by Charles Dickens
CHAPTER I--BARBOX BROTHERS
BROTHERS AND CO.
BOY AT MUGBY
CHAPTER I--BARBOX BROTHERS
"Guard! What place is this?"
"Mugby Junction, sir."
"A windy place!"
"Yes, it mostly is, sir."
"And looks comfortless indeed!"
"Yes, it generally does, sir."
"Is it a rainy night still?"
"Open the door. I'll get out."
"You'll have, sir," said the guard, glistening with drops of wet,
and looking at the tearful face of his watch by the light of his
lantern as the traveller descended, "three minutes here."
"More, I think.--For I am not going on."
"Thought you had a through ticket, sir?"
"So I have, but I shall sacrifice the rest of it. I want my
"Please to come to the van and point it out, sir. Be good enough
to look very sharp, sir. Not a moment to spare."
The guard hurried to the luggage van, and the traveller hurried
after him. The guard got into it, and the traveller looked into it.
"Those two large black portmanteaus in the corner where your light
shines. Those are mine."
"Name upon 'em, sir?"
"Stand clear, sir, if you please. One. Two. Right!"
Lamp waved. Signal lights ahead already changing. Shriek from
engine. Train gone.
"Mugby Junction!" said the traveller, pulling up the woollen
muffler round his throat with both hands. "At past three o'clock of a
tempestuous morning! So!"
He spoke to himself. There was no one else to speak to. Perhaps,
though there had been any one else to speak to, he would have
preferred to speak to himself. Speaking to himself he spoke to a man
within five years of fifty either way, who had turned grey too soon,
like a neglected fire; a man of pondering habit, brooding carriage of
the head, and suppressed internal voice; a man with many indications
on him of having been much alone.
He stood unnoticed on the dreary platform, except by the rain and
by the wind. Those two vigilant assailants made a rush at him. "Very
well," said he, yielding. "It signifies nothing to me to what
quarter I turn my face."
Thus, at Mugby Junction, at past three o'clock of a tempestuous
morning, the traveller went where the weather drove him.
Not but what he could make a stand when he was so minded, for,
coming to the end of the roofed shelter (it is of considerable extent
at Mugby Junction), and looking out upon the dark night, with a yet
darker spirit-wing of storm beating its wild way through it, he faced
about, and held his own as ruggedly in the difficult direction as he
had held it in the easier one. Thus, with a steady step, the
traveller went up and down, up and down, up and down, seeking nothing
and finding it.
A place replete with shadowy shapes, this Mugby Junction in the
black hours of the four-and-twenty. Mysterious goods trains, covered
with palls and gliding on like vast weird funerals, conveying
themselves guiltily away from the presence of the few lighted lamps,
as if their freight had come to a secret and unlawful end. Half-miles
of coal pursuing in a Detective manner, following when they lead,
stopping when they stop, backing when they back. Red-hot embers
showering out upon the ground, down this dark avenue, and down the
other, as if torturing fires were being raked clear; concurrently,
shrieks and groans and grinds invading the ear, as if the tortured
were at the height of their suffering. Iron-barred cages full of
cattle jangling by midway, the drooping beasts with horns entangled,
eyes frozen with terror, and mouths too: at least they have long
icicles (or what seem so) hanging from their lips. Unknown languages
in the air, conspiring in red, green, and white characters. An
earthquake, accompanied with thunder and lightning, going up express
to London. Now, all quiet, all rusty, wind and rain in possession,
lamps extinguished, Mugby Junction dead and indistinct, with its robe
drawn over its head, like Caesar.
Now, too, as the belated traveller plodded up and down, a shadowy
train went by him in the gloom which was no other than the train of a
life. From whatsoever intangible deep cutting or dark tunnel it
emerged, here it came, unsummoned and unannounced, stealing upon him,
and passing away into obscurity. Here mournfully went by a child who
had never had a childhood or known a parent, inseparable from a youth
with a bitter sense of his namelessness, coupled to a man the enforced
business of whose best years had been distasteful and oppressive,
linked to an ungrateful friend, dragging after him a woman once
beloved. Attendant, with many a clank and wrench, were lumbering
cares, dark meditations, huge dim disappointments, monotonous years, a
long jarring line of the discords of a solitary and unhappy existence.
The traveller recalled his eyes from the waste into which they had
been staring, and fell back a step or so under the abruptness, and
perhaps the chance appropriateness, of the question.
"Oh! My thoughts were not here for the moment. Yes. Yes. Those
two portmanteaus are mine. Are you a Porter?"
"On Porter's wages, sir. But I am Lamps."
The traveller looked a little confused.
"Who did you say you are?"
"Lamps, sir," showing an oily cloth in his hand, as farther
"Surely, surely. Is there any hotel or tavern here?"
"Not exactly here, sir. There is a Refreshment Room here, but--"
Lamps, with a mighty serious look, gave his head a warning roll that
plainly added--"but it's a blessed circumstance for you that it's not
"You couldn't recommend it, I see, if it was available?"
"Ask your pardon, sir. If it was -?"
"It ain't my place, as a paid servant of the company, to give my
opinion on any of the company's toepics,"--he pronounced it more like
toothpicks,--"beyond lamp-ile and cottons," returned Lamps in a
confidential tone; "but, speaking as a man, I wouldn't recommend my
father (if he was to come to life again) to go and try how he'd be
treated at the Refreshment Room. Not speaking as a man, no, I would
The traveller nodded conviction. "I suppose I can put up in the
town? There is a town here?" For the traveller (though a stay-at-
home compared with most travellers) had been, like many others,
carried on the steam winds and the iron tides through that Junction
before, without having ever, as one might say, gone ashore there.
"Oh yes, there's a town, sir! Anyways, there's town enough to put
up in. But," following the glance of the other at his luggage, "this
is a very dead time of the night with us, sir. The deadest time. I
might a'most call it our deadest and buriedest time."
"No porters about?"
"Well, sir, you see," returned Lamps, confidential again, "they in
general goes off with the gas. That's how it is. And they seem to
have overlooked you, through your walking to the furder end of the
platform. But, in about twelve minutes or so, she may be up."
"Who may be up?"
"The three forty-two, sir. She goes off in a sidin' till the Up X
passes, and then she"--here an air of hopeful vagueness pervaded
Lamps--"does all as lays in her power."
"I doubt if I comprehend the arrangement."
"I doubt if anybody do, sir. She's a Parliamentary, sir. And, you
see, a Parliamentary, or a Skirmishun--"
"Do you mean an Excursion?"
"That's it, sir.--A Parliamentary or a Skirmishun, she mostly DOES
go off into a sidin'. But, when she CAN get a chance, she's whistled
out of it, and she's whistled up into doin' all as,"--Lamps again wore
the air of a highly sanguine man who hoped for the best,- -"all as
lays in her power."
He then explained that the porters on duty, being required to be in
attendance on the Parliamentary matron in question, would doubtless
turn up with the gas. In the meantime, if the gentleman would not
very much object to the smell of lamp-oil, and would accept the
warmth of his little room - The gentleman, being by this time very
cold, instantly closed with the proposal.
A greasy little cabin it was, suggestive, to the sense of smell, of
a cabin in a Whaler. But there was a bright fire burning in its
rusty grate, and on the floor there stood a wooden stand of newly
trimmed and lighted lamps, ready for carriage service. They made a
bright show, and their light, and the warmth, accounted for the
popularity of the room, as borne witness to by many impressions of
velveteen trousers on a form by the fire, and many rounded smears and
smudges of stooping velveteen shoulders on the adjacent wall. Various
untidy shelves accommodated a quantity of lamps and oil- cans, and
also a fragrant collection of what looked like the pocket-
handkerchiefs of the whole lamp family.
As Barbox Brothers (so to call the traveller on the warranty of his
luggage) took his seat upon the form, and warmed his now ungloved
hands at the fire, he glanced aside at a little deal desk, much
blotched with ink, which his elbow touched. Upon it were some scraps
of coarse paper, and a superannuated steel pen in very reduced and
From glancing at the scraps of paper, he turned involuntarily to
his host, and said, with some roughness:
"Why, you are never a poet, man?"
Lamps had certainly not the conventional appearance of one, as he
stood modestly rubbing his squab nose with a handkerchief so
exceedingly oily, that he might have been in the act of mistaking
himself for one of his charges. He was a spare man of about the
Barbox Brothers time of life, with his features whimsically drawn
upward as if they were attracted by the roots of his hair. He had a
peculiarly shining transparent complexion, probably occasioned by
constant oleaginous application; and his attractive hair, being cut
short, and being grizzled, and standing straight up on end as if it
in its turn were attracted by some invisible magnet above it, the top
of his head was not very unlike a lamp-wick.
"But, to be sure, it's no business of mine," said Barbox Brothers.
"That was an impertinent observation on my part. Be what you like."
"Some people, sir," remarked Lamps in a tone of apology, "are
sometimes what they don't like."
"Nobody knows that better than I do," sighed the other. "I have
been what I don't like, all my life."
"When I first took, sir," resumed Lamps, "to composing little
Barbox Brothers eyed him with great disfavour.
"--To composing little Comic-Songs-like--and what was more hard--to
singing 'em afterwards," said Lamps, "it went against the grain at
that time, it did indeed."
Something that was not all oil here shining in Lamps's eye, Barbox
Brothers withdrew his own a little disconcerted, looked at the fire,
and put a foot on the top bar. "Why did you do it, then?" he asked
after a short pause; abruptly enough, but in a softer tone. "If you
didn't want to do it, why did you do it? Where did you sing them?
To which Mr. Lamps returned the curious reply: "Bedside."
At this moment, while the traveller looked at him for elucidation,
Mugby Junction started suddenly, trembled violently, and opened its
gas eyes. "She's got up!" Lamps announced, excited. "What lays in
her power is sometimes more, and sometimes less; but it's laid in her
power to get up to-night, by George!"
The legend "Barbox Brothers," in large white letters on two black
surfaces, was very soon afterwards trundling on a truck through a
silent street, and, when the owner of the legend had shivered on the
pavement half an hour, what time the porter's knocks at the Inn Door
knocked up the whole town first, and the Inn last, he groped his way
into the close air of a shut-up house, and so groped between the
sheets of a shut-up bed that seemed to have been expressly
refrigerated for him when last made.
"You remember me, Young Jackson?"
"What do I remember if not you? You are my first remembrance. It
was you who told me that was my name. It was you who told me that on
every twentieth of December my life had a penitential anniversary in
it called a birthday. I suppose the last communication was truer than
"What am I like, Young Jackson?"
"You are like a blight all through the year to me. You hard-lined,
thin-lipped, repressive, changeless woman with a wax mask on. You
are like the Devil to me; most of all when you teach me religious
things, for you make me abhor them."
"You remember me, Mr. Young Jackson?" In another voice from
"Most gratefully, sir. You were the ray of hope and prospering
ambition in my life. When I attended your course, I believed that I
should come to be a great healer, and I felt almost happy--even
though I was still the one boarder in the house with that horrible
mask, and ate and drank in silence and constraint with the mask
before me, every day. As I had done every, every, every day, through
my school-time and from my earliest recollection."
"What am I like, Mr. Young Jackson?"
"You are like a Superior Being to me. You are like Nature
beginning to reveal herself to me. I hear you again, as one of the
hushed crowd of young men kindling under the power of your presence
and knowledge, and you bring into my eyes the only exultant tears that
ever stood in them."
"You remember Me, Mr. Young Jackson?" In a grating voice from
quite another quarter.
"Too well. You made your ghostly appearance in my life one day,
and announced that its course was to be suddenly and wholly changed.
You showed me which was my wearisome seat in the Galley of Barbox
Brothers. (When THEY were, if they ever were, is unknown to me;
there was nothing of them but the name when I bent to the oar.) You
told me what I was to do, and what to be paid; you told me
afterwards, at intervals of years, when I was to sign for the Firm,
when I became a partner, when I became the Firm. I know no more of
it, or of myself."
"What am I like, Mr. Young Jackson?"
"You are like my father, I sometimes think. You are hard enough
and cold enough so to have brought up an acknowledged son. I see your
scanty figure, your close brown suit, and your tight brown wig; but
you, too, wear a wax mask to your death. You never by a chance
remove it--it never by a chance falls off--and I know no more of
Throughout this dialogue, the traveller spoke to himself at his
window in the morning, as he had spoken to himself at the Junction
overnight. And as he had then looked in the darkness, a man who had
turned grey too soon, like a neglected fire: so he now looked in the
sun-light, an ashier grey, like a fire which the brightness of the sun
The firm of Barbox Brothers had been some offshoot or irregular
branch of the Public Notary and bill-broking tree. It had gained for
itself a griping reputation before the days of Young Jackson, and the
reputation had stuck to it and to him. As he had imperceptibly come
into possession of the dim den up in the corner of a court off Lombard
Street, on whose grimy windows the inscription Barbox Brothers had for
many long years daily interposed itself between him and the sky, so he
had insensibly found himself a personage held in chronic distrust,
whom it was essential to screw tight to every transaction in which he
engaged, whose word was never to be taken without his attested bond,
whom all dealers with openly set up guards and wards against. This
character had come upon him through no act of his own. It was as if
the original Barbox had stretched himself down upon the office floor,
and had thither caused to be conveyed Young Jackson in his sleep, and
had there effected a metempsychosis and exchange of persons with him.
The discovery-- aided in its turn by the deceit of the only woman he
had ever loved, and the deceit of the only friend he had ever made:
who eloped from him to be married together--the discovery, so
followed up, completed what his earliest rearing had begun. He
shrank, abashed, within the form of Barbox, and lifted up his head and
heart no more.
But he did at last effect one great release in his condition. He
broke the oar he had plied so long, and he scuttled and sank the
galley. He prevented the gradual retirement of an old conventional
business from him, by taking the initiative and retiring from it.
With enough to live on (though, after all, with not too much), he
obliterated the firm of Barbox Brothers from the pages of the Post-
Office Directory and the face of the earth, leaving nothing of it but
its name on two portmanteaus.
"For one must have some name in going about, for people to pick
up," he explained to Mugby High Street, through the Inn window, "and
that name at least was real once. Whereas, Young Jackson!--Not to
mention its being a sadly satirical misnomer for Old Jackson."
He took up his hat and walked out, just in time to see, passing
along on the opposite side of the way, a velveteen man, carrying his
day's dinner in a small bundle that might have been larger without
suspicion of gluttony, and pelting away towards the Junction at a
"There's Lamps!" said Barbox Brothers. "And by the bye--"
Ridiculous, surely, that a man so serious, so self-contained, and
not yet three days emancipated from a routine of drudgery, should
stand rubbing his chin in the street, in a brown study about Comic
"Bedside?" said Barbox Brothers testily. "Sings them at the
bedside? Why at the bedside, unless he goes to bed drunk? Does, I
shouldn't wonder. But it's no business of mine. Let me see. Mugby
Junction, Mugby Junction. Where shall I go next? As it came into my
head last night when I woke from an uneasy sleep in the carriage and
found myself here, I can go anywhere from here. Where shall I go?
I'll go and look at the Junction by daylight. There's no hurry, and
I may like the look of one Line better than another."
But there were so many Lines. Gazing down upon them from a bridge
at the Junction, it was as if the concentrating Companies formed a
great Industrial Exhibition of the works of extraordinary ground
spiders that spun iron. And then so many of the Lines went such
wonderful ways, so crossing and curving among one another, that the
eye lost them. And then some of them appeared to start with the
fixed intention of going five hundred miles, and all of a sudden gave
it up at an insignificant barrier, or turned off into a workshop. And
then others, like intoxicated men, went a little way very straight,
and surprisingly slued round and came back again. And then others were
so chock-full of trucks of coal, others were so blocked with trucks of
casks, others were so gorged with trucks of ballast, others were so
set apart for wheeled objects like immense iron cotton-reels: while
others were so bright and clear, and others were so delivered over to
rust and ashes and idle wheelbarrows out of work, with their legs in
the air (looking much like their masters on strike), that there was no
beginning, middle, or end to the bewilderment.
Barbox Brothers stood puzzled on the bridge, passing his right hand
across the lines on his forehead, which multiplied while he looked
down, as if the railway Lines were getting themselves photographed on
that sensitive plate. Then was heard a distant ringing of bells and
blowing of whistles. Then, puppet-looking heads of men popped out of
boxes in perspective, and popped in again. Then, prodigious wooden
razors, set up on end, began shaving the atmosphere. Then, several
locomotive engines in several directions began to scream and be
agitated. Then, along one avenue a train came in. Then, along
another two trains appeared that didn't come in, but stopped without.
Then, bits of trains broke off. Then, a struggling horse became
involved with them. Then, the locomotives shared the bits of trains,
and ran away with the whole.
"I have not made my next move much clearer by this. No hurry. No
need to make up my mind to-day, or to-morrow, nor yet the day after.
I'll take a walk."
It fell out somehow (perhaps he meant it should) that the walk
tended to the platform at which he had alighted, and to Lamps's room.
But Lamps was not in his room. A pair of velveteen shoulders were
adapting themselves to one of the impressions on the wall by Lamps's
fireplace, but otherwise the room was void. In passing back to get
out of the station again, he learnt the cause of this vacancy, by
catching sight of Lamps on the opposite line of railway, skipping
along the top of a train, from carriage to carriage, and catching
lighted namesakes thrown up to him by a coadjutor.
"He is busy. He has not much time for composing or singing Comic
Songs this morning, I take it."
The direction he pursued now was into the country, keeping very
near to the side of one great Line of railway, and within easy view of
others. "I have half a mind,"' he said, glancing around, "to settle
the question from this point, by saying, 'I'll take this set of
rails, or that, or t'other, and stick to it.' They separate
themselves from the confusion, out here, and go their ways."
Ascending a gentle hill of some extent, he came to a few cottages.
There, looking about him as a very reserved man might who had never
looked about him in his life before, he saw some six or eight young
children come merrily trooping and whooping from one of the cottages,
and disperse. But not until they had all turned at the little
garden-gate, and kissed their hands to a face at the upper window: a
low window enough, although the upper, for the cottage had but a story
of one room above the ground.
Now, that the children should do this was nothing; but that they
should do this to a face lying on the sill of the open window, turned
towards them in a horizontal position, and apparently only a face, was
something noticeable. He looked up at the window again. Could only
see a very fragile, though a very bright face, lying on one cheek on
the window-sill. The delicate smiling face of a girl or woman.
Framed in long bright brown hair, round which was tied a light blue
band or fillet, passing under the chin.
He walked on, turned back, passed the window again, shyly glanced
up again. No change. He struck off by a winding branch-road at the
top of the hill--which he must otherwise have descended--kept the
cottages in view, worked his way round at a distance so as to come
out once more into the main road, and be obliged to pass the cottages
again. The face still lay on the window-sill, but not so much
inclined towards him. And now there were a pair of delicate hands
too. They had the action of performing on some musical instrument,
and yet it produced no sound that reached his ears.
"Mugby Junction must be the maddest place in England," said Barbox
Brothers, pursuing his way down the hill. "The first thing I find
here is a Railway Porter who composes comic songs to sing at his
bedside. The second thing I find here is a face, and a pair of hands
playing a musical instrument that DON'T play!"
The day was a fine bright day in the early beginning of November,
the air was clear and inspiriting, and the landscape was rich in
beautiful colours. The prevailing colours in the court off Lombard
Street, London city, had been few and sombre. Sometimes, when the
weather elsewhere was very bright indeed, the dwellers in those tents
enjoyed a pepper-and-salt-coloured day or two, but their atmosphere's
usual wear was slate or snuff coloured.
He relished his walk so well that he repeated it next day. He was
a little earlier at the cottage than on the day before, and he could
hear the children upstairs singing to a regular measure, and clapping
out the time with their hands.
"Still, there is no sound of any musical instrument," he said,
listening at the corner, "and yet I saw the performing hands again as
I came by. What are the children singing? Why, good Lord, they can
never be singing the multiplication table?"
They were, though, and with infinite enjoyment. The mysterious
face had a voice attached to it, which occasionally led or set the
children right. Its musical cheerfulness was delightful. The
measure at length stopped, and was succeeded by a murmuring of young
voices, and then by a short song which he made out to be about the
current month of the year, and about what work it yielded to the
labourers in the fields and farmyards. Then there was a stir of
little feet, and the children came trooping and whooping out, as on
the previous day. And again, as on the previous day, they all turned
at the garden-gate, and kissed their hands--evidently to the face on
the window-sill, though Barbox Brothers from his retired post of
disadvantage at the corner could not see it.
But, as the children dispersed, he cut off one small straggler--a
brown-faced boy with flaxen hair--and said to him:
"Come here, little one. Tell me, whose house is that?"
The child, with one swarthy arm held up across his eyes, half in
shyness, and half ready for defence, said from behind the inside of
"And who," said Barbox Brothers, quite as much embarrassed by his
part in the dialogue as the child could possibly be by his, "is
To which the child made answer: "Why, Phoebe, of course."
The small but sharp observer had eyed his questioner closely, and
had taken his moral measure. He lowered his guard, and rather
assumed a tone with him: as having discovered him to be an
unaccustomed person in the art of polite conversation.
"Phoebe," said the child, "can't be anybobby else but Phoebe. Can
"No, I suppose not."
"Well," returned the child, "then why did you ask me?"
Deeming it prudent to shift his ground, Barbox Brothers took up a
"What do you do there? Up there in that room where the open window
is. What do you do there?"
"Cool," said the child.
"Co-o-ol," the child repeated in a louder voice, lengthening out
the word with a fixed look and great emphasis, as much as to say:
"What's the use of your having grown up, if you're such a donkey as
not to understand me?"
"Ah! School, school," said Barbox Brothers. "Yes, yes, yes. And
Phoebe teaches you?"
The child nodded.
"Tound it out, have you?" said the child.
"Yes, I have found it out. What would you do with twopence, if I
gave it you?"
The knock-down promptitude of this reply leaving him not a leg to
stand upon, Barbox Brothers produced the twopence with great
lameness, and withdrew in a state of humiliation.
But, seeing the face on the window-sill as he passed the cottage,
he acknowledged its presence there with a gesture, which was not a
nod, not a bow, not a removal of his hat from his head, but was a
diffident compromise between or struggle with all three. The eyes in
the face seemed amused, or cheered, or both, and the lips modestly
said: "Good-day to you, sir."
"I find I must stick for a time to Mugby Junction," said Barbox
Brothers with much gravity, after once more stopping on his return
road to look at the Lines where they went their several ways so
quietly. "I can't make up my mind yet which iron road to take. In
fact, I must get a little accustomed to the Junction before I can
So, he announced at the Inn that he was "going to stay on for the
present," and improved his acquaintance with the Junction that night,
and again next morning, and again next night and morning: going down
to the station, mingling with the people there, looking about him down
all the avenues of railway, and beginning to take an interest in the
incomings and outgoings of the trains. At first, he often put his
head into Lamps's little room, but he never found Lamps there. A pair
or two of velveteen shoulders he usually found there, stooping over
the fire, sometimes in connection with a clasped knife and a piece of
bread and meat; but the answer to his inquiry, "Where's Lamps?" was,
either that he was "t'other side the line," or, that it was his
off-time, or (in the latter case) his own personal introduction to
another Lamps who was not his Lamps. However, he was not so
desperately set upon seeing Lamps now, but he bore the disappointment.
Nor did he so wholly devote himself to his severe application to the
study of Mugby Junction as to neglect exercise. On the contrary, he
took a walk every day, and always the same walk. But the weather
turned cold and wet again, and the window was never open.
At length, after a lapse of some days, there came another streak of
fine bright hardy autumn weather. It was a Saturday. The window was
open, and the children were gone. Not surprising, this, for he had
patiently watched and waited at the corner until they WERE gone.
"Good-day," he said to the face; absolutely getting his hat clear
off his head this time.
"Good-day to you, sir."
"I am glad you have a fine sky again to look at."
"Thank you, sir. It is kind if you."
"You are an invalid, I fear?"
"No, sir. I have very good health."
"But are you not always lying down?"
"Oh yes, I am always lying down, because I cannot sit up! But I am
not an invalid."
The laughing eyes seemed highly to enjoy his great mistake.
"Would you mind taking the trouble to come in, sir? There is a
beautiful view from this window. And you would see that I am not at
all ill--being so good as to care."
It was said to help him, as he stood irresolute, but evidently
desiring to enter, with his diffident hand on the latch of the
garden-gate. It did help him, and he went in.
The room up-stairs was a very clean white room with a low roof.
Its only inmate lay on a couch that brought her face to a level with
the window. The couch was white too; and her simple dress or wrapper
being light blue, like the band around her hair, she had an ethereal
look, and a fanciful appearance of lying among clouds. He felt that
she instinctively perceived him to be by habit a downcast taciturn
man; it was another help to him to have established that
understanding so easily, and got it over.
There was an awkward constraint upon him, nevertheless, as he
touched her hand, and took a chair at the side of her couch.
"I see now," he began, not at all fluently, "how you occupy your
hand. Only seeing you from the path outside, I thought you were
playing upon something."
She was engaged in very nimbly and dexterously making lace. A
lace- pillow lay upon her breast; and the quick movements and changes
of her hands upon it, as she worked, had given them the action he had
"That is curious," she answered with a bright smile. "For I often
fancy, myself, that I play tunes while I am at work."
"Have you any musical knowledge?"
She shook her head.
"I think I could pick out tunes, if I had any instrument, which
could be made as handy to me as my lace-pillow. But I dare say I
deceive myself. At all events, I shall never know."
"You have a musical voice. Excuse me; I have heard you sing."
"With the children?" she answered, slightly colouring. "Oh yes. I
sing with the dear children, if it can be called singing."
Barbox Brothers glanced at the two small forms in the room, and
hazarded the speculation that she was fond of children, and that she
was learned in new systems of teaching them?
"Very fond of them," she said, shaking her head again; "but I know
nothing of teaching, beyond the interest I have in it, and the
pleasure it gives me when they learn. Perhaps your overhearing my
little scholars sing some of their lessons has led you so far astray
as to think me a grand teacher? Ah! I thought so! No, I have only
read and been told about that system. It seemed so pretty and
pleasant, and to treat them so like the merry Robins they are, that I
took up with it in my little way. You don't need to be told what a
very little way mine is, sir," she added with a glance at the small
forms and round the room.
All this time her hands were busy at her lace-pillow. As they
still continued so, and as there was a kind of substitute for
conversation in the click and play of its pegs, Barbox Brothers took
the opportunity of observing her. He guessed her to be thirty. The
charm of her transparent face and large bright brown eyes was, not
that they were passively resigned, but that they were actively and
thoroughly cheerful. Even her busy hands, which of their own
thinness alone might have besought compassion, plied their task with
a gay courage that made mere compassion an unjustifiable assumption
of superiority, and an impertinence.
He saw her eyes in the act of rising towards his, and he directed
his towards the prospect, saying: "Beautiful, indeed!"
"Most beautiful, sir. I have sometimes had a fancy that I would
like to sit up, for once, only to try how it looks to an erect head.
But what a foolish fancy that would be to encourage! It cannot look
more lovely to any one than it does to me."
Her eyes were turned to it, as she spoke, with most delighted
admiration and enjoyment. There was not a trace in it of any sense
"And those threads of railway, with their puffs of smoke and steam
changing places so fast, make it so lively for me," she went on. "I
think of the number of people who can go where they wish, on their
business, or their pleasure; I remember that the puffs make signs to
me that they are actually going while I look; and that enlivens the
prospect with abundance of company, if I want company. There is the
great Junction, too. I don't see it under the foot of the hill, but
I can very often hear it, and I always know it is there. It seems to
join me, in a way, to I don't know how many places and things that I
shall never see."
With an abashed kind of idea that it might have already joined
himself to something he had never seen, he said constrainedly: "Just
"And so you see, sir," pursued Phoebe, "I am not the invalid you
thought me, and I am very well off indeed."
"You have a happy disposition," said Barbox Brothers: perhaps with
a slight excusatory touch for his own disposition.
"Ah! But you should know my father," she replied. "His is the
happy disposition!--Don't mind, sir!" For his reserve took the alarm
at a step upon the stairs, and he distrusted that he would be set down
for a troublesome intruder. "This is my father coming."
The door opened, and the father paused there.
"Why, Lamps!" exclaimed Barbox Brothers, starting from his chair.
"How do you do, Lamps?"
To which Lamps responded: "The gentleman for Nowhere! How do you
And they shook hands, to the greatest admiration and surprise of
"I have looked you up half-a-dozen times since that night," said
Barbox Brothers, "but have never found you."
"So I've heerd on, sir, so I've heerd on," returned Lamps. "It's
your being noticed so often down at the Junction, without taking any
train, that has begun to get you the name among us of the gentleman
for Nowhere. No offence in my having called you by it when took by
surprise, I hope, sir?"
"None at all. It's as good a name for me as any other you could
call me by. But may I ask you a question in the corner here?"
Lamps suffered himself to be led aside from his daughter's couch by
one of the buttons of his velveteen jacket.
"Is this the bedside where you sing your songs?"
The gentleman for Nowhere clapped him on the shoulder, and they
faced about again.
"Upon my word, my dear," said Lamps then to his daughter, looking
from her to her visitor, "it is such an amaze to me, to find you
brought acquainted with this gentleman, that I must (if this
gentleman will excuse me) take a rounder."
Mr. Lamps demonstrated in action what this meant, by pulling out
his oily handkerchief rolled up in the form of a ball, and giving
himself an elaborate smear, from behind the right ear, up the cheek,
across the forehead, and down the other cheek to behind his left ear.
After this operation he shone exceedingly.
"It's according to my custom when particular warmed up by any
agitation, sir," he offered by way of apology. "And really, I am
throwed into that state of amaze by finding you brought acquainted
with Phoebe, that I--that I think I will, if you'll excuse me, take
another rounder." Which he did, seeming to be greatly restored by
They were now both standing by the side of her couch, and she was
working at her lace-pillow. "Your daughter tells me," said Barbox
Brothers, still in a half-reluctant shamefaced way, "that she never
"No, sir, nor never has done. You see, her mother (who died when
she was a year and two months old) was subject to very bad fits, and
as she had never mentioned to me that she WAS subject to fits, they
couldn't be guarded against. Consequently, she dropped the baby when
took, and this happened."
"It was very wrong of her," said Barbox Brothers with a knitted
brow, "to marry you, making a secret of her infirmity.'
"Well, sir!" pleaded Lamps in behalf of the long-deceased. "You
see, Phoebe and me, we have talked that over too. And Lord bless us!
Such a number on us has our infirmities, what with fits, and what
with misfits, of one sort and another, that if we confessed to 'em all
before we got married, most of us might never get married."
"Might not that be for the better?"
"Not in this case, sir," said Phoebe, giving her hand to her
"No, not in this case, sir," said her father, patting it between
"You correct me," returned Barbox Brothers with a blush; "and I
must look so like a Brute, that at all events it would be superfluous
in me to confess to THAT infirmity. I wish you would tell me a little
more about yourselves. I hardly knew how to ask it of you, for I am
conscious that I have a bad stiff manner, a dull discouraging way
with me, but I wish you would."
"With all our hearts, sir," returned Lamps gaily for both. "And
first of all, that you may know my name--"
"Stay!" interposed the visitor with a slight flush. "What
signifies your name? Lamps is name enough for me. I like it. It is
bright and expressive. What do I want more?"
"Why, to be sure, sir," returned Lamps. "I have in general no
other name down at the Junction; but I thought, on account of your
being here as a first-class single, in a private character, that you
The visitor waved the thought away with his hand, and Lamps
acknowledged the mark of confidence by taking another rounder.
"You are hard-worked, I take for granted?" said Barbox Brothers,
when the subject of the rounder came out of it much dirtier than be
went into it.
Lamps was beginning, "Not particular so"--when his daughter took
"Oh yes, sir, he is very hard-worked. Fourteen, fifteen, eighteen
hours a day. Sometimes twenty-four hours at a time."
"And you," said Barbox Brothers, "what with your school, Phoebe,
and what with your lace-making--"
"But my school is a pleasure to me," she interrupted, opening her
brown eyes wider, as if surprised to find him so obtuse. "I began it
when I was but a child, because it brought me and other children into
company, don't you see? THAT was not work. I carry it on still,
because it keeps children about me. THAT is not work. I do it as
love, not as work. Then my lace-pillow;" her busy hands had stopped,
as if her argument required all her cheerful earnestness, but now went
on again at the name; "it goes with my thoughts when I think, and it
goes with my tunes when I hum any, and THAT'S not work. Why, you
yourself thought it was music, you know, sir. And so it is to me."
"Everything is!" cried Lamps radiantly. "Everything is music to
"My father is, at any rate," said Phoebe, exultingly pointing her
thin forefinger at him. "There is more music in my father than there
is in a brass band."
"I say! My dear! It's very fillyillially done, you know; but you
are flattering your father," he protested, sparkling.
"No, I am not, sir, I assure you. No, I am not. If you could hear
my father sing, you would know I am not. But you never will hear him
sing, because he never sings to any one but me. However tired he is,
he always sings to me when he comes home. When I lay here long ago,
quite a poor little broken doll, he used to sing to me. More than
that, he used to make songs, bringing in whatever little jokes we had
between us. More than that, he often does so to this day. Oh! I'll
tell of you, father, as the gentleman has asked about you. He is a
"I shouldn't wish the gentleman, my dear," observed Lamps, for the
moment turning grave, "to carry away that opinion of your father,
because it might look as if I was given to asking the stars in a
molloncolly manner what they was up to. Which I wouldn't at once
waste the time, and take the liberty, my dear."
"My father," resumed Phoebe, amending her text, "is always on the
bright side, and the good side. You told me, just now, I had a happy
disposition. How can I help it?"
"Well; but, my dear," returned Lamps argumentatively, "how can I
help it? Put it to yourself sir. Look at her. Always as you see
her now. Always working--and after all, sir, for but a very few
shillings a week--always contented, always lively, always interested
in others, of all sorts. I said, this moment, she was always as you
see her now. So she is, with a difference that comes to much the
same. For, when it is my Sunday off and the morning bells have done
ringing, I hear the prayers and thanks read in the touchingest way,
and I have the hymns sung to me--so soft, sir, that you couldn't hear
'em out of this room--in notes that seem to me, I am sure, to come
from Heaven and go back to it."
It might have been merely through the association of these words
with their sacredly quiet time, or it might have been through the
larger association of the words with the Redeemer's presence beside
the bedridden; but here her dexterous fingers came to a stop on the
lace-pillow, and clasped themselves around his neck as he bent down.
There was great natural sensibility in both father and daughter, the
visitor could easily see; but each made it, for the other's sake,
retiring, not demonstrative; and perfect cheerfulness, intuitive or
acquired, was either the first or second nature of both. In a very
few moments Lamps was taking another rounder with his comical
features beaming, while Phoebe's laughing eyes (just a glistening
speck or so upon their lashes) were again directed by turns to him,
and to her work, and to Barbox Brothers.
"When my father, sir," she said brightly, "tells you about my being
interested in other people, even though they know nothing about me--
which, by the bye, I told you myself--you ought to know how that
comes about. That's my father's doing."
"No, it isn't!" he protested.
"Don't you believe him, sir; yes, it is. He tells me of everything
he sees down at his work. You would be surprised what a quantity he
gets together for me every day. He looks into the carriages, and
tells me how the ladies are dressed--so that I know all the fashions!
He looks into the carriages, and tells me what pairs of lovers he
sees, and what new-married couples on their wedding trip-- so that I
know all about that! He collects chance newspapers and books--so that
I have plenty to read! He tells me about the sick people who are
travelling to try to get better--so that I know all about them! In
short, as I began by saying, he tells me everything he sees and makes
out down at his work, and you can't think what a quantity he does see
and make out."
"As to collecting newspapers and books, my dear," said Lamps, "it's
clear I can have no merit in that, because they're not my
perquisites. You see, sir, it's this way: A Guard, he'll say to me,
'Hallo, here you are, Lamps. I've saved this paper for your daughter.
How is she a-going on?' A Head-Porter, he'll say to me, 'Here!
Catch hold, Lamps. Here's a couple of wollumes for your daughter.
Is she pretty much where she were?' And that's what makes it double
welcome, you see. If she had a thousand pound in a box, they wouldn't
trouble themselves about her; but being what she is--that is, you
understand," Lamps added, somewhat hurriedly, "not having a thousand
pound in a box--they take thought for her. And as concerning the
young pairs, married and unmarried, it's only natural I should bring
home what little I can about THEM, seeing that there's not a Couple of
either sort in the neighbourhood that don't come of their own accord
to confide in Phoebe."
She raised her eyes triumphantly to Barbox Brothers as she said:
"Indeed, sir, that is true. If I could have got up and gone to
church, I don't know how often I should have been a bridesmaid. But,
if I could have done that, some girls in love might have been jealous
of me, and, as it is, no girl is jealous of me. And my pillow would
not have been half as ready to put the piece of cake under, as I
always find it," she added, turning her face on it with a light sigh,
and a smile at her father.
The arrival of a little girl, the biggest of the scholars, now led
to an understanding on the part of Barbox Brothers, that she was the
domestic of the cottage, and had come to take active measures in it,
attended by a pail that might have extinguished her, and a broom
three times her height. He therefore rose to take his leave, and
took it; saying that, if Phoebe had no objection, he would come
He had muttered that he would come "in the course of his walks."
The course of his walks must have been highly favourable to his
return, for he returned after an interval of a single day.
"You thought you would never see me any more, I suppose?" he said
to Phoebe as he touched her hand, and sat down by her couch.
"Why should I think so?" was her surprised rejoinder.
"I took it for granted you would mistrust me."
"For granted, sir? Have you been so much mistrusted?"
"I think I am justified in answering yes. But I may have
mistrusted, too, on my part. No matter just now. We were speaking
of the Junction last time. I have passed hours there since the day
"Are you now the gentleman for Somewhere?" she asked with a smile.
"Certainly for Somewhere; but I don't yet know Where. You would
never guess what I am travelling from. Shall I tell you? I am
travelling from my birthday."
Her hands stopped in her work, and she looked at him with
"Yes," said Barbox Brothers, not quite easy in his chair, "from my
birthday. I am, to myself, an unintelligible book with the earlier
chapters all torn out, and thrown away. My childhood had no grace of
childhood, my youth had no charm of youth, and what can be expected
from such a lost beginning?" His eyes meeting hers as they were
addressed intently to him, something seemed to stir within his breast,
whispering: "Was this bed a place for the graces of childhood and the
charms of youth to take to kindly? Oh, shame, shame!"
"It is a disease with me," said Barbox Brothers, checking himself,
and making as though he had a difficulty in swallowing something, "to
go wrong about that. I don't know how I came to speak of that. I hope
it is because of an old misplaced confidence in one of your sex
involving an old bitter treachery. I don't know. I am all wrong
Her hands quietly and slowly resumed their work. Glancing at her,
he saw that her eyes were thoughtfully following them.
"I am travelling from my birthday," he resumed, "because it has
always been a dreary day to me. My first free birthday coming round
some five or six weeks hence, I am travelling to put its predecessors
far behind me, and to try to crush the day--or, at all events, put it
out of my sight--by heaping new objects on it."
As he paused, she looked at him; but only shook her head as being
quite at a loss.
"This is unintelligible to your happy disposition," he pursued,
abiding by his former phrase as if there were some lingering virtue
of self-defence in it. "I knew it would be, and am glad it is.
However, on this travel of mine (in which I mean to pass the rest of
my days, having abandoned all thought of a fixed home), I stopped, as
you have heard from your father, at the Junction here. The extent of
its ramifications quite confused me as to whither I should go, FROM
here. I have not yet settled, being still perplexed among so many
roads. What do you think I mean to do? How many of the branching
roads can you see from your window?"
Looking out, full of interest, she answered, "Seven."
"Seven," said Barbox Brothers, watching her with a grave smile.
"Well! I propose to myself at once to reduce the gross number to
those very seven, and gradually to fine them down to one--the most
promising for me--and to take that."
"But how will you know, sir, which IS the most promising?" she
asked, with her brightened eyes roving over the view.
"Ah!" said Barbox Brothers with another grave smile, and
considerably improving in his ease of speech. "To be sure. In this
way. Where your father can pick up so much every day for a good
purpose, I may once and again pick up a little for an indifferent
purpose. The gentleman for Nowhere must become still better known at
the Junction. He shall continue to explore it, until he attaches
something that he has seen, heard, or found out, at the head of each
of the seven roads, to the road itself. And so his choice of a road
shall be determined by his choice among his discoveries."
Her hands still busy, she again glanced at the prospect, as if it
comprehended something that had not been in it before, and laughed as
if it yielded her new pleasure.
"But I must not forget," said Barbox Brothers, "(having got so far)
to ask a favour. I want your help in this expedient of mine. I want
to bring you what I pick up at the heads of the seven roads that you
lie here looking out at, and to compare notes with you about it. May
I? They say two heads are better than one. I should say myself that
probably depends upon the heads concerned. But I am quite sure,
though we are so newly acquainted, that your head and your father's
have found out better things, Phoebe, than ever mine of itself
She gave him her sympathetic right hand, in perfect rapture with
his proposal, and eagerly and gratefully thanked him.
"That's well!" said Barbox Brothers. "Again I must not forget
(having got so far) to ask a favour. Will you shut your eyes?"
Laughing playfully at the strange nature of the request, she did
"Keep them shut," said Barbox Brothers, going softly to the door,
and coming back. "You are on your honour, mind, not to open you eyes
until I tell you that you may?"
"Yes! On my honour."
"Good. May I take your lace-pillow from you for a minute?"
Still laughing and wondering, she removed her hands from it, and he
put it aside.
"Tell me. Did you see the puffs of smoke and steam made by the
morning fast-train yesterday on road number seven from here?"
"Behind the elm-trees and the spire?"
"That's the road," said Barbox Brothers, directing his eyes towards
"Yes. I watched them melt away."
"Anything unusual in what they expressed?"
"No!" she answered merrily.
"Not complimentary to me, for I was in that train. I went--don't
open your eyes--to fetch you this, from the great ingenious town. It
is not half so large as your lace-pillow, and lies easily and lightly
in its place. These little keys are like the keys of a miniature
piano, and you supply the air required with your left hand. May you
pick out delightful music from it, my dear! For the present--you can
open your eyes now--good-bye!"
In his embarrassed way, he closed the door upon himself, and only
saw, in doing so, that she ecstatically took the present to her bosom
and caressed it. The glimpse gladdened his heart, and yet saddened
it; for so might she, if her youth had flourished in its natural
course, having taken to her breast that day the slumbering music of
her own child's voice.
CHAPTER II--BARBOX BROTHERS AND CO.
With good-will and earnest purpose, the gentleman for Nowhere
began, on the very next day, his researches at the heads of the seven
roads. The results of his researches, as he and Phoebe afterwards
set them down in fair writing, hold their due places in this
veracious chronicle. But they occupied a much longer time in the
getting together than they ever will in the perusal. And this is
probably the case with most reading matter, except when it is of that
highly beneficial kind (for Posterity) which is "thrown off in a few
moments of leisure" by the superior poetic geniuses who scorn to take
It must be admitted, however, that Barbox by no means hurried
himself. His heart being in his work of good-nature, he revelled in
it. There was the joy, too (it was a true joy to him), of sometimes
sitting by, listening to Phoebe as she picked out more and more
discourse from her musical instrument, and as her natural taste and
ear refined daily upon her first discoveries. Besides being a
pleasure, this was an occupation, and in the course of weeks it
consumed hours. It resulted that his dreaded birthday was close upon
him before he had troubled himself any more about it.
The matter was made more pressing by the unforeseen circumstance
that the councils held (at which Mr. Lamps, beaming most brilliantly,
on a few rare occasions assisted) respecting the road to be selected
were, after all, in nowise assisted by his investigations. For, he
had connected this interest with this road, or that interest with the
other, but could deduce no reason from it for giving any road the
preference. Consequently, when the last council was holden, that part
of the business stood, in the end, exactly where it had stood in the
"But, sir," remarked Phoebe, "we have only six roads after all. Is
the seventh road dumb?"
"The seventh road? Oh!" said Barbox Brothers, rubbing his chin.
"That is the road I took, you know, when I went to get your little
present. That is ITS story. Phoebe."
"Would you mind taking that road again, sir?" she asked with
"Not in the least; it is a great high-road after all."
"I should like you to take it," returned Phoebe with a persuasive
smile, "for the love of that little present which must ever be so
dear to me. I should like you to take it, because that road can
never be again like any other road to me. I should like you to take
it, in remembrance of your having done me so much good: of your
having made me so much happier! If you leave me by the road you
travelled when you went to do me this great kindness," sounding a
faint chord as she spoke, "I shall feel, lying here watching at my
window, as if it must conduct you to a prosperous end, and bring you
back some day."
"It shall be done, my dear; it shall be done."
So at last the gentleman for Nowhere took a ticket for Somewhere,
and his destination was the great ingenious town.
He had loitered so long about the Junction that it was the
eighteenth of December when he left it. "High time," he reflected,
as he seated himself in the train, "that I started in earnest! Only
one clear day remains between me and the day I am running away from.
I'll push onward for the hill-country to-morrow. I'll go to Wales."
It was with some pains that he placed before himself the undeniable
advantages to be gained in the way of novel occupation for his senses
from misty mountains, swollen streams, rain, cold, a wild seashore,
and rugged roads. And yet he scarcely made them out as distinctly as
he could have wished. Whether the poor girl, in spite of her new
resource, her music, would have any feeling of loneliness upon her
now--just at first--that she had not had before; whether she saw those
very puffs of steam and smoke that he saw, as he sat in the train
thinking of her; whether her face would have any pensive shadow on it
as they died out of the distant view from her window; whether, in
telling him he had done her so much good, she had not unconsciously
corrected his old moody bemoaning of his station in life, by setting
him thinking that a man might be a great healer, if he would, and yet
not be a great doctor; these and other similar meditations got between
him and his Welsh picture. There was within him, too, that dull sense
of vacuity which follows separation from an object of interest, and
cessation of a pleasant pursuit; and this sense, being quite new to
him, made him restless. Further, in losing Mugby Junction, he had
found himself again; and he was not the more enamoured of himself for
having lately passed his time in better company.
But surely here, not far ahead, must be the great ingenious town.
This crashing and clashing that the train was undergoing, and this
coupling on to it of a multitude of new echoes, could mean nothing
less than approach to the great station. It did mean nothing less.
After some stormy flashes of town lightning, in the way of swift
revelations of red brick blocks of houses, high red brick chimney-
shafts, vistas of red brick railway arches, tongues of fire, blocks
of smoke, valleys of canal, and hills if coal, there came the
thundering in at the journey's end.
Having seen his portmanteaus safely housed in the hotel he chose,
and having appointed his dinner hour, Barbox Brothers went out for a
walk in the busy streets. And now it began to be suspected by him
that Mugby Junction was a Junction of many branches, invisible as
well as visible, and had joined him to an endless number of by-ways.
For, whereas he would, but a little while ago, have walked these
streets blindly brooding, he now had eyes and thoughts for a new
external world. How the many toiling people lived, and loved, and
died; how wonderful it was to consider the various trainings of eye
and hand, the nice distinctions of sight and touch, that separated
them into classes of workers, and even into classes of workers at
subdivisions of one complete whole which combined their many
intelligences and forces, though of itself but some cheap object of
use or ornament in common life; how good it was to know that such
assembling in a multitude on their part, and such contribution of
their several dexterities towards a civilising end, did not
deteriorate them as it was the fashion of the supercilious Mayflies
of humanity to pretend, but engendered among them a self-respect, and
yet a modest desire to be much wiser than they were (the first evinced
in their well-balanced bearing and manner of speech when he stopped to
ask a question; the second, in the announcements of their popular
studies and amusements on the public walls); these considerations, and
a host of such, made his walk a memorable one. "I too am but a little
part of a great whole," he began to think; "and to be serviceable to
myself and others, or to be happy, I must cast my interest into, and
draw it out of, the common stock."
Although he had arrived at his journey's end for the day by noon,
he had since insensibly walked about the town so far and so long that
the lamp-lighters were now at their work in the streets, and the
shops were sparkling up brilliantly. Thus reminded to turn towards
his quarters, he was in the act of doing so, when a very little hand
crept into his, and a very little voice said:
"Oh! if you please, I am lost!"
He looked down, and saw a very little fair-haired girl.
"Yes," she said, confirming her words with a serious nod. "I am
indeed. I am lost!"
Greatly perplexed, he stopped, looked about him for help, descried
none, and said, bending low.
"Where do you live, my child?"
"I don't know where I live," she returned. "I am lost."
"What is your name?"
"What is your other name?"
The reply was prompt, but unintelligible.
Imitating the sound as he caught it, he hazarded the guess,
"Oh no!" said the child, shaking her head. "Nothing like that."
"Say it again, little one."
An unpromising business. For this time it had quite a different
He made the venture, " Paddens?"
"Oh no!" said the child. "Nothing like that."
"Once more. Let us try it again, dear."
A most hopeless business. This time it swelled into four
syllables. "It can't be Tappitarver?" said Barbox Brothers, rubbing
his head with his hat in discomfiture.
"No! It ain't," the child quietly assented.
On her trying this unfortunate name once more, with extraordinary
efforts at distinctness, it swelled into eight syllables at least.
"Ah! I think," said Barbox Brothers with a desperate air of
resignation, "that we had better give it up."
"But I am lost," said the child, nestling her little hand more
closely in his, "and you'll take care of me, won't you?"
If ever a man were disconcerted by division between compassion on
the one hand, and the very imbecility of irresolution on the other,
here the man was. "Lost!" he repeated, looking down at the child. "I
am sure I am. What is to be done?"
"Where do you live?" asked the child, looking up at him wistfully.
"Over there," he answered, pointing vaguely in the direction of his
"Hadn't we better go there?" said the child.
"Really," he replied, "I don't know but what we had."
So they set off, hand-in-hand. He, through comparison of himself
against his little companion, with a clumsy feeling on him as if he
had just developed into a foolish giant. She, clearly elevated in
her own tiny opinion by having got him so neatly out of his
"We are going to have dinner when we get there, I suppose?" said
"Well," he rejoined, "I--Yes, I suppose we are."
"Do you like your dinner?" asked the child.
"Why, on the whole," said Barbox Brothers, "yes, I think I do."
"I do mine," said Polly. "Have you any brothers and sisters?"
"No. Have you?"
"Mine are dead."
"Oh!" said Barbox Brothers. With that absurd sense of unwieldiness
of mind and body weighing him down, he would have not known how to
pursue the conversation beyond this curt rejoinder, but that the
child was always ready for him.
"What," she asked, turning her soft hand coaxingly in his, "are you
going to do to amuse me after dinner?"
"Upon my soul, Polly," exclaimed Barbox Brothers, very much at a
loss, "I have not the slightest idea!"
"Then I tell you what," said Polly. "Have you got any cards at
"Plenty," said Barbox Brothers in a boastful vein.
"Very well. Then I'll build houses, and you shall look at me. You
mustn't blow, you know."
"Oh no," said Barbox Brothers. "No, no, no. No blowing.
Blowing's not fair."
He flattered himself that he had said this pretty well for an
idiotic monster; but the child, instantly perceiving the awkwardness
of his attempt to adapt himself to her level, utterly destroyed his
hopeful opinion of himself by saying compassionately: "What a funny
man you are!"
Feeling, after this melancholy failure, as if he every minute grew
bigger and heavier in person, and weaker in mind, Barbox gave himself
up for a bad job. No giant ever submitted more meekly to be led in
triumph by all-conquering Jack than he to be bound in slavery to
"Do you know any stories?" she asked him.
He was reduced to the humiliating confession: "No."
"What a dunce you must be, mustn't you?" said Polly.
He was reduced to the humiliating confession: "Yes."
"Would you like me to teach you a story? But you must remember it,
you know, and be able to tell it right to somebody else afterwards."
He professed that it would afford him the highest mental
gratification to be taught a story, and that he would humbly
endeavour to retain it in his mind. Whereupon Polly, giving her hand
a new little turn in his, expressive of settling down for enjoyment,
commenced a long romance, of which every relishing clause began with
the words: "So this," or, "And so this." As, "So this boy;" or, "So
this fairy;" or, "And so this pie was four yards round, and two yards
and a quarter deep." The interest of the romance was derived from the
intervention of this fairy to punish this boy for having a greedy
appetite. To achieve which purpose, this fairy made this pie, and
this boy ate and ate and ate, and his cheeks swelled and swelled and
swelled. There were many tributary circumstances, but the forcible
interest culminated in the total consumption of this pie, and the
bursting of this boy. Truly he was a fine sight, Barbox Brothers,
with serious attentive face, and ear bent down, much jostled on the
pavements of the busy town, but afraid of losing a single incident of
the epic, lest he should be examined in it by-and-by, and found
Thus they arrived at the hotel. And there he had to say at the
bar, and said awkwardly enough; "I have found a little girl!"
The whole establishment turned out to look at the little girl.
Nobody knew her; nobody could make out her name, as she set it
forth--except one chamber-maid, who said it was Constantinople--
which it wasn't.
"I will dine with my young friend in a private room," said Barbox
Brothers to the hotel authorities, "and perhaps you will be so good
as to let the police know that the pretty baby is here. I suppose
she is sure to be inquired for soon, if she has not been already.
Come along, Polly."
Perfectly at ease and peace, Polly came along, but, finding the
stairs rather stiff work, was carried up by Barbox Brothers. The
dinner was a most transcendant success, and the Barbox sheepishness,
under Polly's directions how to mince her meat for her, and how to
diffuse gravy over the plate with a liberal and equal hand, was
another fine sight.
"And now," said Polly, "while we are at dinner, you be good, and
tell me that story I taught you."
With the tremors of a Civil Service examination upon him, and very
uncertain indeed, not only as to the epoch at which the pie appeared
in history, but also as to the measurements of that indispensable
fact, Barbox Brothers made a shaky beginning, but under encouragement
did very fairly. There was a want of breadth observable in his
rendering of the cheeks, as well as the appetite, of the boy; and
there was a certain tameness in his fairy, referable to an
under-current of desire to account for her. Still, as the first
lumbering performance of a good-humoured monster, it passed muster.
"I told you to be good," said Polly, "and you are good, ain't you?"
"I hope so," replied Barbox Brothers.
Such was his deference that Polly, elevated on a platform of sofa
cushions in a chair at his right hand, encouraged him with a pat or
two on the face from the greasy bowl of her spoon, and even with a
gracious kiss. In getting on her feet upon her chair, however, to
give him this last reward, she toppled forward among the dishes, and
caused him to exclaim, as he effected her rescue: "Gracious Angels!
Whew! I thought we were in the fire, Polly!"
"What a coward you are, ain't you?" said Polly when replaced.
"Yes, I am rather nervous," he replied. "Whew! Don't, Polly!
Don't flourish your spoon, or you'll go over sideways. Don't tilt up
your legs when you laugh, Polly, or you'll go over backwards. Whew!
Polly, Polly, Polly," said Barbox Brothers, nearly succumbing to
despair, "we are environed with dangers!"
Indeed, he could descry no security from the pitfalls that were
yawning for Polly, but in proposing to her, after dinner, to sit upon
a low stool. "I will, if you will," said Polly. So, as peace of mind
should go before all, he begged the waiter to wheel aside the table,
bring a pack of cards, a couple of footstools, and a screen, and close
in Polly and himself before the fire, as it were in a snug room within
the room. Then, finest sight of all, was Barbox Brothers on his
footstool, with a pint decanter on the rug, contemplating Polly as she
built successfully, and growing blue in the face with holding his
breath, lest he should blow the house down.
"How you stare, don't you?" said Polly in a houseless pause.
Detected in the ignoble fact, he felt obliged to admit,
"I am afraid I was looking rather hard at you, Polly."
"Why do you stare?" asked Polly.
"I cannot," he murmured to himself, "recall why.--I don't know,
"You must be a simpleton to do things and not know why, mustn't
you?" said Polly.
In spite of which reproof, he looked at the child again intently,
as she bent her head over her card structure, her rich curls shading
her face. "It is impossible," he thought, "that I can ever have seen
this pretty baby before. Can I have dreamed of her? In some
He could make nothing of it. So he went into the building trade as
a journeyman under Polly, and they built three stories high, four
stories high; even five.
"I say! Who do you think is coming?" asked Polly, rubbing her eyes
He guessed: "The waiter?"
"No," said Polly, "the dustman. I am getting sleepy."
A new embarrassment for Barbox Brothers!
"I don't think I am going to be fetched to-night," said Polly.
"What do you think?"
He thought not, either. After another quarter of an hour, the
dustman not merely impending, but actually arriving, recourse was had
to the Constantinopolitan chamber-maid: who cheerily undertook that
the child should sleep in a comfortable and wholesome room, which she
herself would share.
"And I know you will be careful, won't you," said Barbox Brothers,
as a new fear dawned upon him, "that she don't fall out of bed?"
Polly found this so highly entertaining that she was under the
necessity of clutching him round the neck with both arms as he sat on
his footstool picking up the cards, and rocking him to and fro, with
her dimpled chin on his shoulder.
"Oh, what a coward you are, ain't you?" said Polly. "Do you fall
out of bed?"
"N--not generally, Polly."
"No more do I."
With that, Polly gave him a reassuring hug or two to keep him
going, and then giving that confiding mite of a hand of hers to be
swallowed up in the hand of the Constantinopolitan chamber-maid,
trotted off, chattering, without a vestige of anxiety.
He looked after her, had the screen removed and the table and
chairs replaced, and still looked after her. He paced the room for
half an hour. "A most engaging little creature, but it's not that. A
most winning little voice, but it's not that. That has much to do
with it, but there is something more. How can it be that I seem to
know this child? What was it she imperfectly recalled to me when I
felt her touch in the street, and, looking down at her, saw her
looking up at me?"
With a start he turned towards the sound of the subdued voice, and
saw his answer standing at the door.
"Oh, Mr. Jackson, do not be severe with me! Speak a word of
encouragement to me, I beseech you."
"You are Polly's mother."
Yes. Polly herself might come to this, one day. As you see what
the rose was in its faded leaves; as you see what the summer growth
of the woods was in their wintry branches; so Polly might be traced,
one day, in a careworn woman like this, with her hair turned grey.
Before him were the ashes of a dead fire that had once burned bright.
This was the woman he had loved. This was the woman he had lost.
Such had been the constancy of his imagination to her, so had Time
spared her under its withholding, that now, seeing how roughly the
inexorable hand had struck her, his soul was filled with pity and
He led her to a chair, and stood leaning on a corner of the
chimney- piece, with his head resting on his hand, and his face half
"Did you see me in the street, and show me to your child?" he
"Is the little creature, then, a party to deceit?"
"I hope there is no deceit. I said to her, 'We have lost our way,
and I must try to find mine by myself. Go to that gentleman, and
tell him you are lost. You shall be fetched by-and-by.' Perhaps you
have not thought how very young she is?"
"She is very self-reliant."
"Perhaps because she is so young."
He asked, after a short pause, "Why did you do this?"
"Oh, Mr. Jackson, do you ask me? In the hope that you might see
something in my innocent child to soften your heart towards me. Not
only towards me, but towards my husband."
He suddenly turned about, and walked to the opposite end of the
room. He came back again with a slower step, and resumed his former
"I thought you had emigrated to America?"
"We did. But life went ill with us there, and we came back."
"Do you live in this town?"
"Yes. I am a daily teacher of music here. My husband is a book-
"Are you--forgive my asking--poor?"
"We earn enough for our wants. That is not our distress. My
husband is very, very ill of a lingering disorder. He will never
"You check yourself. If it is for want of the encouraging word you
spoke of, take it from me. I cannot forget the old time, Beatrice."
"God bless you!" she replied with a burst of tears, and gave him
her trembling hand.
"Compose yourself. I cannot be composed if you are not, for to see
you weep distresses me beyond expression. Speak freely to me. Trust
She shaded her face with her veil, and after a little while spoke
calmly. Her voice had the ring of Polly's.
"It is not that my husband's mind is at all impaired by his bodily
suffering, for I assure you that is not the case. But in his
weakness, and in his knowledge that he is incurably ill, he cannot
overcome the ascendancy of one idea. It preys upon him, embitters
every moment of his painful life, and will shorten it."
She stopping, he said again: "Speak freely to me. Trust me."
"We have had five children before this darling, and they all lie in
their little graves. He believes that they have withered away under
a curse, and that it will blight this child like the rest."
"Under what curse?"
"Both I and he have it on our conscience that we tried you very
heavily, and I do not know but that, if I were as ill as he, I might
suffer in my mind as he does. This is the constant burden:- 'I
believe, Beatrice, I was the only friend that Mr. Jackson ever cared
to make, though I was so much his junior. The more influence he
acquired in the business, the higher he advanced me, and I was alone
in his private confidence. I came between him and you, and I took
you from him. We were both secret, and the blow fell when he was
wholly unprepared. The anguish it caused a man so compressed must
have been terrible; the wrath it awakened inappeasable. So, a curse
came to be invoked on our poor, pretty little flowers, and they
"And you, Beatrice," he asked, when she had ceased to speak, and
there had been a silence afterwards, "how say you?"
"Until within these few weeks I was afraid of you, and I believed
that you would never, never forgive."
"Until within these few weeks," he repeated. "Have you changed
your opinion of me within these few weeks?"
"For what reason?"
"I was getting some pieces of music in a shop in this town, when,
to my terror, you came in. As I veiled my face and stood in the dark
end of the shop, I heard you explain that you wanted a musical
instrument for a bedridden girl. Your voice and manner were so
softened, you showed such interest in its selection, you took it away
yourself with so much tenderness of care and pleasure, that I knew you
were a man with a most gentle heart. Oh, Mr. Jackson, Mr. Jackson, if
you could have felt the refreshing rain of tears that followed for
Was Phoebe playing at that moment on her distant couch? He seemed
to hear her.
"I inquired in the shop where you lived, but could get no
information. As I had heard you say that you were going back by the
next train (but you did not say where), I resolved to visit the
station at about that time of day, as often as I could, between my
lessons, on the chance of seeing you again. I have been there very
often, but saw you no more until to-day. You were meditating as you
walked the street, but the calm expression of your face emboldened me
to send my child to you. And when I saw you bend your head to speak
tenderly to her, I prayed to GOD to forgive me for having ever brought
a sorrow on it. I now pray to you to forgive me, and to forgive my
husband. I was very young, he was young too, and, in the ignorant
hardihood of such a time of life, we don't know what we do to those
who have undergone more discipline. You generous man! You good man!
So to raise me up and make nothing of my crime against you!"--for he
would not see her on her knees, and soothed her as a kind father might
have soothed an erring daughter--"thank you, bless you, thank you!"
When he next spoke, it was after having drawn aside the window
curtain and looked out awhile. Then he only said:
"Is Polly asleep?"
"Yes. As I came in, I met her going away upstairs, and put her to
"Leave her with me for to-morrow, Beatrice, and write me your
address on this leaf of my pocket-book. In the evening I will bring
her home to you--and to her father."
* * *
"Hallo!" cried Polly, putting her saucy sunny face in at the door
next morning when breakfast was ready: "I thought I was fetched last
"So you were, Polly, but I asked leave to keep you here for the
day, and to take you home in the evening."
"Upon my word!" said Polly. "You are very cool, ain't you?"
However, Polly seemed to think it a good idea, and added: "I
suppose I must give you a kiss, though you ARE cool."
The kiss given and taken, they sat down to breakfast in a highly
"Of course, you are going to amuse me?" said Polly.
"Oh, of course!" said Barbox Brothers.
In the pleasurable height of her anticipations, Polly found it
indispensable to put down her piece of toast, cross one of her little
fat knees over the other, and bring her little fat right hand down
into her left hand with a business-like slap. After this gathering of
herself together, Polly, by that time a mere heap of dimples, asked in
a wheedling manner:
"What are we going to do, you dear old thing?"
"Why, I was thinking," said Barbox Brothers, "--but are you fond of
"Ponies, I am," said Polly, "especially when their tails are long.
But horses--n-no--too big, you know."
"Well," pursued Barbox Brothers, in a spirit of grave mysterious
confidence adapted to the importance of the consultation, "I did see
yesterday, Polly, on the walls, pictures of two long-tailed ponies,
speckled all over--"
"No, no, NO!" cried Polly, in an ecstatic desire to linger on the
charming details. "Not speckled all over!"
"Speckled all over. Which ponies jump through hoops--"
"No, no, NO!" cried Polly as before. "They never jump through
"Yes, they do. Oh, I assure you they do! And eat pie in
"Ponies eating pie in pinafores!" said Polly. "What a story-teller
you are, ain't you?"
"Upon my honour.--And fire off guns."
(Polly hardly seemed to see the force of the ponies resorting to
"And I was thinking," pursued the exemplary Barbox, "that if you
and I were to go to the Circus where these ponies are, it would do our
"Does that mean amuse us?" inquired Polly. "What long words you do
use, don't you?"
Apologetic for having wandered out of his depth, he replied:
"That means amuse us. That is exactly what it means. There are
many other wonders besides the ponies, and we shall see them all.
Ladies and gentlemen in spangled dresses, and elephants and lions and
Polly became observant of the teapot, with a curled-up nose
indicating some uneasiness of mind.
"They never get out, of course," she remarked as a mere truism.
"The elephants and lions and tigers? Oh, dear no!"
"Oh, dear no!" said Polly. "And of course nobody's afraid of the
ponies shooting anybody."
"Not the least in the world."
"No, no, not the least in the world," said Polly.
"I was also thinking," proceeded Barbox, "that if we were to look
in at the toy-shop, to choose a doll--"
"Not dressed!" cried Polly with a clap of her hands. "No, no, NO,
"Full-dressed. Together with a house, and all things necessary for
Polly gave a little scream, and seemed in danger of falling into a
swoon of bliss.
"What a darling you are!" she languidly exclaimed, leaning back in
her chair. "Come and be hugged, or I must come and hug you."
This resplendent programme was carried into execution with the
utmost rigour of the law. It being essential to make the purchase of
the doll its first feature--or that lady would have lost the
ponies--the toy-shop expedition took precedence. Polly in the magic
warehouse, with a doll as large as herself under each arm, and a neat
assortment of some twenty more on view upon the counter, did indeed
present a spectacle of indecision not quite compatible with unalloyed
happiness, but the light cloud passed. The lovely specimen oftenest
chosen, oftenest rejected, and finally abided by, was of Circassian
descent, possessing as much boldness of beauty as was reconcilable
with extreme feebleness of mouth, and combining a sky-blue silk
pelisse with rose-coloured satin trousers, and a black velvet hat:
which this fair stranger to our northern shores would seem to have
founded on the portraits of the late Duchess of Kent. The name this
distinguished foreigner brought with her from beneath the glowing
skies of a sunny clime was (on Polly's authority) Miss Melluka, and
the costly nature of her outfit as a housekeeper, from the Barbox
coffers, may be inferred from the two facts that her silver tea-spoons
were as large as her kitchen poker, and that the proportions of her
watch exceeded those of her frying-pan. Miss Melluka was graciously
pleased to express her entire approbation of the Circus, and so was
Polly; for the ponies were speckled, and brought down nobody when they
fired, and the savagery of the wild beasts appeared to be mere
smoke--which article, in fact, they did produce in large quantities
from their insides. The Barbox absorption in the general subject
throughout the realisation of these delights was again a sight to see,
nor was it less worthy to behold at dinner, when he drank to Miss
Melluka, tied stiff in a chair opposite to Polly (the fair Circassian
possessing an unbendable spine), and even induced the waiter to assist
in carrying out with due decorum the prevailing glorious idea. To
wind up, there came the agreeable fever of getting Miss Melluka and
all her wardrobe and rich possessions into a fly with Polly, to be
taken home. But, by that time, Polly had become unable to look upon
such accumulated joys with waking eyes, and had withdrawn her
consciousness into the wonderful Paradise of a child's sleep. "Sleep,
Polly, sleep," said Barbox Brothers, as her head dropped on his
shoulder; "you shall not fall out of this bed easily, at any rate!"
What rustling piece of paper he took from his pocket, and carefully
folded into the bosom of Polly's frock, shall not be mentioned. He
said nothing about it, and nothing shall be said about it. They
drove to a modest suburb of the great ingenious town, and stopped at
the fore-court of a small house. "Do not wake the child," said
Barbox Brothers softly to the driver; "I will carry her in as she
Greeting the light at the opened door which was held by Polly's
mother, Polly's bearer passed on with mother and child in to a
ground-floor room. There, stretched on a sofa, lay a sick man,
sorely wasted, who covered his eyes with his emaciated hand.
"Tresham," said Barbox in a kindly voice, "I have brought you back
your Polly, fast asleep. Give me your hand, and tell me you are
The sick man reached forth his right hand, and bowed his head over
the hand into which it was taken, and kissed it. "Thank you, thank
you! I may say that I am well and happy."
"That's brave," said Barbox. "Tresham, I have a fancy--Can you
make room for me beside you here?"
He sat down on the sofa as he said the words, cherishing the plump
peachey cheek that lay uppermost on his shoulder.
"I have a fancy, Tresham (I am getting quite an old fellow now, you
know, and old fellows may take fancies into their heads sometimes),
to give up Polly, having found her, to no one but you. Will you take
her from me?"
As the father held out his arms for the child, each of the two men
looked steadily at the other.
"She is very dear to you, Tresham?"
"God bless her! It is not much, Polly," he continued, turning his
eyes upon her peaceful face as he apostrophized her, "it is not much,
Polly, for a blind and sinful man to invoke a blessing on something so
far better than himself as a little child is; but it would be
much--much upon his cruel head, and much upon his guilty soul--if he
could be so wicked as to invoke a curse. He had better have a
millstone round his neck, and be cast into the deepest sea. Live and
thrive, my pretty baby!" Here he kissed her. "Live and prosper, and
become in time the mother of other little children, like the Angels
who behold The Father's face!"
He kissed her again, gave her up gently to both her parents, and
But he went not to Wales. No, he never went to Wales. He went
straightway for another stroll about the town, and he looked in upon
the people at their work, and at their play, here, there, every-
there, and where not. For he was Barbox Brothers and Co. now, and
had taken thousands of partners into the solitary firm.
He had at length got back to his hotel room, and was standing
before his fire refreshing himself with a glass of hot drink which he
had stood upon the chimney-piece, when he heard the town clocks
striking, and, referring to his watch, found the evening to have so
slipped away, that they were striking twelve. As he put up his watch
again, his eyes met those of his reflection in the chimney- glass.
"Why, it's your birthday already," he said, smiling. "You are
looking very well. I wish you many happy returns of the day."
He had never before bestowed that wish upon himself. "By Jupiter!"
he discovered, "it alters the whole case of running away from one's
birthday! It's a thing to explain to Phoebe. Besides, here is quite
a long story to tell her, that has sprung out of the road with no
story. I'll go back, instead of going on. I'll go back by my friend
Lamps's Up X presently."
He went back to Mugby Junction, and, in point of fact, he
established himself at Mugby Junction. It was the convenient place
to live in, for brightening Phoebe's life. It was the convenient
place to live in, for having her taught music by Beatrice. It was
the convenient place to live in, for occasionally borrowing Polly. It
was the convenient place to live in, for being joined at will to all
sorts of agreeable places and persons. So, he became settled there,
and, his house standing in an elevated situation, it is noteworthy of
him in conclusion, as Polly herself might (not irreverently) have put
"There was an Old Barbox who lived on a hill, And if he ain't
gone, he lives there still."
Here follows the substance of what was seen, heard, or otherwise
picked up, by the gentleman for Nowhere, in his careful study of the
CHAPTER III--THE BOY AT MUGBY
I am the boy at Mugby. That's about what I am.
You don't know what I mean? What a pity! But I think you do. I
think you must. Look here. I am the boy at what is called The
Refreshment Room at Mugby Junction, and what's proudest boast is,
that it never yet refreshed a mortal being.
Up in a corner of the Down Refreshment Room at Mugby Junction, in
the height of twenty-seven cross draughts (I've often counted 'em
while they brush the First-Class hair twenty-seven ways), behind the
bottles, among the glasses, bounded on the nor'west by the beer,
stood pretty far to the right of a metallic object that's at times
the tea-urn and at times the soup-tureen, according to the nature of
the last twang imparted to its contents which are the same
groundwork, fended off from the traveller by a barrier of stale
sponge-cakes erected atop of the counter, and lastly exposed sideways
to the glare of Our Missis's eye--you ask a Boy so sitiwated, next
time you stop in a hurry at Mugby, for anything to drink; you take
particular notice that he'll try to seem not to hear you, that he'll
appear in a absent manner to survey the Line through a transparent
medium composed of your head and body, and that he won't serve you as
long as you can possibly bear it. That's me.
What a lark it is! We are the Model Establishment, we are, at
Mugby. Other Refreshment Rooms send their imperfect young ladies up
to be finished off by our Missis. For some of the young ladies, when
they're new to the business, come into it mild! Ah! Our Missis, she
soon takes that out of 'em. Why, I originally come into the business
meek myself. But Our Missis, she soon took that out of ME.
What a delightful lark it is! I look upon us Refreshmenters as
ockipying the only proudly independent footing on the Line. There's
Papers, for instance,--my honourable friend, if he will allow me to
call him so,--him as belongs to Smith's bookstall. Why, he no more
dares to be up to our Refreshmenting games than he dares to jump a
top of a locomotive with her steam at full pressure, and cut away
upon her alone, driving himself, at limited-mail speed. Papers, he'd
get his head punched at every compartment, first, second, and third,
the whole length of a train, if he was to ventur to imitate my
demeanour. It's the same with the porters, the same with the guards,
the same with the ticket clerks, the same the whole way up to the
secretary, traffic-manager, or very chairman. There ain't a one among
'em on the nobly independent footing we are. Did you ever catch one
of them, when you wanted anything of him, making a system of surveying
the Line through a transparent medium composed of your head and body?
I should hope not.
You should see our Bandolining Room at Mugby Junction. It's led to
by the door behind the counter, which you'll notice usually stands
ajar, and it's the room where Our Missis and our young ladies
Bandolines their hair. You should see 'em at it, betwixt trains,
Bandolining away, as if they was anointing themselves for the combat.
When you're telegraphed, you should see their noses all a- going up
with scorn, as if it was a part of the working of the same Cooke and
Wheatstone electrical machinery. You should hear Our Missis give the
word, "Here comes the Beast to be Fed!" and then you should see 'em
indignantly skipping across the Line, from the Up to the Down, or
Wicer Warsaw, and begin to pitch the stale pastry into the plates, and
chuck the sawdust sangwiches under the glass covers, and get out
the--ha, ha, ha!--the sherry,--O my eye, my eye!--for your
It's only in the Isle of the Brave and Land of the Free (by which,
of course, I mean to say Britannia) that Refreshmenting is so
effective, so 'olesome, so constitutional a check upon the public.
There was a Foreigner, which having politely, with his hat off,
beseeched our young ladies and Our Missis for "a leetel gloss host
prarndee," and having had the Line surveyed through him by all and no
other acknowledgment, was a-proceeding at last to help himself, as
seems to be the custom in his own country, when Our Missis, with her
hair almost a-coming un-Bandolined with rage, and her eyes omitting
sparks, flew at him, cotched the decanter out of his hand, and said,
"Put it down! I won't allow that!" The foreigner turned pale,
stepped back with his arms stretched out in front of him, his hands
clasped, and his shoulders riz, and exclaimed: "Ah! Is it possible,
this! That these disdaineous females and this ferocious old woman are
placed here by the administration, not only to empoison the voyagers,
but to affront them! Great Heaven! How arrives it? The English
people. Or is he then a slave? Or idiot?" Another time, a merry,
wideawake American gent had tried the sawdust and spit it out, and had
tried the Sherry and spit that out, and had tried in vain to sustain
exhausted natur upon Butter-Scotch, and had been rather extra
Bandolined and Line-surveyed through, when, as the bell was ringing
and he paid Our Missis, he says, very loud and good-tempered: "I tell
Yew what 'tis, ma'arm. I la'af. Theer! I la'af. I Dew. I oughter
ha' seen most things, for I hail from the Onlimited side of the
Atlantic Ocean, and I haive travelled right slick over the Limited,
head on through Jeerusalemm and the East, and likeways France and
Italy, Europe Old World, and am now upon the track to the Chief
Europian Village; but such an Institution as Yew, and Yewer young
ladies, and Yewer fixin's solid and liquid, afore the glorious Tarnal
I never did see yet! And if I hain't found the eighth wonder of
monarchical Creation, in finding Yew and Yewer young ladies, and Yewer
fixin's solid and liquid, all as aforesaid, established in a country
where the people air not absolute Loo- naticks, I am Extra Double
Darned with a Nip and Frizzle to the innermostest grit!
Wheerfur--Theer!--I la'af! I Dew, ma'arm. I la'af!" And so he
went, stamping and shaking his sides, along the platform all the way
to his own compartment.
I think it was her standing up agin the Foreigner as giv' Our
Missis the idea of going over to France, and droring a comparison
betwixt Refreshmenting as followed among the frog-eaters, and
Refreshmenting as triumphant in the Isle of the Brave and Land of the
Free (by which, of course, I mean to say agin, Britannia). Our young
ladies, Miss Whiff, Miss Piff, and Mrs. Sniff, was unanimous opposed
to her going; for, as they says to Our Missis one and all, it is well
beknown to the hends of the herth as no other nation except Britain
has a idea of anythink, but above all of business. Why then should
you tire yourself to prove what is already proved? Our Missis,
however (being a teazer at all pints) stood out grim obstinate, and
got a return pass by Southeastern Tidal, to go right through, if such
should be her dispositions, to Marseilles.
Sniff is husband to Mrs. Sniff, and is a regular insignificant
cove. He looks arter the sawdust department in a back room, and is
sometimes, when we are very hard put to it, let behind the counter
with a corkscrew; but never when it can be helped, his demeanour
towards the public being disgusting servile. How Mrs. Sniff ever
come so far to lower herself as to marry him, I don't know; but I
suppose he does, and I should think he wished he didn't, for he leads
a awful life. Mrs. Sniff couldn't be much harder with him if he was
public. Similarly, Miss Whiff and Miss Piff, taking the tone of Mrs.
Sniff, they shoulder Sniff about when he IS let in with a corkscrew,
and they whisk things out of his hands when in his servility he is
a-going to let the public have 'em, and they snap him up when in the
crawling baseness of his spirit he is a-going to answer a public
question, and they drore more tears into his eyes than ever the
mustard does which he all day long lays on to the sawdust. (But it
ain't strong.) Once, when Sniff had the repulsiveness to reach across
to get the milk-pot to hand over for a baby, I see Our Missis in her
rage catch him by both his shoulders, and spin him out into the
But Mrs. Sniff,--how different! She's the one! She's the one as
you'll notice to be always looking another way from you, when you
look at her. She's the one with the small waist buckled in tight in
front, and with the lace cuffs at her wrists, which she puts on the
edge of the counter before her, and stands a smoothing while the
public foams. This smoothing the cuffs and looking another way while
the public foams is the last accomplishment taught to the young ladies
as come to Mugby to be finished by Our Missis; and it's always taught
by Mrs. Sniff.
When Our Missis went away upon her journey, Mrs. Sniff was left in
charge. She did hold the public in check most beautiful! In all my
time, I never see half so many cups of tea given without milk to
people as wanted it with, nor half so many cups of tea with milk
given to people as wanted it without. When foaming ensued, Mrs.
Sniff would say: "Then you'd better settle it among yourselves, and
change with one another." It was a most highly delicious lark. I
enjoyed the Refreshmenting business more than ever, and was so glad I
had took to it when young.
Our Missis returned. It got circulated among the young ladies, and
it as it might be penetrated to me through the crevices of the
Bandolining Room, that she had Orrors to reveal, if revelations so
contemptible could be dignified with the name. Agitation become
awakened. Excitement was up in the stirrups. Expectation stood a-
tiptoe. At length it was put forth that on our slacked evening in
the week, and at our slackest time of that evening betwixt trains,
Our Missis would give her views of foreign Refreshmenting, in the
It was arranged tasteful for the purpose. The Bandolining table
and glass was hid in a corner, a arm-chair was elevated on a packing-
case for Our Missis's ockypation, a table and a tumbler of water (no
sherry in it, thankee) was placed beside it. Two of the pupils, the
season being autumn, and hollyhocks and dahlias being in, ornamented
the wall with three devices in those flowers. On one might be read,
"MAY ALBION NEVER LEARN;" on another "KEEP THE PUBLIC DOWN;" on
another, "OUR REFRESHMENTING CHARTER." The whole had a beautiful
appearance, with which the beauty of the sentiments corresponded.
On Our Missis's brow was wrote Severity, as she ascended the fatal
platform. (Not that that was anythink new.) Miss Whiff and Miss
Piff sat at her feet. Three chairs from the Waiting Room might have
been perceived by a average eye, in front of her, on which the pupils
was accommodated. Behind them a very close observer might have
discerned a Boy. Myself.
"Where," said Our Missis, glancing gloomily around, "is Sniff?"
"I thought it better," answered Mrs. Sniff, "that he should not be
let to come in. He is such an Ass."
"No doubt," assented Our Missis. "But for that reason is it not
desirable to improve his mind?"
"Oh, nothing will ever improve HIM," said Mrs. Sniff.
"However," pursued Our Missis, "call him in, Ezekiel."
I called him in. The appearance of the low-minded cove was hailed
with disapprobation from all sides, on account of his having brought
his corkscrew with him. He pleaded "the force of habit."
"The force!" said Mrs. Sniff. "Don't let us have you talking about
force, for Gracious' sake. There! Do stand still where you are,
with your back against the wall."
He is a smiling piece of vacancy, and he smiled in the mean way in
which he will even smile at the public if he gets a chance (language
can say no meaner of him), and he stood upright near the door with
the back of his head agin the wall, as if he was a waiting for
somebody to come and measure his heighth for the Army.
"I should not enter, ladies," says Our Missis, "on the revolting
disclosures I am about to make, if it was not in the hope that they
will cause you to be yet more implacable in the exercise of the power
you wield in a constitutional country, and yet more devoted to the
constitutional motto which I see before me,"--it was behind her, but
the words sounded better so,--"'May Albion never learn!'"
Here the pupils as had made the motto admired it, and cried, "Hear!
Hear! Hear!" Sniff, showing an inclination to join in chorus, got
himself frowned down by every brow.
"The baseness of the French," pursued Our Missis, "as displayed in
the fawning nature of their Refreshmenting, equals, if not surpasses,
anythink as was ever heard of the baseness of the celebrated
Miss Whiff, Miss Piff, and me, we drored a heavy breath, equal to
saying, "We thought as much!" Miss Whiff and Miss Piff seeming to
object to my droring mine along with theirs, I drored another to
"Shall I be believed," says Our Missis, with flashing eyes, "when I
tell you that no sooner had I set my foot upon that treacherous
Here Sniff, either bursting out mad, or thinking aloud, says, in a
low voice: "Feet. Plural, you know."
The cowering that come upon him when he was spurned by all eyes,
added to his being beneath contempt, was sufficient punishment for a
cove so grovelling. In the midst of a silence rendered more
impressive by the turned-up female noses with which it was pervaded,
Our Missis went on:
"Shall I be believed when I tell you, that no sooner had I landed,"
this word with a killing look at Sniff, "on that treacherous shore,
than I was ushered into a Refreshment Room where there were--I do not
exaggerate--actually eatable things to eat?"
A groan burst from the ladies. I not only did myself the honour of
jining, but also of lengthening it out.
"Where there were," Our Missis added, "not only eatable things to
eat, but also drinkable things to drink?"
A murmur, swelling almost into a scream, ariz. Miss Piff,
trembling with indignation, called out, "Name?"
"I WILL name," said Our Missis. "There was roast fowls, hot and
cold; there was smoking roast veal surrounded with browned potatoes;
there was hot soup with (again I ask shall I be credited?) nothing
bitter in it, and no flour to choke off the consumer; there was a
variety of cold dishes set off with jelly; there was salad; there
was--mark me! FRESH pastry, and that of a light construction; there
was a luscious show of fruit; there was bottles and decanters of
sound small wine, of every size, and adapted to every pocket; the
same odious statement will apply to brandy; and these were set out
upon the counter so that all could help themselves."
Our Missis's lips so quivered, that Mrs. Sniff, though scarcely
less convulsed than she were, got up and held the tumbler to them.
"This," proceeds Our Missis, "was my first unconstitutional
experience. Well would it have been if it had been my last and
worst. But no. As I proceeded farther into that enslaved and
ignorant land, its aspect became more hideous. I need not explain to
this assembly the ingredients and formation of the British Refreshment
Universal laughter,--except from Sniff, who, as sangwich-cutter,
shook his head in a state of the utmost dejection as he stood with it
agin the wall.
"Well!" said Our Missis, with dilated nostrils. "Take a fresh,
crisp, long, crusty penny loaf made of the whitest and best flour.
Cut it longwise through the middle. Insert a fair and nicely fitting
slice of ham. Tie a smart piece of ribbon round the middle of the
whole to bind it together. Add at one end a neat wrapper of clean
white paper by which to hold it. And the universal French Refreshment
sangwich busts on your disgusted vision."
A cry of "Shame!" from all--except Sniff, which rubbed his stomach
with a soothing hand.
"I need not," said Our Missis, "explain to this assembly the usual
formation and fitting of the British Refreshment Room?"
No, no, and laughter. Sniff agin shaking his head in low spirits
agin the wall.
"Well," said Our Missis, "what would you say to a general
decoration of everythink, to hangings (sometimes elegant), to easy
velvet furniture, to abundance of little tables, to abundance of
little seats, to brisk bright waiters, to great convenience, to a
pervading cleanliness and tastefulness positively addressing the
public, and making the Beast thinking itself worth the pains?"
Contemptuous fury on the part of all the ladies. Mrs. Sniff
looking as if she wanted somebody to hold her, and everbody else
looking as if they'd rayther not.
"Three times," said Our Missis, working herself into a truly
terrimenjious state,--"three times did I see these shameful things,
only between the coast and Paris, and not counting either: at
Hazebroucke, at Arras, at Amiens. But worse remains. Tell me, what
would you call a person who should propose in England that there
should be kept, say at our own model Mugby Junction, pretty baskets,
each holding an assorted cold lunch and dessert for one, each at a
certain fixed price, and each within a passenger's power to take
away, to empty in the carriage at perfect leisure, and to return at
another station fifty or a hundred miles farther on?"
There was disagreement what such a person should be called.
Whether revolutionise, atheist, Bright (I said him), or Un-English.
Miss Piff screeched her shrill opinion last, in the words: "A
"I adopt," says Our Missis, "the brand set upon such a person by
the righteous indignation of my friend Miss Piff. A malignant maniac.
Know, then, that that malignant maniac has sprung from the congenial
soil of France, and that his malignant madness was in unchecked
action on this same part of my journey."
I noticed that Sniff was a-rubbing his hands, and that Mrs. Sniff
had got her eye upon him. But I did not take more particular notice,
owing to the excited state in which the young ladies was, and to
feeling myself called upon to keep it up with a howl.
"On my experience south of Paris," said Our Missis, in a deep tone,
"I will not expatiate. Too loathsome were the task! But fancy this.
Fancy a guard coming round, with the train at full speed, to inquire
how many for dinner. Fancy his telegraphing forward the number of
dinners. Fancy every one expected, and the table elegantly laid for
the complete party. Fancy a charming dinner, in a charming room, and
the head-cook, concerned for the honour of every dish, superintending
in his clean white jacket and cap. Fancy the Beast travelling six
hundred miles on end, very fast, and with great punctuality, yet being
taught to expect all this to be done for it!"
A spirited chorus of "The Beast!"
I noticed that Sniff was agin a-rubbing his stomach with a soothing
hand, and that he had drored up one leg. But agin I didn't take
particular notice, looking on myself as called upon to stimulate
public feeling. It being a lark besides.
"Putting everything together," said Our Missis, "French
Refreshmenting comes to this, and oh, it comes to a nice total!
First: eatable things to eat, and drinkable things to drink."
A groan from the young ladies, kep' up by me.
"Second: convenience, and even elegance."
Another groan from the young ladies, kep' up by me.
"Third: moderate charges."
This time a groan from me, kep' up by the young ladies.
"Fourth:- and here," says Our Missis, "I claim your angriest
sympathy,--attention, common civility, nay, even politeness!"
Me and the young ladies regularly raging mad all together.
"And I cannot in conclusion," says Our Missis, with her
spitefullest sneer, "give you a completer pictur of that despicable
nation (after what I have related), than assuring you that they
wouldn't bear our constitutional ways and noble independence at Mugby
Junction, for a single month, and that they would turn us to the
right-about and put another system in our places, as soon as look at
us; perhaps sooner, for I do not believe they have the good taste to
care to look at us twice."
The swelling tumult was arrested in its rise. Sniff, bore away by
his servile disposition, had drored up his leg with a higher and a
higher relish, and was now discovered to be waving his corkscrew over
his head. It was at this moment that Mrs. Sniff, who had kep' her eye
upon him like the fabled obelisk, descended on her victim. Our Missis
followed them both out, and cries was heard in the sawdust department.
You come into the Down Refreshment Room, at the Junction, making
believe you don't know me, and I'll pint you out with my right thumb
over my shoulder which is Our Missis, and which is Miss Whiff, and
which is Miss Piff, and which is Mrs. Sniff. But you won't get a
chance to see Sniff, because he disappeared that night. Whether he
perished, tore to pieces, I cannot say; but his corkscrew alone
remains, to bear witness to the servility of his disposition.