Kitabı oku: «Christmas Penny Readings: Original Sketches for the Season», sayfa 7
Chapter Nine
The Ice-Breaking
Down by the woods in the rocky valley,
Where the babbling waves of the river sally,
Where the pure source gushes
And the wild fount rushes,
There’s the sound of the roar
That is heard on the shore,
Where the tumbling billows the chalk cliffs bore;
For down from each hill
With resistless will,
The floods are fast pouring their waters so chill,
And the West has risen with a cry and a shout,
Dash’d at the North to the Ice-king’s rout;
Then off and away,
For the livelong day
Has rush’d through the woodlands – no longer gay,
Splitting the branches;
While avalanches
Of melting snow
Bend the pine-boughs low,
And the earth with the spoil of the warfare strow.
And now once again
Comes the pitiless rain,
Pouring its torrents from black clouds amain;
Till the river is swollen and bursting its bounds,
And its muttering wrath sweeps in ominous sounds
On the wintry breeze,
Louder and louder by rising degrees.
The Ice-king is routed – his reign is past,
And the frost-bound river is rending fast;
And the West wind sweeps with a mournful sough,
And the flood tears through with the force of a plough.
Splitting and rending,
The ice unbending,
As with mighty burrow,
It carves out a furrow
Of churning wreck;
While, as if at its beck,
The foam-capped streams
Loose the Ice-king’s beams,
And each crystal fragment, with wild weird gleams,
Now sinks – now rises,
As each stream still prises,
Till the loosen’d river in fury rolls
Away through the valley; while icy scrolls
Are swept from the bank, where the snow lay heavy,
And snow-drift and ice joins the West’s rude levy;
Which at barrier scouts,
At each rock mound shouts;
Sweeping along towards the land of the plain,
Tingeing the waters with many a stain;
Foaming along in an eddying sweep,
And gliding in speed where the flood ploughs deep,
Rooting the reeds from their hold on the bank,
And widening its track where the marsh lies dank.
Away tears the river
With an earthquake’s speed,
Over the snow-cover’d lowland mead,
Laughing aloud at each reckless deed,
As the stricken farmers the ruin heed,
Whirling along on its bosom the reed
And the sharp, jagg’d ice and the harmless bead,
With the unchained course of a wild-born steed,
Till the hills where it passes quiver.
Away and away, and still onward away,
And there’s ruin and havoc in lowland this day;
For the waters brown
In their rage tear down,
Menacing shipping and threatening the town;
They’ve beat down the weir,
And dash’d at each pier,
And swept o’er the bank to the widespread mere,
Whose icy sheet,
As though torn by heat,
Has fallen in fragments where torrents meet;
While now for the bridge,
There’s an icy ridge
On the river’s breast,
Swept along by the West,
Whose might shall the strong beams and deep piles wrest,
Till the bridge goes down,
By the flooded town,
Where the lowing kine and the penn’d flocks drown.
But the damm’d stream rages,
For naught assuages
Its thirst for ruin;
And again undoing
The toil of years,
It hurries along till the rocks it wears.
And now there’s a crash and a mighty rattle
As a stalwart mound gives the river battle;
And soon engaging,
The waves leap raging,
Where the mound is gash’d,
By the churn’d ice dash’d,
While from out of the dam,
With the force of a ram,
Comes each huge, strong beam,
On the breast of the stream,
With the speed of an arrow,
Where the banks are narrow;
But the rocky face
Stays the furied race,
As round it the waters in madness enlace;
Lashing and tearing
With rage unsparing,
To beat down the stay
In the deadly fray;
And then, for more ruin, to hurry away;
But the hill stouthearted
The water has parted,
And away in a sever’d stream they tear
Like famish’d lions fresh from their lair,
Devouring, destroying, and bearing away
Each barrier, bank, or each timber’d stay;
Till they slacken their race by the sandy verge
Of the parent sea, whose wild, restless surge
Lashes the shore.
Towards her breast leap the rivers in eager guise,
Lost in the billows that hurrying rise
To welcome the treasures they pour.
Chapter Ten
A Horror of Horrors
“Very, very glad to see you, my boy,” said my friend Broxby, as I reached his house quite late on Christmas-eve, when he introduced me to his wife, a most amiable woman of an extremely pleasing countenance; to Major and Mrs Major Carruthers, a very pimply-faced gentleman, with a languishing wife troubled with an obliquity of vision, which worried me greatly that evening from her eye seeming to be gazing upon me, while its owner wore a perpetual smile upon her lip. Mrs Major Carruthers’ brother was also there, a young man, like myself, of a poetic turn, and troubled with headaches, besides several others, ladies and gentlemen, who occupied divers relative distances in connection with my friend Broxby and his charming wife.
“Why you’re as nervous and bashful as ever, my boy,” said Broxby, in his rough, good-natured way, and I tried to laugh it off, particularly as it was said before so many people in the well-lit drawing-room; but even before the fearful shock my nerves received I always was of a terribly nervous temperament, a temperament which makes me extremely susceptible.
As I am now forty I have given up all hopes of ever getting the better of it, even as I have felt compelled to give up the expectation of whiskers, curling hair, and – well no, not yet, for, as the poet says, “We may be happy yet,” and some fond, loving breast may yet throb for me in the future. I may add that my hair is fair, my face slightly freckled, and that I have a slight lisp, but it is so slight that you do not notice it when you get used to me.
After a long, cold ride down by train to Ancaster, and a six miles’ ride in Broxby’s dog-cart from the station, where I was met by his groom, the well-lit drawing-room seemed so cheering and comfortable, and as I grew a little more at home I began to be glad that I had left my chambers to their fate for the time, and come down to bask awhile in the light of so many lustrous orbs.
I was just feeling somewhat confused from the fact of Mrs Major Carruthers having rested her eye upon me and smiled sweetly, when as a matter of course I felt bound to do either one thing or the other, look angry and suppose that she was laughing at me, or smile sympathetically in return. I did the latter, when, as I said before, I became confused to see that Major Carruthers was frowning fiercely at me, while his face looked quite currant-dumplingified from the fierce hue assumed by his pimples. But just at that moment a servant announced something to my host, who came forward, slapped me on the shoulder, and I followed him out of the room into his study, where a small table was spread expressly for my delectation.
“You see we dined two hours ago, Augustus, so I’m going to chat and have a glass of sherry with you while you freshen up. I thought it would be more snug for you here in my study, so cut away.”
I must confess to having felt hungry, and I directly commenced the meal, while my friend chatted pleasantly about the party I had met in the drawing-room.
“Why, we must find you a wife, one of those fair maidens, my boy. A good, strong-minded, lovable woman would be the making of you. Good people, those Carruthers, only the Major is so fearfully jealous of his wife – simple, quiet, good-hearted soul as ever breathed. And oh, by the bye, I have to apologise to you for something really unavoidable. I would not trouble you if I could help myself, but I can’t. You see the Major is a first cousin of my wife’s, and we always ask them to our little gatherings, while it so happened that Mrs Major’s brother was staying with them, when, as it was either bring him or stay away themselves, Laura, my wife you know, thoughtlessly said ‘Bring him,’ never stopping to think that every bed in the house was engaged. What to do I could not think, nor where to put him, till at last I said to myself why Gus Littleboy will help me out of the difficulty, and therefore, my lad, for two nights only I have to go down on my inhospitable marrowbones and ask you to sleep double. We’ve put you in the blue room, where there’s an old four-poster that is first cousin to the great bed of Ware, so that you can lie almost a quarter of a mile from each other, more or less you know, so you won’t mind, will you old fellow, just to oblige us you know?”
Of course I promised not to mind, and a great deal more, but still I did mind it very much, for I omitted to say that, er – that er – I am extremely modest, and the fact of having a gentleman in the same room was most painful to my feelings.
We soon after joined the party in the drawing-room; and, feeling somewhat refreshed, I tried to make myself agreeable, as it was Christmas-time, and people are expected to come out a little. So I brought out two or three conjuring tricks that I had purchased in town, and Broxby showed them off while I tried to play one or two tricks with cards; but, somehow or another, when Mrs Major Carruthers drew a card, I had forgotten the trick, and she had to draw another card which she dropped; and, when it was on the carpet, we both stooped together to pick it up; and you’ve no idea how confusing it was, for we knocked our heads together, when I distinctly heard some one go “Phut” in precisely the same way as a turkey-cock will when strutting; when, to my intense dismay, I again found that the Major was scowling at me fiercely.
“Then I should go to bed if I were you, Timothy,” I heard Mrs Major say soon after; and, on looking across the room, I saw that she was talking to her brother, but her eye was upon me, and she was smiling, so that I felt perfectly horrified, and looked carefully round at the Major; but he was playing cards, and did not see me.
So Mr T Peters left the room, and Broxby did all he could to amuse his visitors, till the ladies, one and all, declared they must retire, when the gentlemen drew round the fire; and a bright little kettle having been set upon the hob and a tray of glasses placed upon the table, my friend brewed what he called a night-cap, a portion of which I left four of them discussing when Broxby rang for a candlestick, and told the maid to show me the bedroom.
“Did you have my portmanteau taken up?” I said to the maid.
“Yes, sir.”
“And carpet-bag?”
“Yes, sir.”
“And writing-case?”
“Oh yes, sir; all there – that’s the door, sir; you’ll find everything well-aired, and a nice fire;” and then the maiden tripped off and disappeared at the back. But I had left my skin rug in the hall; and, as it was so excessively cold, I went down the broad staircase once more, and fetched it; returned to the bedroom door, opened it to make sure I was right – not a doubt of it: nice fire – the great four-post bedstead with the great blue hangings. No; they were green, and I was about to start back, only a heavy breath from the bed told me that I was right; and, besides, I recollected that blue always looked green by candle-light; and this was the case, too, with the paper I observed.
“Most extraordinary people that Major and his wife,” I thought; and then I wound up my watch, laid it upon the chimney-piece, carefully locked and bolted the door, and then, drawing a chair up to the fire, sat down to give my feet a good warm. The room was most comfortably furnished, and the chair soft and well stuffed; when, what with the heat of the fire, the cold wind during my ride, and, perhaps, partly owing to the night-cap I had partaken of, I fell into a sort of doze, and then the doze deepened into a sleep, in which I dreamed that the Major had called me out for endeavouring to elope with his wife, when it was that strange eye of hers which had run away with me, while her set of false teeth were in full chase behind to seize me like some rabid dog.
The horror became so great at last that I started from my sleep, kicking the fender as I did so, when the fire-irons clattered loudly.
“What’s that?” cried a familiar voice, which sounded rather softly, as if from beneath the clothes.
“Only the fire-irons, my dear sir,” I said, blandly – “I kicked them.” The next moment an exclamation made me turn sharply round; when, horror of horrors! there was a set of teeth upon the dressing-table, and from between the curtains of the bed Mrs Major’s eyes fixing me in the most horrifying way.
“Monster!” cried a cracked voice, which sent me sprawling up against the wash-stand, whose fittings clattered loudly; while at one and the same moment I heard the voice of the Major talking, and the loud, hearty laugh of Broxby upon the stairs.
I was melting away fast when more of Mrs Major appeared through the curtains; in fact, the whole of her head, night-cap, papers and all, and the cracked voice shrieked —
“Monster, there’s help at hand! – Alfred, Alfred, help! help!” and then the head disappeared; when I heard from inside the curtains a choking, stifling noise; and then came a succession of shrieks for aid.
“For pity’s sake, silence, madam!” I cried, running to the door; but the next moment I ran back.
“Open this door, here! – open!” roared the Major, kicking and thundering, so that the panels cracked. “Matilda, my angel, I am here.”
“Don’t, don’t; pray don’t scream, ma’am,” I implored.
“Oh! oh! oh! help, help, help! murder!” shrieked Mrs Major.
“Here, hi! oh! villain! A man’s voice! Break in the door; smash it off the hinges. I am here, Matilda, I am here. Broxby, what is this?” roared the Major; and then the door cracked and groaned beneath the blows thundered upon it.
“Oh! oh! oh!” shrieked Mrs Major.
“What shall I do?” I muttered, wringing my hands and trembling like a leaf. I ran to the bed to implore Mrs Major to be still, but she only shrieked the louder. I ran to the door, but fled again on hearing the thunderings and roarings of the Major, who beat frantically, louder and louder.
“Sir, sir,” I cried, “it’s a mistake.”
“Oh! villain,” he shrieked. “Here, here, a poker; my pistols. Broxby, there’ll be murder done.”
“Madam, oh! madam,” I cried, in agony, “have pity, and hear me.”
“Oh! oh! oh! help! help!” shrieked the wretched woman; when I heard the door going crack, crack; the panel was smashed in, and the sounds of the hubbub of voices entered the room, wherein I could detect that of the Major, more like a wild beast than anything, when, dashing to the window, I pushed back the fastener, threw up the sash, and crept out, lowered myself down till I hung by my hands, when, with my last look, I saw an arm reaching through the broken panel, the bolt slipped, the key turned, and a rush of people into the room; when, losing my hold, I fell crash into a tree, and then from branch to branch to the ground, where I lay, half-stunned, upon the cold snow.
“There he is,” shouted a voice from above me, whose effect was like electricity to my shattered frame, for I leaped up, and gaining the pathway, fled to the road, and then on towards the station, only pausing once to listen for the sounds of pursuit and to tie my handkerchief round my head to screen it from the icy breeze. I ran till I was breathless, and then walked, but only to run again, and this I kept on till I had passed the six miles between Broxby’s Beat and Ancaster, where I arrived just before the night mail came in, at a quarter to four.
One of the porters was very civil, and, supposing that my hat had been blown off and lost, sold me a very dirty old greasy cap for five shillings, and then I once more felt safe as I leaned back in a carriage, and felt that we were going towards London at the rate of forty miles an hour. But I did not feel thoroughly safe until I had gained entrance, in the cold dark morning, to my chambers by means of my latchkey, and having barricaded the door, tried to forget my sorrows in sleep, but I could not, while, as my laundress supposed that I should be away for a week, everything was in a most deplorable state, in consequence of the old woman meaning to have a good clean up on Boxing-day.
I did not go out for a week, for I had to take precautions for my health’s sake, putting my feet in hot water, and taking gruel for the bad cold I caught; but for that, and the nervous shock, I was not hurt, though my clothes were much torn. It was about eight days after that a letter arrived while I was at breakfast, bearing the Ancaster post-mark, directed to me in Broxby’s familiar hand; but I had read it twice, with disgust portrayed on every lineament, before I perceived that my late friend had evidently written to his brother and to me at the same sitting, when, by some hazard, the letters had been cross-played and put in the wrong envelopes, for the abominable epistle was as follows: —
“Dear Dick, – You should have come down. Such a spree. My ribs are sore yet with laughing, and I shall never get over it. I sent old Gus Littleboy an invite. Poor fool, but no harm in him except blundering. The Major was here; quite a houseful, in fact. Gus was to sleep with Tim Peters, and got somehow into the Major’s room while he was down with me finishing the toddy. Murder, my boy. Oh! you should have been here to hear the screaming, and seen the Major stamp and go on. He kicked the panel in, when poor Gus fled by the window, and has not sent for his traps yet. For goodness sake contrive for the Major to meet him at your place when I’m up next week. It will be splitting, and of course I can’t manage it now.
“Yours affectionately,“Joe Broxby.”
I need scarcely tell a discerning public that I refused the invitation sent me by Mr Richard Broxby, of Bedford Square, when it arrived the next week; while when, some months after, I encountered the Major and his wife upon the platform of the Great Nosham, Somesham, and Podmorton Railway, I turned all of a cold perspiration, for my nerves will never recover the shock.
Chapter Eleven
Cabby at Christmas
Rather cold outside here, sir; but of course, if you like riding on the box best, why it’s nothing to me, and I’m glad of your company. Come on. “Ony a bob’s worth, Tommy,” says that chap as drove Mr Pickwick, him as set the old gent and his friends down as spies. The poor chap must have had a bad day, you see, and got a bit raspy; and I’ve known the time as I’ve felt raspy, too, and ready to say, “Ony a bob’s worth, Tommy.” You see ours is a trade as flucterates a wonderful sight, and the public’s got it into their heads as we’re always a-going to take ’em in somehow or other; so jest like that American gal in the story, “Don’t,” says Public. “Don’t what?” says we. “Don’t overcharge,” says Public. “Well, we wasn’t a-over-charging,” says we. “No, but aint you going to?” says Public. Puts it into our heads, and makes us charge extra through being so suspicious. You see we’re poor men, but not such a bad sort, considering. Public servants we are, badged and numbered, bound to do work by fixed rule and charge, so what I say is that you should treat us accordingly. “Civil and pleasant,” says you – “Civil and pleasant,” says we. “Drawn swords,” says you – “Drawn swords,” says we. Peace or war, which you likes, and the Beak for umpire. There’s a werry good sorter clay underneath some of our weskets, if you only takes and moulds it the right way, when you’ll find all go as easy as can be; but make us ill-tempered and hot, why of course we turns brittle and cracks; while, you know, if you goes the other way too far, and moistens our clay too much, why – Well, human natur’s only human natur, is it? and of course the clay gets soft and sticky, and a nuisance. Keep half-way, you know, and then you’re all right, and will find us decent working, when you moulds us up and brings out a model cabby.
You see you calls them black fellows men and brothers, but I’m blest if I think some people thinks as we are; for, instead of brothers, they treat us as if we was werry distant relations indeed, and then sets to and fights it out with us for every sixpence we earns. Don’t believe a word we say, they don’t, and as to thinking we’re honest – bless your heart no, not they! “Oh, they’re a bad lot, kebmen,” says Mrs John Bull, and she says as the straw’s musty, the lining fusty, and the seat’s dusty, and then grumbles at the horse, and blows up the driver and flings dirt at him.
“You rascal – you scoundrel! I’ll summons you; I’ll put you on the treadmill; I’ll have the distance measured; I’ll – I’ll write to the Times and have your rascality exposed. Drive me to Bow Street – no to Great Marlbro’ Street – or – there – no, take your fare, but mind I’ve taken your number, and I’ll introduce the subject in the House this very night.”
“I’ll – I’ll – I’ll,” I says to myself. “Nice ile yours ’ud be to grease the wheels of Life with.” And that was Mr MP, that was; for it was over a mile as he rode. And only think of wanting to put a Hansom driver off with sixpence. Then, again, I drives a gent to the rail, and his missus with him, and when he gets out he sorter sneaks a shillin’ into my hand, and then’s going to shuffle off, when “Wot’s this here for?” I says.
“Your fare, my man,” he says, werry mildly.
“Hayten-pence more,” I says.
“Sixpence a mile, my good man,” he says, “and Mogg’s guide says that – ”
“Mogg’s guide doesn’t say that kebs is to be made carriers’ waggons on for nothing,” I says; and then the porters laughed, and he gives me the difference of the half-crown; and only nat’ral, for I’ll tell you what there was. First there was three boxes – heavy ones – on the roof; two carpet-bags and a portmanty on the seat aside me; a parrot’s cage, a cap-box, a gun-case, and a whole bundle o’ fishing-rods, and umbrellys, and things on the front seat; and him and his missus on the back. And arter the loading up and loading down, and what not, I don’t think as it was so werry dear. I sarved him out, though, for I took and bit every blessed bit o’ silver, making believe as I didn’t think ’em good, and stood grumbling there till the porters had got all the things in, and Master Generous had put hisself outer sight.
You see, sir, it ain’t us as has all the queer pints; there’s some as I knows on, if they was brought down to kebbing, ’stead of being swells, they’d be a jolly sight worse than we.
Didn’t know Tom Sizer, I s’pose? No, you wouldn’t know him, I dare say. Out an out driver, he was, poor chap. But what was the use on it to him? Just because he was clever with the reins, and could do a’most anything with any old knacker of a ’oss, the guv’nor sets him up the shabbiest of any man as went outer the yard. There he was, poor chap, with the wust ’oss and the wust keb, and then being only a seedy-looking cove hisself, why he turned out werry rough. But that didn’t matter; Tom allus managed to keep upsides with the guv’nor, and was never behind. Being a quiet sorter driver, yer see, he’d got some old ladies as was regular customers, and one way and another he made it up. And it was always the guv’nor’s artfulness, you know: he had old ’osses and a old keb or two, and if he’d sent some men out with ’em they’d ha’ brought back a’most nothing.
A regular sharp, teasing winter came on; rain, and freeze, and blow; and then our pore old Tom he got dreadful shaky at last, and his cough teased him awful, so none of us was surprised when we found one day as he warn’t come to the yard; nor we warn’t surprised next day when he didn’t come; nor yet when a whole week passed away and his keb stood under the shed, and his ’oss kep in the stable, for they was such bad ’uns none of our chaps’d have anything to do with ’em; and more’n once I see the guv’nor stand with his hat half-raised in one hand, and scratting his head with t’other, as he looked at the old worn keb, as much as to say, “I shall never make anything outer that any more.”
Christmas arternoon comes, and I thinks as I’ll go and have a look at Tom. So I tidies up a bit, puts on a white choker, and ties it coachman’s fashion, and fixes it with a horse-shoe pin, as my missus give me when we was courting. Then I brushes my hat up, and was just going off, when the missus says, “Wot d’yer want yer whip for?” she says. “Wot do I want my whip for?” I says, and then I stops short, and goes and stands it up in the corner by the drawers, for it didn’t seem nat’ral to go out without one’s whip, and it ain’t often as we goes out walking, I can tell you.
Well, I toddles along, and gets to the place at last, where Tommy held out: tall house it was, just aside Awery Row, and opposite to a mews; werry pleasant lookout in summer-time, for the coachmen’s wives as lived over the stables was fond of their flowers and birds; but even in winter time there was allus a bit o’ life going on: chaps cleaning first-class ’osses, or washing carriages, or starting off fresh and smart to drive out shopping or in the park. Fine, clean-legged, stepping ’osses, and bright warnished carriages and coachmen in livery; and all right up to the mark, you knew.
So I goes on upstairs, for I knowed the way to his room, along of having had supper with him one night – mussels and a pot of stout we had – so I didn’t ring three times like a stranger, but walks up one pair, two pair, three pair stairs, and then I stops short, for the door was ajar, and I could see a gentleman’s back, and hear talking; so I says to myself, “That’s the doctor,” I says, and I sets down on the top stair to get my wind, and then I turns quite chilly to hear poor old Tom’s voice, so altered and pipy I didn’t know what to make of it, as he says.
“There, sir, don’t stand no more; set down. Not that chair, ’cos the leg’s broke. Try t’other one. Well,” he says, “I takes this as werry kind of you to come and see a poor fellow as is outer sorts and laid up – laid up! Ah! it’s pretty well knacker’s cart and Jack Straw’s castle with me. The missus there’s been cleaning and a-tidying up, and doing the best she could; but, in course, with me in it, the bed can’t be turned up, and so the place can’t look werry decent. I do take it as werry kind of a gent like you climbing up three pairs o’ stairs o’ purpose to come and see me – it quite cheers me up. Not as I wants for visitors, for I has the ’spensary doctor, and there’s four sorter journeymen preachers comes a-wherretin’ me; till, as soon as I sees one on ’em coming in all in black, I thinks it’s the undertaker hisself. The doctor came half an hour ago – two hours, was it? ah, well, I’ve been asleep, I s’pose; and then time goes. He’s left me a lot more physic and stuff, but I ain’t taken it, and I ain’t a-going to; for what’s the use o’ greasing the keb wheels when the tires is off and the spokes is all loose and rattling, and a’most ready to tumble out. ’Tain’t no use whatsomever, whether they’ve been good ones or bad ones. It’s all up; and you may wheel the keb werry gently through the yard under the shed, and leave it there, and wot odds; there’s fresh ’uns a-coming out every day with all the noo improvements, so what’s the use o’ troubling about one as is worn out and out. There ain’t no use in trying to patch when all the woodwork’s worm-eaten, while the lining’s clean gone; what with bad usage and bad weather; and, as to the windys, they ain’t broke, but they’re grown heavy and dull, and I can’t see through ’em; and you’ll soon see the blinds pulled down over ’em, never to come up no more – never no more!”
Then there come a stoppage, for the pore chap’s cough give it him awful, so as it was terrible to listen, and I’d ha’ slipped away, ony I felt as I should like to have just a word with my poor old mate again.
“There,” he says, “I’ve got my wind again; you see it’s up hill, and this cough shakes a fellow awful. Never mind, though; I hope there’s rest up a-top for even a poor fellow like me; and, do you know,” he says, quite softly, “I begins to want to get there, though it does grit me to think as I can’t take Polly on the box with me; but that’s a hard thing to understand – that about life, and death, and ’ternity – for ever, and ever, and ever. That’s what the youngest parson as comes talks to me about. Nice fellow he is; I like him, for he seems to want to light one’s lamps up a bit and clear the road – seems fond of one like, and eager to give one a shove outer the block. But there; I ain’t lived to six-and-sixty year without having my own thoughts about religion and that sort of thing. I know as we’re all bad enough, and I s’pose a-top of the hill there it will all be reckoned against one, and kep’ account on, good and bad. As I sez to Polly, after that chap had been here as is so fond of hearing hisself speak, and allus calls me ‘my friend;’ ‘Polly,’ I sez, ‘it’s no manner of use; I ain’t a-going to turn king’s evidence and try to shirk out of it that way: what I’ve done wrong will go to the bad, and what I’ve done right I hope will go to the good, while I’m sure no poor fellow could be more sorry than me for what’s amiss.’ When we goes afore Him as judges up there, sir, it will all be made light, and there won’t be no feeling as justice ain’t done. There won’t be no big fellows in gowns and wigs a-trying to swear a chap’s soul away – making a whole sarmon out of a word, and finding out things as was never before thought on at all. I’ve been before ’em, and examined and cross-examined, and twisted about till you don’t know what your a-saying of. And so, when I thinks of all this lying still in the night, listening to the rumbling of the kebs – kebs as I shall never drive no more; why, I feels comfortable and better like; don’t seem to see as it’s so werry serious, as my number’s been took, and I’m summoned; ‘Done my dooty,’ I says, ‘and kep’ home together as well as I could; and it would ha’ been all the same if I’d ha’ been born a dook, I must ha’ come to it same as I’m a-coming now.’ Of course I should ha’ had a finer funeral; but there, lots of fellows as I knows on the rank, chaps as is Foresters, they’ll drive behind me with their windy-blines down, and a little bit o’ crape bow on the ends o’ their whips; they’ll smoke it at night in their pipes, and take it werry much to ’art when they thinks on it, and puts their blines right again – but mine won’t open no more now.”
