Jacob Faithful

Chapter Twenty Two

I was rather curious, after the secret confided to me by Mary Stapleton, to see how her father would behave; but when we had sat and talked some time, as he appeared to have no difficulty in answering to any observation in a common pitch of the voice, I observed to him that he was not so deaf as I thought he was.

“No, no,” replied he; “in the house I hear very well, but in the open air I can’t hear at all, if a person speaks to me two yards off. Always speak to me close to my ear in the open air, but not loud, and then I shall hear you very well.” I caught a bright glance from Mary’s blue eye, and made no answer. “This frost will hold, I’m afraid,” continued Stapleton, “and we shall have nothing to do for some days but to blow our fingers and spend our earnings; but there’s never much doing at this time of the year. The winter cuts us watermen up terribly. As for me, I smokes my pipe and thinks on human natur’; but what you are to do Jacob, I can’t tell.”

“Oh, he will teach me to read and write,” replied Mary.

“I don’t know that he shall,” replied Stapleton. “What’s the use of reading and writing to you? We’ve too many senses already, in my opinion, and if so be we have learning to boot, why then all the worse for us.”

“How many senses are there, father?”

“How many! I’m sure I can’t tell, but more than enough to puzzle us.”

“There are only five, I believe,” said I; “first, there’s hearing.”

“Well,” replied Stapleton “hearing may be useful at times; but not hearing at times is much more convenient. I make twice as much money since I lost the better part of my hearing.”

“Well, then, there’s seeing,” continued I.

“Seeing is useful at times, I acknowledge; but I knows this, that if a man could pull a young couple about the river, and not be able to see now and then, it would be many a half-crown in his pocket.”

“Well, then, now we come to tasting.”

“No use at all—only a vexation. If there was no tasting we should not care whether we ate brown bread or roast beef, drank water or XX ale; and in these hard times that would be no small saving.”

“Well, then, let me see, there’s smelling.”

“Smelling’s no use whatever. For one good smell by the river’s side there be ten nasty ones; and there is everywhere, to my conviction.”

“Which is the next, Jacob?” said Mary, smiling archly.

“Feeling.”

“Feeling! that’s the worst of the whole. Always feel too cold in winter, too hot in summer—feel a blow too; feeling only gives pain; that’s a very bad sense.”

“Well, then, I suppose you think we should get on better without our senses.”

“No, not without all of them. A little hearing and a little seeing be all very well; but there are other senses which you have forgot, Jacob. Now, one I takes to be the very best of the bunch is smoking.”

“I never heard that was a sense,” replied I, laughing.

“Then you haven’t half finished your education, Jacob.”

“Are reading and writing senses, father?” inquired Mary.

“To be sure they be, girl; for without sense you can’t read and write; and rowing be a sense just as well; and there be many other senses; but, in my opinion, most of the senses be nonsense, and only lead to mischief.”

“Jacob,” said Mary, whispering to my ear, “isn’t loving a sense?”

“No, that’s nonsense,” replied I.

“Well, then,” replied she, “I agree with my father that nonsense is better than sense; but still I don’t see why I should not learn to read and write, father.”

“I’ve lived all my life without it, and never felt the want of it—why can’t you?”

“Because I do feel the want of it.”

“So you may, but they leads no no good. Look at those fellows at the Feathers; all were happy enough before Jim Holder, who is a scholar, came among them, and now since he reads to them they do nothing but grumble, and growl, and talk about I don’t know what—corn laws, and taxes, and liberty, and all other nonsense. Now, what could you do more than you do now, if you larnt to read and write?”

“I could amuse myself when I’ve nothing to do, father, when you and Jacob are away. I often sit down, after I’ve done all my work, and think what I shall do next, and at last I look out of the window and make faces at people, because I’ve nothing better to do. Now, father, you must let him learn me to read and write.”

“Well, Mary, if you will, you will; but recollect, don’t blame me for it—it must be all on your own head, and not on my conscience. I’ve lived some forty or fifty years in this world, and all my bad luck has been owing to having too much senses, and all my good luck to getting rid of them.”

“I wish you would tell me how that came to pass,” said I; “I should like to hear it very much, and it will be a lesson to Mary.”

“Well, I don’t care if I do, Jacob, only I must light my pipe first; and, Mary, do you go for a pot o’ beer.”

“Let Jacob go, father. I mean him to run on all my errands now.”

“You mustn’t order Jacob, Mary.”

“No, no—I wouldn’t think of ordering him, but I know he will do it—won’t you, Jacob?”

“Yes, with pleasure,” replied I.

“Well, with all my heart, provided it be all for love,” said Stapleton.

“Of course, all for love,” replied Mary, looking at me, “or Latin—which, Jacob?”

“What’s Latin?” said her father.

“Oh! that’s a new sense Jacob has been showing me something of, which, like many others, proved to be nonsense.”

I went for the beer, and when I returned found the fire burning brightly, and a strong sense of smoking from old Stapleton’s pipe. He puffed once or twice more, and then commenced his history as follows:

“I can’t exactly say when I were born, nor where,” said old Stapleton, taking his pipe out of his mouth, “because I never axed either father or mother, and they never told me, because why, I never did ax, and that be all agreeable to human natur’.” Here Stapleton paused, and took three whiffs of his pipe. “I recollects when I was a little brat about two foot nothing, mother used to whack me all day long, and I used to cry in proportion. Father used to cry shame, and then mother would fly at him; he would whack she; she would up with her apron in one corner and cry, while I did the same with my pinbefore in another; all that was nothing but human natur’.” (A pause, and six or seven whiffs of the pipe.)

“I was sent to school at a penny a week, to keep me out of the way, and out of mischief. I larnt nothing but to sit still on the form and hold my tongue, and so I used to amuse myself twiddling my thumbs, and looking at the flies as they buzzed about the room in the summer time; and in the winter, cause there was no flies of no sort, I used to watch the old missus a-knitting of stockings, and think how soon the time would come when I should go home and have my supper, which, in a child was nothing but human natur’.” (Puff, puff, puff.) “Father and mother lived in a cellar; mother sold coals and ’tatoes, and father used to go out to work in the barges on the river. As soon as I was old enough, the schoolmissus sent word that I ought to learn to read and write, and that she must be paid threepence a week; so father took me away from school, because he thought I had had education enough; and mother perched me on a basket upside down, and made me watch that nobody took the goods while she was busy down below; and then I used to sit all day long watching the coals and ’tatoes, and never hardly speaking to nobody; so having nothing better to do, I used to think about this, and that, and everything, and when dinner would be ready, and when I might get off the basket; for you see thinking be another of the senses, and when one has nothing to do, and nothing to say, to think be nothing more than human natur’.” (Puff, puff, and a pause for a drink out of the pot.) “At last, I grew a big stout boy, and mother said that I ate too much, and must earn my livelihood somehow or other, and father for once agreed with her; but there was a little difficulty how that was to be done; so until that was got over I did nothing at all but watch the coals and ’tatoes as before. One day mother wouldn’t give me wituals enough, so I helped myself; so she whacked me, so I, being strong, whacked she; so father, coming home, whacked me, so I takes to my heels and runs away a good mile before I thought at all about how I was to live; and there I was, very sore, very unhappy, and very hungry.” (Puff, puff, puff, and a spit.) “I walks on, and on, and then I gets behind a coach, and then the fellow whips me, and I gets down again in a great hurry, and tumbles into the road, and before I could get up again, a gemman, in a gig drives right over me, and breaks my leg. I screams with pain, which if I hadn’t had the sense of feeling, of course I shouldn’t have minded. He pulls up and gets out, and tells me he’s very sorry. I tells him so am I. His servant calls some people, and they takes me into a public-house, and lays me on the table all among the pots of beer, sends for a doctor, who puts me into bed, and puts my leg right again; and then I was provided for, for at least six weeks, during which the gemman calls and axes how I feel myself; and I says, ‘Pretty well, I thanky.’” (Puff, puff—knock the ashes out, pipe refilled, relighted, a drink of beer, and go on.) “So when I was well, and on my pins again, the gentleman says, ‘What can I do for you?’ and the landlord cuts him short by saying that he wanted a pot-boy, if I liked the profession. Now, if I didn’t like the pots I did the porter, which I had no share of at home, so I agrees. The gemman pays the score, gives me half a guinea, and tells me not to be lying in the middle of the road another time. I tells him I won’t, so he jumps into his gig, and I never cast eyes upon him since. I stayed three years with my master, taking out beer to his customers, and always taking a little out of each pot for myself, for that’s nothing but human natur’ when you likes a thing; but I never got into trouble until one day I sees my missus a-kissing in the back parlour with a fellow who travels for orders. I never said nothing at first; but at last I sees too much, and then I tells master, who gets into a rage, and goes into his wife, stays with her half-an-hour, and then comes out and kicks me out of the door, calling me a liar, and telling me never to show my face again. I shies a pot at his head, and showed him anything but my face, for I took to my heels, and ran for it as fast as I could. So much for seeing; if I hadn’t seen, that wouldn’t have happened. So there I was adrift, and good-bye to porter.” (Puff, puff; “Mary, where’s my ’baccy stopper?” Poke down, puff, puff, spit, and proceed.) “Well, I walks towards Lunnen, thinking on husbands and wives, porter and human natur’, until I finds myself there, and then I looks at all the lighted lamps, and recollects that I haven’t no lodging for the night, and then all of a sudden I thinks of my father and mother, and wonders how they be going on. So I thought I’d go and see, and away I went, comes to the cellar, and goes down. There was my mother with a quartern of gin before her, walking to and fro, and whimpering to herself; so says I, ‘Mother, what’s the matter now?’ at which she jumps up and hugs me, and tells me I’m her only comfort left. I looked at the quartern and thinks otherwise; so down I sits by her side, and then she pours me out a glass, and pours out all her grief, telling me how my father had left her for another woman, who kept another cellar in another street, and how she was very unhappy, and how she had taken to gin—which was nothing but human natur’, you see, and how she meant to make away with herself; and then she sent for more quarterns, and we finished them. What with the joy of finding me, and the grief at losing my father, and the quarterns of gin, she went to bed crying drunk and fell fast asleep. So did I, and thought home was home after all. Next morning I takes up the business, and finds trade not so bad after all; so I takes the command of all, keeps all the money, and keeps mother in order; and don’t allow drinking nor disorderly conduct in the house; but goes to the public-house every night for a pipe and a pot.

“Well, everything goes on very well for a month, when who should come home but father, which I didn’t approve of, because I liked being master. So I, being a strong chap, then says, ‘If you be come to ill-treat my mother, I’ll put you in the kennel, father. Be off to your new woman. Ar’n’t you ashamed of yourself?’ says I. So father looks me in the face, and tells me to stand out of the way, or he’ll make cat’s meat of me; and then he goes to my mother, and after a quarter of an hour of sobbing on her part, and coaxing on his, they kiss and make friends; and then they both turns to me, and orders me to leave the cellar, and never to show my face again. I refuses: father flies at me, and mother helps him; and between the two I was hustled out to find my bread how and where I could. I’ve never taken a woman’s part since.” (Puff, puff, puff, and a deep sigh.) “I walks down to the water-side, and having one or two shillings in my pocket, goes into a public-house to get a drop of drink and a bed. And when I comes in, I sees a man hand a note for change to the landlady, and she gives him change. ‘That won’t do,’ says he, and he was half tipsy: ‘I gave you a ten-pound note, and this here lad be witness.’ ‘It was only a one,’ says the woman. ‘You’re a damned old cheat,’ says he, ‘and if you don’t give me the change, I’ll set your house on fire, and burn you alive.’ With that there was a great row, and he goes out for the constable and gives her in charge, and gives me in charge as a witness, and then she gives him in charge, and so we all went to the watchhouse together, and slept on the benches. The next morning we all appeared before the magistrate, and the man tells his story and calls me as a witness; but recollecting how much I had suffered from seeing, I wouldn’t see anything this time. It might have been a ten-pound note, for it certainly didn’t look like a one; but my evidence went rather for than against the woman, for I only proved the man to be drunk; and she was let off, and I walked home with her. So says she, ‘You’re a fine boy, and I’ll do you a good turn for what you have done for me. My husband is a waterman, and I’ll make you free of the river; for he hasn’t no ’prentice, and you can come on shore and stay at the public-house when you ar’n’t wanted.’ I jumped at the offer, and so, by not seeing, I gets into a regular livelihood. Well, Jacob, how do you like it?”

“Very much,” replied I.

“And you, Mary?”

“O! I like it very much; but I want father to go on, and to know how he fell in love, and married my mother.”

“Well, you shall have it all by-and-by; but now I must take a spell.”

Chapter Twenty Three

Old Stapleton finished his pipe, took another swig at the porter, filled, relighted, puffed to try it, cleared his mouth, and then proceeded:—

“Now, you see, Bartley, her husband, was the greatest rogue on the river; he was up to everything, and stood at nothing. He fleeced as much on the water as she did on the land; for I often seed her give wrong change afterwards when people were tipsy, but I made it a rule always to walk away. As for Bartley, his was always night-work, and many’s the coil of rope I have brought on shore, what, although he might have paid for, he didn’t buy it of the lawful owner, but I never seed or heard, that was my maxim; and I fared well till I served my time, and then they gave me their old wherry, and built a new one for themselves. So I set up on my own account, and then I seed, and heard, and had all my senses, just as they were before—more’s the pity, for no good came of it.” (Puff, puff, puff, puff.) “The Bartleys wanted me to join them, but that wouldn’t do; for though I never meddled with other people’s concerns, yet I didn’t choose to go wrong myself. I’ve seed all the world cheating each other for fifty years or more, but that’s no concern of mine; I can’t make the world better; so all I thinks about it is to keep honest myself: and if every one was to look after his own soul, and not trouble themselves about their neighbours, why, then, it would be all the better for human natur’. I plied at the Swan Stairs, gained my livelihood, and spent it as I got it; for I was then too young to look out a’ter a rainy day.

“One night a young woman in a cloak comes down to the stairs with a bundle in her arms, and seems in a very great taking, and asks me for a boat. I hauls out of the row alongside of the yard, and hands her in. She trips as she steps in, and I catches to save her from falling, and in catching her I puts my hand upon the bundle in her arms, and feels the warm face of a baby. ‘Where am I to go, ma’am?’ says I. ‘O! pull across, and land me on the other side,’ says she; and then I hears her sobbing to herself, as if her heart would break. When we were in the middle o’ the stream, she lifts up her head, and then first she looks at the bundle and kisses it, and then she looks up at the stars which were glittering above in the sky. She kisses the child once more, jumps up, and afore I could be aware of what she was about, she tosses me her purse, throws her child into the water, and leaps in herself. I pulls sharp round immediately, and seeing her again, I made one or two good strokes, comes alongside of her, and gets hold of her clothes. A’ter much ado I gets her into the wherry, and as soon as I seed she was come to again, I pulls her back to the stairs where she had taken me from. As soon as I lands I hears a noise and talking, and several people standing about; it seems it were her relatives, who had missed her, and were axing whether she had taken a boat; and while they were describing her, and the other watermen were telling them how I had taken a fare of that description, I brings her back. Well, they takes charge of her, and leads her home; and then for the first time I thinks of the purse at the bottom of the boat, which I picks up, and sure enough there were four golden guineas in it, beside some silver. Well, the men who plied at the stairs axed me all about it; but I keeps my counsel, and only tells them how the poor girl threw herself into the water, and how I pulled her out again; and in a week I had almost forgot all about it, when up comes an officer, and says to me, ‘You be Stapleton the waterman?’ and I says, ‘Yes, I be.’ ‘Then you must come along with me;’ and he takes me to the police-office, where I finds the poor young woman in custody for being accused of having murdered her infant. So they begins to tax me upon my Bible oath, and I was forced to tell the whole story; for though you may loose all your senses when convenient, yet somehow or another, an oath on the Bible brings them all back again. ‘Did you see the child?’ said the magistrate. ‘I seed a bundle,’ said I. ‘Did you hear the child cry?’ said he. ‘No,’ says I, ‘I didn’t;’ and then I thought I had got the young woman off; but the magistrate was an old fox, and had all the senses at his fingers’ ends. So says he, ‘When the young woman stepped into the boat did she give you the bundle?’ ‘No,’ says I again. ‘Then you never touched it?’ ‘Yes, I did, when her foot slipped.’ ‘And what did it feel like?’ ‘It felt like a piece of human natur’.’ says I, ‘and quite warm like.’ ‘How do you mean?’ says he. ‘Why, I took it by the feel for a baby.’ ‘And it was quite warm, was it?’ ‘Yes,’ replied I, ‘it was.’ ‘Well then, what else took place?’ ‘Why, when we were in the middle of the stream she and her child went overboard; I pulled her in again, but could not see the child.’ Fortunately for the poor girl, they didn’t ask me which went overboard first, and that saved her from hanging. She was confined six months in prison, and then let out again; but you see, if it hadn’t been for my unfortunately feeling the child, and feeling it was warm, which proved its being alive, the poor young woman would have got off altogether, perhaps. So much for the sense of feeling, which I say is of no use to nobody, but only a vexation.” (Puff—the pipe out, relighted—puff, puff.)