What should you say this was?”
demanded Mr. Swiveller.
“ It looks like bride-cake,” replied
the dwarf, grinning.
“ And whose should you say it was? ”
inquired Mr. Swiveller, rubbing the
pastry against his nose with a dreadful
calmness. “ Whose ? ”
“ Not — ”
“Yes,” said Dick, “the same. You
need n’t mention her name. There ’s
no such name now. Her name is
Cheggs now, Sophy Cheggs. Yet loved
I as man never loved that hadn’t
wooden legs, and my heart, my heart is
breaking for the love of Sophy Cheggs.”
With this extemporary adaptation of a
popular ballad to the distressing circum-
stances of his own case, Mr. Swiveller
folded up the parcel again, beat it very
flat between the palms of his hands,
thrust it into his breast, buttoned his
coat over it, and folded his arms upon
the whole.
“ Now, I hope you ’re satisfied, sir,”
said Dick ; “and I hope Fred ’s satis-
fied. You went partners in the mis-
chief, and I hope you like it. This is
the triumph I was to have, is it ? It ’s
like the old country dance of that name,
where there are two gentlemen to one
lady, and one has her, and the other
hasn’t, but comes limping up behind to
make out the figure. But it ’s Destiny,
and mine ’s a crusher ! ”
Disguising his secret joy in Mr. Swiv-
eller’s defeat, Daniel Quilp adopted the
surest means of soothing him by ring-
ing the bell, and ordering in a supply of
rosy wine (that is to say, of its usual rep-
resentative), which he put about with
great alacrity, calling upon Mr. Swiv-
eller to pledge him in various toasts
derisive of Cheggs, and eulogistic of
the happiness of single men. Such
was their impression on Mr. Swiveller,
coupled with the reflection that no man
could oppose his destiny, that in a very
short space of time his spirits rose sur-
prisingly, and he was enabled to give
the dwarf an account of the receipt of
the cake, which, it appeared, had been
brought to Bevis Marks by the two sur-
viving Miss Wackleses in person, and
delivered at the office door with much
giggling and joyfulness. .
“ Ha ! ” said Quilp. “ It will be our
turn to giggle soon. And that reminds
me — you spoke of young Trent —
where is he?” *
Mr. Swiveller explained that his re-
spectable friend had recently accepted a
responsible situation in a locomotive
gaming-house, and was at that time ab-
sent on a professional tour among the
adventurous spirits of Great Britain.
“ That ’s unfortunate,” said the
dwarf, “ for I came, in fact, to ask you
about him. A thought has occurred
THE OLD CURIOSITY SHOP.
219
to me. Dick, your friend over the
way — ”
“ Which friend? ”
“ In the first floor.”
“Yes?”
“ Your friend in the first floor, Dick,
may know him.”
“ No he don’t,” said Mr. Swiveller,
shaking his head.
“ Don’t. No, because he has never
seen him,” rejoined Quilp ; “but if we
were to bring them together, who
knows, Dick, but Fred, properly intro-
duced, would serve his turn almost as
well as little Nell or her grandfather?
Who knows but it might make the
young fellow’s fortune, and, through
him, yours, eh?”
“ Why, the fact is, you see,” said
Mr. Swiveller, “ that they have been
brought together.”
“ Have been ! ” cried the dwarf,
looking suspiciously at his companion.
“ Through whose means? ”
“ Through mine,” said Dick, slightly
confused. “Didn’t I mention it to
you the last time you called over yon-
der ? ”
“You know you didn’t,” returned
the dwarf.
“ I believe you ’re right,” said Dick.
“No. I didn’t, I recollect. O yes, I
brought ’em together that very day. It
was Fred’s suggestion.”
“ And what came of it ? ”
“ Why, instead of my friend’s burst-
ing into tears when he knew who Fred
was, embracing him kindly, and telling
him that he was his grandfather, or his
grandmother in disguise, (which we ful-
ly expected,) he flew into a tremendous
passion ; called him all manner of
names ; said it was in a great measure
his fault that little Nell and the old
gentleman had ever been brought to
poverty ; did n’t hint at our taking any-
thing to drink ; and — and, in short,
rather turned us out of the room than
otherwise.”
“ That ’s strange,” said the dwarf,
musing.
“ So we remarked to each other at
the time,” returned Dick, coolly, “but
quite true.”
Quilp was plainly staggered by this
intelligence, over which he brooded for
some time in moody silence, often rais-
ing his eyes to Mr. Swiveller’^ face, and
sharply scanning its expression. As he
could read in it, however, no additional
information or anything to lead him to
believe he had spoken falsely, and as
Mr. Swiveller, left to his own medita-
tions, sighed deeply, and was evidently
growing maudlin on the subject of Mrs.
Cheggs, the dwarf soon broke up the
conference and took his departure, leav-
ing the bereaved one to his melancholy
ruminations.
“ Have been brought together, eh ? ”
said the dwarf, as he walked the streets
alone. “My friend has stolen a march
upon me. It led him to nothing, and
therefore is no great matter, save in
the intention. I ’m glad he has lost
his mistress. Ha, ha ! The blockhead
mustn’t leave the law at present. I ’m
sure of him where he is, whenever I
want him for my own purposes, and,
besides, he ’s a good unconscious spy
on Brass, and tells, in his cups, all that
he sees and hears. You ’re useful to
me, Dick, and cost nothing but a little
treating now and then. I am not sure
that it may not be worth while before
long to take credit with the stranger,
Dick, by discovering your designs upon
the child ; but for the present we ’ll
remain the best friends in file world,
with your good leave.”
Pursuing these thoughts, and gasp-
ing as he went along, after his own pe-
culiar fashion, Mr. Quilp once more
crossed the Thames, and shut himself
up in his Bachelor’s Hall, which, by
reason of his newly erected chimney de-
positing the smoke inside the room and
carrying none of it off, was not quite
so agreeable as more fastidious people
might have desired. Such inconven-
iences, however, instead of disgusting
the dwarf with his new abode, rather
suited his humor ; so, after dining luxu-
riously from the public-house, he lighted
his pipe, and smoked against the chim-
ney until nothing of him was visible
through the mist but a pair of red and
highly inflamed eyes, with sometimes a
dim vision of his head and face, as, in a
violent fit of coughing, he slightly stirred
the smoke and scattered the heavy
wreaths by which they were obscured.
220
THE OLD CURIOSITY SHOP,
In the midst of this atmosphere, which
must infallibly have smothered any
other man, Mr. Quilp passed the even-
ing with great cheerfulness, solacing
himself all the time with the pipe and
the case-bottle ; and occasionally enter-
taining himself with a melodious howl,
intended for a song, but bearing not the
faintest resemblance to any scrap of any
piece of music, vocal or instrumental,
ever invented by man. Thus he amused
himself until nearly midnight, when he
turned into his hammock with the ut-
most satisfaction.
The first sound that met his ears in
the morning — as he half opened his
eyes, and, finding himself so unusually
near the ceiling, entertained a drowsy
idea that he must have been transformed
into a fly or blue-bottle in the course of
the night — was that of a stifled sobbing
and weeping in the room.
Peeping cautiously over the side of
his hammock, he descried Mrs. Quilp,
to whom, after contemplating her for
some time in silence, he communicated a
violent start by suddenly yelling out, —
“ Halloa !”
“ O Quilp ! ” cried his poor little wife,
looking up. “ How you frightened
me ! ”
“ I meant to, you jade,” returned the
dwarf. “ What do you want here? I ’m
dead, ain’t I ? ”
“ O please come home, do come
home,” said Mrs. Quilp, sobbing ;
“we’ll never do so any more, Quilp,
and after all it was only a mistake that
grew out of our anxiety.”
“ Out of your anxiety,” grinned the
dwarf. “Yes, I know that, — out of
your anxiety for my death. I shall
come home when I please, I tell you.
I shall come home when I please, and
go when I please. I ’ll be a Will-o’-the-
Wisp, now here, now there, dancing
about you always, starting up when you
least expect me, and keeping you in a
constant state of restlessness and irrita-
tion. Will you begone? ”
Mrs. Quilp durst only make a ges-
ture of entreaty.
“ I tell you, no,” cried the dwarf.
“ No. If you dare to come here again,
unless you ’re sent for, I ’ll keep watch-
dogs in the yard that ’ll growl and bite.
— I ’ll have man-traps, cunningly al-
tered and improved for catching women,
— I ’ll have spring guns that shall ex-
plode when you tread upon the wires,
and blow you into little pieces. Will
you go ! ”
“ Do forgive me. Do come back,”
said his wife, earnestly.
“ No-o-o-o-o ! ” roared Quilp. “ Not
till my own good time, and then I ’ll re-
turn again as often as I choose, and be
accountable to nobody for my goings or
comings. You see the door there. Will
you go ?”
Mr. Quilp delivered this last com-
mand in such a very energetic voice,
and moreover accompanied it with such
a sudden gesture, indicative of an inten-
tion to spring out of his hammock, and,
night-capped as he was, bear his wife
home again through the public streets,
that she sped away like an arrow. Her
worthy lord stretched his neck and eyes
until she had crossed the yard, and then,
not at all sorry to have had this oppor-
tunity of carrying his point, and assert-
ing the sanctity of his castle, fell into
an immoderate fit of laughter, and laid
himself down to sleep again.
CHAPTER LI.
The bland and open-hearted propri-
etor of Bachelor’s Hall slept on amidst
the congenial accompaniments of rain,
mud, dirt, damp, fog, and rats, until
late in the day; when, summoning his
valet Tom Scott to assist him to rise,
and to prepare breakfast, he quitted his
couch, and made his toilet. This duty
performed, and his repast ended, he
again betook himself to Bevis Marks.
This visit was not intended for Mr.
Swiveller, but for his friend and em-
ployer, Mr. Sampson Brass. Both gen-
tlemen however were from home, nor
was the life and light of law. Miss Sally,
at her post either. The fact of their
joint desertion of the office was made
known to all comers by a scrap of paper
in the handwriting of Mr. Swiveller,
which was attached to the bell-handle,
and which, giving the reader no clew to
the time of day when it was first posted,
THE OLD CURIOSITY SHOP.
221
furnished him with the rather vague
and unsatisfactory information that that
gentleman would “return in an hour.”
“There’s a servant, I suppose,” said
the dwarf, knocking at the house door.
“She ’ll do.”
After a sufficiently long interval, the
door was opened, and a small voice im-
mediately accosted him with, “ O, please
will you leave a card or message ? ”
“ Eh?” said the dwarf, looking down
(it was something quite new to him)
upon the small servant.
To this the child, conducting her
conversation as upon the occasion of
her first interview with Mr. Swiveller,
again replied, “ O, please will you leave
a card or message ? ”
“ I ’ll write a note,” said the dwarf,
pushing past her into the office ; “ and
mind your master has it directly Ire
eomes home.” So Mr. Quilp climbed
up to the top of a tall stool to write the
note, and the small servant, carefully
tutored for such emergencies, looked
on, with her eyes wide open, ready, if
he so much as abstracted a wafer, to
rush into the street, and give the alarm
to the police.
As Mr. Quilp folded his note (which
was soon written, being a very short
one) he encountered the gaze of the
small servant. He looked at her, long
and earnestly.
“How are you?” said the dwarf,
moistening a wafer with horrible gri-
maces.
The small servant, perhaps frightened
by his looks, returned no audible reply ;
but it appeared from the motion of her
lips that she was inwardly repeating the
same form of expression concerning the
note or message.
“ Do they use you ill here ? Is your
mistress a Tartar ? ” said Quilp, with a
chuckle.
In reply to the last interrogation, the
small servant, with a look of infinite
cunning mingled with fear, screwed up
her mouth very tight and round, and
nodded violently.
Whether there was anything in the
peculiar slyness of her action which fas-
cinated Mr. Quilp, or anything in the
expression of her features at the mo-
ment which attracted his attention for
some other reason, or whether it mere-
ly occurred to him as a pleasant whim
to stare the small servant out of counte-
nance, certain it is, that he planted his
elbows square and firmly on the desk,
and, squeezing up his cheeks with his
hands, looked at her fixedly.
“ Where do you come from ? ” he
said after a long pause, stroking his
chin.
“ I don’t know.”
“ What ’s your name? ”
“ Nothing.”
“Nonsense! ” retorted Quilp. “What
does your mistress call you when she
wants you? ”
“A little devil,” said the child.
She added in the same breath, as if
fearful of any further questioning, “ But
please will you leave a card or mes-
sage ? ” •
These unusual answers might natu-
rally have provoked some more inqui-
ries. Quilp, however, without uttering
another word, withdrew his eyes from
the small servant, stroked his chin more
thoughtfully than before, and then, bend-
ing over the note as if to direct it
with scrupulous and hairbreadth nicety,
looked at her, covertly but very narrow-
ly, from under his bushy eyebrows.
The result of this secret survey was,
that he shaded his face with his hands,
and laughed slyly and noiselessly, until
every vein in it was swollen almost to
bursting. Pulling his hat over his brow
to conceal his mirth and its effects, he
tossed the letter to the child, and hasti-
ly withdrew.
Once in the street, moved by some
secret impulse, he laughed, and held
his sides, and laughed again, and tried
to peer through the dusty area railings
as if to catch another glimpse of the
child, until he was quite tired out. At
last, he travelled back to the Wilderness,
which was within rifle-shot of his bach-
elor retreat, and ordered tea in the
wooden summer-house that afternoon
for three persons ; an invitation to Miss
Sally Brass and her brother to partake
of that entertainment at that place
having been the object both of his jour-
ney and his note.
It was not precisely the kind of
weather in which people usually take
222
THE OLD CURIOSITY SHOP.
tea in summer-houses, far less in sum-
mer-houses in an advanced state of de-
cay, and overlooking the slimy banks of
a great river at low water. Neverthe-
less, it was in this choice retreat that
Mr. Quilp ordered a cold collation to
be prepared, and it was beneath its
cracked and leaky roof that he, in due
course of time, received Mr. Sampson
and his sister Sally.
“You ’re fond of the beauties of na-
ture,” said Quilp, with a grin. “ Is this
charming, Brass? Is it unusual, unso-
phisticated, primitive ? ”
“It’s delightful indeed, sir,” replied
the lawyer.
“Cool?” said Quilp.
“ N-not particularly so, I think, sir,”
rejoined Brass, with his teeth chattering
in his head.
“ Perhaps a little damp and agu-
ish?” said Quilp.
“ Just damp enough to be cheerful,
sir,” rejoined Brass. “Nothing more,
sir, nothing more.”
“And Sally?” said the delighted
dwarf. “Does she like it?”
“ She ’ll like it better,” returned that
strong-minded lady, “ when she has
tea ; so let us have it, and don’t both-
er.”
“ Sweet Sally ! ” cried Quilp, extend-
ing his arms as if about to embrace
her. “ Gentle, charming, overwhelm-
ing Sally ! ”
“ He ’s a very remarkable man in-
deed ! ” soliloquized Mr. Brass. “ He 's
quite a Troubadour, you know ; quite a
Troubadour ! ”
These complimentary expressions
were uttered in a somewhat absent and
distracted manner : for the unfortunate
lawyer, besides having a bad cold in
his head, had got wet in coming, and
would have willingly borne some pecu-
niary sacrifice, if he could have shifted
his present raw quarters to a warm room
and dried himself at a fire. Quilp,
however, — who, beyond the gratifica-
tion of his demon whims, owed Samp-
son some acknowledgment of the part
he had played in the mourning scene of
which he had been a hidden witness, —
marked these symptoms of uneasiness
with a delight past all expression, and
derived from them a secret joy which
the costliest banquet could never have
afforded him.
It is worthy of remark, too, as illus-
trating a little feature in the character
of Miss Sally Brass, that, although on
her own account she would have borne
the discomforts of the Wilderness with
a very ill grace, and would probably,
indeed, have walked off before the tea
appeared, she no sooner beheld the
latent uneasiness and misery of her
brother than she developed a grim sat-
isfaction, and began to enjoy herself
after her own manner. Though the
wet came stealing through the roof and
trickling down upon their heads, Miss
Brass uttered no complaint, but pre-
sided over the tea equipage with im-
perturbable composure. While Mr.
Quilp, in his uproarious hospital^,
seated himself upon an empty beer-bar-
rel, vaunted the place as the most beau-
tiful and comfortable in the three king-
doms, and, elevating his glass, drank to
their next merry-meeting in that jovial
spot; and Mr. Brass, with the rain plash-
ing down into his teacup, made a dis-
mal attempt to pluck up his spirits and
appear at his ease ; and Tom Scott,
who was in waiting at the door under an
old umbrella, exulted in his agonies,
and bade fair to split his sides with
laughing; while all this was passing.
Miss Sally Brass, unmindful of the wet
which dripped down upon her own fem-
inine person and fair apparel, sat pla-
cidly behind the tea-board, erect and
grizzly, contemplating the unhappiness
of her brother with a mind at ease, and
content, in her amiable disregard of
self, to sit there all night, witnessing the
torments which his avaricious and grov-
elling nature compelled him to endure
and forbade him to resent. And this,
it must be observed, or the illustration
would be incomplete, although in a bus-
iness point of view she had the strong-
est sympathy with Mr. Sampson, and
would have been beyond measure in-
dignant if he had thwarted their client
in any one respect.
In the height of his boisterous merri-
ment, Mr. Quilp, having on some pre-
tence dismissed his attendant sprite for
the moment, resumed his usual manner
all at once, dismounted from his cask,
THE OLD CURIOSITY SHOP.
223
and laid his hand upon the lawyer’s
sleeve.
“•A word,” said the dwarf, “before
we go further. Sally, hark ’ee for a
minute.”
Miss Sally drew closer, as if accus-
tomed to business conferences with their
host which were the better for not hav-
ing air.
“ Business,” said the dwarf, glancing
from brother to sister. “Very private
business. Lay your heads together
when you ’re by yourselves.”
“ Certainly, sir,” returned Brass,
taking out his pocket-book and pen-
cil. “ I ’ll take down the heads if you
please, sir. Remarkable documents,”
added the lawyer, raising his eyes to the
ceiling, “most remarkable documents.
He states his points so clearly that it ’s
a treat to have ’em ! I don’t know any
act of Parliament that ’s equal to him
in clearness. ”
“ I shall deprive you of a treat,” said
Quilp. “ Put up your book. We don’t
want any documents. So. There ’s a
lad named Kit — ”
Miss Sally nodded, implying that she
knew of him.
“ Kit !” said Mr. Sampson, — “ Kit !
Ha ! I ’ve heard the name before, but
I don’t exactly call to mind — I don’t
exactly — ”
“ You ’re as slow as a tortoise, and
more thick-headed than a rhinoceros,”
returned his obliging client, with an im- •
patient gesture.
“ He ’s extremely pleasant ! ” cried
the obsequious Sampson. “His ac-
quaintance with Natural History too is
surprising. Quite a Buffoon, quite ! ”
There is no doubt that Mr. Brass in-
tended some compliment or other ; and
it has been argued with show of reason
that he would have said Buffon, but
made use of a superfluous vowel. Be
this as it may, Quilp gave him no time
for correction, as he performed that
office himself by more than tapping him
on the head with the handle of his um-
brella.
“Don’t let’s have any wrangling,”
said Miss Sally, staying his hand.
“ I ’ve showed you that I know him,
and that ’s enough.”
“ She ’s always foremost ! ” said the
dwarf, patting her on the back and look-
ing contemptuously at Sampson. “ I
don’t like Kit, Sally.”
“ Nor I,” rejoined Miss Brass.
“ Nor I,” said Sampson.
“ Why, that ’s. right ! ” cried Quilp.
“ Half our work is done already. This
Kit is one of yonr honest people ; onp
of your fair characters ; a prowling,
prying hound ; a hypocrite ; a double-
faced, white-livered, sneaking spy ; a
crouching cur to those that feed and
coax him, and a barking, yelping dog to
all besides.”
“Fearfully eloquent!” cried Brass,
with a sneeze. “ Quite appalling ! ”
“ Come to the point,” said Miss Sally,
“ and don’t talk so much.”
“Right again!” exclaimed Quilp,
with another contemptuous look at
Sampson; “always foremost! I say,
Sally, he is a yelping, insolent dog to
all besides, and most of all to me. In
short, I owe him a grudge.”
“That’s enough, sir,” said Samp-
son.
“ No, it ’s not enough, sir,” sneered
Quilp; “will you hear me out? Be-
sides that I owe him a grudge on that
account, he thwarts me at this minute,
and stands between . me and an end
which might otherwise prove a gol-
den one to us all. Apart from that, I
repeat, that he crosses my humor, and
I hate him. Now, you know the lad,
and can guess the rest. Devise your
own means of putting him out of my
way, and execute them. Shall it be
done ? ”
“ It shall, sir,” said Sampson.
“ Then give me your hand,” retorted
Quilp. “ Sally, girl, yours. I rely as
much, or more, on you than him. Tom
Scott comes back. Lantern, pipes,
more grog, and a jolly night of it ! ”
No other word was spoken, no other
look exchanged, which had the slightest
reference to this, the real occasion of
their meeting. The trio were well ac-
customed to act together, and were
linked to each other by ties of mutual
interest and advantage, and nothing
more was needed. Resuming his bois-
terous manner with the same ease with
which he had thrown it off, Quilp was
in an instant the same uproarious, reck-
224
THE OLD CURIOSITY SHOP.
less little savage he had been a few
seconds before. It was ten o’clock at
night before the amiable Sally supported
her beloved and loving brother from the
Wilderness, by which time he needed
the utmost support her tender frame
could render ; his walk being for some
unknown reason anything but steady,
mid his legS'Constantly doubling up, in
unexpected places.
Overpowered, notwithstanding his
late prolonged slumbers, by the fatigues
cf the last few days, the dwarf lost no
time in creeping to his dainty house,
and was soon dreaming in his ham-.
5nock. Leaving him to visions, in
which perhaps the quiet figures we
quitted in the old church-porch were
not without their share, be it our task
to rejoin them as they sat and watched.
CHAPTER LII.
After a long time, the schoolmaster
appeared at the wicket-gate of the
churchyard, and hurried towards them,
jingling in his hand, ns he came along,
a bundle of rusty keys. He was quite
breathless with pleasure and haste
when he reached the porch, and at first
could only point towards the old build-
ing which the child had been contem-
plating so earnestly.
“You see those two old houses,” he
said at last.
“ Yes, surely,” replied Nell. “ I
have been looking at them nearly all
the time you have been away.”
“ And you would have looked at
them more curiously yet, if you could
have guessed what I have to tell you,”
said her friend. “ One of those houses
is mine.”
Without saying any more, or giving
the child time to reply, the schoolmas-
ter took her hand, and, his honest face
quite radiant with exultation, led her
to the place of which he spoke.
They stopped before its low arched
door. Afte trying several of the keys
in vain, the schoolmaster found one to
fit the huge lock, which turned back,
creaking, and admitted them into the
house.
The room into which they entered
was a vaulted chamber once nobly or-
namented by cunning architects, and
still retaining, in its beautiful groined
roof and rich stone tracery, choice rem-
nants of its ancient splendor. Foliage
carved in the stone, and emulating the
mastery of Nature’s hand, yet remained
to tell how many times the leaves out-
side had come and gone while it lived
on unchanged. The broken figures
supporting the burden of the chimney-
piece, though mutilated, were still dis-
tinguishable for what they had been, —
far different from the dust without, —
and showed sadly by the empty hearth,
like creatures who had outlived their
kind, and mourned their own too slow
decay.
In some old time — for even change
was old in that old place — a wooden
partition had been constructed in one
part of the chamber to form a sleeping-
closet, into which the light was admitted
at the same period by a rude window,
or rather niche, cut in the solid wall.
This screen, together with two seats in
the broad chimney, had at some for-
gotten date been part of the church or
convent ; for the oak, hastily appro-
priated to its present purpose, had been
little altered from its former shape, and
presented to the eye a pile of fragments
of rich carving from old monkish stalls.
An open door, leading to a small room
or cell, dim with the light that came
through leaves of ivy, completed the
interior of this portion of the ruin. It
was not quite destitute of furniture. A
few strange chairs, whose arms and legs
looked as though they had dwindled
away with age ; a table, the very spectre
of its race ; a great old chest that had
once held records in the church, with
other quaintly fashioned domestic ne-
cessaries, and store of fire-wood for the
winter, were scattered around, and gave
evident tokens of its occupation as a
dwelling-place at no very distant time.
The child looked around her, with
that solemn feeling with which we con-
template the work of ages that have be-
come but drops of water in the great
ocean of eternity. The old man had
followed them, but they were all three
hushed for a space, and d>^w their
THE OLD CURIOSITY SHOP.
225
breath softly, as if they feared to break
the silence even by so slight a sound.
“ It is a very beautiful place ! ” said
the child, in a low voice.
“ I almost feared you thought other-
wise,” returned the schoolmaster. “You
shivered when we first came in, as if
you felt it cold or gloomy.”
“ It was not that,” said Nell, glan-
cing round with a slight shudder. “ In-
deed I cannot tell you what it was, but
when I saw the outside, from the church-
porch, the same feeling came over me.
It is its being so old and gray, per-
haps.”
“ A peaceful place to live in, don’t
you think so?” said her friend.
“ O yes,” rejoined the child, clasp-
ing her hands earnestly. “ A quiet,
happy place, — a place to live and learn
to die in ! ” She would have said more,
but that the energy of her thoughts
caused her voice to falter, and come in
trembling whispers from her lips.
“A place to live, and learn to live,
and gather health of mind and body
in,” said the schoolmaster; “for this
old house is yours.”
“ Ours ! ” cried the child.
“ Ay,” returned the schoolmaster gay-
ly, “for many a merry year to come,
I hope. I shall be a close neighbor, —
only next door, — but this house is
yours.”
Having now disburdened himself of
his great surprise, the schoolmaster sat
down, and, drawing Nell to his side,
told her how he had learnt that that an-
cient tenement had been occupied for a
very long time by an old person, nearly
a hundred years of age, who kept the
keys of the church, opened and closed
it for the services, and showed it to
strangers ; how she had died not many
weeks ago, and nobody had yet been
found to fill the office ; how, learning all
this in an interview with the sexton,
who. was confined to his bed by rheu-
matism, he had been bold to make
mention of his fellow-traveller, which
had been so favorably received by that
high authority, that he had taken cour-
age, acting on his advice, to propound
the matter to the clergyman. In a word,
the result of his exertions was, that
Nell and her grandfather were to be
i5
carried before the last-named gentle-
man next day ; and, his approval of
their conduct and appearance reserved
as a matter of form, that they were al-
ready appointed to the vacant post.
“ There ’s a small allowance of mon-
ey,” said the schoolmaster. “ It is not
much, but still enough to live upon in
this retired spot. By clubbing our
funds together, we shall do bravely ; no
fear of that.”
“ Heaven bless and prosper you ! ”
sobbed the child.
“ Amen, my dear,” returned her
friend, cheerfully ; “ and all of us, as it
will, and has, in leading us through sor-
row and trouble to this tranquil life.
But we must look at my house now.
Come ! ”
They repaired to the other tenement ;
tried the rusty keys as before, at
length found the right one, and opened
the worm-eaten door. It led into a
chamber, vaulted and old, like that
from which they had come, but not so
spacious, and having only one other
little room attached. It was not diffi-
cult to divine that the other house was
of right the schoolmaster’s, and that he
had chosen for himself the least com-
modious, in his care and regard for
them. Like the adjoining habitation,
it held such old articles of furniture as
were absolutely necessary, and had its
stack of fire-wood.
To make these dwellings as habita-
ble and full of comfort as they could
was now their pleasant care. In a short
time, each had its cheerful fire glowing
and crackling on the hearth, and red-
dening the pale old walls with a hale
and healthy blush. Nell, busily ply-
ing her needle, repaired the tattered
windaw-hangings, drew together the
rents that time had worn in the thread-
bare Scraps of carpet, and made them
whole, and decent. The schoolmaster
sweprand smoothed the ground before
the door; trimmed the long grass,
trained ‘the ivy and creeping plants,
which hung their drooping heads in
melancholy ndglect ; and gave to the
outer walls a cheery air of home. The
old man,' sometimes 1 by his side and
sometimes with the child, lent his aid
to both, went ; here and there on lit-
226
THE OLD CURIOSITY SHOP.
tie patient services, and was happy.
Neighbors too, as they came from
work, proffered their help, or sent their
children with such small presents or
loans as the strangers needed most.
It was a busy day; and night came on,
and found them wondering that there
was yet so much to do, and that it
should be dark so soon.
They took their supper together, in
the house which may be henceforth
called the child’s ; and, when they had
finished their meal, drew round the
fire, and almost in w'hispers — their
hearts were too quiet and glad for loud
expression — discussed their future
plans. Before they separated, the
schoolmaster read some prayers aloud ;
and then, full of gratitude and happi-
ness, they parted for the night.
At that silent hour, when her grand-
father was sleeping peacefully in his
bed, and every sound was hushed, the
child lingered before the dying embers,
and thought of her past fortunes as if
they had been a dream and she only
now awoke. The glare of the sinking
flame, reflected in the oaken panels
whose carved tops were dimly seen in
the gloom of the dusky roof, — the aged
walls, w'here strange shadow's came and
went with every flickering of the fire, —
the solemn presence, within, of that de-
cay which falls on senseless things the
most enduring in their nature ; and,
without, and round about on every
side, of Death, — filled her with deep
and thoughtful feelings, but w’ith none
of terror or alarm. A change had been
gradually stealing over her, in the time
of her loneliness and sorrow. With
failing strength and heightening resolu-
tion, there had sprung up a purified
and altered mind ; there had growm in
her bosom blessed thoughts and hopes,
which are the portion of few but the
weak and drooping. There were none
to see the frail, perishable figure, as it
glided from the fire and leaned pen-
sively at the open casement ; none but
the stars, to look into the upturned face
and read its history. The old church-
bell rang out the hour with a pnournful
sound, as if it had grown sad from so
much communing w'ith the dead and
upheeded warning to the living ; the
fallen leaves rustled ; the grass stirred
upon the graves ; all else was still and
sleeping.
Same of those dreamless sleepers lay
close within the shadow' of the church,
touching the wall, as if they clung to
it for comfort aud protection. Others
had chosen to lie beneath the changing
shade of trees; others, by the path,
that footsteps might come near them ;
others, among the graves of little chil-
dren. Some had desired to rest be-
neath the very ground they had trodden
in their daily walks ; some, w'here the
setting sun might shine upon their
beds ; some, where its light would fall
upon them when it rose. Perhaps not
one of the unprisoned souls had been
able quite to separate itself in living
thought from its old companion. If
any had, it had still felt for it a love
like that which captives have been
know-n to bear towards the cell in w'hich
they have been long confined, and, even
at parting, hung upon its narrow bounds
affectionately.
It was long before the child closed
the window, and approached her bed.
Again something of the same sensation
as before, — an involuntary chill, a
momentary feeling akin to fear, — but
vanishing directly, and leaving no alarm
behind. Again, too, dreams of the little
scholar ; of the roof opening, and a col-
umn of bright faces, rising far aw'ay
into the sky, as she had seen in some
old Scriptural picture once, and looking
down on her, asleep. It was a sweet
and happy dream. The quiet spot
outside seemed to remain the same,
save that there was music in the air,
and a sound of angels’ wings. After a
time the sisters came there, hand-in-
hand, and stood among the graves.
And then the dream grew dim and
faded.
With the brightness and joy of morn-
ing came the renewal of yesterday’s
labors, the revival of its pleasant
thoughts, the restoration of its energies,
cheerfulness, and hope. They worked
gayly in ordering and arranging their
houses until noon, and then went to
visit the clergyman.
He was a simple-hearted old gentle-
man, pf a shrinking, subdued spirit,
THE OLD CURIOSITY SHOP.
227
accustomed to retirement, and very lit-
tle acquainted with the world, which he
had left many years before to come and
settle in that place. His wife had died
in the house in which he still lived, and
he had long since lost sight of any
earthly cares or hopes beyond it.
He received them very kindly, and at
once showed an interest in Nell ; ask-
ing her name and age, her birthplace,
the circumstances which had led her
there, and so forth. The schoolmaster
had already told her story. They had
no other friends or home to leave, he
said, and had come to share his for-
tunes. He loved the child as though
she were his own.
“ Well, well,” said the clergyman.
“ Let it be as you desire. She is very
young.”
“ Old in adversity and trial, sir,” re-
plied the schoolmaster.
“God help her! Let her rest, and
forget them,” said the old gentleman.
“ But an old church is a dull and
gloomy place for one so young as you,
my child.”
“ O no, sir,” returned Nell. “I have
no such thoughts, indeed.”
“ I would rather see her dancing on
the green at nights,” said the old gen-
tleman, laying his hand upon her head,
and smiling sadly, “than have her sit-
ting in the shadow of our mouldering
arches. You must look to this, and see
that her heart does not grow heavy
among these solemn ruins. Your re-
quest is granted, friend.”
After more kind words, they with-
drew, and repaired to the child’s house ;
where they were yet in conversation
on their happy fortune, when another
friend appeared.
This was a little old gentleman, who
lived in the parsonage house, and had
resided there (so they learnt soon af-
terwards) ever since "the death of the
clergyman’s wife, which had happened
fifteen years before. He had been his
college friend and always his close com-
panion ; in the first shock of his grief
he had come to console and comfort
him ; and from that time they had never
parted company. The little old gentle-
man was the active spirit of the place,
the adjuster of all differences, the pro-
moter of all merry-makings, the dis-
penser of his friend’s bounty, and of
no small charity of his own besides :
the universal mediator, comforter, and
friend. None of the simple villagers
had cared to ask his name, or, when
they knew it,«to store it in their mem-
ory. Perhaps from some vague rumor
of his college honors which had been
whispered abroad on his first arrival,
perhaps because he was an unmarried,
unencumbered gentleman, he had been
called the bachelor. The name pleased
him, or suited him as well as any other,
and the bachelor he had ever since re-
mained. And the bachelor it was, it
may be added, who with his own hands
had laid in the stock of fuel which the
wanderers had found in their new habi-
tations.
The bachelor, then, — to call him by
his usual appellation, — lifted the latch,
showed his little round mild face for a
moment at the door, and stepped into
the room like one who was no stranger
to it.
“ You are Mr. Marton, the new
schoolmaster? ” he said, greeting Nell’s
kind friend.
“ I am, sir.”
“You come well recommended, and
I am glad to see you. I should have
been in the way yesterday, expecting
you, but I rode across the country to
carry a message from a sick mother to
her daughter in service some miles off,
and have but just now returned. This
is our young church-keeper? You are
not the less welcome, friend, for her
sake, or for this old man’s ; nor the
worse teacher for having learnt human-
ity.”
“ She has been ill, sir, very lately,”
said the schoolmaster, in answer to the
look with which their visitor regarded
Nell when he had kissed her cheek.
“Yes, yes. I know she has,” he re-
joined. “There have been suffering
and heartache here.”
“Indeed there have, sir.”
The little old gentleman glanced at
the grandfather, and back again at the
child, whose hand he took tenderly in
his, and held.
“ You will be happier here,” he said ;
“ we will try, at least, to make you so.
228
THE OLD CURIOSITY SHOP.
You have made great improvements here
already. Are they the work of your
hands ? ”
“ Yes, sir.”
“We may make some others, not
better in themselves, but with better
means, perhaps,” said *the bachelor.
“Let us see now, let us see.”
Nell accompanied him into the other
little rooms, and over both the houses,
in which he found various small com-
forts wanting, which he engaged to sup-
ply from a certain collection of odds
and ends he had at home, and which
must have been a very miscellaneous
and extensive one, as it comprehended
the most opposite articles imaginable.
They all came, however, and came
without loss of time ; for the little old
gentleman, disappearing for some five
or ten minutes, presently returned, laden
with old shelves, rugs, blankets, and
other household gear, and followed by
a boy bearing a similar load. These,
being cast on the floor in a pro-
miscuous heap, yielded a quantity of
occupation in arranging, erecting, and
putting away ; the superintendence of
which task evidently afforded the old
gentleman extreme delight, and en-
gaged him for some time with great
briskness and activity. When nothing
more was left to be done, he charged
the boy to run off and bring his school-
mates to be marshalled before their new
master, and solemnly reviewed.
“As good a set of fellow's, Marton,
as you ’d wish to see,” he said, turning
to "the schoolmaster when the boy was
gone; “but I don’t let ’em know I
think so. That wouldn’t do at all.”
The messenger soon returned at the
head of a long row of urchins, great and
small, who, being confronted by the
bachelor at the house door, fell into va-
rious convulsions of politeness, clutch-
ing their hats and caps, squeezing them
into the smallest possible dimensions,
and making all manner of bows and
scrapes, which the little old gentleman
contemplated with excessive satisfac-
tion, and expressed his approval of by a
reat many nods and smiles. Indeed,
is approbation of the boys was by no
means so scrupulously disguised as he
had led the schoolmaster to suppose,
inasmuch as it broke out in sundry loud
whispers and confidential remarks which
were perfectly audible to them every
one.
“This first boy, schoolmaster,” said
the bachelor, “is John Owen ; a lad of
good parts, sir, and frank, honest tem-
per ; but too thoughtless, too playful,
too light-headed by far. That boy, my
good sir, would break his neck with
pleasure, and deprive his parents of
their chief comfort ; and between our-
selves when you come to see him at
hare and hounds, taking the fence and
ditch by the finger-post, and sliding
down the face of the little quarry, you ’ll
never forget it. It ’s beautiful ! ”
John Owen having been thus re-
buked, and being in perfect possession
of the speech aside, the bachelor singled
out another boy.
“Now, look at that lad, sir,” said
the bachelor. “You see that fellow?
Richard Evans his name is, sir. An
amazing boy to learn, blessed with a
good memory, and a ready understand-
ing, and moreover with a good voice
and ear for psalm-singing, in which he
is the best among us. Yet, sir, that
boy will come to a bad end ; he ’ll never
die in his bed ; he ’s always falling
asleep in church in sermon-time ; and
to tell you the truth, Mr. Marton, I
always did the same at his age, and feel
quite certain that it was natural to my
constitution, and I couldn’t help it.”
This hopeful pupil edified by the
above terrible reproval, the bachelor
turned to another.
“ But if we talk of examples to be
shunned,” said he, “ if we come to boys
that should be a warning and a beacon
to all their fellows, here ’s the one, and
I hope you won’t spare him. This is
the lad, sir ; this one with the blue eyes
and light hair. This is a swimmer,
sir, this fellow, — a diver, Lord save us !
This is a boy, sir, who had a fancy for
plunging into eighteen feet of water,
with his clothes on, and bringing up a
blind man’s dog, who was being drowned
by the weight of his chain and collar,
while his master stood wringing his
hands upon the bank, bewailing the loss
of his guide and friend. I sent the bov
two guineas anonymously, sir,” added
THE OLD CURIOSITY SHOP.
229
the bachelor, in his peculiar whisper,
“ directly I heard of it ; but never men-
tion it on any account, for he hasn’t the
least idea that it came from me.”
Having disposed of this culprit, the
bachelor turned to another, and from
him to another, and so on through the
whole array, laying, for their wholesome
restriction within due bounds, the same
cutting emphasis on such of their pro-
pensities as were dearest to his heart,
and were unquestionably referable to
his own precept and example. Thor-
oughly persuaded, in the end, that he
had made them miserable by his sever-
ity, he dismissed them with a small
present, and an admonition to walk
quietly home, without any leapings,
scufflings, or turnings out of the way ;
which injunction (he informed the
schoolmaster in the same audible confi-
dence) he did not think he could have
obeyed when he was a boy, had his life
depended on it.
Hailing these little tokens of the
bachelor’s disposition as so many as-
surances of his own welcome course
from that time, the schoolmaster parted
from him with a light heart and joyous
spirits, and deemed himself one of the
happiest men on earth. The windows
of the two old houses were ruddy again,
that night, with the reflection of the
cheerful fires that burnt within ; and
the bachelor and his friend, pausing to
look upon them as they returned from
their evening walk, spoke softly togeth-
er of the beautiful child, and looked
round upon the churchyard with a sigh.
CHAPTER LIII.
Nell was stirring early in the morn-
ing, and having discharged her house-
hold tasks, and put everything in order
for the good schoolmaster (though sore-
ly against his will, for he would have
spared her the pains), took down, from
its nail by the fireside, a little bundle of
keys with which the bachelor had for-
mally invested her on the previous day,
and went out alone to visit the old
church.
The sky was serene and bright, the
air clear, perfumed with the fresh scent
of newly fallen leaves, and grateful to
every sense. The neighboring stream
sparkled, and rolled onward with a
tuneful sound ; the dew glistened on
the green mounds, 'like tears shed by
Good Spirits over the dead.
Some young children sported among
the tombs, and hid from each other,
with laughing faces. They had an
infant with them, and had laid it down
asleep upon a child’s grave, in a little
bed of leaves. It was a new grave, — •
the resting-place, perhaps, of some lit-
tle creature, who, meek and patient in
its illness, had often sat and watched
them, and now seemed, to their minds,
scarcely changed.
She drew near and asked one of them,
whose grave it was. The child an-
swered that that was not its name ; it
was a garden, — his brother’s. It was
greener, he said, than all the other
gardens, and the birds loved it better,
because he had been used to feed them.
When he had done speaking, he looked
at her with a smile, and kneeling down
and nestling for a moment with his
cheek against the turf, bounded merrily
away.
She passed the church, gazing up-
ward at its old tower, went through the
wicket-gate, and so into the village.
The old sexton, leaning on a crutch,
was taking the air at his cottage door,
and gave her good morrow.
“You are better?” said the child,
stopping to speak with him.
“ Ay, surely,” returned the old man.
“ I ’m thankful to say, much better.”
“ You will be quite w'ell soon.”
“ With Heaven’s leave, and a little
patience. But come in, come in ! ”
The old man limped on before, and
warning her of the downward step,
which he achieved himself with no
small difficulty, led the way into his
little cottage.
“ It is but one room, you see. There
is another up above, but the stair has
got harder to climb o’ late years, and I
never use it. I ’m thinking of taking
to it again, next summer, though.”
The child wondered how a gray-
headed man like him — one of his
trade too — could talk of time so easily.
230
THE OLD CURIOSITY SHOP .
He saw her eyes wandering to the tools
that hung upon the wall, and smiled.
“ I warrant now,” he said, “that you
think all those are used in making
graves.”
“ Indeed, I wondered that you want-
ed so many.”
“ And well you might. I am a gar-
dener. I dig the ground, and plant
things that are to live and grow. My
works don’t all moulder away, and rot
in the earth. You see that spade in the
centre? ”
“ The very old one, — so notched and
worn? Yes.”
“ That ’s the sexton’s spade, and it ’s
a well-used one, as you see. We ’re
healthy people here, but it has done a
power of work. If it could speak now,
that spade, it would tell you of many
an unexpected job that it and I have
done together ; but I forget ’em, for
my memory ’s a poor one. That ’s
nothing new,” he added, hastily; “it
always was.”
“ There are flowers and shrubs to
speak to your other work,” said the
child.
“ O yes. And tall trees. But they
are not so separated from the sexton’s
labors as you think.”
“ No! ”
“ Not in my mind and recollection,
— such as it is,” said the old man.
“ Indeed, they often help it. For say
that I planted such a tree for such a
man. There it stands, to remind me
that he died. When I look at its broad
shadow, and remember what it was in
his time, it helps me to the age of my
other work, and I can tell you pretty
nearly when I made his grave.”
“ But it may remind you of one who
is still alive,” said the child.
“ Of twenty that are dead, in connec-
tion with that one who lives, then,”
rejoined the old man ; “ wife, husband,
parents, brothers, sisters, children,
friends, — a score at least. So it hap-
pens that the sexton’s spade gets worn
and battered. I shall need a new one
— next summer.”
The child looked quickly towards
him, thinking that he jested with his
age and infirmity : but the unconscious
sexton was quite in earnest.
“ Ah ! ” he said, after a brief silence.
“ People never learn. They never
learn. It ’s only we who turn up the
ground, where nothing grows and ev-
erything decays, who think of such
things as these, — who think of them
properly, I mean. You have been into
the church ? ”
“ I am going there now,” the child
replied.
“ There ’s an old well there,” said the
sexton, “ right underneath the belfry ; a
deep, dark, echoing well. Forty year
ago you had only to let down the bucket
till the first knot in the rope was free
of the windlass, and you heard it splash-
ing in the cold dull water. By little
and little the water fell away, so that in
ten year after that a second knot was
made, and you must unwind so much
rope, or the bucket swung tight and
empty at the end. _ In ten years’ time,
the water fell again, and a third knot
was made. In ten year more, the
well dried up ; and now, if you lower
the bucket till your arms are tired, and
let out nearly all the cord, you ’ll hear
it of a sudden, clanking and rattling on
the ground below, with a sound of
being so deep and so far down, that
your heart leaps into your mouth, and
you start away as if you were falling in.”
“ A dreadful place to come on in the
dark ! ” exclaimed the child, who had
followed the old man’s looks and words
until she seemed to stand upon its
brink.
“What is it but a grave?” said the
sexton. “What else! And which of
our old folks, knowing all this, thought,
as the spring subsided, of their own
failing strength and lessening life ? Not
one 1 ”
“ Are you very old yourself? ” asked
the child, involuntarily.
“ I shall be seventy - nine — next
summer.”
“ You still work when you are well ?”
“ Work ! To be sure. You shall
see my gardens hereabout. Look at
the window there. I made and have
kept that plot of ground entirely with
my own hands. By this time next year
I shall hardly see the sky, the boughs
will have grown so thick. I have my
winter work at night besides.”
THE OLD CURIOSITY SHOP.
231
He opened, as he spoke, a cupboard
close to where he sat, and produced
some miniature boxes, carved in a
homely manner and made of old wood.
“ Some gentlefolks who are fond of
ancient days, and what belongs to
them,” he said, “like to buy these
keepsakes from our church and ruins.
Sometimes I make them of scraps of
oak, that turn up here and there ; some-
times of bits of coffins which the vaults
have long preserved. See here ; this is
a little chest of the last kind, clasped at
the edges with fragments of brass plates
that had writing on ’em once, though it
would be hard to read it now. I
haven’t many by me at this time of
year, but these shelves will be full —
next summer.”
The child admired and praised his
work, and shortly afterwards departed ;
thinking as she went how strange it was,
that this old man, drawing from his pur-
suits, and everything around him, one
stern moral, never contemplated its
application to himself ; and, while he
dwelt upon the uncertainty of human
life, seemed both in word and deed to
deem himself immortal. But her mus-
ings did not stop here, for she was wise
enough to think that by a good and
merciful adjustment this must be hu-
man nature, and that the old sexton,
with his plans for next summer, was but
a type of all mankind.
Full of these meditations, she reached
the chuich. It was easy to find the
key belonging to the outer door, for
each was labelled on a scrap of yellow
parchment. Its very turning in the lock
awoke a hollow sound, and when she
entered with a faltering step, the echoes
that it raised in closing made her start.
If the peace of the simple village had
moved the child more strongly, because
of the dark and troubled ways that lay
beyond, and through which she had
journeyed with such failing feet, what
was the deep impression of finding her-^
self alone in that solemn building, where*
the very light, coming through sunken
windows, seemed old and gray, and the
air, redolent of earth and mould, seemed
laden with decay, purified by time of
all its grosser particles, and sighing
through arch and aisle, and clustered
pillars, like the breath of ages gone !
Here was the broken pavement, worn
so long ago by pious feet, that Time,
stealing on the pilgrims’ steps, had
trodden out their track, and left but
crumbling stones. Here were the rot-
ten beam, the sinking arch, the sapped
and mouldering wall, the lowly trench
of earth, the stately tomb on which no
epitaph remained; all — marble, stone,
iron, wood, and dust — one common
monument of ruin. The best work and
the worst, the plainest and the richest,
the stateliest and the least imposing,
both of Heaven’s work and Man’s, — all
found one common level here, and told
one common tale.
Some part of the edifice had been a
baronial chapel, and here were effigies
of warriors, stretched upon their beds
of stone with folded hands, — cross-
legged, those who had fought in the
Holy Wars, — girded with their swords,
and cased in armor as they had lived.
Some of these knights had their own
weapons, helmets, coats-of-mail, hang-
ing upon the walls hard by, and dangling
from rusty hooks. Broken and dilapi-
dated as they were, they yet retained
their ancient form and something of
their ancient aspect. Thus violent
deeds live after men upon the earth,
and traces of war and bloodshed will
survive in mournful shapes, long after
those who worked the desolation are
but atoms of earth themselves.
The child sat down, in this old, silent
place, among the stark figures on the
tombs, — they made it more quiet there,
than elsewhere, to her fancy, — and gaz-
ing round with a feeling of awe, tem-
pered with a calm delight, felt that now
she was happy and at rest. She took
a Bible from the shelf, and read ; then,
laying it down, thought of the summer
days and the bright spring-time that
would come, of the rays of sun that
would fall in aslant upon the sleeping
forms, of the leaves that would flutter
at the window, and play in glistening
shadows on the pavement, of the
songs of birds, and growth of buds and
blossoms out of doors, of the sweet
air, that would steal in, and gently wave
the tattered banners overhead. What
if the spot awakened thoughts of death !
THE OLD CURIOSITY SHOP.
' 232
Die who would, it would still remain
the same ; these sights and sounds
would still go on as happily as ever.
It would be no pain to sleep amidst
them.
She left the chapel, very slowly and
often turning back to gaze again, and
coming to a low door, which plainly led
into the tower, opened it, and climbed
the winding stair in darkness ; save
where she looked down, through narrow
loopholes, on the place she had left, or
caught a glimmering vision of the dusty
bells. At length she gained the end of
the ascent and stood upon the turret top.
O, the glory of the sudden burst of
light ; the freshness of the fields and
woods, stretching away on every side,
and meeting the bright blue sky ; the
cattle grazing in the pasturage ; the
smoke, that, coming from among the
trees, seemed to rise upward from the
green earth ; the children yet at their
gambols down below, — all, everything
so beautiful and happy ! It was like
passing from death to life ; it was draw-
ing nearer Heaven.
The children were gone when she
emerged into the porch and locked the
door. As she passed the schoolhouse,
she could hear the busy hum of voices.
Her friend had begun his labors only
that day. The noise grew louder, and,
looking back, she saw the boys come
trooping out and disperse themselves,
with merry shouts and play. “ It ’s a
good thing,” thought the child ; “I am
very glad they pass the church.” And
then she stopped, to fancy how the noise
would sound inside, and how gently it
would seem to die away upon the ear.
Again that day, yes, twice again, she
stole back to the old chapel, and in her
former seat read from the same book,
or indulged the same quiet train of
thought. Even when it had grown
dusk, and the shadows of coming night
made it more solemn still, the child re-
mained, like one rooted to the spot, and
had no fear or thought of stirring.
They found her there, at last, and
took her home. She looked pale but
very happy, until they separated for the
night ; and then, as the poor school-
master stooped down to kiss her cheek,
he thought he felt a tear upon his face.
CHAPTER LIV.
The bachelor, among his various oc-
cupations, found in the old church a
constant source of interest and amuse-
ment. Taking that pride in it which
men conceive for the wonders of their
own little world, he had made its his-
tory his study; and many a summer
day within its walls, and many a win-
ter’s night beside the parsonage fire,
had found the bachelor still poring
over, and adding to, his goodly store of
tale and legend.
As he was not one of those rough spir-
its who would strip fair Truth of every
little shadowy vestment in which time
and teeming fancies love to array her, —
and some of which become her pleas-
antly enough, serving, like the waters
of her well, to add new graces to the
charms they half conceal and half sug-
gest, and to awaken interest and pur-
suit, rather than languor and indiffer-
ence, — as, unlike this stern and obdu-
rate class, he loved to see the goddess
crowned with those garlands of wild-
flowers which tradition wreathes for
her gentle wearing, and which are often
freshest in their homeliest shapes, — he
trod with a light step, and bore with a
light hand fipon the dust of centuries,
unwilling to demolish any of the airy
shrines that had been raised above it,
if any good feeling or affection of the
human heart w'ere hiding thereabouts.
Thus, in the case of an ancient coffin of
rough stone, supposed, for many gener-
ations, to contain the bones of a certain
baron, who, after ravaging with cut,
and thrust, and plunder, in foreign
lands, came back with a ‘penitent and
sorrowing heart to die at home, but
which had been lately shown by learned
antiquaries to be no such thing, as the
baron in question (so they contended)
had died hard in battle, gnashing his
teeth and cursing with his latest breath,
— the bachelor stoutly maintained that
rfie old tale was the true one ; that the
baron, repenting him of the evil, had
done great charities and meekly given
up the ghost; and that, if ever baron
went to heaven, that baron was then at
peace. In like manner, when the afore-
said antiquaries did argue and contend
THE OLD CURIOSITY SHOP.
233
that a certain secret vault was not the
tomb of a gray-haired lady who had
been hanged and drawn and quartered
by glorious Queen Bess for succoring a
wretched priest who fainted of thirst
and hunger at her door, the bachelor
did solemnly maintain, against all com-
ers, that the church was hallowed by
the said poor lady’s ashes ; that her
remains had been collected in the night
from four of the city’s gates, and thither
in secret brought, and there deposited ;
and the bachelor did further (being
highly excited at such times) deny the
glory of Queen Bess, and assert the im-
measurably greater glory of the mean-
est woman in her realm, who had a
merciful and tender heart. As to the
assertion that the flat stone near the
door was not the grave of the miser who
had disowned his only child, and left a
sum of money to the church to buy a
peal of bells, the bachelor did readily
admit the same, and that the place had
given birth to no such man. In a word,
he would have had every stone and
plate of brass the monument only of
deeds whose memory should survive.
All others he was willing to forget.
They might be buried in consecrated
ground, but he would have had them
buried deep, and never brought to light
again.
It was from the lips of such a tutor
that the child learnt her easy task.
Already impressed, beyond all telling,
by the silent building and the peace-
ful beauty of the spot in which it
stood, — majestic age surrounded by
perpetual youth, — it seemed to her,
when she heard these things, sacred to
all goodness and virtue. It was an-
other world, where sin and sorrow nev-
er came ; a tranquil place of rest, where
nothing evil entered.
When the bachelor had given her in
connection with almost every tomb and
flat gravestone some history of its own,
he took her down into the old crypt, now
a mere dull vault, and showed her how
it had been lighted up in the time of the
monks, and how, amid lamps depending
from the roof, and swinging censers ex-
haling scented odors, and habits glitter-
ing with gold and silver, and pictures,
and precious stuffs, and jewels all
flashing and glistening through the low
arches, the chant of aged voices had
been many a time heard there, at mid-
night, in old days, while hooded figures
knelt and prayed around, and told their
rosaries of beads. Thence he took her
above ground again, and showed her,
high up in the old walls, small galler-
ies, where the nuns had been wont to
glide along — dimly seen in their dark
dresses so far off — or to pause like
gloomy shadows, listening to the prayers.
He showed her, too, how the warriors
whose figures rested on the tombs had
worn those rotting scraps of armor up
above, — how this had been a helmet,
and that a shield, and that a gaunt-
let, — and how they had wielded the
great two-handed swords, and beaten
men down with yonder iron mace.
All that he told the child she treas-
ured in her mind ; and sometimes,
when she awoke at night from dreams
of those old times, and, rising from her
bed, looked out at the dark church,
she almost hoped to see the windows
lighted up, and hear the organ’s swell,
and sound of voices, on the rushing
wind.
The old sexton soon got better and
was about again. From him the child
learnt many other things, though of a
different kind. He was not able to
work, but one day there was a grave
to be made, and he came to overlook
the man who dug it. He was in a
talkative mood; and the child, at first
standing by his side, and afterwards
sitting on the grass at his feet, with
her thoughtful face raised towards his,
began to converse with him.
Now, the man who did the sexton’s
duty was a little older than he, though
much more active. But he was deaf;
and when the sexton (who peradven-
ture, on a pinch, might have walked
a mile with great difficulty in half a
dozen hours) exchanged a remark with
him about his work, the child could
not help noticing that he did so with
an impatient kind of pity for his in-
firmity, as if he were himself the
strongest and heartiest man alive.
“ I ’m sorry to see there is this to do,’*
said the child, when she approached.
“I heard of no one having died.”
234
THE OLD CURIOSITY SHOP.
“ She lived in another hamlet, my
dear,” returned the sexton. “Three
mile away.”
“Was she young? ”
“Ye — yes,” said the sexton; “not
more than sixty-four, I think. David,
was she more than sixty-four?”
David, who was digging hard, heard
nothing of the question. The sexton,
as he could not reach to touch him
with his crutch, and was too infirm to
rise without assistance, called his at-
tention by throwing a little mould up-
on his red nightcap.
“What’s the matter now?” said
David, looking up.
“How old was Becky Morgan?”
asked the sexton.
“ Becky Morgan? ” repeated David.
“Yes,” replied the sexton ; adding in
a half-compassionate, half-irritable tone,
which the old man could n’t hear,
“you’re getting very deaf, Davy, very
deaf to be sure ! ”
The old man stopped in his work,
and cleansing his spade with a piece of
slate he had by him for the purpose, —
and scraping off, in the process, the
essence of Heaven knows how many
Becky Morgans, — set himself to con-
sider the subject.
“Let me think,” quoth he. “I saw
last night what they had put upon the
coffin, — was it seventy-nine?”
“No, no,” said the sexton.
“Ah yes, it was, though,” returned
the old man with a sigh. “For I re-
member thinking she was very near our
age. Yes, it was seventy-nine.”
“ Are you sure you did n’t mistake a
figure, Davy?” asked the sexton, with
signs of some emotion.
“What?” said the old man. “Say
that again.”
“He’s very deaf. He’s very deaf,
indeed,” cried the sexton, petulantly.
“ Are you sure you ’re right about the
figures ? ”
“ O, quite,” replied the old man.
“Why not? ”
“ He ’s exceedingly deaf,” muttered
the sexton to himself. “ I think he ’s
getting foolish.”
The child rather wondered what had
led him to this belief, as, to say the truth,
the old man seemed quite as sharp as
he, and was infinitely more robust. As
the sexton said nothing more just then,
however, she forgot it for the time, and
spoke again.
“ You were telling me,” she said,
“ about your gardening. Do you ever
plant things here ? ”
“ In the churchyard? ” returned the
sexton. “ Not I.”
“ I have seen some flowers and little
shrubs about,” the child rejoined ;
“ there are some over there, you see.
I thought they were of your rearing,
though indeed they grow but poorly.”
“ They grow as Heaven wills,” said
the old man ; “ and it kindly ordains
that they shall never flourish here.”
“ I do not understand you.”
“ Why, this it is,” said the sexton.
“ They mark the graves of those who
had very tender, loving friends.”
“I was stire they did ! ” the child
exclaimed. “ I am very glad to know
they do ! ”
“Ay,” returned the old man; “but
stay. Look at them. See how they
hang their heads, and droop, and with-
er. Do you guess the reason ? ”
“ No,” the child replied.
“ Because the memory of those who
lie below passes away so soon. At
first they tend them, morning, noon,
and night ; they soon begin to come
less frequently ; from once a day to
once a week ; from once a week to once
a month ; then at long and uncertain
intervals ; then not at all. Such tokens
seldom flourish long. I have known
the briefest summer flowers outlive
them.”
“ I grieve to hear it,” said the child.
“Ah! so say the gentlefolks who
come down here to look about them,”
returned the old man, shaking his head,
“but I say otherwise. ‘It’s a pretty
custom you have in this part of the
country,’ they say to me sometimes,
‘ to plant the graves, but it ’s melan-
choly to see these things all withering
or dead.’ I crave their pardon and tell
them that, as I take it, ’t is a good sign
for the happiness of the living. And so
it is. It ’s nature.”
“ Perhaps the mourners learn to look
to the blue sky by day, and to the stars
by night, and to think that the dead are
THE OLD CURIOSITY SHOP.
235
there, and not in graves,” said the
child in an earnest voice.
“Perhaps so,” replied the old man,
doubtfully. “ It may be.”
“ Whether it be as I believe it is, or
no,” thought the child within herself,
“ I ’ll make this place my garden. It
will be no harm at least to work here
day by day, and pleasant thoughts will
come of it, I am sure.”
Her glowing cheek and moistened eye
passed unnoticed by the sexton, who
turned towards old David, and called
him by his name. It was plain that
Becky Morgan’s age still troubled him ;
though why, the child could scarcely
understand.
The second or third repetition of his
name attracted the old man’s attention.
Pausing from his work, he leant on
his spade, and put his hand to his dull
ear.
“ Did you call ? ” he said.
“ I have been thinking, Davy,” re-
plied the sexton, “ that she,” he pointed
to the grave, “ must have been a deal
older than you or me.”
“Seventy-nine,” answered the old
man, with a shake of the head, “ I tell
you that I saw it.”
“Saw it?” replied the sexton ; “ay,
but, Davy, women don’t always tell
the truth about their age.”
“ That ’s % true, indeed,” said the other
old man, with a sudden sparkle in his
eye. “ She might have been older.”
“ I ’m sure she must have been.
Why, only think how old she looked.
You and I seemed but boys to her.”
“ She did look old,” rejoined David.
“You ’re right. She did look old.”
“ Call to mind how old she looked for
many a long, long year, and say if she
could be but seventy-nine at last, — only
our age,” said the sexton.
“ Five year older at the very least ! ”
cried the other.
“ Five ! ” retorted the sexton. “Ten.
Good eighty-nine. I call to mind the
time her daughter died. She was
eighty-nine if she was a day, and tries
to pass upon us now for ten year young-
er. O human vanity ! ”
The other old man was not behind-
hand with some moral reflections on
this fruitful theme, and both adduced a
mass of evidence, of such weight as to
render it doubtful, not whether the
deceased was of the age suggested, but
whether she had not almost reached the
patriarchal term of a hundred. When
they had settled this question to their
mutual satisfaction, the sexton, with
his friend’s assistance, rose to go.
“ It’s chilly, sitting here, and I must
be careful — till the summer,” he said,
as he prepared to limp away.
“ What ? ” asked old David.
“ He ’s very deaf, poor fellow ! ”
cried the sexton. “ Good by.”
“ Ah ! ” said old David, looking after
him. “ He ’s failing very fast. He
ages every day.”
And so they parted ; each persuaded
that the other had less life in him than
himself; and both greatly consoled and
comforted by the little fiction they had
agreed upon, respecting Becky Mor-
gan, whose decease was no longer a pre-
cedent of uncomfortable application, and
would be no business of theirs for half
a score of years to come.
The child remained, for some min-
utes, watching the deaf old man as he
threw out the earth with his shovel,
and, often stopping to cough and
fetch his breath, still muttered to him-
self, with a kind of sober chuckle, that
the sexton was wearing fast. At length
she turned away, and, walking thought-
fully through the churchyard, came un-
expectedly upon the schoolmaster, who
was sitting on a green grave in the sun,
reading.
“Nell here?” he said, cheerfully, as
he closed his book. “ It does me good
to see you in the air and light. I feared
you were again in the church, where you
so often are.”
“ Feared ! ” replied the child, sitting
down beside him. “ Is it not a good
place? ”
“Yes, yes,” said the schoolmaster.
“ But you must be gay sometimes.
Nay, don’t shake your head and smile
so sadly.”
“Not sadly, if you knew my heart.
Do not look at me as if you thought me
sorrowful. There is not a happier crea-
ture on the earth, than I am now.”
Full of grateful tenderness, the child
took his hand and folded it between
236
THE OLD CURIOSITY SHOP.
her own. “ It ’s God’s will ! ” she said,
when they had been silent for some
time.
“What?”
“ All this,” she rejoined, — “ all this
about us. But which of us is sad now ?
You see that I am smiling.”
“And so am I,” said the school-
master; “smiling to think how often
we shall laugh in this same place.
Were you not talking yonder?”
“Yes,” the child rejoined.
“Of something that has made you
sorrowful ? ”
There was a long pause.
“What was it?” said the school-
master, tenderly. “ Come. Tell me
what it was.”
“ I rather grieve, — I do rather grieve
to think,” said the child, bursting into
tears, “that those who die about us
are so soon forgotten.”
“ And do you think,” said the school-
master, marking the glance she had
thrown around, “ that an un visited grave,
a withered tree, a faded flower or two,
are tokens of forgetfulness or cold neg-
lect? * Do you think there are no
deeds, far away from here, in which
these dead may be best remembered?
Nell, Nell, there may be people busy in
the world, at this instant, in whose good
actions and good thoughts these very
graves — neglected as they look to us
— are the chief instruments.”
“Tell me no more,” said the child,
quickly. “Tell me no more. I feel,
I know it. How could / be unmindful
of it, when I thought of you? ”
“ There is nothing,” cried her friend,
“ no, nothing innocent or good, that
dies and is forgotten. Let us hold to
that faith, or none. An infant, a prat-
tling child, dying in its cradle, will live
again in the better thoughts of those
who loved it, and will play its £>art,
through them, in the redeeming actions
of the world, though its body be burnt
to ashes or drowned in the deepest sea.
There is not an angel added to the
Hosf of Heaven but does its blessed
work on earth in those that loved it
here. Forgotten ! O, if the good deeds
of human creatures could be traced to
their source, how beautiful would even
death appear ; for how much charity,
mercy, and purified affection would be
seen to have their growth in dusty
graves ! ”
“Yes,” said the child, “it is the
truth ; I know it is. Who should feel
its force so much as I, in whom your lit-
tle scholar lives again ! Dear, dear,
good friend, if you knew the comfort
you have given me ! ”
The poor schoolmaster made her no
answer, but bent over her in silence;
for his heart was full.
They were yet seated in the same
place, when the grandfather approached.
Before they had spoken many words
together, the church-clock struck the
hour of school, and their friend with-
drew.
“ A good man,” said the grandfather,
looking after him ; “ a kind man. Sure-
ly he will never harm us, Nell. We are
safe here, at last, eh? We will never
go away from here ? ”
The child shook her head and smiled.
“She needs rest,” said the old man,
patting her cheek ; “ too pale, — too
pale. She is not like what she was ? ”
“ When ? ” asked the child.
“Ha!” said the old man, “to be
sure — when ? How many weeks ago ?
Could I count them on my fingers?
Let them rest, though ; they ’re better
gone.”
“ Much better, dear,” replied the
child. “We will forget therrt ; or, if we
ever call them to mind, it shall be only
as some uneasy dream that has passed
away.”
“ Hush ! ” said the old man, motion-
ing hastily to her with his hand and
looking over his shoulder; “ no more
talk of the dream, and all the miseries
it brought. There are no dreams here.
’T is a quiet place, and they keep away.
Let us never think about them, lest
they should pursue us again. Sunken
eyes and hollow cheeks, — wet, cold,
and famine, — and horrors before them
all, that were even worse, — we must
forget such things if we would be tran-
quil here.”
“ Thank Heaven ! ” inwardly ex-
claimed the child, “ for this most happy
change ! ”
“ I will be patient,” said the old man,
“ humble, very thankful and obedient,
THE OLD CURIOSITY SHOP.
237
if you will let me stay. But do not
hide from me ; do not steal away alone ;
let me keep beside you. Indeed, I will
be very true and faithful, Nell.”
“ I steal away alone ! Why, that,”
replied the child, with assumed gayety,
“ would be a pleasant jest indeed. See
here, dear grandfather, we ’ll make this
place our garden, — why not ? It is a
very good one, — and to-morrow we ’ll
begin and work together side by side.”
“It is a brave thought ! ” cried her
grandfather. “ Mind, darling, we begin
to-morrow ! ”
Who so delighted as the old man,
when they next day began their labor !
Who so unconscious of all associations
connected with the spot, as he ! They
plucked the long grass and nettles from
the tombs, thinned the poor shrubs and
roots, made the turf smooth, and cleared
it of the leaves and weeds. They were
yet in the ardor of their work, when the
child, raising her head from the ground
over which she bent, observed that the
bachelor was sitting on the stile close
by, watching them in silence.
“ A kind office,” said the little gentle-
man, nodding to Nell as she courtesied
to him. “ Have you done all that this
morning ? ”
“ It is very little, sir,” returned the
child, with downcast eyes, “ to what we
mean to do.”
“ Good work, good work,” said the
bachelor. “ But do you only labor at
the graves of children and young peo-
ple?”
“We shall come to the others in good
time, sir,” replied Nell, turning her
head aside, and speaking softly.
It was a slight incident, and might
have been design, or accident, or the
child’s unconscious sympathy with
youth. But it seemed to strike upon
her grandfather, though he had not
noticed it before. He looked in a
hurried manner at the graves, then
anxiously at the child, then pressed her
to his side, and bade her stop to rest.
Something he had long forgotten ap-
peared to struggle faintly in his mind.
It did not pass away, as weightier things
had done ; but came uppermost again,
and yet again, and many times that day,
and often afterwards. Once, while they
were yet at work, the child, seeing that
he often turned and looked uneasily at
her, as though he were trying to resolve
some painful doubts or collect some
scattered thoughts, urged him to tell
the reason. But he said it was nothing,
— nothing, — and, laying her head upon
his arm, patted her fair cheek with his
hand, and muttered that she grew
stronger every day, and would be a wo-
man soon.
CHAPTER LV.
From that time there sprung up in
the old man’s mind a solicitude about
the child which never slept or left him.
There are chords in the human heart —
strange, varying strings — which are
only struck by accident ; which will re-
main mute and senseless to appeals the
most passionate and earnest, and re-
spond at last to the slightest casual
touch. In the most insensible or child-
ish minds, there is some train of reflec-
tion which art can seldom lead, or skill
attest, but which will reveal itself, as
great truths have done, by chance, and
when the discoverer has the plainest
and simplest end in view. From that
time the old man never for a moment
forgot the weakness and devotion of the
child ; from the time of that slight inci-
dent, lie, who had seen her toiling by hi?
side through so much difficulty and
suffering, and had scarcely thought oi
her otherwise than as the partner ol
miseries which he felt severely in his
own person, and deplored for his own
sake at least as much as hers, awoke to
a sense of what he owed her, and what
those miseries had made her. Never,
no, never once, in one unguarded mo-
ment from that time to the end, did any
care for himself, any thought of his own
comfort, any selfish consideration or
regard, distract his thoughts from the
gentle object of his love.
He would follow her up and down,
waiting till she should tire and lean
upon his arm, — he would sit opposite
to her in the chimney-corner, content to
watch and look, until she raised hei
head and smiled upon him as of old, —
he would discharge by stealth those.,
238
THE OLD CURIOSITY SHOP.
household duties which tasked her pow-
ers too heavily, — he would rise in the
cold dark nights to listen to her breath-
ing in her sleep, and sometimes crouch
for hours by her bedside only to touch
her hand. He who knows all can only
know what hopes, and fears, and
thoughts of deep affection, were in that
one disordered brain, and what a change
had fallen on the poor old man.
Sometimes — weeks had crept on,
then — the child, exhausted, though
with little fatigue, would pass whole
evenings on a couch beside the fire.
At such times the schoolmaster would
bring in books, and read to her aloud ;
and seldom an evening passed, but the
bachelor came in, and took his turn of
reading. The old man sat and listened,
— with little understanding for the
words, but with his eyes fixed upon the
child, — ahd if she smiled or brightened
with the story, he would say it was a
good one, and conceive a fondness for
the very book. When, in their evening
talk, the bachelor told some tale that
pleased her (as his tales were sure to
do), the old man would painfully try to
store it in his mind ; nay, when the
bachelor left them, he would sometimes
slip out after him, and humbly beg that
he would tell him such a part again, that
lie might learn to win a smile from
Nell.
But these were rare occasions, hap-
pily ; for the child yearned to be out of
doors, and walking in her solemn gar-
den. Parties, too, would come to see
the church ; and those who came, speak-
ing to others of the child, sent more ;
so even at that season of the year they
had visitors almost daily. The old
man would follow them at a little dis-
tance through the building, listening to
the voice he loved so well ; and when
the strangers left, and parted from Nell,
he would mingle with them to catch up
fragments of their conversation ; or he
would stand for the same purpose, with
his gray head uncovered, at the gate, as
they passed through.
They always praised the child, her
sense and beauty, and he was proud to
hear them ! But what was that, so
often added, which wrung his heart,
and made him sob and weep alone, in
some dull corner ! Alas ! even careless
strangers, — they who had no feeling for
her but the interest of the moment,
they who would go away and forget
next week that such a being, lived, —
even they saw it, even they pitied her,
even they bade him good day com-
passionately, and whispered as they
passed.
The people of the village, too, of
whom there was not one but grew to
have a fondness for poor Nell; even
among them there was the same feel-
ing, — a tenderness towards her, a com-
passionate regard for her, increasing
every day. The very school-boys, light-
hearted and thoughtless as they were,
even they cared for her. The roughest
among them w'as sorry if he missed her
in the usual place upon his way to
school, and would turn out of the path
to ask for her at the latticed window.
If she were sitting in the church, they
perhaps might peep in softly at the
open door ; but they never spoke to
her, unless she rose and went to speak
to them. Some feeling was abroad
which raised the child above them all.
So, when Sunday came. They were
all poor country people in the church,
for the castle in which the old family
had lived was an empty ruin, and there
were none but humble folks for seven
miles around.. There, as elsewhere,
they had an interest in . Nell. They
would gather round her in the porch,
before and after service ; young chil-
dren would cluster at her skirts ; and
aged men and women forsake their gos-
sips, to give her kindly greeting. None
of them, young or old, thought of pass-
ing the child without a friendly word.
Many who came from three or four
miles distant brought her little pres-
ents ; the humblest and* rudest had good
wishes to bestow.
She had sought out the youn°j chil-
dren whom she first saw playing in the
churchyard. One of these — he who
had spoken of his brother — was her
little favorite and friend, and often sat
by her side in the church, or climbed
with her to the tower-top. It was his
delight to help her, or to fancy that he
did so, and they soon became close
companions.
THE OLD CURIOSITY SHOP.
239
It happened, that, as she was reading
in the old spot by herself one day, this
child came running in with his eyes full
of tears, and after holding her from him,
and looking at her eagerly for a mo-
ment, clasped his little arms passion-
ately about her neck.
“What now?” said Nell, soothing
him. “What is the matter?”
“ She is not one yet ! ” cried the boy,
embracing her still more closely. “ No,
no. Not yet.”
She looked at him wonderingly, and
putting his hair back from his face, and
kissing him, asked what he meant.
“You must not be one, dear Nell,”
cried the boy. “We can’t see them.
They never come to play with us, or
talk to us. Be what you are. You are
better so.”
“ I do not understand you,” said
the child. “ Tell me what you mean.”
“Why, they say,” replied the boy,
looking up into her face, “that you
will be an angel before the birds sing
again. But you won’t be, will you?
Don’t leave us, Nell, though the sky is
bright. Do not leave us ! ”
The child dropped her head, and put
her hands before her face.
“ She cannot bear the thought ! ”
cried the boy, exulting through his
tears. “You will not go. You know
how sorry we should be. Dear Nell,
tell me that you ’ll stay amongst us.
Oh ! Pray, pray, tell me that you will.”
The little creature folded his hands,
and knelt down at her feet.
“ Only look at me, Nell,” said the
boy, “ and tell me that you ’ll stop,
and then I shall know that they are
wrong, and will cry no more. Won’t
you say yes, Nell ? ”
Still the drooping head dfid hidden
face, and the child quite silent — save
for her sobs.
“ After a time,” pursued the boy,
trying to draw away her hand, “ the
kind angels will be glad to think that
you are not among them, and that you
stayed here to be with us. Willy went
away to join them ; but if he had
known how I should miss him in our
little bed at night, he never would have
left me, I am sure.”
Yet the child could make him no
answer, and sobbed as though her
heart were bursting.
“ Why would you go, dear Nell? I
know you would not be happy when
you heard that we were crying for your
loss. They say that Willy is in heaven
now, and that it ’s always summer there,
and yet I ’m sure he grieves when I
lie down upon his garden bed, and he
cannot turn to kiss me. But if you do
go, Nell,” said the boy, caressing her,
and pressing his face to hers, “be fond
of him for my sake. Tell him how I
love him still, and how much I loved
you ; and when I think .that you two
are together, and are happy, I ’ll try to
bear it, and never give you pain by
doing wrong ; indeed I never will ! ”
The child suffered him to move her
hands, and put them round his neck.
There was a tearful silence, but it was
not long before she looked upon him
with a smile, and promised him in a
very gentle, quiet voice, that she would
stay and be his friend as long as Heav-
en would let her. He clapped his
hands for joy, and thanked her many
times, and, being charged to tell no
person what had passed between them,
gave her an earnest promise that he
never w^ould.
Nor did he, so far as the child could
learn, but was her quiet companion in
all her walks and musings, and never
again adverted to the theme, which he
felt had given her pain, although he
was unconscious of its cause. Some-
thing of distrust lingered about him
still ; for he would often come, even in
the dark evenings, and call in a timid
voice outside the door to know if she
were safe within ; and being answered
yes, and bade to enter, would take his
station on a low stool at her feet, and
sit there patiently until they came to
seek and take him home. Sure as the
morning came it found him lingering
near the house to ask if she were well ;
and morning, noon, or night, go where
she would, he would forsake his play-<
mates and his sports to bear her com'
pany.
“ And a good little friend he is, too,”
said the old sexton to her once. “ When
his elder brother died — elder seems a
strange word, for he was only sevei'
240
THE OLD CURIOSITY SHOP.
year old — I remember this one took it
sorely to heart.”
The child thought of what the school-
master had told her, and felt how its
truth was shadowed out even in this
infant.
“It has given him something of a quiet
way, I think,” said the old man, “though
for that he is merry enough at times.
I ’d wager now that you and he have
been listening by the old well.”
“ Indeed we have not,” the child re-
plied. “ I have been afraid to go near
it ; for I am not often down in that part
of the church, and do not know the
ground.”
“ Come down with me,” said the old
man. “ I have known it from a boy.
Come ! ”
They descended the narrow steps
which led into the crypt, and paused
among the gloomy arches, in a dim and
murky spot.
“This is the place,” said the old
man. “ Give me your hand while you
throw back the cover, lest you should
stumble and fall in. I am too old — I
mean rheumatic — to stoop myself.”
“A black and dreadful place ! ” ex-
claimed the child.
“Look in, ” said the old man, point-
ing downward with his finger.
The child complied, and gazed down
into the pit.
“It looks like a grave itself,” said
the old man.
“ It does,” replied the child.
“ I have often had the fancy,” said
the sexton, “ that it might have been
dug at first to make the old place more
gloomy, and the old monks more relig-
ious. It ’s to be closed up, and built
over.”
The child still stood, looking thought-
fully into the vault.
“We shall see,” said the sexton, “on
what gay heads other earth will have
closed when the light is shut out from
here. God knows ! They ’ll close it
up next spring.”
“The birds sing again in spring,”
thought the child, as she leaned at her
casement window, and gazed at the de-
clining sun. “ Spring ! a beautiful and
happy time ! ”
CHAPTER LVI.
A day or tvro after the Quilp tea-
party at the Wilderness, Mr. Swiveller
walked into Sampson Brass’s office at
the usual hour, and being alone in that
Temple of Probity, placed his hat upon
the desk, and, taking from his pocket
a small parcel of black crape, applied
himself to folding and pinning the same
upon it, after the manner of a hatband.
Having completed the construction of
this appendage, he surveyed his work
with great complacency, and put his
hat on again — very much over one eye
to increase the mournfulness of the
effect. These arrangements perfected
to his entire satisfaction, he thrust his
hands into his pockets, and walked up
and down the office with measured
steps.
“It has always been the same with
me,” said Mr. Swiveller, “always.
’T was ever thus, from childhood’s hour
I ’ve seen my fondest hopes decay, I
never loved a tree or flower but ’t was
the first to fade away ; I never nursed
a dear Gazelle, to glad me with its
soft black eye, but when it came to
know me well, and love me, it was sure
to marry a market-gardener.”
Overpowered by these reflections,
Mr. Swiveller stopped short at the
clients’ chair, and flung himself into
its open arms.
“And this,” said Mr. Swiveller, with
a kind of bantering composure, “is life,
I believe. O, certainly. Why not?
I ’m quite satisfied. I shall wear,”
added Richard, taking off his hat again
and looking hard at it, as if he were
only deterred by pecuniary considera-
tions from spurning it with his foot, —
“ I shall \fbar this emblem of woman’s
perfidy, in remembrance of her with
whom I shall never again thread the
windings of the mazy ; whom I shall
never more pledge in the rosy ; who,
during the short remainder of my ex-
istence, will murder the balmy. Ha,
ha, ha ! ”
It may be necessary to observe, lest
there should appear any incongruity in
the close of this soliloquy, that Mr.
Swiveller did not wind up with a cheer-
ful, hilarious laugh, which would have
MR. CHUCKSTER.
TIElttMW
Of fof
DHWEBSIff 0? 'EE® 8
THE OLD CURIOSITY SHOP.
241
been undoubtedly at variance with his
solemn reflections, but that, being in
a theatrical mood, he merely achieved
that performance which is designated
in melodramas “ laughing like a fiend,’ 1
— for it seems that your fiends always
laugh in syllables, and always in three
syllables, never more nor less, which
is a remarkable property in such gen-
try, and one worthy of remembrance.
The baleful sounds had hardly died
away, and Mr. Swiveller was still sit-
ting in a very grim state in the clients’
chair, when there came a ring — or,
if we may adapt the sound to his then
humor, a knell — at the office bell.
Opening the door with all speed, he
beheld the expressive countenance of
Mr. Chuckster, between whom and
himself a fraternal greeting ensued.
“ You ’re devilish early at this pestif-
erous old slaughter-house,” said that
gentleman, poising himself on one leg,
and shaking the other in an easy man-
ner.
“ Rather,” returned Dick.
“ Rather ! ” retorted Mr. Chuckster,
with that air of graceful trifling which
so well became him. “ I should think
so. Why, my good feller, do you know
what o’clock it is, — half past nine a. m.
in the morning ? ”
“Won’t you come in?” said Dick.
“ All alone. Swiveller solus. ‘ ’T is
now the witching — ’ ”
“ ‘ Hour of night ! ’ ”
“‘When churchyards yawn,’”
“ * And graves give up their dead.’ ”
At the end of this quotation in dia-
logue, each gentleman struck an atti-
tude, and, immediately subsiding into
prose, walked into the office. Such
morsels of enthusiasm were common
among the Glorious Apollos, and were
indeed the links that bound them to-
gether, and raised them above the cold,
dull earth.
“ Well, and how are you, my buck?”
said Mr. Chuckster, taking a stool.
“ I was forced to come into the city
upon some little private matters of my
own, and couldn’t pass the corner of
the street without looking in : but upon
my soul, I did n’t expect to find you.
It is so everlastingly early.”
Mr. Swiveller expressed his acknowl-
16
edgments ; and it appearing on further
conversation that he was in good health,
and that Mr. Chuckster was in the like
enviable condition, both gentlemen, in
compliance with a solemn custom of the
ancient Brotherhood to which they be-
longed, joined in a fragment of the pop-
ular duet of “ All ’s Well,” with a long
shake at the end.
“ And what ’s the news ? ” said Rich-
ard.
“ The town ’s as flat, my dear feller,”
replied Mr. Chuckster, “ as the surface
of a Dutch oven. There ’s no news.
By the by, that lodger of yours is a most
extraordinary person. He quite eludes
the most vigorous comprehension, you
know. Never was such a feller ! ”
“ What has he been doing now? ”
said Dick.
“ By Jove, sir,” returned Mr. Chuck-
ster, taking out an oblong snuffbox, the
lid whereof was ornamented with a fox’s
head curiously carved in brass, “ that
man is an unfathomable. Sir, that man
has made friends with our articled
clerk. There ’s no harm in him, but he
is so amazingly slow and soft. Now, if
he wanted a friend, why couldn’t he
have one that knew a thing or two, and
could do him some good by his man-
ners and conversation. I have my
faults, sir,” said Mr. Chuckster —
“ No, no,” interposed Mr. Swiveller.
“ O yes, I have, I have my faults, no
man knows his faults better than I
know mine. But,” said Mr. Chuckster,
“ I ’m not meek. My worst enemies —
every man has his enemies, sir, and I
have mine — never accused me of be-
ing meek. And I tell you what, sir, if
I had n’t more of these qualities that
commonly endear man to man than
our articled clerk has, I ’d steal athesh-
ire cheese, tie it round my neck, and
drown myself. I ’d die degraded, as I
had lived. I would, upon my honor.”
Mr. Chuckster paused, rapped the
fox’s head exactly on the nose with the
knuckle of the forefinger, took a pinch
of snuff, and looked steadily at Mr.
Swiveller, as much as to say that if he
thought he was going to sneeze, he
would find himself mistaken.
“ Not contented, sir,” said Mr.
Chuckster, “ with making friends with
2 4 2
THE OLD CURIOSITY SHOP.
Abel, he has cultivated the acquaint-
ance of his father and mother. Since
he came home from that wild-goose
chase, he has been there, — actually
been there. He patronizes young
Snobby besides. You’ll find, sir, that
he ’ll be constantly coming backwards
and forwards to this place ; yet I don’t
suppose that, beyond the common forms
of civility, he has ever exchanged half a
dozen words with me. Now, upon my
soul, you know,” said Mr. Chuckster,
shaking his head gravely, as men are
wont to do when they consider things
are going a little too far, “ this is alto-
gether such a low-minded affair, that if
I did n’t feel for the governor, and know
that he could never get on without me,
1 should be obliged to cut the connec-
tion. I should have no alternative.”
Mr. Swiveller, who sat on another
stool opposite to his friend, stirred the
fire in an excess of sympathy, but said
nothing.
“ As to young Snob, sir,” pursued
Mr. Chuckster, with a prophetic look,
“ you ’ll find he ’ll turn out bad. In
our profession we know something of
human nature, and take my word for it,
that the feller that came back to work
out that shilling will show himself one
of these days in his true colors. He ’s
a low thief, sir. He must be.”
Mr. Chuckster, being roused, would
probably have pursued this subject fur-
ther, and in more emphatic language,
but for a tap at the door, which, seeming
to announce the arrival of somebody on
business, caused him to assume a great-
er appearance of meekness than was
perhaps quite consistent with his late
declaration. Mr. Swiveller, hearing the
same sound, caused his stool to re-
volve fapidly on one leg until it brought
him to his desk, into which, having for-
gotten in the sudden flurry of his spirits
to part with the poker, he thrust it as
he cried, “ Come in ! ”
Who should present himself but that
very Kit who had been the theme of
Mr. Chuckster’s wrath ! Never did
man pluck up his courage so quickly, or
look so fierce, as Mr. Chuckster when
he found it was he. Mr. Swiveller
stared at him for a moment, and then
leaping from his stool, and drawing out
the poker from its place of concealment,
performed the broadsword exercise with
all the cuts and guards complete, in a
species of frenzy.
“Is the gentleman at home?” said
Kit, rather astonished by this uncom-
mon reception.
Before Mr. Swiveller could make any
reply, Mr. Chuckster took occasion to
enter his indignant protest against this
form of inquiry ; which he held to be
of a disrespectful and snobbish ten-
dency, inasmuch as the inquirer, seeing
two gentlemen then and there present,
should have spoken of the other gentle-
man ; or rather (for it was not impossi-
ble that the object of his search might
be of inferior quality) should have men-
tioned his name, leaving it to his hear-
ers to determine his degree as they
thought proper. Mr. Chuckster like-
wise remarked, that he had some rea-
son to believe this form of address was
personal to himself, and that he was
not a man to be trifled with, — as cer-
tain snobs (whom he did not more par-
ticularly mention or describe) might
find to their cost.
“ I mean the gentleman up stairs,”
said Kit, turning to Richard Swiveller.
“ Is he at home? ”
“ Why? ” rejoined Dick.
“ Because, if he is, I have a letter for
him.”
“ From whom ?” said Dick.
“ From Mr. Garland.”
“ Oh ! ” said Dick, with extreme
politeness. “Then you may hand it
over, sir. And if you ’re to wait for an
answer, sir, you may wait in the pas-
sage, sir, which is an airy and well-ven-
tilated apartment, sir.”
“Thank you,” returned Kit. “But
I am to give it to himself, if you
please,”
The excessive audacity of this retort
so overpowered Mr. Chuckster, and so
moved his tender regard for his friend’s
honor, that he declared, if he were not
restrained by official considerations, he
must certainly have annihilated Kit
upon the spot : a resentment of the
affront which he did consider, under
the extraordinary circumstances of ag-
gravation attending it, could not but
have met with the proper sanction and
THE OLD CURIOSITY SHOP .
243
approval of a jury of Englishmen, who,
he had no doubt, would have returned
a verdict of Justifiable Homicide,
coupled with a high testimony to the
morals and character of the Avenger.
Mr. Swiveller, without being quite so
hot upon the matter, was rather shamed
by his friend’s excitement, and not a
little puzzled how to act (Kit being
quite cool and good - humored), when
the single gentleman was heard to call
violently down the stairs.
“ Did n’t I see somebody for me,
come in?” cried the lodger.
“Yes, sir,” replied Dick. “ Certain-
ly, sir.”
“Then where is he ! ” roared the sin-
gle gentleman.
“ He ’s here, sir,” rejoined Mr.
Swiveller. “ Now, young man, don’t
you hear you ’re to go up stairs ? Are
you deaf? ”
_ Kit did not appear to think it worth
his while to enter into any altercation,
but hurried off and left the Glorious
Apollos gazing at each other in si-
lence.
“Did n’t I tell you so?” said Mr.
Chuckster. “What do you think of
that? ”
Mr. Swiveller being in the main a
good-natured fellow, and not perceiving
in the conduct of Kit any villany of
enormous magnitude, scarcely knew
what answer to return. He was re-
lieved from his perplexity, however, by
the entrance of Mr. Sampson and his
sister Sally, at sight of whom Mr.
Chuckster precipitately retired.
Mr. Brass and his lovely companion
appeared to have been holding a con-
sultation over their temperate break-
fast, upon some matter of great inter-
est and importance. On the occasion
of such conferences, they generally ap-
peared in the office some half an hour
after their usual time, and in a very
smiling state, as though their late plots
and designs had tranquillized their minds
and shed a light upon their toilsome
way. In the present instance, they
seemed particularly gay ; Miss Sally’s
aspect being of a most oily kind, and
Mr. Brass rubbing his hands in an ex-
ceedingly jocose and light-hearted man-
ner.
“ Well, Mr. Richard,” said Brass.
“ How are we this morning ? Are we
pretty fresh and cheerful, sir, — eh, Mr.
Richard? ”
“ Pretty well, sir,” replied Dick.
“That’s well,” said Brass. “Ha,
ha ! We should be as gay as larks, Mr.
Richard, — why not? It ’s a pleasant
world we live in, sir, a very pleasant
world. There are bad people in it, Mr.
Richard ; but if there were no bad peo-
ple, there would be no good lawyers.
Ha, ha ! Any letters by the post this
morning, Mr. Richard?”
Mr. Swiveller answered in the nega-
tive.
“ Ha ! ” said Brass, “no matter. If
there ’s little business to-day, there ’ll
be more to-morrow. A contented
spirit, Mr. Richard, is the sweetness of
existence. Anybody been here, sir ! ”
“Only my friend,” replied Dick.
“ ‘ May we ne’er want a — ’ ”
“ ‘ Friend,’ ” Brass chimed in quick-
ly, “‘ora bottle to give him.’ Ha, ha !
That’s the way the song runs, is n’t it?
A very good song, Mr. Richard, very
good. I like the sentiment of it. Ha,
ha ! Your friend ’s the young man
from Witherden’s office I think, — yes.
‘May we ne’er want a — ’ Nobody
else at all been, Mr. Richard? ”
“ Only somebody to the lodger,” re-
plied Mr. Swiveller.
“ O, indeed ! ” cried Brass. “ Some-
body to the lodger, eh ? Ha, ha ! ‘ May
we ne’er want a friend, or a — ’ Some-
body to the lodger, eh, Mr. Richard? ”
“ Yes,” said Dick, a little disconcert-
ed by the excessive buoyancy of spirits
which his employer displayed. “With
him now.”
“With him now ! ” cried Brass. “ Ha,
ha ! There let ’em be, merry and free,
toor rul lol le. Eh, Mr. Richard? Ha,
ha ! ”
“ O, certainly,” replied Dick.
“And who,” said Brass, shuffling
among his papers, — “ who is the lodg-
er’s visitor? Not a lady visitor, I hope,
eh, Mr. Richard? The morals of the
Marks, you know, sir — ‘ When lovely
woman stoops to folly ’ — and all that,
— eh, Mr. Richard?”
“Another young man, who belongs to
Witherden’s too, or half belongs there,”
244
THE OLD CURIOSITY SHOP.
returned Richard. “ Kit, they call
him.”
“Kit, eh!” said Brass. “Strange
name, — name of a dancing-master’s
fiddle, eh, Mr. Richard? Ha, ha !
Kit ’s there, is he ? Oh!”
Dick looked at Miss Sally, wondering
that she didn’t check this uncommon
exuberance on the part of Mr. Samp-
son ; but as she made no attempt to do
so, and rather appeared to exhibit a
tacit acquiescence in it, he concluded
that they had just been cheating some-
body, and receiving the bill.
“Will you have the goodness, Mr.
Richard,” said Brass, taking a letter
from his desk, “just to step over to
Peckham Rye with that ? There ’s no
answer, but it ’s rather particular and
shouid go by hand. Charge the office
with your coach-hire back, you know.
Don’t spare the office. Get as much out
©f it as you can — clerk’s motto — eh,
Mr. Richard ? Ha, ha ! ”
Mr. Swiveller solemnly doffed the
aquatic jacket, put on his coat, took
down his hat from its peg, pocketed
the letter, and departed. As soon as he
was gone, up rose Miss Sally Brass,
and, smiling sweetly at her brother (who
nodded and smote his nose in return),
withdrew also.
Sampson Brass was no sooner left
alone, than he set the office door wide
open, and establishing himself at his
desk directly opposite, so that he could
not fail to see anybody who came
down stairs and passed out at the street
door, began to write with extreme
cheerfulness and assiduity ; humming
as he did so, in a voice that was any-
thing but musical, certain vocal snatches
which appeared to have reference to the
union between Church and State, inas-
much as they were compounded of the
Evening Hymn and God save the
King.
Thus, the attorney of Bevis Marks
sat, and wrote, and hummed, for a long
time, except when he stopped to listen
with a very cunning face, and, hearing
nothing, went on humming louder, and
writing slower than ever. At length, in
one of these pauses, he heard his lodg-
er’s door opened and shut, and foot-
steps coming down the stairs. Then
Mr. Brass left off writing entirely, and,
with his pen in his hand, hummed his
very loudest, shaking his head mean-
while from side to side, like a man
whose whole soul was in the music, and
smiling in a manner quite seraphic.
It was towards this moving spec-
tacle that the staircase and the sweet
sounds guided Kit ; on whose arrival
before his door, Mr. Brass stopped his
singing, but not his smiling, and nod-
ded affably, at the same time beck-
oning to him with his pen.
“ Kit,” said Mr. Brass, in the pleas-
antest way imaginable, “how do you
do ? ”
Kit, being rather shy of his friend,
made a suitable reply, and had his hand
upon the lock of the street door when
Mr. Brass called him softly back.
“ You are not to go, if you please,
Kit,” said the attorney in a mysterious
and yet business-like way. “You are
to step in here, if you please. Dear me,
dear me ! When I look at you,” said
the lawyer, quitting his stool, and
standing before the fire with his back
towards it, “ I am reminded of the
sweetest little face that ever my eyes
beheld. I remember your coming there,
twice or thrice, when we were in pos-
session. Ah, Kit, my dear fellow, gen-
tlemen in my profession have such
painful duties to perform sometimes,
that you needn’t envy us, —you need
n’t, indeed ! ”
“ I don’t, sir,” said Kit, “though it
is n’t for the like of me to judge.”
“ Our only consolation, Kit,” pur-
sued the lawyer, looking at him in a
sort of pensive abstraction, “ is, that al-
though we cannot turn away the wind,
we can soften it ; we can temper it, if I
may say so, to the shorn lambs.”
“ Shorn, indeed ! ” thought Kit.
“Pretty close!” But he didn’t say
so.
“On that occasion, Kit,” said Mr.
Brass, — “ on that occasion that I have
just alluded to, I had a hard battle with
Mr. Quilp (for Mr. Quilp is a very hard
man) to obtain them the indulgence
they had. It might have cost me a
client. But suffering virtue inspired
me, and I prevailed.”
“ He ’s not so bad, after all,” thought
THE OLD CURIOSITY SHOP.
245
honest Kit, as the attorney pursed up
his lips and looked like a man who
was struggling with his better feel-
ings.
“ I respect you, Kit,” said Brass, with
emotion. “ I saw enough of your con-
duct at that time to respect you, though
your station is humble, and your for-
tune lowly. It is n’t the waistcoat that
I look at. It is the heart. The checks
in the waistcoat are but the wires of the
cage. But the heart is the bird. Ah !
How many sich birds are perpetual-
ly moulting, and putting their beaks
through the wires to peck at all man-
kind ! ”
This poetic figure, which Kit took to
be in special allusion to his own checked
waistcoat, quite overcame him. Mr.
Brass’s voice and manner added not a
little to its effect, for he discoursed with
all the mild austerity of a hermit, and
wanted but a cord round the waist of
his rusty surtout, and a skull on the
chimney-piece, to be completely set up
in that line of business.
“ Well, well,” said Sampson, smiling
as good men smile when they compas-
sionate their own weakness or that of
their fellow - creatures, “ this is wide
of the bull’s-eye. You ’re to take that,
if you please.” As he spoke, he point-
ed to a couple of half-crowns on the
desk.
Kit looked at the coins, and then at
Sampson, and hesitated.
“For yourself,” said Brass.
“ From — ”
“No matter about the person they
came from,” replied the lawyer. “ Say
me, if you like. We have eccentric
friends, overhead, Kit, and we must n’t
ask questions or talk too much, — you
understand? You ’re to take them,
that ’s all ; and between you and me, I
don’t think they ’ll be the last you ’ll
have to take from the same place. I
hope not. Good by, Kit. Good by ! ”
With many thanks, and many more
self-reproaches for having on such slight
grounds suspected one who in their
very first conversation turned out such
a different man from what he had sup-
posed, Kit took the money and made
the best of his way home. Mr. Brass
remained airing himself at the fire, and
resumed his vocal exercise and his se-
raphic smile simultaneously.
“May I come in?” said Miss Sally,
peeping.
“ O yes, you may come in,” returned
her brother.
“Ahem?” coughed Miss Brass, in-
terrogatively.
“ Why, yes,” returned Sampson, “ I
should say as good as done.”
CHAPTER LVII.
Mr. Chuckster’s indignant appre-
hensions were not without foundation.
Certainly the friendship between the
single gentleman and Mr. Garland was
not suffered to cool, but had a rapid
growth and flourished exceedingly.
They were soon in habits of constant
intercourse and communication ; and
the single gentleman laboring at this
time under a slight attack of illness —
the consequence most probably of his
late excited feelings and subsequent
disappointment — furnished a reason for
their holding yet more frequent corre-
spondence ; so that some one of the
inmates of Abel Cottage, Finchley,
came backwards and forwards between
that place and Bevis Marks, almost
every day.
As the pony had now thrown off all dis-
guise, and without any mincing of the
matter or beating about the bush, sturdi-
ly refused to be driven by anybody but
Kit, it generally happened that whether
old Mr. Garland came, or Mr. Abel, Kit
was of the party. Of all messages and
inquiries, Kit was, in right of his posi-
tion, the bearer. Thus it came about
that, while the single gentleman re-
mained indisposed, Kit turned into Be-
vis Marks every morning with nearly as
much regularity as the general postman.
Mr. Sampson Brass, who no doubt
had his reasons for looking sharply
about him, soon learnt to distinguish
the pony’s trot and the clatter of the
little chaise at the corner of the street.
Whenever this sound reached his ears,
he would immediately lay down his
pen and fall to rubbing his hands and
exhibiting the greatest glee.
246
THE OLD CURIOSITY SHOP .
“ Ha, ha ! ” he would cry. “ Here ’s
the pony again ! Most remarkable pony ;
extremely docile, eh, Mr. Richard, eh,
sir? ”
Dick would return some matter-of-
course reply, and Mr. Brass, standing
on the bottom rail of his stool, so as
to get a view of the street over the
top of the window-blind, would take
an observation of the visitors.
“ The old gentleman again ! ” he
would exclaim. “A very prepossessing
old gentleman, Mr. Richard — charm-
ing countenance, sir — extremely calm
• — benevolence in every feature, sir.
He quite realizes my idea of King
Lear, as he appeared when in posses-
sion of his kingdom, Mr. Richard —
the same good-humor, the same white
hair and partial baldness, the same lia-
bility to be imposed upon. Ah ! A
sweet subject for contemplation, sir,
very sweet ! ”
Then, Mr. Garland having alighted
and gone up stairs, Sampson would nod
and smile to Kit from the window, and
presently walk out into the street to
greet him, when some such conversa-
tion as the following would ensue.
“ Admirably groomed, Kit ” — Mr.
Brass is patting the pony — “ does you
great credit — amazingly sleek and
bright to be sure. He literally looks
as if he had been varnished all over.”
Kit touches his hat, smiles, pats the
pony himself, and expresses his convic-
tion, “that Mr. Brass will not find many
like him.”
“ A beautiful animal, indeed ! ” cries
Brass. “ Sagacious, too ? ”
“ Bless you ! ” replies Kit, “he knows
what you say to him as well as a Chris-
tian does.”
“ Does he, indeed ! ” cries Brass, who
has heard the same thing in the same
place from the same person in the
same words a dozen times, but is para-
lyzed with astonishment, notwithstand-
ing. “ Dear me ! ”
“ I little thought, the first time I saw
him, sir,” says Kit, pleased with the at-
torney’s strong interest in his favorite,
“ that I should come to be as inti-
mate with him as I am now.”
“ Ah ! ” rejoins Mr. Brass, brimful
of moral precepts and love of virtue.
“ A charming subject of reflection for
you, very charming. A subject of prop-
er pride and congratulation, Christopher.
Honesty is the best policy. I always
find it so myself. I lost forty-seven
pound ten by being honest this morn-
ing. But it ’s all gain, it ’s gain ! ”
Mr. Brass slyly tickles his nose with
his pen, and looks at Kit with the wa-
ter standing in his eyes. Kit thinks
that if ever there was a good man
who belied his appearance, that man is
Sampson Brass.
“ A man,” says Sampson, “ who loses
forty-seven pound ten in one morning, by
his honesty, is a man to be envied. If
it had been eighty pound, the luxuri-
ousness of feeling would have been
increased. Every pound lost would
have been a hundred-weight of happi-
ness gained. The still small voice,
Christopher,” cries Brass, smiling and
tapping himself on the bosom, “ is a
singing comic songs within me, and
all is happiness and joy ! ”
Kit is so improved by the conversa-
tion, and finds it go so completely home
to his feelings, that he is considering
what he shall say, when Mr. Garland
appears. The old gentleman is helped
into the chaise with great obsequious-
ness by Mr. Sampson Brass ; and the
pony, after shaking his head several
times, and standing for three or four
minutes with all his four legs planted
firmly on the ground, as if he had
made up his mind never to stir from
that spot, but there to live and die, sud-
denly darts off, without the smallest
notice, at the rate of twelve English
miles an hour. Then Mr. Brass and
his sister (who has joined him at the
door) exchange an odd kind of smile, —
not at all a pleasant one in its expres-
sion, — and return to the society of Mr.
Richard Swiveller, who, during their
absence, has been regaling himself with
various feats of pantomime, and is dis-
covered at his desk, in a very flushed
and heated condition, violently scratch-
ing out nothing with half a penknife.
Whenever Kit came alone, and with-
out the chaise, it always happened that
Sampson Brass was reminded of some
mission, calling Mr. Swiveller, if not to
Peckham Rye again, at all events to
THE OLD CURIOSITY SHOP.
247
some pretty distant place from which he
could not be expected to return for two
or three hours, or in all probability a
much longer period, as that gentleman
was not, to say the truth, renowned for
using great expedition on such occa-
sions, but rather for protracting and
spinning out the time to the very ut-
most limit of possibility. Mr. Swiveller
out of sight, Miss Sally immediately
withdrew. Mr. Brass would then set
the office door wide open, hum his old
tune with great gayety of heart, and
smile seraphically as before. Kit, com-
ing down stairs, would be called«in ; en-
tertained with some moral and agreea-
ble conversation ; perhaps entreated to
mind the office for an instant while Mr.
Brass stepped over the way ; and after-
wards presented with one or two half-
crowns as the case might be. This oc-
curred so often, that Kit, nothing doubt-
ing but that they came from the single
gentleman who had already rewarded
his mother with great liberality, could
not enough admire his generosity ; and
bought so many cheap presents for her,
and for little Jacob, and for the baby,
and for Barbara to boot, that one or
other of them was having some new
trifle every day of their lives.
While these acts and deeds were in
progress in and out of the office of
Sampson Brass, Richard Swiveller, be-
ing often left alone therein, began to
find the time hang heavy on his hands.
For the better preservation of his cheer-
fulness, therefore, and to prevent his
faculties from rusting, he provided him-
self with a cribbage-board and pack of
cards, and accustomed himself to play
at cribbage with a dummy, for twenty,
thirty, or sometimes even fifty thousand
pounds a side, besides many hazardous
bets to a considerable amount.
As these games were very silently
conducted, notwithstanding the magni-
tude of the interests involved, Mr.
Swiveller began to think that on those
evenings when Mr. and Miss Brass
were out (and they often went out now)
he heard a kind of snorting or hard- (
breathing sound in the direction of the (
door, which, it occurred to him after some |
reflection, must proceed from the ■vral) 1
servant, who always had a froci j
damp living. Looking intently that
way one night, he plainly distinguished
an eye gleaming and glistening at the
keyhole ; and having now no doubt that
his suspicions were correct, he stole
softly to the door, and pounced upon
her before she was aware of his ap-
proach.
“ O, I did n’t mean any harm, in-
deed ; upon my word, I did n’t,” cried
the small servant, struggling like a
much larger one. “ It ’s so very dull
down stairs. Please don’t you tell
upon me, please don’t.”
“ Tell upon you ! ” said Dick. “ Do
you mean to say you were looking
through the keyhole for company?”
“Yes, upon my word, I was,” replied
the small servant.
“ How long have you been cooling
your eye there ? ” said Dick.
“ O, ever since you first began to play
them cards, and long before.”
Vague recollections of several fantas-
tic exercises with which he had re-
freshed himself after the fatigues of
business, and to all of which, no doubt,
the small servant was a party, rather
disconcerted Mr. Swiveller ; but he
was not verv sensitive on such points,
and recovered himself speedily.
“ Well, come in,” he said, after a
little consideration. “ Here, sit down
and I ’ll teach you how to play.”
“ O, I durst n’t do it,” rejoined the
small servant. “Miss Sally ’ud kill
me, if she know’d I come up here.”
“ Have you got a fire down stairs? ”
said Dick.
“ A very little one,” replied the small
servant.
“Miss Sally couldn’t kill me if she
know’d I went down there, so I ’ll
Come,” said Richard, putting the cards
into his pocket. “Why, how thin you
are! What do you mean by it?”
“ It ain’t my fault.”
“Could you eat any bread and.
meat?” said Dick, taking down his
iliat. “Yes? Ah! I thought so. Did
you ever taste beer? ”
“ I had a sip of it once,” said the
small servant.
“ Here ’s a state of things ! ” cried
Mr. Swiveller, raising his eyes to the
ceiling. “She never tasted it, — it
248
THE OLD CURIOSITY SHOP.
can’t be tasted in a sip ! Why, how
old are you ? ”
“ I don’t know.”
Mr. Swiveller opened his eyes very
wide, and appeared thoughtful for a
moment ; then, bidding the child mind
the door until he came back, vanished
straightway.
Presently he returned, followed by
the boy from the public-house, who
bore in one hand a plate of bread and
beef, and in the other a great pot, filled
with some very fragrant compound,
which sent forth a grateful steam, and
was indeed choice purl, made after a
particular recipe which Mr. Swiveller
had imparted to the landlord, at a peri-
od when he was deep in his books and
desirous to conciliate his friendship.
Relieving the boy of his burden at the
door, and charging his little compan-
ion to fasten it to prevent surprise,
Mr. Swiveller followed her into the
kitchen.
“ There ! ” said Richard, putting the
plate before her. “ First of all, clear
that off, and then you ’ll see what ’s
next.”
The small servant needed no second
bidding, and the plate was soon empty.
“ Next,” said Dick, handing the
purl, “ take a pull at that ; but mod-
erate your transports, you know, for
you’re not used to it. Well, is it
good? ”
“O, isn’t it?” said the small ser-
vant.
Mr. Swiveller appeared gratified be-
yond all expression by this reply, and
took a long draught himself, stead-
fastly regarding his companion while he
did so. These preliminaries disposed
of, he applied himself to teaching her
the game, which she soon learnt toler-
ably well, being both sharp-witted and
cunning.
“ Now,” said Mr. Swiveller, putting
two sixpences into a saucer, and trim-
ming the wretched candle, when the
cards had been cut and dealt, “ those
are the stakes. If you win, you get
’em all. If I win, I get ’em. To make
it seem more real and pleasant, I shall
call you the Marchioness, do you
hear? ”
The small servant nodded.
“ Then, Marchioness,” said Mr.
Swiveller, “ fire away ! ”
The Marchioness, holding her cards
very tight in both hands, considered
which to play, and Mr. Swiveller, as-
suming the gay and fashionable air
which such society required, took
another pull at the tankard, and wait-
ed for her lead.
CHAPTER LVIII.
Mr. # Swiveller and his partner
played several rubbers with varying
success, until the loss of three sixpences,
the gradual sinking of the purl, and
the striking of ten o’clock, combined to
render that gentleman mindful of the
flight of Time, and the expediency of
withdrawing before Mr. Sampson and
Miss Sally Brass returned.
‘‘With which object in view, Mar-
chioness,” said Mr. Swiveller, gravely,
“ I shall ask your ladyship’s permission
to put the board in my pocket, and to
retire from the presence when I have
finished this tankard ; merely observing.
Marchioness, that since life like a river
is flowing, I care not how fast it rolls
on, ma’am, on, while such purl on the
bank still is growing, and such eyes
light the waves as they run. Marchion-
ess, your health. You will excuse my
wearing my hat, but the palace is damp,
and the marble floor is — if I may be
allowed the expression — sloppy.”
As a precaution against this latter
inconvenience, Mr. Swiveller had been
sitting for some time with his feet on
the hob, in which attitude he now gave
utterance to these apologetic observa-
tions, and slowly sipped the last choice
drops of nectar.
“The Baron Sampsono Brasso and
his fair sister are (you tell me] at the
play?” said Mr. Swiveller, leaning his
left arm heavily upon the table, and
raising his voice and his right leg after
the manner of a theatrical bandit.
The Marchioness nodded.
“ Ha ! ” said Mr. Swiveller, with a
portentous frown. “ ’T is well. Mar-
chioness ! — but no matter. Some wine
there. Ho ! ” He illustrated these
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UNIVERSITY Or ILLINOIS
THE OLD CURIOSITY SHOP.
249
melodramatic morsels, by handing the
tankard to himself with great humility,
receiving it haughtily, drinking from it
thirstily, and smacking his lips fiercely.
The small servant, who was not so
well acquainted with theatrical conven-
tionalities as Mr. Swiveller (having in-
deed never seen a play, or heard one
spoken of, except by chance through
chinks of doors and in other forbidden
places), was rather alarmed by demon-
strations so novel in their nature, and
showed her concern so plainly in her
looks, that Mr. Swiveller felt it neces-
sary to discharge his brigand manner
for one more suitable to private life, as
he asked, —
“ Do they often go where glory waits
’em and leave you here ? ”
“ O yes ; I believe you, they do,”
returned the small servant. “ Miss
Sally ’s such a one-er for that, she is.”
“ Such a what ? ” said Dick.
“ Such a one-er,” returned the Mar-
chioness.
After a moment’s reflection, Mr.
Swiveller determined to forego his re-
sponsible duty of setting her right, and
to suffer her to talk on ; as it was evi-
dent that her tongue was loosened by
the purl, and her opportunities for con-
versation were not so frequent as to
render a momentary check of little con-
sequence.
“They sometimes go to see Mr.
Quilp,” said the small servant, with a
shrewd look ; “ they go to a many
places, bless you 1 ”
“Is Mr. Brass a wunner?” said
Dick.
“ Not half what Miss Sally is, he
isn’t,” replied the small servant, shak-
ing her head. “ Bless you, he ’d never
do anything without her.”
“ O, he would n’t, would n’t he ? ”
said Dick.
“ Miss Sally keeps him in such order,”
said the small servant. “ He always
asks her advice, he does ; and he catches
it sometimes. Bless you, you would n’t
believe how much he catches it.”
“I suppose,” said Dick, “that they
consult together a good deal, and talk
about a great many people, — about me,
for instance, sometimes, eh, Marchion-
ess? ”
The Marchioness nodded amazingly.
“ Complimentary ? ” said Mr. Swiv-
eller.
The Marchioness changed the motion
of her head, which had not yet left off
nodding, and suddenly began to shake
it from side to side, with a vehemence
which threatened to dislocate her neck.
“ Humph !” Dick muttered. “Would
it be any breach of confidence, Mar-
chioness, to relate what they say of the
humble individual who has now the
honor to — ?”
“Miss Sally says you’re a funny
chap,” replied his friend.
“ Well, Marchioness,” said Mr. Swiv-
eller, “that’s not uncomplimentary.
Merriment, Marchioness, is not a bad
or a degrading quality. Old King Cole
was himself a merry old soul, if we may
put any faith in the pages of history.”
“ But she says,” pursued his com-
panion, “ that you ain’t to be trusted.”
“Why, really, Marchioness,” said
Mr. Swiveller, thoughtfully ; “ several
ladies and gentlemen — not exactly pro-
fessional persons, but tradespeople,
ma’am, tradespeople — have made the
same remark. The obscure citizen who
keeps the hotel over the way inclined
strongly to that opinion to-night when
I ordered him to prepare the banquet.
It ’s a popular prejudice, Marchioness ;
and yet I am sure I don’t know why,
for I have been trusted in my time
to a considerable amount, and I can
safely say that I never forsook my
trust until it deserted me, — never. Mr.
Brass is of the same opinion, I sup-
pose? ” _
His friend nodded again, with a cun-
ning look which seemed to hint that
Mr. Brass held stronger opinions on
the subject than his sister ; and, seeming
to recollect herself, added imploringly,
“ But don’t you ever tell upon me, or 1
shall be beat to death.”
“Marchioness,” said Mr. Swiveller,
rising, “ the word of a gentleman is as-
good as his bond, — sometimes better,
as in the present case, where his bond
might prove but a doubtful sort of se-
curity. I am your friend, and I hope
we shall play many more rubbers to-
gether in this same saloon. But,
Marchioness,” added Richard, stopping
250
THE OLD CURIOSITY SHOP.
in his way to the door, and wheeling
slowly round upon the small servant,
who was following with the candle, “ it
occurs to me that you must be in the
constant habit of airing your eye at
keyholes, to know all this.”
“ I only wanted,” replied the trem-
bling Marchioness, “to know where the
key of the safe was hid ; that was all ;
and I would n’t have taken much, if I
had found it, — only enough to squench
my hunger.”
“You didn’t find it, then?” said
Dick. “But of course you didn’t, or
you ’d be plumper. Good night, Mar-
chioness. Fare thee well, and if forev-
er, then forever fare thee well, — and put
up the chain, Marchioness, in case of
accidents.”
With this parting injunction, Mr.
Swiveller emerged from the house ; and,
feeling that he had by this time taken
quite as much to drink as promised to
be good for his constitution (purl being
a rather strong and heady compound),
wisely resolved to betake himself to his
lodgings, and to bed at once. Home-
ward he went, therefore ; and his apart-
ments (for he still retained the plural
fiction) being at no great distance from
the office, he was soon seated in his
own bedchamber, where, having pulled
off one boot and forgotten the other, he
fell into deep cogitation.
“This Marchioness,” said Mr. Swiv-
eller, folding his arms, “is a very ex-
traordinary person, — surrounded by
mysteries, ignorant of the taste of beer,
unacquainted with her own name (which
is less remarkable), and taking a lim-
ited view of society through the key-
holes of doors. Can these things be
her destiny, or has some unknown per-
son started an opposition to the de-
crees of fate? It is a most inscrutable
and unmitigated staggerer ! ”
When his meditations had attained
this satisfactory point, he became aware
of his remaining boot, of which, with
unimpaired solemnity, he proceeded to
divest himself, shaking his head with
exceeding gravity all the time, and sigh-
ing deeply.
“ These rubbers,” said Mr. Swiveller,
putting on his nightcap in exactly the
same style as he wore his hat, “remind
me of the matrimonial fireside. Cheggs’s
wife plays cribbage ; all-fours likewise.
She rings the changes on ’em now.
From sport to sport they hurry her, to
banish her regrets, and when they win
a smile from her, they think that she
forgets, — but she don’t. By this time,
I should say,” added Richard, getting
his left cheek into profile, and looking
complacently at the reflection of a very
little scrap of whisker in the looking-
glass, — “by this time, I should say,
the iron has entered into her soul. It
serves her right!”
Melting from this stern and obdurate,
into the tender and pathetic mood, Mr.
Swiveller groaned a little, walked wildly
up and down, and even made a show
of tearing his hair, which, however, he
thought better of, and wrenched the
tassel from his nightcap, instead. At
last, undressing himself with a gloomy
resolution, he got into bed.
Some men in his blighted position
would have taken to drinking ; but as
Mr. Swiveller had taken to that before,
he only took, on receiving the news
that Sophy Wackles was lost to him
forever, to playing the flute ; thinking,
after mature consideration, that it was a
good, sound, dismal occupation, not on-
ly in unison with his own sad thoughts,
but calculated to awaken a fellow-feel-
ing in the bosoms of his neighbors. In
pursuance of this resolution, he now
drew a little table to his bedside, and,
arranging the light and a small oblong
music-book to the best advantage, took
his flute from its box, and began to
play most mournfully.
The air was, “Away with melan-
choly,” a composition which, when it
is played very slowly on the flute, in
bed, with the further disadvantage of
being performed by a gentleman but
imperfectly acquainted with the instru-
ment, who repeats one note a great
many times before he can find the
next, has not a lively effect. Yet, for
half the night or more, Mr. Swiveller,
lying sometimes on his back with his
eyes upon the ceiling, and sometimes
half out of bed to correct himself by the
book, played this unhappy tune over
and over again ; never leaving off, save
for a minute or two at a time to take
THE OLD CURIOSITY SHOP.
251
breath and soliloquize about the Mar-
chioness, and then beginning again
with renewed vigor. It was not until
he had quite exhausted his several sub-
jects of meditation, and had breathed
into the flute the whole sentiment of the
purl down to its very dregs, and had
nearly maddened the people of the
house, and at both the next doors, and
over the way, that he shut up the
music-book, extinguished the candle,
and, finding himself greatly lightened
and relieved in his mind, turned round
and fell asleep.
He awoke in the morning, much re-
freshed; and, having taken half an
hour’s exercise at the flute, and gra-
ciously received a notice to quit from
his landlady, who had been in waiting
on the stairs for that purpose since the
dawn of day, repaired to Bevis Marks ;
where the beautiful Sally was already
at her post, bearing in her looks a radi-
ance mild as that which beameth from
the virgin moon.
Mr. Swiveller acknowledged her pres-
ence by a nod, and exchanged his coat
for the aquatic jacket; which usually
took some time fitting on, for, in conse-
quence of a tightness in the sleeves, it
was only to be got into by a series of
struggles. This difficulty overcome, he
took his seat at the desk.
“ I say,” quoth Miss Brass, abrupt-
ly breaking silence, “ you have n’t seen
a silver pencil-case this morning, have
you? ”
“ I didn’t meet many in the street,”
rejoined Mr. Swiveller. “ I saw one, —
a stout pencil-case of respectable ap-
pearance, — but as he was in company
with an elderly penknife, and a young
toothpick with whom he was in earnest
conversation, I felt a delicacy in speak-
ing to him.”
“ No, but have you?” returned Miss
Brass. “ Seriously, you know.”
“What a dull dog you must be to
ask me such a question seriously,” said
Mr. Swiveller. “ Have n’t I this mo-
ment come ? ”
“Well, all I know is,” replied Miss
Sally, “ that it ’s not to be found, and
that it disappeared one day this week,
when I left it on the desk.”
“Halloa!” thought Richard, “I hope
the Marchioness hasn’t been at work
here.”
“There was a knife too,” said Miss
Sally, “of the same pattern. They
were given to me bj’- my father, years
ago, and are both gone. You have n’t
missed anything yourself, have you?”
Mr. Swiveller involuntarily clapped
his hands to the jacket to be quite sure
that it was a jacket and not a skirted
coat ; and having satisfied himself of
the safety of this, his only movable in
Bevis Marks, made answer in the nega-
tive.
“ It ’s a very unpleasant thing, Dick,”
said Miss Brass, pulling out the tin box
and refreshing herself with a pinch of
snuff; “but between you and me —
between friends you know, for if Sam-
my knew it, I should never hear the
last of it — some of the office money,
too, that has been left about, has gone
in the same way. In particular, I have
missed three half-crowns at three dif-
ferent times.i’
“ You don’t mean that? ” cried Dick.
“ Be careful what you say, old boy, for
this is a serious matter. Are you quite
sure ? Is there no mistake ? ”
“It is so, and there can’t be any mis-
take at all,” rejoined Miss Brass, em-
phatically.
“Then by Jove,” thought Richard,
laying down his pen, “ I am afraid the
Marchioness is done for!”
The more he discussed the subject in
his thoughts, the more probable it ap-
peared to Dick that the miserable little
servant was the culprit. When he con-
sidered on what a spare allowance of
food she lived, how neglected and un-
taught she was, and how her natural
cunning had been sharpened by neces-
sity and privation, he scarcely doubted
it. And yet he pitied her so much, and
felt so unwilling to have a matter of
such gravity disturbing the oddity of
their acquaintance, that he thought,
and thought truly, that, rather than re-
ceive fifty pounds down, he would have
the Marchioness proved innocent.
While he was plunged in very pro-
fount! and serious meditation upon this
theme, Miss Sally sat shaking her head
with an air of great mystery and doubt ;
when the voice of her brother Sampson,
252
THE OLD CURIOSITY SHOP.
carolling a cheerful strain, was heard in
the passage, and that gentleman him-
self, beaming with virtuous smiles, ap-
peared.
“Mr. Richard, sir, good morning !
Here we are again, sir, entering upon
another day, with our bodies strength-
ened by slumber and breakfast, and our
spirits fresh and flowing. Here we are,
Mr. Richard, rising with the sun to run
our little course, — our course of duty,
sir, — and, like him, to get through our
day’s work with credit to ourselves and
advantage to our fellow-creatures. A
charming reflection, sir, very charm-
ing ! ” .
While he addressed his clerk in these
words, Mr. Brass was somewhat osten-
tatiously engaged in minutely examin-
ing and holding up against the light a
five-pound bank-note, which he had
brought in in his hand.
Mr. Richard not receiving his remarks
with anything like enthusiasm, his em-
ployer turned his eyes to his face, and
observed that it wore a troubled expres-
sion.
“You’re out of spirits, sir,” said Brass.
“Mr. Richard, sir, we should fall to
work cheerfully, and not in a despondent
state. It becomes us, Mr. Richard, sir,
to — ”
Here the chaste Sarah heaved a loud
sigh.
“ Dear me ! ” said Mr. Sampson,
“you too! Is anything the matter?
Mr. Richard, sir — ”
Dick, glancing at Miss Sally, saw that
she was making signals to him to ac-
quaint her brother with the subject of
their recent conversation. As his own
position was not a very pleasant one
until the matter was set at rest one way
or other, he did so ; and Miss Brass,
plying her snuffbox at a most wasteful
rate, corroborated his account.
The countenance of Sampson fell,
and anxiety overspread his features.
Instead of passionately bewailing the
loss of his money, as Miss Sally had
expected, he walked on tiptoe to the
door, opened it, looked outside, shut it
softly, returned on tiptoe, and said In a
whisper : —
“ This is a most extraordinary and
panful circumstance, — Mr. Richard,
sir, a most painful circumstance. The
fact is, that I myself have missed sev-
eral small sums from the desk of late,
and have refrained from mentioning it,
hoping that accident would discover the
offender; but it has not done so, — it
has not done so. Sally, Mr. Richard,
sir, this is a particularly distressing
affair ! ”
As Sampson spoke, he laid the bank-
note upon the desk among some papers,
in an absent manner, and thrust his
hands into his pockets. Richard Swivel-
ler pointed to it, and admonished him
to take it up.
“ No, Mr. Richard, sir,” rejoined
Brass, with emotion, “ I will not take it
up. I will let it lie there, sir. To take
it up, Mr. Richard, sir, would imply a
doubt of you ; and in you, sir, I have
unlimited confidence. We will let it
lie there, sir, if you please, and we will
not take it up by any means.” With
that, Mr. Brass patted him twice or
thrice on the shoulder in a most friendly
manner, and entreated him to believe
that he had as much faith in his honesty
as he had in his own.
Although at another time Mr. Swivel-
ler might have looked upon this as a
doubtful compliment, he felt it, under
the then existing circumstances, a great
relief to be assured that he was not
wrongfully suspected. When he had
made a suitable reply, Mr. Brass wrung
him by the hand, and fell into a brown
study, as did Miss Sally likewise.
Richard too remained in a thoughtful
state ; fearing every moment to hear the
Marchion'ess impeached, and unable to
resist the conviction that she must be
guilty.
When they had severally remained in
this condition for some minutes, Miss
Sally all at once gave a loud rap upon
the desk with her clenched fist, and
cried, “I’ve hit it!”^r-as indeed she
had, and chipped a piece out of it too ;
but that was not her meaning.
“ Well,” cried Brass, anxiously. “Go
on, will you? ”
“ Why,” replied his sister with an air
of triumph, “hasn’t there been some-
body always coming in and out of this
office for the last three or four weeks?
hasn’t that somebody been left alone
THE OLD CURIOSITY SHOP.
253
in it sometimes — thanks to you ? and
do you mean to tell me that that some-
body isn’t the thief? ”
“ What somebody ? ” blustered Brass.
“ Why, what do you call him ? — Kit.”
“Mr. Garland’s young man?”
“ To be sure.”
“ Never ! ” cried Brass. “ Never.
I ’ll not hear of it. Don’t tell me — ”
said Sampson, shaking his head, and
working with both his hands as if he
were clearing away ten thousand cob-
webs. “ I ’ll never believe it of him.
Never ! ”
“ I say,” repeated Miss Brass, taking
another pinch of snuff, “ that he ’s the
thief.”
“ I say,” returned Sampson, violently,
“ that he is not. What do you mean ?
How dare you? Are characters to be
whispered away like this ? Do you
know that he ’s the honestest and faith-
fullest fellow that ever lived, and that
he has an irreproachable good name?
Come in, come in ! ”
These last words were not addressed
to Miss Sally, though they partook of
the tone in which the indignant remon-
strances that preceded them had been
uttered. They were addressed to some
person who had knocked at the office
door ; and they had hardly passed the
lips of Mr. Brass, when this very Kit
himself looked in.
“ Is the gentleman up stairs, sir, if
jmu please?”
“Yes, Kit,” said Brass, still fired
with an honest indignation, and frown-
ing w'ith knotted brows upon his sister,
— “ yes, Kit, he is. I am glad to see
you, Kit, I am rejoiced to see you. Look
in again, as you come down stairs, Kit.
That lad a robber ! ” cried Brass, when
he had withdrawn, “ with that frank
and open countenance ! I ’d trust him
with untold gold. Mr. Richard, sir,
have the goodness to step directly to
Wrasp and Co.’s in Broad Street, and
inquire if they have had instructions
to appear in Carkem and Painter.
That lad a robber ! ” sneered Sampson,
flushed and heated with his wrath.
“Am I blind, deaf, silly? Do I know
nothing of human nature when I see it
before me ? Kit a robber ! Bah ! ”
Flinging this final interjection at Miss
Sally with immeasurable scorn and con-
tempt, Sampson Brass thrust his head
into his desk, as if to shut the base
world from his view, and breathed de-
fiance from under its half- closed lid.
CHAPTER LIX.
When Kit, having discharged his er-
rand, came down stairs from the single
gentleman’s apartment after the lapse
of a quarter of an hour or so, Mr.
Sampson Brass was alone in the office;
He was not singing as usual, nor was
he seated at his desk. The open door
showed him standing before the fire
with his back towards it, and looking
so very strange that Kit supposed he
must have been suddenly taken ill.
“Is anything the matter, sir?” said
Kit.
“ Matter ! ” cried Brass. “ No.
Why anything the matter ? ”
“ You are so very pale,” said Kit,
“ that I should hardly have known
you.”
“ Pooh, pooh ! mere fancy,” cried
Brass, stooping to throw up the cinders.
“ Never better, Kit, never better in all
my life. Merry, too. Ha, ha ! How ’s
our friend above stairs, eh?”
“ A great deal better,” said Kit. _
“ I ’m glad to hear it,” rejoined
Brass; “thankful, I may say. An ex-
cellent gentleman, — worthy, liberal,
generous, gives very little trouble, —
an admirable lodger. Ha, ha ! Mr.
Garland, — he ’s well I hope, Kit ?
and the pony, — my friend, my particu-
lar friend, you know. Ha, ha ! ”
Kit gave a satisfactory account of all
the little household at Abel Cottage.
Mr. Brass, who seemed remarkably in-
attentive and impatient, mounted on
his stool, and, beckoning him to come
nearer, took him by the button-hole.
“ I have been thinking, Kit,” said the
laVvyer, “ that I could throw some little
emoluments into your mother’s way —
You have a mother, I think? If I rec-
ollect right, you told me-—”
“ O yes, sir ; yes, certainly.”
“A widow, I think? an industrious,
widow? ”
254
THE OLD CURIOSITY SHOP.
“ A harder- working woman or a bet-
ter mother never lived, sir.”
“Ah!” cried Brass. “That’s af-
fecting, truly affecting. A poor widow,
struggling to maintain her orphans in
decency and comfort, is a delicious pic-
ture of human goodness. Put down
your hat, Kit.”
“ Thank you, sir, I must be going
directly.”
“ Put it down while you stay, at any
rate,” said Brass, taking it from him
and making some confusion among the
papers in finding a place for it on the
•desk. “ I was thinking, Kit, that we
have often houses to let for people we
are concerned for, and matters of that
sort. Now, you know, we ’re obliged to
put people into those houses to take
care of ’em, — very often undeserving
people that we can’t depend upon.
What ’s to prevent our having a person
that we can depend upon, and enjoying
the delight of doing a good action at the
same time ? I say, what ’s to prevent
our employing this worthy woman, your
mother ? What with one job and an-
other, there ’s lodging — and good lodg-
ing too — pretty well all the year round,
rent free, and a weekly allowance be-
sides, Kit, that would provide her with
a great many comforts she don’t at
present enjoy. Now what do you think
of that ? Do you see any objection ?
My only desire is to serve you, Kit ;
therefore, if you do, say so freely.”
As Brass spoke, he moved the hat
twice or thrice, and shuffled among the
papers again, as if in search of some-
thing.
“ How can I see any objection to
such a kind offer, sir ? ” replied Kit, with
his whole heart. “ I don’t know how
to thank you, sir, I don’t indeed.”
“Why, then,” said Brass, suddenly
turning upon him and thrusting his face
close to Kit’s with such a repulsive
smile that the latter, even in the very
height of his gratitude, drew back, quite
startled, — “ why, then, it ’s done."
Kit looked at him in some confusion.
“ Done, I say,” added Sampson, rub-
bing his hands and veiling himself again
in his usual oily manner. “ Ha, ha !
and so you shall find, Kit, so you shall
find. But, dear me,” said Brass, “ what
a time Mr. Richard is gone! A sad
loiterer to be sure ! Will you mind the
office one minute, while I run up stairs?
Only one minute. I ’ll not detain you
an instant longer on any account,
Kit.”
Talking as he went, Mr. Brass bus-
tled out of the office, and in a very short
time returned. Mr. Swiveller came
back, almost at the same instant ; and
as Kit was leaving the room hastily, to
make up for lost time, Miss Brass her-
self encountered him in the doorway.
“ Oh ? ” sneered Sally, looking after
him as she entered. “ There goes your
pet, Sammy, eh ? ”
“Ah ! There he goes,” replied Brass.
“ My pet, if you please. An honest
fellow, Mr. Richard, sir, — a worthy
fellow indeed ! ”
“ Hem ! ” coughed Miss Brass.
“I tell you, you aggravating vaga-
bond,” said the angry Sampson, “ that
I ’d stake my life upon his honesty.
Am I never to hear the last of this?
Am I always to be baited and beset
by your mean suspicions? Have you
no regard for true merit, you malignant
fellow? If you come to that, I ’d sooner
suspect your honesty than his.”
Miss Sally pulled out the tin snuff-
box, and took a long, slow pinch, re-
garding her brother with a steady gaze
all the time.
“ She drives me wild, Mr. Richard,
sir,” said Brass; “she exasperates me
beyond all bearing. I am heated and
excited, sir, I know I am. These are
not business manners, sir, nor business
looks, but she carries me out of my-
self.”
“ Why don’t you leave him alone ? ”
said Dick.
“ Because she can’t, sir,” retorted
Brass ; “ because to chafe and vex me
is a part of her nature, sir, and she will
and must do it, or I don’t believe she ’d
have her health. But never mind,”
said Brass, “ never mind I ’ve carried
my point. I ’ve shown my confidence
in the lad. He has minded the office
again. Ha, ha ! Ugh, you viper ! ”
The beautiful virgin took another
pinch, and put the snuffbox in her pock-
et, still looking at her brother with per-
fect composure.
THE OLD CURIOSITY SHOP.
255
“ He has minded the office again,”
said Brass, triumphantly ; “he has had
my confidence, and he shall continue to
have it ; he — why, where ’s the — ”
“ What have you lost? ” inquired Mr.
Swiveller.
“ Dear me!” said Brass, slapping all
his pockets, one after another, and
looking into his desk, and under it, and
upon it, and wildly tossing the papers
about, “ the note, Mr. Richard, sir, the
five-pound note, — what can have be-
come of it ? I laid it down here — God
biess me ! ”
“ What ! ” cried Miss Sally, starting
up, clapping her hands, and scattering,
the papers on the floor. “ Gone ! Now
who’s right? Now who’s got it?
Never mind five pounds, — what ’s five
ounds ? He ’s honest, you know, quite
onest. It would be mean to suspect
him. Don’t run after him. No, no,
not for the world ! ”
“ Is it really gone, though ? ” said
Dick, looking at Brass with a face as
pale as his own.
“Upon my word, Mr. Richard, sir,”
replied the lawyer, feeling in all his
pockets with looks of the greatest agi-
tation, “ I fear this is a black busi-
ness. It ’s certainly gone, sir. What ’s
to be done? ”
“ Don’t run after him,” said Miss Sal-
ly, taking more snuff. “ Don’t run af-
ter him on any account. Give him time
to get rid of it, you know. It would be
cruel to find him out ! ”
Mr. Swiveller and Sampson Brass
looked from Miss Sally to each other,
in a state of bewilderment, and then,
as by one impulse, caught up their
hats and rushed out into the street,
darting along in the middle of the
road, and dashing aside all obstruc-
tions, as though they were running for
their lives.
It happened that Kit had been run-
ning too, though not so fast, and, hav-
ing the start of them by some few min-
utes, was a good distance ahead. As
they were pretty certain of the road he
must have taken, however, and kept
on at a great pace, they came up
with him at the very moment when
he had taken breath and was break-
ing into a run again.
“Stop!” cried Sampson, laying his
hand on one shoulder, while Mr. Swiv-
eller pounced upon the other. “ Not so
fast, sir. You ’re in a hurry ? ”
“ Yes, I am,” said Kit, looking from
one to the other in great surprise.
“ I — I — can hardly believe it,” panted
Sampson, “but something of value is
missing from the office. I hope you
don’t know what.”
“ Know what ! good Heaven, Mr.
Brass ! ” cried Kit, trembling from
head to foot; “you don’t suppose — ”
“ No, no,” rejoined Brass, quickly,
“ I don’t suppose anything. Don’t say
/ said you did. You ’ll come back qui-
etly, I hope ? ”
“ Of course I will,” returned Kit.
“ Why not?”
“To be sure!” said Brass. “Why
not? I hope there may turn out to
be no why not. If you knew the trou-
ble I ’ve been^ in this morning, through
taking your part, Christopher, you ’d be
sorry for it.”
“"And I am sure you’ll be sorry
for having suspected me, sir,” replied
Kit. “ Come. Let us make haste
back.”
“ Certainly ! ” cried Brass, “the quick-
er, the better. Mr. Richard, have the
goodness, sir, to take that arm. “ I ’ll
take this one. It’s not easy walking
three abreast, but under these circum-
stances it must be done, sir ; there ’s
no help for it.”
Kit did turn from white to red, and from
red to white again, when they secured
him thus, and for a moment seemed
disposed to resist. But quickly recol-
lecting himself, and remembering that
if he made any struggle, he would per-
haps be. dragged by the collar through
the public streets, he only repeated, with
great earnestness and with the tears
standing in his eyes, that they would
be sorry for this, and suffered them
to lead him off. While they were on
the way back, Mr. Swiveller, upon
whom his present functions sat very
irksomely, took an opportunity of whis-
pering in his ear, that if he would con-
fess his guilt, even by so much as a nod,
and promise not to do so any more, he
would connive at his kicking Sampson
Brass on the shins and escaping up a
2$6
THE OLD CURIOSITY SHOP.
court ; but Kit indignantly rejecting
this proposal, Mr. Richard had noth-
ing for it but to hold him tight until
they reached Bevis Marks, and ush-
ered him into the presence of the
charming Sarah, who immediately took
the precaution of locking the door.
“Now, you know,” said Brass, “if
this is a case of innocence, it is a case
of that description, Christopher, where
the fullest disclosure is the best sat-
isfaction for everybody. Therefore, if
you’ll consent to an examination,” he
demonstrated what kind of examination
he meant by turning back the cuffs of
his coat, “it will be a comfortable and
pleasant thing for all parties.”
“ Search me,” said Kit, proudly hold-
ing up his arms. “But mind, sir, I
know you ’ll be sorry for this, to the
last day of your life.”
“ It is certainly a very painful occur-
rence,” said Brass, with a sigh, as he
dived into one of Kit’s pockets, and
fished up a miscellaneous collection of
small articles; “ve'ry painful. Noth-
ing here, Mr. Richard, sir, all perfectly
satisfactory. Nor here, sir. Nor in
the waistcoat, Mr. Richard, nor in the
coat-tails. So far, I am rejoiced, I am
sure.”
Richard Swiveller, holding Kit’s hat
in his hand, was watching the proceed-
ings with great interest, and bore upon
his face the slightest possible indication
of a smile, as Brass, shutting one of his
eyes, looked with the other up the inside
of one of the poor fellow’s sleeves as
if it were a telescope, when Sampson,
turning hastily to him, bade him search
the hat.
“Here’s a handkerchief,” said
Dick.
“No harm in that, sir,” rejoined
Brass, applying his eye to the other
sleeve, and speaking in the voice of one
who was contemplating an immense
extent of prospect. “ No harm in a
handkerchief, sir. whatever. The facul-
ty don’t consider it a healthy custom,
I believe, Mr. Richard, to carry one’s
handkerchief in one ’s hat, — I have
heard that it keeps the head too warm,
— but in every other point of view, its
being there is extremely satisfactory, —
ex-tremely so.”
An exclamation, at once from Richard
Swiveller, Miss Sally, and Kit himself,
cut the lawyer short. He turned his
head, and saw Dick standing with the
bank-note in his hand.
“In the hat? ” cried Brass, in a sort
of shriek.
“ Under the handkerchief, and tucked
beneath the lining,” said Dick, aghast
at the discovery.
Mr. Brass looked at him, at his sister,
at the walls, at the ceiling, at the floor,
— everywhere but at Kit, who stood
quite stupefied and motionless.
“ And this,” cried Sampson, clasping
his hands, “ is the world that turns up-
on its own axis, and has Lunar influen-
ces, and revolutions round Heavenly
Bodies, and various games of that sort !
This is human natur, is it? O natur,
natur ! This is the miscreant that I
was going to benefit with all my little
arts, and that, even now, I feel so much
for as to wish to let him go ! But,”
added Mr. Brass with greater fortitude,
“ I am myself a lawyer, and bound to
set an example in carrying the laws of
my happy country into effect. Sally, my
dear, forgive me, and catch hold of him
on the other side. Mr. Richard, sir,
have the goodness to run and fetch a
constable. The weakness is past and
over, sir, and moral strength returns. A
constable, sir, i i you please l ”
CHAPTER LX.
Kit stood as one entranced, with his
eyes opened wide and fixed upon the
ground, regardless alike of the tremu-
lous hold which Mr. Brass maintained
on one side of his cravat, and of the
firmer grasp of Miss Sally upon the
other ; although this latter detention
was in itself no small inconvenience, as
that fascinating woman, besides screw-
ing her knuckles inconveniently into
his throat from time to time, had fas-
tened upon him in the first instance
with so tight a grip that even in the
disorder and distraction of his thoughts
he could not divest himself of an uneasy
sense of choking. Between the brother
and sister he remained in this posture,
THE OLD CURIOSITY SHOP.
2 57
uite unresisting and passive, until Mr.
wiveller returned, with a police consta-
ble at his heels.
This functionary, being, of course,
well used to such scenes, looking upon
all kinds of robbery, from petty larceny
up to housebreaking or ventures on
the highway, as matters in the regular
course of business, and regarding the
perpetrators in the light of so many cus-
tomers coming to be served at the whole-
sale and retail shop of criminal law
where he stood behind the counter,
received Mr. Brass’s statement of facts
with about as much interest and sur-
prise as an undertaker might evince if
required to listen to a circumstantial
account of the last illness of a person
whom he was called in to wait upon
professionally, and took Kit into cus-
tody with a decent indifference.
“We had better,” said this subordi-
nate minister of justice, “get to the of-
fice while there ’s a magistrate sitting.
I shall want you to come along with us,
Mr. Brass, and the — ” he looked at
Miss Sally as if in some doubt whether
she might not be a griffin or other fabu-
lous monster.
“ The lady, eh ? ” said Sampson.
“ Ah ! ” replied the constable. “ Yes,
the lady. Likewise the young man
that found the property.”
“Mr. Richard, sir,” said Brass, in a
mournful voice. “ A sad necessity.
But the altar of our country, sir — ”
“You’ll have a hackney-coach, I
suppose?” interrupted the constable,
holding Kit (whom his other captors
had released) carelessly by the arm, a
little above the elbow. “ Be so good as
send for one, will you?”
“But hear me speak a word,” cried
Kit, raising his eyes and looking im-
ploringly about him. “ Hear me speak
a word. I am no more guilty than any
one of you. Upon my soul, I am not.
I a thief! O Mr. Brass, you know
me better. I am sure you know me
better. This is not right of you, in-
deed.”
“ I give you my word, constable — ”
said Brass. But here the constable in-
terposed with the constitutional princi-
ple “ words be blowed ” ; observing that
words were but spoon-meat for babes
and sucklings, and that oaths were the
food for strong men.
“ Quite true, constable,” assented
Brass in the same mournful tone.
“ Strictly correct. I give you my oath,
constable, that down to a few minutes
ago, when this fatal discovery was made,
I had such confidence in that lad that
I ’d have trusted him with — A hack-
ney-coach, Mr. Richard, sir; you’re
very slow, sir.”
“ Who is there that knows me,” cried
Kit, “that would not trust me, — that
does not ? Ask anybody whether they
have ever doubted me ; whether I
have ever wronged them of a farthing.
Was I ever once dishonest when I was
poor and hungry, and is it likely I would
begin now ! O, consider what you do.
How can I meet the kindest friends
that ever human creature had with this
dreadful charge upon me ! ”
Mr. Brass rejoined that it would have
been well for the prisoner if he had
thought of that before, and was about
to make some other gloomy observa-
tions when the voice of the single gen-
tleman was heard, demanding from
above stairs what was the matter, and
what was the cause of all that noise and
hurry. Kit made an involuntary start
towards the door, in his anxiety to an-
swer for himself, but, being speedily
detained by the constable, had the
agony of seeing Sampson Brass run
out alone to tell the story in his own
way.
“ And he can hardly believe it, ei-
ther,” said Sampson, when he returned,
“nor nobody will. I wish I could
doubt the evidence of my senses, but
their depositions are unimpeachable.
It ’s of no use cross-examining my eyes,”
cried Sampson, winking and rubbing
them : “ they stick to their first account,
and will. Now, Sarah, I hear the
coach in the Marks ; get on your bon-
net, and we ’ll be off. A sad errand !
a moral funeral, quite ! ”
“Mr. Brass,” said Kit, “do me one
favor. Take me to Mr. Witherden’s,
first.”
Sampson shook his head irresolutely.
“Do,” said Kit. “My master’s
there. For Heaven’s sake, take me
there, first.”
17
THE OLD CURIOSITY SHOP.
258
“Well, I don’t know,” stammered
Brass, who perhaps had his reasons for
wishing to show as fair as possible in
the eyes of the notary. “ How do we
stand in point of time, constable, eh?”
The constable, who had been chew-
ing a straw all this while with great
philosophy, replied that if they went
away at once they would have time
enough, but that if they stood shilly-
shallying there, any longer, they must
go straight to the Mansion House ;
and finally expressed his opinion that
that was where it was, and that was all
about it. .
Mr. Richard Swiveller having arrived
inside the coach, and still remaining
immovable in the most commodious
corner, with his face to the horses, Mr.
Brass instructed the officer to remove
his prisoner, and declared himself quite
ready. Therefore, the constable, still
holding Kit in the same manner, and
pushing him on a little before him, so
as to keep him at about three quarters
of an arm’s length in advance (which is
the professional mode), thrust him into
the vehicle and followed himself. Miss
Sally entered next ; and there being
now four inside, Sampson Brass got up-
on the box, and made the coachman
drive on.
Still completely stunned by the sud-
den and terrible change which had taken
place in his affairs, Kit sat gazing out
of the coach window, almost hoping to
see some monstrous phenomenon in
the streets which might give him reason
to believe he was in a dream. Alar, !
Everything was too real and familiar :
the same succession of turnings, the
same houses, the same streams of peo-
ple running side by side in different di-
rections upon the pavement, the same
bustle of carts and carriages in the
road, the same well-remembered objects
in the shop windows : a regularity in
the very noise and hurry which no
dream ever mirrored. Dream-like as
the story was, it was true. He stood
charged with robbery ; the note had
been found upon him, though he was
innocent in thought and deed ; and
they were carrying him back a pris-
oner.
Absorbed in these painful ruminations.
thinking with a drooping heart of his
mother and little Jacob, feeling as
though even the consciousness of inno-
cence would be insufficient to support
him in the presence of his friends if they
believed him guilty, and sinking in
hope and courage more and more as
they drew nearer to the notary’s, poor
Kit was looking earnestly out of the
window, observant of nothing, — when
all at once, as though it had been con-
jured up by magic, he became aware of
the face of Quilp.
And what a leer there was upon the
face ! It was from the open window of
a tavern that it looked out ; and the
dwarf had so spread himself over it,
with his elbows on the window-sill and
his head resting on both his hands,
that, what between this attitude and his
being swollen with suppressed laughter,
he looked puffed and bloated into twice
his usual breadth. Mr. Brass, on rec-
ognizing him, immediately stopped the
coach. As it came to a halt directly
opposite to where he stood, the dwarf
pulled off his hat, and saluted the party
with a hideous and grotesque polite-
ness.
“Aha!” he cried. “Where now,
Brass? where now? Sally with you too?
Sweet Sally ! And Dick ? Pleasant
Dick! And Kit? Honest Kit!”
“He’s extremely cheerful!” said
Brass to the coachman. “Very much
so! Ah, sir, a sad business! Never
believe in honesty any more, sir.”
“Why not?” returned the dwarf.
“Why not, you rogue of a lawyer, why
not ? ”
“ Bank-note lost in our office, sir,”
said Brass, shaking his head. “ Found
in his hat, sir, he previously left alone
there. No mistake at all, sir; chain of
evidence complete, — not a link want-
ing.”
“ What ! ” cried the dwarf, leaning
half his body out of the window, “ Kit
a thief! Kit a thief! Ha, ha, ha!
Why, he’s an uglier-looking thief than
can be seen anywhere for a penny. Eh,
Kit, eh ? Ha, ha, ha ! Have you ta-
ken Kit into custody before he had
time and opportunity to beat me ! Eh,
Kit, eh?” And with that he burst
into a yell of laughter, manifestly to
THE OLD CURIOSITY SHOP.
259
the great terror of the coachman, and
pointed to a dyer’s pole hard by, where
a dangling suit of clothes bore some
resemblance to a man upon a gibbet.
“Is it coming to that, Kit?” cried
the dwarf, rubbing his hands violently.
“ Ha, ha, ha, ha ! What a disappoint-
ment for little Jacob, and for his darling
mother ! Let him have the Bethel
minister to comfort and console him,
Brass. Eh, Kit, eh ? Drive on, coachey,
drive on. By by, Kit ; all good go with
you ; keep up your spirits ; my love to
the Garlands, — the dear old lady and
gentleman. Say I inquired after ’em,
will you ? Blessings on ’em, and on
you, and on everybody, Kit. Blessings
on all the world ! ”
With such good wishes and farewells,
poured out in a rapid torrent until they
were out of hearing, Quilp suffered
them to depart, and when he could see
the coach no longer, drew in his head,
and rolled upon the ground in an ec-
stasy of enjoyment.
When they reached the notary’s, which
they were not long in doing, for they
had encountered the dwarf in a by-
street at a very little distance from the
house, Mr. Brass dismounted ; and,
opening the coach door with a melan-
choly visage, requested his sister to ac-
company him into the office, with the
view of preparing the good people with-
in for the mournful intelligence that
awaited them. Miss Sally complying,
he desired Mr. Swiveller to accompany
them. So into the office they went ;
Mr. Sampson and his sister arm-in-arm ;
and Mr. Swiveller following, alone.
The notary was standing before the
fire in the outer office, talking to Mr.
Abel and the elder Mr. Garland, while
Mr. Chuckster sat writing at the desk,
picking up such crumbs of their con-
versation as happened to fall in his way.
This posture of affairs Mr. Brass ob-
served through the glass door as he was
turning the handle, and, seeing that the
notary recognized him, he began to
shake his head and sigh deeply while
that partition yet divided them.
“ Sir,” said Sampson, taking off his
hat, and kissing the two forefingers of
his right-hand beaver glove, “ my name
is Brass, — Brass of Bevis Marks, sir.
I have had the honor and pleasure, sir,
of being concerned against you in some
little testamentary matters. How do
you do, sir ? ”
“My clerk will attend to any business
you may have come upon, Mr. Brass,”
said the notary, turning away.
“Thank you, sir,” said Brass, “thank
you, I am sure. Allow me, sir, to in-
troduce my sister — quite one of us, sir,
although of the weaker sex — of great
use in my business, sir, I assure you.
Mr. Richard, sir, have the goodness to
come forward, if you please — No, real-
ly,” said Brass, stepping between the
notary and his private office (towards
which he had begun to retreat), and
speaking in the tone of an injured man,
“ really, sir, I must, under favor, request
a word or two with you, indeed.”
“ Mr. Brass,” said the other, in a de-
cided tone, “ I am engaged. You see
that I am occupied with these gentle-
men. If you will communicate your
business to Mr. Chuckster yonder, you
will receive every attention.”
# “Gentlemen,” said Brass, laying his
right hand on his waistcoat, and look-
ing towards the father and son with a
smooth smile, — “gentlemen, I appeal
to you, — really, gentlemen, — consider,
I beg of you. I am of the law. I am
styled ‘ gentleman ’ by act of Parlia-
ment. I maintain the title by the an-
nual payment of twelve pounds sterling
for a certificate. I am not one of your
players of music, stage actors, writers of
books, or painters of pictures, who as-
sume a station that the laws of their
country don’t recognize. I am none of
your strollers or vagabonds. If any
man brings his action against me, he
must describe me as a gentleman, or
his action is null and void. I appeal to
you, — is this quite respectful ? Really,
gentlemen — ”
“ Well, will you have the goodness to
state your business then, Mr. Brass?”
said the notary.
“Sir,” rejoined Brass, “ I will. Ah,
Mr. Witherden ! you little know the —
but I will not be tempted to travel from
the point, sir. I believe the name of
one of these gentlemen is Garland.”.
“ Of both,” said the notary.
“ In-deed ! ” rejoined Brass, cringing
26 o
THE OLL CURIOSITY SHOP .
excessively. “ But I might have known
that from the uncommon likeness.
Extremely happy, I am sure, to have
the honor of an introduction to two such
gentlemen, although the occasion is a
most painful one. One of you gentle-
men has a servant called Kit? ”
“ Both,” replied the notary.
“ Two Kits ? ” said Brass, smiling.
“ De^r me !”
“ One Kit, sir,” returned Mr. With-
erden, angrily, “ who is employed by
both gentlemen. What of him ? ”
“ This of him, sir,” rejoined Brass,
dropping his voice impressively. “ That
oung man, sir, that I have felt un-
ounded and unlimited confidence in,
and always behaved to as if he was
my ecpial, — that young man has this
morning committed a robbery in my
office, and been taken almost in the
fact.”
“This must be some falsehood!”
cried the notary.
“ It is not possible,” said Mr. Abel.
“ I ’ll not believe one word of it,”
exclaimed the old gentleman.
Mr. Brass looked mildly round upon
them, and rejoined : —
“ Mr. Witherden, sir, your words are
actionable, and if I was a man of low
and mean standing, who could n’t afford
to be slandered, I should proceed for
damages. Hows’ ever, sir, being what
I am, I merely scorn such expressions.
The honest warmth of the other gentle-
man I respect, and I ’m truly sorry to
be the messenger of such unpleasant
news. I shouldn’t have put myself in
this painful position, I assure you, but
that the lad himself desired to be brought
here in the first instance, and I yielded
to his prayers. Mr. Chuckster, sir, will
you have the goodness to tap at the
window for the constable that ’s waiting
in the coach ? ”
The three gentlemen looked at each
other with blank faces when these words
were uttered, and Mr. Chuckster, doing
as he was desired, and leaping off his
stool with something of the excitement
of an inspired prophet whose foretellings
had in the fulness of time been realized,
held the door open for the entrance of
the wretched captive.
Such a scene as there was, when Kit
came in, and, bursting into the rude
eloquence with which Truth at length
inspired him, called Heaven to witness
that he was innocent, and that how the
property came to be found upon him he
knew not ! Such a confusion of tongues,
before the circumstances were related,
and the proofs disclosed ! Such a dead
silence when all was told, and his three
friends exchanged looks of doubt and
amazement !
“ Is it not possible,” said Mr. With-
erden, after a long pause, “that this
note may have found its way into the
hat by some accident, — such*as the re-
moval of papers on the desk, for in-
stance ? ”
But this was clearly shown to be
quite impossible. Mr. Swiveller, though
an unwilling witness, could not help
proving to demonstration, from the posi-
tion in which it was found, that it must
have been designedly secreted.
“It’s very distressing,” said Brass,
— “ immensely distressing, I am sure.
When he comes to be tried, I shall be
very happy to recommend him to mer-
cy on account of his previous good char-
acter. I did lose money before, cer-
tainly, but it does n’t quite follow that
he took it. The presumption ’s against
him, — strongly against him, — but we
’re Christians, I hope?”
“ I suppose,” said the constable,
looking round, “that no gentleman
here can give evidence as to whether
he ’s been flush of money of late. Do
you happen to know, sir?”
“ He has had money from time to
time, certainly,” returned Mr. Garland,
to whom the man had put the question.
“ But that, as he always told me, was
given him by Mr. Brass himself.”
“ Yes, to be sure,” said Kit, eagerly.
“You can bear me out in that, sir?”
“Eh?” cried Brass, looking from
face to face with an expression of stupid
amazement.
“ The money, you know, the half-
crowns that you gave me — from the
lodger,” said Kit.
“ O dear me ! ” cried Brass, shaking
his head and frowning heavily. “This
is a bad case, I find I a very bad case
indeed.”
“ What ! Did you give him no mon-
THE OLD CURIOSITY SHOP.
ey on account of anybody, sir? ” asked
Mr. Garland, with great anxiety.
“/ give him money, sir ! ” returned
Sampson. “O come, you know this is
too barefaced. Constable, my good
fellow, we had better be going.”
“What!” shrieked Kit. “Does he
deny that he did ? Ask him, somebody,
pray. Ask him to tell you whether he
did or not ! ”
“Did you, sir?” asked the notary.
“I tell you what, gentlemen,” replied
Brass, in a very grave manner, “ he ’ll
not serve his case this way, and really,
if you feel any interest in him, you had
better advise him to go upon some
other tack. Did I, sir? Of course I
never did.”
“ Gentlemen,” cried Kit, on whom a
light broke suddenly, “master, Mr.
Abel, Mr. Witherden, everyone of you,
— he did it! What I have done to
offend him, I don’t know, but this is a
plot to ruin me. Mind, gentlemen, it ’s
a plot, and whatever comes of it, I will
say, with my dying breath, that he put
that note in my hat himself! Look at
him, gentlemen ! See how he changes
color. Which of us looks the guilty
person, — he or I?”
“You hear him, gentlemen?” said
Brass, smiling, “you hear him. Now,
does this case strike you as assuming
rather a black complexion, or does it
not? Is it at all a treacherous case,
do you think, or is it one of mere ordi-
nary guilt? Perhaps, gentlemen, if he
had not said this in your presence and
I had reported it, you’d have held this
to be impossible, likewise, eh ? ”
With such pacific and bantering re-
marks did Mr. Brass refute the foul as-
persion on his character ; but the virtu-
ous Sarah, moved by stronger feelings,
and having at heart, perhaps, a more
jealous regard for the honor of her fami-
ly, flew from her brother’s side, without
any previous intimation of her design,
and darted at the prisoner with the ut-
most fury. It would undoubtedly have
gone hard with Kit’s face, but that the
wary constable, foreseeing her design,
drew him aside at the critical moment,
and thus placed Mr. Chuckster in cir-
cumstances of some jeopardy ; for that
gentleman, happening to be next the
261
object of Miss Brass’s wrath, and rage
being, like love and fortune, blind,
was pounced upon by the fair enslaver,
and had a false collar plucked up by
the roots, and his hair very much di-
shevelled, before the exertions of the
company could make her sensible of
her mistake.
The constable, taking warning by
this desperate attack, and thinking per-
haps that it would be more satisfactory
to the ends of justice if the prisoner were
taken before a magistrate whole, rather
than in small pieces, led him back to the
hackney-coach without more ado, and
moreover insisted on Miss Brass becom-
ing an outside passenger ; to which pro-
posal the charming creature, after a
little angry discussion, yielded her con-
sent, and so took her brother Samp-
son’s place upon the box; Mr. Brass
with some reluctance agreeing to oc-
cupy her seat inside. These arrange-
ments perfected, they drove to the jus-
tice-room with all speed, followed by
the notary and his two friends in an-
other coach. Mr. Chuckster alone was
left behind, — greatly to his indignation ;
for he held the evidence he could have
given, relative to Kit’s returning to
work out the shilling, to be so very
material as bearing upon his hypocriti-
cal and designing character, that he
considered its suppression little better
than a compromise of felony.
At the justice-room they found the
single gentleman, who had gone straight
there, and was expecting them with
desperate impatience. But not fifty
single gentlemen rolled into one could
have helped poor Kit, who in half
an hour afterwards was committed for
trial, and was assured by a friendly
officer on his way to prison that there
was no occasion to be cast down, for
the sessions would soon be on, and he
would, in all likelihood, get his little
affair disposed of, and be comfortably
transported, in less than a fortnight.
CHAPTER LXI.
Let moralists and philosophers say
what they may, it is very questionable
26 2
THE OLD CURIOSITY SHOP.
■whether a guilty man would have felt
half as much misery that night as Kit
did, being innocent. The world, being,
in the constant commission of vast
quantities of injustice, is a little too apt
to comfort itself with the idea that if
the victim of its falsehood and malice
have a clear conscience, he cannot fail
to be sustained under his trials, and
somehow or other to come right at
last; “in which case,” say they who
have hunted him down, “ though we
certainly don’t expect it, nobody will
be better pleased than we.” Whereas,
the world would do well to reflect, that
injustice is in itself, to every generous
and properly constituted mind, an in-
jury, of all others the most insufferable,
the most torturing, and the most hard
to bear ; and that many clear conscien-
ces have gone to their account elsewhere,
and many sound hearts have broken,
because of this very reason ; the knowl-
edge of their own deserts only aggravat-
ing their sufferings, and rendering them
the less endurable.
The world, however, was not in fault
in Kit’s case. But Kit was innocent ;
and knowing this, and feeling that his
best friends deemed him guilty, — that
Mr. and Mrs. Garland would look upon
him as a monster of ingratitude, — that
Barbara would associate him with all
that was bad and criminal, — that the
pony would consider himself forsaken,
— and that even his own mother might
perhaps yield to the strong appearances
against him, and believe him to be the
wretch he seemed, — knowing and feel-
ing all this, he experienced, at first,
an agony of mind which no words can
describe, and walked up and down the
little cell in which he was locked up for
the night, almost beside himself with
grief.
Even when the violence of these
emotions had in some degree subsided,
and he was beginning to grow more
calm, there came into his mind a new
thought, the anguish of which was
scarcely less. The child, — the bright
star of the simple fellow’s life, — she
who always came back upon him like
a beautiful dream, — who had made the
poorest part of his existence the hap-
piest and best, — who had ever been so
gentle and considerate and good, — if
she were ever to hear of this, what would
she think ! As this idea occurred to
him, the walls of the prison seemed to
melt away, and the old place to reveal
itself in their stead, as it was wont to
be on winter nights, — the fireside, the
little supper-table, the old man’s hat
and coat and stick, the half-opened
door, leading to her little room, — they
were all there. And Nell herself was
there, and he, — both laughing heartily
as they had often done ; and when he
had got as far as this, Kit could go no
further, but flung himself upon his poor
bedstead and wept.
It was a long night, which seemed as
though it would have no end ; but he
slept too, and dreamed, — always of be-
ing at liberty, and roving about, now
with one person and now with another,
but ever with a vague dread of being
recalled to prison ; not that prison, but
one which was in itself a dim idea, —
not of a place, but of a care and sor-
row ; of something oppressive and al-
ways present, and yet impossible to de-
fine. At last the morning dawned, and
there was the jail itself, — cold, black,
and dreary, and very real indeed.
He was left to himself, however, and
there was comfort in that. He had
liberty to walk in a small paved yard
at a certain hour, and learned from the
turnkey who came to unlock his cell
and show him where to wash, that
there was a regular time for visiting,
every day, and that if any of his friends
came to see him, he would be fetched
down to the grate. When he had given
him this information, and a tin porrin-
ger containing his breakfast, the man
locked him up again, and went clattering
along the stone passage, opening and
shutting a great many other doors, and
raising numberless loud echoes, which
resounded through the building for a
long time, as if they were in prison too,
and unable to get out.
This turnkey had given him to un-
derstand that he was lodged, like some
few others in the jail, apart from the
mass of prisoners, because he was not
supposed to be utterly depraved and
irreclaimable, and had never occupied
apartments in that mansion before.
THE OLD CURIOSITY SHOP . 263
Kit was thankful for this indulgence,
and sat reading the church catechism
very attentively (though he had known
it by heart from a little child), until he
heard the key in the lock, and the man
entered again.
“ Now then,” he said, “ come on ! ”
“ Where to, sir ? ” asked Kit.
The man contented himself by briefly
replying, “Wisitors”; and, taking him
by the arm in exactly the same manner
as the constable had done the day be-
fore, led him, through several winding
ways and strong gates, into a passage,
where he placed him at a grating and
turned upon his heel. Beyond this
grating, at the distance of about four or
five feet, was another, exactly like it.
In the space between sat a turnkey,
reading a newspaper ; and outside the
farther railing, Kit saw, with a palpitat-
ing heart, his mother with the baby in
her arms ;* Barbara’s mother with her
never-failing umbrella ; and poor little
Jacob, staring in with all his might, as
though he were looking for the bird, or
the wild beast, and thought the men
were mere accidents with whom the
bars could have no possible concern.
But when little Jacob saw his broth-
er, and, thrusting his arms between the
rails to hug him, found that he came no
nearer, but still stood afar off with his
head resting on the arm by which
he held to one of the bars, he began
to cry most piteously ; whereupon, Kit’s
mother and Barbara’s mother, who had
restrained themselves as much as pos-
sible, burst out sobbing arid weeping
afresh. Poor Kit could not help join-
ing them, and not one of them could
speak a word.
During this melancholy pause, the
turnkey read his newspaper with a wag-
gish look (he had evidently got among
the facetious paragraphs) until, happen-
ing to take his eyes off it for an instant,
as if to get by dint of contemplation at
the very marrow of some joke of a
deeper sort than the rest, it appeared
to occur to him, for the first time, that
somebody was crying.
“ Now', ladies, ladies,” he said, look-
ing round w'ith surprise, “I’d advise you
rot to waste time like this. It ’s al-
lowanced here, you know. You mustn’t
let that child make that noise, either.
It ’s against all rules.”
“ I ’m his poor mother, sir,” sobbed
Mrs. Nubbles, courtesying humbly,
“and this is his brother, sir. O dear
me, dear me ! ”
“Well !” replied the turnkey, fold-
ing his paper on his knee, so as to get
with greater convenience at the top of
the next column. “ It can’t be helped,
you know. He ain’t the only one in
the same fix. You mustn’t make a
noise about it ! ”
With that he went on reading. The
man was not naturally cruel or hard-
hearted. He had come to look upon
felony as a kind of disorder, like the
scarlet fever or erysipelas : some people
had it, some hadn’t, just as it might
be.
“ O my darling Kit,” said his moth-
er, whom Barbara’s mother had chari-
tably relieved of the baby, “ that I
should see my poor boy here ! ”
“ You don’t believe I did what they
accuse me of, mother dear?” cried Kit,
in a choking voice.
“ / believe it ! ” exclaimed the poor
woman, — “ /, that never knew you tell a
lie, or do a bad action from your cradle !
— that have never had a moment’s sor-
row on your account, except it was for
the poor meals that you have taken
with such good-humor and content that
I forgot how little there was when I
thought how kind and thoughtful you
were, though you w'ere but a child ! — I
believe it of the son that ’s been a com-
fort to me from the hour of his birth to
this time, and that I never laid down
one night in anger with ! — I believe it
of you, Kit — ”
“ Why, then, thank God ! ” said Kit,
clutching the bars with an earnestness
that shook them; “and I can bear it,
mother ! Come what may, I shall al-
ways have one drop) of happiness in
my heart when I think that you said
that.”
At this, the poor woman fell a crying
again, and Barbara’s mother too. And
little Jacob, whose disjointed thoughts
had by this time resolved themselves
into a pretty distinct impression that
Kit could n’t go out for a walk if he
wanted, and that there were no birds,
264
THE OLD CURIOSITY SHOP.
lions, tigers, or other natural curiosi-
ties behind those bars, — nothing, in-
deed, but a caged brother, — added his
tears to theirs with as little noise as
possible.
Kit’s mother, drying her eyes (and
moistening them, poor soul, more than
she dried them), now took from the
ground a small basket, and submissive-
ly addressed herself to the turnkey, say-
ing, would he please to listen to her for
a minute? The turnkey, being in the
very crisis and passion of a joke, mo-
tioned to her with his hand to keep
silent one minute longer, for her life.
Nor did he remove his hand into its
former posture, but kept it in the same
warning attitude until he had finished
the paragraph, when he paused for a
few seconds, with a smile upon his face,
as who should say, “This editor is a
comical blade, — a funny dog,” and then
asked her what she wanted.
“ I have brought him a little some-
thing to eat,” said the good woman.
“ If you please, sir, might he have it?”
“ Yes, he may have it. There ’s no
rule against that. Give it to me when
you go, and I ’ll take care he has it.”
“ No, but if you please, sir, — don’t
be angry with me, sir, I am his moth-
er, and you had a mother once, — if I
might only see him eat a little bit, I
should go away so much more satisfied
that he was all comfortable.”
And again the tears of Kit’s mother
burst forth, and of Barbara’s mother,
and of little Jacob. As to the baby, it
was crowing and laughing with all its
might, — under the idea, apparently,
that the whole scene had been invented
and got up for its particular satisfac-
tion.
The turnkey looked as if he thought
the request a strange one and rather out
of the common way, but nevertheless
he laid down his paper, and, coming
round to where Kit’s mother stood,
took the basket from her, and after in-
specting its contents, handed it to Kit,
and went back to his place. It may be
easily conceived that the prisoner had
no great appetite, but he sat down on
the ground, and ate as hard as he could,
while, at every morsel he put into his
mouth, his mother sobbed and wept
afresh, though with a softened grief that
bespoke the satisfaction the sight af-
forded her.
While he was thus engaged, Kit
made some anxious inquiries about his
employers, and whether they had ex-
pressed any opinion concerning him ;
but all he could learn was, that Mr.
Abel had himself broken the intelli-
gence to his mother, with great kind-
ness and delicacy, late on the previous
night, but had himself expressed no
opinion of his innocence or guilt. Kit
was on the point of mustering courage
to ask Barbara’s mother about Barbara,
when the turnkey who had conducted
him reappeared, a second turnkey ap-
peared behind his visitors, and the
third turnkey with the newspaper cried,
“Time’s up!” — adding in the same
breath, “ Now for the next party ! ” and
then plunging deep into his newspaper
again. Kit was taken off in an instant,
with a blessing from his mother and a
scream from little Jacob ringing in his
ears. As he was crossing the next yard
with the basket in his hand, under the
guidance of his former conductor, an-
other officer called to them to stoj>, and
came up with a pint-pot of porter in his
hand.
“ This is Christopher Nubbles, isn’t
it, that come in last night for felony ? ”
said the man.
His comrade replied that this was the
chicken in question.
“Then here’s your beer,” said the
other man to Christopher. “ What are
you lookirfg at? There ain’t a dis-
charge in it.”
“ I beg your pardon,” said Kit.
“ Who sent it me ? ”
“ Why, your friend,” replied the man.
“You ’re to have it every day, he says.
And so you will, if he pays for it.”
“ My friend ! ” repeated Kit.
“You’re all abroad, seemingly,” re-
turned the other man. “ There ’s his
letter. Take hold ! ”
Kit took it, and when he was locked
up again, read as follows : —
“ Drink of this cup. You ’ll find
there ’s a spell in its every drop ’gainst
the ills of mortality. Talk of the cordial
that sparkled for Helen ! Her cup was
a fiction, but this is reality (Barclay and
THE OLD CURIOSITY SHOP.
265
Co.’s). If they ever send it in a flat
state, complain to the Governor. Yours,
R. S.”
“ R. S. ! ” said Kit, after some con-
sideration. “It must be Mr. Richard
Swiveller. Well, it’s very kind of him,
and I thank him heartily ! ”
CHAPTER LXII.
A faint light, twinkling from the
window of the counting-house on Quilp’s
wharf, and looking inflamed and red
through the night fog, as though it suf-
fered from it like an eye, forewarned
Mr. Sampson Brass, as he approached
the wooden cabin with a cautious step,
that the excellent proprietor, his es-
teemed client, was inside, and probably
waiting with his accustomed patience
and sweetness of temper the fulfilment
of the appointment which now brought
Mr. Brass within his fair domain.
“ A treacherous place to pick one’s
steps in, of a dark night,” muttered
Sampson, as he stumbled for the twen-
tieth time over some stray lumber, and
limped in pain. “ I believe that boy
strews the ground differently every day,
on purpose to bruise and maim one ;
unless his master does it with his own
hands, which is more than likely. I
hate to come to this place without Sally.
She ’s more protection than a dozen
men.”
As he paid this compliment to the
merit of the absent charmer, Mr. Brass
came to a halt, looking doubtfully to-
wards the light, and over his shoulder.
“ What ’s he about, I wonder ? ” mur-
mured the lawyer, standing on tiptoe
and endeavoring to obtain a glimpse of
what was passing inside, which at that
distance was impossible. “Drinking, I
suppose, — making himself more fiery
and furious, and heating his malice and
mischievousness till they boil. I ’m al-
ways afraid to come here by myself,
when his account ’s a pretty large one.
I don’t believe he ’d rnind throttling
me, and dropping me softly into the
river, when the tide was at its strongest,
any more than he ’d mind killing a
rat, — indeed I don’t know whether he
would n’t consider it a pleasant joke.
Hark ! Now he ’s singing ! ” •
Mr. Quilp was certainly entertaining
himself with vocal exercise, but it was
rather a kind of chant than a song ; be-
ing a monotonous repetition of one sen-
tence in a very rapid manner, with a
long stress upon the last word, which he
swelled into a dismal roar. Nor did
the burden of this performance bear
any reference to love, or war, or wine,
or loyalty, or any other, the standard
topics of song, but to a subject not
often set to music, or generally known
in ballads ; the words being these :
“ The worthy magistrate, after remark-
ing that the prisoner would find some
difficulty in persuading a jury to believe
his tale, committed him to take his trial
at the approaching sessions ; and di-
rected the customary recognizances to
be entered into for the pros-e-cution.”
Every time he came to this con-
cluding word, and had exhausted all
possible stress upon it, Quilp burst
into a shriek of laughter, and began
again.
“He’s dreadfully imprudent,” mut-
tered Brass, after he had listened to
two or three repetitions of the chant.
“ Horribly imprudent. I wish he was
dumb. I wish he was deaf. I wish he
was blind. Hang him,” cried Brass, as
the chant began again. “I wish he was
dead ! ”
Giving utterance to these friendly as-
pirations in behalf of his client, Mr.
Sampson composed his face into its
usual state of smoothness, and, waiting
until the shriek came again and was dy-
ing away, went up to the wooden house
and knocked at the door.
“ Come in ! ” cried the dwarf.
“ How do you do to-night, sir? ” said
Sampson, peeping in. “ Ha, ha, ha !
How do you do, sir? O dear me, how
very whimsical ! Amazingly whimsical,
to be sure ! ”
“Come in, you fool !” returned the
dwarf, “ and don’t stand there shaking
your head and showing your teeth.
Come in, you false witness, you per-
jurer, you suborner of evidence; come
in ! ”
“ He has the richest humor ! ” cried
Brass, shutting the door behind him ;
266
THE OLD CURIOSITY SHOP.
“ the most amazing vein of comicality !
B»t is n’t it rather injudicious, sir — ”
‘ ‘ What ? ’ ’ demanded Quilp. ‘ ‘ What,
Judas ? ”
“ Judas ! ” cried Brass. “ He has
such extraordinary spirits ! His humor
is so extremely playful ! Judas ! O yes ;
dear me, how very good ! Ha, ha,
ha ! ”
All this time Sampson was rubbing
his hands, and staring, with ludicrous
surprise and dismay, at a great, gog-
gle-eyed, blunt-nosed figure-head of
some old ship, which was reared up
against the wall in a corner near the
stove, looking like a goblin or hideous
idol whom the dwarf worshipped. A
mass of timber on its head, carved into
the dim and distant semblance of a
cocked hat, together with a representa-
tion of a star on the left breast and
epaulets on the shoulders, denoted
that it was intended for the effigy of
some famous admiral ; but, without
those helps, any observer might have
supposed it the authentic portrait of a
distinguished merman or great sea-
monster. Being originally much too
large for the apartment which it was
now employed to decorate, it had been
sawn short off at the waist. Even in
this state it reached from floor to ceil-
ing ; and thrusting itself forward, with
that excessively wide-awake aspect,
and air of somewhat obtrusive polite-
ness, by which figure-heads are usually
characterized, seemed to reduce every-
thing else to mere pygmy proportions.
“ Do you know it? ” said the dwarf,
watching Sampson’s eyes. “ Do you
see the likeness ? ”
“ Eh? ” said Brass, holding his head
on one side, and throwing it a little
back, as connoisseurs do. “ Now I
look at it again, I fancy I see a — yes,
there certainly is something in the smile
that reminds me of — and yet, upon my
word, I — ”
Now, the fact was, that Sampson,
having never seen anything in the
smallest degree resembling this sub-
stantial phantom, was much perplexed ;
being uncertain whether Mr. Quilp
considered it like himself, and had
therefore bought it for a family portrait ;
or whether he was pleased to consider
it as the likeness of some enemy. He
was not very long in doubt ; for, while
he was surveying it with that knowing
look which people assume when they
are contemplating for the first time por-
traits which they ought to recognize but
don’t, the dwarf threw down the news-
paper from which he had been chanting
the words already quoted, and seizing
a rusty iron bar, which he used in lieu
of poker, dealt the figure such a stroke
on the nose that it rocked again.
_ “ Is it like Kit ? is it his picture,
his image, his very self? ” cried the
dwarf, aiming a shower of blows at the
insensible countenance, and covering it
with deep dimples. “Is it the exact
model and counterpart of the dog, —
is it, — is it, — is it ? ” And with every
repetition of the question, he battered
the great image, until the perspiration
streamed down his face with the vio-
lence of the exercise.
Although this might have been a very
comical thing to look at from a secure
gallery, as a bull-fight is found to be a
comfortable spectacle by those who are
not in the arena, and a house on fire is
better than a play to people who don’t
live, near it, there was something in
the earnestness of Mr. Quilp’s manner
which made his legal adviser feel that
the counting-house was a little too small,
and a deal too lonely, for the complete
enjoyment of these humors. There-
fore, he stood as far off as he could,
while the dwarf was thus engaged,
whimpering out but feeble applause ;
and when Quilp left off and sat down
again from pure exhaustion, approached
with more obsequiousness than ever.
“Excellent, indeed!” cried Brass.
“He, he ! O, very good, sir. You
know,” said Sampson, looking round as
if in appeal to the bruised admiral, “he’s
quite a remarkable man, — quite ! ”
“Sit down,” said the dwarf. “I
bought the dog yesterday. I ’ve been
screwing gimlets into him, and sticking
forks in his eyes, and cutting my name
on him. .1 mean to burn him at last.”
“ Ha, ha ! ” cried Brass. “ Extreme-
ly entertaining, indeed ! ”
“ Come here ! ” said Quilp, beckon-
ing him to draw near. “ What ’s inju-
dicious, hey? ”
THE OLD CURIOSITY SHOP . 267
“ Nothing, sir, nothing. Scarcely
worth mentioning, sir; but I thought
that song — admirably humorous in it-
self, you know — was perhaps rather — ”
“ Yes,” said Quilp, “ rather what ? ”
“Just bordering, or, as one may say,
remotely verging, upon the confines of
injudiciousness, perhaps, sir,” returned
Brass, looking timidly at the dwarf’s
cunning eyes, which were turned to-
wards the fire and reflected its red
light. . .
“Why?” inquired Quilp, without
looking up.
“ Why, you know, sir,” returned
Brass, venturing to be more familiar,
“ the fact is, sir, that any allusion to
these little combinings together of
friends, for objects in themselves ex-
tremely laudable, but which the law
terms conspiracies, are — you take me,
sir ? — best kept snug and among friends,
you know.”
“ Eh ! ” said Quilp, looking up with
a perfectly vacant countenance. “ What
do you mean ? ”
“ Cautious, exceedinglycautious, very
right and proper ! ” cried Brass, nod-
ding his head. “ Mum, sir, even here,
— my meaning, sir, exactly.”
“ Your meaning exactly, you brazen
scarecrow! What’s your meaning?”
retorted Quilj). “ Why do you talk to
me of combining together ? Do / com-
bine ? Do I know anything about your
combinings? ”
“No, no, sir, certainly not; not by
any means,” returned Brass.
“ If you so wink and nod at me,”
said the dwarf, looking about him as if
for his poker, “ I ’ll spoil the expression
of your monkey’s face, I will.”
“ Don’t put yourself out of the way, I
beg, sir,” rejoined Brass, checking him-
self with great alacrity. “ You ’re quite
right, sir, quite right. I should n’t have
mentioned the subject, sir. It ’s much
better not to. You’re quite right, sir.
Let us change it, if you please. You
were asking, sir, Sally told me, about
our lodger. He has not returned,
sir.”
“No?” said Quilp, heating some
rum in a little saucepan, and watching
it to prevent its boiling over. “ Why
not ? ”
“Why, sir,” returned Brass, “he —
dear me, Mr. Quilp, sir — ”
“What’s the matter?” said the
dwarf, stopping his hand in the act of
carrying the saucepan to his mouth.
“You have forgotten the water, sir,”
said Brass. “And — excuse me, sir —
but it ’s burning hot.”
Deigning no other than a practical
answer to this remonstrance, Mr. Quilp
raised the hot saucepan to his lips, and
deliberately drank off all the spirit it
contained, which might have been in
quantity about half a pint, and had
been but a moment before, when he
took it off the fire, bubbling and hissing
fiercely. Having swallowed this gentle
stimulant, and shaken his fist at the ad-
miral, he bade Mr. Brass proceed.
“But first,” said Quilp, with his ac-
customed grin, “have a drop yourself,
— a nice drop, — a good, warm, fiery
drop.”
“ Why, sir,” replied Brass, “ if there
was such a thing as a mouthful of water
that could be got without trouble — ”
“There’s no such thing to be had
here,” cried the dwarf. “ Water for
lawyers ! Melted lead and brimstone,
you mean ; nice hot .blistering pitch and
tar, — that ’s the thing for them, — eh,
Brass, eh ? ”
“ Ha, ha, ha ! ” laughed Mr. Brass.
“ O, very biting ! and yet it ’s like being
tickled, — there ’s a pleasure in it, too,
sir ! ”
“ Drink that,” said the dwarf, who
had by this time heated some more.
“Toss it off, don’t leave any heeltap,
scorch your throat and be happy ! ”
The wretched Sampson took a few
short sips of the liquor, which immedi-
ately distilled itself into burning tears,
and in that form came rolling down his
cheeks into the pipkin again, turning
the color of his face and eyelids to a
deep red, and giving rise to a violent
fit of coughing, in the midst of which
he was still heard to declare, with the
constancy of a martyr, that it was
“ beautiful indeed ! ” While he was
yet in unspeakable agonies, the dwarf
renewed their conversation.
“The lodger,” said Quilp, — “what
about him? ”
“He is still, sir,” returned Brass,
268
THE OLD CURIOSITY SHOP.
with intervals of coughing, “stopping
with the Garland family. He has only
been home once, sir, since the day of
the examination of that culprit. He in-
formed Mr. Richard, sir, that he could n’t
bear the house after what had taken
place ; that he was wretched in it; and
that he looked upon himself as being
in a certain kind of way the cause of the
occurrence. — A very excellent lodger,
sir. I hope we may not lose him.”
“Yah!” cried the dwarf. “Never
thinking of anybody but yourself. Why
don’t you retrench, then, — scrape up,
hoard, economize, eh ? ”
“ Why, sir,” replied Brass, “ upon my
word, I think Sarah’s as good an econo-
mizer as any going. I do indeed, Mr.
Quilp.”
“ Moisten your clay ; wet the other
eye ; drink, man ! ” cried the dwarf.
“You took a clerk to oblige me.”
“Delighted, sir, I am sure, at any
time,” replied Sampson. “Yes, sir, I
did.”
“ Then, now you may discharge him,”
said Quilp. “ There ’s a means of re-
trenchment for you at once.”
“ Discharge Mr. Richard, sir ? ” cried
Brass.
“ Have you more than one clerk, you
parrot, that you ask the question ?
Yes.”
“ Upon my word, sir,” said Brass.
“I wasn’t prepared for this — ”
“ How could you be,” sneered the
dwarf, “when / wasn’t? How often
am I to tell you that I brought him to
you that I might always have my eye
on him and know where he was, and
that I had a plot, a scheme, a little
quiet piece of enjoyment afoot, of which
the very cream and essence was, that
this old man and grandchild (who have
sunk underground, I think) should be,
while he and his precious friend be-
lieved them rich, in reality as poor as
frozen rats?”
“I quite understood that, sir,” re-
joined Brass. “Thoroughly.”
“ Well, sir,” retorted Quilp, “and do
you understand now, that they’re not
poor, — that they can’t be, if they have
such men as your lodger searching for
them, and scouring the country far and
wide.”
“ Of course I do, sir,” said Sampson.
“ Of course you do,” retorted the
dwarf, viciously snapping at his words.
“ Of course, do you understand then,
that it ’s no matter what comes of this
fellow? of course, do you understand
that for any other purpose he ’s no man
for me, nor for you ? ”
“ I have frequently said to Sarah, sir,”
returned Brass, “that he was of no use
at all in the business. You can’t put
any confidence in him, sir. If you ’ll
believe me, I ’ve found that fellow, in
the commonest little matters of the
office that have been trusted to him,
blurting out the truth, though expressly
cautioned. The aggravation of that
chap, sir, has exceeded anything you can
imagine; it has, indeed. Nothing but
the respect and obligation I owe to you,
sir — ”
As it was plain that Sampson was
bent on a complimentary harangue,
unless he received a timely interruption,
Mr. Quilp politely tapped him on the
crown of his head with the little sauce-
pan and requested that he would be
so obliging as to hold his peace.
“ Practical, sir, practical,” said Brass,
rubbing the place and smiling; “but still
extremely pleasant, — immensely so ! ”
“ Hearken to me, will you ? ” re-
turned Quilp, “ or I ’ll be a little more
pleasant, presently. There ’s no chance
of his comrade and friend returning.
The scamp has been obliged to fly, as I
learn, for some knavery, and has found
his way abroad. Let him rot there.”
“ Certainly, sir. Quite proper. —
Forcible ! ” cried Brass, glancing at the
admiral again, as if he made a third in
company. “ Extremely forcible ! ”
“ I hate him,” said Quilp, between
his teeth, “ and have always hated him,
for family reasons. Besides, he was an
intractable ruffian ; otherwise he would
have been of use. This fellow is pig-
eon-hearted, and light-headed. I don’t
want him any longer. Let him hang or
drown — starve — go to the devil.”
“ By all means, sir,” returned Brass.
“ When would you wish him, sir, to — ha,
ha ! — to make that little excursion ? ”
“ When this trial ’s over,” said Quilp.
“As soon as that’s ended, send him
about his business.”
THE OLD CURIOSITY SHOP.
269
“It shall be done, sir,” returned
Brass, “by all means. It will be
rather a blow to Sarah, sir, but she
has all her feelings under control. Ah,
Mr. Quilp, I often think, sir, if it had on-
ly pleased Providence to bring you and
Sarah together, in earlier life, what
blessed results would have flowed from
such a union ! You never saw our
dear father, sir? — A charming gentle-
man. Sarah was his pride and joy,
sir. He would have closed his eyes
in bliss, would Foxey, Mr. Quilp, if he
could have found her such a partner.
You esteem her, sir?”
“ I love her,” croaked the dwarf.
“You’re very good, sir,” returned
Brass, “ I am sure. Is there any oth-
er order, sir, that I can take a note of,
besides this little matter of Mr. Rich-
ard ? ”
“ None,” replied the dwarf, seizing the
saucepan. “ Let us drink the lovely
Sarah.”
“ If we could do it in something, sir,
that wasn’t quite boiling,” suggested
Brass, humbly, “ perhaps it would be
better. I think it would be more agree-
able to Sarah’s feelings, when she comes
to hear from me of the honor you have
done her, if she learns it was in liquor
rather cooler than the last, sir.”
But to these remonstrances Mr. Quilp
turned a deaf ear. Sampson Brass, who
was, by this time, anything but sober,
being compelled to take further draughts
of the same strong bowl, found that, in-
stead of at all contributing to his recov-
ery, they had the novel effect of making
the counting-house spin round and round
with extreme velocity, and causing the
floor and ceiling to heave in a very dis-
tressing manner. After a brief stupor,
he awoke to a consciousness of being
partly under the table and partly un-
der the grate. This position not being
the most comfortable one he could
have chosen for himself, he managed
to stagger to his feet, and, holding on
by the admiral, looked round for his
host.
Mr. Brass’s first impression was, that
his host was gone and had left him there
alone, — perhaps locked him in for the
night. A strong smell of tobacco,
however, suggesting a new train of
ideas, he looked upward, and saw thau
the dwarf was smoking in his ham-
mock.
“ Good by, sir,” cried Brass, faintly.
“Good by, sir.”
“ Won’t you stop all night? ” said the
dwarf, peeping out. “ Do stop all
night ! ”
“I couldn’t, indeed, sir,” replied
Brass, who was almost dead from nau-
sea and the closeness of the room.
“If you’d have the goodness to show
me a light, so that I may see my way
across the yard, sir — ”
Quilp was out in an instant ; not with
his legs first, or his head first, or his
arms first, but bodily, altogether.
“To be sure,” he said, taking up a
lantern, which was now the only light
in the place. “ Be careful how you go,
my dear friend. Be sure to pick your
way among the timber, for all the rusty
nails are upwards. There ’s a dog in
the lane. He bit a man last night,
and a woman the night before, and
last Tuesday he killed a child, — but
that was in play. Don’t go too near
him.”
“ Which side of the road is he, sir? ”
asked Brass, in great dismay.
“ He lives on the right hand,” said
Quilp, “but sometimes he hides on
the left, ready for a spring. He ’s urn
certain in that respect. Mind you
take care of yourself. I ’ll never for'
give you if you don’t. There ’s th$
light out ; never mind, you know thq
way, — straight on ! ”
Quilp had slyly shaded the light by
holding it against his breast, and now
stood chuckling and shaking from head
to foot in a rapture of delight, as he
heard the lawyer stumbling up the
yard, and now and then falling heavily
down. At length, however, he got quit
of the place, and was out of hearing.
The dwarf shut himself up again, and
sprang once more into his hammock.
CHAPTER LXIII.
The professional gentleman who had
given Kit that consolatory piece of in-
formation relative to the settlement of
270
THE OLD CURIOSITY SHOP.
his trifle of business at the Old Bailey,
and the probability of its being very
soon disposed of, turned out to be quite
correct in his prognostications. In eight
days’ time the sessions commenced.
In one day afterwards the Grand Jury
found a True Bill against Christopher
Nubbles for felony ; and in two days
from that finding, the aforesaid Christo-
pher Nubbles was called upon to plead
Guilty or Not Guilty to an Indictment
for that he, the said Christopher, did fe-
loniously abstract and steal from the
dwelling-house and office of one Samp-
son Brass, gentleman, one Bank-Note
for Five Pounds, issued by the Governor
and Company of the Bank of England ;
in contravention of the Statutes in that
case made and provided, and against the
eace of our Sovereign Lord the King,
is crown, and dignity.
To this indictment, Christopher Nub-
bles, in a low and trembling voice,
pleaded Not Guilty; and here, let
those who are in the habit of forming
hasty judgments from appearances, and
who would have had Christopher, if
innocent, speak out very strong and
loud, observe, that confinement and
anxiety will subdue the stoutest hearts ;
and that to one who has been close shut
up, though it be only for ten or eleven
days, seeing but stone walls and a very
few stony faces, the sudden entrance
into a great hall filled with life is a
rather disconcerting and startling cir-
cumstance. To this, it must be added,
that life in a wig is to a large class of
people much more terrifying and im-
pressive than life with its own head of
hair ; and if, in addition to these con-
siderations, there be taken into account
Kit’s natural emotion on seeing the
two Mr. Garlands and the little notary
looking on with pale and anxious faces,
it will perhaps seem matter of no very
great wonder that he should have been
rather out of sorts and unable to make
himself quite at home.
Although he had never seen either of
the Mr. Garlands, or Mr. Witherden,
since the time of his arrest, he had
been given to understand that they had
employed counsel for him. Therefore,
when one of the gentlemen in wigs got
up and said, “ I am for the prisoner,
my lord,” Kit made him a bow; and
when another gentleman in a wig got
up and said, “And I ’m against him,
my lord,” Kit trembled very much,
and bowed to him too. And didn’t he
hope in his own heart that his gentle-
man was a match for the other gentle-
man, and would make him ashamed of
himself in no time !
The gentleman who was against him
had to speak first, and being in dread-
fully good spirits (for he had, in the last
trial, very nearly procured the acquittal
of a young gentleman who had had the
misfortune to murder his father), he
spoke up, you may be sure ; telling the
jury that if they acquitted this prisoner
they must expect to suffer no less pangs
and agonies than he had told the other
jury they would certainly undergo if
they convicted that prisoner. And
when he had told them all about the
case, and that he had never known a
worse case, he stopped a little while,
like a man who had something terrible
to tell them, and then said that he un-
derstood an attempt would be made by
his learned friend (and here he looked
sideways at Kit’s gentleman) to impeach
the testimony of those immaculate wit-
nesses whom he should call before
them ; but he did hope and trust that
his learned friend would have a greater
respect and veneration for the character
of the prosecutor; than whom, as he
well knew, there did not exist, and
never had existed, a more honorable
member of that most honorable profes-
sion to which he was attached. And
then he said, did the jury know Bevis
Marks ? And if they did know Bevis
Marks (as he trusted, for their own
characters, they did), did they know
the historical and elevating associations
connected with that most remarkable
spot? Did they believe that a man
like Brass could reside in a place like
Bevis Marks, and not be a virtuous
and most upright character? And
when he had said a great deal to them
on this point, he remembered that it
was an insult to their understandings to
make any remarks on what they must
have felt so strongly without him, and
therefore called Sampson Brass into the
witness-box straightway.
THE OLD CURIOSITY SHOP.
271
Then up comes Mr. Brass, very brisk
and fresh ; and, having bowed to the
judge, like a man who has had the
leasure of seeing him before, and who
opes he has been pretty well since
their last meeting, folds his arms, and
looks at his gentleman as much as to say,
“ Here I am, full of evidence. Tap me ! ”
And the gentleman does tap him pres-
ently, and with great discretion too ;
drawing off the evidence by little and
little, and making it run quite clear and
bright in the eyes of all present. Then
Kit’s gentleman takes him in hand, but
can make nothing of him ; and after
a great many very long questions and
very short answers, Mr. Sampson Brass
goes down in glory.
To him succeeds Sarah, who in like
manner is easy to be managed by Mr.
Brass’s gentleman, but very obdurate
to Kit’s. In short, Kit’s gentleman
can get nothing out of her but a repeti-
tion of what she has said before (only
a little stronger this time, as against
his client), and therefore lets her go,
in some confusion. Then Mr. Brass’s
gentleman calls Richard Swiveller, and
Richard Swiveller appears accordingly.
Now, Mr. Brass’s gentleman has it
whispered in his ear that this witness
is disposed to be friendly to the prisoner,
— which, to say the truth, he is rather
glad to hear, as his strength is consid-
ered to lie in what is familiarly termed
badgering. Wherefore, he begins by
requesting the officer to be quite sure
that this witness kisses the book, and
then goes to work at him, tooth and
nail.
“Mr. Swiveller,” says this gentleman
to Dick, when he has told his tale with
evident reluctance and a desire to make
the best of it, “pray, sir, where did you
dine yesterday?” “Where did I dine
yesterday?” “Ay, sir, where did you
dine yesterday, — was it near here, sir ? ”
“O to be sure, — yes, — just over the
way — ” “To be sure. Yes. Just
over the way,” repeats Mr. Brass’s
gentleman, with a glance at the court.
“ Alone, sir ? ” “ I beg your pardon — ”
says Mr. Swiveller, w r ho has not caught
the question. “Alone, sir?” repeats
Mr. Brass’s gentleman in a voice of
thunder. “ Did you dine alone? Did
you treat anybody, sir? Come ! ” “ O
yes to be sure, — yes, I did,” says Mr.
Swiveller with a smile. “ Have the
goodness to banish a levity, sir, which
is very ill-suited to the place in which
you stand (though perhaps you have
reason to be thankful that it ’s only that
place),” says Mr. Brass’s gentleman,
with a nod of the head, insinuating that
the dock is Mr. Swiveller’s legitimate
sphere of action ; “ and attend to me.
You were waiting about here, yesterday,
in expectation that this trial was coming
on. You dined over the way. You
treated somebody. Now, was that
somebody brother to the prisoner at the
bar ? ” Mr. Swiveller is proceeding to
explain. “Yes or No, sir,” cries Mr.
Brass’s gentleman. “ But will you al-
lowme — ” “ Yes or No, sir.” “Yes,
it was, but — ” “ Yes, it was,” cries the
gentleman, taking him up short. “ And
a very pretty witness you are ! ”
Down sits Mr. Brass’s gentleman.
Kit’s gentleman, not knowing how the
matter really stands, is afraid to pursue
the subject. Richard Swiveller retires
abashed. Judge, jury, and spectators
have visions of his lounging about with
an ill-looking, large-whiskered, disso-
lute young fellow of six feet high. The
reality is, little Jacob, with the calves
of his legs exposed to the open air, and
himself tied up in a shawl. Nobody
knows the truth ; everybody believes a
falsehood ; and all because of the inge-
nuity of Mr. Brass’s gentleman.
Then come the witnesses to character,
and here Mr. Brass’s gentleman shines
again. It turns out that Mr. Garland
has had no character with Kit, no rec-
ommendation of him but from his own
mother, and that he was suddenly dis-
missed by his former master for unknown
reasons. “Really, Mr. Garland,” says
Mr. Brass’s gentleman, “for a person
who has arrived at your time of life
you are, to say the least of it, singularly
indiscreet, I think.” The jury think so
too, and find Kit guilty. He is taken
off, humbly protesting his innocence.
The spectators settle themselves in their
places with renewed attention, for there
are several female witnesses to be exam-
ined in the next case, and it has been
rumored that Mr. Brass’s gentleman
272
THE OLD CURIOSITY SHOP.
will make great fun in cross-examining
them for the prisoner.
Kit’s mother, poor woman, is waiting
at the grate below stairs, accompanied
by Barbara’s mother (who, honest soul !
never does anything but cry and hold
the baby), and a sad interview ensues.
The newspaper -reading turnkey has
told them all. He don’t think it will
be transportation for life, because there ’s
time to prove the good character yet,
and that is sure to serve him. He won-
ders what he did it for. “ He never
did it ! ” cries Kit’s mother. “ Well,”
says the turnkey, “ I won’t contradict
you. It ’s all one, now, whether he did
it or not.”
Kit’s mother can reach his hand
through the bars, and she clasps it —
God, and those to whom he has given
such tenderness, only know in how much
agony. Kit bids her keep a good heart,
and, under pretence of having the chil-
dren lifted up to kiss him, prays Bar-
bara’s mother in a whisper to take her
home.
“ Some friend will rise up for us,
mother,” cries Kit, “I am sure. If
not now, before long. My innocence
will come out, mother, and I shall be
brought back again ; I feel a confidence
in that. You must teach little Jacob
and the baby how all this was, for if
they thought I had ever been dishonest,
when they grew old enough to under-
stand, it would break my heart to know
it, if I was thousands of miles away. —
Oh ! is there no good gentleman here
who will take care of her?”
The hand slips out of his, for the
poor creature sinks down upon the
earth, insensible. Richard Swiveller
comes hastily up, elbows the by-standers
out of the way, takes her (after some
trouble) in one arm after the manner
of theatrical ravishers, and, nodding to
Kit, and commanding Barbara’s mother
to follow, for he has a coach waiting,
bears her swiftly off.
Well; Richard took her home. And
what astonishing absurdities in the way
of quotation from song and poem he
perpetrated on the road no man knows.
He took her home, and stayed till she
was recovered ; and, having no money
to pay the coach, went back in state to
Bevis Marks, bidding the driver (for it
was Saturday night) wait at the door
while he went in for “change.”
“ Mr. Richard, sir,” said Brass, cheer-
fully, “ good evening ! ”
Monstrous as Kit’s tale had appeared,
at first, Mr. Richard did, that night,
half suspect his affable employer of
some deep villany. Perhaps it was but
the misery he had just witnessed which
gave his careless nature this impulse ;
but, be that as it may, it was very
strong upon him, and he said in as few
words as possible what he wanted.
“Money?” cried Brass, taking out
his purse. “ Ha, ha ! To be sure, Mr.
Richard, to be sure, sir. All men must
live. You have n’t change for a five-
pound note, have you, sir?”
“ No,” returned Dick, shortly.
“O,” said Brass, ‘-‘here’s the very
sum. That saves trouble. “ You ’re
very welcome, I ’m sure. Mr. Rich-'
ard, sir — ”
Dick, who had by this time reached
the door, turned round.
“You needn’t,” said Brass, “trouble
yourself to come back any more, sir.”
“Eh?”
“You see, Mr. Richard,” said Brass,
thrusting his hands in his pockets, and
rocking himself to and fro on his stool,
“ the fact is, that a man of your abilities
is lost, sir, quite lost, in our dry and
mouldy line. It ’s terrible drudgery, —
shocking. I should say, now, that the
stage, or the — or the army, Mr. Richard,
or something very superior in the li-
censed victualling way, was the kind of
thing that would call out the genius of
such a man as you. I hope you ’ll look
in to see us now and then. Sally, sir,
will be delighted, I ’m sure. She ’s ex-
tremely sorry to lose you, Mr. Richard,
but a sense of her duty to society recon-
ciles her. An amazing creature that, sir !
You’ll find the money quite correct, I
think. There ’s a cracked window, sir,
but I ’ve not made any deduction on
that account Whenever we part with
friends, Mr. Richard, let us part lib-
erally. A delightful sentiment, sir ! ”
To all these rambling observations
Mr. Swiveller answered not one word,
but, returning for the aquatic jacket,
rolled it into a tight round ball, look-
THE OLD CURIOSITY SHOP.
273
ing steadily at Brass, meanwhile, as if
he had some intention of bowling him
down with it. He only took it under
his arm, however, and marched out of
the office in profound silence. When
he had closed the door, he reopened it,
stared in again for a few moments with
the same portentous gravity, and, nod-
ding his head once, in a slow and ghost-
like manner, vanished.
He paid the coachman, and turned
his back on Bevis Marks, big vyith
great designs for the comforting of Kit’s
mother and the aid of Kit himself.
But the lives of gentlemen devoted
to such pleasures as Richard Swiveller
are extremely precarious. The spirit-
ual excitement of the last fortnight,
working upon a system affected in no
slight degree by the spirituous excite-
ment of some yeai's, proved a little too
much for him. That very night Mr.
Richard was seized with an alarming
illness, and in twenty-four hours was
stricken with a raging fever.
CHAPTER LXIV.
Tossing to and fro upon his hot, un-
easy bed ; tormented by a fierce thirst
which nothing could appease ; unable
to find, in any change of posture, a
moment’s peace or ease ; and rambling
ever through deserts of thought where
there was no resting-place, no sight or
sound suggestive of refreshment or re-
pose, nothing but a dull eternal weari-
ness, with no change but the restless
shiftings of his miserable body, and the
weary wanderings of his mind, constant
still to one ever-present anxiety, — to a
sense of something left undone, of some
fearful obstacle to be surmounted, of
some carking care that would not be
driven aw'ay, and which haunted the
distempered brain, now in this form,
now in that, always shadowy and dim,
but recognizable for the same phantom
in every shape it took, darkening every
vision like an evil conscience, and mak-
ing slumber horrible, — in these slow
tortures of his dread disease, the un-
fortunate Richard lay wasting and con-
suming inch by inch, until at last, when
18
he seemed to fight and struggle to rise
up, and to be held down by devils, he
sank into a deep sleep, and dreamed no
more.
He awoke. With a sensation of most
blissful rest, better than sleep itself, he
began gradually to remember some-
thing of these sufferings, and to think
what a long night it had been, and
whether he had not been delirious
twice or thrice. Happening, in the
midst of these cogitations, to raise his
hand, he was astonished to find how
heavy it seemed, and yet how thin and
light it really was. Still, he felt in-
different and happy ; and, having no
curiosity to pursue the subject, remained
in the same waking slumber until his
attention was attracted by a cough.
This made him doubt whether he had
locked his door last night, and feel a
little surprised at having a companion
in the room. Still he lacked energy to
follow up this train of thought ; and
unconsciously fell, in a luxury of repose,
to staring at some green stripes on
the bed-furniture, and associating them
strangely with patches of fresh turf,
while the yellow ground between made
gravel-walks, and so helped out a long
perspective of trim gardens.
He was rambling in imagination on
these terraces, and had quite lost him-
self among them indeed, when he heard
the cough once more. The walks
shrunk into stripes again at the sound ;
and raising himself a little in the bed,
and holding the curtain open with one
hand, he looked out.
The same room, certainly, and still by
candle-light ; but with what unbounded
astonishment did he see all those bot-
tles, and basins, and articles of linen
airing by the fire, and such-like furni-
ture of a sick- chamber, — all very clean
and neat, but all quite different from
anything he had left there when he
went to bed ! The atmosphere, too,
filled with a cool smell of herbs and
vinegar ; the floor newly sprinkled ; the
— the what? The Marchioness?
Yes ; playing cribbage with herself at
the table.' There she sat, intent upon
her game, coughing now and then in a
subdued manner as if she feared to dis-
turb him, — shuffling the cards, cutting,
274
THE OLD CURIOSITY SHOP.
dealing, playing, counting, pegging, —
going through all the mysteries of crib-
bage as if she had been in full practice
from her cradle !
Mr. Swiveller contemplated these
things for a short time, and, suffering
the curtain to fall into its former posi-
tion, laid his head on the pillow again.
“ I ’m dreaming,” thought Richard,
“ that ’s clear. When I went to bed
my hands were not made of egg-shells ;
and now I can almost see through ’em.
If this is not a dream, I have woke up,
by mistake, in an Arabian Nighjt, in-
stead of a London one. But I have no
doubt I ’m asleep. Not the least.”
Here the small servant had another
cough.
“Very remarkable!” thought Mr.
Swiveller. “ I never dreamt such a real
cough as that before. I don’t know,
indeed, that I ever dreamt either a
cough or a sneeze. Perhaps it ’s part
of the philosophy of dreams that one
never does. There ’s another — and
another. I say ! — I’m dreaming rather
fast ! ”
For the purpose of testing his real
condition, Mr. Swiveller, after some re-
flection, pinched himself in the arm.
“Queerer still!” he thought. “I
came to bed rather plump than other-
wise, and now there ’s nothing to lay
hold of. I’ll take another survey.”
The result of this additional inspec-
tion was, to convince Mr. Swiveller that
the objects by which he was surround-
ed were real, and that he saw them,
beyond all question, with his waking
eyes.
“ It ’s an Arabian Night ; that’s what
it is,” said Richard. “ I ’m in Damas-
cus or Grand Cairo. The Marchioness
is a Genie, and having had a wager
with another Genie about who is the
handsomest young man alive, and the
worthiest to be the husband of the Prin-
cess of China, has brought me away,
room and all, to compare us together.
“ Perhaps,” said Mr. Swiveller, turn-
ing languidly round on his pillow, and
looking on that side of his bed which
was next the wall, “ the Princess may
be still — No, she ’s gone.”
Not feeling quite satisfied with this
explanation, as, even taking it to be the
correct one, it still involved a little mys-
tery and doubt, Mr. Swiveller raised
the curtain again, determined to take
the first favorable opportunity of ad-
dressing his companion. An occasion
soon presented itself. The Marchion-
ess dealt, turned up a knave, and omit-
ted to take the usual advantage ; upon
which, Mr. Swiveller called out as loud
as he could, “ Two for his heels ! ”
The Marchioness jumped up quick-
ly, and clapped her hands. “Arabian
Night, certainly,” thought Mr. Swivel-
ler. “ They always clap their hands in-
stead of ringing the bell. Now for the
two thousand black slaves, with jars of
jewels on their heads ! ”
It appeared, however, that she had
only clapped her hands for joy ; as di-
rectly afterwards she began to laugh,
and then to cry ; declaring, not in choice
Arabic, but in familiar English, that sh&
was “so glad she did n’t know what to
do.”
“ Marchioness,” said Mr. Swiveller,
thoughtfully, “ be pleased to draw near-
er. First of all, will you have the good-
ness to inform me where I shall find my
voice ; and, secondly, what has become
of my flesh ? ”
The Marchioness only shook her head
mournfully, and cried again ; where-
upon Mr. Swiveller (being very weak)
felt his own eyes affected .likewise.
“ I begin to infer, from your manner,
and these appearances, Marchioness,”
said Richard after a pause, and smiling
with a trembling lip, “ that I have been
ill.”
“You just have ! ” replied the small
servant, wiping her eyes. “ And
have n’t you been a talking non-
sense ! ”
“ Oh ! ” said Dick. “ Very ill, Mar-
chioness, have I been ? ”
“Dead, all but,” replied the small
servant. “ I never thought you ’d get
better. Thank Heaven you have ! ”
Mr. Swiveller was silent for a long
while. By and by, he began to talk
again ; inquiring how long he had been
there.
“ Three weeks to-morrow,” replied
the small servant.
“ Three what ? ” said Dick.
“Weeks,” returned the Marchion-
THE OLD CURIOSITY SHOP.
275
ess emphatically; “three long, slow
weeks.”
The bare thought of having been in
such extremity caused Richard to fall
into another silence, and to lie fiat
down again, at his full length. The
Marchioness, having arranged the bed-
clothes more comfortably, and felt that
his hands and forehead were quite cool,
— a discovery that filled her with de-
light, — cried a little more, and then
applied herself to getting tea ready, and
making some thin drv-toast.
While she was thus engaged, Mr.
Swiveller looked on with a grateful
heart, very much astonished to see how
thoroughly at home she made herself,
and. attributing this attention, in its
origin, to Sally Brass, whom, in his
own mind, he could not thank enough.
When the Marchioness had finished
her toasting, she spread a clean cloth
on a tray, and brought him some
crisp slices and a great basin of weak
tea, with which (she said) the doctor
had left word he might refresh himself
when he awoke. She propped him up
with pillows, if not as skilfully as if she
had been a professional nurse all her
life, at least as tenderly ; and looked on
with unutterable satisfaction while the
patient — stopping every now and then
to shake her by the hand — took his
poor meal with an appetite and relish
which the greatest dainties of the earth,
under any other circumstances, would
have failed to provoke. Having cleared
away, and disposed everything comfort-
ably about him again, she sat down at
the table to take her own tea.
“ Marchioness,” said Mr. Swiveller,
“how ’s Sally ?”
The small servant screwed her face
into an expression of the very uttermost
entanglement of slyness, and shook her
head.
“ What, have n’t you seen her late-
ly ? ” said Dick.
“ Seen her ! ” cried the small servant.
“ Bless you, I ’ve run away ! ”
Mr. Swiveller immediately laid him-
self down again quite fiat, and so re-
mained for about five minutes. By
slow degrees he resumed his sitting
posture after that lapse of time, and in-
quired : —
“ And where do you live, Marchion-
ess ? ”
“ Live ! ” cried the small servant.
“ Here ! ”
“ Oh ! ” said Mr. Swiveller.
And with that he fell down flat again,
as suddenly as if he had been shot.
Thus he remained, motionless and be-
reft of speech, until she had finished her
meal, put everything in its place, and
swept the hearth ; when he motioned
her to bring a chair to the bedside, and,
being propped up again, opened a fur-
ther conversation.
“And so,” said Dick, “you have run
away?”
“ Yes,” said the Marchioness; “and
they ’ve been a tizing of me.”
“ Been — I beg your pardon,” said
Dick, — “ what have they been do-
ing ? ”
“Been a tizing of me — tizmg, you
know — in the newspapers,” rejoined
the Marchioness.
“ Ay, ay,” said Dick, “advertising? ”
The small servant nodded, and
winked. Her eyes were so red with
waking and crying, that the Tragic
Muse might have winked with greater
consistency. And so Dick felt.
“Tell me,” said he, “how it was
that you thought of coming here.”
“Why, you see,” returned the Mar-
chioness, “ when you was gone, I had n’t
any friend at all, because the lodger, he
never come back, and I did n’t know
where either him or you was to be
found, you know. But one morning,
when I was — ”
“Was near a keyhole?” suggested
Mr. Swiveller, observing that she fal-
tered.
“ Well, then,” said the small servant,
nodding, “when I was near the office
keyhole, — as you see me through, you
know r , — I heard somebody saying that
she lived here, and was the lady whose
house you lodged at, and that you was
took very bad, and wouldn’t nobody
come and take care of you. Mr. Brass,
he says, ‘ It ’s no business of mine,’ he
says; and Miss Sally, she says, 4 He’s
a funny chap, but it ’s no business of
mine ’ ; and the lady went away, and
slammed the door to, when she went
out, I can tell you. So I ran away that
276
THE OLD CURIOSITY SHOP .
night, and come here, and told ’em you
was my brother, and they believed me,
and I ’ve been here ever since.”
“This poor little Marchioness has
been wearing herself to death ! ” cried
Dick.
“ No, I have n’t,” she returned, “ not
a bit of it. Don’t you mind about me.
I like sitting up, and I ’ve often had a
sleep, bless you, in one of them chairs.
But if you could have seen how you
tried to jurap out o’ winder, and if you
could have heard how you used to keep
on singing and making speeches, you
wouldn’t have believed it. I ’m %o
glad you’re better, Mr. Liverer.”
‘ ‘ Liverer, indeed ! ” said Dick, thought-
fully. “ It ’s well I am a liverer. I
strongly suspect I should have died,
Marchioness, but for you.”
At this point, Mr. Swiveller took the
small servant’s hand in his again, and
being as we have seen but poorly, might,
in struggling to express his thanks, have
made his eyes as red as hers, but that
she quickly changed the theme by mak-
ing him lie down, and urging him to
keep very quiet.
“The doctor,” she told him, “said
you was to be kept quite still, and there
was to be no noise nor nothing. Now,
take a rest, and then we ’ll talk again.
I ’ll sit by you, you know. If you shut
your eyes, perhaps you ’ll go to sleep.
You ’ll be all the better for it if you
do.”
The Marchioness, in saying these
words, brought a little table to the bed-
side, took her seat at it, and began to
work away at the concoction of some
cooling drink, with the address of a
score of chemists. Richard Swiveller,
being indeed fatigued, fell into a slum-
ber, and waking in about half an hour,
inquired what time it was.
“ Just gone half after six,” replied his
small friend, helping him to sit up
again.
“ Marchioness,” said Richard, pass-
ing his hand over his forehead and
turning suddenly round, as though the
subject but that moment flashed upon
him, “what has become of Kit?”
He had been sentenced to transporta-
tion for a great many years, she said.
“ Has he gone ? ” asked Dick.
“His mother — how is she? what has
become of her? ”
His nurse shook her head, and an-
swered that she knew nothing about
them. “ But if I thought,” said she,
very slowly, “ that you ’d keep quiet,
and not put yourself into another fever,
I could tell you — but I won’t now.”
“Yes, do,” said Dick. “It will
amuse me.”
“ O, would it, though ? ” rejoined the
small servant, with a horrified look.
“ I know better than that. Wait till
you’re better and then I ’ll tell you.”
Dick looked very earnestly at his lit-
tle friend ; and his eyes, being large
and hollow from illness, assisted the
expression so much that she was quite
frightened, and besought him not to
think any more about it. What had
already fallen from her, however, had
not only piqued his curiosity, but seri-
ously alarmed him, wherefore he urged
her to tell him the worst at once.
“ O, there ’s no worst in it,” said the
small servant. “ It has n’t anything to
do with you.”
“Has it anything to do with — is it
anything you heard through chinks or
keyholes, and that you were not in-
tended to hear ? ” asked Dick, in a
breathless state.
“Yes,” replied the small servant.
“ In — in Bevis Marks ? ” pursued
Dick, hastily. “ Conversations between
Brass and Sally? ”
“Yes,” cried the small servant, again.
Richard Swiveller thrust his lank arm
out of bed, and griping her by the
wrist, and drawing her close to him,
bade her out with it, and freely too, or
he would not answer for the consequen-
ces, being wholly unable to endure
that state of excitement and expecta-
tion. She, seeing that he was greatly
agitated, and that the effects of postpon-
ing her revelation might be much more
injurious than any that were likely to
ensue from its being made at once,
promised compliance, on condition that
the patient kept himself perfectly quiet,
and abstained from starting up or toss-
ing about.
“ But if you begin to do that,” said
the small servant, “ I ’ll leave off. And
so I tell you.”
THE OLD CURIOSITY SHOP.
277
“ You can’t leave off, till you have
gone on,” said Dick. “ And do go on,
there ’s a darling. Speak, sister, speak.
Pretty Polly, say. O tell me when, and
tell me where, pray, Marchioness, I be-
seech you ! ”
Unable to resist these fervent adjura-
tions, which Richard Swiveller poured
out as passionately as if they had been
of the most solemn and tremendous na-
ture, his companion spoke thus : —
“ Well ! Before I run away, I used
to sleep in the kitchen, — where we
played cards, you know. Miss Sally
used to keep the key of the kitchen
door in her pocket, and she always
come down at night to take away the
candle and rake out the fire. When
she had done that, she left me to go to
bed in the dark, locked the door on the
outside, put the key in her pocket again,
and kept me locked up till she come
down in the morning — very early, I
can tell you — and let me out. I was
terrible afraid of being kept like this,
because if there was a fire, I thought
they might forget me and only take care
of themselves, you know. So, when-
ever I see an old rusty key anywhere, I
picked it up, and tried if it would fit the
door, and at last I found in the dust-
cellar a key that did fit it.”
Here Mr. Swiveller made a violent
demonstration with his legs. But the
small servant immediately pausing in
her talk, he subsided again, and, plead-
ing a momentary forgetfulness of their
compact, entreated her to proceed.
“They kept me very short,” said the
small servant. “ O, you can’t think
how short they kept me ! So I used to
come out at night after they ’d gone to
bed, and feel about in the dark for bits
of biscuit, or sangwitches that you ’d
left in the office, or even pieces of orange-
eel to put into cold water and make
elieve it was wine. Did you ever taste
orange-peel and water ? ”
Mr. Swiveller replied that he had
never tasted that ardent liquor ; and
once more urged his friend to resume
the thread of her narrative.
“ If you make believe very much, it ’s
quite nice,” said the small servant ;
“ but if you dqp’t, you know, it seems
as if it would bear a little more season-
ing, certainly. Well, sometimes I used
to come out after they’d gone to bed,
and sometimes before, you know ; and
one or two nights before there was all
that precious noise in the office, — when
the young man was took, I mean, — I
come up stairs while Mr. Brass and
Miss Sally was a sittin’ at the office
fire ; and I ’ll tell you the truth, that I
come to listen again about the key of
the safe.”
Mr. Swiveller gathered up his knees
so as to make a great cone of the bed-
clothes, and conveyed into his counte-
nance an expression of the utmost con-
cern. But the small servant pausing,
and holding up her finger, the cone
gently disappeared, though the look of
concern did not.
“There was him and her,” said the
small servant, “a sittin’ by the fire, and
talking softly together. Mr. Brass says
to Miss Sally, ‘Upon my word,’ he
says, ‘ it ’s a dangerous thing, and it
might get us into a world of trouble, and
I don’t half like it.* She says, — you
know her way, — she says, ‘You’re the
chickenest-hearted, feeblest, faintest
man I ever see, and I think,’ she
says, ‘ that I ought to have been the
brother, and you the sister. Isn’t
Quilp,’ she says, ‘our principal sup-
port?’ ‘He certainly is,’ says Mr.
Brass. ‘And ain’t we,’ she says, ‘con-
stantly ruining somebody or other in
the way of business ? ’ ‘We certainly
are,’ says Mr. Brass. ‘Then does it
signify,’ she says, ‘about ruining this
Kit when Quilp desires it ? ’ ‘It cer-
tainly does not signify,’ says Mr.
Brass. Then they whispered and
laughed for a long time about there
being no danger if it was well done,
and then Mr. Brass pulls out his pocket-
book, and says, ‘Well,’ he says, ‘here
it is, — Quilp’s own five-pound note.
We’ll agree that way, then,’ he says.
‘ Kit ’s coming to-morrow morning, I
know. While he’s up stairs, you’ll
get out of the way, and I ’ll clear off
Mr. Richard. Having Kit alone, I ’ll
hold him in conversation, and put this
property in his hat. I ’ll manage so,
besides,’ he says, ‘that Mr. Richard
shall find it there, and be the evidence.
And if that don’t get Christopher out
278
THE OLD CURIOSITY SHOP.
of Mr. Quilp’s way, and satisfy Mr.
Quilp’s grudges,’ he says, ‘the Devil’s
in it.’ Miss Sally laughed, and said
that was the plan, and as they seemed
to be moving away, and I was afraid to
stop any longer, I went down stairs
again. — There ! ”
The small servant had gradually
worked herself into as much agita-
tion as Mr. Swiveller, and therefore
made no effort to restrain him when
he sat up in bed and hastily demanded
whether this story had been told to any-
body.
“ How could it be ? ” replied his nurse.
“ I was almost afraid to think about it,
and hoped the young man would be let
off. When I heard ’em say they had
found him guilty of what he didn’t do,
you was gone, and so was the lodger, —
though I think I should have been
frightened to tell him, even if he ’d
been there. Ever since I come here,
you’ve been out of your senses, and
what would have been the good of
telling you then ? ”
“ Marchioness,” said Mr. Swiveller,
plucking off his nightcap and flinging it
to the other end of the room ; “ if you ’ll
do me the favor to retire for a few min-
utes and see what sort of a night it is,
I ’ll get up.”
“ You must n’t think of such a thing,”
cried his nurse.
“ I must indeed,” said the patient,
looking round the room. “ Where-
abouts are my clothes ? ”
“ O, I’m so glad — you haven’t got
any,” replied the Marchioness.
“ Ma’am ! ” said Mr. Swiveller, in
great astonishment.
“I’ve been obliged to sell them,
every one, to get the things that was
ordered for you. But don’t take on
about that,” urged the Marchioness,
as Dick fell back upon his pillow.
“You’re too weak to stand, indeed.”
“ I am afraid,” said Richard, dole-
fully, “ that you ’re right. What ought
I to do? what is to be done?”
It naturally occurred to him, on very
little reflection, that the first step to
take would be to communicate with
one of the Mr. Garlands instantly.
It was very possible that Mr. Abel
had not yet left the office. In as little
time as it takes to tell it, the small
servant had the address in pencil on
a piece of paper ; a verbal description
of father and son, which would enable
her to recognize either without diffi-
culty ; and a special caution to be shy
of Mr. Chuckster, in consequence of
that gentleman’s known antipathy to
Kit. Armed with these slender pow-
ers, she hurried away, commissioned to
bring either old Mr. Garland or Mr.
Abel, bodily, to that apartment.
“ I suppose,” said Dick, as she
closed the door slowly, and peeped
into the room again, to make sure that he
was comfortable, — “I suppose there ’s
nothing left, — not so much as a waist-
coat, even?”
“ No, nothing.”
“It ’s embarrassing,” said Mr. Swiv-
eller, “in case of fire — .even an um-
brella would be something — but you
did quite right, dear Marchioness. I
should have died without you ! ”
CHAPTER LXV.
It was well for the small servant that
she was of a sharp, quick nature, or the
consequence of sending her out alone
from the very neighborhood in which
it was most dangerous for her to appear
would probably have been the restora-
tion of Miss Sally Brass to the supreme
authority over her person. Not un-
mindful of the risk she ran, however,
the Marchioness no sooner left the
house than she dived into the first dark
by-way that presented itself, and, with-
out any present reference to the point
to which her journey tended, made it
her first business to put two good miles
of brick and mortar between herself
and Be vis Marks.
When she had accomplished this
object, she began to shape her course
for the notary’s office, to which —
shrewdly inquiring of apple-women and
oyster-sellers at street corners, rather
than in lighted shops or of well-dressed
people, at the hazard of attracting no-
tice — she easily procured a direction.
As carrier-pigeons, on being first let
loose in a strange plSce, beat the air
THE OLD CURIOSITY SHOP .
279
at random for a short time, before dart-
ing off towards the spot for which they
are designed, so did the Marchioness
flutter round and round until she be-
lieved herself in safety, and then bear
swiftly down upon the port for which
she was bound.
She had no bonnet, — nothing on her
head but a great cap, which, in some
old time, had been worn by Sally Brass,
whose taste in head-dresses was, as we
have seen, peculiar, — and her speed
was rather retarded than assisted by her
shoes, which, being extremely large and
slipshod, flew off every now and then,
and were difficult to find again among
the crowd of passengers. Indeed, the
poor little creature experienced so much
troub^p and delay from having to grope
for these articles of dress in mud and
kennel, and suffered in these research-
es so much jostling, pushing, squeez-
ing, and bandying from hand to hand,
that, by the time she reached the street
in which the notary lived, she was fair-
ly worn out and exhausted, and could
not refrain from tears.
But to have got there at last was a
great comfort, especially as there were
lights still burning in the office window,
and therefore some hope that she was
not toolate ; So the Marchioness dried
her eyes with the backs of her hands,
and, stealing softly up the steps, peeped
in through the glass door.
Mr. Chuckster was standing behind
the lid of his desk, making such prep-
arations towards finishing off for the
night as pulling down his wristbands,
and pulling up his shirt-collar, , settling
his neck more gracefully in his stock,
and secretly arranging his whiskers by
the aid of a little triangular bit of look-
ing-glass. Before the ashes of the fire
stood two gentlemen, one of whom she
rightly judged to be the notary, and
the other (who was buttoning his great-
coat, and was evidently about to depart
immediately), Mr. Abel Garland.
Having made these observations, the
small spy took counsel with herself, and
resolved to wait in the street until Mr.
Abel came out, as there would be then
no fear of having to speak before Mr.
Chuckster, and less difficulty in deliv-
ering her message. With this purpose
she slipped out again, and, crossing
the road, sat down upon a door-step
just opposite.
She had hardly taken this position,
when there came dancing u^> the street,
with his legs all wrong, and his head
everywhere by turns, a pony. This
pony had a little phaeton behind him
and a man in it ; but neither man nor
phaeton seemed to embarrass him in
the least, as he reared up on his hind
legs, or stopped, or went on, or stood
still again, or backed, or went sideways,
without the smallest reference to them,
— just as the fancy seized him, and as
if he were the freest animal in creation.
When they came to the notary’s door,
the man called out in a very respect-
ful manner, “ Woa then,” — intimating
that, if he might venture to express a
wish, it would be that they stopped
there. The pony made a moment’s
pause ; but, as if it occurred to him
that to stop when he was required might
be to establish an inconvenient and
dangerous precedent, he immediately
started off again, rattled at a fast trot
to the street corner, wheeled round,
came back, and then stopped of his
own accord.
“ O, you ’re a precious creatur ! ” said
the man, — who did n’t venture, by
the by, to come out in his true colors
until he was safe on the pavement.
“ I wish I had the rewarding of you, —
I do.”
“What has he been doing?” said
Mr. Abel, tying a shawl round his neck
as he came down the steps.
“ He ’s enough to fret a man’s heart
out,” replied the hostler. “He is the
most wicious rascal — Woa then, will
you ? ”
“ He ’ll never stand still, if you call
him names,” said Mr. Abel, getting in,
and taking the reins. “ He ’s a very
good fellow if you know how to manage
him. This is the first time he has been
out, this long while, for he has lost his
old driver and would n’t stir for any-
body else, till this morning. The lamps
are right, are they ? That ’s well. Be
here to take him to-morrow, if you
please. Good night ! ”
And, after one or two strange plunges,
quite of his own invention, the pony
THE OLD CURIOSITY SHOP.
280
yielded to Mr. Abel’s mildness, and
trotted gently off.
All this time Mr. Chuckster had been
standing aj the door, and the small ser-
vant had been afraid to approach. She
had nothing for it now, therefore, but to
run after the chaise, and to call to Mr.
Abel to stop. Being out of breath when
she came up with it, she was unable to
make him hear. The case was desper-
ate ; for the pony was quickening his
ace. The Marchioness hung on be-
ind for a few moments, and, feeling
that she could go no farther, and must
soon yield, clambered by a vigorous
effort into the hinder seat, and in so
doing lost one of the shoes forever.
Mr. Abel, being in a thoughtful frame
of mind, and having quite enough to do
to keep the pony going, went jogging on
without looking round, — little dream-
ing of the strange figure that was close
behind him, until the Marchioness,
having in some degree recovered her
breath, and the loss of her shoe, and
the novelty of her position, uttered close
into his ear the words, —
“ I say, sir — ”
He turned his head quickly enough
then, and, stopping the pony, cried, with
some trepidation, “ God bless me, what
is this ! ”
“Don’t be frightened, sir,” replied
the still panting messenger. “ O, I ’ve
run such a way after you ! ”
“ What do you want with me ? ” said
Mr. Abel. “ How did you come here? ”
“ I got in behind,” replied the Mar-
chioness. “ O, please drive on, sir, —
don’t stop, — and go towards the city,
will you? And O, do please make
haste, because it ’s of consequence.
There ’s somebody wants to see you
there. He sent me to say would you
come directly, and that he knowed all
about Kit, and could save him yet, and
prove his innocence.”
“ What do you tell me, child? ”
“The truth, upon my word and hon-
or, .1 do. But please to drive on, —
quick, please ! I ’ve been such a time
gone, he ’ll think I ’m lost.”
Mr. Abel involuntarily urged the po-
ny forward. The pony, impelled by
some secret sympathy or some new ca-
price, burst into a great pace, and nei-
ther slackened it, nor indulged in any ec-
centric performances, until they arrived
at the door of Mr. Swiveller’s lodging,
where, marvellous to relate, he consent-
ed to stop when Mr. Abel checked him.
“See! It’s that room up there,”
said the Marchioness, pointing to one
where there was a faint light. “ Come ! ”
Mr. Abel, who was one of the sim-
plest and most retiring creatures in ex-
istence, and naturally timid withal, hes-
itated ; for he had heard of people being
decoyed into strange places to be robbed
and murdered, under circumstances very
like the present, and, for anything he
knew to the contrary, by guides very
like the Marchioness. His regard for
Kit, however, overcame every other
consideration. So, intrusting Whisker
to the charge of a man who was linger-
ing hard by in expectation of the job,
he suffered his companion to take his
hand, and to lead him up the dark and
narrow stairs.
He was not a little surprised to find
himself conducted into a dimly lighted
sick-chamber, where a man was sleep-
ing tranquilly in bed.
“ Ain’t it nice to see him lying there
so quiet ? ” said his guide, in an earnest
whisper. “ O, you ’d say it was, if you
had only seen him two or three days
ago.”
Mr. Abel made no answer, and, to
say the truth, kept a long way from the
bed and very near the door. His guide,
who appeared to understand his reluc-
tance, trimmed the candle, and, taking
it in her hand, approached the bed. As
she did so, the sleeper started up, and
he recognized in the wasted face the
features of Richard Swiveller.
“ Why, how is this? ” said Mr. Abel,
kindly, as he hurried towards him.
“ You have been ill ? ”
“ Very,” replied Dick. “Nearly dead.
You might have chanced to hear of your
Richard on his bier, but for the friend I
sent to fetch you. Another shake of the
hand, Marchioness, if you please. Sit
down, sir.”
Mr. Abel seemed rather astonished to
hear of the quality of his guide, and took
a chair by the bedside.”
“ I have sent for you, sir,” said Dick,
— “ but she told you on what account ?*
THE OLD CURIOSITY SHOP.
“ She did. I am quite bewildered by
all this. I really don’t know what to
say or think,” replied Mr. Abel.
“ You ’ll say that presently,” retorted
Dick. “ Marchioness, take a seat on
the bed, will you ? Now, tell this gen-
tleman all that you told me ; and be
particular. Don’t you speak another
word, sir.”
The story was repeated. It was, in ef-
fect, exactly the same as before, without
any deviation or omission. Richard
Swiveller kept his eyes fixed on his
visitor during its narration, and direct-
ly it was concluded, took the word
again.
“You have heard it all, and you’ll
not forget it. I ’m too giddy and too
queer to suggest anything ; but you
and your friends will know what to do.
After this long delay, every minute is
an age. If ever you went home fast
in your life, go home fast to-night.
Don’t stop to say one word to me,
but go. She will be found here, when-
ever she ’s wanted ; and as to me,
you ’re pretty sure to find me at home,
for a week or two. There are more
reasons than one for that. Marchioness,
a light ! If you lose another minute
in looking at me, sir, I ’ll never forgive
you ! ”
Mr. Abel needed no more remon-
strance or persuasion. He was gone
in an instant ; and the Marchioness,
returning from lighting him down stairs,
reported that the pony, without any pre-
liminary objection whatever, had dashed
away at full gallop.
“That’s right!” said Dick; “and
hearty of him ; and I honor him from
this time. But get some supper and
a mug of beer, for I am sure you must
be tired. Do have a mug of beer. It
will do me as much good to see you
take it as if I mi^ht drink it myself.”
Nothing but this assurance could have
prevailed upon the small nurse to in-
dulge in such a luxury. Having eaten
and drunk to Mr. Swiveller’s extreme
contentment, given him his drink, and
put everything in neat order, she
wrapped herself in an old coverlet and
lay down upon the rug before the fire.
Mr. Swiveller was by that time mur-
muring in his sleep, “ Strew then, O
281
strew, a bed of rushes. Here will we
stay till morning blushes. Good night,
Marchioness ! ”
CHAPTER LXVI.
On awaking in the morning, Richard
Swiveller became conscious, by slow
degrees, of whispering voices in his
room. Looking out between the cur-
tains, he espied Mr. Garland, Mr. Abel,
the notary, and the single gentleman,
gathered round the Marchioness, and
talking to her with great earnestness
but in very subdued tones, — fearing,
no doubt, to disturb him. He lost no
time in letting them know that this
precaution was unnecessary, and all
four gentlemen directly approached his
bedside. Old Mr. Garland was the
first to stretch out his hand and inquire
how he felt.
Dick was about to answer that he felt
much better, though still as weak as
need be, when his little nurse, pushing
the visitors aside and pressing up to his
pillow as if in jealousy of their interfer-
ence, set his breakfast before him, and
insisted on his taking it before he un-
derwent the fatigue of speaking or of
being spoken to. Mr. Swiveller, who
was perfectly ravenous, and had had,
all night, amazingly distinct and con-
sistent dreams of mutton-chops, double
stout, and similar delicacies, felt even
the weak tea and dry toast such irre-
sistible temptations that he consented
to eat and drink on one condition.
“And that is,” said Dick, returning
the pressure of Mr. Garland’s hand,
“ that you answer me this question truty,
before I take a bit or drop. Is it too
late ? ”
“ For completing the work you be-
gan so well last night?” returned the
old gentleman. “ No. Set your mind
at rest on that point. It is not, I as-
sure you.”
Comforted by this intelligence, the
patient applied himself to his food with
a keen appetite, though evidently not
with a greater zest in the eating than
his nurse appeared to have in seeing
him eat. The manner of his meal was
this : — Mr. Swiveller, holding the slice
2$2
THE OLD CURIOSITY SHOP.
of toast or cup of tea in his left hand,
and taking a bite or drink, as the case
might be, constantly kept in his right
one palm of the Marchioness tight
locked ; and to shake or even to kiss
this imprisoned hand, he would stop
every now and then, in the very act of
swallowing, with perfect seriousness of
intention, and the utmost gravity. As
often as he put anything into his mouth,
whether for eating or drinking, the face
of the Marchioness lighted up beyond
all description ; but whenever he gave
her one or other of these tokens of
recognition, her countenance became
overshadowed, and she began to sob.
Now, whether she was in her laughing
joy, or in her crying one, the Marchio-
ness could not help turning to the vis-
itors with an appealing look, which
seemed to say, “ You see this fellow, —
can I help this?” And they, being
thus made, as it were, parties to the
scene, as regularly answered by anoth-
er look, “ No. Certainly not.” This
dumb-show taking place during the
whole time of the invalid’s breakfast,
and the invalid himself, pale and ema-
ciated, performing no small part in the
same, it may be fairly questioned wheth-
er at any meal, where no word, good or
bad, was spoken from beginning to end,
so much was expressed by gestures in
themselves so slight and unimportant.
At length — and to say the truth be-
fore very long — Mr. Swiveller had de-
spatched as much toast and tea as in
that stage of his recovery it was dis-
creet to let him have. But the cares
of the Marchioness did not stop here ;
for, disappearing for an instant and
presently returning with a basin of fair
water, she laved his face and hands,
brushed his hair, and in short made him
as spruce and smart as anybody under
such circumstances could be made ; and
all this in as brisk and business-like a
manner as if he were a very little boy,
and she his grown-up nurse. To these
various attentions Mr. Swiveller sub-
mitted in a kind of grateful astonish-
ment, beyond the reach of language.
When they were at last brought to an
end, and the Marchioness had with-
drawn into a distant corner to take her
own poor breakfast (cold enough by that
time), he turned his face away for some
few moments, and shook hands heartily
with the air.
“ Gentlemen,” said Dick, rousing
himself from this pause, and turning
round again, “you ’ll excuse me. Men
who have been brought so low as I
have been are easily fatigued. I am
fresh again now, and fit for talking.
We ’re short of chairs here, among other
trifles, but if you ’ll do me the favor to
sit upon the bed — ”
“What can we do for you?” said
Mr. Garland, kindly.
“If you could make the Marchioness
yonder a Marchioness in real, sober
earnest,” returned Dick, “ I ’d thank
you to get it done off-hand. But as you
can’t, and as the question is not what
you will do for me, but what you will
do for somebody else who has a better
claim upon you, pray, sir, let me know
what you intend doing.”
“ It ’s chiefly on that account that we
have come just now,” said the single
gentleman, “for you will have another
visitor presently. We feared you would
be anxious unless you knew from our-
selves what steps we intended to take,
and therefore came to you before we
stirred in the matter.”
“ Gentlemen,” returned Dick, “ I
thank you. Anybody in the helpless
state that you see me in is naturally
anxious. Don’t let me interrupt you,
sir.”
“Then, you see, my good fellow,”
said the single gentleman, “ that while
we have no doubt whatever of the truth
of this disclosure, which has so provi-
dentially come to light — ”
“ Meaning hers ? ” said Dick, point-
ing towards the Marchioness.
“ Meaning-hers, of course. While
we have no doubt of that, or that a
proper use of it would procure the poor
lad’s immediate pardon and liberation,
we have a great doubt whether it would,
by itself, enable us to reach Quilp, the
chief agent in this villany. I should
tell you that this doubt has been con-
firmed into something very nearly ap-
proaching certainty by the best opinions
we have been enabled, in this short
space of time, to take upon the subject.
You’ll agree with us, that to give him
THE OLD CURIOSITY SHOP .
283
even the most distant chance of escape,
if we could help it, would be monstrous.
You say with us, no doubt, if somebody
must escape, let it be any one but he.”
“Yes,” returned Dick, “certainly.
That is, if somebody must ; but upon
my word, I ’m unwilling that anybody
should. Since laws were made for ev-
ery degree, to curb vice in others as well
as in me, — and so forth, you know,
— does n’t it strike you in that light ? ”
The single gentleman smiled as if the
light in which Mr. Swiveller had put
the question v%re not the clearest in
the world, and proceeded to explain
that they contemplated proceeding by
stratagem in the first instance ; and that
their design was, to endeavor to extort
a confession from the gentle Sarah.
“ When she finds how much we know,
and how we know it,” he said, “and
that she is clearly compromised already,
we are not without strong hopes that
we may be enabled through her means
to punish the other two effectually. If
we could do that, she might go scot-free
for aught I cared.”
Dick received this project in anything
but a gracious manner, representing,
with as much warmth as he was then
capable of showing, that they would find
the old buck (meaning Sarah) more
difficult to manage than Quilp himself,
— that, for any tampering, terrifying, or
cajolery, she was a very unpromising
and unyielding subject, — that she was
of a kind of brass not easily melted or
moulded into shape, — in short, that
they were no match for her, and would
be signally defeated. But it was in
vain to urge them to adopt some other
course. The single gentleman has been
described as explaining their joint in-
tentions, but it should have been written
that they all spoke together ; that if any
one of them by chance held his peace
for a moment, he stood gasping and
panting for an opportunity to strike in
again ; in a word, that they had reached
that pitch of impatience and anxiety
where men can neither be persuaded
nor reasoned with ; and that it would
have been as easy to turn the most im-
petuous wind that ever blew, as to pre-
vail on them to reconsider their deter-
mination. So, after telling Mr. Swivel-
ler how they had not lost sight of Kit’s
mother and the children ; how they had
never once even lost sight of Kit him-
self, but had been unremitting in their
endeavors to procure a mitigation of his
sentence ; how they had been perfectly
distracted between the strong proofs of
his guilt and their own fading hopes of
his innocence ; and how he, Richard
Swiveller, might keep his mind at rest,
for everything should be happily ad-
justed between that time and night; —
after telling him all this, and adding a
great many kind and cordial expres-
sions, personal to himself, which it is
unnecessary to recite, Mr. Garland, the
notary, and the single gentleman took
their leaves at a very critical time, or
Richard Swiveller must assuredly have
been driven into another fever, whereof
the results might have been fatal.
Mr. Abel remained behind, very often
looking at his watch and at the room
door, until Mr. Swiveller was roused
from a short nap by the setting-down
on the landing-place outside, as from
the shoulders of a porter, of some giant
load, which seemed to shake the house,
and make the little physic bottles on
the mantel-shelf ring again. Directly
this sound reached his ears, Mr. Abel
started up, and hobbled to the door,
and opened it ; and behold ! there stood
a strong man, with a mighty hamper,
which, being hauled into the room and
presently unpacked, disgorged such
treasures of tea, and coffee, and wine,
and rusks, and oranges, and grapes,
and fowls ready trussed for boiling,
and calves’-foot jelly, and arrow-root,
and sago, and other delicate restora-
tives, that the small servant, who had
never thought it possible that such
things could be, except in shops, stood
rooted to the spot in her one shoe, with
her mouth and eyes watering in unison,
and her power of speech quite gone.
But not so Mr. Abel ; or the strong
man who emptied the hamper, big as it
was, in a twinkling; and not so the
nice old lady, who appeared so suddenly
that she might have come out of the
hamper too (it was quite large enough),
and who, bustling about on tiptoe and
without noise, — now here, now there,
now everywhere at once, — began to fill
284
THE OLD CURIOSITY SHOP.
out the jelly in teacups, and to make
chicken-broth in small saucepans, and
to peel oranges for the sick man, and to
cut them up in little pieces, and to ply
the small servant with glasses of wine
and choice bits of everything, until more
substantial meat could be prepared for
her refreshment. The whole of which
appearances were so unexpected and be-
wildering, that Mr. Swiveller, when he
had taken two oranges and a little jelly,
and had seen the strong man walk off
with the empty basket, plainly leaving
all that abundance for his use and ben-
efit, was fain to lie down and fall asleep
again, from sheer inability to entertain
such wonders in his mind.
Meanwhile the single gentleman, the
notary, and Mr. Garland repaired to a
certain coffee-house, and from that place
indited and sent a letter to Miss Sally
Brass, requesting her, in terms myste-
rious and brief, to favor an unknown
friend, who wished to consult her, with
her company there, as speedily as possi-
ble. The communication performed its
errand so well that within ten minutes
of the messenger’s return and report of
its delivery, Miss Brass herself was an-
nounced.
“Pray, ma’am,” said the single gen-
tleman, whom she found alone in the
room, “take a chair.”
Miss Brass sat herself down in a very
stiff and frigid state, and seemed — as
indeed she was — not a little astonished
to find that the lodger and her myste-
rious correspondent were one and the
same person.
“You did not expect to see me?”
said the single gentleman.
“I didn’t think much about it,”
returned the beauty. “ I supposed it
was business of some kind or other.
If it ’s about the apartments, of course
you ’ll give my brother regular notice,
you know, — or money. That ’s very
easily settled. You ’re a responsible
part: d in such a case lawful money
and ia ' .ul notice are pretty much the
same.”
“Iam obliged to you for your good
opinion,” retorted the single gentleman,
“and quite concur in those sentiments.
But that is not the subject on which I
wish to speak with you.”
“ Oh ! ” said Sally. “ Then just state
the particulars, will you? I suppose
it ’s professional business ? ”
“Why, it is connected with the law,
certainly.”
“Very well,” returned Miss Brass.
“ My brother and I are just the same.
I can take any instructions or give you
any advice.”
“ As there are other parties interested
besides myself,” said the single gentle-
man, rising and opening the door of
an inner room, “ we had better confer
together. Miss Brass* is here, gentle-
men ! ”
Mr. Garland and the notary walked
in, looking very grave ; and, drawing
up two chairs, one on each side of the
single gentleman, formed a kind of fence
round the gentle Sarah, and penned
her into a corner. Her brother Samp-
son under such circumstances would
certainly have evinced some confusion
or anxiety, but she — all composure —
pulled out the tin box and calmly took
a pinch of snuff.
“Miss Brass,” said the notary, tak-
ing the word at this crisis, “ we profes-
sional people understand each other,
and, when we choose, can say what we
have to say in very few words. You
advertised a runaway servant, the other
day?”
“Well,” returned Miss Sally, with a
sudden flush overspreading her features,
“ what of that ? ”
“ She is found, ma’am,” said the
notary, pulling out his pocket-hand-
kerchief with a flourish. “ She is
found.”
“ Who found her? ” demanded Sarah,
hastily.
“ We did, ma’am, — we three. Only
last night, or you would have heard
from us before.”
“ And now I have heard from you,”
said Miss Brass, folding her arms as
though she were about to deny something
to the death, “what have you got to
say? Something you have got into your
heads about her, of course. Prove it,
will you, — that’s all. Trove it. You
have found her, you say. I can tell you
(if you don’t know it) that you have
found the most artful, lying, pilfering,
devilish little minx that was ever born.
THE OLD CURIOSITY SHOP.
285
Have you got her here?” she added,
looking sharply round.
“ No, she is not here at present,” re-
turned the notary. “But she is quite
safe.”
“ Ha ! ” cried Sally, twitching a pinch
of snuff out of her box as spitefully as
if she were in the very act of wrenching
off the small servant’s nose ; “ she shall
be safe enough from this time, I war-
rant you.”
“I hope so,” replied the notary.
“ Did it occur to you for the first time,
when you found she had run away, that
there were two keys to your kitchen
door? ”
Miss Sally took another pinch, and,
putting her head on one side, looked at
her questioner, with a curious kind of
spasm about her mouth, but with a cun-
ning aspect of immense expression.
“Two keys,” repeated the notary;
“ one of which gave her the opportuni-
ties of roaming through the house at
nights when you supposed her fast locked
up, and of overhearing confidential con-
sultations, — among others, that particu-
lar conference, to be described to-day
before a justice, which you will have an
opportunity of hearing her relate ; that
conference which you and Mr. Brass
held together, on the night before that
most unfortunate and innocent young
man was accused of robbery, by a horri-
ble device of which I will only say that
it may be characterized by the epithets
you have applied to this wretched little
witness, and by a few stronger ones be-
sides.”
Sally took another pinch. Although
her face was wonderfully composed, it
was apparent that she was wholly taken
by surprise, and that what she had ex-
pected to be taxed with, in connection
with her small servant, was something
very different from this.
“Come, come, Miss Brass,” said the
notary, “ you have great command of
feature, but you feel, I see, that by a
chance which never entered your imagi-
nation, this base design is revealed, and
two of its plotters must be brought
to justice. Now, you know the pains
and penalties you are liable to, and so I
need not dilate upon them, but I have
a proposal to make to you. You have
the honor of being sister to one of the
greatest scoundrels unhung ; and if I
may venture to say so to a lady, you are
in every respect quite worthy of him.
But, connected with you two is a third
party, a villain of the name of Quilp,
the prime mover of the whole diabolical
device, who I believe to be worse than
either. For his sake, Miss Brass, do us
the favor to reveal the whole history
of this affair. Let me remind you that
your doing so, at our instance, will place
you in a safe and comfortable position,
— your present one is not desirable, —
and cannot injure your brother ; for
against him and you we have quite suf-
ficient evidence (as you hear) already.
I will not say to you that we suggest
this course in mercy (for to tell you the
truth, we do not entertain any regard
for you), but it is a necessity to which
we are reduced, and I recommend it to
you as a matter of the very best policy.
Time,” said Mr. Witherden, pulling
out his watch, “ in a business like this,
is exceedingly precious. Favor us with
your decision as speedily as possible,
ma’am.”
With a smile upon her face, and look-
ing at each of the three by turns, Miss
Brass took two or three more pinches
of snuff, and, having by this time very
little left, travelled round and round the
box with her forefinger and thumb,
scraping up another. Having disposed
of this likewise and put the box care-
fully in her pocket, she said, —
“I am to accept or reject at once,
am I?”
“ Yes,” said Mr. Witherden.
The charming creature was opening
her lips to speak in reply, when the
door was hastily opened too, and the
head of Sampson Brass was thrust into
the room.
“ Excuse me,” said that gentleman,
hastily. “Wait a bit!”
So saying,' and quite indifferent to the
astonishment his presence 00 asioned,
he crept in, shut the door, ki^ed his
greasy glove as servilely as if it were
the dust, and made a most abject bow.
“Sarah,” said Brass, “hold your
tongue if you please, and let me speak.
Gentlemen, if I could express the pleas-
ure it gives me to see three such men
286
THE OLD CURIOSITY SHOP.
in a happy unity of feeling and concord
of sentiment, I think you would hardly
believe me. But though l am unfortu-
nate, — nay, gentlemen, criminal, if we
are to use harsh expressions in a com-
panylike this, — still, I have my feelings
like other men. I have heard of a poet,
who remarked that feelings were the
common lot of all. If he could have
been a pig, gentlemen, and have uttered
that sentiment, he would still have been
immortal.”
“If you’re not an idiot,” said Miss
Brass, harshly, “hold your peace.”
“ Sarah, my dear,” returned her
brother, “ thank you. But I know
what I am about, my Jove, and will take
the liberty of expressing myself accord-
ingly. Mr. Witherden, sir, your hand-
kerchief is hanging out of your pocket,
— would you allow me to — ”
As Mr. Brass advanced to remedy
this accident, the notary shrunk from
him with an air of disgust. Brass, who,
over and above his usual prepossessing
qualities, had a scratched face, a green
shade over one eye, and a hat grievous-
ly crushed, stopped short, and looked
round with a pitiful smile.
“ He shuns me,” said Sampson,
“even when I would, as I may say,
heap coals of fire upon his head. Well !
Ah ! But I am a falling house, and the
rats (if I may be allowed the expression
in reference to a gentleman I respect
and love beyond everything) fly from
me ! Gentlemen, regarding your con-
versation just now, I happened to see
my sister on her way here, and, wonder-
ing where she could be going to, and
being — may I venture to say? — natu-
rally of a suspicious turn, followed her.
Since then, I have been listening.”
“ If you ’re not mad,” interposed
Miss Sally, “ stop there, and say no
more.”
“ Sarah, my dear,” rejoined Brass,
with undiminished politeness, “ I thank
you kindly, but will still proceed. Mr.
Witherden, sir, as we have the honor
to be members of the same profession,
— to say nothing of that other gentle-
man having been my lodger, and hav-
ing partaken, as one may say, of the
hospitality of my roof, — I think you
might have given me the refusal of this
offer in the first instance. I do indeed.
Now, my dear sir,” cried Brass, seeing
that the notary was about to interrupt
him, “ suffer me to speak, I beg.”
Mr. Witherden was silent, and Brass
went on.
“ If you will do me the favor,” he
said, holding up the green shade, and
revealing an eye most horribly discol-
ored, “to look at this, you will natural-
ly inquire, in your own minds, how did
I get it. If you look from that to
my face, you will wonder what could
have been the cause of all these scratch-
es. And if from them to my hat, how
it came into the state in which you see
it. Gentlemen,” said Brass, striking
the hat fiercely with his clenched hand,
“ to all these questions I answer, —
Quilp ! ”
The three gentleman looked at each
other, but said nothing.
“ I say,” pursued Brass, glancing
aside at his sister, as though he were
talking for her information, and speak-
ing with a snarling malignity, in violent
contrast to his usual smoothness, “ that
I answer to all these questions, — Quilp,
— Quilp, who deludes me into, his in-
fernal den, and takes a delight in look-
ing on and chuckling while I scorch,
and burn, and bruise, and maim myself,
— Quilp, who never once, no, never
once, in all our communications to-
gether, has treated me otherwise than
as a dog, — Quilp, whom I have always
hated with my whole heart, but never so
much as lately. He gives me the cold
shoulder on this very matter, as if he
had had nothing to do with it, instead
of being the first to propose it. I can’t
trust him. In one of his howling, rav-
ing, blazing humors, I believe he ’d let
it out, if it was murder, and never think
of himself so long as he could terrify
me. Now,” said Brass, picking up his
hat again, replacing the shade over his
eye, and actually crouching down, in
the excess of his servility, “what does
all this lead me to? — what should you
say it led me to, gentlemen? — could
you guess at all near the mark?”
Nobody spoke. Brass stood smirking
for a little while, as if he had pro-
pounded some choice conundrum ; and
then said : —
THE OLD CURIOSITY SHOP.
287
“To be short with you, then, it leads
me to this. If the truth has come out,
as it plainly has in a manner that there ’s
no standing up against, — and a very
sublime and grand thing is Truth, gen-
tlemen, in its way, though like other
sublime and grand things, such as thun-
der-storms and that, we he not always
over and above glad to see it, — I had
better turn upon this man than let this
man turn upon me. It ’s clear to me
that I am done for. Therefore, if any-
body is to split, I had better be the
person and have the advantage of it.
Sarah, my dear, comparatively speaking,
you’re safe. I relate these circum-
stances for my own profit.”
With that, Mr. Brass, in a great
hurry, revealed the whole story ; bear-
ing as heavily as possible on his amiable
employer, and making himself out to be
rather & saint-like and holy character,
though subject — he acknowledged —
to human weaknesses. He concluded
thus : —
“ Now, gentlemen, I am not a man
who does things by halves. Being in
for a penny, I am ready, as the saying
is, to be in for a pound. You must do
with me what you please, and take me
where you please. If you wish to have
this in w'riting, we ’ll reduce it into
manuscript immediately. You will be
tender with me, I am sure. I am quite
confident you will be tender with me.
You are men of honor, and have feel-
ing hearts. I yielded from necessity
to Quilp ; for, though Necessity has no
law, she has her lawyers. I yield to you
from necessity too ; from policy besides ;
and because of feelings that have been
a pretty long time working within me.
Punish Quilp, gentlemen. Weigh heav-
ily upon him. Grind him down. Tread
him under foot. He has done as much
by me, for many and many a day.”
Having now arrived at the conclusion
of his discourse, Sampson checked the
current of his wrath, kissed his glove
again, and smiled as only parasites and
cowards can.
“And this,” said Miss Brass, raising
her head, with which she had hitherto
sat resting on her hands, and surveying
him from head to foot with a bitter
sneer, — “ this is my brother, is it ! This
is my brother, that I have worked and
toiled for, and believed to have had
something of the man in him ! ”
“ Sarah, my dear,” returned Samp-
son, rubbing his hands feebly, “ you
disturb our friends. Besides, you,
you’re disappointed, Sarah, and, not
knowing what you say, expose your-
self.”
“ Yes, you pitiful dastard,” retorted
the lovely damsel, “ I understand you.
You feared that I should be beforehand
with you. But do you think that /
would have been enticed to say a word !
I ’d have scorned it, if they had tried
and tempted me for twenty years.”
“ He, he ! ” simpered Brass, who, in
his deep debasement, really seemed to
have changed sexes with his sister, and
to have made over to her any spark of
manliness he might have possessed.
“You think so, Sarah, you think so
perhaps ; but you would have acted
quite different, my good fellow. You
will not have forgotten that it was
a maxim with Foxev, — our revered
father, gentlemen, — ‘ Always suspect
everybody.’ That’s the maxim to go
through life with ! If you were not
actually about to purchase your own
safety when I showed myself, I suspect
you ’d have done it by this time. And
therefore T ’ve done it myself, and
spared you the trouble as well as the
shame. The shame, gentlemen,” add-
ed Brass, allowing himself to be slight-
ly overcome, “ if there is any, is mine.
It ’s better that a female should be
spared it.”
With deference to the better opinion
of Mr. Brass, and more particularly to
the authority of his great ancestor, it
may be doubted, with humility, wheth-
er the elevating principle laid down by
the latter gentleman, and acted upon by
his descendant, is always a prudent one,
or attended in practice with the desired
results. This is, beyond question, a
bold and presumptuous doubt, inas-
much as many distinguished characters,
called men of the world, long-headed
customers, knowing dogs, shrewd fel-
lows, capital hands at business, and the
dike, have made, and do daily make,
this axiom their polar star and compass.
Still, the doubt may be gently insinuat-
288
THE OLD CURIOSITY SHOP.
ed. And in illustration it may be ob-
served, that if Mr. Brass, not being
over-suspicious, had, without prying
and listening, left his sister to manage
the conference on their joint behalf, or,
prying and listening, had not been in
such a mighty hurry to anticipate her
(which he would not have been, but
for his distrust and jealousy), he would
probably have found himself much bet-
ter off in the end. Thus, it will always
happen that these men of the world,
who go through it in armor, defend
themselves from quite as much good
as evil ; to say nothing of the inconven-
ience and absurdity of mounting guard
with a microscope at all times, and of
wearing a coat-of-mail on the most in-
nocent occasions.
The three gentlemen spoke together
apart for a few moments. At the end
of their consultation, which was very
brief, the notary pointed to the writ-
ing materials on the table, and informed
Mr. Brass that if he wished to make
any statement in writing, he had the
opportunity of doing so. At the same
time he felt bound to tell him that they
would require his attendance, presently,
before a justice of the peace, and that,
in what he did or said, he was guided
entirely by his own discretion.
“ Gentlemen,” said Brass, drawing
off his gloves, and crawling in spirit up-
on the ground before them, “ I will jus-
tify the tenderness with which I know I
shall be treated ; and as, without ten-
derness, I should, now that this dis-
covery has been made, stand in the
worst position of the three, you may de-
pend upon it I will make a clean breast.
Mr. Witherden, sir, a kind of faintness
is upon my spirits. If you would do me
the favor to ring the bell and order up
a glass of something warm and spicy, I
shall, notwithstanding what has passed,
have a melancholy pleasure in drinking
your good health. I had hoped,” said
Brass, looking round with a mournful
smile, “ to have seen you three gentle-
men, one day or another, with your legs
under the mahogany in my humble
parlor *in the Marks. But hopes are
fleeting. Dear me ! ”
Mr. Brass found himself so exceed-
ingly affected, at this point, that he
could say or do nothing more until
some refreshment .arrived Having
artaken of it, pretty freely for one in
is agitated state, he sat down to
write.
The lovely Sarah, now with her arms
folded, and now with her hands clasped
behind her, paced the room with many
strides, while her brother was thus em-
ployed, and sometimes stopped to pull
out her snuffbox and bite the lid. She
continued to pace up and down until
she was quite tired, and then fell asleep
on a chair near the door.
It has been since supposed, with some
reason, that this slumber was a sham or
feint, as she contrived to slip away un-
observed in the dusk of the afternoon.
Whether this was an intentional and
waking departure, or a somnambulistic
leave-taking and walking in her sleep,
may remain a subject of contention ;
but on one point (and indeed the main
one) all parties are agreed. In what-
ever state she walked away, she cer-
tainly did not walk back again.
Mention having been made of the
dusk of the afternoon, it will be inferred
that Mr. Brass’s task occupied some
time in the completion. It was not
finished until evening ; but, being done
at last, # that worthy person and +he
three friends adjourned in a hackney-
coach to the private office of a justice,
who, giving Mr. Brass a warm recep-
tion and detaining him in a secure place
that he might insure to himself the
pleasure of seeing him on the morrow,
dismissed the others with the cheering
assurance that a warrant could not fail
to be granted next day for the apprehen-
sion of Mr. Quilp, and that a proper
application and statement of all the
circumstances to the secretary of state
(who was fortunately in town) would no
doubt procure Kit’s free pardon and
liberation without delay.
And now, indeed, it seemed that
Quilp’s malignant career was drawing
to a close, and that Retribution, which
often travels slowly — especially when
heaviest — had tracked his footsteps
with a sure and certain scent, and was
gaining on him fast. Unmindful of her
stealthy tread, her victim holds his
course in fancied triumph. Still at his
THE OLD CURIOSITY SHOP.
289
heels she comes, and once afoot, is
never turned aside !
Their business ended, the three gen-
tlemen hastened back to the lodgings
of Mr. Swiveller, whom they found pro-
gressing so favorably in his recovery as
to have been able to sit up for half an
hour, and to have conversed with cheer-
fulness. Mrs. Garland had gone home
some time since, but Mr. Abel was still
sitting with him. After tellmg him all
they had done, the two Mr. Garlands
and the single gentleman, as if by some
previous understanding, took their leaves
for the night, leaving the invalid alone
with the notary and the small servant.
“As you are so much better,” said
Mr. Witherden, sitting down at the
bedside, “ I may venture to communi-
cate to you a piece of news which has
come to me professionally.”
The idea of any professional intelli-
gence from a gentleman connected with
legal matters, appeared to afford Rich-
ard anything but a pleasing anticipation.
Perhaps he connected it in his own
mind with one or two outstanding ac-
counts, in reference to which he had
already received divers threatening let-
ters. His countenance fell as he re-
plied, —
“ Certainly, sir. I hope it ’s not any-
thing of a very disagreeable nature,
though ? ”
“ If I thought it so, I should choose
some better time for communicating it,”
replied the notary. “ Let me tell you,
first, that my fnends who have been
here to-day know nothing of it, and
that their kindness to you has been
quite spontaneous and with no hope of
return. It may do a thoughtless, care-
less man good to know that.”
Dick thanked him, and said he hoped
it would.
“I have been making some inquiries
about you.” said Mr. Witherden, “little
thinking that I should find you under
such circumstances as those which have
brought us together. You are the
nephew of Rebecca Swiveller, spinster,
deceased, of Cheselbourne in Dorset-
shire.”
“ Deceased 1 ” cried Dick.
“ Deceased. If you had been anoth-
er sort of nephew, you would have come
19
into possession (so says the will, and I
see no reason to doubt it) of five-and-
twenty thousand pounds. As it is, you
have fallen into an annuity of one hun-
dred and fifty pounds a year; but I
think I may congratulate you even upon
that.”
“ Sir,” said Dick, sobbing and laugh-
ing together, “you may. For, please
God, we ’ll make a scholar of the poor
Marchioness yet ! And she shall walk
in silk attire, and siller have to spare,
or may I never rise from this bed
again ! ”
CHAPTER LX VI I.
Unconscious of the proceedings
faithfully narrated in the last chapter,
and little dreaming of the mine which
had been sprung beneath him (for, to
the end that he should have no warning
of the business afoot, the profoundest
secrecy was observed in the whole trans-
action), Mr. Quilp remained shut up
in his hermitage, undisturbed by any
suspicion, and extremely well satisfied
with the result of his machinations.
Being engaged in the adjustment of
some accounts — an occupation to which
the silence and solitude of his retreat
were very favorable — he had not strayed
from his den for two whole days. The
third day of his devotion to this pursuit
found him still hard at work, and little
disposed to stir abroad.
It was the day next after Mr. Brass’s
confession, and, consequently, that
which threatened the restriction of Mr.
Quilp’s liberty, and the abrupt commu-
nication to him of some very unpleas-
ant and unwelcome facts. Having no
intuitive perception of the cloud which
lowered upon his house, the dwarf was
in his ordinary state of cheerfulness ;
and when he found he was becoming
too much engrossed by business, with a
due regard to his health and spirits, he
varied its monotonous routine with a
little screeching, or howling, or some
other innocent relaxation of that na-
ture.
He was attended, as usual, by Tom
Scott, who sat crouching over the fire
after the manner of a toad, and from
290
THE OLD CURIOSITY SHOP.
time to time, when his master’s back
was turned, imitated his grimaces with
a fearful exactness. The figure-head
had not yet disappeared, but remained
in its old place. The face, horribly
seared by the frequent application of
the red-hot poker, and further ornament-
ed by the insertion, in the tip of the
nose, of a tenpenny nail, yet smiled
blandly in its less lacerated parts, and
seemed, like a sturdy martyr, to provoke
its tormentor to the commission of new
outrages and insults.
The day, in the highest and brightest
quarters of the town, was damp, dark,
cold, and gloomy. In that low and
marshy spot, the fog filled every nook
and corner with a thick, dense cloud.
Every object was obscured at one or
two yards’ distance. The warning lights
and fires upon the river were powerless
beneath this pall, and, but for a raw
and piercing chillness in the air, and
now and then the cry of some bewil-
dered boatman as he rested on his oars
and tried to make out where he was,
the river itself might have been miles
away.
The mist, though sluggish and slow
to move, was of a keenly searching
kind. No muffling up in furs and
broadcloth kept it out. It seemed to
penetrate into the very bones of the
shrinking wayfarers, and to rack them
with cold and pains. Everything was
wet and clammy to the touch. The
warm blaze alone defied it, and leaped
and sparkled merrily. It was a day to
be at home, crowding about the fire,
telling stories of travellers who had
lost their way in such weather on heaths
and moors, and to love a warm hearth
more than ever.
The dwarf’s humor, as we know, was
to have a fireside to himself ; and when
he was disposed to be convivial, to en-
joy himself alone. By no means insen-
sible to the comfort of being within
doors, he ordered Tom Scott to pile the
little stove with coals, and, dismissing
his work for that day, determined to be
jovial.
To this end, he lighted up fresh
candles and heaped more fuel on the
fire ; and having dined off a beefsteak
which he cooked himself in somewhat
of a savage and cannibal-like manner,
brewed a great bowl of hot punch,
lighted his pipe, and sat down to spend
the evening.
At this moment, a low knocking at
the cabin door arrested his attention.
When it had been twice or thrice re-
peated, he softly opened the little win-
dow, and, thrusting his head out, de-
manded wjio was there.
“ Only me, Quilp,” replied a wo-
man’s voice.
“ Only you ! ” cried the dwarf,
stretching his neck to obtain a better
view of his visitor. “ And what brings
you here, you jade? How dare you
approach the ogre’s castle, eh?”
“ I have come with some news,” re-
joined his spouse. “ Don’t be angry
with me.”
“ Is it good news, pleasant news,
news to make a man skip and snap
his fingers? ” said the dwarf. “ Is the
dear old lady dead?”
“ I don’t know what news it is, or
whether it ’s good or bad,” rejoined his
wife.
“ Then she ’s alive,” said Quilp,
“ and there ’s nothing the matter with
her. Go home again, you bird of evil
note, go home ! ”
“ I have brought a letter,” cried the
meek little woman.
“ Toss it in at the window here, and
go your ways,” said Quilp, interrupting
her, “or I ’ll come out and scratch
you.”
“No, but please, Quilp — do hear
me speak,” urged his submissive wife,
in tears. “ Please do ! ”
“ Speak then,” growled the dwarf,
with a malicious grin. “ Be quick and
short about it. Speak, will you?”
“ It was left at our house this after-
noon,” said Mrs. Quilp, trembling, “ by
a boy who said he didn’t know from
whom it came, but that it was given to
him to leave, and that he was told to
say it must be brought on to you di-
rectly, for it was of the very greatest
consequence. But please,” she added,
as her husband stretched out his hand
for it, — “please let me in. You don’t
know how wet and cold I am, or how
many times I have lost my way in com-
ing here through this thick fog. me
THE OLD CURIOSITY SHOP .
dry myself at the fire for five minutes.
I ’ll go away directly you tell me to,
Quilp. Upon my word, I will.”
Her amiable husband hesitated for
a few moments ; but, bethinking him-
self that the letter might require some
answer, of which she could be the
bearer, closed the window, opened the
door, and bade her enter. Mrs. Quilp
obeyed right willingly, and, kneeling
down before the fire to warm her hands,
delivered into his a little packet.
“ I ’m glad you ’re wet,” said Quilp,
snatching it, and squinting at her.
“ I ’m glad you ’re cold. I ’m glad
you ’ve lost your way. I ’m glad your
eyes are red with crying. It does my
heart good to see your little nose so
pinched and frosty.”
“O Quilp !” sobbed his wife, “how
cruel it is of you ! ”
“ Did she think I was dead ! ” said
Quilp, wrinkling his face into a most
extraordinary series of grimaces. “ Did
she think she was going to have all the
money, and to marry somebody she
liked? Ha, ha, ha! Did she?”
These taunts elicited no reply from
the poor little woman, who remained
on her knees, wanning her hands and
sobbing, to Mr. Quilp’s great delight.
But just as he was contemplating her,
and chuckling excessively, he happened
to observe that Tom Scott was delight-
ed too ; wherefore, that he might have
no presumptuous partner in his glee,
the dwarf instantly collared him, dragged
him to the door, and, after a short scuf-
fle, kicked him into the yard. In re-
turn for this mark of attention, Tom
immediately walked upon his hands to
the window, and — if the expression be
allowable — looked in with his shoes,
besides rattling his feet upon the glass
like a Banshee upside down. As a
matter of course, Mr. Quilp lost no time
in resorting to the infallible poker, with
which, after some dodging and lying
in ambush, he paid his young friend
one or two such unequivocal compli-
ments that he vanished precipitately,
and left him in quiet possession of the
field.
“ So ! That little job being disposed
of,” said the dwarf, coolly, “ I ’ll read
my letter. Humph ! ” he muttered,
291
looking at the direction. “ I ought to
know this writing. Beautiful Sally ! ”
Opening it, he read, in a fair, round,
legal hand, as follows : —
“ Sammy has been practised upon, and
has broken confidence. It has all come
out. You had better not be in the way,
for strangers are going to call upon you.
They have been very quiet as yet, be-
cause they mean to surprise you. Don’t
lose time. I did n’t. I am not to be
found anywhere. If I was you, I
would n’t be, either. S. B., late of B.
M.”
To describe the changes that passed
over Quilp’s face as he read this let-
ter half a dozen times, would require
some new language, — such, for power of
expression, as was never written, read,
or spoken. For a long time he did not
utter one word ; but, after a considera-
ble interval, during which Mrs. Quilp
was almost paralyzed with the alarm his
looks engendered, he contrived to gasp
out, —
“ If I had him here ! If I only had
him here — ”
“ O Quilp ! ” said his wife, “ what’s
the matter ? Who are you angry with ? ”
“ I should drown him,” said the dwarf,
not heeding her. “ Too easy a death, —
too short, too quick, — but the. river runs
close at hand. Oh ! If I had him here !
Just to take him to the brink, coaxingly
and pleasantly, holding him by the but-
ton-hole, joking with him, and, with
a sudden push, to send him splashing
down ! Drowning men come to the
surface three times they say. Ah ! To
see him those three times, and mock
him as his face came bobbing up, — O,
what a rich treat that would be ! ”
“Quilp!” stammered his wife, ven-t
turing at the same time to touch him on
the shoulder, “ what has gone wrong ? ”
She was so terrified by the relish with
which he pictured this pleasure to him-
self that she could scarcely make her-
self intelligible.
“ Such a bloodless cur ! ” said Quilp,
rubbing his hands very slowly, and
pressing them tight together. “ I
thought his cowardice and servility
were the best guaranty for his keep-
ing silence. O Brass, Brass, — my
dear, good, affectionate, faithful, com-
292
THE OLD CURIOSITY SHOP.
plimentary, charming friend, — if I on-
ly had you here ! ”
His wife, who had retreated lest she
should seem to listen to these mutter-
ings, ventured to approach him again,
and was about to speak, when he hur-
ried to the door and called Tom Scott,
who, remembering his late gentle ad-
monition, deemed it prudent to appear
immediately.
“ There ! ” said the dwarf, pulling him
in. “ Take her home. Don’t come
here to-morrow, for this place will be
shut up. Come back no more till you
hear from me or see me. Do you
mind ? ”
Tom nodded sulkily, and beckoned
Mrs. Quilp to lead the way.
“ As for you,” said the dwarf, address-
ing himself to her, “ask no questions
about me, make no search for me, say
nothing concerning me. I shall not
be dead, mistress, and that ’ll comfort
you. He’ll take care of you.”
“But Quilp? What is the matter?
Where are you going ? Do say some-
thing more.”
“ I ’ll say that,” said the dwarf, seiz-
ing her by the arm, “ and do that too,
which undone and unsaid would be
best for you, unless you go directly.”
“ Has anything happened? ” cried his
wife. “ O, do tell me that.”
“Yes,” snarled the dwarf. “No.
What matter which ? I have told you
what to do. Woe betide you if you fail
to do it, or disobey me by a hair’s %
breadth. Will you go ? ”
“ I am going; I ’ll go directly ; but,”
faltered his wife, “ answer me one ques-
tion first. Has this letter any connec-
tion with dear little Nell ? I must ask
you that, — I must indeed, Quilp. You
cannot think what days and nights of
sorrow I have had through having once
deceived that child. I don’t know what
harm I may have brought about, but,
great or little, I did it for you, Quilp.
My conscience misgave me when I did
it. Do answer me this question, if you
please.”
The exasperated dwarf returned no
answer, but turned round and caught
up his usual weapon with such vehe-
mence that Tom Scott dragged his
charge away, by main force, and as
swiftly as he could. It was well he did
so, for Quilp, who was nearly mad with
rage, pursued them to the neighboring
lane, and might have prolonged the
chase but for the dense mist which ob-
scured them from his view, and ap-
peared to thicken every moment.
“It will be a good night for travelling
anonymously,” he said, as he returned
slowly ; being pretty well breathed with
his run. “ Stay. We may look better
here. This is too hospitable and free.”
By a great exertion of strength he
closed the two old gates, which were
deeply sunken in the mud, and barred
them with a heavy beam. That done,
he shook his matted hair from about
his eyes, and tried them. — Strong and
fast.
“ The fence between this wharf and
the next is easily climbed,” said the
dwarf, when he had taken these pre-
cautions. “ There ’s a back lane, too,
from there. That shall be my way out.
A man need know his road well, to find
it in this lovely place to-night. I need
fear no unwelcome visitors while this
lasts, I think.”
Almost reduced to the necessity of
groping his way with his hands (it had
grown so dark and the fog had so much
increased), he returned to his lair; and,
after musing for some time over the
fire, busied himself in preparations for
a speedy departure.
While he was collecting a few ne-
cessaries and cramming them into his
pockets, he never once ceased com-
muning with himself in a low voice, or
unclenched his teeth, which he had
ground together on finishing Miss
Brass’s note.
“O Sampson ! ” he muttered, “good,
worthy creature, if I could but hug
you ! If I could only fold you in my
arms, and squeeze your ribs, as I could
squeeze them if I once had you tight,
— what a meeting there would be be-
tween us ! If we ever do cross each
other again, Sampson, we ’ll have a
greeting not easily to be forgotten, trust
me. This time, Sampson, this mo-
ment, when all had gone on so well,
was so nicely chosen ! It was so
thoughtful of you, so penitent, so good.
O, if we were face to face in this room
THE OLD CURIOSITY SHOP.
293
again, my white-livered man of law, how
well contented one of us would be ! ”
There he stopped ; and, raising the
bowl of punch to his lips, drank a long
deep draught, as if it were fair water
and cooling to his parched mouth. Set-
ting it down abruptly, and resuming his
preparations, he went on with his solil-
oquy.
“ There ’s Sally,” he said, with flash-
ing eyes ; “ the woman has spirit, de-
termination, purpose, — was she asleep,
or petrified ? She could have stabbed
him, poisoned him safely. She might
have seen this coming on. Why does
she give me notice when it ’s too late ?
When he sat there, — yonder there,
over there, — with his white face, and
red head, and sickly smile, why didn’t I
know what was passing in his heart ?
It should have stopped beating, that
night, if I had been in his secret, or
there are no drugs to lull a man to
sleep, and no fire to burn him ! ”
Another draught from the bowl ; and,
cowering over the fire with a ferocious
aspect, he muttered to himself again.
“And this, like every other trouble
and anxiety I have had of late times,
springs from that old dotard and his
darling child, — two wretched, feeble
wanderers ! I ’ll be their evil genius
yet. And you, sweet Kit, honest Kit,
virtuous, innocent Kit, look to your-
self. Where I hate, I bite. I hate
you, my darling fellow, with good cause ;
and, proud as you are to-night, I ’ 11
have my turn. — What ’s that ! ”
A knocking at the gate he had closed.
A loud and violent knocking. Then
a pause, as if those who knocked
had stopped to listen. Then the noise
again, more clamorous and importunate
than before.
“ So soon ! ” said the dwarf. “ And
so eager ! I am afraid I shall disap-
point you. It ’s well I ’m quite pre-
pared. Sally, I thank you ! ”
As he spoke, he extinguished the
candle. In his impetuous attempts to
subdue the brightness of the fire, he
overset the stove, which came tumbling
forward, and fell with a crash upon the
burning embers it had shot forth in its
descent, leaving the room in pitchy
darkness. The noise at the gate still
continuing, he felt his way to the door,
and stepped into the open air.
At that moment the knocking ceased.
It was about eight o’clock ; but the
dead of the darkest night would have
been as noonday, in comparison with
the thick cloud which then rested upon
the earth, and shrouded everything
from view. He darted forward for a
few paces, as if into the mouth of some
dim, yawning cavern, then, thinking
he had gone wrong, changed the direc-
tion of his steps ; then stood still, not
knowing where to turn.
“ If they would knock again,” said
Quilp, trying to peer into the gloom by
which he was surrounded, “the sound
might guide me ! Come 1 Batter the
gate once more ! ”
He stood listening intently, but the
noise was not renewed. Nothing was
to be heard in that deserted place but,
at intervals, the distant barkings of dogs.
The sound was far away, — now in one
quarter, now answered in another, — nor
was it any guide, for it often came from
shipboard as he knew.
“ If I could find a wall or fence,” said
the dw'arf, stretching out his arms, and
walking slowly on, “ I should know
which way to turn. A good, black,
devil’s night this, to have my dear
friend here ! If I* had but that wish, it
might, for anything I cared, never be
day again.”
As the word passed his lips, he stag-
gered and fell, and next moment was
fighting with the cold dark water !
For all its bubbling up and rushing
in his ears, he could hear the knocking
at the gate again, — could hear a shout
that followed it, — could recognize the
voice. For all his struggling and plash-
ing, he could understand that they had
lost their way, and had wandered back to
the point from which they started ; that
they were all but looking on, while he
was drowned ; that they were close at
hand, but could not make an effort to
save him ; that he himself had shut and
barred them out. He answered the
shout — with a yell which seemed to
make the hundred fires that danced
before his eyes tremble and flicker as
if a gust of wind had stirred them. It
was of no avail. The strong tide filled
294
THE OLD CURIOSITY SHOP.
his throat, and bore him on upon its
rapid current.
Another mortal struggle, and he was
up again, beating the water with his
hands, and looking out, with wild and
glaring eyes that showed him some
black object he was drifting close upoti.
The hull of a ship ! He could touch
its smooth and slippery surface with
his hand. One loud cry now, — but
the resistless water bore him down be-
fore he could give it utterance, and,
driving him under, it carried away a
corpse.
It toyed and sported with its ghastly
freight, now bruising it against the slimy
piles, now hiding it in mud or long rank
grass, now dragging it heavily over
rough stones and gravel, now feigning to
yield it to its own element, aM in the
same action luring it away, until, tired
of the ugly plaything, it flung it on a
swamp, — a dismal place where pirates
had swung in chains, through many a
wintry night, — and left it there to
bleach.
And there it lay alone. The sky was
red with flame, and the water that bore
it there had been tinged with the sullen
light as it flowed along. The place,
the deserted carcass had left so re-
cently, a living man, was now a blaz-
ing ruin. There was something of the
glare upon its face. The hair, stirred
by the damp breeze, played in a kind of
Vmockery of death — such a mockery as
the dead man himself would have de-
lighted in when alive — about its head,
ana its dress fluttered idly in the night-
wind.
CHAPTER LXVIII.
Lighted rooms, bright fires, cheer-
ful faces, the music of glad voices,
words of love and welcome, warm
hearts, and tears of happiness, — what
a change is this ! But it is to such
delights that Kit is hastening. They
are awaiting him, he knows. He fears
he will die of joy before he gets among
them.
They have prepared him for this, all
day. He is not to be carried off to-
morrow with the rest, they tell him first.
By degrees they let him know that
doubts have arisen, that inquiries are
to be made, and perhaps he may be
pardoned after all. At last, the even-
ing being come, they bring him to a
room where some gentlemen are assem-
bled. Foremost among them is his
{ 'ood old master, who comes and takes
lim by the hand. He hears that his
innocence is established, and that he is
pardoned. He cannot see the speaker,
but he turns towards the voice, and,
in trying to answer, falls down insensi-
ble.
They recover him again, and tell him
he must be composed, and bear this
like a man. Somebody says he must
think of his poor mother. It is because
he does think of her so much, that
the happy news has overpowered him.
They crowd about him, and tell him
that the truth has gone abroad, and
that all the town and country ring with
sympathy for his misfortunes. He has
no ears for this. His thoughts, as yet,
have no wider range than home. D<^s
she know it? what did she say? who
told her? He can speak of nothing
else.
They make him drink a little wine,
and talk kindly to him for a while, until
he is more collected, and can listen, and
thank them. He is free to go. Mr.
Garland thinks, if he feels better, it is
time they went away. The gentlemen
duster round him, and shake hands
with him. He feels very grateful to
them for the interest they have in
him, and for the kind promises they
make ; but the power of speech is gone
again, and he has much ado to keep
his feet, even though leaning on his
master’s arm.
As they come through the dismal
passages, some officers of the jail who
are in waiting there congratulate him,
in their rough way, on his release.
The newsmonger is of the number, but
his manner is not quite hearty, — there
is something of surliness in his compli-
ments. He looks upon Kit as an in-
truder, as one who has obtained admis-
sion to that place on false pretences,
who has enjoyed a privilege without
being duly qualified. He may be a
very good sort of young man, he thinks,
THE OLD CURIOSITY SHOP.
295
but he has no business there, and the
sooner he is gone the better.
The last door shuts behind them.
They have passed the outer wall, and
stand in the open air, — in the street he
has so often pictured to himself when
hemmed in by the gloomy stones, and
which has been in all his dreams. It
seems wider and more busy than it
used to be. The night is bad, and yet
how cheerful and gay in his eyes !
One of the gentlemen, in taking leave
of him, pressed some 4 money into his
hand. He has not counted it ; but
when they have gone a few paces be-
yond the box for poor prisoners, he
nastily returns and drops it in.
Mr. Garland has a coach waiting in
a neighboring street, and, taking Kit
inside with him, bids the man drive
home. At first, they can only travel
at a foot pace, and then with torches
going on before, because of the heavy
fog. But as they get farther from the
river, and leave the closer portions of
the town behind, they are able to dis-
pense with this precaution and to pro-
ceed at a brisker rate. On the road,
hard galloping would be too slow for
Kit ; but when they are drawing near
their journey’s end, he begs they may
go more slowly, and when the house
appears in sight, that they may stop,
only for a minute or two, to give him
time to breathe.
But there is no stopping then, for
the old gentleman speaks stoutly to
him, the horses mend their pace, and
they are already at the garden gate.
Next minute, they are at the door.
There is a noise of tongues, and tread
of feet, inside. It opens. Kit rushes
in, and finds his mother clinging round
his neck.
And there, too, is the ever-faithful
Barbara’s mother, still holding the baby
as if she had never put it down since
that sad day when they little hoped
to have such joy as this, — there she is,
Heaven bless her, crying her eyes out,
and sobbing as never woman sobbed
before ; and there is little Barbara, —
poor little Barbara, so much thinner
and so much paler, and yet so very pret-
ty, — trembling like a leaf, and support-
ing herself against the wall ; and there
is Mrs. Garland, neater and nicer than
ever, fainting away stone dead with
nobody to help her ; and there is Mr.
Abel, violently blowing his nose, and
wanting to embrace everybody ; and
there is the single gentleman hovering
round them all, and constant to nothing
for an instant ; and there is that good,
dear, thoughtful little Jacob, sitting all
alone by himself on the bottom stair, with
his hands on his knees like an old man,
roaring fearfully without giving any
trouble to anybody ; and each and all of
them are for the time clean out of their
wits, and do jointly and severally com-
mit all manner of follies.
And even when the rest have in some
measure come to themselves again, and
can find words and smiles, Barbara —
that soft-hearted, gentle, foolish little
Barbara — is suddenly missed and
found to be in a swoon by herself in the
back parlor, from which swoon she falls
into hysterics, and from which hyster-
ics into a swoon again, and is, indeed,
so bad that, despite a mortal quantity of
vinegar and cold water, she is hardly a
bit better at last than she was at first.
Then Kit’s mother comes in and says,
will he come and speak to her ; and
Kit says, “Yes,” and goes; and he
says in a kind voice, “ Barbara ! ” and
Barbara’s mother tells her that “it’s
only Kit'” ; and Barbara says (with her
eyes closed all the time) “Oh ! but is it
him indeed ? ” and Barbara’s mother
says, “To be sure it is, my dear ;
there ’s nothing the matter now.” And
in further assurance that he ’s safe and
sound, Kit speaks to her again ; and
then Barbara goes off into another fit of
laughter, and then into another fit of
crying ; and then Barbara’s mother and
Kit’s mother nod to each other and pre-
tend to scold her, — but only to bring
her to herself the faster, bless you ! —
and being experienced matrons, and
acute at perceiving the first dawning
symptoms of recovery, they comfort Kit
with the assurance that “ she ’ll do
now,” and so dismiss him to the place
from whence he came.
Well ! In that place (which is the
next room) there are decanters of wine,
and all that sort of thing, set out as
grand as if Kit and his friends ^vere
2g6
THE OLD CURIOSITY SHOP.
first-rate company ; and there is little
Jacob, walking, as the popular phrase is,
into a home-made plum-cake, at a most
surprising pace, and keeping his eye on
the figs and oranges which are to follow,
and making the best use of his time,
you may believe. Kit no sooner comes
m, than that single gentleman (never
was such a busy gentleman) charges all
the glasses — bumpers — and drinks his
health, and tells him he shall never
want a friend while he lives ; and so
does Mr. Garland, and so does Mrs.
Garland, and so does Mr. Abel. But
even this honor and distinction is not
all, for the single gentleman forthwith
pulls out of his pocket a massive silver
watch, — going hard, and right to half a
second, — and upon the back of this
watch is engraved Kit’s name, with
flourishes all over ; and in short it is
Kit’s watch, bought expressly for him,
and presented to nim on the spot. You
may rest assured that Mr. and Mrs.
Garland can’t help hinting about their
present in store, and that Mr. Abel
tells outright that he has his ; and that
Kit is the happiest of the happy.
There is one friend he has not seen
yet, and as he cannot be conveniently
introduced into the family circle, by rea-
son of his being an iron-shod quadru-
ped, Kit takes the first opportunity of
slipping away and hurrying to the sta-
ble. The moment he lays his hand
upon the latch, the pony neighs the
loudest pony’s greeting ; before he
has crossed the threshold, the pony is
capering about his loose box (for he
brooks not the indignity of a halter),
mad to give him welcome ; and when
Kit goes up to caress and pat him* the
pony rubs his nose against his coat, and
fondles him more lovingly than ever
pony fondled man. It is the crown-
ing circumstance of his earnest, heart-
felt reception ; and Kit fairly puts his
arm round Whisker’s neck and hugs
him.
But how comes Barbara to trip in
there ? and how smart she is again !
She has been at her glass since she
recovered. How comes Barbara in the
stable, of all places in the world ? Why,
since Kit has been away, the pony
would take his food from nobody but
her, and Barbara, you see, not dream-
ing Christopher was there, and just
looking in to see that everything was
right, has come upon him unawares.
Blushing little Barbara !
It may be that Kit has caressed the
pony enough ; it may be that there are
even better things to caress than ponies.
He leaves him for Barbara at any rate,
and hopes she is better. Yes. Barba-
ra is a great deal better. She is afraid
— and here Barbara looks down and
blushes more — that he must have
thought her very foolish. “Not at
all,” says Kit. Barbara is glad of that,
and coughs — Hem! — just the slight-
est cough possible — not more than
that.
What a discreet pony, when he choos-
es ! He is as quiet now as if he were
of marble. He has a very knowing
look, but that he always has. “We
have hardly had time to shake hands,
Barbara,” says Kit. Barbara gives
him hers. Why, she is trembling now !
Foolish, fluttering Barbara !
Arm’s length? The length of an
arm is not much. Barbara’s was not
a long arm, by any means, and besides,
she did n’t hold it out straight, but bent
a little. Kit was so near her when
they shook hands, that he could see a
small tiny tear yet trembling on an
eyelash. It was natural that he should
look at it, unknown to Barbara. It was
natural that Barbara should raise her
eyes unconsciously, and find him out.
Was it natural that at that instant,
without any previous impulse or de-
sign, Kit should kiss Barbara? He
did it, whether or no. Barbara said,
“ For shame ! ” but let him do it too,
twice. He might have done it thrice,
but the pony kicked up his heels and
shook his head, as if he were suddenly
taken with convulsions of delight, and
Barbara, being frightened, ran away, —
not straight to where her mother and
Kit’s mother were, though, lest they
should see how red her cheeks were,
and should ask her why. Sly little
Barbara !
When the first transports of the whole
party had subsided, and Kit and his
mother and Barbara and her mother,
with little Jacob and the baby to boot.
THE OLD CURIOSITY SHOP.
297
had had their suppers together, —
which there was no hurrying over, for
they were going to stop there all night,
— Mr. Garland called Kit to him, and,
taking him into a room where they
could be alone, told him that he had
something yet to say which would sur-
prise him greatly. Kit looked so anx-
ious and turned so pale on hearing
this, that the old gentleman hastened
to add, he would be agreeably surprised,
and asked him if he would be ready
next morning for a journey.
“ For a journey, sir!” cried Kit.
“In company with me and my friend
in the next room. Can you guess its
purpose? ”
Kit turned paler yet, and shook his
head.
“ O yes. I think you do already,”
said his master. “Try.”
Kit murmured something rather ram-
bling and unintelligible, but he plainly
pronounced the words, “ Miss Nell,”
three or four times, shaking his head
while he did so, as if he would add that
there was no hope of that.
But Mr. Garland, instead of saying,
“ Try again,” as Kit had made sure he
would, told him, very seriously, that
he had guessed right.
“ The place of their retreat is indeed
discovered,” he said, “at last. And
that is our journey’s end.”
Kit faltered out such questions as,
where was it, and how had it been
found, and how long since, and was
she well and happy ?
“ Happy she is, beyond all doubt,”
said Mr. Garland. “And well, I —
I trust she will be soon. She has been
weak and ailing, as I learn, but she
was better when I heard this morn-
ing, and they were full of hope. Sit
you down, and you shall hear the
rest.”
Scarcely venturing to draw his breath,
Kit did as he was told. Mr. Garland
then related to him, how he had a
brother (of whom he would remember
to have heard him speak, and whose
picture, taken when he was a young
man, hung in the best room), and how
this brother lived a long way off, in a
country-place, with an old clergyman
who had been his early friend. How, al-
though they loved each other as broth-
ers should, they had not met for many
years, but had communicated by letter
from time to time, always looking for-
ward to some period when they would
take each other by the hand once more,
and still letting the Present time steal
on, as it was the habit of men to do,
and suffering the Future to melt into
the Past. How this brother, whose
temper was very mild and quiet and
retiring, — such as Mr. Abel’s, — was
greatly beloved by the simple people
among whom he dwelt, who quite re-
vered the bachelor (for so they called
him), and had every one experienced
his charity and benevolence. How,
even those slight circumstances had
come to his knowledge, very slowly and
in course of years, for the bachelor was
one of those whose goodness shuns the
light, and who have more pleasure in
discovering and extolling the good deeds
of others, than in trumpeting their own,
be they never so commendable. How
for that reason, he seldom told them of
his village friends ; but how, for all that,
his mind had become so full of two
among them, — a child and an old man,
to whom he had been very kind, — that,
in a letter received a few days before*
he had dwelt upon them from first to
last, and had told such a tale of their
wandering and mutual love, that few
could read it without being moved to
tears. How he, the recipient of that
letter, was directly led to the belief that
these must be the very wanderers for
whom so much search had been made,
and whom Heaven had directed to his
brother’s care. How he had written for
such further information as would put
the fact beyond all doubt ; how it had
that morning arrived, had confirmed
his first impression into a certainty,
and was the immediate cause of that
journey being planned which they were
to take to-morrow.
“In the mean time,” said the old
gentleman, rising, and laying his hand
on Kit’s shoulder, “ you have great
need of rest ; for such a day as this
would wear out the strongest man.
Good night, and Heaven send our
journey may have a prosperous end-
ing ! ”
293
THE OLD CURIOSITY SHOP.
CHAPTER LXIX.
Kit was no sluggard next morning,
but, springing from his bed some time
before day, began to prepare for his
welcome expedition. The hurry of
spirits consequent upon the events of
yesterday, and the unexpected intelli-
gence he had heard at night, had trou-
bled his sleep through the long dark
hours, and summoned such uneasy
dreams about his pillow that it was rest
to rise.
But had it been the beginning of
some great labor with the same end in
view, — had it been the commencement
of a long journey, to be performed on
foot in that inclement season of the
year, to be pursued under every priva-
tion and difficulty, and to be achieved
only with great distress, fatigue, and
suffering, — had it been the. dawn of
some painful enterprise, certain to task
his utmost powers of resolution and
endurance, and to need his utmost forti-
tude, but only likely to end, if happily
achieved, in good fortune and delight
to Nell, — Kit’s cheerful zeal would
have been as highly roused ; Kit’s ar-
dor and impatience would have been,
at least, the same.
Nor was he alone excited and eager.
Before he had been up a quarter of an
hour, the whole house were astir and
busy. Everybody hurried to do some-
thing towards facilitating the prepara-
tions. The single gentleman, it is true,
could do nothing himself, but he over-
looked everybody else and was more
locomotive than anybody. The work of
packing and making ready went briskly
on, and by daybreak every preparation
for the journey was completed. Then
Kit began to wish they had not been
quite so nimble ; for the travelling-car-
riage which had been hired for the occa-
sion was not to arrive until nine o’clock,
and there was nothing but breakfast to
fill up the intervening blank of one hour
and a half.
Yes there was, though. There was
Barbara. Barbara was busy to be sure,
but so much the better ; Kit could help
her, and that would pass away the
lime better than any means that could be
devised. Barbara had no objection to
this arrangement, and Kit, tracking out
the idea which had come upon him so
suddenly overnight, began to think that
surely Barbara was fond of him, and
surely he was fond of Barbara.
Now, Barbara, if the truth must be
told, — as it must and ought to be, —
Barbara seemed, of all the little house-
hold, to take least pleasure in the bus-
tle of the occasion ; and when Kit, in
the openness of his heart, told her how
glad and overjoyed it made him, Bar-
bara became more downcast still, and
seemed to have even less pleasure in it
than before !
“You have not been home so long,
Christopher,” said Barbara, and it is
impossible to tell how carelessly she
said it, — “ you have not been home
so long that you need be glad to go
away again, I should think.”
“But for such a purpose,” returned
Kit. “ To bring back Miss Nell ! To
see her again ! Only think of that ! I
am so pleased too, to think that you
will see her, Barbara, at last.”
Barbara did not absolutely say that
she felt no great gratification on this
point, but she expressed the sentiment
so plainly by one little toss of her head,
that Kit was quite disconcerted, and
wondered, in his simplicity, why she
was so cool about it.
“You’ll say she has the sweetest
and beautifullest face you ever saw, I
know,” said Kit, rubbing his hands.
“ I ’m sure you ’ll say that ! ”
Barbara tossed her head again.
“ What ’s the matter, Barbara ? ” said
Kit.
“ Nothing,” cried Barbara. And
Barbara pouted, — not sulkily, or in an
ugly manner, but just enough to make
her look more cherry-lipped than ever.
There is no school in which a pupil
gets on so fast as that in which Kit be-
came a scholar when he gave Barbara
the kiss. He saw what Barbara meant
now, — he had his lesson by heart all at
once, — she was the book, — there it was
before him, as plain as print.
“Barbara,” said Kit, “you’re not
cross with me?”
O dear, no ! Why should Barbara be
cross? And what right had she to be
cross ? And what did it matter wheth-
THE OLD CURIOSITY SHOP.
299
er she was cross or no ? Who minded
her !
“ Why, / do,” said Kit. “ Of course
I do.”
Barbara didn’t see why it was of
course, at all.
Kit was sure she must. Would she
think again?
Certainly, Barbara would think again.
No, she didn’t see why it was of course.
She didn’t understand what Christo-
pher meant. And besides, she was sure
they wanted her up stairs by this time,
and she must go, indeed —
“No, but, Barbara,” said Kit, de-
taining her gently, “ let us part friends.
I was always thinking of you, in my
troubles. I should have been a great
deal more miserable than I was, if it
hadn’t been for you.”
Goodness gracious, how pretty Bar-
bara was when she colored — and when
she trembled, like a little shrinking
bird !
“Iam telling you the truth, Barbara,
upon my word, but not half so strong
as I could wish,” said Kit. “ When I
want you to be pleased to see Miss Nell,
it ’s only because I should like you to
be pleased with what pleases me, —
that ’s all. As to her, Barbara, I think
I could almost die to do her service ; but
you would think so too, if you knew her
as I do. I am sure you would.”
Barbara was touched, and sorry to
have appeared indifferent.
“ I have been used, you see,” said
Kit, “ to talk and think of her, almost
as if she was an angel. When I look
forward to meeting her again, I think
of her smiling as she used to do, and
being glad to see me, and putting out
her hand and saying, ‘ It ’s my own old
Kit,’ or some such words as those, —
like what she used to say. I think of
seeing her happy, and with friends about
her, and brought up as she deserves,
and as she ought to be. When I think
of myself, it ’s as her old servant, and one
that loved her dearly, as his kind, good,
gentle mistress ; and who would have
gone — yes, and still would go — through
any harm to serve her. Once. I could
n’t help being afraid that if she came
back with friends about her, she might
forget or be ashamed- of having known a
humble lad like me, and so might speak
coldly, which would have cut me, Bar-
bara, deeper than I can tell. But when
I came to think again, I felt sure that I
was doing her wrong in this ; and so I
went on, as I did at first, hoping to see
her once more, just as she used to be.
Hoping this, and remembering what she
was, has made me feel as if I would
always try to please her, and always be
what I should like to seem to her if I
was still her servant. If I ’m the better
for that, — and I don’t think I ’m the
worse, — I am grateful to her for it, and
love and honor her the more. That ’s
the plain honest truth, dear Barbara,
upon my word it is ! ”
Little Barbara was not of a wayward
or capricious nature, and, being full of
remorse, melted into tears. To what
more conversation this might have led
we need not stop to inquire ; for the
wheels of the carriage were heard at
that moment, and, being followed by a
smart ring at the garden gate, caused
the bustle in the house, which had lain
dormant for a short time, to burst again
into tenfold life and vigor.
Simultaneously with the travelling
equipage arrived Mr. Chuckster in a
hackney cab, with certain papers and
supplies of money for the single gen-
tleman, into whose hands he delivered
them. This duty discharged, he sub-
sided into the bosom of the family ;
and, entertaining himself with a stroll-
ing or peripatetic breakfast, watched
with a genteel indifference the process
of loading the carriage.
“Snobby’s in this, I see, sir?” he
said to Mr. Abel Garland. “ I thought
he was n’t in the last trip because it
was expected that his presence would n’t
be acceptable to the ancient buffalo.”
“ To whom, sir,” demanded Mr.
Abel.
“ To the old gentleman,” returned
Mr. Chuckster, slightly abashed.
“ Our client prefers to take him now,”
said Mr. Abel, dryly. “There is no
longer any need for that precaution, as
my father’s relationship to a gentleman
in whom the objects of his search have
full confidence, will be a sufficient guar-
anty for the friendly nature of their
errand.”
300
THE OLD CURIOSITY SHOP.
“ Ah ! ” thought Mr. Chuckster, look-
ing out of window, “ anybody but me !
Snobby before me, of course. He
did n’t happen to take that particular
five-pound note, but I have not the
smallest doubt that hfe ’s always up to
something of that sort. I always said
it, long before this came out. Devilish
pretty girl that ! ’Pon my soul, an
amazing little creature ! ”
Barbara was the subject of Mr.
Chuckster’s commendations ; and as
she was lingering near the carriage (all
being now ready for its departure), that
gentleman was suddenly seized with a
strong interest in the proceedings,
which impelled him to swagger down
the garden, and take up his position at
a convenient ogling distance. Having
had great experience of the sex, and
being perfectly acquainted with all
those little artifices which find the readi-
est road to their hearts, Mr. Chuckster,
on taking his ground, planted one hand
on his hip, and with the other adjusted
his flowing hair. This is a favorite at-
titude in the polite circles, and, accom-
panied with a graceful whistling, has
been known to do immense execution.
Such, however, is the difference be-
tween town and country, that nobody
took the smallest notice of this insinuat-
ing figure ; the wretches being wholly
engaged in bidding the travellers fare-
well, in kissing hands to each other,
waving handkerchiefs, and the like tame
and vulgar practices. For now the
single gentleman and Mr. Garland were
in the carriage, and the post-boy was
in the saddle, and Kit, well wrapped
and muffled up, was in the rumble be-
hind ; and Mrs. Garland was there, and
Mr. Abel was there, and Kit’s mother
was there, and little Jacob was there,
and Barbara’s mother was visible in
remote perspective, nursing the ever-
wakeful baby ; and all were nodding,
beckoning, courtesying, or crying out,
“ Good by ! ” with all the energy they
could express. In another minute, the
carriage was out of sight ; and Mr.
Chuckster remained alone on the spot
where it had lately been, with a vision
of Kit standing up in the rumble wav-
ing his hand to Barbara, and of Bar-
bara, in the full light and lustre of his
eyes , — his eyes — Chuckster’s—- Chuck-
ster the successful — on whom ladies of
quality had looked with favor from phae-
tons in the parks on Sundays, — waving
hers to Kit !
How Mr. Chuckster, entranced by
this monstrous fact, stood for some time
rooted to the earth, protesting within
himself that Kit was the prince of fe-
lonious characters, and very Emperor
or Great Mogul of Snobs, and how he
clearly traced this revolting circum-
stance back to that old villany of the
shilling, are matters foreign to our pur-
pose, which is to track the rolling
wheels, and bear the travellers com-
pany on their cold, bleak journey.
It was a bitter day. A keen wind
was blowing, and rushed against them
fiercely, bleaching the hard ground,
shaking the white frost from the trees
and hedges, and whirling it away like
dust. But little cared Kit for weather.
There was a freedom and freshness in
the wind, as it came howling by, which,
let it cut never so sharp, was welcome.
As it swept on with its cloud of frost,
bearing down the dry twigs and boughs
and withered leaves, and carrying them
away pellmell, it seemed as though
some general sympathy had got abroad,
and everything was in a hurry, like
themselves. The harder the gusts, the
better progress they appeared to make.
It was a good thing to go struggling
and fighting forward, vanquishing them
one by one ; to watch them driving
up, gathering strength and fury as they
came along ; to bend for a moment
as they whistled past ; and then to
look back and see them speed away,
their hoarse noise dying in the dis-
tance, and the stout trees cowering
down before them.
All day long it blew without cessation.
The night was clear and starlight, but
the wind had not fallen, and the cold
was piercing. Sometimes — towards the
end of a long stage — Kit could not help
wishing it were a little warmer ; but
when they stopped to change horses,
and he had had a good run, and what
with that, and the bustle of paying the
old postilion, and rousing the new one,
and running to and fro again until the
horses were put to, he was so warm
THE OLD CURIOSITY SHOP.
that the blood tingled and smarted in
his fingers’ ends, — then he felt as if
to have it one degree less cold would
be to lose half the delight and glory
of the journey ; and up he jumped
again, right cheerily, singing to the
merry music of the wheels as they
rolled away, and, leaving the towns-
people in their warm beds, pursued
their course along the lonely road.
Meanwhile the two gentlemen inside,
who were little disposed to sleep, be-
f uiled the time with conversation. As
oth were anxious and expectant, it
naturally turned upon the subject of
their expedition, on the manner in
which it had been brought about, and
on the hopes and fears they entertained
respecting it. Of the former they had
many, of the latter few, — none per-
haps beyond that indefinable uneasi-
ness which is inseparable from sudden-
ly awakened hope, and protracted ex-
pectation.
In one of the pauses of their discourse,
and when half the night had worn away,
the single gentleman, who had gradu-
ally become more and more silent and
thoughtful, turned to his companion
and said abruptly, —
“ Are you a good listener? ”
“Like most other men, I suppose,”
returned Mr. Garland, smiling. “ I
can be, if I am interested ; and if not
interested, I should still try to appear
so. Why do you ask ? ”
“ I have a short narrative on my lips,”
rejoined his friend, “and will try you
with it. It is very brief.”
Pausing for no reply, he laid his hand
on the old gentleman’s sleeve, and pro-
ceeded thus : —
“There were once two brothers, who
loved each other dearly. There was a
disparity in their ages, — some twelve
years. I am not sure but they may
insensibly have loved each other the
better for that reason. Wide as the
interval between them was, however,
they became rivals too soon. The
deepest and strongest affection of both
their hearts settled upon one object.
“ The youngest — there were reasons
for his being sensitive and watchful —
was the first to find this out. I wall
not tell you what misery he under-
301
went, what agony of soul he knew,
how great his mental struggle was.
He had been a sickly child. His
brother, patient and considerate in the
midst of his own high health and
strength, had many and many a day
denied himself the sports he loved, to
sit beside his couch, telling him old
stories till his pale face lighted up with
an unwonted glow ; to carry him in his
arms to some green spot, where he
could tend the poor pensive boy as he
looked upon the bright summer day,
and saw all nature healthy but him-
self; to be, in any way, his fond and
faithful nurse. I may not dwell on all
he did to make the poor, weak crea-
ture love him, or my tale would have
no end. But when the time of trial
came, the younger brother’s heart was
full of those old days. Heaven strength-
ened it to repay the sacrifices of incon-
siderate youth by one of thoughtful man-
hood. He left his brother to be happy,
The truth never passed his lips, and
he quitted the country hoping to die
abroad.
“ The elder brother married her. She
was in heaven before long, and left him,
with an infant daughter.
“ If you have seen the picture-gallery
of any one old family, you will remem-
ber how the same face and figure — of-
ten the fairest and slightest of them all
— come upon you in different genera-
tions ; and how you trace the same sweet
girl through a long line of portraits, —
never growing old or changing, — the
Good Angel of the race, — abiding by
them in all reverses, — redeeming all
their sins.
“ In this daughter the mother lived
again. You may judge with what de-
votion he who lost that mother, almost
in the winning, clung to this girl, her
breathing image. She grew to woman-
hood, and gave her heart to one who
could not know its worth. Well ! Her
fond father could not see her pine and
droop. He might be more deserving
than he thought him. He surely might
become so, with a wife like her. He
joined their hands, and they were mar-
ried.
“ Through all the misery that fol-
lowed this union ; through all the.
302
THE OLD CURIOSITY SHOP.
cold neglect and undeserved reproach ;
through all the poverty he brought upon
her ; through all the struggles of their
daily life, too mean and pitiful to tell,
but dreadful to endure ; she toiled on,
in the deep devotion of her spirit, and
in her better nature, as only women
can. Her means and substance wast-
ed, her father nearly beggared by her
husband’s hand, and the hourly witness
(for they lived now' under qne roof)
of her ill-usage and unhappiness, she
never, but for him, bewailed her fate.
Patient, and upheld by strong affection
to the last, she died a widow of some
three weeks’ date, leaving to her fa-
ther’s care two orphans, — one a son of
ten or twelve years old, the other a
girl, — such another infant child, — the
same in helplessness, in age, in form, in
feature, as she had been herself w'hen
her young mother died.
“ The elder brother, grandfather to
these two children, was now a broken
man ; crushed and borne down, less by
the weight of years than by the heavy
hand of sorrow. With the wreck of his
possessions, he began to trade, — in pic-
tures first, and then in curious ancient
things. He had entertained a fondness
for such matters from a boy, and the
tastes he had cultivated were now to
yield him an anxious and precarious
subsistence.
“The boy grew like his father in
mind and person ; the girl so like her
mother that when the old man had her
on his knee, and looked into her mild
blue eyes, he felt as if awakening from
a wretched dream, and his daughter
were a little child again. The wayward
boy soon spurned the shelter of his roof,
and sought associates more congenial to
his taste. The old man and the child
dwelt alone together.
“ It was then, when the love of two
dead people who had been nearest and
dearest to his heart was all transferred
to this slight creature ; when her face,
constantly before him, reminded him,
from hour to hour, of the too early
change he had seen in such another, —
of all the sufferings he had watched and
known, and all his child had under-
gone ; when the young man’s profligate
and hardened course drained him of
money as his father’s had, and even
sometimes occasioned them temporary
privation and distress, — it was then that
there began to beset him, and to be
ever in his mind, a gloomy dread of
poverty and want. He had no thought
for himself in this. His fear was for
the child. It was a spectre in his
house, and haunted him night and day.
“ The younger brother had been a
traveller in many countries, and had
made his pilgrimage through life alone.
His voluntary banishment had been
misconstrued, and he had borne (not
without pain) reproach and slight for
doing that which had wrung his heart,
and cast a mournful shadow on his path.
Apart from this, communication be-
tween him and the elder was difficult
and uncertain, and often failed ; still, it
was not so wholly broken off but that
he learnt, — with long blanks and gaps
between each interval of information-
al! that I have told you now.
“ Then, dreams of their young, happy
life — happy to him though laden with
pain and early care — visited his pillow
yet oftener than before ; and every night,
a boy again, he was at his brother’s
side. With the utmost speed he could
exert, he settled his affairs, converted
into money all the goods he had, and,
with honorable wealth enough for both,
with open heart and hand, with limbs
that trembled as they bore him on, with
emotion such as men can hardly bear
and live, arrived one evening at his
brother’s door ! ”
The narrator, whose voice had faltered
lately, stopped. “ The rest,” said Mr.
Garland, pressing his hand, after a
pause, “ I know.”
“Yes,” rejoined his friend, we may
spare ourselves the sequel. You know
the poor result of all my search. Even
when, by dint of such inquiries as the
utmost vigilance and sagacity could set
on foot, we found they had been seen
with two poor travelling showmen, —
and in time discovered the men them-
selves,— and in time, the actual place
of their retreat ; even then, we were too
late. Pray God we are not too late
again ! ”
“We cannot be,” said Mr. Garland.
“This time w’e must succeed.”
THE OLD CURIOSITY SHOP.
303
“I have believed and hoped so,”
returned the other. “ I try to believe
and hope so still. But a heavy weight
has fallen on my spirits, my good friend,
and the sadness that gathers over me
will yield to neither hope nor reason.”
“That does not surprise me,” said Mr.
Garland ; “ it is a natural consequence
of the events you have recalled ; of this
dreary time and place ; and, above all,
of this wild and dismal night. A dis-
mal night, indeed ! Hark ! how the
wind is howling ! ”
CHAPTER LXX.
Day broke, and found them still upon
their way. Since leaving home, they
had halted here and there for necessary
refreshment, and had frequently been
delayed, especially in the night-time,
by waiting for fresh horses. They had
made no other stoppages, but the
weather continued rough, and the roads
were often steep and heavy. It would
be night again before they reached their
place of destination.
Kit, all bluff and hardened with the
cold, went on manfully ; and, having
enough to do to keep his blood circulat-
ing to picture to himself the happy
end of this adventurous journey, and to
look about him and be amazed at every-
thing, had little spare time for thinking
of discomforts. Though his impatience
and that of his fellow-travellers rapidly
increased as the day waned, the hours
did not stand still. The short daylight
of winter soon faded away, and it was
dark again when they had yet many
miles to travel.
As it grew dusk, the wind fell ; its
distant moanings were more low and
mournful ; and, as it came creeping up
the road, and rattling covertly among
the dry brambles on either hand, it
seemed like some great phantom for
whom the way was narrow, whose gar-
ments rustled as it stalked along. By
degrees it lulled and died away, and
then it came on to snow.
The flakes fell fast and thick, soon
covering the ground some inches deep,
and spreading abroad a solemn stillness.
The rolling wheels were noiseless, and
the sharp ring and clatter of the horses’
hoofs became a dull, muffled tramp.
The life of their progress seemed to
be slowly hushed, and something death-
like to usurp its place.
Shading his eyes from the falling
snow, which froze upon their lashes
and obscured his sight, Kit often tried
to catch the earliest glimpse of twink-
ling lights denoting their approach to
some not distant town. He could de-
scry objects enough at such times, but
none correctly. Now, a tall church-
spire appeared in view, which presently
became a tree, a barn, a shadow on the
ground, thrown on it by their own bright
lamps. Now, there were horsemen,
foot-passengers, carriages going on be-
fore, or meeting them in narrow ways ;
which, when they were close upon them,
turned to shadows too. A wall, a ruin,
a sturdy gable-end, w’ould rise up in
the road ; and, when they were plung-
ing headlong at it, would be the road
itself. Strange turnings too, bridges,
and sheets of water appeared to start
up here and there, making the way
doubtful and uncertain ; and yet they
were on the same bare road, and these
things, like the others, as they were
passed, turned into dim illusions.
He descended slowly from his seat —
for his limbs were numbed — when
they, arrived at a lone posting-house,
and inquired how far they had to go to
reach their journey’s end. It was a
late hour in such by-places, and the
people were abed ; but a voice an-
swered from an upper window, “Ten
miles.” The ten minutes that ensued
appeared an hour ; but at the end of
that time, a shivering figure led out the
horses they required, and after another
brief delay they were again in motion.
It was a cross-country road, full, after
the first three or four miles, of holes
and cart-ruts, which, being covered by
the snow, were so many pitfalls to the
trembling horses, and obliged them to
keep a footpace. As it was next to im-
possible for men so much agitated as
they were by this time to sit still and
move so slowly, all three got out and
plodded on behind the carriage. The
distance seemed interminable, and the
3°4
THE OLD CURIOSITY SHOP.
walk was most laborious. As each was
thinking within himself that the driver
must have lost his way, a church-bell,
close at hand, struck the hour of mid-
night, and the carriage stopped. It
had moved softly enough, but when it
ceased to crunch the snow, the silence
was as startling as if some great noise
had been replaced by perfect stillness.
“This is the place, gentlemen,” said
the driver, dismounting from his horse,
and knocking at the door of a little inn.
“ Halloa ! Past twelve o’clock is the
dead of night here.”
The knocking was loud and long, but
it failed to rouse the drowsy inmates.
All continued dark and silent as before.
They fell back a little, and looked up at
the windows, which were mere black
patches in the whitened house-front.
No light appeared. The house might
have been deserted, or the sleepers
dead, for any air of life it had about it.
They spoke together, with a strange
inconsistency, in whispers, unwilling
to disturb again the dreary echoes they
had just now raised.
“Let us go on,” said the younger
brother, “ and leave this good fellow to
wake them, if he can. I cannot rest
until I know that we are not too late.
Let us go on, in the name of Heaven ! ”
They did so, leaving the postilion to
order such accommodation as the house
afforded, and to renew his knocking.
Kit accompanied them w'ith a little
bundle, which he had hung in the car-
riage when they left home, and had not
forgotten since, — the bird in his old
cage, just as she had left him. She
would be glad to see her bird, he knew.
The road wound gently downward.
As they proceeded, they lost sight of
the church, whose clock they had heard,
and of the small village clustering round
it. The knocking, which was now re-
newed, and which in that stillness they
could plainly hear, troubled them.
They wished the man would forbear,
or that they had told him not to break
the silence until they returned.
The old church-tower, clad in a
ghostly garb of pure cold white, again
rose up before them, and a few mo-
ments brought them close beside it.
A venerable building, — gray, even in
the midst of the hoary landscape. An
ancient sundial on the belfry wall was
nearly hidden by the snow-drift, and
scarcely to be known for what it was.
Time itself seemed to have grown dull
and old, as if no day were ever to dis-
place the melancholy night.
A wicket-gate was close at hand, but
there was more than one path across
the churchyard to which it led, and,
uncertain which to take, they came to a
stand again.
The village street — if street that
could be called which was an irregular
cluster of poor cottages of many heights
and ages, some with their fronts, some
with their backs, and some with gable-
ends towards the road, with here and
there a signpost, or a shed encroaching
on the path — was close at hand.
There was a faint light in a chamber
window not far off, and Kit ran towards
that house to ask their way.
His first shout was answered by an
old man within, who presently appeared
at the casement, wrapping some gar-
ment round his throat as a protection
from the cold, and demanded who was
abroad at that unseasonable hour want-
ing him.
“ ’T is hard weather this,” he grurm
bled, “ and not a night to call me up
in. My trade is not of that kind that I
need be roused from bed. The business
on which folks want me will keep cold,
especially at this season. What do you
want ? ”
“ I would not have roused you, if I
had known you were old and ill,” said
Kit.
“ Old ! ” repeated the other peevish-
ly. “ How do you know I am old ?
Not so old as you think, friend, perhaps.
As to being ill, you will find many young
people in worse case than I am. More ’s
the pity that it should be so, — not that
I should be strong and hearty for my
years, I mean, but that they should be
w’eak and tender. I ask your pardon,
though,” said the old man, “ if I spoke
rather rough at first. My eyes are not
good at night, — that ’s neither age nor
illness ; they never w'ere, — and I did n’t
see you were a stranger.”
“ I am sorry to call you from your
bed,” said Kit, “ but those gentlemen
THE OLD CURIOSITY SHOP.
305
you may see by the churchyard gate are
strangers too, who have just arrived
from a long journey, and seek the par-
sonage-house. You can direct us ? ”
“ I should be able to,” ansvyered the
old man, in a trembling voice, “ for,
come next summer, I have been sexton
here good fifty years. The right-hand
path, friend, is the road. There is
no ill news for our good gentleman, I
hope?”
Kit thanked him, and made him a
hasty answer in the negative. He w r as
turning back, when ‘his attention was
caught by the voice of a child. Looking
up he saw a very little creature at a
neighboring window.
“What is that?” cried the child,
earnestly. “ Has my dream come true ?
Pray speak to me, whoever that is,
awake and up.”
“ Poor boy ! ” said the sexton, before
Kit could answer, “ how goes it, dar-
ling? ”
“Has my dream come true?” ex-
claimed the child again, in a voice so
fervent that it might have thrilled to
the heart of any listener. “ But no,
that can never be ! How could it be
— oh ! how could it ! ”
“ I guess his meaning,” said the sex-
ton. “ To bed again, poor boy ! ”
“ Ay ! ” cried the child, in a burst of
despair. “ I knew it could never be,
I felt too sure of that, before I asked !
But all to-night and last night too, it
was the same. I never fall asleep but
that cruel dream comes back.”
“Try to sleep again,” said the old
man, soothingly. “ It will go, in time.”
“ No, no, I would rather that it stayed,
— cruel as it is, I would rather that it
stayed,” rejoined the child. “ I am not
afraid to have it in my sleep, but I am
so sad, so very, very sad.”
The old man blessed him, the child
in tears replied, “Good night,” and Kit
was again alone.
He hurried back, moved by what he
had heard, though more by the child’s
manner than by anything he had said,
as his meaning was hidden from him.
They took the path indicated by the
sexton, and soon arrived before the par-
sonage wall. Turning round to look
about them when they had got thus far,
they saw, among some ruined buildings
at a distance, one single solitary light.
It shone from what appeared to be
an old oriel window, and, being sur-
rounded by the deep shadows of over-
hanging walls, sparkled like a star.
Bright and glimmering as the stars above
their heads, lonely and motionless as
they, it seemed to claim some kindred
with the eternal lamps of heaven, and
to burn in fellowship with them.
“ What light is that ! ” said the young-
er brother.
“ It is surely,” said Mr. Garland,
“ in the ruin where they live. I see no
other ruin hereabouts.”
“They cannot,” returned the broth-
er, hastily, “ be waking at this late
hour — ”
Kit interposed directly, and begged
that, while they rang and waited at the
gate, they would let him make his way
to where this light was shining, and try
to ascertain if any people were about.
Obtaining the permission he desired, he
darted off with breathless eagerness,
and, still carrying the birdcage in his
hand, made straight towards the spot.
It was not easy to hold that pace
among the graves, and at another time
he might have gone more slowly, or
round by the path. Unmindful of all
obstacles, however, he pressed forward
without slackening his speed, and soon
arrived within a few yards of the win-
dow.
He approached as softly as he could,
and advancing so near the wall as to
brush the whitened ivy with his dress,
listened. There was no sound inside.
The church itself was not more quiet.
Touching the glass with his cheek, he
listened again. No. And yet there
was such a silence all around that he
felt sure he could have heard even the
breathing of a sleeper, if there had been
one there.
A strange circumstance, a light in
such a place at that time of night, with
no one near it.
A curtain was drawn across the lower
portion of the window, and he could not
see into the room. But there was no
shadow thrown upon it from within.
To have gained a footing on the wall
and tried to look in from above would
20
306
THE OLD CURIOSITY SHOP.
have been attended with some dan-
ger, — certainly with some noise, and
the chance of terrifying the child, if
that really were her habitation. Again
and again he listened ; again and again
the same wearisome blank.
Leaving the spot with slow and cau-
tious steps, and skirting the ruin for a
few paces, he came at length to a door.
He knocked. No answer. But there
was a curious noise inside. It was dif-
ficult to determine what it was. It
bore a resemblance to the low moaning
of one in pain, but it was not that,
being far too regular and constant.
Now it seemed a kind of song, novv a
wail, — seemed, that is, to his changing
fancy, for the sound itself was never
changed or checked. It was unlike
anything he had ever heard ; and in its
tone there was something fearful, chill-
ing, and unearthly.
The listener’s blood ran colder now
than ever it had done in frost and snow,
but he knocked again. There was no
answer, and the sound went on without
any interruption. He laid his hand
softly upon the latch, and put his knee
against the door. It was secured on
the inside, but yielded to the pressure,
and turned upon its hinges. He saw
the glimmering of a fire upon the old
walls, and entered.
CHAPTER LXXI.
The dull, red glow of a wood fire —
for no lamp or candle burnt within the
room — showed him a figure, seated on
the hearth with its back towards him,
bending over the fitful light. The atti-
tude was that of one who sought the
heat. It was, and yet was not. The
stooping posture and the cowering form
were there, but no hands were stretched
out to meet the grateful warmth, no
shrug or shiver compared its luxury
with the piercing cold outside. With
limbs huddled together, head bowed
down, arms crossed upon the breast,
and fingers tightly clenched, it rocked
to and fro upon its seat without a mo-
ment’s pause, accompanying the action
with the mournful sound he had heard.
The heavy door had closed behind
him on his entrance, with a crash that
made him start. The figure neither
spoke, nor turned to look, nor gave in
any other way the faintest sign of hav-
ing heard the noise. The form was
that of an old man, his white head akin
in color to the mouldering embers upon
which he gazed. Pie, and the failing
light and dying fire, the time-worn
room, the solitude, the wasted life and
gloom, were all in fellowship. Ashes,
and dust, and ruin !
Kit tried to spehk, and did pronounce
some words, though what they were he
scarcely knew. Still the same terrible
low cry went on, — still the same rock-
ing in the chair, — the same stricken
figure was there, unchanged and heed-
less of his presence.
He had his hand upon the latch,
when something in the form — distinctly
seen as one log broke and fell, and, as
it fell, blazed up — arrested it. He re-
turned to where he had stood before —
advanced a pace — another — another
still. Another, and he saw the face.
Yes ! Changed as it was, he knew it
well.
“ Master ! ” he cried, stooping on one
knee and catching at his hand. “ Dear
master. Speak to me ! ”
The old man turned slowly towards
him, and muttered in a hollow voice, —
“This is another! — How many of
these spirits there have been to-night ! ”
“ No spirit, master. No one but
your old servant. You know me now,
I am sure ? Miss Nell — where is she
— where is she ! ”
“ They all say that ! ” cried the old
man. “ They all ask the same ques-
tion. A spirit ! ”
“Where is she?” demanded Kit.
“ O, tell me but that, — but that, dear
master ! ”
“ She is asleep — yonder — in there.”
“Thank God!”
“ Ay ! Thank God ! ” returned the
old man. “ I have prayed to him,
many and many and many a livelong
night, when she has been asleep, he
knows. Hark ! Did she call ! ”
“ I heard no voice.”
“You did. You hear her now. Do
you tell me that you don’t hear that ? ”
THE OLD CURIOSITY SHOP.
307
He started up, and listened again.
“ Nor that?” he cried, with a trium-
phant smile. “ Can anybody know
that voice so well as I ! Hush ! hush ! ”
Motioning to him to be silent, he
stole away into another chamber. After
a short absence (during which he could
be heard to speak in a softened soothing
tone) he returned, bearing in his hand
a lamp.
“She is still asleep,” he whispered.
“ You were right. She did not call, —
unless she did so in her slumber. She
has called to me in her sleep before
now, sir ; as I have sat by, watching, I
have seen her lips move, and have
known, though no sound came from
them, that she spoke of me. I feared
the light might dazzle her eyes and
wake her, so I brought it here.”
He spoke rather to himself than to
the visitor, but when he had put the
lamp upon the table, he took it up, as
if impelled by some momentary recol-
lection or curiosity, and held it near his
face. Then, as if forgetting his motive
in the very action, he turned away and
put it down again.
“ She is sleeping soundly,” he said ;
“but no wonder. Angel hands have
strewn the ground deep with snow, that
the lightest footstep may be lighter yet ;
and the very birds are dead, that they
may not wake her. She used to feed
them, sir. Though never so cold and
hungry, the timid things would fly
from us. They never flew from her ! ”
Again he stopped to listen, and,
scarcely drawing breath, listened for a
long, long time. That fancy past, he
opened an old chest, took out some
clothes as fondly as if they had been
living things, and began to smooth and
brush them with his hand.
“ Why dost thou lie so idle there,
dear Nell,” he murmured, “ when there
are bright red berries out of doors wait-
ing for thee to pluck them ! Why dost
thou lie so idle there, when thy little
friends come creeping to the door, cry-
ing, ‘Where is Nell, — sweet Nell?’
and sob, and weep, because they do
not see thee. She was always gentle
with children. The wildest would do
her bidding. She had a tender way
with them, indeed she had ! ”
Kit had no power to speak. His
eyes were filled with tears.
“Her little homely dress, — her fa-
vorite ! ” cried the old man, pressing it
to his breast, and patting it with his
shrivelled hand. “ She will miss it
when she wakes. They have hid it
here in sport, but she shall have it, —
she shall have it. I would not vex my
darling, for the wide world’s riches.
See here — these shoes — how worn
they are — she kept them to remind
her of our last long journey. You see
where the little feet went bare upon
the ground. They told me, afterwards,
that the stones had cut and bruised
them. She never told me that. No,
no, God bless her ! and I have remem-
bered since she walked behind me, sir,
that I might not see how lame she was ;
but yet she had my hand in hers, and
seemed to lead me still.”
He pressed them to his lips, and„
having carefully put them back again,
went on communing with himself, —
looking wistfully from time to tim$
towards the chamber he had lately
visited.
“ She was not wont to be a lie-abed ;
but she was well then. We must hav^
patience. When she is well again, sh$
will rise early, as she used to do, and
ramble abroad in the healthy morning
time. I often tried to track the way
she had gone, but her small footstep
left no print upon the dewy ground, to
guide me. Who is that? Shut the door.
Quick ! — Have we not enough to do
to drive away that marble cold, anc*
keep her warm ! ”
The door was indeed opened, for tho
entrance of Mr. Garland and his friend,
accompanied by two other persons.
These were the schoolmaster and the
bachelor. The former held a light in
his hand. He had, it seemed, but gone
to his own cottage to replenish the ex-
hausted lamp, at the moment when Kit
came up and found the old man alone.
He softened again at sight of these
two friends, and, laying aside the angry
manner — if to anything so feeble and
so sad the term can be applied — in
which he had spoken when the door
opened, resumed his former seat, and
subsided, by little and little, into the
3°8
THE OLD CURIOSITY SHOP.
old action, and the old, dull, wandering
sound.
Of the strangers he took no heed
whatever. He had seen them, but ap-
peared quite incapable of interest or
curiosity. The younger brother stood
apart. The bachelor drew a chair to-
wards the old man, and sat down close
beside him. After a long silence, he
ventured to speak.
“ Another night, and not in bed ! ”
he said, softly ; “ I hoped you would be
more mindful of your promise to me.
Why do you not take some rest? ”
“ Sleep has left me,” returned the
old man. “ It is all with her ! ”
“ It would pain her very much to
know that you were watching thus,”
said the bachelor. “ You would not
give her pain ? ”
“ I am not so sure of that, if it would
only rouse her. She has slept so very
long. And yet I am rash to say so. It
is a good and happy sleep — eh ? ”
“ Indeed it is,” returned the bachelor.
“ Indeed, indeed it is ! ”
“ That ’s well ! — and the waking,”
faltered the old man.
“ Happy too. Happier than tongue
can tell, or heart of man conceive.”
They watched him as he rose and
stole on tiptoe to the other chamber
where the lamp had been replaced.
They listened as he spoke again within
its silent walls. They looked into the
faces of each other, and no man’s cheek
was free from tears. He came back,
whispering that she was still asleep, but
that he thought she had moved. It was
her hand, he said — a little, a very, very
little — but he was pretty sure she had
moved it — perhaps in seeking his. He
had known her do that before now,
though in the deepest sleep the while.
And when he had said this, he dropped
into his chair again, and, clasping his
hands above his head, uttered a cry
never to be forgotten.
The poor schoolmaster motioned to
the bachelor that he would come on the
other side, and speak to him. They
gently unlocked his fingers, which he
had twisted in his gray hair, and pressed
them in their own.
“ He will hear me,” said the school-
master, “ I am sure. He will hear
either me or you if we beseech him.
She would, at all times.”
“ I will hear any voice she liked to
hear,” cried the old man. “ I love all
she loved ! ”
“ I know you do,” returned the
schoolmaster. “I am certain of it.
Think of her ; think of all the sorrows
and afflictions you have shared togeth-
er ; of all the trials, and all the peace-
ful pleasures, you have jointly known.”
“ I do. I do. I think of nothing
else.”
“ I would have you think of nothing
else to-night, — of nothing but those
things which will soften your heart,
dear friend, and open it to old affections
and old times. It is so that she would
speak to you herself, and in her name
it is that I speak now.”
“You do well to speak softly,” said
the old man. “We will not wake her.
I should be glad to see her eyes again,
and to see her smile. There is a smile
upon her young face now, but it is fixed
and changeless. I would have it come
and go. That shall be in Heaven’s
good time. We will not wake her.”
“ Let us not talk of her in her sleep,
but as she used to be when you were
journeying together, far away, — as she
was at home, in the old house from
which you fled together, — as she was
in the old cheerful time,” said the
schoolmaster.
“ She was always cheerful, — very
cheerful,” cried the old man, looking
steadfastly at him. “ There was ever
something mild and quiet about her, I
remember, from the first ; but she was
of a happy nature.”
“ We have heard you say,” pursued
the schoolmaster, “ that in this, and in
all goodness, she was like her mother.
You can think of and remember her?”
He maintained his steadfast look,
but gave no answer.
“ Or even one before her,” said the
bachelor. “ It is many years ago, and
affliction makes the time longer, but
you have not forgotten her whose death
contributed to make this child so dear
to you, even before you knew her worth
or could read her heart ? Say, that you
could carry back your thoughts to very
distant days, — to the time of your early
THE OLD CURIOSITY SHOP.
309
life, '—when, unlike this fair flower, you
did not pass your youth alone. Say,
that you could remember, long ago,
another child who loved you dearly,
you being but a child yourself. Say,
that you had a brother, long forgotten,
long unseen, long separated from you,
who now, at last, in your utmost need,
came back to comfort and console
you — ”
“ To be to you what you were once to
him,” cried the younger, falling on his
knee before him ; “to repay your old
affection, brother dear, by constant care,
solicitude, and love ; to be at your right
hand, what he has never ceased to be
when oceans rolled between us ; to call,
to witness his unchanging truth and
mindfulness of by-gone days, whole
years of desolation. Give me but one
word of recognition, brother, and nev-
er, no never, in the brightest moment
of our youngest days, when, poor silly
boys, we thought to pass our lives to-
gether, have we been half as dear and
precious to each other as we shall be
from this time hence ! ”
The old man looked from face to face,
and his lips moved ; but no sound came
from them in reply.
“ If we were knit together then,”
pursued the younger brother, “ what
will be the bond between us now ! Our
love and fellowship began in childhood,
when life was all before us, and will be
resumed when we have proved it, and
are but children at the last. As many
restless spirits, who have hunted for-
tune, fame, or pleasure through the
world, retire in their decline to where
they first drew breath, vainly seeking to
be children once again before they die,
so we, less fortunate than they in early
life, but happier in its closing scenes,
will set up our rest again amon^ our
boyish haunts, and going home with no
hope realized, that had its growth in
manhood, — carrying back nothing that
we brought away, but our old yearnings
to each other, — saving no fragment from
the wreck of life, but that which first
endeared it, — may be, indeed, but chil-
dren as at first. And even,” he added
in an altered voice, — “ even if what I
dread to name has come to pass, — even
if that be so, or is to be (which Heaven
forbid and spare us ! ) — still, dear
brother, we are not apart, and have that
comfort in our great affliction.”
By little and little, the old man had
drawn back towards the inner chamber,
while these words were spoken. He
pointed there, as he replied with trem-
bling lips.
“You plot among you to wean my
heart from her. You never will do
that, — never while I have life. I have
no relative or friend but her, — I never
had, — I never will have. She is all in
all to me. It is too late to part us now.”
Waving them off with his hand, and
calling softly to her as he went, he stole
into the room. They who were left be-
hind drew close together, and after a
few whispered words, not unbroken
by emotion or easily uttered, followed
him. They moved so gently that their
footsteps made no noise ; but there
were sobs from among the group, and
sounds of grief and mourning.
For she was dead. There, upon her
little bed, she lay at rest. The solemn
stillness was no marvel now.
She was dead. No sleep so beautiful
and calm, so free from trace of pain, so
fair to look upon. She seemed a crea-
ture fresh from the hand of God, and
waiting for the breath of life ; not one
who had lived and suffered death.
Her couch was dressed with here and
there, some winter berries and green
leaves, gathered in a spot she had been
used to favor. “ When I die, put near
me something that has loved the light,
and had the sky above it always.”
Those were her words.
She was dead. Dear, gentle, pa-
tient, noble Nell was dead. Her little
bird — a poor slight thing the pressure
of a finger would have crushed — was
stirring nimbly in its cage ; and the
strong heart of its child-mistress was
mute and motionless forever.
Where were the traces of her early
cares, her sufferings, and fatigues? All
gone. Sorrow was dead indeed in her,
but peace and perfect happiness were
born ; imaged in her tranquil beauty
and profound repose.
And still her former self lay there,
unaltered in this change. Yes. The
old fireside had smiled upon that same
3 io
THE OLD CURIOSITY SHOP.
sweet face ; it had passed, like a dream,
through haunts of misery and care ; at
the door of the poor schoolmaster on
the summer evening, before the furnace
fire upon the cold wet night, at the still
bedside of the dying boy, there had
been the same mild lovely look. So
shall we know the angels in thefr maj-
esty, after death.
The old man held one languid arm
in his, and had the small hand tight
folded to his breast, for warmth. It
was the hand she had stretched out to
him with her last smile, — the hand
that had led him on, through all their
wanderings. Ever and anon he pressed
it to his lips ; then hugged it to his breast
again, murmuring that it was warmer
now ; and, as he said it, he looked, in
agony, to those who stood around, as if
imploring them to help her.
She was dead, and past all help, or
need of it. The ancient rooms she had
seemed to fill with life, even while her
own was waning fast, — the garden she
had tended, — the eyes she had glad-
dened, — the noiseless haunts of many
a thoughtful hour, — the paths she had
trodden as it were but yesterday, — could
know her nevermore.
“It is not,” said the schoolmaster,
as he bent down to kiss her on the
cheek, and gave his tears free vent, —
“ it is not on earth that Heaven’s justice
ends. Think what earth is, compared
with the world to which her young
spirit has winged its early flight ; and
say, if one deliberate wish expressed
in solemn terms above this bed could
call her back to life, which of us would
utter it ! ”
CHAPTER LXXII.
When morning came, and they could
speak more calmly on the subject of
their grief, they heard how her life had
closed.
She had been dead two days. They
were all about her at the tipie, knowing
that the end was drawing on. She died
soon after daybreak. They had read
and talked to her in the earlier portion
of the night, but as the hours crept on,
she sunk to sleep. They could tell by
what she faintly uttered in her dreams,
that they were of her journeyings with
the old man ; they were of no painful
scenes, but of people who had helped
and used them kindly, for she often
said, “ God bless you ! ” with great fer-
vor. Waking, she never wandered in
her mind but once, and that was of
beautiful music which she said was in
the air. God knows. It may have
been.
Opening her eyes at last, from a very
quiet sleep, she begged that they would
kiss her once again. That done, she
turned to the old man with a lovely
smile upon her face, — such, they said,
as they had never seen and never could
forget, — and clung with both her arms
about his neck. They did not know
that she was dead, at first.
She had spoken very often of the two
sisters, who, she said, w'ere like dear
friends to her. She washed they could
be told how much she thought about
them, and how she had watched them
as they walked together, by the river-
side at night. She would like to see
poor Kit, she had often said of late.
She wished there was somebody to take
her love to Kit. And, even then, she
never thought or spoke about him, but
with something of her old, clear, merry
laugh.
For the rest, she had never murmured
or complained ; but, with a quiet mind,
and manner quite unaltered, — save that
she every day became more earnest and
more grateful to them, — faded like the
light upon a summer’s evening.
The child who had been her little
friend came there, almost as soon as it
was day, with an offering of dried flow-
ers which he begged them to lay upon
her breast. It was he who had come to
the window overnight and spoken to the
sexton, and they saw in the snow traces
of small feet, where he had been linger-
ing near the room in which she lay, be-
fore he went to bed. He had a fancy,
it seemed, that they had left her there
alone, and could not bear the thought.
He told them of his dream again, and
that it was of her being restored to them
just as she used to be. He begged
hard to see her, saying that he would be
very quiet, and that they need not fear
THE OLD CURIOSITY SHOP .
his being alarmed, for he had sat alone
by his young brother all day long when
he was dead, and had felt glad to be so
near him. They let him have his wish ;
and indeed he kept his word, and was,
in his childish way, a lesson to them
all.
Up to that time, the old man had not
spoken once — except to her — or stirred
from the bedside. But when he saw
her little favorite, he was moved as they
had not seen him yet, and made as
though he would have him come nearer.
Then, pointing to the bed, he burst into
tears for the first time, and they who
stood by, knowing that the sight of this
child had done him good, left them
alone together.
Soothing him with his artless talk of
her, the child persuaded him to take
some rest, to walk abroad, to do almost
as he desired him. And when the day
came on, which must remove her in her
earthly shape from earthly eyes for-
ever, he led him away, that he might
not know when she was taken from
him.
They were to gather fresh leaves and
berries for her bed. It was Sunday, —
a bright, clear, wintry afternoon, — and
as they traversed the village street, those
who were walking in their path drew'
back to make way for them, and gave
them a softened greeting. Some shook
the old man kindly by the hand, some
stood uncovered while he tottered by,
and many cried, “ God help him ! ” as
he passed along.
“ Neighbor ! ” said the old man,
stopping at the cottage where his young
guide’s mother dwelt, “how is it that
the folks are nearly all in black to-
day ? I have seen a mourning ribbon
or a piece of crape on almost every
one.”
She could not tell, the woman said.
“ Why, you yourself, you wear the
color too ! ” he said. “ Windows are
closed that never used to be by day.
What does this mean? ”
Again the woman said she could not
tell.
“We must go back,” said the old
man, hurriedly. “We must see what
this is.”
“ No, no,” cried the child, detaining
him. “ Remember what you promised.
Our way is to the old green lane, where
she and I so often were, and where you
found us, more than once, making those
garlands for her garden. Do not turn
back ! ”
“ Where is she now?” said the old
man. “ Tell me that.”
“Do you not know?” returned the
child. “ Did we not leave her, but just
now? ”
“True. True. It was her we left
— was it ! ”
He pressed his hand upon his brow,
looked vacantly round, and as if im-
pelled by a sudden thought, crossed the
road, and entered the sexton’s house.
He and his deaf assistant were sitting
before the fire. Both rose up, on see-
ing who it was.
The child made a hasty sign to them
with his hand. It was the action of an
instant, but that and the old man’s look
were quite enough.
“ Do you — do you bury any one to-
day ? ” he said, eagerly.
“ No, no ! Who should we bury,
sir? ” returned the sexton.
“ Ay, who indeed ! I say with you,
who indeed ?”
“ It is a holiday with us, good sir? ”
returned the sexton, mildly. “We have
no work to do to-day.”
“ Why, then, I ’ll go where you will,”
said the old man, turning to the child.
“You’re sure of what you tell me?
You would not deceive me ? I am
changed, even in the little time since
you last saw me.”
“ Go thy ways with him, sir,” cried
the sexton, “ and Heaven be with ye
both ! ”
“ I am quite ready,” said the old
man, meekly. “ Come, boy, come — ”
and so submitted to be led away.
And now the bell — the bell she had
so often heard, by night and day, and
listened to with solemn pleasure almost
as a living voice — rung its remorseless
toll for her, so young, so beautiful, so
good. Decrepit age and vigorous life
and blooming youth and helpless in-
fancy poured forth — on crutches, in
the pride of strength and health, in the
full blush of promise, in the mere dawn
of life — to gather round her tomb.
312
THE OLD CURIOSITY SHOP.
Old men were there, whose eyes were
dim and senses failing, — grandmothers,
who might have died ten years ago, and
still been old, — the deaf, the blind,
the lame, the palsied, the living dead
in many shapes and forms, to see the
closing of that early grave. What was
the death it would shut in, to that
which still could crawl and creep above
it !
Along the crowded path they bore
her now, pure as the newly fallen snow
that covered it, whose day on earth
had been as fleeting. Under the porch,
where she had sat when Heaven in its
mercy brought her to that peaceful spot,
she passed again ; and the old church
received her in its quiet shade.
They carried her to one old nook
where she had many and many a time
sat musing, and laid their burden softly
on the pavement. The light streamed
on it through the colored window, — a
window, where the boughs of trees were
ever rustling in the summer, and where
the birds sang sweetly all day long.
With every breath of air that stirred
among those branches in the sunshine,
some trembling, changing light would
fall upon her grave.
Earth to earth, ashes to ashes, dust to
dust ! Many a young hand dropped in
its iff tie wreath, many a stifled sob was
heard. Some — and they were not a few
— knelt down. All were sincere and
truthful in their sorrow.
The service done, the mourners stood
apart, and the villagers closed round to
look into the grave before the pavement-
stone should be replaced. One called
to mind how he had seen her sitting on
that very spot, and how her book had
fallen on her lap, and she was gazing
with a pensive face upon the sky.
Another told how he had wondered
much that one so delicate as she should
be so bold ; how she had never feared
to enter the church alone at night, but
had loved to linger there when all was
quiet, and even to climb the tower stair,
with no more light than that of the
moon rays stealing through the loop-
holes in the thick old wall. A whisper
went about among the oldest, that she
had seen and talked with angels ; and
when they called to mind how she
had looked and spoken, and her early
death, some thought it might be so,
indeed. Thus, coming to the grave in
little knots, and glancing down, and
giving place to others, and falling off in
whispering groups of three or four, the
church was cleared, in time, of all but
the sexton and the mourning friends.
They saw the vault covered, and the
stone fixed down. Then, when the
dusk of evening had come on, and not
a sound disturbed the sacred stillnes?
of the place, — when the bright moon
poured in her light on tomb and monm
ment, on pillar, wall, and arch, and
most of all (it seemed to them) upon
her quiet grave, — in that calm time,
when outward things and inwardthoughts
teem with assurances of immortality, and
worldly hopes and fears are humbled in
the dust before them, — then, with tran-
quil and submissive hearts, they turned
away, and left the child with God.
Oh ! it is hard to take to heart the
lesson that such deaths will teach, but
let no man reject it, for it is one that
all must learn, and is a mighty, univer-
sal Truth. When Death strikes down
the innocent and young, for every fragile
form from which he lets the panting
spirit free, a hundred virtues rise, in
shapes of mercy, charity, and love, to
walk the world and bless it. Of every
tear that sorrowing mortals shed on
such green graves, some good is born,
some gentler nature comes. In the
Destroyer’s steps there spring up bright
creations that defy his power, and his
dark path becomes a way of light to
Heaven.
It was late when the old man came
home. The boy had led him to his own
dwelling, under some pretence, on their
way back ; and, rendered drowsy by his
long ramble and late want of rest, he
had sunk into a deep sleep by the fire-
side. He was perfectly exhausted, and
they were careful not to rouse him.
The slumber held him a long time, and
when he at length awoke the moon was
shining.
The younger brother, uneasy at his
protracted absence, was watching at the
door for his coming, when he appeared
in the pathway with his little guide.
THE OLD CURIOSITY SHOP.
3i3
He advanced to meet them, and ten-
derly obliging the old man to lean upon
his arm, conducted him with slow and
trembling steps towards the house.
He repaired to her chamber straight.
Not finding what he had left there, he
returned with distracted looks to the
room in which they were assembled.
From that, he rushed into the school-
master’s cottage, calling her name.
They followed close upon him, and
when he had vainly searched it, brought
him home.
With such persuasive words as pity
and affection could suggest, they pre-
vailed upon him to sit among them and
hear what they should tell him. Then,
endeavoring by every little artifice to
prepare his mind for what must come,
and dwelling with many fervent words
upon the happy lot to which she had
been removed, they told him, at last, the
truth. The moment it had passed their
lips, he fell down among them like a
murdered man.
For many hours they had little hope
of his surviving ; but grief is strong,
and he recovered.
If there be any who have never known
the blank that follows death, — the weary
void, — the sense of desolation that will
come upon the strongest minds, when
something familiar and beloved is
missed at every turn, — the connection
between inanimate and senseless things
and the object of recollection, when
every household god becomes a monu-
ment and every room a grave, — if there
be any who have not known this, and
proved it by their own experience, they
can never faintly guess, how, for many
days, the old man pined and moped
away the time, and wandered here and
there as seeking something, and had no
comfort.
Whatever power of thought or mem-
ory he retained was all bound up in her.
He never understood, or seemed to
care to understand, about his brother.
To every endearment and attention he
continued listless. If they spoke to
him on this or any other theme, — save
one, — he would hear them patiently for a
while, then turn away, and go on seek-
ing ^ before.
On that one theme, which was in his
and all their minds, it was impossible
to touch. Dead ! He could not hear
or bear the word. The slightest hint
of it would throw him into a paroxysm,
like that he had had when it was first
spoken. In what hope he lived, no
man could tell ; but, that he had some
hope of finding her again — some faint
and shadowy hope, deferred from day
to day, and making him from day to
day more sick and sore at heart — was
plain to all.
They bethought them of a removal
from the scene of this last sorrow ; of
trying whether change of place would
rouse or cheer him. His brother sought
the advice of those who were accounted
skilful in such matters, and they came
and saw' him. Some of the number
stayed upon the spot, conversed with
him when he would converse, and
watched him as he wandered up and
down, alone and silent. Move him
where they might, they said, he would
ever seek to get back there. His mind
would run upon that spot. If they con-
fined him closely, and kept a strict
guard upon him, they might hold him
prisoner, but if he could by any means
escape, he would surely wander back to
that place, or die upon the road.
The boy to whom he had submitted
at first had no longer any influence
with him. ^At times he would suffer^
the child w walk by his side, or would
even take such notice of his presence as
giving him his hand, or would stop tC
kiss his cheek or pat him on the head.
At other times he would entreat him — ■
not unkindly — to be gone, and would
not brook him near. But, whether
alone, or with this pliant friend, or with
those who would have given him, at
any cost or sacrifice, some consolation
or some peace of mind, if happily the
means could have been devised, he
was at all times the same,. — with no
love or care for anything in life, — a
broken-hearted man.
At length, they found, one day, that
he had risen early, and, w'ith his knap
sack on his back, his staff in hand,
her own straw hat, and little basket full
of such things as she had been used to
carry, was gone. As they w r ere making
ready to pursue him far and wide, a
3*4
THE OLD CURIOSITY SHOP.
frightened school-boy came who had
seen him, but a moment before, sitting
in the church — upon her grave, he
said.
They hastened there, and going soft-
ly to the door, espied him in the atti-
tude of one who waited patiently.
They did not disturb him then, but
kept a watch upon him all that day.
When it grew quite dark, he rose and
returned home, and went to bed, mur-
muring to himself, “ She will come to-
morrow ! ”
Upon the morrow he was there again
from sunrise until night ; and still at
night he laid him down to rest, and
murmured, “ She will come to-
morrow ! ”
And thenceforth, every day, and all
day long, he waited at her grave, for
her. How many pictures of new jour-
neys over pleasant country, of resting-
places under the free broad sky, of ram-
bles in the fields and woods, and paths
not often trodden, — how many tones of
that one well-remembered voice, — how
many glimpses of the form, the flutter-
ing dress, the hair that waved so gayly
in the wind, — how many visions of
what had been, and what he hoped
was yet to be, — rose up before him,
in the old, dull, silent church ! He
never told them what he thought,
or where he went. He would sit with
*them at night, pondering wfth a secret
satisfaction, they could see, upon the
flight that he and she would take before
night came again ; and still they would
hear him whisper in his prayers,
“Lord! Let her come to-morrow!”
The last time was on a genial day in
spring. He did not return at the usual
hour, and they went to seek him. He
was lying dead upon the stone.
They laid him by the side of her
whom he had loved so well ; and in
the church where they had often prayed
and mused, and lingered hand in hand,
the child and the old man slept to-
gether.
CHAPTER THE LAST.
The magic reel, which, rolling on
before, has led the chronicler thus far,
now slackens in its pace, and stops. It
lies before the goal ; the pursuit is at
an end.
It remains but to dismiss the leaders
of the little crowd who have borne us
company upon the road, and so to close
the journey.
Foremost among them, smooth Samp-
son Brass and Sally, arm-in-arm, claim
our polite attention.
Mr. Sampson, then, being detained,
as already has been shown, by the jus-
tice upon whom he called, and being so
strongly pressed to protract his stay
that he could by no means refuse, re-
mained under his protection for a con-
siderable time, during which the great
attention of his entertainer kept him so
extremely close that he was quite lost
to society, and never even went abroad
for exercise saving into a small paved
yard. So well, indeed, was his modest
and retiring temper understood by those
with whom he had to deal, and so jeal-
ous were they of his absence, that they
required a kind of friendly bond to be
entered into by two substantial house-
keepers, in the sum of fifteen hundred
pounds apiece, before they would suffer
him to quit their hospitable roof, —
doubting, it appeared, that he would
return, if once let loose, on any other
terms. Mr. Brass, struck with the hu-
mor of this jest, and carrying out its
spirit to the utmost, sought from his
wide connection a pair of friends whose
joint possessions fell ‘some half-pence
short of fifteen pence, and proffered
them as bail, — for that was the merry
word agreed upon on both sides. These
gentlemen being rejected after twenty-
four hours’ pleasantry, Mr. Brass con-
sented to remain, and did remain, until
a club of choice spirits called a Grand
Jury (who were in the joke) summoned
him to a trial before twelve other wags,
for perjury and fraud, who, in their turn
found him guilty with a most facetious
joy, — nay, the very populace entered
into the whim ; and when Mr. Brass
was moving in a hackney-coach towards
the building where these wags assem-
bled, saluted him with rotten eggs and
carcasses of kittens, and feigned to wish
to tear him into shreds, which greatly
increased the comicality of the thing.
THE OLD CURIOSITY SHOP.
3i5
and made him relish it the more, no
doubt.
To work this sportive vein still fur-
ther, Mr. Brass, by his counsel, moved
in arrest of judgment that he had been
led to criminate himself by assurances
of safety and promises of pardon, and
claimed the leniency which the law ex-
tends to such confiding natures as are
thus deluded. After solemn argument,
this point (with others of a technical
nature, whose humorous extravagance
it would be difficult to exaggerate) was
referred to the judges for their decision,
Sampson being meantime removed to
his former quarters. Finally some of
the points were given in Sampson’s fa-
vor, and some against him ; and the upr
shot was, that, instead of being desired
to travel for a time in foreign parts, he
was permitted to grace the mother coun-
try under certain insignificant restric-
tions.
These were, that he should, for a
term of years, reside in a spacious man-
sion where several other gentlemen
were lodged and boarded at the public
charge, who went clad in a sober uni-
form of gray turned up with yellow, had
their hair cut extremely short, and
chiefly lived on gruel and light soup.
It was also required of him that he
should partake of their exercise of con-
stantly ascending an endless flight of
stairs ; and, lest his legs, unused to such
exertion, should be weakened by it,
that he should wear upon one ankle an
amulet or charm of iron. These condi-
tions being arranged, he was removed
one evening to his new abode, and en-
joyed, in common with nine other gen-
tlemen, and two ladies, the privilege of
being taken to his place of retirement
in one of Royalty’s own carriages.
Over and above these trifling penal-
ties, his name was erased and blotted
out from the roll of attorneys ; which
erasure has been always held in these
latter times to be a great degradation
and reproach, and to imply the commis-
sion of some amazing villany, — as in-
deed would seem to be the case, when
so many worthless names remain among
its better records unmolested.
Of Sally Brass, conflicting rumors
went abroad. Some said with confi-
dence that she had gone down to the
docks in male attire, and had become a
female sailor ; others darkly whispered
that she had enlisted as a private in the
second regiment of Foot Guards, and
had been seen in uniform, and on duty,
to wit, leaning on her musket and look-
ing out of a sentry-box in St. James’s
Park, one evening. There were many
such whispers as these in circulation ;
but the truth appears to be, that, after a
lapse of some five years (during which
there is no direct evidence of her hav-
ing been seen at all), two wretched peo-
ple were more than once observed to
crawl at dusk from the inmost recesses
of St. Giles’s, and to take their way
along the streets, with shuffling steps
and cowering, shivering forms, looking
into the roads and kennels, as they went,
in search of refuse food or disregarded
offal. These forms were never beheld
but in those nights of cold and gloom,
when the terrible spectres who lie at
all other times in the obscene hiding-
places of London, in archways, dark
vaults, and cellars, venture to creep into
the streets, — the embodied spirits of
Disease, and Vice, and Famine. It was
whispered by those who should have
known, that these were Sampson and
his sister Sally ; and to this day, it is
said, they sometimes pass, on bad
nights, in the same loathsome guise,
close at the elbow of the shrinking
passenger.
The body of Quilp being found, —
though not until some days had elapsed,
— an inquest was held on it near the
spot where it had been washed ashore.
The general supposition was that he
had committed suicide, and, this ap-
pearing to be favored by all the circum-
stances of his death, the verdict w-as to
that effect. He was left to be buried
with a stake through his heart, in the
centre of four lonely roads.
It ■was rumored afterwards that this
horrible and barbarous ceremony had
been dispensed with, and that the re-
mains had been secretly given up to
Tom Scot. But even here, opinion was
divided ; for some said Tom had dug
them up at midnight, and carried them
to a place indicated to him by the
widow. It is probable that both these
THE OLD CURIOSITY SHOP.
316
stories may have had their origin in
the simple fact of Tom’s shedding tears
upon the inquest, — which he certainly
did, extraordinary as it may appear.
He manifested, besides, a strong de-
sire to assault the jury ; and, being re-
strained and conducted out of court,
darkened its only window by standing
on his head upon the sill, until he was
dexterously tilted upon his feet again
by a cautious beadle.
Being cast upon the w’orld by his
master’s death, he determined to go
through it upon his head and hands,
and accordingly began to tumble for his
bread. Finding, however, his English
birth an insurmountable obstacle to his
advancement in this pursuit, (notwith-
standing that his art was in high repute
and favor,) he assumed the name of an
Italian image lad, with whom he had
become acquainted ; and afterwards
tumbled with extraordinary success,
and to overflowing audiences.
Little Mrs. Quilp never quite forgave
herself the one deceit that lay so heavy
on her conscience, and never spoke or
thought of it but with bitter tears. Her
husband had no relations, and she was
rich. He had made no will, or she
would probably have been poor. Hav-
ing married the first time at her mother’s
instigation, she consulted in her second
choice nobody but herself. It fell upon
a smart young fellow enough ; and as
he made it a preliminary condition that
Mrs. Jiniwin should be thenceforth an
out-pensioner, they lived together after
marriage with no more than the average
amount of quarrelling, and led a merry
life upon the dead dwarf’s money.
Mr. and Mrs. Garland and Mr. Abel
went out as usual (except that there was
a change in their household, as will be
seen presently), and in due time the
latter went into partnership wnth his
friend the notary, on which occasion
there was a dinner, and a ball, and
great extent of dissipation. Unto this
ball there happened to be invited the
most bashful young lady that was ever
seen, with whom Mr. Abel happened to
fall in love. How it happened, or how
they found it out, or which of them
first communicated the discovery to the
other, nobody knows. But certain it
is that in course of time they were mar-
ried ; and equally certain it is that they
were the happiest of the happy ; and no
less certain it is that they deserved to
be so. And it is pleasant to write down
that they reared a family ; because any
propagation of goodness and benevo-
lence is no small addition to the aris-
tocracy of nature, and no small subject
of rejoicing for mankind at large.
The pony preserved his character for
independence and principle down to the
last moment of his life ; which was an
unusually long one, and caused him to
be looked upon, indeed, as the very
Old Parr of ponies. He often went to
and fro with the little phaeton between
Mr. Garland’s and his son’s, and, as
the old people and the young were fre-
quently together, had a stable of his
own at the new establishment, into
which he would walk of himself with
surprising dignity. He condescended
to play with the children, as they grew
old* enough to cultivate his friendship,
and would run up and down the little
paddock with them like a dog ; but
though he relaxed so far, and allowed
them such small freedoms as caresses,
or even to look at his shoes or hang on
by his tail, he never permitted any one
among them to mount his back or drive
him ; thus showing that even their fa-
miliarity must have its limits, and that
there were points between them far too
serious for trifling.
He was not unsusceptible of warm
attachments in his later life, for when
the good bachelor came to live with
Mr. Garland upon the clergyman’s de-
cease, he conceived a great friendship
for him, and amiably submitted to be
driven by his hands without the least
resistance. He did no work for two or
three years before he died, but lived in
clover ; and his last act (like a choleric
old gentleman) w^as to kick his doctor.
Mr. Swiveller, recovering very slow-
ly from his illness, and entering into
the receipt of his annuity, bought for
the Marchioness a handsome stock of
clothes, and put her to school forthwith,
in redemption of the vow he had made
upon his fevered bed. After casting
about for some time for a name which
should be worthy of her, he decided in
THE OLD CURIOSITY SHOP.
3i7
favor of Sophronia Sphynx, as being
euphonious and genteel, and further-
more indicative of mystery. Under this
title the Marchioness repaired, in tears,
to the school of his selection, from
which, as she soon distanced all com-
petitors, she was removed before the
lapse of many quarters to one of a higher
grade. It is but bare justice to Mr.
Swiveller to say, that, although the
expenses of her education kept him in
straitened circumstances for half a dozen
years, he never slackened in his zeal,
and always held himself sufficientlv re-
paid by the accounts he heard (with
great gravity) of her advancement, on
his monthly visits to the governess, who
looked upon him as a literary gentle-
man of eccentric habits, and of a most
prodigious talent in quotation.
In a word, Mr. Swiveller kept the
Marchioness at this establishment un-
til she was, at a moderate guess, full
nineteen years of age, — good-looking,
clever, and good-humored ; when* he
began to consider seriously what was to
be done next. On one of his periodical
visits, while he was revolving this ques-
tion in his mind, the Marchioness came
down to him, alone, looking more smil-
ing and more fresh than ever. Then,
it occurred to him, but not for the first
time, that if she would marry him, how
comfortable they might be ! So Rich-
ard asked her ; whatever she said, it
wasn’t No; and they were married in
good earnest that day week, which gave
Mr. Swiveller frequent occasion to re-
mark at divers subsequent periods that
there had been a young lady saving up
for him after all.
A little cottage at Hampstead being
to let, which had in its garden a smok-
ing-box. the envy of the civilized world,
they agreed to become its tenants ; and
when the honeymoon was over, entered
upon its occupation. To this retreat
Mr. Chuckster repaired regularly every
Sunday to spend the day, — usually
beginning with breakfast, — and here
he was the great purveyor of general
news and fashionable intelligence. For
some years he continued a deadly foe
to Kit, protesting that he had abetter
opinion of him when he was supposed
to have stolen the five-pound note than
when he was shown to be perfectly free
of the crime ; inasmuch as his guilt
would have had in it something daring
and bold, whereas his innocence was
but another proof of a sneaking and
crafty disposition. By slow degrees,
however, he was reconciled to him in
the end ; and even went so far as to
honor him with his patronage, as one
who had in some measure reformed, and
was therefore to be forgiven. But he
never forgot or pardoned that circum-
stance of the shilling ; holding that if
he had come back to get another he
would have done well enough, but that
his returning to work out the former
gift was a stain upon his moral char-
acter which no penitence or contrition
could ever wash away.
Mr. Swiveller, having always been in
some measure of a philosophic and re-
flective, turn, grew immensely contem-
plative, at times, in the smoking-box,
and was accustomed at such periods to
debate in his own mind the mysterious
question of Sophronia’s parentage. So-
phronia herself supposed she was an
orphan ; but Mr. Swiveller, putting
various slight circumstances together,
often thought Miss Brass must know
better than that ; and, having heard
from his wife of her strange interview
with Quilp, entertained sundry misgiv-
ings whether that person, in his life-
time, might not also have been able to
solve the riddle, had he chosen. These
speculations, however, gave him no un-
easiness ; for Sophronia was ever a
most cheerful, affectionate, and provi-
dent wife to him ; and Dick (excepting
for an occasional outbreak with Mr.
Chuckster, which she had the good
sense rather to encourage than oppose)
was to her an attached and domesti-
cated husband. And they played many
hundred thousand games of cribbage
together. And let it be added, to
Dick’s honor, that, though we have
called her Sophronia, he called her the
Marchioness from first to last ; and that
upon every anniversary of the day on
which he found her in his sick-room,
Mr. Chuckster came to dinner, and
there was great glorification.
The gamblers, Isaac List and Jowl,
with their trusty confederate Mr. James
3 i8
THE OLD CURIOSITY SHOP.
Groves of unimpeachable memory, pur-
sued their course with varying success,
until the failure of a spirited enterprise
in the way of their profession dispersed
them in different directions, and caused
their career to receive a sudden check
from the long and strong arm of the
law. This defeat had its origin in the
untoward detection of a new associate,
— young Frederick Trent, — who thus
became the unconscious instrument of
their punishment and his own.
For the young man himself, he rioted
abroad for a brief term, living by his
wits, — which means by the abuse of
every faculty that, worthily employed,
raises man above the beasts, and, so
degraded, sinks him far below them.
It was not long before his body was
recognized by a stranger, who chanced
to visit that hospital in Paris where the
drowned are laid out to be owned,
despite the bruises and disfigurements
which were said to have been occa-
sioned by some previous scuffle. But
the stranger kept his own counsel until
he returned home, and it was never
claimed or cared for.
The younger brother, or the single
gentleman, for that designation is more
familiar, would have drawn the poor
schoolmaster from his lone retreat, and
made him his companion and friend.
But the humble village teacher was
timid of venturing into the noisy world,
and had become fond of his dwelling in
the old churchyard. Calmly happy in
his school, and in the spot, and in the
attachment of Her little mourner, he
pursued his quiet course in peace ; and
was, through the righteous gratitude of
his friend — let this brief mention
suffice for that — a poor schoolmaster
no more.
That friend — single gentleman, or
younger brother, which you will — had
at his heart a heavy sorrow ; but it bred
in him no misanthropy or monastic
gloom. He went forth into the world,
a lover of his kind. For a long, long
time it was his chief delight to travel
in the steps of the old man and the
child (so far as he could trace them
from her last narrative), to halt where
they had halted, sympathize where they
had suffered, and rejoice where they
had been made glad. Those who had
been kind to them did not escape his
search. The sisters at the school, —
they who were her friends, because
themselves so friendless ; Mrs. Jarley
of the wax-work; Codlin, Short, — he
found them all ; and trust me, the man
who fed the furnace fire was not for-
gotten.
Kit’s story, having got abroad, raised
him up a host of friends, and many offers
of provision for his future life. He had
no idea at first of ever quitting Mr. Gar-
land’s service ; but, after serious remon-
strance and advice from that gentleman,
began to contemplate the possibility of
such a change being brought about in
time. A good post was procured for
him, with a rapidity which took away
his breath, by some of the gentlemen
who had believed him guilty of the of-
fence laid to his charge, and who had
acted upon that belief. Through the
same kind agency, his mother was se-
cured from want, and made quite hap-
py. Thus, as Kit often said, his great
misfortune turned out to be the source
of all his subsequent prosperity.
Did Kit live a single man all his days,
or did he marry ? Of course he married,
and who should be his wife but Barba-
ra? And the best of it was, he married
so soon that little Jacob was an uncle,
before the calves of his legs, already
mentioned in this history, had ever
been encased in broadcloth pantaloons,
— though that was not quite the best
either, for of necessity the baby was an
uncle too. The delight of Kit’s mother
and of Barbara’s mother upon the great
occasion is past all telling ; finding they
agreed so well on that, and on all other
subjects, they took up their abode to-
gether, and were a most harmonious
pair of friends from that time forth.
And hadn’t Astley’s cause to bless it-
self for their all going together once a
quarter, to the pit ; and did n’t Kit’s
mother always say, when they painted
the outside, that Kit’s last treat had
helped to that, and wonder what the
manager would feel if he but knew it
as they passed his house !
When Kit had children six and seven
years old, there was a Barbara among
them, and a pretty Barbara she was.
THE OLD CURIOSITY SHOP.
319
Nor was there wanting an exact fac-
simile and copy of little Jacob as he
appeared in those remote times when
they taught him what oysters meant.
Of course there was an Abel, own
godson to the Mr. Garland of that
name ; and there was a Dick, whom
Mr. Swiveller did especially favor.
The little group would often gather
round him of a night and beg him to
tell again that story of good Miss Nell
who died. This Kit would do ; and
when they cried to hear it, wishing it
longer too, he would teach them how
she had gone to Heaven, as all good
people did ; and how, if they were
good like her, they may hope to be
there too, one day, and to see and
know her as he had done when he
was quite a boy. Then, he would re-
late to them how needy he used to be,
and how she had taught him what he
was otherwise too poor to learn, and
how the old man had been used to
say, “ She always laughs at Kit ” ; at
which they would brush away their
tears, and laugh themselves to think
that she had done so, and be again
quite merry.
He sometimes took them to the street
where she had lived ; but new improve-
ments had altered it so much it was not
like the same. The old house had been
long ago pulled down, and a fine broad
road was in its place. At first, he would
draw with his stick a square upon the
ground to show them where it used to
stand. But he soon became uncertain
of the spot, and could only say it was
thereabouts, he thought, and that these
alterations were confusing.
Such are the changes which a few
years bring about, and so do things
pass away, like a tale that is told I
REPRINTED PIECES.
21
REPRINTED PIECES
THE LONG VOYAGE.
When the wind is blowing and the
sleet or rain is driving against the dark
windows, I love to sit by the fire, think-
ing of what I have read in books of
voyage and travel. Such books have
had a strong fascination for my mind
from my earliest childhood ; and I
wonder it should have come to pass
that I never have been round the world,
never have been shipwrecked, ice-envi-
roned, tomahawked, or eaten.
Sitting on my ruddy hearth in the
twilight of New-Year’s eve, I find inci-
dents of travel rise around me from all
the latitudes and longitudes of the
globe. They observe no order or se-
quence, but appear and vanish as they
will, — “ come like shadows, so de-
part.” Columbus, alone upon the sea
with his disaffected crew, looks over
the waste of waters from his high sta-
tion on the poop of his ship, and sees
the first uncertain glimmer of the light,
“ rising and falling with the waves, like
a torch in the bark of some fisherman,”
which is the shining star of a new
world. Bruce is caged in Abyssinia,
surrounded by the gory horrors which
shall often startle him out of his sleep
at home when years have passed away.
Franklin, come to the end of his unhap-
py overland journey, — would that it
had been his last ! — lies perishing of
hunger with his brave companions;
each emaciated figure stretched upon
its miserable bed without the power
to rise ; all dividing the weary days
between their prayers, their remem-
brances of the dear ones at home, and
conversation on the pleasures of eat-
ing ; the last-named topic being ever
present to them, likewise, in their
dreams. All the African travellers,
wayworn, solitary, and sad, submit
themselves again to drunken, murder-
ous, man-selling despots, of the lowest
order of humanity ; and Mungo Park,
fainting under a tree and succored by a
woman, gratefully remembers how his
Good Samaritan has always come to
him in woman’s shape, the wide world
over.
A shadow on the wall in which my
mind’s eye can discern some traces of a
rocky sea-coast, recalls to me a fearful
story of travel derived from that un-
promising narrator of such stories, a
parliamentary blue-book. A convict is
its chief figure, and this man escapes
with other prisoners from a penal set-
tlement. It is an island, and they
seize a boat, and get to the mainland.
Their way is by a rugged and precipi-
tous sea-shore, and they have no earthly
hope of ultimate escape, for the party
of soldiers despatched by an easier
course to cut them off must inevitably
arrive at their distant bourn long be-
fore them, and retake them if by any
hazard they survive the horrors of the
way. Famine, as they all must have
foreseen, besets them early in their
course. Some of the party die and
are eaten ; some are murdered by the
rest and eaten. This one awful crea-
ture eats his fill, and sustains his
strength, and lives on to be recaptured
and taken back. The unrelatable ex-
periences through which he has passed
have been so tremendous that he is
not hanged as he might be, but goes
back to his old chained gang-work. A
324
THE LONG VOYAGE.
little time, and he tempts one other
prisoner away, seizes another boat, and
flies once more, — necessarily in the
old hopeless direction, for he can take
no other. He is soon cut off, and met
by the pursuing party, face to face,
upon the beach. He is alone. In his
former journey he acquired an inap-
peasable relish for his dreadful food.
He urged the new man away, expressly
to kill him and eat him. In the pock-
ets on one side of his coarse convict-
dress are portions of the man’s body,
on which he is regaling ; in the pockets
on the other side is an untouched store
of salted pork (stolen before he left the
island) for which he has no appetite.
He is taken back, and he is hanged.
But I shall never see that s*ea-beach on
the wall or in the fire, without him,
solitary monster, eating as he prowls
along, while the sea rages and rises at
him.
Captain Bligh (a worse man to be
intrusted with arbitrary power there
could scarcely be) is handed over the
side of the Bounty, and turned adrift on
the wide ocean in an open boat, by
order of Fletcher Christian, one of his
officers, at this very minute. Another
flash of my fire, and “Thursday Octo-
ber Christian,” five-and-twenty years
of age, son of the dead and gone Fletch-
er by a savage mother, leaps aboard
his Majesty’s ship Briton, hove to off
Pitcairn’s Island ; says his simple grace
before eating, in good English ; and
knows that a pretty little animal on
board is called a dog, because in his
childhood he had heard of such strange
creatures from his father and the other
mutineers, grown gray under the shade
of the bread-fruit trees, speaking of
their lost country far away.
See the Halsewell, East Indiaman
outward bound, driving madly on a
January night towards the rocks near
Seacombe, on the island of Purbeck !
The captain’s two dear daughters are
aboard, and five other ladies. The
ship has been driving many hours, has
seven feet water in her hold, and her
mainmast has been cut away. The
description of her loss, familiar to me
from my early boyhood, seems to be
read aloud as she rushes to her destiny.
“About two in the morning of Fri-
day the sixth of January, the ship still
driving, and approaching very fast to
the shore, Mr. Henry Meriton, the
second mate, went again into the cud-
dy, where the captain then was. An-
other conversation taking place, Captain
Pierce expressed extreme anxiety for
the preservation of his beloved daugh-
ters, and earnestly asked the officer if
he could devise any method of saving
them. On his answering, with great
concern, that he feared it would be
impossible, but that their only chance
w r ould be to wait for morning, the cap-
tain lifted up his hands in silent and
distressful ejaculation.
“At this dreadful moment, the ship
struck, with such violence as to dash
the heads of those standing in the
cuddy against the deck above them,
and the shock w'as accompanied by a
shriek of horror that burst at one in-
stant from every quarter of the ship.
“ Many of the seamen, who had been
remarkably inattentive and remiss in
their duty during great part of the
storm, now poured upon deck, w'here
no exertions of the officers could keep
them while their assistance might have
been useful. They had actually skulked
in their hammocks, leaving the work-
ing of the pumps and other necessary
labors to the officers of the ship, and
the soldiers, who had made uncommon
exertions. Roused by a sense of their
danger, the same seamen, at this mo-
ment, in frantic exclamations, demand-
ed of heaven and their fellow-sufferers
that succor which their own efforts
timely made might possibly have pro-
cured.
“The ship continued to beat on the
rocks ; and soon bilging, fell with her
broadside towards the shore. When she
struck, a number of the men climbed
up the ensign-staff, under an apprehen-
sion of her immediately going to pieces.
“ Mr. Meriton, at this crisis, offered
to these unhappy beings the best advice
which could be given : he recommended
that all should come to the side of the
ship lying lowest on the rocks, and
singly to take the opportunities which
might then offer of escaping to the
shore.
THE LONG VOYAGE.
325
“ Having thus provided, to the ut-
most of his power, for the safety of the
desponding crew, he returned to the
round-house, where, by this time, all
the passengers and most of the officers
had assembled. The latter were em-
ployed in offering consolation to the
unfortunate ladies ; and, with unpar-
alleled magnanimity, suffering their
compassion for the fair and amiable
companions of their misfortunes to pre-
vail over the sense of their own danger.
“In this charitable work of comfort,
Mr. Meriton now joined, by assurances
of his opinion that the ship would
hold together till the morning, when all
would be safe. Captain Pierce, observ-
ing one of the young gentlemen loud in
his exclamations of terror, and frequent-
ly cry that the ship was parting, cheer-
fully bid him be quiet, remarking that
though the ship should go to pieces, he
/would not, but would be safe enough.
' “It is difficult to convey a correct .
idea of the scene of this deplorable ca-
tastrophe, without describing the place
where it happened. The Halsewell
struck on the rocks at a part of the
shore where the cliff is of vast height,
and rises almost perpendicular from its
base. But at this particular spot, the
foot of the cliff is excavated into a cav-
ern of ten or twelve yards in depth, and
of breadth equal to t he length of a large
ship. The sides of the cavern are so
n early-upright as to be of extremely
difficult access ; and the bottom is
strewed with sharp and uneven rocks,
which seem, by some convulsion of the
earth, to have been detached from its
roof.
“The ship lay with her broadside
opposite to the mouth of this cavern,
with her whole length stretched almost
from side to side of it. But when she
struck, it was too dark for the unfortu-
nate persons on board to discover the
real magnitude of their danger, and the
extreme horror of such a situation.
“ In addition to the company already
in the round-house, they had admitted
three black women and two soldiers’
wives; who, with the husband of one
of them, had been allowed to come in,
though the seamen, who had tumultu-
ously demanded entrance to get the
lights, had been opposed and kept out
by Mr. Rogers and Mr. Brimer, the
third and fifth mates. The numbers
there were, therefore, now increased to
near fifty. Captain Pierce sat on a
chair, a cot, or some other movable,
with a daughter on each side, whom he
alternately pressed to his affectionate
breast. The rest of the melancholy
assembly were seated on the . deck,
which was strewed with musical instru-
ments and the wreck of furniture and
other articles.
“ Here also Mr. Meriton, after hav-
ing cut several wax-candles in pieces,
and stuck them up in various parts of
the round-house, and lighted up all
the glass lanterns he could find, took
his seat, intending to wait the approach
of dawn, and then assist the partners
of his dangers to escape. But, observ-
ing that the poor ladies appeared
parched and exhausted, he brought a
basket of oranges and prevailed on
some of them to refresh themselves by
sucking a little of the juice. At this
time they were all tolerably composed,
except Miss Mansel, who was in hys-
teric fits on the floor of the deck of
the round-house.
“But on Mr. Meriton’s return to the
company, he perceived a considerable
alteration in the appearance of the ship ;
the sides were visibly giving way ; the
deck seemed to be lifting ; and he dis-
covered other strong indications that
she could not hold much longer togeth-
er. On this account, he attempted to
go forward to look out, but immediate-
ly saw that the ship had separated in
the middle, and that the forepart, hav-
ing changed its position, lay rather
farther out towards the sea. In such
an emergency, when the next moment
might plunge him into eternity, he de-
termined to seize the present opportu-
nity, and follow the example of the crew
and the soldiers, who were now quitting
the ship in numbers, and making their
way to the shore, though quite ignorant
of its nature and description.
“ Among other expedients, the en-
sign-staff had been unshipped, and
attempted to be laid between the ship’s
side and some of the rocks, but without
success, fcr it snapped asunder before
326
THE LONG VOYAGE.
it reached them. However, by the
light of a lantern, which a seaman
handed through the skylight of the
round-house to the deck, Mr. Meriton
discovered a spar which appeared to be
laid from the ship’s side to the rocks,
and on this spar he resolved to attempt
his escape.
“ Accordingly, lying down upon it,
he thrust himself forward ; however,
he soon found that it had no communi-
cation with the rock. He reached the
end of it and then slipped off, receiving
a very violent bruise in his fall, and
before he could recover his legs, he
was washed off by the surge. He now
supported himself by swimming, until
a returning wave dashed him against
the back part of the cavern. Here he
laid hold of a small projection in the
rock, but was so much benumbed that
he was on the point of quitting it, when
a seaman, who had already gained a
footing, extended his hand, and assisted
him until he could secure himself a lit-
tle on the rock ; from which he clam-
bered on a shelf still higher, and out
of the reach of the surf.
“Mr. Rogers, the third mate, re-
mained with the captain and the un-
fortunate ladies and their companions
nearly twenty minutes after Mr. Meri-
ton had quitted the ship. Soon after
the latter left the round-house, the
captain asked what was become of him,
to which Mr. Rogers replied, that he
was gone on deck to see what could be
done. After this, a heavy sea breaking
over the ship, the ladies exclaimed,
‘ O poor Meriton ! he is drowned ! had
he stayed with us he would have been
safe!’ and they all, particularly Miss
hi ary Pierce, expressed great concern
at the apprehension of his loss.
“ The sea was now breaking in at the
forepart of the ship, and reached as
far as the mainmast. Captain Pierce
gave Mr. Rogers a nod, and they took
a lamp and went together into the
stern -gallery, where, after viewing the
rocks for some time, Captain Pierce
asked Mr. Rogers if he thought there
was any possibility of saving the girls ;
to which he replied, he feared there
was none ; for they could only discover
the black face of the perpendicular rock
and not the cavern which afforded shel-
ter to those who escaped. They then
returned to the round-house, where
Mr. Rogers hung up the lamp, and
Captain Pierce sat down between his
two daughters.
“ The sea continuing to break in very
fast, Mr. Macmanus, a midshipman,
and Mr. Schutz, a passenger, asked
Mr. Rogers what they could do to es-
cape. ‘Follow me,’ he replied, and
they all went into the stern-gallery, and
from thence to the upper-quarter- gallery
on the poop. While there, a very heavy
sea fell on board, and the round-house
gave way. Mr. Rogers heard the ladies
shriek at intervals as if the water reached
them ; the noise of the sea at other
times drowning their voices.
“Mr. Brimer had followed him to the
poop, where they remained together
about five minutes, when on the break-
ing of this heavy sea, they jointly seized
a hen-coop. The same wave which
proved fatal to some of those below
carried him and his companion to the
rock, on which they were violently
dashed and miserably bruised.
“ Here on the rock were twenty-seven
men ; but it now being low water, and
as they were convinced that on the
flowing of the tide all must be washed
off, many attempted to get to the back
or the sides of the cavern, beyond the
reach of the returning sea. Scarcelj
more than six, besides Mr. Rogers and
Mr. Brimer, succeeded.
“Mr. Rogers, on gaining this station,
was so nearly exhausted that had his
exertions been protracted only a few
minutes longer, he must have sunk
under them. He was now prevented
from joining Mr. Meriton, by at least
twenty men between them, none of
whom could move without the immi-
nent peril of his life.
“ They found that a very considerable
number of the crew, seamen, and sol-
diers, and some petty officers, were in
the same situation as themselves, though
many who had reached the rocks be-
low perished in attempting to ascend.
They could yet discern some part of
the ship, and in their dreary station
solaced themselves with the hopes of
its remaining entire until daybreak ; for.
THE LIBRARY
OF THE
UNIVERSITY Or ILLINOIS
THE LONG VOYAGE.
THE LONG VOYAGE .
327
in the midst of their own distress, the
sufferings of the females on board af-
fected them with the most poignant
anguish ; and every sea that broke in-
spired them with terror for their safety.
“ But, alas, their apprehensions were
too soon realized ! Within a very few
minutes of the time that Mr. Rogers
gained the rock, an universal shriek,
which long vibrated in their ears, in
which the voice of female distress was
lamentably distinguished, announced
the dreadful catastrophe. In a few
moments all was hushed, except the
roaring of the winds and the dashing of
the waves. The wreck was buried in
the deep, and not an atom of it was
ever afterwards seen.”
The most beautiful and affecting inci-
dent I know, associated with a ship-
wreck, succeeds this dismal story for a
winter night. The Grosvenor, East In-
diaman homeward bound, goes ashore
on the coast of Caffraria. It is resolved
that the officers, passengers, and crew,
in number one hundred and thirty-five
souls, shall endeavor to penetrate on
foot, across trackless deserts, infested
by wild beasts and cruel savages, to the
Dutch settlements at the Cape of Good
Hope. With this forlorn object before
them, they finally separate into two par-
ties. — nevermore to meet on earth.
There is a solitary child among the
passengers, — a little boy of seven years
old who has no relation there ; and
when the first party is moving away he
cries after some member of it who has
been kind to him. The crying of a
child might be supposed to be a little
thing to men in such great extremity ;
but it touches them, and he is immedi-
ately taken into that detachment.
From which time forth, this child is
sublimely made a sacred charge. He
is pushed on a little raft, across broad
rivers, by the swimming sailors ; they
carry him by turns through the deep
sand and long grass (he patiently walk-
ing at all other times) ; they share with
him such putrid fish as they find to eat ;
they lie down and wait for him when
the rough carpenter, who becomes his
especial friend, lags behind. Beset by
lions and tigers, by savages, by thirst,
by hunger, by death in a crowd of
ghastly shapes, they never — O Father
of all mankind, thy name be blessed
for it ! — forget this child. The captain
stops exhausted, and his faithful cock-
swain goes back and is seen to sit down
by his side, and neither of the two shall
be any more beheld until the great last
day ; but, as the rest go on for their
lives, they take the child with them.
The carpenter dies of poisonous berries
eaten in starvation ; and the steward,
succeeding to the command of the
party, succeeds to the sacred guardian-
ship of the child.
God knows all he does for the poor
baby ; how he cheerfully carries him in
his arms when he himself is weak and
ill ; how he feeds him when he himself
is griped with want ; how he folds his
ragged jacket round him, lays his little
worn face with a woman’s tenderness
upon his sunburnt breast, soothes him
in his sufferings, sings to him as he
limps along, unmindful of his own
parched and bleeding feet. Divided
for a few days from the rest, they dig a
grave in the sand and bury their good
friend the cooper, — these two compan-
ions alone in the wilderness, — and then
the time comes when they both are ill
and beg their wretched partners in de-
spair, reduced and few in number now,
to wait by them one day. They wait by
them one day, they wait by them two
days. On the morning of the third,
they move very softly about, in making
their preparations for the resumption
of their journey ; for the child is sleep-
ing by the fire, and it is agreed with one
consent that he shall not be disturbed
until the last moment. The moment
comes, the fire is dying, — and the child
is dead.
His faithful friend, the steward, lin-
gers but a little while behind him. His
grief is great, he staggers on for a few
days, lies down in the desert, and dies.
But he shall be reunited in his immor-
tal spirit — who can doubt it? — with
the child, where he and the poor car-
penter shall be raised up with the
words, “ Inasmuch as ye have done it
unto the least of these, ye have done it
unto Me.”
As I recall the dispersal and disap-
328
THE BEGGING-LETTER WRITER.
pearance of nearly all the participators
in this once famous shipwreck (a mere
handful being recovered at last), and
the legends that were long afterwards
revived from time to time among the
English officers at the Cape, of a white
woman with an infant, said to have
been seen weeping outside a savage
hut far in the interior, who was whis-
peringly associated with the remem-
brance of the missing ladies saved from
the wrecked vessel, and who was often
sought but never found, thoughts of an-
other kind of travel come into my mind.
Thoughts of a voyager unexpectedly
summoned from home, who travelled a
vast distance, and could never return.
Thoughts of this unhappy wayfarer in
the depths of his sorrow, in the bitter-
ness of his anguish, in the helplessness
of his self-reproach, in the desperation
of his desire to set right what he had left
wrong, and do what he had left undone.
For there were many, many things he
had neglected. Little matters while he
was at home and surrounded by them,
but things of mighty moment when he
was at an immeasurable distance. There
were many, many blessings that he had
inadequately felt, there were many tr vial
injuries that he had not forgiven, there
was love that he had but poorly re-
turned, there was friendship that he had
too lightly prized, there were a million
kind words that he might have spoken,
a million kind looks that he might have
given, uncountable slight easy deeds
in which he might have been most
truly great and good. O for day (he
would exclaim), for but one day to make
amends ! But the sun never shone
upon that happy day, and out of his
remote captivity he never came.
Why does this traveller’s fate obscure,
on New-Year’s eve, the other histories
of travellers with which my mind was
filled but now, and cast a solemn shad-
ow over me ! Must I one day make his
journey? Even so. Who shall say
that I may not then be tortured by such
late regrets, — that I may not then look
from my exile on my empty place and
undone work? I stand upon a sea-
shore, where the waves are years. They
break and fall, and I may little heed
them ; but with every wave the sea is
rising, and I know that it will float me
on this traveller’s voyage at last.
THE BEGGING-LETTER WRITER.
The amount of money he annually
diverts from wholesome and useful pur-
oses in the United Kingdom would
e a set-off against the Window Tax.
He is one of the most shameless frauds
and impositions of this time. In his
idleness, his mendacity, and the im-
measurable harm he does to the deserv-
ing, — dirtying the stream of true benev-
olence, and muddling the brains of fool-
ish justices, with inability to distinguish
between the base coin of distress, and
the true currency we have always among
us, — he is more worthy of Norfolk Isl-
and than three fourths of the worst
characters who are sent there. Under
any rational system, he would have
been sent there long ago.
I, the writer of this paper, have been,
for some time, a chosen receiver of
Begging Letters. For fourteen years,
my house has been made as regular a
Receiving House for such communica-
tions, as any one of the great branch
post-offices is for general correspond-
ence. I ought to know something of
the Begging- Letter Writer. He has
besieged my door, at all hours of the
day and night ; he has fought my ser-
vant ; he has lain in ambush for me,
going out and coming in ; he has fol-
lowed me out of town into the country ;
THE BEGGING-LETTER WRITER.
329
he has appeared at provincial hotels,
where I have been staying for only a
few hours ; he has written to me from
immense distances, when I have been
out of England. He has fallen sick ;
he has died, and been buried ; he has
come to life again, and again departed
from this transitory scene ; he has been
his own son, his own mother, his own
baby, his idiot brother, his uncle, his
aunt, his aged grandfather. He has
wanted a great-coat, to go to India in ;
a pound to set him up in life' forever ;
a pair of boots, to take him to the coast
of China ; a hat, to get him into a per-
manent situation under government.
He has frequently been exactly seven
and sixpence short of independence.
He has had such openings at Liver-
pool — posts of great trust and confi-
dence in merchants’ houses, which noth-
ing but seven and sixpence was wanting
to him to secure — that I wonder he is
nc/t mayor of that flourishing town at
the present moment.
The natural phenomena of which
/he has been the victim are of a most
/ astounding nature. He has had two
/ children, who have never grown up ;
who have never had anything to cover
them at night ; who have been continu-
ally driving him mad, by asking in vain
for food ; who have never come out of
fevers and measles (which, I suppose,
has accounted for his fuming his letters
with tobacco-smoke, as a disinfectant) ;
who have never changed in the least
degree through fourteen long revolving
years. As to his wife, what that suffering
woman has undergone, nobody knows.
She has always been in an interesting
situation through the same long period,
and has never been confined yet. His
devotion to her has been unceasing.
He has never cared for himself ; he
could have perished, — he would rather,
in short, — but was it not his Christian
duty as a man, a husband, and a father,
to write begging letters when he looked
at her? (He has usually remarked that
he would call in the evening for an an-
swer to this question.)
He has been the sport of the strangest
misfortunes. What his brother has
done to him would have broken any-
body else’s heart. His brother went
into business with him, and ran away
with the money ; his brother got him to
be security for an immense sum, and
left him to pay it ; his brother would
have given him employment to the tune
of hundreds a year, if he would have
consented to write letters on a Sunday ;
his brother enunciated principles incom-
patible with his religious views, and he
could not (in consequence) permit his
brother to provide for him. His land-
lord has never shown a spark of human
feeling. When he put in that execu-
tion I don’t know, but he has never
taken it out. The broker’s man has
grown gray in possession. They ■will
have to bury him some day.
He has been attached to every con-
ceivable pursuit. He has been in the
army, in the navy, in the church, in the
law; connected with the press, the fine
arts, public institutions, every descrip-
tion and grade of business. He has
been brought up as a gentleman ; he
has been at every college in Oxford and
Cambridge ; he can quote Latin in his
letters (but generally misspells some
minor English word) ; he can tell you
what Shakespeare says about begging,
better than you know it. It is to be
observed, that in the midst of his afflic-
tions he always reads the newspapers,
and rounds off his appeals with some
allusion, that may be supposed to be in
my way, to the popular subject of the
hour.
His life presents a series of inconsist-
encies. Sometimes he has never writ-
ten such a letter before. He blushes
with shame. That is the first time ;
that shall- be the last. Don’t answer it,
and let it be understood that, then, he
will kill himself quietly. Sometimes
(and more frequently) he has written a
few such letters. Then he encloses the
answers, with an intimation that they
are of inestimable value to him, and a
request that they may be carefully re-
turned. He is fond of enclosing some-
thing, — verses, letters, pawnbrokers*
duplicates, anything to necessitate an
answer. He is very severe upon ‘ the
pampered minion of fortune ’ who re-
fused him the half-sovereign referred to
in the enclosure number two, — but he
knows me better.
330
THE BEGGING-LETTER WRITER .
He writes in a variety of styles ;
sometimes in low spirits, sometimes
quite jocosely. When he is in low
spirits, he writes down-hill, and repeats
words, — these little indications being
expressive of the perturbation of his
mind. When he is more vivacious, he is
frank with me, he is quite the agreeable
rattle. I know what human nature is,
— who better? Well ! He had a little
money once, and he ran through it, —
as many men have done before him.
He finds his old friends turn away from
him now, — many men have done that be-
fore him, too ! Shall he tell me why he
writes to me? Because he has no kind
of claim upon me. He puts it on that
ground, plainly ; and begs to ask for the
loan (as I know human nature) of two
sovereigns, to be repaid next Tuesday
six weeks, before twelve at noon.
Sometimes, when he is sure that I
have found him out, and that there is no
chance of money, he writes to inform
me that I have got rid of him at last.
He has enlisted into the Company’s
service, and is off directly, — but he
wants a cheese. He is informed by the
sergeant that it is essential to his pros-
pects in the regiment that he should
take out a single Gloucester cheese,
weighing from twelve to fifteen pounds.
Eight or nine shillings would buy it.
He does not ask for money, after what
has passed ; but if he calls at nine to-
morrow morning, may he hope to find a
cheese? And is there anything he can
do to show his gratitude in Bengal ?
Once, he wrote me rather a special
letter, proposing relief in kind. He had
got into a little trouble by leaving par-
cels of mud done up in brown paper at
people’s houses, on pretence of being a
Rail way- Porter, in which character he
received carriage money. This sportive
fancy he expiated in the House of Cor-
rection. Not long after his release, and
on a Sunday morning, he called with a
letter (having first dusted himself all
over), in which he gave me to under-
stand that, being resolved to earn an
honest livelihood, he had been travel-
ling about the country with a cart of
crockery. That he had been doing
pretty well, until the day before, when
his horse had dropped down dead near
Chatham, in Kent. That this had re-
duced him to the unpleasant necessity
of getting into the shafts himself, and
drawing the cart of crockery to London,
— a somewhat exhausting pull of thirty
miles. That he did not venture to ask
again for money ; but that if I would
have the goodness to leave him out a
donkey , he would call for the animal
before breakfast !
At another time, my friend (I am de-
scribing actual experiences) introduced
himself as a literary gentleman in the
last extremity of distress. He had had
a play accepted at a certain theatre, —
which was really open ; its representa-
tion was delayed by the indisposition of
a leading actor, — who was really ill ;
and he and his were in a state of abso-
lute starvation. If he made his neces-
sities known to the manager of the
theatre, he put it to me to say what kind
of treatment he might expect? Well!
we got over that difficulty to our mutu-
al satisfaction. A little while afterwards
he was in some other strait, — I think
Mrs. Southcote, his wife, was in ex-
tremity, — and we adjusted that point
too. A little while afterwards, he had
taken a new house, and was going head-
long to ruin for want of a water-butt.
I had my misgivings about the water-
butt, and did not reply to that epistle.
But, a little while afterwards, I had
reason to feel penitent for my neglect.
He wrote me a few broken-hearted
lines, informing me that the dear part-
ner of his sorrows died in his arms last
night at nine o’clock !
I despatched a trusty messenger to
comfort the bereaved mourner and his
poor children ; but the messenger went
so soon that the play was not ready to
be played out ; my friend was not at
home, and his wife was in a most de-
lightful state of health. He was taken
upby the Mendicity Society (informally,
it afterwards appeared), and I presented
myself at a London police office with
my testimony against him. The mag-
istrate was wonderfully struck by his
educational acquirements, deeply im-
pressed by the excellence of his letters,
exceedingly sorry to see a man of his
attainments there, complimented him
highly on his powers of composition.
THE BEGGING-LETTER WRITER.
33i
and was quite charmed to have the
agreeable duty of discharging him. A
collection was made for the “ poor fel-
low,” as he was called in the reports,
and I 'left the court with a comfortable
sense of being universally regarded as a
sort of monster. Next day comes to
me a friend of mine, the governor of a
large prison. “ Why did you ever go to
the police office against that man,”
says he, “without coming to me first?
I know all about him and his frauds.
He lodged in the house of one of my
warders, at the very time when he first
wrote to you ; and then he was eating
spring-lamb at eighteen-pence a pound,
and early asparagus at I don’t know
how much a bundle ! ” On that very
same day, and in that very same hour,
my injured gentleman wrote a solemn
address to me, demanding to know what
compensation I proposed to make him
for his having passed the night in a
“ loathsome dungeon.” And next morn-
ing, an Irish gentleman, a member of
the same fraternity, who had read the
case, and was very well persuaded I
should be chary of going to that police
office again, positively refused to leave
my door for less than a sovereign, and,
resolved to besiege me into compliance,
literally “satdown” before it for ten mor-
tal hours. The garrison being well pro-
visioned, I remained w ithin the walls ;
and he raised the siege at midnight,
W'ith a prodigious alarum on the bell.
The Begging- Letter Writer often has
an extensive circle of acquaintance.
Whole pages of the Court Guide are
ready to be references for him. Noble-
men and gentlemen write to say there
never was such a man for probity and
virtue. They have known him, time
out of mind, and there is nothing they
would n’t do for him. Somehow, they
don’t give him that one pound ten he
stands in need of; but perhaps it is not
enough, — they w T ant to do more, and
his modesty will not allow it. It is to
be remarked of his trade that it is a very
fascinating one. He never leaves it ;
and those who are near to him become
smitten wifh a love of it, too, and soon-
er or later set up for themselves. He
employs a’messenger, — man, woman,
or child. That messenger is certain
ultimately to become an independent
Begging- Letter Writer. His sons and
daughters succeed to his calling, and
write begging letters when he is no
more. He throws off the infection of
begging-letter writing, like the conta-
gion of disease. What Sydney Smith
so happily called “ the dangerous luxury
of dishonesty ” is more tempting, and
more catching, it would seem, in this
instance, than in any other.
He always belongs to a Correspond-
ing Society of Begging-Letter Writers.
Any one who will, may ascertain this
fact. Give money to day, in recogni-
tion of a begging letter, — no matter
how unlike a common begging letter, —
and for the next fortnight you will have
a rush of such communications. Stead-
ily refuse to give ; and the begging
letters become angels’ visits, until the
Society is from some cause or other in
a dull way of business, and may as well
try you as anybody else. It is of little
use inquiring into the Begging-Letter
Writer’s circumstances. He may be
sometimes accidentally found out, as in
the case already mentioned (though
that was not the first inquiry made) ;
but apparent misery is always a part of
his trade, ’and real misery very often is,
in the intervals of spring-lamb and early
asparagus. It is naturally an incident
of his dissipated and dishonest life.
That the calling is a successful one,
and that large sums of money are gained
by it, must be evident to anybody who
reads the police reports of such cases.
But prosecutions are of rare occur-
rence, relatively to the extent to which
the trade is carried on. The cause of
this is to be found (as no one knows
better than the Begging-Letter Writer,
for it is a part of his speculation) in the
aversion people feel to exhibit them-
selves as having been imposed upon, or
as having weakly gratified their con-
sciences with a lazy, flimsy substitute
for the noblest of all virtues. There is
a man at large, at the moment when
this paper is preparing for the press (on
the 29th of April, 1850), and never once
taken up yet, who, within these twelve-
months, has been probably the most
audacious and the most successful
swindler that even this trade has ever
332
THE BEGGING-LETTER WRITER.
known. There has been something
singularly base in this fellow’s proceed-
ings : it has been his business to write
to all sorts and conditions of people, in
the names of persons of high reputation
and unblemished honor, professing to
be in distress, — the general admiration
and respect for whom has insured a
ready and generous reply.
Now, in the hope that the results of
the real experience of a real person may
do something more to induce reflection
on this subject than any abstract treatise,
— and with a personal knowledge of
the extent to which the Begging-Letter
Trade has been carried on for some
time and has been for some time con-
stantly increasing, — the writer of this
paper entreats the attention of his read-
ers to a few concluding words. His ex-
perience is a type of the experience of
many ; some on a smaller, some on an
infinitely larger scale. All may judge
of the soundness or unsoundness of his
conclusions from it.
Long doubtful of the efficacy of such
assistance in any case whatever, and
able to recall but one, within his whole
individual knowledge, in which he had
the least after-reason to suppose that
any good was done by it, he was led,
last autumn, into some serious consider-
ations. The begging letters, flying about
by every post, made it perfectly mani-
fest, that a set of lazy vagabonds were
interposed between the general desire
to do something to relieve the sickness
and misery under which the poor were
suffering, and the suffering poor them-
selves. That many, w’ho sought to do
some little to repair the social wrongs,
inflicted in the way of preventable sick-
ness and death upon the poor, w ; ere
strengthening those wrongs, however
innocently, by wasting money on pesti-
lent knaves cumbering society. That
imagination, — soberly following one of
these knaves into his life of punishment
in jail, and comparing it with the life of
one of these poor in a cholera-stricken
alley, or one of the children of one of
these poor, soothed in its dying hour
by the late lamented Mr. Drouet, —
contemplated a grim farce, impossible
to be presented very much longer before
God or man. That the crowning mira-
cle of all the miracles summed up in
the New Testament, after the miracle
of the blind seeing, and the lame walk-
ing, and the restoration of the dead to
life, was the miracle that the po«r had
the Gospel preached to them. That
W'hiie the poor w r ere unnaturally and
unnecessarily cut off by the thousand,
in the prematurity of their age, or in
the rottenness of their youth, — for of
flower or blossom such youth has none,
— the Gospel w'as not preached to
them, saving in hollow and unmeaning
voices. That of all wrongs, this was
the first mighty wrong the Pestilence
warned us to set right. And that no
Post-Office Order to any amount, given
to a Begging- Letter Writer for the
quieting of an uneasy breast w r ould be
presentable on the Last Great Day as
anything towards it.
The poor never write these letters.
Nothing could be more unlike their
habits. The w'riters are public robbers ;
and we who support them are parties
to their depredations. They trade up-
on every circumstance within their
knowledge that affects us, public or
private, joyful or sorrowful ; they per-
vert the lessons of our lives ; they
change what ought to be our strength
and virtue into weakness and encour-
agement of vice. There is a plain
remedy, and it is in our own hands.
We must resolve, at any sacrifice of
feeling, to be deaf to such appeals,
and crush the trade.
There are degrees in murder. Life
must be held sacred among us in more
ways than one, — sacred, not merely
from the murderous weapon, or the
subtle poison, or the cruel blow, but
sacred from preventable diseases, dis-
tortions, and pains. That is the first
great end w'e have to set against this
miserable imposition. Physical life re-
spected, moral life comes next. What
will not content a Begging- Letter
Writer for a w'eek w r ould educate a
score of children for a year. Let us
give all we can ; let us give more than
ever. Let us do all we can ; let us do
more than ever. But let us give, and
do, with a high purpose ; not to endow
the scum of the earth, to its ctwn greater
corruption, with the offals of our duty.
A CHILD'S DREAM OF A STAR.
333
A CHILD'S DREAM OF A STAR.
There was once a child, and he
strolled about a good deal, and thought
of a number of things. He had a sister,
who was a child too, and his constant
companion. These two used to wonder
all day long. They wondered at the
beauty of the flowers; they wondered
at the height and blueness of the sky ;
they wondered at the depth of the bright
water ; they wondered at the goodness
and the power of God who made the
lovely world.
They used to say to one another,
sometimes, Supposing all the children
upon earth were to die, would the
flowers and the water and the sky be
sorry? They believed they would be
sorry. For, said they, the buds are the.
children of the flowers, and the little
playful streams that gambol down the
hillsides are the children of the water ;
and the smallest bright specks playing
at hide-and-seek in the sky all night
must surely be the children of the stars ;
and they would all be grieved to see
their playmates, the children of men,
no more.
There was one clear shining star that
used to come out in the sky before the
rest, near the church-spire, above the
graves. It was larger and more beauti-
ful, they thought, than all the others ;
and every night they watched for it,
standing hand-in-hand at a window.
Whoever saw it first, cried out, “ I see
the star ! ” And often they cried out
both together, knowing so well when it
would rise, and where. So they grew to
be such friends with it, that, before lying
down in their beds, they always looked
out once again to bid it good night ;
and when they were turning round to
sleep, they used to say, “ God bless the
star ! ”
But while she was still very young, O
very, very young, the sister drooped, and
came to be so weak that she could no
longer stand in the window at night ;
and then the child looked sadly out by
himself, and when he saw the star,
turned round and said to the patient
pale face on the bed, “ I see the star ! ”
and then a smile would come upon
the face, and a little weak voice used
to say, “ God bless my brother and the
star ! ”
And so the time came, all too soon !
when the child looked out alone, and,
when there was no face on the bed ;
and when there was a little grave among;
the graves, not there before ; and when;
the star made long rays down towards
him, as he saw it through his tears.
Now, these rays were so bright, and'
they seemed to make such a shining
way from earth to heaven, that when
the child went to his solitary bed, he
dreamed about the star ; and dreamed
that, lying where he was, he saw a train
of people taken up that sparkling road
by angels. And the star, opening,
showed him a great world of light,
where many more such angels waited
to receive them.
All these angels, who were waiting,
turned their beaming eyes upon thq
people who were carried up into the
star ; and some came out from the long
rows in which they stood, and fell upon
the people’s necks, and kissed them
tenderly, and went away with them
down avenues of light, and were so
happy in their company, that, lying in
his bed, he wept for joy.
But there were many angels who did
not go with them, and among them one
he knew. The patient face that once
had lain upon the bed was glorified and
radiant, but his heart found out his sis-
ter among all the host.
His sister’s angel lingered near the
entrance of the star, and said to the
leader among those who had brought
the people thither, —
“ Is my brother come ? ”
And he said, “No.”
334
A CHILD'S DREAM OF A STAR.
She was turning hopefully away when
the child stretched out his arms, and
cried, “ O sister, I am here ! Take
me ! ” and then she turned her beaming
eyes upon him, and it was night ; and
the star was shining into the room, mak-
ing long rays down towards him as he
saw it through his tears.
From that hour forth, the child looked
out upon the star as on the home he
was to go to, when his time should
come ; and he thought that he did not
belong to the earth alone, but to the
star too, because of his sister’s angel
gone before.
There was a baby born to be a broth-
er to the child ; and while he was so lit-
tle that he never yet had spoken word,
he stretched his tiny form out on his
bed, and died.
Again the child dreamed of the opened
star, and of the company of angels, and
the train of people, and the rows of an-
gels with their beaming eyes all turned
upon those people’s faces.
Said his sister’s angel to the lead-
er, —
“ Is my brother come ? ”
And he said, “Not that one, but an-
other.”
As the child beheld his brother’s an-
gel in her arms, he cried, “O sister, I
am here ! Take me ! ” And she turned
and smiled upon him, and the star was
shining.
He grew to be a young man, and was
busy at his. books when an old servant
came to him and said, —
“ Thy mother is no more. I bring
her blessing on her darling son ! ”
Again at night he saw the star, and
all that former company. Said his sis-
ter’s angel to the leader, —
“ Is my brother come? ”
And he said, “ Thy mother ! ”
A mighty cry of joy went forth through
all the star, because the mother was
reunited to her two children. And he
stretched out his arms and cried, “O
mother, sister, and brother, I am here !
Take me ! ” And they answered him,
“ Not yet,” and the star was shining.
He grew to be a man, whose hair was
turning gray, and he was sitting in his
chair by the fireside, heavy with grief,
and with his face bedewed with tears,
when the star opened once again.
Said his sister’s angel to the leader,
“ Is my brother come ? ”
And he said, “Nay, but his maiden
daughter.”
And the man who had been the child
saw his daughter, newly lost to him,
a celestial creature among those three,
and he said, “ My daughter’s head is on
my sister’s bosom, and her arm is round
my mother’s neck, and at her feet there
is the baby of old time, and I can bear
the parting from her, God be praised ! ”
And the star was shining.
Thus the child came to be an old
man, and his once smooth face was
wrinkled, and his steps were slow and
feeble, and his back was bent. And
one night as he lay upon his bed, his
children standing round, he cried, as he
had cried so long ago, —
“ I see the star ! ”
They whispered one another, “He is
dying.”
And he said, “ I am. My age is fall-
ing from me like a garment, and I move
towards the star as a child. And O my
Father, now I thank the^ that it has so
often opened to receive those dear ones
who await me ! ”
And the star was shining ; and it
shines upon his grave.
OUR ENGLISH WATERING-PLACE.
335
OUR ENGLISH WATERING-PLACE.
In the autumn-time of the year,
when the great metropolis is so much
hotter, so much noisier, so much more
dusty or so much more water-carted,
so much more crowded, so much
more disturbing and distracting in all
respects, than it usually is, a quiet sea-
beach becomes indeed a blessed spot.
Half awake and half asleep, this idle
morning in our sunny window on the
edge of a chalk cliff in the old-fash-
ioned w'atering-place to which we are
a faithful resorter, we feel a lazy incli-
nation to sketch its picture.
The place seems to respond. Sky,
sea, beach, and village lie as still be-
fore us as if they were sitting for the
picture. It is dead low-water. A rip-
ple plays among the ripening corn upon
the cliff, as if it were faintly trying from
recollection to imitate the sea ; and the
world of butterflies hovering over the
crop of radish-seed are as restless in
their little way as the gulls are in their
larger manner when the wind blows.
But the ocean lies winking in the sun-
light like a drowsy lion, — its glassy
waters scarcely curve upon the shore,
— the fishing-boats in the tiny harbor
are all stranded in the mud, — our two
colliers (our watering-place has a mari-
time trade employing that amount of
shipping) have not an inch of water
within a quarter of a mile of them, and
turn, exhausted, on their sides, like
faint fish of an antediluvian species.
Rusty cables and chains, ropes and
rings, undermost parts of posts and
piles and confused timber defences
against the waves, lie strewn about, in
a brown litter of tangled sea-weed and
fallen cliff, which looks as if a family of
giants had been making tea here for
ages, and had observed an untidy cus-
tom of throwing their tea-leaves on the
shore.
In truth our watering-place itself has
been left somewhat high and dry by the
tide of years. Concerned as we are for
its honor, we must reluctantly admit
that the time when this pretty little
semicircular sweep of houses, tapering
off at the end of the wooden pier into
a point in the sea, was a gay place, and
when the light-house overlooking it
shone at daybreak on company dispers-
ing from public balls, is but dimly tra-
ditional now. There is a bleak cham-
ber in our watering-place which is yet
called the Assembly “ Rooms,” and
understood to be available on hire for
balls or concerts ; and, some few sea-
sons since, an ancient little gentleman
came down and stayed at the hotel,
who said he had danced there, in by-
gone ages, with the Honorable Miss
Peepy, well known to have been the
Beauty of her day and the cruel occa-
sion of innumerable duels. But he was
so old and shrivelled, and so very rheu-
matic in the legs, that it demanded
more imagination than our watering-
lace can usually muster, to believe
im ; therefore, except the master of
the “ Rooms ” (who to this hour wears
knee-breeches, and who confirmed the
statement with tears in his eyes), no-
body did believe in the little lame old
gentleman, or even in the Honorable
Miss Peepy, long deceased.
As to subscription balls in the As-
sembly Rooms of our watering-place
now, red-hot cannon-balls are less im-
probable. Sometimes a misguided
wanderer of a Ventriloquist, or an In-
fant Phenomenon, or a Juggler, or
somebody with an Orrery that is sev-
eral stars behind the time, takes the
place for a night, and issues bills with
the name of his last town lined out, and
the name of ours ignominiously written
in, but you may be sure this never hap-
pens twice to the same unfortunate
person. On such occasions the dis-
colored old billiard table that is sel-
dom played at (unless the ghost of the
336
OUR ENGLISH IV A TE RING-PLACE.
Honorable Miss Peepy plays at pool
with other ghosts) is pushed into a cor-
ner, and benches are solemnly consti-
tuted into front seats, back seats, and re-
served seats, — which are much the same
after you have paid, — and a few dull
candles are lighted, — wind permitting,
— and the performer and the scanty au-
dience play out a short match which
shall make the other most low-spirited,
— which is usually a drawn game.
After that, the performer instantly de-
parts with maledictory expressions, and
is never heard of more.
But the most wonderful feature of
our Assembly Rooms is, that an an-
nual sale of “ Fancy and other China ”
is announced here with mysterious con-
stancy and perseverance. Where the
china comes from, where it goes to,
why it is annually put up to auction
when nobody ever thinks of bidding for
it, how it comes to pass that it is always
the same china, whether it would not
have been cheaper, with the sea at
hand, to have thrown it away, say in
eighteen hundred and thirty, are stand-
ing enigmas. Every year the bills
come out, every year the master of the
Rooms gets into a little pulpit on a
table, and offers it for sale, every year
nobody buys it, every year it is put
away somewhere until next year, when
it appears again as if the whole thing
were a new idea. We have a faint re-
membrance of an unearthly collection
of clocks, purporting to be the work of
Parisian and Genevese artists, — chiefly
bilious - faced clocks, supported on
sickly white crutches, with their pen-
dulums dangling like lame legs, — to
which a similar course of events oc-
curred for several years, until they
seemed to lapse away, of mere imbe-
cility.
Attached to our Assembly Rooms is
a library. There is a wheel of fortune
in it, but it is rusty and dust}', and never
turns. A large doll with movable
eyes was put up to be raffled for, by
five-and-twenty members at two shil-
lings, seven years ago this autumn, and
the list is not full yet. We are rather
sanguine, now, that the raffle will come
off next year. We think so, because
we only want nine members, and should
only want eight, but for number two
having grown up since her name was
entered, and withdrawn it when she was
married. Down the street, there is a
toy-ship of considerable burden, in the
same condition. Two of the boys who
were entered for that raffle have gone to
India in real ships since ; and one was
shot, and died in the arms of his sis-
ter’s lover, by whom he sent his last
words home.
This is the library for the Minerva
Press. If you want that kind of read-
ing, come to our watering-place. The
leaves of the romances, reduced to a
condition very like curl paper, are
thickly studded with notes in pencil,
sometimes complimentary, sometimes
jocose. Some of these commentators,
like commentators in a more extensive
way, quarrel with one another. One
young gentleman who sarcastically
writes “ O ! ! ! ” after every sentimental
passage, is pursued through his literary
career by another, who writes “ Insulting
Beast ! ” Miss Julia Mills has read the
whole collection of these books. She
has left marginal notes on the pages, as
“Is not this truly touching? J. M.”
“ How thrilling ! J. M.” “ Entranced
here by the Magician’s potent spell. J.
M.” She has also italicized her favorite
traits in the description of the hero, as
“ his hair, which was dark and wavy ,
clustered in rich profusion around a
marble brow , whose lofty paleness be-
spoke the intellect within.” It reminds
her of another hero. She adds, “How
like B. L. ! Can this be mere coinci-
dence? J. M.”
You would hardly guess which is the
main street of our watering-place, but
you may know it by its being always
stopped up with donkey-chaises. When-
ever you come here, and see harnessed
donkeys eating clover out of barrows
drawn completely across a narrow
thoroughfare, you may be quite sure
you are in our High Street. Our po-
lice you may know by his uniform, like-
wise by his never on any account inter-
fering with anybody, — especially the
tramps and vagabonds. In our fancy
shops we have a capital collection of
damaged goods, among which the flies
of countless summers “have been roam-
OUR ENGLISH WATERING-PLACE.
337
mg.” We are great in obsolete seals,
and in faded pincushions, and in rickety
camp-stools, and in exploded cutler)',
and in miniature vessels, and in stunted
little telescopes, and in objects made of
shells that pretend not to be shells.
Diminutive spades, barrows, and bas-
kets are our principal articles of com-
merce ; but even they don’t look quite
new somehow. They always seem to
have been offered and refused some-
where else, before they came down to
our watering-place.
Yet, it must not be supposed that our
watering-place is. an empty place, de-
serted by all visitors except a few
stanch persons of approved fidelity.
On the contrary, the chances are that if
you came down here in August or Sep-
tember, you would n’t find a house to
lay your head in. As to finding either
house or lodging of which you could re-
duce the terms, you could scarcely en-
gage in a more hopeless pursuit. For
all this,, you are to observe that every
season is the worst season ever known,
and that the householding population of
our watering-place are ruined regularly
every autumn. They are like the farm-
ers, in regard that it is surprising how
much ruin they will bear. We have an
excellent hotel, — capital baths, warm,
cold, and shower, — first-rate bathing-
machines, — and as good butchers, ba-
kers, and grocers, as heart, could desire.
They all do business, it is to be pre-
sumed, from motives of philanthropy,
— but it is quite certain that they are
all being ruined. Their interest in stran-
gers, and their politeness under ruin, be-
speak their amiable nature. You would
say so, if you only saw the baker help*-
ing a new-comer to find suitable apart-
ments.
So far from being at a discount as to
company, we are jn fact what would be
opularly called rather a nobby place,
ome tip-top “ Nobbs” come down oc-
casionally, — - even Dukes and Duch-
esses. We have known such carriages
to blaze among the donkey-chaises as
made beholders wink. Attendant on
these equipages come resplendent crea-
tures in plush and powder, who are sure
to be stricken disgusted with the indif-
ferent accommodation of our watering-
place, and who, of an evening (particu-
larly when it rains) may be seen very
much out of drawing, in rooms far too
small for their fine figures, looking dis-
contentedly out of little back windows
into by-streets. The lords and ladies
get on well enough and quite good-hu-
moredly ; but if you want to see the
gorgeous phenomena who wait upon
them at a perfect non-plus, you should
come and look at the resplendent crea-
tures with little back parlors for ser-
vants’ halls, and turn-up bedsteads to
sleep in, at our watering-place. You
have no idea how they take it to heart.
We have a pier, — a queer old wood-
en pier, fortunately without the slightest
pretensions to architecture, and very
picturesque in consequence. Boats are
hauled up upon it, ropes are coiled all
over it ; lobster-pots, nets, masts, oars,
spars, sails, ballast, and rickety cap-
stans make a perfect labyrinth of it.
Forever hovering about this pier, with
their hands in their pockets, or leaning
over the rough bulwark it opposes to
the sea, gazing through telescopes which
they carry about in the same profound
receptacles, are the boatmen of our wa-
tering-place. Lookingatthem, you would
say that surely these must be the laziest
boatmen in the world. They lounge
about, in obstinate and inflexible panta-
loons that are apparently made of wood,
the whole season through. Whether
talking together about the shipping in
the Channel, or gruffly unbending over
mugs of beer at the public-house, you
would consider them the slowest of men.
The chances are a thousand to one that
you might stay here for ten seasons,
and never see a boatman in a hurry.
A certain expression about his loose
hands, when they are not in his pock-
ets, as if he were carrying a considera-
ble lump of iron in each, without any
inconvenience, suggests strength, but
he never seems to use it. He has the
appearance of . perpetually strolling —
running is too inappropriate a word to
be thought of — to seed. The only
subject on which he seems to feel any
approach to enthusiasm is pitch. He
pitches everything he can lay hold of,
— the pier, the palings, his boat, his
house, — when there is nothing else left,
22
338
OUR ENGLISH WATERING-PLACE .
he turns to and even pitches his hat, or
his rough-weather clothing. Do not
judge him by deceitful appearances.
These are among the bravest and most
skilful mariners that exist. Let a gale
arise and swell into a storm, let a sea
run that might appall the stoutest heart
that ever beat, let the Light-boat on
these dangerous sands throw up a rock-
et in the night, or let them hear through
the angry roar the signal-guns of a ship
in distress, and these men spring up in-
to activity so dauntless, so valiant and
heroic, that the world cannot surpass it.
Cavillers may object that they chiefly
live upon the salvage of valuable car-
goes. So they do, and God knows it is
no great living that they get out of the
deadly risks they run. But put that
hope of gain aside. Let these rough
fellows be asked, in any storm, who
volunteers for the life-boat to save some
perishing souls, as poor and empty-
handed as themselves, whose lives the
perfection of human reason does not
rate at the value of a farthing each ; and
that boat will be manned, as surely and
as cheerfully as if a thousand pounds
were told down on the weather-beaten
pier. For this, and for the recollection
of their comrades whom we have
known, whom the raging sea has en-
gulfed before their children’s eyes in
such brave efforts, whom the secret
sand has buried, we hold the boatmen
of our watering-place in our love and
honor, and are tender of the fame they
well deserve.
So many children are brought down
to our watering-place, that, when they
are not out of doors, as they usually are
in fine weather, it is wonderful where
they are put, — the whole village seem-
ing much too small to hold them under
cover. In the afternoons, you see no
end of salt and sandy little boots drying
on upper window-sills. At bathing-
time in the morning, the little bay re-
echoes with every shrill variety of
shriek and splash, — after which, if the
weather be at all fresh, the sands teem
with small blup mottled legs. The
sands are the children’s great resort.
They fluster there, like ants, so busy
burying their particular friends, and
makipg castles with infinite labor which
the next tide overthrows, that it is curi-
ous to consider how their play, to the
music of the sea, foreshadows the reali-
ties of their after lives.
It is curious, too, to observe a natural
ease of approach that there seems to be
between the children and the boatmen.
They mutually make acquaintance, and
take individual likings, without any help.
You will come upon one of those slow
heavy fellows sitting down patiently
mending a little ship for a mite of a
boy, whom he could crush to death by
throwing his lightest pair of trousers
on him. You will be sensible of the
oddest contrast between the smooth lit-
tle creature and the rough man who
seems to be carved out of hard-grained
wood, — between the delicate hand, ex-
pectantly held out, and the immense
thumb and finger that can hardly feel
the rigging of thread they mend, — be-
tween the small voice and the gruff
growl, — and yet there is a natural pro-
priety in the companionship, always to
be noted in confidence between a child
and a person who has any merit of reali-
ty and genuineness, which is admirably
pleasant.
We have a preventive station at our
watering-place, and much the same
thing may be observed — in a lesser
degree, because of their official charac-
ter — of the coast blockade ; a steady,
trusty, well-conditioned, well-conducted
set of men, with no misgiving about look-
ing you full in the face, and with a quiet
thoroughgoing way of passing along to
their duty at night, carrying huge sou’-
wester clothing in reserve, that is fraught
with all good prepossession. They are
handy fellows, — neat about their houses,
— industrious at gardening, — would get
on with their wives, one thinks, in a des-
ert island, — and people it, too, soon.
As to the naval officer of the station,
with his hearty fresh face, and his blue
eye that has pierced all kinds of weath-
er, it warms our hearts when he comes
into church on a Sunday, with that
bright mixture of blue coat, buff waist-
coat, black neckerchief, and gold epau-
lette, that is associated in the minds
of all Englishmen with brave, unpre-
tending, cordial, national service. We
like to look at him in his Sunday
OUR ENGLISH WATERING-PLACE .
339
state; and if we were First Lord
(really possessing the indispensable
qualification for the office of knowing
nothing whatever about the sea), we
would give him a ship to-morrow.
We have a church, by the by, of
course, — a hideous temple of flint, like
a petrified haystack. Our chief clerical
dignitary, who, to his honor, has done
much for education both in time and
money, and has established excellent
schools, is a sound, shrewd, healthy
gentleman, who has t*ot into little oc-
casional difficulties with the neighbor-
ing farmers, but has had a pestilent
trick of being right. Under a new
regulation, he has yielded the church
of our watering-place to another cler-
gyman. Upon the whole, we get on
in church well. We are a little bil-
ious sometimes, about these days of
fraternization, and about nations arriv-
ing at a new and more unprejudiced
knowledge of each other (which our
Christianity don’t quite approve), but
it soon goes off, and then we get on
very well.
There are two dissenting chapels, be-
sides, in our small watering-place ; be-
ing in about the proportion of a hundred
and twenty guns to a yacht. But the
dissension that has torn us lately has
not been a religious one. It has arisen
on the novel question of Gas. Our wa-
tering-place has been convulsed by the
agitation, Gas or No Gas. It was nev-
er reasoned why No Gas, but there was
a great No Gas party. Broadsides were
printed and stuck about, — a startling cir-
cumstance in our watering-place. The
No Gas party rested content with chalk-
ing, “No Gas!” and “Down with
Gas ! ” and other such angry war-
whoops, on the few back gates and
scraps of wall which the limits of our
watering-place afford ; but the Gas par-
ty printed and posted bills, wherein
they took the high ground of pro-
claiming against the No Gas party,
that it was said. Let there be light and
there was light ; and that not to have
light (that is gas-light) in our water-
ing-place was to contravene the great
decree. Whether by these thunder-
bolts or not, the No Gas party were
defeated ; and in this present season
we have had our handful of shops il-
luminated for the first time. Such of
the No Gas party, however, as have
got shops, remain in opposition and
burn tallow, — exhibiting in their win-
dows the very picture of the sulkiness
that punishes itself, and a new illus-
tration of the old adage about cutting
off your nose to be revenged on your
face, in cutting off their gas to be re-
venged on their business.
Other population than we have in-
dicated, our watering-place has none.
There are a few old used-up boatmen
who creep about in the sunlight with
the help of sticks, and there is a poor
imbecile shoemaker who wanders his
lonely life away among the rocks, as if
he were looking for his reason, — which
he will never find. Sojourners in neigh-
boring watering-places come occasional-
ly in flys to stare at us, and drive away
again as if they thought us very dull ;
Italian boys come, Punch comes, the
Fantoccini come, the Tumblers come,
the Ethiopians come ; Glee-singers
come at night, and hum and vibrate
(not always melodiously) under our
windows. But they all go soon, and
leave us to ourselves again. We
once had a travelling Circus and
WombwelPs Menagerie at the same
time. They both know better than
ever to try it again ; and the menage-
rie had nearly razed us from the face
of the earth in getting the elephant
away, — his caravan was so large, and
the watering-place so small. We have
a fine sea, wholesome for all people ;
profitable for the body, profitable for
the mind. The poet’s words are
sometimes on its awful lips: —
“ And the stately ships go on
To their haven under the hill ;
But O for the touch of a vanished hand,
And the sound of a voice that is still 1
“ Break, break, break,
At the foot of thy crags, O sea !
But the tender grace of a day that is dead
Will never come back to me.”
Yet it is not always so, for the speech
of the sea is various, and wants not
abundant resource of cheerfulness, hope,
and lusty encouragement. And since I
have been idling at the window' here,
the tide has risen. The boats are dan-
340
OUR FRENCH WATERING-PLACE.
cing on the bubbling water ; the colliers
are afloat again ; the white-bordered
waves rush in ; the children
“Dochasethe ebbingNeptune,anddo fly him
When he comes back” ;
the radiant sails are gliding past tha
shore, and shining on the far horizon ;
all the sea is sparkling, heaving, swell-
ing up with life and beauty, this bright
morning.
OUR FRENCH WATERING-PLACE.
Having earned, by many years of
fidelity, the right to be sometimes in-
constant to our English watering-place,
we have dallied for two or three seasons
with a French watering-place, once
solely known to us as a town with a
very long street, beginning with an
abattoir and ending with a steamboat,
which it seemed our fate to behold only
at daybreak on winter mornings, when
(in the days before continental rail-
roads), just sufficiently awake to know
that we were most uncomfortably asleep,
it was our destiny always to clatter
through it, in the coupe of the diligence
from Paris, with a sea of mud behind
us, and a sea of tumbling waves before.
In relation to which latter monster, our
mind’s eye now recalls a worthy French-
man in a seal-skin cap with a braided
hood over it, once our travelling com-
panion in the coupe aforesaid, who,
waking up with a pale and crumpled
visage, and looking ruefully out at the
grim row of breakers enjoying them-
selves fanatically on an instrument of
torture called “the Bar,” inquired of
us whether we were ever sick at sea?
Both to prepare his mind for the abject
creature we were presently to become,
and also to afford him consolation, we
replied, “ Sir, your servant is always
sick when it is possible to be so.” He
returned, altogether uncheered by the
bright example, “Ah, Heaven, but I
am always sick, even when it is impos-
sible to be so.”
The means of communication be-
tween the French capital and our
French watering-place are wholly
changed since those days ; but the
Channel remains unbridged as yet, and
the old floundering and knocking about
go on there. It must be confessed that,
saving in reasonable (and therefore
rare) sea-weather, the act of arrival at
our French watering-place from Eng-
land is difficult to be achieved with dig-
nity. Several little circumstances com-
bine to render the visitor an object of
humiliation. In the first place, the
steamer no sooner touches the port
than all the passengers fall into captivi-
ty ; being boarded by an overpowering
force of custom-houge officers, and
marched into a gloomy dungeon. In
the second place, the road to this dun-
geon is fenced off with ropes breast-
high, and outside those ropes all the
English in the place who have lately
been sea-sick and are now well, assem-
ble in their best clothes to enjoy the
degradation of their dilapidated fellow-
creatures. “ O, my gracious ! how ill
this one has been ! ” “ Here ’s a damp
one coming next ! ” Here ’s a pale
one ! ” “ Oh ! Ain ’t he green in the
face, this next one ! ” Even we ourself
(not deficient in natural dignity) have
a lively remembrance of staggering up
this detested lane one September day
in a gale of wind, when we were re-
ceived like an irresistible comic actor,
with a burst of laughter and applause,
occasioned by the extreme imbecility of
our legs.
We were coming to the third place.
In the third place the captives, being
shut up in the gloomy dungeon, a/e
strained, two or three at a time, into as
OUR FRENCH WA TE RING-PLACE.
34i
inner cell, to be examined 3s to pass-
ports ^and across the doorway of com-
munication stands a military creature
making a bar of his arm. Two ideas are
generallypresent to the British mind dur-
ing these ceremonies : first, that it js ne-
cessary to make for the cell with violent
struggles, as if it were a life-boat and the
dungeon a ship going down ; secondly,
that the military creature’s arm is a na-
tional affront, which the government at
home ought instantly to “take up.” The
British mind and body becoming heated
by these fantasies, delirious answers
are made to inquiries, and extravagant
actions performed. Thus, Johnson per-
sists in giving Johnson as his baptismal
name, and substituting for his ances-
tral designation the national “Dam!”
Neither can he by any means be
brought to recognize the distinction be-
tween a portmanteau -key and a pass-
port, but will obstinately persevere in
tendering the one when asked for the
other. This brings him to the fourth
place in a state of mere idiocy ; and
when he is, in the fourth place, cast out
at a little door into a howling wilder-
ness of touters, he becomes a lunatic
with wild eyes and floating hair until
rescued and soothed. If friendless and
unrescued, he is generally put into a
railway omnibus and taken to Paris.
But our French watering-place, when
it is once got into, is a very enjoyable
place. It has a varied and beautiful
country around it, aud many character-
istic and agreeable things within it.
To be sure, it might have fewer bad
smells and less decaying refuse, and it
might be better drained, and much
cleaner in many parts, and therefore
infinitely more healthy. Still, it is a
bright , airy, pleasant, cheerful town ;
and if you were to walk down either of
its three well-paved main streets, to-
wards five o’clock in the afternoon,
when delicate odors of cookery fill the
air, and its hotel windows (it is full of
hotels) give glimpses of long tables set
out for dinner, and made to look sump-
tuous by the aid of napkins folded fan-
wise, you would rightly judge it to be
an uncommonly good town to eat and
drink in.
We have an old walled town, rich in
cool public wells of water, on the top of
a hill within and above the present
business-town ; and if it were some
hundreds of miles farther from England,
instead of being, on a clear day, within
sight of the grass growing in the crev-
ices of the chalk-cliffs of Dover, you
would long ago have been bored to
death about that town. It is more pic-
turesque and quaint than half the inno-
cent places which tourists, following
their leader like sheep, have made im-
postors of. To say nothing of its houses
with grave courtyards, its queer by-cor-
ners, and its many-windowed streets,
white and quiet in the sunlight, there is
an ancient belfry in it that would have
been in all the annuals and albums,
going and gone, these hundred years, if
it had but been more expensive to get
at. Happily it has escaped so well, be-
ing only in our French watering-place,
that you may like it of your own accord
in a natural manner, without being re-
quired to go into convulsions about it.
We regard it as one of the later bless-
ings of our life, that Bilkins, the only
authority on Taste, never took any no-
tice, that we can find out, of our French
watering-place. Bilkins never wrote
about it, never pointed out anything to
be seen in it, never measured anything
in it, always left it alone. For which
relief, Heaven bless the town and the
memory of the immortal Bilkins like-
wise !
There is a charming walk, arched and
shaded by trees, on the old walls that
form the four sides of this High Town,
whence you get glimpses of the streets
below, and changing views of the other
town and of the river, and of the hills
and of the sea. It is made more agree-
able and peculiar by some of the solemn
houses that are rooted in the deep
streets below, bursting into a fresher
existence atop, and having doors and
windows, and even gardens, on these
ramparts. A child going in at the
courtyard gate of one of these houses,
climbing up the many stairs, and coming
out at the fourth-floor window, might
conceive himself another Jack, alight-
ing on enchanted ground from another
bean-stalk. It is a place wonderfully
populous in children, — English chil-
342
OUR FRENCH WA TE RING-PLACE.
dren, with governesses reading novels
as they walk down the shady lanes of
trees, or nursemaids interchanging gos-
sip on the seats ; French children with
their smiling bonnes in snow-white
caps, and themselves — if little boys —
in straw head-gear like beehives, work-
baskets and church hassocks. Three
years ago, there were three weazen old
men, one bearing a frayed red ribbon
in his threadbare button-hole, always to
be found walking together among these
children, before dinner-time. If they
walked for an appetite, they doubtless
lived en pension, — were contracted for,
— otherwise their poverty would have
made it a rash action. They were stoop-
ing, blear-eyed, dull old men, slipshod
and shabby, in long-skirted short-waist-
ed coats and meagre trousers, and yet
with a ghost of gentility hovering in
their company. They spoke little to
each other, and looked as if they might
have been politically discontented if
they had had vitality enough. Once,
we overheard red-ribbon feebly com-
plain to the other two that somebody,
or something, was “a Robber”; and
then they all three set their mouths so
that they would have ground their teeth
if they had had any. The ensuing win-
ter gathered red-ribbon unto the great
company of faded ribbons, and next
year the remaining two were there, —
getting themselves entangled with hoops
and dolls, — familiar mysteries to the
children, — probably in the eyes of most
of them, harmless creatures who had
never been like children, and whom
children could never be like. Another
winter came, and another old man went,
and so, this present year, the last of the
triumvirate left off walking, — it was no
good, now, — and sat by himself on a
little solitary bench, with the hoops and
the dolls as lively as ever all about
him.
In the Place d’Armes of this town a
little decayed market is held, which
seems to slip through the old gateway
like w-ater, and go rippling down the
hill, to mingle with the murmuring
market in the lower town, and get lost
in its movement and bustle. It is very
agreeable on an idle summer morning
to pursue this market-stream from the
hill-top. It begins dozingly and dully,
with a few sacks' of corn : starts.into a
surprising collection of boots and shoes ;
goes brawling down the hill in a diver-
sified channel of old cordage, old iron,
old crockery, old clothes civil and mili-
tary, old rags, new cotton goods, flaming
prints of saints, little looking-glasses,
and incalculable lengths of tape ; dives
into a backway, keeping out of sight for
a little while, as streams will, or only
sparkling for a moment in the shape of
a market drinking-shop, and suddenly
reappears behind the great church,
shooting itself into a bright confusion of
white-capped women and blue-bloused
men, poultry, vegetables, fruits, flow-
ers, pots, pans, praying-chairs, soldiers,
country butter, umbrellas and other
sun-shades, girl porters waiting to be
hired, with baskets at their backs,
and one weazen little' old man in a
cocked hat, wearing a cuirass of drink-
ing-glasses and carrying on his shoulder
a crimson temple fluttering with flags,
like a glorified pavior’s rammer without
the handle, who rings a little bell in all
parts of the scene, and cries his cooling
drink Hola, Hola, Ho-o-o ! in a shrill
cracked voice that ^bmehow makes it-
self heard, above all the chaffering and
vending hum. Early in the afternoon,
the whole course of the stream is dry.
The praying-chairs are put back in the
church, the umbrellas are folded up,
the unsold goods are carried away, the
stalls and stands disappear, the square
is swept, the hackney-coaches lounge
there to be hired, and on all the country
roads (if you walk about as much as we
do) you will see the peasant women,
always neatly and comfortably dressed,
riding home, with the pleasantest sad-
dle-furniture of clean milk-pails, bright
butter-kegs, and the like, on the jolliest
little donkeys in the world.
We have another market in our
French watering-place, — that is to
say, a few wooden hutches in the open
street, down by the Port, — devoted to
fish. Our fishing-boats are famous
everywhere ; and our fishing people,
though they love lively colors and taste
is neutral (see Bilkins), are among the
most picturesque people we ever en-
countered. They have not only a
OUR FRENCH WATERING-PLACE.
343
quarter of their own in the town itself,
but they occupy whole villages of their
own on the neighboring cliffs. Their
chu ches and chapels are their own ;
they consort with one another, they in-
termarry among themselves, their cus-
toms are their own, and their costume
is their own and never changes. As
soon as one of their boys can walk, he
is provided with a long bright red
nightcap ; and one of their men would
as soon think of going afloat without his
head, as without that indispensable
appendage to it. Then, they wear the
noblest boots, with the hugest tops, —
flapping and bulging over any how ;
above which they encase themselves in
such wonderful overalls and petticoat
trousers, made to all appearance of
tarry old sails, so additionally stiffened
with pitch and salt, that the wearers
have a walk of their own, and go strad-
dling and swinging about, among the
boats and barrels and nets and rigging,
a sight to see. Then, their younger
women, by dint of going down to the
sea barefoot, to fling their baskets into
the boats as they come in with the tide
and bespeak the first-fruits of the haul
with propitiatory promises to love and
marry that dear fisherman who shall
fill that basket like an Angel, have the
finest legs ever carved by Nature in the
brightest Mahogany, and they walk
like Juno. Their eyes, too, are so lus-
trous that their long gold ear-rings turn
dull beside those brilliant neighbors ;
and when they are dressed, what with
these beauties, and their fine fresh faces,
and their many petticoats, — striped pet-
ticoats, red petticoats, blue petticoats,
always clean and smart, and never
too long, — and their home-made stock-
ings, mulberry- colored, blue, brown,
purple, lilac, — which the older wo-
men, taking care of the Dutch-looking
children, sit in all sorts of places knit-
ting, knitting, knitting, from morning
to night, — and what with their little
saucy bright blue jackets, knitted too,
and fitting close to their handsome fig-
ures ; and what with the natural grace
with which they wear the commonest
cap, or fold the commonest handker-
chief round their luxuriant hair, — we
say, in a word and out of breath, that tak-
ing all these premises into our considera-
tion, it has never been a matter of the
least surprise to us that we have never
once met, in the corn-fields, on the dus-
ty roads, by the breezy windmills, on the
plots of short sweet grass overhanging
the sea, — anywhere, — a young fisher-
man and fisherwoman of our French
watering-place together, but the arm of
that fisherman has invariably been, as a
matter of course and without any absurd
attempt to disguise so plain a necessity,
round the neck or waist of that fisher-
woman. And we have had no doubt
whatever, standing looking at their up-
hill streets, house rising above house,
and terrace above terrace, and bright
garments here and there lying sunning
on rough stone parapets, that the pleas-
ant mist on all such objects, caused by
their being seen through the brown
nets hung across on poles to dry, is, in
the eyes of every true young fisherman,
a mist of love and beauty, setting off
the goddess of his heart.
Moreover it is to be observed that
these are an industrious people, and a
domestic people, and an honest people.
And though we are aware that at the
bidding of Bilkins it is our duty to fall
down and worship the Neapolitans, we
make bold very much to prefer the fish-
ing people of our French watering-place,
— especially since our last visit to Na-
ples within these twelvemonths, when
we found only four conditions of men
remaining in the whole city, to wit,
lazzaroni, priests, spies, and soldiers,
and all of them beggars ; the paternal
government having banished all its sub-
jects except the rascals.
But we can never henceforth sep-
arate our French watering-place from
our own landlord of two summers, M.
Loyal Devasseur, citizen and town
councillor. Permit us to have the
pleasure of presenting M. Loyal Devas-
seur.
His own family name is simply Loy-
al ; but, as he is married, and as in
that part of France a husband always
adds to his own name the family name
of his wife, he writes himself Loyal
Devasseur. He owns a compact little
estate of some twenty or thirty acres on
a lofty hillside, and on it he has built
344
OUR FRENCH IV A TE RING-PLACE.
two country houses which he lets fur-
nished. They are by many degrees the
best houses that are so let near, our
French watering-place ; we have had
the honor of living in both, and can
testify. The entrance-hall of the first
we inhabited was ornamented with a
plan of the estate, representing it as
about twice the size of Ireland ; inso-
much that when we were yet new to the
Property (M. Loyal always speaks of it
as ‘‘la propriete ”) we went three miles
straight on end, in search of the bridge
of Austerlitz, — which we afterwards
found to be immediately outside the
window. The Chateau of the Old
Guard, in another part of the grounds,
and, according to the plan, about two
leagues from the little dining-room, we
sought in vain for a week, until, hap-
pening one evening to sit upon a bench
m the forest (forest in the plan), a few
yards from the house-door, we observed
at our feet, in the ignominious circum-
stances of being upside down and
greenly rotten, the Old Guard himself:
that is to say, the painted effigy of a
member of that distinguished corps,
seven feet high, and in the act of carry-
ing arms, who had had the misfortune to
be blown down in the previous winter.
It will be perceived that M. Loyal is
a stanch admirer of the great Napo-
leon. . He is an old soldier himself, —
captain of the National Guard, with a
handsome gold vase on his chimney-
piece, presented to him by his com-
pany, — and his respect for the memory
of the illustrious general is enthusiastic.
Medallions of him, portraits of him,
busts of him, pictures of him, are thickly
sprinkled all over the Property. Dur-
ing the first month of our occupation,
it was our affliction to be constantly
knocking down Napoleon : if we touched
a shelf in sL dark corner, he toppled over
with a crash ; and every door we opened
shook him to the soul. Yet M. Loyal
is not a man of mere castles in the air,
or, as he would say, in Spain. He has
a specially practical, contriving, clever,
skilful eye and hand. His houses are
delightful. He unites French elegance
and English comfort, in a happy man-
ner quite his own. He has an extraor-
dinary genius for making tasteful little
bedrooms in angles of his roofs, which
an Englishman would as soon think of
turning to any account as he would
think of cultivating the Desert. We
have ourself reposed deliciously in an
elegant chamber of M. Loyal’s con-
struction, with our head as nearly in
the kitchen chimney-pot as we can con-
ceive it likely for the head of any gen-
tleman, not by profession a sweep, to
be. And, into whatsoever strange nook
M. Loyal’s genius penetrates, it, in that
nook, infallibly constructs a cupboard
and a row of pegs. In either of our
houses, we could have put away the
knapsacks and hung up the hats of the
whole regiment of Guides.
Aforetime, M. Loyal was a tradesman
in the town. You can transact business
with no present tradesman in the town,
and give your card “ chez M. Loyal,”
but a brighter face shines upon you di-
rectly. We doubt if there is, ever was,
or ever will be a man so universally
pleasant in the minds of people as M.
Loyal is in the minds of the citizens of
our French watering-place. They rub
their hands and laugh when they speak
of him. Ah, but he is such a goo'd
child, such a brave boy, such a generous
spirit, that Monsieur Loyal ! It is the
honest truth. M. Loyal’s nature is the
nature of a gentleman. He cultivates
his ground with his own hands (assisted
by one little laborer, who falls into a fit
now and then) ; and he digs and delves
from mom to eve in prodigious perspi-
rations, — “ works always, ” as he says, —
but cover him with dust, mud, weeds,
water, any stains you will, you never can
cover the gentleman in M. Loyal. A
portly, upright, broad-shouldered, brown-
faced man, whose soldierly bearing gives
him the appearance of being taller than
he is, look into the bright eye of M.
Loyal, standing before you in his work-
ing blouse and cap, not particularly well
shaved, and, it may be, very earthy, and
you shall discern in M. Loyal a gentle-
man whose true politeness is in grain,
and confirmation of whose word by his
bond you would blush to think of. Not
without reason is M. Loyal when he
tells that story, in his own vivacious
way, of his travelling to Fulham, near
London, to buy all these hundreds and
OUR FRENCH WATERING-PLACE.
345
hundreds of trees you now see upon
the Property, then a bare, bleak hill ;
and of his sojourning in Fulham three
months ; and of his jovial evenings with
the market- gardeners ; and of the crown-
ing banquet before his departure, when
the market-gardeners rose as one man,
clinked their glasses all together (as the
custom at Fulham is), and cried, “ Vive
Loyal ! ”
M. Loyal has an agreeable wife, but
no family; and he loves to drill the
children of his tenants, or run races
with them, or do anything with them,
or for them, that is good-natured. He
is of a highly convivial temperament,
and his hospitality is unbounded. Bil-
let a soldier on him, and lie is de-
lighted. Five-and-thirty soldiers had
M. Loyal billeted on him this present
summer, and they all got fat and
red-faced in two days. It became a
legend among the troops that whoso-
ever got billeted on M. Loyal rolled in
clover ; and so it fell out that the fortu-
nate man who drew the billet “ M.
Loyal Devasseur ” always leaped into
the air, though in heavy marching order.
M. Loyal cannot bear to admit anything
that might seem by any implication
to disparage the military profession.
We hinted to him once, that we were
conscious of a remote doubt arising
in our mind, whether a sou a day for
pocket-money, tobacco, stockings, drink,
washing, and social pleasures in general,
left a very large margin for a soldier’s
enjoyment. Pardon ! said Monsieur
Loyal, rather wincing. It was not a
fortune, but — k la bonne heure — it was
better than it used to be ! What, we
asked him on another occasion, were all
those neighboring peasants, each living
with his family in one room, and each
having a soldier (perhaps two) billeted
on him every other night, required to
provide for those soldiers? “ Faith ! ”
said M. Loyal, reluctantly; “a bed,
monsieur, and fire to cook with, and a
candle. And they share their supper
with those soldiers. It is not possible
that they could eat alone.” “And
what allowance do they get for this?”
said we. Monsieur Loyal drew him-
self up taller, took a step back, laid
his hand upon his breast, and said, with
majesty, as speaking for himself and all
France, “ Monsieur, it is a contribution
to the state ! ”
It is never going to rain, according to
M. Loyal. When it is impossible to
deny that it is now raining in torrents,
he says it will be fine — charming —
magnificent — to-morrow. It is never
hot on the Property, he contends.
Likewise it is never cold. The flowers,
he says, come out, delighting to grow
there ; it is like Paradise this morning ;
it is like the Garden of Eden. He is a
little fanciful in his language : smilingly
observing of Madame Loyal, when she
is absent at vespers, that she is “gone
to her salvation,” — allee k son salut.
He has a great enjoyment of tobacco,
but nothing would induce him to con-
tinue smoking face to face with a lady.
His short black pipe immediately goes
into his breast-pocket, scorches his
blouse, and nearly sets him on fire. In
the Town Council and on occasions of
ceremony, he appears in a full suit of
black, with a waistcoat of magnificent
breadth across the chest, and a shirt-
collar of fabulous proportions. Good
M. Loyal ! Under blouse or waistcoat,
he carries one of the gentlest hearts
that beat in a nation teeming with gen-
tle people. He has had losses, and
has been at his best under them. Not
only the loss of his way by night in the
Fulham times, — when a bad subject of
an Englishman, under pretence of see-
ing him home, took him into all the
night public-houses, drank “ arfanarf”
in every one at his expense, and finally
fled, leaving him shipwrecked at Clee-
feeway, which we apprehend to be Rat-
cliffe Highway, — but heavier losses
than that. Long ago, a family of chil-
dren and a mother were left in one of
his houses, without money, a whole
year. M. Loyal — anything but as rich
as we wish he had been — had not the
heart to say, “You must go ” ; so they
stayed on and stayed on, and paying-
tenants who would have come in could
n’t come in, and at last they managed
to get helped home across the water,
and M. Loyal kissed the whole group,
and said, “ Adieu, my poor infants ! ”
and sat down in their deserted salon and
smoked his pipe of peace. — “ The rent.
346
OUR FRENCH WATERING-PLACE.
M. Loyal ? ” “ Eh ! well ! The rent ! ”
M. Loyal shakes his head. “ Le bon
Dieu,” says M. Loyal, presently, “will
recompense me ” ; and he laughs and
smokes his pipe of peace. May he
smoke it on the Property, and not be
recompensed, these fifty years !
There are public amusements in our
French watering-place, or it would not
be French. They are very popular,
and very cheap. The sea-bathing —
which may rank as the most favored
daylight entertainment, inasmuch as
the French visitors bathe all day long,
and seldom appear to think of remain-
ing less than an hour at a time in the
water — is astoundingly cheap. Omni-
buses convey you, if you please, from a
convenient part of the town to the beach
and back again ; you have a clean
and comfortable bathing-machine, dress,
linen, and ail appliances ; and the charge
for the whole is half-a-franc, or five-
pence. On the pier, there is usually
a guitar, which seems presumptuously
enough to set its tinkling against the
deep hoarseness of the sea, and there
is always some boy or woman who sings,
without any voice, little songs without
any tune : the strain we have most fre-
quently heard being an appeal to “ the
sportsman ” not to bag that choicest of
game, the swallow. For bathing pur-
poses, we have also a subscription es-
tablishment with an esplanade, where
people lounge about with telescopes,
and seem to get a good deal of weari-
ness for their money ; and we have also
an association of individual machine-
proprietors combined against this for-
midable rival. M. Feroce, our own
particular friend in the bathing line, is
one of these. How he ever came by
his name, we cannot imagine. He is
as gentle and polite a man as M. Loyal
Devasseur himself ; immensely stout
withal, and of a beaming aspect. M.
Feroce has saved so many people from
drowning, and has been decorated with
so many medals in consequence, that
his stoutness seems a special dispensa-
tion of Providence to enable him to
wear them ; if his girth were the girth
of an ordinary man, he could _ never
hang them on, all at once. It is only
on very great occasions that M. Feroce
displays his shining honors. At other
times they lie by, with rolls of manu-
script testifying to the causes of their
presentation, in a huge glass case in the
red-sofa’d salon of his private residence
on the beach, where M. Feroce also
keeps his family pictures, his portraits
of himself as he appears both in bath-
ing life and in private life, his little
boats that rock by clockwork, and his
other ornamental possessions.
Then, we have a commodious and
gay theatre, — or had, for it is burned
down now, — where the opera was al-
ways preceded by a vaudeville, in which
(as usual) everybody, down to the little
old man with the large hat and the
little cane and tassel, who always played
either my Uncle or my Papa, suddenly
broke out of the dialogue into the mild-
est vocal snatches, to the great per-
plexity of unaccustomed strangers from
Great Britain, who never could make
out when they were singing and when
they were talking, — and indeed it was
pretty much the same. But the ca-
terers in the way of entertainment to
whom we are most beholden are the
Society of Welldoing, who are active
all the summer, and give the proceeds
of their good works to the poor. Some
of the most agreeable fetes they con-
trive are announced as “Dedicated to
the children ” ; and the taste with which
they turn a small public enclosure into an
elegant garden beautifully illuminated,
and the thoroughgoing heartiness and
energy with which they personally di-
rect the childish pleasures, are su-
remely delightful. For fivepence a
ead, we have on these occasions don-
key-races with English “Jokeis,” and
other rustic sports ; lotteries for toys ;
roundabouts, dancing on the grass to
the music of an admirable band, fire-
balloons, and fireworks. F urther, al-
most every week all through the sum-
mer — never mind, now, on what day
of the week — there is a fete in some
adjoining village (called in that part
of the country a Ducasse), where the
people — really the people — dance on
the green turf in the open air, round a
little orchestra, that seems itself to
dance, there is such an airy motion of
flags and streamers all about it. And
OUR FRENCH WATERING-PLACE.
347
we do not suppose that between the
Torrid Zone and the North Pole there
are to be found male dancers with such
astonishingly loose legs, furnished with
so many joints in wrong places, utterly
unknown to Professor Owen, as those
who here disport themselves. Some-
times, the fete appertains to a particu-
lar trade ; you.will see among the cheer-
ful young women at the joint Ducasse
of the milliners and tailors, a whole-
some knowledge of the art of making
common and cheap things uncommon
and pretty, by good sense and good
taste, that is a practical lesson to any
rank of society in a whole island we
could mention. The oddest feature of
these agreeable scenes is the everlast-
ing Roundabout (we preserve an Eng-
lish word wherever we can, as we are
writing the English language), on the
wooden horses of which machine grown
up people of all ages are wound round
and round with the utmost solemnity,
while the proprietor’s wife grinds an
organ, capable of only one tune, in
the centre.
As to the boarding-houses of our
French watering-place, they are Legion,
and would require a distinct treatise.
It is not without a sentiment of nation-
al pride that we believe them to con-
tain more bores from the shores of
Albion than all the clubs in London.
As you walk timidly in their neighbor-
hood, the very neckcloths and hats of
your elderly compatriots cry to you
from the stones of the streets, “ We are
Bores, — avoid us!” We have never
overheard at street corners such lunatic
scraps of political and social discussion
as among these dear countrymen of
ours. They believe everything that
is impossible and nothing that is true.
They carry rumors, and ask questions,
and make corrections and improve-
ments on one another, staggering to
the human intellect. And they are for-
ever rushing into the English library,
propounding such incomprehensible
paradoxes to the fair mistress of that
establishment, that we beg to recom-
mend her to her Majesty’s gracious
consideration as a fit object for a pen-
sion.
The English form a considerable part
of the population of our French water-
ing-place, and are deservedly addressed
and respected in many ways. Some
of the surface addresses to them are
odd enough, as when a laundress puts
a placard outside her house announcing
her possession of that curious British
instrument, a “ Mingle ” ; or when a
tavern-keeper provides accommodation
for the celebrated English game of
“ Nokemdon.” But, to us, it is not
the least pleasant feature of our French
watering-place that a long and constant
fusion of the two great nations there
has taught each to like the other, and
to learn from the other and to rise
superior to the absurd prejudices that
have lingered among the weak and
ignorant in both countries equally.
Drumming and trumpeting of course
go on forever in our French watering-
place. Flag-flying is at a premium,
too ; but we cheerfully avow that we
consider a flag a very pretty object,
and that we take such outward signs
of innocent liveliness to our heart of
hearts. The people, in the town and
in the country, are a busy people who
work hard ; they are sober, temperate,
good-humored, light-hearted, and gen-
erally remarkable for their engaging
manners. Few just men, not immoder-
ately bilious, could see them in their
recreations without very much respect-
ing the character that is so easily, so
harmlessly, and so simply pleased.
348
BILL-STICKING.
BILL-STICKING.
If I had an enemy whom I hated, —
which Heaven forbid ! — and if I knew
of something that sat heavy on his
conscience, I think I would introduce
that something into a Posting- Bill, and
place a large impression in the hands of
an active sticker. I can scarcely im-
agine a more terrible revenge. I should
haunt him, by this means, night and
day. I do not mean to say that I would
publish his secret, in red letters two
feet high, for all the town to read : I
would darkly refer to it. It should be
between him, and me, and the Posting-
Bill. Say, for example, that, at a
certain period of his life, my_ enemy had
surreptitiously possessed himself of a
key. I w'ould then embark my capital
in the lock business, and conduct that
business on the advertising principle.
In all my placards and advertisements,
I would throw up the line Secret
Keys. Thus, if my enemy passed an
uninhabited house, he would see his
conscience glaring down on him from the
parapets, and peeping up at him from
the cellars. If he took a dead wall in
his walk, it would be alive with re-
proaches. If he sought refuge in an
omnibus, the panels thereof would
become Belshazzar’s palace to him.
If he took boat, in a wild endeavor to
escape, he would see the fatal w r ords
lurking under the arches of the bridges
over the Thames. If he walked the
streets with downcast eyes, he would
recoil from the very stones of the pave-
ment, made eloquent by lampblack
lithograph. If he drove or rode, his
way would be blocked up by enormous
vans, each proclaiming the same words
over and over again from its whole
extent of surface. Until, having grad-
ually grown thinner and paler, and hav-
ing at last totally rejected food, he
would miserably perish, and I should be
revenged. This conclusion I should,
no doubt, celebrate by laughing a
hoarse.laugh in three syllables, and fold-
ing my arms tight upon my chest agree-
ably to most of the examples of glutted
animosity that I have had an opportuni-
ty of observing in connection with the
drama, — which, by the by, as involv-
ing a good deal of noise, appears to me
to be occasionally confounded with the
drummer.
The foregoing reflections presented
themselves to my mind, the other day,
as I contemplated (being newly come
to London from the East Riding of
Yorkshire, on a house-hunting expedi-
tion for next May} an old warehouse
which rotting paste and rotting paper
had brought down to the condition of
an old cheese. It would have been im-
possible to say, on the most conscien-
tious survey, how much of its front was
brick and mortar, and how much de-
caying and decayed plaster. It was so
thickly encrusted with fragments of
bills, that no ship’s keel after a long
voyage could be half so foul. All traces
of the broken windows were billed out,
the doors were billed across, the water-
spout w'as billed over. The building
w r as shored up to prevent its tumbling
into the street ; and the very beams
erected against it were less wood than
paste and paper, they had been so con-
tinually posted and reposted. The for-
lorn dregs of old posters so encumbered
this wreck, that there was no hold for
new posters, and the stickers had aban-
doned the place in despair, except one
enterprising man who had hoisted the
last masquerade to a clear spot near the
level of the stack of chimneys, where it
waved and drooped like a shattered
flag. Below the rusty cellar grating,
crumpled remnants of old bills torn
down rotted away in wasting heaps of
fallen leaves. Here and there, some of
the thick rind of the house had peeled
off in strips, and fluttered heavily down,
littering the street; but still, below
BILL-STICKING.
349
these rents and gashes, layers of decom-
posing posters showed themselves, as if
they were interminable. I thought the
building could never even be pulled
down, but in one adhesive heap of rot-
tenness and poster. As to getting in,
I don’t believe that if the Sleeping
Beauty and her Court had been so billed
up, the young Prince could have done
it.
Knowing all the posters that were yet
legible intimately, and pondering on
their ubiquitous nature, I was led into
the reflections with which I began this
paper, by considering what an awful
thing it would be ever to have wronged
— say M. Jullien, for example — and
to have his avenging name in characters
of fire incessantly before my eyes. Or
to have injured Madame Tussaud,
and undergo a similar retribution. Has
any man a self-reproachful thought asr
sociated with pills or ointment? What
an avenging spirit to that man is Pro-
fessor Holloway ! Have I sinned
in oil? Cabburn pursues me. Have
I a dark remembrance associated with
any gentlemanly garments, bespoke or
ready made? Moses and Son are on
my track. Did I ever aim a blow at
a defenceless fellow-creature’s head ?
That head eternally being measured for
a wig, or that worse head which was
bald before it used the balsam, and hir-
sute afterwards, — enforcing the benev-
olent moral, “ Better to be bald as a
Dutch-cheese than come to this,” —
undoes me. Have I no sore places in
my mind which Mechi touches, which
Nicoll probes, which no registered
article whatever lacerates? Does no
discordant note within me thrill re-
sponsive to mysterious watchwords, as
“Revalenta Arabica,” or “Number
One St. Paul’s Churchyard/’? Then
may I enjoy life, and be happy.
Lifting up my eyes, as I was musing
to this effect, I beheld advancing to-
wards me (I was then on Cornhill near
to the Royal Exchange), a solemn pro-
cession of three advertising vans, of
first-class dimensions, each drawn by
a very little horse. As the cavalcade
approached, I was at a loss to reconcile
the careless deportment of the drivers
of these vehicles with the terrific an-
nouncements they conducted through
the city, which, being a summary of the
contents of a Sunday newspaper, were
of the most thrilling kind. Robbery,
fire, murder, and the ruin of the united
kingdom, — each discharged in a line by
itself, like a separate broadside of red-
hot shot, — were among the least of the
warnings addressed to an unthinking
people. Yet, the Ministers of Fate
who drove the awful cars leaned for-
ward with their arms upon their knees
in a state of extreme lassitude, for want
of any subject of interest. The first
man, whose hair I might naturally have
expected to see standing on end,
scratched his head — one of the smooth-
est I ever beheld — with profound in-
difference. The second whistled. The
third yawned.
Pausing to dwell upon this apathy, it
appeared to me, as the fatal cars came
by me, that I descried in the second
car, through the portal in which the
charioteer was seated, a figure stretched
upon the floor. At the same time, I
thought I smelt tobacco. The latter
impression passed quickly from me ;
the former remained. Curious to know
whether this prostrate figure was the one
impressible man of the whole capital
who had been stricken insensible by the
terrors revealed to him, and whose form
had been placed in the car by the char-
ioteer, from motives of humanity, I fol-
lowed the procession. It turned into
Leadenhall Market, and halted at 3
public-house. Each driver dismounted.
I then distinctly heard, proceeding from
the second car, where I had dimly seen
the prostrate form, the words, —
“ And a pipe ! ”
The driver entering the public-house
with his fellows, apparently for purposes
of refreshment, I could not refrain from
mounting on the shaft of the second
vehicle, and looking in at the portal.
I then beheld, reclining on his back
upon the floor, on a kind of mattress or
divan, a little man in a shooting-coat.
The exclamation “ Dear me ! ” which
irresistibly escaped my lips, caused him
to sit upright, and survey me. I found
him to be a good-looking little man of
about fifty, with a shining face, a tight
head, a bright eye, a moist wink, a quick
350
BILL-STICKING.
speech, and a ready air. He had some-
thing of a sporting way with him.
He looked at me, and I looked at
him, until the driver displaced me by
handing in a pint of beer, a pipe, and
what I understand is called “ a screw ”
of tobacco, — an object which has the
appearance of a curl-paper taken off
the barmaid’s head, with the curl in it.
“I beg your pardon,” said I, when
the removed person of the driver again
admitted of my presenting my face at
the portal. “ But — excuse my curios-
ity, which I inherit from my mother —
do you live here ? ”
“ That ’s good, too ! ” returned the
little man, composedly laying aside a
pipe he had smoked out, and filling the
pipe just brought to him.
“ O, you don't live here then?”
said I.
He shook his head, as he calmly
lighted his pipe by means of a German
tinder-box, and replied, “ This is my
carriage. When things are flat, I take
a ride sometimes, and enjoy myself. I
am the inventor of these wans.”
His pipe was now alight. He drank
his beer all at once, and he smoked and
he smiled at me.
“ It was a great idea ! ” said I.
“ Not so bad,” returned the little
man, with the modesty of merit.
“ Might I be permitted to inscribe
your name upon the tablets of my mem-
ory ? ” I asked.
“ There ’s not much odds in the
name,” returned the little man, “ — no
name particular — I am the King of the
Bill-Stickers.”
“ Good gracious ! ” said I.
The monarch informed me, with a
smile, that he had never been crowned
or installed with any public ceremonies,
but that he was peaceably acknowl-
edged as King of the Bill-Stickers in
right of being the oldest and most re-
spected member of “ the old school of
bill-sticking.” He likewise gave me to
understand that there was a Lord Mayor
of the Bill-Stickers, whose genius was
chiefly exercised within the limits of the
city. He made some allusion, also', to
an inferior potentate, called “Turkey-
legs ” ; but I did not understand that
this gentleman was invested with much
power. I rather inferred that he de-
rived his title from some peculiarity of
gait, and that it was of an honorary char-
acter.
“My father,” pursued the King of
the Bill-Stickers, “was Engineer, Bea-
dle, and Bill-Sticker to the parish of St.
Andrew’s, Holborn, in the year one
thousand seven hundred and eighty.
My father stuck bills at the time of the
riots of London.”
“You must be acquainted with the
whole subject of bill-sticking, from that
time to the present ! ” said I.
“ Pretty well so,” was the answer.
“Excuse me,” said I; “but I am a
sort of collector — ”
“Not income-tax?” cried his Maj-
esty, hastily removing his pipe from his
lips. *
“ No, no,” said I.
“ Water-rate?” said his Majesty.
“ No, no,” I returned.
“Gas? Assessed? Sewers?” sail
his Majesty.
“You misunderstand me,” I replied,
soothingly. “ Not that sort of collector
at all, — a collector of facts.”
“Oh! if it’s only facts,” cried the
King of the Bill-Stickers, recovering
his good-humor, and banishing the
great mistrust that had suddenly fallen
upon him, “ come in and welcome ! If
it had been income, or winders, I think
I should have pitched you out of the
wan, upon my soul ! ”
Readily complying with the invitation,
I squeezed myself in at the small aper-
ture. His Majesty, graciously handing
me a little three-legged stool on which
I took my seat in a corner, inquired if I
smoked.
“I do ; that is, I can,” I answered.
“ Pipe and a screw ! ” said his Maj-
esty to the attendant charioteer. “ Do
you prefer a dry smoke, or do you
moisten it? ”
As unmitigated tobacco produces
most disturbing effects upon my system
(indeed if I had perfect moral courage,
I doubt if I should smoke at all, under
any circumstances), I advocated mois-
ture, and begged the Sovereign of the
Bill-Stickers to name his usual liquor,
and to concede to me the privilege of
paying for it. After some delicate re-
BILL-STICKING.
3Si
luctance on his part, we were provided,
through the instrumentality of the at-
tendant charioteer, with a can of cold
rum and water, flavored with sugar and
lemon. We were also furnished with
a tumbler, and I was provided with a
pipe. His Majesty, then, . observing
that we might combine business with
conversation, gave the word for the car
to proceed ; and, to my great delight,
we jogged away at a foot pace.
I say to my great delight, because I
am very fond of novelty, and it was a
new sensation to be jolting through the
tumult of the city in that secluded
Temple, partly open to the sky, sur-
rounded by the roar without, and see-
ing nothing but the clouds. Occa-
sionally, blows from whips fell heavily
on the Temple’s walls, when by stop-
ping up the road longer than usual, we
irritated carters and coachmen to mad-
ness ; but they fell harmless upon us
within, and disturbed not the serenity
of our peaceful retreat. As I looked
upward, I felt, I should imagine, like
the Astronomer Royal. I was en-
chanted by the contrast between the
freezing nature of our external mission
on the blood of the populace, and the
perfect composure reigning within those
sacred precincts : where his Majesty,
reclining easily on his left arm, smoked
his pipe and drank his rum and water
from his own side of the tumbler, which
stood impartially between us. As I
looked down from the clouds and
caught his royal eye, he understood my
reflections. “I have an idea,” he ob-
served, with an upward glance, “ of
training scarlet-runners across in the
season, — making a arbor of it, — and
sometimes taking tea in the same ac-
cording to the song.”
I nodded approval.
“And here you repose and think?”
said I.
“And think,” said he, “of posters,
— walls, — and hoardings.”
We were both silent, contemplating
the vastness of the subject. I remem-
bered a surprising fancy of dear Thom-
as Hood’s, and wondered whether this
monarch ever sighed to repair to the
great wall of China, and stick bills all
over it.
“And so,” said he, rousing himself,
“ it 's facts as you collect ? ”
“ Facts,” said I.
“The facts of bill-sticking,” pursued
his Majesty, in a benignant manner,
“ as known to myself, air as following.
When my father was Engineer, Beadle,
and Bill-Sticker to the parish of St.
Andrew’s, Holborn, he employed wo-
men to post bills for him. He em-
ployed women to post bills at the time
of the riots of London. He died at the
age of seventy-five year, and was buried
by the murdered Eliza Grimwood, over
in the Waterloo-road.”
As this was somewhat in the nature
of a royal speech, I listened with def-
erence and silently. His Majesty,
taking a scroll from his pocket, pro-
ceeded, with great distinctness, to pour
out the following flood of informa-
tion : —
“ ‘ The bills being at that period
mostly proclamations and declarations,
and which were only a demy size, the
manner of posting the bills (as they did
not use brushes) was by means of a
piece of wood which they called a
“dabber.” Thus things continued till
such time as the State Lottery was
passed, and then the printers began to
print larger bills, and men were em-
ployed instead of women, as the State
Lottery Commissioners then began to
send men all over England to post bills,
and would keep them out for six or
eight months at a time, and they were
called by the London bill-stickers
“ tramfiers” their wages at the time
being ten shillings per day, besides
expenses. They used sometimes to
be stationed in large towns for five or
six months together, distributing the
schemes to all the houses in the town.
And then there were more caricature
wood-block engravings for posting-bills
than there are at the present time, the
principal printers, at that time, of post-
ing-bills being Messrs. Evans and
Ruffy, of Budge Row; Thoroughgood
and Whiting, of the present day ; and
Messrs. Gye and Balne, Gracechurch
Street, City. The largest bills printed
at that period were a two-sheet double
crown ; and when they commenced
printing four-sheet bills, two bill-stick-
352
BILL-STICKING.
ers would work together. They had no
settled wages per week, but had a fixed
price for their work, and the London
bill-stickers, during a lottery week,
have been known to earn, each eight or
nine pounds per week, till the day of
drawing ; likewise the men who earned
boards in the street used to have one
pound per week, and the bill-stickers at
that time would not allow any one to
wilfully cover or destroy their bills, as
they had a society amongst themselves,
and very frequently dined together at
some public-house where they used to
go of an evening to have their work de-
livered out untoe ’em.’ ”
All this his Majesty delivered in a
gallant manner; posting it, as it were,
before me, in a great proclamation. I
took advantage of the pause he now
made, to inquire what a “two-sheet
double crown” might express?
“ A two-sheet double crown,” replied
the King, “ is a bill thirty-nine inches
wide by thirty inches high.”
“ Is it possible,” said I, my mind
reverting to the gigantic admonitions
we were then displaying to the multi-
tude, — which were as infants to some
of the posting-bills on the rotten old
warehouse, — “ that some few years
ago the largest bill was no larger than
that ? ”
“The fact,” returned the King, “is
undoubtedly so.” Here he instantly
rushed again into the scroll.
“ ‘ Since the abolishing of the State
Lottery, all that good feeling has gone,
and nothing but jealousy exists, through
the rivalry of each other. Several bill-
sticking companies have started, but
have failed. The first party that started
a company was twelve year ago ; but
what was left of the old school and their
dependants joined together and opposed
them. And for some time we were
quiet again, till a printer of Hatton
Garden formed a company by hiring the
sides of houses ; but he was not sup-
ported by the public, and he left his
wooden frames fixed up for rent. The
last company that started, took advan-
tage of the New Police Act, and hired
of Messrs. Grisell and Peto the hoard-
ing of Trafalgar Square, and established
a bill-sticking office in Cursitor Street,
Chancery Lane, and engaged some of
the new bill-stickers to do their work,
and for a time got the half of all our
work, and with such spirit did they car-
ry on their opposition towards us, that
they used to give us in charge before
the magistrate, and get us fined ; but
they found it so expensive, that they
could not keep it up, for they were
always employing a lot of ruffians from
the Seven Dials to come and fight us ;
and on one occasion the old bill-stickers
went to Trafalgar Square to attempt to
post bills, when they were given in cus-
tody by the watchman in their employ,
and fined at Queen Square five pounds,
as they would ^ot allow any of us to
speak in the office ; but when they were
gone, we had an interview with the
magistrate, who mitigated the fine to
fifteen shillings. During the time the
men were waiting for the fine, this com-
pany started off to a public-house that
we were in the habit of using, and
waited for us coming back, where a
fighting scene took place that beggars
description. Shortly after this, the prin-
cipal one day came and shook hands
with us, and acknowledged that he had
broken up the company, and that he
himself had lost five hundred pound in
trying to overthrow us. We then took
possession of the hoarding in Trafalgar
Square ; but Messrs. Grisell and Peto
would not allow us to post our bills on
the said hoarding without paying them,
— and from first to last we paid upwards
of two hundred pounds for that hoard-
ing and likewise the hoarding of the
Reform Club-house, Pall Mall.’”
His Majesty, being now completely
out of breath, laid down his scroll
(which he appeared to have finished),
puffed at his pipe, and took some rum
and water. I embraced the opportunity
of asking how many divisions the art
and mystery of bill-sticking comprised?
He replied, three, — auctioneers’ bill-
sticking, theatrical bill-sticking, general
bill-sticking.
“The auctioneers’ . porters,” said the
King, “ who do their bill-sticking, are
mostly respectable and intelligent, and
generally well paid for their work*
whether in town or country. The pnc$.
paid by the principal auctioneers fijj;
BILL-STICKING .
353
country work is nine shillings per day ;
that is, seven shillings for day’s work,
one shilling for lodging, and one for
paste. Town work is five shillings a
day, including paste.”
“ Town work must be rather hot
work,” said I, “if there be many of
those fighting scenes that beggar de-
scription, among the bill-stickers?”
“ Well,” replied the King, “ I ain’t a
stranger, I assure you, to black eyes ;
a bill-sticker ought to know how to
handle his fists a bit. As to that row I
have mentioned, that grew out of com-
petition, conducted in an uncompromis-
ing spirit. Besides a man in a horse-
and-shay continually following us about,
the company had a watchman on duty,
night and day f to prevent us sticking
bills upon the hoarding in Trafalgar
Square. We went there, early one
morning, to stick bills and to black-
wash their bills if we were interfered
with. We were interfered with, and I
gave the word for laying on the wash.
It was laid on, pretty brisk, and we
were all taken to Queen Square ; but
they couldn’t fine me. I knew that,”
— with a bright smile, — “ I ’d only
given directions — I was only the Gen-
eral.”
Charmed with this monarch’s affabil-
ity, I inquired if he had ever hired a
hoarding himself.
“ Hired a large one,” he replied,
“ opposite the Lyceum Theatre, when
the buildings was there. Paid thirty
pound for it ; let out places on it, and
called it ‘ The External Paper-Hanging
Station.’ But it did n’t answer. Ah!”
said his Majesty, thoughtfully, as he
filled the glass, “bill-stickers have a
deal to contend with. The bill-sticking
clause was got into the police act by
a member of Parliament that employed
me at his election. The clause is pretty
stiff respecting where bills go ; but he
did n’t mind where his bills went. It
was all right enough, so long as they
was his bills ! ”
Fearful that I observed a shadow of
misanthropy on the King’s cheerful
face, I asked whose ingenious inven-
tion that was, which I greatly admired,
of sticking bills under the arches of the
bridges.
“ Mine ! ” said his Majesty. “ I was
the first that ever stuck a bill under a
bridge ! Imitators soon rose up, of
course. When don’t they ? But they
stuck ’em at low-water, and the tide
came and swept the bills clean away.
/ knew that ! ” The King laughed.
“ What may be the name of that in-
strument, like an immense fishing-rod,”
I inquired, “with which bills are posted
on high places ? ”
“ The joints,” returned his Majesty.
“ Now, we use the joints where former-
ly we used ladders, — as they do still in
country places. Once, when Madame ”
(Vestris, understood) “ was playing in
Liverpool, another bill-sticker and me
were at it together on the wall outside
the Clarence Dock, — me with the joints,
him on a ladder. Lord ! I had my
bill up, right over his head, yards above
him, ladder and all, while he was crawl-
ing to his work. The people going in
and out of the docks stood and laughed !
It ’s about thirty years since the joints
come in.”
“ Are there any bill-stickers who can’t
read ? ” I took the liberty of inquir-
ing.
“ Some,” said the King. “ But they
know which is the right side up’ards of
their work. They keep it as it ’s given
out to ’em. I have seen a bill or so
stuck wrong side up’ards. But it ’s
very rare.”
Our discourse sustained some inter-
ruption at this point, by the procession
of cars occasioning a stoppage of about
three quarters of a mile in length, as
nearly as I could judge. His Majesty,
however, entreating me not to be dis-
composed by the contingent uproar,
smoked with great placidity, and sur-
veyed the firmament.
When we were again in motion, I
begged to be informed what was the
largest poster his Majesty had ever seen.
The King replied, “A thirty-six sheet
poster.” I gathered, also, that there were
about a hundred and fifty bill-stickers in
London, and that his Majesty considered
an average hand equal to the posting of
one hundred bills (single sheets) in a
day. The King was of opinion, that,
although posters had much increased in
si2.*, they had not increased in number ;
23
354
BILL-STICKING.
as the abolition of the State Lotter-
ies had occasioned a great failing off,
especially in the country. Over and
above which change, I bethought my-
self that the custom of advertising in
newspapers had greatly increased. The
completion of many London improve-
ments, as Trafalgar Square (I particu-
larly observed the singularity of his
Majesty’s calling that an improvement),
the Royal Exchange, &c., had of late
years reduced the number of advanta-
geous posting-places. Bill-stickers at
present rather confine themselves to
districts than to particular descriptions
of work. One man would strike over
Whitechapel, another would takje round
Houndsditch, Shoreditch, and the City
Road ; one (the King said) would stick
to the Surrey side ; another would make
a beat of the West End.
His Majesty remarked, with some
approach to severity, on the neglect of
delicacy and taste, gradually introduced
into the trade by the new school; a
profligate and inferior race of impostors
who took jobs at almost any price, to
the detriment of the old school, and the
confusion of their own misguided em-
ployers. He considered that the trade
was overdone with competition, and ob-
served, speaking of his subjects, “ There
are too many of ’em.” He believed,
still, that things were a little better than
they had been ; adducing, as a proof,
the fact that particular posting places
were now reserved, by common consent,
for particular posters ; those places,
however, must be regularly occupied by
those posters, or they lapsed and fell
into other hands. It was of no use
giving a man a Drury Lane bill this
week and not next. Where was it to
go? He was of opinion that going to
the expense of putting up your own
board on which your sticker could dis-
play your own bills was the only com-
plete way of posting yourself at the
present time ; but even to effect this, on
payment of a shilling a week to the
keepers of steamboat piers and other
such places, you must be able, besides,
to give orders for theatres and public
exhibitions, or you would be sure to be
cut out by somebody. His Majesty re-
garded the passion for orders as one of
the most inappeasable appetites of hu-
man nature. If there were a building,
or if there were repairs going on, any-
where, you could generally stand some-
thing and make it right with the fore-
man of the works ; but orders would
be expected from you, and the man
who could give the most orders was the
man who would come off best. There
was this other objectionable point, in
orders, that workmen sold them for drink,
and often sold them to persons who
were likewise troubled with the weak-
ness of thirst ; which led (his Majesty
said) to the presentation of your orders
at theatre doors by individuals who
were “too shakery” to derive intellect-
ual profit from the entertainments, and
who brought a scandal on you. Fi-
nally, his Majesty said that you could
hardly put too little in a poster ; what
you wanted was, two or three good catch-
lines for the eye to rest on — then, leave
it alone — and there you were !
These are the minutes of my conver-
sation with his Majesty, as I noted
them down shortly afterwards. I am
not aware that I have been betrayed
into any alteration or suppression. The
manner of the King was frank in the ex-
treme ; and he seemed to me to avoid,
at once that slight tendency to repeti-
tion which may have been observed in
the conversation of his Majesty King
George the Third, and that slight un-
dercurrent of egotism which the curious
observer may perhaps detect in the con-
versation of Napoleon Bonaparte.
I must do the King the justice to say
that it was I, and not he, who closed
the dialogue. At this juncture, I be-
came the subject of a remarkable opti-
cal delusion ; the legs of my stool ap-
peared to me to double up ; the car to
spin round and round with great vio-
lence ; and a mist to arise between my-
self and his Majesty. In addition to
these sensations, I felt extremely un-
well. I refer these unpleasant effects,
either to the paste with which the pos-
ters were affixed" to the van, which
may have contained some small portion
of arsenic, or to the printer’s ink,
which may have contained some equal-
ly deleterious ingredient. Of this I can-
not be sure. I am only sure that I was
BIRTHS. MRS. MEEK , OF A SON.”
355
not affected, either by the smoke or the
rum and water. I was assisted out of
the vehicle, in a state of mind which
I have only experienced in two other
places, — I allude to the Pier at Dover,
and to the corresponding portion of the
town of Calais, — and sat upon a door-
step until I recovered. The procession
had then disappeared. I have since
looked anxiously for the King in sev-
eral other cars, but I Have not yet had
the happiness of seeing his Majesty.
“BIRTHS. MRS. MEEK, OF A SON.”
My name is Meek. I am, in fact,
Mr. Meek. That son is mine and Mrs.
Meek’s. When I saw the announce-
ment in the Times, I dropped the pa-
per. I had put it in, myself, and paid
for it, but it looked so noble that it
overpowered me.
As soon as I could compose my feel-
ings, I took the paper up to Mrs. Meek’s
bedside. “ Maria Jane,” said I (I allude
to Mrs. Meek), “ you are now a public
character.” We read the review of our
child several times, with feelings of
the strongest emotion ; and I sent the
boy who cleans the boots and shoes to
the office for fifteen copies. No reduc-
tion was made on taking that quantity.
It is scarcely necessary for me to say,
that our child had been expected ; in
fact it had been expected with compara-
tive confidence, for some months. Mrs.
Meek’s mother, who resides with us, —
of the name of Bigby, — had made every
preparation for its admission to our
circle.
I hope and believe I am a quiet man.
I will go further. I know I am a quiet
man. My constitution is tremulous,
my voice was never loud, and, in point
of stature, I have been from infancy
small. I have the greatest respect for
Maria Jane’s mamma. She is a most
remarkable woman. I honor- Maria
Jane’s mamma. In my opinion she
would storm a town, single-handed,
with a hearth-broom, and carry it. I
have never known her to yield any point
whatever to mortal man. She is calcu-
lated to terrify the stoutest heart.
Still — but I will not anticipate.
The first intimation I had, of any
preparations being in progress, on the
part of Maria Jane’s mamma, was one
afternoon, several months ago. I came
home earlier than usual from the office,
and, proceeding into the dining-room,
found an obstruction behind the door,
which prevented it from opening freely.
It was an obstruction of a soft nature.
On looking in, I found it to be a female.
The female in question stood in the
corner behind the door, consuming
sherry wine. From the nutty smell of
that beverage pervading the apartment,
I have no doubt she was consuming a
second glassful. She wore a black
bonnet of large dimensions, and was
copious in figure. The expression of
her countenance was severe and discon-
tented The words to which she gave
utterance on seeing me were these, “ O
git along with you, sir, if you please ;
me and Mrs. Bigby don’t want no male
parties here ! ”
That female was Mrs. Prodgit.
I immediately withdrew, of course.
I was rather hurt, but I made no re-
mark. Whether it was that I showed a
lowness of spirits after dinner, in con-
sequence of feeling that I seemed to in-
trude, I cannot say. But, Maria Jane’s
mamma said to me on her retiring for the
night, in a low distinct voice, and with
a look cf reproach that completely sub-
dued me, “George Meek, Mrs. Prod-
git is your wife’s nurse ! ”
I bear no ill-will towards Mrs. Prod-
git. Is it likely that I, writing this
356
BIRTHS . MRS. MEEK , OF ^ SCW.’
with tears in my eyes, should be capa-
ble of deliberate animosity towards a
female, so essential to the welfare of
Maria Jane? .1 am willing to admit
that Fate may have been to blame, and
not Mrs. Prodgit ; but it is undeniably
true, that the latter female brought des-
olation and devastation into my lowly
dwelling.
We were happy after her first ap-
pearance : we were sometimes exceed-
ingly so. But whenever the parlor door
was opened, and “ Mrs. Prodgit ! ” an-
nounced (and she was very often an-
nounced), misery ensued. I could not
bear Mrs. Prodgit’s look. I felt that I
was far from wanted, and had no busi-
ness to exist in Mrs. Prodgit’s presence.
Between Maria Jane’s mamma and Mrs.
Prodgit, there was a dreadful, secret
understanding, — a dark mystery and
conspiracy, pointing me out as a being
to be shunned. I appeared to have
done something that was evil. When-
ever Mrs. Prodgit called, after dinner,
I retired to my dressing-room, — where
the temperature is very low indeed in
the wintry time of the year, — and sat
looking at my frosty breath as it rose
before me, and at my rack of boots, — a
serviceable article of furniture, but never,
in my opinion, an exhilarating object.
The length of the councils that were
held with Mrs. Prodgit, under these cir-
cumstances, I will not attempt to de-
scribe. I will merely remark, that Mrs.
Prodgit always consumed sherry wine
while the deliberations were in pro-
gress ; that they always ended in Ma-
ria Jane’s being in wretched spirits on
the sofa ; and that Maria Jane’s mamma
always received me, when I was re-
called, with a look of desolate triumph
that too plainly said, “ Now , George
Meek ! You see my child, Maria Jane,
a ruin, and I hope you are satisfied ! ”
I pass, generally, over the period that
intervened between the day when Mrs.
Prodgit entered her protest against
male parties, and the ever-memorable
midnight when I brought her to my
unobtrusive home in a cab, with an
extremely large box on the roof, and
a bundle, a bandbox, and a basket
between the driver’s legs. I have no
objection to Mrs. Prodgit (aided and
abetted by Mrs. Bigby, who I never
can forget is the parent of Maria Jane)
taking entire possession of my unas-
suming establishment. In the recesses
of my own breast, the thought may
linger that a man in possession cannot
be so dreadful as a woman, and that
woman Mrs. Prodgit ; but I ought to
bear a good deal, and I hope I can, and
do. Huffing and snubbing prey upon
my feelings ; but I can bear them with-
out complaint. They may tell in the
long run ; I maybe hustled about, from
post to pillar, beyond my strength ;
nevertheless, I wish to avoid giving
rise to words in the family.
The voice of nature, however, cries
aloud in behalf of Augustus George,
my infant son. It is for him that I wish
to utter a few plaintive household
words. I am not at all angry ; I am
mild, but miserable.
I wish to know why, when my child,
Augustus George, was expected in our
circle, a provision of pins was made, as
if the little stranger were a criminal who
was to be put to the torture immediately
on his arrival, instead of a holy babe ?
I wish to know why haste was made to
stick those pins all over his innocent
form, in every direction ? I wish to be
informed why light and air are excluded
from Augustus George, like poisons?
Why, I ask, is my unoffending infant
so hedged into a basket-bedstead, with
dimity and calico, with miniature sheets
and blankets, that I can only hear him
snuffle (and no wonder !) deep down
under the pink hood of a little bath-
ing-machine, and can never peruse
even so much of his lineaments as his
nose.
Was I expected to be the father of a
French Roll, that the brushes of All
Nations were laid in, to rasp Augustus
George ? Am I to be told that his sen-
sitive skin was ever intended by Nature
to have rashes brought out upon it,
by the premature and incessant use of
those formidable little instruments?
Is my son a Nutmeg, that he is to be
grated on the stiff edges of sharp frills?
Am I the parent of a Muslin boy, that
his yielding surface is to be crimped and
small-plaited? Or is my child com-
posed of Paper or of Linen, that im-
357
“BIRTHS. MRS. MEEK , OF A SON.”
pressions of the finer getting-up art,
practised by the laundress, are to be
printed off, all over his soft arms and
legs, as I constantly observe them ?
The starch enters his soul ; who can
wonder that he cries ?
Was Augustus George intended to
have limbs, or to be bom a Torso ? I
presume that limbs were the intention,
as they are the usual practice. Then,
why are my poor child’s limbs fettered
and tied up? Am I to be told that
there is any analogy between Augustus
George Meek and Jack Sheppard ?
Analyze Castor Oil at any Institution
of Chemistry that may be agreed upon,
and inform me what resemblance, in
taste, it bears to that natural provision
which it is at once the pride and duty
of Maria Jane to administer to Augus-
tus George ! * Yet, I charge Mrs. Prod-
git (aided and abetted by Mrs. Bigby)
with systematically forcing Castor Oil
on my innocent son, from the first hour
of his birth. When that medicine, in
its efficient action, causes internal dis-
turbance to Augustus George, I charge
Mrs. Prodgit (aided and abetted by
Mrs. Bigby) with insanely and inconsist-
ently administering opium to allay the
storm she has raised ! What is the
meaning of this?
If the days of Egyptian Mummies
are past, how dare Mrs. Prodgit require,
for the use of my son, an amount of
flannel and linen that would carpet my
humble roof? Do I wonder that she
requires it? No ! This morning, with-
in an hour, I beheld this agonizing
sight. I beheld my son — Augustus
George — in Mrs. Prodgit’s hands, and
on Mrs. Prodgit’s knee, being dressed.
He was at the moment, comparatively
speaking, in a state of nature ; having
nothing on but an extremely short
shirt, remarkably disproportionate to
the length of his usual outer garments.
Trailing from Mrs. Prodgit’s lap, on
the floor, was a long narrow roller or
bandage, — I should say of several yards
in extent. In this, I saw Mrs. Prodgit
tightly roll the body of my unoffending
infant, turning him over and over, now
presenting his unconscious face up-
wards, now the back of his bald head,
until the unnatural feat was accom-
plished, and the bandage secured by a
pin, which I have every reason to be-
lieve entered the body of my only child.
In this tourniquet he passes the pres-
ent phase of his existence. Can I know
it, and smile !
I fear I have been betrayed into ex-
pressing myself warmly, but I feel deep-
ly. Not for myself ; for Augustus
George. I dare not interfere. Will
anyone? Will any publication ? Any
doctor? Any parent ? Anybody ? I
do not complain that Mrs. Prodgit (aid-
ed and abetted by Mrs. Bigby) entirely
alienates Maria Jane’s affections from
me, and interposes an impassable barrier
between us. I do not complain of being
made of no account. I do not want to
be of any account. But Augustus
George is a production of Nature (I
cannot think otherwise), and I claim
that he should be treated with some
remote reference to Nature. In my
opinion, Mrs. Prodgit is, from first to
last, a convention and a superstition.
Are all the faculty afraid of Mrs. Prod-
git? If not, why don’t they take her
in hand and improve her?
P. S. Maria Jane’s mamma boasts of
her own knowledge of the subject, and
says she brought up seven children
besides Maria Jane. But how do /
know that she might not have brought
them up much better? Maria Jane
herself is far from strong, and is subject
to headaches, and nervous indigestion.
Besides which, I learn from the statis-
tical tables that one child in five dies
within the first year of its life ; and one
child in three, within the fifth. That
don’t look as if we could never improve
in these particulars, I think !
P. P. S. Augustus George is in con-
vulsions.
358
LYING AWAKE .
LYING
“ My uncle lay with his eyes half
closed, and his nightcap drawn almost
down to his nose. His fancy was
already wandering, and began to mingle
up the present scene with the crater of
Vesuvius, the French Opera, the Coli-
seum at Rome, Dolly’s Chop-house in
London, and all the farrago of noted
places with which the brain of a travel-
ler is crammed ; in a word, he was just
falling asleep.”
Thus that delightful writer, Wash-
ington Irving, in his Tales of a Trav-
eller. But it happened to me the
other night to be lying, not with my
eyes half closed, but with my eyes wide
open; not with my nightcap drawn al-
most down to my nose, for on sanitary
principles I never wear a nightcap, but
with my hair pitchforked and touzled
all over the pillow ; not just falling
asleep by any means, but glaringly,
persistently, and obstinately broad
awake. Perhaps, with no scientific
intention or invention, I was illustrat-
ing the theory of the Duality of the
Brain ; perhaps one part of my brain,
being wakeful, sat up to watch the other
part which w'as sleepy. Be that as it
may, something in me was as desirous
to go to sleep as it possibly could be,
but something else in me would not go
to sleep, and was as obstinate as George
the Third.
Thinking of George the Third — for
I devote this paper to my train of
thoughts as I lay awake : most people
lying awake sometimes, and having
some interest in the subject — put me
in mind of Benjamin Franklin, and
so Benjamin Franklin’s paper on the
art of procuring pleasant dreams, which
would seem necessarily to include the
art of going to sleep, came into my
head. Now, as I often used to read
that paper when I was a very small boy,
and as I recollect everything I read
then as perfectly as I forget everything
awake.
I read now, I quoted “ Get out of bed,
beat up and turn your pillow, shake the
bedclothes well with at least twenty
shakes, then throw the bed open and
leave it to cool; in the mean while,
continuing undrest, walk about your
chamber. When you begin to feel the
cold air unpleasant, then return to your
bed, and you wilPsoon fall asleep, and
your sleep will be sw^eet and pleasant.”
Not a bit of it ! I performed the whole
ceremony, and if it were possible for
me to be more saucer-eyed than I was
before, that was the only result that
came of it.
Except Niagara. The two quota-
tions from Washington Irving and Ben-
jamin Franklin may have put it in my
head by an American association of
ideas ; but there I was, and the Horse-
shoe Fall was thundering and tumbling
in my eyes and ears, and the very rain-
bows that I left upon the spray when I
really did last look upon it were beau-
tiful to see. The night-light being quite
as plain, however, and sleep seeming
to be many thousand miles farther on
than Niagara, I made up my mind to
think a little about sleep, which I no
sooner did than I whirled off in spite
of myself to Drury Lane Theatre, and
there saw a great actor and dear friend
of mine (whom I had been thinking
of in the day) playing Macbeth, and
heard him apostrophizing “the death
of each day’s life,” as I have heard
him many a time, in the days that are
gone.
But, sleep. I will think about sleep.
I am determined to think (this is the
way I went on) about sleep. I must
hold the word “ sleep ” tight and fast, or
I shall be off at a tangent in half a sec-
ond. I feel myself unaccountably stray-
ing, already, into Clare Market. Sleep.
It would be curious, as illustrating the
equality of sleep, to inquire how many
of its phenomena are common to all
LYING AWAKE.
359
classes, to all degrees of wealth and
poverty, to every grade of education
and ignorance. Here, for example, is
her Majesty Queen Victoria in her pal-
ace, this present blessed night, and
here is Winking Charley, a sturdy va-
grant, in one of her Majesty’s jails.
Her Majesty h$s fallen, many thou-
sands of times, from that same Tower,
which I claim a right to tumble off now
and then. So has Winking Charley.
Her Majesty in her sleep has opened
or prorogued Parliament, or has held
a drawing-room, attired in some very
scanty dress, the deficiencies and im-
proprieties of which have caused her
great uneasiness. I, in my degree,
have suffered unspeakable agitation of
mind from taking the chair at a public
dinner at the London Tavern in my
night-clothes, which not all the courtesy
of my kind friend and host Mr. Bathe
could persuade me were quite adapted
to the occasion. Winking Charley has
been repeatedly tried in a worse condi-
tion. Her Majesty is no stranger to a
vault or firmament, of a sort of floor-
cloth, with an indistinct pattern dis-
tantly resembling eyes, which occasion-
ally obtrudes itself on her repose.
Neither am I. Neither is Winking
Charley. It is quite common to all
three of us to skim along with airy
strides a little above the ground ; also
to hold, with the deepest interest, dia-
logues with various people, all repre-
sented by ourselves ; and to be at our
wit’s end to know what they are going
to tell us ; and to be indescribably as-
tonished by the secrets they disclose.
It is probable that we have all three
committed murders and hidden bodies.
It is pretty certain that we have all des-
perately wanted to cry out, and have
had no voice ; that we have all gone to
the play and not been able to get in ;
that we have all dreamed much more
of our youth than of our later lives ;
that — I have lost it! The thread’s
broken.
And up I go. I, lying here with the
night-light before me, up I go, for no
reason on earth that I can find out, and
drawn by no links that are visible to
me, up the Great Saint Bernard ! I
have lived in Switzerland, and rambled
among the mountains ; but, why I
should go there now, and why up the
Great Saint Bernard in preference to
any other mountain, I have no idea.
As I lie here broad awake, and with
every sense so sharpened that I can
distinctly hear distant noises inaudible
to me at another time, I make that
journey, as I really did, on the same
summer day, with the same happy
party, — ah ! two since dead, I grieve
to think, — and there is the same track,
with the same black wooden arms to
point the way, and there are the same
storm-refuges here and there ; and there
is the same snow falling at the top, and
there are the same frosty mists, and
there is the same intensely cold convent
with its menagerie smell, and the same
breed of dogs fast dying out', and the
same breed of jolly young monks whom
I mourn to know as humbugs, and the
same convent parlor with its piano and
the sitting round the fire, and the same
supper, and the same lone night in a
ceil, and the same bright fresh morn-
ing when going out into the . highly
rarefied air was like a plunge into an
icy bath. Now, see here what comes
along ; and why does this thing stalk
into my mind on the top of a Swiss
mountain !
It is a figure that I once saw just af-
ter dark, chalked upon a door in a little
back lane near a country church, — my
first church. How young a child I may
have been at the time I don’t know, but
it horrified me so intensely, — in con-
nection with the churchyard, I suppose,
for it smokes a pipe, and has a big hat
with each of its ears sticking out in a
horizontal line under the brim, and is
not in itself more oppressive than a
mouth from ear to ear, a pair of goggle
eyes, and hands like two bunches of car-
rots, five in each, can make it, — that it
is still vaguely alarming to me to recall
(as I have often done before, lying
awake) the running home, the looking
behind, the horror of its following me ;
though whether disconnected from the
door, or door and all, I can’t say, and
perhaps never could. It lays a disa-
greeable train. I must resolve to think
of something on the voluntary princi-
ple.
360
LYING AWAKE.
The balloon ascents of this last sea-
son. They will do to think about,
while I lie awake, as well as anything
else. I must hold them tight though,
for I feel them sliding away, and in
their stead are the Mannings, hus-
band and wife, hanging on the top of
Horsemonger Lane Jail. In connec-
tion with which dismal spectacle, I re-
call this curious fantasy of the mind.
That, having beheld that execution, and
having left those two forms dangling
on the top of the entrance gateway, —
the man’s, a limp, loose suit of clothes
as if the man had gone out of them ; the
woman’s, a fine shape, so elaborately
corseted and artfully dressed, that it
was quite unchanged in its trim appear-
ance as it slowly swung from side to
side, — I never could, by my utmost
efforts, for some w'eeks, present the out-
side of that prison to myself (which the
terrible impression I had received con-
tinually obliged me to do) without pre-
senting it with the two figures still
hanging in the morning air. Until,
strolling past the gloomy place one
night, when the street was deserted
and quiet, and actually seeing that the
bodies were not there, my fancy was
persuaded, as it were, to take them
down and bury them within the pre-
cincts of the jail, where they have lain
ever since.
The balloon ascents of last season.
Let me reckon them up. There were
the horse, the bull, the parachute, and
the tumbler hanging cn — chiefly by his
toes, I believe — below the car. Very
wrong, indeed, and decidedly to be
stopped. But, in connection with these
and similar dangerous exhibitions, it
strikes me that that portion of the
public whom they entertain is unjustly
reproached. Their pleasure is in the
difficulty overcome. They are a public
of great faith, and are quite confident
that the gentleman will not fall off the
horse, or the lady off the bull or out ' of
the parachute, and that the tumbler has
a firm hold with his toes. They do not
go to see the adventurer vanquished,
but triumphant. There is no parallel
in public combats between men and
beasts, because nobody can answer for
the particular beast, — unless it were
always the same beast, in which case i;
would be a mere stage-show, which the
same public would go in the same state
of mind to see, entirely believing in the
brute being beforehand safely subdued
by the man. That they are not accus-
tomed to calculate hazards and dangers
with any nicety, we jnay know from
their rash exposure of themselves in
overcrowded steamboats and unsafe
conveyances and places of all kinds.
And I cannot help thinking that instead
of railing, and attributing savage mo-
tives to a people naturally well disposed
and humane, it is better to teach them,
and lead them argumentatively and
reasonably — for they are very reason-
able, if you w'ill discuss a matter with
them — to more considerate and wise
conclusions.
This is a disagreeable intrusion !
Here is a man with his throat cut, dash-
ing towards me as I lie awake ! A rec-
ollection of an old story of a kinsman of
mine, who, going home one foggy winter
night to Hampstead, when London was
much smaller and the road lonesome,
suddenly encountered such a figure
rushing past him, and presently two
keepers from a madhouse in pursuit. A
very unpleasant creature indeed to
come into my mind unbidden, as I lie
awake.
The balloon ascents of last season.
I must return to the balloons. Why did
the bleeding man start out of them?
Never mind ; if I inquire, he will be
back again. The balloons. This par-
ticular public have inherently a great
pleasure in the contemplation of phys-
ical difficulties overcome ; mainly, as I
take it, because the lives of a large ma-
jority of them are exceedingly monoto-
nous and real, and further, are a strug-
gle against continual difficulties, and
further still, because anything in the
form of accidental injury, or any kind of
illness or disability, is so very serious in
their own sphere. I will explain this
seeming paradox of mine. Take the
case of a Christmas Pantomime. Sure-
ly nobody supposes that the young moth-
er in the pit who falls into fits of laugh-
ter when the baby is boiled or sat upon
would be at all diverted by such an
occurrence off the stage. Nor is the
LYING AWAKE.
decent workman in the gallery, who is
transported beyond the ignorant pres-
ent by the delight with which he sees a
stout gentleman pushed out of a two
pair of stairs window, to be slandered
by the suspicion that he would be in the
least entertained by such a spectacle
in any street in London, Paris, or New
York. It always appears to me that the
secret of this enjoyment lies in the tem-
porary superiority to the common haz-
ards and mischances of life ; in seeing
casualties, attended when they really
occur with bodily and mental suffering,
tears, and poverty, happen through a
very rough sort of poetry without the
least harm being done to any one, —
the pretence of distress in a pantomime
being so broadly humorous as to be no
pretence at all. Much as in the comic
fiction I can understand the mother with
a very vulnerable baby at home, greatly
relishing the invulnerable baby on the
stage, so in the Cremorne reality I can
understand the mason who is always
liable to fall off a scaffold in his work-
ing jacket, and to be carried to the hos-
pital, having an infinite admiration of
the radiant personage in spangles who
goes into the clouds upon a bull, or up-
side down, and who he takes it for grant-
ed — not reflecting upon the thing —
Las, by uncommon skill and dexterity,
conquered such mischances as those to
which he and his acquaintance are con-
tinually exposed.
I wish the Morgue in Paris would not
come here as I lie awake, with its ghast-
ly beds, and the swollen saturated clothes
hanging up, and the water dripping, drip-
ping all day long, upon that other swollen
saturated something in the corner, like
a heap of crushed over-ripe figs that I
have seen in Italy ! And this detestable
Morgue comes back again at the head
of a procession of forgotten ghost-sto-
ries. This will never do. I must think
of something else as I lie awake ; or,
like that sagacious animal in the United
States who recognized the colonel who
was such a dead shot, I am a gone
’Coon. What shall I think of? The
late brutal assaults. Very good sub-
ject. The late brutal assaults.
(Though whether, supposing I should
see, here before me as I lie awake, the
361
awful phantom described in one of those
ghost-stories, who, with a head-dress
of shroud, was always seen looking in
through a certain glass door at a cer-
tain dead hour, — whether, in such a case
it would be the least consolation to me
to know on philosophical grounds that
it was merely my imagination, is a
question I can’t help asking myself by
the way.)
The late brutal assaults. I strongly
question the expediency of advocating
the revival of whipping for those crimes.
It is a natural and generous impulse
to be indignant at the perpetration of
inconceivable brutality, but I doubt
the whipping panacea gravely. Not in
the least regard or pity for the crimi-
nal, whom I hold in far lower estima-
tion than a mad wolf, but in consider-
ation for the general tone and feeling,
which is very much improved since the
whipping times. It is bad for a peo-
ple to be familiarized with such pun-
ishments. When the whip went out of
Bridewell, and ceased to be flourished
at the cart’s tail and at the whipping-
post, it began to fade out of madhouses,
and workhouses, and schools, and fami-
lies, and to give place to a better sys-
tem everywhere than cruel driving.
It would be hasty, because a few
brutes may be inadequately punished,
to revive, in any aspect, what, in so
many aspects, society is hardly yet
happily rid of. The whip is a very
contagious kind of thing, and difficult
to confine within one set of bounds.
Utterly abolish punishment by fine, —
a barbarous device, quite as much out
of date as wager by battle, but particu-
larly connected in the vulgar mind with
this class of offence, — at least quadru-
ple the term of imprisonment for ag-
gravated assaults, — and above all let
us, in such cases, have no Pet Prison-
ing, vain-glorifying, strong soup, and
roasted meats, but hard work, and one
unchanging and uncompromising diet-
ary of bread and water, well or ill ;
and we shall do much better than by
going down into the dark to grope for
the whip among the rusty fragments
of the rack, and the branding-iron,
and the chains and gibbet from the
public roads, and the weights that
362
THE POOR RELATION'S STORY.
pressed men to death in the cells of
Newgate.
I had proceeded thus far, when I
found I had been lying awake so long
that the very dead began to wake too,
and to crowd into my thoughts most
sorrowfully. Therefore, I resolved to
lie awake no more, but to get up and
go out for a night walk, — which reso-
lution was an acceptable relief to me,
as I dare say it may prove now to a
great many more.
THE POOR RELATION’S STORY.
He was very reluctant to take prece-
dence of so many *espected members
of the family, by beginning the round of
stories they were to relate as they sat in
a goodly circle by the Christmas lire ;
and he modestly suggested that it would
be more correct if “John, our esteemed
host, ” (whose health he begged to
drink,) would have the kindness to begin.
For as to himself, he said, he was so
little used to lead the way that really —
But as they all cried out here, that he
must begin, and agreed with one voice
that he might, could, would, and should
begin, he left off rubbing his hands, and
took his legs out from under his arm-
chair, and did begin.
I have no doubt (said the poor rela-
tion) that I shall surprise the assembled
members of our family, and particularly
John, our esteemed host, to whom we
are so much indebted for the great
hospitality with which he has this day
entertained us, by the confession I am
going to make. But if you do me the
honor to be surprised at anything that
falls from a person so unimportant in
the family as I am, I can only say that
I shall be scrupulously accurate in all I
relate.
I am not what I am supposed to be.
I am quite another thing.' Perhaps,
before I go further, I had better glance
at what I am supposed 10 be.
It is supposed, unless I mistake, — the
assembled members of our family will
correct me if I do, which is very likely
(here the poor relation looked mildly
about him for contradiction), — that I
am nobody’s enemy but my own. That
I never met w’ith any particular success
in anything. That I failed in business
because I was unbusiness-like and cred-
ulous, — in not being prepared for the
interested designs of my partner. That
I failed in love, because I was ridicu-
lously trustful, — in thinking it impossi-
ble that Christiana could deceive me.
That I failed in my expectations from
my uncle Chill, on account of not being
as sharp as he could have wished in
worldly matters. That, through life, I
have been rather put upon and disap-
pointed in a general way. That I am
at present a bachelor of between fifty-
nine and sixty years of age, living on a
limited income in the form of a quarter-
ly allowance, to which I see that John,
our esteemed host, wishes me to make
no further allusion.
The supposition as to my present
pursuits and habits is to the following
effect.
I live in a lodging in the Clapham
Road, — a very clean back room, in a
very respectable house, — where I am
expected not to be at home in the day-
time, unless poorly ; and which I usu-
ally leave in the morning at nine o’clock,
on pretence of going to business. I
take my breakfast — my roll and butter,
and my half-pint of coffee — at the old
established coffee-shop near Westmin-
ster Bridge ; and then I go into the
City — I don’t know why — and sit
in Garraway’s Coffee-House, and on
’Change, and walk about, and look into
a few offices and counting-houses where
THE POOR RELATION’S STORK
363
some of my relations or acquaintance
are so good as to tolerate me, and where
I stand by the fire if the weather hap-
pens to be cold. I get through the day
m this way until five o’clock, and then
I dine, at a cost, on the average, of
one and threepence. Having still a
little money to spend on my evening’s
entertainment, I look into the old es-
tablished coffee-shop as I go home, and
take my cup of tea, and perhaps my bit
of toast. So, as the large hand of the
clock makes its way round to the morn-
ing hour again, I make my way round
to Clapham Road again, and go to bed
when I get to my lodging, — fire being
expensive, and being objected to by the
family on account of its giving trouble
and making a dirt.
Sometimes, one of my relations or
acquaintances is so obliging as to ask
me to dinner. Those are holiday occa-
sions ; and then I generally walk in the
Park. I am a solitary man, and seldom
walk with anybody. Not that I am
avoided because I am shabby ; for I am
not at all shabby, having always a very
good suit of black on (or rather Oxford
mixture, which has the appearance of
black and wears much better) ; but I
have got into a habit of speaking low,
and being rather silent, and my spirits
are not high, and I am sensible that I
am not an attractive companion.
The only exception to this general
rule is the child of my first cousin, Lit-
tle Frank. I have a particular affec-
tion for that child, and he takes very
kindly to me. He is a diffident boy by
nature ; and in a crowd he is soon run
over, as I may say, and forgotten. He
and I, however, get on exceedingly
well. I have a fancy that the poor child
will in time succeed to my peculiar po-
sition in the family. We talk but little ;
still, we understand each other. We
walk about, hand-in-hand ; and with-
out much speaking he knows what I
mean, and I know what he means.
When he was very little indeed, I used
to fake him to the windows of the toy-
shops, and show him the toys inside.
It is surprising how soon he found out
that I would have made him a great
many presents if I had been in circum-
stances to do it.
Little Frank and I go and look at the
outside of the Monument, — he is very
fond of the Monument, — and at the
Bridges, and at all the sights that are
free. On two of my birthdays, we
have dined on a-la-mode beef, and
gone at half-price to the play, and been
deeply interested. I was once walking
with him in Lombard Street, which we
often visit on account of my having
mentioned to him that there are great
riches there, — he is very fond of Lom-
bard Street, — when a gentleman said
to me as he passed by, “ Sir, your little
son has dropped his glove.” I assure
you, if you will excuse my remarking
on so trivial a circumstance, this acci-
dental mention of the child as mine
quite touched my heart and brought
the foolish tears into my eyes.
When little Frank is sent to school in
the country, I shall be very much at a
loss what to do with myself, but 1 have
the intention of walking down there
once a month and seeing him on a half-
holiday. I am told he will then be at
play upon the Heath ; and if my visits
should be objected to, as unsettling the
child, I can see him from a distance
without his seeing me, and walk back
again. His mother comes of a highly
genteel family, and rather disapproves,
I am aware, of our being too much to-
gether. I know that 1 am not calculat-
ed to improve his retiring disposition ;
but I think he would miss me beyond
the feeling of the moment, if we were
wholly separated.
When I die in the Clapham Road, I
shall not leave much more in this world
than I shall take out of it ; but I happen
to have a miniature of a bright-faced
boy, with a curling head, and an open
shirt-frill waving down his bosom (my
mother had it taken for me, but I can’t
believe that it was ever like), which
will be worth nothing to sell, and which
I shall beg may be given to Frank. I
have written my dear boy a little letter
with it, in which I have told him that I
felt very sorry to part from him, though
bound to confess that I knew no reason
why I should remain here. I have
given him some short advice, the best
in my power, to take warning of the
consequences of being nobody’s enemy
THE POOR RELATION'S STORV.
364
but his own ; and I have endeavored
to comfort him for what I fear he will
consider a bereavement, by pointing
out to him, that I was only a superflu-
ous something to every one but him ;
and that, having by some means failed
to find a place in this great assembly, I
am better out of it.
Such (said the poor relation, clearing
his throat and beginning to speak a
little louder) is the general impression
about me. Now, it is a remarkable
circumstance, which forms the aim and
purpose of my story, that this is all
wrong. This is not my life, and these
are not my habits. I do not even live
in the Clapham Road. Comparatively
speaking, I am very seldom there. I
reside, mostly, in a — I am almost
ashamed to say the word, it sounds so
full of pretension — in a Castle. I do
not mean that it is an old baronial habi-
tation, but still it is a building always
known to every one by the name of a
Castle. In it, I preserve the particulars
of my history ; they run thus : —
It was when I first took John Spatter
(who had been my clerk) into partner-
ship, and when I was still a young man
of not more than five-and-twenty, re-
siding in the house of my uncle Chill
from whom I had considerable expecta-
tions, that I ventured to propose to
Christiana. I had loved Christiana a
long time. She was very beautiful, and
very winning in all respects. I rather
mistrusted her widowed mother, who I
feared was of a plotting and mercenary
turn of mind ; but I thought as well of
her as I could, for Christiana’s sake.
I never had loved any one but Chris-
tiana, and she had been all the world,
and O, far more than all the world, to
me, from our childhood !
Christiana accepted me with her
mother’s consent, and I was rendered
very happy indeed. My life at my un-
cle Chill’s was of a spare, dull kind, and
my garret chamber was as dull, and
bare, and cold as an upper prison room
in some stern northern fortress. But,
having Christiana’s love, I wanted noth-
ing upon earth. I would not have
changed my lot with any human being.
Avarice was, unhappily, my uncle
Chill’s master-vice. Though he was
rich, he pinched and scraped and
clutched, and lived miserably. As
Christiana had no fortune, I was for
some time a little fearful of confessing
our engagement to him ; but at length
I wrote him a letter, saying how it all
truly was. I put it into his hand one
night, on going to bed.
As I came down stairs next morning,
shivering in the cold December air,
colder in my uncle’s unwarmed house
than in the street, where the winter
sun did sometimes shine, and which
was at all events enlivened by cheerful
faces and voices passing along, I car-
ried a heavy heart towards the long,
low breakfast-rodhi in which my uncle
sat. It was a large room with a small
fire, and there was a great bay-window
in it which the rain had marked in the
night as if with the tears of houseless
people. It stared upon a raw yard,
with a cracked stone pavement, and
some rusted iron railings half uprooted,
whence an ugly out-building that had
once been a dissecting-room (in the time
of the great surgeon who had mort-
gaged the house to my uncle) stared
at it.
We rose so early always, that at that
time of the year we breakfasted by can-
dle-light. When I went into the room
my uncle was so contracted by the cold,
and so huddled together in his chair be-
hind the one dim candle, that I did not
see him until I was close to the table.
As I held out my hand to him, he
caught up his stick (being infirm, he al-
ways walked about the house with a
stick), and made a blow at me, and
said, “ You fool ! ”
“ Uncle,” I returned, “ I didn’t ex-
ect you to be so angry as this.” Nor
ad I expected it, though he was a hard
and angry old man.
“ You did n’t expect ! ” said he ;
“when did you ever expect? When
did you ever calculate, or look forward,
you contemptible dog ? ”
“ These are hard words, uncle ! **
“Hard words? Feathers, to pelt
such an idiot as you with,” said he.
“ Here ! Betsy Snap ! Look at him ! ”
Betsy Snap was a withered, hard-
favored, yellow old woman, — our only
domestic, — always employed, at this
THE POOR RELATION’S STORY.
36j
time of the morning, in rubbing my un-
cle’s legs. As my uncle adjured her to
look at me, he put his lean grip on the
crown of her head, she kneeling beside
him, and turned her face towards me.
An involuntary thought connecting them
both with the dissecting-room, as it
must have been in the surgeon’s time,
passed across my mind in the midst of
my anxiety.
“ Look at the snivelling milksop ! ”
said my uncle. “ Look at the baby !
This is the gentleman who, people say,
is nobody’s enemy but his own. This
’is the gentleman who can’t say no.
This is the gentleman who was making
such large profits in his business that
he must needs take a partner, t’other
day. This is the gentleman who is
going to marry a wife without a penny,
and who falls into the hands of Jezebels
who are speculating on my death ! ”
I knew, now, how great my uncle’s
rage was ; for nothing short of his being
almost beside himself would have in-
duced him to utter that concluding
word, which he held in such repug-
nance that it was never spoken or hinted
at before him on any account.
“ On my death,” he repeated, as if he
were defying me by defying his own ab-
horrence of the word. “ On my death
— death — Death ! But I ’ll spoil the
speculation. Eat your last under this
roof, you feeble wretch, and may it
choke you ! ”
You may suppose that I had not much
appetite for the breakfast to which I
was bidden in these terms ; but I took
my accustomed seat. I saw that I was
repudiated henceforth by my uncle ;
still I could bear that very well, pos-
sessing Christiana’s heart.
He emptied his basin of bread and
milk as usual, only that he took it on
his knees with his chair turned away
from the table where I sat. When he
had done, he carefully snuffed out the
candle ; and the cold, slate-colored,
miserable day looked in upon us.
“Now, Mr. Michael,” said he, “be-
fore we part, I should like to have a
word with these ladies in your pres-
ence.”
“ As you will, sir,” I returned ; “ but
you deceive yourself, and wrong us
cruelly, if you suppose that there is anj
feeling at stake in this contract but pure
disinterested, faithful love.”
To this he only replied, “ You lie ! *'
and not one other word.
We went, through half-thawed snow
and half-frozen rain, to the house where
Christiana and her mother lived. My
uncle knew them very well. They were
sitting at their breakfast, and were sur-
prised to see us at that hour.
“Your servant, ma’am,” said my
uncle to the mother. “You divine the
purpose of my visit, I dare say, ma’am.
I understand there is a world of pure,
disinterested, faithful love cooped up
here. I am happy to bring it all il;
wants, to make it complete. I bring
you your son-in-law, ma’am, — and you.,
your husband, miss. The gentleman is
a perfect stranger to me, but I wish him
joy of his wise bargain.”
He snarled at me as he went out,
and I never saw him again.
It is altogether a mistake (continued
the poor relation) to suppose that my
dear Christiana, over-persuaded and in-
fluenced by her mother, married a rich
man, the dirt from whose carriage wheelg
is often, in these changed times, thrown
upon me as she rides by. No, no. She
married me.
The way we came to be married rathei
sooner than we intended was this. J
took a frugal lodging and was saving
and planning for her sake, when, on;
day, she spoke to me with great earnest
ness, and said : —
“ My dear Michael, I have given you
my heart. I have said that I loved you,
and I have pledged myself to be your
wife. I am as much yours through all
changes of good and evil as if we had
been married on the day when such
words passed between us. I know youi
well, and know that if we should be<
separated and our union broken off
your whole life would be shadowed, andl
all that might, even now, be stronger ir,
your character for the conflict with the,
world would then be weakened to the,
shadow of what it is ! ”
“God help me, Christiana!” said I,
“ You speak the truth.”
“ Micliael ! ” said she, putting hei
366
THE POOR RELATION'S STORY.
hand in mine, in all maidenly devotion,
“ let us keep apart no longer. It is but
for me to say that I can live contented
upon such means as you have, and I
well know you are happy. I say so
from my heart. Strive no more alone ;
let us strive together. My dear Mi-
chael, it is not right that I should keep
secret from you what you do not sus-
pect, but what distresses my whole life.
My mother, without considering that
what you have lost, you have lost for
me, and on the assurance of my faith,
sets her heart on riches, and urges an-
other suit upon me, to my misery. I
cannot bear this, for to bear it is to be
untrue to you. I would rather share
our struggles than look on. I want no
etter home than you can give me. I
know that you will aspire and labor with
a higher courage if I am wholly yours,
and let it be so when you will ! ”
I was blest indeed, that day, and a
new world opened to me. We were
married in a very little while, and I took
my wife to our happy home. That was
the beginning of the residence I have
spoken of ; the Castle we have ever
since inhabited together dates from that
time. All our children have been born
in it. Our first child — now married —
was a little girl, whom we called Chris-
tiana. Her son is so like Little Frank
that I hardly know which is which.
The current impression as to my part-
ner’s dealings with me is also quite
erroneous. He did not begin to treat
me coldly, as a poor simpleton, when
my uncle and I so fatally quarrelled ;
nor did he afterwards gradually possess
himself of our business and edge me
out. On the contrary, he behaved to
me with the utmost good faith and
honor.
Matters between us took this turn :
On the day of my separation from my
uncle, and even before the arrival at
our counting-house of my trunks (which
he sent after me, not carriage-paid), I
went down to our room of business, on
our little wharf, overlooking the river;
and there I told John Spatter what had
happened. John did not say, in reply,
that rich old relatives were palpable
facts, and that love and sentiment were
moonshine and fiction. He addressed
me thus ; —
“Michael,” said John. “We were
at school .together, and I. generally had
the knack of getting on better than you,
and making a higher reputation.”
“ You had, John,” I returned.
“Although,” said John, “I borrowed
your books and lost them ; borrowed
your pocket-money, and never repaid
it; got you to buy my damaged knives
at a higher price than I had given for
them new ; and to own to the windows
that I had broken — ”
“ All not worth mentioning, John
Spatter,” said I, “ but certainly true.”
“When you w*ere first established in
this infant business, which promises to
thrive so well,” pursued John, “ I came
to you, in my search for almost any em-
ployment, and you made me your clerk.”
“ Still not worth mentioning, my dear
John Spatter,” said I; “still equally
true.”
“ And finding that I had a good
head for business, and that I was really
useful to the business, you did not like
to retain me in that capacity, and
thought it an act of justice soon to
make me your partner.”
“ Still less worth mentioning than
any of those other little circumstances
you have recalled, John Spatter, ” said
I ; “ for I was, and am, sensible of
your merits and my deficiencies.”
“Now, my good friend,” said John,
drawing my arm through his, as he had
had a habit of doing at school ; while
two vessels outside the windows of our
counting-house — which were shaped
like the stern windows of a ship — went
lightly down the river with the tide, as
John and I might then be sailing away
in company, and in trust and confi-
dence, on our voyage of life ; “ let
there, under these friendly circumstan-
ces, be a right understanding between
us. You are too easy, Michael. You
are nobody’s enemy but your own. If
I were to give you that damaging char-
acter among our connection, with a
shrug, and a shake of the head, and a
sigh ; and if I were further to abuse the
trust you place in me — ”
“ But you never will abuse it at all,
John,” I observed.
THE POOR RELATION'S STORY.
367
“ Never ! ” said he, “ but I am put-
ting a case ; I say, and if I were fur-
ther to abuse that trust by keeping this
piece of our common affairs in the dark,
and this other piece in the light, and
again this other piece in the twilight,
and so on, I should strengthen my
strength, and weaken your weakness,
day by day, until at last I found myself
on the high-road to fortune, and you
left behind on some bare common, a
hopeless number of miles out of the
way.”
“ Exactly so,” said I.
. “ To prevent this, Michael,” said
John Spatter, “or the remotest chance
of this, there must be perfect openness
between us. Nothing must be con-
cealed, and we must have but one in-
terest.”
“ My dear John Spatter,” I assured
him, “that is precisely what I mean.”
“And when you are too easy,” pur-
sued John, his face glowing with friend-
ship, “ you must allow me to prevent
that imperfection in your nature from
being taken advantage of by any one ;
you must not expect me to humor it — ”
“My dear John Spatter,” I inter-
rupted, “ I don't expect you to humor
it. I want to correct it.”
“ And I, too ! ” said John.
“Exactly so!” cried I. “We both
have the same end in view ; and, hon-
orably seeking it, and fully trusting one
another, and having but one interest,
ours will be a prosperous and happy
partnership.”
“ I am sure of it ! ” returned John
Spatter. And we shook hands most
affectionately.
I took John home to my Castle, and
we had a very happy day. Our part-
nership throve well. My friend and
partner supplied what I wanted, as I
had foreseen that he would ; and by
improving both the business and my-
self, amply acknowledged any little rise
in life to which I had helped him.
I am not (said the poor relation, look-
ing at the fire as he slowly rubbed his
hands) very rich, for I never cared to
be that ; but I have enough, and am
above all moderate wants and anxieties.
My Castle is not a splendid place, but
it is very comfortable, and it has a
warm and cheerful air, and is quite a
picture of Home.
Our eldest girl, who is very like her
mother, married John Spatter’s eldest
son. Our two families tfre closely unit-
ed in other ties of attachment. It is
very pleasant of an evening, when we
are all assembled together, — which fre-
quently happens, — and when John and
I talk over old times, and the one in •
terest there has always been between us.
I really do not know, in my Castle,
what loneliness is. Some of our children
or grandchildren are always about it,
and the young voices of my descend-
ants are delightful — O, how delight-
ful ! — to me to hear. My dearest and
most devoted wife, ever faithful, ever
loving, ever helpful and sustaining and
consoling, is the priceless blessing of
my house, from whom all its other
blessings spring. We are rather a mu-
sical family, and when Christiana sees
me, at any time, a little weary or de-
pressed, she steals to the piano and
sings a gentle air she used to sing when
we were first betrothed. So weak a
man am I, that I cannot bear to hear it
from any other source. They played it
once, at the theatre, when I was there
with little Frank; and the child said,
wondering, “ Cousin Michael, whose
hot tears are these that have fallen on
my hand ! ”
Such is my Castle, and such are the
real particulars of my life therein pre-
served. I often take Little Frank home
there. He is very welcome to my grand-
children, and they play together. At
this time of the year — the Christmas
and New-Year time — I am seldom out
of my Castle. For the associations of
the season seem to hold me there, and
the precepts of the season seem to
teach me that it is well to be there.
“And the Castle is — ” observed a
grave, kind voice among the company.
“Yes. My Castle,” said the poor
relation, shaking his head as he still
looked at the fire, “is in the Air.
John, our esteemed host, suggests its
situation accurately. My Castle is in
the Air ! I have done. Will you be
so good as to pass the story.”
368
THE CHILD'S STORY.
THE CHILD’S STORY.
Once upon a time, a good many
years ago, there was a traveller, and he
set out upon a journey. It was a magic
journey, and was to seem very long
when he began it, and very short when
he got half-way through.
He travelled along a rather dark path
for some little time, without meeting
anything, until at last he came to a
beautiful child. So he said to the child,
“What do you do here?” And the
child said, “ I am always at play.
Come and play with me ! ”
So he played with that child, the
whole day long, and they were very
merry. The sky was so blue, the sun
was so bright, the water was so spark-
ling, the leaves were so green, the
flowers were so lovely, and they heard
such singing-birds and saw so many
butterflies, that everything was beauti-
ful. This was in fine weather. When
it rained, they loved to watch the fall-
ing drops, and to smell the fresh scents.
When it blew, it was delightful to listen
to the wind, and fancy what it said, as
it came rushing from its home — where
was that, they wondered ! — whistling
and howling, driving the clouds before
it, bending the trees, rumbling in the
chimneys, shaking the house, and mak-
ing the sea roar in fury. But when it
snowed, that was best of all ; for they
liked nothing so well as to look up at
the white flakes falling fast and thick,
like down from the breasts of millions
of white birds ; and to see how smooth
and deep the drift was ; and to listen to
the hush upon the paths and roads.
They had plenty of the finest toys in
the world, and the most astonishing pic-
ture-books, — all about scymitars and
slippers and turbans, and dwarfs and
giants and genii and fairies, and blue-
beards and bean-stalks and riches and
caverns and forests and Valentines and
Orsons, — and all new and all true.
But, one day, of a sudden, the travel-
ler lost the child. He called to him
over and over again, but got no answer.
So he went upon his road, and went on
for a little while without meeting any-
thing, until at last he came to a hand-
some boy. So, he said to the boy,
“ What do you do here ? ” And the boy
said, “ I am always learning. Come
and learn with Ae.”
So he learned with that boy about
Jupiter and Juno, and the Greeks and
the Romans, and I don’t know what,
and learned more than I could tell, — or
he either, for he soon forgot a great
deal of it. But they were not always
learning : they had the merriest games
that ever were played. They rowed
upon the river in summer, and skated
on the ice in winter ; they were active
afoot, and active on horseback ; at
cricket, and all games at ball ; at pris-
oners’ base, hare and hounds, follow my
leader, and more sports than I can
think of; nobody could beat them.
They had holidays too, and Twelfth
cakes, and parties where they danced
till midnight, and real theatres where
they saw palaces of real gold and silver
rise out of the real earth, and saw all
the wonders of the world at once. As
to friends, they had such dear friends
and so many of them, that I want the
time to reckon them up. They were
all young, like the handsome boy, and
were never to be strange to one another
all their lives through.
Still, one day, in the midst of all
these pleasures, the traveller lost the
boy as he had lost the child, and, after
calling to him in vain, went on upon his
journey. So he went on for a little
while without seeing anything, until at
last he came to a young man. So he
said to the young man, “What do you
do here?” And the young man said,
“ I am always in love. Come and love
with me.”
So he went away with that young
THE CHILD'S STORY.
369
man, and presently they came to one of
the prettiest girls that ever was seen, —
just like Fanny in the corner there, —
and she had eyes like Fanny, and hair
like Fanny, and dimples like Fanny’s,
and she laughed and colored just as
Fanny d<5es while I am talking about
her. So the young man fell in love di-
rectly, — just as Somebody I won’t men-
tion, the first time he came here, did
with Fanny. Well ! He was teased
sometimes, — just as Somebody used to
be by Fanny ; and they quarrelled some-
times, — just as Somebody and Fanny
used to quarrel ; and they made it up,
and sat in the dark, and wrote letters
every day, and never were happy asun-
der, and were always looking out for
one another and pretending not to, and
were engaged at Christmas time, and
sat close to one another by the fire, and
were going to be married very soon, —
all exactly like Somebody I won’t men-
tion and Fanny !
But the traveller lost them one day,
as he had lost the rest of his friends,
and, after calling to them to come back,
which they never did, went on upon his
journey. So he went on for a little
while without seeing anything, until at
last he came to a middle-aged gentle-
man. So he said to the gentleman,
“What are you doing here?” And
his answer was, “I am always busy.
Come and be busy with me ! ”
So he began to be very busy with that
gentleman, and they went on through
the wood together. The whole journey
was through a wood, only it had been
open and green at first, like a wood in
spring, and now began to be thick and
dark, like a wood in summer ; some of
the little trees that had come out earliest
were even turning brown. The gentle-
man was not alone, but had a lady of
about the same age with him, who was
his wife ; and they had children, who
were with them too. So they all went on
together through the wood, cutting down
the trees, and making a path through
the branches and the fallen leaves, and
carrying burdens, and working hard.
Sometimes they came to a long green
avenue that opened into deeper woods.
Then they would hear a very little dis-
tant voice crying, “ Father, father, I am
24
another child ! Stop for me ! ” And
presently they would see a very little
figure, growing larger as it came along,
running to join them. When it came
up, they all crowded round it, and
kissed and welcomed it ; and then they
all went on together.
Sometimes they came to several ave-
nues at once, and then they all stood
still, and one of the children said,
“ Father, I am going to sea,” and
another said, “Father, I am going
to India,” and another, “ Father, I am
going to seek my fortune where I can,”
and another, “Father, I am going to
Heaven ! ” So, with many tears at
parting, they went, solitary, down those
avenues, each child upon its way ; and
the child who went to Heaven rose
into the golden air and vanished.
Whenever these partings happened,
the traveller looked at the gentleman,
and saw him glance up at the sky above
the trees, where the day was beginning
to decline, and the sunset to come on.
He saw, too, that his hair was turning
gray. But they never could rest long,
for they had their journey to perform,
and it was necessary for them to be
always busy.
At last, there had been so many part-
ings that there were no children left, and
only the traveller, the gentleman, and
the lady went upon their way in com-
pany. And now the wood was yellow ;
and now brown ; and the leaves, even
of the forest trees, began to fall.
So they came to an avenue that was
darker than the rest, and were pressing
forward on their journey, without looking
down it, when the lady stopped.
“My husband,” said the lady, “ I
am called.”
They listened, and they heard a voice
a long way down the avenue say,
“ Mother, mother ! ”
It was the voice of the first child who
had said, “ I am going to Heaven ! ”
and the father said, “ I pray not yet.
The sunset is very near. I pray not
yet I ”
But the voice cried, “Mother, moth-
er !” without minding him, though his
hair was now quite white, and tears were
on his face.
Then the mother, who was already
370
THE SCHOOL-BOY'S STORY.
drawn into the shade of the dark avenue
and moving away with her arms still
round his neck, kissed him, and said,
“ My dearest, I am summoned, and I
go ! ” And she was gone. And the trav-
eller and he were left alone together.
And they went on and on together,
until they came to very near the end of
the wood ; so near, that they could see
the sunset shining red before them
through the trees.
Yet once more, while he broke his
way among the branches, the traveller
lost his friend. He called and called,
but there was no reply, and when he
passed out of the wood, and saw the
peaceful sun goirf£ down upon a wide
purple prospect, he came to an old man
sitting on a fallen tree. So he said to
the old man, “ What do you do here ? *
And the old man said, with a calm smile,
“ I am always remembering. Come
and remember with me !”
So the traveller sat down by the side
of that old man, face to face with the
serene sunset ; and all his friSnds came
softly back and stood around him. The
beautiful child, the handsome boy, the
young man in love, the father, mother,
and children, — every one of them was
there, and he had lost nothing. So he
loved them all, and was kind and for-
bearing with them all, and was always
leased to watch them all, and they all
onored and loved him. And I think
the traveller must be yourself, dear
Grandfather, because this is what you
do to us, and what we do to you.
THE SCHOOL-
Being rather young at present, — I
am getting on in years, but still I am
rather young, — I have no particular
adventures of my own to fall back up-
on. It wouldn’t much interest any-
body here, I suppose, to know what a
screw the Reverend is, or what a grif-
fin she is, or how they do stick it into
parents, — particularly hair-cutting, and
medical attendance. One of our fellows
was charged in his half’s account twelve
and sixpence for two pills, — tolerably
profitable at six and threepence apiece,
I should think, — and 'he never took
them either, but put them up the.
sleeve of his jacket.
As to the beef, it’s shameful. It’s
not beef. Regular beef isn’t veins.
You can chew regular beef Besides
which, there’s gravy to regular beef,
and you never see a drop to ours. An-
other of our fellows went home ill, and
heard the family doctor tell his father
that he could n’t account for his com-
plaint unless it was the beer. Of course
it was the beer, and well it might be !
-BOY’S STORY.
However, beef and Old Cheeseman
are two different things. So is beer.
It was Old Cheeseman I meant to tell
about ; not the manner in which our
fellows get their constitutions destroyed
for the sake of profit.
Why, look at the pie-crust alone.
There ’s no flakiness in it. It ’s sol-
id — like damp lead. Then our fel-
lows get nightmares, and are bolstered
for calling out and waking other fel-
lows. Who can wonder !
Old Cheeseman one night walked in
his sleep, put his hat on over his night-
cap, got hold of a fishing-rod and a crick-
et-bat, and went down into the parlor,
where they naturally thought from his
appearance he was a ghost. Why, he
never would have done that, if his
meals had been wholesome. When we
all begin to walk in our sleeps, I sup-
pose they ’ll be sorry for it.
Old Cheeseman wasn’t second Latin
Master then ; he was a fellow himself.
He was first brought there, very small,
in a post-chaise, by a woman who was
THE SCHOOL-BOY'S STORY.
37 *
always taking snuff and shaking him, —
and that was the most he remembered
about it. He never went home for the
holidays. His accounts (he never learnt
any extras) were sent to a Bank, and the
Bank paid them ; and he had a brown
suit twice a year, and went into boots at
twelve. They were always too big for
him, too.
In the Midsummer holidays, some of
our fellows who lived within walking-dis-
t^pce used to come back and climb the
trees outside the play-ground wall, on
purpose to look at Old Cheeseman read-
ing there by himself. He was always as
mild as the tea, — and that ’s pretty mild,
I should hope ! — so, when they whistled
to him, he looked up and nodded ; and
when they said, “ Halloa, Old Cheese-
man, what have you had for dinner?”
he said, “ Boiled mutton ” ; and when
they said, “Ain’t it solitary, Old Cheese-
man ? ” he said, “It is a little dull
sometimes”; and then they said, “Well,
good by, Old Cheeseman ! ” and
climbed down again. Of course, it
was imposing on Old Cheeseman to
give him nothing but boiled mutton
through a whole vacation, but that
was just like the system. When they
did n’t give him boiled mutton, they
gave him rice pudding, pretending it
was a treat. And saved the butcher.
So Old Cheeseman went on. The
holidays brought him into other trou-
ble besides the loneliness ; because
when the fellows began to come back,
not wanting to, he was always glad to
see them ; which was aggravating, when
they were not at all glad to see him,
and so he got his head knocked against
walls, and that was the way his nose
bled. But he was a favorite in gen-
eral. Once a subscription was raised
for him ; and, to keep up his spirits,
he was presented before the holidays
with two white mice, a rabbit, a pig-
eon, and a beautiful puppy. Old
Cheeseman cried about it, — especially
soon afterwards, when they all ate one
another.
Of course Old Cheeseman used to
be called by the names of all sorts of
cheeses, — Double Glo’sterman, Family
Cheshireman, Dutchman, North Wilt-
shireman, and all that. But he never
minded it. And I don’t mean to say
he was old in point of years, — because
he was n’t, — only he was called, from
the first, Old Cheeseman.
At last, Old Cheeseman was made
second. Latin Master. He was brought
in one morning at the beginning of a
new half, and presented to the school
in that capacity as “Mr. Cheeseman.”
Then our fellows all agreed that Old
Cheeseman was a spy, and a deserter,
who had gone over to the enemy’s
camp, and sold himself for gold. It
was no excuse for him that he had sold
himself for very little gold, — two pound
ten a quarter and his washing, as was
reported. It was decided by a Parlia-
ment which sat about it, that Old
Cheeseman’s mercenary motives could
alone be taken into account, and that
he had “ coined our blood for drach-
mas.” The Parliament took the ex-
pression out of the quarrel scene be-
tween Brutus and Cassius.
When it was settled in this strong
way that Old Cheeseman was a tremen-
dous traitor, who had wormed himself
into our fellows’ secrets on purpose to
get himself into favor by giving up
everything he knew, all courageous fel-
lows were invited to come forward and
enroll themselves in a Society for mak-
ing a set against him. The President
of the Society was First boy, named
Bob Tarter. His father was in the
West Indies, and he owned, himself,
that his father was worth Millions. He
had great power among our fellows, and
he wrote a parody, beginning, —
“ Who made believe to be so meek
That we could hardly hear him speak,
Yet turned out an Informing Sneak?
Old Cheeseman
and on in that way through more
than a dozen verses, which he used to
go and sing, every morning, close by
the new master’s desk. He trained one
of the low boys too, a rosy-cheeked
little Brass who did n’t care what he
did, to go up to him with his Latin
Grammar one morning, and say it so :
— Nominativus pronominum — Old
Cheeseman, raro exprimitur was
never suspected, nisi distinctionis — of
being an informer, aut emphasis pratici
372
THE SCHOOL-BOY'S STORY'.
— until he proved one. Ut — for in-
stance, Vos damnastis — when he sold
the boys. Quasi — as though, dicat —
he should say, Prceterea nemo — I’m
a Judas ! All this produced a great ef-
fect on Old Cheeseman. He had never
had much hair ; but what he had be-
gan to get thinner and thinner every
day. He grew paler and more worn ;
and sometimes of an evening he was
seen sitting at his desk with a precious
long snuff to his candle, and his hands
before his face, crying. But no mem-
ber of the Society could pity him, even
if he felt inclined, because the Presi-
dent said it was Old Cheeseman’s con-
science.
So Old Cheeseman went on, and
did n’t he lead a miserable life ! Of
course the Reverend turned up his nose
at him, and of course she did, — because
both of them always do that at all the
masters, — but he suffered from the fel-
lows most, and he suffered from them
constantly. He never told about it,
that the Society could find out ; but he
got no credit for that, because the Pres-
ident said it was Old Cheeseman’s cow-
ardice.
He had only one friend in the world,
and that one was almost as powerless as
he was, for it was only Jane. Jane was
a sort of wardrobe- worn an to our fel-
lows, and took care of the boxes. She
had come at first, I believe, as a kind
of apprentice, — some of our fellows say
from a Charity, but I don’t know, — and
after her time was out, had stopped at
so much a year. So little a year, per-
haps I ought to say, for it is far more
likely. However, she had put some
pounds in the Savings’ Bank, and she
was a very nice young woman. She
was not quite pretty ; but she had a
very frank, honest, bright face, and all
our fellows were fond of her. She was
uncommonly neat and cheerful, and un-
commonly comfortable and kind. And
if anything was the matter with a fel-
low’s mother, he always went and
showed the letter to Jane.
Jane was Old Cheeseman’s friend.
The more the Society went against
him, the more Jane stood by him. She
Used to give him a good-humored look
out of her still-room window, some-
times, that seemed to set him up for the
day. She used to pass out of the or-
chard and the kitchen garden (always
kept locked, I believe you !) through
the play-ground, when she might have
gone the other way, only to give a
turn of her head, as much as to say,
“ Keep up your spirits ! *’ to Old
Cheeseman. His slip of a room was
so fresh and orderly, that it was well
known who looked after it while he was
at his desk ; and when our fellows s^w
a smoking hot dumpling on his plate at
dinner, they knew' with indignation who
had sent it up.
Under these circumstances, the Soci-
ety resolved, after a quantity of meeting
and debating, that Jane should be re-
quested to cut Old Cheeseman dead ;
and that if she refused, she must be
sent to Coventry herself. So a deputa-
tion, headed by the President, was ap-
pointed to wait on Jane, and inform
her of the vote the Society had been
under the painful necessity of passing.
She was very much respected for all
her good qualities, and there w'as a sto-
ry about her having once waylaid the
Reverend in his own study, and got a
fellow off from severe punishment, of
her own kind, comfortable heart. So
the deputation didn’t much like the
job. How'ever, they went up, and the
President told Jane all about it. Upon
which Jane turned very red, burst into
tears, informed the President and the
deputation, in a w r ay not at all like her
usual w'ay, that they w-ere a parcel of
malicious young savages, and turned
the whole respected body out of the
room. Consequently it w'as entered in
the Society’s book (kept in astronomi-
cal cipher for fear of detection), that all
communication with Jane was inter-
dicted; and the President addressed the
members on this convincing instance
of Old Cheeseman’s undermining.
But Jane w'as as true to Old Cheese-
man as Old Cheeseman was false to our
fellow's, — in their opinion at all events,
— and steadily continued to be his only
friend. It w'as a great exasperation to
the Society, because Jane was as much
a loss to them as she was a gain to
him ; and, being more inveterate against
him than ever, they treated him worse
THE SCHOOL-BOY'S STORY.
373
than ever. At last, one morning, his
desk stood empty, his room was peeped
into and found to be vacant, and a
whisper went about among the pale
faces of our fellows, that Old Cheese-
man, unable to bear it any longer, had
got up early and drowned himself.
The mysterious looks of the other
masters after breakfast, and the evident
fact that Old Cheeseman was not ex-
pected, confirmed the Society in this
opinion* Some began to discuss wheth-
er the President was liable to hanging
or only transportation for life, and the
President’s face showed a great anxiety
to know which. However, he said that
a jury of his country should find him
game ; and that in his • address he
should put it to them to lay their
hands upon their hearts, and say wheth-
er they as Britons approved of inform-
ers, and how they thought they would
like it themselves. Some of the Socie-
ty considered that he had better run
away until he found a forest, where he
might change clothes with a wood-cut-
ter and stain his face with blackber-
ries ; but the majority believed that if
he stood his ground, his father — be-
longing as he did to the West Indies,
and being worth Millions — could buy
him off.
All our fellows’ hearts beat fast when
the Reverend came in, and made a sort
of a Roman, or a Field Marshal, of
himself with the ruler, as he always
did before delivering an address. But
their fears were nothing to their aston-
ishment when he came out with the
story that Old Cheeseman, “so long
our respected friend and fellow-pilgrim
in the* pleasant plains of knowledge,”
he called him, — O yes! I dare say!
Much of that! — was the orphan child
of a disinherited young lady who had
married against her father’s wish, and
whose young husband had died, and
who had died of sorrow herself, and
whose unfortunate baby (Old Cheese-
man) had been brought up at the cost
of a grandfather who would never con-
sent to see it, baby, boy, or man ; which
grandfather was now dead, and serve
him right, — that’s my putting in, —
and which grandfather’s large property,
there being no will, was now, and all
of a sudden and forever, Old Cheese-
man’s ! Our so long respected friend
and fellow-pilgrim in the pleasant plains
of knowledge, the Reverend wound up
a lot of bothering quotations by saying,
would “come among us once more”
that day fortnight, when he desired to
take leave of us himself in a more par-
ticular manner. With these words he
stared severely round at our fellows,
and went solemnly out.
There was precious consternation
among the members of the Society,
now. Lots of them wanted to resign,
and lots more began to try to make out
that they had never belonged to it.
However, the President stuck up, and
said that they must stand or fall togeth-
er, and that if a breach was made, it
should be over his body, — which was
meant to encourage the Society, but it
didn’t. The President further said, he
would consider the position in which
they stood, and would give them his
best opinion and advice in a few days.
This was eagerly looked for, as he knew
a good deal of the world on account
of his father’s being in the West Indies.
After days and days of hard thinking,
and drawing armies all over his slate,
the President called our fellows togeth-
er, and made the matter clear. He
said it was plain that when Old Cheese-
man came on the appointed day, his
first revenge would be to impeach the
Society, and have it flogged all round.
After witnessing with joy the torture of
his enemies, and gloating over the cries
which agony would extort from them,
the probability was that he would invite
the Reverend, on pretence of conversa-
tion, into a private room, — say the
parlor into which Parents were shown,
where the two great globes were which
were never used, — and would there
reproach him with the various frauds
and oppressions he had endured at his
hands. At the close of his observations
he would make a signal to a.Prize-fight-
er concealed in the passage, who would
then appear and pitch into the Rev-
erend till he was left insensible. Old
Cheeseman would then make Jane a
present of from five to ten pounds, and
would leave the establishment in fiend-
ish triumph.
374
THE SCHOOL-BOY'S STORY.
The President explained that against
the parlor part, or the Jane part, of
these arrangements he had nothing to
say; but, on the part of the Society,
he counselled deadly resistance. With
this view he recommended that all
available desks should be filled with
stones, and that the first word of the
complaint should be the signal to every
fellow to let fly at Old Cheeseman.
The bold advice put the Society in
better spirits, and was unanimously
taken. A post about Old Cheeseman’s
size was put up in the play-ground, and
all our fellows practised at it till it was
dinted all over.
When the day came, and Places were
called, every fellow sat down in a trem-
ble. There had been much discussing
and disputing as to how Old Cheese-
man would come ; but it was the general
opinion that he would appear in a sort
of triumphal car drawn by four horses,
with two livery servants in front, and
the Prize-fighter in disguise up behind.
So all our fellows sat listening for the
sound of wheels. But no wheels were
heard, for Old Cheeseman walked after
all, and came into the school without
any preparation. Pretty much as he
used to be, only dressed in black.
“Gentlemen,” said the Reverend,
presenting him, “ our so long respected
friend and fellow-pilgrim in the pleasant
plains of knowledge is desirous to offer
a word or two. Attention, gentlemen,
one and all ! ”
Every fellow stole his hand into his
desk and looked at the President. The
President was all ready, and taking aim
at Old Cheeseman with his eyes.
What did Old Cheeseman then, but
walk up to his old desk, look round
him with a queer smile as if there was
a tear in his eye, and begin in a quaver-
ing, mild voice, “ My dear companions
and old friends ! ”
Every fellow’s hand came out of his
desk, and the President suddenly began
to cry.
“ My dear companions and old
friends,” said Old Cheeseman, “you
have heard of my good fortune. I have
passed so many years under this roof —
ray entire life so far, I may say — that
I hope you have been glad to hear of
it for my sake. I could never enjoy
it without exchanging congratulations
with you. If we have ever misunder-
stood one another at all, pray, my dear
boys, let us forgive and forget. I have
a great tenderness for you, and I am
sure you return it. I want in the fulness
of a grateful heart to shake hands with
you every one. I have come back to
do it, if you please, my dear boys.”
Since the President had begun to cry,
several other fellows had broken out
here and there ; but now, when Old
Cheeseman began with him as first boy,
laid his left hand affectionately on his
shoulder and g^vc him his right; and
when the President said, “ Indeed I
don’t deserve it, sir; upon my honor,
I don’t,” there was sobbing and cry-
ing all over the school. Every other
fellow said he didn’t deserve it, much
in the same way ; but old Cheeseman,
not minding that a bit, went cheerfully
round to every boy, and wound up with
every master, — finishing off the Rever-
end last.
Then a snivelling little chap in a
corner, who was always under some
punishment or other, set up a shrill
cry of “ Success to Old Cheeseman !
Hoorray !” The Reverend glared upon
him, and said, “ Mr. Cheeseman, sir.”
But Old Cheeseman protesting that
he liked his old name a great deal
better than his new one, all our fellows
took up the cry ; and, for I don’t know
how many minutes, there was such a
thundering of feet and hands, and such
a roaring of Old Cheeseman, as never
was heard.
After that, there was a spread in the
dining-room of the most magnificent
kind. Fowls, tongues, preserves, fruits,
confectioneries, jellies, neguses, barley-
sugar temples, trifles, crackers, — eat
all you can and pocket what you like, —
all at Old Cheeseman’s expense. After
that, speeches, whole holiday, double
and treble sets of all manners of things
for all manners of' games, donkeys,
pony-chaises and drive yourself, dinner
for all the masters at the Seven Bells
(twenty pounds a head our fellows
estimated it at), an annual holiday and
feast fixed for that day every year, and
another on Old Cheeseman’s birthday.
OLD CHEESEMAN.
the uwmw
OF THE
08WERSITV 8f ItU^O’.S
THE SCHOOL-BOY'S STORY.
375
— Reverend bound down before the
fellows to allow it, so that he could
never back out, — all at Old Cheese-
man’s expense.
And didn’t our fellows go down in a
body and cheer outside the Seven Bells ?
O no !
But there ’s something else besides.
Don’t look at the next story-teller, for
there ’s more yet. Next day, it was re-
solved that the Society should make it
up with Jane, and then be dissolved.
What do you think of Jane being gone,
though! “What? Gone forever?”
said our fellows, with long faces. “Yes,
to be sure,” was all the answer they
could get. None of the people about
the house would say anything more.
At length, the first boy took upon him-
self to ask the Reverend whether our
old friend Jane was really gone ? The
Reverend (he has got a daughter at
home — turn-up* nose, and red) replied
severely, “Yes, sir, Miss Pitt is gone.”
The idea of calling Jane Miss Pitt !
Some said she had been sent away in
disgrace for taking money from Old
Cheeseman, others said she had gone
into Old Cheeseman’s service at a rise
of ten pounds a year. All that our fel-
lows knew was, she was gone.
It was two or three months afterwards,
when, one afternoon, an open carriage
stopped at the cricket-field, just outside
bounds, with a lady and gentleman
in it, who looked at the game a long
time and stood up to see it played.
Nobody thought much about them, un-
til the same little snivelling chap came
in against all rules, from the post where
he was Scout, and said, “ It’s Jane !”
Both Elevens forgot the game directly,
and ran crowding round the carriage.
It was Jane ! In such a bonnet ! And
if you ’ll believe me, Jane was married
to Old Cheeseman.
It soon became quite a regular thing
when our fellows were hard at it in the
play-ground, to see a carriage at the low
part of the wall where it joins the high
part, and a lady and gentleman stand-
ing up in it, looking over. The gentle-
man was always Old Ckeeseman, and
the lady was always Jane.
The first time I ever saw them, I saw
them in that way. There had been a
good many changes among our fellows
then, and it had turned out that Bob
Tarter’s father wasn’t worth Millions!
He was n’t worth anything. Bob had
gone for a soldier, and Old Cheeseman
had purchased his discharge. But that ’s
not the carriage. The carriage stopped,
and all our fellows stopped as soon as it
was seen.
“ So you have never sent me to Cov-
entry after all ! ” said the lady, laugh-
ing, as our fellows swarmed up the wall
to shake hands with her. “ Are you
never going to do it?”
“ Never ! never ! never ! ” on all sides.
I didn’t understand what she meant
then, but of course I do now. I was
very much pleased with her face, though,
and with her good way, and I could n’t
help looking at her — and at him too —
with all our fellows clustering so joyful-
ly about them.
They soon took notice of me as anew
boy, so I thought I might as well swarm
up the wall myself, and shake hands
with them as the rest did. I was quite
as glad to see them as the rest were,
and was quite as familiar with them
in a moment.
“Only a fortnight, now,” said Old
Cheeseman, “ to the holidays. Who
stops? Anybody?”
A good many fingers pointed at me,
and a good many voices cried, “ He
does ! ” For it was the year when you
were all away ; and rather low I was
about it, I can tell you.
“ Oh ! ” said Old Cheeseman. “ But
it ’s solitary here in the holiday time.
He had better come to us.”
So I went to their delightful house,
and was as happy as I could possibly
be. They understand how to conduct
themselves towards boys, they do.
When they take a boy to the play, for
instance, they do take him. They don’t
go in after it ’s begun, or come out
before it ’s over. They know how to
bring a boy up, too. Look at their own !
Though he is very little as yet, what a
capital boy he is ! Why, my next fa-
vorite to Mrs. Cheeseman and Old
Cheeseman, is young Cheeseman.
So now I have told you all I know
about Old Cheeseman. And it’s not
much after all, I am afraid. Is it ?
376
NOBODY'S STORY.
NOBODY’
He lived on the bank of a mighty
river, broad and deep, which was al-
ways silently rolling on to a vast undis-
covered ocean. It had rolled on, ever
since the world began. It had changed
its course sometimes, and turned into
new channels, leaving its old ways dry
and barren ; but it had ever been upon
the flow, and ever was to flow until
Time should be no more. Against its
strong, unfathomable . stream, nothing
made head. No living creature, no
flower, no leaf, no particle of animate or
inanimate existence, ever strayed back
from the undiscovered ocean. The tide
of the river set resistlessly towards it ;
and the tide never stopped, any more
than the earth stops in its circling
round the sun.
He lived in a busy place, and he
worked very hard to live. He had no
hope of ever being rich enough to live a
month without hard work, but he was
quite content, God knows, to labor with
a cheerful will. He was one of an im-
mense family, all of whose sons and
daughters gained their daily bread by
daily work, prolonged, from their rising
up betimes until their lying down at
night. Beyond this destiny he had no
prospect, and he sought none.
There was over-much drumming,
trumpeting, and speech-making, in the
neighborhood where he dwelt ; but he
had nothing to do' with that. Such
clash and uproar came from the Bigwig
family, at the unaccountable proceed-
ings of which race he marvelled much.
They set up the strangest statues, in
iron, marble, bronze, and brass, before
his door ; and darkened his house with
the legs and tails of uncouth images of
horses. He wondered what it all meant,
smiled in a rough, good-humored way he
had, and kept at his hard work.
The Bigwig family (composed of all
the stateliest people thereabouts, and
all the poisiest) had undertaken to save
S STORY.
him the trouble of thinking for himself,
and to manage him and his affairs.
‘‘Why, truly,” said he, “I have little
time upon m^ hands ; and if you will be
so good as to take care of me, in return
for the money I pay over,” — for the
Bigwig family were not above his mon-
ey, — “ I shall be relieved and much
obliged, considering that you know
best.” Hence the drumming, trumpet-
ing, and speech-making, and the ugly
images of horses which he was expected
to fall down and worship.
“ I don’t understand all this,” said
he, rubbing his furrowed brow confused-
ly. “ But it has a meaning, may be, if
I could find it out.”
“ It means,” returned the Bigwig
family, suspecting something of what he
said, “ honor and glory in the highest,
to the highest merit.”
“ Oh ! ” said he. And he was glad
to hear that.
But when he looked among the
images in iron, marble, bronze, and
brass, he failed to find a rather merito-
rious countryman of his, once the son
of a Warwickshire wool-dealer, or any
single countryman whomsoever of that
kind. He could find none of the men
whose knowledge had rescued him and
his children from terrific and disfigur-
ing disease, whose boldness had raised
his forefathers from the condition of
serfs, whose wise fancy had opened a
new and high existence to the hum-
blest, whose skill had filled the working-
man’s world with accumulated wonders.
Whereas, he did find others whom he
knew no good of, and even others whom
he knew much ill of.
“ Humph ! ” said he. “ I don’t quite
understand it.”
So he went home, and sat down by
his fireside to get it out of his mind.
Now, his fireside was a bare one, all
hemmed in by blackened streets ; but
it was a precious place to him. The
NOBODY'S STORY.
377
hands of his wife were hardened with
toil, and she was old before her time ;
but she was dear to him. His children,
stunted in their growth, bore traces of
unwholesome nurture ; but they had
beauty in his sight. Above all other
things, it was an earnest desire of this
man’s soul that his children should be
taught. “If I am sometimes misled,”
said he, “ for want of knowledge, at
least let them know better, and avoid
my mistakes. If it is hard to me to
reap the harvest of pleasure and in-
struction that is stored in books, let it
be easier to them.”
But the Bigwig family broke out in-
to violent family quarrels concerning
what it was lawful to teach to this man’s
children. Some of the family*insisted
on such a thing being primary and in-
dispensable above all other things ; and
others of the family insisted on such
another thing being primary and indis-
pensable above all other things ; and
the Bigwig family, rent into factions,
wrote pamphlets, held convocations,
delivered charges, orations, and all va-
rieties of discourses ; impounded one
another in courts Lay and courts Eccle-
siastical ; threw dirt, exchanged pum-
mellings, and fell together by the ears
in unintelligible animosity. Mean-
while, this man, in his short evening
snatches at his fireside, saw the demon
Ignorance arise there, and take his chil-
dren to itself. He saw his daughter
perverted into a heavy slatternly drudge ;
he saw his son go moping down the ways
of low sensuality to brutality and crime ;
he saw the dawning light of intelligence
in the eyes of his babies so changing
into cunning and suspicion that he
could have rather wished them idiots.
“ I don’t understand this any the bet-
ter,” said he; “but I think it cannot
be right. Nay, by the clouded Heaven
above me, I protest against this as my
wrong !” .
Becoming peaceable again (for his
passion was usually short-lived, and
his nature kind), he looked about him
on his Sundays and holidays, and he
saw how much monotony and weariness
there was, and thence how drunkenness
arose with all its train of ruin. Then
he appealed to the Bigwig family, and
said, “We are a laboring people, and I
have a glimmering suspicion in me that
laboring people of whatever condition
were made — by a higher intelligence
than yours, as I poorly understand it —
to be in need of mental refreshment and
recreation. See what we fall into, when
we rest without it. Come ! Amuse me
harmlessly, show me something, give
me an escape ! ”
But here the Bigwig family fell into
a state of uproar absolutely deafening.
When some few voices were faintly
heard, proposing to show him the won-
ders of the world, the greatness of crea-
tion, the mighty changes of time, the
workings of nature, and the beauties of
art, — to show him these things, that is
to say, at any period of his life when he
could look upon them, — there arose
among the Bigwigs such roaring and
raving, such pulpiting and petitioning,
such maundering and memorializing,
such name-calling and dirt-throwing,
such a shrill wind of parliamentary
questioning and feeble replying, — where
“ I dare not ” waited on-^ I would,” —
that the poor fellow stood aghast, star-
ing wildly around.
“ Have I provoked all this,” said he,
with his hands to his affrighted ears,
“ by what was meant to be an innocent
request, plainly arising out of my famil-
iar experience, and the common knowl-
edge of all men who choose to open
their eyes? I don’t understand, and I
am not understood. What is to come
of such a state of things ! ”
He was bending over his work, often
asking himself the question, when the
news began to spread that a pestilence
had appeared among the laborers, and
was slaying them by thousands. Going
forth to look about him, he soon found
this to be true. The dying and the
dead were mingled in the close and
tainted houses among which his life was
passed. New poison was distilled in-
to the always murky, always sickening
air. The robust and the weak, old age
and infancy, the father and the mother,
all were stricken down alike.
What means of flight had he ? He
remained there, where he was, and saw
those who were dearest to him die. A
kind preacher came to him, ancf w«uld
378
NOBODY’S STORY.
have said some prayers to soften his
heart in his gloom, but he replied : —
“ O what avails it, missionary, to
come to me, a man condemned to resi-
dence in this foetid place, where every
sense bestowed upon me for my delight
becomes a torment, and where every
minute of my numbered days is new
mire added to the heap under which I
lie oppressed ! But give me my first
glimpse of Heaven, through a little of
its light and air ; give me pure water ;
help me to be clean ; lighten this heavy
atmosphere and heavy life, in which
our spirits sink, and we become the in-
different and callous creatures you too
often see us ; gently and kindly take
the bodies of those who die among us
out of the small room where we grow to
be so familiar with the awful change that
even its sanctity is lost to us ; and,
Teacher, then I will hear — none know
better than you, how willingly — of
Him whose thoughts were so much
with the poor, and who had compassion
for all human sorrow ! ”
He was at -his work again, solitary
and sad, when his Master came and
stood near to him dressed in black.
He, also, had suffered heavily. His
young wife, his beautiful and good young
wife, was dead ; so, too, his only child.
“ Master, ’t is hard to bear, — I know
it, — but be comforted. I would give
you comfort, if I could.’ ’
The Master thanked him from his
heart, but, said he, “ O you laboring
men ! The calamity began among you.
If you had but lived more healthily and
decently, I should not be the widowed
and bereft mourner that I am this
day.”
“Master,” returned the other, shak-
ing his head, “ I have begun to under-
stand a little that most calamities will
come from us, as this one did, and that
none will stop at our poor doors, until
we are united with that great squabbling
family yonder, to do the things that are
right. We cannot live healthily and
decently, unless they who undertook
to manage us provide the means. We
cannot be instructed unless they will
teach us ; we cannot be rationally
amused, unless they will amuse us ;
we cannot but have some false gods of
our own, while they set up so many of
theirs in all the public places. The
evil consequences of imperfect instruc-
tion, the evil consequences of pernicious
neglect, the evil consequences of un-
natural restraint and the denial of hu-
manizing enjoyments, will all come
from us, and none of them will stop
with us. They will spread far and
wide. They always do ; they always
have done, — just like the pestilence.
I understand so much, I think, at last.”
But the Master said again, “O you
laboring men ! How seldom do we
ever hear of you, except in connection
with some trouble ! ”
“ Master,” he replied, “ I am No-
body, and little likely to be heard of
(nor yef much wanted to be heard of,
perhaps), except when there is some
trouble. But it never begins with me,
and it never can end with me. As sure
as death, it comes down to me, and
it goes up from me.”
There was so much reason in what
he said, that the Bigwig family, getting
wind of it, and being horribly frightened
by the late desolation, resolved to
unite with him to do the things that
were right, — at all events, so far as the
said things were associated with the
direct prevention, humanly speaking,
of another pestilence. But as their
fear wore off, which it soon began to
do, they resumed their falling out
among themselves, and did nothing.
Consequently the scourge appeared
again — low down as before — and
spread avengingly upward as before,
and carried off vast numbers of the
brawlers. But not a man among them
ever admitted, if in the least degree
he ever perceived, that he had any-
thing to do with it.
So Nobody lived and died in the old,
old. old way ; and this, in the main,
is the whole of Nobody’s story.
Had he no name, you ask ? Perhaps
it was Legion. It matters little what
his name was. Let us call him Le-
gion.
If you were ever in the Belgian vil-
lages near the field of Waterloo, you
will have seen, in some quiet little
church, a monument erected by faithful
companions in arms to the memory of
THE GHOST OF ART.
379
Colonel A, Major B, Captains C, D,
and E, Lieutenants F and G, Ensigns
H, I, and J, seven non-commissioned
officers, and one hundred and thirty
rank and file, who fell in the discharge
of their duty on the memorable day.
The story of Nobody is the story of
the rank and file of the earth. They
bear their share _ of the battle ; they
have their part in the victory ; they
fall ; they leave no name but in the
mass. The march of the proudest of
us leads to the dusty way by which
they go. O, let us think of them this
year at the Christmas fire, and not for-
get them when it is burnt out I
THE GHOST OF ART.
I am a bachelor, residing in rather a
dreary set of chambers in the Temple.
They are situated in a square court of
high houses, which would be a complete
well, but for the want of water and the
absence of a bucket. I live at the top
of the house, among the tiles and spar-
rows. Like the little man in the nurs-
ery-story, I live by myself, and all the
bread and cheese I get — which is not
much — I put upon a shelf. I need
scarcely add, perhaps, that I am in love,
and that the father of my charming
Julia objects to our union.
I mention these little particulars as I
might deliver a letter of introduction.
The reader is now acquainted with me,-
and perhaps will condescend to listen to
my narrative.
I am naturally of a dreamy turn of
mind ; and my abundant leisure, — for
I am called to the bar, — coupled with
much lonely listening to the twittering
of sparrows, and the pattering of rain,
has encouraged that disposition. In
my “top set,” I hear the wind howl,
on a winter night, when the man on the
ground-floor believes it is perfectly still
weather. The dim lamps with which
our Honorable Society (supposed to be
as yet unconscious of the new discovery
called gas) make the horrors of the
staircase visible, deepen the gloom
which generally settles on my soul when
I go home at night.
I am in the Law, but not of it. I
can’t exactly make out what it means.
I sit in Westminster Hall sometimes
(in character) from ten to four ; and
when I go out of court, I don’t know
whether I am standing on my wig or
my boots.
It appears to me (I mention this in
confidence) as if there were too much
talk and too much law, — as if some
grains of truth were started overboard
into a tempestuous sea of chaff.
All this may make me mystical.
Still, I am confident that what I am
going to describe myself as having-
seen and heard, I actually did see and
hear.
It is necessary that I should observe
that I have a great delight in pictures.
I am no painter myself, but I have
studied pictures and written about them,
I have seen all the most famous pictures
in the world ; my education and reading
have been sufficiently general to possess
me beforehand with a knowledge of
most of the subjects to which a painter
is likely to have recourse ; and, al-
though I might be in some doubt as to
the rightful fashion of the scabbard of
King Lear’s sword, for instance, I think
I should know King Lear tolerably
well, if I happened to meet with him.
I go to all the Modern Exhibitions
every season, and of course I revere the
Royal Academy. I stand by its forty
Academical articles almost as firmly as
I stand by the thirty-nine Articles of
the Church of England. I am con-
vinced that in neither case could there
380
THE GHOST OF ART .
be, by any rightful possibility, one arti-
cle more or less.
It is now exactly three years — three
years ago, this very month — since I
went from Westminster to the Temple,
one Thursday afternoon, in a cheap
steamboat. The sky was black, when
I imprudently walked on board. It
began to thunder and lighten immedi-
ately afterwards, and the rain poured
dowu in torrents. The deck seeming
to smoke with the wet, I went below ;
but so many passengers were there,
smoking too, that I came up again, and
buttoning my pea-coat, and standing in
the shadow of the paddle-box, stood as
upright as I could, and made the best
of it.
It was at this moment that I first be-
held the terrible Being who is the sub-
ject of my present recollections.
Standing against the funnel, appar-
ently with the intention of drying him-
self by the heat as fast as he got wet,
was a shabby man in threadbare black,
and with his hands in his pockets, who
fascinated me from the memorable in-
stant when I caught his eye.
Where had I caught that eye before?
Who was he? Why did I connect him,
all at once, with the Vicar of Wakefield,
Alfred the Great, Gil Bias, Charles the
Second, Joseph and his Brethren, the
Fairy Queen, Tom Jones, the Decam-
eron of Boccaccio, Tam O’Shanter,
the Marriage of the Doge of Venice
with the Adriatic, and the Great Plague
of London? Why, when he bent one
leg, and placed one hand upon the back
of the seat near him, did my mind
associate him wildly with the words,
“ Number one hundred and forty-two,
Portrait of a gentleman ” ? Could it be
that I was going mad ?
I looked at him again, and now I
could have taken my affidavit that he
belonged to the Vicar of Wakefield’s
family. Whether he was the Vicar, or
Moses, or Mr. Burchill, or the Squire,
or a conglomeration of all four, I know
not ; but I was impelled to seize him
by the throat, and charge him with
being, in some fell way, connected with
the Primrose blood. He looked up at
the rain, and then — O Heaven ! —
he became Saint John. He folded his
arms, resigning himself to the weather,
and I was frantically inclined to address
him as the Spectator, and firmly de-
manded to know what he had done
with Sir Roger de Coverley.
The frightful suspicion that I was
becoming deranged returned upon me
wdth redoubled force. Meantime, this
awful stranger, inexplicably linked to
my distress, stood drying himself at the
funnel ; and ever, as the steam rose
from his clothes, diffusing a mist around
him, I saw through the ghostly medium
all the people I have mentioned, and a
score more, sacred and profane.
I am conscious of a dreadful inclina-
tion that stole upon me, as it thundered
and lightened, to grapple with this man
or demon, and plunge him over the
side. But I constrained myself — I
know not how' — to speak to him, and
in a pause of the storm I crossed the
deck, and said, —
“ What are you ? ”
He replied, hoarsely, “A Model.”
“ A what? ” said I.
“ A Model,” he replied. “ I sets to
the profession for a bob a hour.” (All
through this narrative I give his own
words, . which are indelibly imprinted
on my memory.)
The relief w'hich this disclosure gave
me, the exquisite delight of the restora-
tion of my confidence in my own sanity,
I cannot describe. I should have fallen
on his neck, but for the consciousness
of being observed by the man at the
wheel.
“You then,” said I, shaking him so
warmly by the hand, that I wrung the
rain out of his coat-cuff, “ are the gen-
tleman whom I have so frequently con-
templated, in connection with a high-
backed chair w'ith a red cushion, and a
table with twisted legs.”
“ I am that Model,” he rejoined,
moodily, “and I wish I was anything
else.”
“ Say not so,” I returned. “I have
seen you in the society of many beau-
tiful young women ” ; as in truth I had,
and always (I now remember) in the
act of making the most of his legs.
“ No doubt,” said he. “ And you ’ve
! seen me along with warses of flowers,
: and any number of table-kivers, and
THE GHOST OF ART.
antique cabinets, and warious gam-
mon.”
“ Sir ? ” said I.
“And warious gammon,” he repeated
in a louder voice. “ You might have
seen me in armor, too, if you had looked
sharp. Blessed if I ha’n’t stood in half
the suits of armor as ever came out of
Pratt’s shop ; and sat, for weeks to-
gether, a eating nothing, out of half the
gold and silver dishes as has ever been
lent for the purpose out of Storrses,
and Mortimerses, or Garrardses, and
Davenportseseses. ”
Excited, as it appeared, by a sense
of injury, I thought he never would
have found an end for the last word.
But at length it rolled suddenly away
with the thunder.
“Pardon me,” said I, “you are a
well-favored, well-made man, and yet
— forgive me — I find, on examining
my mind, that I associate you with —
that my recollection indistinctly makes
you, in short — excuse me — a kind of
powerful monster.”
“ It would be a wonder if it did n’t,”
he said. “ Do you know what my
points are ? ”
“ No,” said I.
“My throat and my legs,” said he.
“ When I don’t set for a head, I mostly
sets for a throat and a pair of legs.
Now, granted you was a painter, and
was to work at my throat for a week
together, I suppose you ’d see a lot of
lumps and bumps there, that would
never be there at all, if you looked at
me, complete, instead of only my throat.
Would n’t you ? ”
“ Probably,” said I, surveying him.
“ Why, it stands to reason,” said the
Model. “ Work another week at my
legs, and it ’ll be the same thing. You
’ll make ’em out as knotty and as knob-
by, at last, as if they was the trunks
of two old trees. Then, take and stick
my legs and throat on to another man’s
body, and you ’ll make a reg’lar mon-
ster. And that ’s the way the public
gets their . reg’lar monsters, every first
Monday in May, when the Royal
Academy Exhibition opens.”
“You are a critic,” said I, with an
air of deference.
“ I ’m in an uncommon ill-humor, if
381
that’s it,” rejoined the Model, with
great indignation. “As if it warn’t bad
enough, for a bob a hour, for a man to
be mixing himself up with that there
jolly old furniter that one ’ud think the
public know’d the wery nails in by this
time, — or to be putting on greasy old
ats and cloaks, and playing tambourines
in the Bay o’ Naples, with Wesuvius a
smokin’ according to pattern in the
background, and the wines a bearing
wonderful in the middle distance, — or
to be unpolitely kicking up his legs
among a lot o’ gals, with no reason
whatever in his mind but to show ’em,
— as if this warn’t bad enough, I ’m to
go and be thrown out of employment
too ! ”
“ Surely no ! ” said I. _
“ Surely yes,” said the indignant Mod-
el. “ But I ’ll grow one.”
The gloomy and threatening manner
in which he muttered the last words
can never be effaced from my remem-
brance. My blood ran cold.
I asked of myself, what was it that
this desperate Being was resolved to
grow. My breast made no response.
I ventured to implore him to explain,
his meaning. With a scornful laugh, he,
uttered this dark prophecy, —
“ I ’ll grow one. And, mark mv
WORDS, IT SHALL HAUNT YOU ! ”
We parted in the storm, after I had
forced half a crown on his acceptance,
with a trembling hand. I conclude that
something supernatural happened to thq
steamboat, as it bore his reeking figure
down the river ; but it never got into the
papers.
Two years elapsed, during which I
followed my profession without any vi-
cissitudes, never holding so much as a
motion of course. At the expiration of
that period, I found myself making my
way home to the Temple, one night, in
precisely such another storm of thunder
and lightning as that by which I had
been overtaken on board the steamboat,
— except that this storm, bursting over
the town at midnight, was rendered
much more awful by the darkness and
the hour.
As I turned into my court, I really
thought a thunderbolt would fall, and
plough the pavement up. Every brick
382
THE GHOST OF ART
and stone in the place seemed to have
an echo of its own for the thunder. The
water-spouts were overcharged, and the
rain came tearing down from the house-
tops as if they had been mountain-
tops.
Mrs. Parkins, my laundress — wife of
Parkins the porter, then newly dead of
a dropsy — had particular instructions to
place a bedroom candle and a match un-
der the staircase lamp on my landing, in
order that I might light my candle there,
whenever I came home. Mrs. Parkins
invariably disregarding all instructions,
they were never there. Thus it hap-
pened that on this occasion I groped
my way into my sitting-room to find
the candle, and came out to light it.
What were my emotions when, under-
neath the staircase lamp, shining with
wet as if he had never been dry since
our last meeting, stood the mysterious
Being whom I had encountered on the
steamboat in a thunder-storm, two
years before ! His prediction rushed
upon my mind, and I turned faint.
“ I said I ’d do it,” he observed, in
a hollow voice, “ and I have done it.
May I come in?”
“ Misguided creature, what have you
done ? ” I returned.
“I ’ll let you know,” was his reply,
“if you’ll let me in.”
Could it be murder that he had done ?
And had he been so successful that he
wanted to do it again, at my expense ?
I hesitated.
“ May I come in ? ” said he.
I inclined my head, with as much pres-
ence of mind as I could command, and
he followed me into my chambers.
There I saw that the lower part of
his face was tied up in what is com-
monly called a Belcher handkerchief.
He slowly removed this bandage, and
exposed to view a long dark beard,
curling over his upper lip, twisting
about the corners of his mouth, and
hanging down upon his breast.
“What is this?” I exclaimed in-
voluntarily, “and what have you be-
come ? ”
“ I am the Ghost of Art ! ” said he.
The effect of these words, slowly ut-
tered in the thunder-storm at midnight,
was appalling in the last degree. More
dead than alive, I surveyed him in si-
lence.
“The German taste came up,” said
he, “ and threw me out of bread. I
am ready for the taste now.”
He made his beard a little jagged
with his hands, folded his arms, and
said, —
“ Severity ! ”
I shuddered. It was so severe.
He made his beard flowing on his
breast, and, leaning both hands on the
staff of a carpet-broom which Mrs.
Parkins had left among my books,
said, —
“ Benevolence.”
I stood transfixed. The change of
sentiment was entirely in the beard.
The man might have left his face alone,
or had no face. The beard did every-
thing.
He lay down, on his back, on my ta-
ble, and with that action of his head
threw up his beard at the chin.
“ That ’s death ! ” said he.
He got off my table, and, looking up
at the ceiling, cocked his beard a little
awry ; at the same time making it stick
out before him.
“ Adoration, or a vow of vengeance,”
he observed.
He turned his profile to me, making
his upper lip very bulgy with the upper
part of his beard.
“ Romantic character,” said he.
He looked sideways out of his beard,
as if it were an 'ivy-bush. “ Jealousy,”
said he. He gave it an ingenious twist
in the air, and informed me that he was
carousing. He made it shaggy with
his fingers, and it was despair ; lank,
and it was avarice ; tossed it all kinds
of ways, and it was rage. The beard
did everything.
“ I am the Ghost of Art,” said he.
“ Two bob a day now, and more when
it ’s longer ! Hair ’s the true expres-
sion. There is no other. I said I ’d
GROW IT, AND I *VE GROWN IT, AND IT
SHALL HAUNT YOU ! ”
He may have tumbled down stairs in
the dark, but he never walked down or
ran down. I looked over the banisters,
and I was alone with the thunder.
Need I add more of my terrific fate?
It has haunted me ever since. It
GHOST OF ART.
W£ UBRMtf
OF THF ftlo
usivtKin of tawoB
OUT OF TOWN.
333
glares upon me from the walls of the
Royal Academy, (except when M aclise
subdues it to his genius,) it fills my soul
with terror at the British Institution, it
lures young artists on to their destruc-
OUT OF
Sitting, on a bright September
morning, among my books and papers at
my open window on the cliff overhang-
ing the sea-beach, I have the sky and
ocean framed before me like a beautiful
picture. A beautiful picture, but with
such movement in it, such changes of
light upon the sails of ships and wake
of steamboats, such dazzling gleams of
silver far out at sea, such fresh touches
on the crisp wave-tops as they break
and roll towards me, — a picture with
such music in the billowy rush upon the
shingle, the blowing of the morning
wind through the corn-sheaves where
the farmers’ wagons are busy, the sing-
ing of the larks, and the distant voices
of children at play, — such charms of
sight and sound as all the galleries on
earth can but poorly suggest.
So dreamy is the murmur of the sea
% below my window, that I may have been
here, for anything I know, one hundred
years. Not that I have grown old, for,
daily on the neighboring downs and
grassy hillsides, I find that I can still
in reason walk any distance, jump over
anything, and climb up anywhere ; but,
that the sound of the ocean seems to
have become so customary to my mus-
ings, and other realities seem so to have
gone aboard ship and floated away over
the horizon, that, for aught I will un-
dertake to the contrary, I am the en-
chanted son of the King my father, shut
up in a tower on the sea-shore, for pro-
tection against an old she-goblin who
insisted on being my godmother, and
who foresaw at the font — wonderful
creature! — that I should get into a
tion. Go where I will, the Ghost of
Art, eternally working the passions in
hair, and expressing everything by
beard, pursues me. The prediction is ac-
complished, and the victim has no rest.
TOWN.
scrape before I was twenty-one. I re-
member to have been in a City (my
Royal parent’s dominions, I suppose)
and apparently not long ago either, that
was in the dreariest condition. The
principal inhabitants had all been
changed into old newspapers, and in
that form were preserving their window-
blinds from dust, and wrapping all their
smaller household gods in curl-papers.
I walked through gloomy streets where
every house was shut up and newspa-
pered, and where my solitary footsteps
echoed on the deserted pavements. In
the public rides there were no carriages,
no horses, no animated existence, but a
few sleepy policemen, and a few adven-
turous boys taking advantage of the
devastation to swarm up the lamp-posts.
In the Westward streets, there was no
traffic ; in the Westward shops, no bus-
iness. The water-patterns which the
’Prentices had trickled out on the pave-
ments early in the morning, remained
uneffaced by human feet. At the cor-
ners of mews, Cochin-China fowls
stalked gaunt and savage ; nobody be-
ing left in the deserted city (as it ap-
peared to me), to feed them. Public
houses, where splendid footmen swing-
ing their legs over gorgeous hammer-
cloths beside wigged coachmen were
wont to regale, were silent, and the un-
used pewter pots shone, too bright for
business, on the shelves. I beheld a
Punch’s show leaning against a wall
near Park Lane, as if it had fainted.
It was deserted, and there were none
to heed its desolation. In Belgrave
Square I met the last man, — an ostler.
334
OUT OF TOWN.
— sitting on a post in a ragged red
waistcoat, eating straw, and mildewing
away.
If I recollect the name of the little
town on whose shore this sea is mur-
muring, — but I am not just now, as I
have premised, to be relied upon for
anything, — it is Pavilionstone. Within
a quarter of a century, it was a little
fishing town, and they do say that the
time was when it was a little smuggling
town. I have heard that it was rather
famous in the hollands and brandy way,
and that coevally with that reputation
the lamplighter’s was considered a bad
life at the assurance offices. It was
observed that if he were not particular
about lighting up, he lived in peace ;
but that if he made the best of the oil-
lamps in the steep and narrow streets,
he usually fell over the cliff at an early
age. Now, gas and electricity run to
the very water’s edge, and the South-
eastern Railway Company screech at
us in the dead of night.
But the old little fishing and smug-
gling town remains, and is so tempting
a place for the latter purpose, that I
think of going out some night next
week, in a fur cap and a pair of petticoat
trousers, and running an empty tub, as
a kind of archaeological pursuit. Let
nobody with corns come to Pavilion-
stone, for there are break-neck flights of
ragged steps, connecting the principal
streets by back-ways, which will cripple
that visitor in half an hour. These are
the ways by which, when I run that tub,
I shall escape. I shall make a Ther-
mopylae of the corner of one of them,
defend it with my cutlass against the
coast-guard until my brave companions
have sheered off, then dive into the
darkness, and regain my Susan’s arms.
In connection with these break-neck
steps I. observe some wooden cottages,
with tumble-down out-houses, and back-
yards three feet square, adorned with
garlands of dried fish, in which (though
the General Board of Health might
object) my Susan dwells.
The Southeastern Company have
brought Pavilionstone into such vogue,
with their tidal trains and splendid
steam-packets, that a new Pavilionstone
is rising up. I am, myself, of New
Pavilionstone. We are a little mortary
and limy at present, but we are getting
on capitally. Indeed, we were getting
on so fast, at one time, that we rather
overdid it, and built a street of shops,
the business of which may be expected
to arrive in about ten years. We are
sensibly laid out in general ; and with a
little care and pains (by no meanfe want-
ing, so far), shall become a very pretty
place. W e ought to be, for our situation
is delightful, our air is delicious, and
our breezy hills and downs, carpeted
with wild thyme, and decorated with
millions of wild-flowers, are, on the
faith of a pedestrian, perfect. In New
Pavilionstone we are a little too much
addicted to small windows with more
bricks in them than glass, and we are
not over-fanciful in the way of decora-
tive architecture, and we get unexpected
sea views through cracks in the street
doors ; on the whole, however, we are
very snug and comfortable, and well
accommodated. But the Home Secre-
tary (if there be such an officer) cannot
too soon shut up the burial-ground of
the old parish church. It is in the
midst of us, and Pavilionstone will get
no good of it, if it be too long left
alone.
The lion of Pavilionstone is its Great
Hotel. A dozen years ago, going over
to Paris by Southeastern Tidal Steam-
er, you used to be dropped upon the
platform of the main line, Pavilionstone
Station (not a junction then), at eleven
o’clock on a dark winter’s night, in a »
roaring wind ; and in the howling wil-
derness outside the station was a short
omnibus which brought you up by the
forehead the instant you got in at the
door; and nobody cared about you,
and you were alone in the world. You
bumped over infinite chalk, until you
were turned out at* a strange building
which had just left off being a barn
without having quite begun to be a
house, where nobody expected your
coming, or knew what to do with you
when you were come, and where you
were usually blown about, until you
happened to be blown against the cold
beef, and finally into bed. At five in
the morning you were blown out of
bed, and after a dreary breakfast, with
OUT OF TOWN.
385
crumpled company, in the midst of
confusion, were hustled on board a
steamboat and lay wretched on deck
until you saw France lunging and
surging at you with great vehemence
over the bowsprit.
Now, you come down to Pavilion-
stone in a free-and-easy manner, an ir-
responsible agent, made over in trust
to the Southeastern Company, until
ou get out of the railway-carriage at
igh -water mark. If you are crossing
by the boat at once, you have nothing
to do but walk on board and be happy
there if you can, — I can’t. If you are
going to our Great Pavilionstone Hotel,
the sprightliest porters under the sun,
whose cheerful looks are a pleasant wel-
come, shoulder your luggage, drive it
off in vans, bowl it away in trucks, and
enjoy themselves in playing athletic
games with it. If you are for public
life at our Great Pavilionstone Hotel,
you walk into that establishment as
if it were your club, and find ready
for you your news-room, dining-room,
smoking-room, billiard-room, music-
room, public breakfast, public dinner
twice a day (one plain, one gorgeous),
hot baths, and cold baths. If you want
to be bored, there are plenty of bores
always ready for you, and from Saturday
to Monday in particular, you can be
bored (if you like it) through and
through. Should you want to be pri-
vate at our Great Pavilionstone Hotel,
say but the word, look at the list of
Qharges, choose your floor, name your
figure, — there you are, established in
your castle, by the day, week, month,
or year, innocent of all comers or goers,
unless, you have my fancy for walking
early in the morning down the groves
of boots and shoes, which so regularly
flourish at all the chamber doors before
breakfast, that it seems to me as if
nobody ever got up or took them in.
Are you going across the Alps, and
would you like to air your Italian at our
Great Pavilionstone Hotel ? Talk to the
Manager, — always conversational, ac-
complished, and polite. Do you want
to be aided, abetted, comforted, or ad-
vised, at our Great Pavilionstone Hotel?
Send for the good landlord, and he is
your friend. Should you or any one
25
belonging to you ever be taken ill at
our Great Pavilionstone Hotel, you will
not soon forget him or his kind wife.
And when you pay your bill at our
Great Pavilionstone Hotel, you will not
be put out of humor by anything you
find in it.
A thoroughly good inn, in the days
of coaching and posting, was a noble
place. But no such inn would have
been equal to the reception of four or
five hundred people, all of them wet
through, and half of them dead sick,
every day in the year. This is where
we shine, in our Pavilionstone Hotel.
Again, who, coming and going, pitch-
ing and tossing, boating and training,
hurrying in and flying r out, could ever
have calculated the fees to be paid at
an old-fashioned house ? In our Pavil-
ionstone Hotel vocabulary, there is no
such word as “ fee.” .Everything is done
for you ; every service is provided at
a fixed and reasonable charge ; all the
prices are hung up in all the rooms ;
and you can make out your own bill
beforehand, as well as the bookkeeper.
In the case of your being a pictorial
artist, desirous of studying at small ex-
pense the physiognomies and beards of
different nations, come, on receipt of
this, to Pavilionstone. You shall find
all the nations of the earth, and all the
styles of shaving and not shaving, hair-
cutting and hair-letting-alone, forever
flowing through our hotel. Couriers
you shall see by hundreds ; fat leathern
bags for five-franc pieces, closing with
violent snaps, like discharges of fire-
arms, by thousands; more luggage in
a morning than, fifty years ago, all Eu-
rope saw in a week. Looking at trains,
steamboats, sick travellers, and luggage,
is our great Pavilionstone recreation.
We are not strong in other public
amusements. We have a Literary and
Scientific Institution, and we have a
Workingmen’s Institution, — may it
hold many gypsy holidays in summer
fields, with the kettle boiling, the band
of music playing, and the people dan-
cing ; and may I be on the hillside,
looking on with pleasure at a wholesome
sight too rare in England ! — and we
have two or three churches and more
chapels than I have yet added up. But
3 86
OUT OF TOWN .
public amusements are scarce with us.
If a poor theatrical manager comes with
his company to give us, in a loft, Mary
Bax, or the Murder on the Sand Hills,
we don’t care much for him, — starve him
out, in fact. W e take more kindly to wax-
work, especially if it moves ; in which
case it keeps much clearer of the second
commandment than when it is still.
Cooke’s Circus (Mr. Cooke is my friend,
and always leaves a good name behind
him) gives us only a night in passing
through. Nor does the travelling me-
nagerie think us worth a longer visit.
It gave us a look-in the other day,
bringing with it the residentiary van with
the stained-glass windows, which her
Majesty kept ready-made at Windsor
Castle, until she found a suitable oppor-
tunity of submitting it for the proprietor’s
acceptance. I brought away five won-
derments from this exhibition. I have
wondered ever since, Whether the beasts
ever do get used to those small places
of confinement ; Whether the monkeys
have that very horrible flavor in their
free state ; Whether wild animals have a
natural ear for time and tune, and there-
fore every four-footed creature began to
howl in despair when the band began
to play ; What the giraffe does with his
neck when his cart is shut up ; and,
Whether the elephant feels ashamed
of himself when he is brought out of
his den to stand on his head in the
presence of the whole collection.
We are a tidal harbor at Pavilion-
stone, as indeed I have implied already
in my mention of tidal trains. At low
water we are a heap of mud, with an
empty channel in it where a couple of
men in big boots always shovel and
scoop, — with what exact object, I am
unable to say. At that time, all the
stranded fishing-boats turn over on
their sides, as if they were dead marine
monsters ; the colliers and other ship-
ping stick disconsolate in the mud ; the
steamers look as if their white chimneys
would never smoke more, and their red
paddles never turn again ; the green
sea slime and weed upon the rough
stones at the entrance seem records of
obsolete high tides never more to flow ;
the flagstaff halyards droop ; the very
little wooden lighthouse shrinks ip the
idle glare of the sun. And here I may
observe of the very little wooden light-
house, that when it is lighted at night,
— red and green, — it looks so like a
medical man’s, that several distracted
husbands have at various times been
found, on occasions of premature do-
mestic anxiety, going round and round
it, trying to find the night-bell.
But the moment the tide begins to
make, the Pavilionstone Harbor begins
to revive. It feels the breeze of the
rising water before the water comes,
and begins to flutter and stir. When
the little shallow waves creep in, barely
overlapping one another, the vanes at
the mastheads wake, and become agi-
tated. As the tide rises, the fishing-
boats get into good spirits and dance,
the flagstaff hoists a bright-red flag, the
steamboat smokes, cranes creak, horses
and carriages dangle in the air, stray
passengers and luggage appear. Now,
the shipping is afloat, and comes up
buoyantly to look at the wharf. Now,
the carts that have come down for coals
load away as hard as they can load.
Now, the steamer smokes immensely,
and occasionally blows at the paddle-
boxes like a vaporous whale, — greatly
disturbing nervous loungers. Now,
both the tide and the breeze have
risen, and you are holding your hat on
(if you want to see how the ladies hold
their hats on, with a stay, passing over
the broad brim and down the nose,
come to Pavilionstone). Now, every-
thing in the harbor splashes, dashes,
and bobs. Now, the Down Tidal Train
is telegraphed, and you know (without
knowing how you know), that two hun-
dred and eighty-seven people are com-
ing. Now, the fishing-boats that have
been out sail in at the top of the tide.
Now, the bell goes, and the locomotive
hisses and shrieks, and the train comes
gliding in, and the two hundred and
eighty-seven come scuffling out. Now,
there is not only a tide of w^ater, but a
tide of people, and a tide of luggage, —
all tumbling and flowing and bouncing
about together. Now, after infinite bus-
tle, the steamer steams opt, and we
(on the pier) are all delighted when she
rolls as if she would roll her funnel out.
and are all disappointed when she don’t
OUT OF THE SEASON.
387
Now, the other steamer is coming in,
and the Custom-House prepares, and
the wharf-laborers assemble, and the
hawsers are made ready, and the Hotel
porters come rattling down with van
and truck, eager to begin more Olympic
games with more luggage. And this is
the way in which we go on, down at
Pavilionstone, every tide. And if you
want to live a life of luggage, or to see
it lived, or to breathe sweet air which
will send you to sleep at a moment’s
notice at any period of the day or night,
or to disport yourself upon or in the sea,
or to scamper about Kent, or to come
out of town for the enjoyment of all or
any of these pleasures, come to PaviU
ionstone.
OUT OF THE SEASON.
It fell to my lot, this last bleak
spring, to find myself in a watering-
place out of the season. A vicious
northeast squall blew me into it from
foreign parts, and I tarried in it alone
for three days, resolved to be exceed-
ingly busy.
On the first day, I began business by
looking for two hours at the sea, and
staring the Foreign Militia out of
countenance. Having disposed of these
important engagements, I sat down at
one of the two windows of my room, in-
tent on doing something desperate in the
way of literary composition, and writing
a chapter of unheard-of excellence —
with which the present essay has no
connection.
It is a remarkable quality in a water-
ing-place out of the season, that every-
thing in it will and must be looked at.
I had no previous suspicion of this fatal
truth ; but the moment I sat down to
write, I began to perceive it. I had
scarcely fallen into my most promising
attitude, and dipped my pen in the ink,
when I found the clock upon the pier
— a red-faced clock with a white rim —
importuning me in a highly vexatious
manner to consult my watch, and see
how I was off for Greenwich time.
Having no intention of making a voy-
age or taking an observation, I had not
the least need of Greenwich time, and
could have put up with watering-place
time as a sufficiently accurate article.
The pier clock, however, persisting, I
felt it necessary to lay down my pen,
compare my watch with him, and fall
into a grave solicitude about half-sec-
onds. I had taken up my pen again,
and was about to commence that valua-
ble chapter, when a Custom-House cut-
ter under the window requested that I
would hold a naval review of her imme-
diately.
It was impossible, under the circum-
stances, for any mental resolution,
merely human, to dismiss the Custom-
House cutter, because the shadow of her
topmast fell upon my paper, and the
vane played on the masterly blank
chapter. I was therefore under the
necessity of going to the other window ;
sitting astride of the chair there, like
Napoleon bivouacking in the print ;
and inspecting the cutter as she lay
all that day, in the way of my chapter,
O ! She was rigged to carry a quanti-
ty of canvas, but her hull was so very
small that four giants aboard of her
(three men and a boy) who were vigi-
lantly scraping at her, all together, in-
spired me with a terror lest they should
scrape her away. A fifth giant, who
appeared to consider himself “ below, ”
— as indeed he was, from the waist
downwards, — meditated, in such close
proximity with the little gusty chimney-
pipe, that he seemed to be smoking it.
Several boys looked on from the wharf,
and, when the gigantic attention ap-
388
OUT OF THE SEASON.
peared to be fully occupied, one or oth-
er of these would furtively swing him-
self in mid-air over the Custom-House
cutter by means of a line pendent from
her rigging, like a young spirit of the
storm. Presently, a sixth hand brought
down two little water-casks ; presently
afterwards, a truck came and delivered
a hamper. I was now under an obliga-
tion to consider that the cutter was go-
ing on a cruise, and to wonder where she
was going, and when she was going, and
why she was going, and at what date
she might be expected back, and who
commanded her ? With these pressing
questions I was fully occupied when the
Packet, making ready to go across, and
blowing off her spare steam, roared,
“ Look at me ! ”
It became a positive duty to look at
the Packet preparing to go across ;
aboard of which, the people newly come
down by the railroad were hurrying in a
great fluster. The crew had got their
tarry overalls on, — and one knew what
that meant, — not to mention the white
basins, ranged in neat little piles of a
dozen each, behind the door of the
after-cabin. One lady as I looked, one
resigning and far-seeing woman, took
her basin from the store of crockery, as
she might have taken a refreshment-
ticket, laid herself down on deck with
that utensil at her ear, muffled her feet
in one shawl, solemnly covered her
countenance after the antique manner
with another, and on the completion
of these preparations appeared by the
strength of her volition to become in-
sensible. The mail-bags (O that I my-
self had the sea-iegs of a mail-bag !)
were tumbled aboard ; the Packet left
off roaring, warped out, and made at
the white line upon the bar. One dip,
one roll, one break of the sea over her
bows, and Moore’s Almanac or the
sage Raphael could not have told me
more of the state of things aboard than
I knew.
The famous chapter was all but be-
gun now, and would have been quite
begun, but for the wind. It was blow-
ing stiffly from the east, and it rumbled
in the chimney and shook the house.
That was not much ; but, looking out
into the wind’s gray eye for inspiration,
I laid down my pen again to make the
remark to myself, how emphatically
everything by the sea declares that it
has a great concern in the state of the
wind. The trees blown all one way ;
the defences of the harbor reared high-
est and strongest against the raging
point ; the shingle flung up on the beach
from the same direction ; the number
of arrows pointed at the common ene-
my ; the sea tumbling in and rushing
towards them, as if it were inflamed by
the sight. This put it in my head that
I really ought to go out and take a
walk in the wind ; so I gave up the
magnificent chapter for that day, en-
tirely persuading myself that I was un-
der a moral obligation to have a blow.
I had a good one, and that on the
high road — the very high road — on
the top of the cliffs, where I met the
stage-coach with all the outsides hold-
ing their hats on and themselves too,
and overtook a flock of sheep with the
wool about their necks blown into such
great ruffs that they looked like fleecy
owds. The wind played upon the light-
house as if it w'ere a great whistle, the
spray w 7 as driven over the sea in a
cloud of haze, the ships rolled and
pitched heavily, and at intervals long
slants and flaws of light made moun-
tain-steeps of communication between
the ocean and the sky. A walk of ten
miles brought me to a seaside town
without a cliff, w'hich, like the towrn I
had come from, w 7 as out of the season
too. Half of the houses were shut up ;
half of the other half were to let ; the
town might have done as much busi-
ness as it was doing then, if it had been
at the bottom of the sea. Nobody
seemed to flourish save the attorney;
his clerk’s pen was going in the bow-
window of his wooden house ; his brass
doorplate alone was free from salt,
and had been polished up that morning.
On the beach, among the rough luggers
and capstans, groups of storm-beaten
boatmen, like a sort of marine monsters,
watched under the lee of those objects, or
stood leaning forward against the wind,
looking out through battered spy-glasses.
The parlor bell in the Admiral Benbow
had grown so flat with being out of the
season, that neither could I hear it ring
OUT OF THE SEASON.
389
when I pulled the handle for lunch,
nor could the young woman in black
stockings and strong shoes, who acted
as waiter out of the season, until it had
been tinkled three times.
Admiral Benbow’s cheese was out of
the season, but his home-made bread
was good, and his beer was perfect.
Deluded by some earlier spring day
which had been warm and sunny, the
Admiral had cleared the firing out of
his parlor stove, and had put some
flower-pots in, — which was amiable
and hopeful in the Admiral, but not
judicious : the room being, at that pres-
ent visiting, transcendently cold. I
therefore took the liberty of peeping
out across a little stone passage into the
Admiral’s kitchen, and, seeing a high
settle with its back towards me drawn
out in front of the Admiral’s kitchen
fire, I strolled in, bread and cheese in
hand, munching and looking about.
One landsman and two boatmen were
seated on the settle, smoking pipes
and drinking beer out of thick pint
crockery mugs, — mugs peculiar to
such places, with party-colored rings
round them, and ornaments between
the rings like frayed-out roots. The
landsman was relating his experience,
as yet only three nights’ old, of a fear-
ful running-down case in the Channel,
and therein presented to my imagina-
tion a sound of music that it will not
soon forget,
“ At that identical moment of time,”
said he (he was a prosy man by nature,
who rose with his subject), “ the night
being light and calm, but with a gray
mist upon the water that did n’t seem
to spread for more than two or three
mile, I was walking up and down the
wooden causeway next the pier, off
where it happened, along with a friend
of mine, which his name is Mr. dock-
er. Mr. Clocker is a grocer over yon-
der.” (From the direction in which he
pointed the bowl of his pipe, I might
have judged Mr. Clocker to be a mer-
man, established in the grocery trade in
five - and - twenty fathoms of water.)
“We were smoking our pipes, and
walking up and down the causeway,
talking of one thing and talking of an-
other. We were quite alone there, ex-
cept that a few hovellers ” (the Kentish
name for ’longshore boatmen like his
companions) “were hanging about
their lugs, waiting while the tide made,
as hovellers will.” (One of the two
boatmen, thoughtfully regarding me,
shut up one eye. This I understood to
mean, first, that he took me into the
conversation ; secondly, that he con-
firmed the proposition ; thirdly, that he
announced himself as a hoveller.)
“ All of a sudden Mr. Clocker and me
stood rooted to the spot, by hearing a
sound come through the stillness, right
over the sea, like a great sorrowful
flute or AEolian harp. We did n’t in
the least know what it was ; and judge
of our surprise when we saw the hov-
ellers, to a man, leap into the boats and
tear about to hoist sail and get off, as
if they had every one of ’em gone, in a
moment, raving mad ! But they knew
it was the cry of distress from the sink-
ing emigrant ship.”
When I got back to my watering-
place out of the season, and had done
my twenty miles in good style, I found
that the celebrated Black Mesmerist
intended favoring the public that even-
ing in the Hall of the Muses, which he
had engaged for the purpose. After a
good dinner, seated by the fire in an
easy-chair, I began to waver in a design
I had formed of waiting on the Black
Mesmerist, and to incline towards the
expediency of remaining where I was.
Indeed a point of gallantry was involved
in my doing so, inasmuch as I had not
left France alone, but had come from
the prisons of St. Pelagie with my dis-
tinguished and unfortunate friend Ma-
dame Roland (in two volumes which I
bought for two francs each, at the book-
stall in the Place de la Concorde, Paris,
at the corner of the Rue Royale). De-
ciding to pass the evening tete-^-tete
with Madame Roland, I derived, as I
always do, great pleasure from that spir-
itual woman’s society, and the charms of
her brave soul and engaging conversa-
tion. I must confess that if she had only
some more faults, only a few more pas-
sionate failings of any kind, I might love
her better ; but I am content to believe
that the deficiency is in me, and not in
her. We spent some sadly interesting
39 °
OUT OF THE SEASON.
hours together on this occasion, and
she told me again of her cruel discharge
from the Abbaye, and of her being re-
arrested before her free feet had sprung
lightly up half a dozen steps of her
own staircase, and carried off to the
J jrison which she only left for the guil-
otine.
Madame Roland and I took leave of
one another before midnight, and I
went to bed full of vast intentions for
next day, in connection with the unpar-
alleled chapter. To hear the foreign
mail steamers coming in at dawn of
day, and to know that I was not aboard
or obliged to get up, was very comfort-
able ; so I rose for the chapter in great
force.
I had advanced so far as to sit down
at my window again on my second morn-
ing, and to write the first hah-.ine of
the chapter and strike it out, not liking
it, when my conscience reproached me
with not having surveyed the watering-
place out of the season, after all, yester-
day, but with having gone straight out
of it at the rate of four miles and a half
an hour. Obviously the best amends
that I could make for this remissness
was to go and look at it without an-
other moment’s delay. So — altogether
as a matter of duty — I gave up the
magnificent chapter for another day,
and sauntered out with my hands in my
pockets.
All the houses and lodgings ever let
to visitors were to let that? morning.
It seemed to have snowed bills with To
Let upon them. This put me upon
thinking what the owners of all those
apartments did, out of the season ; how
they employed their time and occupied
their minds. They could not be al-
ways going to the Methodist chapels, of
which I passed one every other minute.
They must have some other recreation.
Whether they pretended to take one
another’s lodgings, and opened one an-
other’s tea-caddies in fun? Whether
they cut slices off their own beef and
mutton, and made believe that it be-
longed to somebody else? Whether
they played little dramas of life as chil-
dren do, and said, “ I ought to come
and look at your apartments, and you
ought to ask two guineas a week too
much ; and then I ought to say I must
have the rest of the day to think of it ;
and then you ought to say that another
lady and gentleman w'ith no children in
family had made an offer very ciose to
your own terms, and you had passed your
word to give them a positive answer in
half an hour, and indeed were just go-
ing to take the bill down when you heard
the knock ; and then I ought to take
them, you know ” ? Twenty such spec-
ulations engaged my thoughts. Then,
after passing, still clinging to the walls,
defaced rags of the bills of last year’s
circus, I came to a back field near a
timber-yard where the circus itself had
been, and where there was yet a sort
of monkish tonsure on the grass, indi-
cab ng the spot where the young lady
had gone round upon her pet steed
Firefly in her daring flight. Turning
into the town again, I came among the
shops, and they were emphatically out
of the season. The chemist had no
boxes of ginger-beer powders, no beau-
tifying seaside soaps and washes, no
attractive scents ; nothing but his great
goggle-eyed red bottles, looking as if
the winds of winter and the drift of
the salt sea had inflamed them. The
grocers’ hot pickles, Harvey’s Sauce,
Doctor Kitchener’sZest, Anchovy Paste,
Dundee Marmalade, and the whole
stock of luxurious helps to appetite,
were hibernating somewhere under-
ground. The china-shop had no trifles
from anywhere. The Bazaar had given
in altogether, and presented a notice on
the shutters that this establishment
would reopen at Whitsuntide, and that
the proprietor in the mean time might
be heard of at Wild Lodge, East Cliff.
At the Sea-bathing Establishment, a
row of neat little wooden houses seven
or eight feet high, I saw the proprie-
tor in bed in the shower-bath. As to
the bathing-machines, they were (how
they got there is not for me to say)
at the top of a hill at least a mile and
a half off. The library, which I had
never seen otherwise than wide open,
was tight shut ; and two peevish bald
old gentlemen seemed to be hermeti-
cally sealed up inside, eternally reading
the paper. That wonderful mystery,
the music -shop, carried it off as usual
OUT OF THE SEASON.
39i
(except that it had more cabinet pianos
in stock), as if season or no season were
all one to it. It made the same pro-
digious display of bright brazen wind-
instruments, horribly twisted, worth, as
I should conceive, some thousands of
pounds, and which it is utterly impos-
sible that anybody in any season can
ever play or want to play. It had five
triangles in the window, six pairs of
castanets, and- three harps ; likewise
every polka with a colored frontispiece
that ever was published, from the
original one where a smooth male and
female Pole of high rank are coming at
the observer with their arms akimbo,
to the Ratcatcher’s Daughter. Aston-
ishing establishment, amazing enigma !
Three other shops were pretty much
out of the season, what they were used
to be in it. First, the shop where they
sell the sailors’ watches, which had still
the old collection of enormous time-
keepers, apparently designed to break a
fall from the masthead, with places to
wind them up, like fire-plugs. Second-
ly, the shop where they sell the sailors’
clothing, which displayed the old sou’-
westers, and the old oily suits, and the
old pea-jackets, and the old one sea-
chest, with its handles like a pair of rope
ear-rings. Thirdly, the unchangeable
shop for the sale of literature that has
been left behind. Here Dr. Faustus was
still going down to very red and yellow
perdition, under the superintendence of
three green personages of a scaly hu-
mor, with excrescential serpents grow-
ing out of their blade-bones. Here the
Golden Dreamer, and the Norwood
Fortune-Teller, were still on sale at six-
pence each, with instructions for mak-
ing the dumb cake, and reading desti-
nies in teacups, and with a picture of a
young woman with a high waist lying
on a sofa in an attitude so uncomforta-
ble as almost to account for her dream-
ing at one and the same time of a con-
flagration, a shipwreck, an earthquake,
a skeleton, a church-porch, lightning,
funerals performed, and a young man in
a bright blue coat and canary panta-
loons. Here were Little Warblers and
Fairburn’s Comic Songsters. Here too
were ballads on the old ballad paper
and in the old confusion of types ; with
an old man in a cocked hat, and an
arm-chair, for the illustration to Will
Watch the bold Smuggler; and the
Friar of Orders Gray, represented by
a little girl in a hoop, with a ship in
the distance. All these as of yore,
when they were infinite delights to
me !
It took me so long fully to relish
these many enjoyments, that I had not
more than an hour before bedtime to
devote to Madame Roland. We got
on admirably together on the subject of
her convent education, and I rose next
morning with the full conviction that
the day for the great chapter was at last
arrived.
It had fallen calm, however, in the
night, and as I sat at breakfast I
blushed to remember that I had not yet
been on the Downs. I, a walker, and
not yet on the Downs ! Really, on so
quiet and bright a morning, this must
be set right. As an essential part of
the Whole Duty of Man, therefore, I
left the chapter to itself, — for the pres-
ent, — and went on the Downs. They
were wonderfully green and beautiful,
and gave me a good deal to do. When
I had done with the free air and the
view, I had to go down into the valley
and look after the hops (which I know
nothing about), and to be equally solici-
tous as to the cherry orchards. Then
I took it on myself to cross-examine a
tramping family in black (mother al-
leged, 1 have no doubt by herself in
person, to have died last week), and to
accompany eighteen-pence, which pro-
duced a great effect, with moral admo-
nitions, which produced none at all.
Finally, it was late in the afternoon
before I got back to the unprecedented
chapter, and then I determined that it
was out of the season, as the place was,
and put it away.
I went at night to the benefit of Mrs.
B. Wedgington at the theatre, who had
placarded the town with the admoni-
tion, “Don’t forget it!” I made
the house, according to my calculation,
four and ninepence to begin with, and
it may have warmed up, in the course
of the evening, to half a sovereign.
There was nothing to offend any one,
— the good Mr. Baines of Leeds ex-
392
A POOR MAN'S TALE OF A PATENT.
cepted, Mrs. B. Wedgington sang to a
grand piano. Mr. B. Wedgington did
the like, and also took off his coat,
tucked up his trousers, and danced in
clogs. Master B. Wedgington, aged
ten months, was nursed by a shivering
young person in the boxes, and the eye
of Mrs. B. Wedgington wandered that
way more than once. Peace be with
ail the Wedgingtons from A. to Z.
May they find themselves in the Sea-
son somewhere !
A POOR MAN’S TALE OF A PATENT.
I am not used to writing for print.
What workingman that never labors
less (some Mondays, and Christmas
time and Easter time excepted) than
twelve or fourteen hour a day is? But
I have been asked to put down, plain,
what I have got to say ; and so 1 take
pen and ink, and do it to the best of
my power, hoping defects will find
excuse.
I was born nigh London, but have
worked in a shop at Birmingham (what
you would call Manufactories, we call
Shops) almost ever since I was out of
my xime. I served my apprenticeship
at Deptford, nigh where I was born ;
and I am a smith by trade. My name
is John. I have been called “Old
John” ever since I was nineteen year
of age, on account of not having much
hair. I am fifty-six year of age at the
present time, and I don’t find myself
with more hair, nor yet with less, to
signify, than at nineteen year of age
aforesaid.
I have been married five-and-thirty
year, come next April. I was married
on All Fools’ Day. Let them laugh
that win. I won a good wife that day,
and it was as sensible a day to me as
ever I had.
We have had a matter of ten chil-
dren, six whereof are living. _ My eld-
est son is engineer in the Italian steam-
packet “ Mezzo Giorno, plying between
Marseilles and Naples, and calling at
Genoa, Leghorn, and Civita Vecchia.”
He was a good workman. He invent-
ed a many useful little things that
brought him in — nothing. I have
two sons doing well at Sydney, New
South Wales, — single, when last heard
from. One of my sons (James) went
wild and for a soldier, where he was
shot in India, living six weeks in
hospital with a musket-ball lodged in
his shoulder-blade, which he wrote
with his own hand. He was the best
looking. One of my two daughters
(Mary) is comfortable in her circum-
stances, but water on the chest. The
other (Charlotte), her husband run
away from her in the basest manner,
and she and her three children live with
us. The youngest, six year old, has
a turn for mechanics.
I am not a Chartist, and I never was.
I don’t mean to say but what I see a
good many public points to complain of,
still I don’t think that ’s the way to set
them right. If I did think so,* I should
be a Chartist. But I don’t think so,
and I am not a Chartist. I read the
paper, and hear discussion, at what we
call “a parlor” in Birmingham, and I
know many good men and workmen
who are Chartists. Note. Not physi-
cal force.
It won’t be took as boastful in me, if
I make the remark (for I can’t put down
what I have got to say without putting
that down before going any further),
that I have always been of an ingenious
turn. I once got twenty pound by a
screw, and it ’s in use now. I have
been twenty year, off and on, complet-
ing an invention and perfecting it. I
perfected of it, last Christmas eve at
A POOR MAN'S TALE OF A PATENT .
ten o’clock at night. Me and my wife
stood and let some tears fall over the
Model, when it was done and I brought
her in to take a look at it.
A friend of mine, by the name of
William Butcher, is a Chartist. Moder-
ate. He is a good speaker. He is very
animated. I have often heard him
deliver that what is, at every turn, in
the way of us workingmen, is, that too
many places have been made, in the
course of time, to provide for people
that never ought to have been provided
for; and that we have to obey forms
and to pay fees to support those places
when we shouldn’t ought. “True,”
(delivers William Butcher,) “ all the
public has to do this, but it falls heaviest
on the workingman, because he has
least to spare ; and likewise because
impediments shouldn’t be put in his
way, when he wants redress of wrong,
or furtherance of right.” Note. I have
wrote down those words from William
Butcher’s own mouth. W. B. deliver-
ing them fresh for the aforesaid pur-
pose.
Now, to my Model again. There it
was, perfected of, on Christmas eve,
gone nigh a year, at ten o’clock at night.
All the money I could spare I had laid
out upon the Model ; and when times
was bad, or my daughter Charlotte’s
children sickly, or both, it had stood
still, months at a spell. I had pulled it
to pieces, and made it over again with
improvements, I don’t know how often.
There it stood, at last, a perfected
Model as aforesaid.
William Butcher and me had a long
talk, Christmas day, respecting of the
Model. William is very sensible,
but sometimes cranky. William said,
“What will you do with it, John?” I
said, “ Patent it.” William said, “ How
Patent it, John?” I said, “ By taking
out a Patent.” William then delivered
that the law of Patent was a cruel
wrong. William said, “John, if you
make your invention public, before you
get a Patent, any one may rob you of
the fruits of your hard work. You are
put in a cleft stick, John. Either you
must drive a bargain very much against
yourself, by getting a party to come
forward beforehand with the great ex-
3-53
penses of the Patent, or you must be
put about, from post to pillar, among so
many parties, trying to make a better
bargain for yourself, and showing your
invention, that your invention will be
took from you over your head.” I said,
“William Butcher, are you cranky?
You are sometimes cranky.” William
said, “No, John, I tell you the truth ” ;
which he then delivered more at length.
I said to W. B. I would Patent the in-
vention myself.
My wife’s brother, George Bury of
West Bromwich (his wife unfortunately
took to drinking, made away with every-
thing, and seventeen times committed
to Birmingham Jail before happy re-
lease in every point of view), left my
wife, his sister, when he died, a legacy
of one hundred and twenty-eight pound
ten, Bank of England Stocks. . Me and
my wife had never broke into that
money yet. Note. We might come to
be old, and past our work. We now
agreed to Patent the invention. We
said we would make a hole in it, — I
mean in the aforesaid money, — and
Patent the invention. William Butcher
wrote me a letter to Thomas Joy in
London. T. J. is a carpenter, six foot
four in height, and plays quoits well.
He lives in Chelsea, London, by the
church. I got leave from the shop to
be took on again when I come back.
I am a good workman. Not a Teeto-
taller ; but never drunk. When the
Christmas holidays were over, I went
up to London by the Parliamentary
Train, and hired a lodging for a week
with Thomas Joy. He is manned. He
has one son gone to sea.
Thomas Joy delivered (from a book
he had) that the first step to be took, in
Patenting the invention, was to prepare
a petition unto Queen Victoria. Wil-
liam Butcher had delivered similar,
and drawn it up. Note. William is a
ready writer. A declaration before a
Master in Chancery was to be added to
it. That, we likewise drew up. After a
deal of trouble I found out a Master,
in Southampton Buildings, Chancery
Lane, nigh Temple Bar, where I made
the declaration, and paid eighteen-pence.
I was told to take the declaration and
petition to the Home Office, in White-
394
A POOR MAN'S TALE OF A PATENT.
hall, where I left it to be signed by the
Home Secretary (after I had found the
office out) and where I paid two pound
two and sixpence. In six days he
signed it, and I was told to take it to
the Attorney-General’s chambers, and
leave it there for a report. I did so,
and paid four pound four. Note. No-
body, all through, ever thankful for their
money, but all uncivil.
My lodging at Thomas Joy’s was
now hired for another week, whereof
five days were gone. The Attorney-
General made what they called a Re-
port-of-course (my invention being, as
William Butcher had delivered before
starting, unopposed), and I was sent
back with it to the Home Office. They
made a Copy of it, which was called a
Warrant. For this warrant I paid
seven pound thirteen and six. It was
sent to the Queen, to sign. The Queen
sent it back, signed. The Home Sec-
retary signed it again. The gentleman
throwed it at me when I called, and
said, “Now take it to the Patent Qffice
in Lincoln’s Inn.” 1 was then in my
third week at Thomas Joy’s, living very
sparing, on account of fees. I found
myself losing heart.
At the Patent Office in Lincoln’s Inn,
they made “a draft of the Queen’s
bill,” of my invention, and a “docket
of the bill.” I paid five pound ten
and six for this. They “ engrossed
two copies of the bill ; one for the Sig-
net Office, and one for the Privy-Seal
Office.” I paid one pound seven and
six for this. Stamp duty, over and
above, three pound. The Engrossing
Clerk of the same office engrossed the
Queen’s bill for signature. I paid him
one pound one. Stamp duty, again,
one pound ten. I was next to take the
Queen’s bill to the Attorney-General
again, and get it signed again. I took
it, and paid five pound more. I fetched
it away, and took it to the Home Sec-
retary again. He sent it to the Queen
again. She signed it again. I paid
seven pound thirteen and six more for
this. I had been over a month at
Thomas Joy’s. I was quite wore out,
patience and pocket.
Thomas Joy delivered all this, as it
went on, to William Butcher. William
Butcher delivered it again to three Bir-
mingham Parlors, from which it got to
all the other Parlors, and was took, as
I have been told since, right through
all the shops in the North of England.
Note. William Butcher delivered, at
his Parlor, in a speech, that it w r as a
Patent w-ay of making Chartists.
But I hadn’t nigh done yet. The
Queen’s bill was to be took to the Sig-
net Office in Somerset House, Strand, —
where the stamp shop is. The Clerk
of the Signet made “a Signet bill for
the Lord Keeper of the Privy Seal.”
I paid him four pound seven. The
Clerk of the Lord Keeper of the Privy
Seal made “a Privy-Seal bill for the
Lord Chancellor.” I paid him four
ound two. The Privy- Seal bill w r as
anded over to the Clerk of the Pat-
tents w'ho engrossed the aforesaid. I
paid him five pound seventeen and
eight ; at the same time, I paid Stamp-
duty for the Patent, in one lump, thirty
pound. I next paid for “boxes for the
Patent,” nine and sixpence. Note.
Thomas Joy would have made the same
at a profit for eighteen-pence. I next
paid “ fees to the Deputy, the Lord
Chancellor’s Purse-bearer,” two pound
tw-o. I next paid “ fees to the Clerk of
the Hanaper,” seven pound thirteen.
I next paid “fees to the Deputy Clerk
of the Hanaper,” ten shillings. I next
paid, to the Lord Chancellor again, one
pound eleven and six. Last of all. I
paid “ fees to the Deputy Sealer, and
Deputy Chaff- wax,” ten shillings and
sixpence. I had lodged at Thomas Joy’s
over six w T eeks, and the unopposed Pat-
ent for my invention, for England only,
had cost me ninety-six pound seven
and eightpence. If I had taken it out
for the United Kingdom, it would have
cost me more than three hundred
pound.
Now, teaching had not come up but
very limited when I w r as young. So
much the worse for me you ’ll say. I
say the same. * William Butcher is
twenty year younger than me. He
knows a hundred year more. If Wil-
liam Butcher had wanted to Patent an
invention, he might have been sharper
than myself when hustled backwards
and forwards among all those offices,
THE NOBLE SAVAGE.
395
though I doubt if so patient. Note.
William being sometimes cranky, and
consider porters, messengers, and clerks.
Thereby I say nothing of my being
tired of my life, while I was Patenting
my invention. But I put this : Is it
reasonable to make a man feel as if,
in inventing an ingenious improvement
meant to do good, he had done some-
thing wrong? How else can a man
feel, when he is met by such difficulties
at every turn ? All inventors taking
out a Patent must feel so. And look
at the expense. How hard on me, and
how hard on the country, if there ’s any
merit in me (and my invention is took
up now, I am thankful to say, and doing
well), to put me to all that expense
before I can move a finger! Make
the addition yourself, and it ’ll come
to ninety-six pound seven and eight-
pence. No more, and no less.
What can I say against William
Butcher, about places? Look at the
Home Secretary, the Attorney-General,
the Patent Office, the Engrossing Clerk,
the Lord Chancellor, the Privy Seal,
the Clerk of the Patents, the Lord
Chancellor’s Purse-bearer, the Clerk
of the Hanaper, the Deputy Clerk of
the Hanaper, the Deputy Sealer, and
the Deputy Chaff- wax. No man in
England could get a Patent for an In-
dia-rubber band, or an iron hoop, with-
out feeing all of them. Some of them,
over and over again. I went through
thirty-five stages. I began with the
Queen upon the Throne. I ended with
the Deputy Chaff- wax. Note. 1 should
like to see the Deputy Chaff-wax. Is
it a man, or what is it?
What I had to tell, I have told. I
have wrote it down. I hope it ’s plain.
Not so much in the handwriting (though
nothing to boast of there), as in the sense
of it. I will now conclude with Thomas
Joy. Thomas said to me, when we
parted, “ John, if the laws of this
country were as honest as they ought
to be, you would have come to Lon-
don, — registered an exact description
and drawing of your invention, — paid
half a crown or so for doing of it, —
and therein and thereby have got your
Patent.”
My opinion is the same as Thomas
Joy. Further. In William Butcher’s
delivering “ that the whole gang of
Hanapers and Chaff-waxes must be
done away with, and that England has
been chaffed and waxed sufficient,” I
agree.
THE NOBLE SAVAGE.
To come to the point at once, I beg
to say that I have not the least belief
in the Noble Savage. I consider him
a prodigious nuisance and an enormous
superstition. His calling rum fire wa-
ter, and me a pale face, wholly fail to
reconcile me to him. I don’t care what
he calls me. I call him a savage, and
I call a savage a something highly de-
sirable to be civilized off the face of the
earth. I think a mere gent (which I
take to be the lowest form of civiliza-
tion) better than a howling, whistling
clucking, stamping, jumping, tearing
savage. It is all one to me, whether
he sticks a fish-bone through his vis-
age, or bits of trees through the lobes
of his ears, or birds’ feathers in his
head ; whether he flattens his hair be-
tween two boards, or spreads his nose
over the breadth of his face, or drags
his lower lip down by great weights, or
blackens his teeth, or knocks them out,
or paints one cheek red and the other
blue, or tattoos himself, or oils himself,
or rubs his body with fat, or crimps it
with knives. Yielding to whichsoever
of these agreeable eccentricities, he is a
39$
THE NOBLE SAVAGE.
savage, — cruel, false, thievish, murder-
ous ; addicted more or less to grease,
entrails, and beastly customs ; a wild
animal with the questionable gift of
boasting ; a conceited, tiresome, blood-
thirsty, monotonous humbug.
Yet it is extraordinary to observe how
some people will talk about him, as they
talk about the good old times ; how
they will regret his disappearance, in the
course of this world’s development, from
such and such lands where his absence
is a blessed relief, and an indispensable
preparation for the sowing of the very
first seeds of any influence that can exalt
humanity ; how, even with the evidence
of himself before them, they will either
be determined to believe, or will suffer
themselves to be persuaded into believ-
ing, that he is something which their
five senses tell them he is not.
There was Mr. Catlin, some few
years ago, with his Ojibbeway Indians.
Mr. Catlin was an energetic, earnest
man, who had lived among more tribes
of Indians than I need reckon up here,
and who had written a picturesque and
glowing book about them. With his
party of Indians squatting and spitting
on the table before him, or dancing
their miserable jigs after their own
dreary manner, he called, in all good
faith, upon his civilized audience to
take notice of their symmetry and
grace, their perfect limbs, and the ex-
quisite expression of their pantomime ;
and his civilized audience, in all good
faith, complied and admired. Where-
as, as mere animals, they were wretch-
ed creatures, very low in the scale and
very poorly formed ; and as men and
women possessing any pow r er of truth-
ful dramatic expression by means of
action, they were no better than the
chorus at an Italian Opera in England,
and would have been worse if such a
thing were possible.
Mine are no new views of the noble
savage. The greatest writers on natu-
ral history found him out long ago.
Buffon knew what he was, and showed
why he is the sulky tyrant that he is to
his women, and how it happens (Heav-
en be praised !) that his race is spare in
numbers. For evidence of the quality
of his moral nature, pass himself for a
moment and refer to his “faithful dog.”
Has he ever improved a dog, or at-
tached a dog, since his nobility first ran
wild in woods, and was brought down
(at a very long shot) by Pope? Or
does the animal that is the friend of
man always degenerate in his low so-
ciety?
It is not the miserable nature of the
noble savage that is the new thing ; it
is the whimpering over him with maud-
lin admiration, and the affecting to re-
gret him, and the drawing of any com-
parison of advantage between the blem-
ishes of civilization and the tenor of his
swinish life. There may have been a
change now and then in those dis-
eased absurdities, but there is none in
him.
Think of the Bushmen. Think of
the two men and the two women who
have been exhibited about England for
some years. Are the majority of per-
sons — who remember the horrid little
leader of that party in his festering bun-
dle of hides, with his filth and his an-
tipathy to water, and his straddled legs,
and his odious eyes shaded by his brutal
hand, and his cry of “ Qu-u-u-u-aaa ! ’*
(Bosjesman for something desperately
insulting I have no doubt) — conscious
of an affectionate yearning towards that
noble savage, or is it idiosyncratic in
me to abhor, detest, abominate, and
abjure him? I have no reserve on this
subject, and will frankly state that, set-
ting aside that stage of the entertain-
ment when he counterfeited the death
of some creature he had shot, by laying
his head on his hand and shaking his
left leg, — at which time I think it
would have been justifiable homicide to
slay him, — I have never seen that
group sleeping, smoking, and expecto-
rating round their brazier, but I have
sincerely desired that something might
happen to the charcoal smouldering
therein, which would cause the imme-
diate suffocation of the whole of the
noble strangers.
There is at present a party of Zulu
Kaffirs exhibiting at the St. George’s
Gallery, Hyde Park Corner, London.
These noble savages are represented in
a most agre'eable manner ; they are
seen in an elegant theatre, fitted with
THE NOBLE SAVAGE .
397
appropriate scenery of great beauty, and
they are described in a very sensible
and unpretending lecture, delivered
with a modesty which is quite a pattern
to all similar exponents. Though ex-
tremely ugly, they are much better
shaped than such of their predecessors
as I have referred to ; and they are
rather picturesque to the eye, though far
from odoriferous to the nose. What a
visitor left to his own interpretings and
imaginings might suppose these no-
blemen to be about, when they give
vent to that pantomimic expression
which is quite settled to be the natural
gift of the noble savage, I cannot pos-
sibly conceive ; for it is so much too
luminous for my personal civilization,
that it conveys no idea to my mind be-
yond a general stamping, ramping, and
raving, remarkable (as everything in
savage life is) for its dire uniformity.
But let us — with the interpreter’s as-
sistance, of which 1 for one stand so
much in need — see what the noble
savage does in Zulu Kaffirland.
The noble savage sets a king to reign
over him, to whom he submits his life
and limbs without a murmur or ques-
tion, and whose whole life is passed
chin deep in a lake of blood ; but who,
after killing incessantly, is in his turn
killed by his relations and friends, the
moment a gray hair appears on his
head. All the noble savage’s wars
with his fellow-savages (and he takes
no pleasure in anything else) are wars
of extermination, — which is the best
thing I know of him, and the most
comfortable to my mind when I look at
him. He has no moral feelings of any
kind, sort, or description ; and his “ mis-
sion ” may be summed up as simply
diabolical.
The ceremonies with which he faintly
diversifies his life are, of course, of a
kindred nature. If he wants a wife he
appears before the kennel of the gentle-
man whom he has selected for his fa-
ther-in-law, attended by a party of male
friends of a very strong flavor, who
screech and whistle and stamp an offer
of so many cows for the young lady’s
hand. The chosen father-in-law — also
supported by a high-flavored party of
male friends — screeches, whistles, and
yells (being seated on the ground, he
can’t stamp) that there never was such
a daughter in the market as his daugh-
ter, and that he must have six more
cows. The son-in-law and his select
circle of backers screech, whistle, stamp,
and yell in reply, that they will give
three more cows. The father-in-law
(an old deluder, overpaid at the begin-
ning) accepts four, and rises to bind
the bargain. The whole party, the
young lady included, then falling into
epileptic convulsions, and screeching,
whistling, stamping, and yelling togeth-
er, — and nobodv taking any notice of
the young lady (whose charms are not
to be thought of without a shudder),
• — the noble savage is considered mar-
ried, and his friends make demonia-
cal leaps at him by way of congratula-
tion.
When the noble savage finds himself
a little unwell, and mentions the cir-
cumstance to his friends, it is imme-
diately perceived that he is under the
influence of witchcraft. A learned per-
sonage, called an Imyanger or Witch
Doctor, is immediately sent for to Noo-
ker the Umtargartie, or smell out the
witch. The male inhabitants of the
kraal being seated on the ground, the
learned doctor, got up like a grizzly
bear, appears, and administers a dance
of a most terrific nature, during the ex-
hibition of which remedy he incessantly
gnashes his teeth, and howls : “ I am
the original physician to Nooker the
Umtargartie. Yowyowyow! No con-
nection with any other establishment.
Till till till ! All other Umtargarties
are feigned Umtargarties, Boroo Boroo !
but I perceive here a genuine and real
Umtargartie, Hoosh Hoosh Hoosh ! in
whose blood I, the original Imyanger
and Nookerer, Blizzerum Boo! will
wash these bear’s claws of mine. O
yow vow yowl”. All this time the
learned physician is looking out among
the attentive faces for some unfortunate
man who owes him a cow, or who has
given him any small offence, or against
whom, without offence, he has conceived
a spite. Him he never fails to Nooker
as the Umtargartie, and he is instantly
killed. In the absence of such an indi-
vidual, the usual practice is to Nooker
39 ^
THE NOBLE SAVAGE.
the quietest and most gentlemanly per-
son in company. But the Nookering is
invariably followed on the spot by the
butchering.
Some of the noble savages in whom
Mr. Catlin was so strongly interested,
and the diminution of whose numbers,
by rum and small-pox, greatly affected
him, had a custom not unlike this,
though much more appalling and dis-
gusting in its odious details.
The women being at work in the
fields, hoeing the Indian corn, and the
noble savage being asleep in the shade,
the chief has sometimes thotcondescen-
sion to come forth, and lighten the labor
by looking at it. On these occasions,
he seats himself in his own savage chair,
and is attended by his shield-bearer,
who holds over his head a shield of
cowhide — in shape like an immense
mussel-shell — fearfully and wonderful-
ly after the manner of a theatrical su-
pernumerary. But lest the great man
should forget his greatness in the con-
templation of the humble works of agri-
culture, there suddenly rushes in a
poet, retained for the purpose, called a
Praiser. This literary gentleman wears
a leopard’s head over his own, and a
dress of tiger’s tails ; he has the ap-
pearance of having come express on his
hind legs from the Zoological Gardens ;
and he incontinently strikes up the
chiefs praises, plunging and tearing
all the while. There is a frantic wick-
edness in this brute’s manner of worry-
ing the air, and gnashing out, “ O what
a delightful chief he is ! O what a de-
licious quantity of blood he sheds ! O
how majestically he laps it up ! O how
charmingly cruel he is ! O how he
tears the flesh of his enemies and
crunches the bones ! O how like the
tiger and the leopard and the wolf and
the bear he is ! O, row row row row,
how fond I am of him ! ” — which might
tempt the Society of Friends to charge
at a hand-gallop into the Swartz- Kop
location and exterminate the whole
kraal.
When war is afoot among the noble
savages, — which is always, — the chief
holds a council to ascertain whether
it is the opinion of his brothers and
friends in general that the enemy shall
be exterminated. On this occasion, after
the performance of an Umsebeuza, or
war song, — which is exactly like all the
other songs, — the chief makes a speech
to his brothers and friends, arranged in
single file. No particular order is ob-
served during the delivery of this ad-
dress, but every gentleman who finds
himself excited by the subject, instead
of crying, “ Hear, hear ! ” as is the cus-
tom with us, darts from the rank and
tramples out the life, or crushes the
skull, or mashes the face, or scoops out
the eyes, or breaks the limbs, or per-
forms a whirlwind of atrocities on the
body, of an imaginary enemy. Several
gentlemen becoming thus excited at
once, and pounding away without the
least regard to the orator, that illustri-
ous person is rather in the position of
an orator in an Irish House of Com-
mons. But several of these scenes of
savage life bear a strong generic resem-
blance to an Irish election, and I think
would be extremely well received and
understood at Cork.
In all these ceremonies the noble
savage holds forth to the utmost pos-
sible extent about himself ; from which
(to turn him to some civilized account)
we may learn, I think, that as egotism
is one of the most offensive and con-
temptible littlenesses a civilized man
can exhibit, so it is really incompatible
with the interchange of ideas ; inas-
much as if we all talked about ourselves
we should soon have no listeners, and
must be all yelling and screeching at
once on our own separate accounts :
making society hideous. It is my opin-
ion that if we retained in us anything
of the noble savage, we could not get
rid^of it too soon. But the fact is
clearly otherwise. Upon the wife and
dowry question, substituting coin for
cows, we have assuredly nothing of the
Zulu Kaffir left. The endurance of
despotism is one great distinguishing
mark of a savage always. The im-
proving world has quite got the better
of that too. In like manner, Paris is
a civilized city, and the Theatre Fran-
$ais a highly civilized theatre ; and we
shall never hear, and never have heard
in these later days (of course) of the
Praiser there. No, no, civilized poets
A FLIGHT.
399
have better work to do. As to Nook-
ering Umtargarties, there are no pre-
tended Umtargarties in Europe, and
no European powers to Nooker them ;
that would be mere spydom, suborna-
tion, small malice, superstition, and
false pretence. And as to private Um-
targarties, are we not in the year eigh-
teen hundred and fifty-three, with spir-
its rapping at our doors?
To conclude as I began. My position
is, that if we have anything to learn from
the Noble Savage, it is what to avoid.
His virtues are a fable ; his happiness
is a delusion ; his nobility, nonsense.
We have no greater justification for
being cruel to the miserable object
than for being cruel to a William
Shakespeare or an Isaac Newton ;
but he passes away before an immeas-
urably better and higher power than
ever ran wild in any earthly woods,
and the world will be all the better
when his place knows him no more.
A FLI
When Don Diego de, — I forget his^
name, — the inventor of the last new
Flying Machines, price so many francs
for ladies, so many more for gentlemen,
— when Don Diego, by permission of
Deputy Chaff-Wax and his noble band,
shall have taken out a Patent for the
Queen’s dominions, and shall have
opened a commodious Warehouse in an
airy situation ; and when all persons of
any gentility will keep at least a pair of
wings, and be seen skimming about in
every direction ; I shall take a flight to
Paris (as I soar round the world) in a
cheap and independent manner. At
present, my reliance is on the South-
eastern Railway Company, in whose
Express Train here I sit, at eight of the
clock on a very hot morning, under the
very hot roof o£ the Terminus at Lon-
don Bridge, in danger of being “ forced ”
like a cucumber or a melon or a pine-
apple — And talking of pine-apples, I
suppose there never were so many pine-
apples in a Train as there appear to be
in this Train.
Whew ! the hot-house air is faint
with pine-apples. Every French citi-
zen or citizeness is carrying pine-apples
home. The compact little Enchantress
in the corner of my carriage (French
actress, to whom I yielded up my heart
under the auspices of that brave child,
GHT.
“ Meat-chell,” at the St. James’s
Theatre the night before last) has a
pine-apple in her lap. Compact En-
chantress’s friend, confidante, mother,
mystery, Heaven knows what, has two
pine-apples in her lap, and a bundle of
them under the seat. Tobacco-smoky
Frenchman in Algerine wrapper, with
peaked hood behind, who might be
Abd-el-Kader dyed rifle-green, and
who seems to be dressed entirely in
dirt and braid, carries pine-apples in
a covered basket. Tall, grave, melan-
choly Frenchman, with black Vandyke
beard, and hair close-cropped, with ex-
pansive chest to waistcoat, and com-
pressive waist to coat : saturnine as to
his pantaloons, calm as to his feminine
boots, precious as to his jewelry, smooth
and white as to his linen : dark-eyed,
high-foreheaded, hawk-nosed, — got up,
one thinks, like Lucifer or Mephis-
topheles, or Zamiel, transformed into a
highly genteel Parisian, — has the green
end of a pine-apple sticking out of his
neat valise.
Whew ! If I were to be kept here
long, under this forcing-frame, I wondef
what would become of me, — whether I
should be forced into a giant, or should
sprout or blow into some other phenome-
non ! Compact Enchantress is not ruf-
fled by the heat, — she is always com-
400
A FLIGHT.
posed, always compact. O look at her
little ribbons, frills, and edges, at her
shawl, at her gloves, at her hair, at her
bracelets, at her bonnet, at everything
about her ! How is it accomplished ?
What does she do to be so neat? How
is it that every trifle she wears belongs
to her, and cannot choose but be a part of
her? And even Mystery, look at her l
A model. Mystery is not young, not
pretty, though still of an average candle-
light passability; but she does such
miracles in her own behalf, that, one of
these days, when she dies, they’ll be
amazed to find an old woman in her
bed, distantly like her. She was an
actress once, I should n’t wonder, and
had a Mystery attendant on herself.
Perhaps Compact Enchantress will
live to be a Mystery, and to wait with a
shawl at the side-scenes, and to sit op-
posite to Mademoiselle in railway car-
riages, and smile and talk subserviently,
as Mystery does now. That ’shard to
believe !
Two Englishmen, and now our car-
riage is full. First Englishman, in the
moneyed interest — flushed, highly re-
spectable — Stock Exchange, perhaps
— City, certainly. Faculties of second
Englishman entirely absorbed in hurry.
Plunges into the carriage, blind. Calls
out of window concerning his luggage,
deaf. Suffocates himself under pillows
of great-coats, for no reason, and in a
demented manner. Will receive no
assurance from any porter whatsoever.
Is stout and hot, and w'ipes his head,
and makes himself hotter by breathing
so hard. Is totally incredulous respect-
ing assurance of Collected Guard that
“ there’s no hurry.” No hurry ! And
a flight to Paris in eleven hours !
It is all one to me in this drowsy
corner, hurry or no hurry. Until Don
Diego shall send home my wings, my
flight is with the Southeastern Com-
pany. I can fly with the Southeast-
ern more lazily, at all events, than in
the upper air. I have but to sit here
thinking as idly as I please, and be
whisked away. I am not accountable
to anybody for the idleness of my
thoughts in such an idle summer flight ;
my flight is provided for by the South-
eastern, and is no business of mine.
The bell ! With all my heart. It
does not require me to do so much as
even to flap my wings. Something
snorts for me, something shrieks for me,
something proclaims to everything else
that it had better keep out of my way,
— and away I go.
Ah ! The fresh air is pleasant after
the forcing-frame, though it does blow
over these interminable streets, and
scatter the smoke of this vast wilder-
ness of chimneys. Here we are — no, I
mean there we were, for it has darted
far into the rear — in Bermondsey, where
the tanners live. Flash ! The distant
shipping in the Thames is gone. Whir !
The little streets of new brick and red
tile, w ith here and there a flagstaff grow-
ing like a tall weed out of the scarlet
beans, and, everywhere, plenty of open
sew er and ditch for the promotion of the
public health, have been fired off in a
volley. Whizz ! Dustheaps, market-
''gardens, and w-aste grounds. Rattle !
New Cross Station. Shock ! There
we were at Croydon. Bur-r-r-r ! The
tunnel.
I wonder why it is that when I shut
my eyes in a tunnel I begin to feel as if
I were going at an Express pace the
other way. I am clearly going back to
London now. Compact Enchantress
must have forgotten something and re-
versed the engine. No ! After long
darkness, pale fitful streaks of light ap-
pear. I am still flying on for Folke-
stone. The streaks grow' stronger, —
become continuous, — become the ghost
of day, — become the living day, — be-
came I mean, — the tunnel is miles and
miles aw'ay, and here I fly through sun-
light, all among the harvest and the
Kentish hops.
There is a dreamy pleasure in this fly-
ing. I wonder where it w'as, and when
it was, that we exploded, blew into
space somehow', a Parliamentary Train,
with a crowd of heads and faces looking
at us out of cages, and some hats wav-
ing. Moneyed Interest says it was at
Reigate Station. Expounds to Mystery
how Reigate Station is so many miles
from London, which Mystery again de-
velops to Compact Enchantress. There
might be neither a Reigate nor a Lon-
don for me, as I fly away among the
A FLIGHT .
401
Kentish hops and harvest. What do /
care !
Bang ! We have let another Station
off, and fly away regardless. Every-
thing is flying. The hop-gardens turn
gracefully towards me, presenting regu-
lar avenues of hops in rapid flight, then
whirl away. So do the pools and rushes,
haystacks, sheep, clover in full bloom
delicious to the sight and smell, corn-
sheaves, cherry - orchards, apple - or-
chards, reapers, gleaners, hedges, gates,
fields that taper off into little angular
corners, cottages, gardens, now and then
a church. Bang, bang ! A double-
barrelled Station ! Now a wood, now a
bridge, now a landscape, now a cutting,
now a — Bang ! a single-barrelled Sta-
tion — there was a cricket-match some-
where with two white tents, and then
four flying cows, then turnips, — now the
wires of the electric telegraph are all
alive, and spin, and blur their edges,
and go up and down, and make the in-
tervals between each other most irregu-
lar, contracting and expanding in the
strangest manner. Now we slacken.
With a screwing, and a grinding, and a
smell of water thrown on ashes, now we
stop !
Demented Traveller, who has been
for two or three minutes watchful,
clutches his great-coats, plunges at the
door, rattles it, cries, “ Hi ! ” eager to
embark on board of impossible packets,
far inland. Collected Guard appears.
“ Are you for Tunbridge, sir? ” “ Tun-
bridge? No. Paris.” “ Plenty of time,
sir. No hurry. Five minutes here, sir,
for refreshment.” I am so blest (an-
ticipating Zamiel, by half a second) as
to procure a glass of water for Compact
Enchantress.
Who would suppose we had been fly-
ing at such a rate, and shall take wing
again directly? Refreshment-room full,
platform full, porter with watering-pot
deliberately cooling a hot wheel, anoth-
er porter with equal deliberation help-
ing the rest of the wheels bountifully to
ice-cream. Moneyed Interest and I re-
entering the carriage first, and being
there alone, he intimates to me that the
French are “no go ” as a Nation. I
ask why? He says, that Reign of Ter-
ror of theirs was quite enough. I ven-
26
ture to inquire whetjier he remembers
anything that preceded said Reign of
Terror ? He says not particularly. “ Be-
cause,” I remark, “ the harvest that is
reaped has sometimes been sown.”
Moneyed Interest repeats, as quite
enough for him, that the French are
revolutionary, — and always at it.”
Bell. Compact Enchantress, helped
in by Zamiel, (whom the stars con-
found ! ) gives us her charming little
side-box look, and smites me to the
core. Mystery eating sponge-cake.
Pine-apple atmosphere faintly tinged
with suspicions of sherry. Demented
Traveller flits past the carriage, looking
for it. Is blind with agitation, and
can’t see it. Seems singled out by
Destiny to be the only unhappy creature
in the flight who has any cause to hur-
ry himself. Is nearly left behind. Is
seized by Collected Guard after the
Train is in motion, and bundled in.
Still has lingering suspicions that there
must be a boat in the neighborhood, and
will look wildly out of a window for it.
Flight resumed. Corn-sheaves, hop-
gardens, reapers, gleaners, . apple-or-
chards, cherry-orchards, Stations single
and doubled barrelled, Ashford. Com-
pact Enchantress (constantly talking to
Mystery, in an exquisite manner) gives
a little scream ; a sound that seems to
come from high up in her precious little
head, from behind her bright little eye-
brows. “ Great Heaven, my pine-ap-
ple ! My Angel ! It is lost ! ” Mys-
tery is desolated. _ A search made. It
is not lost. Zamiel finds it. I curse
him (flying) in the Persian manner. May
his face be turned upside down, and jack-
asses sit upon his uncle’s grave !
Now fresher air, now glimpses of un-
enclosed Down-land, with flapping crows
flying over it whom we soon outflv, now
the Sea, now Folkestone at a quarter
after ten. “Tickets ready, gentlemen ! *
Demented dashes at the door. “ For
Paris, sir? No hurry.”
Not the least. We are dropped slow-
ly down to the Port, and sid’e to and
fro (the whole Train) before the insen-
sible Royal George Hotel for some ten
minutes. The Royal George takes no
more heed of us than its namesake un-
der water at Spithead, or under earth at
402
A FLIGHT .
Windsor, does. The Royal George’s
dog lies winking and blinking at us,
without taking the trouble to sit up ;
and the Royal George’s “ wedding
party” at the open window (who seem,
1 must say, rather tired of bliss) don’t
bestow a solitary glance upon us, flying
thus to Paris in eleven hours. The first
gentleman, in Folkestone is evidently
used up, on this subject.
Meanwhile, Demented chafes. Con-
ceives that every man’s hand is against
him, and exerting itself to prevent his
getting to Paris. Refuses consolation.
Rattles door. Sees smoke on the hori-
zon, and “knows” it’s the boat gone
without him. Moneyed Interest resent-
fully explains that he is going to Paris
too. Demented signifies that if Mon-
eyed Interest chooses to be left behind,
he don’t.
“ Refreshments in the Waiting-Room,
ladies and gentlemen. No hurry, ladies
and gentlemen, for Paris. No hurry
whatever ! ”
Twenty minutes* pause, by Folke-
stone clock, for looking at Enchantress
while she eats a sandwich, and at
Mystery while she eats of everything
there that is eatable, from pork-pie,
sausage, jam, and gooseberries, to
lumps of sugar. All this time, there is
a very waterfall of luggage, with a spray
of dust, tumbling slantwise from the
pier into the steamboat. All this time,
Demented (who has no business with
it) watches it with starting eyes, fierce-
ly requiring to be shown his luggage.
When it at last concludes the cataract,
he rushes hotly to refresh — is shouted
after, pursued, jostled, brought back,
pitched into the departing steamer up-
side down, and caught by mariners dis-
gracefully.
A lovely harvest day, a cloudless sky,
a tranquil sea. The piston-rods of the
engines, so regularly coming up from
below to look (as well they may) at the
bright weather, and so regularly almost
knocking their iron heads against the
cross-beam of the skylight, and never
doing it ! Another Parisian actress is
on board, attended by another Myste-
ry. Compact Enchantress greets her
sister artist — O, the Compact One’s
pretty teeth! — and Mystery greets
Mystery. My Mystery soon ceases to
be conversational, — is taken poorly, in
a word, having lunched too miscellane-
ously, — and goes below. The remain-
ing Mystery then smiles upon the sis-
ter artist3 (who, I am afraid, would n’t
greatly mind stabbing each other), and
is upon the whole ravished.
And now I find that all the French
people on board begin to grow, and all
the English people to shrink. The
French are nearing home, and shaking
off a disadvantage, whereas we are
shaking it on. Zamiel is the same
man, and Abd-el-Kader is the same
man, but each seems to come into pos-
session of an indescribable confidence
that departs from us, — from Moneyed
Interest, for instance, and from me.
Just what they gain, we lose. Certain
British “ Gents ” about the steersman,
intellectually nurtured at home on par-
ody of everything and truth of nothing,
become subdued, and in a manner for-
lorn ; and when the steersman tells
them (not unexultingly) how he has
“ been upon this station now eight year
and never see the old towm of Bullum
yet,” one of them, with an imbecile
reliance on a reed, asks him what he
considers to be the best hotel in Paris ?
Now, I tread upon French ground,
and am greeted by the three charming
words, Liberty, Equality, Fraternity,
painted up (in letters a little too thin
for their height) on the Custom-House
wall, — also by the sight of large cocked
hats, without which demonstrative
head-gear nothing of a public nature
can he done upon this soil. All the
rabid Hotel population of Boulogne
howl and shriek outside a distant bar-
rier, frantic to get at us. Demented,
by some_ unlucky means peculiar to
himself, is delivered over to their fury,
and is presently seen struggling in a
whirlpool of Touters, — is somehow un-
derstood to be going to Paris, — is, with
infinite noise, rescued by two cocked
hats, and brought into Custom-House
bondage with the rest of us.
Here, I resign the active duties of
life to an eager being, of preternatural
sharpness, with a shelving forehead and
a shabby snuff-colored coat, who (from
the wharf) brought me down with his
A FLIGHT.
403
eye before the boat came into port. He
darts upon my luggage, on the floor
where all the luggage is strewn like a
wreck at the bottom of the great deep ;
gets it proclaimed and weighed as the
property of “ Monsieur a traveller up-
known ” ; pays certain francs for it, to
a certain functionary behind a Pigeon
Hole, like a pay-box at a Theatre (the
arrangements in general are on a whole-
sale scale, half military and half theat-
rical) ; and I suppose I shall find it
when I come to Paris, — he says I shall.
I know nothing about it, except that I
pay him his small fee, and pocket the
ticket he gives me, and sit upon a coun-
ter, involved in the general distraction.
Railway station. “ Lunch or dinner,
ladies and gentlemen. Plenty of time
for Paris. Plenty of time ! ” Large hall,
long counter, long strips of dining-table,
bottles of wine, plates of meat, roast
chickens, little loaves of bread, basins
of soup, little caraffes of brandy, cakes,
and fruit. Comfortably restored from
these resources, I begin to fly again.
I saw Zamiel (before I took wing)
presented to Compact Enchantress and
Sister Artist, by an officer in uniform,
with a waist like a wasp’s and panta-
loons like two balloons. They all got
into the next carriage together, accom-
panied by the two Mysteries. They
laughed. I am alone in the carriage
(for I don’t consider Demented any-
body) and alone in the world.
Fields, windmills, low' grounds, pol-
lard-trees, windmills, fields, fortifica-
tions, Abbeville, soldiering and drum-
ming. I wonder where England is,
and when I was there last, — about two
years ago, I should say. Flying in and
out among these trenches and batteries,
skimming the clattering drawbridges,
looking down into the stagnant ditches,
I become a prisoner of state, escaping.
I am confined with a comrade in a fort-
ress. Our room is in an upper story.
We have tried to get up the chimney,
but there ’s an iron grating across it,
imbedded in the masonry. After
months of labor, we have worked the
grating loose with the poker, and can
lift it up. We have also made a hook,
and twisted our rugs and blankets into
ropes. Our plan is, to go up the chim-
ney, hook our ropes to the top, descend
hand over hand upon the roof of the
guard-house far below, shake the hook
loose, watch the opportunity of the sen-
tinel’s pacing away, hook again, drop
into the ditch, swim across it, creep into
the shelter of the wood. The time is
come, — a wild and stormy night. We
are up the chimney, we are on the
guard-house roof, we are swimming in
the murky ditch, when lo ! “ Qui v’ll ? ”
a bugle, the alarm, a crash ! What is
it? Death? No, Amiens.
More fortifications, more soldiering
and drumming, more basins of soup,
more little loaves of bread, more bottles
of wine, more caraffes of brandy, more
time for refreshment. Everything good
and everything ready. Bright, unsub-
stantial-looking, scenic sort of station.
People waiting. Houses, uniforms,
beards, mustaches, some sabots, plenty
of neat women, and a few old-visaged
children. Unless it be a delusion born
of my giddy flight, the grown-up people
and the children seem to change places
in France. In general, the boys and
girls are little old men and women, and
the men and women lively boys and
girls.
Bugle, shriek, flight resumed. Mon-
eyed Interest has come into my carriage.
Says the manner of refreshing is “ not
bad,” but considers it French. Admits
great dexterity and politeness in the at-
tendants. Thinks a decimal currency
may have something to do with their
despatch in settling accounts, and don’t
know but what it ’s sensible and con-
venient. Adds, however, as a general
protest, that they ’re a revolutionary
people, — and always at it.
Ramparts, canals, cathedral, river, sol-
diering and drumming, open country,
river, earthenware manufactures, Creil.
Again ten minutes. Not even Dement-
ed in a hurry. Station, a drawing-room
with a veranda, — like a planter’s house.
Moneyed Interest considers it a band-
box, and not made to last. Little round
tables in it, at one of which the Sister
Artists and attendant Mysteries are es-
tablished with Wasp and Zamiel, as if
they were going to stay a week.
Anon, with no more trouble than be-
fore, I am flying again, and lazily won-
4°4
A FLIGHT.
dering as I fly. What has the South-
eastern done with all the horrible lit-
tle villages we used to pass through,
in the Diligence ? What have they
done with all the summer dust, with
all the winter mud, with all the dreary
avenues of little trees, with all the
ramshackle post-yards, with all the beg-
gars (who used to turn out at night with
bits of lighted candle, to look in at the
coach windows), with all the long-tailed
horses who were always biting one an-
other, with all the big postilions in jack-
boots, — with all the mouldy cafes that
we used to stop at, where a long mil-
dewed tablecloth, set forth with jovial
bottles of vinegar and oil, and with a
Siamese arrangement of pepper and
salt, was never wanting? Where are
the grass-grown little towns, the won-
derful little market-places all uncon-
scious of markets, the shops that nobody
kept, the streets that nobody trod, the
churches that nobody went to, the
bells that nobody rang, the tumble-
down old buildings plastered with
many-colored bills that nobody read?
Where are the two-and-twenty weary
hours of long, long day and night jour-
ney, sure to be either insupportably hot
or insupportably cold ? Where are the
pains in my bones, where are the
fidgets in my legs, where is the French-
man with the nightcap who never
•wotild have the little coupe-window
down, and who always fell upon me
when he went to sleep, and always
slept all night snoring onions ?
A voice breaks in with, “ Paris ! Here
we are ! ”
I have overflown myself, perhaps, but
I can’t believe it. I feel as if I were en-
chanted or bewutched. It is barely eight
o’clock yet — it is nothing like half past
— when I have had my luggage exam-
ined at that briskest of Custom-Houses
attached to the station, and am rattling
over the pavement in a Hackney cabri-
olet.
Surely, not the pavement of Paris?
Yes, I think it is, too. I don’t know
any other place where there are all these
high houses, all these haggard-looking
wine shops, all these billiard-tables, all
these stocking-makers with flat red or
yellow legs of wood for signboard, all
these fuel shops with stacks of billets
painted outside, and real billets sawing
in the gutter, all these dirty corners of
streets, all these cabinet pictures over
dark doorways representing discreet
patrons nursing babies. And yet this
morning — I ’ll think of it in a warm-
bath.
Very like a small room that I remem-
ber in the Chinese Baths upon the Bou-
levard, certainly; and, though I see it
through the steam, I think that I might
swear to that peculiar hot-linen basket,
like a large wicker hourglass. When
can it have been that I left home ?
When was it that I paid “through to
Paris” at London Bridge, and dis-
charged myself of all responsibility,
except the preservation of a voucher
ruled into three divisions, of which the
first was snipped off at Folkestone, the
second aboard the boat, and the third
taken at my journey’s end? It seems
to have been ages ago. Calculation is
useless. I will go out for a walk.
The crowds in the streets, the lights
in the shops and balconies, the elegance,
variety, and beauty of their decorations,
the number of the theatres, the brilliant
cafes with their windows thrown up high
and their vivacious groups at little tables
on the pavement, the light and glitter
of the houses turned as it were inside
out, soon convince me that it is no
dream ; that I am in Paris, howsoever
I got here. I stroll down to the spark-
ling Palais Royal, up the Rue de
Rivoii, to the Place Vendome. As I
glance into a print-shop window, Mon-
eyed Interest, my late travelling com-
panion, comes upon me, laughing w’ith
the highest relish of disdain. “ Here ’s
a people ! ” he says, pointing to Napo-
leon in the window and Napoleon on the
column. “ Only one idea all over Paris !
A monomania ! ” Humph ! I think
I have seen Napoleon’s match? There
was a statue, when I came away, at
Hyde Park Corner, and another in the
City, and a print or two in the shops.
I walk up to the Barreire de l’Etoile,
sufficiently dazed by my flight to have a
pleasant doubt of the reality of every-
thing about me ; of the lively crowd,
the overhanging trees, the peforming
dogs, the hobby-horses, the beautiful
THE DETECTIVE POLICE .
405
erspectives of shining lamps ; the
undred and one enclosures, where the
singing is, in gleaming orchestras of
azure and gold, and where a star-eyed
Houri comes round with a box for vol-
untary offerings. So I pass to my ho-
tel, enchanted ; sup, enchanted ; go to
bed, enchanted ; pushing back this
morning (if it really were this morn-
ing) into the remoteness of time, bless-
ing the Southeastern Company for
realizing the Arabian Nights in these
prose days, murmuring, as 1 wing my
idle flight into the land of dreams,
“ No hurry, ladies and gentlemen, go-
ing to Paris in eleven hours. It is so
well done, that there really is no hur-
ry 1”
THE DETECTIVE POLICE.
We are not by any means devout
believers in the Old Bow Street Police.
To say the truth, we think there was a
vast amount of humbug about those
worthies. Apart from many of them
being men of very indifferent character,
and far too much in the habit of consort-
ing with thieves and the like, they never
lost a public occasion of jobbing and
trading in mystery and making the
most of themselves. Continually puffed
besides by incompetent magistrates
anxious to conceal their own deficien-
cies, and hand-iu-glove with the penny-
a-liners of that time, they became a sort
of superstition. Although as a Preven-
tive Police they were utterly ineffective,
and as a Detective Police were very
loose and uncertain in their operations,
they remain with some people a super-
stition to the present day.
On the other hand, the Detective
Force organized since the establishment
of the existing Police, is so well chosen
and trained, proceeds so systematically
and quietly, does its business in such
a workmanlike manner, and is always
so calmly and steadily engaged in the
service of the public, that the public
really do not know enough of it to know
a tithe of its usefulness. Impressed
with this conviction, and interested in
the men themselves, we represented to
the authorities at Scotland Yard, that
we should be glad, if there were no
official objection, to have some talk
with the Detectives. A most obliging
and ready permission being given, a
certain evening was appointed with a
certain Inspector for a social confer-
ence between ourselves and the Detec-
tives, at The Household Words Office
in Wellington Street, Strand, London.
In consequence of which appointment
the party “came off,” which we are
about to describe. And we beg to
repeat that, avoiding such topics as it
might for obvious reasons be injurious
to the public, or disagreeable to respect-
able individuals, to touch upon in print,
our description is as exact as we can
make it.
The reader will have the goodness
to imagine the Sanctum Sanctorum of
Household Words. Anything that
best suits the reader’s fancy, will best
represent that magnificent chamber.
We merely stipulate for a round table
in the middle, with some glasses and
cigars arranged upon it ; and the edi-
torial sofa elegantly hemmed in be-
tween that stately piece of furniturf
and the wall.
It is a sultry evening at dusk. The
stones of Wellington Street are hot and
gritty, and the watermen and hackney-
coachmen at the Theatre opposite are
much flushed and aggravated. Car-
riages are constantly setting down the
people who have come to Fairy-Land ;
and there is a mighty shouting and
bellowing every now and then, deafen-
THE DETECTIVE POLICE.
406
in g us for the moment, through the
open windows.
Just at dusk, Inspectors Wield and
Stalker are announced ; but we do not
undertake to warrant the orthography
of any of the names here mentioned.
Inspector Wield presents Inspector
Stalker. Inspector Wield is a middle-
aged man of a pordy presence, with a
large, moist, knowing eye, a husky
voice, and a habit of emphasizing his
conversation by the aid of a corpulent
forefinger, which is constantly in juxta-
position with his eyes or nose. Inspec-
tor Stalker is a shrewd, hard-headed
Scotchman, — in appearance not at all
unlike a very acute, thoroughly-trained
schoolmaster, from the Normal Estab-
lishment at Glasgow. Inspector Wield
one might have known, perhaps, for
what he is, — Inspector Stalker never.
The ceremonies of reception over,
Inspectors Wield and Stalker observe
that they have brought some sergeants
with them. The sergeants are pre-
sented, — five in number, — Sergeant
Dornton, Sergeant Witchem, Sergeant
Mith, Sergeant Fendall, and Sergeant
Straw. We have the whole Detective
Force from Scotland Yard, with one ex-
ception. They sit down in a semicircle
(the two Inspectors at the two ends)
at a little distance from the round table,
facing the editorial sofa. Every man
of them, in a glance, immediately takes
an inventory of the furniture and an
accurate sketch of the editorial pres-
ence. The Editor feels that any gen-
tleman in company could take him up,
if need should be, without the smallest
hesitation, twenty years hence.
The whole party are in plain clothes.
Sergeant Dornton, about fifty years of
age, with a ruddy face and a high sun-
burnt forehead, has the air of one who
has been a Sergeant in the arm}', — he
might have sat to Wilkie for the Sol-
dier in the Reading of the Will. He
is famous for steadily pursuing the in-
ductive process, and, from small be-
ginnings, working on from clew to clew
until he bags his man. Sergeant
Witchem, shorter and thicker-set, and
marked with the small-pox, has some-
thing of a reserved and thoughtful air,
as if he were engaged in deep arith-
metical calculations. He is renowned
for his acquaintance with the swell
mob. Sergeant Mith, a smooth-faced
man with a fresh bright complexion,
and a strange air of simplicity, is a dab
at housebreakers. Sergeant Fendall,
a light-haired, well-spoken, polite per-
son, is a prodigious hand at pursuing
private inquiries of a delicate nature.
Straw, a little wiry Sergeant of meek
demeanor and strong sense, w'ould knock
at a door and ask a series of ques-
tions in any mild character you choose
to prescribe to him, from a charity-boy
upwards, and seem as innocent as an
infant. They are, one and all, respec-
table-looking men ; of perfectly good
deportment and unusual intelligence ;
with nothing lounging or slinking in
their manners ; w'ith an air of keen ob-
servation and quick perception when
addressed ; and generally presenting in
their faces traces more or less marked
of habitually leading lives of strong
mental excitement. They have all good
eyes ; and they all can, and they all
do, look full at whomsoever they speak
to.
We light the cigars, and hand round
the glasses (which are very temperately
used indeed), and the conversation be-
gins by a modest amateur reference on
the Editorial part to the swell mob.
Inspector Wield immediately removes
his cigar from his lips, waves his right
hand, and says, “ Regarding the sw ell
mob, sir, I can’t do better than call upon
Sergeant Witchem. Because the rea-
son why ? I ’ll tell you. Sergeant
Witchem is better acquainted with the
swell mob than any officer in London.”
Our heart leaping up when we beheld
this rainbow in the sky, w'e turn to Ser-
geant Witchem, who very concisely,
and in w'ell-chosen language, goes into
the subject forthwith. Meantime, the
whole of his brother officers are closely
interested in attending to what he says,
and observing its effect. Presently
they begin to strike in, one or two
together, when an opportunity offers,
and the conversation becomes general.
But these brother officers only come in
to the assistance of each other, — not to
the contradiction, — and a more amica-
ble brotherhood there could not be.
THE DETECTIVE POLICE.
407
From the swell mob, we diverge to the
kindred topics of cracksmen, fences,
public-house dancers, area-sneaks, de-
signing young people who go out “ gon-
ophing,” and other “schools.” It is
observable throughout these revelations
that Inspector Stalker, the Scotchman,
is always exact and statistical, and that
when any question of figures arises,
everybody as by one consent pauses,
and looks to him.
When we have exhausted the various
schools of Art, — during which discus-
sion the whole body have remained
profoundly attentive, except when some
unusual noise at the theatre over the
way has induced some gentleman to
glance inquiringly towards the window
in that direction, behind his next neigh-
bor’s back, — we burrow for information
on Such points as the following. Wheth-
er there really are any highway rob-
beries in London, or whether some cir-
cumstances not convenient to be men-
tioned by the aggrieved party usually
precede the robberies complained of,
under that head, which quite change
their character? Certainly, the latter,
almost always. Whether in the case
of robberies in houses, where servants
are necessarily exposed to doubt, inno-
cence under suspicion ever becomes so
like guilt in appearance, that a good
officer need be cautious how he judges
it? Undoubtedly. Nothing is so com-
mon or deceptive as such appearances
at first. Whether in a place of public
amusement, a thief knows an officer,
and an officer knows a thief, — suppos-
ing them, beforehand, strangers to each
other, — because each recognizes in the
other, under all disguise, an inatten-
tion to what is going on, and a purpose
that is not the purpose of being enter-
tained? Yes. That ’s the way exactly.
Whether it is reasonable or ridiculous
to. trust to the alleged experiences of
thieves as narrated by themselves, in
prisons, or penitentiaries, or anywhere?
In general, nothing more absurd. Ly-
ing is their habit and their trade ; and
they would rather lie — even if they
hadn’t an interest in it, and didn’t want
to make themselves agreeable — than
tell the truth.
From these topics, we glide into a
review of the most celebrated and horri-
ble of the great crimes that have been
committed within the last fifteen or
twenty years. The men engaged in
the discovery of almost all of them, and
in the pursuit or apprehension of the
murderers, are here, down to the very
last instance. One of our guests gave
chase to and boarded the emigrant ship
in which the murderess last hanged in
London was supposed to have em-
barked. We learn from him that his
errand was not announced to the pas-
sengers, who may have no idea of it
to this hour. That he went below,
with the captain, lamp in hand, — it
being dark, and the whole steerage
abed and sea-sick, — and engaged the
Mrs. Manning, who was on board, in
a conversation about her luggage, until
she was, with no small pains, induced
to raise her head, and turn her face to-
wards the light. Satisfied that she was
not the object of his search, he quietly
re-embarked in the government steamer
alongside, and steamed home again with
the intelligence.
When we have exhausted these sub-
jects, too, which occupy a considerable
time in the discussion, two or three
leave their chairs, whisper Sergeant
Witchem, and resume their seats. Ser-
geant Witchem leaning forward a little,
and placing a hand on each of his legs,
then modestly speaks as follows : —
“ My brother-officers wish me to re-
late a little account of my taking Tally-
ho Thompson. A man ought n’t to tell
what he has done himself ; but still, as
nobody was with me, and, consequently,
as nobody but myself can tell it, I ’ll
do it in the best wav I can, if it should
meet your approval.”
We assure Sergeant Witchem that
he will oblige us very much, and we all
compose ourselves to listen with great
interest and attention.
“ Tally-ho Thompson,” says Ser-
geant Witchem. after merely wetting his
lips with his brandy and water, — “ Tal-
ly-ho Thompson was a famous horse-
stealer, couper, and magsman. Thomp-
son, in conjunction with a pal that oc-
casionally worked with him, gammoned
a countryman out of a good round sum
of money, upder pretence of getting
40 3
THE DETECTIVE POLICE.
him a situation, — the regular old dodge,
— and was afterwards in the ‘Hue and
Cry * for a horse, — a horse that he stole,
down in Hertfordshire. I had to look
after Thompson, and I applied myself,
of course, in the first instance, to dis-
covering where he was. Now, Thomp-
son’s wife lived, along with a little
daughter, at Chelsea. Knowing that
Thompson was somewhere in the coun-
try, I watched the house, — especially
at post-time in the morning, — thinking
Thompson was pretty likely to write
to her. Sure enough, one morning the
postman comes up, and delivers a letter
at Mrs. Thompson’s door. Little girl
opens the door, and takes it in. We ’re
not always sure of postmen, though the
people at the post-offices are always
very obliging. A postman may help
us, or he may not, — just as it happens.
However, I go across the road, and I
say to the postman, after he has left
the letter, ‘ Good morning ! how are
you ? ’ ‘ How are you, ? ’ says he.
‘ You ’ve just delivered a letter for Mrs.
Thompson.’ ‘Yes, I have.’ ‘You
did n’t happen to remark what the post-
mark was, perhaps?’ ‘No,’ says he,
‘ I did n’t.’ ‘ Come,’ says I, ‘ I ’ll be plain
with you. I ’m in a small way of busi-
ness, and I have given Thompson credit,
and I can’t afford to lose what he owes
me. I know he ’s got money, and I
know he ’s in the country, and if you
could tell me what the postmark was,
I should be very much obliged to you,
and you ’d do a service to a tradesman
in a small way of business that can’t
afford a loss.’ ‘Well,’ he said, ‘I do
assure you that I did not observe what
the postmark was ; all I know is, that
there was money in the letter, — I should
say a sovereign.’ This was enough for
me, because of course I knew that
Thompson having sent his wife money,
it was probable she ’d write to Thomp-
son, by return of post, to acknowledge
the receipt. So I said, ‘ Thankee,’ to the
postman, and I kept on the watch. In
the afternoon I saw the little girl come
out. Of course I followed her. She
went into a stationer’s shop, and I
need n’t say to you that I looked in at
the window. She bought some writing-
paper and envelopes, and a pen. I
think to myself, ‘ That ’ll do ! ’ — watch
her home again, — and don’t go away,
you may be sure, knowing that Mrs.
Thompson was writing her letter t(
Tally-ho, and that the letter would be
posted presently. In about an hour o!
so, out came the little girl again, with
the letter in her hand. I went up,
and said something to the child,
whatever it might have been ; but I
could n’t see the direction of the letter,
because she held it with the seal up-
wards. However, I observed that on
the back of the letter there was what
we call a kiss, — a drop of wax by the
side of the seal, — and again, you under-
stand that was enough for me. I saw
her post the letter, waited till she was
gone, then went into the shop, and
asked to see the Master. When he
came out, I told him, ‘Now, I’m an
Officer in the Detective force ; there ’s
a letter with a kiss been posted here
just now for a man that I’m in search
of ; and what I have to ask of you is,
that you will let me look at the direc-
tion of that letter. ’ He was very civil,
— took a lot of letters from the box
in the window, — shook ’em out on the
counter with the faces downwards, — and
there among ’em was the identical let-
ter with the kiss. It was directed,
Mr. Thomas Pigeon, Post-Office, P> ,
to be left till called for. Down I went
to B (a hundred and twenty miles
or so) that night. Early next morning I
went to the Post-Office ; saw the gen-
tleman in charge of that department ;
told him who I was ; and that my ob-
ject was to see, and track, the party
that should come for the letter for Mr.
Thomas Pigeon. He was very polite,
and said, ‘You shall have every as-
sistance we can give you ; you can wait
inside the office ; and we ’ll take care to
let you know when anybody comes for
the letter.’ Well, I waited there three
days, and began to think that nobody
ever would come. At last the clerk
whispered to me, ‘ Here ! Detective !
Somebody ’s come for the letter ! ’
‘ Keep him a minute,’ said I, and I ran
round to the outside of the office.
There I saw a young chap with the ap-
pearance of an ostler, holding a horse
by the bridle, — stretching the bridle
THE DETECTIVE POLICE.
across the pavement, while he waited at
the Post-Office window for the letter.
1 began to pat the horse, and that. ; and
I said to the boy, ‘ Why, this is Mr.
Jones’s mare ! ’ ‘No. It ain’t.’ ‘No?’
said I. ‘She’s very like Mr. Jones’s
mare ! ’ ‘ She ain’t Mr. Jones’s mare,
anyhow*,’ says he. ‘It’s Mr. So-and-
so’s, of the Warwick Arms.’ And up
he jumped, and off he went, — letter and
all. I got a cab, followed on the box,
and was so quick after him that I came
into the stable-yard of the Warwick
Arms by one gate, just as he came in
by another. I went into the bar, where
there was a young woman serving, and
called for a glass of brandy and water.
He came in directly, and handed her
the letter. She casually looked at it,
without saying anything, and stuck it
up behind the glass over the chimney-
piece. What was to be done next ?
“ I turned it over in my mind while I
drank my brandy and water (looking
pretty sharp at the letter the while), but
I could n’t see my way out of it at all.
I tried to get lodgings in the house, but
there had been a horse-fair, or some-
thing of that sort, and it was full. I
was obliged to put up somewhe^ else,
but I came backwards and forwards to
the bar for a couple of days, and there
was the letter always behind the glass.
At last I thought I ’d write a letter to
Mr. Pigeon myself, and see what that
would do. So I wrote one, and posted
it, but I purposely addressed it, Mr.
John Pigeon, instead of Mr. Thomas
Pigeon, to see what that would do. In
the morning (a very wet morning it was)
I watched the postman down the street,
and cut into the bar, just before he
reached the Warwick Arms. In he
came presently with my letter. ‘ Is
there a Mr. John Pigeon staying here?’
‘No! — stop a bit, though,’ says the
barmaid ; and she took down the letter
behind the glass. ‘No,’ says she, ‘ it ’s
Thomas, and he is not staying here.
Would you do me a favor, and post this
for me, as it is so wet?’ The postman
said ‘Yes’ ; she folded it in another en-
velope, directed it, and gave it him.
He put it in his hat, and aw’ay he
went.
“ I had no difficulty in finding out 1
409
the direction of that letter. It was ad-
dressed, Mr. Thomas Pigeon, Post-Of-
fice, R , Northamptonshire, to be left
till called for. Off I started directly for
R ; I said the same at the Post-Office
there, as I had said at B ; and again
I waited three days before anybody
came. At last another chap on horse-
back came. ‘ Any letters for Mr. Thom-
as Pigeon ? ’ ‘ Where do you come
from ?’ ‘ New Inn, near R .’ He
got the letter, and away he went at a
canter.
“ I made my inquiries about the New
Inn, near R , and hearing it was a
solitary sort of house, a little in the
horse line, about a couple of miles from
the sfation, I thought I ’d go and have
a look at it. I found it what it had
been described, and sauntered in, to
look about me. The landlady was in
the bar, and I w r as trying to get into
conversation with her ; asked her how
business was, and spoke about the wet
weather, and so on ; when I saw,
through an open door, three men sitting
by the fire in a sort of parlor, or kitch-
en ; and one of those men, according to
the description I had of him, was Tal-
ly-ho Thompson !
“ I went and sat down among ’em,
and tried to make things agreeable ; but
they were very shy, — wouldn’t talk at
all, — looked at me, and at one another,
in a way quite the reverse of sociable.
I reckoned ’em up, and finding that
they were all three bigger men than me,
and considering that their looks were
ugly, — that it was a lonely place, —
railroad station two miles off, — and
night coming on, — thought I couldn’t
do better than have a drop of brandy
and water to keep my courage up. So
I called for my brandy and water ; and
as I was sitting drinking it by the fire,
Thompson got up and went out.
“Now the difficulty of it was, that I
wasn’t sure it was Thompson, because
I had never set eyes on him before ; and
what I had wanted was to be quite cer-
tain of him. However, there was noth-
ing for it now, but to follow, and put a
bold face upon it. I found him talking
outside in the yard with the landlady.
It turned out afterwards that he was
wanted by a Northampton officer for
410
THE DETECTIVE POLICE.
something else, and that, knowing that
officer to be pock-marked (as I am
myself), he mistook me for him. As I
have observed, I found him talking to
the landlady outside. I put my hand
upon his shoulder, — this way, — and
said : ‘ Tally-ho Thompson, it ’s no use.
I know you. I ’m an officer from Lon-
don, and I take you into custody for
felony ! ’ ‘ That be d — d ! ’ says Tally-
ho Thompson.
“We went back into the house, and
the two friends began to cut up rough,
and their looks did n’t please me at all,
I assure you. ‘ Let the man go. What
are you going to do with him?’ ‘I’ll
tell you what I ’m going to do with
him. I ’m going to take him to London
to-night, as sure as I ’m alive. I ’m
not alone here, whatever you may think.
You mind your own business, and keep
yourselves to yourselves. It ’ll be bet-
ter for you, for I know you both very
well.’ 7 ’d never seen or heard of ’em
in all my life, but my bouncing cowed
’em a bit, and they kept off, while
Thompson was making ready to go. I
thought to myself, however, that they
might be coming after me on the dark
road, to rescue Thompson ; so I said to
the landlady, ‘What men have you got
in the house, Missis?’ ‘We haven’t
got no men here,’ she says, sulkily.
‘You have got an ostler, I suppose?’
‘Yes, we’ve got an ostler.’ ‘Let me
see him.’ Presently he came, and a
shaggy-headed young fellow he was.
‘ Now, attend to me, young man,’ says
I ; ‘I’m a Detective Officer from Lon-
don. This man’s name is Thompson.
I have taken him into custody for fel-
ony. I ’m going to take him to the
railroad station. I call upon you in
the Queen’s name to assist me ; and
mind you, my friend, you’ll get your-
self into more trouble than you know
of, if you don’t!’ You never saw a
person open his eyes so wide. ‘ Now,
Thompson, come along ! ’ says I. But
when I took out the handcuffs, Thomp-
son cries, ‘ No ! None of that ! 1
won’t stand them ! I ’ll go along with
you quiet, but I won’t bear none of
that ! ’ ‘ Tally-ho Thompson,’ I said,
‘ I ’m willing to behave as a man to
you, if you are willing to behave as a
man to me. Give me your word that
you ’ll come peaceably along, and I
don’t want to handcuff you.’ ‘I will,’
says Thompson, ‘but I ’ll have a glass
of brandy first.’ ‘ I don’t care if I ’ve
another,’ said I. ‘We’ll have two
more. Missis,’ said the friends, ‘ and
con-found you, Constable, you’ll give
your man a drop won’t you?’ I was
agreeable to that, so we had it all
round, and then my man and I took
Tally-ho Thompson safe to the rail-
road, and I carried him to London that
night. He was afterwards acquitted,
on account of a defect in the evidence ;
and I understand he always praises me
up to the skies, and says I ’m one of the
best of men.”
This story coming to a termination
amidst general applause, Inspector
Wield, after a little grave smoking,
fixes his eye on his host, and thus
delivers himself : —
“ It wasn’t a bad plant that of mine,
on Fikey, the man accused of forging
the Sou’western Railway debentures
— it was only t’other day — because
the reason why? I ’ll tell you.
“I had information that Fikey and
his brother kept a factory over yonder
there, — indicating any region on the
Surrey side of the river, — “where he
bought second-hand carriages ; so after
I ’d tried in vain to get hold of him by
other means, I wrote him a letter in an
assumed name, saying that I ’d got a
horse and shay to dispose of, and would
drive down next day that he might view
the lot, and make an offer, — very reason-
able it was, I said, — a reg’lar bargain.
Straw and me then went off to a friend
of mine that ’s in the livery and job
business, and hired a turnout for the
day, a precious smart turnout it was, —
quite a slap-up thing ! Down we drove,
accordingly, with a friend (who ’s not in
the Force himself); and leaving my
friend in the shay near a public-house,
to take care of the horse, we went to
the factory, which was some little way
off. In the factory there was a number
of strong fellows at work, and after
reckoning ’em up, it was clear to me
that it wouldn’t do to try it on there.
They were too many for us. We must
get our man out of doors. ‘ Mr. Fikey
THE DETECTIVE POLICE.
4 11
at home? ’ * No, he ain’t.’ * Expected
home soon?’ ‘Why, no, not soon.’
‘Ah! is his brother here?’ */’ m his
brother.’ ‘ O well, this is an ill-con-
wenience, this is. I wrote him a letter
yesterday, saying I ’d got a little turn-
out to dispose of, and I ’ve took the
trouble to bring the turnout down, a’
purpose, and now he ain’t in the way.’
4 No, he ain’t in the way. You could n’t
make it convenient to call again, could
you?’ ‘Why, no, I couldn’t. I want
to sell ; that ’s the fact ; and I can’t put
it off. Could you find him anywheres? ’
At first he said, No, he couldn’t, and
then he w r as n’t sure about it, and then
he ’d go and try. So at last he went
up stairs, where there was a sort of loft,
and presently down comes my man
himself, in his shirt-sleeves.
“ ‘ Well,’ he says, ‘this seems to be
rayther a pressing matter of yours.’
‘Yes,’ I says, ‘it is rayther a pressing
matter, and you ’ll find it a bargain, —
dirt-cheap.’ ‘ I ain’t in partickler want
of a bargain just now,’ he says, ‘but
where is it?’ ‘ Why,’ I says, ‘the turn-
out’s just outside. Come and look at
it.’ He hasn’t any suspicions, and
away we go. And the first thing that
happens is, that the horse runs away
with my friend (who knows no more of
driving than a child) when he takes a
little trot along the road to show his
paces. You never saw such a game in
your life !
“ When the bolt is over, and the turn-
out has come to a standstill again,
Fikey walks round and round it as grave
as a judge, — me too. ‘ There, sir ! ’ I
says. ‘There’s a neat thing!’ ‘It
ain’t a bad style of thing,’ he says. ‘ I
believe you,’ says I. ‘And there’s a
horse ! ’ — for I saw him looking at it.
‘ Rising eight ! ’ I says, rubbing his fore
legs. (Bless you, there ain’t a man in
the world knows less of horses than I
do, but . I ’d heard my friend at the
Livery Stables say he was eight year
old, so I says, as knowing as possible
‘ Rising eight.’) ‘ Rising eight, is he? ’
says he. ‘ Rising eight,’ says I.
‘ Well,’ he says, ‘what do you want for
it ?’ ‘ Why, the first and last figure for
the whole concern is five-and-twenty
pound ! ’ ‘ That ’s very cheap ! ’ he says,
looking at me. ‘ Ain’t it ? ’ I says. ‘ I
told you it was a bargain ! Now, with-
out any higgling and haggling about it,
what I want is to sell, and that ’s my
price. Further, I’ll make it easy to
you, and take half the money down,
and you can do a bit of stiff* for the
balance. ’ 4 W ell, ’ he says again, 4 that ’s
very cheap.’ ‘ I believe you,’ says I;
‘get in and try it, and you’ll buy it.
Come ! take a trial ! ’
“ Ecod, he gets in, and we get in,
and we drive along the road, to show
him to one of the railway clerks that
was hid in the public-house window to
identify him. But the clerk was both-
ered, and did n’t know whether it was
him, or was n’t, — because the reason
why ? I ’ll tell you, — on account of
his having shaved his whiskers. ‘It’s
a clever little horse,’ he says, ‘ and trots
well ; and the shay runs light.’ 4 Not a
doubt about it,’ I says. ‘And now,
Mr. Fikey, I may as well make it all
right, without wasting any more of your
time. The fact is, I ’m Inspector
Wield, and you ’re my prisoner.’ ‘ You
don’t mean that ? ’ he says. ‘ I do, in-
deed.’ ‘Then burn my body,’ says
Fikey, ‘ if this ain’t too bad ! ’
“ Perhaps you never saw a man so
knocked over with surprise. ‘ I hope
you ’ll let me have my coat?’ he says.
‘By all means.’ ‘Well, then, let’s
drive to the factory.’ 4 Why, not exact-
ly that, I think,’ said I ; ‘ I ’ve been
there, once before, to-day. Suppose
we send for it.’ He saw it was no go,
so he sent for it, and put it on, and we
drove him up to London, comforta-
ble.”
This reminiscence is in the height of
its success, when a general proposal
is made to the fresh - complexioned,
smooth-faced officer, with the strange
air of simplicity, to tell the “ Butcher’s
Story.”
The fresh-complexioned, smooth-
faced officer, with the - strange air of
simplicity, began, with a rustic smile,
and in a soft, wheedling tone of voice,
to relate the Butcher’s Story, thus: —
“ It ’s just about six years ago, now,
since information was given at Scotland
* Give a bill.
412
THE DETECTIVE POLICE.
Yard of there being extensive robberies
of lawns and silks going on, at some
wholesale houses in the City. Direc-
tions were given for the business being
looked into ; and Straw and Fendall
and me. we were all in it.”
“ When you received your instruc-
tions,” said we, “you went away, and
held a sort of Cabinet Council to-
gether ! ”
The smooth-faced officer coaxingly
replied, “Ye-es. Just so. We turned
it over among ourselves a good deal.
It appeared, when we weftt into it, that
the goods were sold by the receivers ex-
traordinarily cheap, — much cheaper than
they could have been if they had been
honestly come by. The receivers were
in the trade, and kept capital shops, —
establishments of the first respectability,
— one of ’em at the West End, one
down in Westminster. After a lot of
watching and inquiry, and this and that
among ourselves, we found that the job
was managed, and the purchases of the
stolen goods made, at a little public-
house near Smithfield, down by Saint
Bartholomew’s; where the Warehouse
Porters, who were the thieves, took ’em
for that purpose, don’t you see ? and
made appointments to meet the people
that went between themselves and the
receivers. This public-house was prin-
cipally used by journeymen butchers
from the country, out of place, and
in want of situations ; so what did we
do, but — ha, ha, ha ! — we agreed that
I should be dressed up like a butcher
myself, and go and live there ! ”
Never, surely, was a faculty of obser-
vation better brought to bear upon a
purpose than that which picked out
this officer for the part. Nothing in all
creation could have suited him better.
Even while he spoke, he became a
greasy, sleepy, shy, good-natured,
chuckle-headed, unsuspicious, and con-
fiding young butcher. His very hair
seemed to have suet in it, as he made it
smooth upon his head, and his fresh
complexion to be lubricated by large
quantities of animal food.
“So I — ha, ha, ha!” (always with
the confiding snigger of the foolish young
butcher) — “ so I dressed myself in
the regular way, made up a little bun-
dle of clothes, and went to the public-
house, and asked if I could have a lodg-
ing there? They says, ‘Yes, you can
have a lodging here,’ and I got a bed-
room, and settled myself down in the
tap. There was a number of people
about the place, and coming backwards
and forwards to the house ; and first
one says, and then another says, ‘Are
you from the country, young man ? ’
‘Yes,’ I says, ‘ I am. I ’m come out of
Northamptonshire, and I ’m quite lone-
ly here, for I don’t know London at all,
and it ’s such a mighty big town ? ’ ‘It
is a big town,’ they says. ‘ O, it’s a
very big town ! ’ I says. ‘ Really and
truly I never was in such a town. It
quite confuses of me ! ’ — and all that,
you know.
“When some of the journeymen
butchers that used the house found
that I wanted a place, they says, * O,
we ’ll get you a place ! ’ And they act-
ually took me to a sight of places, in
Newgate Market, Newport Market,
Clare, Carnaby, — I don’t know where
all. But the wages was — ha, ha, ha !
— was not sufficient, and I never could
suit myself, don’t you see ? Some of
the queer frequenters of the house w ere
a little suspicious of me at first, and I
was obliged to be very cautious indeed
how I communicated with Straw or
Fendall. Sometimes, when I went out,
pretending to stop and look into the
shop windows, and just casting my eye
round, I used to see some of ’em follow-
ing me ; but, being perhaps better ac-
customed than they thought for to that
sort of thing, I used to lead ’em on as
far as I thought necessary or convenient,
— sometimes a long way, — and then
turn sharp round, and meet ’em, and
say, ‘ O dear, how glad I am to come
upon you so fortunate ! This London ’s
such a place, I ’m blowed if I ain’t lost
again ! ’ And then we ’d go back all
together, to the public-house, and — ha,
ha, ha ! — and smoke our pipes, don’t
you see?
“They w'ere very attentive to me, I
am sure. It was a common thing, while
I was living there, for some of ’em to
take me out, and show me London.
They showed me the Prisons, — showed
me Newgate, — and when they showed
THE DETECTIVE POLICE.
4i3
me Newgate, I stops at the place where
the Porters pitch their loads, and says,
* O dear, is this where they hang the
men ! O Lor ! ’ ‘ That ! * they says,
‘ what a simple cove he is ! That ain’t
it ! ’ And then they pointed out which
•was it, and I says, ‘ Lor? ’ and they says,
‘ Now you ’ll know it agen, won’t you ? ’
And I said I thought I should if I
tried hard, — and I assure you I kept a
sharp lookout for the City Police when
we were out in this way, for if any of
’em had happened to know me, and had
6poke to me, it would have been all up
in a minute. However, by good luck
such a thing never happened, and all
went on quiet ; though the difficulties I
had in communicating with my brother
officers were quite extraordinary.
“ The stolen goods that were brought
to the public-house by the Warehouse
Porters were always disposed of in a
back parlor. For a long time, I never
could get into this parlor, or see what
was done there. As I sat smoking my
pipe, like an innocent young chap, by
the tap-room fire, I ’d hear some of the
parties to the robbery, as they came in
and out, say softly to the landlord,
‘ Who ’s that? What does he do here ? ’
‘ Bless your soul,’ says the landlord,
‘ he ’s only a ’ — ha, ha, ha ! — ‘ he ’s
only a green young fellow from the
country, as is looking for a butcher’s
sitiwation. Don’t mind him ! ’ So, in
course of time, they were so convinced
of my being green, and got to be so
accustomed to me, that I was as free of
the parlor as any of ’em, and I havd
seen as much as seventy pounds’ worth
of fine lawn sold there, in one night,
that was stolen from a warehouse in
Friday Street. After the sale the buy-
ers always stood treat, — hot supper, or
dinner, or what not, — and they ’d say
on those occasions, ‘ Come on, Butcher !
Put your best leg foremost, young ’un,
and walk into it ! ’ Which I used to
do, and hear, at table, all manner of
particulars that it was very important
for us Detectives to know.
“ This went on for ten weeks. I
lived in the public-house all the time,
and never was out of the Butcher’s
dress, — except in bed. At last, when
I had followed seven of the thieves, and
set ’em to rights, — that ’s an expression
of ours, don’t you see, by^ which I mean
to say that I traced ’em, and found out
where the robberies were done, and all
about ’em, — Straw and Fendall and I
gave one another the office, and at a
time agreed upon, a descent was made
upon the public-house, and the appre-
hensions effected. One of the first
things the officers did was to collar me,
— for the parties to the robbery weren’t
to suppose yet that I was anything but
a Butcher, — on which the landlord cries
out, ‘Don’t take him ,’ he says, ‘what-
ever you do ! He ’s only a poor young
chap from the country, and butter
wouldn’t melt in his mouth!’ How-
ever, they — ha, ha, ha ! — they took
me, and pretended to search my bed-
room, where nothing \yas found but an
old fiddle belonging to the landlord,,
that had got there somehow or another.
But it entirely changed the landlord’s*
opinion, for when it was produced, he
says, ‘ My fiddle ! The Butcher ’s a
pur-loiner ! I give him into custody
for the robbery of a musical instru-
ment ! ’
“ The man that had stolen the goods
in Friday Street was not taken yet. He
had told me, in confidence, that he had
his suspicions there was something
wrong (on account of the City Police
having captured one of the party), and
that he was going to make himself
scarce. I asked him, ‘ Where do you
mean to go, Mr. Shepherdson ? ’ ‘ Why,
Butcher,’ says he, ‘the Setting Moon,
in the Commercial Road, is a snug
house, and I shall hang out there for a
time. I shall call myself Simpson,
which appears to me to be a modest
sort of a name. Perhaps you’ll give us
a look in, Butcher?’ ‘Well,’ says I,
‘ I think 1 will give you a call,’ — which
I fully intended, don’t you see, because,
of course, he was to be taken ! I went
over to the Setting Moon next day, with
a brother officer, and asked at the bar
for Simpson. They pointed out his
room, up stairs. As we were going up,
he looks down over the banisters, and
calls out, ‘Halloa, Butcher! is that
you?’ ‘Yes, it’s me. How do you
find yourself?’ ‘Bobbish,’ he says;
‘ but who ’s that with you ? ’ ‘ It ’s only
THE DETECTIVE POLICE .
414
a young man, that’s a friend of mine,’
I says. ‘ Come along, then,’ says he ;
‘ any friend of the Butcher’s is as wel-
come as the Butcher!’ So I made
my friend acquainted with him, and we
took him into custody.
“ You have no idea, sir, what a sight
it was, in Court, when they first knew
that I was n’t a Butcher, after all ! I
wasn’t produced at the first examina-
tion, when there was a remand ; but I
was at the second. And when I stepped
into the box, in full police uniform, and
the whole party saw how they had been
done, actually a groan of horror and dis-
may proceeded from ’em in the dock !
“ At the Old Bailey, when their trials
came on, Mr. Clarkson was engaged for
the defence, and he could n't make out
how it was about the Butcher. He
thought, all along, it was a real Butcher.
When the counsel for the prosecution
said, ‘ I will now call before you, gen-
tlemen, the Police-officer,’ meaning
myself, Mr. Clarkson says, ‘Why Po-
lice-officer ? Why more Police-officers ?
I don’t want Police. We have had a
great deal too much of the Police. I
want the Butcher ! ’ However, sir, he
had the Butcher and the Police-officer,
both in one. Out of seven prisoners
committed for frial, five were found
guilty, and some of ’em were transport-
ed. The respectable firm at the West
End got a term of imprisonment ; and
that ’s the Butcher’s Story ! ”
The story done, the chuckle-headed
Butcher again resolved himself into the
smooth-faced Detective. But he was
so extremely tickled by their having
taken him about, when he was that
Dragon in disguise, to show him Lon-
don, that he could not help reverting to
that point in his narrative ; and gently
repeating with the Butcher snigger,
“ ‘ O dear,’ I says, ‘ is that where they
hang the men ? O Lor ! ’ ‘ That ! ’
says they. ‘What a simple cove he
is! ’ ”
It being now late, and the party very
modest in their fear of being too diffuse,
there were some tokens of separation ;
when Sergeant Domton, the soldierly-
looking man, said, looking round him
with a smile, —
“ Before we break up, sir, perhaps
you might have some amusement in
hearing of the Adventures of a Carpet
Bag. They are very short, and, I think,
curious.”
We welcomed the Carpet Bag, as
cordially as Mr. Shepherdson welcomed
the false Butcher at the Setting Moon.
Sergeant Domton proceeded.
“In 1847, I was despatched to Chat-
ham, in search of one Mesheck, a Jew.
He had been carrying on, pretty heavily,
in the bill-stealing way, getting accept-
ances from young men of good con-
nections (in the army chiefly), on pre-
tence of discount, and bolting with the
same.
“ Mesheck was off, before I got to
Chatham. All I could learn about him
was, that he had gone, probably to Lon-
don, and had with him — a Carpet
Bag.
“ I came back to town, by the last
train from Blackwall, and made inquir-
ies concerning a Jew passenger with —
a Carpet Bag.
“ The office was shut up, it being the
last train. There were only two or
three porters left. Looking after a Jew
with a Carpet Bag, on the Blackwall
Railway, which was then the high-road
to a great Military Depot, was worse
than looking after a needle in a hay-
rick. But it happened that one of these
porters had carried, for a certain Jew,
to a certain public-house, a certain —
Carpet Bag.
“ I went to the public-house, but
the Jew had only left his luggage there
for a few hours, and had called for it in
a cab, and taken it away. I put such
questions there, and to the porter, as I
thought prudent, and got at this de-
scription of — the Carpet Bag.
“ It was a bag which had, on one side
of it, worked in worsted, a green parrot
on a stand. A green parrot on a stand
was the means by which to identify that
— Carpet Bag.
“ I traced Mesheck, by means of this
green parrot on a stand, to Cheltenham,
to Birmingham, to Liverpool, to the
Atlantic Ocean. At Liverpool he was
too many for me. He had gone to the
United States, and I gave up all
thoughts of Mesheck, and likewise of
his — Carpet Bag.
THE DETECTIVE POLICE.
4i5
“Many months afterwards — near a
year afterwards — there was a bank
in Ireland robbed of seven thousand
pounds by a person of the name of
Doctor Dundey, who escaped to Ameri-
ca, from which country some of the
stolen notes came home. He was sup-
osed to have bought a farm in New
ersey. Under proper management,
that estate could be seized and sold,
for the benefit of the parties he had de-
frauded. I was sent off to America for
this purpose.
“ I landed at Boston. I went on to
New York. I found that he had lately
changed New York paper-money for
New Jersey paper-money, and had
banked cash in New Brunswick. To
take this Doctor Dundey, it was neces-
sary to entrap him into the State of
New York, which required a deal of
artifice and trouble. At one time he
could n’t be drawn into an appointment.
At another time, he appointed to -come
to meet me and a New York officer on
a pretext I made ; and then his chil-
dren had the measles. At last he came,
f >er steamboat, and I took him and
odged him in a New York prison
called the Tombs ; which I dare say
you know, sir?”
Editorial acknowledgment to that
effect.
“ I went to the Tombs, on the morn-
ing after his capture, to attend the
examination before the magistrate. I
was passing through the magistrate’s
private room, when, happening to look
round me to take notice of the place,
as we generally have a habit of doing,
I clapped my eyes, in one corner, on
a — Carpet Bag.
“What did I see upon that Carpet
Bag, if you ’ll believe me, but a green
parrot on a stand, as large as life !
“ ‘ That Carpet Bag, with the repre-
sentation of a green parrot on a stand,’
said I, ‘belongs to an English Jew,
named Aaron Mesheck, and to no other
man, alive or dead ! ’
“ I give you my word, the New York
Police-officers were doubled up with
surprise.
“ ‘ How do you ever come to know
that ? ’ said they.
“ ‘ I think I ought to know that green
parrot by this time,’ said I ; ‘ for I
have had as pretty a dance after that
bird, at home, as ever I had, in all
my life ! ’ ”
“And was it Mesheck’s?” we sub-
missively inquired.
“ Was it, sir? Of course it was ! He
was in custody for another offence in
that very identical Tombs at that very
identical time. And, more than that !
Some memoranda, relating to the fraud
for which I had vainly endeavored to
take him, were found to be, at that
moment, lying in that very same indi-
vidual — Carpet Bag ! ”
Such are the curious coincidences and
such is the peculiar ability, always
sharpening and being, improved by
practice, and always adapting itself to
every variety of circumstances, and op-
posing itself to every new device that
perverted ingenuity can invent, for
which this important social branch of
the public service is remarkable ! For-
ever on the watch, with their wits
stretched to the utmost, these officers
have, from day to day and year to year,
to set themselves against every novelty
of trickery and dexterity that the com-
bined imaginations of all the lawless ras-
cals in England can devise, and to keep
pace with every such invention that
comes out. In the Courts of Justice,
the materials of thousands of such sto-
ries as we have narrated — often elevat-
ed into the marvellous and romantic
by the circumstances of the case — are
dryly compressed into the set phrase,
“ In consequence of information I re-
ceived, I did so and so.” Suspicion
was to be directed, by careful inference
and deduction, upon the right person ;
the right person was to be taken, wher-
ever he had gone, or whatever he was
doing to avoid detection ; he is taken,
there he is at the bar ; that is enough.
From information I, the officer, re-
ceived, I did it ; and, according to
the custom in these cases, I say no
more.
These games of chess, played with
live pieces, are played before small au-
diences, and are chronicled nowhere.
The interest of the game supports the
4x6
THREE “ DETECTIVE ” ANECDOTES.
player. Its results are enough for Jus-
tice. To compare great things with
small, suppose Leverrier or Adams
informing the public that from informa-
tion he had received he had discovered
a new planet ; or Columbus informing
the public of his day that from informa-
tion he had received he had discovered
a new continent ; so the Detectives in-
form it that they have discovered a new
fraud or an old offender, and the pro-
cess is unknown.
Thus, at midnight, closed the pro-
ceedings of our curious and interesting
party. But one other circumstance
finally wound up the evening, after our
Detective guests had left us. One of
the sharpest among them, and the offi-
cer best acquainted with the Swell Mob,
had his pocket picked, going home 1
THREE “DETECTIVE” ANECDOTES.
I.— THE PAIR OF GLOVES.
“It’s a singler story, sir,” said In-
spector Wield, of the Detective Police,
who, in company with Sergeants Dorn-
ton and Mith, paid us another twilight
visit, one July evening; “and I’ve
been thinking you might like to know
it
“ It ’s concerning the murder of the
young woman, Eliza Grimwood, some
years ago, over in the Waterloo Road.
She was commonly called The Count-
ess, because of her handsome appear-
ance and her proud way of carrying of
herself ; and when I saw the poor
Countess (I had known her well to
speak to) lying dead, with her throat
cut, on the floor of her bedroom,
you ’ll believe me that a variety of
reflections calculated to make a man
rather low in his spirits came into my
head.
“That’s neither here nor there. I
went to the house the morning after the
murder, and examined the body, and
made a general observation of the bed-
room where it was. Turning down the
pillow of the bed with my hand, I
found, underneath it, a pair of gloves.
A pair of gentleman’s dress gloves, very
dirty, and inside the lining the letters
Tr, and a cross.
v Well, sir. I took them gloves away,
and I showed ’em to the magistrate,
over at Union Hall, before whom the
case was. He says, | Wield,’ he says,
‘ there ’s no doubt this is a discovery
that may lead to something very impor-
tant ; and what you have got to do,
Wield, is, to find out the owner of these
gloves. ’
“ I was of the same opinion, of course,
and I went at it immediately. I looked
at the gloves pretty narrowly, and it
was my opinion that they had been
cleaned. There was a smell of sulphur
and rosin about ’em, you know, which
cleaned gloves usually have, more or
less. I took ’em over to a friend of
mine at Kennington, who was in that
line, and I put it to him. ‘What do
you say now ? Have these gloves been
cleaned?’ ‘These gloves have been
cleaned,’ says he. ‘ Have you any idea
who cleaned them?’ says I. ‘Not at
all,’ says he ; ‘ I’ve a very distinct idea
who didn't clean ’em, and that’s my-
self. But I ’ll tell you what, Wield,
there ain’t above eight or nine reg’lar
glove-cleaners in London,’ — there were
not, at that time, it seems, — ‘ and I
think I can give you their addresses,
and you may find out, by that means,
who did clean ’em.’ Accordingly, he
gave me the directions, and 1 went
here, and I went there, and I looked
up this man, and I looked up that man ;
but, though they all agreed that the
gloves had been cleaned, I couldn’t
THREE “ DETECTIVE ” ANECDOTES .
4i7
find the man, woman, or child that had
cleaned that aforesaid pair of gloves.
“What with this person not being at
home, and that person being expected
home in the afternoon, and so forth, the
inquiry took me three days. On the
evening of the third day, coming over
Waterloo Bridge from the Surrey side
of the river, quite beat, and very much
vexed and disappointed, I thought I ’d
have a shilling’s worth of entertainment
at the Lyceum Theatre to freshen my-
self up. So I went into the Pit, at half-
price, and I sat myself down next to a
very quiet, modest sort of young man.
Seeing I was a stranger (which I
thought it just as well to appear to be)
he told me the names of the actors on
the stage, and we got into conversation.
When the play was over, we came out
together, and I said, ‘ We ’ve been very
companionable and agreeable, and per-
haps you would n’t object to a drain ? ’
‘Well, you ’re very good,’ says he ; ‘ I
shouldn't object to a drain.’ Accord-
ingly, we went to a public-house, near
the Theatre, sat ourselves down in a
quiet room up-stairs on the first floor,
and called for a pint of half-and-half
apiece and a pipe.
“Well, sir, we put our pipes aboard,
and we drank our half-and-half, and sat
a talking, very sociably, when the young
man says, ‘You must excuse me stop-
ping very long,’ he says, ‘because I ’m
forced to go home in good time. I must
be at work all night.’ ‘At work all
night?’ says I. ‘You ain’t a baker?’
* No,’ he says, laughing, ‘ I ain’t a bak-
er.’ ‘I thought not,’ says I, ‘you
have n’t the looks of a baker.’ ‘No,’
says he, ‘ I ’m a glove-cleaner.’
“ I never was more astonished in my
life, than when I heard them words
come out of his lips. ‘ You ’re a glove-
cleaner, are. you?’ says I. ‘Yes,’ he
says, ‘I am.’ ‘Then, perhaps,’ says
I, taking the gloves out of my pocket,
‘you can tell me who cleaned this
pair of gloves? It’s a rum story,’ I
says. ‘ I was dining over at Lambeth,
the other day, at a free and easy —
quite promiscuous — with a public com-
pany — when some gentleman, he left
these gloves behind him ! Another
gentleman and me, you see, we laid a
wager of a sovereign, that I would n’t
find out who they belonged to. I ’ve
spent as much as seven shillings al-
ready, in trying to discover; but if
you could help me, I ’d stand another
seven and welcome. You see there ’s
Tr and a cross, inside.’ see,’ he
says. ‘ Bless you, / know these gloves
very well ! I ’ve seen dozens of pairs
belonging to the same party.’ ‘ No?’
says I. ‘Yes,’ says he. ‘Then you
know who cleaned ’em ? ’ says I. ‘ Rath-
er so,’ says he. ‘ My father cleaned
’em.’
“ ‘ Where does your father live ?’ says
I. ‘Just round the corner,’ says the
young man, ‘ near Exeter Street, here.
He’ll tell you who they belong to,
directly.’ ‘Would you come round
with me now?’ says I. ‘Certainly,’
says he, ‘ but you need n’t tell my fa-
ther that you found me at the play,
you know, because he might n’t like
it.’ ‘All right!’ We went round to
the place, and there we found an old
man in a white apron, with two or three
daughters, all rubbing and cleaning
away at lots of gloves, in a front par-
lor. ‘ O father ! ’ says the young
man, ‘ here ’s a person been and made
a bet about the ownership of a pair
of gloves, and I ’ve told him you can
settle it.’ ‘Good evening, sir,’ says
I to the old gentleman. ‘ Here ’s the
gloves your son speaks of. Letters Tr,
you see, and a cross.’ ‘ O yes,’ he
says, ‘ I know these gloves very well ;
I ’ve cleaned dozens of pairs of ’em.
They belong to Mr. Trinkle, the great
upholsterer in Cheapside.’ ‘T)id you
get ’em from Mr. Trinkle, direct,’ says
I, ‘ if you ’ll excuse my asking the
question?’ ‘No,’ says he ; ‘Mr. Trin-
kle always sends ’em to Mr. Phibbs’s,
the haberdasher’s, opposite his shop,
and the haberdasher sends ’em to me.’
‘ Perhaps you would n’t object to a
drain ? ’ says I. ‘Not in the least ! ’
says he. So I took the old gentleman
out, and had a little more talk with him
and his son over a glass, and we part-
ed ex-cellept friends.
“ This was late on a Saturday night.
First thing on the Monday morning,
I went to the haberdasher’s shop, op-
posite Mr.. Trinkle’s, the great uphol-
27
4 i8
THREE “ DETECTIVE ” ANECDOTES .
sterer’s in Cheapside. * Mr. Phibbs
in the way?’ ‘My name is Phibbs.’
* Oh ! I believe you sent this pair of
gloves to be cleaned ? ’ ‘ Yes I did, for
young Mr. Trinkle over the way.
There he is, in the shop ! ’ ‘ Oh ! that ’s
him in the shop, is it? Him in the
green coat?’ ‘The same individual.’
‘ Well, Mr. Phibbs, this is an unpleas-
ant affair ; but the fact is, I am In-
spector Wield of the Detective Police,
and I found these gloves under the
pillow of the young woman that was
murdered the other day, over in the
Waterloo Road.’ ‘ Good Heaven ! ’
says he. ‘ He ’s a most respectable
oung man, and if his father was to
ear of it, it would be the ruin of him ! ’
‘I ’m very sorry for it,’ says I, ‘but I
must take him into custody.’ ‘Good
Heaven ! ’ says Mr. Phibbs, again ;
‘can nothing be done?’ ‘Nothing,’
says I. ‘Will you allow me to call
him over here,’ says he, * that his father
may not see it done ? ’ ‘I don’t object
to that,’ says I; ‘but unfortunately,
Mr. Phibbs, I can’t allow of any com-
munication between you. If any was
attempted, I should have to interfere
directly. Perhaps you ’ll beckon him
over here ? ’ Mr. Phibbs went to the
door and beckoned, and the young fel-
low came across the street directly ;
a smart, brisk young fellow.
“ ‘ Good morning, sir,’ says I. * Good
morning, sir, says he. ‘Would you
allow me to inquire, sir,’ says I, ‘ if
you ever had any acquaintance with
a party of the name of Grim-wood ? ’
‘ Grimwood ! Grimwood ! ’ says he.
‘No!’ ‘You know the Waterloo
Road?’ ‘ O, of course I know' the
Waterloo Road ! ’ ‘ Happen to have
heard of a young woman being mur-
dered there?’ ‘Yes, I read it in the
paper, and very sorry I w'as to read
it.’ ‘ Here ’s a pair of gloves belonging
to you, that I found under her pillow
the morning afterwards ! ’
“ He was in a dreadful state, sir, —
a dreadful state! ‘Mr. Wield,’ he
says, ‘ upon my solemn oath I never
was there. I never so much as saw
her, to my knowledge, in my life ! ’
‘I am very sorry,’ says I. ‘To tell
you the truth, I don’t think you are
the murderer, but I must take you to
Union Hall in a cab. How'ever, I
think it ’s a case of that sort that, at
present, at all events, the magistrate
w'ill hear it in private.’
“A private examination took place,
and then it came out that this young
man w r as acquainted with a cousin of the
unfortunate Eliza Grimwood, and that,
calling to see this cousin a day or two
before the murder, he left these gloves
upon the table. Who should come in,
shortly afterwards, but Eliza Grimwood !
‘ Whose gloves are these ? ’ she says,
taking ’em up. ‘ Those are Mr. Trin-
kle’s gloves,’ says her cousin. * Oh ! ’
says she, * they are very dirty, and of
no use to him, I am sure. I shall take
’em aw ? ay for my girl to clean the stoves
with.* And she put ’em in her pocket.
The girl had used ’em to clean the
stoves, and, I have no doubt, had left
’em lying on the bedroom mantel-piece
or on the drawers, or somewhere ; and
her mistress, looking round to see that
the room was tidy, had caught ’em up
and put ’em under the pillow where I
found ’em.
“That’s the story, sir.”
II. — THE ARTFUL TOUCH.
“ One of the most beautiful things
that ever was done, perhaps,” said In-
spector Wield, emphasizing the adjec-
tive, as preparing us to expect dexterity
or ingenuity rather than strong interest,
“was a move of Sergeant Witchem’s.
It v r as a lovely idea !
“ Witchem and me were down at
Epsom one Derby Day, waiting at the
station for the Swell Mob. As I men-
tioned, when we were talking about
these things before, we are ready at the
station when there ’s races, or an Agri-
cultural Show, or a Chancellor sworn in
for an university, or Jenny Lind, or any-
thing of that sort ; and as the Swell
Mob come down, we send ’em back
again by the next train. But some of
the Swell Mob, on the occasion of this
Derby that I refer to, so far kiddied
us as to hire a horse and shay ; start
away from London by Whitechapel, and
THREE “ DETECTIVE ” ANECDOTES.
419
miles round ; come into Epsom from
the opposite direction ; and go to work,
right and left, on the course, while we
were waiting 1 for ’em at the Rail. That,
however, ain’t the point of what I ’m
going to tell you.
“ While Witchem and me were wait-
ing at the station, there comes up one
Mr. Tatt, a gentleman formerly in the
public line, quite an amateur Detective
in his way, and very much respected.
‘Halloa, Charley Wield,’ he says.
‘ What are you doing here ? On the
lookout for some of your old friends?’
‘Yes, the old move, Mr. Tatt.’ ‘Come
along,’ he says, ‘you and Witchem, and
have a glass of sherry.’ ‘We can’t stir
from the place,’ says I, ‘till the next
train comes in ; but after that we will
with pleasure.’ Mr. Tatt waits, and
the train comes in, and then Witchem
and me go off with him to the Hotel.
Mr. Tatt, he ’s got up quite regardless
of expense for the occasion ; and in his
shirt-front there ’s a beautiful diamond
prop, cost him fifteen or twenty pound,
— a very handsome pin indeed. We
drink our sherry at the bar, and have
had our three or four glasses, when
Witchem cries suddenly, ‘Look out,
Mr. Wield ! stand fast ! ’ and a dash is
made into the place by the Swell Mob
— four of ’em — that have come down
as I tell you, and in a moment Mr.
Tatt’s prop is gone ! Witchem, he cuts
’em off at the door, I lay about me as
hard as I can, Mr. Tatt shows fight
like a good ’un, and there we are, all
down together, heads and heels, knock-
ing about on the floor of the bar, — per-
haps you never see such a scene of con-
fusion ! However, we stick to our men
(Mr. Tatt being as good as any officer),
and we take ’em all, and carry ’em off
to the station. The station ’s full of
people who have been took on the
course ; and it ’s a precious piece of
work to get ’em secured. However, we
do it at last, and we search ’em ; but
nothing’s found upon ’em, and they’re
locked up ; and a pretty state of heat
we are in by that time, I assure you !
“ I was very blank over it, myself, to
think that the prop had been passed
away ; and I said to Witchem, when we
had set ’em to rights, and were cooling
ourselves along with Mr. Tatt, ‘we
don’t take much by this move, any way,
for nothing’s found upon ’em, and it ’s
only the braggadocia * after all.’ ‘What
do you mean, Mr. Wield,’ says Witch-
em. ‘ Here ’s the diamond pin ! ’ and
in the palm of his hand there it was,
safe and sound ! ‘ Why, in the name
of wonder,’ says me and Mr. Tatt, in
astonishment, ‘ how did you come by
that?’ ‘I’ll tell you how I come by
it, ’ says he. ‘ I saw which of ’em took
it ; and when we were all down on the
floor together, knocking about, I just
ave him a little touch on the back of
is hand, as I knew his pal would ; and
he thought it was his pal ; and gave it
me ! ’ It was beautiful, beau-ti-ful !
“ Even that was hardly the best of
the case, for that chap was tried at the
Quarter Sessions at Guildford. You
know what Quarter Sessions are, sir.
Well, if you’ll believe me, while them
slow justices were looking over the
Acts of Parliament, to see what they
could do to him, I ’m blowed if he
did n’t cut out of the dock before their
faces ! He cut out of the dock, sir,
then and there ; swam across a river ;
and got up into a tree to dry himself.
In the tree he was took, — an old wo-
man having seen him climb up, — and
Witchem’s artful touch transported
him ! ”
III.— THE SOFA.
“What young men will do, some-
times, to ruin themselves and break
their friends’ hearts,” said Sergeant
Domton, “ it ’s surprising ! I had a
case at Saint Blank’s Hospital which
was of this sort. A bad case, indeed,
with a bad end !
“ The Secretary, and the House-
Surgeon, and the Treasurer, of Saint
Blank’s Hospital, came to Scotland
Yard to give information of numerous
robberies having been committed on the
students.. The students could leave
nothing in the pockets of their great-
coats, while the great-coats were hang-
* Three months’ imprisonment, as reputed
thieves.
420
THREE “ DETECTIVE ” ANECDOTES.
ing at the hospital, but it was almost
certain to be stolen. Property of vari-
ous descriptions was constantly being
lost ; and the gentlemen were naturally
uneasy about it, and anxious, for the
credit of the institution, that the thief
or thieves should be discovered. The
case was intrusted to me, and I went
to the hospital.
“ ‘ Now, gentlemen,’ said I, after we
had talked it over ; ‘ I understand this
property is usually lost from one room.’
“Yes, they said. It was.
“ * I should wish, if you please,’ said
I, ‘ to see the room.’
“It was a good-sized bare room down
stairs, with a few tables and forms in it,
and a row of pegs, all round, for hats
and coats.
“ ‘ Next, gentlemen,* said I, ‘ do you
suspect anybody ? ’
“Yes, they said. They did suspect
somebody. They were sorry to say they
suspected one of the porters.
“ ‘ I should like,’ said I, ‘ to have that
man pointed out to me, and to have a
little time to look after him.’
“ He was pointed out, and I looked
after him, and then I went back to the
hospital, and said, ‘ Now, gentlemen,
it ’s not the porter. He ’s, unfortunate-
ly for himself, a little too fond of drink,
but he ’s nothing worse. My suspicion
is, that these robberies are committed
by one of the students ; and if you ’ll
put me a sofa into that room where the
pegs are — as there’s no closet — I
think I shall be able to detect the thief.
I wish the sofa, if you please, to be cov-
ered with chintz, or something of that
sort, so that I may lie on my chest, un-
derneath it, without being seen.’
“The sofa was provided, and next
day at eleven o’clock, before any of the
students came, I went there, with those
gentlemen, to get underneath it. It
turned out to be one of those old-fash-
ioned sofas with a great cross-beam at
the bottom, that would have broken my
back in no time if I could ever have got
below it. We had quite a job to break
all this away in the time ; however, I
fell to work, and they fell to work, and
we broke it out, and made a clear place
for me. I got under the sofa, lay down
on my chest, took out my knife, and
made a convenient hole in the chintz to
look through. It was then settled be-
tween me and the gentlemen, that when
the students were all up in the wards,
one of the gentlemen should come in,
and hang up a great-coat on one of the
pegs. And that that great-coat should
have, in one of the pockets, a pocket-
book containing marked money.
“ After I had been there some time,
the students began to drop into the
room by ones, and twos, and threes, and
to talk about all sorts of things, little
thinking there was anybody under the
sofa, — and then to go up stairs. At
last there came in one who remained
until he was alone in the room by him-
self. A tallish, good-looking young
man of one or two and twenty, with a
light whisker. He went to a particular
hat-peg, took off a good hat that was
hanging there, tried it on, hung his own
hat in its place and hung that hat on
another peg, nearly opposite to me. I
then felt quite certain that he was the
thief, and would come back by and by.
“ When they were all up stairs, the
gentleman came in with the great-coat.
I showed him where to hang it, so that
I might have a good view of it ; and he
went away ; and I lay under the sofa on
my chest, for a couple of hours or so,
waiting.
“ At last, the same young man came
down. He walked across the room,
whistling — stopped and listened — took
another walk and whistled — stopped
again, and listened — then began to go
regularly round the pegs, feeling in the
pockets of all the coats. When he
came to the great-coat, and felt the
pocket-book, he was so eager and so
hurried that he broke the strap in tear-
ing it open. As he began to put the
money in his pocket, I crawled out
from under the sofa, and his eyes met
mine.
“ My face, as you may perceive, is
brown now, but it was pale at that time,
my health not being good, and looked
as long as a horse’s. Besides which,
there was a great draught of air from
the door, underneath the sofa, and I
had tied a handkerchief round my head ;
so what I looked like, altogether, I don’t
know. He turned blue — literally blue
ON DUTY WITH INSPECTOR FIELD .
421
— when he saw me crawling out, and I
could n’t feel surprised at it.
“ 4 1 am an officer of the Detective
Police,’ said I, ‘and have been lying
here, since you first came in this morn-
ing. I regret, for the sake of yourself
and your friends, that you should have
done what you have ; but this case is
complete. You have the pocket-book
in your hand and the money upon you,
and I must take you into custody ! ’
“ It was impossible to make out any
case in his behalf, and on his trial he
pleaded guilty. How or when he got
the means I don’t know ; but while he
was awaiting his sentence, he poisoned
himself in Newgate.”
We inquired of this officer, on the
conclusion of the foregoing anecdote,
whether the time appeared long, or
short, when he lay in that constrained
position under the sofa.
“Why, you see, sir,” he replied, “if
he hadn’t come in the first time and I
had not been quite sure he was the
thief, and would return, the time would
have seemed long. But as it was, I
being dead-certain of my man, the time
seemed pretty short.”
ON DUTY WITH INSPECTOR FIELD.
How goes the night? Saint Giles’s
clock is striking nine. The weather is
dull and wet, and the long lines of street
lamps are blurred, as if we saw them
through tears. A damp wind blows
and rakes the pieman’s fire out, when
he opens the door of his little furnace,
carrying away an eddy of sparks.
Saint Giles’s clock strikes nine. We
are punctual. Where is Inspector
Field? Assistant Commissioner of
Police is already here, enwrapped in oil-
skin cloak, and standing in the shadow
of Saint Giles’s steeple. Detective
Sergeant, weary of speaking French all
day to foreigners unpacking at the
Great Exhibition, is already here.
Where is Inspector Field?
Inspector Field is to-night the guar-
dian genius of the British Museum. He
is bringing his shrewd eye to bear on
every corner of its solitary galleries, be-
fore he reports “ all right.” Suspicious
of the Elgin marbles, and not to be done
by cat-faced Egyptian giants with their
hands upon their knees, Inspector Field,
sagacious, vigilant, lamp in hand, throw-
ing monstrous shadows on the walls
and ceilings, passes through the spacious
rooms. If a mummy trembled in an
atom of its dusty covering. Inspector
Field would say, “Come out of that,
Tom Green. I know you ! ” If the
smallest “ Gonoph ” about town were
crouching at the bottom of a classic
bath, Inspector Field would nose him
with a finer scent than the ogre’s when
adventurous Jack lay trembling in his
kitchen copper. But all is quiet, and
Inspector Field goes warily on, making
little outward show of attending to any-
thing in particular, just recognizing the
Ichthyosaurus as a familiar acquaintance,
and wondering, perhaps, how the de-
tectives did it in the days before the
Flood.
Will Inspector Field be long about
this work? He may be half an hour
longer. He sends his compliments by
Police Constable, and proposes that we
meet at St. Giles’s Station House, across
the road. Good. It were as well to
stand by the fire, there, as in the shad-
ow of Saint Giles’s steeple.
Anything doing here to-night? Not
much. We are very quiet. A lost boy,
extremely calm and small, sitting by
the fire, whom we now confide to a con-
stable to take home, for the child says
that if you show him Newgate Street 4
422
ON DUTY WITH INSPECTOR FIELD .
he can show you where he lives, — a
raving drunken woman in the cells, who
has screeched her voice away, and has
hardly power enough left to declare, even
with the passionate help of her feet and
arms, that she is the daughter of a
British officer, and, strike her blind and
dead, but she ’ll write a letter to the
Queen ! but who is soothed with a
drink of water, — in another cell, a quiet
woman with a child at her breast, for
begging, — in another, her husband in
a smock-frock, with a basket of water-
cresses, — in another, a pickpocket, —
in another, a meek, tremulous old pau-
per man who has been out for a holiday
“ and has took but a little drop, but it
has overcome him arter so many months
in the house,” — and that ’s all as yet.
Presently, a sensation at the Station
House door. Mr. Field, gentlemen !
Inspector Field comes in, wiping his
forehead, for he is of a burly figure, and
has come fast from the ores and metals
of the deep mines of the earth, and from
the Parrot Gods of the South Sea Isl-
ands, and from the birds and beetles of
the tropics, and from the Arts of Greece
and Rome, and from the Sculptures
of Nineveh, and from the traces of
an elder world, when these were not.
Is Rogers ready? Rogers is ready,
strapped and great-coated, with a flam-
ing eye in the middle of his waist, like
a deformed Cyclops. Lead on, Rogers,
to Rats’ Castle !
How many people may there be in
London, who, if we had brought them
deviously and blindfold to this street,
fifty paces from the Station House, and
within call of Saint Giles’s church,
would know it for a not remote part of
the city in which their lives are passed ?
How many, who, amidst this compound
of sickening smells, these heaps of filth,
these tumbling houses, with all their
vile contents, animate and inanimate,
slimily overflowing into the black road,
would believe that they breathe this
air? How much Red Tape may there
be, that could look round on the faces
which now hem ns in, — for our appear-
ance here has caused a rush from all
points to a common centre, — the lower-
ing foreheads, the sallow cheeks, the
brutal eyes, the matted hair, the infect-
ed, vermin-haunted heaps of rags, —
and say, “ I have thought of this. I
have not dismissed the thing. I have
neither blustered it away, nor frozen it
away, nor tied it up and put it away,
nor smoothly said Pooh, pooh ! to it,
when it has been shown to me ” ?
This is not what Rogers wants to
know, however. What Rogers wants
to know is, whether you will clear the
way here, some of you, or whether you
won’t ; because if you don’t do it right
on end, he ’ll lock you up ! What !
You are there, are you, Bob Miles?
You have n’t had enough of it yet,
have n’t you ? You want three months
more, do you? Come away from that
gentleman ! What are you creeping
round there for?
“ What am I a doing, thinn, Mr.
Rogers?” says Bob Miles, appearing,
villanous, at the end of a lane of light,
made by the lantern.
“ I ’ll let you know pretty quick, if you
don’t hook it. Will you hook it? ”
A sycophantic murmur rises from the
crowd. “ Hook it, Bob, when Mr.
Rogers and Mr. Field tells you ! Why
don’t you hook it, when you are told
to? ”
The most importunate of the voices
strikes familiarly on Mr. Rogers’s ear.
He suddenly turns his lantern on the
owner.
“What! You are there, are you,
Mister Click? You hook it too —
come ! ”
“What for?” says Mr. Click, dis-
comfited.
“ You hook it, will you ! ” says Mr.
Rogers with stern emphasis.
Both Click and Miles do “ hook it,”
without another word, or, in plainer
English, sneak away.
“ Close up there, my men ! ” says In-
spector Field to two constables on duty
who have followed. “ Keep together,
gentlemen ; we are going down here.
Heads ! ”
Saint Giles’s church strikes half past
ten. We stoop low, and creep down a
precipitous flight of steps into a dark,
close cellar. There is a fire. There is
a long deal table. There are benches.
The cellar is full of company, chiefly
very young men in various conditions of
ON DUTY WITH INSPECTOR FIELD.
423
dirt and raggedness. Some are eating
supper. There are no girls or women
present. Welcome to Rats’ Castle, gen-
tlemen, and to this company of noted
thieves !
“ Well, my lads ! How are you, my
lads? What have you been doing to-
day? Here ’s some company come to
see you, my lads ! There ’s a plate of
beefsteak, sir, for the supper of a fine
young man ! And there ’s a mouth for
a steak, sir ! Why, I should be too
proud of such a mouth as that, if I had
it myself! Stand up and show it, sir!
Take off your cap. There ’s a fine
young man for a nice little party, sir !
Ain’t he ? ”
Inspector Field is the bustling speak-
er. Inspector Field’s eye is the roving
eye that searches every corner of the
cellar as he talks. Inspector Field’s
hand is the well-known hand that has
collared half the people here, and mo-
tioned their brothers, sisters, fathers,
mothers, male and female friends, in-
exorably to New South Wales. Yet
Inspector Field stands in this den, the
Sultan of the place. Every thief here
cowers before him, like a school-boy
before his schoolmaster. All watch
hitn, all answer when addressed, all
laugh at his jokes, all seek to propitiate
him. This cellar-company alone — to
say nothing of the crowd surrounding
the entrance from the street above, and
making the steps shine with eyes — is
strong enough to murder us all, and
villing enough to do it ; but, let In-
spector Field have a mind to pick out
jne thief here, and take him ; let him
produce that ghostly truncheon from
his pocket, and say, with his business
air, “ My lad, I want you ! ” and all
Rats’ Castle shall be stricken with pa-
ralysis, and not a finger move against
him as he fits the handcuffs on !
Where’s the Earl of Warwick? —
Here he is, Mr. Field ! Here ’s the
Earl of Warwick, Mr. Field ! — O, there
you are, my Lord. Come for’ard.
There ’s a chest, sir, not to have a
clean shirt on. Ain’t it. Take your
hat off, ray Lord. Why, I should be
ashamed if I was you — and an Earl,
too — to show myself to a gentleman
with my hat on ! — The Earl of War-
wick laughs and uncovers. All the
company laugh. . One pickpocket, es-
pecially, laughs with great enthusiasm.
O, what a jolly game it is, when Mr.
Field conies down, and don’t want
nobody !
So, you are here, too, are you, you
tall, gray, soldierly-looking, grave man
standing by the fire ? — Yes, sir. Good
evening, Mr. Field ! — Let us see. You
lived servant to a nobleman once ? —
Yes, Mr. Field. — And what is it you
do now ; I forget? — Well, Mr. Field,
I job about as well as I can. I left my
employment on account of delicate
health. The family is still kind to me.
Mr. Wix of Piccadilly is also very kind
to me when I am hard up. Likewise
Mr. Nix of Oxford Street. I get a
trifle from them occasionally, and rub
on as well as I can, Mr. Field. Mr.
Field’s eye rolls enjoyingly, for this
man is a notorious begging-letter writer.
— Good night, my lads ! — .Good night,
Mr. Field, and thank’ee, sir !
Clear the street here, half a thousand
of you ! Cut it, Mrs. Stalker — none
of that — we don’t want you ! Rogers
of the flaming eye, lead on to the
tramps’ lodging-house !
A dream of baleful faces attends to
the door. Now, stand back all of you !
In the rear Detective Sergeant plants
himself, composedly whistling with his
strong right arm across the narrow pas-
sage. Mrs. Stalker, I am something’d
that need not be written here, if you
won’t get yourself into trouble, in about
half a minute, if I see that face of yours
again !
Saint Giles’s church-clock, striking
eleven, hums through our hand from
the dilapidated door of a dark outhouse
as we open it, and are stricken back by
the pestilent breath that issues from
within. Rogers to the front with the
light, and let us look !
Ten, twenty, thirty, — who can count
them ! Men, women, children, for the
most part naked, heaped upon the floor
like maggots in a cheese ! Ho ! In
that dark corner yonder ! Does any-
*body lie there? Me, sir, Irish me, a
widder, with six children. And yon-
der ? Me, sir, Irish me, with me wife
and eight poor babes. And to the left
424
ON DUTY WITH INSPECTOR FIELD.
there ? Me, sir, Irish me, along with
two more Irish boys as is me friends.
And to the right there? Me, sir, and
the Murphy fam’ly, numbering five
blessed souls. And what ’s this, coil-
ing, now, about my foot? Another
Irish me, pitifully in want of shaving,
whom I have awakened from sleep, —
and across my other foot lies his wife,
— and by the shoes of Inspector Field
lie their three eldest, — and their three
youngest are at present squeezed be-
tween the open door and the wall.
And why is there no one on that little
mat before the sullen fire. Because
O’Donovan, with his wife and daughter
is not come in from selling Lucifers !
Nor on the bit of sacking in the nearest
corner? Bad luck. Because that Irish
family is late to-night, a-cadging in the
streets !
They are all awake now, the children
excepted, and most of them sit up, to
stare. Wheresoever Mr. Rogers turns
the flaming eye, there is a spectral fig-
ure, rising unshrouded, from a grave of
rags. Who is the landlord here ? — I
am, Mr. Field ! says a bundle of ribs
and jDarchment against the wall,
scratching itself. — Will you spend this
money fairly, in the morning, to buy
coffee for ’em all ? — Yes, sir, I will ! —
O, he ’ll do it, sir, he ’ll do it fair. He ’s
honest ! cry the spectres. And with
thanks and Good Night sink into their
graves again.
Thus, we make our New Oxford
Streets, and our other new streets, never
heeding, never asking, where the
wretches whom we clear out crowd.
With such scenes at our doors, with all
the plagues of Egypt tied up with bits
of cobweb in kennels so near our homes,
we timorously make our Nuisance Bills
and Boards of Health, nonentities, and
think to keep aw'ay the wolves of crime
and filth by our electioneering ducking
to little vestrymen and our gentlemanly
handling of Red Tape !
Intelligence of the coffee money has
got abroad. The yard is full, and Rog-
ers of the flaming eye is beleaguered
with entreaties to show other Lodging
Houses. Mine next ! Mine ! Mine !
Rogers, military, obdurate, stiff-necked,
immovable, replies not, but leads away ;
all falling back before him. Inspector
P'ield follow's. Detective Sergeant,
with his barrier of arm across the little
passage, deliberately waits to close the
procession. He sees behind him, with-
out any effort, and. exceedingly disturbs
one individual far in the rear by coolly
calling out, “ It won’t do, Mr. Michael !
Don’t try it ! ”
After council holden in the street,
we enter other lodging-houses, public-
houses, many lairs and holes ; all noi-
some and offensive ; none so filthy and
so crowded as where Irish are. In one
The Ethiopian party are expected home
presently — were in Oxford Street when
last heard of — shall be fetched, for our
delight, within ten minutes. In anoth-
er, one of the two or three Professors
who draw Napoleon Bonaparte and a
couple of mackerel, on the pavement,
and then let the work of art out to a
speculator, is refreshing after his labors.
In another, the vested interest of the
profitable nuisance has been in one fam-
ily for a hundred years, and the land-
lord drives in comfortably from the
country to his snug little stew in town.
In all Inspector Field is received with
warmth. Coiners and smashers droop
before him ; pickpockets defer to him ;
the gentle sex (not very gentle here)
smile upon him. Half-drunken hags
check themselves in the midst of pots
of beer or pints of gin, to drink to Mr.
Field, and pressingly to ask the honor
of his finishing the draught. One bel-
dame in rusty black has such admira-
tion for him that she runs a whole
street’s length to shake him by the
hand ; tumbling into a heap of mud by
the way, and still pressing her atten-
tions when her very form has ceased to
be distinguishable through it. Before
the power of the law, the power of su-
perior sense — for common thieves are
fools beside these men — and the pow-
er of a perfect mastery of their charac-
ter, the garrison of Rats’ Castle and the
adjacent Fortresses make but a skulk-
ing show' indeed when reviewed by In-
spector Field.
Saint Giles’s clock says it will be
midnight in half an hour, and Inspec-
tor Field says we must hurry to the Old
Mint in the Borough. The cab-driver
ON DUTY WITH INSPECTOR FIELD.
425
is low-spirited, and has a solemn sense
of his responsibility. Now, what’s
your fare, my lad? — O , you know, In-
spector Field, what ’s the good of ask-
ing me !
Say, Parker, strapped and great-
coated, and waiting in dim Borough
doorway, by appointment, to replace the
trusty Rogers whom we left deep in
Saint Giles’s, are you ready? Ready,
Inspector Field, and at a motion of my
wrist behold my flaming eye.
This narrow street, sir, is the chief
part of the Old Mint, full of low lodg-
ing-houses, as you see by the transpar-
ent canvas-lamps and blinds announ-
cing beds for travellers ! But it is great-
ly changed, friend Field, from my for-
mer knowledge of it ; it is infinitely
quieter and more subdued than when
I was here last, some seven years ago ?
O yes ! Inspector Haynes, a first-rate
man, is on this station now and plays
the Devil with them !
Well, my lads ! How are you to-
night, my lads? Playing cards here,
eh? Who wins? — Why, Mr. Field, I,
the sulky gentleman with the damp flat
side-curls, rubbing my bleared eye with
the end of my neckerchief which is like
a dirty eel-skin, am losing just at pres-
ent, but I suppose I must take my pipe
out of my mouth, and be submissive to
you, — I hope I see you well, Mr. Field ?
— Ay, all right, my lad. Deputy, who
have you got up stairs ? Be pleased to
show the rooms !
Why Deputy, Inspector Field can’t
say. He only knows that the man who
takes care of the beds and lodgers is
always called so. Steady, O Deputy,
with the flaring candle in the blacking-
bottle, for this is a slushy back-yard,
and the wooden staircase outside the
house creaks and has holes in it.
Again, in these confined intolerable
rooms, burrowed out like the holes of
rats or the nests of insect-vermin, but
fuller of intolerable smells, are crowds
of sleepers, each on his foul truckle-bed
coiled up beneath a rug. Halloa here !
Come ! Let us see you ! Show your
face ! Pilot Parker goes from bed to
bed and turns their slumbering heads
towards us, as a salesman might turn
sheep. Some wake up with an execra-
tion and a threat. — What ! who spoke ?
Oh ! If it ’s the accursed glaring eye
that fixes me, go where I will, I am
helpless. Here ! I sit up to be looked
at. Is it me you want? — Not you ; lie
down again ! — and I lie down, with a
woful growl.
Wherever the turning lane of light
becomes stationary for a moment, some
sleeper appears at the end of it, submits
himself to be scrutinized, and fades
away into the darkness.
There should be strange dreams
here, Deputy. They sleep sound
enough, says Deputy, taking the candle
out of the blacking-bottle, snuffing it
with his fingers, throwing the snuff into
the bottle, and corking it up with the
candle ; that ’s all I know. What is
the inscription, Deputy, on all the dis-
colored sheets? A precaution against
loss of linen. Deputy turns down the
rug of an unoccupied bed and discloses
it. Stop Thief !
To lie at night, wrapped in the legend
of my slinking life ; to take the cry that
pursues me, waking, to my breast in
sleep ; to have it staring at me, and
clamoring for me, as soon as conscious-
ness returns ; to have it for my first-foot
on New-Year’s day, my Valentine, my
Birthday salute, my Christmas greeting,
my parting with the old year. Stop
Thief !
And to know that I must be stopped,
come what will. To know that I am
no match for this individual energy and
keenness, or this organized and steady
system ! Come across the street here,
and, entering by a little shop and yard,
examine these intricate passages and
doors, contrived for escape, flapping
and counter-flapping, like the lids of
the conjurer’s boxes. But what avail
they? Who gets in by a nod, and
shows their secret working to us? In-
spector Field.
Don’t forget the old Farm House,
Parker ! Parker is not the man to for-
get it. We are going there, now. It is
the old Manor-House of these parts,
and stood in the country once. Then,
perhaps, there was something, which
was not the beastly street, to see from
the shattered low fronts of the over-
hanging wooden houses we are passing
426
ON DUTY WITH INSPECTOR FIELD.
under, — shut up now, pasted over with
bills about the literature and drama of
the Mint, and mouldering away. This
long paved yard was a paddock or a
garden once, or a court in front of the
Farm House. Perchance, with a dove-
cot in the centre, and fowls pecking
about, — with fair elm-trees, then, where
discolored chimney-stacks and gables
are now, — noisy, then, with rooks
which have yielded to a different sort of
rookery. It ’s likelier than not, Inspec-
tor Field thinks, as we turn into the
common kitchen which is in the yard,
and many paces from the house.
Well, my lads and lasses, how are you
all ! Where ’s Blackey, who has stood
near London Bridge these five-and-
twenty years, with a painted skin to
represent disease? — Here he is, Mr.
Field! — How are you, Blackey? —
Jolly, sa ! — Not playing the fiddle to-
night, Blackey? — Not a night, sa ! — A
sharp, smiling youth, the wit of the
kitchen, interposes. He ain’t musical
to-night, sir. I ’ve been giving him a
moral lecture ; I ’ve been a talking to
him* about his latter end, you see. A
good many of these are my pupils, sir.
This here young man (smoothing down
the hair of one near him, reading a
Sunday paper) is a pupil of mine. I ’m
a teaching of him to read, sir. He ’s a
promising cove, sir. He ’s a smith, he
is, and gets his living by the sweat of
the brow, sir. So do I, myself, sir.
This young woman is my sister, Mr.
Field. She's getting on very well too.
I ’ve a deal of trouble with ’em, sir, but
I ’m richly rewarded, now I see ’em all
a doing so well, and growing up so
creditable. That ’s a great comfort,
that is, ain’t it, sir? — In the midst of
the kitchen (the whole kitchen is in
ecstasies with this impromptu “ chaff”)
sits a young, modest, gentle-looking
creature, with a beautiful child in her
lap. She seems to belong to the com-
pany, but is so strangely unlike it. She
has such a pretty, quiet face and voice,
and is so proud to hear the child ad-
mired, — thinks you would hardly be-
lieve. that he is only nine months old !
Is she as bad as the rest, I wonder?
Inspectorial experience does not engen-
der a belief contrariwise, but prompts
the answer, Not a ha’p’orth of differ-
ence !
There is a piano going in the old F arm
House as we approach. It stops.
Landlady appears. Has no objections,
Mr. Field, to gentlemen being brought,
but wishes it were at earlier hours, the
lodgers complaining of ill-conwenience.
Inspector Field is polite and soothing,
— knows his woman and the sex. Dep-
uty (a girl in this case) shows the way
up a heavy broad old staircase, kept
very clean, into clean rooms where
many sleepers are, and where painted
panels of an older time look strangely
on the truckle-beds. The sight of
whitewash and the smell of soap — two
things we seem by this time to have
parted from in infancy — make the old
Farm House a phenomenon, and con-
nect themselves with the so curiously
misplaced picture of the pretty mother
and child long after we have left it, —
long after we have left, besides, the
neighboring nook with something of a
rustic flavor in it yet, where once, be-
neath a low wooden colonnade still
standing as of yore, the eminent Jack
Sheppard condescended to regale him-
self, and where, now, two old bachelor
brothers in broad hats (who are whis-
pered in the Mint to have made a com-
pact long ago that if either should ever
marry, he must forfeit his share of the
joint property) still keep a sequestered
tavern, and sit o’ nights smoking pipes
in the bar, among ancient bottles and
glasses, as our eyes behold them.
How goes the night now? Saint
George of Southwark answers with
twelve blows upon his bell. Parker,
good night, for Williams is already
waiting over in the region of Ratcliffe
Highway, to show the houses where
the sailors dance.
I should like to know where Inspec-
tor Field was born. In Ratcliffe High-
way, I would have answered with confi-
dence, but for his being equally at home
wherever we go. He does not trouble
his head, as I do, about the river at
night. He does not care for its creep-
ing, black and silent, on our right there,
rushing through sluice-gates, lapping at
piles and posts and iron rings, hiding
strange things in its mud, running awa*
ON DUTY WITH INSPECTOR FIELD .
427
with suicides and accidentally drowned
bodies faster than midnight funeral
should, and acquiring such various ex-
perience between its cradle and its
grave. It has no mystery for him. Is
there not the Thames Police !
Accordingly, Williams, lead the way.
We are a little late, for some of the
houses are already closing. No matter.
You show us plenty. All the landlords
know Inspector Field. All pass him,
freely and good-humoredly, whereso-
ever he wants to go. So thoroughly
are all these houses open to him and
our local guide, that, granting that sail-
ors must be entertained in their own
way, — as I suppose they must, and
have a right to be, — I hardly know how
such places could be better regulated.
Not that I call the company very se-
lect, or the dancing very graceful, —
even so graceful as that of the German
Sugar Bakers, whose assembly, by the
Minories, we stopped to visit, — but
there is watchful maintenance of order
in every . house, and swift expulsion
where need is. Even in the midst of
drunkenness, both of the lethargic kind
and the lively, there is sharp landlord
supervision, and pockets are in less
peril than out of doors. These houses
show, singularly, how much of the pic-
turesque and romantic there truly is in
the sailor, requiring to be especially ad-
dressed. All the songs (sung in a hail-
storm of half-pence, which are pitched
at the singer without the least tender-
ness for the time or tune, — mostly from
great rolls of copper carried for the pur-
pose, — and which he occasionally
dodges like shot as they fly near his
head) are of the sentimental sea sort.
All the rooms are decorated with nau-
tical subjects. Wrecks, engagements,
ships on fire, ships passing lighthouses
on iron-bound coasts, ships blowing up,
ships going down, ships’ running ashore,
men lying out upon the main yard in a
gale of wind, sailors and ships in every
variety of peril, constitute the illustra-
tions of fact. Nothing can be done in
the fanciful way, without a thumping
boy upon a scaly dolphin.
How goes the night now? Past one.
Black and Green are waiting in White-
chapel to unveil the mysteries of Went-
worth Street. Williams, the best of
friends must part. Adieu !
Are not Black and Green readjpat
the appointed place? O yes! They
glide out of shadow as we stop. Im-
perturbable Black opens the cab door ;
Imperturbable Green takes a mental
note of the driver. Both Green and
Black then- open each his flaming eye,
and marshal us the way that we are
going.
The lodging-house we want is hidden
in a maze of streets and courts. It is
fast shut. We knock at the door, and
stand hushed, looking up for a light at
one or other of the begrimed old lattice
windows in its ugly front, when another
constable comes up, — supposes that we
want “to see the school.” Detective
Sergeant meanwhile has got over a rail,
opened a gate, dropped down an area,
overcome some other little obstacles,
and tapped at a window. Now returns.
The landlord will send a deputy imme-
diately.
Deputy is heard to stumble out of bed.
Deputy lights a candle, draws back a
bolt or two, and appears at the door.
Deputy is a shivering shirt and trou-
sers by no means clean, a yawning
face, a shock head much confused ex-
ternally and internally. We want to
look for some one. You may go up
with the light, and take ’em all, if you
like, says Deputy, resigning it, and sit-
ting down upon a bench in the kitch-
en, with his ten fingers sleepily twist-
ing in his hair.
Halloa here ! Now then ! Show your-
selves. That’ll do. It’s not you.
Don’t disturb yourself any more ! So
on, through a labyrinth of airless rooms,
each man responding, like a wild beast,
to the keeper who has tamed him, and
who goes into his cage. What, you
have n’t found him, then ? says Depu-
ty, when we came down. A woman,
mysteriously sitting up all night in the
dark by the smouldering ashes of the
kitchen fire, says it ’s only tramps and
cadgers here : it ’s gonophs over the
way. A man, mysteriously walking
about the kitchen all night in the dark,
bids her hold her tongue. We come
out. Deputy fastens the door and goes
to bed again.
428
ON DUTY WITH INSPECTOR FIELD .
Black and Green, you know Bark,
lodging-house keeper and receiver of
sflflen goods? — O yes, Inspector Field.
— Go to Bark’s next.
Bark sleeps in an inner wooden hutch,
near his street door. As we parley on
the step with Bark’s Deputy, Bark
growls in his bed. We enter, and
Bark flies out of bed. Bark is a red
villain and a wrathful, with a sanguine
throat that looks very much as if it
were expressly made for hanging, as
he stretches it out, in pale defiance,
over the half-door of his hutch. Bark’s
parts of speech are of an awful sort,
— principally adjectives. I won’t, says
Bark, have no adjective police and ad-
jective strangers in my adjective prem-
ises ! I won’t, by adjective and sub-
stantive ! Give me my trousers, and I ’ll
send the whole adjective police to ad-
jective and substantive ! Give me, says
Bark, my adjective trousers ! I ’il put an
adjective knife in the whole bileing of
’em. I ’ll punch their adjective heads.
I ’ll rip up their adjective substantives.
Give me my adjective trousers ! says
Bark, and I ’ll spile the bileing of ’em !
Now, Bark, what’s the use of this?
Here ’s Black and Green, Detective
Sergeant, and Inspector Field. You
know we will come in. — I know you
won’t ! says Bark. Somebody give me
my adjective trousers ! Bark’s trousers
seem difficult to find. He calls for them,
as Hercules might for his club. Give
me my adjective trousers ! says Bark,
and I ’ll spile, the bileing of ’em !
Inspector Field holds that it ’s all one
whether Bark likes the visit or don’t like
it. He, Inspector Field, is an Inspec-
tor of the Detective Police, Detective
Sergeant is Detective Sergeant, Black
and Green are constables in uniform.
Don’t you be a fool, Bark, or you
know it will be the w'orse for you. — I
don’t care, says Bark. Give me my
adjective trousers !
At two o’clock in the morning, we de-
scend into Bark’s low kitchen, leaving
Bark to foam at the mouth above, and
Imperturbable Black and Green to look
at him. Bark’s kitchen is crammed full
of thieves, holding a conversazione there
by lamp-light. It is by far the most dan-
gerous assembly we have seen yet. Stim-
ulated by the ravings of Bark, above,
their looks are sullen, but not a man
speaks. We ascend again. Bark has
got his trousers, and is in a state of
madness in the passage, with his back
against a door that shuts off the upper
staircase. We observe, in other re-
spects, a ferocious individuality in Bark.
Instead of “ Stop Thief !” on his linen,
he prints “ Stolen from Bark’s ! ”
Now, Bark, we are going up stairs ! —
No, you ain’t! — You refuse admission
to the Police, do you, Bark ! — Yes, I
do ! I refuse it to all the adjective po-
lice and to all the adjective substan-
tives. If the adjective coves in the
kitchen was men, they ’d come up now,
and do for you ! Shut me that there
door ! says Bark, and suddenly we are
enclosed in the passage. They ’d come
up and do for you ! cries Bark, and
waits. Not a sound in the kitchen !
They ’d come up and do for you ! cries
Bark again, and waits. Not a sound in
the kitchen ! We are shut up, half a doz-
en of us, in Bark’s house in the inner-
most recesses of the worst part of Lon-
don, in the dead of the night, — the
house is crammed with notorious rob-
bers and ruffians, — and not a man stirs.
No, Bark. They know the weight of
the law, and they know Inspector Field
and Co. too well.
We leave bully Bark to subside at lei-
sure out of his passion and his trousers,
and, I dare say, to be inconveniently re-
minded of this little brush before long.
Black and Green do ordinary duty here,
and look serious.
As to White, who waits on Holbom
Hill to show the courts that are eaten
out of Rotten Gray’s Inn Lane, where
other lodging-houses are, and where (in
one blind alley) the Thieves’ Kitchen
and Seminary for the teaching of the
art to children is, the night has so
worn away, being now
“ Almost at odds with morning, which is
which,”
that they are quiet, and no light shines
through the chinks in the shutters. As
undistinctive Death will come here,
one day, sleep comes now'. The wick-
ed cease from troubling sometimes,
even in this life.
DOWN WITH THE TIDE.
429
DOWN WITH THE TIDE.
A very dark night it was, and bitter
cold ; the east wind blowing bleak, and
bringing with it stinging particles from
marsh and moor and fen, — from the
Great Desert and Old Egypt, may be.
Some of the component parts of the
sharp-edged vapor that came flying up
the Thames at London might be mum-
my dust, dry atoms from the Temple
at Jerusalem, camels’ footprints, croco-
diles’ hatching-places, loosened grains
of expression from the visages of blunt-
nosed sphinxes, waifs and strays from
caravans of turbaned merchants, vegeta-
tion from jungles, frozen snow from the
Himalayas. Oh ! it was very, very dark
upon the Thames, and it was bitter, bit-
ter cold.
“And yet,” said the voice within the
great pea-coat at my side, “ you ’ll
have seen a good many rivers too, I
dare say?”
“Truly,” said I, “when I come
to think of it, not a few! From the
Niagara downward to the mountain
rivers of Italy, which are like the na-
tional spirit, — very tame, or chafing
suddenly and bursting bounds, only to
dwindle away again. The Moselle, and
the Rhine, and the Rhone ; and the
Seine, and the Saone ; and the St. Law-
rence, Mississippi, and Ohio; and the
Tiber, the Po, and the Arno ; and the — ”
Pea-coat coughing, as if he had had
enough of that, I said no more. I
could have carried the catalogue on to a
teasing length, though, if I had been in
the cruel mind.
“ And after all,” said he, “this looks
so dismal ? ”
“So awful,” I returned, “at night.
The Seine at Paris is very gloomy too,
at such a time, and is probably the scene
of far more crime and greater wicked-
ness ; but this river looks so broad and
vast, so murky and silent, seems such
an image of death in the midst of the
great city’s life, that — ”
— That Pea-coat coughed again. He
could not stand my holding forth.
We were in a four-oared Thames
Police Galley, lying on our oars in the
deep shadow *>f Southwark Bridge, —
under the corner arch on the Surrey
side, — having come down with the tide
from Vauxhall. We were fain to hold
on pretty tight, though close in shore,
for the river was swollen, and the tide
running down very strong. We were
watching certain water-rats of human
growth, and lay in the deep shade as
quiet as mice, our light hidden and our
scraps of conversation carried on in
whispers. Above us, the massive iron
girders of the arch were faintly visible,
and below us its ponderous shadow
seemed to sink down to the bottom of
the stream.
We had been lying here some half
an hour. With our backs to the
wind, it is true ; but the wind, being
in a determined temper, blew straight
through us, and would not take the
trouble to go round. I would have
boarded a fireship to get into action,
and mildly suggested as much to my
friend Pea.
“No doubt,” says he as patiently
as possible; “but shore-going tactics
would n’t do with us. River thieves can
always get rid of stolen property in a
moment by dropping it overboard.
We want to take them with the prop-
erty, so we lurk about and come out
upon ’em sharp. If they see us or hear
us, over it goes.”
Pea’s wisdom being indisputable,
there was nothing for it but to sit there
and be blown through, for another half-
hour. The water-rats thinking it wise
to abscond at the end of that time with-
out commission of felony, we shot out,
disappointed, with the tide.
“Grim they look, don’t they?” said
Pea, seeing me glance over my shoulder
at the lights upon the bridge, and down-
43 °
DOWN WITH THE TIDE.
ward at their long, crooked reflections
in the river.
“Very,” said I, “and make one
think with a shudder of Suicides.
What a night for a dreadful leap from
that parapet ! ”
“Ay, but Waterloo’s the favorite
bridge for making holes in the water
from,” returned Pea. “By the by —
avast pulling, lads ! — would you like to
speak to Waterloo on the subject ? ”
My face confessing a surprised desire
to have some friendly conversation with
Waterloo Bridge, and my friend Pea
being the most obliging of men, we put
about, pulled out of the force of the
stream, and, in place of going at great
speed with the tide, began to strive
against it, close in shore, again. Every
color but black seemed to have depart-
ed from the world. The air was black,
the water was black, the barges- and
hulks were black, the piles were black,
the buildings were black, the shadows
were only a deeper shade of black upon
a black ground. Here and there, a
coal fire in an iron cresset blazed upon
a wharf ; but one knew that it too had
been black a little while ago, and would
be black again soon. Uncomfortable
rushes of water, suggestive of gurgling
and drowning, ghostly rattlings of iron
chains, dismal clankings of discordant
engines, formed the music that accom-
panied the dip of our oars and their rat-
tling in the rowlocks. Even the noises
had a black sound to me, — as the trum-
pet sounded red to the blind man.
Our dexterous boat’s crew' made
nothing of the tide, and pulled us
gallantly up to Waterloo Bridge. Here
Pea and I disembarked, passed under
the black stone archway, and climbed
the steep stone steps. Within a few
feet of their summit, Pea presented me
to Waterloo (or an eminent toll-taker
representing that structure), muffled up
to the eyes in a thick shawl, and amply
great-coated and fur-capped.
Waterloo received us with cordiality,
and observed of the night that it w'as
“a Searcher.” He had been originally
called the Strand Bridge, he informed
us, but had received his present name
at the suggestion of the proprietors,
when Parliament had resolved to vote
three hundred thousand pound for the
erection of a monument in honor of the
victory. Parliament took the hint (said
Waterloo, with the least flavor of mis-
anthropy) and saved the money. Of
course the late Duke of Wellington was
the first passenger, and of course he paid
his penny, and of course a noble lord
preserved it evermore. The treadle and
index at the toll-house (a most ingen-
ious contrivance for rendering fraud
impossible), were invented by Mr. Leth-
bridge, then property-man at Drury
Lane Theatre.
Was it suicide, we wanted to know
about? said Waterloo. Ha ! Well, he
had seen a good deal of that w'ork, he
did assure us. He had prevented some.
Why, one day a woman, poorish-look-
ing, came in between the hatch, slapped
down a penny, and wanted to go on
without the change ! Waterloo suspect-
ed this, and says to his mate, “Give an
eye to the gate,” and bolted after her.
She had got to the third seat between
the piers, and was on the parapet just
a going over, when he caught her and
gave her in charge. At the police office
next morning, she said it was along of
trouble and a bad husband.
“ Likely enough.” observed Waterloo
to Pea and myself, as he adjusted his
chin in his shawl. “ There ’s a deal of
trouble about, you see, — and bad hus-
bands too ! ”
Another time, a young woman at
twelve o’clock in the open day got
through, darted along, and, before
Waterloo could come near her, jumped
upon the parapet, and shot herself over
sideways. Alarm given, watermen put
off, lucky escape. Clothes buoyed her
up.
“ This is where it is,” said Waterloo.
“If people jump off straight forwards
from the middle of the parapet of the
bays of the bridge, they are seldom
killed by drowning, but are smashed,
poor things ; that ’s what they are ; they
clash themselves upon the buttress of
the bridge. But you jump off,” said
Waterloo to me, putting his forefinger
in a button-hole of my great-coat, — “ you
jump off from the side of the bay, and
you ’ll tumble, true, into the stream
under the arch. What you have got to
DOWN WITH THE TIDE.
43i
do is, to mind how you jump in ! There
was poor Tom Steele from Dublin.
Didn’t dive! Bless you, did n’t dive
at all ! Fell down so flat into the water,
that he broke his breast-bone, and lived
two days ! ”
I asked Waterloo if there were a fa-
vorite side of his bridge for this dreadful
purpose? He reflected, and thought
yes, there was. He should say the
Surrey side.
Three decent - looking men went
through one day, soberly and quietly,
and went on abreast for about a dozen
yards, when the middle one, he sung
out, all ofa sudden, “ Here goes, Jack ! ”
and was over in a minute.
Body found? Well. Waterloo
did n ’t rightly recollect about that.
They were compositors, they _ were.
He considered it astonishing how
quick people were ! Why, there was a
cab came up one Boxing-night, with a
young woman in it, who looked, accord-
ing to Waterloo’s opinion of her, a lit-
tle the worse for liquor; very hand-
some she was, too, — very handsome.
She stopped the cab at the gate, and
said she ’d pay the cabman then, which
she did. though there was a little hank-
ering about the fare, because at first
she didn’t seem quite to know where
she wanted to be drove to. However,
she paid the man, and the toll too, and,
looking Waterloo in the face, (he thought
she knew him, don’t you see!) said,
“ I ’ll finish it somehow ! ” Well, the
cab went off, leaving Waterloo a little
doubtful in his mind, and while it was
going on at full speed the young woman
jumped out, never fell, hardly staggered,
ran along the bridge pavement a little
way, passing several people, and jumped
over from the second opening. At the
inquest it was give in evidence that
she had been quarrelling at the Hero of
Waterloo, and it was brought in, jeal-
ousy. (One of the results of Waterloo’s
experience was, that there was a deal of
jealousy about.)
“Do we ever get madmen?” said
Waterloo, in answer to an inquiry of
mine. “Well, we do get madmen.
Yes, we have had one or two ; escaped
from ’Sylums, I suppose. One hadn’t
a half-penny ; and because 1 would n’t
let him through, he went back a little
way, stooped down, took a run, and
butted at the hatch like a ram. He
smashed his hat rarely, but his head
didn’t seem no wmrse, in my opinion,
on account of his being wrong in it
afore. Sometimes people haven’t got
a half-penny. If they are really tired
and poor, we give ’em one and let ’em
through. Other people will leave things,
— pocket-handkerchiefs mostly. I have
taken cravats and gloves, pocket-knives,
toothpicks, studs, shirt-pins, rings (gen-
erally from young gents, early in the
morning), but handkerchiefs is the gen-
eral thing.”
“Regular customers?” said Water-
loo. “Lord, yes! We have regular
customers. One, such a worn-out, used-
up old file as you can scarcely picter,
comes from the Surrey side as regular
as ten o’clock at night comes ; and
goes over, I think, to some flash house
on the Middlesex side. He comes
back, he does, as reg’lar as the clock
strikes three in the morning, and then
can hardly drag one of his old legs
after the other. He always turns down
the water-stairs, comes up again, and
then goes on down the Waterloo Road.
He always does the same thing, and
never varies a minute. Does it every
night, — even Sundays.”
I asked Waterloo if he had given his
mind to the possibility of this particular
customer going down the water-stairs
at three o’clock some morning, and
never coming up again? He didn’t
think that of him, he replied. In fact,
it was Waterloo’s opinion, founded on
his observation of that file, that he
know’d a trick worth two of it.
“ There’s another queer old custom-
er,” said Waterloo, “ comes over, as
punctual as the almanac, at eleven
o’clock on the sixth of January, at
eleven o’clock on the fifth of April, at
eleven o’clock on the sixth of July,
at eleven o’clock on the tenth of Octo-
ber. Drives a shaggy little rough pony,
in a sort of a rattle-trap arm-chair sort
of a thing. White hair he has, and
white whiskers, and muffles himself
up with all manner of shawls. He
comes back again the same afternoon,
and we never see more of him for three
432
DOWN WITH THE TIDE .
months. He is a captain in the navy
— retired — wery old — wery odd — and
served with Lord Nelson. He is par-
ticular about drawing his pension at
Somerset House afore the clock strikes
twelve every quarter. I have heerd
say that he thinks it would n’t be ac-
cording to the Act of Parliament, if he
did n’t draw it afore twelve.”
Having related these anecdotes in a
natural manner, which was the best
warranty in the world for their genuine
nature, our friend Waterloo was sink-
ing deep into his shawl again, as hav-
ing exhausted his communicative pow-
ers and taken in enough east wind,
when my other friend Pea in a moment
brought him to the surface by asking
whether he had not been occasionally
the subject of assault and battery in
the* execution of his duty. Waterloo,
recovering his spirits, instantly dashed
into a new branch of his subject. We
learned how “ both these teeth ” — here
he pointed to the places where two
front teeth were not — were knocked
out by an ugly customer who one night
made a dash at him (Waterloo) while
his (the ugly customer’s) pal and coad-
jutor made a dash at the toll-taking
apron where the money-pockets were :
how Waterloo, letting the teeth go (to
Blazes, he observed indefinitely) grap-
pled with the apron-seizer, permitting
the ugly one to run away ; and how he
saved the bank, and captured his man,
and consigned him to fine and impris-
onment. Also how, on another night,
“ a Cove ” laid hold of Waterloo, then
presiding at the horse gate of his bridge,
and threw him unceremoniously over
his knee, having first cut his head open
with his whip. How Waterloo “got
right,” and started after the Cove all
down the Waterloo Road, through
Stamford Street, and round to the foot
of Blackfriars Bridge, where the Cove
“ cut into” a public-house. How Wa-
terloo cut in too ; but how an aider
and abettor of the Cove’s, who hap-
pened to be taking a promiscuous drain
at the bar, stopped Waterloo ; and the
Cove cut out again, ran across the road
down Holland Street, and where not,
and into a beer-shop. How Waterloo,
breaking away from his detainer, was
close upon the Cove’s heels, attended
by no end of people who, seeing him
running with the blood streaming down
his face, thought something worse was
“up,” and roared Fire ! and Murder !
on the hopeful chance of the matter
in hand being one or both. How the
Cove was ignominiously taken, in a
shed where he had run to hide, and
how at the Police Court they at first
wanted to make a sessions job of it ;
but eventually Waterloo was allowed
to be “spoke to,” and the Cove made
it square with Waterloo by paying his
doctor] s bill (W. was laid up for a week)
and giving him “ three, ten.” Like-
wise we learnt what we had faintly sus-
pected before, that your sporting ama-
teur on the Derby day, albeit a captain,
can be — “if he be,” as Captain Boba-
dil observes, “so generously minded”
— anything but a man of honor and a
gentleman ; not sufficiently gratifying
his nice sense of humor by the witty
scattering of flour and rotten eggs on
obtuse civilians, but requiring the fur-
ther excitement of “bilking the toll,”
and “pitching into” Waterloo, and
“ cutting him about the head with his
whip ” ; finally being, when called upon
to answer for the assault, what Water-
loo described as “ Minus,” or, as I
humbly conceived it, not to be found.
Likewise did Waterloo inform us, in
reply to my inquiries, admiringly and
deferentially preferred through my
friend Pea, that the takings at the
Bridge had more than doubled in
amount, since the reduction of the toll
one half. And being asked if the afore-
said takings included much bad money,
Waterloo responded, with a look far
deeper than the deepest part of the river,
he should think not ! — and so retired
into his shawl for the rest of the night.
Then did Pea and I once more em-
bark in our four-oared galley, and glide
swiftly down the river with the tide.
And while the shrewd East rasped and
notched us, as with jagged razors, did
my friend Pea impart to me confidences
of interest relating to the Thames
Police ; we betweenwhiles finding
“duty boats” hanging in dark corners
under banks, like weeds, — our own
was a “ supervision boat ” — and the}'.
DOWN WITH THE TIDE.
433
as they reported “ All right ! ” flashing
their hidden light on us, and we flashing
ours on them. These duty boats had
one sitter in each ; an Inspector ; and
were rowed “Ran-dan,” which — for
the information of those who never
graduated, as I was once proud to do,
under a fireman-waterman and winner
of Kean’s Prize Wherry, who, in the
course of his tuition, took hundreds of
gallons of rum and egg (at my expense)
at the various houses of note above
and below bridge ; not by any means
because he liked it, but to cure a weak-
ness in his liver, for which the faculty
had particularly recommended it — may
be explained as rowed by three men,
two pulling an oar each, and one a pair
of sculls.
Thus, floating down our black high-
way, sullenly frowned upon by the knit-
ted brows of Blackfriars, Southwark,
and London, each in his lowering turn,
I was shown by my friend Pea that
there are, in the Thames Police Force,
whose district extends from Battersea
to Barking Creek, ninety-eight men,
eight duty boats, and two supervision
boats; and that these go about. so si-
lently, and lie in wait in such dark places,
and so seem to be nowhere, and so may
be anywhere, that they have gradually
become a police of prevention, keeping
the river almost clear of any great crimes,
even while the increased vigilance on
shore has made it much harder than of
yore to live by “thieving” in the streets.
And as to the various kinds of water-
thieves, said my friend Pea, there were
the Tier-rangers, who silently dropped
alongside the tiers of shipping in the
Pool, by night, and who, going to the
companion-head, listened fpr two snores,
— snore number one, the skipper’s ;
snore number two, the mate’s, — mates
and skippers always snoring great guns,
and being dead sure to be hard at it if
they had turned in and were asleep.
Hearing the double fire, down went the
Rangers into the skippers’ cabins ;
groped for the skippers’ inexpressibles,
which it was the custom of those gentle-
men to shake off, watch, money, braces,
boots, and all together, on the floor ; and
therewith made off as silently as might
be. Then there were the Lumpers, or
28
laborers employed to unload vessels.
They wore loose canvas jackets with a
broad hem in the bottom, turned inside,
so as to form a large circular pocket in
which they could conceal, like clowns
in pantomimes, packages of surprising
sizes. A great deal of property was
stolen in this manner (Pea confided to
me) from steamers ; first, because steam-
ers carry a larger number of small pack-
ages than other ships ; next, because of
the extreme rapidity with which they
are obliged to be unladen for their
return voyages. The Lumpers dispose
of their booty easily to marine-store
dealers, and the only remedy to be sug-
gested is that marine-store shops should
be licensed, and thus brought under the
eye of the police as rigidly as public-
houses. Lumpers also smuggle goods
ashore for the crews of vessels. The
smuggling of tobacco is so considerable
that it is well worth the while of the
sellers of smuggled tobacco to use hy-
draulic presses, to squeeze a single
pound into a package small enough to
be contained in an ordinary pocket.
Next, said my friend Pea, there were
the Truckers, — less thieves than smug-
glers, whose business it was to land
more considerable parcels of goods than
the Lumpers could manage. They
sometimes sold articles of grocery, and
so forth, to the crews, in order to cloak
their real calling, and get aboard with-
out suspicion. Many of them had boats
of their own, and made money. Be-
sides these, there were the Dredger-
men, who, under pretence of dredging
up coals and such-like from the bottom
of the river, hung about barges and
other undecked craft, and when they
saw an opportunity, threw any property
they could lay their hands on over-
board, in order slyly to dredge it up
when the vessel was gone. Sometimes
they dexterously used their dredges to
whip away anything that might lie with-
in reach. Some of them were mighty
neat at this, and the accomplishment
was called dry dredging. Then, there
was a vast deal of property, such as
copper nails, sheathing, hardwood, &c.,
habitually brought away by shipwrights
and other workmen from their employ-
ers’ yards, and disposed of to marine-
434
A WALK IN A WORKHOUSE.
store dealers, many of whom escaped
detection through hard swearing, and
their extraordinary artful . ways of ac-
counting for the possession of stolen
property. Likewise, there were special-
pleading practitioners, for whom barges
“drifted away of their own selves, 5 ’ —
they having no hand in it, except first
cutting them loose, and afterwards
plundering them, — innocents, meaning
no harm, who had the misfortune to
observe those foundlings wandering
about the Thames.
We were now going in and out, with
little noise and great nicety, among the
tiers of shipping, whose many hulls,
lying close together, rose out of the
water like black streets. Here and
there, a Scotch, an Irish, or a foreign
steamer, getting up her steam as the
tide made, looked, with her great chim-
ney and high sides, like a quiet factory
among the common buildings. Now,
the streets opened into clearer spaces,
now contracted into alleys ; but the tiers
were so like houses, in the dark, that I
could almost have believed myself in
the narrower by-ways of Venice. Every-
thing was wonderfully still ; for it want-
ed full three hours of flood, and nothing
seemed awake but a dog here and there.
So we took no Tier-rangers captive,
nor any Lumpers, nor Truckers, nor
Dredgermen, nor other evil-disposed
person or persons ; but went ashore at
Wapping, where the old Thames Po-
lice office is now a station-house, and
where the old Court, with its cabin
windows looking on. the river, is a
quaint charge room, with nothing worse
in it usually than a stuffed cat in a glass
case, and a portrait, pleasant to behold,
of a rare old Thames Police-officer, Mr.
Superintendent Evans, now succeeded
by his son. We looked over the charge
books, admirably kept, and found the
prevention so good, that there were not
five hundred entries (including drunken
and disorderly) in a whole year. Then
we looked into the storeroom, where
there w'as an oakum smell, and a nauti-
cal seasoning of dreadnaught clothing,
rope-yarn, boat-hooks, sculls and oars,
spare stretchers, rudders, pistols, cut-
lasses, and the like. Then into the
cell, aired high up in the wooden wall
through an opening like a kitchen plate-
rack, wherein there was a drunken
man, not at all warm, and very wishful
to know if it were morning yet. Then
into a better sort of watch and ward
room, where there was a squadron of
stone bottles drawn up, ready to be
filled with’hot water and applied to any
unfortunate creature who might be
brought in apparently drowned. Final-
ly we shook hands with our worthy
friend Pea, and ran all the way to Towner
FI ill, under strong Police suspicion oc-
casionally, before we got warm.
A WALK IN A WORKHOUSE.
On a certain Sunday, I formed one of
the congregation assembled in the
chapel of a large metropolitan Work-
house. With the exception of the cler-
gyman and clerk, and a very few offi-
cials, there were none but paupers pres-
ent. The children sat in the galleries;
the women in the body of the chapel,
and in one of the side aisles ; the men
in the remaining aisle. The service
was decorously performed, though the
sermon might have been much better
adapted to the comprehension and to
the circumstances of the hearers. The
usual supplications were offered, with
more than the usual significancy in such
a place for the fatherless children and
widows, for all sick persons and young
children, for all that were desolate and
oppressed, for the comforting and help-
A WALK IN A WORKHOUSE .
435
ing of the weak -hearted, for the rais-
ing up of them that had fallen ; for all
that were in danger, necessity, and trib-
ulation. The prayers of the congrega-
tion were desired “for several persons
in the various wards dangerously ill” ;
and others who were recovering re-
turned their thanks to Heaven.
Among this congregation were some
evil-looking young women, and beetle-
browed young men ; but not many, —
perhaps that kind of characters kept
away. Generally, the faces (those of
the children excepted) were depressed
and subdued, and wanted color. Aged
people were there, in every variety.
Mumbling, blear-eyed, spectacled, stu-
pid, deaf, lame ; vacantly winking in
the gleams of sun that nqw and then
crept in through the open doors from
the paved yard ; shading their listening
ears or blinking eyes with their with-
ered hands ; poring over their books,
leering at nothing, going to sleep,
crouching and drooping m corners.
There were weird old women, all skele-
ton within, all bonnet and cloak with-
out, continually wiping their eyes with
dirty dusters of pocket-handkerchiefs ;
and there were ugly old crones, both
male and female, with a ghastly kind of
contentment upon them which was not
at all comforting to see. Upon the
whole, it was the dragon Pauperism in
a very weak and impotent condition ;
toothless, fangless, drawing his breath
heavily enough, and hardly worth chain-
ing up.
When the service was over, I walked
with the humane and conscientious
gentleman whose duty it was to take
that walk, that Sunday morning,
through the little world of poverty en-
closed within the workhouse walls. It
was inhabited by a population of some
fifteen hundred or two thousand pau-
ers, ranging from the infant newly
orn or not yet come into the pauper
world to the old man dying on his
bed.
In a room opening from a squalid
yard, where a number of listless women
were lounging to and fro, trying to get
warm in the ineffectual sunshine of the
tardy May morning, — in the “Itch
Ward,” not to compromise the truth,
— a woman such as Hogarth has often
drawn was hurriedly getting on her
gown before a dusty fire. She was the
nurse, or wardswoman, of that insalu-
brious department, — herself a pauper,
— flabby, raw-boned, untidy, — un-
romising and coarse of aspect as need
e. But on being spoken to about the
patients whom she had in charge, she
turned round, with her shabby gown
half on, half off, and fell a crying with
all her might. Not for show, not quer-,
ulously, not in any mawkish sentiment,
but in the deep grief and affliction of
her heart ; turning; away her dishev-
elled head, sobbing most bitterly,
wringing her hands, and letting fall
abundance of great tears, that choked
her utterance. What was the matte*
with the nurse of the itch ward? O,
“the dropped child ” was dead! O.
the child that was found in the street',
and she had brought up ever since, had
died an hour ago, and see where the
little creature lay beneath this cloth !
The dear, the pretty dear !
The dropped child seemed too small
and poor a thing for Death to be in ear-
nest with, but Death had taken it ; and
already its diminutive form was neatly
washed, composed, and stretched as if
in sleep upon a box. I thought I heard
a voice from Heaven saying, It shall ba
well for thee, O nurse of the itch ward,
when some less gentle pauper does
those offices to thy cold form, that such
as the dropped child are the angels who
behold my Father’s face !
In another room were several ugly
old women, crouching, witch-like, round
a hearth, and chattering and nodding,
after the manner of the monkeys. “ All
well here ? And enough to eat ? ” A
general chattering and chuckling ; at
last an answer from a volunteer. O yes,
gentleman ! Bless you, gentleman !
Lord bless the parish of St. So-and-so !
It feed the hungry, sir, and give drink
to the thusty, and it warm them which
is cold, so it do, and good luck to the
parish of St. So-and-so, and thank’ee
gentleman ! ” Elsewhere, a party of
pauper nurses were at dinner. “ How
do you get on ? ” “ O, pretty well, sir I
W e works hard, and we lives hard, —
like the sodgers ! ”
43$
A WALK IN A WORKHOUSE .
In another room, a kind of purgatory
or place of transition, six or eight noisy
mad-Women were gathered together,
under the superintendence of one sane
attendant. Among them was a girl of
two or three and twenty, very prettily
dressed, of most respectable appearance,
and good manners, who had been
brought in from the house where she
had lived as domestic servant (hav-
ing, I suppose, no friends), on account
of being subject to epileptic fits, and re-
quiring to be removed under the influ-
ence of a very bad one. She was by no
means of the same stuff, or the same
breeding, or the same experience, or in
the same state of mind, as those by
whom she was surrounded ; and she
pathetically complained that the daily
association and the nightly noise made
her worse, and was driving her mad, —
which was perfectly evident. The case
was noted for inquiry and redress, but
she said she had already been there for
some weeks.
If this girl had stolen her mistress’s
watch, I do not hesitate to say she
would have been infinitely better off.
We have come to this absurd, this dan-
gerous, this monstrous pass, that the
dishonest felon is, in respect of cleanli-
ness, order, diet, and accommodation,
better provided for and taken care of
than the honest pauper.
And this conveys no special imputation
on the workhouse of the parish of St. So-
and-so, where, on the contrary, I saw
many things to commend. It was very
agreeable, recollecting that most infa-
mous and atrocious enormity committed
at Tooting, — an enormity which a hun-
dred years hence will still be vividly
remembered in the by-ways of English
life, and which has done more to engen-
der a gloomy discontent and suspicion
among many thousands of the people
than all the Chartist leaders could have
done in all their lives, — to find the
pauper children in this workhouse look-
ing robust and well, and apparently the
objects of very great care. In the
Infant School, — a large, light, airy
room at the top of the building, — the
little creatures, being at dinner, and
eating their potatoes heartily, were not
cowed by the presence of strange visit-
ors, but stretched out their small hands
to be shaken, with a very pleasant con-
fidence. And it was comfortable to
see two mangy pauper rocking-horses
rampant in a corner. In the girls’
school, where the dinner was also in
progress, everything bore a cheerful
and healthy aspect. The meal was
over in the boys’ school by the time of
our arrival there, and the room was not
yet quite rearranged ; but the boys
were roaming unrestrained about a large
and airy yard, as any other school-boys
might have done. Some of them had
been drawing large ships upon the
school-room wall ; and if they had a
mast with shrouds and stays set up for
practice (as they have in the Middlesex
House of Correction), it would be so
much the better. At present, if a boy
should feel a strong impulse upon him
to learn the art of going aloft, he could
only gratify it, I presume, as the men
and women paupers gratify their aspira-
tions after better board and lodging, by
smashing as many workhouse windows
as possible, and being promoted to
prison.
In one place, the Newgate of the
Workhouse, a company of boys and
youths were locked up in a yard alone ;
their day-room being a kind of kennel
where the casual poor used formerly to
be littered down at night. Divers of
them had been there some long time.
“ Are they never going away ? ” was the
natural inquiry. “ Most of them are
crippled in some form or other,” said the
Wardsman, “ and not fit for anything.”
They slunk about like dispirited wolves
or hyenas, and made a pounce at their
food when it was served out, much as
those animals do. The big-headed idiot,
shuffling his feet along the pavement
in the sunlight outside, was a more
agreeable object every way.
Groves of babies in arms ; groves of
mothers and other sick women in bed ;
groves of lunatics ; jungles of men in
stone-paved down-stairs day-rooms,
waiting for their dinners ; longer and
longer groves of old people, in up-stairs
Infirmary wards, wearing out life, God
knows how, — this was the scenery
through which the walk lay for two
hours. In some of these latter cham-
A WALK IK A WORKHOUSE.
437
bers, there were pictures stuck against
the wall, and a neat display of crockery
and pewter on a kind of sideboard ;
now and then it was a treat to see a
plant or two ; in almost every ward
there was a cat.
In all of these Long Walks of aged
and infirm, some old people were bed-
ridden, and had been for a long time ;
some were sitting on their beds half-
naked ; some dying in their beds ; some
out of bed, and sitting at a table near
the fire. A sullen or lethargic indif-
ference to what was asked, a blunted
sensibility to everything but warmth and
food, a moody absence of complaint as
being of no use, a dogged silence and
resentful desire to be left alone again, I
thought were generally apparent. On
our walking into the midst of one of
these dreary perspectives of old men,
nearly the following little dialogue took
place, the nurse not being immediately
at h’and : —
“All well here?”
No answer. An old man in a Scotch
cap sitting among others on a form at
the table, eating out of a tin porringer,
pushes back his cap a little to look at
us, claps it down on his forehead again
with the palm of his hand, and goes on
eating.
“ All well here ? ” (repeated.)
No answer. Another old man, sit-
ting on his bed, paralytically peeling
a boiled potato, lifts his head, and
stares.
“ Enough to eat?”
No answer. Another old man, in
bed, turns himself and coughs.
“ How are you to-day ? ” To the last
old man.
That old man says nothing ; but an-
other old man, a tall old man of very
good address, speaking with perfect cor-
rectness, comes forward from some-
where, and volunteers an answer. The
reply almost always proceeds from a
volunteer, and not from the person
looked at or spoken to.
“We are very old, sir,” in a mild, dis-
tinct voice. “We can’t expect to be
■veil, most of us.”
“Are you comfortable?”
“ I have no complaint to make, sir.”
vVith a half-shake of his head, a half-
shrug of his shoulders, and a kind of
apologetic smile.
“Enough to eat?”
“ Why, sir, I have but a poor appe-
tite,” with the same air as before ; “and
yet I get through my allowance very
easily.”
“ But,” showing a porringer with a
Sunday dinner in it ; “ here is a portion
of mutton, and three potatoes. You
can’t starve on that?”
“ O dear no, sir,” with the same apol-
ogetic air. “Not starve.”
“ What do you want? ”
“We have very little bread, sir. It ’s
an exceedingly small quantity of bread.”
The nurse, who is now rubbing her
hands at the questioner’s elbow, inter-
feres with, “ It ain’t much, raly, sir.
You see they’ve only six ounces a day,
and when they ’ve took their breakfast,
there can only be a little left for night,
sir.”
Another old man, hitherto invisible,
rises out of his bedclothes, as out of
a grave, and looks on.
“You have tea at night?” the ques-
tioner is still addressing the well-spoken
old man.
“ Yes, sir, we have tea at night.”
“And you save what bread you can
from the morning, to eat with it ? ”
“ Yes, sir, — if we can save any.”
“ And you want more to eat with it ? ”
“Yes, sir.” With a very anxious
face.
The questioner, in the kindness of
his heart, appears a little discomposed,
and changes the subject.
“What has become of the old man
who used to lie in that bed in the
comer? ”
The nurse don’t remember what old
man is referred to. There has been
such a many old men. The well-spoken
old man is doubtful. The spectral old
man who has come to life in bed says,
“Billy Stevens.” Another old man,
who has previously had his head in the
fireplace, pipes out, —
“ Charley Walters.”
Something like a feeble interest is
awakened. I suppose Charley Walters
had conversation in him.
“He’s dead,” says the piping old
man.
43^
A WALK IN A WORKHOUSE.
Another old man, with one eye
screwed up, hastily displaces the piping
old man, and says, —
“ Yes ! Charley Walters died in that
bed, and — and — ”
“ Billy Stevens,” persists the spectral
old man.
“No, no ! and Johnny Rogers died
in that bed, and — and — they’re both
on ’em dead — and Sam’l Bowyer”;
this seems very extraordinary to him ;
“ he went out ! ”
With this he subsides, and all the old
men (having had quite enough of it) sub-
side, and the spectral old man goes into
his grave again, and takes the shade of
Billy Stevens with him.
As we turn to go out at the door,
another previously invisible old man, a
hoarse old man in a flannel gown, is
standing there, as if he had just come
up through the floor.
“ I beg your pardon, sir, could I take
the liberty of saying a word ? ”
“ Yes ; what is it?”
“ I am greatly better in my health,
sir ; but what I want, to get me quite
round,” with his hand on his throat, “is
a little fresh air, sir. It has always
done my complaint so much good, sir.
The regular leave for going out comes
round so seldom, that if the gentlemen,
next Friday, would give me leave to go
out walking, now and then — for only
an hour or so, sir ! — ”
Who could wonder, looking through
those weary vistas of bed and infirmity,
that it should do him good to meet with
some other scenes, and assure himself
that there was something else on earth ?
Who could help wondering why the old
men lived on as they did ; what grasp
they had on life ; what crumbs of inter-
est or occupation they could pick up
from its bare board ; whether Charley
Walters had ever described to them the
days when he kept company with some
old pauper woman in the bud, or Billy
Stevens ever told them of the time when
he was a dweller in the far-off foreign
land called Home !
The morsel of burnt child, lying in
another room, so patiently, in bed,
wrapped in lint, and looking steadfastly
at us with his bright quiet eyes when
we spoke to him kindly, looked as if
the knowledge of these things, and of
all the tender things there are to think
about, might have been in his mind, —
as if he thought with us, that there was
a fellow-feeling in the pauper nurses
which appeared to make them more
kind to their charges than the race of
common nurses in the hospitals,.*- as
if he mused upon the future of some
older children lying around him in the
same place, and thought it best, per-
haps, all things considered, that he
should die, — as if he knew, without fear,
of those many coffins, made and un-
made, piled up in the store below, — and
of his unknown friend, “the dropped
child,” calm upon the box-lid covered
with a cloth. But there was something
wistful and appealing, too, in his tiny
face, as if, in the midst of all the hard
necessities and incongruities he pon-
dered on, he pleaded, in behalf of the
helpless and the aged poor, for a little
more liberty — and a little more bread.
v
PRINCE BULL. A FAIRY TALE.
439
PRINCE BULL.
Once upon a time, and of course it
was in the Golden Age, and I hope you
may know when that was, for I am sure
I don’t, though I have tried hard to find
out, there lived in a rich and fertile
country a powerful Prince whose name
was Bull. He had gone through a
great deal of fighting, in his time, about
all sorts of things, including nothing ;
but had gradually settled down to be a
steady, peaceable, good-natured, corpu-
lent, rather sleepy Prince.
This Puissant Prince was married to
a lovely Princess whose name was Fair
Freedom. She had brought him a
large fortune, and had borne him an
immense number of children, and had
set them to spinning, and farming, and
engineering, and soldiering, and sailor-
ing, and doctoring, and lawyering, and
preaching, and all kinds of trades.
The coffers of Prince Bull were full of
treasure, his cellars were crammed w'ith
delicious wines from all parts of the
world, the richest gold and silver plate
that ever was seen adorned his side-
boards, his sons were strong, his daugh-
ters were handsome, and, in short, you
might have supposed that, if there ever
lived upon earth a fortunate and happy
Prince, the name of that Prince, take
him for all in all, was assuredly Prince
Bull.
But appearances, as we all know,
are not always to be trusted, — far from
it ; and if they had led you to this
conclusion respecting Prince Bull, they
would have led you wrong, as they often
have led me.
For this good Prince had two sharp
thorns in his pillow, two hard knobs in
his crown, two heavy loads on his mind,
two unbridled nightmares in his sleep,
two rocks ahead in his course. He
could not by any means get servants to
suit him, and he had a tyrannical old
godmother whose name was Tape.
She was a fairy, this Tape, and was a
A FAIRY TALE.
bright red all over. She was disgust-
ingly prim and formal, and could never
bend herself a hair’s breadth, this way
or that way, out of her naturally crooked
shape. But she was very potent in her
wicked art. She could stop the fastest
thing in the world, change the strongest
thing into the weakest, and the most
useful into the most useless. To do
this she had only to put her cold hand
upon it, and repeat her own name.
Tape. Then it withered away.
At the Court of Prince Bull, — at
least I don’t mean literally at his court,
because he was a very genteel Prince,
and readily yielded to his godmother
when she always reserved that for his
hereditary Lords and Ladies, — in the
dominions of Prince Bull, among the
great mass of the community who were
called in the language of that polite
country the Mobs and the Snobs, were
a number of very ingenious men, who
were always busy with some invention
or other for promoting the prosperity
of the Prince’s subjects, and augment-
ing the Prince’s power. But when-
ever they submitted their models for
the Prince’s approval, his godmother
stepped forward, laid her hand upon
them, and said “ Tape.” Hence it
came to pass, that when any particular-
ly good discovery was made, the dis-
coverer usually carried it off to some
other Prince, in foreign parts, who had
no old godmother who said Tape. This
was not on the whole an advantageous
state of things for Prince Bull, to the
best of my understanding.
The worst of it was, that Prince Bull
had in course of years lapsed into such
a state of subjection to this unlucky
godmother, that he never made any
serious effort to rid himself of her tyran-
ny. I have said this was the worst of
it, but there I was wrong, because there
is a worse consequence still behind.
The Prince’s numerous family became
440
PRINCE BULL. A FAIRY TALE.
so downright sick and tired of Tape,
that when they should have helped the
Prince out of the difficulties into which
that evil creature led him, they fell into
a dangerous habit of moodily keeping
away from him in an impassive and
indifferent manner, as though they had
quite forgotten that no harm could hap-
pen to the Prince, their father, without
its inevitably affecting therftselves.
Such was the aspect of affairs at the
court of Prince Bull, when this great
Prince found it necessary to go to war
with Prince Bear. He had been for
some time very doubtful of his servants,
who, besides being indolent and addict-
ed to enriching their families at his
expense, domineered over him dreadful-
ly ; threatening to discharge themselves
if they were found the least fault with,
pretending that they had done a won-
derful amount of work when they had
done nothing, making the most unmean-
ing speeches that ever were heard in the
Prince’s name, and uniformly showing
themselves to be very inefficient indeed.
Though that some of them had excel-
lent characters from previous situations
is not to be denied. Well ; Prince Bull
called his servants together, and said to
them one and all, “ Send out. my army
against Prince Bear. Clothe it, arm it,
feed it, provide it with all necessaries
and contingencies, and I will pay the
piper ! Do your duty by my brave
troops,” said the Prince, “ and do it
well, and I will pour my treasure out
like water, to defray the cost. Who
ever heard me complain of money well
laid out ! ” Which indeed he had rea-
son for saying, inasmuch as he was well
known to be a truly generous and mu-
nificent Prince.
When the servants heard those words,
they sent out the army against Prince
Bear, and they set the army tailors to
work, and the army provision mer-
chants, and the makers of guns both
great and small, and the gunpowder
makers, and the makers of ball, shell,
and shot ; and they bought up all man-
ner of stores and ships, without trou-
bling their heads about the price, and
appeared to be so busy that the good
Prince rubbed his hands, and (using a
favorite expression of his) said, “ It*’s
all right ! ” But while they were thus
employed, the Prince’s godmother, who
w'as a great favorite with those servants,
looked in upon them continually all day
long, and whenever she popped in her
head at the door, said, “ How do you
do, my children? What are you doing
here ? ” “ Official business, godmoth-
er.” “Oho !” says this wicked fairy.
“ — Tape!” And then the business
all went wrong, whatever it was, and
the servants’ heads became so addled
and muddled that they thought they
were doing wonders.
Now, this was very bad conduct on
the part of the vicious old nuisance,
and she ought to have been strangled,
even if she had stopped here ; but she
did n’t stop here, as you shall learn.
For a number of the Prince’s subjects,
being very fond of the Prince’s army
who were the bravest of men, assembled
together and provided all manner of eata-
bles and drinkables, and books to read,
and clothes to wear, and tobacco to
smoke, and candles to burn, and nailed
them up in great packing-cases, and put
them aboard a great many ships, to be
carried out to that brave army in the
cold and inclement country where they
were fighting Prince Bear. Then up
comes this wicked fairy as the ships
were weighing anchor, and says, “ How
do you do, my children ? What are you
doing here?” “We are going with all
these comforts to the army, godmother.”
“ Oho ! ” says she. “ A pleasant voy-
age, my darlings. — Tape ! ” And from
that time forth, those enchanted ships
went sailing, against wind and tide and
rhyme and reason, round and round the
world, and whenever they touched at
any port were ordered off immediately,
and could never deliver their cargoes
anywhere.
This, again, was very bad conduct on
the part of the vicious old nuisance, and
she ought to have been strangled for it,
if she had done nothing worse ; but she
did something worse still, as you shall
learn. For she got astride of an official
broomstick and muttered as a spell these
two sentences, “On her Majesty’s ser-
vice,” and “ I have the honor to be, sir,
your most obedient servant,” and pres-'
ently alighted in the cold and inclement
PRINCE BULL. A FAIRY TALE.
441
country where the army of Prince Bull
were encamped to fight the army of
Prince Bear. On the sea-shore of that
country she found piled together a
number of houses for the army to live
in, and a quantity of provisions for the
army to live upon, and a quantity of
clothes for the army to wear ; while, sit-
ting in the mud gazing at them, were a
group of officers as red to look at as
the wicked old woman herself. So, she
said to one of them, “ Who are you, my
darling, and how do you do ? ” “I am
the Quartermaster- General’s Depart-
ment, godmother, and I am pretty
well.” Then she said to another,
“ Who are you , my darling, and how do
you do?” “I am the Commissariat
Department, godmother, and / am pret-
ty well.” Then she said to another,
“Who ar eyou, my darling, and how do
you do?” “I am the Head of the
Medical Department, godmother,, and
I am pretty well.” Then she said to
some gentlemen scented with lavender,
who kept themselves at a great distance
from the rest, “ And who are you, my
pretty pets, and how do you do?”
And they answered, “ We-aw-are-the-
aw - Staff - aw - Department, godmother,
and we are very well indeed.” “I am
delighted to see you all, my beauties,”
says this wicked old fairy ; “ — Tape ! ”
Upon that the houses, clothes, and pro-
visions all mouldered away ; and the
soldiers who were sound fell sick ; and
the soldiers who were sick died miser-
ably ; and the noble army of Prince Bull
perished.
When the dismal news of his great
loss was carried to the Prince, he sus-
pected his godmother very much in-
deed ; but he knew that his servants
must have kept company with the ma-
licious beldame, and must have given
way to her, and therefore he resolved to
turn those servants out of their places.
So he called to him a Roebuck who
had the gift of speech, and he said,
“ Good Roebuck, tell them they must
go.” So the good Roebuck delivered
his message, so like a man that you
might have supposed him to be nothing
but a man, and they were turned out, —
but not without warning, for that they
had had a long time.
And now comes the most extraor-
dinary part of the history of this Prince.
When he had turned out those servants,
of course he wanted others. What was
his astonishment to find that in all his
dominions, which contained no less than
twenty-seven millions of people, there
were not above five-and-twenty ser-
vants altogether ! They were so lofty
about it, too, that instead of discussing
whether they should hire themselves
as servants to Prince Bull, they turned
things topsy-turvy, and considered
whether as a favor they should hire
Prince Bull to be their master ! While
they were arguing this point among
themselves quite at their leisure, the
wicked old red fairy was incessantly
going up and down, knocking at the
doors of twelve of the oldest of the five-
and-twenty, who were the oldest inhab-
itants in all that country, and whose
united ages amounted to one thousand,
saying, “ Will you hire Prince Bull for
your master? Will you hire Prince
Bull for your master? ” To which one
answered, “I will if next door will”;
and another, “ I won’t if over the way
does”; and another, “I can’t if he,
she, or they might, could, would, or
should.” And all this time Prince
Bull’s affairs were going to rack and
ruin.
At last, Prince Bull in the height of
his perplexity assumed a thoughtful face,
as if he were struck by an entirely new
idea. The wicked old fairy, seeing
this, was at his elbow directly, and said,
“ How do you do, my Prince, and what
are you thinking of?” “I am think-
ing, godmother,” says he, “that among
all the seven-and-twenty millions of my
subjects who have never been in ser-
vice, there are men of intellect and busi-
ness who have made me very famous
both among my friends and enemies.”
“Ay, truly?” says the fairy. “Ay,
truly,” says the Prince. “ And what
then?” says the fairy. “Why, then,”
says he, “ since the regular old class of
servants do so ill, are so hard to get,
and carry it with so high a hand, per-
haps I might try to make good servants
of some of these.” The words had no
sooner passed his lips than she returned,
chuckling, “You think so, do you? In-
442
A PLATED ARTICLE.
deed, my Prince? — Tape!” There-
upon he directly forgot what he was
thinking of, and cried out lamentably to
the old servants, “ O, do come and hire
your poor old master ! Pray do ! On
any terms ! ”
And this, for the present, finishes the
story of Prince Bull. I wish I could
wind it up by saying that he lived hap-
py ever afterwards, but I cannot in my
conscience do so; for, with Tape at his
elbow, and his estranged children fa-
tally repelled by her from coming near
him, I do not, to tell you the plain
truth, believe in the possibility of such
an end to it.
A PLATED
Putting up for the night in one of
the chiefest towns of Staffordshire, I
find it to be by no means a lively town.
In fact it is as dull and dead a town
as any one could desire not to see. It
seems as if its whole population might
be imprisoned in its Railway Station.
The Refreshment-Room at that Station
is a vortex of dissipation compared with
the extinct town-inn, the Dodo, in the
dull High Street.
Why High Street? Why not rather
Low Street, Flat Street, Low-Spirited
Street, Used-up Street? Where are
the people who belong to the High
Street? Can they all be dispersed
over the face of the country, seeking
the unfortunate Strolling Manager who
decamped from the mouldy little Thea-
tre last week, in the beginning of his
season (as his play-bills testify), repent-
antly resolved to bring him back, and
feed him, and be entertained ? Or can
they all be gathered to their fathers in
the two old churchyards near to the
High Street, — retirement into which
churchyards appears to be a mere cere-
mony, there is so very little life outside
their confines, and such small discerni-
ble difference between being buried
alive in the town, and buried dead in
the town tombs? Over the way, oppo-
site to the staring blank bow-windows
of the Dodo, are a little ironmonger’s
shop, a little tailor’s shop, (with a pic-
ture of the fashions in the small win-
dow and a bandy-legged baby on the
ARTICLE.
pavement staring at it,) a watchmak-
er’s shop, where all the clocks and
watches must be stopped, I am sure,
for they could never have the courage
to go, with the town in general, and
the Dodo in particular, looking at
them. Shade of Miss Lin wood, erst of
Leicester Square, London, thou art
welcome here, and thy retreat is fitly
chosen ! I myself was one of the last
visitors to that awful storehouse of thy
life’s work, where an anchorite old man
and woman took my shilling with a
solemn wonder, and conducting me to
a gloomy sepulchre of needle-work
dropping to pieces with dust and age,
and shrouded in twilight at high noon,
left me there, chilled, frightened, and
alone. And now, in ghostly letters, on
all the dead walls of this dead town, I
read thy honored name, and find that
thy Last Supper, worked in Berlin
Wool, invites inspection as a powerful
excitement !
Where are the people who are bidden
with so much cry to this feast of little
wool? Where are they? Who are
they? They are not the bandy-legged
baby studying the fashions in the tai-
lor’s window. They are not the two
earthy ploughmen lounging outside the
saddler’s shop, in the stiff square where
the Town Hall stands, like a brick-and-
mortar private on parade. They are
not the landlady of the Dodo in the
empty bar, whose eye had trouble in it
and no welcome, when I asked for din-
A PLATED ARTICLE .
443
ner. They are not the turnkeys of the
Town Jail, looking out of the gateway
in their uniforms, as if they had locked
up all the balance (as my American
friends would say) of the inhabitants,
and could now rest a little. They are
not the two dusty millers in the white
mill down by the river, where the great
water-wheel goes heavily round and
round, like the monotonous days and
nights in this forgotten place. Then
who are they, for there is no one else ?
No ; this deponent maketh oath and
saith that there is no one else, save and
except the waiter at the Dodo, now lay-
ing the cloth. I have paced the streets,
and stared at the houses, and am come
back to the blank bow-window of the
Dodo ; and the town-clocks strike seven,
and the reluctant echoes seem to cry,
“Don’t wake us!" and the bandy-
legged baby has gone home to bed.
If the Dodo were only a gregarious
bird, --if it had only some confused
idea of making a comfortable nest, — I
could hope to get through the hours be-
tween this and bedtime, without being
consumed by devouring melancholy.
But the Dodo’s habits are all wrong.
Jt provides me with a trackless desert
of sitting-room, with a chair for every
day in the year, a table for every month,
and a waste of sideboard where a lonely
China vase pines in a corner for its
mate long departed, and will never
make a match with the candlestick in
the opposite corner, if it live till Dooms-
day. The Dodo has nothing in the lar-
der. Even now, I behold the Boots re-
turning with my sole in a piece of paper ;
and with that portion of my dinner, the
Boots, perceiving me at the blank bow-
window, slaps his leg as he comes across
the road, pretending it is something
else. The Dodo excludes the outer
air. When I mount up to my bedroom,
a smell of closeness and flue gets lazily
up my nose like sleepy snuff. The loose
little bits of carpet writhe under my
tread, and take wormy shapes. I don’t
know the ridiculous man in the looking-
glass, beyond having met him once or
twice in a dish-cover, — and I can never
shave him to-morrow morning ! The
Dodo is narrow-minded as to towels ;
expects me to wash on a freemason’s
apron without the trimming; when I
ask for soap, gives me a stony-hearted
something white, with no more lather
in it than the Elgin marbles. The Do-
do has seen better days, and possesses
interminable stables at the back, —
silent, grass-grown, broken-windowed,
horseless.
This mournful bird can fry a sole,
however, which is much. Can cook a
steak, too, which is more. I wonder
where it gets its Sherry ! If I were to
send my pint of wine to some famous
chemist to be analyzed, what woirld it
turn out to be made of? It tastes of
pepper, sugar, bitter almonds, vinegar,
warm knives, any flat drink, and a little
brandy. Would it unman a Spanish
exile by reminding him of his native
land at all ? I think not. If there real-
ly be any townspeople out of the church-
yards, and if a caravan of them ever do
dine, with a bottle of wine per man, in
this desert of the Dodo, it must make
good for the doctor next day !
Where was the waiter born? How
did he come here ? Has he any hope
of getting away from here ? Does he
ever receive a letter, or take a ride up-
on the railway, or see anything but the
Dodo ? Perhaps he has seen the Ber-
lin Wool. He appears to have a silent
sorrow on him, and it may be that.
He clears the table ; draws the dingy
curtains of the great bow-window, which
so unwillingly consent to meet that they
must be pinned together ; leaves me by
the fire with my pint decanter, and a
little thin funnel-shaped wineglass, and
a plate of pale biscuits, — in themselves
engendering desperation.
No book, no newspaper ! I left the
Arabian Nights in the railway carriage,
and have nothing to read but Brad-
shaw, and “that way madness lies."
Remembering what prisoners and ship-
wrecked mariners have done to exercise
their minds in solitude, I repeat the
multiplication . table, the pence table,
and the shilling table, which are all
the tables I happen to know. What if I
write something? The Dodo keeps no
pens but steel pens ; and those I al-
ways stick through the paper, and can
turn to no other account.
What am I to do ? Even if I could
444
A PLATED ARTICLE.
have the bandy-legged baby knocked
up and brought here, I could offer him
nothing but sherry, and that would be
the death of him. He would never
hold up his head again if he touched it.
I can’t go to bed, because I have con-
ceived a mortal hatred for my bed-
room ; and I can’t go away, because
there is no train for my place of desti-
nation until morning. To burn the
biscuits will be but a fleeting joy ; still,
it is a temporary relief, and here they
go on the fire ! Shall I break the
plate ? First let me look at the back,
and see who made it. Copeland.
Copeland ! Stop a moment. Was
it yesterday I visited Copeland’s works,
and saw them making plates? _ In the
confusion of travelling about, it might
be yesterday or it might be yesterday
month ; but I think it was yesterday.
I appeal to the plate. The plate says,
decidedly, yesterday. I find the plate,
as I look at it, growing into a compan-
ion.
Don’t you remember (says the plate)
how you steamed away, yesterday morn-
ing, in the bright sun and the east wind,
along the valley of the sparkling Trent?
Don’t you recollect how many kilns you
flew past, looking like the bowls of gi-
gantic tobacco-pipes, cut short off from
the stem and turned upside down ?
And the fires, and the smoke, and the
roads made with bits of crockery, as if
all the plates and dishes in the civil-
ized world had been Macadamized,
expressly for the laming of all the
horses ? Of course I do !
And don’t you remember (says the
plate) how you alighted at Stoke, — a
picturesque heap of houses, kilns,
smoke, wharfs, canals, and river, lying
(as was most appropriate) in a basin, —
and how, after climbing up the sides
of the basin to look at the prospect,
you trundled down again at a walking-
match pace, and straight proceeded to
my father’s, Copeland’s, where the
whole of my family, high and low, rich
and poor, are turned out upon the
world from our nursery and seminary,
covering some fourteen acres of ground?
And don’t you remember what we spring
from, — heaps of lumps of clay, partial-
ly prepared and cleaned in Devonshire
and Dorsetshire, whence said clay prin-
cipally comes, — and hills of flint, with-
out which we should want our ringing
sound, and should never be musical?
And as to the flint, don’t you recollect
that it is first burnt in kilns, and is then
laid under the four iron feet of a demon
slave, subject to violent stamping fits,
who, when they come on, stamps away
insanely with his four iron legs, and
would crush all the flint in the Isle of
Thanet to powder, without leaving off?
And as to the clay, don’t you recollect
how it is put into mills or teazers, and
is sliced, and dug, and cut at, by end-
less knives, clogged and sticky, but
persistent, — and is pressed out of that
machine through a square trough,
whose form it takes, — and is cut off in
square lumps and thrown into a vat,
and there mixed with water, and beat-
en to a pulp by paddle-wheels, — and
is then run into a rough house, all
rugged beams and ladders splashed
with white, — superintended by Grind-
off the Miller, in his working clothes,
all splashed with white, — where it
passes through no end of machinery-
moved sieves all splashed with white,
arranged in an ascending scale of fine-
ness (some so fine that three hundred
silk threads cross each other in a sin-
gle square inch of their surface), and
all in a violent state of ague, with
their teeth forever chattering, and their
bodies forever shivering? And as to
the flint again, isn’t it mashed and mol-
lified and troubled and soothed, exactly
as rags are in a paper-mill, until it is re-
duced to a pap so fine that it contains no
atom of “grit ” perceptible to the nicest
taste ? And as to the flint and the clay
together, are they not, after all this,
mixed in the proportion of five of clay
to one of flint, and isn’t the compound
— known as “slip” — run into oblong
troughs, where its superfluous moisture
may evaporate; and finally, isn’t it
slapped and banged and beaten and
patted and kneaded and wedged and
knocked about like butter, until it be-
comes a beautiful gray dough, ready
for the potter’s use?
In regard of the potter, popularly so
called (says the plate), you don’t mean
to say you have forgotten that a work-
A PLATED ARTICLE.
445
man called a Thrower is the man under
whose hand this gray dough takes the
shapes of the simpler household ves-
sels as quickly as the eye can follow ?
You don’t mean to say you cannot call
him up before you, sitting, with his at-
tendant woman, at his potter’s wheel,
— a disk about the size of a dinner-
plate, revolving on two drums slowly
or quickly as he wills, — who made you
a complete breakfast set for a bache-
lor, as a good-humored little off-hand
joke? You remember how he took up
as much dough as he wanted, and,
throwing it on his wheel, in a moment
fashioned it into a teacup, — caught up
more clay and made a saucer, — a lar-
ger dab and whirled it into a teapot,
— winked at a smaller dab and con-
verted it into the lid of the teapot, ac-
curately fitting by the measurement of
his eye alone, — coaxed a middle-sized
dab for two seconds, broke it, turned it
over* at the rim, and made a milkpot,
— laughed, and turned out a slop-basin,
- — coughed, and provided for the su-
gar? Neither, I think, are you oblivi-
ous of the newer mode of making va-
rious articles, but. especially basins, ac-
cording to which improvement a mould
revolves instead of a disk? For you
must remember (says the plate) how
you saw the mould of a little basin
spinning round and round, and how
the workman smoothed and pressed a
handful of dough upon it, and how with
an instrument called a profile (a piece
of wood, representing the profile of a
basin’s foot) he cleverly scraped and
carved the ring which makes the base
of any such basin, and then took the
basin off the lathe like a doughy skull-
cap to be dried, and afterwards (in
what is called a green state) to be put
into a second lathe, there to be finished
and burnished with a steel burnisher?
And as to moulding in general (says
the plate), it can’t be necessary for me
to remind you that all ornamental ar-
ticles, and indeed all articles not quite
circular, are made in moulds. F or you
must remember how you saw the vege-
table dishes, for example, being made
in moulds ; and how the handles of
teacups, and the spouts of teapots, and
the feet of tureens, and so forth, are all
made in little separate moulds, and
are each stuck on to the body corpo-
rate, of which it is destined to form a
part, with a stuff called “slag” as
quickly as you can recollect it. Fur-
ther, you learnt, — you know you did, —
in the same visit, how the beautiful
sculptures in the delicate new material
called Parian, are all constructed in
moulds ; how, into that material, ani-
mal bones are ground up, because the
phosphate of lime contained in bones
makes it translucent ; how everything
is moulded before going into the fire,
one fourth larger than it is intended to
come out of the fire, because it shrinks
in that proportion in the intense heat ;
how, when a figure shrinks unequally,
it is spoiled, — emerging from the fur-
nace a misshapen birth ; a big head
and a little body, or a little head and
a big body, or a Quasimodo with long
arms and short legs, or a Miss Biffin
with neither legs nor arms worth men-
tioning.
And as to the Kilns, in which the
firing takes place, and in which some
of the more precious articles are burnt
repeatedly, in various stages of their
process towards completion, — as to
the Kilns (says the plate, warming with
the recollection), if you don’t remember
them with a horrible interest, what did
you ever go to Copeland’s for ? When
you stood inside of one of those inverted
bowls of a Pre-Adamite tobacco-pipe,
looking up at the blue sky through the
open top far off, as you might have
looked up from a well, sunk under the
centre of the pavement of the Pantheon
at Rome, had you the least idea where
you were? And when you found your-
self surrounded, in that dome-shaped
cavern, by innumerable columns of an
unearthly order of architecture, support-
ing nothing, and squeezed close together
as if a Pre-Adamite Samson had taken
a vast hall in his arms and crushed it
into the smallest possible space, had
you the least idea what they were? No
(says the plate), of course not ! And
when you found that each of those pil-
lars was a pile of ingeniously made
vessels of coarse clay, — called Saggers,
— looking, when separate, like raised
1 pies for the table of the mighty Giant
446
A PLATED ARTICLE.
Blunderbore, and now all full of various
articles of pottery ranged in them in
baking order, the bottom of each vessel
serving for the cover of the one below,
and the whole Kiln rapidly filling with
these, tier upon tier, until the last
workman should have barely room to
crawl out, before the closing of the
jagged aperture in the wall and the
kindling of the gradual fire ; did you not
stand amazed to think that all the year
round these dread chambers are heat-
ing, white hot, and cooling, and filling,
and emptying, and being bricked up,
and broken open, humanly speaking, for
ever and ever? To be sure you did !
And standing in one of those Kilns
nearly full, and seeing a free crow shoot
across the aperture atop, and learning
how the fire would wax hotter and hot-
ter by slow degrees, and would cool
similarly through a space of from forty
to sixty hours, did no remembrance of
the days when human clay was burnt
oppress you? Yes, I think so! I sus-
pect that some fancy of a fiery haze
and a shortening breath, and a growing
heat, and a gasping prayer ; and a fig-
ure in black interposing between you
and the sky (as figures in black are very
apt to do), and looking down, before it
grew too hot to look and live, upon the
Heretic in his edifying agony, — I say I
suspect (says the plate) that some such
fancy was pretty strong upon you when
you went out into the air, and blessed
God for the bright spring day and the
degenerate times !
After that, I needn’t remind you
what a relief it was to see the simplest
process of ornamenting this “ biscuit ”
(as it is called when baked) with brown
circles and blue trees, — converting it
into the common crockery-ware that
is exported to Africa, and used in cot-
tages at home. For (says the plate)
I am w’ell persuaded that you bear in
mind how those particular jugs and
mugs were once more set upon a lathe
and „put in motion ; and how a man
blew the brown color (having a strong
natural affinity with the material in
that condition) on them from a blow-
pipe as they twirled ; and how his
daughter, w'ith a common brush,
dropped blotches of blue upon them
in the right places ; and how, tilting
the blotches upside down, she made
them run into rude images of trees,
and there an end.
And did n’t you see (says the plate)
planted upon my own brother that
astounding blue willow, with knobbed
and gnarled trunk, and foliage of blue
ostrich-feathers, which gives our family
the title of “ willow pattern ” ? And
did n’t you observe, transferred upon
him at the same time, that blue bridge
which spans nothing, growing out
from the roots of the willow ; and the
three blue Chinese going over it into
a blue temple, which has a fine crop
of blue bushes sprouting out of the
roof; and a blue boat sailing above
them, the mast of which is burglarious-
ly sticking itself into the foundations
of a blue villa, suspended sky-high,
surmounted by a lump of blue rock,
sky-higher, and a couple of billing
blue birds, sky-highest, — together with
the rest of that amusing blue land-
scape which has, in deference to our
revered ancestors of the Cerulean Em-
pire, and in defiance of every known
law of perspective, adorned millions
of our family ever since the days of
platters? Did n’t you inspect the cop-
per-plate on which my pattern was
deeply engraved? Did n’t you perceive
an impression of it taken in cobalt
color at a cylindrical press, upon a
leaf of thin paper, streaming from a
plunge-bath of soap and water? Wasn’t
the paper impression daintily spread
by a light-fingered damsel (you know
you admired her !) over the surface
of the plate, and the back of the paper
rubbed prodigiously hard — with a long
tight roll of flannel, tied up like a round
of hung beef — without so much as
ruffling the paper, wet as it was ? Then
(says the plate) was not the papet
washed away with a sponge, and did n’t
there appear, set off upon the plate,
this identical piece of Pre-Raphaelite
blue distemper which you now behold ?
Not to be denied ! I had seen all
this, and more. I had been shown,
at Copeland’s, patterns of beautiful
design, in faultless perspective, which
are causing the ugly old willow to with-
er out of public favor, and which.
A PLATED ARTICLE.
447
being quite as cheap, insinuate good
wholesome natural art into the hum-
blest households. When Mr. and Mrs.
Sprat have satisfied their material tastes
by that equal division of fat and lean
which has made their menage immor-
tal ; and have, after the elegant tradi-
tion, “licked the platter clean,” they
can — thanks to modern artists in clay
— feast their intellectual tastes upon
excellent delineations of natural ob-
jects.
This reflection prompts me to trans-
fer my attention from the blue plate
to the forlorn but cheerfully painted
vase on the sideboard. And surely
(says the plate) you have not forgotten
how the outlines of such groups of
flowers as you see there are printed,
just as I was printed, and are afterwards
shaded and filled in with metallic col-
ors by women and girls? As to the
aristocracy of our order, made of the
finer clay — porcelain peers and peer-
esses ; — the slabs, and panels, and
table-tops, and tazze ; the endless no-
bility and gentry of dessert, breakfast,
and tea services ; the gemmed perfume
bottles, and scarlet and gold salvers ;
you saw that they were painted by
artists, with metallic colors laid on with
camel-hair pencils, and afterwards burnt
in.
And talking of burning in (says the
plate), did n’t you find that every sub-
'ect, from the willow-pattern to the
andscape after Turner, — having been
framed upon clay or porcelain biscuit,
— has to be glazed? Of course, you
saw the glaze — composed of various
vitreous materials — laid over every
article ; and of course you witnessed
the close imprisonment of each piece
in saggers upon the separate system
rigidly enforced by means of fine-point-
ed earthenware stilts placed between
the articles to prevent the slightest
communication or contact. We had
in my time — and I suppose it is the
same now — fourteen hours’ firing to
fix the glaze and to make it “ run” all
over us equally, so as to put a good
shiny and unscratchable surface upon
us. Doubtless, you observed that one
sort of glaze — called printing-body —
is burnt into the better sort of ware
before it is printed. Upon this you
saw some of the finest steel engravings
transferred, to be fixed by an after
glazing, — did n’t you ? Why, of course
you did !
Of course I did. I had seen and
enjoyed everything that the plate
recalled to me, and had beheld with
admiration how the rotatory motion
which keeps this ball of ours in its
place in the great scheme, with all its
busy mites upon it, was necessary
throughout the process, and could only
be dispensed with in the fire. So,
listening to the plate’s reminders, and
musing upon them, I got through the
evening after all, and went to bed. I
made but one sleep of it, — for which,
I have no doubt, I am also indebted
to the plate, — and left the lonely Dodo
in the morning, quite at peace with it,
before the bandy-legged baby was up.
443
OUR HONORABLE FRIEND.
OUR HONORABLE FRIEND.
We are delighted to find that he has
got in ! Our honorable friend is tri-
umphantly returned to serve in the .next
Parliament. He is the honorable mem-
ber for Verbosity, — the best represent-
ed place in England.
Our honorable friend has issued an
address of congratulation to the Elec-
tors, which is worthy of that noble con-
stituency, and is a very pretty piece of
composition. In electing him, he says,
they have covered themselves with
glory, and England has been true to
herself. (In his preliminary address he
had remarked, in a poetical quotation of
great rarity, that naught could make us
rue, if England to herself did prove but
true.)
Our honorable friend delivers a pre-
diction, in the same document, that the
feeble minions of a faction will never
hold up their heads any more ; and that
the finger of scorn will point at them in
their dejected state, through countless
ages of time. Further, that the hire-
ling tools that would destroy the sacred
bulwarks of our nationality are unwor-
thy of the name of Englishmen ; and
that so long as the sea shall roll around
our ocean-girded isle, so long his motto
shall be, No Surrender. Certain dog-
ged persons of low principles and no
intellect have disputed whether any-
body knows who the minions are, or
what the faction is, or which are the
hireling tools, and which the sacred
bulwarks, or what it is that is never
to be surrendered, and if not, why
not? But our honorable friend, the
member for Verbosity, knows all about
it.
Our honorable friend has sat in
several Parliaments, and given bushels
of votes. He is a man of that profund-
ity in the matter of vote-giving, that
ou never know what he means. When
e seems to be voting pure white, he
may be in reality voting jet black.
When he says Yes, it is just as likely
as not — or rather more so — that he
means No. This is the statesmanship
of our honorable friend. It is in this,
that he differs from mere unparliament-
ary men. You may not know what he
meant then, or what he means now ;
but our honorable friend knows, and
did from the first know, both what he
meant then and what he means now ;
and when he said he did n’t mean it
then, he did in fact say that he means
it now. And if you mean to say that
you did not then, and do not now,
know what he did mean then, or does
mean now, our honorable friend will be
glad to receive an explicit declaration
from you whether you are prepared to
destroy the sacred bulwarks of our na-
tionality.
Our honorable friend, the member for
Verbosity, has this great attribute, that
he always means something, and always
means the same thing. When he came
down to that House and mournfully
boasted, in his place, as an individual
member of the assembled Commons of
this great and happy country, that he
could lay his hand upon his heart, and
solemnly declare that no consideration
on earth should induce him, at any time
or under any circumstances, to go as
far north as Berwick-upon-Tweed ; and
when he nevertheless, next year, did go
to Berwick-upon-Tweed, and even be-
yond it, to Edinburgh, he had one sin-
gle meaning, one and indivisible. And
God forbid (our honorable friend says)
that he should waste another argument
upon the man who professes that he
cannot understand it ! “I do not, gen-
tlemen,” said our honorable friend, with
indignant emphasis and amid great
cheering, on one such public occasion,
— “I do not, gentlemen, I am free to
confess, envy the feelings of that man
whose mind is so constituted as that he
can hold such language to me, and yet
OUR HONORABLE FRIEND.
449
lay his head upon his pillow, claiming
to be a native of that land,
“Whose march is o’er the mountain-wave,
Whose home is on the deep ! ”
(Vehement cheering, and man ex-
pelled.)
When our honorable friend issued his
preliminary address to the constituent
body of Verbosity on the occasion of
one particular glorious triumph, it was
supposed by some of his enemies that
even he would be placed in a situation
of difficulty by the following compara-
tively trifling conjunction of circum-
stances. The dozen noblemen and
gentlemen whom our honorable friend
supported had “come in,” expressly
to do a certain thing. Now, four of the
dozen said, at a certain place, that they
did n’t mean to do that thing, and had
never meant to do it ; another four of
the dozen said, at another certain place,
that they did mean to do that thing,
and had always meant to do it ; two of
the remaining four said, at two other
certain places, that they meant to do
half of that thing (but differed about
which half), and to do a variety of
nameless wonders instead of the other
half ; and one of the remaining two de-
clared that the thing itself was dead
and buried, while the other as strenu-
ously protested that it was alive and
kicking. It was admitted that the par-
liamentary genius of our honorable
friend would be quite able to reconcile
such small discrepancies as these; but
there remained the additional difficulty
that each of the twelve made entirely
different statements at different places,
and that all the twelve called every-
thing visible and invisible, sacred and
profane, to witness that they were a
perfectly impregnable phalanx of una-
nimity. This, it was apprehended, would
be a stumbling-block to our honorable
friend.
The difficulty came before our hon-
orable friend in this way. He went
down to Verbosity to meet his free and
independent constituents, and to render
an account (as he informed them in the
local papers) of the trust they had con-
fided to his hands, — that trust which
it was pne of the proudest privileges of
29
an Englishman to possess, — that trust
which it was the proudest privilege of
an Englishman to hold. It may be
mentioned as a proof of the great gen-
eral interest attaching to the contest,
that a Lunatic whom nobody employed
or knew went down to Verbosity with
several thousand pounds in gold, deter-
mined to give the whole away, — which
he actually did ; and that all the publi-
cans opened their houses for nothing.
Likewise, several fighting men, and a
patriotic group of burglars, sportively
armed with life-preservers, proceeded
(in barouches and very drunk) to the
scene of action at their own expense ;
these children of nature having con-
ceived a warm attachment to our hon-
orable friend, and intending, in their
artless manner, to testify it by knock-
ing the voters in the opposite interest
on the head.
Our honorable friend being come into
the presence of his constituents, and
having professed with great suavity
that he was delighted to see his good
friend Tipkisson there, in his working-
dress, — his good friend Tipkisson be-
ing an inveterate saddler, who always
opposes him, and for whom he has a
mortal hatred, — made them a brisk,
ginger-beery sort of speech, in which
he showed them how the dozen noble-
men and gentlemen had (in exactly ten
days from their coming in) exercised
a surprisingly beneficial effect on the
whole financial condition of Europe,
had altered the state of the exports and
imports for the current half-year, had
prevented the drain of gold, had made
all that matter right about the glut of
the raw material, and had restored all
sorts of balances with which the super-
seded noblemen and gentlemen had
played the deuce, — and all this, with
wheat at so much a quarter, gold at so
much an ounce, and the Bank of Eng-
land discounting good bills at so much
per cent ! He might be asked, he ob-
served in a peroration of great power,
what were his principles? His princi-
ples were what they always had been.
His principles were written in the coun-
tenances of the lion and unicorn ; were
stamped indelibly upon the royal shield
which those grand animals supported.
45 ®
OUR HONORABLE FRIEND.
and upon the free words of fire which
that shield bore. His principles were,
Britannia and her sea-king trident !
His principles were, commercial pros-
perity coexistently with perfect and pro-
found agricultural contentment ; but
short of this he would never stop. His
principles were these, — with the addi-
tion of his colors nailed to the mast,
every man’s heart in the right place,
every man’s eye open, every man’s
hand ready, every man’s mind on the
alert. His principles were these, con-
currently with a general revision of
something, — speaking generally, — and
a possible readjustment of something
else, not to be mentioned more particu-
larly. His principles, to sum up all in
a word were, Hearths and Altars, La-
bor and Capital, Crown and Sceptre,
Elephant and Castle. And now, if his
good friend Tipkisson required any fur-
ther explanation from him, he (our hon-
orable friend) was there, willing and
ready to give it.
Tipkisson, who all this time had
stood conspicuous in the crowd, with
his arms folded and his eyes intently
fastened on our honorable friend, — Tip-
kisson, who throughout our honorable
friend’s address had not relaxed a mus-
cle of his visage, but had stood there,
wholly unaffected by the torrent of
eloquence, an object of contempt and
scorn to mankind (by which we mean,
of course, to the supporters of our honor-
able friend), — Tipkisson now said that
he was a plain man (cries of “You are
indeed ! ”), and that what he wanted
to know was, what our honorable friend
and the dozen noblemen and gentlemen
were driving at ?
Our honorable friend immediately re-
plied, “ At the illimitable perspective.”
It was considered by the whole as-
sembly that this happy statement of
our honorable friend’s political views
ought, immediately, to have settled
Tipkisson’s business and covered him
with confusipn ; but that implacable per-
son, regardless of the execrations that
were heaped upon him from all sides
(by which we mean, of course, from
our honorable friend’s side), persisted
in retaining an unmoved countenance,
and obstinately retorted that if our
honorable friend meant that, he wished
to know what that meant.
It was in repelling this most objec-
tionable and indecent opposition, that
our honorable friend displayed his high-
est qualifications for the representation
of Verbosity. His warmest supporters
present, and those who were best ac-
quainted with his generalship, supposed
that the moment was come when he
would fall back upon the sacred bul-
warks of our nationality. No such
thing. He replied thus : “ My good
friend Tipkisson, gentlemen, wishes to
know what I mean when he asks me
what we are driving at, and when I
candidly tell him, at the illimitable per-
spective, he wishes (if I understand
him) to know what I mean ? ” “I
do ! ” says Tipkisson, amid cries of
“Shame,” and “Down with him.”
“Gentlemen,” says our honorable
friend, “ I will indulge my good friend
Tipkisson, by telling him, both what I
mean and what I don’t mean. (Cheers
and cries of “ Give it him ! ”) Be it
known to him then, and to all whom it
may concern, that I do mean altars,
hearths, and homes, and that I don’t
mean mosques and Mahommedanism!”
The effect of this home-thrust was ter-
rific. Tipkisson (who is a Baptist) was
hooted down and hustled out, and has
ever since been regarded as a Turkish
Renegade who contemplates an early
pilgrimage to Mecca. Nor was he the
only discomfited man. The charge,
while it stuck to him, was magically
transferred to our honorable friend’s
opponent, who was represented in an
immense variety of placards as a firm
believer in Mahomet ; and the men of
Verbosity were asked to choose between
our honorable friend and the Bible, and
our honorable friend’s opponent and the
Koran. They decided for our honorable
friend, and rallied round the illimitable
perspective.
It has been claimed for our honora-
ble friend, with much appearance of
reason, that he was the first to bend
sacred matters to electioneering tactics.
However this may be, the fine prece-
dent was undoubtedly set in a Verbosi-
ty election ; and it is certain that our
honorable friend (who was a disciple of
OUR SCHOOL.
Brahma in his youth, and was a Budd-
hist when we had the honor of travel-
ling with him a few years ago) always
professes in public more anxiety than
the whole Bench of Bishops regarding
the theological and doxological opinions
of every man, woman, and child in the
United Kingdom.
As we began by saying that our hon-
orable friend has got in again at this
last election, and that we are delighted
to find that he has got in, so we will
conclude. Our honorable friend cannot
come in for Verbosity too often. It is a
good sign ; it is a great example. It is
to men like our honorable friend, and
to contests like those from which he
comes triumphant, that we are mainly
indebted for that ready interest in poli-
tics, that fresh enthusiasm in the dis-
charge of the duties of citizenship, that
ardent desire to rush to the poll, at
45i
present so manifest throughout Eng-
land. When the contest lies (as it
sometimes does) between two such men
as our honorable friend, it stimulates
the finest emotions of our nature, and
awakens • the highest admiration of
which our heads and hearts are capa-
ble.
It is not too much to predict that our
honorable friend will be always at his
post in the ensuing session. What-
ever the question be, or whatever the
form of its discussion, — address to the
crown, election petition, expenditure of
the public money, extension of the pub-
lic suffrage, education, crime, — in the
whole house, in committee of the whole
house, in select committee ; in every
parliamentary discussion of every sub-
ject everywhere ; the Honorable Mem-
her for Verbosity will most certainly be
found.
OUR SCHOOL.
We went to look at it, only this last
midsummer, and found that the rail-
way had cut it up root and branch. A
great trunk-line had swallowed the play-
ground, sliced away the school-room,
and pared off the corner of the house ;
which, thus curtailed of its proportions,
presented itself, in a green stage of
stucco, profilewise towards the road,
like a forlorn flat-iron without a handle,
standing on end.
It seems as if our schools were
doomed to be the sport of change. We
have faint recollections of a Prepara-
tory Day-School, which we have sought
in vain, and which must have been
pulled down to make a new street, ages
ago. We have dim impressions, scarce-
ly amounting to a belief, that it was
over a dyer’s shop. We know that you
went up steps to it ; that you frequently
grazed your knees in doing so ; that you
generally got your leg over the scraper,
in trying to scrape the mud off a very
unsteady little shoe. The mistress of
the Establishment holds no place in
our memory; but, rampant on one
eternal door-mat, in an eternal entry
long and narrow, is a puffy pug-dog,
with a personal animosity towards us,
who triumphs over Time. The bark of
that baleful Pug, a certain radiating
way he had of snapping at our unde-
fended legs, the ghastly grinning of his
moist black muzzle and white teeth,
and the insolence of his crisp tail curled
like a pastoral crook, all live and
flourish. From an otherwise unac-
countable association of him with a fid-
dle, we conclude that he was of French
extraction, and his name Fidkle. He
belonged to some female, chiefly inhab-
iting a back-parlor, whose life appears
to us to have been consumed in sniff-
ing, and in wearing a brown beaver
bonnet. For her, he would sit up and
452
OUR SCHOOL.
balance cake upon his nose, and not eat
it until twenty had been counted. To
the best of our belief we were once
called in to witness this performance ;
when, unable, even in his milder mo-
ments, to endure our presence, he in-
stantly made at us, cake and all.
Why a something in mourning, called
“Miss Frost,” should still connect
itself with our preparatory school, we
are unable to say. We retain no im-
pression of the beauty of Miss Frost, —
if she were beautiful ; or of the mental
fascinations of Miss Frost, — if she
were accomplished ; yet her name and
her black dress hold an enduring place
in our remembrance. An equally im-
personal boy, whose name has long
since shaped itself unalterably into
“ Master Mawls,” is not to be dis-
lodged from our brain. Retaining no
vindictive feeling towards Mawls, — no
feeling whatever, indeed, — we infer that
neither he nor we can have loved Miss
Frost. Our first impression of Death
and Burial is associated with this form-
less pair. We all three nestled awfully
in a corner one wintry day, when the
wind was blowing shrill, with Miss
Frost’s pinafore over our heads; and
Miss Frost told us in a whisper about
somebody being “ screwed down.” It
is the only distinct recollection we pre-
serve of these impalpable creatures,
except a suspicion that the manners of
Master Mawls were susceptible of much
improvement. Generally speaking, we
may observe that whenever we see a
child intently occupied with its nose, to
the exclusion of all other subjects of in-
terest, our mind reverts, in a flash, to
Master Mawls.
But the School that was Our School
before the Railroad came and over-
threw it was quite another sort of place.
We were old enough to be put into
Virgil when we went there, and to get
prizes for a variety of polishing on which
the rust has long accumulated. It was
a School of some celebrity in its neigh-
borhood, — nobody could have said why,
— and we had the honor to attain and
hold the eminent position of first boy.
The master was supposed among us to
know nothing, and one of the ushers
was supposed to know everything. We
are still inclined to think the first-named
supposition perfectly correct.
We have a general idea that its sub-
ject had been in the leather trade, and
had bought us — meaning Our School —
of another proprietor, who was immense-
ly learned. Whether this belief had
any real foundation, we are not likely
ever to know now. The only branches
of education with which he showed the
least acquaintance were ruling and
corporally punishing. He was always
ruling ciphering-books with a bloated
mahogany ruler, or smiting the palms
of offenders with the same diabolical
instrument, or viciously drawing a pair
of pantaloons tight with one of his large
hands, and caning the wearer with the
other. We have no doubt whatever
that this occupation was the principal
solace of his existence.
A profound respect for money per-
vaded Our School, which was of course
derived from its Chief. We remember
an idiotic goggled-eyed boy, with a big
head and half-crowns without end, who
suddenly appeared as a parlor-boarder,
and was rumored to have come by sea
from some mysterious part of the earth,
where his parents rolled in gold. He
was usually called “ Mr.” by the Chief,
and was said to feed in the parlor on
steaks and gravy ; likewise to drink cur-
rant wine. And he openly stated that if
rolls and coffee were ever denied him
at breakfast, he would write home to
that unknown part of the globe from
which he had come, and cause himself
to be recalled to the regions of gold.
He was put into no form or class, but
learnt alone, as little as he liked, — and
he liked very little, — and there was a
belief among us that this was because
he was too wealthy to be “ taken down.”
His special treatment, and our vague
association of him with the sea, and
with storms, and sharks, and Coral
Reefs, occasioned the wildest legends to
be circulated as his history. A tragedy
in blank verse was written on the sub-
ject, — if our memory does not deceive
us, by the hand that now chronicles
these recollections, — in which his father
figured as a Pirate, and was shot for a
voluminous catalogue of atrocities ; first
imparting to his wife the secret of the
OUR SCHOOL.
453
cave in which his wealth was stored,
and from which his only son’s half-
crowns now issued. Dumbledon (the
boy’s name) was represented as “yet
unborn ” when his brave father met his
fate ; and the despair and grief of Mrs.
Dumbledon at that calamity was mov-
ingly shadowed forth as haying weak-
ened the parlor-boarder’s mind. This
production was received with great fa-
vor, and was twice performed with
closed doors in the dining-room. But
it got wind, and was seized as libellous,
and brought the unlucky poet into se-
vere affliction. Some two years after-
wards, all of a sudden, one day Dum-
bledon vanished. It was whispered
that the Chief himself had taken him
down to the Docks, and reshipped him
for the Spanish Main ; but nothing cer-
tain was ever known about his disap-
pearance. At this hour, we cannot
thoroughly disconnect him from Cali-
fornia.
Our School was rather famous for
mysterious pupils. There was another
— a heavy young man, with a large
double-cased silver watch, and a fat
knife the handle of which was a perfect
tool-box — who unaccountably appeared
one day at a special desk of his own,
erected close to that of the Chief, with
whom he held familiar converse. He
lived in the parlor, and went out for
walks, and never took the least notice
of us, — even of us, the first boy, — unless
to give us a depreciatory kick, or grimly
to take our hat off and throw it away,
when he encountered us out of doors,
which unpleasant ceremony he always
performed as he passed, — not even con-
descending to stop for the purpose.
Some of us believed that the classical
attainments of this phenomenon were
terrific, but that his penmanship and
arithmetic were defective, and he had
come there to mend them ; others, that
he was going to set up a school, and
had paid the Chief “ twenty-five pound
down,” for leave to see Our School at
work. The gloomier spirits even said
that he was going to buy us ; against
which contingency, conspiracies were
set on foot for a general defection and
running away. However, he never did
that. After staying for a quarter, dur-
ing which period, though closely ob-
served, he was never seen to do any-
thing but make pens out of quills, write
small-hand in a secret portfolio, and
punch the point of the sharpest blade
m his knife into his desk all over it, he
too disappeared, and his place knew
him no more.
There was another boy, a fair, meek
boy, with a delicate complexion and
rich curling hair, who, we found out, or
thought we found out (we have no idea
now, and probably had none then, on
what grounds, but it was confidentially
revealed from mouth to mouth), was the
son of a Viscount who had deserted his
lovely mother. It was understood that
if he had his rights, he would be worth
twenty thousand a year. And that if
his mother ever met his father, she
would shoot him with a silver pistol,
which she carried, always loaded to the
muzzle, for that purpose. He was a
very suggestive topic. So was a young
Mulatto, who was always believed
(though very amiable) to have a dagger
about him somewhere. But we think
they were both outshone, upon the
whole, by another boy who claimed to
have been born on the twenty-ninth of
February, and to have only one birth-
day in five years. We suspect this to
have been a fiction, — but he lived upon
it all the time he was at Our School.
The principal currency of Our School
was slate-pencil. It had some inexplica-
ble value, that was never ascertained,
never reduced to a standard. To have
a great hoard of it, was somehow to be
rich. We used to bestow it in charity,
and confer it as a precious boon upon
our chosen friends. When the holi-
days were coming, contributions were
solicited for certain boys whose relatives
were in India, and who were appealed
for under the generic name of “ Holiday-
stoppers,” — appropriate marks of re-
membrance that should enliven and
cheer them in their homeless state.
Personally, we always contributed these
tokens of sympathy in the form of slate-
pencil, and always felt that it would be
a comfort and a treasure to them.
Our School was remarkable for white
mice. Red-polls, linnets, and even ca-
naries were kept in desks, drawers,
454
OUR SCHOOL.
hat-boxes, and other strange refuges for
birds ; but white mice were the favorite
stock. The boys trained the mice
much better than the masters trained
the boys. We recall one white mouse,
who lived in the cover of a Latin dic-
tionary, who ran up ladders, drew
Roman chariots, shouldered muskets,
turned wheels, and even made a very
creditable appearance on the stage as
the Dog of Montargis. He might have
achieved greater things, but for having
the misfortune to mistake his way in
a triumphal procession to the Capitol,
when he fell into a deep inkstand, and
was dyed black and drowned. The
mice were the occasion of some most
ingenious engineering, in the construc-
tion of their houses and instruments of
performance. The famous one belonged
to a company of proprietors, some of
whom have since made Railroads, En-
ines, and Telegraphs ; the chairman
as erected mills and bridges in New
Zealand.
The usher at Our School who was
considered to know everything, as op-
posed to the Chief who was considered
to know nothing, was a bony, gentle-
faced, clerical-looking young man in
rusty black. It was whispered that he
was sweet upon one of Maxby’s sisters
(Maxby lived close by, and was a day
pupil), and further that he “ favored
Maxby.” As we remember, he taught
Italian to Maxby’s sisters on half-holi-
days. He once went to the play with
them, and wore a white waistcoat and a
rose, which was considered among us
equivalent to a declaration. We were
of opinion on that occasion, that to the
last moment he expected Maxby’s fa-
ther to ask him to dinner at five o’clock,
and therefore neglected his own dinner
at half past one, and finally got none.
We exaggerated in our imaginations
the extent to which he punished Max-
by’s father’s cold meat at supper ;
and we agreed to believe that he was
elevated with wine and water when he
came home. But we all liked him ;
for he had a good knowledge of boys,
and would have made it a much better
school if he had had more power. He
was writing-master, mathematical mas-
ter, English master, made out the bills,
mended the pens, and did all sorts of
things. He divided the little boys with
the Latin master (they were smuggled
through their rudimentary books, at
odd times when there was nothing else
to do), and he always called at parents’
houses to inquire after sick boys, be-
cause he had gentlemanly manners.
He was rather musical, and on some
remote quarter-day had bought an old
trombone ; but a bit of it was lost, and
it made the most extraordinary sounds
when he sometimes tried to play it of
an evening. His holidays never began
(on account of the bills) until long after
ours ; but in the summer vacations he
used to take pedestrian excursions with
ajaiapsack ; and at Christmas-time, he
went to see his father at Chipping Nor-
ton, who we all said (on no authority)
was a dairy-fed-pork-butcher. Poor
fellow ! He was very low all day on
Maxby’s sister’s wedding-day, and af-
terwards was thought to favor Maxby
more than ever, though he had been
expected to spite him. He has been
dead these twenty years. Poor fellow 1
Our remembrance of Our School
presents the Latin master as a colorless,
doubled-up, near-sighted man with a
crutch, who was always cold, and al-
ways putting onions into his ears for
deafness, and always disclosing ends
of flannel under all his garments, and
almost always applying a ball of pock-
et-handkerchief to some part of his face
with a screwing action round and round.
He was a very good scholar, and took
great pains where he saw intelligence
and a desire to learn ; otherwise, per-
haps not. Our memory presents him
(unless teased into a passion) with as
little energy as color, — as having been
worried and tormented into monotonous
feebleness, — as having had the best
part of his life ground out of him in
a Mill of boys. We remember with ter-
ror how he fell asleep one sultry after-
noon with the little smuggled class be-
fore him, and awoke not when the foot-
step of the Chief fell heavy on the floor ;
how the Chief aroused him, in the
midst of a dread silence, and said,
“Mr. Blinkins, are you ill, sir?” how
he blushingly replied, “ Sir, rather so ” ;
how the Chief retorted with severity,
OUR SCHOOL.
455
“ Mr. Blinkins, this is no place to be
ill in ” (which was very, very true), and
walked back, solemn as the ghost in
Hamlet, until, catching a wandering
eye, he caned that boy for inattention,
and happily expressed his feelings to-
wards the Latin master through the
medium of a substitute.
There was a fat little dancing-master
who used to come in a gig, and taught
the more advanced among us hornpipes
(as an accomplishment in great social
demand in after-life) ; and there was a
brisk little French master who used to
come in the sunniest weather, with a
handleless umbrella, and to whom the
Chief was always polite, because (as we
believed), if the Chief offended him,
he would instantly address the Chief
in French, and forever confound him
before the boys with his inability to un-
derstand or reply.
There was, besides, a serving man,
whose name was Phil. Our retrospec-
tive glance presents Phil as a ship-
wrecked carpenter, cast away upon the
desert island of a school, and carrying
into practice an ingenious inkling of
many trades. He mended whatever
was broken, and made whatever was
wanted. He was general glazier, among
other things, and mended all the broken
windows — at the prime cost (as was
darkly rumored among us) of ninepence
for every square charged three-and-six
to parents. We had a high opinion of
his mechanical genius, and generally
held that the Chief “knew something
bad of him,” and on pain of divulgence
enforced Phil to be his bondsman. We
particularly remember that Phil had a
sovereign contempt for learning, which
engenders in us a respect for his sagaci-
ty, as it implies his accurate observa-
tion of the relative positions of the Chief
and the ushers. He was an impenetra-
ble man, who waited at table between
whiles, and throughout “the half”
kept the boxes in severe custody. He
was morose, even to the Chief, and
never smiled, except at breaking-up,
when, in acknowledgment of the toast,
“ Success to Phil ! Hooray ! ” he would
slowly carve a grin out of his wooden
face, where itwould remain until we were
all gone. Nevertheless, one time when
we had the scarlet fever in the school,
Phil nursed all the sick boys of his own
accord, and was like a mother to them.
There was another school not far off,
and of course our school could have
nothing to say to that school. It is
mostly the way with schools, whether
ofboysormen. Well! the railway has
swallowed up ours, and the locomotives
now run smoothly over its ashes.
“ So fades and languishes, grows dim and
dies.
All that this world is proud of,”
— and is not proud of, too. It had lit-
tle reason to be proud of Our School,
and has done much better since in that
way, and will do far better yet.
456
OUR VESTRY.
OUR V
We have the glorious privilege of
being always in hot water if we like.
We are a shareholder in a Great Paro-
chial British Joint-Stock Bank of Bald-
erdash. We have a Vestry in our bor-
ough, and can vote for a vestryman, —
might even be a vestryman, mayhap,
if we were inspired by a lofty and noble
ambition. Which we are not.
Our Vestry is a deliberative assembly
of the utmost dignity and importance.
Like the Senate of ancient Rome, its
awful gravity overpowers (or ought to
overpower) barbarian visitors. It sits
in the Capitol (we mean in the capital
building erected for it), chiefly on Sat-
urdays, and shakes the earth to its cen-
tre, with the echoes of its thundering
eloquence, in a Sunday paper.
To get into this Vestry in the emi-
nent capacity of Vestryman, gigantic
efforts are made, and Herculean exer-
tions used. It is made manifest to the
dullest capacity at every election, that
if we reject Snozzle we are done for,
and that if we fail to bring in Blunder-
booze at the top of the poll, we are
unworthy of the dearest rights of Brit-
ons. Flaming placards are rife on all
the dead walls in the borough, public-
houses hang out banners, hackney-cabs
burst into full-grown flowers of type,
and everybody is, or should be, in a
paroxysm of anxiety.
At these momentous crises of the
national fate, we are much assisted in
our deliberations by two eminent vol-
unteers ; one of whom subscribes him-
self A Fellow- Parishioner, the other,
A Rate-Payer. Who they are, or what
they are. or where they are, nobody
knows ; but whatever one asserts, the
other contradicts. They are both vo-
luminous writers, inditing more epistles
than Lord Chesterfield in a single
week ; and the greater part of their
feelings are too big for utterance in any-
thing less than capital letters. They
ESTRY.
require the additional aid of whole rows
of notes of admiration, like balloons,
to point their generous indignations ;
and they sometimes communicate a
crushing severity to stars. As thus :
MEN OF MOONEYMOUNT.
Is it, or is it not, a * * * to saddle
the parish with a debt of £2,745 6s. gd. f
yet claim to be a rigid economist?
Is it, or is it not, a * * * to state as
a fact what is proved to be both a moral
and a physical impossibility ?
Is it, or is it not, a * * * to call
,£2,745 6 s. 9 d. nothing; and nothing,
something ?
Do you, or do you not , want a * * * *
TO REPRESENT YOU IN THE VESTRY ?
Your consideration of these questions
is recommended to you by
A Fellow- Parishioner.
It was to this important public docu-
ment that one of our first orators, Mr.
Magg (of Little Winkling Street), ad-
verted, when he opened the great debate
of the fourteenth of November by say-
ing, “ Sir, I hold in my hand an anony-
mous slander — ’’and when the inter-
ruption, with which he was at that point
assailed by the opposite faction, gave
rise to that memorable discussion on a
point of order which will ever be re-
membered with interest by constitu-
tional assemblies. In the animated
debate to which we refer, no fewer than
thirty-seven gentlemen, many of them
of great eminence, including Mr. Wigs-
by (of Chumbledon Square), were seen
upon their legs at one time ; and it was
on the same great occasion that Dog-
ginson — regarded in our Vestry as “a
regular John Bull ” : we believe, in con-
sequence of his having always made up
his mind on every subject without know-
ing anything about it — informed an-
other gentleman of similar principles on
OUR VESTRY.
457
the opposite side, that if he “cheek’d
him,” he would resort to the extreme
measure of knocking his blessed head off.
This was a great occasion. But our
Vestry shines habitually. In asserting
its own pre-eminence, for instance, it is
very strong. On the least provocation,
or on none, it will be clamorous to know
whether it is to be “dictated to,” or
“ trampled on,” or “ ridden over rough-
shod.” Its great watchword is Self-
government. That is to say, supposing
our Vestry to favor any little harmless
disorder like Typhus Fever, and sup-
posing the government of the country
to be, by any accident, in such ridicu-
lous hands as that any of its authorities
should consider it a duty to object to
Tpyhus Ftever, — obviously an unconsti-
tutional objection, — then our Vestry
cuts in with a terrible manifesto about
Self-government, and claims its inde-
pendent right to have as much Typhus
Fever as pleases itself. Some absurd
and dangerous persons have represented,
on the other hand, that though our
Vestry may be able to “beat the bounds”
of its own parish, it may not be able to
beat the bounds of its own diseases ;
which (say they) spread over the whole
land, in an ever-expanding circle of
waste, and misery, and death, and
widowhood, and orphanage, and deso-
lation. But our Vestry makes short
work of any such fellows as these.
It was our Vestry — pink of Vestries
as it is — that in support of its favorite
principle took the celebrated ground of
denying the existence of the last pesti-
lence that raged in England, when the
pestilence was raging at* the Vestry
doors. Dogginson said it was plums ;
Mr. Wigsby (of Chumbledon Square)
said it was oysters ; Mr. Magg (of Lit-
tle Winkling Street) said, amid great
cheering, it was the newspapers. The
noble indignation of our Vestry with
that un-English institution the Board
of Health, under those circumstances,
yields one of the finest passages in its
history. It would n’t hear of rescue.
Like Mr. Joseph Miller’s Frenchman,
it would be drowned and nobody should
save it. Transported beyond grammar
by its kindled ire, it spoke in unknown
tongues, and vented unintelligible bel-
lowings, more like an ancient oracle
than the modern oracle it is admitted
on all hands to be. Rare exigencies
produce rare things ; and even our
Vestry, new hatched to the woful time,
came forth a greater goose than ever.
But this, again, was a special occa-
sion. Our Vestry, at more ordinary
periods, demands its meed of praise.
Our Vestry is eminently parliamen-
tary. Playing at Parliament is its favor-
ite game. It is even regarded by some
of its members as a chapel of ease to
the House of Commons ; a Little Go to
be passed first. It has its strangers’ gal-
lery, and its reported debates (see the
Sunday paper before mentioned), and
our Vestrymen are in and out of order,
and on and off their legs, and above all
are transcendently quarrelsome, after
the pattern of the real original.
Our Vestry being assembled, Mr.
Magg never begs to trouble Mr. Wigs-
by with a simple inquiry. He knows
better than that. Seeing the honorable
gentleman, associated in their minds
with Chumbledon Square, in his place,
he wishes to ask that honorable gentle-
man what the intentions of himself, and
those with whom he acts, may be, on
the subject of the paving of the district
known as Piggleum Buildings ? Mr.
Wigsby replies (with his eye on next
Sunday’s paper), that in reference to
the question which has been put to him
by the honorable gentleman opposite,
he must take leave to say, that if that
honorable gentleman had had the cour-
tesy to give him notice of that question,
he (Mr. Wigsby) would have consulted
with his colleagues in reference to the
advisability, in the present state of the
discussions on the new paving-rate, of
answering that question. But as the
honorable gentleman has not had the
courtesy to give him notice of that ques-
tion (great cheering from the Wigsby
interest), he must decline to give the
honorable gentleman the satisfaction
he requires. Mr. Magg, instantly rising
to retort, is received with loud cries of
“ Spoke ! ” from the Wigsby interest,
and with cheers from the Magg side of
the house. Moreover, five, gentlemen
rise to order, and one of them, in re-
venge for being taken no notice of, pet-
453
OUR VESTRY.
rifles the assembly by moving that this
Vestry do now adjourn ; but is persuad-
ed to withdraw that awful proposal, in
consideration of its tremendous conse-
quences if persevered in. Mr. Magg,
for the purpose of being heard, then
begs to move, that you, sir, do now
pass to the order of the day ; and takes
that opportunity of saying, that if an
honorable gentleman whom he has in
his eye, and will not demean himself by
more particularly naming (oh ! oh ! and
cheers), supposes that he is to be put
down by clamor, that honorable gentle-
man, — however supported he may be,
through thick and thin, by a Fellow-
Parishioner, with whom he is well ac-
quainted (cheers and counter-cheers, Mr.
Magg being invariably backed by the
Rate-Payer), will find himself mistaken.
Upon this, twenty members of our Ves-
try speak in succession concerning what
the two great men have meant, until it
appears, after an hour and twenty min-
utes, that neither of them meant any-
thing. Then our Vestry begins business.
We have said that, after the pattern
of the real original, our Vestry in play-
ing at Parliament is transcendently
quarrelsome. It enjoys a personal al-
tercation above all things. Perhaps the
most redoubtable case of this kind we
have ever had — though we had so
many that it is difficult to decide — was
that on which the last extreme solemni-
ties passed between Mr. Tiddypot (of
Gumtion House) and Captain Banger
(of Wilderness Walk).
In an adjourned debate on the ques-
tion whether water could be regarded in
the light of a necessary of life, respect-
ing which there were great differences of
opinion, and many shades of sentiment,
Mr. Tiddypot, in a powerful burst of
eloquence against that hypothesis, fre-
quently made use of the expression that
such and such a rumor had “reached
his ears.” Captain Banger, following
him, and holding that, for purposes of
ablution and refreshment, a pint of wa-
ter per diem was necessary for every
adult of the lower classes, and half a
pint for every child, cast ridicule upon
his address in a sparkling speech, and
concluded by saying that, instead of
those rumors having reached the ears
of the honorable gentleman, he rather
thought the honorable gentleman’s ears
must have reached the rumors, in con-
sequence of their well-known length.
Mr. Tiddypot immediately rose, looked
the honorable and gallant gentleman
full in the face, and left the Vestry.
The excitement, at this moment pain-
fully intense, was heightened to an
acute degree when Captain Banger rose,
and also left the Vestry. After a few
moments of profound silence — one of
these breathless pauses never to be for-
gotten — Mr. Chib (of Tucket’s Ter-
race, and the father of the Vestry) rose.
He said that words and looks had
passed in that assembly, replete with
consequences which every feeling mind
must deplore. Time pressed. The
sword was drawn, and while he spoke
the scabbard might be thrown away.
He moved that those honorable gentle-
men who had left the Vestry be recalled,
and required to pledge themselves up-
on their honor that this affair should
go no further. The motion being by
a general union of parties unanimously
agreed to (-for everybody wanted to have
the belligerents there, instead of out of
sight, which was no fun at all), Mr.
Magg was deputed to recover Captain
Banger, and Mr. Chib himself to go in
search of Mr. Tiddypot. The Captain
was found in a conspicuous position,
surveying the passing omnibuses from
the top step of the front door immedi-
ately adjoining the beadle’s box ; Mr.
Tiddypot made a desperate attempt at
resistance, but was overpowered by Mr.
Chib (a remarkably hale old gentleman
of eighty-t\*)), and brought back in
safety.
Mr. Tiddypot and the Captain being
restored to their places, and glaring on
each other, were called upon by the
chair to abandon all homicidal inten-
tions, and give the Vestry an assurance
that they did so. Mr. Tiddypot re-
mained profoundly silent. The Cap-
tain likewise remained profoundly si-
lent, saving that he was observed by
those around him to fold his arms like
Napoleon Bonaparte, and to snort in
his breathing, — actions but too expres-
sive of gunpowder.
The most intense emotion now pre-
OUR VESTRY , .
459
vailed. Several members clustered in
remonstrance round the Captain, and
several round Mr. Tiddypot ; but both
were obdurate. Mr. Chib then pre-
sented himself amid tremendous cheer-
ing, and said, that not to shrink from
the discharge of his painful duty, he
must now move that both honorable
gentlemen be taken into custody by
the beadle, and conveyed to the nearest
police office, there to be -held to bail.
The union of parties still continuing,
the motion was seconded by Mr. Wigs-
by, — on all usual occasions Mr. Chib’s
opponent, — and rapturously carried with
only one dissentient voice. This was
Dogginson’s, who said from his place,
“ Let ’em fight it out with fistes ” ; but
whose coarse remark was received as it
merited.
The beadle now advanced along the
floor of the Vestry, and beckoned with
his cocked hat to both members.
Every breath was suspended. To say
that a pin might have been heard to
fall, would be feebly to express the all-
absorbing interest and silence. Sudden-
ly enthusiastic cheering broke out from
every side of the Vestry. Captain Bang-
er had risen, — being, in fact, pulled up
by a friend on either side, and poked up
by a friend behind.
The Captain said, in a deep, de-
termined voice, that he had every re-
spect for that Vestry, and every respect
for that chair ; that he also respected
the honorable gentleman of Gumtion
House ; but that he respected his hon-
or more. Hereupon the Captain sat
down, leaving the whole Vestry much
affected. Mr. Tiddypot instantly rose,
and was received with the same encour-
agement. He likew-ise said, — and the
exquisite art of this orator communicated
to the observation an air of freshness
and novelty, — that he too had ever/re-
spect for that Vestry ; that he too had
every respect for that chair; that he
too respected the honorable and gallant
gentleman of Wilderness Walk ; but
that he too respected his honor more.
“ Hows’ever,” added the distinguished
Vestryman, “if the honorable or gal-
•j
lant gentleman’s honor is never more
doubted and damaged than it is by me,
he’s all right.” Captain Banger im-
mediately started up again, and said
that, after those observations, involving
as they did ample concession to his
honor without compromising the honor
of the honorable gentleman, he would
be wanting in honor as well as in gen-
erosity, if he did not at once repudiate
all intention of wounding the honor of
the honorable gentleman, or saying any-
thing dishonorable to his honorable feel-
ings. These observations were repeat-
edly interrupted by bursts of cheers.
Mr. Tiddypot retorted that he well
knew the spirit of honor by which the
honorable and gallant gentleman was
so honorably animated, and that he ac-
cepted an honorable explanation, of-
fered in a way that did him honor ;
but he trusted that the Vestry would
consider that his (Mr. Tiddypot’s) hon-
or had imperatively demanded of him
that painful course which he had felt it
due to his honor to adopt. The Cap-
tain and Mr. Tiddypot then touched
their hats to one another across the
Vestry, a great many times, and it is
thought that these proceedings (reported
to the extent of several columns in next
Sunday’s paper) will bring them in as
churchwardens next year.
All this was strictly after the pattern
of the real original, and so are the whole
of our Vestry’s proceedings. In all
their debates, they are laudably imita-
tive of the windy and wordy slang of
the real original, and of nothing that is
better in it. They have headstrong
party animosities, without any reference
to the merits of questions ; they tack a
surprising amount of debate to a very
little business ; they set more store by
forms than they do by substances, —
all very like the real original ! It has
been doubted in our borough, whether
our Vestry is of any utility ; but our own
conclusion is, that it is of the use to the
Borough that a diminishing mirror is to
a Painter, as enabling it to perceive in
a small focus of absurdity all the sur-
face defects of the real original.
4 6o
OUR BORE.
OUR
It is unnecessary to say that we keep
a bore. Everybody does. But the
bore whom we have the pleasure and
honor of enumerating among our par-
ticular friends is such a generic bore,
and has so many traits (as it appears to
us) in common with the great bore fam-
ily, that we are tempted to make him
the subject of the present notes. May
he be generally accepted !
Our bore is admitted on all hands to
be a good-hearted man. He may put
fifty people out of temper, but he keeps
his own. He preserves a sickly solid
smile upon his face when other faces
are ruffled by the perfection he has
attained in his art, and has an equable
voice which never travels out of one
key or rises above one pitch. His man-
ner is a manner of tranquil interest.
None of his opinions are startling.
Among his deepest-rooted convictions,
it may be mentioned that he considers
the air of England damp, and holds
that our lively neighbors — he always
calls the French our lively neighbors —
have the advantage of us in that par-
ticular. Nevertheless, he is unable to
forget that John Bull is John Bull all
the world over, and that England with
all her faults is England still.
Our bore has travelled. He could
not possibly be a complete bore with-
out having travelled. He rarely speaks
of his travels without introducing, some-
times on his own plan of construction,
morsels of the language of the country,
— which he always translates. You can-
not name to him any little remote town
in France, Italy, Germany, or Switzer-
land but he knows it well ; stayed there
a fortnight under peculiar circumstan-
ces. And talking* of that little place,
perhaps you know a statue over an old
fountain, up a little court, which is the
second — no, the third — stay — yes, the
third turning on the right, after you
come out of the Post-house, going up
BORE.
the hill towards the market ? You don't
know that statue ? Nor that fountain?
You surprise- him ! They are not usu-
ally seen by travellers (most extraordi-
nary, he has never yet met with a single
traveller who knew them, except one
German, the most intelligent man he
ever met in his life !) but he thought
that you would have been the man to
find them out. And then he describes
them in a circumstantial lecture half an
hour long, generally delivered behind a
door which is constantly being opened
from the other side ; and implores you,
if you ever revisit that place, now do go
and look at that statue and fountain !
Our bore, in a similar manner, being
in Italy, made a discovery of a dreadful
picture, which has been the terror of a
large portion of the civilized world ever
since. We have seen the liveliest men
paralyzed by it, across a broad dinTng-
table. He was lounging among the
mountains, sir, basking in the mellow
influences of the climate, when he came
to una piccolo, chiesa — a little church
— or perhaps it would be more correct
to say una piccolissima cappella — the
smallest chapel you can possibly imagine
— and walked in. There was nobody in-
side but a cieco — a blind man — saying
his prayers, and a vecchio padre —
old friar — rattling a money-box. But
above the head of that friar, and imme-
diately to the right of the altar as you
enter — to the right of the altar? No.
To the left of the altar as you enter —
or Say near the centre — there hung a
painting (subject, Virgin and Child) so
divine in its expression, so pure and
yet so warm and rich in its tone, so
fresh in its touch, at once so glowing in
its color and so statuesque in its repose,
that our bore cried out in an ecstasy,
“That’s the finest picture in Italy!”
And so it is, sir. There is no doubt of
it. It is astonishing that that picture is
so little known. Even the painter is
THE U6HABY
OF THE
UMVEBSfTY Or ILU80IS
OUR BORE.
OUR BORE.
461
uncertain. He afterwards took Blumb,
of the Royal Academy (it is to be ob-
served that our bore takes none but
eminent people to see sights, and that
none but eminent people take our bore),
and you never saw a man so affected in
your life as Blumb was. He cried like
a child ! And then our bore begins his
description in detail — for all this is
introductory — and strangles his hearers
with the folds of the purple drapery.
By an equally fortunate conjunction of
accidental circumstances, it happened
that when our bore was in Switzerland,
he discovered a valley of that superb
character that Chamouni is not to be
mentioned in the same breath with it.
This is how it was, sir. He was travel-
ling on a mule — had been in the sad-
dle some days — when, as he and the
uide, Pierre Blanquo, whom you may
now, perhaps ? — our bore is sorry you
don’t, because he is the only guide de-
serving of the name — as he and Pierre
were descending, towards evening,
among those everlasting snows, to the
little village of La Croix, our bore ob-
served a mountain track turning off
sharply to the right. At first he was
uncertain whether it was a track at all,
and, in fact, he said to Pierre, “ Qu'est
que c'est done , mon ami ? — What is
that, my friend?” “ Ou, monsieur ?”
said Pierre, — “ Where, sir ? ” “ La! —
There ! ” said our bore. “ Monsieur ,
ce riest rien de tout, — Sir, it ’s nothing
at all,” said Pierre, “ A lions l — Make
haste. II va neiger, — it ’s going to
snow !” But our bore was not to be
done in that way, and he firmly replied,
“ I wish to go in that direction, — je
veux y aller. I am bent upon it, — je
suis determine. En avant ! — go
ahead ! ” In consequence of which
firmness on our bore’s part, they pro-
ceeded, sir, during two hours of even-
ing, and three of moonlight (they waited
in a cavern till the moon was up), along
the slenderest track, overhanging per-
pendicularly the most awful gulfs, until
they arrived, by a winding descent, in a
valley that possibly, and he may say
probably, was never visited by any
stranger before. What a valley! Moun-
tains piled on mountains, avalanches
stemmed by pine forests ; waterfalls,
chalets, mountain - torrents, wooden
bridges, every conceivable picture of
Swiss scenery ! The whole village
turned out to receive our bore. The
easant-girls kissed him, the men shook
ands with him, one old lady of benevo-
lent appearance wept upon his breast.
He was conducted, in a primitive tri-
umph, to the little inn, where he was
taken ill next morning, and lay for six
weeks, attended by the amiable hostess
(the same benevolent old lady who
had wept overnight) and her charming
daughter, Fanchette. It is nothing to
say that they were attentive to him ;
they doted on him. They called him,
in their simple way, VA nge A nglais , —
the English Angel. When our bore
left the valley, there was not a dry eye
in the place ; some of the people at-
tended him for miles. He begs and
entreats of you as a personal favor, that
if you ever go to Switzerland again (you
have mentioned that your last visit was
your twenty-third), you will go to that
valley, and see Swiss scenery for the
first time. And if you want really to know
the pastoral people of Switzerland, and
to understand them, mention, in that
valley, our bore’s name !
Our bore has a crushing brother in
the East, who, somehow or other, was
admitted to smoke pipes with Mehemet
Ali, and instantly became an authority
on the whole range of Eastern matters,
from Haroun Alraschid to the present
Sultan. He is in the habit of express-
ing mysterious opinions on this wid$
range of subjects, but on questions ot
foreign policy more particularly, to our
bore, in letters ; and our bore is continu-
ally sending bits of these letters to the
newspapers (which they neverinsert), and
carrying other bits about in his pocket-
book. It is even whispered that he has
been seen at the F oreign Office, receiving
great consideration from the messengers,
and having his card promptly borne into
the sanctuary of the temple. The havoc
committed in society by this Eastern
brother is beyond belief. Our bore is al-
ways ready with him. We have known
our bore to fall upon an intelligent young
sojourner in the wildnerness, in the first
sentence of a narrative, and beat all
confidence out of him with one blow of
462
OUR BORE.
his brother. He became omniscient, as
to foreign policy, in the smoking of
those pipes with Mehemet Ali. The
balance of power in Europe, the machi-
nations of the Jesuits, the gentle and
humanizing influence of Austria, the
position and prospects of that hero of
the noble soul who is worshipped by
happy France, are all easy reading to
our bore’s brother. And our bore is
so provokingly self-denying about him !
u I don’t pretend to more than a very
general knowledge of these subjects
myself,” says he, after enervating the
intellects of several strong men, “but
these are my brother’s opinions, and
I believe he is known to be well
informed.”
The commonest incidents and places
would appear to have been made
special, expressly for our bore. Ask
him whether he ever chanced to walk,
between seven and eight in the morning,
down St. James’s Street, London, and
he will tell you, never in his life but
once. But it’s curious that that once
was in eighteen thirty ; and that as our
bore was walking down the street you
have just mentioned, at the hour you
have just mentioned — half past seven
— or twenty minutes to eight. No!
Let him be correct ! — exactly a quarter
before eight by the Palace clock, — he
met a fresh-colored, gray-haired, good-
humored-looking gentleman, with a
brown umbrella, who, as he passed him,
touched his hat and said, “ Fine morn-
ing, sir, fine morning ! ” — William the
Fourth !
Ask our bore whether he has seen
Mr. Barry’s new Houses of Parliament,
and he will reply that he has not yet
inspected them minutely, but that you
remind him that it was his singular for-
tune to be the last man to see the old
Houses of Parliament before the fire
broke out. It happened in this way.
Poor John Spine, the celebrated nov-
elist, had taken him over to South
Lambeth to read to him the last few
chapters of what was certainly his best
book, — as our bore told him at the time,
adding, “ Now, my dear John, touch it,
and you’ll spoil it ! ” — and our bore
was going back to the club by way of
Millbank and Parliament Street, when
he stopped to think of Canning, and
look at the Houses of Parliament.
Now, you know far more of the philos-
ophy of Mind than our bore does, and
are much better able to explain to him
than he is to explain to you why or
wherefore, at that particular time, the
thought of fire should come into his
head. But it did. It did. He thought,
“ What a national calamity if an edifice
connected with so many associations
should be consumed by fire ! ” At that
time there was not a single soul in the
street but himself. All was quiet, dark,
and solitary. After contemplating the
building for a minute — or, say a min-
ute and a half, not more — our bore
proceeded on his way, mechanically re-
peating, “ What a national calamity if
such an edifice, connected with such
associations, should be destroyed by — ”
A man coming towards him in a violent
state of agitation completed the sen-
tence with the exclamation, “Fire!”
Our bore looked round, and the whole
structure was in a blaze.
In harmony and union with these
experiences, our bore never went any-
where in a steamboat but he made
either the best or the worst voyage ever
know-n on that station. Either he over-
heard the captain say to himself, with
his hands clasped, “ We are all lost ! ”
or the captain openly declared to him
that he had never made such a run be-
fore, and never should be able to do it
again. Our bore was in that express-
train on that railway, when they made
(unknown to the passengers) the exper-
iment of going at the rate of a hundred
miles an hour. Our bore remarked on
that occasion to the other people in the
carriage, “This is too fast, but sit still ! ”
He was at the Norwich musical festival
when the extraordinary echo for which
science has been wholly unable to ac-
count w^as heard for the first and last
time. He and the bishop heard it at
the same moment, and caught each
other’s eye. He was present at that
illumination of St. Peter’s of which
the Pope is knowm to have remarked,
as he looked at it out of his window in
the Vatican, “ O Cielo ! Questa cosa
non sara fatta , mai ancora, come
questa, — O Heaven ! this thing will
OUR BORE.
463
never be done again, like this ! ” He
has seen every lion he ever saw, under
some remarkably propitious circumstan-
ces. He knows there is no fancy in
it, because in every case the showman
mentioned the fact at the time, and con-
gratulated him upon it.
At one period of his life, our bore had
an illness. It was an illness of a dan-
gerous character for society at large.
Innocently remark that you are very
well, or that somebody else is very well ;
and our bore, with a preface that one
never knows what a blessing health is
until one has lost it, is reminded of
that illness, and drags you through the
whole of its symptoms, progress, and
treatment. Innocently remark that you
are not well, or that somebody else is
not well, ana the same inevitable result
ensues. You will learn how our bore
felt a tightness about here, sir, for which
he could n’t account, accompanied with
a constant sensation as if he were be-
ing stabbed — or, rather, jobbed, that
expresses it more correctly — jobbed —
with a blunt knife. Well, sir! This
went on, until sparks began to flit be-
fore his eyes, water-wheels to turn round
in his head, and hammers to beat in-
cessantly, thump, thump, thump, all
down his back, — along the whole of the
spinal vertebrae. Our bore, when his
sensations had come to this, thought it
a duty he owed to himself to take ad-
vice, and he said, Now, whom shall I
consult? He naturally thought of Cal-
low, at that time one of the most emi-
nent physicians in London, and he went
to Callow. Callow said, ‘‘Liver! ” and
prescribed rhubarb and calomel, low
diet, and moderate exercise. Our bore
went on with this treatment, getting
worse every day, until he lost confidence
in Callow, and went to Moon, whom
half the town was then mad about.
Moon was interested in the case ; to do
him justice, he was very much interested
in the case ; and he said, “ Kidneys ! ”
He altered the whole treatment, sir, . —
gave strong acids, cupped, and blis-
tered. This went on, our bore still
getting worse every day, until he openly
told Moon it would be a satisfaction to
him if he would have a consultation
with Clatter. The moment Clatter saw
our bore, he said, “Accumulation of
fat about the heart ! ’’ Snugglewood,
who was called in with him, differed,
and said, “ Brain ! ” But what they
all agreed upon was, to lay our bore
upon his back, to shave his head, to
leech him, to administer enormous quan-
tities of medicine, and to keep him low ;
so that he was reduced to a mere shad-
ow, you wouldn’t have known him, and
nobody considered it possible that he
could ever recover. This was his con-
dition, sir, when he heard of Jilkins, —
at that period in a very small practice,
and living in the upper part of a house
in Great Portland Street ; but still, you
understand, with a rising reputation
among the few people to whom he was
known. Being in that condition in
which a drowning man catches at a
straw, our bore sent for Jilkins. Jilkins
came. Our bore liked his eye, and
said, “ Mr. Jilkins, I have a presenti-
ment that you will do me good.” Jil-
kins’s reply was characteristic of the
man. It was, “ Sir, I mean to do you
good.” This confirmed our bore’s opin-
ion of his eye, and they went into the
case together, — went completely into it.
Jilkins then got up, walked across the
room, came back, and sat down. His
words were these. “You have been
humbugged. This is a case of indiges-
tion, occasioned by deficiency of power
in the Stomach. Take a mutton-chop
in half an hour, with a glass of the fin-
est old sherry that can be got for mon-
ey. Take two mutton-chops to-mor-
row, and two glasses of the finest old
sherry. Next day, I ’ll come again.”
In a week our bore was on his legs,
and Jilkins’s success dates from that
period !
Our bore is great in secret information.
He happens to know many things that
nobody else knows. He can generally
tell you where the split is in the Minis-
try ; he knows a deal about the Queen ;
and has little anecdotes to relate of the
royal nursery. H e gives you the j udge ’ s
private opinion of Sludge, the murderer,
and his thoughts when he tried him.
He happens to know what such a man
got by such a transaction, and it was
fifteen thousand five hundred pounds,
and his income is twelve thousand a
464
A MONUMENT OF FRENCH FOLLY.
year. Our bore is also great in mystery.
He believes, with an exasperated ap-
pearance of profound meaning, that you
saw Parkins last Sunday? — Yes, you
did. — Did he say anything particular?
— No, nothing particular. — Our bore
is surprised at that. — Why ? — Nothing.
Only he understood that Parkins had
come to tell you something. — What
about? — Well! our bore is not at
liberty to mention what about. But
he believes you will hear that from
Parkins himself soon, and he hopes it
may not surprise you as it did him.
Perhaps, however, you never heard
about Parkins’s wife’s sister? — No.
— Ah ! says our bore, that explains
it !
Our bore is also great in argument.
He infinitely enjoys a long, humdrum,
drowsy interchange of words of dispute
about nothing. He considers that it
strengthens the mind ; consequently, he
“don’t see that,” very often. Or, he
would be glad to know what you mean
by that. Or, he doubts that. Or, he
has always understood exactly the
reverse of that. Or, he can’t admit
that. Or, he begs to deny that. Or,
surely you don’t mean that. And so
on. He once advised us ; offered us a
piece of advice, after the fact, totally
impracticable and wholly impossible of
acceptance, because it supposed the
fact, then eternally disposed of, to be
yet in abeyance. It was a dozen years
ago, and to this hour our bore benevo-
lently wishes, in a mild voice, on certain
regular occasions, that we had thought
better of his opinion.
The instinct with which our bore
finds out another bore, and closes with
him, is amazing. We have seen him
pick his man out of fifty men, in a
couple of minutes. They love to go
(which they do naturally) into a slow
argument on a previously exhausted
subject, and to contradict each other,
and to wear the hearers out, without
impairing their own perennial freshness
as bores. It improves the good under-
standing between them, and they get
together afterwards, and bore each other
amicably. Whenever we see our bore
behind a door with another bore, we
know that when he comes forth, he will
praise the other bore as one of the most
intelligent men he ever met. And this
bringing us to the close of what we had
to say about our bore, we are anxious
to have it understood that he never
bestowed this praise on us.
A MONUMENT OF FRENCH FOLLY.
It was profoundly observed by a
witty member of the Court of Common
Council, in Council assembled in the
City of London, in the year of our Lord
one thousand eight hundred and fifty,
that the French are a frog-eating peo-
ple, who wear wooden shoes.
We are credibly informed, in refer-
ence to the nation whom this choice
spirit so happily disposed of, that the
creatures and stage representations
which were current in England some
half a century ago exactly depict their
present condition. For example, we un-
derstand that every Frenchman, without
exception, wears a pigtail and curl-pa-
pers. That he is extremely sallow, thin,
long-faced, and lantern-jawed. That
the calves of his legs are invariably un-
developed ; that his legs fail at the
knees, and that his shoulders are always
higher than his ears. We are likewise
assured that he rarely tastes any food
but soup maigre, and an onion ; that he
always says, “ By Gar ! Aha ! Vat you
tell me, sa^e ? ” at the end of every sen-
tence he utters ; and that the true ge-
neric name of his race is the Mounseers,
A MONUMENT OF FRENCH FOLLY.
465
or the Parly-voos. If he be not a dan-
cing-master or a barber, he must be a
cook ; since no other trades but those
three are congenial to the tastes of the
people, or permitted by the institutions
of the country. He is a slave, of course.
The ladies of France (who are also
slaves) invariably have their heads tied
up in Belcher handkerchiefs, wear long
ear-rings, carry tambourines, and be-
guile the weariness of their yoke by
singing in head voices through their
noses, — principally to barrel-organs.
It may be generally summed up, of
this inferior people, that they have no
idea of anything.
Of a great institution like Smithfield
they are unable to form the least con-
ception. A Beast Market in the heart
of Paris would be regarded an impossi-
ble nuisance. Nor have they any no-
tion of slaughter-houses in the midst of
a city. One of these benighted frog-
eaters would scarcely understand your
meaning, if you told him of the exist-
ence of such a British bulwark.
It is agreeable, and perhaps pardon-
able, to indulge in a little self-compla-
cency when our right to it is thorough-
ly established. At the present time, to
be rendered memorable by a final attack
on that good old market which is the
(rotten) apple of the Corporation’s eye,
let us compare ourselves, to our nation-
al delight and pride as to these two
subjects of slaughter-house and beast-
market, with the outlandish foreigner.
The blessings of Smithfield are too
well understood to need recapitulation ;
all who run ^away from mad bulls and
pursuing oxen) may read. Any market-
day they may be beheld in glorious
action. Possibly the merits of our
slaughter-houses are not yet quite so
generally appreciated.
Slaughter-houses, in the large towns
of England, are always (with the excep-
tion of one or two enterprising towns)
most numerous in the most densely
crowded places, where there is the least
circulation of air. They are often un-
derground. in cellars ; they are some-
times in close back yards ; sometimes
(as in Spitalfields) in the very shops
where the meat is sold. Occasionally,
under good private management, they
30
are ventilated and clean. For the most
part, they are unventilated and dirty ;
and to the reeking walls, putrid fat and
other offensive animal matter clings
with a tenacious hold. The busiest
slaughter-houses in London are in the
neighborhood of Smithfield, in New-
gate Market, in Whitechapel, in New-
port Market, in Leadenhall Market, in
Clare Market. All these places are
surrounded by houses of a poor de-
scription, swarming with inhabitants.
Some of them are close to the worst
burial-grounds in London. When the
slaughter-house is below the ground,
it is a common practice to throw the
sheep down areas, neck and crop, — -
which is exciting, but not at all cruel.
When it is on the level surface, it is
often extremely difficult of approach.
Then the beasts have to be worried
and goaded and pronged and tail-twist-
ed for a long time before they «n be
got in, — which is entirely owing to
their natural obstinacy. When it is not
difficult of approach, but is in a foul
condition, what they see and scent
makes them still more reluctant to enter,
— which is their natural obstinacy again.
When they do get in at last, after no
trouble and suffering to speak of (for
there is nothing in the previous journey
into the heart of London, the night’s
endurance in Smithfield, the struggle
out again, among the crowded multi-
tude, the coaches, carts, wagons, om-
nibuses, gigs, chaises, phaetons, cabs,
trucks, dogs, boys, whoopings, roarings,
and ten thousand other distractions),
they are represented to be in a most
unfit state to be killed, according to mi-
croscopic examinations made of their
fevered blood by one of the most dis-
tinguished physiologists in the world,
Professor Owen, — but that’s hum-
bug. When they are killed, at last,
their reeking carcasses are hung in im-
pure air, to become, as the same Pro-
fessor will explain to you, less nutritious
and more unwholesome, — but he is
only an w«common counsellor, so don’t
mind him. In half a quarter of a mile’s
length of Whitechapel, at one time,
there shall be six hundred newly slaugh-
tered oxen hanging up, and seven hun-
dred sheep ; but the more the mer-
466
A MONUMENT OF FRENCH FOLLY.
rier, — proof of prosperity. Hard by
Snow Hill and Warwick Lane, you
shall see the little children, inured to
sights of brutality from their birth, trot-
ting along the alleys, mingled with
troops of horribly busy pigs, up to their
ankles in blood, — but it makes the
young rascals hardy. Into the imper-
fect sewers of this overgrown city, you
shall have the immense mass of corrup-
tion, engendered by these practices,
lazily thrown out of sight, to rise, in
poisonous gases, into your house at
night, when your sleeping children will
most readily absorb them, and to find
its languid way, at last, into the river
that you drink, — but the French are a
frog-eating people who wear wooden
shoes, and it ’s O, the roast-beef of
England, my boy, the jolly old English
roast-beef.
It is quite a mistake — a new-fangled
notion altogether — to suppose that
there is any natural antagonism between
utrefaction and health. They know
etter than that in the Common Coun-
cil. You may talk about Nature, in
her wisdom, always warning man
through his sense of smell, when he
draws near to something dangerous ;
but that won’t go down in the city.
Nature very often don’t mean anything.
Mrs. Quickly says that prunes are ill
for a green wound ; but whosoever says
that putrid animal substances are ill
for a green wound, or for robust vigor,
or for anything or for anybody, is a
humanity-monger and a humbug. Brit-
ons never, never, never, &c., therefore.
And prosperity to cattle-driving, cattle-
slaughtering, bone-crushing, blood-boil-
ing, trotter-scraping, tripe -dressing,
paunch-cleaning, gut-spinning, hide-
preparing, tallow-melting, and other
salubrious proceedings, in the midst
of hospitals, churchyards, workhouses,
schools, infirmaries, refuges, dwellings,
provision-shops, nurseries, sick-beds,
every stage and baiting-place in the
journey from birth to death !
These ««common counsellors, your
Professor Owens and fellows, will con-
tend that to tolerate these things in a
civilized city, is to reduce it to a worse
condition than Bruce found to prevail
in Abyssinia. For there (say they) the
jackals and wild dogs came at night to
devour the offal ; whereas here there
are no such natural scavengers, and
quite as savage customs. Further, they
will demonstrate that nothing in nature
is intended to be wasted, and that be-
sides the waste which such abuses occa-
sion in the articles of health and life,
— main sources of the riches of an.y
community, — they lead to a prodigious
waste of changing matters, which might,
with proper preparation and under sci-
entific direction, be safely applied to
the increase of the fertility of the land.
Thus (they argue) does Nature ever
avenge infractions of her beneficent
laws, and so surely as Man is deter-
mined to warp any of her blessings
into curses, shall they become curses,
and shall he suffer heavily. But this
is cant. Just as it is cant of the
worst description to say to the Lon-
don Corporation, “ How can you ex-
hibit to the people so plain a specta-
cle of dishonest equivocation, as to
claim the right of holding a market in
the midst qF the great city, for one of
your vested privileges, when you know
that when your last market-holding
charter was granted to you by King
Charles the First, Smithfield stood in
the suburbs of London, and is in
that very charter so described in those
five words ? ” — which is certainly true,
but has nothing to do with the question.
Now to the comparison, in these
particulars of civilization, between the
capital of England and the capital of
that frog-eating and wooden-shoe-wear-
ing country, which the illustrious Com-
mon Councilman so sarcastically settled.
In Paris, there is no Cattle Market.
Cows and calves are sold within the
city, but the Cattle Markets are at
Poissy, about thirteen miles off, on a
line of railway ; and at Sceaux, about
five miles off. The Poissy market is
held every Thursday ; the Sceaux mar-
ket, every Monday. In Paris, there
are no slaughter-houses, in our accepta-
tion of the term. There are five public
Abattoirs, — within the walls, though in
the suburbs, — and in these all the
slaughtering for the city must be per-
formed. They are managed by a Syn-
dicat or Guild of Butchers, who confer
A MONUMENT OF FRENCH FOLLY.
467
with the Minister of the Interior on all
matters affecting the trade, and who are
consulted when any new regulations are
contemplated for its government. They
are, likewise, under the vigilant super-
intendence of the police. Every butch-
er must be licensed ; which proves him
at once to be a slave, for we don’t
license butchers in England, — we only
license apothecaries, attorneys, post-
masters, publicans, hawkers, retailers
of tobacco, snuff, pepper, and vinegar,
and one or two other little trades not
worth mentioning. Every arrangement
in connection with the slaughtering and
sale of meat is matter of strict police
regulation. (Slavery again, though we
certainly have a general sort of a Police
Act here.)
But in order that the reader may
understand what a monument of folly
these frog-eaters have raised in their
abattoirs and cattle-markets, and may
compare it with what common counsel-
ling has done for us all these years, and
would still do, but for the innovating
spirit of the times, here follows a short
account of a recent visit to these places.
It was as sharp a February morning
as you would desire to feel at your fin-
gers’ ends when I turned out, — tum-
bling over a chiffonier with his little
basket and rake, who was picking up
the bits of colored paper that had been
swept out, overnight, from a Bon-Bon
shop, — to take the Butchers’ Train to
Poissy. A cold dim light just touched
the high roofs of the Tuileries, which
have seen such changes, such distracted
crowds, such riot and bloodshed ; and
they looked as calm, and as old, all
covered with white frost, as the very
Pyramids. There was not light enough,
yet, to strike upon the towers of Notre
Dame across the water ; but I thought
of the dark pavement of the old Cathe-
dral as just beginning to be streaked
with gray ; and of the lamps in the
“ House of God,” the Hospital close to
it, burning low and being quenched ;
and of the keeper of the Morgue going
about with a fading lantern, busy in
the arrangement of his terrible wax-
work for another sunny day.
The sun was up and shining merrily,
when the butchers and I, announcing
our departure with an engine-shriek to
sleepy Paris, rattled away for the Cattle
Market. Across the country, over the
Seine, among a forest of scrubby trees,
— the hoar-frost lying cold in shady
laces, and glittering in the light, — and
ere we are at Poissy ! Out leap the
butchers who have been chattering all
the way like madmen, and off they
straggle for the Cattle Market (still
chattering, of course, incessantly), in
hats and caps of all shapes, in coats and
blouses, in calf-skins, cow-skins, horse-
skins, furs, shaggy mantles, hairy coats,
sacking, baize, oil-skin, anything you
lease that will keep a man and a
utcher warm, upon a frosty morning.
Many a French town have I seen,
between this spot of ground and Stras-
burgh or Marseilles, that might sit for
your picture, little Poissy ! Barring
the details of your old church, I know
you well, albeit we make acquaintance,
now, for the first time. I know your
narrow, straggling, winding streets, with
a kennel in the midst, and lamps slung
across. I know your picturesque street-
corners, winding up hill Heaven knows
why or where ! I know your trades-
men’s inscriptions, in letters not quite
fat enough ; your barbers’ brazen basins
dangling over little shops ; your Cafes
and Estaminets, with cloudy bottles of
stale syrup in the windows, and pic-
tures of crossed billiard-cues outside.
I know this identical gray horse, with
his tail rolled up in a knot like the
“back hair” of an untidy woman, who
won’t be shod, and who makes himself
heraldic by clattering across the street
on his hind legs, while twenty voices
shriek and growl at him as a Brigand,
an accursed Robber, and an everlast-
ingly-doomed Pig. I know your spark-
ling town-fountain too, my Poissy, and
am glad to see it near a cattle-market,
gushing so freshly under the auspices
of a gallant little sublimated French-
man wrought in metal, perched upon
the top. Through all the land of
France I know this unswept room at
The Glory, with its peculiar smell of
beans and coffee, where the butchers
crowd about the stove, drinking the
thinnest of wine from the smallest of
468
A MONUMENT OF FRENCH FOLLY.
tumblers ; where the thickest of coffee-
cups mingle with the longest of loaves,
and the weakest of lump-sugar; where
Madame at the counter easily acknowl-
edges the homage of all entering and
departing butchers ; where the billiard-
table is covered up in the midst like a
great bird-cage, — but the bird may
sing by and by !
A bell ! The Calf Market ! Polite
departure of butchers. Hasty payment
and departure on the part of amateur
Visitor. Madame reproaches Ma’am -
selle for too fine a susceptibility in ref-
erence to the devotion of a Butcher in
a bear-skin. Monsieur, the landlord of
The Glory, counts a double handful of
sous, without an unobliterated inscrip-
tion, or an undamaged crowned head,
among them.
There is little noise without, abun-
dant space, and no confusion. The
open area devoted to the market is
divided into three portions, — the Calf
Market, the Cattle Market, the Sheep
Market. Calves at eight, cattle at
ten, sheep at midday. All is very clean.
The Calf Market is a raised platform
of stone, some three or four feet high,
open on all sides, with a lofty over-
spreading roof, supported on stone col-
umns, which give it the appearance of a
sort of vineyard from Northern Italy.
Here, on the raised pavement, lie innu-
merable calves, all bound hind-legs and
fore-legs together, and all trembling vi-
olently, — perhaps with cold, perhaps
with fear, perhaps with pain ; for this
mode of tying, which seems to be an
absolute superstition with the peasantry,
can hardly fail to cause great suffering.
Here they lie patiently in rows, among
the straw, with their stolid faces and
inexpressive eyes, superintended by
men and women, boys and girls ; here
they are inspected by our friends the
butchers, bargained for, and bought.
Plenty of time, plenty of room, plenty
of good-humor. “ Monsieur Francois
in the bear-skin, how do you do, my
friend? You come from Paris by the
train ? The fresh air does you good.
If you are in want of three or four fine
calves this market-morning, my angel,
I, Madame Doche, shall be happy to
deal with you. Behold these calves,
Monsieur Francois! Great Heaven,
you are doubtful ! Well, sir, walk
round and look about you. If you find
better for the money, buy them. If
not, come to me !” Monsieur Francois
goes his way leisurely, and keeps a
wary eye upon the stock. No other
butcher jostles Monsieur Francois;
Monsieur Francois jostles no other
butcher. Nobody is flustered and ag-
gravated. Nobody is savage. In the
midst of the country blue frocks and
red handkerchiefs, and the butchers’
coats, shaggy, furry, and hairy, of calf-
skin, cow-skin, horse-skin, and bear-
skin, towers a cocked hat and a blue
cloak. Slavery ! For our Police wear
great-coats and glazed hats.
But now the bartering is over, and
the calves are sold. “ Ho ! Gregorie,
Antoine, Jean, Louis ! Bring up the
carts, my children ! Quick, brave in-
fants ! Hola ! Hi ! ”
The carts, well littered with straw,
are backed up to the edge of the raised
pavement, and various hot infants carry
calves upon their heads, and dexterous-
ly pitch them in, while other hot in-
fants, standing in the carts, arrange
the calves, and pack them carefully in
straw. Here is a promising young calf,
not sold, whom Madame Doche un-
binds. Pardon me, Madame Doche,
but I fear this mode of tying the four
legs of a quadruped together, though
strictly k la mode, is not quite right.
You observe, Madame Doche, that the
cord leaves deep indentations in the
skin, and that the animal is so cramped
at first as not to know, or even remote-
ly suspect, that he is unbound, until
you are so obliging as to kick him, in
your delicate little way, and pull his
tail like a bell-rope. Then he staggers
to his knees, not being able to stand,
and stumbles about like a drunken calf,
or the horse at Franconi’s, whom you
may have seen, Madame Doche, who
is supposed to have been mortally
wounded in battle. But what is this
rubbing against me, as I apostrophize
Madame Doche? It is another heated
infant with a calf upon his head. “ Par-
don, Monsieur, but will you have the
politeness to allow me to pass ? ” “ Ah,
sir, willingly. I am vexed to obs*mct
A MONUMENT OF FRENCH FOLLY.
469
the way. 1 ' On he staggers, calf and all,
and makes no allusion whatever either
to my eyes or limbs.
Now the carts are all full. More
straw, my Antoine, to shake over these
top rows ; then off we will clatter, rum-
ble, jolt, and rattle, a long row of us,
out of the first town-gate, and out at
the second town-gate, and past the
empty sentry-box, and the little thin
square band-box of a guard-house,
where nobody seems to live ; and away
for Paris, by the paved road, lying, a
straight, straight line, in the long, long
avenue of trees. We can neither choose
our road nor our pace, for that is all
prescribed to us. The public conven-
ience demands that our carts should
get to Paris by such a route, and no
other (Napoleon had leisure to find that
out, while he had a little war with the
world upon his hands), and woe betide
us if we infringe orders.
Droves of oxen stand in the Cattle
Market, tied to iron bars fixed into
posts of granite. Other droves advance
slowly down the long avenue, past the
second town-gate, and the first town-
gate, and the sentry-box, and the band-
box, thawing the morning with their
smoky breath as they come along.
Plenty of room; plenty of time. Nei-
ther man nor beast is driven out of his
wits by coaches, carts, wagons, omni-
buses, gigs, chaises, phaetons, cabs,
trucks, boys, whoopings, roarings, and
multitudes. No tail-twisting is neces-
sary, — no iron pronging is necessary.
There are no iron prongs here. The
market for cattle is held as quietly as
the market for calves. In due time, off
the cattle go to Paris ; the drovers can
no more choose their road, nor their
time, nor the numbers they shall drive,
than they can choose their hour for
dying in the course of nature.
Sheep next. The Sheep-pens are up
here, past the Branch Bank of Paris,
established for the convenience of the
butchers, and behind the two pretty
fountains they are making in the Mar-
ket. My name is Bull ; yet I think I
should like to see as good twin foun-
tains, — not to say in Smithfield, but in
England anywhere. Plenty of room ;
plenty of time. And here are sheep-
dogs, sensible as ever, but with a cer-
tain French air about them, — not with-
out a suspicion of dominos, — with a
kind of flavor of mustache and beard,
— demonstrative dogs, shaggy and loose
where an English dog would be tight
and close, — not so troubled with busi-
ness calculations as our English drov-
ers’ dogs, who have always got their
sheep upon their minds, and think
about their work, even resting, as you
may see by their faces ; but dashing,
showy, rather unreliable dogs, who
might worry me instead of their legiti-
mate charges if they saw occasion, —
and might see it somewhat suddenly.
The market for sheep passes off like the
other two ; and away they go, by their
allotted road to Paris. My way being
the Railway, I make the best of it at
twenty miles an hour ; whirling through
the now high-lighted landscape ; think-
ing that the inexperienced green buds
will be wishing before long they had
not been tempted to come out so soon ;
and wondering who lives in this or that
chateau, all window ^gnd lattice, and
what the family may have for breakfast
this sharp morning.
After the Market comes the Abattoir.
What abattoir shall I visit first?
Montmartre is the largest. So I will
go there.
The abattoirs are all within the walls
of Paris, with an eye to the receipt of
the octroi duty ; but they stand in open
places in the suburbs, removed from the
press and bustle of the city. They are
managed by the Syndicat or Guild of
Butchers, under the inspection of the
Police. Certain smaller items of the
revenue derived from them are in part
retained by the Guild for the payment
of their expenses, and in part devoted
by it to charitable purposes in connec-
tion with the trade. They cost six hun-
dred and eighty thousand pounds ; and
they return to the city of Paris an inter-
est on that outlay, amounting to nearly
six and a half per cent.
Here, in a sufficiently dismantled
space, is the Abattoir of Montmartre,
covering nearly nine acres of ground,
surrounded by a high wall, and looking
from the outside like a cavalry barrack.
At the iron gates is a small functionary
/jo
A MONUMENT OF FRENCH FOLLY.
in a large cocked hat. “ Monsieur de-
sires to see the abattoir ? Most certain-
ly.” State being inconvenient in pri-
vate transactions, and Monsieur being
already aware of the cocked hat, the
functionary puts it into a little official
bureau which it almost fills, and accom-
anies me in the modest attire — as to
is head — of ordinary life.
Many of the animals from Poissy
have come here. On the arrival of each
drove, it was turned into yonder ample
space, where each butcher who had
bought, selected his own purchases.
Some, we see now, in these long per-
spectives of stalls with a high over-
hanging roof of wood and open tiles ris-
ing above the walls. While they rest
here, before being slaughtered, they are
required to be fed and watered, and
the stalls must be kept clean. A stated
amount of fodder must always be ready
in the loft above ; and the supervision
is of the strictest kind. The same reg-
ulations apply to sheep and calves ; for
which, portions of these perspectives
are strongly railed off. All the build-
ings are of the strongest and most solid
description.
After traversing these lairs, through
which, besides the up>per provision for
ventilation just mentioned, there may
be a thorough current of air from oppo-
site windows in the side walls, and from
doors at either end, we traverse the
broad, paved court-yard, until we come
to the slaughter-houses. They are all
exactly alike, and adjoin each other, to
the number of eight or nine together, in
blocks of solid building. Let us walk
into the fii'st.
It is firmly built and paved with stone.
It is well lighted, thoroughly aired, and
lavishly provided with fresh water. It
has two doors opposite each other ; the
first, the door by which I entered from
the main yard ; the second, which is op-
posite, opening on another smaller yard,
where the sheep and calves are killed on
benches. The pavement of that yard, I
see, slopes downward to a gutter, for its
being more easily cleansed. The slaugh-
ter-house is fifteen feet high, sixteen feet
and a half wide, and thirty-three feet
long. It is fitted with a powerful wind-
lass, by which one man at the handle
can bring the head of an ox down to the
ground to receive the blow from the
pole-axe that is to fell him, — with the
means of raising the carcass and keeping
it suspended during the after operation
of dressing, — and with hooks on which
carcasses can hang, when completely
prepared, without touching the walls.
Upon the pavement of this first stone
chamber lies an ox scarcely dead. If I
except the blood draining from him,
into a little stone well in a comer of
the pavement, the place is free from
offence as the Place de la Concorde.
It is infinitely purer and cleaner, I
know, my friend the functionary, than
the Cathedral of Notre Dame. Ha,
ha ! Monsieur is pleasant, but, tru-
ly, there is reason, too, in what he
says.
I look into another of these slaughter-
houses. “ Pray enter,” says a gentle-
man in bloody boots. “ This is a calf I
have killed this morning. Having a lit-
tle time upon my hands, I have cut and
punctured this lace pattern in the coats
of his stomach. It is pretty enough. I
did it to divert myself.” “It is beau-
tiful, Monsieur, the slaughterer ! ” He
tells me I have the gentility to say
so.
I look into rows of slaughter-houses.
In many, retail dealers, who have come
here for the purpose, are making bar-
gains for meat. There is killing enough,
certainly, to satiate an unused eye ; and
there are steaming carcasses enough to
suggest the expediency of a fowl and sal-
ad for dinner ; but, everywhere, there is
an orderly, clean, well-systematized rou-
tine of work in progress, — horrible work
at the best, if you please ; but so much
the greater reason why it should be
made the best of. I don’t know (I
think I have observed, my name is
Bull) that a Parisian of the lowest or-
der is particularly delicate, or that his
nature is remarkable for an infinitesi-
mal infusion of ferocity ; but I do
know, my potent, grave, and common-
counselling seigniors, that he is forced,
when at this work, to submit himself to
a thoroughly good system, and to make
an Englishman very heartily ashamed
of you.
Here, within the walls of the same
A CHRISTMAS TREE.
47i
abattoir, in other roomy and commo-
dious build ngs, are a place for convert-
ing the fat into tallow and packing it
for market, — a place for cleansing and
scalding calves’ heads and sheep’s feet,
— a plate for preparing tripe, — stables
and coach-houses for the butchers, —
innumerable conveniences, aiding in the
diminution of offensiveness to its low-
est possible point, and the raising of
cleanliness and supervision to their
highest. Hence, all the meat that
goes out of the gate is sent away in
clean covered carts. And if every
trade connected with the slaughtering
of animals were obliged by law to be
carried on in the same place, I doubt,
my friend, now reinstated in the cocked
hat (whose civility these two francs
imperfectly acknowledge, but appear
munificently to repay), whether there
could be better regulations than those
which are carried out at the Abattoir
of Montmartre. Adieu, my friend, for
I am away to the other side of Paris,
to the Abattoir of Grenelle ! And
there I find exactly the same thing on
a smaller scale, with the addition of a
magnificent Artesian well, and a differ-
ent sort of conductor, in the person of
a neat little woman with neat little
eyes, and a neat little voice, who picks
her neat little way among the bullocks
in a very neat little pair of shoes and
stockings.
Such is the Monument of French Fol-
ly which a foreigneering people have
erected, in a national hatred and antipa-
thy for common-counselling wisdom.
That wisdom, assembled in the City of
London, having distinctly refused, after
a debate three days long, and by a
majority of nearly seven to one, to as-
sociate itself with any Metropolitan
Cattle Market unless it be held in the
midst of the City, it follows that we
shall lose the inestimable advantages
of common-counselling protection, and
be thrown, for a market, on our own
wretched •resources. In all human
probability we shall thus come, at
last, to erect a monument of folly very
like this French monument. If that
be done, the consequences are obvious.
The leather trade will be ruined, by
the introduction of American timber, to
be manufactured into shoes for the fall-
en English ; the Lord Mayor will be re-
quired, by the popular voice, to live en-
tirely on frogs ; and both these changes
will (how, is not at present quite clear,
but certainly somehow or other) fall on
that unhappy landed interest which is al-
ways being killed, yet is always found to
be alive — and kicking.
A CHRISTMAS TREE.
I have been looking on, this even-
ing, at a merry company of children as-
sembled round that pretty German toy,
a Christmas Tree. The tree was plant-
ed in the middle of a great round table,
and towered high above their heads.
It was brilliantly lighted by a multi-
tude of little tapers, and everywhere
sparkled and glittered with bright ob-
jects. There were rosy-cheeked dolls,
niding behind the green leaves ; there
were real watches (with movable hands,
at least, and an endless capacity of
being wound up) dangling from innu-
merable twigs ; there were French-pol-
ished tables, chairs, bedsteads, ward-
robes, eight-day clocks, and various
other articles of domestic furniture
(wonderfully made, in tin, at Wolver-
hampton), perched among the boughs,
as if in preparation for some fairy house-
keeping ; there were jolly, broad-faced
little men, much more agreeable in ap-
pearance than many real men, — and
472
A CHRISTMAS TREE .
no wonder, for their heads took off, and
showed them to be full of sugar-plums ;
there were fiddles and drums ; there
were tambourines, books, work-boxes,
paint - boxes, sweetmeat - boxes, peep-
show-boxes, all kinds of boxes ; there
were trinkets for the elder girls, far
brighter than any grown-up gold and
jewels ; there were baskets and pin-
cushions in all devices ; there were
guns, swords, and banners ; there were
witches standing in enchanted rings of
pasteboard to tell fortunes ; there were
teetotums, humming-tops, needle-cases,
pen-wipers, smelling-bottles, conversa-
tion-cards, bouquet-holders ; real fruit,
made artificially dazzling with gold-leaf ;
imitation apples, pears, and walnuts,
crammed with surprises ; in short, as a
pretty child, before me, delightedly whis-
pered to another pretty child, her bos-
om friend, “ There was everything, and
more.” This motley collection of odd
objects, clustering on the tree like
magic fruit, and flashing back the
bright looks directed towards it from
every side, — some of the diamond-eyes
admiring it were hardly on a level with
the table, and a few were languishing
in timid wonder on the bosoms of pret-
ty mothers, aunts, and nurses, — made
a lively realization of the fancies of
childhood, and set me thinking how
all the trees that grow, and all the
things that come into existence on the
earth, have their wild adornments at
that well-remembered time.
Being now at home again, and alone,
the only person in the house awake,
my thoughts are drawn back, by a fas-
cination which I do not care to resist,
to my own childhood. I begin to
consider, what do we all remember
best upon the branches of the Christ-
mas Tree of our own young Christmas
days, by which we climbed to real life.
Straight, in the middle of the room,
cramped in the freedom of its growth
by no encircling walls or soon-reached
ceiling, a shadowy tree arises ; and,
looking up into the dreamy brightness
of its top, — for I observe in this tree
the singular property, that it appears
to grow downward towards the earth, —
I look into my youngest Christmas
recollections 1
All toys at first, I find. Up yonder
among the green holly and red berries,
is the Tumbler with his hands in his
pockets, who would n’t lie down, but
whenever he was put upon the floor
persisted in rolling his fat body about,
until he rolled himself still, and brought
those lobster eyes of his to bear upon
me, — when I affected to laugh very
much, but in my heart of hearts was
extremely doubtful of him. Close be-
side him is that infernal snuffbox, out
of which there sprang a demoniacal
Counsellor in a black gown, with an
obnoxious head of hair, and a red
cloth mouth, wide open, who was not
to be endured on any terms, but could
not be put away either ; for he used
suddenly, in a highly magnified state,
to fly out of Mammoth Snuffboxes in
dreams, when least expected. Nor is
the frog with cobbler’s wax on his tail
far off ; for there was no knowing where
he wouldn’t jump; and when he flew
over the candle, and came upon one’s
hand with that spotted back, — red on
a green ground, — he was horrible. The
card-board lady in a blue silk skirt,
who was stood up against the candle-
stick to dance, and whom I see on the
same branch, was milder, and was
beautiful ; but I can’t say as much for
the larger card-board man, who used
to be hung against the wall and pulled
by a string ; there was a sinister ex-
pression in that nose of his ; and when
lie got his. legs round his neck (which
he very often did), he was ghastly, and
not a creature to be alone with.
When did that dreadful Mask first
look at me ? Who put it on, and why
was I so frightened that the sight of
it is an era in my life ? It is not a
hideous visage in itself ; it is even
meant to be droll ; why then were its
stolid features so intolerable ? Surely
not because it hid the wearer’s face.
An apron would have done as much ;
and though I should have preferred
even the apron away, it would not have
been absolutely insupportable, like the
mask. Was it the immovability of
the mask ? The doll’s face was immov-
able, but I was not afraid of her. Per-
haps that fixed and set change coming
over a real face, infused into my quick-
A CHRISTMAS TREE.
473
ened heart some remote suggestion and
dread of the universal change that is
to come on every face, and make it
still? Nothing reconciled me to it.
No drummers, from whom proceeded
a melancholy chirping on the turning
of a handle, — no regiment of soldiers,
with a mute band, taken out of a box,
and fitted, one by one, upon a stiff
and lazy little set of lazy-tongs, — no
old woman, made of wires and a brown-
paper composition, cutting up a pie
for two small children, could give me
a permanent comfort, for a long time.
Nor was it any satisfaction to be shown
the Mask, and see that it was made of
paper, or to have it locked up and be
assured that no one wore it. The mere
recollection of that fixed face, the mere
knowledge of its existence anywhere,
was sufficient to awake me in the night,
all perspiration and horror, with, “ O
I know it ’s coming ! O the mask ! ”
I never wondered what the dear old
donkey with the panniers — there he
is ! — was made of, then ! His hide
was real to the touch, I recollect. And
the great black horse with round red
spots all over him, — the horse that I
could even get upon, — I never won-
dered what had brought him to that
strange condition, or thought that such
a horse was not commonly seen at
Newmarket. The four horses of no
color, next to him, that went into the
wagon of cheeses, and could be taken
out and stabled under the piano, appear
to have bits of fur-tippet for their tails,
and other bits for their manes, and to
stand on pegs instead of legs, but it was
not so when they were brought home
for a Christmas present. They were
all right, then ; neither was their har-
ness unceremoniously nailed into their
chests, as appears to be the case now.
The tinkling works of the music-cart
I did find out to be made of quill
toothpicks and wire ; and I always
thought that little tumbler in his shirt-
sleeves, perpetually swarming up one
side of a wooden frame, and coming
down, head foremost, on the other,
rather a weak-minded person, though
good-natured ; but the Jacob’s Ladder,
next him, made of little squares of red
wood, that went flapping and clattering
over one another, each developing a
different picture, and the whole enliv-
ened by small bells, was a mighty mar-
vel and a great delight.
Ah ! The Doll’s house ! — of which
I was not proprietor, but where I visited.
I don’t admire the Houses of Parlia-
ment half so much as that stone-fronted
mansion with real glass windows, and
door-steps, and a real balcony, — green-
er than I ever see now, except at water-
ing-places ; and even they afford but a
poor imitation. And though it did open
all at once, the entire house-front (which
was a blow, I admit, as cancelling the
fiction of a staircase), it was but to shut
it up again, and I could believe. Even
open, there were three distinct rooms in
it, — a sitting-room and bedroom, ele-
gantly furnished, and, best of all, a
kitchen, with uncommonly soft fire-
irons, a plentiful assortment of diminu-
tive utensils — oh, the warming-pan ! —
and a tin man-cook in profile, who was
always going to fry two fish. What
Barmecide justice have I done to the
noble feasts wherein the set of wooden
piatters figured, each with its own pe-
culiar delicacy, as a ham or turkey,
glued tight on to it, and garnished with
something green, which I recollect as
moss ! Could all the Temperance So-
cieties of these later days, united, give
me such a tea-drinking as I have had
through the means of yonder little set
of blue crockery, which really would
hold liquid (it ran out of the small wood-
en cask, I recollect, and tasted of match-
es), and which made tea, nectar. And
if the two legs of the ineffectual little
sugar-tongs did tumble over one anoth-
er, and want purpose, like Punch’s
hands, what does it matter? And if I
did once shriek out, as a poisoned child,
and strike the fashionable company with
consternation, by reason of having drunk
a little teaspoon, inadvertently dissolved
in too hot tea, I was never the worse
for it, except by a powder !
Upon the next branches of the tree,
lower down, hard by the green roller
and miniature gardening-tools, how
thick the books begin to hang. Thin
books, in themselves, at first, but many
of them, and with deliciously smooth
covers of bright red or green. What
474
A CHRISTMAS TREE.
fat black letters to begin with ! “ A was
an archer, and shot at a frog.” Of
course he was. He was an apple-pie
also, and there he is ! He was a good
many things in his time, was A, and so
were most of his friends, except X, who
had so little versatility, that I never knew
him to get beyond Xerxes or Xanthippe
— like Y, who was always confined to a
Yacht or a Yew Tree ; andZ, condemned
forever to be a Zebra or a Zany. But
now, the very tree itself changes, and
becomes a bean-stalk, — the marvellous
bean-stalk up which Jack climbed to
the Giant’s house ! And now, those
dreadfully interesting, double-headed
giants, with their clubs over their shoul-
ders, begin to stride along the boughs
in a perfect throng, dragging knights
and ladies home for dinner by the hair
of their heads. And Jack, — how noble,
with his sword of sharpness, and his
shoes of swiftness ! Again those old
meditations come upon me as I gaze
up at him ; and I debate within myself
■whether there was more than one Jack
(which I am loath to believe possible),
or only one genuine, original, admirable
Jack, who achieved all the recorded
exploits.
Good for Christmas time is the ruddy
color of the cloak in which — the tree
making a forest of itself for her to trip
through, with her basket — Little Red
Riding-Hood comes to me one Christ-
mas eve to give me information of the
cruelty and treachery of that dissem-
bling Wolf who ate her grandmother,
without making any impression on his
appetite, and then ate her, after making
that ferocious joke about his teeth.
She was my first love. I felt that if I
could have married Little Red Riding-
Hood, I should have known perfect
bliss. But it was not to be ; and there
was nothing for it but to look out the
Wolf in the Noah’s Ark there, and put
him late in the procession on the table,
as a monster who was to be degraded.
O the wonderful Noah’s Ark ! It was
not found seaworthy when put in a wash-
ing-tub, and the animals were crammed
in at the roof, and needed to have their
legs well shaken down before they could
be got in, even there, — and then, ten to
one but they began to tumble out at the
door, which was but imperfectly fastened
with a wire latch, — but what was that
against it ! Consider the noble fly, a
size or two smaller than the elephant ;
the lady-bird, the butterfly, — all tri-
umphs of art ! Consider the goose,
whose feet were so small, and whose
balance was so indifferent that he usu-
ally tumbled forward, and knocked
down all the animal creation. Con-
sider Noah and his family, like idiotic
tobacco-stoppers ; and how the leopard
stuck to warm little fingers ; and how
the tails of the larger animals used
gradually to resolve themselves into
frayed bits of string !
Hush ! Again a forest, and some-
body up in a tree, — not Robin Hood,
not Valentine, not the Yellow Dwarf (I
have passed him and all Mother Bunch’s
wonders, without mention), but an East-
ern King with a glittering scymitar and
turban. By Allah ! two Eastern Kings,
for I see another, looking over his
shoulder ! Down upon the grass, at
the tree’s foot, lies the full length of a
coal-black Giant, stretched asleep, with
his head in a lady’s lap ; and near them
is a glass box, fastened with four locks
of shining steel, in which he keeps the
lady prisoner when he is awake. I see
the four keys at his girdle now. The
lady makes signs to the two kings in
the tree, who softly descend. It is the
setting in of the bright Arabian Nights.
O, now all common things become
uncommon and enchanted to me ! All
lamps are wonderful ; all rings are talis-
mans. Common flower-pots are full of
treasure, with a little earth scattered on
the top ; trees are for Ali Baba to hide
in ; beefsteaks are to throw down into
the Valley of Diamonds, that the pre-
cious stones may stick to them, and be
carried by the eagles to their nests,
whence the traders, with loud cries,
will scare them. Tarts are made, ac-
cording to the recipe of the Vizier’s
son of Bussorah, who turned pastry-
cook after he was set down in his draw-
ers at the gate of Damascus; cobblers
are all Mustaphas, and in the habit of
sewing up people cut into four pieces,
to whom they are taken blindfold.
Any iron ring let into stone is the
entrance to a cave which only waits for
A CHRISTMAS TREE.
475
the magician, and the little-fire, and the
necromancy, that will make the earth
shake. All the dates imported come
from the same tree as that unlucky date
with whose shell the merchant knocked
out the eye of the genie’s invisible
son. All olives are of the stock of
that fresh fruit concerning which the
Commander of the Faithful overheard
the boy conduct the fictitious trial of
the fraudulent olive merchant; all ap-
ples are akin to the apple purchased
(with two others) from the Sultan’s
gardener for three sequins, and which
the tall black slave stole from the child.
All dogs are associated with the dog,
really a transformed man, who jumped
upon the baker’s counter, and put his
paw on the piece of bad money. All
rice recalls the rice which the awful
lady, who was a ghoul, could only peck
by grains, because of her nightly feasts
in the burial-place. My very rocking-
horse — there he is, with his nostrils
turned completely inside-out, indicative
of blood ! — should have a peg in his
neck, by virtue thereof to fly away with
me, as the wooden horse did with the
Prince of Persia, in the sight of all his
father’s court.
Yes, on every object that I recognize
among those upper branches of my
Christmas Tree, I see this fairy light !
When I awake in bed, at daybreak,
on the cold dark winter mornings, the
white snow dimly beheld, outside,
through the frost on the window-pane,
I hear Dinarzade. “Sister, sister, if
you are yet awake, I pray you finish the
history of the Young King of the Black
Islands.” Scheherazade replies, “If
my lord the Sultan will suffer me to
live another day, sister, I will not only
finish that, but tell you a more wonder-
ful story yet.” Then the gracious Sul-
tan goes out, giving no orders for the ex-
ecution, and we all three breathe again.
At this height of my tree I begin to
see, cowering among the leaves, — it
may be born of turkey or of pudding or
mince-pie, or of these many fancies,
jumbled with Robinson Crusoe on his
desert island, Philip Quarll among the
monkeys, Sandford and Merton with
Mr. Barlow, Mother Bunch, and the
Mask, — or it may be the result of indi-
gestion, assisted by imagination and
over-doctoring, — a prodigious night-
mare. It is so exceedingly indistinct
that I don’t know why it ’s frightful, —
but I know it is. I can only make out
that it is an immense array of shapeless
things, which appear to be planted on a
vast exaggeration of the lazy-tongs that
used to bear the toy soldiers, and to be
slowly coming close to my eyes, and
receding to an immeasurable distance.
When it comes closest, it is worst. In
connection with it I descry remem-
brances of winter nights incredibly
long ; of being sent early to bed, as a
punishment for some small offence, and
waking in two hours, with a sensation
of having been asleep two nights ; of
the laden hopelessness of morning ever
dawning ; and the oppression of a
weight of remorse.
And now, I see a wonderful row of
little lights rise smoothly out of the
ground, before a vast green curtain.
Now, a bell rings, — a magic bell,
which still sounds in my ears unlike all
other bells, — and music plays, amidst
a buzz of voices, and a fragrant smell of
orange-peel and oil. Anon the magic
bell commands the music to cease, and
the great green curtain rolls itself up
majestically, and The Play begins !
The devoted dog of Montargis avenges
the death of his master, foully murdered
in the Forest of Bondy ; and a humor-
ous Peasant with a red nose and a very
little hat, whom I take from this hour
forth to my bosom as a friend, (I think
he was a Waiter or an Hostler at a vil-
lage Inn, but many years have passed
since he and I have met,) remarks that
the sassigassity of that dog is indeed
surprising ; and evermore this jocular
conceit will live in my remembrance
fresh and unfading, overtopping all pos-
sible jokes, unto the end of time. Or
now, I learn with bitter tears how poor
Jane Shore, dressed all in white, and
with her brown hair hanging down,
went starving through the streets ; or
how George Barnwell killed the wor-
thiest uncle that ever man had, and was
afterwards so sorry for it that he ought
to have been let off. Comes swift to
comfort me, the Pantomime, — stu-
pendous Phenomenon! — when Clowns
476
A CHRISTMAS TREE .
are shot from loaded mortars into
the great chandelier, bright constella-
tion that it is ; when Harlequins, cov-
ered all over with scales of pure gold,
twist and sparkle, like amazing fish ;
when Pantaloon (whom I deem it no
irreverence to compare in my own mind
to my grandfather) puts red-hot pokers
in his pocket, and cries, “ Here’s some-
body coming ! ” or taxes the Clown
with petty larceny, by saying, “ Now, I
sawed you do it ! ” when Everything is
capable, with the greatest ease, of being
changed into Anything ; and “ Noth-
ing is, but thinking makes it so.”
Now, too, I perceive my first expe-
rience of the dreary sensation, — often
to return in after life, — of being unable,
next day, to get back to the dull, settled
world ; of wanting to live forever in
the bright atmosphere I have quitted ;
of doting on the little Fairy, with the
wand like a celestial Barber’s Pole, and
pining for a Fairy immortality along
with her. Ah, she comes back, in
many shapes, as my eye winders down
the branches of my Christmas Tree,
and goes as often, and has never yet
stayed by me !
Out of this delight springs the toy-
theatre, — there it is, with its familiar
proscenium, and ladies in feathers in
the boxes ! — and all its attendant oc-
cupation with paste and glue and gum
and water colors, in the getting up of
The Miller and his Men, and Elizabeth,
or the Exile of Siberia. In spite of a
few besetting accidents and failures
(particularly an unreasonable disposi-
tion in the respectable Kelmar, and
some others, to become faint in the
legs, and double up, at exciting points
of the drama), a teeming world of fan-
cies so suggestive and all-embracing,
that, far below it on my Christmas
Tree, I see dark, dirty, real Theatres
in the daytime, adorned with these as-
sociations as with the freshest garlands
of the rarest flowers, and charming me
yet.
But hark ! The Waits are playing,
and they break my childish sleep !
What images do I associate with the
Christmas music as I see them set forth
on the Christmas Tree ? Known before
all the others, keeping far apart from
all the others, they gather round my
little bed. An angel, speaking to a
group of shepherds in a field ; some
travellers, with eyes uplifted, following
a star ; a baby in a manger ; a child in
a spacious temple, talking with grave
men ; a solemn figure, with a mild and
beautiful face, raising a dead girl by the
hand ; again, near a city gate, calling
back the son of a widow, on his bier, to
life ; a crowd of people looking through
the opened roof of a chamber where he
sits, and letting down a sick person on
a bed, with ropes ; the same, in a tem-
pest, walking on the water to a ship ;
again, on a sea-shore, teaching a great
multitude ; again, with a child upon his
knee, and other children round ; again,
restoring sight to the blind, speech to
the dumb, hearing to the deaf, health
to the sick, strength to the lame, knowl-
edge to the ignorant ; again, dying upon
a Cross, watched by armed soldiers, a
thick darkness coming on, the earth be-
ginning to shake, and only one voice
heard. “ Forgive them, for they know
not what they do ! ”
Still, on the lower and maturer branch-
es of the Tree, Christmas associations
cluster thick. School-books shut up ;
Ovid and Virgil silenced ; the Rule of
Three, with its cool impertinent in-
quiries, long disposed of ; Terence and
Plautus acted no more, in an arena of
huddled desks and forms, all chipped,
and notched, and inked ; cricket-bats,
stumps, and balls, left higher up, with
the smell of trodden grass and the soft-
ened noise of shouts in the evening air ;
the tree is still fresh, still gay. If I no
more come home at Christmas time,
there will be girls and boys (thank
Heaven !) while the World lasts ; and
they do ! Yonder they dance and play
upon the branches of my Tree, God
bless them, merrily, and my heart dan-
ces and plays too !
And I do coipe home at Christmas.
We all do, or we all should. We all
come home, or ought to come home,
for a short holiday — the longer the
better — from the great boarding-school,
where we are forever working at our
arithmetical slates, to take and give a
rest. As to going a visiting, where can
w'e not go, if we will, where have we
A CHRISTMAS TREE.
477
not been, when we would, starting our
fancy from our Christmas Tree ?
Away into the winter prospect. There
are many such upon the tree ! On, by
low-lying misty grounds, through fens
and fogs, up long hills, winding dark
as caverns between thick plantations,
almost shutting out the sparkling stars ;
so out on broad heights, until we stop
at last, with sudden silence, at an ave-
nue. The gate-bell has a deep, half-
awful sound in the frosty air ; the gate
swings open on its hinges ; and as we
drive up to a great house, the glan-
cing lights grow larger in the windows,
and the opposing rows of trees seem to
fall solemnly back on either side to give
us place. At intervals, all day, a fright-
ened hare has shot across this whitened
turf ; or the distant clatter of a herd of
deer trampling the hard frost has, for
the minute, crushed the silence too.
Their watchful eyes beneath the fern
may be shining now, if we could see
them, like the icy dewdrops on the
leaves ; but they are still, and all is still.
And so, the lights growing larger, and
the trees falling back before us, and
closing up again behind us, as if to for-
bid retreat, we come to the house.
There is probably a smell of roasted
chestnuts and other good comfortable
things all the time, for we are telling
Winter Stories — Ghost Stories, or more
shame for us — round the Christmas
fire ; and we have never stirred, except
to draw a little nearer to it. But no
matter for that. We came to the house,
and it is an old house, full of great
chimneys where wood is burnt on an-
cient dogs upon the hearth, and grim
portraits (some of them with grim le-
gends, too) lower distrustfully from the
oaken panels of the walls. We are a
middle-aged nobleman, and we make
a generous supper with our host and
hostess and their guests, — it being
Christmas time, and the old house full
of company, — and then we go to bed.
Our room is a very old room. It is
hung with tapestry. We don’t like the
portrait of a cavalier in green, over the
fireplace. There are great black beams
in the ceiling, and there is a great black
bedstead, supported at the foot by two
great black figures, who seem to have
come off a couple of tombs in the old
baronial church in the park, for our par-
ticular accommodation. But we are
not a superstitious nobleman, and we
don’t mind. Well ! we dismiss our ser-
vant, lock the door, and sit before the
fire in our dressing-gown, musing about
a great many things. At length we go to
bed. Well ! we can’t sleep. We toss and
tumble, and can’t sleep. The embers -
on the hearth burn fitfully, and make
the room look ghostly. We can’t help
peeping out over the counterpane at
the two black figures and the cavalier
— that wicked-looking cavalier — in
green. In the flickering light, they
seem to advance and retire ; which,
though we are not by any means a
superstitious nobleman, is not agreeable.
Well ! we get nervous, — more and more
nervous. We say, “This is very fool-
ish, but we can’t stand this ; we ’ll pre-
tend to be ill, and knock up somebody.”
Well ; we are just going to do it, when
the locked door opens, and there comes
in a young woman, deadly pale, an«t
with long fair hair, who glides to the
fire, and sits down in the chair we have
left there, wringing her hands. Then
we notice that her clothes are wet. Oui
tongue cleaves to the roof of our mouth,
and we can’t speak; but we observe
her accurately. Her clothes are wet ;
her long hair is dabbled with moist mud ;
she is dressed in the fashion of two hun-
dred years ago ; and she has at her
girdle a bunch of rusty keys. Well !
there she sits, and we can’t even faint,
we are in such a state about it. Pres-
ently she gets up, and tries all the locks
in the room with the rusty keys, which
won’t fit one of them ; then she fixes
her eyes on the portrait of the cavalier
in green, and says, in a low, terrible
voice, “ The stags know it ! ” After
that, she wrings her hands again, passes
the bedside, and goes out at the door.
We hurry on our dressing-gown, seize
our pistols (we always travel with pis-
tols), and are following, when we find the
door locked. We turn the key, look out
into the dark gallery ; no one there. We
wander away, and try to find our servant.
Can’t be done. We pace the gallery till
daybreak ; then return to our deserted
room, fall asleep, and are awakened by
478
A CHRISTMAS TREE.
our servant (nothing ever haunts him)
and the shining sun. Well ! we make a
wretched breakfast, and all the company
say we look queer. After breakfast we
go over the house with our host, and
then we take him to the portrait of the
cavalier in green, and then it all comes
out. He was false to a young house-
keeper once attached to that family, and
famous for her beauty, who drowned
herself in a pond, and whose body was
discovered, after a long time, because
the stags refused to drink of the water.
Since which, it has been whispered that
she traverses the house at midnight
(but goes especially to that room where
the cavalier in green was wont to sleep),
trying the old locks with the rusty keys.
Well ! we tell our host of what we have
seen, and a shade comes over his fea-
tures, and he begs it may be hushed up ;
and so it is. But it’s all true ; and we
said so, before we died (we are dead
now) to many responsible people.
There is no end to the old houses,
with resounding galleries, and dismal
state-bedchambers, and haunted wings
shut up for many years, through which
we may ramble, with an agreeable creep-
ing up our back, and encounter any
number of ghosts, but (it is worthy of
remark, perhaps) reducible to a very few
{ general types and classes ; for ghosts
lave little originality, and “ walk” in a
beaten track. Thus it comes tor pass
that a certain room in a certain old hall,
where a certain bad lord, baronet, knight,
or gentleman shot himself, has certain
planks in the floor from which the blood
•will not be taken out You may scrape
and scrape, as the present owner has
done, or plane and plane, as his father
did, or scrub and scrub, as his grand-
father did, or burn and burn with strong
acids, as his great-grandfather did, but
there the blood will still be, — no redder
and no paler, no more and no less,
always just the same. Thus, in such
another house there is a haunted door,
that never will keep open ; or another
door that never will keep shut ; or a
haunted sound of a spinning-wheel, or
a hammer, or a footstep, or a cry, or a
sigh, or a horse’s tramp, or the rattling
of a chain. Or else there is a turret-
clock, which, at the midnight hour,
strikes thirteen when the head of the
family is going to die ; or a shadowy,
immovable black carriage which at
such a time is always seen by some-
body, waiting near the great gates in
the stable-yard. Or thus, it came to
pass how Lady Mary went to pay a
visit at a large wild house in the Scot-
tish Highlands, and, being fatigued with
her long journey, retired to bed early,
and innocently said next morning, at
the breakfast-table, “ How odd, to have
so late a party last night in this remote
place, and not to tell me of it before I
went to bed ! ” Then every one asked
Lady Mary what she meant. Then
Lady Mary replied, “ Why, all night
long, the carriages were driving round
and round th^terrace, underneath my
window ! ” Then the owner of the
house turned pale, and so did his Lady,
and Charles Macdoodle of Macdoodle
signed to Lady Mary to say no more,
and every one was silent. After break-
fast, Charles Macdoodle told Lady
Mary that it was a tradition in the
family that those rumbling carriages on
the terrace betokened death. And so
it proved, for, two months afterwards,
the Lady of the mansion died. And
Lady Mary, who was a Maid of Honor
at Court, often told this story to the old
Queen Charlotte ; by this token that
the old King always said, “ Eh, eh?
What, what? Ghosts, ghosts? No
such thing, no such thing ! ” And never
left off saying so until he went to bed.
Or, a friend of somebody’s, whom
most of us know, when he was a young
man at college, had a particular friend,
with whom he made the compact that,
if it were possible for the Spirit to re-
turn to this earth after its separation
from the body, he of the twain who first
died should reappear to the other. In
course of time, this compact was for-
gotten by our friend, the two young
men having progressed in life, and
taken diverging paths that were wide
asunder. But one night, many years
afterwards, our friend being in the
North of England, and staying for the
night in an inn on the Yorkshire Moors,
happened to look out of bed ; and there,
in the moonlight, leaning on a bureau
near the window, steadfastly regarding
A CHRISTMAS TREE.
479
him, saw his old college friend ! The
appearance, being solemnly addressed,
replied, in a kind of whisper, but very
audibly, “ Do not come near me. I am
dead. I am here to redeem my prom-
ise. I come from another world, but
may not disclose its secrets ! ” Then
the whole form, becoming paler, melted,
as it were, into the moonlight, and faded
away.
Or, there was the daughter of the
first occupier of the picturesque Eliza-
bethan house, so famous in our neigh-
borhood. You have heard about her?
No 1 Why, she went out one summer
evening, at twilight, when she was a
beautiful girl, just seventeen years of
age, to gather flowers in the garden ;
and presently came running, terrified,
into the hall to her father, saying, “ O
dear father, I have met myself ! ” He
took her in his arms, and told her it
was fancy, but she said, “ O no ! I met
myself in the broad walk, and I was
pale and gathering withered flowers,
and I turned my head, and held them
up ! ” And that night, she died ; and
a picture of her story was begun, though
never finished, and they say it is some-
where in the house to this day, with its
face to the wall.
Or, the uncle of my brother’s wife
was riding home on horseback, one
mellow evening at sunset, when, in a
green lane close to his own house, he
saw a man standing before him, in the
very centre of the narrow way. “ Why
does that man in the cloak stand
there ! ” he thought. “ Does he want
me to ride over him ? ” But the figure
never moved. He felt a strange sen-
sation at seeing it so still, but slack-
ened his trot and rode forward. When
he was so close to it as almost to touch
it with his stirrup, his horse shied, and
the figure glided up the bank, in a cu-
rious, unearthly manner, — backward,
and without seeming to use its feet, —
and was gone. The uncle of my broth-
er’s wife, exclaiming, “ Good Heaven !
It’s my cousin Harry, from Bombay ! ”
put spurs to his horse, which was sud-
denly in a profuse sweat, and, wonder-
ing at such strange behavior, dashed
round to the front of his house. There
he saw the same figure, j ust passing in
at the long French window of the draw-
ing-room opening on the ground. He
threw his bridle to a servant, and has-
tened in after it. His sister was sitting
there, alone. “ Alice, where ’s my
cousin Harry? ” “Your cousin Harry,
John?” “Yes. From Bombay. I
met him in the lane just now, and saw
him enter here, this instant.” Not a
creature had been seen by any one ;
and in that hour and minute, as it
afterwards appeared, this cousin died
in India.
Or, it was a certain sensible old
maiden lady, who died at ninety-nine,
and retained her faculties to the last,
who really did see the Orphan Boy ; a
story which has often been incorrectly
told, but of which the real truth is
this, — because it is, in fact, a story be-
longing to our family, and she was a
connection of our family. When she
was about forty years of age, and still
an uncommonly fine woman (her lover
died young, which was the reason why
she never married, though she had
many offers), she went to stay at a
place in Kent, which her brother, an
Indian merchant, had newly bought.
There was a story that this place had
once been held in trust by the giiar-^
dian of a young boy ; who was himself
the next heir, and who killed the young
boy by harsh and cruel treatment. She
knew nothing of that. It has been
said that there was a Cage in her bed-
room in which the guardian used to
put the boy. There was no such thing.
There was only a closet. She went to
bed, made no alarm whatever in the
night, and in the morning said com-
posedly to her maid when she came in,
“ Who is the pretty forlorn-looking
child who has been peeping out of that
closet all night?” The maid replied
by giving a loud scream, and instantly
decamping. She was surprised ; but
she was a woman of remarkable
strength of mind, and she dressed
herself and went down stairs, and clos-
eted herself with her brother. “Now,
Walter,” she said, “ I have been dis-
turbed all night by a pretty, forlorn-
looking boy, who has been constantly
peeping out of that closet in my room,
which I can’t open. This is some
480
A CHRISTMAS TREE.
trick.” “I am afraid not, Charlotte,”
said he, “ for it is the legend of the
house. It is the Orphan Boy. What
did he do?” “He opened the door
softly,” said she, “ and peeped out.
Sometimes, he came a step or two into
the room. Then I called to him, to
encourage him, and he shrunk, and
shuddered, and crept in again, and shut
the door.” “The closet has no com-
munication, Charlotte,” said her broth-
er, “ with any other part of the house,
and it ’s nailed up.” This was undeni-
ably true, and it took two carpenters
a whole forenoon to get it open for
examination. Then she was satisfied
that she had seen the Orphan Boy.
But the wild and terrible part of the
story is, that he was also seen by three
of her brother’s sons, in succession,
who all died young. On the occasion
of each child being taken ill, he came
home in a heat, twelve hours before,
and said, O mamma, he had been
playing under a particular oak-tree, in
a certain meadow, with a strange boy,
— a pretty, forlorn-looking boy, who
was very timid, and made signs ! From
fatal experience, the parents came to
know that this was the Orphan Boy,
and that the course of that child whom
he chose for his little playmate was
surely run.
Legion is the name of the German
castles, where we sit up alone to wait
for the Spectre, — where we are shown
into a room, made comparatively cheer-
ful for our reception, — where we glance
round at the shadows thrown on the
blank walls by the crackling fire, —
where w T e feel very lonely when the
village innkeeper and his pretty daugh-
ter have retired, after laying down a
fresh store of wood upon the hearth,
and setting forth on the small table
such supper-cheer as a cold roast ca-
pon, bread, grapes, and a flask of old
Rhine wane, — where the reverberating
doors close on their retreat, one after
another, like so many peals of sullen
thunder, — and where, about the small
hours of the night, we come into the
knowledge of divers supernatural mys-
teries. Legion is the name of the
haunted German students, in whose
society we draw yet nearer to the fire,
while the school-boy in the corner opens
his eyes wide and round, and flies off
the footstool he has chosen for his seat,
when the door accidentally blows open.
Vast is the crop of such fruit, shining
on our Christmas Tree ; in blossom,
almost at the very top ; ripening all
down the boughs !
Among the later toys and fancies
hanging there, — as idle often and less
pure, — be the images once associated
with the sweet old Waits, the softened
music in the night, ever unalterable !
Encircled by the social thoughts of
Christmas time, still let the benignant
figure of my childhood stand unchanged !
In every cheerful image and suggestion
that the season brings, may the bright
star that rested above the poor roof be
the star of all the Christian world ! A
moment’s pause, O vanishing tree, of
which the lower boughs are dark to me
as yet, and let me look once more ! I
know there are blank spaces on thy
branches, where eyes that I have loved
have shone and smiled, from which
they are departed. But, far above, I
see the raiser of the dead girl, and the
Widow’s Son ; and God is good ! If
Age be hiding for me in the unseen
portion of thy downward growth, O
may I, with a gray head, turn a child’s
heart to that figure yet, and a child’s
trustfulness and confidence !
Now, the tree is decorated with
bright merriment and song and dance
and cheerfulness. And they are wel-
come. Innocent and welcome be they
ever held, beneath the branches of the
Christmas Tree, which cast no gloomy
shadow ! But, as it sinks into the
ground, I hear a whisper going through
the leaves. “ This, in commemoration
of the law of love and kindness, mercy
and compassion. This, in remembrance
of Me 1 ”
Cambridge : Electrotyped and Printed by Welch, Bigelow, & Co.