"Now, sir," said old Matt, as he appeared, brushed-up and smart for the
occasion, punctual to his appointment; "now, sir; here we are--baptism,
marriage, and doctor. First ought to come last, you know, only Saint
Mark's Church comes before Finsbury, don't you see?"
Septimus Hardon rose from his writing with a sigh, for he was far from
sanguine of success, and would fain even now have given up his task
entirely, so feeble seemed to him the likelihood of any advantage
accruing; but in obedience to instructions from Mrs Septimus, old Matt
rattled on about the future, thoroughly doing his duty in keeping the
shrinking man to his part; and so they started.
They made their way out into Holborn, and then up Skinner-street, past
the frowning walls of Newgate, and into the street of the same name;
when old Matt could not get along for stopping to admire the various
joints displayed, and giving his opinion upon their merits.
"Here, let's go this way, sir," he said, turning into Warwick-lane.
"Pretty game this, sir, isn't it? Slaughtered sheep, and murdered
novels, and books of all sorts close together. Authors' sheep's-heads,
and butchers' sheep's-heads cheek by jowl. Rum thing for both trades to
get so close together. Regular bit of philosophy if you like to take it
up, sir; stomach and brains, you see, food for both--books for the
brains, meat for the stomach; and then backwards and forwards, one feeds
the other, and one couldn't get on without the other; and here they are
situated close to the very heart of the City. Look at the circulation
going on--wonderful, ain't it, sir?"
Old Matt stopped by a slaughter-house, not to pity the simple animal
just killed, but to point out sundry choice portions that might be had
bargains, if they could have availed themselves of the opportunity.
"Wouldn't do, though, to go about such a job as we have on hand carrying
a sheep's-head, would it, sir?" he observed to Septimus.
"No; pray come along, and let's get our task over," exclaimed the
latter.
"To be sure," said Matt, coming to himself, and the next minute they
were in Paternoster-row. "Lots of my old friends here," said Matt,
stopping short in the middle of the narrow way, to be hustled by boys
laden with sheets of paper fresh from the press, lads carrying reams, or
newly-bound works tied between boards; men with blue bags over their
shoulders heavily laden with books; men with oblong "mems" in their
hands which they consulted as they hurried from swinging door to
swinging door, collecting the publications of the different firms. Once
the old man was nearly run over by a truck full of type-galleys driven
by a pair of reckless imps of some neighbouring printing-office; while
at least four times he came into contact with the fruit-baskets of the
nymphs in stout boots and flattened bonnets, whose haunt is the
labyrinth of learning known as "the Row."--"Lots of my old friends
here," said Matt as his companion looked bewildered, and was thrust off
the pavement; on to it again; into booksellers' where he did not want to
go; and once against the muddy wheel of a cab, whose driver roundly
abused him for nearly getting himself injured.--"Lots of my old friends
here. Ah, you needn't mind a bit of pushing, sir--it's a busy place.
Now, you know, if I liked to hunt about, I could find more than one bit
of my work here, for I've done things and bits of things that's come out
in more than half these places. All sorts of stuff; and what a sight of
work a man can be put upon in a matter of fifty year, from playbills to
prayer-books, and down again to penny-a-lining and posters! Law and
physic's been my strongest points: but there; I've been on your
magazines, and newspapers, and three-volume novels, and pamphlets, and
everything else that's printed on a leaf, 'cept' last dying-speeches and
halfpenny songs; and I never did get down, quite so low as that. I've
taken hold of author's copy so queer that it's made you scratch your
head and torn the paper t'other way up to see which is tops and which is
bottoms, and then back again, for you've been as wise as ever. Talk
about ants and bluebottles running over the paper with inky feet, that's
nothing, sir. You've seen them painter-chaps, sir, graining the
shetters of shops?"
Septimus, seeing that he was expected to say something, roused himself
from his brown study, and nodded.
"Well," continued Matt, "you see they have what they call a tool, though
it's only a flat brush made like a comb, and with that they make lines
cross and across the panels, all about the same distance apart, and then
they dab them lightly with a long soft brush to keep the grain from
looking too stiff and hard. Well, I've had copy that's looked as if the
author had used one of these tools dipped in ink, and streaked it across
and across the paper, and then dabbed it, not with a very soft brush,
but with a very hard one, shoving in, too, a few smears and blots, just
to fill up as knots and specimens of cross-grain. Up one goes to the
overseer and asks him to help you, giving the other men a side-grin at
the same time. He takes it, looks at it, turns it over, and then can't
make anything of it, though he won't say so; for overseers must of
course seem to know everything. So he sticks it back in your hand, and
says he, `Go and make the best you can of it; for I'm busy.' Well, you
go back, and make the best you can of it; puzzles out one word, jumps at
another, puts in two, and guesses two more, while you make a couple more
out of the next line fit in somewhere after 'em; and so, one way or
another, it gets scrambled up, and the proof goes to the reader, who
cuffs his boy's head because he blunders so over the stuff he can't make
head nor tail of, though he's as much bothered as his boy; while, though
some of them are clever, intelligent fellows, some of those readers,
sir, have about as much imagination as a mop. They're down upon a wrong
letter, or bad pointing or spelling, and stick a big qy? against a bit
of slack grammar, like lightning; but give 'em a take of stuff where the
author goes a little out of the regular rut, and it bothers them as much
as the bit of copy I'm talking about. Well, sir, corrections get made,
and the proof is sent in to the author, who most likely don't know it
again; but he sends it back so as one has a better chance of getting it
together; and so it goes on, backwards and forwards, till it's all
right, and they write `press' in one corner, when it's printed, and, as
far as we're concerned, there's an end of it. Strange ways, ain't they,
sir?"
Septimus Hardon stared in a bewildered manner at the speaker, but did
not answer.
"Blest if I think he's heard a word I've said," muttered the old fellow.
"Strange?" said Septimus, rousing himself; "yes, very."
"'Tis, sir," said Matt, who was interested in his subject. "Now, do you
know, sir," he continued after they had walked part of the way along the
Row,--"do you know that if I was younger, I should be for founding a
society, to be called the `Printers' Spectacle Association,' supported
by contributions from writers for the press, who by this means would
supply us with glasses, for often and often they quite destroy our
sight."
Old Matt's dissertation was put an end to by the driver of one of the
Delivery carts, when, returning to the matter which had brought them
from home, the strange couple were soon threading their way along
Cheapside.
There was but little difficulty in getting access to the registers of
the old church, and a not very long search brought the seekers to the
entry, in brown ink upon yellow paper, of the baptism of Septimus, son
of Octavius and Lavinia Hardon, January 17--; but though the ages of the
children before and after were entered, by some omission, his was
absent.
A copy was taken by both, and then they stood once more in the open
street.
"Just as I told you, sir," said Matt, "isn't it? there's the date; but
it don't say how old you were."
"No," replied Septimus; "but still it is satisfactory, so far. Now
we'll see about the marriage, and then visit Finsbury."
"You know the church?" said Matt.
"Well, not exactly," said Septimus dreamily.
"There are two in the street; but it was at one of them."
"Good," said the old man; and soon after they stood in the street of two
churches, and, taking the most imposing, they obtained admission to the
vestry, where, after a long and careful search of the time-stained
register, they were compelled to give up, for there was no result; while
the regular way in which the leaves followed proved that none were
missing.
"Try t'other," said Matt laconically; and soon after they entered the
damp, mouldy-smelling receptacle of the registers at the second church--
a quaint, queerly-built place that looked as if architecture had been
set at defiance when it was erected.
Old Matt was quiet and laconic enough in his speech; but as leaf after
leaf was turned over, it was evident that the old man was more deeply
interested than Septimus himself; for he grew so excited, that he was
quite voracious with his snuff, his nose becoming a very devouring
dragon of Scotch and rappee, till the supposed date of the marriage was
neared, when the snuff was hastily pocketed.
"Rayther rheumatic spot this, I should think," said Matt to the sexton,
so as to appear quite at his ease.
"Well, yes, it _is_ damp," said the sexton, who would have had no
difficulty in passing himself off as Matt's brother; "but we have a fire
here on Sundays all through the winter."
"Don't have many berrin's now, I s'pose," said Matt, again bringing out
the snuff, but this time for hospitable purposes.
"Bless you, no," said the sexton, "ain't had one for years upon years.
All cemetery work now."
"To be sure, of course," said Matt, trying to converse in a cool
pleasant way, but with one eye fixed upon the trembling searcher; for
some of Matt's eagerness seemed now to be transferred to his companion.
"There's a great piece of the book out here," said Septimus
suddenly--"most of the year before the baptism."
"Torn out, by Jove!" muttered Matt, shaking his head, and looking
suspicion's self.
"Dessay there is, sir," said the sexton coolly; "the damp here would
spile the binding of any book."
"But, I say; look here, you sir; here's a good four months gone: no
Jennywerry, nor Feberwerry, nor March, nor April. Looks precious
queer," said Matt.
"Ah, so there is--good big bit gone; all but a leaf here and there."
And then, to get a better look, the sexton took out an old leathern
case, drew out his spectacles, replaced the case very carefully, wiped
the glasses upon the tail of his coat, and then very leisurely put them
on, a process not directly completed; for, like their master, the
springs of the spectacles had grown weak, and were joined by a piece of
black tape, which had to be passed carefully over the sexton's head to
keep the glasses in their place. "Ah," he said again, while the
searchers looked on, astonished at his coolness, "so there is--a good
big bit gone; but 'tain't no wonder, for the thread's as rotten as
tinder, and--"
"I say, old un, don't tear any more out," cried Matt excitedly; for the
sexton was experimentally disposed, and testing the endurance of the
thread and glue.
"There's plenty loose," said the old sexton, "and I shouldn't be a bit
surprised if you find a lot more gone."
Septimus Hardon looked at Matt, who returned the look, for the feeling
of suspicion was now fully shared. However, they still went on
carefully searching.
"It's of no use," said Septimus at last, mournfully; "we may as well go.
I never had any hope."
"Don't be in a hurry, sir," said Matt. "You know there are other ways
of killing the cat, as the old saying says; wait a bit. Looks
suspicious, certainly," he said, treating himself to a fresh pinch of
snuff.--"I say, guv'nor, you haven't got the loose leaves lying about
anywheres, have you? Not been taken away that you know of, eh?"
The sexton shook his head, thrust his hands to the bottoms of his
trousers-pockets, shrugged his shoulders to his ears, and then stood
gazing at his visitors with his spectacles high up on his forehead.
"No," said he, "nobody never meddles with 'em, 'cept a lawyer's clerk
now and then; and they're very civil, and just copies out something, and
gives me a shilling, and then goes."
Septimus Hardon took the hint in its first acceptation, while the mouldy
old sexton removed one hand from his pocket to accept the proffered
shilling held to him, before his visitors were about to take the second
part of the hint.
As they moved off through the damp old church, Septimus Hardon wondered
whether, upon some bright morning half a century before, his father and
mother had knelt before that altar and been made one. He sighed as he
walked on, meeting in the entrance a tall, gentlemanly--looking man who
was passing in.
"What's to be done next, Matt?" said Septimus, in a dispirited tone.
"Pint of porter and crust o' bread-and-cheese," said the old man
decidedly. "I'm faint, sir--got a fit of my chronics; but it's taking
me the wrong way to-day; I'm hungry, and you must want support. Keep
your chin in the air, sir; we can't win every time. You've had two
tries this morning, and one's come all right. That register looks
suspicious, certainly; but after all you can't even go and swear that
your old people were married in that church; and even if you could, and
had the copy of the stiffikit, that ain't all we want, for it don't
prove that you weren't a year old then."
"Hi!" cried a voice behind them; and upon the cry being repeated, they
both turned to find that the old sexton was telegraphing them to come
back, by wagging his head in the direction of the church-door.
"What's up now?" said old Matt when they reached him.
"Parson wants to see you in the westry," was the reply.
Anxiously following the old man, Septimus Hardon found himself in the
presence of the gentleman he had encountered at the door.
"I think," said he, "that you have been complaining of the bad state of
our registers, and really we deserve it. I have only been here a few
weeks, and have done but little towards getting them right. However, I
have quite fifty loose leaves and pieces arranged here ready for pasting
back, though I can assure you it is no light task."
As he spoke, he took down from a little closet on the wall a heap of
damp-stained, ragged, worthless-looking paper, and then set himself to
try and help discover the required name.
"Hardon," he said,--"Hardon, Octavius Hardon and Lavinia Addison. We'll
lay those that are done with down here, if you please; for, though they
do not appear so, the leaves are in a certain order. Hardon, Hardon,
Octavius, and Lavinia Addison," he kept on muttering, as Septimus and he
carefully examined column after column amongst the dilapidated leaves;
though Septimus progressed but slowly, for his hand trembled and a mist
swam before his eyes.
"Take a glass of wine," said the curate kindly, producing a decanter and
glass from the little cupboard; "you seem agitated."
Septimus took the glass with trembling hand, and then resumed his task
with increased energy, till at last there were not above half a dozen
leaves to scan, when he uttered an exclamation of joy, for there, upon a
scrap before him--torn, stained, and almost illegible--was the
sought-for entry, bearing the well-known signature of his father, and
the trembling handwriting of his mother.
"Here, here, Matt," he whispered, "look!" and the paper quivered in his
hands--"`Octavius Hardon, Lavinia Addison,' and signed by her old friend
Miss Morris."
"Right it is, so far," said Matt, holding his glasses to his eyes wrong
way foremost, with both hands, "and just a year and a half before the
baptism. Now you know, sir, I pitched it pretty strong before now, so
as you shouldn't expect too much; but it's my belief that, after all
said and done, we've got enough documentary evidence; and things seeming
so very regular, if you had begun as you should have done, unless there
was something very strong on the other side that we can't see through,
you must have got a verdict. But then I hardly like for you to try on
this only; for the law's a ticklish thing to deal with, and though this
all looks so straightforward, it don't prove against what your uncle
says, and will bring witnesses to swear."
"But how can he?" exclaimed Septimus, in a whisper.
"Ah," said Matt, refreshing himself after his wont, "how can he? Why,
by means of that comical stuff as he's been so anxious to get hold of.
Why, sir, he could find witnesses as would swear to any mortal thing on
the face of this earth; they'd almost undertake to prove as you weren't
born at all, sir. Mind, I don't say that they'd carry the day, sir; but
I'm only telling you of what villainy there is in this world, and how
you must be prepared, even to fighting the dev--I beg your pardon, sir,"
said Matt bashfully, as he pulled up short, having in his earnestness
forgotten the presence of the third party.
"I'm sorry to say that there's a great deal of truth in what you
assert," said the curate quietly; for Septimus was looking at him in an
appealing way as if expecting that he would demolish all that Matt had
advanced. "Suborned witnesses are nothing new in this world of ours."
"Pull out your note-book, sir, and let's take it down," said Matt; and
as he spoke, he drew out an old dog's-eared memorandum-book and a stumpy
fragment of lead pencil that would not mark without being kissed and
coaxed every moment, when he copied the entry most carefully, compared
it with the original, and then with that just made by Septimus Hardon.
"Really," said the clergyman at parting, "I am extremely glad to have
met you this morning, and you may depend upon finding us in better order
at your next visit."
"There has been no trickery there you see, Matt," said Septimus, as they
stood once more in the street; "all seems straightforward."
"Just so, sir; your uncle seems to have some game of his own that I
can't quite see through as yet; but stop a bit. Good sort o' chap that
young parson. I'll ask him to dinner some day, though he didn't say,
`Take a glass of sherry, Matthew Space.' Then how careful you ought to
be! Now I should have been ready to swear that your precious uncle had
been at them books. S'pose he ain't so much older than you, sir?"
"Not many years," replied Septimus. "He was my poor father's younger
brother. But now for the doctor!" he said in an elated tone.
"Thanky, sir, but suppose we have the porter and bread-and-cheese first.
You youngsters are so rash and impatient; and besides, I didn't taste
that fine old dry sherry, you know. One thing at a time's the best
plan, and it seems to me that a little refreshment's the next thing
wanted. 'Tain't no use to suppose, sir, that because a horse has won
one race he'll go and polish off the next the same hour. D'yer see,
sir?"
Septimus expressed himself as being able to see, and he submitted
forthwith to his companion's guidance.
Now most people would imagine that Matt entered the first inviting open
portal that presented itself, where the gorgeously-emblazoned boards
announced the retailing of So-and-so's entire; but no. Old Matt seemed
very particular and hard to please, passing house after house before he
could meet with one to his satisfaction; and in a quarter of an hour's
brisk walk a few public-houses can be passed in London streets. But
Matt had something else on his mind besides draught stout; and at last,
when Septimus Hardon's patience was well-nigh exhausted, the old man
stopped short before a place where the window displayed a notice to the
effect that the Post-office Directory was at the bar.
"There," said Matt, pointing to the window, "thought me a nuisance now,
didn't you, sir? But that's what I wanted. So now we'll have our stout
and cheese, and a look at the doctors too."
Seated in the public-house parlour, fragrant with the fumes of flat beer
and stale tobacco, they were soon discussing the foaming stout and more
solid refreshments, though Septimus spent the greater part of his time
poring over the volume he had laid open upon the gum-ringed table--a
volume that Matt considered would be as useful as a medical directory.
Surgeons there were in plenty; but only one answering to the name of
Phillips, and he was practising at Newington.
"Moved there, perhaps," said Matt.
Septimus Hardon shook his head, and read again, "Phillips, EJ, Terrace,
Newington."
"Stop a bit, sir," said Matt, rising and catching the ring hung from the
ceiling, and pulling the bell.--"Here, fill that pint again, my man;
and, I say, got another of these d'rectories anywheres?"
"Yes," said the pot-boy, "there's another somewheres--an old un."
"That's the ticket, my lad, bring it in."
The boy performed the, to him, satisfactory feat of pitching the pot in
the air, and catching it with one hand as he went out, though the
performance was somewhat marred by the vessel turning in its flight, and
announcing its descent by a small frothy brown shower, which sprinkled
the performer's countenance. However, he was soon back with the
refilled measure, and a very dirty, very dusty, and dog's-eared old copy
of the Directory, with one cover torn off, and a general aspect of its
having been used for generations as the original London Spelling-book.
Septimus seized the bulky tome, and soon had the right page found; and
in this volume there was no mention of EJ Phillips of Newington.
"Young beginner," said Matt hollowly; for he had the pewter-vessel to
his lips. "Anyone else same name?"
"Two more!" cried Septimus in a husky voice: "Phillips, Thomas,
Camden-town; Phillips, Nicholas, Chiswell-street."
"Hooray!" cried Matt, thumping down the pewter-pot, so that a portion of
the contents splashed over into the cheese-dish. "That's the man we
want, sir; so finish your crust and cheese, and then off we go." And
shrewd old Matt forgot to ask himself in his excitement how it was that
the name was not in the Directory often years later date, but acted up
to what he was advising, and, then late in the afternoon, they again
started on their search.
It was not a very long walk from Walbrook to Chiswell-street; but old
Matt made very little progress, halting at times as if in pain, while in
answer to inquiries he only smiled and declared that it was his
"chronics." Now he panted and seemed out of breath, then he paused at
one of his favourite halting-places, but too short of breath to make a
speech, even had he felt so disposed. At the last stoppage, induced by
Septimus Hardon's eager strides, the old man panted out:
"Let's see, sir; you walked down to Somesham, didn't you?"
"Yes," replied Septimus somewhat surprised at the question. "Come
along;" for he was now as eager to continue the quest as he had formerly
been to avoid it.
"That's all very well," said Matt, panting; "but I shouldn't have liked
to walk with you, and if Chiswell-street had been t'other side the
square, you'd have had to carry me, so I tell you; and--"
"Is anything wrong?" exclaimed Septimus anxiously, for his companion had
turned very pale and haggard.
"Not much," he gasped; "better d'rectly--out of breath rather."
But he seemed to grow so much worse, that all thought of farther search
was forgotten in the anxiety to get the old man to the principal
thoroughfare, for he stoutly refused to hear of a cab being called;
though he sank back thoroughly exhausted in a corner of the omnibus,
when at last the right one passed with room inside.
A quiet cup of tea and an hour's rest seemed to restore the old man, and
he rose to leave Bennett's-rents, firmly refusing to allow Septimus to
walk home with him, though it was only by slow stages and great exertion
that he reached his lodging.
Volume Two, Chapter IX.