[Illustration: HUMPHRY AND HIS “WONDERFUL LAMP.”—Page 306.]
THE
WONDERS OF SCIENCE;
OR,
YOUNG HUMPHRY DAVY
(THE CORNISH APOTHECARY’S BOY, WHO TAUGHT HIMSELF NATURAL
PHILOSOPHY, AND EVENTUALLY BECAME PRESIDENT
OF THE ROYAL SOCIETY).
The Life of a Wonderful Boy
_WRITTEN FOR BOYS._
BY
HENRY MAYHEW,
AUTHOR OF “THE STORY OF THE PEASANT-BOY PHILOSOPHER,” ETC.
“Majestic steep! ah, yet I love,
With many a lingering step to rove,
Thy ivied rocks among;
Thy ivied, wave-beat rocks recall
The former pleasures of my soul,
When life was gay and young.
Enthusiasm—Nature’s child—
Here sung to me her wood-songs wild,
All warm with native fire;
I felt her soul-awakening flame,
It bade my bosom burn for fame,
It bade me strike the lyre.”
DAVY’S _Ode to St. Michael’s Mount in
Cornwall_. Written at the age of 18.
NEW YORK:
HARPER & BROTHERS, PUBLISHERS,
PEARL STREET, FRANKLIN SQUARE.
1878.
A WORD OR TWO BY WAY OF EXPLANATION AND DEDICATION TO MICHAEL FARADAY.
MY DEAR SIR,—
I inscribe your name on one of the fly-leaves of this little book, with
the same devotion as youths are wont to carve upon the trunk of some
forest tree the name of those whom they admire most in the world; and I
do so for many reasons.
First of all, because Davy was, as it were, the foster-father of your
great genius; and, secondly, because it allows me to tell the lads for
whom this book has been written the graceful story of the way in which
the hero of it first befriended you—the young “bookseller’s apprentice,
very fond of experiment, and very averse to trade”—in your own dignified
language; and, moreover, because I know your zeal in the cause of
education, and that you are, like all generous minds when fired with the
beauty of fine truths and discoveries, unable to rest, as it were, till
you have imparted them to others, and so made them as happy as yourself
with the wondrous knowledge. Indeed, it is the glorious privilege of
intellectual pursuits that they are not marked by that “selfishness,”
which made you as a boy “desirous of escaping from trade;” for wisdom,
happily, can share its riches with the world, and yet be all the richer
for the sharing. None know better than yourself that every science is
built up of an infinity of such contributions; and that, had the human
mind been impressed with a desire to hoard its intellectual gains—to keep
them locked in the coffers of the brain—how little even _you_—who have
added, by your many profound discoveries, more to the knowledge-fund of
the world than any other single philosopher—could yourself have known.
There is no finer instance, perhaps, of human magnanimity than the
chemist working unseen in his laboratory—watching alone for hours the
action of different kinds of so-called dead matter upon each other, in
the hope of being able to add his little mite of truth to that store
of mental riches, which is to benefit not only his own generation, but
all those to come for ages after. Nor can we detract from the natural
greatness of the act by ascribing it to any lower principle of our
soul—such as that petty craving for praise which we call “vanity” in
women, and a desire for fame among poets and philosophers; for every true
scientific mind knows that there is sufficient reward in the intense
beauty of a new discovery—the first flash across the brain of some deep
insight into the mysteries of Nature—to repay him, over and over again,
for all the long puzzling of his thoughts; and that, were he even alone
in the world, without a voice to cheer him on, he must still continue
spelling out passage after passage of the Great Poem of Creation, from
the mere love of the Poem itself.
I can readily understand that it was some such generous purpose that
first rendered you anxious “to enter the service of science, which,”
as you say, you “imagined made its pursuers amiable and liberal,” for
this is impressed in every line of the following letter, which becomes
peculiarly interesting as a record of the circumstances which brought
together two of the greatest chemical geniuses that the world has yet
seen.
“To J. A. PARIS, M.D.
“ROYAL INSTITUTION, _Dec. 23, 1829_.
“MY DEAR SIR,—You asked me to give you an account of my first
introduction to Sir H. Davy, which I am very happy to do, as I
think the circumstance will bear testimony to his goodness of
heart.
“When I was a bookseller’s apprentice, I was very fond of
experiment, and very averse to trade. It happened that a
gentleman, a member of the Royal Institution, took me to hear
some of Sir H. Davy’s last lectures in Albemarle Street. I took
notes, and afterwards wrote them out more fairly in a quarto
volume.
“My desire to escape from trade, which I thought vicious and
selfish, and to enter into the service of Science, which I
imagined made its pursuers amiable and liberal, induced me at
last to take the bold and simple step of writing to Sir H.
Davy, expressing my wishes, and a hope that, if an opportunity
came in his way, he would favour my views; at the same time, I
sent the notes I had taken at his lectures.
“The answer, which makes all the point of my communication, I
send you in the original, requesting you to take great care of
it, and to let me have it back, for you may imagine how much I
value it.
“You will observe that this took place at the end of the year
1812, and early in 1813 he requested to see me, and told me
of the situation of Assistant in the Laboratory of the Royal
Institution, then just vacant.
“At the same time that he thus gratified my desires as to
scientific employment, he still advised me not to give up
the prospects I had before me, telling me that Science was
a harsh mistress; and, in a pecuniary point of view, but
poorly rewarding those who devoted themselves to her service.
He smiled at my notion of the superior moral feelings of
philosophic men, and said he would leave me to the experience
of a few years to set me right on the matter.
“Finally, through his good efforts, I went to the Royal
Institution early in March of 1813, as Assistant in the
Laboratory; and in October of the same year went with him
abroad, as his assistant in experiments and in writing. I
returned with him in April, 1815, resumed my station in the
Royal Institution, and have, as you know, ever since remained
there.
“I am, dear Sir, very truly yours,
“M. FARADAY.”
The following is the note of Sir H. Davy, alluded to in Mr. Faraday’s
letter:
“TO MR. FARADAY.
“_December 24, 1812._
“SIR,—I am far from displeased with the proof you have given
me of your confidence, and which displays great zeal, power
of memory, and attention. I am obliged to go out of town, and
shall not be settled in town till the end of January: I will
then see you at any time you wish.
“It would gratify me to be of any service to you. I wish it may
be in my power.
“I am, Sir, your obedient, humble servant,
“H. DAVY.”[1]
And now let me add, by way of excuse for the many short-comings of the
present volume, that I have found some little difficulty in developing
my object, which was to show youths how one of the greatest natural
philosophers had, when a lad, like themselves, _made himself_ acquainted
with the principles of science, and thus to induce them to “go and do
likewise;” for, assuredly, there is no education like that self-education
which is sure to follow directly a fervent taste is created for any
particular branch of knowledge. To create such a taste was my sole
motive for writing this book. Nevertheless, when I came to deal with the
subject, I discovered that it was impossible to follow _literally_ the
scientific history of Davy’s mind, since he had begun by adopting the
most flighty theories. To have evolved all his visionary notions when
a lad, in a work that was meant to have an educational tendency, would
have been merely to have taught error. I have, however, in adapting the
book to the present state of science, deviated as little as possible from
the biographical facts, and I have, moreover, in all things striven to
be true to the character of my hero, which after all is the great truth
required in “story-books.” Again, by a pardonable license, I believe I
have made the boy foreshadow some of his after-discoveries—such as the
safety-lamp—and for all these deviations I can only plead a desire to
show youths that they have it in their own power to do as the Cornish
apothecary’s boy did, if they will but set about the work quickened with
the same determination to succeed. It is my belief that our present
system of education begets in the minds of youths too great a sense of
dependence, and too little reliance on their own powers, so that it is
thought by a lad on leaving school to be impossible to learn any thing
without the help of a master to teach it. Now my object in such books as
the present is to show boys that some of the greatest minds the world has
yet seen have been self-taught; and by letting the young note how the
great men, when _they_ were young too, set about the task of informing
themselves, thus to breed in youthful minds not only a faith in their
own capabilities, but a taste for the beauties of knowledge, as well as
a strong purpose to number themselves, if possible, among the future
teachers of mankind.
And now, my dear Sir, let me, in conclusion, thank you for your generous
encouragement of my labours when I was engaged in inquiring into the
condition of the “_London Poor_.” Many know your wisdom, but none are
better acquainted with your goodness than
Yours, very truly,
HENRY MAYHEW.
BONN, _Nov. 25th, 1854_.
CONTENTS.
PAGE
CHAPTER I.
THE WIDOWED AND THE FATHERLESS 15
CHAPTER II.
YOUNG HUMPHRY’S RESOLVES 33
CHAPTER III.
HUMPHRY AND HIS MOTHER 50
CHAPTER IV.
THE FIRST DRINK AT THE WELL 70
CHAPTER V.
THE FIRST GLIMMER OF THE SAFETY-LAMP 93
CHAPTER VI.
THE WONDERS OF HEAT: ITS SOURCES 112
CHAPTER VII.
THE WONDERFUL DIFFUSION OF HEAT 134
CHAPTER VIII.
THE WONDERFUL EFFECTS OF HEAT 193
CHAPTER IX.
THE WONDERFUL EFFECTS OF HEAT—(_continued_) 208
CHAPTER X.
THE WONDERFUL EFFECTS OF HEAT—(_concluded_) 241
CHAPTER XI.
HUMPHRY AND HIS “WONDERFUL LAMP” 285
CHAPTER XII.
HUMPHRY PRACTISES AS A SURGEON—ON HIMSELF 315
CHAPTER XIII.
THE FIRST SUN-PICTURES 329
CHAPTER XIV.
THE WONDERS OF THE REFRACTION OF LIGHT 341
CHAPTER XV.
THE WONDERS OF THE REFRACTION OF LIGHT—(_continued_) 367
CHAPTER XVI.
THE WONDERS OF THE REFLEXION OF LIGHT 405
CHAPTER XVII.
THE WONDERS OF COLOUR AND PHOTOGRAPHY 419
CHAPTER XVIII.
CONCLUSION 445
THE WONDERS OF SCIENCE.
CHAPTER I.
THE WIDOWED AND THE FATHERLESS.
“Well, gentlemen, I have gone over your several accounts, and find that
the debts of the late Mr. Robert Davy amount altogether to the sum of
£1300.”
These words were addressed to a little group of tradesmen and others
who were assembled in a small room over a mercer’s shop, in the town of
Penzance. There was Jan Penberthy, the neighbouring miller, who, though
in his holiday clothes, had sufficient of the flour clinging to his black
eyebrows and whiskers to indicate his calling; and Malachy Carteret, the
carpenter and builder, who had slipped on his best coat, as he ran out
from his work, to be present at the meeting, and had still the brass
ends of his foot-rule projecting from the little fob at the side of his
fustian trousers. There was Mr. Trevisky, too, the sporting lawyer,
in his check shooting-jacket, all over pockets, and those at the hips
large enough for game or law papers, and who held in his hand a square,
horny-looking parchment deed; and close beside him sat the village
apothecary, in a long, snuff-brown greatcoat, between the skirts of
which might be seen, shining in the light, his high boots, that reached
well up to his knees; and there were two or three other of the village
tradespeople besides, all seated at the end of the little apartment, and
who, when they heard the amount of their united claims, exchanged glances
with one another in astonishment at the largeness of the sum.
At a table in front of the little assembly sat Mr. John Tonkin, the old
gentleman who had addressed them. Nor was he the least remarkable among
the company, for he was habited in the costume that had been fashionable
in the previous century. Over his shrivelled and veiny hands flapped deep
lace-ruffles, and the top of his head was white as a twelfth-cake, with
the large powdered wig that surmounted it. The straight, stand-up collar
of his Quaker-cut coat was as if mildewed at the back with the powder
that fell from his peruke, and the large fan-like frill that protruded
from his waistcoat—which was long as a modern groom’s—was speckled
brown in places with snuff, as thick as nutmeg on a custard; while from
underneath the table at which he sat peeped a pair of gold shoe-buckles
and black silk stockings. On a chair by his side lay the cocked hat which
completed his antiquated costume, and the underneath part of which was
greyed with hair-powder and long usage.
Peculiar as was the old gentleman’s dress, yet it had more of a quaint
than comical appearance with him; for his features, though creased with
age, and his form, though slightly bowed with his load of years, were
still of too manly a cast to excite any irreverent feeling, even in the
lightest minds; indeed, he had too stern and austere a look to dispose
any to smile at the oddity of his costume.[2]
After a short pause the old gentleman continued his address to the
company before him. “Now to meet this sum of £1300 there is the property
of the farm at Varfell, which is valued at about £150 a year, and upon
which Mr. Trevisky’s client has a mortgage to a small amount.”[3]
At the mention of the name of the attorney, that gentleman proceeded to
open the square deed before him, and to throw back the huge skins, that
looked like large sheets of bladder, as he glanced his eye down them one
after another.
“This little property, gentlemen,” proceeded Mr. Tonkin, “is all that
the widow and her five children—the eldest of whom, you will permit me
to remind you, is but sixteen years of age—have to subsist upon. Mrs.
Davy, therefore, I think, has a claim to some little indulgence and
sympathy at your hands. Some years must pass before her children are old
enough to obtain a maintenance for themselves, and in the mean time they
have to be supported, educated, and apprenticed. How this is all to be
done upon such slender means is a matter that I need not tell you adds
severely to the widow’s distress; for not only has she the grief to bear
on losing the partner with whom she had lived in happiness for nearly
twenty years, but she has the greater grief, if possible, of knowing that
her children are fatherless, and that she herself lacks the means of
providing for them in comfort. Her sorrow, then, gentlemen, has a double
sting. It arises not only from regret for the past, but a dread of the
future. I am sure, therefore, she will, under her great affliction, meet
with every consideration from you.”
At this point Mr. Malachy Carteret—a little man, remarkable for the
blackness and bushiness of his eyebrows, which grew so close together
as to look like one long one, rather than a pair, and who, from his
being considered a “good prayer-maker” at the chapel to which he
belonged, was always glad of an opportunity of displaying his oratorical
powers—ventured to observe, that he was sure all then present felt for
Mrs. Davy under her trials, but they had most of them children of their
own, and it was their duty to look at home first; for who could tell how
soon they themselves might be called away, and their little ones left in
the same distressing situation, unless their bills were duly paid? “Now
my little account,” proceeded the carpenter, “has been standing so long
as the new house at Varfell has been built, and that were the same year
as Dolly Pentreath died—I mean her as were 102 year old—and that’s some
time agone, you know; so I’m sure no one can’t say as I’ve been hard
about my little matter. But we were a thinking among ourselves, Mr.
Tonkin, that as you’d always been suchy kind friend to the family, and as
we hadn’t no wish to trouble Mrs. Davy under her affliction, that maybe
a—a—you—you—you wudn’t mind becoming security yourself for the debts,
and then they cud stand over for another year or two if need be. You’ll
excuse ma making maself so bould, sir; but I’m a plain man, and think
plain speaking is better than double-dealing at ale times.”
The old gentleman’s brow fell suddenly, and looking the carpenter full in
the face, he said, scornfully, “Though you have no wish to trouble Mrs.
Davy under her afflictions, you would not object, it seems, to involve
her friends in her liabilities. You allude, sir, to my past services,
and surely the recollection of the melancholy occasion which, rendered
such services necessary should have made you less eager after what is
due to you, and less anxious to entangle in the family difficulties a
person who, when he found that his assistance was needed, has never
added to the distress by waiting till asked for it. In this very house,
now thirty-seven years ago, it was my sad lot to see three young girls
deprived of both father and mother in the same week. Mrs. Davy was one,
and the youngest of those three—left almost in her infancy without a
friend or counsellor to help her through the world. And now in her
womanhood the same hard fate attends her—bereft of him whose affection
had made him her protector, and finding her children fatherless, as
she herself was, at the very time when needing most a father’s care.
Surely the remembrance of a double bereavement like this, sir—for
hardly is she out of her orphan age before she is doomed to enter on
her widowhood—should teach you that Providence must have some special
design in visiting so much misery upon this poor lady.[4] Nevertheless,
I am happy to say that Mrs. Davy needs no pecuniary assistance from
her friends, and requires but little indulgence from those to whom her
husband was indebted. It is proposed to increase the mortgage upon the
farm at Varfell to the amount of £1300, though this—even if Mr. Trevisky
can obtain the money at 4 per cent.—will reduce the family income to
less than £100 a year; and immediately the mortgage is completed and the
money paid, your accounts, gentlemen, will be discharged. The reason
of my requesting your attendance here to-day was not to seek to make
any compromise with you, nor to crave any unusual indulgence at your
hand, but merely to ascertain the amount of the collected claims against
the late Mr. Davy, and to inform you that steps were being taken for a
speedy payment of them, so that you might not trouble his widow with any
importunities on the matter. She, poor soul, has enough to bear with in
the privation she has recently suffered, and those wordly ones which
threaten herself and children in the future; but, thank Heaven, she is
prepared to meet all her trials with resignation and courage.”
Then, rising from his seat, he bowed haughtily to the company as he said,
“Now, gentlemen, I wish you a good day.”
The words were no sooner uttered than Mr. Trevisky, who had previously
folded up the deed, and sat fidgetting on his chair for the last quarter
of an hour—now twisting a piece of red tape round and round—then paring
his nails—and then twiddling the brass fox’s-head buttons of his
shooting-jacket—the words were no sooner uttered, we repeat, than the
lawyer started to his feet, and, pulling out his watch, said, half to
himself, “Egad, I shall be in time for the cock-fight yet;” and then,
waving his hand rapidly in the air, shouted as he darted from the room,
“I’ll see to that directly, Mr. Tonkin—I’ll see to it directly.”
Malachy Carteret was the last to leave, for he purposely remained behind
to plead his excuse to Mr. Tonkin for the use he had made of his name.
“I hope no offence, I’m sure, sir,” began the little carpenter. “I always
thoft ma money safe enow, but ya see times is hard, and there’s the men
to pay every Saturday night, and that’s a great pull. No one feels more
for Mrs. Davy than your humble servant M. C. does. Her husband always
behaved honourable to me, and M. C. is ‘ever grateful for past favours,’
as my card says. That there wor a bit of poor Mr. Davy’s handiwork,
worn’t it, Mr. Tonkin?” added Malachy, pointing to the oak mantel-piece,
that was elaborately and beautifully carved with birds, fruit, and
flowers.
“Yes,” returned the old gentleman, dryly: “Mr. Davy presented it to me
when he used to come courting here, at the time his wife and her sisters
were under my care.”
“Ah, he wor very clever with his tools,” continued the carpenter. “‘The
last of the carvers,’ we used to call him. I remember him afore he went
to London to larn the business—he lived with his uncle Robert then. I
used to work for the uncle; indeed I sarved my time with the late Mr.
Davy’s father—the builder, ya know—so, of coose, I cudn’t mean anything
but kindly to the family—only money’s very scarce just now, sir, and I’ve
a-mashes of bills to meet this quarter: so I hope no offence, I hope no
offence, sir. You doan’t want nothing in my way, do you, Mr. Tonkin?”
The old gentleman shook his head.
“Very well, sir,” proceeded the tradesman; “when you do, M. C. will be
proud to take your orders—ever grateful for past favours, sir, and hoping
for a continuance of your kind support. Allow me to give you one of my
new cards, sir; you’ll see I says as much there.” So saying, the pushing
little carpenter thrust one of the printed bits of pasteboard into the
old gentleman’s hand.
Suddenly a loud shout was heard in the street beneath.
Malachy and Mr. Tonkin looked vacantly at one another, as they both
inwardly wondered as to the cause of the noise.
In a few minutes the shouting was repeated, and this time the ear,
quickened by curiosity, could distinguish the shrill cries of the village
boys and women among the rest.
The carpenter, in the excitement of the moment, forgot his customary
obsequiousness, and rushing towards the window threw open the little
diamond-paned casement, making its metal frame twang again as he did so;
and as he craned his neck over into the street he cried, “Oh, Mr. Tonkin,
Mr. Tonkin! here, you never saw suchy thing in ale your life!”
The old gentleman was sufficiently curious to be unable to resist sharing
in the excitement, and proceeded to join the little carpenter, who was
still eagerly surveying the mob that was gathered round about the “Star
Inn,” on the opposite side of the street.
“It’s Squire Giddy’s new conveyance, sir!” exclaimed Malachy. “The
gardener told me last night it had come down from London the day afore,
with all its wheels done up in haybands like an Irish reaper’s legs.
It’s the fust as has ever bin seen in these parts, and so of coose the
whole town has come to have a peep at it.”
Ay, so it had! All Penzance was out to behold the first carriage that had
ever appeared in its streets.
There were the fishwomen from the neighbouring villages of Mousehole and
Newlyn, who had stopped in their rounds to join in the throng, and who
had their “cowals” or panniers of fish slung round the crown of their
broad-brimmed hats, with the load of pilchards glittering like lumps of
silver at their backs. And there were the ruddy-faced oil-girls, who
had put down their heavy pitchers and ceased for a while their cries of
“Buy ma traa-in! Buy ma traa-in!” to eye “the big box upon wheels,” as
they called it. The portly town-crier, too, was there, with his huge
dustman-like bell turned upwards, and looking like a big tulip in his
hand; for having found that his audience had suddenly deserted him, and
were more attracted by the sight of the new conveyance than with his
announcement that the grocer “had just received several chests of the
best tea from London,” the bellman had himself helped to swell the crowd,
and was now as eager as any to obtain a view of the new wonder. Mingling
with these might be seen the forms of the boatmen—half-smugglers,
half-fishermen—from the neighbouring shore, with their tight-fitting
blue “Guernseys,” their yellow, greasy-looking, fan-tail hats, and their
large high jack-boots, that bagged about their legs and looked as rusty
as if they had been made out of brown paper; whilst at the outside of the
motley group the eye fell upon the news-boy, mounted on a podgy pony,
with his long tin horn in his hand and pad of “SHERBORNE MERCURYS” under
his arm; and he, in his eagerness to catch sight of the strange-looking
vehicle, was leaning over on one side of the saddle, as a butcher-boy
loves to ride. All the shop people were at their doors: some in long
aprons, and others with white sleeves on their arms over their coats; and
the boys kept darting across from the houses towards the mob; while the
upper windows all down the street were knobbed over with heads, each bent
towards the one grand focus of attraction.
“It’s a queer-looking consarn, aint it, sir?” inquired Malachy; “and
there’s a good bit a work in it, I’ve no doubt.”
“It’s a hideous lumbering affair,” responded the old gentleman, as he
turned away from the window, “and it’s a great pity that persons haven’t
something better to excite their admiration than the follies of the rich;
but there’s such a love of luxury coming over our people, that soon we
shall become as effeminate as those of the East, who are borne about upon
couches when they journey from one place to another. In times past we
were a sturdy, energetic race, inured to hardship, and loving, rather
than avoiding, exercise; but now we must have soft, easy seats, and
beds of down, or we cannot rest. Not many years back the floors of our
nobles’ houses were strewn with rushes, but at present even our gentry
are beginning to find a sanded room unpleasant to their feet, and so they
must needs have soft carpets to tread upon—as if they had all at once
grown as tender-footed as negroes. There’s Squire Austell has already
carpetted his best sitting-room; and mark my words! there’s sufficient
of the monkey in our natures to make his great and little neighbours ape
the Squire’s manners. Ugh! We shall be as unmanly as fiddlers before
many years have passed over our heads. Haven’t we got to drink slops for
breakfast instead of a horn or two of good strong ale, as they did in our
fathers’ time? and do you think, sir, strength, and courage, and energy
are to be got out of teacups? Soon we shall find it impossible to eat
without silver forks, as they do in London already; and, by and by, the
dinner-bell will ring at the same hour as the curfew-bell used to toll in
olden times—for what’s called fashion is setting nearer that way every
day. But, thank goodness, we still dine at noon here, and our parties are
limited to tea and Pope Joan at three o’clock, instead of grand dinners
or dances with Frenchified gavottes, and minuets that begin with the
owls and end with the lark. I hate such new-fangled customs! they would
put John Bull into stays like a Frenchman, and exchange his top-boots
for dancing pumps. Take my word for it, sir, since that four-wheeled
aid-to-laziness has appeared in our town we shall shortly find every
one of our would-be fine ladies unable to stir a yard from their homes
without one.”[5]
“You’re quite right, Mr. Tonkin, _quite_ right, sir,” chimed in the
little carpenter; “our rich folk are getting more proud and fond of
luxuries and vanities every day of their lives. Why, what do you think?
they’re talking of putting cushions to all the seats of the pews in our
chapel, sir, just because the gentlefolks has ’em to their sittings in
Madern church! and I give you my word, sir, I’ve only just finished
setting a bright polished steel grate in the withdrawing-room, as they
call it, at Castle Horneck. It’s just bin had down from London, and I
declare one might see to shave one’s self in any part of it. It never
was made to put a fire in, I’m sure. But there’s nothing I can do for
you in my little way; is there, Mr. Tonkin? I’ve got the newest designs
for furniture just arrived from town by the pack-horse as came in last
Monday.”
Mr. Tonkin shook his head, and turned, towards the window.
“I hope no offence, sir,” continued Malachy; “another time, maybe, I
shall be honoured with your commands, and then I can only say that your
orders shall be punctually attended to by your humble servant, M.
C.;” and, having delivered himself of this speech, the pushing little
carpenter bowed himself backwards out of the room.