“Oh, man! oh, man! what pity ’tis,
That what we whop our heeghest bliss
Sud disappoint us; nay, what’s worse,
Sae oft turns out a real curse.
It shows man’s want o’ fworeseeght truly,
In not consideran’ matters duly.”
_Tom Knott._
THE delight of the Sandboys at the recovery of their luggage was not
altogether unbroken. If Mrs. Cursty was overjoyed at the prospect of a
“change of linen,” still her joy was considerably alloyed with fear at
the continued absence of her dear Jobby. If Elcy rejoiced exceedingly at
the discovery of her pet Psyche, she was, nevertheless, deeply afflicted
at the thought of some misfortune having befallen her brother.
The same family consultation as had been previously held concerning the
discovery of the missing luggage was now renewed, as to the best mode of
finding the absent boy. Mrs. Sandboys requested to know whether she
couldn’t have him cried.
Cursty, however, was for putting an advertisement in the _Times_ such as
that newspaper-loving gentleman had seen continually in the same column
of the leading journal, running—
“IF THIS SHOULD MEET THE EYE OF J. S., OF BUTTERMERE,
he is requested to return to his disconsolate parents immediately.”
But Mrs. Fokesell suggested that, according to all accounts, the boy
would be but too glad to come back directly, if he only knew the way.
This was more than the philosophy of Mr. Sandboys had calculated for. He
saw the force of the argument, and, consequently, modified his plan of
action into a proposal to have a hundred or two of bills printed,
headed—
“MISSING—A YOUNG GENTLEMAN,”
And, after giving a full and flattering description of the lad, to wind
up by announcing that any one who should bring him to Mrs. Fokesell’s
house, should be HANDSOMELY REWARDED for their trouble.
The latter proposition being considered to be unobjectionable by Mrs.
Fokesell, Postlethwaite was had in, and the copy of the wished-for bill
having been written out, amidst considerable altercation on Mrs.
Sandboy’s part as to the personal characteristics of the youth, the deaf
serving-man was, after much shouting, made to understand that he was to
take the document to a printer’s in an adjoining street, and leave it
there with the note that Elcy, to prevent accidents, had written to the
head of the establishment, requesting him to have the bills printed and
circulated throughout the metropolis, with as little delay as possible.
Postlethwaite was again shouted at so as to make him understand the road
he had to follow; but from the odd jumble that, owing to his imperfect
hearing, he made of the names of the different streets, it was deemed
advisable that the several turnings he had to take, and the names of the
various thoroughfares he had to traverse, should be written down for
him, and _then_ he could make no blunder.
The list having been prepared, the poor deaf man was started on his
errand. But no sooner did the wretched individual emerge into the
Strand, than the crowd and hurry of the dense throng that streamed
along, half in one direction and half in another, so bewildered him,
that, as he stood to look at the names of the streets, he was twisted
round and round, first this way and then the other, by the impatient
passengers; so that, what with the novelty of the scene he felt at the
sight of so many vehicles whose approach he knew he could not hear, and
what with the jostlings of the people, and the vertigo superinduced by
the continual gyrations that he was forced to make by the crowd, the
poor man got so confused in his mind, that in a few minutes it was
impossible for him to tell which way he had come or whither he was
going, and the consequence was that, with the best possible desire to go
right, he proceeded in the very opposite direction to that which he had
been instructed to follow.
It was useless for the poor deaf beetle-like countryman to ask his way
of any of the strangers; for even in the stillness of home it required
the lungs of a Surrey tragedian to make him comprehend what was said;
but, amid all the roar of the commercial tide of London, it was sheer
waste of breath to endeavour to make the least impression on his
leathery tympanum. Moreover, like the generality of people who are a
“little” hard of hearing, he was so eager to hide his infirmity, and to
put those addressing him to as little extra trouble as possible, that he
was always ready to catch at half a meaning, and consequently, from some
faint analogy in the sound, was continually putting constructions on
what was said that were diametrically different from what was intended.
Hence it was but natural, when poor Postlethwaite requested of the
passers-by to be put in the right way towards his destination, that he
was, owing either to his own infirmity, or to the wickedness of the
London boys, invariably sent in the wrong.
And here, in the midst of the London crowd and London roguery, tossed
about from street to lane, from lane to square, and from square again to
park, we must for awhile leave the bewildered and melancholy serving-man
wandering—like Mr. Leigh Hunt’s memorable pig—up “all manner of
streets.”
* * * * *
Postlethwaite had not been gone long when a policeman brought Jobby back
to his temporary home, but in a very different state from that in which
he had left it. Mrs. Sandboys herself had to look at him twice before
she could make up her mind that another shameful trick was not about to
be practised upon her in the form of a false case of affiliation.
The new suit of clothes which his mother had purchased for the youth at
Cockermouth was gone, and in its place he now wore a man’s ragged old
pea-jacket—once blue, but now foxy with age—and a pair of trousers as
wide as windsails, and smeared with tar, so that they bore a strong
resemblance to coal-sacks; while on his head was a dirty old straw-hat,
with a low crown and broad brim, that reminded one strongly of an
inverted soup-plate. The jacket was tied together at the button-holes by
bits of rope-yarn; for the miserable young gentleman had no shirt to his
back, nor had a shoe or a stocking to his feet.
The truth was, as the policeman proceeded to explain to his terrified
mother, Master Jobby had been what in the eastern districts of the
Metropolis is technically termed “skinned.”
The lad’s story was soon told. Led on by the delight of the posturers’
performance, he had followed the “School of Acrobats” for miles. Then he
had suddenly lighted upon a Punch and Judy Show, and this had so tickled
his boyish fancy, that he wandered with it half over London. After this,
a street-band of Ethiopian serenaders had bewitched him; their
lamp-black faces, their white-paper wristbands and collars, and their
fuzzy horsehair wigs, together with the banjos and kettle-drums, and the
rattle of the bones, and the chuckle of the nigger-laugh,—all were so
new and strange to the boy, that he travelled after them in all
directions. Then, as he was growing footsore with his long rambles, an
engine at full speed, with the horses galloping, and the firemen in
their shiny helmets seated along each side of the machine, went tearing
past; and when Jobby saw the people hurry after it, he, too, joined in
the crowd. As he ran along, he asked some of the mob who accompanied
him, what it all meant; and learning that a fire was raging down at
Shadwell, he hurried on the quicker and the lighter to see the sight.
But though he kept up with the crowd through many a street and past many
a turning, yet, when he reached the Docks, he began to feel so weary,
while the sight of the forest of masts showing above the walls and
roofs, so took his boyish fancy, that he came to a dead halt, and
letting the engine go on its way, entered the gates of the London Docks.
Here he strolled about, now stopping to listen to the song of the
labourers as they tramped round the wheels that lifted the goods from
the vessels alongside the quay; then he wandered to the sugar-houses,
and watched the coopers within mending the broken casks; and stood some
time at the door, placing his foot stealthily on the sticky floor,
coated, as with tar, with the drainings of the casks. Hence he sauntered
to the bridges, and there he loved to stand while the iron viaduct was
swung back with him and the other loiterers upon it, to make way for
some huge emigrant ship, that presently glided through, with its decks
littered with ropes and packages, and the passengers grouped at the
stern, nodding and waving their handkerchiefs to their friends down upon
the quay. Thus Jobby passed the time till the hour came for all to
leave; and then, following the stream of labourers, he reached the
gates, and there, having watched the workmen pass one by one, in a long
file, through the narrow doorway, while the officers hastily searched
each as he went past, the youth turned out into the streets once more,
ignorant where he was, or which way to go to reach his home.
Now, too, the excitement being over, the youth began for the first time
to feel how tired and hungry he was, and to think of the distance he had
travelled. It was impossible for him to remember the road by which he
had come, so he asked a boy to direct him back to the Strand. The London
lad, seeing that Jobby was fresh from the country, made up his mind to
have a bit of fun with him, and directed him down some of the many
courts and alleys which abound in that locality, and which generally end
in “no thoroughfare.”
The unsuspecting Jobby went on his way as he was bid; and when he found,
on coming to the end of the last court, that a trick had been played
upon him, weary and famishing as he was, the poor lad could not help
seating himself on the door-step of the nearest house, and bursting into
a flood of tears.
Here the wretched youth was soon espied by one of the female inmates,
who, seeing that he was well dressed, invited him in, and drew from him,
without much difficulty, the whole story of his troubles. She offered
him some ale, telling him that a draught of it would be sure to refresh
him, and help him on his journey. The simple lad thankfully received a
mug of the drink, but had scarcely swallowed it, before his chin fell
with a sudden drowsiness upon his bosom; and though he started up and
tried to shake the sleepiness off, it was too much for him; and in a few
minutes he was dead asleep in the chair.
Jobby could remember no further, save that, on waking, he found himself
in a wretched, damp, dirty room, lying on the sacking of a bare
bedstead, and on looking for his clothes, he discovered that they had
been stolen, and the ragged ones he now wore left in their place. He was
too frightened to recollect how he had got away from the house, or found
his way out of the courts. All he knew was, that on reaching the open
street, he had placed himself under the protection of the first
policeman he could meet, who returned with the boy to see if he could
find out the house again, but in vain. The many windings and turnings of
the courts so confused the country lad, that it was impossible for him
to recall the way he had gone. After this, the policeman had taken him
to the station, where the superintendent had given orders to one of the
men to accompany him home.
* * * * *
Mrs. Sandboys was too glad to have her darling boy with her once again
to feel inclined either to grieve or scold overmuch about his
adventures; besides, she now knew the luggage would arrive in a few
hours, and then he and the rest of the family could be made clean and
sweet, which, she began to think, they were far from being at that
present moment.
Mr. Sandboys, too, was not so much annoyed at the occurrence as might
have been expected. Not only was he delighted at the boy’s return, but
he felt a kind of inward satisfaction to find that his long-cherished
theory as to the wickedness of the great Metropolis was being, in all
its particulars, so fully borne out. He had foreseen, he said, every
occurrence that had happened, but they had only themselves to blame. He
had fully warned them of all they had to undergo; and, in his opinion—if
he knew anything at all about the rogueries of London—they had not yet
gone through one tithe of the troubles that were in store for them.
Cursty’s sermonizing was at last cut short by the arrival of the long
looked-for luggage. Then Mrs. Sandboys was in her glory. If ladies
delight in the synthetical operation of packing, they certainly find an
equal delight in the analytical process of unpacking—even as children
take pleasure in building up their card-houses, and a like pleasure in
blowing them down again.
It was not long before Mrs. Sandboys, with Elcy at her elbow, was down
on her knees in the kitchen, in front of a long open box, counting the
several articles enumerated on a piece of paper gummed to the lid, to
satisfy herself that none had been abstracted during their absence. And
as she examined the state of her best caps and bonnets, she found them
so tumbled, that she felt thoroughly convinced they had been worn by
some parties—the wives of the railway men, she had no doubt—or why, as
she said, should they have kept them so long on the way?
Nor was the pleasure of going over “her things” confined to Mrs.
Sandboys alone, for even the maid and Mrs. Fokesell, though in no way
concerned, seemed to experience a similar delight in the operation; for
there they stood by her side, watching and admiring every article as she
took it from the box.
At length, having looked out the much-wished-for, or rather, according
to the lady, the much-wanted “change,” for the whole family, she gave
them each their bundle of clean clothes, and having arranged with Mrs.
Fokesell that they might be allowed the use of the back attic, as a
temporary dressing-room, during the absence of the German Baron and his
lady, Cursty was started up stairs and told by his wife to make as much
haste as possible, for really she was getting alarmed about
Postlethwaite, and she wanted Mr. Sandboys immediately that he had
“tidied” himself to step round to the printer’s and try and learn
whatever had become of the poor man.
In a few minutes Mr. Sandboys returned to the kitchen, clad in his best
suit, to receive the opinion of his wife as to the improved character of
his appearance. Mrs. Sandboys twisted her “guidman” round and round,
tried to pull the wrinkles out of his coat behind, pinched up the frill
of his shirt, and ultimately pronounced that she thought he would do—at
least, thank guidness, she said he was clean and sweet once more. Then,
having kissed him, she despatched him on his errand after the deaf
Postlethwaite.
Mrs. Sandboys was still engaged in the interesting process of unpacking
her trunks in the kitchen, when a hawker of flowers, with a basket of
all colours on his head, stopped before the railings, and observing the
lady down stairs, immediately commenced crying—“Fine flowers!
sweet-scented flowers! handsome flowers!—all a-blowing—all a-growing!”
Elcy, observing the bright scarlet blossoms of the geraniums, and the
long crimson drops of the fuchsias swinging backwards and forwards in
the wind, and the pink balls of roses, nodding at every motion of the
huckster’s head, called out to her mother to come and see what beautiful
plants the man had got.
The street-seller no sooner caught sight of Mrs. Sandboys, than he
shouted again—“Fine flowers! sweet-scented flowers. Take any old clothes
for ’em, ma’am. You may have the pick of the basket for an old coat.”
Mrs. Sandboys shook her head, but the street-seller seeing her still
look up, put his basket down on the pavement, and began trying to have a
deal with her down the area railings.
“Now’s your time, ladies,” he cried, “you can have this here moss-rose
for an old weskit, or a pair of satin shoes. Now’s your time, ladies;
all a-blowing! all a-growing!”
Elcy, at her mother’s request, stepped out into the area to tell the man
that they didn’t want any.
But the cunning dealer having once got the girl into conversation,
handed her down a pot of mignionette, and begged her just to put her
nose to that there. As she sniffed at the fragrant flowers, the man said
he’d accept of anything, he didn’t mind what it was, how old or how
dirty, for he had not taken a penny all that day. “Any old trowsers,
Miss, if you’ll tell your ma, or an old hat, or a pair of boots—it’s all
the same, Miss; though they a’n’t no use to you, they’re as good as
money to us. Take that there pot in to your ma, Miss, and ax her just to
put her nose to it, and then say whether she doesn’t think such a
nosegay as that there a’n’t worth an old straw bonnet, or some white
linen rags.”
Elcy trotted in with the plant, vowing that she had never in all her
life seen such beautiful flowers as the man had in his basket,—the
geraniums quite made her eyes ache to look at them; and then she told
her mother that the man said he would take anything for them, even old
rags.
The novelty of the transaction, the beauty of the plants, and the
seeming wonderful cheapness of them, all produced such an effect upon
Mrs. Sandboy’s mind, that she began to consider what useless article she
had with her that she could offer the man in exchange for one of them.
After much cogitation, they both came to the conclusion that the
trowsers which Mr. Sandboys had worn in the morning were too shabby for
him to put on in London; they were the “old things” said his wife, which
he had split to pieces in going after that tiresome pig, and which, on
second thoughts, she had considered quite good enough for him to travel
in; and now, as the new ones she had bought him at Cockermouth had come
to hand, why, there was no necessity for her keeping the others any
longer; and she knew very well, unless she got rid of the nasty, shabby
old things, Cursty would be making his appearance in them some day;
whereas if she took them out in flowers, it would prevent his ever
wearing them again.
The determination once formed, Mrs. Sandboys motioned the flower-seller
to the street-door, while Elcy was despatched to fetch the trowsers that
her father had recently taken off.
The street-seller, on seeing the garments, declared that they were
hardly worth putting in his basket, and carrying home. “If the lady had
got an old coat, he’d let her have that there handsome fuchsia for it,
’cause the skirts was valuable—let it be ever so much worn—for making
cloth caps for boys, and the officers in the army; or, he wouldn’t mind
chucking in that partic’lar fine ’artsease for an old weskit, for _they_
came in handy for parsons’ gaiters, but trowsers was no account at all;
however, he didn’t like to be hard with the ladies so he’d give ’em that
there lovely Chaney rose for the trowsers and a silver sixpence.”
Mrs. Sandboys, however, was woman of the world enough to be a good
bargainer; so, as fast as the huckster decried her husband’s old
breeches, she did the same for the street-seller’s flowers. In due
commercial style each professed to be equally careless about dealing
with the other, and yet each was equally anxious for the bargain.
At length, after much haggling, it was agreed that Mrs. Sandboys should
have a pot of mignionette and a couple of cut moss-roses for the
garment; whereupon the old trowsers were transferred to the
flower-seller’s long black bag, and the flowers to the care of Mrs.
Sandboys.
Immediately the man had closed the door, the native of Buttermere
hastened to Mrs. Fokesell to show her the bargain she had effected; and
while the ladies were engaged in sniffing one after another at the
delicious perfume of the blossoms, a violent knock came to the door, and
in a minute the breathless Mr. Sandboys stood panting before his wife.
Presently he explained, by snatches between his gasps, how he had got
into an omnibus on his way to the station-house to which Jobby had been
taken by the policeman, for, as he said, he considered that would be the
best place to obtain tidings of any missing party—and how, after having
ridden a short distance, he had put his hand into his pocket to feel for
his money, and discovered to his horror that he had come out without
any. The consequence was, he proceeded to say, that he had to stop the
’artsease and acquaint the conductor with his misfortune; whereupon the
man abused him in the most shameful manner, and collared him in the
middle of the road, saying he was a hoary-headed old cheat, and it would
serve him right if he knocked his head off his shoulders, as a lesson to
him for the future—and Mr. Sandboys wound up by declaring he verily
believed the fellow would have done it, too, if it hadn’t been that, as
luck would have it, he had taken his silk umbrella with him; which,
after a good deal of trouble, he had got the man to consent to hold as
security for the fare.
When Mr. Sandboys had finished his story, his wife asked him how he
could be such a simpleton as to leave his money behind him, and
requested to be informed where he had it.
“In t’ pockets of mey auld breeks,” responded the innocent Cursty.
The words came upon his dear Aggy like a thunderclap. As the lady said
afterwards, “any one might have knocked her down with a feather.” Elcy
stared at her mother, and the mother stared at the daughter, in a maze
of bewilderment. Neither liked to confess the truth to Cursty, and yet
to delay doing so was every minute to diminish the probability of
obtaining possession of the precious garments again.
At length Mrs. Sandboys _did_ venture to break the matter to her
husband. She told him she had disposed of his trowsers only a few
moments before his return for a pot of mignionette and a couple of moss
roses.
“Well, Aggy,” cried Cursty, when he had recovered from the first shock,
“thee’ll have to suffer for’t as well as meysel for forty t’ notes I’d
got in t’ pocket-book, thar was thy marriage lines that thee wud mek me
bring up wi’ me, to show thee wast an honest woman, if ever thee sud
want as much.”
“Waistoma! waistoma!” cried poor Mrs. Sandboys, when she heard of this,
to her, the greatest loss of all. At first she raved against London, and
London people, and London wickedness. Then she declared it was all
Cursty’s fault, and owing to his nasty idle habits of never emptying his
pockets, when he changed his clothes, but leaving everything to her to
do. Next, she vowed she would go back to Buttermere that very night, for
nothing but misery had befallen her ever since they had made up their
mind to enjoy themselves.
However, when her anger had somewhat exhausted itself, she entreated her
own dear Cursty to hasten after the flower-seller. The man could not be
far off, unless he had discovered the prize he had got, and decamped
with it to some other part of the town; but she was almost certain he
had not felt anything in the pockets at the time he was looking the
trowsers over in the passage, or else he would have been more anxious to
have purchased them than he was.
Mr. Sandboys she directed to go one way, and Jobby another; for if her
marriage lines were really gone, it was impossible to tell what might
happen.
In obedience to her commands, Cursty and Jobby were soon out of the
house, exploring every street and corner in quest of the flower-seller.
And here, we must, reader, for the present drop the curtain.
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