A Tale of Two Cities
to your own father, you young Rip? This boy is a getting too many for
_me_!” said Mr. Cruncher, surveying him. “Him and his hooroars! Don’t
let me hear no more of you, or you shall feel some more of me. D’ye
hear?”
“I warn’t doing no harm,” Young Jerry protested, rubbing his cheek.
“Drop it then,” said Mr. Cruncher; “I won’t have none of _your_ no
harms. Get a top of that there seat, and look at the crowd.”
His son obeyed, and the crowd approached; they were bawling and hissing
round a dingy hearse and dingy mourning coach, in which mourning coach
there was only one mourner, dressed in the dingy trappings that were
considered essential to the dignity of the position. The position
appeared by no means to please him, however, with an increasing rabble
surrounding the coach, deriding him, making grimaces at him, and
incessantly groaning and calling out: “Yah! Spies! Tst! Yaha! Spies!”
with many compliments too numerous and forcible to repeat.
Funerals had at all times a remarkable attraction for Mr. Cruncher; he
always pricked up his senses, and became excited, when a funeral passed
Tellson’s. Naturally, therefore, a funeral with this uncommon attendance
excited him greatly, and he asked of the first man who ran against him:
“What is it, brother? What’s it about?”
“_I_ don’t know,” said the man. “Spies! Yaha! Tst! Spies!”
He asked another man. “Who is it?”
“_I_ don’t know,” returned the man, clapping his hands to his mouth
nevertheless, and vociferating in a surprising heat and with the
greatest ardour, “Spies! Yaha! Tst, tst! Spi--ies!”
At length, a person better informed on the merits of the case, tumbled
against him, and from this person he learned that the funeral was the
funeral of one Roger Cly.
“Was he a spy?” asked Mr. Cruncher.
“Old Bailey spy,” returned his informant. “Yaha! Tst! Yah! Old Bailey
Spi--i--ies!”
“Why, to be sure!” exclaimed Jerry, recalling the Trial at which he had
assisted. “I’ve seen him. Dead, is he?”
“Dead as mutton,” returned the other, “and can’t be too dead. Have ’em
out, there! Spies! Pull ’em out, there! Spies!”
The idea was so acceptable in the prevalent absence of any idea,
that the crowd caught it up with eagerness, and loudly repeating the
suggestion to have ’em out, and to pull ’em out, mobbed the two vehicles
so closely that they came to a stop. On the crowd’s opening the coach
doors, the one mourner scuffled out by himself and was in their hands
for a moment; but he was so alert, and made such good use of his time,
that in another moment he was scouring away up a bye-street, after
shedding his cloak, hat, long hatband, white pocket-handkerchief, and
other symbolical tears.
These, the people tore to pieces and scattered far and wide with great
enjoyment, while the tradesmen hurriedly shut up their shops; for a
crowd in those times stopped at nothing, and was a monster much dreaded.
They had already got the length of opening the hearse to take the coffin
out, when some brighter genius proposed instead, its being escorted to
its destination amidst general rejoicing. Practical suggestions being
much needed, this suggestion, too, was received with acclamation, and
the coach was immediately filled with eight inside and a dozen out,
while as many people got on the roof of the hearse as could by any
exercise of ingenuity stick upon it. Among the first of these volunteers
was Jerry Cruncher himself, who modestly concealed his spiky head from
the observation of Tellson’s, in the further corner of the mourning
coach.
The officiating undertakers made some protest against these changes in
the ceremonies; but, the river being alarmingly near, and several voices
remarking on the efficacy of cold immersion in bringing refractory
members of the profession to reason, the protest was faint and brief.
The remodelled procession started, with a chimney-sweep driving the
hearse--advised by the regular driver, who was perched beside him, under
close inspection, for the purpose--and with a pieman, also attended
by his cabinet minister, driving the mourning coach. A bear-leader, a
popular street character of the time, was impressed as an additional
ornament, before the cavalcade had gone far down the Strand; and his
bear, who was black and very mangy, gave quite an Undertaking air to
that part of the procession in which he walked.
Thus, with beer-drinking, pipe-smoking, song-roaring, and infinite
caricaturing of woe, the disorderly procession went its way, recruiting
at every step, and all the shops shutting up before it. Its destination
was the old church of Saint Pancras, far off in the fields. It got there
in course of time; insisted on pouring into the burial-ground; finally,
accomplished the interment of the deceased Roger Cly in its own way, and
highly to its own satisfaction.
The dead man disposed of, and the crowd being under the necessity of
providing some other entertainment for itself, another brighter
genius (or perhaps the same) conceived the humour of impeaching casual
passers-by, as Old Bailey spies, and wreaking vengeance on them. Chase
was given to some scores of inoffensive persons who had never been near
the Old Bailey in their lives, in the realisation of this fancy, and
they were roughly hustled and maltreated. The transition to the sport of
window-breaking, and thence to the plundering of public-houses, was easy
and natural. At last, after several hours, when sundry summer-houses had
been pulled down, and some area-railings had been torn up, to arm
the more belligerent spirits, a rumour got about that the Guards were
coming. Before this rumour, the crowd gradually melted away, and perhaps
the Guards came, and perhaps they never came, and this was the usual
progress of a mob.
Mr. Cruncher did not assist at the closing sports, but had remained
behind in the churchyard, to confer and condole with the undertakers.
The place had a soothing influence on him. He procured a pipe from a
neighbouring public-house, and smoked it, looking in at the railings and
maturely considering the spot.
“Jerry,” said Mr. Cruncher, apostrophising himself in his usual way,
“you see that there Cly that day, and you see with your own eyes that he
was a young ’un and a straight made ’un.”
Having smoked his pipe out, and ruminated a little longer, he turned
himself about, that he might appear, before the hour of closing, on his
station at Tellson’s. Whether his meditations on mortality had touched
his liver, or whether his general health had been previously at all
amiss, or whether he desired to show a little attention to an eminent
man, is not so much to the purpose, as that he made a short call upon
his medical adviser--a distinguished surgeon--on his way back.
Young Jerry relieved his father with dutiful interest, and reported No
job in his absence. The bank closed, the ancient clerks came out, the
usual watch was set, and Mr. Cruncher and his son went home to tea.
“Now, I tell you where it is!” said Mr. Cruncher to his wife, on
entering. “If, as a honest tradesman, my wenturs goes wrong to-night, I
shall make sure that you’ve been praying again me, and I shall work you
for it just the same as if I seen you do it.”
The dejected Mrs. Cruncher shook her head.
“Why, you’re at it afore my face!” said Mr. Cruncher, with signs of
angry apprehension.
“I am saying nothing.”
“Well, then; don’t meditate nothing. You might as well flop as meditate.
You may as well go again me one way as another. Drop it altogether.”
“Yes, Jerry.”
“Yes, Jerry,” repeated Mr. Cruncher sitting down to tea. “Ah! It _is_
yes, Jerry. That’s about it. You may say yes, Jerry.”
Mr. Cruncher had no particular meaning in these sulky corroborations,
but made use of them, as people not unfrequently do, to express general
ironical dissatisfaction.
“You and your yes, Jerry,” said Mr. Cruncher, taking a bite out of his
bread-and-butter, and seeming to help it down with a large invisible
oyster out of his saucer. “Ah! I think so. I believe you.”
“You are going out to-night?” asked his decent wife, when he took
another bite.
“Yes, I am.”
“May I go with you, father?” asked his son, briskly.
“No, you mayn’t. I’m a going--as your mother knows--a fishing. That’s
where I’m going to. Going a fishing.”
“Your fishing-rod gets rayther rusty; don’t it, father?”
“Never you mind.”
“Shall you bring any fish home, father?”
“If I don’t, you’ll have short commons, to-morrow,” returned that
gentleman, shaking his head; “that’s questions enough for you; I ain’t a
going out, till you’ve been long abed.”
He devoted himself during the remainder of the evening to keeping a
most vigilant watch on Mrs. Cruncher, and sullenly holding her in
conversation that she might be prevented from meditating any petitions
to his disadvantage. With this view, he urged his son to hold her in
conversation also, and led the unfortunate woman a hard life by dwelling
on any causes of complaint he could bring against her, rather than
he would leave her for a moment to her own reflections. The devoutest
person could have rendered no greater homage to the efficacy of an
honest prayer than he did in this distrust of his wife. It was as if a
professed unbeliever in ghosts should be frightened by a ghost story.
“And mind you!” said Mr. Cruncher. “No games to-morrow! If I, as a
honest tradesman, succeed in providing a jinte of meat or two, none
of your not touching of it, and sticking to bread. If I, as a honest
tradesman, am able to provide a little beer, none of your declaring
on water. When you go to Rome, do as Rome does. Rome will be a ugly
customer to you, if you don’t. _I_’m your Rome, you know.”
Then he began grumbling again:
“With your flying into the face of your own wittles and drink! I don’t
know how scarce you mayn’t make the wittles and drink here, by your
flopping tricks and your unfeeling conduct. Look at your boy: he _is_
your’n, ain’t he? He’s as thin as a lath. Do you call yourself a mother,
and not know that a mother’s first duty is to blow her boy out?”
This touched Young Jerry on a tender place; who adjured his mother to
perform her first duty, and, whatever else she did or neglected, above
all things to lay especial stress on the discharge of that maternal
function so affectingly and delicately indicated by his other parent.
Thus the evening wore away with the Cruncher family, until Young Jerry
was ordered to bed, and his mother, laid under similar injunctions,
obeyed them. Mr. Cruncher beguiled the earlier watches of the night with
solitary pipes, and did not start upon his excursion until nearly one
o’clock. Towards that small and ghostly hour, he rose up from his chair,
took a key out of his pocket, opened a locked cupboard, and brought
forth a sack, a crowbar of convenient size, a rope and chain, and other
fishing tackle of that nature. Disposing these articles about him
in skilful manner, he bestowed a parting defiance on Mrs. Cruncher,
extinguished the light, and went out.
Young Jerry, who had only made a feint of undressing when he went to
bed, was not long after his father. Under cover of the darkness he
followed out of the room, followed down the stairs, followed down the
court, followed out into the streets. He was in no uneasiness concerning
his getting into the house again, for it was full of lodgers, and the
door stood ajar all night.
Impelled by a laudable ambition to study the art and mystery of his
father’s honest calling, Young Jerry, keeping as close to house fronts,
walls, and doorways, as his eyes were close to one another, held his
honoured parent in view. The honoured parent steering Northward, had not
gone far, when he was joined by another disciple of Izaak Walton, and
the two trudged on together.