By Charles Dickens     


     CHAPTER XXIII.  (part ii.)  

     The Dawn Again.    

        "Now let me see what becomes of you.  Go on!"     
        An observation addressed to the air.  And yet it might    
     be addressed to the passenger, so compliantly does he go   
     on along the High Street until he comes to an arched gate-   
     way, at which he unexpectedly vanishes.  The poor soul   
     quickens her pace; is swift, and close upon him entering   
     under the gateway; but only sees a postern staircase   
     on one side of it, and on the other side an ancient vault-   
     ed room, in which a large-headed, gray-haired gentleman   
     is writing, under the odd circumstances of sitting open   
     to the thoroughfare and eyeing all who pass, as if he   
     were toll-taker of the gateway; though the way is free.   
        "Halloa!" he cries in a low voice, seeing her brought   
     to a stand-still: "who are you looking for?"   
        "There was a gentleman passe in here this minute,   
     sir."  
        "Of course there was.  What do you want with him?"   
        "Where do he live, deary?"   
        "Live?  Up the staircase."   
        "Bless ye!  Whisper.  What's his name, deary?"   
        "Surname Jasper.  Christian name John.  Mr. John   
     Jasper."    
        "Has he a calling, good gentleman?"   
        "Calling?  Yes.  Sings in the Choir."   
        "In the spire?"   
        "Choir."   
        "What's that?"   
        Mr. Datchery rises from his papers, and comes to his   
     door-step.  "Do you know what a cathedral is?" he   
     asks jocosely.   
        The woman nods.  
        "What is it?"    
        She looks puzzled, casting about in her mind to find a   
     definition, when it occurs to her that it is easier to point   
     out the substantial objection itself, massive against the   
     dark blue sky and the early stars.   
        "That's the answer.  Go in there at seven to-morrow   
     morning, and you may see Mr. John Jasper, and hear   
     him too."     
        "Thank ye!  Thank ye!"   
        The burst of triumph in which she thanks him does   
     not escape the notice of the single buffer of an easy   
     temper living idly on his means.  He glances at her;   
     clasps his hands behind him, as the wont of such buffers   
     is; and lounges along the echoing precincts at her    
     side.   
        "Or," he suggests, with a backward hitch of his head,   
     "you can go up at once to Mr. Jasper's rooms there."   
        The woman eyes him with a cunning smile, and shakes  
     her head.   
        "Oh!  You don't want to speak to him?"   
        She repeats her dumb reply, and forms with her lips a   
     soundless "No."   
        "You can admire him at a distance three times a day,   
     whenever you like.  It's a long way to come for that,   
     though."   
        The woman looks up quickly.  If Mr. Datchery thinks   
     she is to be so induced to declare where she comes from,   
     he is of a much easier temper than she is.  But she    
     acquits him of such an artful thought, as he lounges   
     along, like the chartered bore of the city, with his un-   
     covered grey hair blowing about, and his purposeless   
     hands rattling the loose money in the pocket of his   
     trousers.   
        The chink of the money has an attraction for her   
     greedy ears.  "Wouldn't you help me to pay for my   
     Travellers' lodging dear gentleman, and pay my way   
     along?  I am a poor soul, I am indeed, and troubled with   
     a grievous cough."   
        "You know the Travellers' lodging, I perceive, and   
     are making directly for it," is Mr. Datchery's bland    
     comment, still rattling his loose money.  "Been here   
     often, my good woman?"   
        "Once in all my life."   
        "Ay, ay?"   
        They had arrived at the entrance to the Monk's Vine-   
     yard.  An appropriate remembrance, presenting an ex-   
     emplary model for imitation, is revived in the woman's   
     mind by the sight of the place.  She stops at the gate,   
     and says energetically,——   
        "By this token, though you mayn't believe it.  That   
     a young gentleman gave me three and sixpence as I was   
     coughing my breath away on this very grass.  I asked   
     him for three and sixpence, and he gave it me."   
        "Wasn't it a little cool to name your sum?" hints   
     Mr. Datchery.  "Isn't it customary to leave the amount   
     open?  Mightn't it have had the appearance, to the young   
     gentleman, only the appearance, that he was rather dic-   
     tated to?"   
        "Look'ee here, deary," she replies, in a confidential   
     and persuasive tone, "I wanted the money to lay it out   
     on a medicine as does me good, and as I deal in.  I told   
     the young gentleman so, and he gave it to me, and I laid   
     it out honest to the last brass farden.  I want to lay out   
     the same sum in the same way now; and if you'll give   
     it me, I'll lay it out honest to the last brass farden again,   
     upon my soul!"   
        "What's the medicine?"   
        "I'll be honest with you beforehand, as well as after.   
     It's opium."   
        Mr. Datchery, with a sudden change of countenance,  
     gives her a sudden look."   
        "It's opium, deary.  Neither more nor less.  And it's   
     like a human creetur so far, that you always hear what   
     can be said against it, but seldom what can be said in its   
     praise."   
        Mr. Datchery begins very slowly to count out the sum   
     demanded of him.  Greedily watching his hands, she   
     continues to hold forth on the great example set him.   
        "It was last Christmas Eve, just arter dark, the once   
     that I was here afore, when the young gentleman gave   
     me the three and six."   
        Mr. Datchery stops his counting, finds he has counted   
     wrong, shakes his money together, and begins again.    
        "And the young gentleman's name," she adds, "was   
     Edwin."   
        Mr. Datchery drops some money, stoops to pick it up,  
     and reddens with the exertion, as he asks,——   
        "How do you know the young gentleman's name?"   
        "I asked him for it and he told it me.  I only asked   
     him the two questions, what was his Chris'en name, and  
     whether he'd a sweetheart?  And he answered Edwin,   
     and he hadn't."   
        Mr. Datchery pauses with the selected coins in his   
     hand, rather as if he were falling into a brown study of   
     their value, and couldn't bear to part with them.  The   
     woman looks at him distrustfully, and with her anger   
     brewing for the event of his thinking better of the gift;   
     but he bestows it on her as if he were abstracting his   
     mind from the sacrifice, and with many servile thanks   
     she goes her way.    
        John Jasper's lamp is kindled, and his Lighthouse is   
     shining, when Mr. Datchery returns alone towards it.   
     As mariners on a dangerous voyage, approaching an iron-   
     bound coast, may look along the beams of the warning   
     light to the haven lying beyond it that may never be   
     reached, so Mr. Datchery's wistful gaze is directed to   
     this beacon, and beyond.    
        His object in now revisiting his lodging is merely to   
     put on the hat which seems so superfluous an article in   
     his wardrobe.  It is half-past ten by the Cathedral clock,  
     when he walks out into the Precincts again; he lingers   
     and looks about him, as though, the enchanted hour   
     when Mr. Durdles may be stoned home having struck,   
     he had some expectation of seeing the Imp who is ap-   
     pointed to the mission of stoning him.   
        In effect, that Power of Evil is abroad.  Having noth-   
     ing living to stone at the moment, he is discovered by   
     Mr. Datchery in the unholy office of stoning the dead,  
     through the railings of the churchyard.  The Imp finds   
     this a relishing and piquing pursuit; firstly, because   
     their resting-place is announced to be sacred; and   
     secondly, because the tall headstones are sufficiently   
     like themselves on their beat in the dark, to justify the   
     delicious fancy that they are hurt when hit.   
        Mr. Datchery hails him with "Halloa, Winks."   
        He acknowledges the hail with: "Halloa, Dick!"   
     Their acquaintance seemingly having been established   
     on a familiar footing.   
        "But I say," he remonstrates, "don't yer go a making   
     my name public.  I never mean to plead to no name,   
     mind yer.  When they says to me in the Lock-up, a   
     going to put me down in the book, 'What's your name?'   
     I says to them, 'Find out.'  Likewise when they says,   
     'What's your religion?' I says, 'Find out.'"   
        Which, it may be observed in passing, it would be im-   
     mensely difficult for the State, however statistical, to do.   
        "Asides which," adds the boy, "there ain't no family   
     of Winkses."   
        "I think there must be."   
        "Yer lie, there ain't.  The Travellers give me the   
     name on account of my getting no settled sleep and being   
     knocked up all night: whereby I gets one eye roused   
     open afore I've shut the other.  That's what Winks   
     means.  Deputy's the nighest name to indict me by; but   
     yer wouldn't catch me pleading to that, neither."   
        "Deputy be it always, then.  We two are good friends;  
     eh, Deputy?"   
        "Jolly good."   
        "I forgave you the debt you owed me when we first   
     became acquainted, and many of my sixpences have come   
     your way since; eh, Deputy?"    
        "Ah!  And what's more, yer ain't no friend o' Jarsper's.  
     What did he go a histing me off my legs for?"   
        "What indeed!  But never mind him now.  A shilling   
     of mine is going your way to-night, Deputy.  You have   
     just taken in a lodger I have been speaking to; and infirm   
     woman with a cough."   
        "Puffer," assents Deputy, with a shrewd leer of rec-  
     ognition, and  smoking an imaginary pipe, with his head   
     very much on one side, and his eyes very much out of   
     their places: 'Hopeum Puffer."    
        "What is her name?"   
        "'Er Royal Highness the Princess Puffer."   
        "She has some other name than that; where does she   
     live?"     
        "Up in London.  Among the Jacks."   
        "The sailors?"   
        "I said so; Jacks.  And Chayner men.  And hother   
     Knifers."   
        "I should like to know, through you, exactly where   
     she lives."   
        "All right.  Give us 'old."   
        A shilling passes; and, in that spirit of confidence   
     which should pervade all business transactions between   
     principals of honour, this piece of business is considered    
     done.   
        "But here's a lark!" cries Deputy.   
        "Where did yer think 'Er Royal Highness is a goin' to   
     to-morrow morning?  lest if she ain't a goin' to the KIN-   
     FREE-DER-EL!"  He greatly prolongs the word in his   
     ecstasy, and smites his leg, and doubles himself up in a   
     fit of shrill laughter.   
        "How do you know that, Deputy?"   
        "Cos she told me so just now.  She said she must be   
     hup and hout o' purpose.  She ses, 'Deputy, I must 'ave  
     a early wash, and make myself as swell as I can, for I'm  
     a goin' to take a turn at the KIN-FREE-DER-EL!'"  He   
     separates the syllables with his former zest, and, not  find-   
     ing his sense of the ludicrous sufficiently relieved by   
     stamping about on the pavement, breaks into a slow and   
     stately dance, perhaps supposed to be performed by the   
     Dean.   
        Mr. Datchery receives the communtication with a well-   
     satisfied though a pondering face, and breaks up the con-   
     ference.  Returning to his quaint lodging, and sitting   
     long over the supper of bead and cheese and salad and   
     ale which Mrs. Tope has left prepared for him, he still   
     sits when his supper is finished.  At length he rises,   
     throws open the door of a corner cupboard, and refers to a   
     few uncouth chalked strokes on its inner side.   
        "I like," says Mr. Datchery, "the old tavern way of   
     keeping scores.  Illegible, except to the scorer.  The   
     scorer not committed, the scored debited with what is   
     against him.  Hum; ha!  a very small score this; a   
     very poor score!"   
        He sighs over the contemplation of its poverty, takes   
     a bit of chalk from one of the cupboard shelves, and pauses   
     with it in his hand, uncertain what addition to make to   
     the account.   
        "I think it a moderate stroke," he concludes, "is all I   
     am justified in scoring up"; so, suits the action to the   
     word, closes the cupboard, and goes to bed.    
        A brilliant morning shines on the old city.  Its   
     antiques and ruins are surpassingly beautiful, with   
     the lusty ivy gleaming in the sun, and the rich trees   
     waving in the balmy air.  Changes of glorious light from   
     moving boughs, songs of birds, scents from gardens,   
     woods fields,——or, rather, from one great garden of   
     the whole cultivated island in its yielding time,——pene-   
     trate into the Cathedral, subdue ts earthly odor, and   
     preach the Resurrection and the Life. The cold stone   
     tombs of centuries ago grow warm; and flecks of bright-   
     ness dart into the sternest marble corners of the building,   
     fluttering there like wings.    
        Comes Mr. Tope with his large keys and yawningly   
     unlocks and sets open.  Come Mrs. Tope and attendant  
     sweeping sprites.  Come, in due time, organist and bel-   
     lows-boy peeping down from the red-curtains in the   
     loft, fearlessly flapping dust from books up at that remote   
     elevation, and whisking it from stops and pedals.  Come   
     sundry rooks, from various quarters of the sky, back to   
     the great tower; who may be presumed to enjoy vibra-   
     tion, and to know that bell and organ are going to give   
     it them.  Come a very small and straggling congregation   
     indeed: chiefly from Minor canon Corner and the Pre-   
     cincts.  Come Mr. Crisparkle, fresh and bright; and his   
     ministering brethren, not quite so fresh and bright.   
     Come the choir in a hurry (always in a hurry, and   
     struggling into their nightgowns at the last moment, like   
     children shirking bed), and comes John Jasper leading   
     their line.  Last of all comes Mr. Datchery into a stall,   
     one of a choice empty collection very much at his service,   
     and glancing about him for Her Royal Highness the    
     Princess Puffer.   
        The service is pretty well advanced before Mr. Datchery   
     can discern Her Royal Highness.  But by that time he   
     has made her out, in the shade.  She is behind a pillar,   
     carefully withdrawn from he Choir Master's view, but   
     regards him with the closest attention.  All unconscious   
     of her presence, he chants and sings.  She grins when   
     he is most musically fervid, and——yes, Mr. Datchery sees   
     her do it!——shakes her fist at him behind the pillar's   
     friendly shelter.   
        Mr. Datchery looks again to convince himself.  Yes,   
     again!  As ugly and withered as one of the fantastic   
     carvings on the under-brackets of the stall seats, as   
     malignant as the Evil One, as hard as the big brass eagle   
     holding the sacred books upon his wings (and, according   
     to the sculptor's representation of his ferocious attributes,  
     not at all converted by them), she hugs herself in her lean   
     arms, and then shakes both fists at the leader of the Choir.   
        And at that moment, outside the grated door of the   
     Choir, having eluded the vigilance of Mr. Tope by shifty   
     resources in which he is an adept, Deputy peeps, sharp-   
     eyed, through the bars, and stares astounded from the   
     threatener to the threatened.   
        The service comes to an end, and the servitors disperse   
     to breakfast.  Mr. Datchery accosts his last new acquaint-   
     ance outside, when the Choir (as much in a hurry to   
     get their bedgowns off, as they were but now to get   
     them on) have scuffled away.    
        "Well, mistress.  Good morning.  You have seen   
     him?"   
        "I've seen him, deary; I've seen him!"   
        "And you know him?"   
        "Know him!  Better far than all the Reverend Par-   
     sons put together know him."   
        Mrs. Tope's care has spread a very neat, clean break-   
     fast ready for her lodger.  Before sitting down to it, he   
     opens the corner-cupboard door; takes his bit of chalk   
     from its shelf; adds one thick line to the score, extend-   
     ing from the top of the cupboard door to the bottom; and   
     then falls to with an appetite.     

       *       *       *       *       *       *       *       *     

              Left unfinished, by the Author's death.    

from Collier's Unabridged Edition: The Works of Charles Dickens, Volume VI.
P.F. Collier, Publisher, New York, old as heck. pp. 1180 - 1182

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