Transcriber's Notes:
1. Page scan source: Google Books
https://books.google.com/books?id=yZ4pAQAAIAAJ
(the University of California)
2. [=e] indicates a macron over "e"
JOSHUA MARVEL.
BY
B. L. FARJEON,
AUTHOR OF "GRIF."
NEW YORK:
HARPER & BROTHERS, PUBLISHERS,
FRANKLIN SQUARE.
1872.
JOSHUA MARVEL.
CHAPTER I.
CONCERNING CERTAIN FAMILY CONVERSATIONS AND THEIR RESULT.
In the parish of Stepney, in the county of Middlesex, there lived,
amidst the hundreds of thousands of human bees who throng that
overcrowded locality, a family composed of four persons--mother,
father, and two children, boy and girl--who owned the surprising name
of Marvel. They had lived in their hive for goodness knows how many
years. The father's father had lived there and died there; the father
had been married from there; and the children had been born there. The
bees in the locality, who elbowed each other and trod upon each
other's toes, were poor and common bees, and did not make much honey.
Some of them made just enough to live upon; and a good many of them,
now and then, ran a little short. The consequence was, that they could
not store any honey for a rainy day, and were compelled to labor and
toil right through the year, in cold weather and in warm weather, in
sunshine and in rain. In which respect they were worse off than other
bees we know of that work in the summer and make themselves cosey in
the winter.
The bees in the neighborhood being common and poor, it was natural
that the neighborhood itself should partake of the character of its
inhabitants. But, common and poor as it was, it was not too common nor
too poor for love to dwell in it. Love did reside there; not only in
the hive of the Marvels, but in hundreds of other hives, tenanted by
the humblest of humble bees.
George Marvel had married for love; and, lest the reader should
suppose that the contract was one-sided, it may be as well to mention
that George Marvel's wife had also married for love. They fell in love
in the way, and they married in the usual way; and, happy and
satisfied with each other, they did not mar their enjoyment of the
then present by thinking of the sharp stones which, from the very
circumstances of their position, were pretty sure to dot the road of
their future lives. There are many such simple couples in the world
who believe that the future is carpeted with velvet grass, with the
sun always shining upon it, and who find themselves all too soon
stumbling over a dark and rocky thoroughfare.
It was not long before the Marvels came to the end of _their_ little
bit of carpet sunshine; yet, when they got upon the stones, they
contrived by industry and management to keep their feet. George Marvel
was a wood-turner by trade, and earned on an average about thirty-two
shillings a week. What with a little new furniture now and then, and a
little harmless enjoyment now and then, and a few articles of
necessary clothing now and then, and the usual breakfasts, dinners,
and teas, with a little bit of supper now and then, the thirty-two
shillings a week were pretty well and pretty fully employed. So well
and so fully were those weekly shillings employed, that it was often a
very puzzling matter to solve that problem which millions of human
atoms are studying at this present moment, and which consists in
endeavoring to make both ends meet. That they did contrive, however,
to make both ends meet (not, of course, without the tugging and
stretching always employed in the process), was satisfactorily
demonstrated by the fact that the family, were respected and esteemed
by their neighbors, and that they owed no man a shilling. Not even the
baker; for they sent for their loaves, and paid for them across the
counter. By that they almost always received an extra piece to make up
weight; and such extra pieces are of importance in a family. Not even
the butcher; for Mrs. Marvel did her own marketing, and found it far
cheaper to select her own joints, which you may be sure never had too
much bone in them. Not even the cat's-meat man; for the farthing a day
laid out with that tradesman was faithfully paid in presence of the
carroty-haired cat (who ever heard of a cat with auburn hair?) who sat
the while with eager appetite, looking with hungry eyes at the skewer
upon which hung her modicum of the flesh of horse.
Mrs. Marvel was a pale but not sad woman, who had no ambition in life
worthy of being called one, save the ambition of making both ends
meet, and of being able, although Stepney was not liable to floods, to
keep the heads of her family above water. But, because Mrs. Marvel had
no ambition, that was no reason why Mr. Marvel should not have any.
Not that he could have defined precisely what it was if he had been
asked; but that the constant difficulties which cropped up in the
constant attempt to solve the problem (which has something perpetual
in its nature) of making both ends meet, made him fretful. This
fretfulness had found vent in speech day after day for many years; so
that Joshua Marvel, the wood-turner's heir, had from his infancy
upwards been in the habit of hearing what a miserable thing it was to
be poor, and what a miserable thing it was to be cooped up, as George
Marvel expressed it, and what a miserable thing it was to live until
one's hair turned gray without ever having had a start in the world.
It is not to be wondered at, therefore, that Joshua Marvel had
gathered slowly in his mind the determination not to be a wood-turner
all his life, but to start in the world for himself, and try to be
something better; never for one moment thinking there was the most
remote possibility of his ever being any thing worse. When, in the
course of certain family discussions and conversations, this
determination became known, it did not receive discouragement from the
head of the family, although the tender-hearted mother cried by the
hour together, and could not for the life of her see why Joshua should
not be satisfied to do as his father had done before him.
"And what is that, mother?" Mr. Marvel would ask. "What have I done
before him? I've been wood-turning all my life before him--that's what
I've been doing; and I shall go on wood-turning, I suppose, till my
dying day, when I can't wood-turn any more. Why, it might be yesterday
that I started as a boy to learn wood-turning. The first day I used
the lathe I dreamed that I had cut my thumb off; and I woke up with a
curious sensation in my jaw which has haunted me ever since like a
ghost. That was before I knew you, mother. And now it is to-day, and
I'm wood-turning still; and--How many white hairs did you pull out of
my head last night, Sarah?"
"Fourteen," replied Sarah; "and you owe me a farthing."
"Fourteen," said Mr. Marvel, quietly repudiating the liability, which
arose from an existing arrangement that Sarah should have a farthing
for every dozen white hairs she pulled out of his head; "and next week
it will be forty, perhaps; and the week after four hundred."
"White hairs will come, father," said Mrs. Marvel; "we must all get
'em when we're old enough."
"I'm not old enough," grumbled Mr. Marvel.
"And I don't see, father," continued Mrs. Marvel, "what the fourteen
white hairs Sarah pulled out of your head has to do with Joshua."
"Of course _you_ don't see, mother," said, Mr. Marvel, who had a
contempt for a woman's argument; "you're not supposed to see, being a
woman; but I _do_ see; and what I say is, wood-turning brings on white
hairs quicker than any thing else."
"Grandfather was a wood-turner," remarked Mrs. Marvel, "and he didn't
have white hairs until he was quite old."
"Well, he was lucky--that's all I can say; but, for all that, Josh
isn't going to be a wood-turner, unless he's set his mind upon it."
"I won't be a wood-turner, father," said Joshua.
"All right, Josh," said Mr. Marvel; "you sha'n't."
From this it will be seen that the voice maternal was weak and
impotent when opposed to the voice paternal. But Mrs. Marvel, although
by no means a strong-minded woman, had a will of her own, and a quiet
unobtrusive way of working which often achieved a victory without
inflicting humiliation. She did not like the idea of her boy leading
an idle life; she had an intuitive conviction that Joshua would come
to no good if he had nothing to do. She argued the matter with her
good man, and never introduced the subject at an improper time. The
consequence was, that her first moves were crowned with success.
"If Joshua won't be a wood-turner, father "--she said.
"Which he won't," asserted her husband.
"Which he won't, as you say," Mrs. Marvel replied, like a sensible
woman. "If he won't be a wood-turner, he must be something. Now he
must be something, father--mustn't he?"
This being spoken in the form of a question, left the decision with
Mr. Marvel; and he said, as if the remark originated with himself,--
"Yes; he must be something."
And with that admission Mrs. Marvel rested content for a little while;
but not for long. She soon returned to the attack; and asked her
husband what Joshua should be. Now this puzzled Mr. Marvel; and he
could not see any way out of the difficulty, except by remarking that
the boy would make up his mind one of these fine days. But "these fine
days"--in which people, especially boys, make up their minds--are
remarkably like angels' visits; and the calendar of our lives often
comes to an end without one of them being marked upon the record. To
all outward appearance, this was likely to be the case with Joshua;
and the task of making up his mind seemed to be so tardy in its
accomplishment, that George Marvel himself began to grow perplexed as
to the future groove of his son and heir; for Joshua kept himself
mentally very much to himself. Vague wishes and desires he had; but
they had not yet shaped themselves in his mind--which was most likely
the reason why they had not found expression.
Meanwhile Mrs. Marvel was not idle. She saw her husband's perplexity,
and rejoiced at it. Her great desire was to see Joshua settled down to
a trade, whether it were wood-turning or any other. Wood-turning she
would have preferred; but, failing that, some other trade which would
fix him at home; for with that keen perception which mothers only
possess with regard to their children--a perception which springs from
the maternal intellect alone, and which is born of a mother's watchful
anxious love--she felt that her son's desires, unknown even to
himself, might possibly lead him to be a wanderer from her world, the
parish of Stepney, in which she was content to live and die. In that
beehive she had been born; in that beehive she had experienced calm
happiness and wholesome trouble; and in that beehive she wished to
close her eyes; and to see her children's faces smiling upon her, when
her time came to say good-by to the world of which she knew so little.
With all a woman's cunning, with all a woman's love, she devoted
herself to the task of weaning the mind of her favorite child from the
restless aspirations which might drive him from her side.
"Until Joshua makes up his mind what he is going to be, father," she
said one night at candle-time, "it's a pity he should remain idle.
Idleness isn't a good thing for a boy."
"Idleness isn't a good thing for boy or man," said Mr. Marvel,
converting his wife's remark into an original expression of opinion by
the addition of the last two words. "But I don't see what we are to
do, mother."
"Suppose I get him a situation--as an errand-boy, perhaps--until he
makes up his mind."
"I'm agreeable," said Mr. Marvel, "if Josh is."
But Josh was not agreeable. Many a fruitless journey did Mrs. Marvel
make, trudging here and trudging there; and many an application did
she answer in person to written announcements in shop-windows of
"Errand-boy wanted." Joshua would not accept any of the situations she
obtained for him. She got him one at a watchmaker's; no, he would not
go to a watchmaker's: at a saddler's; no, he would not go to a
saddler's; at a bootmaker's, at a tailor's; no, nor that, nor that.
Still she persevered, appearing to gain fresh courage from every
rebuff. As for Joshua, he was beginning to grow wearied of her
assiduity. He was resolved not to go to any trade, but being of a very
affectionate nature he desired to please his mother, and at the same
time to convince her that it was of no use for her to worry him any
longer. So he set her, what he considered to be an impossible task: he
told her that he was determined not to go anywhere except to a
printing office. He felt assured that she would never be able to get
him within the sacred precincts of such an establishment. And even if
she did, there was something more noble, something more distinguished
and grander, in printing than in bootmaking, or tailoring, or
watchmaking, or wood-turning. There was a fascinating mystery about
it; he had seen watchmakers and tailors, and cobblers working, but he
had never seen the inside of a printing-office. Neither had any of his
boy-friends. He had been told, too, that there was an act of
parliament which allowed printers to wear swords in the streets. That
was a fine thing. How all the neighbors would stare when they saw him
walking through the narrow streets of Stepney with sword at his side!
Joshua had some sense of humor; and he chuckled to himself at the
impossible task he had set his mother.
He was therefore considerably astonished one day, when Mrs. Marvel
told him she had obtained a situation for him as errand-boy in a
newspaper-office. Did ever a woman fail, except from physical or
mental prostration, in the accomplishment of a certain thing upon
which she has set her mind? And if, in working for the accomplishment
of the desired result, she brings to her aid an unselfish, unwearying
love, _then_ did ever a woman fail? At all events Mrs. Marvel did not.
After much labor, fortune befriended her; and she heard that an
errand-boy was wanted at a certain printing-office where a weekly
newspaper was printed. Thither she hurried, and soon found herself in
a small dark office, in which the master sat.
He treated her in the most off-hand manner. Yes, he wanted an
errand-boy. Was he sharp, intelligent, willing? Oh, her son! Very
well. Let him come to-morrow. Wages, four shillings a week. Time, from
eight to eight. An hour to dinner, half an hour to tea. Good-morning.
Thus the matter was settled, and Joshua engaged. Mrs. Marvel went home
rejoicing.
With fear and trembling, a little pleased and a good deal dismayed,
Joshua made his way the next morning to the printing-office. Groping
along a dark passage he came to a door on which the word "Office" was
dimly discernible. The freshness of youthful paint had departed from
the word; the letters were faded, and they appeared to be waiting to
be quite rubbed out with a kind of jaded resignation. In response to
the sharply-uttered "Come in!" Joshua opened the door, and entered the
room. The person he saw before him had such a dissipated appearance,
that any stranger would have been warranted in coming to the
conclusion that he had not been in bed for a fortnight. The room was
full of papers, very dusty and very dirty; and looked as if, from the
day it was built, it had not found time to wash itself. Scarcely
raising his eyes from a long slip of paper, upon which he was making a
number of complicated marks, the occupant of the room said,--
"It's of no use bothering me. I sha'n't have any copy ready for half
an hour. Hallo! Who are you?"
"The new errand-boy, sir," said Joshua, humbly.
"Oh, very well! Take this proof up stairs and sweep the
composing-room; then come down and clean the street-door plate. Cut
along! Look sharp!"
Looking as sharp as he could, Joshua walked up stairs, and found
himself in the composing-room of the establishment. A number of men
and boys, decorated with aprons with large bibs, were playing a
mysterious game with hundreds and thousands of small pieces of lead,
which they clicked with marvellous rapidity, but without any apparent
meaning, against an instrument they held in their hands. He looked in
vain for the swords which he had heard printers were allowed to wear,
and he was covered with confusion at finding himself in the midst of
so large an assemblage, who one and all appeared as if they were
playing on a number of pianos without any tune in them. Going up to a
youth whose head, covered with a profusion of red hair, looked as if
it were in a blaze, Joshua asked to whom he should give the proof. "To
Snooks," was the prompt reply. For which piece of information he
received a slap on the side of his head from some person in authority;
who taking the proof from Joshua, directed him to sweep up the room.
While performing this task he surveyed the scene before him. There
were sixteen men and four boys at work. All the men had the same
dissipated look that he had observed upon the countenance of the
master. Their faces, otherwise, were very clean; but the tips of the
right-hand fore-finger and thumb of each were black with dirt, caused
by the types which they picked up with those extremities from the
boxes before them. Not a word was spoken, except what appeared to have
reference to the business, and the conversation proceeded somewhat in
this wise. One of the workmen, walking to a slab of iron placed in the
middle of the room, took therefrom a sheet of manuscript, and looking
at it negligently, shouted,--
"Number three!"
Another voice at the end of the room cried out,--
"Awful Collision!"
Joshua stopped in the midst of his sweeping, and waited for the shock.
But as none came, he proceeded with his work, and thought that the
second speaker was crazy. In the mean time the dialogue continued.
Speaker number one: "End a break."
Speaker number two: "All right," with a growl.
Speaker number one: "What type?"
Speaker number two, with another growl: "Minion."
At the word "minion," which Joshua considered was a term expressive of
any thing but respect, he expected speaker number one would walk up to
speaker number two, and punch his head. Instead of which the insulted
individual went into his corner again, and re-commenced playing his
tuneless piano in the meekest possible manner. The overseer then going
to a part of the room where long rows of type were placed in detached
pieces, asked,--
"How long will this Dreadful Suicide be before it's finished?"
"Done in five minutes, sir," was the reply, in a cheerful voice.
"Who's on the Inquest?" asked the overseer.
"I am, sir."
"Be quick and get it finished; you've been long enough over it. Now,
then, how long is this Chancery Court to remain open?"
"Close it up in two minutes, sir."
And Joshua gazed with a kind of wonder at the individual who spoke, as
if it were as easy to close the Court of Chancery as to close his
hand.
It was the day on which the paper was sent to press; the publishing
hour was three o'clock in the afternoon; and as the work was
behindhand, everybody was very busy. In the centre of the room was a
large iron slab, and at one time the hammering and beating on this
slab were terrific. Two, or three excited individuals, with mallets
and iron sticks in their hands, advanced towards the type, which was
laid upon the slab, with the apparent intention of smashing it to
pieces. They commenced to do this with such extraordinary earnestness,
that Joshua was on the point of rushing down stairs to the master to
inform him that his property was being wantonly destroyed; but as the
other workmen appeared to regard the proceeding as quite a matter of
course, Joshua checked himself and thought it would perhaps be as well
for him to say nothing about it. The overseer also continued to issue
his strange orders; and during a slight cessation in the hammering, he
peremptorily ordered the workman to "lock up that Escaped Lunatic, and
be quick about it." At another time he gave directions to lay the
Female in Disguise on the stone (meaning the iron slab), to unlock the
Old Bailey, and to correct the Chancellor's Budget. Joshua grew
perfectly bewildered. The information that there was an Escaped
Lunatic in the room did not so much astonish as alarm him; but as to
the Female in Disguise he could not identify her, and he waited in
amazement to see what disguise she wore and where she would be brought
from; at the same time entertaining the idea that to lay any female
upon a stone was a decidedly improper proceeding. While in this state
of mental perplexity, the overseer cried out,--
"Now, then, who has the Female in Disguise in hand?"
"I have, sir," a voice replied.
"Bring it here, then," ordered the overseer, "and finish the
corrections on the stone."
"All right, sir."
Joshua started and looked round to catch a sight of the female; in his
agitation he stumbled against a workman who held a column of type in
his arms. The type fell to the ground, and was smashed into thousands
of pieces. In an instant the whole office was in confusion.
"You've done it this time, youngster," the workman said in dismay,
looking at the scattered type on the floor.
Joshua did not exactly know what it was he _had_ done, but felt that
it must be something very bad. He soon received practical proof of the
extent of the mischief, for the master, rushing into the room, kicked
him down stairs and told him to go about his business. Which Joshua
did in a state of much bewilderment.
Thus all the good intentions of Mrs. Marvel were frustrated. Joshua
declared he would not take another situation, and his father sided
with him and encouraged him. It must be confessed that Mr. Marvel
continued to have his perplexities about Joshua's career, but to have
openly admitted them would have been handing the victory to his wife.
So he kept them to himself, and thus maintained his supremacy as
master of the house. Many of his neighbors were henpecked, and he used
to laugh at them. It would not have done to have given them the chance
to laugh at him. Therefore, as time progressed, Mrs. Marvel's protests
were less and less frequently made, and Joshua's determination not to
be a wood-turner gathering strength month after month, it soon came to
be recognized as quite a settled thing that he was to start in life
for himself, and was not to do as his father had done before him.
Pending his decision, Joshua continued to lead an idle life. But he
was by no means viciously inclined; and much of his time was spent in
the cultivation of two innocent amusements, both of which served him
in good stead in the singular future which was in store for him. One
of these amusements was a passion for music. He knew nothing of
musical notation, and played entirely by ear; yet he managed to
extract sweet melody from a second-hand accordion, of which, after
long and patient saving of half pence and pence, he had become the
happy purchaser. The other of his tastes grew out of a boyish love.
How he acquired it will be recounted in the following chapters.