Martin Chuzzlewit
‘It ain’t that, sir,’ returned Pogram, ‘not at all. But I should wish
you to accept a copy of My oration.’
‘Thank you,’ said Martin, ‘you are very good. I shall be most happy.’
‘It ain’t quite that, sir, neither,’ resumed Pogram; ‘air you bold
enough to introduce a copy into your country?’
‘Certainly,’ said Martin. ‘Why not?’
‘Its sentiments air strong, sir,’ hinted Pogram, darkly.
‘That makes no difference,’ said Martin. ‘I’ll take a dozen if you
like.’
‘No, sir,’ retorted Pogram. ‘Not A dozen. That is more than I require.
If you are content to run the hazard, sir, here is one for your Lord
Chancellor,’ producing it, ‘and one for Your principal Secretary of
State. I should wish them to see it, sir, as expressing what my opinions
air. That they may not plead ignorance at a future time. But don’t get
into danger, sir, on my account!’
‘There is not the least danger, I assure you,’ said Martin. So he put
the pamphlets in his pocket, and they parted.
Mr Bevan had written in his letter that, at a certain time, which fell
out happily just then, he would be at a certain hotel in the city,
anxiously expecting to see them. To this place they repaired without a
moment’s delay. They had the satisfaction of finding him within; and of
being received by their good friend, with his own warmth and heartiness.
‘I am truly sorry and ashamed,’ said Martin, ‘to have begged of you. But
look at us. See what we are, and judge to what we are reduced!’
‘So far from claiming to have done you any service,’ returned the other,
‘I reproach myself with having been, unwittingly, the original cause
of your misfortunes. I no more supposed you would go to Eden on such
representations as you received; or, indeed, that you would do anything
but be dispossessed, by the readiest means, of your idea that fortunes
were so easily made here; than I thought of going to Eden myself.’
‘The fact is, I closed with the thing in a mad and sanguine manner,’
said Martin, ‘and the less said about it the better for me. Mark, here,
hadn’t a voice in the matter.’
‘Well! but he hadn’t a voice in any other matter, had he?’ returned Mr
Bevan; laughing with an air that showed his understanding of Mark and
Martin too.
‘Not a very powerful one, I am afraid,’ said Martin with a blush. ‘But
live and learn, Mr Bevan! Nearly die and learn; we learn the quicker.’
‘Now,’ said their friend, ‘about your plans. You mean to return home at
once?’
‘Oh, I think so,’ returned Martin hastily, for he turned pale at the
thought of any other suggestion. ‘That is your opinion too, I hope?’
‘Unquestionably. For I don’t know why you ever came here; though it’s
not such an unusual case, I am sorry to say, that we need go any farther
into that. You don’t know that the ship in which you came over with our
friend General Fladdock, is in port, of course?’
‘Indeed!’ said Martin.
‘Yes. And is advertised to sail to-morrow.’
This was tempting news, but tantalising too; for Martin knew that his
getting any employment on board a ship of that class was hopeless. The
money in his pocket would not pay one-fourth of the sum he had already
borrowed, and if it had been enough for their passage-money, he could
hardly have resolved to spend it. He explained this to Mr Bevan, and
stated what their project was.
‘Why, that’s as wild as Eden every bit,’ returned his friend. ‘You must
take your passage like a Christian; at least, as like a Christian as a
fore-cabin passenger can; and owe me a few more dollars than you intend.
If Mark will go down to the ship and see what passengers there are,
and finds that you can go in her without being actually suffocated, my
advice is, go! You and I will look about us in the meantime (we won’t
call at the Norris’s unless you like), and we will all three dine
together in the afternoon.’
Martin had nothing to express but gratitude, and so it was arranged.
But he went out of the room after Mark, and advised him to take their
passage in the Screw, though they lay upon the bare deck; which Mr
Tapley, who needed no entreaty on the subject readily promised to do.
When he and Martin met again, and were alone, he was in high spirits,
and evidently had something to communicate, in which he gloried very
much.
‘I’ve done Mr Bevan, sir,’ said Mark.
‘Done Mr Bevan!’ repeated Martin.
‘The cook of the Screw went and got married yesterday, sir,’ said Mr
Tapley.
Martin looked at him for farther explanation.
‘And when I got on board, and the word was passed that it was me,’ said
Mark, ‘the mate he comes and asks me whether I’d engage to take this
said cook’s place upon the passage home. “For you’re used to it,” he
says; “you were always a-cooking for everybody on your passage out.”
And so I was,’ said Mark, ‘although I never cooked before, I’ll take my
oath.’
‘What did you say?’ demanded Martin.
‘Say!’ cried Mark. ‘That I’d take anything I could get. “If that’s
so,” says the mate, “why, bring a glass of rum;” which they brought
according. And my wages, sir,’ said Mark in high glee, ‘pays your
passage; and I’ve put the rolling-pin in your berth to take it (it’s
the easy one up in the corner); and there we are, Rule Britannia, and
Britons strike home!’
‘There never was such a good fellow as you are!’ cried Martin seizing
him by the hand. ‘But what do you mean by “doing” Mr Bevan, Mark?’
‘Why, don’t you see?’ said Mark. ‘We don’t tell him, you know. We take
his money, but we don’t spend it, and we don’t keep it. What we do is,
write him a little note, explaining this engagement, and roll it up,
and leave it at the bar, to be given to him after we are gone. Don’t you
see?’
Martin’s delight in this idea was not inferior to Mark’s. It was all
done as he proposed. They passed a cheerful evening; slept at the hotel;
left the letter as arranged; and went off to the ship betimes next
morning, with such light hearts as the weight of their past miseries
engendered.
‘Good-bye! a hundred thousand times good-bye!’ said Martin to their
friend. ‘How shall I remember all your kindness! How shall I ever thank
you!’
‘If you ever become a rich man, or a powerful one,’ returned his friend,
‘you shall try to make your Government more careful of its subjects when
they roam abroad to live. Tell it what you know of emigration in your
own case, and impress upon it how much suffering may be prevented with a
little pains!’
Cheerily, lads, cheerily! Anchor weighed. Ship in full sail. Her sturdy
bowsprit pointing true to England. America a cloud upon the sea behind
them!
‘Why, Cook! what are you thinking of so steadily?’ said Martin.
‘Why, I was a-thinking, sir,’ returned Mark, ‘that if I was a painter
and was called upon to paint the American Eagle, how should I do it?’
‘Paint it as like an Eagle as you could, I suppose.’
‘No,’ said Mark. ‘That wouldn’t do for me, sir. I should want to draw it
like a Bat, for its short-sightedness; like a Bantam, for its bragging;
like a Magpie, for its honesty; like a Peacock, for its vanity; like a
ostrich, for its putting its head in the mud, and thinking nobody sees
it--’
‘And like a Phoenix, for its power of springing from the ashes of its
faults and vices, and soaring up anew into the sky!’ said Martin. ‘Well,
Mark. Let us hope so.’
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
ARRIVING IN ENGLAND, MARTIN WITNESSES A CEREMONY, FROM WHICH HE DERIVES
THE CHEERING INFORMATION THAT HE HAS NOT BEEN FORGOTTEN IN HIS ABSENCE
It was mid-day, and high water in the English port for which the Screw
was bound, when, borne in gallantly upon the fullness of the tide, she
let go her anchor in the river.
Bright as the scene was; fresh, and full of motion; airy, free, and
sparkling; it was nothing to the life and exultation in the breasts of
the two travellers, at sight of the old churches, roofs, and darkened
chimney stacks of Home. The distant roar that swelled up hoarsely from
the busy streets, was music in their ears; the lines of people gazing
from the wharves, were friends held dear; the canopy of smoke that
overhung the town was brighter and more beautiful to them than if the
richest silks of Persia had been waving in the air. And though the water
going on its glistening track, turned, ever and again, aside to dance
and sparkle round great ships, and heave them up; and leaped from off
the blades of oars, a shower of diving diamonds; and wantoned with
the idle boats, and swiftly passed, in many a sportive chase, through
obdurate old iron rings, set deep into the stone-work of the quays;
not even it was half so buoyant, and so restless, as their fluttering
hearts, when yearning to set foot, once more, on native ground.
A year had passed since those same spires and roofs had faded from their
eyes. It seemed to them, a dozen years. Some trifling changes, here
and there, they called to mind; and wondered that they were so few and
slight. In health and fortune, prospect and resource, they came back
poorer men than they had gone away. But it was home. And though home is
a name, a word, it is a strong one; stronger than magician ever spoke,
or spirit answered to, in strongest conjuration.
Being set ashore, with very little money in their pockets, and no
definite plan of operation in their heads, they sought out a cheap
tavern, where they regaled upon a smoking steak, and certain flowing
mugs of beer, as only men just landed from the sea can revel in
the generous dainties of the earth. When they had feasted, as two
grateful-tempered giants might have done, they stirred the fire, drew
back the glowing curtain from the window, and making each a sofa for
himself, by union of the great unwieldy chairs, gazed blissfully into
the street.
Even the street was made a fairy street, by being half hidden in an
atmosphere of steak, and strong, stout, stand-up English beer. For on
the window-glass hung such a mist, that Mr Tapley was obliged to rise
and wipe it with his handkerchief, before the passengers appeared like
common mortals. And even then, a spiral little cloud went curling up
from their two glasses of hot grog, which nearly hid them from each
other.
It was one of those unaccountable little rooms which are never seen
anywhere but in a tavern, and are supposed to have got into taverns by
reason of the facilities afforded to the architect for getting drunk
while engaged in their construction. It had more corners in it than the
brain of an obstinate man; was full of mad closets, into which nothing
could be put that was not specially invented and made for that purpose;
had mysterious shelvings and bulkheads, and indications of staircases in
the ceiling; and was elaborately provided with a bell that rung in
the room itself, about two feet from the handle, and had no connection
whatever with any other part of the establishment. It was a little
below the pavement, and abutted close upon it; so that passengers grated
against the window-panes with their buttons, and scraped it with their
baskets; and fearful boys suddenly coming between a thoughtful guest
and the light, derided him, or put out their tongues as if he were a
physician; or made white knobs on the ends of their noses by flattening
the same against the glass, and vanished awfully, like spectres.
Martin and Mark sat looking at the people as they passed, debating every
now and then what their first step should be.
‘We want to see Miss Mary, of course,’ said Mark.
‘Of course,’ said Martin. ‘But I don’t know where she is. Not having had
the heart to write in our distress--you yourself thought silence most
advisable--and consequently, never having heard from her since we left
New York the first time, I don’t know where she is, my good fellow.’
‘My opinion is, sir,’ returned Mark, ‘that what we’ve got to do is to