Old Matt Space came daily to Carey-street in search of a job, and
generally made an excuse for seeing little Tom, for whom he had a cake,
a biscuit, or some small penny toy, purchased of one of the peripatetic
vendors in the street.
"I always like to support honest industry," said the old man; and when
in work, and with a few shillings in his pocket, he would take a walk
along the busy streets, and perhaps spend a couple of his shillings with
the people whose place of business is the edge of the pavement. "Well,
suppose I am a fool for doing it, what then?" said Matt one day. "Ain't
ninety per cent of the inhabitants of this precious country of ours what
you call fools; and if I, in my folly, help twenty or thirty poor folks
up a step in getting their bit of a living, where's the harm? Don't
tell me," old Matt would say to his fellow-workmen, beginning to unload
the pockets which made his coat-tails stick out almost at right angles;
"I don't buy the things because I want them, I do it to help them as
wants it; and their name, as it says in the Testament, is `legion.'
Now, that's a jumping frog, made of wood, a bit of paint, a bit of
string, and a bit of my friend Ike's wax. That's an ingenious toy, that
is: who'll have it? whose got a youngster?"
Speaking in a large printing-office, amongst twenty or thirty men, there
was soon a market for the jumping frog; and then the old man drew out a
scrap of something soft and flabby, and held it up.
"You wouldn't tell what that is in a hurry," said Matt. "All to
encourage industry, you know; that's a big indy-rubber balloon, that is,
only I couldn't pocket it, so I made it collapse first; so that's no
good to nobody--pitch it away. Here we have--ah, this is an out-and-out
toy, this is, only I've broke the stick, and it wants a bit of glue--
who'll have a climbing monkey?"
And so the old man would pull out perhaps twenty toys, balls, dolls,
gelatine cards, to the infinite amusement of his companions, who laughed
on, but without discomposing Matt in the least, who practised his humble
philanthropy as long as he had money, and often, in consequence, went
without a meal; for saving was an utter impossibility with the old man--
a feat, he said, he had often tried to accomplish; but how, he said,
could a man keep money in his pocket when he saw others wanting? "It is
done," said Matt; "but old as I am, I can't quite see it."
But there had been no toy distributions lately, for old Matt had found
times very hard, and even if they had been better, there would have been
no more such amusements for the denizens of the offices he worked at,
for there was another way for Matt's philanthropical purchases to go,
namely, to Carey-street, to Septimus Hardon's little boy, for whose
special benefit the old man had made several purchases on credit, which
was freely accorded by those to whom he was known; but as to work at
Septimus Hardon's printing-office, there was none for him, further than
that of disposing of type and materials at one or another of the
brokers', which duties he performed without recompense, grumbling sorely
the while at the wretched sums he obtained for the goods.
"You ought to find fault then, sir," he would say to Septimus; "I can't
help it; but I'm ashamed, that I am, to think that people will give such
a beggarly price. It grieves me, sir, to see the stuff go like that."
But Septimus did not find fault, only smiled feebly; for in this time of
his sore distress he had so aged, and grown so helpless and wanting in
reliance, that he trusted to the old compositor in almost everything.
"Might rob him right and left, sir," said old Matt to a favourite
lamp-post in Carey-street. "He's no business up here at all. I could
quarrel with him sometimes for being so simple, if it wasn't that he's
such a thorough good sort at bottom. What's to become of them when the
things are all gone, goodness knows; for he'll never do what I've done,
sir--lived two days upon a large dose of sleep, a penn'orth of snuff,
and three back numbers of the _London Journal_."
For troubles now came thickly crowding on Septimus Hardon's horizon.
His wife's health failed fast, and the means were wanting to procure her
the necessary comforts. But there is always light behind the darkest
cloud; and now it was that Lucy, young in years, but a woman in
self-reliance, proved a stay to the family. Ever busily plying her
needle, ever cheerful, she was a ray of sunshine in their sad home,
shedding her brightness in the darkest hours. And though Septimus
Hardon querulously complained of his standing so friendless in the
world, there was another who watched anxiously the failing fortunes of
the family, and was always ready with counsel and aid--the Reverend
Arthur Sterne, who became more constant in his visits as the affairs of
Septimus grew darker. Old Matt and he, too, often met, but somehow not
without feelings of distrust on either side--distrust perhaps excusable
on the side of the clergyman; for the ways of Matthew Space shed no
softening lustre upon his outer man.
One day old Matt went into Carey-street to find the broker in
possession; for Septimus was far behind with his heavy rent, and the
landlord was alarmed at seeing his tenant's worldly possessions
shrinking at so rapid a rate; while, when the old man made his way into
the sitting-room, he found weary-looking Septimus waiting with aching
heart for a reply to the appealing letter he had sent to his father.
Old Matt went again, day after day, asking himself how he could be such
an old idiot as to care for other people's affairs to the neglect of his
own; but there was always the same weary shake of the head, and the same
answer--"No letter, Matt."
At last there was a cart at the door, and Septimus Hardon, roused up
into something like energy for the time being, busily helped old Matt to
remove the remnants of his furniture to the rooms the old man had
secured for him in that salubrious court, Bennett's-rents.
"'Tain't the nicest of spots," old Matt had owned; "but then look at the
convenience; and for what you are going to do, sir, you must be right on
the spot; for though law's very slow work for them as goes into it, it's
very quick, sharp work for them as does the copying."
That evening Septimus Hardon looked dolefully round the front room of
the two the old man had secured for him; then he glanced at his wife,
who tried to smile; at Lucy, busily arranging; and lastly at old Matt,
who looked very cheerful and happy as he helped Lucy in her
arrangements, and was now lustily polishing a table that did not require
it with a duster.
"Good luck to you, sir, don't look like that; why, you're fetching the
tears into Miss Lucy's eyes--as is quite bright enough without,"
muttered Matt to himself. "Don't be down, sir, the wheel's always going
round--bottom spokes to-day, top spokes to-morrow; and not the best
place neither, for folks often knocks their heads through going too
high. This ain't nothing, bless you; this is riches, this is--cheerful
prospect of ten foot in front; pigeons on the roof; birds a-singing
upstairs; children a-rollicking in the court; orgin three times a-day;
writers popping in and out at the corner this side, public at the corner
on t'other--brown stout threepence a pot in your own jugs; side-view
almost into Carey-street, through the alley. Why, you're well off here,
sir; and I've known the time when a ha'porth o' snuff and a recess in
one of the bridges has been board and lodging to me; and--Servant,
sir.--Anything more I can do for you to-day, Mr Hardon? If not, I'll
go, sir," said the old man, suddenly becoming very distant and
respectful; for a new-comer appeared upon the scene in the shape of Mr
Sterne; when, after a very stiff bow all round, old Matt departed,
stumbling more than once as he descended the worn stairs.
Matthew Space's cheerfulness was gone as soon as he left the court, and
it took him some considerable time to reach his resting-place--a
neighbouring public-house; for he was troubled and anxious, and had to
stop every now and then to think; but he could not think aloud to his
old friends the lamps, on account of its being daylight; though after an
hour or two's sojourn at first one and then another of his places of
resort when making his way homewards, he paused frequently and long.
"Now I tell you what it is, sir!" he exclaimed, on stopping at the
corner of Carey-street once more, and slapping a favourite post on the
shoulder, "things are coming to a pretty pass; here we are sending our
thousands to prison and penal servitude for dishonesty, robbery, and
petty theft; and out of those thousands no end wanted to be honest, and
we would not give them the chance. There are thousands wanting to get
an honest living, and we won't let them. Rogue, sir!" he cried,
excitedly slapping the cold iron with such energy that his hand ached,
"don't tell me; you may talk of your charity and benevolence till all's
blue; but I mean to say that, in the eyes of the world, sir, there isn't
a greater rogue than a poor man. Beat him, kick him, turn him out, off
with him--a vagabond, what business has he to be poor?"
Old Matt was out of breath, and strode on to another post.
"What business has he to be poor--a villain? What do we want with a
Septimus Hardon, legal and general printer, and poor man? `Nothing at
all,' says the world, and it won't go to his shop; `see him starve
first,' says the world; `we'll go to the people who don't want help, who
keep their carriages and country-seats; and if the little men fail and
become bankrupt, serve 'em right, too, what business had they to aspire?
why weren't they content as shopmen or journeymen? Too many already!
Pooh! then let them get out. Let them plod and crawl, or turn
agricultural labourers, and earn eight or nine shillings a-week. Won't
they get premiums, sir, for bringing up their families without parish
help, eh? And what more can they want in this great and glorious land?
Won't that do? Well, then, let 'em go to the workhouse, where there's
every convenience for letting 'em die off out of the way.'"
The old man crossed the muddy street to another lamp, chuckling to
himself the while, when, laying both hands upon the post, he began
again: "It's a strange thing, sir, a wonderful thing, how lonesome a man
may be here in this great city of London: he may work till he drops for
a living, and not get it; and he may then go and lie down and die, and
all that, while nobody has known him or helped him; but when he's found
there's a fuss in the papers for a few hours, and then--on we go again.
We're all wrong, sir. What's the use of our spending our hundreds of
thousands, sir, in converting a few Indians, or Africans, or
Australians, sir, and then holding our meetings, with the Bishop of
Somewhere-or-another coming home to hold forth upon the benefits that
have followed the missionary enterprise, but saying nothing about the
miseries that have followed wherever the white man has set his foot?
Very fine, sir; very fine, this civilisation, and town and village and
church springing up; but what has become of the Indian? what has become
of the Australian? and what will become of the New Zealander? It's
aggrandisement from beginning to end, sir,--dead robbery; call it
conquest if you will; but there, it's all for the extension of our
glorious empire. Let's see, sir," said Matt, stopping; "I'm getting it
into a knot; what was I going to say? How dare we go on so busily
cleaning other people's houses when our own is in a state that we ought
as a nation to blush for? Convert savages, benighted heathen! Why, I
can take you, sir, where, here in the heart of this Christian city,
London, you shall see savages ten times worse than any you shall find in
Africa--more cruel, more licentious. There, hang it, sir, if it warn't
for the fear of being eaten, I'd sooner trust myself amongst the blacks
ten times over than the whites, hang me if I wouldn't! I know what
you'll say to me, sir! `Go and preach the Gospel to every creature!'
Ah, but oughtn't we to be fit to do it first? oughtn't we to look at
home first? I say yes, sir, yes; and what we're doing now, sir, 's
playing the Pharisee and whitening the outside of the sepulchre; and
there's no mistake about it, sir, some parts of this London of ours make
a very foul sepulchre indeed."
Another fifty yards brought Matt to the next post, where he again
stopped.
"I'm a leveller, am I, sir? P'r'aps so; but we levellers make the way
smooth for those poor folks who are to tramp the road of life in days to
come. I'm very sorry for the blacks, sir; and no doubt here and there
you may find one who, under proper management, would turn out bright;
but they can't be much account, or else they would have made some
progress among themselves, whereas they're just where they were hundreds
of years ago. It's a good job slavery is done away with; but you'll
never make white men of 'em, never, sir; and they all look just as if,
when their father Ham was cursed, he scowled like a naughty boy, and was
cross and pouted his lips, and so all his children have looked
thick-lipped since. But there, sir, that's neither here nor there, as
you may say; though I've begun here in Carey-street and got right over
into Africa; and that's the way I always do go on when I'm speaking in
public. Now look here, sir; now what am I, eh? a battered, worn-out,
seedy old stamp--good for nothing. `Whose fault is that?' you say.
`Halves!' I cry, with the world: we share the blame between us. I've
been foolish: I've given way good-humouredly in the squeeze for place,
and everyone has pushed by me and got in front. Now, sir, what ought I
to have done, eh? Why, told the world that I was a big man; caressed
those who believed me, and kicked and bullied those who did not. I
ought to have shoved my way through the crowd; and what would have
followed, eh? why, people would have pushed again and grumbled; but they
would have given way until I got a good standing. Now look at that man,
sir,--Hardon, sir, a gentleman every inch of him, but as helpless and
unbusiness-like as a baby. Why, he'll starve, sir, before he'll ask for
help, if his father don't send. `More fool he,' says the world. To be
sure: what business has he with a heart and feelings and nerves, that
make him flinch because he has got an ugly shell over his beautiful
works, and so feels every slight put upon him. Why, he's just one of
those men who would go in despair and make an end of himself; and then
you have your inquest, and people say `How shocking!' and never stop to
think that such things keep on happening every day; and will, too, so
long as the world goes round; and I'm blest sometimes if I believe that
it does go round, sir, or else things would come right in time for
everybody. But they don't, for they mend worse every day. Here we are,
with one man rolling in riches he never did a stroke to gain, and don't
even know the value of; and here's Septimus Hardon, with a sick wife,
and with hardly common necessaries. I might have introduced myself to
your notice, sir, but present company is always excepted. The fact of
it is, sir, that things are all wrong; and though I've been studying the
matter these twenty years I can't see how to put 'em all right."
Old Matt drew a long breath, for he had been speaking loudly and with
vehemence; and now, upon reaching another post, he began gesticulating
fiercely, for he had warmed to his subject.
"But if I had time, sir, I'd go into the matter, sir. I'd take the poor
man as he stands, and the rich man as _he_ stands; and I'd--"
"Now, come; that's about enough for one night, anyhow. I don't mind a
little, now and then, but they'll be hearing of you acrost the square
d'reckly."
"I'd take him, sir," continued Matt, "and hold him up for the whole
world--"
"O, ah! all right," said Matt's interrupter, the policeman on the beat;
"I dessay you would; only the world wouldn't look at him. For why?
'cause the world's too busy. Good-night, old chap."
"Good-night," said Matt, cooling down suddenly, and shuffling off in a
quiet spiritless way, the fire out, and his head bent as he thrust his
hands in his pockets. "Ah, he's about right; so he is. `The world's
too busy!' so it is; and I ain't got a morsel of snuff left."
Volume One, Chapter X.