Dickens, Charles – The Uncommercial Traveller

left arm, a man and woman dancing, with an effort to delineate the

female’s dress; under which, initials.’ Another seaman ‘had, on

the lower part of the right arm, the device of a sailor and a

female; the man holding the Union Jack with a streamer, the folds

of which waved over her head, and the end of it was held in her

hand. On the upper part of the arm, a device of Our Lord on the

Cross, with stars surrounding the head of the Cross, and one large

star on the side in Indian Ink. On the left arm, a flag, a true

lover’s knot, a face, and initials.’ This tattooing was found

still plain, below the discoloured outer surface of a mutilated

arm, when such surface was carefully scraped away with a knife. It

is not improbable that the perpetuation of this marking custom

among seamen, may be referred back to their desire to be

identified, if drowned and flung ashore.

It was some time before I could sever myself from the many

interesting papers on the table, and then I broke bread and drank

wine with the kind family before I left them. As I brought the

Coast-guard down, so I took the Postman back, with his leathern

wallet, walking-stick, bugle, and terrier dog. Many a heart-broken

letter had he brought to the Rectory House within two months many;

a benignantly painstaking answer had he carried back.

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Dickens, Charles – The Uncommercial Traveller

As I rode along, I thought of the many people, inhabitants of this

mother country, who would make pilgrimages to the little churchyard

in the years to come; I thought of the many people in Australia,

who would have an interest in such a shipwreck, and would find

their way here when they visit the Old World; I thought of the

writers of all the wreck of letters I had left upon the table; and

I resolved to place this little record where it stands.

Convocations, Conferences, Diocesan Epistles, and the like, will do

a great deal for Religion, I dare say, and Heaven send they may!

but I doubt if they will ever do their Master’s service half so

well, in all the time they last, as the Heavens have seen it done

in this bleak spot upon the rugged coast of Wales.

Had I lost the friend of my life, in the wreck of the Royal

Charter; had I lost my betrothed, the more than friend of my life;

had I lost my maiden daughter, had I lost my hopeful boy, had I

lost my little child; I would kiss the hands that worked so busily

and gently in the church, and say, ‘None better could have touched

the form, though it had lain at home.’ I could be sure of it, I

could be thankful for it: I could be content to leave the grave

near the house the good family pass in and out of every day,

undisturbed, in the little churchyard where so many are so

strangely brought together.

Without the name of the clergyman to whom – I hope, not without

carrying comfort to some heart at some time – I have referred, my

reference would be as nothing. He is the Reverend Stephen Roose

Hughes, of Llanallgo, near Moelfra, Anglesey. His brother is the

Reverend Hugh Robert Hughes, of Penrhos, Alligwy.

CHAPTER III – WAPPING WORKHOUSE

My day’s no-business beckoning me to the East-end of London, I had

turned my face to that point of the metropolitan compass on leaving

Covent-garden, and had got past the India House, thinking in my

idle manner of Tippoo-Sahib and Charles Lamb, and had got past my

little wooden midshipman, after affectionately patting him on one

leg of his knee-shorts for old acquaintance’ sake, and had got past

Aldgate Pump, and had got past the Saracen’s Head (with an

ignominious rash of posting bills disfiguring his swarthy

countenance), and had strolled up the empty yard of his ancient

neighbour the Black or Blue Boar, or Bull, who departed this life I

don’t know when, and whose coaches are all gone I don’t know where;

and I had come out again into the age of railways, and I had got