“Ah, sir,” said Matt, as he hugged a lamp-post, “the times that I’ve seen them lugging the little chests and barrels in there—heavy so that they could scarcely lift them, and any one of ’em would have set me up for life. Specie, they call it, sir; species as I was always unable to collect much of in my rambles through life; and it wouldn’t take a deal to make me comfortable, anyhow. Precious cold here, sir, for an old man like me, and I don’t know that I’d say no, just now, to one of those little iron bedsteads with its clean sheets in the hospital—leastways, if one could feel sure nobody had just died upon it, for the thought of that gives one a turn like, and seems to fidget. Precious cold, sir! Talk about the internal heat of the earth, I wish there was a little more external. Crust of the earth, sir? Yes, sir, there’s plenty of crust, and precious little crumb. Red-hot fluid state inside, eh? Then I shall move, sir—move. I was a good will to when I was in the hospital; but I think I shall make up my mind soon, for the world ain’t safe—a volcanic, earthquaky place. I shall flit, as they say down north.”
“Cold, cold, cold, sir!” shivered the poor old fellow after a pause, as he looked down the long deserted City streets, that teemed so with busy life in the daytime. “That scamp of a valet never reminded me of my greatcoat—a scoundrel. Thinks a deal more of his own confounded self, sir, than he does of his master. Now look here, sir—There; I know, of course—it’s all right; I’m a-going on, I am. ‘Move on,’ says you; but make the most of it, old chap; for you won’t have me to move on much longer.”
The old man spoke sadly as an approaching policeman cut short his address; but he went on before he could be told, and made his way slowly down into Cannon-street, where he stopped before another post.
“Now look here, sir,” said Matt, as though he had not been interrupted for an instant, “we want an establishment here in town—a club for gentlemen in my position to-night—where we could go and have a basin of hot tea or coffee, or gruel if you like, and a decent, dry, clean, warm bed under shelter, without going to the workhouse. Now, sir, when my ship comes in, I mean to establish just such a place, and make it self-supporting. None of your casual wards in workhouses, but a decent place where honest people can go and do their bit of work over night or in the morning, to earn their bed and board. Let the idle vagabonds and tramps, sir, go to the casual ward; for there’s hundreds of decent people in town every night would be glad to do a bit of work and get their meal and bed. Seems hard, sir,” said Matt pitifully, as the cold night wind swept down the street, and he shivered miserably, “seems hard, sir, that in this great place where the wealth is almost running over the side, things are so, that an old chap like me should stand here to-night, as I’ve stood scores of times before, wanting the work and means for a meal and bed, and not able to get ’em. Now, let’s see, sir; what shall we call my place? Hotel? No, that’s too fine and grand. Home? Well, no; that sounds like humbugging the poor creatures. ‘There’s no place like home!’ I wish I was at home, I do,” shivered the old man. “There, now, there it is again! Another policeman. Public streets, indeed! Ain’t I one of the public, and haven’t I a right to be in them? Strange thing a man can’t address a few words in confidence to a friend without one of these fellows sticking his nose in. There, I’m a-going. I ain’t going to commit a burglary upon the post and walk off with the gas. I wish there wasn’t a policeman on the face of the blessed earth! I’m a-going;” and in obedience to the wag of the constable’s head, the old man walked on towards London-bridge; but before he was halfway there, he made another stoppage beneath a lamp.
“Now, policemen are all very well, sir,” he said, “but they’re too officious. Now, what did that chap do but put a stop to as fine a bit of philanthropy as was ever devised for the benefit of humanity at large? Only think, now, of the crowds of poor folks flocking there of a night! There’s your proper officers to see that there’s neither talking nor noise; there’s your clean kitchen, with its great soup-coppers, and rows upon rows of mugs and basins; there’s your dormitories, with their long ranges of beds, every one separate, clean hay in ticks, and a couple of warm rugs; place heated by hot-water pipes, and all orderly and regular—a place for sleep and rest, and no one allowed to disturb it; baths and washhouses attached, and every chance given for a poor creature to get Rest, Refreshment, and a Rinse—the three graces of everyday life, sir. Open always, sir, until it was fall; while the fact of a good, fair bit of work being done first or after, would keep a good many of the canting casuals away. I mean to say, sir,” said Matt, “that it might be made self-supporting after the first start; and such a place for the male and female poor of London, sir, would be an honour to the people. Now then, once more, sir, what shall we call it? ‘Hotel’ won’t do; ‘home’ won’t do; ‘hospital’ sounds too sickly. Tell you what, sir, we’ll call it ‘Space for All,’ in honour of its projector. Why, confound it, sir, I’d have it got up by a penny subscription, if my ship happened to sink and I couldn’t do it myself. And mind you, sir, I’m not going to have my money fooled away in a grand architectural building, where all the space is taken up by rooms for the officers; I want it all for the poor privates, the soldiers fighting in the war of life. I’m not going to have all my money spent in outside show; I want it for furnishing and the inside—furnishing the inside of the building and the inside of the people. I want something plain and useful, clean and simple, with kind, quiet, firm people to attend, and see that things go right, and guard against imposition. But there, sir, we should be safe to be imposed upon some time or another, more or less; but then look at the good we should do. Ah! you may well twinkle, and laugh, and blink, old fellow, for that would be something like a job done, and one worth talking about.”
Old Matt gave the lamp a parting slap, and shuffled on towards the bridge, where he stopped in one of the recesses, and tried to get himself into a comfortable position.
“Ugh-h-h, how cold these seats are! Rich corporation like the City, too, and not have the decency to put a few cushions for a poor fellow! Just like to put stone seats round the table on Lord Mayor’s Day. Wonder how the aldermen, sheriffs, and common council would like it! Spoil their appetites, I know!”
“There,” said he after a while, as he looked over the parapet, and down at the stone steps leading to the water, “that would be a better place than this, and more quiet and sheltered. There’s t’other steps leading down to Thames-street there; but then there’s sure to be a dozen more, and I ain’t fond of company. But a fellow must sleep somewhere, so where shall it be—steps, ’Delphi arches, or the Park? Park’s too far off, and the ventilation too powerful, seeing as there’s so much water to cool the wind—makes it chilly sometimes. Rather like the Park, though; something respectable about it; genteel neighbours; soldiers on duty; air sweet; water clean. But there’s the rails to get over, and I ain’t up to rails to-night; and, besides, they tear. But there, with this suit, I could stand a tear or two as well as anyone; and I don’t s’pose I could tell myself which was the new slit if the spear-head of the rail wasn’t in it. Down the steps is all very well; but the company ain’t select, and you run the risk of being robbed. So you do down the arches; but then there’s something suitable about them—handy to work in the morning. That’s the spot for me, so here goes. Pity I came all this way, though, now the penny-boats don’t run.”
But the weary old man seemed in no hurry to move, for with his chin resting upon his hands, he stopped, gazing down into the hurrying black stream far beneath—black and stealthy as it hurried through the arches, lamps here and there twinkling and showing like blurred stars in the swift waters; and a stealthy, gliding race was that of the river as it bore along its stolen secrets towards the sea—secrets unknown to those who watched from far above; but there were rich spoils and treasures, dropped from the side of lighter and vessel, swept out of sewers; secrets, too, of life and death; and now and then something strange and bloated and sodden was whirled round, to rise to the surface and stare up, as if appealing with its lack-lustre eyes to the star-sprinkled heaven above—gazing fearfully upwards, but swept round again the next moment by the eddy, and forced on by the hurrying stream, dashed against prow, borne under slimy keel, forced savagely, and entangled amongst chains, thrown upon mudbanks, and left by the tide half buried in the black ooze; swept clear again, and borne off up the river, down the river, scraping along bridge-pier or stone wharf, buttress or caisson, ever hideous, bloated, horrible—these of the river secrets glided along.
“Ah!” muttered Matt softly, “who can say that there is poverty here in London, when everywhere the gold is looking out of the great works in which it has been sunk. There are ships, ships, ships, and steamer, lighter, and barge; and how many of ’em loaded with what I should call a large fortune!” And now with a sigh he leaned his forehead upon his hands, and gazed along the river at the dimly-seen wharves and warehouses, with here and there a light flashing from the river. Then he thought of his own weary life, of Septimus Hardon and his sorrows, pondering long upon the ill-success that had attended their efforts, and seeing too plainly how ineffective they had been; and then he sighed again loudly, and started, for a small hand was laid firmly upon his shoulder with a tight clutch, and turning quickly round, there, with the light of the gas shining full upon it, he saw as it were the face of an angel, seen through the thin veil of sin and misery that sullied its beauty—a beauty that still clung to features fair and girlish.