The Chimes, by Charles Dickens

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Title: The Chimes

Author: Charles Dickens

Release Date: September, 1996  [EBook #653]
[This file was first posted on October 16, 1996]
[Most recently updated: September 8, 2002]

Edition: 10

Language: English

Character set encoding: ASCII

Transcribed from Charles Scribner’s Sons “Works of Charles Dickens” edition by David Price, email ccx074@coventry.ac.uk




THE CHIMES




CHAPTER I - First Quarter.



Here are not many people - and as it is desirable that a story-teller and a story-reader should establish a mutual understanding as soon as possible, I beg it to be noticed that I confine this observation neither to young people nor to little people, but extend it to all conditions of people: little and big, young and old: yet growing up, or already growing down again - there are not, I say, many people who would care to sleep in a church.  I don’t mean at sermon-time in warm weather (when the thing has actually been done, once or twice), but in the night, and alone.  A great multitude of persons will be violently astonished, I know, by this position, in the broad bold Day.  But it applies to Night.  It must be argued by night, and I will undertake to maintain it successfully on any gusty winter’s night appointed for the purpose, with any one opponent chosen from the rest, who will meet me singly in an old churchyard, before an old church-door; and will previously empower me to lock him in, if needful to his satisfaction, until morning.

For the night-wind has a dismal trick of wandering round and round a building of that sort, and moaning as it goes; and of trying, with its unseen hand, the windows and the doors; and seeking out some crevices by which to enter.  And when it has got in; as one not finding what it seeks, whatever that may be, it wails and howls to issue forth again: and not content with stalking through the aisles, and gliding round and round the pillars, and tempting the deep organ, soars up to the roof, and strives to rend the rafters: then flings itself despairingly upon the stones below, and passes, muttering, into the vaults.  Anon, it comes up stealthily, and creeps along the walls, seeming to read, in whispers, the Inscriptions sacred to the Dead.  At some of these, it breaks out shrilly, as with laughter; and at others, moans and cries as if it were lamenting.  It has a ghostly sound too, lingering within the altar; where it seems to chaunt, in its wild way, of Wrong and Murder done, and false Gods worshipped, in defiance of the Tables of the Law, which look so fair and smooth, but are so flawed and broken.  Ugh!  Heaven preserve us, sitting snugly round the fire!  It has an awful voice, that wind at Midnight, singing in a church!

But, high up in the steeple!  There the foul blast roars and whistles!  High up in the steeple, where it is free to come and go through many an airy arch and loophole, and to twist and twine itself about the giddy stair, and twirl the groaning weathercock, and make the very tower shake and shiver!  High up in the steeple, where the belfry is, and iron rails are ragged with rust, and sheets of lead and copper, shrivelled by the changing weather, crackle and heave beneath the unaccustomed tread; and birds stuff shabby nests into corners of old oaken joists and beams; and dust grows old and grey; and speckled spiders, indolent and fat with long security, swing idly to and fro in the vibration of the bells, and never loose their hold upon their thread-spun castles in the air, or climb up sailor-like in quick alarm, or drop upon the ground and ply a score of nimble legs to save one life!  High up in the steeple of an old church, far above the light and murmur of the town and far below the flying clouds that shadow it, is the wild and dreary place at night: and high up in the steeple of an old church, dwelt the Chimes I tell of.

They were old Chimes, trust me.  Centuries ago, these Bells had been baptized by bishops: so many centuries ago, that the register of their baptism was lost long, long before the memory of man, and no one knew their names.  They had had their Godfathers and Godmothers, these Bells (for my own part, by the way, I would rather incur the responsibility of being Godfather to a Bell than a Boy), and had their silver mugs no doubt, besides.  But Time had mowed down their sponsors, and Henry the Eighth had melted down their mugs; and they now hung, nameless and mugless, in the church-tower.

Not speechless, though.  Far from it.  They had clear, loud, lusty, sounding voices, had these Bells; and far and wide they might be heard upon the wind.  Much too sturdy Chimes were they, to be dependent on the pleasure of the wind, moreover; for, fighting gallantly against it when it took an adverse whim, they would pour their cheerful notes into a listening ear right royally; and bent on being heard on stormy nights, by some poor mother watching a sick child, or some lone wife whose husband was at sea, they had been sometimes known to beat a blustering Nor’ Wester; aye, ‘all to fits,’ as Toby Veck said; - for though they chose to call him Trotty Veck, his name was Toby, and nobody could make it anything else either (except Tobias) without a special act of parliament; he having been as lawfully christened in his day as the Bells had been in theirs, though with not quite so much of solemnity or public rejoicing.

For my part, I confess myself of Toby Veck’s belief, for I am sure he had opportunities enough of forming a correct one.  And whatever Toby Veck said, I say.  And I take my stand by Toby Veck, although he did stand all day long (and weary work it was) just outside the church-door.  In fact he was a ticket-porter, Toby Veck, and waited there for jobs.

And a breezy, goose-skinned, blue-nosed, red-eyed, stony-toed, tooth-chattering place it was, to wait in, in the winter-time, as Toby Veck well knew.  The wind came tearing round the corner - especially the east wind - as if it had sallied forth, express, from the confines of the earth, to have a blow at Toby.  And oftentimes it seemed to come upon him sooner than it had expected, for bouncing round the corner, and passing Toby, it would suddenly wheel round again, as if it cried ‘Why, here he is!’  Incontinently his little white apron would be caught up over his head like a naughty boy’s garments, and his feeble little cane would be seen to wrestle and struggle unavailingly in his hand, and his legs would undergo tremendous agitation, and Toby himself all aslant, and facing now in this direction, now in that, would be so banged and buffeted, and to touzled, and worried, and hustled, and lifted off his feet, as to render it a state of things but one degree removed from a positive miracle, that he wasn’t carried up bodily into the air as a colony of frogs or snails or other very portable creatures sometimes are, and rained down again, to the great astonishment of the natives, on some strange corner of the world where ticket-porters are unknown.

But, windy weather, in spite of its using him so roughly, was, after all, a sort of holiday for Toby.  That’s the fact.  He didn’t seem to wait so long for a sixpence in the wind, as at other times; the having to fight with that boisterous element took off his attention, and quite freshened him up, when he was getting hungry and low-spirited.  A hard frost too, or a fall of snow, was an Event; and it seemed to do him good, somehow or other - it would have been hard to say in what respect though, Toby!  So wind and frost and snow, and perhaps a good stiff storm of hail, were Toby Veck’s red-letter days.

Wet weather was the worst; the cold, damp, clammy wet, that wrapped him up like a moist great-coat - the only kind of great-coat Toby owned, or could have added to his comfort by dispensing with.  Wet days, when the rain came slowly, thickly, obstinately down; when the street’s throat, like his own, was choked with mist; when smoking umbrellas passed and re-passed, spinning round and round like so many teetotums, as they knocked against each other on the crowded footway, throwing off a little whirlpool of uncomfortable sprinklings; when gutters brawled and waterspouts were full and noisy; when the wet from the projecting stones and ledges of the church fell drip, drip, drip, on Toby, making the wisp of straw on which he stood mere mud in no time; those were the days that tried him.  Then, indeed, you might see Toby looking anxiously out from his shelter in an angle of the church wall - such a meagre shelter that in summer time it never cast a shadow thicker than a good-sized walking stick upon the sunny pavement - with a disconsolate and lengthened face.  But coming out, a minute afterwards, to warm himself by exercise, and trotting up and down some dozen times, he would brighten even then, and go back more brightly to his niche.

They called him Trotty from his pace, which meant speed if it didn’t make it.  He could have walked faster perhaps; most likely; but rob him of his trot, and Toby would have taken to his bed and died.  It bespattered him with mud in dirty weather; it cost him a world of trouble; he could have walked with infinitely greater ease; but that was one reason for his clinging to it so tenaciously.  A weak, small, spare old man, he was a very Hercules, this Toby, in his good intentions.  He loved to earn his money.  He delighted to believe - Toby was very poor, and couldn’t well afford to part with a delight - that he was worth his salt.  With a shilling or an eighteenpenny message or small parcel in hand, his courage always high, rose higher.  As he trotted on, he would call out to fast Postmen ahead of him, to get out of the way; devoutly believing that in the natural course of things he must inevitably overtake and run them down; and he had perfect faith - not often tested - in his being able to carry anything that man could lift.

Thus, even when he came out of his nook to warm himself on a wet day, Toby trotted.  Making, with his leaky shoes, a crooked line of slushy footprints in the mire; and blowing on his chilly hands and rubbing them against each other, poorly defended from the searching cold by threadbare mufflers of grey worsted, with a private apartment only for the thumb, and a common room or tap for the rest of the fingers; Toby, with his knees bent and his cane beneath his arm, still trotted.  Falling out into the road to look up at the belfry when the Chimes resounded, Toby trotted still.

He made this last excursion several times a day, for they were company to him; and when he heard their voices, he had an interest in glancing at their lodging-place, and thinking how they were moved, and what hammers beat upon them.  Perhaps he was the more curious about these Bells, because there were points of resemblance between themselves and him.  They hung there, in all weathers, with the wind and rain driving in upon them; facing only the outsides of all those houses; never getting any nearer to the blazing fires that gleamed and shone upon the windows, or came puffing out of the chimney tops; and incapable of participation in any of the good things that were constantly being handled, through the street doors and the area railings, to prodigious cooks.  Faces came and went at many windows: sometimes pretty faces, youthful faces, pleasant faces: sometimes the reverse: but Toby knew no more (though he often speculated on these trifles, standing idle in the streets) whence they came, or where they went, or whether, when the lips moved, one kind word was said of him in all the year, than did the Chimes themselves.

Toby was not a casuist - that he knew of, at least - and I don’t mean to say that when he began to take to the Bells, and to knit up his first rough acquaintance with them into something of a closer and more delicate woof, he passed through these considerations one by one, or held any formal review or great field-day in his thoughts.  But what I mean to say, and do say is, that as the functions of Toby’s body, his digestive organs for example, did of their own cunning, and by a great many operations of which he was altogether ignorant, and the knowledge of which would have astonished him very much, arrive at a certain end; so his mental faculties, without his privity or concurrence, set all these wheels and springs in motion, with a thousand others, when they worked to bring about his liking for the Bells.

And though I had said his love, I would not have recalled the word, though it would scarcely have expressed his complicated feeling.  For, being but a simple man, he invested them with a strange and solemn character.  They were so mysterious, often heard and never seen; so high up, so far off, so full of such a deep strong melody, that he regarded them with a species of awe; and sometimes when he looked up at the dark arched windows in the tower, he half expected to be beckoned to by something which was not a Bell, and yet was what he had heard so often sounding in the Chimes.  For all this, Toby scouted with indignation a certain flying rumour that the Chimes were haunted, as implying the possibility of their being connected with any Evil thing.  In short, they were very often in his ears, and very often in his thoughts, but always in his good opinion; and he very often got such a crick in his neck by staring with his mouth wide open, at the steeple where they hung, that he was fain to take an extra trot or two, afterwards, to cure it.

The very thing he was in the act of doing one cold day, when the last drowsy sound of Twelve o’clock, just struck, was humming like a melodious monster of a Bee, and not by any means a busy bee, all through the steeple!

‘Dinner-time, eh!’ said Toby, trotting up and down before the church.  ‘Ah!’

Toby’s nose was very red, and his eyelids were very red, and he winked very much, and his shoulders were very near his ears, and his legs were very stiff, and altogether he was evidently a long way upon the frosty side of cool.

‘Dinner-time, eh!’ repeated Toby, using his right-hand muffler like an infantine boxing-glove, and punishing his chest for being cold.  ‘Ah-h-h-h!’

He took a silent trot, after that, for a minute or two.

‘There’s nothing,’ said Toby, breaking forth afresh - but here he stopped short in his trot, and with a face of great interest and some alarm, felt his nose carefully all the way up.  It was but a little way (not being much of a nose) and he had soon finished.

‘I thought it was gone,’ said Toby, trotting off again.  ‘It’s all right, however.  I am sure I couldn’t blame it if it was to go.  It has a precious hard service of it in the bitter weather, and precious little to look forward to; for I don’t take snuff myself.  It’s a good deal tried, poor creetur, at the best of times; for when it does get hold of a pleasant whiff or so (which an’t too often) it’s generally from somebody else’s dinner, a-coming home from the baker’s.’

The reflection reminded him of that other reflection, which he had left unfinished.

‘There’s nothing,’ said Toby, ‘more regular in its coming round than dinner-time, and nothing less regular in its coming round than dinner.  That’s the great difference between ’em.  It’s took me a long time to find it out.  I wonder whether it would be worth any gentleman’s while, now, to buy that obserwation for the Papers; or the Parliament!’

Toby was only joking, for he gravely shook his head in self-depreciation.

‘Why! Lord!’ said Toby.  ‘The Papers is full of obserwations as it is; and so’s the Parliament.  Here’s last week’s paper, now;’ taking a very dirty one from his pocket, and holding it from him at arm’s length; ‘full of obserwations!  Full of obserwations!  I like to know the news as well as any man,’ said Toby, slowly; folding it a little smaller, and putting it in his pocket again: ‘but it almost goes against the grain with me to read a paper now.  It frightens me almost.  I don’t know what we poor people are coming to.  Lord send we may be coming to something better in the New Year nigh upon us!’

‘Why, father, father!’ said a pleasant voice, hard by.

But Toby, not hearing it, continued to trot backwards and forwards: musing as he went, and talking to himself.

‘It seems as if we can’t go right, or do right, or be righted,’ said Toby.  ‘I hadn’t much schooling, myself, when I was young; and I can’t make out whether we have any business on the face of the earth, or not.  Sometimes I think we must have - a little; and sometimes I think we must be intruding.  I get so puzzled sometimes that I am not even able to make up my mind whether there is any good at all in us, or whether we are born bad.  We seem to be dreadful things; we seem to give a deal of trouble; we are always being complained of and guarded against.  One way or other, we fill the papers.  Talk of a New Year!’ said Toby, mournfully.  ‘I can bear up as well as another man at most times; better than a good many, for I am as strong as a lion, and all men an’t; but supposing it should really be that we have no right to a New Year - supposing we really are intruding - ’

‘Why, father, father!’ said the pleasant voice again.

Toby heard it this time; started; stopped; and shortening his sight, which had been directed a long way off as seeking the enlightenment in the very heart of the approaching year, found himself face to face with his own child, and looking close into her eyes.

Bright eyes they were.  Eyes that would bear a world of looking in, before their depth was fathomed.  Dark eyes, that reflected back the eyes which searched them; not flashingly, or at the owner’s will, but with a clear, calm, honest, patient radiance, claiming kindred with that light which Heaven called into being.  Eyes that were beautiful and true, and beaming with Hope.  With Hope so young and fresh; with Hope so buoyant, vigorous, and bright, despite the twenty years of work and poverty on which they had looked; that they became a voice to Trotty Veck, and said: ‘I think we have some business here - a little!’

Trotty kissed the lips belonging to the eyes, and squeezed the blooming face between his hands.

‘Why, Pet,’ said Trotty.  ‘What’s to do?  I didn’t expect you to-day, Meg.’

‘Neither did I expect to come, father,’ cried the girl, nodding her head and smiling as she spoke.  ‘But here I am!  And not alone; not alone!’

‘Why you don’t mean to say,’ observed Trotty, looking curiously at a covered basket which she carried in her hand, ‘that you - ’

‘Smell it, father dear,’ said Meg.  ‘Only smell it!’

Trotty was going to lift up the cover at once, in a great hurry, when she gaily interposed her hand.

‘No, no, no,’ said Meg, with the glee of a child.  ‘Lengthen it out a little.  Let me just lift up the corner; just the lit-tle ti-ny cor-ner, you know,’ said Meg, suiting the action to the word with the utmost gentleness, and speaking very softly, as if she were afraid of being overheard by something inside the basket; ‘there.  Now.  What’s that?’

Toby took the shortest possible sniff at the edge of the basket, and cried out in a rapture:

‘Why, it’s hot!’

‘It’s burning hot!’ cried Meg.  ‘Ha, ha, ha!  It’s scalding hot!’

‘Ha, ha, ha!’ roared Toby, with a sort of kick.  ‘It’s scalding hot!’

‘But what is it, father?’ said Meg.  ‘Come.  You haven’t guessed what it is.  And you must guess what it is.  I can’t think of taking it out, till you guess what it is.  Don’t be in such a hurry!  Wait a minute!  A little bit more of the cover.  Now guess!’

Meg was in a perfect fright lest he should guess right too soon; shrinking away, as she held the basket towards him; curling up her pretty shoulders; stopping her ear with her hand, as if by so doing she could keep the right word out of Toby’s lips; and laughing softly the whole time.

Meanwhile Toby, putting a hand on each knee, bent down his nose to the basket, and took a long inspiration at the lid; the grin upon his withered face expanding in the process, as if he were inhaling laughing gas.

‘Ah!  It’s very nice,’ said Toby.  ‘It an’t - I suppose it an’t Polonies?’

‘No, no, no!’ cried Meg, delighted.  ‘Nothing like Polonies!’

‘No,’ said Toby, after another sniff.  ‘It’s - it’s mellower than Polonies.  It’s very nice.  It improves every moment.  It’s too decided for Trotters.  An’t it?’

Meg was in an ecstasy.  He could not have gone wider of the mark than Trotters - except Polonies.

‘Liver?’ said Toby, communing with himself.  ‘No.  There’s a mildness about it that don’t answer to liver.  Pettitoes?  No.  It an’t faint enough for pettitoes.  It wants the stringiness of Cocks’ heads.  And I know it an’t sausages.  I’ll tell you what it is.  It’s chitterlings!’

‘No, it an’t!’ cried Meg, in a burst of delight.  ‘No, it an’t!’

‘Why, what am I a-thinking of!’ said Toby, suddenly recovering a position as near the perpendicular as it was possible for him to assume.  ‘I shall forget my own name next.  It’s tripe!’

Tripe it was; and Meg, in high joy, protested he should say, in half a minute more, it was the best tripe ever stewed.

‘And so,’ said Meg, busying herself exultingly with the basket, ‘I’ll lay the cloth at once, father; for I have brought the tripe in a basin, and tied the basin up in a pocket-handkerchief; and if I like to be proud for once, and spread that for a cloth, and call it a cloth, there’s no law to prevent me; is there, father?’

‘Not that I know of, my dear,’ said Toby.  ‘But they’re always a-bringing up some new law or other.’

‘And according to what I was reading you in the paper the other day, father; what the Judge said, you know; we poor people are supposed to know them all.  Ha ha!  What a mistake!  My goodness me, how clever they think us!’

‘Yes, my dear,’ cried Trotty; ‘and they’d be very fond of any one of us that did know ’em all.  He’d grow fat upon the work he’d get, that man, and be popular with the gentlefolks in his neighbourhood.  Very much so!’

‘He’d eat his dinner with an appetite, whoever he was, if it smelt like this,’ said Meg, cheerfully.  ‘Make haste, for there’s a hot potato besides, and half a pint of fresh-drawn beer in a bottle.  Where will you dine, father?  On the Post, or on the Steps?  Dear, dear, how grand we are.  Two places to choose from!’

‘The steps to-day, my Pet,’ said Trotty.  ‘Steps in dry weather.  Post in wet.  There’s a greater conveniency in the steps at all times, because of the sitting down; but they’re rheumatic in the damp.’

‘Then here,’ said Meg, clapping her hands, after a moment’s bustle; ‘here it is, all ready!  And beautiful it looks!  Come, father.  Come!’

Since his discovery of the contents of the basket, Trotty had been standing looking at her - and had been speaking too - in an abstracted manner, which showed that though she was the object of his thoughts and eyes, to the exclusion even of tripe, he neither saw nor thought about her as she was at that moment, but had before him some imaginary rough sketch or drama of her future life.  Roused, now, by her cheerful summons, he shook off a melancholy shake of the head which was just coming upon him, and trotted to her side.  As he was stooping to sit down, the Chimes rang.

‘Amen!’ said Trotty, pulling off his hat and looking up towards them.

‘Amen to the Bells, father?’ cried Meg.

‘They broke in like a grace, my dear,’ said Trotty, taking his seat.  ‘They’d say a good one, I am sure, if they could.  Many’s the kind thing they say to me.’

‘The Bells do, father!’ laughed Meg, as she set the basin, and a knife and fork, before him.  ‘Well!’

‘Seem to, my Pet,’ said Trotty, falling to with great vigour.  ‘And where’s the difference?  If I hear ’em, what does it matter whether they speak it or not?  Why bless you, my dear,’ said Toby, pointing at the tower with his fork, and becoming more animated under the influence of dinner, ‘how often have I heard them bells say, “Toby Veck, Toby Veck, keep a good heart, Toby!  Toby Veck, Toby Veck, keep a good heart, Toby!”  A million times?  More!’

‘Well, I never!’ cried Meg.

She had, though - over and over again.  For it was Toby’s constant topic.

‘When things is very bad,’ said Trotty; ‘very bad indeed, I mean; almost at the worst; then it’s “Toby Veck, Toby Veck, job coming soon, Toby!  Toby Veck, Toby Veck, job coming soon, Toby!”  That way.’

‘And it comes - at last, father,’ said Meg, with a touch of sadness in her pleasant voice.

‘Always,’ answered the unconscious Toby.  ‘Never fails.’

While this discourse was holding, Trotty made no pause in his attack upon the savoury meat before him, but cut and ate, and cut and drank, and cut and chewed, and dodged about, from tripe to hot potato, and from hot potato back again to tripe, with an unctuous and unflagging relish.  But happening now to look all round the street - in case anybody should be beckoning from any door or window, for a porter - his eyes, in coming back again, encountered Meg: sitting opposite to him, with her arms folded and only busy in watching his progress with a smile of happiness.

‘Why, Lord forgive me!’ said Trotty, dropping his knife and fork.  ‘My dove!  Meg! why didn’t you tell me what a beast I was?’

‘Father?’

‘Sitting here,’ said Trotty, in penitent explanation, ‘cramming, and stuffing, and gorging myself; and you before me there, never so much as breaking your precious fast, nor wanting to, when - ’

‘But I have broken it, father,’ interposed his daughter, laughing, ‘all to bits.  I have had my dinner.’

‘Nonsense,’ said Trotty.  ‘Two dinners in one day!  It an’t possible!  You might as well tell me that two New Year’s Days will come together, or that I have had a gold head all my life, and never changed it.’

‘I have had my dinner, father, for all that,’ said Meg, coming nearer to him.  ‘And if you’ll go on with yours, I’ll tell you how and where; and how your dinner came to be brought; and - and something else besides.’

Toby still appeared incredulous; but she looked into his face with her clear eyes, and laying her hand upon his shoulder, motioned him to go on while the meat was hot.  So Trotty took up his knife and fork again, and went to work.  But much more slowly than before, and shaking his head, as if he were not at all pleased with himself.

‘I had my dinner, father,’ said Meg, after a little hesitation, ‘with - with Richard.  His dinner-time was early; and as he brought his dinner with him when he came to see me, we - we had it together, father.’

Trotty took a little beer, and smacked his lips.  Then he said, ‘Oh!’ - because she waited.

‘And Richard says, father - ’ Meg resumed.  Then stopped.

‘What does Richard say, Meg?’ asked Toby.

‘Richard says, father - ’  Another stoppage.

‘Richard’s a long time saying it,’ said Toby.

‘He says then, father,’ Meg continued, lifting up her eyes at last, and speaking in a tremble, but quite plainly; ‘another year is nearly gone, and where is the use of waiting on from year to year, when it is so unlikely we shall ever be better off than we are now?  He says we are poor now, father, and we shall be poor then, but we are young now, and years will make us old before we know it.  He says that if we wait: people in our condition: until we see our way quite clearly, the way will be a narrow one indeed - the common way - the Grave, father.’

A bolder man than Trotty Veck must needs have drawn upon his boldness largely, to deny it.  Trotty held his peace.

‘And how hard, father, to grow old, and die, and think we might have cheered and helped each other!  How hard in all our lives to love each other; and to grieve, apart, to see each other working, changing, growing old and grey.  Even if I got the better of it, and forgot him (which I never could), oh father dear, how hard to have a heart so full as mine is now, and live to have it slowly drained out every drop, without the recollection of one happy moment of a woman’s life, to stay behind and comfort me, and make me better!’

Trotty sat quite still.  Meg dried her eyes, and said more gaily: that is to say, with here a laugh, and there a sob, and here a laugh and sob together:

‘So Richard says, father; as his work was yesterday made certain for some time to come, and as I love him, and have loved him full three years - ah! longer than that, if he knew it! - will I marry him on New Year’s Day; the best and happiest day, he says, in the whole year, and one that is almost sure to bring good fortune with it.  It’s a short notice, father - isn’t it? - but I haven’t my fortune to be settled, or my wedding dresses to be made, like the great ladies, father, have I?  And he said so much, and said it in his way; so strong and earnest, and all the time so kind and gentle; that I said I’d come and talk to you, father.  And as they paid the money for that work of mine this morning (unexpectedly, I am sure!) and as you have fared very poorly for a whole week, and as I couldn’t help wishing there should be something to make this day a sort of holiday to you as well as a dear and happy day to me, father, I made a little treat and brought it to surprise you.’

‘And see how he leaves it cooling on the step!’ said another voice.

It was the voice of this same Richard, who had come upon them unobserved, and stood before the father and daughter; looking down upon them with a face as glowing as the iron on which his stout sledge-hammer daily rung.  A handsome, well-made, powerful youngster he was; with eyes that sparkled like the red-hot droppings from a furnace fire; black hair that curled about his swarthy temples rarely; and a smile - a smile that bore out Meg’s eulogium on his style of conversation.

‘See how he leaves it cooling on the step!’ said Richard.  ‘Meg don’t know what he likes.  Not she!’

Trotty, all action and enthusiasm, immediately reached up his hand to Richard, and was going to address him in great hurry, when the house-door opened without any warning, and a footman very nearly put his foot into the tripe.

‘Out of the vays here, will you!  You must always go and be a-settin on our steps, must you!  You can’t go and give a turn to none of the neighbours never, can’t you!  Will you clear the road, or won’t you?’

Strictly speaking, the last question was irrelevant, as they had already done it.

‘What’s the matter, what’s the matter!’ said the gentleman for whom the door was opened; coming out of the house at that kind of light-heavy pace - that peculiar compromise between a walk and a jog-trot - with which a gentleman upon the smooth down-hill of life, wearing creaking boots, a watch-chain, and clean linen, may come out of his house: not only without any abatement of his dignity, but with an expression of having important and wealthy engagements elsewhere.  ‘What’s the matter!  What’s the matter!’

‘You’re always a-being begged, and prayed, upon your bended knees you are,’ said the footman with great emphasis to Trotty Veck, ‘to let our door-steps be.  Why don’t you let ’em be?  CAN’T you let ’em be?’

‘There!  That’ll do, that’ll do!’ said the gentleman.  ‘Halloa there!  Porter!’ beckoning with his head to Trotty Veck.  ‘Come here.  What’s that?  Your dinner?’

‘Yes, sir,’ said Trotty, leaving it behind him in a corner.

‘Don’t leave it there,’ exclaimed the gentleman.  ‘Bring it here, bring it here.  So!  This is your dinner, is it?’

‘Yes, sir,’ repeated Trotty, looking with a fixed eye and a watery mouth, at the piece of tripe he had reserved for a last delicious tit-bit; which the gentleman was now turning over and over on the end of the fork.

Two other gentlemen had come out with him.  One was a low-spirited gentleman of middle age, of a meagre habit, and a disconsolate face; who kept his hands continually in the pockets of his scanty pepper-and-salt trousers, very large and dog’s-eared from that custom; and was not particularly well brushed or washed.  The other, a full-sized, sleek, well-conditioned gentleman, in a blue coat with bright buttons, and a white cravat.  This gentleman had a very red face, as if an undue proportion of the blood in his body were squeezed up into his head; which perhaps accounted for his having also the appearance of being rather cold about the heart.

He who had Toby’s meat upon the fork, called to the first one by the name of Filer; and they both drew near together.  Mr. Filer being exceedingly short-sighted, was obliged to go so close to the remnant of Toby’s dinner before he could make out what it was, that Toby’s heart leaped up into his mouth.  But Mr. Filer didn’t eat it.

‘This is a description of animal food, Alderman,’ said Filer, making little punches in it with a pencil-case, ‘commonly known to the labouring population of this country, by the name of tripe.’

The Alderman laughed, and winked; for he was a merry fellow, Alderman Cute.  Oh, and a sly fellow too!  A knowing fellow.  Up to everything.  Not to be imposed upon.  Deep in the people’s hearts!  He knew them, Cute did.  I believe you!

‘But who eats tripe?’ said Mr. Filer, looking round.  ‘Tripe is without an exception the least economical, and the most wasteful article of consumption that the markets of this country can by possibility produce.  The loss upon a pound of tripe has been found to be, in the boiling, seven-eights of a fifth more than the loss upon a pound of any other animal substance whatever.  Tripe is more expensive, properly understood, than the hothouse pine-apple.  Taking into account the number of animals slaughtered yearly within the bills of mortality alone; and forming a low estimate of the quantity of tripe which the carcases of those animals, reasonably well butchered, would yield; I find that the waste on that amount of tripe, if boiled, would victual a garrison of five hundred men for five months of thirty-one days each, and a February over.  The Waste, the Waste!’

Trotty stood aghast, and his legs shook under him.  He seemed to have starved a garrison of five hundred men with his own hand.

‘Who eats tripe?’ said Mr. Filer, warmly.  ‘Who eats tripe?’

Trotty made a miserable bow.

‘You do, do you?’ said Mr. Filer.  ‘Then I’ll tell you something.  You snatch your tripe, my friend, out of the mouths of widows and orphans.’

‘I hope not, sir,’ said Trotty, faintly.  ‘I’d sooner die of want!’

‘Divide the amount of tripe before-mentioned, Alderman,’ said Mr. Filer, ‘by the estimated number of existing widows and orphans, and the result will be one pennyweight of tripe to each.  Not a grain is left for that man.  Consequently, he’s a robber.’

Trotty was so shocked, that it gave him no concern to see the Alderman finish the tripe himself.  It was a relief to get rid of it, anyhow.

‘And what do you say?’ asked the Alderman, jocosely, of the red-faced gentleman in the blue coat.  ‘You have heard friend Filer.  What do you say?’

‘What’s it possible to say?’ returned the gentleman.  ‘What is to be said?  Who can take any interest in a fellow like this,’ meaning Trotty; ‘in such degenerate times as these?  Look at him.  What an object!  The good old times, the grand old times, the great old times!  Those were the times for a bold peasantry, and all that sort of thing.  Those were the times for every sort of thing, in fact.  There’s nothing now-a-days.  Ah!’ sighed the red-faced gentleman.  ‘The good old times, the good old times!’

The gentleman didn’t specify what particular times he alluded to; nor did he say whether he objected to the present times, from a disinterested consciousness that they had done nothing very remarkable in producing himself.

‘The good old times, the good old times,’ repeated the gentleman.  ‘What times they were!  They were the only times.  It’s of no use talking about any other times, or discussing what the people are in these times.  You don’t call these, times, do you?  I don’t.  Look into Strutt’s Costumes, and see what a Porter used to be, in any of the good old English reigns.’

‘He hadn’t, in his very best circumstances, a shirt to his back, or a stocking to his foot; and there was scarcely a vegetable in all England for him to put into his mouth,’ said Mr. Filer.  ‘I can prove it, by tables.’

But still the red-faced gentleman extolled the good old times, the grand old times, the great old times.  No matter what anybody else said, he still went turning round and round in one set form of words concerning them; as a poor squirrel turns and turns in its revolving cage; touching the mechanism, and trick of which, it has probably quite as distinct perceptions, as ever this red-faced gentleman had of his deceased Millennium.

It is possible that poor Trotty’s faith in these very vague Old Times was not entirely destroyed, for he felt vague enough at that moment.  One thing, however, was plain to him, in the midst of his distress; to wit, that however these gentlemen might differ in details, his misgivings of that morning, and of many other mornings, were well founded.  ‘No, no.  We can’t go right or do right,’ thought Trotty in despair.  ‘There is no good in us.  We are born bad!’

But Trotty had a father’s heart within him; which had somehow got into his breast in spite of this decree; and he could not bear that Meg, in the blush of her brief joy, should have her fortune read by these wise gentlemen.  ‘God help her,’ thought poor Trotty.  ‘She will know it soon enough.’

He anxiously signed, therefore, to the young smith, to take her away.  But he was so busy, talking to her softly at a little distance, that he only became conscious of this desire, simultaneously with Alderman Cute.  Now, the Alderman had not yet had his say, but he was a philosopher, too - practical, though!  Oh, very practical - and, as he had no idea of losing any portion of his audience, he cried ‘Stop!’

‘Now, you know,’ said the Alderman, addressing his two friends, with a self-complacent smile upon his face which was habitual to him, ‘I am a plain man, and a practical man; and I go to work in a plain practical way.  That’s my way.  There is not the least mystery or difficulty in dealing with this sort of people if you only understand ’em, and can talk to ’em in their own manner.  Now, you Porter!  Don’t you ever tell me, or anybody else, my friend, that you haven’t always enough to eat, and of the best; because I know better.  I have tasted your tripe, you know, and you can’t “chaff” me.  You understand what “chaff” means, eh?  That’s the right word, isn’t it?  Ha, ha, ha! Lord bless you,’ said the Alderman, turning to his friends again, ‘it’s the easiest thing on earth to deal with this sort of people, if you understand ’em.’

Famous man for the common people, Alderman Cute!  Never out of temper with them!  Easy, affable, joking, knowing gentleman!

‘You see, my friend,’ pursued the Alderman, ‘there’s a great deal of nonsense talked about Want - “hard up,” you know; that’s the phrase, isn’t it? ha! ha! ha! - and I intend to Put it Down.  There’s a certain amount of cant in vogue about Starvation, and I mean to Put it Down.  That’s all!  Lord bless you,’ said the Alderman, turning to his friends again, ‘you may Put Down anything among this sort of people, if you only know the way to set about it.’

Trotty took Meg’s hand and drew it through his arm.  He didn’t seem to know what he was doing though.

‘Your daughter, eh?’ said the Alderman, chucking her familiarly under the chin.

Always affable with the working classes, Alderman Cute!  Knew what pleased them!  Not a bit of pride!

‘Where’s her mother?’ asked that worthy gentleman.

‘Dead,’ said Toby.  ‘Her mother got up linen; and was called to Heaven when She was born.’

‘Not to get up linen there, I suppose,’ remarked the Alderman pleasantly

Toby might or might not have been able to separate his wife in Heaven from her old pursuits.  But query: If Mrs. Alderman Cute had gone to Heaven, would Mr. Alderman Cute have pictured her as holding any state or station there?

‘And you’re making love to her, are you?’ said Cute to the young smith.

‘Yes,’ returned Richard quickly, for he was nettled by the question.  ‘And we are going to be married on New Year’s Day.’

‘What do you mean!’ cried Filer sharply.  ‘Married!’

‘Why, yes, we’re thinking of it, Master,’ said Richard.  ‘We’re rather in a hurry, you see, in case it should be Put Down first.’

‘Ah!’ cried Filer, with a groan.  ‘Put that down indeed, Alderman, and you’ll do something.  Married!  Married!!  The ignorance of the first principles of political economy on the part of these people; their improvidence; their wickedness; is, by Heavens! enough to - Now look at that couple, will you!’

Well?  They were worth looking at.  And marriage seemed as reasonable and fair a deed as they need have in contemplation.

‘A man may live to be as old as Methuselah,’ said Mr. Filer, ‘and may labour all his life for the benefit of such people as those; and may heap up facts on figures, facts on figures, facts on figures, mountains high and dry; and he can no more hope to persuade ’em that they have no right or business to be married, than he can hope to persuade ’em that they have no earthly right or business to be born.  And that we know they haven’t.  We reduced it to a mathematical certainty long ago!’

Alderman Cute was mightily diverted, and laid his right forefinger on the side of his nose, as much as to say to both his friends, ‘Observe me, will you!  Keep your eye on the practical man!’ - and called Meg to him.

‘Come here, my girl!’ said Alderman Cute.

The young blood of her lover had been mounting, wrathfully, within the last few minutes; and he was indisposed to let her come.  But, setting a constraint upon himself, he came forward with a stride as Meg approached, and stood beside her.  Trotty kept her hand within his arm still, but looked from face to face as wildly as a sleeper in a dream.

‘Now, I’m going to give you a word or two of good advice, my girl,’ said the Alderman, in his nice easy way.  ‘It’s my place to give advice, you know, because I’m a Justice.  You know I’m a Justice, don’t you?’

Meg timidly said, ‘Yes.’  But everybody knew Alderman Cute was a Justice!  Oh dear, so active a Justice always!  Who such a mote of brightness in the public eye, as Cute!

‘You are going to be married, you say,’ pursued the Alderman.  ‘Very unbecoming and indelicate in one of your sex!  But never mind that.  After you are married, you’ll quarrel with your husband and come to be a distressed wife.  You may think not; but you will, because I tell you so.  Now, I give you fair warning, that I have made up my mind to Put distressed wives Down.  So, don’t be brought before me.  You’ll have children - boys.  Those boys will grow up bad, of course, and run wild in the streets, without shoes and stockings.  Mind, my young friend!  I’ll convict ’em summarily, every one, for I am determined to Put boys without shoes and stockings, Down.  Perhaps your husband will die young (most likely) and leave you with a baby.  Then you’ll be turned out of doors, and wander up and down the streets.  Now, don’t wander near me, my dear, for I am resolved, to Put all wandering mothers Down.  All young mothers, of all sorts and kinds, it’s my determination to Put Down.  Don’t think to plead illness as an excuse with me; or babies as an excuse with me; for all sick persons and young children (I hope you know the church-service, but I’m afraid not) I am determined to Put Down.  And if you attempt, desperately, and ungratefully, and impiously, and fraudulently attempt, to drown yourself, or hang yourself, I’ll have no pity for you, for I have made up my mind to Put all suicide Down!  If there is one thing,’ said the Alderman, with his self-satisfied smile, ‘on which I can be said to have made up my mind more than on another, it is to Put suicide Down.  So don’t try it on.  That’s the phrase, isn’t it?  Ha, ha! now we understand each other.’

Toby knew not whether to be agonised or glad, to see that Meg had turned a deadly white, and dropped her lover’s hand.

‘And as for you, you dull dog,’ said the Alderman, turning with even increased cheerfulness and urbanity to the young smith, ‘what are you thinking of being married for?  What do you want to be married for, you silly fellow?  If I was a fine, young, strapping chap like you, I should be ashamed of being milksop enough to pin myself to a woman’s apron-strings!  Why, she’ll be an old woman before you’re a middle-aged man!  And a pretty figure you’ll cut then, with a draggle-tailed wife and a crowd of squalling children crying after you wherever you go!’

O, he knew how to banter the common people, Alderman Cute!

‘There!  Go along with you,’ said the Alderman, ‘and repent.  Don’t make such a fool of yourself as to get married on New Year’s Day.  You’ll think very differently of it, long before next New Year’s Day: a trim young fellow like you, with all the girls looking after you.  There!  Go along with you!’

They went along.  Not arm in arm, or hand in hand, or interchanging bright glances; but, she in tears; he, gloomy and down-looking.  Were these the hearts that had so lately made old Toby’s leap up from its faintness?  No, no.  The Alderman (a blessing on his head!) had Put them Down.

‘As you happen to be here,’ said the Alderman to Toby, ‘you shall carry a letter for me.  Can you be quick?  You’re an old man.’

Toby, who had been looking after Meg, quite stupidly, made shift to murmur out that he was very quick, and very strong.

‘How old are you?’ inquired the Alderman.

‘I’m over sixty, sir,’ said Toby.

‘O!  This man’s a great deal past the average age, you know,’ cried Mr. Filer breaking in as if his patience would bear some trying, but this really was carrying matters a little too far.

‘I feel I’m intruding, sir,’ said Toby.  ‘I - I misdoubted it this morning.  Oh dear me!’

The Alderman cut him short by giving him the letter from his pocket.  Toby would have got a shilling too; but Mr. Filer clearly showing that in that case he would rob a certain given number of persons of ninepence-halfpenny a-piece, he only got sixpence; and thought himself very well off to get that.

Then the Alderman gave an arm to each of his friends, and walked off in high feather; but, he immediately came hurrying back alone, as if he had forgotten something.

‘Porter!’ said the Alderman.

‘Sir!’ said Toby.

‘Take care of that daughter of yours.  She’s much too handsome.’

‘Even her good looks are stolen from somebody or other, I suppose,’ thought Toby, looking at the sixpence in his hand, and thinking of the tripe.  ‘She’s been and robbed five hundred ladies of a bloom a-piece, I shouldn’t wonder.  It’s very dreadful!’

‘She’s much too handsome, my man,’ repeated the Alderman.  ‘The chances are, that she’ll come to no good, I clearly see.  Observe what I say.  Take care of her!’  With which, he hurried off again.

‘Wrong every way.  Wrong every way!’ said Trotty, clasping his hands.  ‘Born bad.  No business here!’

The Chimes came clashing in upon him as he said the words.  Full, loud, and sounding - but with no encouragement.  No, not a drop.

‘The tune’s changed,’ cried the old man, as he listened.  ‘There’s not a word of all that fancy in it.  Why should there be?  I have no business with the New Year nor with the old one neither.  Let me die!’

Still the Bells, pealing forth their changes, made the very air spin.  Put ’em down, Put ’em down!  Good old Times, Good old Times!  Facts and Figures, Facts and Figures!  Put ’em down, Put ’em down!  If they said anything they said this, until the brain of Toby reeled.

He pressed his bewildered head between his hands, as if to keep it from splitting asunder.  A well-timed action, as it happened; for finding the letter in one of them, and being by that means reminded of his charge, he fell, mechanically, into his usual trot, and trotted off.



CHAPTER II - The Second Quarter.



The letter Toby had received from Alderman Cute, was addressed to a great man in the great district of the town.  The greatest district of the town.  It must have been the greatest district of the town, because it was commonly called ‘the world’ by its inhabitants.  The letter positively seemed heavier in Toby’s hand, than another letter.  Not because the Alderman had sealed it with a very large coat of arms and no end of wax, but because of the weighty name on the superscription, and the ponderous amount of gold and silver with which it was associated.

‘How different from us!’ thought Toby, in all simplicity and earnestness, as he looked at the direction.  ‘Divide the lively turtles in the bills of mortality, by the number of gentlefolks able to buy ’em; and whose share does he take but his own!  As to snatching tripe from anybody’s mouth - he’d scorn it!’

With the involuntary homage due to such an exalted character, Toby interposed a corner of his apron between the letter and his fingers.

‘His children,’ said Trotty, and a mist rose before his eyes; ‘his daughters - Gentlemen may win their hearts and marry them; they may be happy wives and mothers; they may be handsome like my darling M-e-’.

He couldn’t finish the name.  The final letter swelled in his throat, to the size of the whole alphabet.

‘Never mind,’ thought Trotty.  ‘I know what I mean.  That’s more than enough for me.’  And with this consolatory rumination, trotted on.

It was a hard frost, that day.  The air was bracing, crisp, and clear.  The wintry sun, though powerless for warmth, looked brightly down upon the ice it was too weak to melt, and set a radiant glory there.  At other times, Trotty might have learned a poor man’s lesson from the wintry sun; but, he was past that, now.

The Year was Old, that day.  The patient Year had lived through the reproaches and misuses of its slanderers, and faithfully performed its work.  Spring, summer, autumn, winter.  It had laboured through the destined round, and now laid down its weary head to die.  Shut out from hope, high impulse, active happiness, itself, but active messenger of many joys to others, it made appeal in its decline to have its toiling days and patient hours remembered, and to die in peace.  Trotty might have read a poor man’s allegory in the fading year; but he was past that, now.

And only he?  Or has the like appeal been ever made, by seventy years at once upon an English labourer’s head, and made in vain!

The streets were full of motion, and the shops were decked out gaily.  The New Year, like an Infant Heir to the whole world, was waited for, with welcomes, presents, and rejoicings.  There were books and toys for the New Year, glittering trinkets for the New Year, dresses for the New Year, schemes of fortune for the New Year; new inventions to beguile it.  Its life was parcelled out in almanacks and pocket-books; the coming of its moons, and stars, and tides, was known beforehand to the moment; all the workings of its seasons in their days and nights, were calculated with as much precision as Mr. Filer could work sums in men and women.

The New Year, the New Year.  Everywhere the New Year!  The Old Year was already looked upon as dead; and its effects were selling cheap, like some drowned mariner’s aboardship.  Its patterns were Last Year’s, and going at a sacrifice, before its breath was gone.  Its treasures were mere dirt, beside the riches of its unborn successor!

Trotty had no portion, to his thinking, in the New Year or the Old.

‘Put ’em down, Put ’em down!  Facts and Figures, Facts and Figures!  Good old Times, Good old Times!  Put ’em down, Put ’em down!’ - his trot went to that measure, and would fit itself to nothing else.

But, even that one, melancholy as it was, brought him, in due time, to the end of his journey.  To the mansion of Sir Joseph Bowley, Member of Parliament.

The door was opened by a Porter.  Such a Porter!  Not of Toby’s order.  Quite another thing.  His place was the ticket though; not Toby’s.

This Porter underwent some hard panting before he could speak; having breathed himself by coming incautiously out of his chair, without first taking time to think about it and compose his mind.  When he had found his voice - which it took him a long time to do, for it was a long way off, and hidden under a load of meat - he said in a fat whisper,

‘Who’s it from?’

Toby told him.

‘You’re to take it in, yourself,’ said the Porter, pointing to a room at the end of a long passage, opening from the hall.  ‘Everything goes straight in, on this day of the year.  You’re not a bit too soon; for the carriage is at the door now, and they have only come to town for a couple of hours, a’ purpose.’

Toby wiped his feet (which were quite dry already) with great care, and took the way pointed out to him; observing as he went that it was an awfully grand house, but hushed and covered up, as if the family were in the country.  Knocking at the room-door, he was told to enter from within; and doing so found himself in a spacious library, where, at a table strewn with files and papers, were a stately lady in a bonnet; and a not very stately gentleman in black who wrote from her dictation; while another, and an older, and a much statelier gentleman, whose hat and cane were on the table, walked up and down, with one hand in his breast, and looked complacently from time to time at his own picture - a full length; a very full length - hanging over the fireplace.

‘What is this?’ said the last-named gentleman.  ‘Mr. Fish, will you have the goodness to attend?’

Mr. Fish begged pardon, and taking the letter from Toby, handed it, with great respect.

‘From Alderman Cute, Sir Joseph.’

‘Is this all?  Have you nothing else, Porter?’ inquired Sir Joseph.

Toby replied in the negative.

‘You have no bill or demand upon me - my name is Bowley, Sir Joseph Bowley - of any kind from anybody, have you?’ said Sir Joseph.  ‘If you have, present it.  There is a cheque-book by the side of Mr. Fish.  I allow nothing to be carried into the New Year.  Every description of account is settled in this house at the close of the old one.  So that if death was to - to - ’

‘To cut,’ suggested Mr. Fish.

‘To sever, sir,’ returned Sir Joseph, with great asperity, ‘the cord of existence - my affairs would be found, I hope, in a state of preparation.’

‘My dear Sir Joseph!’ said the lady, who was greatly younger than the gentleman.  ‘How shocking!’

‘My lady Bowley,’ returned Sir Joseph, floundering now and then, as in the great depth of his observations, ‘at this season of the year we should think of - of - ourselves.  We should look into our - our accounts.  We should feel that every return of so eventful a period in human transactions, involves a matter of deep moment between a man and his - and his banker.’

Sir Joseph delivered these words as if he felt the full morality of what he was saying; and desired that even Trotty should have an opportunity of being improved by such discourse.  Possibly he had this end before him in still forbearing to break the seal of the letter, and in telling Trotty to wait where he was, a minute.

‘You were desiring Mr. Fish to say, my lady - ’ observed Sir Joseph.

‘Mr. Fish has said that, I believe,’ returned his lady, glancing at the letter.  ‘But, upon my word, Sir Joseph, I don’t think I can let it go after all.  It is so very dear.’

‘What is dear?’ inquired Sir Joseph.

‘That Charity, my love.  They only allow two votes for a subscription of five pounds.  Really monstrous!’

‘My lady Bowley,’ returned Sir Joseph, ‘you surprise me.  Is the luxury of feeling in proportion to the number of votes; or is it, to a rightly constituted mind, in proportion to the number of applicants, and the wholesome state of mind to which their canvassing reduces them?  Is there no excitement of the purest kind in having two votes to dispose of among fifty people?’

‘Not to me, I acknowledge,’ replied the lady.  ‘It bores one.  Besides, one can’t oblige one’s acquaintance.  But you are the Poor Man’s Friend, you know, Sir Joseph.  You think otherwise.’

‘I am the Poor Man’s Friend,’ observed Sir Joseph, glancing at the poor man present.  ‘As such I may be taunted.  As such I have been taunted.  But I ask no other title.’

‘Bless him for a noble gentleman!’ thought Trotty.

‘I don’t agree with Cute here, for instance,’ said Sir Joseph, holding out the letter.  ‘I don’t agree with the Filer party.  I don’t agree with any party.  My friend the Poor Man, has no business with anything of that sort, and nothing of that sort has any business with him.  My friend the Poor Man, in my district, is my business.  No man or body of men has any right to interfere between my friend and me.  That is the ground I take.  I assume a - a paternal character towards my friend.  I say, “My good fellow, I will treat you paternally.”’

Toby listened with great gravity, and began to feel more comfortable.

‘Your only business, my good fellow,’ pursued Sir Joseph, looking abstractedly at Toby; ‘your only business in life is with me.  You needn’t trouble yourself to think about anything.  I will think for you; I know what is good for you; I am your perpetual parent.  Such is the dispensation of an all-wise Providence!  Now, the design of your creation is - not that you should swill, and guzzle, and associate your enjoyments, brutally, with food; Toby thought remorsefully of the tripe; ‘but that you should feel the Dignity of Labour.  Go forth erect into the cheerful morning air, and - and stop there.  Live hard and temperately, be respectful, exercise your self-denial, bring up your family on next to nothing, pay your rent as regularly as the clock strikes, be punctual in your dealings (I set you a good example; you will find Mr. Fish, my confidential secretary, with a cash-box before him at all times); and you may trust to me to be your Friend and Father.’

‘Nice children, indeed, Sir Joseph!’ said the lady, with a shudder.  ‘Rheumatisms, and fevers, and crooked legs, and asthmas, and all kinds of horrors!’

‘My lady,’ returned Sir Joseph, with solemnity, ‘not the less am I the Poor Man’s Friend and Father.  Not the less shall he receive encouragement at my hands.  Every quarter-day he will be put in communication with Mr. Fish.  Every New Year’s Day, myself and friends will drink his health.  Once every year, myself and friends will address him with the deepest feeling.  Once in his life, he may even perhaps receive; in public, in the presence of the gentry; a Trifle from a Friend.  And when, upheld no more by these stimulants, and the Dignity of Labour, he sinks into his comfortable grave, then, my lady’ - here Sir Joseph blew his nose - ‘I will be a Friend and a Father - on the same terms - to his children.’

Toby was greatly moved.

‘O! You have a thankful family, Sir Joseph!’ cried his wife.

‘My lady,’ said Sir Joseph, quite majestically, ‘Ingratitude is known to be the sin of that class.  I expect no other return.’

‘Ah!  Born bad!’ thought Toby.  ‘Nothing melts us.’

‘What man can do, I do,’ pursued Sir Joseph.  ‘I do my duty as the Poor Man’s Friend and Father; and I endeavour to educate his mind, by inculcating on all occasions the one great moral lesson which that class requires.  That is, entire Dependence on myself.  They have no business whatever with - with themselves.  If wicked and designing persons tell them otherwise, and they become impatient and discontented, and are guilty of insubordinate conduct and black-hearted ingratitude; which is undoubtedly the case; I am their Friend and Father still.  It is so Ordained.  It is in the nature of things.’

With that great sentiment, he opened the Alderman’s letter; and read it.

‘Very polite and attentive, I am sure!’ exclaimed Sir Joseph.  ‘My lady, the Alderman is so obliging as to remind me that he has had “the distinguished honour” - he is very good - of meeting me at the house of our mutual friend Deedles, the banker; and he does me the favour to inquire whether it will be agreeable to me to have Will Fern put down.’

‘Most agreeable!’ replied my Lady Bowley.  ‘The worst man among them!  He has been committing a robbery, I hope?’

‘Why no,’ said Sir Joseph’, referring to the letter.  ‘Not quite.  Very near.  Not quite.  He came up to London, it seems, to look for employment (trying to better himself - that’s his story), and being found at night asleep in a shed, was taken into custody, and carried next morning before the Alderman.  The Alderman observes (very properly) that he is determined to put this sort of thing down; and that if it will be agreeable to me to have Will Fern put down, he will be happy to begin with him.’

‘Let him be made an example of, by all means,’ returned the lady.  ‘Last winter, when I introduced pinking and eyelet-holing among the men and boys in the village, as a nice evening employment, and had the lines,


O let us love our occupations,
Bless the squire and his relations,
Live upon our daily rations,
And always know our proper stations,


set to music on the new system, for them to sing the while; this very Fern - I see him now - touched that hat of his, and said, “I humbly ask your pardon, my lady, but an’t I something different from a great girl?”  I expected it, of course; who can expect anything but insolence and ingratitude from that class of people!  That is not to the purpose, however.  Sir Joseph!  Make an example of him!’

‘Hem!’ coughed Sir Joseph.  ‘Mr. Fish, if you’ll have the goodness to attend - ’

Mr. Fish immediately seized his pen, and wrote from Sir Joseph’s dictation.

‘Private.  My dear Sir.  I am very much indebted to you for your courtesy in the matter of the man William Fern, of whom, I regret to add, I can say nothing favourable.  I have uniformly considered myself in the light of his Friend and Father, but have been repaid (a common case, I grieve to say) with ingratitude, and constant opposition to my plans.  He is a turbulent and rebellious spirit.  His character will not bear investigation.  Nothing will persuade him to be happy when he might.  Under these circumstances, it appears to me, I own, that when he comes before you again (as you informed me he promised to do to-morrow, pending your inquiries, and I think he may be so far relied upon), his committal for some short term as a Vagabond, would be a service to society, and would be a salutary example in a country where - for the sake of those who are, through good and evil report, the Friends and Fathers of the Poor, as well as with a view to that, generally speaking, misguided class themselves - examples are greatly needed.  And I am,’ and so forth.

‘It appears,’ remarked Sir Joseph when he had signed this letter, and Mr. Fish was sealing it, ‘as if this were Ordained: really.  At the close of the year, I wind up my account and strike my balance, even with William Fern!’

Trotty, who had long ago relapsed, and was very low-spirited, stepped forward with a rueful face to take the letter.

‘With my compliments and thanks,’ said Sir Joseph.  ‘Stop!’

‘Stop!’ echoed Mr. Fish.

‘You have heard, perhaps,’ said Sir Joseph, oracularly, ‘certain remarks into which I have been led respecting the solemn period of time at which we have arrived, and the duty imposed upon us of settling our affairs, and being prepared.  You have observed that I don’t shelter myself behind my superior standing in society, but that Mr. Fish - that gentleman - has a cheque-book at his elbow, and is in fact here, to enable me to turn over a perfectly new leaf, and enter on the epoch before us with a clean account.  Now, my friend, can you lay your hand upon your heart, and say, that you also have made preparations for a New Year?’

‘I am afraid, sir,’ stammered Trotty, looking meekly at him, ‘that I am a - a - little behind-hand with the world.’

‘ Behind-hand with the world!’ repeated Sir Joseph Bowley, in a tone of terrible distinctness.

‘I am afraid, sir,’ faltered Trotty, ‘that there’s a matter of ten or twelve shillings owing to Mrs. Chickenstalker.’

‘To Mrs. Chickenstalker!’ repeated Sir Joseph, in the same tone as before.

‘A shop, sir,’ exclaimed Toby, ‘in the general line.  Also a - a little money on account of rent.  A very little, sir.  It oughtn’t to be owing, I know, but we have been hard put to it, indeed!’

Sir Joseph looked at his lady, and at Mr. Fish, and at Trotty, one after another, twice all round.  He then made a despondent gesture with both hands at once, as if he gave the thing up altogether.

‘How a man, even among this improvident and impracticable race; an old man; a man grown grey; can look a New Year in the face, with his affairs in this condition; how he can lie down on his bed at night, and get up again in the morning, and - There!’ he said, turning his back on Trotty.  ‘Take the letter.  Take the letter!’

‘I heartily wish it was otherwise, sir,’ said Trotty, anxious to excuse himself.  ‘We have been tried very hard.’

Sir Joseph still repeating ‘Take the letter, take the letter!’ and Mr. Fish not only saying the same thing, but giving additional force to the request by motioning the bearer to the door, he had nothing for it but to make his bow and leave the house.  And in the street, poor Trotty pulled his worn old hat down on his head, to hide the grief he felt at getting no hold on the New Year, anywhere.

He didn’t even lift his hat to look up at the Bell tower when he came to the old church on his return.  He halted there a moment, from habit: and knew that it was growing dark, and that the steeple rose above him, indistinct and faint, in the murky air.  He knew, too, that the Chimes would ring immediately; and that they sounded to his fancy, at such a time, like voices in the clouds.  But he only made the more haste to deliver the Alderman’s letter, and get out of the way before they began; for he dreaded to hear them tagging ‘Friends and Fathers, Friends and Fathers,’ to the burden they had rung out last.

Toby discharged himself of his commission, therefore, with all possible speed, and set off trotting homeward.  But what with his pace, which was at best an awkward one in the street; and what with his hat, which didn’t improve it; he trotted against somebody in less than no time, and was sent staggering out into the road.

‘I beg your pardon, I’m sure!’ said Trotty, pulling up his hat in great confusion, and between the hat and the torn lining, fixing his head into a kind of bee-hive.  ‘I hope I haven’t hurt you.’

As to hurting anybody, Toby was not such an absolute Samson, but that he was much more likely to be hurt himself: and indeed, he had flown out into the road, like a shuttlecock.  He had such an opinion of his own strength, however, that he was in real concern for the other party: and said again,

‘I hope I haven’t hurt you?’

The man against whom he had run; a sun-browned, sinewy, country-looking man, with grizzled hair, and a rough chin; stared at him for a moment, as if he suspected him to be in jest.  But, satisfied of his good faith, he answered:

‘No, friend.  You have not hurt me.’

‘Nor the child, I hope?’ said Trotty.

‘Nor the child,’ returned the man.  ‘I thank you kindly.’

As he said so, he glanced at a little girl he carried in his arms, asleep: and shading her face with the long end of the poor handkerchief he wore about his throat, went slowly on.

The tone in which he said ‘I thank you kindly,’ penetrated Trotty’s heart.  He was so jaded and foot-sore, and so soiled with travel, and looked about him so forlorn and strange, that it was a comfort to him to be able to thank any one: no matter for how little.  Toby stood gazing after him as he plodded wearily away, with the child’s arm clinging round his neck.

At the figure in the worn shoes - now the very shade and ghost of shoes - rough leather leggings, common frock, and broad slouched hat, Trotty stood gazing, blind to the whole street.  And at the child’s arm, clinging round its neck.

Before he merged into the darkness the traveller stopped; and looking round, and seeing Trotty standing there yet, seemed undecided whether to return or go on.  After doing first the one and then the other, he came back, and Trotty went half-way to meet him.

‘You can tell me, perhaps,’ said the man with a faint smile, ‘and if you can I am sure you will, and I’d rather ask you than another - where Alderman Cute lives.’

‘Close at hand,’ replied Toby.  ‘I’ll show you his house with pleasure.’

‘I was to have gone to him elsewhere to-morrow,’ said the man, accompanying Toby, ‘but I’m uneasy under suspicion, and want to clear myself, and to be free to go and seek my bread - I don’t know where.  So, maybe he’ll forgive my going to his house to-night.’

‘It’s impossible,’ cried Toby with a start, ‘that your name’s Fern!’

‘Eh!’ cried the other, turning on him in astonishment.

‘Fern!  Will Fern!’ said Trotty.

‘That’s my name,’ replied the other.

‘Why then,’ said Trotty, seizing him by the arm, and looking cautiously round, ‘for Heaven’s sake don’t go to him!  Don’t go to him!  He’ll put you down as sure as ever you were born.  Here! come up this alley, and I’ll tell you what I mean.  Don’t go to him.’

His new acquaintance looked as if he thought him mad; but he bore him company nevertheless.  When they were shrouded from observation, Trotty told him what he knew, and what character he had received, and all about it.

The subject of his history listened to it with a calmness that surprised him.  He did not contradict or interrupt it, once.  He nodded his head now and then - more in corroboration of an old and worn-out story, it appeared, than in refutation of it; and once or twice threw back his hat, and passed his freckled hand over a brow, where every furrow he had ploughed seemed to have set its image in little.  But he did no more.

‘It’s true enough in the main,’ he said, ‘master, I could sift grain from husk here and there, but let it be as ’tis.  What odds?  I have gone against his plans; to my misfortun’.  I can’t help it; I should do the like to-morrow.  As to character, them gentlefolks will search and search, and pry and pry, and have it as free from spot or speck in us, afore they’ll help us to a dry good word! - Well! I hope they don’t lose good opinion as easy as we do, or their lives is strict indeed, and hardly worth the keeping.  For myself, master, I never took with that hand’ - holding it before him - ‘what wasn’t my own; and never held it back from work, however hard, or poorly paid.  Whoever can deny it, let him chop it off!  But when work won’t maintain me like a human creetur; when my living is so bad, that I am Hungry, out of doors and in; when I see a whole working life begin that way, go on that way, and end that way, without a chance or change; then I say to the gentlefolks “Keep away from me!  Let my cottage be.  My doors is dark enough without your darkening of ’em more.  Don’t look for me to come up into the Park to help the show when there’s a Birthday, or a fine Speechmaking, or what not.  Act your Plays and Games without me, and be welcome to ’em, and enjoy ’em.  We’ve nowt to do with one another.  I’m best let alone!”’

Seeing that the child in his arms had opened her eyes, and was looking about her in wonder, he checked himself to say a word or two of foolish prattle in her ear, and stand her on the ground beside him.  Then slowly winding one of her long tresses round and round his rough forefinger like a ring, while she hung about his dusty leg, he said to Trotty:

‘I’m not a cross-grained man by natu’, I believe; and easy satisfied, I’m sure.  I bear no ill-will against none of ’em.  I only want to live like one of the Almighty’s creeturs.  I can’t - I don’t - and so there’s a pit dug between me, and them that can and do.  There’s others like me.  You might tell ’em off by hundreds and by thousands, sooner than by ones.’

Trotty knew he spoke the Truth in this, and shook his head to signify as much.

‘I’ve got a bad name this way,’ said Fern; ‘and I’m not likely, I’m afeared, to get a better.  ‘Tan’t lawful to be out of sorts, and I AM out of sorts, though God knows I’d sooner bear a cheerful spirit if I could.  Well!  I don’t know as this Alderman could hurt me much by sending me to jail; but without a friend to speak a word for me, he might do it; and you see - !’ pointing downward with his finger, at the child.

‘She has a beautiful face,’ said Trotty.

‘Why yes!’ replied the other in a low voice, as he gently turned it up with both his hands towards his own, and looked upon it steadfastly.  ‘I’ve thought so, many times.  I’ve thought so, when my hearth was very cold, and cupboard very bare.  I thought so t’other night, when we were taken like two thieves.  But they - they shouldn’t try the little face too often, should they, Lilian?  That’s hardly fair upon a man!’

He sunk his voice so low, and gazed upon her with an air so stern and strange, that Toby, to divert the current of his thoughts, inquired if his wife were living.

‘I never had one,’ he returned, shaking his head.  ‘She’s my brother’s child: a orphan.  Nine year old, though you’d hardly think it; but she’s tired and worn out now.  They’d have taken care on her, the Union - eight-and-twenty mile away from where we live - between four walls (as they took care of my old father when he couldn’t work no more, though he didn’t trouble ’em long); but I took her instead, and she’s lived with me ever since.  Her mother had a friend once, in London here.  We are trying to find her, and to find work too; but it’s a large place.  Never mind.  More room for us to walk about in, Lilly!’

Meeting the child’s eyes with a smile which melted Toby more than tears, he shook him by the hand.

‘I don’t so much as know your name,’ he said, ‘but I’ve opened my heart free to you, for I’m thankful to you; with good reason.  I’ll take your advice, and keep clear of this - ’

‘Justice,’ suggested Toby.

‘Ah!’ he said.  ‘If that’s the name they give him.  This Justice.  And to-morrow will try whether there’s better fortun’ to be met with, somewheres near London.  Good night.  A Happy New Year!’

‘Stay!’ cried Trotty, catching at his hand, as he relaxed his grip.  ‘Stay!  The New Year never can be happy to me, if we part like this.  The New Year never can be happy to me, if I see the child and you go wandering away, you don’t know where, without a shelter for your heads.  Come home with me!  I’m a poor man, living in a poor place; but I can give you lodging for one night and never miss it.  Come home with me!  Here!  I’ll take her!’ cried Trotty, lifting up the child.  ‘A pretty one!  I’d carry twenty times her weight, and never know I’d got it.  Tell me if I go too quick for you.  I’m very fast.  I always was!’  Trotty said this, taking about six of his trotting paces to one stride of his fatigued companion; and with his thin legs quivering again, beneath the load he bore.

‘Why, she’s as light,’ said Trotty, trotting in his speech as well as in his gait; for he couldn’t bear to be thanked, and dreaded a moment’s pause; ‘as light as a feather.  Lighter than a Peacock’s feather - a great deal lighter.  Here we are and here we go!  Round this first turning to the right, Uncle Will, and past the pump, and sharp off up the passage to the left, right opposite the public-house.  Here we are and here we go!  Cross over, Uncle Will, and mind the kidney pieman at the corner!  Here we are and here we go!  Down the Mews here, Uncle Will, and stop at the black door, with “T. Veck, Ticket Porter,” wrote upon a board; and here we are and here we go, and here we are indeed, my precious.  Meg, surprising you!’

With which words Trotty, in a breathless state, set the child down before his daughter in the middle of the floor.  The little visitor looked once at Meg; and doubting nothing in that face, but trusting everything she saw there; ran into her arms.

‘Here we are and here we go!’ cried Trotty, running round the room, and choking audibly.  ‘Here, Uncle Will, here’s a fire you know!  Why don’t you come to the fire?  Oh here we are and here we go!  Meg, my precious darling, where’s the kettle?  Here it is and here it goes, and it’ll bile in no time!’

Trotty really had picked up the kettle somewhere or other in the course of his wild career and now put it on the fire: while Meg, seating the child in a warm corner, knelt down on the ground before her, and pulled off her shoes, and dried her wet feet on a cloth.  Ay, and she laughed at Trotty too - so pleasantly, so cheerfully, that Trotty could have blessed her where she kneeled; for he had seen that, when they entered, she was sitting by the fire in tears.

‘Why, father!’ said Meg.  ‘You’re crazy to-night, I think.  I don’t know what the Bells would say to that.  Poor little feet.  How cold they are!’

‘Oh, they’re warmer now!’ exclaimed the child.  ‘They’re quite warm now!’

‘No, no, no,’ said Meg.  ‘We haven’t rubbed ’em half enough.  We’re so busy.  So busy!  And when they’re done, we’ll brush out the damp hair; and when that’s done, we’ll bring some colour to the poor pale face with fresh water; and when that’s done, we’ll be so gay, and brisk, and happy - !’

The child, in a burst of sobbing, clasped her round the neck; caressed her fair cheek with its hand; and said, ‘Oh Meg! oh dear Meg!’

Toby’s blessing could have done no more.  Who could do more!

‘Why, father!’ cried Meg, after a pause.

‘Here I am and here I go, my dear!’ said Trotty.

‘Good Gracious me!’ cried Meg.  ‘He’s crazy!  He’s put the dear child’s bonnet on the kettle, and hung the lid behind the door!’

‘I didn’t go for to do it, my love,’ said Trotty, hastily repairing this mistake.  ‘Meg, my dear?’

Meg looked towards him and saw that he had elaborately stationed himself behind the chair of their male visitor, where with many mysterious gestures he was holding up the sixpence he had earned.

‘I see, my dear,’ said Trotty, ‘as I was coming in, half an ounce of tea lying somewhere on the stairs; and I’m pretty sure there was a bit of bacon too.  As I don’t remember where it was exactly, I’ll go myself and try to find ’em.’

With this inscrutable artifice, Toby withdrew to purchase the viands he had spoken of, for ready money, at Mrs. Chickenstalker’s; and presently came back, pretending he had not been able to find them, at first, in the dark.

‘But here they are at last,’ said Trotty, setting out the tea-things, ‘all correct!  I was pretty sure it was tea, and a rasher.  So it is.  Meg, my pet, if you’ll just make the tea, while your unworthy father toasts the bacon, we shall be ready, immediate.  It’s a curious circumstance,’ said Trotty, proceeding in his cookery, with the assistance of the toasting-fork, ‘curious, but well known to my friends, that I never care, myself, for rashers, nor for tea.  I like to see other people enjoy ’em,’ said Trotty, speaking very loud, to impress the fact upon his guest, ‘but to me, as food, they’re disagreeable.’

Yet Trotty sniffed the savour of the hissing bacon - ah! - as if he liked it; and when he poured the boiling water in the tea-pot, looked lovingly down into the depths of that snug cauldron, and suffered the fragrant steam to curl about his nose, and wreathe his head and face in a thick cloud.  However, for all this, he neither ate nor drank, except at the very beginning, a mere morsel for form’s sake, which he appeared to eat with infinite relish, but declared was perfectly uninteresting to him.

No.  Trotty’s occupation was, to see Will Fern and Lilian eat and drink; and so was Meg’s.  And never did spectators at a city dinner or court banquet find such high delight in seeing others feast: although it were a monarch or a pope: as those two did, in looking on that night.  Meg smiled at Trotty, Trotty laughed at Meg.  Meg shook her head, and made belief to clap her hands, applauding Trotty; Trotty conveyed, in dumb-show, unintelligible narratives of how and when and where he had found their visitors, to Meg; and they were happy.  Very happy.

‘Although,’ thought Trotty, sorrowfully, as he watched Meg’s face; ‘that match is broken off, I see!’

‘Now, I’ll tell you what,’ said Trotty after tea.  ‘The little one, she sleeps with Meg, I know.’

‘With good Meg!’ cried the child, caressing her.  ‘With Meg.’

‘That’s right,’ said Trotty.  ‘And I shouldn’t wonder if she kiss Meg’s father, won’t she?  I’m Meg’s father.’

Mightily delighted Trotty was, when the child went timidly towards him, and having kissed him, fell back upon Meg again.

‘She’s as sensible as Solomon,’ said Trotty.  ‘Here we come and here we - no, we don’t - I don’t mean that - I - what was I saying, Meg, my precious?’

Meg looked towards their guest, who leaned upon her chair, and with his face turned from her, fondled the child’s head, half hidden in her lap.

‘To be sure,’ said Toby.  ‘To be sure!  I don’t know what I’m rambling on about, to-night.  My wits are wool-gathering, I think.  Will Fern, you come along with me.  You’re tired to death, and broken down for want of rest.  You come along with me.’  The man still played with the child’s curls, still leaned upon Meg’s chair, still turned away his face.  He didn’t speak, but in his rough coarse fingers, clenching and expanding in the fair hair of the child, there was an eloquence that said enough.

‘Yes, yes,’ said Trotty, answering unconsciously what he saw expressed in his daughter’s face.  ‘Take her with you, Meg.  Get her to bed.  There!  Now, Will, I’ll show you where you lie.  It’s not much of a place: only a loft; but, having a loft, I always say, is one of the great conveniences of living in a mews; and till this coach-house and stable gets a better let, we live here cheap.  There’s plenty of sweet hay up there, belonging to a neighbour; and it’s as clean as hands, and Meg, can make it.  Cheer up!  Don’t give way.  A new heart for a New Year, always!’

The hand released from the child’s hair, had fallen, trembling, into Trotty’s hand.  So Trotty, talking without intermission, led him out as tenderly and easily as if he had been a child himself.  Returning before Meg, he listened for an instant at the door of her little chamber; an adjoining room.  The child was murmuring a simple Prayer before lying down to sleep; and when she had remembered Meg’s name, ‘Dearly, Dearly’ - so her words ran - Trotty heard her stop and ask for his.

It was some short time before the foolish little old fellow could compose himself to mend the fire, and draw his chair to the warm hearth.  But, when he had done so, and had trimmed the light, he took his newspaper from his pocket, and began to read.  Carelessly at first, and skimming up and down the columns; but with an earnest and a sad attention, very soon.

For this same dreaded paper re-directed Trotty’s thoughts into the channel they had taken all that day, and which the day’s events had so marked out and shaped.  His interest in the two wanderers had set him on another course of thinking, and a happier one, for the time; but being alone again, and reading of the crimes and violences of the people, he relapsed into his former train.

In this mood, he came to an account (and it was not the first he had ever read) of a woman who had laid her desperate hands not only on her own life but on that of her young child.  A crime so terrible, and so revolting to his soul, dilated with the love of Meg, that he let the journal drop, and fell back in his chair, appalled!

‘Unnatural and cruel!’ Toby cried.  ‘Unnatural and cruel!  None but people who were bad at heart, born bad, who had no business on the earth, could do such deeds.  It’s too true, all I’ve heard to-day; too just, too full of proof.  We’re Bad!’

The Chimes took up the words so suddenly - burst out so loud, and clear, and sonorous - that the Bells seemed to strike him in his chair.

And what was that, they said?

‘Toby Veck, Toby Veck, waiting for you Toby!  Toby Veck, Toby Veck, waiting for you Toby!  Come and see us, come and see us, Drag him to us, drag him to us, Haunt and hunt him, haunt and hunt him, Break his slumbers, break his slumbers!  Toby Veck Toby Veck, door open wide Toby, Toby Veck Toby Veck, door open wide Toby - ’ then fiercely back to their impetuous strain again, and ringing in the very bricks and plaster on the walls.

Toby listened.  Fancy, fancy!  His remorse for having run away from them that afternoon!  No, no.  Nothing of the kind.  Again, again, and yet a dozen times again.  ‘Haunt and hunt him, haunt and hunt him, Drag him to us, drag him to us!’  Deafening the whole town!

‘Meg,’ said Trotty softly: tapping at her door.  ‘Do you hear anything?’

‘I hear the Bells, father.  Surely they’re very loud to-night.’

‘Is she asleep?’ said Toby, making an excuse for peeping in.

‘So peacefully and happily!  I can’t leave her yet though, father.  Look how she holds my hand!’

‘Meg,’ whispered Trotty.  ‘Listen to the Bells!’

She listened, with her face towards him all the time.  But it underwent no change.  She didn’t understand them.

Trotty withdrew, resumed his seat by the fire, and once more listened by himself.  He remained here a little time.

It was impossible to bear it; their energy was dreadful.

‘If the tower-door is really open,’ said Toby, hastily laying aside his apron, but never thinking of his hat, ‘what’s to hinder me from going up into the steeple and satisfying myself?  If it’s shut, I don’t want any other satisfaction.  That’s enough.’

He was pretty certain as he slipped out quietly into the street that he should find it shut and locked, for he knew the door well, and had so rarely seen it open, that he couldn’t reckon above three times in all.  It was a low arched portal, outside the church, in a dark nook behind a column; and had such great iron hinges, and such a monstrous lock, that there was more hinge and lock than door.

But what was his astonishment when, coming bare-headed to the church; and putting his hand into this dark nook, with a certain misgiving that it might be unexpectedly seized, and a shivering propensity to draw it back again; he found that the door, which opened outwards, actually stood ajar!

He thought, on the first surprise, of going back; or of getting a light, or a companion, but his courage aided him immediately, and he determined to ascend alone.

‘What have I to fear?’ said Trotty.  ‘It’s a church!  Besides, the ringers may be there, and have forgotten to shut the door.’  So he went in, feeling his way as he went, like a blind man; for it was very dark.  And very quiet, for the Chimes were silent.

The dust from the street had blown into the recess; and lying there, heaped up, made it so soft and velvet-like to the foot, that there was something startling, even in that.  The narrow stair was so close to the door, too, that he stumbled at the very first; and shutting the door upon himself, by striking it with his foot, and causing it to rebound back heavily, he couldn’t open it again.

This was another reason, however, for going on.  Trotty groped his way, and went on.  Up, up, up, and round, and round; and up, up, up; higher, higher, higher up!

It was a disagreeable staircase for that groping work; so low and narrow, that his groping hand was always touching something; and it often felt so like a man or ghostly figure standing up erect and making room for him to pass without discovery, that he would rub the smooth wall upward searching for its face, and downward searching for its feet, while a chill tingling crept all over him.  Twice or thrice, a door or niche broke the monotonous surface; and then it seemed a gap as wide as the whole church; and he felt on the brink of an abyss, and going to tumble headlong down, until he found the wall again.

Still up, up, up; and round and round; and up, up, up; higher, higher, higher up!

At length, the dull and stifling atmosphere began to freshen: presently to feel quite windy: presently it blew so strong, that he could hardly keep his legs.  But, he got to an arched window in the tower, breast high, and holding tight, looked down upon the house-tops, on the smoking chimneys, on the blur and blotch of lights (towards the place where Meg was wondering where he was and calling to him perhaps), all kneaded up together in a leaven of mist and darkness.

This was the belfry, where the ringers came.  He had caught hold of one of the frayed ropes which hung down through apertures in the oaken roof.  At first he started, thinking it was hair; then trembled at the very thought of waking the deep Bell.  The Bells themselves were higher.  Higher, Trotty, in his fascination, or in working out the spell upon him, groped his way.  By ladders now, and toilsomely, for it was steep, and not too certain holding for the feet.

Up, up, up; and climb and clamber; up, up, up; higher, higher, higher up!

Until, ascending through the floor, and pausing with his head just raised above its beams, he came among the Bells.  It was barely possible to make out their great shapes in the gloom; but there they were.  Shadowy, and dark, and dumb.

A heavy sense of dread and loneliness fell instantly upon him, as he climbed into this airy nest of stone and metal.  His head went round and round.  He listened, and then raised a wild ‘Holloa!’  Holloa! was mournfully protracted by the echoes.

Giddy, confused, and out of breath, and frightened, Toby looked about him vacantly, and sunk down in a swoon.



CHAPTER III - Third Quarter.



Black are the brooding clouds and troubled the deep waters, when the Sea of Thought, first heaving from a calm, gives up its Dead.  Monsters uncouth and wild, arise in premature, imperfect resurrection; the several parts and shapes of different things are joined and mixed by chance; and when, and how, and by what wonderful degrees, each separates from each, and every sense and object of the mind resumes its usual form and lives again, no man - though every man is every day the casket of this type of the Great Mystery - can tell.

So, when and how the darkness of the night-black steeple changed to shining light; when and how the solitary tower was peopled with a myriad figures; when and how the whispered ‘Haunt and hunt him,’ breathing monotonously through his sleep or swoon, became a voice exclaiming in the waking ears of Trotty, ‘Break his slumbers;’ when and how he ceased to have a sluggish and confused idea that such things were, companioning a host of others that were not; there are no dates or means to tell.  But, awake and standing on his feet upon the boards where he had lately lain, he saw this Goblin Sight.

He saw the tower, whither his charmed footsteps had brought him, swarming with dwarf phantoms, spirits, elfin creatures of the Bells.  He saw them leaping, flying, dropping, pouring from the Bells without a pause.  He saw them, round him on the ground; above him, in the air; clambering from him, by the ropes below; looking down upon him, from the massive iron-girded beams; peeping in upon him, through the chinks and loopholes in the walls; spreading away and away from him in enlarging circles, as the water ripples give way to a huge stone that suddenly comes plashing in among them.  He saw them, of all aspects and all shapes.  He saw them ugly, handsome, crippled, exquisitely formed.  He saw them young, he saw them old, he saw them kind, he saw them cruel, he saw them merry, he saw them grim; he saw them dance, and heard them sing; he saw them tear their hair, and heard them howl.  He saw the air thick with them.  He saw them come and go, incessantly.  He saw them riding downward, soaring upward, sailing off afar, perching near at hand, all restless and all violently active.  Stone, and brick, and slate, and tile, became transparent to him as to them.  He saw them in the houses, busy at the sleepers’ beds.  He saw them soothing people in their dreams; he saw them beating them with knotted whips; he saw them yelling in their ears; he saw them playing softest music on their pillows; he saw them cheering some with the songs of birds and the perfume of flowers; he saw them flashing awful faces on the troubled rest of others, from enchanted mirrors which they carried in their hands.

He saw these creatures, not only among sleeping men but waking also, active in pursuits irreconcilable with one another, and possessing or assuming natures the most opposite.  He saw one buckling on innumerable wings to increase his speed; another loading himself with chains and weights, to retard his.  He saw some putting the hands of clocks forward, some putting the hands of clocks backward, some endeavouring to stop the clock entirely.  He saw them representing, here a marriage ceremony, there a funeral; in this chamber an election, in that a ball he saw, everywhere, restless and untiring motion.

Bewildered by the host of shifting and extraordinary figures, as well as by the uproar of the Bells, which all this while were ringing, Trotty clung to a wooden pillar for support, and turned his white face here and there, in mute and stunned astonishment.

As he gazed, the Chimes stopped.  Instantaneous change!  The whole swarm fainted! their forms collapsed, their speed deserted them; they sought to fly, but in the act of falling died and melted into air.  No fresh supply succeeded them.  One straggler leaped down pretty briskly from the surface of the Great Bell, and alighted on his feet, but he was dead and gone before he could turn round.  Some few of the late company who had gambolled in the tower, remained there, spinning over and over a little longer; but these became at every turn more faint, and few, and feeble, and soon went the way of the rest.  The last of all was one small hunchback, who had got into an echoing corner, where he twirled and twirled, and floated by himself a long time; showing such perseverance, that at last he dwindled to a leg and even to a foot, before he finally retired; but he vanished in the end, and then the tower was silent.

Then and not before, did Trotty see in every Bell a bearded figure of the bulk and stature of the Bell - incomprehensibly, a figure and the Bell itself.  Gigantic, grave, and darkly watchful of him, as he stood rooted to the ground.

Mysterious and awful figures!  Resting on nothing; poised in the night air of the tower, with their draped and hooded heads merged in the dim roof; motionless and shadowy.  Shadowy and dark, although he saw them by some light belonging to themselves - none else was there - each with its muffled hand upon its goblin mouth.

He could not plunge down wildly through the opening in the floor; for all power of motion had deserted him.  Otherwise he would have done so - aye, would have thrown himself, headforemost, from the steeple-top, rather than have seen them watching him with eyes that would have waked and watched although the pupils had been taken out.

Again, again, the dread and terror of the lonely place, and of the wild and fearful night that reigned there, touched him like a spectral hand.  His distance from all help; the long, dark, winding, ghost-beleaguered way that lay between him and the earth on which men lived; his being high, high, high, up there, where it had made him dizzy to see the birds fly in the day; cut off from all good people, who at such an hour were safe at home and sleeping in their beds; all this struck coldly through him, not as a reflection but a bodily sensation.  Meantime his eyes and thoughts and fears, were fixed upon the watchful figures; which, rendered unlike any figures of this world by the deep gloom and shade enwrapping and enfolding them, as well as by their looks and forms and supernatural hovering above the floor, were nevertheless as plainly to be seen as were the stalwart oaken frames, cross-pieces, bars and beams, set up there to support the Bells.  These hemmed them, in a very forest of hewn timber; from the entanglements, intricacies, and depths of which, as from among the boughs of a dead wood blighted for their phantom use, they kept their darksome and unwinking watch.

A blast of air - how cold and shrill! - came moaning through the tower.  As it died away, the Great Bell, or the Goblin of the Great Bell, spoke.

‘What visitor is this!’ it said.  The voice was low and deep, and Trotty fancied that it sounded in the other figures as well.

‘I thought my name was called by the Chimes!’ said Trotty, raising his hands in an attitude of supplication.  ‘I hardly know why I am here, or how I came.  I have listened to the Chimes these many years.  They have cheered me often.’

‘And you have thanked them?’ said the Bell.

‘A thousand times!’ cried Trotty.

‘How?’

‘I am a poor man,’ faltered Trotty, ‘and could only thank them in words.’

‘And always so?’ inquired the Goblin of the Bell.  ‘Have you never done us wrong in words?’

‘No!’ cried Trotty eagerly.

‘Never done us foul, and false, and wicked wrong, in words?’ pursued the Goblin of the Bell.

Trotty was about to answer, ‘Never!’  But he stopped, and was confused.

‘The voice of Time,’ said the Phantom, ‘cries to man, Advance!  Time is for his advancement and improvement; for his greater worth, his greater happiness, his better life; his progress onward to that goal within its knowledge and its view, and set there, in the period when Time and He began.  Ages of darkness, wickedness, and violence, have come and gone - millions uncountable, have suffered, lived, and died - to point the way before him.  Who seeks to turn him back, or stay him on his course, arrests a mighty engine which will strike the meddler dead; and be the fiercer and the wilder, ever, for its momentary check!’

‘I never did so to my knowledge, sir,’ said Trotty.  ‘It was quite by accident if I did.  I wouldn’t go to do it, I’m sure.’

‘Who puts into the mouth of Time, or of its servants,’ said the Goblin of the Bell, ‘a cry of lamentation for days which have had their trial and their failure, and have left deep traces of it which the blind may see - a cry that only serves the present time, by showing men how much it needs their help when any ears can listen to regrets for such a past - who does this, does a wrong.  And you have done that wrong, to us, the Chimes.’

Trotty’s first excess of fear was gone.  But he had felt tenderly and gratefully towards the Bells, as you have seen; and when he heard himself arraigned as one who had offended them so weightily, his heart was touched with penitence and grief.

‘If you knew,’ said Trotty, clasping his hands earnestly - ‘or perhaps you do know - if you know how often you have kept me company; how often you have cheered me up when I’ve been low; how you were quite the plaything of my little daughter Meg (almost the only one she ever had) when first her mother died, and she and me were left alone; you won’t bear malice for a hasty word!’

‘Who hears in us, the Chimes, one note bespeaking disregard, or stern regard, of any hope, or joy, or pain, or sorrow, of the many-sorrowed throng; who hears us make response to any creed that gauges human passions and affections, as it gauges the amount of miserable food on which humanity may pine and wither; does us wrong.  That wrong you have done us!’ said the Bell.

‘I have!’ said Trotty.  ‘Oh forgive me!’

‘Who hears us echo the dull vermin of the earth: the Putters Down of crushed and broken natures, formed to be raised up higher than such maggots of the time can crawl or can conceive,’ pursued the Goblin of the Bell; ‘who does so, does us wrong.  And you have done us wrong!’

‘Not meaning it,’ said Trotty.  ‘In my ignorance.  Not meaning it!’

‘Lastly, and most of all,’ pursued the Bell.  ‘Who turns his back upon the fallen and disfigured of his kind; abandons them as vile; and does not trace and track with pitying eyes the unfenced precipice by which they fell from good - grasping in their fall some tufts and shreds of that lost soil, and clinging to them still when bruised and dying in the gulf below; does wrong to Heaven and man, to time and to eternity.  And you have done that wrong!’

‘Spare me!’ cried Trotty, falling on his knees; ‘for Mercy’s sake!’

‘Listen!’ said the Shadow.

‘Listen!’ cried the other Shadows.

‘Listen!’ said a clear and childlike voice, which Trotty thought he recognised as having heard before.

The organ sounded faintly in the church below.  Swelling by degrees, the melody ascended to the roof, and filled the choir and nave.  Expanding more and more, it rose up, up; up, up; higher, higher, higher up; awakening agitated hearts within the burly piles of oak: the hollow bells, the iron-bound doors, the stairs of solid stone; until the tower walls were insufficient to contain it, and it soared into the sky.

No wonder that an old man’s breast could not contain a sound so vast and mighty.  It broke from that weak prison in a rush of tears; and Trotty put his hands before his face.

‘Listen!’ said the Shadow.

‘Listen!’ said the other Shadows.

‘Listen!’ said the child’s voice.

A solemn strain of blended voices, rose into the tower.

It was a very low and mournful strain - a Dirge - and as he listened, Trotty heard his child among the singers.

‘She is dead!’ exclaimed the old man.  ‘Meg is dead!  Her Spirit calls to me.  I hear it!’

‘The Spirit of your child bewails the dead, and mingles with the dead - dead hopes, dead fancies, dead imaginings of youth,’ returned the Bell, ‘but she is living.  Learn from her life, a living truth.  Learn from the creature dearest to your heart, how bad the bad are born.  See every bud and leaf plucked one by one from off the fairest stem, and know how bare and wretched it may be.  Follow her!  To desperation!’

Each of the shadowy figures stretched its right arm forth, and pointed downward.

‘The Spirit of the Chimes is your companion,’ said the figure.

‘Go!  It stands behind you!’

Trotty turned, and saw - the child!  The child Will Fern had carried in the street; the child whom Meg had watched, but now, asleep!

‘I carried her myself, to-night,’ said Trotty.  ‘In these arms!’

‘Show him what he calls himself,’ said the dark figures, one and all.

The tower opened at his feet.  He looked down, and beheld his own form, lying at the bottom, on the outside: crushed and motionless.

‘No more a living man!’ cried Trotty.  ‘Dead!’

‘Dead!’ said the figures all together.

‘Gracious Heaven!  And the New Year - ’

‘Past,’ said the figures.

‘What!’ he cried, shuddering.  ‘I missed my way, and coming on the outside of this tower in the dark, fell down - a year ago?’

‘Nine years ago!’ replied the figures.

As they gave the answer, they recalled their outstretched hands; and where their figures had been, there the Bells were.

And they rung; their time being come again.  And once again, vast multitudes of phantoms sprung into existence; once again, were incoherently engaged, as they had been before; once again, faded on the stopping of the Chimes; and dwindled into nothing.

‘What are these?’ he asked his guide.  ‘If I am not mad, what are these?’

‘Spirits of the Bells.  Their sound upon the air,’ returned the child.  ‘They take such shapes and occupations as the hopes and thoughts of mortals, and the recollections they have stored up, give them.’

‘And you,’ said Trotty wildly.  ‘What are you?’

‘Hush, hush!’ returned the child.  ‘Look here!’

In a poor, mean room; working at the same kind of embroidery which he had often, often seen before her; Meg, his own dear daughter, was presented to his view.  He made no effort to imprint his kisses on her face; he did not strive to clasp her to his loving heart; he knew that such endearments were, for him, no more.  But, he held his trembling breath, and brushed away the blinding tears, that he might look upon her; that he might only see her.

Ah!  Changed.  Changed.  The light of the clear eye, how dimmed.  The bloom, how faded from the cheek.  Beautiful she was, as she had ever been, but Hope, Hope, Hope, oh where was the fresh Hope that had spoken to him like a voice!

She looked up from her work, at a companion.  Following her eyes, the old man started back.

In the woman grown, he recognised her at a glance.  In the long silken hair, he saw the self-same curls; around the lips, the child’s expression lingering still.  See!  In the eyes, now turned inquiringly on Meg, there shone the very look that scanned those features when he brought her home!

Then what was this, beside him!

Looking with awe into its face, he saw a something reigning there: a lofty something, undefined and indistinct, which made it hardly more than a remembrance of that child - as yonder figure might be - yet it was the same: the same: and wore the dress.

Hark.  They were speaking!

‘Meg,’ said Lilian, hesitating.  ‘How often you raise your head from your work to look at me!’

‘Are my looks so altered, that they frighten you?’ asked Meg.

‘Nay, dear!  But you smile at that, yourself!  Why not smile, when you look at me, Meg?’

‘I do so.  Do I not?’ she answered: smiling on her.

‘Now you do,’ said Lilian, ‘but not usually.  When you think I’m busy, and don’t see you, you look so anxious and so doubtful, that I hardly like to raise my eyes.  There is little cause for smiling in this hard and toilsome life, but you were once so cheerful.’

‘Am I not now!’ cried Meg, speaking in a tone of strange alarm, and rising to embrace her.  ‘Do I make our weary life more weary to you, Lilian!’

‘You have been the only thing that made it life,’ said Lilian, fervently kissing her; ‘sometimes the only thing that made me care to live so, Meg.  Such work, such work!  So many hours, so many days, so many long, long nights of hopeless, cheerless, never-ending work - not to heap up riches, not to live grandly or gaily, not to live upon enough, however coarse; but to earn bare bread; to scrape together just enough to toil upon, and want upon, and keep alive in us the consciousness of our hard fate!  Oh Meg, Meg!’ she raised her voice and twined her arms about her as she spoke, like one in pain.  ‘How can the cruel world go round, and bear to look upon such lives!’

‘Lilly!’ said Meg, soothing her, and putting back her hair from her wet face.  ‘Why, Lilly!  You!  So pretty and so young!’

‘Oh Meg!’ she interrupted, holding her at arm’s-length, and looking in her face imploringly.  ‘The worst of all, the worst of all!  Strike me old, Meg!  Wither me, and shrivel me, and free me from the dreadful thoughts that tempt me in my youth!’

Trotty turned to look upon his guide.  But the Spirit of the child had taken flight.  Was gone.

Neither did he himself remain in the same place; for, Sir Joseph Bowley, Friend and Father of the Poor, held a great festivity at Bowley Hall, in honour of the natal day of Lady Bowley.  And as Lady Bowley had been born on New Year’s Day (which the local newspapers considered an especial pointing of the finger of Providence to number One, as Lady Bowley’s destined figure in Creation), it was on a New Year’s Day that this festivity took place.

Bowley Hall was full of visitors.  The red-faced gentleman was there, Mr. Filer was there, the great Alderman Cute was there - Alderman Cute had a sympathetic feeling with great people, and had considerably improved his acquaintance with Sir Joseph Bowley on the strength of his attentive letter: indeed had become quite a friend of the family since then - and many guests were there.  Trotty’s ghost was there, wandering about, poor phantom, drearily; and looking for its guide.

There was to be a great dinner in the Great Hall.  At which Sir Joseph Bowley, in his celebrated character of Friend and Father of the Poor, was to make his great speech.  Certain plum-puddings were to be eaten by his Friends and Children in another Hall first; and, at a given signal, Friends and Children flocking in among their Friends and Fathers, were to form a family assemblage, with not one manly eye therein unmoistened by emotion.

But, there was more than this to happen.  Even more than this.  Sir Joseph Bowley, Baronet and Member of Parliament, was to play a match at skittles - real skittles - with his tenants!

‘Which quite reminds me,’ said Alderman Cute, ‘of the days of old King Hal, stout King Hal, bluff King Hal.  Ah!  Fine character!’

‘Very,’ said Mr. Filer, dryly.  ‘For marrying women and murdering ’em.  Considerably more than the average number of wives by the bye.’

‘You’ll marry the beautiful ladies, and not murder ’em, eh?’ said Alderman Cute to the heir of Bowley, aged twelve.  ‘Sweet boy!  We shall have this little gentleman in Parliament now,’ said the Alderman, holding him by the shoulders, and looking as reflective as he could, ‘before we know where we are.  We shall hear of his successes at the poll; his speeches in the House; his overtures from Governments; his brilliant achievements of all kinds; ah! we shall make our little orations about him in the Common Council, I’ll be bound; before we have time to look about us!’

‘Oh, the difference of shoes and stockings!’ Trotty thought.  But his heart yearned towards the child, for the love of those same shoeless and stockingless boys, predestined (by the Alderman) to turn out bad, who might have been the children of poor Meg.

‘Richard,’ moaned Trotty, roaming among the company, to and fro; ‘where is he?  I can’t find Richard!  Where is Richard?’  Not likely to be there, if still alive!  But Trotty’s grief and solitude confused him; and he still went wandering among the gallant company, looking for his guide, and saying, ‘Where is Richard?  Show me Richard!’

He was wandering thus, when he encountered Mr. Fish, the confidential Secretary: in great agitation.

‘Bless my heart and soul!’ cried Mr. Fish.  ‘Where’s Alderman Cute?  Has anybody seen the Alderman?’

Seen the Alderman?  Oh dear!  Who could ever help seeing the Alderman?  He was so considerate, so affable, he bore so much in mind the natural desires of folks to see him, that if he had a fault, it was the being constantly On View.  And wherever the great people were, there, to be sure, attracted by the kindred sympathy between great souls, was Cute.

Several voices cried that he was in the circle round Sir Joseph.  Mr. Fish made way there; found him; and took him secretly into a window near at hand.  Trotty joined them.  Not of his own accord.  He felt that his steps were led in that direction.

‘My dear Alderman Cute,’ said Mr. Fish.  ‘A little more this way.  The most dreadful circumstance has occurred.  I have this moment received the intelligence.  I think it will be best not to acquaint Sir Joseph with it till the day is over.  You understand Sir Joseph, and will give me your opinion.  The most frightful and deplorable event!’

‘Fish!’ returned the Alderman.  ‘Fish!  My good fellow, what is the matter?  Nothing revolutionary, I hope!  No - no attempted interference with the magistrates?’

‘Deedles, the banker,’ gasped the Secretary.  ‘Deedles Brothers - who was to have been here to-day - high in office in the Goldsmiths’ Company - ’

‘Not stopped!’ exclaimed the Alderman, ‘It can’t be!’

‘Shot himself.’

‘Good God!’

‘Put a double-barrelled pistol to his mouth, in his own counting house,’ said Mr. Fish, ‘and blew his brains out.  No motive.  Princely circumstances!’

‘Circumstances!’ exclaimed the Alderman.  ‘A man of noble fortune.  One of the most respectable of men.  Suicide, Mr. Fish!  By his own hand!’

‘This very morning,’ returned Mr. Fish.

‘Oh the brain, the brain!’ exclaimed the pious Alderman, lifting up his hands.  ‘Oh the nerves, the nerves; the mysteries of this machine called Man!  Oh the little that unhinges it: poor creatures that we are!  Perhaps a dinner, Mr. Fish.  Perhaps the conduct of his son, who, I have heard, ran very wild, and was in the habit of drawing bills upon him without the least authority!  A most respectable man.  One of the most respectable men I ever knew!  A lamentable instance, Mr. Fish.  A public calamity!  I shall make a point of wearing the deepest mourning.  A most respectable man!  But there is One above.  We must submit, Mr. Fish.  We must submit!’

What, Alderman!  No word of Putting Down?  Remember, Justice, your high moral boast and pride.  Come, Alderman!  Balance those scales.  Throw me into this, the empty one, no dinner, and Nature’s founts in some poor woman, dried by starving misery and rendered obdurate to claims for which her offspring has authority in holy mother Eve.  Weigh me the two, you Daniel, going to judgment, when your day shall come!  Weigh them, in the eyes of suffering thousands, audience (not unmindful) of the grim farce you play.  Or supposing that you strayed from your five wits - it’s not so far to go, but that it might be - and laid hands upon that throat of yours, warning your fellows (if you have a fe