Sharpeye, addressing Mr. Superintendent, says:
‘You noticed that young man, sir, in at Darby’s?’
‘Yes. What is he?’
‘Deserter, sir.’
Mr. Sharpeye further intimates that when we have done with his
services, he will step back and take that young man. Which in
course of time he does: feeling at perfect ease about finding him,
and knowing for a moral certainty that nobody in that region will
be gone to bed.
Later still in the night, we came to another parlour up a step or
two from the street, which was very cleanly, neatly, even
tastefully, kept, and in which, set forth on a draped chest of
drawers masking the staircase, was such a profusion of ornamental
crockery, that it would have furnished forth a handsome sale-booth
at a fair. It backed up a stout old lady – HOGARTH drew her exact
likeness more than once – and a boy who was carefully writing a
copy in a copy-book.
‘Well, ma’am, how do YOU do?’
Sweetly, she can assure the dear gentlemen, sweetly. Charmingly,
charmingly. And overjoyed to see us!
‘Why, this is a strange time for this boy to be writing his copy.
In the middle of the night!’
‘So it is, dear gentlemen, Heaven bless your welcome faces and send
ye prosperous, but he has been to the Play with a young friend for
his diversion, and he combinates his improvement with
entertainment, by doing his school-writing afterwards, God be good
to ye!’
The copy admonished human nature to subjugate the fire of every
fierce desire. One might have thought it recommended stirring the
fire, the old lady so approved it. There she sat, rosily beaming
at the copy-book and the boy, and invoking showers of blessings on
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Dickens, Charles – The Uncommercial Traveller
our heads, when we left her in the middle of the night, waiting for
Jack.
Later still in the night, we came to a nauseous room with an earth
floor, into which the refuse scum of an alley trickled. The stench
of this habitation was abominable; the seeming poverty of it,
diseased and dire. Yet, here again, was visitor or lodger – a man
sitting before the fire, like the rest of them elsewhere, and
apparently not distasteful to the mistress’s niece, who was also
before the fire. The mistress herself had the misfortune of being
in jail.
Three weird old women of transcendent ghastliness, were at
needlework at a table in this room. Says Trampfoot to First Witch,
‘What are you making?’ Says she, ‘Money-bags.’
‘WHAT are you making?’ retorts Trampfoot, a little off his balance.
‘Bags to hold your money,’ says the witch, shaking her head, and
setting her teeth; ‘you as has got it.’
She holds up a common cash-bag, and on the table is a heap of such
bags. Witch Two laughs at us. Witch Three scowls at us. Witch
sisterhood all, stitch, stitch. First Witch has a circle round
each eye. I fancy it like the beginning of the development of a
perverted diabolical halo, and that when it spreads all round her
head, she will die in the odour of devilry.
Trampfoot wishes to be informed what First Witch has got behind the
table, down by the side of her, there? Witches Two and Three croak
angrily, ‘Show him the child!’
She drags out a skinny little arm from a brown dustheap on the
ground. Adjured not to disturb the child, she lets it drop again.
Thus we find at last that there is one child in the world of
Entries who goes to bed – if this be bed.
Mr. Superintendent asks how long are they going to work at those
bags?
How long? First Witch repeats. Going to have supper presently.
See the cups and saucers, and the plates.
‘Late? Ay! But we has to ‘arn our supper afore we eats it!’ Both
the other witches repeat this after First Witch, and take the
Uncommercial measurement with their eyes, as for a charmed windingsheet.
Some grim discourse ensues, referring to the mistress of
the cave, who will be released from jail to-morrow. Witches
pronounce Trampfoot ‘right there,’ when he deems it a trying
distance for the old lady to walk; she shall be fetched by niece in