“Han’ me that peype, weyfe! I’ll smuik an’ think.
Nay, dunnet cry, we ne’er did wrang;
The truth I’ll state, whate’er teks pleace,
To Carel sizes when I gang;
We plenty hev, we’ll dui what’s reeght, weyfe,
An’ whop (hope) beath lang may happy be.
Now supper’s ruddy, weep nae mair, weyfe.
Ay fain I’d see a smeyle frae thee.”—_Bad News._
MR. SANDBOYS prided himself on being a “bit of a philosopher.” His great
weakness consisted in his imaginary strength of mind. In his college
days at St. Bees he had been charmed with the classic chronicles of
Grecian stoicism and Roman fortitude, and, ever since, had been
endeavouring to talk himself, out of all feeling and affection, into the
hero. To his great self-satisfaction, he now believed he could bear any
stroke of Fate, however severe or unexpected, without so much as a wink
of his “mind’s eye,” and he flattered himself that he had arrived at
that much-to-be-desired state of insensibility which, would enable him,
like a Buttermere Brutus, to hand his own son Jobby over to the Carlisle
hangman with no more compunction—as he delighted to tell that young
gentleman, much to his horror—than he would take one of his “lean sheep”
to Lanthwaite Green Fair.
And yet, truth to say, the heart of the heroic Mr. Sandboys was as soft
as new bread, though he would have had the world believe it was as hard
and dry as sea biscuit. If Cursty had any _mettle_ at all in his
constitution it was that particular kind of “fusible alloy” which melts
at the least warmth, and loses all consistency immediately it gets into
hot water.
No metaphysician has ever yet explained why poor perverse human nature
always fancies it has a special talent for doing something the very
opposite to that in which it happens to excel. Doubtlessly, if the truth
could be known, we should find Sir John Herschel secretly regarding
himself as a small astronomer, but taking great pride in his imitation
of frying sausages; and Faraday thinking little of his discoveries in
diamagnetism, but flattering himself that he could palm a pea better
than any thimble-rigger in the kingdom. Professor Owen, for what we
know, may despise himself as a comparative anatomist, but think far from
meanly of his abilities as a player on the bones, and Archbishop Whately
in his own eyes shine less in logic than in the mixture of a lobster
salad, or the brewing of whiskey punch.
Even so was it with Mr. Cursty Sandboys! Naturally kind-hearted, and
weak almost to an extreme, he conceited himself that he was firm and
immoveable, amid the storms of life, as a human light-house, or as
light-hearted and lively in the midst of all his “ups-and-downs” as the
celebrated old Buoy at the Nore. Nothing he coveted more than decision
of character, and yet no man was more undecided. Theoretically he was
steel, but practically he was only case-hardened with a surface of
philosophy.
As he journeyed along the road to Cockermouth, he was busy revolving in
his own mind the incidents of the previous week. Had he allowed himself
to be conquered by circumstances? Had he permitted the loss of his
nether garments to wrest him from his purpose? Had he, because deprived
of the distinctive feature of his “outward man,” been led to play the
woman? Had he forgotten all that he had been so long teaching himself,
and lost all that made Man admirable when he lost his breeches? “True,”
he said, “Man was but a savage without such things—but then,” he asked
himself, “might he not become effeminate with them?”
And as he trudged along the winding Hause, chewing the cud of his
thoughts, the Buttermere philosopher got to look upon the ineffable part
of Man’s apparel as one of the many evils of civilized life—the cause of
much moral weakness and social misery. “If such garments were not
naturally effeminate, why,” he went on inquiring of himself, “should all
women have so great a desire to wear them? Were they not,” he said, “the
cause of more than half of the conjugal contentions of the present
day?—Was not matrimony, generally, one long struggle between man and
wife as to who should possess these _insignia_ of the domestic
monarchy?”
And thus the unconventional Mr. Sandboys proceeded in his sartorial
catechism, until he got to convince himself that Sin originally came
into the world with breeches, and that the true meaning of the allegory
of the apple was, that the Serpent had tempted the great Mother Eve with
a pair.
While Mr. Sandboys was thus philosophically reviewing his conduct, the
more domestic partner of his bosom was mentally “looking after” the
luggage that she had left behind in charge of Postlethwaite and Ann
Lightfoot, until she could send a suitable conveyance for it. Though it
had been agreed that the family were but to stay a week in the
Metropolis, and Mr. Sandboys, knowing that women, when on the wing, want
the Peacock’s faculty of packing up their fine feathers in the smallest
possible compass, had given strict injunctions that they should take
only such things as were absolutely necessary. But, primitive as were
the denizens of Buttermere, and far removed as its mountain-fastnesses
seemed from the realms of fashion, the increased facilities of
intercommunication had not failed to diffuse a knowledge of Polkas and
Crinolines among the female portion of its pastoral people; so that what
with “best bonnets,” and “dress caps,” that had to be stowed away in
square black boxes kept expressly for them—and gowns, with so many
breadths and flounces, that, to prevent being crushed, they required
nearly a whole trunk to themselves—and morning dresses and evening
dresses—and cardinals and paletots—and be-laced and be-frilled nightcaps
and night-gowns—all equally incompressible—and muffs and tippets—and
whiskers and artificial flowers and feathers—and bustles and false
fronts, that did not admit of any more compact stowage—and bottles of
bandoline and perfume—and pots of cold cream and lip salve—and
writing-cases and work-boxes—all and every of which the ladies declared
to be positively indispensable for the trip;—what with these things, we
say, it was found that by the time the packing was done, the boxes, and
trunks, and portmanteaus, and carpet-bags, and hat-cases, and
band-boxes, and umbrellas, that constituted the family luggage, amounted
to no less than three-and-twenty different articles. Each of these the
careful Mrs. Sandboys had duly set down and numbered on a card which she
carried with her, and which she kept continually drawing from her bosom
and reading over as she journeyed along.
Jobby and Elcy walked in the rear; the former thinking of nothing, but
full of what are called animal spirits, skittish as a colt, and unable
to continue long at any one thing,—now throwing up a stone and
endeavouring to hit it as it descended through the air, to the imminent
peril of his mother’s bonnet—then making “ducks and drakes” along the
lake with small pieces of the mountain slate—the next moment aiming at
some bird as it skimmed across the water—the next, scampering up the
hill-side with his sister Elcy’s miserable-looking and most
unsportsman-like Italian greyhound at his heels, starting the mountain
sheep—and then descending with several sprigs of the “whin” or furze
bushes in his hand, and stealthily dropping them into his father’s
coat-tail pocket, in the earnest hope of seeing the old gentleman
shortly sit down to rest himself by the way on some neighbouring crag.
Elcy, with her eyes moist with tears—though she hardly knew why—was too
sad to talk, or mind the tricks that her brother played with either her
father or her poor little shivering pet dog. It was the first time she
had ever left her home; and though her woman’s curiosity made her long
to see London, of which she had heard so much, the departure from
Hassness was like leaving some dear old friend. The mountains, which for
so many years she had seen, flushed with the young light, “first thing”
when she opened her eyes in the morning, she had got to know and almost
love like living things. She had watched them under every aspect,—with
the white snow lying on them, and bringing them so close that they
looked like huge icebergs floating towards her—or with the noonday sun
lighting up their green sides, and the shapes of the opposite peaks and
crags painted in black shadow upon them—or with the million stars
shining in the grey sky above their heads, like luminous dust, and their
huge dim forms sleeping in the haze of the moonlight, and looking like
distant storm-clouds rather than solid masses of rock.
Each of the hills round about had its own proper name, and so had
assumed a kind of natural personification in Elcy’s mind. Every one, to
her fancy, was a different being associated with a different feeling;
for some she had the same reverence as for the aged, while some,
woman-like, she half loved for the sense of power they impressed her
with. And as she journeyed along the banks of the lakes they surrounded,
and each fresh turn brought some new mountain form into sight, a dark
train of melancholy thoughts swept across her mind like the shadows of
clouds flitting along some peaceful meadow, and she trod the path with
the sound of an ideal bell droning in her ears.
Thus the Sandboys travelled on to the house of John Coss, the cobbler
post-boy, in the hopes of getting some sort of a conveyance over to
Cockermouth. But though John Coss was nowhere to be met with, they were,
luckily, just in time to catch the Loweswater post-master, who, finding
that all the correspondence in that part of the country had come to an
end, had stuck up a notice that the letterbox at his office would be
closed till after the Great Exhibition, and was then on his way, in the
empty mail-cart, to the Cockermouth railway station.
Once at Cockermouth, the necessary preparations were soon made for the
Sandboys’ journey to the great metropolis. Jobby was shod, Cursty
himself was breeched; Postlethwaite, Ann Lightfoot, and the “things”
were duly removed from Hassness, and everything seemed to promise that
the family really _would_ enjoy themselves at last.
They were but just in time for obtaining their outfit. All the principal
gentry and tradesmen had already left the town, and the smaller fry were
making ready to follow the examples of their bigger brethren. The
shutters of the Castle were closed, the mail-coach of “the General” had
been put on the rails and carried to London, with “the Lord Paramount”
shut up inside of it. At Derwent House the blinds had all been papered,
and the gilt frames and chandeliers put into brown holland pinafores,
while Lawyer Steel himself had pleaded a set-off, and moved himself, by
writ of some kind or other, to the capital. The little grey pony, upon
whose “body” Coroner Brag had so often “sat,” had been put upon
board-wages at the Globe Inn. Doctor Bell and his brother “Dickey,” the
cheerful, smiling, good-natured “medical men” of the town, had for a
time ceased that friendly interchange of commodities which consisted in
the giving of physic and the taking of wine with their several patients,
and finding that their invalids had all taken to their “last legs,”—that
the consumptions had gone galloping off—and that the declines had
suddenly got out of “the last stage,” and jumped into the first train,
the Esculapian Adelphi had felt each other’s pulse, and respectively
prescribing a few weeks’ change of air for their complaints, had both
started after their patients, as lively as return hearses.
Even Jonathan Wood, the quondam Boniface, who, like Atlas of old, used
to have the whole weight of “THE GLOBE” on his shoulders, and had
supported it till he had positively got red in the face—even jolly
Jonathan himself had disappeared from the town. “THE SUN,” too, had lost
all attraction to its attendant planets, who, no longer gravitating
towards it, had flown off at a tangent to the metropolis.
But though there was neither heat nor light in the “Sun,” at
Cockermouth, still in the interior of the “Globe” there was a small
fire, and here beside the grateful hobs of the cosey hostelry, Mr.,
Mrs., and the younger Sandboys located themselves until such time as all
was ready for the start.
The journey from Cockermouth to Workington per rail is by no means of an
agreeable character. The line being in none of the most flourishing
conditions, every means for economizing the “working expenses” have been
resorted to. The men engaged upon it have been cut down to boys; so that
the establishment has very much the look of a kind of railway academy,
where the porters on the platform are ever playing at marbles or
leapfrog, where the policemen all wear pinafores, and where the clerks
are taken to the station in the morning, and “fetched” in the evening by
the maids of their anxious parents. We _have_ heard the united ages of
the entire staff, but fear to mention the small amount, lest a too
incredulous public should accuse us of magnifying, or rather parvifying
the tenderness of their years. Suffice it that not a razor is used by
the whole establishment; and that the “staff,”—we have it on the best
authority—are allowed to give over work an hour earlier every Saturday
evening, in consideration of its being “tub-night.”
With a further view to effecting that financial reform which is so
popular at the present moment, the coal bills of the company recently
underwent a minute scrutiny, and the important discovery made—after
working several very difficult sums—that the heavy amount of eighteen
shillings and a fraction weekly could be saved by using coals instead of
coke; whereupon a resolution was immediately passed by the frugal
directors, declaring that nothing but the “best Lord Mayor’s” should
thenceforth be put into the company’s fires. The result of this wise
economy has been, that the engines on this line are perpetually smoking
in the faces of the passengers, and pouring forth so lavish a volcanic
eruption of “blacks,” that by the time the ladies and gentlemen reach
the end of their journey, they are generally as dark-complexioned as if
they had been unconsciously working or reading by the light of the very
best—patent—warranted infumible—camphine lamps.
At Workington, the Sandboys, who, on their arrival, much to the horror
of the cleanly Mrs. S., might have been taken for a family of Ethiopian
serenaders, having bleached themselves as well as possible with their
pocket handkerchiefs—Mrs. Sandboys standing on tiptoe the while to wipe
the nasty, filthy blacks from out the wrinkles and dimples of her dear
Cursty’s face—proceeded to make the necessary inquiries touching the
continuation of their journey to London.
At the station, all was confusion and bustle, and noise and scrambling,
and bewilderment. Porters in green velveteen jackets, with the shoulders
worn white with repeated loads, were hurrying to and fro—some with
carpet-bags in their hands—others with boxes on small-wheeled trucks,
rattling over the flooring through the office. Impatient groups were
gathered close round the pay-clerk—steam-engines, eager to start, were
fizzing violently, as if a thousand knives were being ground at once—and
large bells were ringing quickly to announce the arrival of some train
which presently came bumping heavily alongside the station. Mrs.
Sandboys had pursued some porter who, much to her astonishment and
indignation, had, without a word, walked away with the united luggage of
the family, immediately on its being deposited outside the station door;
while Mr. Sandboys himself had gone to learn how he and his party were
to proceed.
“Where are you going to?” rapidly inquired the good-tempered and
bustling station-master, as he squinted at the clock.
“T’ Bull and Mouth, Holborn Hill, London,” answered Mr. Cursty Sandboys,
giving the whole address of his proposed resting-place in the
metropolis.
“Don’t know any Bull and Mouth at Holborn Hill,” replied the busy
official, who, called off by the guard, had not caught the last word of
Mr. Sandboys’ answer.
“Dustea say tha dunnet ken t’ Bull an’ Mouth,” exclaimed the anxious
Cursty, lifting up his bushy eyebrows with evident astonishment. “I
thowt aw t’ warl was kenning t’ Bull an’ Mouth, Holborn Hill.”
Mr. Sandboys having, during his first and only visit to London (whither
he had been summoned on a trial concerning the soundness of some cattle
that he had sold to one of the dealers who yearly visited Buttermere),
resided with the rest of the witnesses for some ten days at the Bull and
Mouth Inn, and knowing that it was a place of considerable reputation,
could not help expressing his surprise that a person filling a situation
which brought him into almost daily communication with the metropolis,
should be unacquainted with one of the most celebrated of its public
inns.
The Workington station-master, however, unfortunately for Mr. Sandboys,
referred to a different quarter of the world. The Holborn Hill he spoke
of, as possessing no Bull and Mouth, was not the well-known metropolitan
acclivity, so trying to the knees of cab and omnibus-horses, where coal
waggons and railway vans are continually “sticking” half-way—where
“bachelors’ kettles” are perpetually being boiled in less than five
minutes, and where sheets of gutta percha, like hardbake, and tubing of
the same material, like rolls of German sausages, for ever meet the eye.
No; the Holborn Hill which the Workington official alluded to was an
obscure point of land situate at the extremity of the county of
Cumberland, on the banks of the Duddon, and with not even so much as a
village nearer than half-a-dozen miles. Well therefore might the
station-master, thinking only of that Holborn Hill to which the
Workington trains daily travelled, make answer to the poor
unsophisticated Mr. Sandboys, that he had never heard of any Bull and
Mouth in that quarter.
“But if you’re going to Holborn Hill, sir,” he added, squinting at the
clock, “you’d better be quick, for in another moment the train will be
off.”
“Odswinge! whilk be t’ carriages, man?” hastily inquired Mr. Sandboys,
who had been given to understand at Cockermouth that he should have to
remain a good half-hour at Workington before he could proceed on his
journey. No sooner was he told where to take his seat, than hurrying
after his wife and children, he dragged them from the other side of the
platform, whither his “good lady” had followed her “things,” and
scrambled them, despite all remonstrance, into the conveyance indicated.
In an instant after their being seated, the terminus resounded with the
slamming of the carriage doors—the large dustman’s bell was shaken—the
whistle was blown—the engine gave two or three long-drawn sighs—the
carriages creaked with the incipient motion, and their intermediate
chains rattled loudly as they were successively stretched to their
utmost length—a kind of hysteric chuckle from the engine succeeded, as
the wheels slipped round upon the rails—then its gasps got shorter and
quicker—and then, panting hurriedly, the whole train was borne rapidly
along on its way to Whitehaven.
In a few minutes Mr. Sandboys began impressing upon the partner of his
bosom how fortunate it was that he had taken the precaution of checking
the information that he had received from those mischievous boys at
Cockermouth by the statements of the respectable station-master at
Workington. Mrs. Sandboys, however, was in a reverie concerning the fate
of her luggage. She had seen that impudent fellow of a porter who had
seized it and carried it away from her, place it, she was confident, in
the carriages on the other side of the station, for, as she said, she
had never taken her eyes off it after the man had set hands upon it.
But Mr. Sandboys assured her that she must, in the flurry and the noise,
have made some mistake, and that she need be under no apprehension, for
the boxes, being all labelled “LONDON,” would be sure to have been
placed in the London train. Mrs. Sandboys, in reply, however, begged to
inform her husband, that the porter had declared that the other train
was going to London; upon which Mr. Sandboys observed, that surely the
station-master must know better than any one else, and it was from that
person’s lips he had received the information upon which he had acted.
In little more than three hours from the time of their leaving
Workington, the railway-train came to a stoppage in front of an humble
little station, along the platform of which a porter in a north country
dialect, almost as strong as his corduroy suit, went crying, “Wha’s fwor
Hobworn Heel?”
“Here!” shouted Mr. Sandboys, wondering at the rapidity of the journey,
as he let down the window of the carriage in which he was seated, and
stared at the surrounding fields in astonishment at the extremely rural
and uninhabited character of the said Holborn Hill. It was nothing at
all like what it was when he was there, he said, half to himself; nor
could he remember any place in the neighbourhood of London in any way
similar to the desolate district at which he and his family were about
to be deposited.
“Haista ony looggidge?” inquired the porter.
“Yes, indeed,” observed Mrs. Sandboys, sidling up to the porter;
“three-an’-twenty packages—three-an’-twenty packages there owt to be,
young man.”
Mr. Cursty Sandboys kept twisting round about to try and discover some
object that he could call to mind, and so assure himself of his presence
in the Metropolis. At last, feeling convinced that, from the apparent
absence of houses and people, it must be some suburban station, he
ventured to ask the porter, as he and Mrs. Sandboys accompanied him
forward to the luggage-van, how many _minutes’_ walk he called it to
London.
The porter stood still for a moment, looked in the face of Mr. Sandboys,
and then, without saying a word, burst out laughing.
Mr. Sandboys, far from pleased at the man’s manner, modified his
question, and requested to know how many _miles_ he called it to London.
“Two hundred an’ feafty, if ’t be an inch,” was the laconic reply.
Mr. and Mrs. Sandboys both heard the answer, and stared transfixed, as
if electrified.
Then came the explanation.
It was, as Mrs. Sandboys had dreaded, their boxes, trunks, and bags had
gone in the direction of Holborn Hill, London, while they, poor unhappy
mortals, had been carried some fifty miles out of their road to Holborn
Hill, Cumberland.
There was, moreover, a matter of two pounds to pay for the provoking
journey—but it was useless complaining: besides, as Mr. Sandboys
reminded them, they had all come out to enjoy themselves, and,
therefore, notwithstanding the unpleasantness of their position, he
trusted they would one and all put a smiling face on the matter.
This, of course, was easier said than done, for on inquiry it was found
that they must remain in that quarter some few hours before any train
would arrive by which they could get back to Carlisle—the way they had
booked themselves to London.
Having, however, found out where they could get some eggs and bacon
cooked, they retired to dine away the time, and were soon so well
pleased with their cheer, that they were able to laugh at their own
mishap.
Mrs. Sandboys, nevertheless, was too intent upon the probable fate of
her luggage to see much to laugh at in the mistake, while Elcy—whose pet
Italian greyhound had been locked up in the canine department of the
London train—could think of nothing but her lost darling. Her whole
study of late had been to fatten the miserable, shivering, scraggy,
half-starved looking little animal upon which she had placed her
affections. All her benevolence, however, had been wasted on the
wretched creature. She had put it into flannel jackets, but still, to
her great annoyance, it was perpetually trembling, like a “_blancmange_”
or a Lascar beggar. She fed it on the most nourishing food, for it cut
her to the heart to see the dear look such a mere “bag of bones,” but
the fat of the land was utterly thrown away on it. It was impossible by
any means to give it the least tendency to corpulence. Despite all her
efforts, its nose continued as sharp as a bayonet—its legs had no more
flesh on them than a bird’s—its ribs were as visible as if its body were
built out of wicker-work—while its tail was jointed and curled like the
flexible tube to a cheap imitation of hookah.
Still there was one consolation: “Psyche” could not well be thinner—had
it been a martyr to tight lacing, its waist could not have been smaller;
but what effect starvation might have upon such an animal, was more than
poor Elcy dare trust herself to conjecture. She felt convinced in her
own mind that the skeleton of the poor dear dumb thing would be all that
she should find of it when she reached the Metropolis.
No such thoughts, however, troubled the brain of her brother, who, what
with playing practical jokes upon Postlethwaite—teazing his
sister—coaxing his mother—and exploring the river Duddon, found plenty
to occupy his time.
At length the hour for the arrival of the “up train” at the Holborn hill
station came round, and in a few minutes after, the family were being
carried swiftly along the road to Carlisle.
It was night when they reached the Car’el station; but the Sandboys,
unused to travelling, and tired out with the misadventures of the day,
were all fast locked in sleep. Postlethwaite was the only one belonging
to them whose eyes were open, but he unfortunately was—what he termed,
with a natural desire to take the best possible view of his infirmity—a
“_little_ hard of hearing;” so that when the train stopped, and the
porters paced the platform, shouting “Change here for Lancaster! Change
here for London!” not one of the party heard the important summons; but,
still dozing, were whirled away, in blissful ignorance, towards the
capital of Scotland instead of England.
It was past midnight when the train halted for the collection of
tickets, a little way out of Edinburgh. The letting-down of the
carriage-window by the railway officer on the platform roused the still
slumbering Mr. Sandboys.
“Tickets please! Tickets!” shouted the official, as he turned his
bull’s-eye full into the face of the yawning, dazzled, and bewildered
Cursty. That gentleman proceeded with as much alacrity as he could,
under the circumstances, to draw out from the bottom of his purse the
several pieces of card-board which had been handed to him on paying his
fare to town.
The collector no sooner glanced his eye at the tickets delivered to him,
than he exclaimed, quickly, “These wont do, sir!—these here are for
London, and this is Edinburgh.”
“Edinburgh!” echoed Mr. Sandboys, his jaw dropping like a carriage dog’s
at the sound of the word.
“Edinburgh!” repeated Mrs. Sandboys! “Oh, Cursty—Oh, Cursty, what iver
’ull become of us aw.”
“Edinburgh!” cried Jobby, waking up. “Oh my! here’s a lark, Elcy.”
“Yes, sir, it’s Edinburgh, sure enough,” returned the railway official.
“You should have changed carriages at Carlisle.” Then, holding out his
hand to the amazed Mr. Sandboys, who kept rubbing his eyes to rouse
himself out of what he fancied must be a continuation of his dream, the
collector added, “Three pound fifteen shillings, and a quarter-past
nine, sir.”
“What dustea mean, man, by three paund fifteen shilling, and a
wharter-past nine?” angrily inquired Mr. Sandboys.
“I thought you asked me, what you had to pay, sir, and when the next
train left for London.”
“I did nowt of t’ kind, man; and I tell tha plain, I wunnet pay nae
mair. I’se paid aboon twa paunds, an’ been carrud twa hunderd meyle out
of t’ way awruddy.”
But Mr. Sandboys soon found all opposition was useless. On his leaving
the carriage, he was taken between two policemen to the station, and
there plainly given to understand, that if the money were not
forthcoming, he would have to finish the night in durance vile; and
though Cursty was ready to become a martyr, rather than submit to be
“imposed upon,” still Mrs. Sandboys was of a different way of thinking,
and reminded him of his determination to enjoy himself under all
circumstances.
Mr. Sandboys, after some further expostulation, was prevailed upon to do
as his wife desired; and accordingly, having paid the three pounds
demanded, he and his family made the best of their way to the nearest
inn, there—“without a thing to put on,” as Mrs. Sandboys expressed it—to
slumber away the hours till morning.
At a quarter-past nine the Sandboys family proceeded to make a third
attempt to reach the Metropolis, and for some time nothing occurred to
interfere with the progress of their journey. Mr. Sandboys, who, on
leaving Edinburgh, had been inclined to believe that the fates had
declared he was _never_ to get to London, finding matters proceed so
propitiously for so long a period, had just begun to take a more
favourable view of his destiny, when, on their arriving at Lancaster, a
strange gentleman entered the carriage, which he and his wife and
children had previously enjoyed all to themselves.
For awhile all parties remained silent,—the strange gentleman being
quietly engaged in examining the Sandboys, while the Sandboys, one and
all, did the same for the strange gentleman; and truly the gentleman was
so _very_ strange, that the curiosity of his fellow-travellers was not
to be wondered at. The lower part of his face was muffled up closely in
comforters, his eyes perfectly hidden behind a pair of green spectacles,
while his body was enveloped in a large Spanish cloak. On entering he
took off his hat, which was one of the patent Gibus folding kind, and,
pressing in the sides—much to the Sandboys’ amazement—brought the crown
down to the level of the brim. He next proceeded to remove the hair from
his head, in the shape of an intensely black wig—disclosing, as he did
so, not a bald, but a closely-shaven crown—and to put a seal-skin cap in
its place. After this, he slid the green spectacles from before his
eyes, carrying with them the large bushy pair of whiskers which were
fastened to their sides, and which the moment before had half covered
his cheeks; then, discarding his comforters, he unhooked the clasp of
his cloak, and revealed the black japan leather of a policeman’s stock,
and the tight stand-up collar of a superintendent’s undress uniform.
As the strange gentleman saw the whole eight eyes of the family riveted
upon him, he smiled good-humouredly at their amazement; and, turning
round to Mr. Sandboys, observed that he perceived they were from the
country. Receiving a short reply in the affirmative, he told them they
needn’t be alarmed at his making so different an appearance from when he
entered the carriage, for it was part of his business to assume a
variety of characters.
This set the Sandboys wondering more and more at their fellow-traveller;
and the more they marvelled, the more pleased he became, smiling and
simpering with evident self-satisfaction. At last, having kept them on
the tenter-hooks for some short time, he informed them that he belonged
to the Metropolitan Detective Police, and proceeded to give the
delighted family a vivid and exciting sketch of his duties.
Impressed as Mr. Sandboys was with the utter wickedness of the city to
which he was now rapidly journeying, this one adventure was sufficient,
in his mind, to atone for all the previous mishaps of the trip, and he
eagerly shifted his seat to that immediately opposite to the strange
gentleman, so that he might get, from one so experienced in crime, as
full an account of the corrupt ways of London as was possible, in the
brief space of time that he and his fellow-traveller had to remain
together.
In a few minutes Mr. Sandboys, with open mouth, eyes, and ears, was
listening to an enumeration of the several descriptions of thieves
common to the metropolis.
“You must know, sir,” said his communicative companion, “there are
almost as many kinds of bad people as there are good in London; so that
I can hardly tell which way to begin. Well, then, let me see,” he
continued, “the several descriptions of London thieves are—cracksmen, or
housebreakers; rampsmen, or footpads; bludgers and stick-slingers, or
those who go out plundering with women; star-glazers, or those who cut
out shop-windows; snoozers, or those who sleep at railway hotels;
buzzers, or those who pick gentlemen’s pockets; and wires, or those who
do the same kind office for ladies—(and here he bowed to the alarmed
Mrs. Sandboys); thimble-screwers, or those who wrench watches from their
chains; dragsmen, or those who rob carts and coaches; sneaksmen, or
those who creep into shops and down areas; bouncers, or those who
plunder by swaggering; pitchers, or those who do so by passing off one
thing for another; drummers, or those who do the same by stupifying
persons with drink; macers, or those who write begging letters; and
lurkers, or those who follow the profession of begging. These include
the principal varieties of ‘prigs,’ or light-fingered gentry, belonging
to the Metropolis,” said the strange gentleman.
“Odswinge!” exclaimed Mr. Sandboys, “but the rogues a’ gotten comical
neames of their ane. They’d wheer keynd of godfathers, m’appen.”
“Aye, I shouldn’t wonder! I shouldn’t wonder!” returned Mr. Sandboys’
companion. “But many of the classes I’ve just mentioned have several
distinct kinds of roguery belonging to them, and the generality of them
seldom or never attend to more than one branch of the profession. For
instance, those who devote their attention to robbing houses, rarely
give their minds to picking pockets.”
“Odswinge!” exclaimed the delighted, though intimidated Cursty.
“Then, again, the buzzer, or gentleman’s pickpocket, is either the
stook-buzzer, that is, the purloiner of pocket-handkerchiefs, or the
tail-buzzer, seeking more particularly for sneezers (snuff-boxes), or
skins and dummies, (purses and pocket-books.) Occasionally the same
person _may_ turn his hand to nailing props—that is, stealing pins or
brooches; but this, I can assure you, is not considered professional—any
more than it is for a physician to bleed.”
Mr. Sandboys lifted his eyebrows in evident wonderment.
“So, too, the sneaksman,” continued his experienced informant,”who is
the lowest-class thief of all—and a creature with whom the cracksman and
mobsman (or tail-buzzer) would no more dream of associating, than a
barrister would think of visiting an attorney.”
Cursty’s delight increased as the villanies of each particular class
were described to him.
“These same sneaksmen, I must tell you,” the chatty and sociable strange
gentleman went on, “comprise many different characters; among whom I may
mention, not only the snoozers or railway sleepers, as we call them, and
the deud-lurkers, or those who steal coats, &c. out of passages, but
also those who go snow-gathering, or stealing clean linen off the
hedges; and bluey-hunting, or pilfering metal—especially lead from the
tops of houses; and cat and kitten-hunting, or abstracting pewter quart
and pint-pots from area railings; and sawney-hunting, or removing bacon
from cheesemongers’ doors; and going on the noisy racket, or purloining
crockery and glass from China-shops; and the lady and gentlemen racket,
or stealing cocks and hens from the markets; and bug-hunting, or looking
out for drunken men. Belonging to the bouncers and pitchers, or those
who cheat you out of your property instead of positively robbing you of
it—if you can understand the difference, sir—there are the
showful-pitchers, or those who live by passing bad money, and the
charley-pitchers, or thimble-riggers, besides the fawney or
ring-droppers; and the flat-catchers, or those who live by bouncing or
besting, that is to say, by getting the best of country gentlemen,
either by threats, swaggering or cheating.”
Here Mr. and Mrs. Sandboys exchanged glances of mutual horror.
“Hence you see, sir, there may be strictly said to be only three classes
of thieves, namely, the cracksman and the rampsman, who constitute what
may be termed the thieves’ aristocracy—there being usually a certain
amount of courage required in the execution of their depredations. Then
the tail-buzzers and wires may be said to belong to the skilled or
middle-class of thieves; while the sneaksmen or lurkers, who display
neither dexterity nor bravery in their peccadiloes, may be regarded,
with the exception of beggars, as the lowest class of all.”
Mr. Sandboys was charmed to find his theory of the wickedness of London
confirmed by so extensive a catalogue of criminals, and he got to look
upon his informant with a feeling almost amounting to reverence.
“For the pure beggar,” continued the strange gentleman, “every kind of
thief has the most profound contempt—even the sneaksman would consider
himself mortally insulted if placed in the same rank with the “shallow
cove,” that is to say, with the creatures that stand, half naked,
begging in the streets. The bouncers, and pitchers, and flat-catchers
are generally ranked as a kind of lower middle-class rogues—and
certainly they are often equal, in ingenuity at least, to the buzzers.”
Mr. Sandboys, who had been drinking in every word of the strange
gentleman’s discourse with the greatest avidity, proceeded to thank him
at its conclusion very warmly for his most interesting statement. “Well,
I thowt,” he said, “‘twas nae guid that seame London; but odswinge if it
doan’t bang t’ Auld Gentleman hissell, that it dui. Thee’st seed some
feyne geames an’ wickednesses now in thy tyme, I suddent wonder.”
“Why, yes,” replied his companion, “persons in our position have great
opportunities truly. There are more ways of getting money in London than
earning it, I can tell you, sir. Indeed, to say the truth, industry
seems the very mode which succeeds the worst of all there.”
“I thowt so!—I thowt so!” cried Cursty.
“But still, things aren’t quite as bad as they used to be either. Why I
remember the days when, regularly every Monday morning, there used to be
a bullock hunt right through the principal streets of London got up by
the prigs—and very profitable it was, too. You see, the pickpockets
would stop the drovers on the road, as they were bringing their beasts
up to Smithfield on the Sunday night—take one of the animals away from
them by main force, put him into the first empty stable they could find,
and the next morning set to and worry the poor brute till they drove him
stark raving mad. Then out they used to turn him into the public
thoroughfares—start him right away through London, and take advantage of
the confusion and riot caused by his appearance in the crowded streets
of the Metropolis, to knock the hats of all the gentlemen they met over
their eyes, and ease them of their watches or purses.”
“Well! well! well!” cried Mr. Sandboys, throwing up his hands in horror
at the profundity of the wickedness; “Dustea hear, Aggy,” he continued,
turning to his better half, “Dustea hear, weyfe! and we be gangin’ to
the varra pleace. But tha wast sayin that t’ fwok beant white so bad
now-a-days, sir.”
“No! no! not quite,” observed Mr. Cursty’s companion, “but still bad
enough, I can tell you. Now, I’ll just repeat to you a trick I saw
played the other day upon a simple country gentleman like yourself.”
“Varra guid! but they wunnet catch me, I can tell ’ee.”
“It’s what is called the Toothache Racket, and far from uncommon. Two
men, you see, one of whom is provided with two small paper packets of
salt exactly alike, go into the parlour of a tavern which they know
countrymen are in the habit of using. The one with the salt, who enters
some few minutes after the other, pretends to be suffering greatly from
the toothache. The company, observing him to be apparently in extreme
pain, begin to recommend different cures for the complaint. One advises
him to rub the gum with brandy—another advocates the holding of a little
cold water in the mouth—a third has never known the oil of tobacco to
fail, and so on. The sufferer, however, is much obliged to them all, but
declares that nothing gives himself relief but a little salt, in a paper
similar to what he is then applying to his cheek.”
“The wicked hyp’crite!” involuntarily exclaimed the simple-minded
Cursty.
“Shortly after this he quits the room, leaving his paper on the table.
During his absence his “jolly,” that is, his accomplice, who, as I said,
came in a little while before the other, begins to laugh at the idea of
some salt, held outside the face, doing any good to the toothache, and
says, of course, it’s all the man’s imagination. He then proposes to
have a bit of fun with the absent invalid, and proceeds to empty all the
salt out of the paper on the table, and fill its place with sawdust.”
“What’s he gangin’ to be at,” interrupted Mr. Sandboys, deeply
interested in the tale.
“In a few minutes the gentleman with the toothache returns, almost
raving, and he pretends that the cold air has increased his pain to an
intolerable degree. He makes a rush to the paper that he had left
behind, and no sooner applies it to his cheek than he declares the salt
gives him instantaneous relief; whereupon the whole room begin to
titter, and the jolly, or accomplice, as I told you, is well nigh dying
with laughter as he informs the simpleton it’s nothing but fancy that’s
curing him, and that there’s no salt at all in the paper. But ‘the
simpleton’ declares he knows far better, for he filled it himself out of
the salt-cellar just before he quitted home. The jolly then offers to
wager him a sovereign that there’s not so much as a pinch in it, but the
gentleman with the toothache is so certain about the matter, that he
says it will only be robbing a man to take a bet on such a subject.”
“The rwogue’s gettin’ honest aw of a sudden,” cried Mr. S., with a
chuckle.
“At last the rest of the company, finding the gentleman so positive over
the business, get to say they don’t mind being robbed on the same terms,
and accordingly agree to bet him a sovereign or a crown all round, that
the paper has no salt in it; whereupon the gentleman with the toothache,
who has managed during the laughter at his expense to substitute the
other packet from his pocket for the one lying on the table, proceeds to
unfold the paper—exhibits the salt contained in it to the astonished
company, and then robs them—as he candidly confessed he would—of their
money.”
Mr. Sandboys had now heard so much, that he began to shudder at the idea
of trusting himself within several miles of such wickedness, and felt
strongly inclined to propose to his wife that they should return.
However, not liking to confess his weakness, he again thanked his
experienced companion, declaring that he considered their meeting one of
the luckiest adventures in his life. What he had heard, he told him,
would at least have the effect of putting him on his guard, and he would
take good care, now he knew the artful ways of the rogues, that none of
the London rascals should have an opportunity of imposing upon him,
“Now, there’s another very common trick practised by the flat-catchers
upon countrymen in London, with the greatest success,” continued the
loquacious strange gentleman. He should just have time to put Mr.
Sandboys up to this, he added, before they reached the next station,
where, he regretted to say, he should be compelled to leave him and his
charming family. He expected, he said, as he poked Mr. Sandboys in the
ribs, and winked his eye at him, to fall in with a party there whom he
had been looking after these many months, for nailing a prop with a
spark in it.
Mr. and Mrs. Sandboys were both extremely sorry to be obliged so soon to
part with a gentleman from whom they confessed they had derived so much
pleasure and profit.
The strange gentleman bowed, and proceeded with the promised
information. “Well,” said he, “as I before observed, one of the most
common and most successful of the flat-catchers’ tricks is, to pretend
to put a countryman on his guard against the rogueries of the
light-fingered gentry in town. They will tell him long stories, as to
how the London thieves are taught to practise upon pockets with bells
attached to them, so that they will ring with the least motion; and how
it really is not safe for any one to walk the streets with even a
sixpence in his possession.”
“Now, beant it keynd of the villans, Aggy, eh?” said Mr. S., jocularly,
to his better half.
“When they have thus disarmed the chawbacon of all suspicion, they will
begin to show him—as a great secret of course—where they keep _their_
money.”
“Nae, will they now!”
“Some will let him see how they’ve got it stitched in the waistband of
their trowsers, while others will pull theirs from their fob, declaring
they were told by one of the most experienced police-officers that it
was quite as safe, and even safer, there than if it were sewed to their
breeches, provided—and on this, sir, I would impress upon you that the
trick mainly lies—it is rolled up quite tight, and then slipped into the
watch-pocket edgewise, in a peculiar way. Whereupon they very kindly
offer to put the countryman’s money in his fob, and to stow it away for
him as safely as the experienced police-officer had done theirs.”
“Yes, varra keyndly! varra! and preyme and seafe they’ll staw it awa’,
I’ll be baund.”
“Now, if you’ll allow me your purse, sir, for one moment, I’ll show you
how the whole affair is managed.”
Mr. Sandboys drew forth from the pocket of his trowsers the little
red-cotton bag in which he carried his stock of gold and notes, and
handed it over, as requested, to his fellow-traveller, saying, “Ise
varra ’bleeged, I’se sure; an’ how I’ll ever pay tha for all thy
guidness, I dunnet ken. Beant it keynd of t’ gentleman, now, Aggy?”
But that lady made no reply; she merely watched, with intense interest,
the operations of the strange gentleman.
“You see,” said that person, as he took Mr. Sandboys’ purse in his hand,
and commenced rolling it backwards and forwards on his knee, “it’s all
done by what we call palming. If I intended to deceive you, now is the
time I should do it; for while you fancied I was reducing the contents
of your purse to the smallest possible compass, I really should be
substituting another for it; and then I should proceed to place it all
safe for you, thus—”
Here the strange gentleman proceeded to lift up the long-waisted
waistcoat of the grateful Mr. Sandboys, and introduced the small
red-cotton bag, in which his money was contained, into his fob; after
which he gave the purse a peculiar twist round,—for in this, he said,
the London rogues made out that the whole virtue consisted. In reality,
however, he told him, there was little or nothing at all in it, and it
was only upon the very simplest people that the trick was ever attempted
to be practised now-a-days.
“Well, I sud say as much, for onie mon cud see through t’ trick wi hawf
an eye,” exclaimed the Buttermere philosopher.
“With such a gentleman as yourself, of course, a man would not stand the
least chance,” continued the stranger; “especially after all I’ve put
you up to; still the trick, common as it is, and extraordinary as I’ve
not the least doubt it must strike a man of your discernment that it
ever can succeed—still, I say, it has one thing to recommend it, which
is, that the fob is perhaps, after all, about the most secure place for
keeping one’s money. In crowds or lonely places, nothing is more easy
than for one man to pinion the arms behind a gentleman, while another
rifles his breeches-pockets; and as for carrying either a purse or a
pocket-book in the coat-tails—why you might as well invest it in one of
King Hudson’s railways at once! Whereas, in the fob, you see, it takes
so long to get at it, that it is not possible to be extracted in that
short space of time in which street-robberies require to be executed.
So, if you take my advice,—the advice, I think I may say, of a person of
no ordinary experience,—you will continue to keep your purse in your fob
as I have placed it!”
Mr. Sandboys again expressed his deepest gratitude for all the valuable
information he had received, and promised to carry out the injunctions
he had given him. If ever the strange gentleman’s business should lead
him to visit Cumberland—though, Mr. Cursty said with a half laugh, there
weren’t much call for the likes of him in that “wharter of t’
warl”—still, if ever he _should_ be coming towards Buttermere, he could
only say there would always be a bed and a dish of sugar’d curds and a
hearty welcome for him at Hassness.
The hospitable Cursty had scarcely finished extracting a pledge from the
strange gentleman to come and spend a month with him at the earliest
opportunity, when the pace of the carriages began to slacken, the
panting of the engine ceased, the brake was heard grating on the wheels,
sending forth that peculiar odour which invariably precedes the stoppage
of all railway-trains. The whistle sounded—and amidst the ringing of
bells, the Sandboys and their companion reached the Preston station.
Here the strange gentleman having slipped on again the several articles
of disguise with which he had dispensed on entering, shook Mr. and Mrs.
Cursty violently by the hands, and promising to call and see them some
time or other, he made an extremely low bow to the ladies, and in a few
minutes was lost in the crowd.
On his departure the conversation of Mr. and Mrs. Sandboys related
solely to the agreeable manner and vast experience of their late
companion. Cursty’s enthusiasm knew no bounds. His darling Aggy,
however, was a little more circumspect in her praise, and did not
hesitate to confess—that there was something about t’ gentleman she
didn’t half like—she couldn’t exactly tell what; but there was something
so peculiar in his manner, that for her part, she was not _quite_ so
much taken with him. He was a very pleasant, agreeable man enough, but
still—she could not say why—all she knew was—she did not like him. And
then, as the discussion on their late companion’s merits rose rather
high, she begged her husband to mark her words, for she felt convinced
in her mind—indeed, she had a certain kind of a presentiment—a strange
kind of a feeling that she couldn’t describe—and it was no use Cursty’s
talking—but her impression was—and she hoped Mr. Sandboys would bear it
well in mind—that they should hear of that gentleman again some fine
day; and that was all she wished to say about the matter.
With this slight discussion to enliven the tedium of the journey, the
distance between Preston and Manchester passed so quickly, that when the
collector at the Manchester station called for the tickets, Mr. Sandboys
could not help expressing his astonishment at the rapidity of their
travelling.
“Now, sir, if you please—quick as you can—show your
tickets;—tickets—tickets.”
Mr. Sandboys instinctively thrust his hand to the bottom of his
trowsers’ pocket, but then, remembering that the red-cotton bag in which
he had securely deposited the precious vouchers had been shifted to his
fob, he began a vain attempt to fish up his money-bag, from the depths
of the narrow little tube of a watch-pocket in which the strange
gentleman had so kindly inserted it.
“_Now_, sir, if you please!” again shouted the impatient collector.
“_Now_, sir!”
But the more impatient the man became, the more nervous grew Mr.
Sandboys, and though he worked his fore-finger round and round, he could
not, for the life of him, lay hold of the desired red cotton receptacle.
At length, with the united aid of Mrs. Sandboys and the collector, the
fob was emptied of its contents, and then, to Cursty’s great terror, it
was discovered that the strange gentleman, and assumed member of the
Detective Police Force, had practised upon the unsophisticated native of
Buttermere the very trick against which he was pretending to put him on
his guard. The purse was to all outward appearances the same—the
interior, however, consisted of a congregation of whist counters and
Bank of Elegance notes.
The mere possession of such articles was in itself suspicious, but
coupled with the absence of all tickets on the part of the Sandboys
family, the circumstance appeared to assume so dishonest a character,
that the collector made no more ado but called a policeman and gave the
whole family into custody; saying, they had neither tickets nor money in
their possession, and that he found on the old one a whole purseful of
sham notes and sovereigns; and that he had not the least doubt it was a
deep laid scheme on his part to defraud the Company.
Mr. Sandboys raved, and Mrs Sandboys wept; Miss Sandboys intreated,
while wicked Master Jobby could hardly contain himself for laughter.
The united battery of the family, however, proved of no avail, and the
whole six of them, including Postlethwaite and Ann Lightfoot, were
dragged off to the Town Hall, there to give some account of themselves,
and urge every reason in their power why they should not, one and all,
be committed as rogues and vagabonds, for a month, with hard labour, to
the New Bailey.
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