Chapter Twenty Eight
On the Science of Tinkering and the Art of Writing Despatches
They had proceeded about two miles when the tinker said—“Come, my lad, let us sit down now, and rest ourselves a bit, for it is past noon, and you must be tired with shoving that wheel along. I would have taken it from you before this, but the fact is, I’m rather stiff yet about the head and shoulders; I feel it more than I thought I should. Here’s a nice spot; I like to sit down under a tree, not too well covered with leaves, like this ash; I like to see the sunshine playing here and there upon the green grass, shifting its spots as the leaves are rustled by the wind. Now, let us lie down here, and not care a fig for the world. I am a philosopher; do you know that?”
“I don’t exactly know what it means; a very clever, good man—is it not?”
“Well, not exactly; a man may be a philosopher without being very good, or without being very clever. A philosopher is a man who never frets about anything, cares about nothing, is contented with a little, and doesn’t envy any one who appears better off than himself, at least that is my school of philosophy. You stare, boy, to hear a tinker talk in this way—I perceive that; but you must know that I am a tinker by choice; and I have tried many other professions before, all of which have disgusted me.”
“What other professions have you been?”
“I have been—let me see—I almost forget; but I’ll begin at the beginning. My father was a gentleman, and until I was fourteen years old I was a gentleman, or the son of one; then he died, and that profession was over, for he left nothing; my mother married again, and left me; she left me at school, and the master kept me there for a year, in hopes of being paid; but, hearing nothing of my mother, and not knowing what to do with me, he at last (for he was a kind man) installed me as under usher of the school; for, you see, my education had been good, and I was well qualified for the situation, as far as capability went: it was rather a bathos, though, to sink from a gentleman’s son to an under usher; but I was not a philosopher at that time. I handed the toast to the master and mistress, the head ushers and parlour boarders, but was not allowed any myself; I taught Latin and Greek, and English Grammar, to the little boys, who made faces at me, and put crooked pins on the bottom of my chair; I walked at the head of the string when they went out for an airing, and walked upstairs the last when it was time to go to bed. I had all the drudgery, and none of the comforts I was up first, and held answerable for all deficiencies; I had to examine all their nasty little trowsers, and hold weekly conversation with the botcher, as to the possibility of repairs; to run out if a hen cackled, that the boys should not get the egg; to wipe the noses of my mistress’s children, and carry them if they roared; to pay for all broken glass, if I could not discover the culprit to account for all bad smells, for all noise, and for all ink spilled; to make all the pens, and to keep one hundred boys silent and attentive at church; for all which, with deductions, I received 40 pounds a year, and found my own washing. I stayed two years, during which time I contrived to save about 6 pounds; and with that, one fine morning, I set off on my travels, fully satisfied that, come what would, I could not change for the worse.”
“Then you were about in the position that I’m in now,” said Joey, laughing.
“Yes, thereabouts; only a little older, I should imagine. I set off with good hopes, but soon found that nobody wanted educated people—they were a complete drug. At last I obtained a situation as waiter, at a posting-house on the road, where I ran along all day long to the tinkling of bells, with hot brandy-and-water ever under my nose; I answered all the bells, but the head-waiter took all the money. However, I made acquaintances there; and at last obtained a situation as clerk to a corn-chandler, where I kept the books; but he failed, and then I was handed over to the miller, and covered with flour for the whole time I was in his service. I stayed there till I had an offer from a coal-merchant (that was going from white to black); but, however, it was a better place. Then, by mere chance, I obtained the situation of clerk on board of a fourteen-gun brig, and cruised in the Channel for six months; but, as I found that there was no chance of being a purser, and as I hated the confinement and discipline of a man-of-war, I cut and run as soon as I obtained my pay. Then I was shopman at a draper’s, which was abominable, for if the customers would not buy the goods, I got all the blame; besides, I had to clean my master’s boots and my mistress’s shoes, and dine in the kitchen on scraps, with a slipshod, squinting girl, who made love to me. Then I was a warehouseman; but they soon tacked on to it the office of light porter, and I had to carry weights enough to break my back. At last I obtained a situation as foreman in a tinman and cutler’s shop, and by being constantly sent into the workshop I learnt something of the trade; I had made up my mind not to remain much longer, and I paid attention, receiving now and then a lesson from the workmen, till I found that I could do very well; for, you see, it’s a very simple sort of business, after all.”
“But still a travelling tinker is not so respectable as being in any of the situations you were in before,” replied Joey.
“There I must beg your pardon, my good lad; I had often serious thoughts upon the subject, and I argued as follows:– What is the best profession in this world of ours?—That of a gentleman; for a gentleman does not work, he has liberty to go where he pleases, he is not controlled, and is his own master. Many a man considers himself a gentleman who has not the indispensables that must complete the profession. A clerk in the Treasury, or public offices, considers himself a gentleman; and so he is by birth, but not by profession; for he is not his own master, but is as much tied down to his desk as the clerk in a banker’s counting-house, or in a shop. A gentleman by profession must be his own master, and independent; and how few there are in this world who can say so! Soldiers and sailors are obliged to obey orders, and therefore I do not put them down as perfect gentlemen, according to my ideas of what a gentleman should be. I doubt whether the prime minister can be considered a gentleman until after he is turned out of office. Do you understand me, boy?”
“O yes, I understand what you mean by a gentleman; I recollect reading a story of a negro who came to this country, and who said that the pig was the only gentleman in the country, for he was the only living being who did not work.”
“The negro was not far wrong,” resumed the tinker. “Well, after thinking a long while, I came to the decision that, as I could not be a perfect gentleman, I would be the nearest thing to it that was possible; and I considered that the most enviable situation was that of a travelling tinker. I learned enough of the trade, saved money to purchase a knife-grinder’s wheel, and here I have been in this capacity for nearly ten years.”
“And do you hold to the opinion that you formed?”
“I do; for, look you, work I must; therefore, the only question was, to take up the work that was lightest, and paid best. I know no trade where you can gain so much with so little capital and so little labour. Then, I am not controlled by any living being; I have my liberty and independence: I go where I please, stop where I please, work when I please, and idle when I please; and never know what it is to want a night’s lodging. Show me any other profession which can say the same! I might be better clothed—I might be considered more respectable; but I am a philosopher, and despise all that; I earn as much as I want, and do very little work for it. I can grind knives and scissors and mend kettles enough in one day to provide for a whole week; for instance, I can grind a knife in two minutes, for which I receive twopence. Now, allowing that I work twelve hours in the day, at the rate of one penny per minute, I should earn 3 pounds per day, which, deducting Sundays, is 939 pounds a year. Put that against 40 pounds a year, as a drudge to a school, or confined to a desk, in a shop, or any other profession, and you see how lucrative mine is in proportion. Then I am under no control; not ordered here or there, like a general or admiral; not attacked in the House of Commons or Lords, like a prime minister; on the contrary, half a day’s work out of the seven is all I require; and I therefore assert, that my profession is nearer to that of a gentleman than any other that I know of.”
“It may be as you style it, but you don’t look much like one,” replied Joey, laughing.
“That’s prejudice; my clothes keep me as warm as if they were of the best materials, and quite new. I enjoy my victuals quite as much as a well-dressed gentleman does—perhaps more; I can indulge in my own thoughts; I have leisure to read all my favourite authors, and can afford to purchase new books. Besides, as I must work a little, it is pleasant to feel that I am always in request, and respected by those who employ me.”
“Respected! on what account?”
“Because I am always wanted, and therefore always welcome. It is the little things of this life which annoy, not the great and a kettle that won’t hold water, or a knife that won’t cut, are always objects of execration; and as people heap their anathemas upon the kettle and the knife, so do they long for my return; and when I come, they are glad to see me, glad to pay me, and glad to find that their knives are sharp, and their kettles, thrown on one side, are useful again, at a trifling charge. I add to people’s comforts; I become necessary to every poor person in the cottages; and therefore, they like me and respect me. And, indeed, if it is only considered how many oaths and execrations are used when a person is hacking and sawing away with a knife which will not cut, and how by my wheel I do away with the cause of crime, I think that a travelling tinker may be considered, as to his moral influence upon society, more important than any parson in his pulpit. You observe that I have not rendered the profession degrading by marriage, as many do.”
“How do you mean?”
“I hold that, whatever may be the means of a gentleman, he must be considered to lose the most precious advantages appertaining to his profession when he marries; for he loses his liberty, and can no longer be said to be under no control. It is very well for other professions to marry, as the world must be peopled; but a gentleman never should. It is true, he may contrive to leave his clog at home, but then he pays dear for a useless and galling appendage but, in my situation as a travelling tinker, I could not have done so; I must have dragged my clog after me through the mud and mire, and have had a very different reception than what I have at present.”
“Why so?”
“Why, a man may stroll about the country by himself—find lodging and entertainment for himself; but not so, if he had a wife in rags, and two or three dirty children at his heels. A single man, in every stage of society, if he pays his own way, more easily finds admission than a married one—that is, because the women regulate it and, although they will receive him as a tinker, they invariably object to his wife, who is considered and stigmatised as the tinker’s trull. No, that would not do—a wife would detract from my respectability, and add very much to my cares.”
“But have you no home, then, anywhere?”
“Why, yes, I have, like all single men on the pave, as the French say—just a sort of ‘chambers’ to keep my property in, which will accumulate in spite of me.”
“Where are they?”
“In Dudstone, to which place I am now going. I have a room for six pounds a year; and the woman in the house takes charge of everything during my absence. And now, my boy, what is your name?”
“Joey Atherton,” replied our hero, who had made up his mind to take the surname of his adopted sister, Nancy.
“Well, Joey, do you agree with me that my profession is a good one, and are you willing to learn it? If so, I will teach you.”
“I shall be very glad to learn it, because it may one day be useful; but I am not sure that I should like to follow it.”
“You will probably change your opinion; at all events, give it a fair trial. In a month or so you will have the theory of it by heart, and then we will come to the practice.”
“How do you mean?”
“It’s of no use your attempting anything till you’re well grounded in the theory of the art, which you will gain by using your eyes. All you have to do at first is to look on; watch me when I grind a knife or a pair of scissors; be attentive when you see me soldering a pot, or putting a patch upon a kettle; see how I turn my hand when I’m grinding, how I beat out the iron when I mend; and learn how to heat the tools when I solder. In a month you will know how things are to be done in theory, and after that we shall come to the practice. One only thing, in the way of practice, must you enter upon at once, and that is turning the wheel with your foot; for you must learn to do it so mechanically, that you are not aware that you are doing it, otherwise you cannot devote your whole attention to the scissors or knife in your hand.”
“And do you really like your present life, then, wandering about from place to place?”
“To be sure I do. I am my own master; go where I like; stop where I like; pay no taxes or rates. I still retain all the gentleman except the dress, which I can resume when I please. Besides, mine is a philanthropic profession; I go about doing good, and I’ve the means of resenting an affront like a despot.”
“As how?”
“Why, you see, we travellers never interfere in each other’s beats; mine is a circuit of many miles of country, and at the rate I travel it is somewhat about three months until I am at the same place again; they must wait for me if they want their jobs done, for they cannot get any one else. In one village they played me a trick one Saturday night, when all the men were at the ale-house, and the consequence was, I cut the village for a year; and there never was such a village full of old kettles and blunt knives in consequence. However, they sent me a deputation, hoping I would forget what had passed, and I pardoned them.”
“What is your name?” inquired Joey.
“Augustus Spikeman. My father was Augustus Spikeman, Esquire; I was Master Augustus Spikeman, and now I’m Spikeman, the tinker; so now we’ll go on again. I have nearly come to the end of my beat; in two days we shall be at Dudstone where I have my room, and where we shall probably remain for some days before we start again.”
In the afternoon they arrived at a small hamlet, where they supped and slept. Spikeman was very busy till noon grinding and repairing; they then continued their journey, and on the second day, having waited outside the town till it was dusk Spikeman left his wheel in the charge of the landlord of a small ale-house, to whom he appeared well known, then walked with Joey to the house in which he had a room, and led him upstairs to his apartments.
When our hero entered the chamber of Spikeman, he was very much surprised to find it was spacious, light, and airy, and very clean. A large bed was in one corner; a sofa, mahogany table, chest of drawers, and chairs, composed the furniture; there was a good-sized looking-glass over the chimney-piece, and several shelves of books round the room. Desiring Joey to sit down and take a book, Spikeman rang for water, shaved off his beard, which had grown nearly half an inch long, washed himself, and then put on clean linen, and a very neat suit of clothes. When he was completely dressed, Joey could hardly believe that it was the same person. Upon Joey expressing his astonishment, Spikeman replied, “You see, my lad, there is no one in this town who knows what my real profession is. I always go out and return at dusk, and the travelling tinker is not recognised; not that I care for it so much, only other people do, and I respect their prejudices. They know that I am in the ironmongery line, and that is all; so I always make it a rule to enjoy myself after my circuit, and live like a gentleman till part of my money is gone, and then I set out again. I am acquainted with a good many highly respectable people in this town, and that is the reason why I said I could be of service to you. Have you any better clothes?”
“Yes; much better.”
“Then dress yourself in them, and keep those you wear for our travels.”
Joey did as he was requested, and Spikeman then proposed that they should make a call at a friend’s, where he would introduce our hero as his nephew. They set off, and soon came to the front of a neat-looking house, at the door of which Spikeman rapped. The door was opened by one of the daughters of the house, who, on seeing him, cried out, “Dear me, Mr Spikeman, is this you? Why, where have you been all this while?”
“About the country for orders, Miss Amelia,” replied Spikeman; “business must be attended to.”
“Well, come in; mother will be glad to see you,” replied the girl, at the same time opening the door of the sitting-room for them to enter.
“Mr Spikeman as I live!” exclaimed another girl, jumping up, and seizing his hand.
“Well, Mr Spikeman, it’s an age since we have seen you,” said the mother, “so now sit down and tell us all the news; and Ophelia, my love, get tea ready; and who is it you have with you, Mr Spikeman?”
“My little nephew, madam; he is about to enter into the mysteries of the cutlery trade.”
“Indeed! well, I suppose, as you are looking out for a successor, you soon intend to retire from business and take a wife, Mr Spikeman?”
“Why, I suppose it will be my fate one of these days,” replied Spikeman; “but that’s an affair that requires some consideration.”
“Very true, Mr Spikeman, it is a serious affair,” replied the old lady; “and I can assure you that neither my Ophelia nor Amelia should marry a man, with my consent, without I was convinced the gentleman considered it a very serious affair. It makes or mars a man, as the saying is.”
“Well, Miss Ophelia, have you read all the books I lent you the last time I was here?”
“Yes, that they have, both of them,” replied the old lady; “they are so fond of poetry.”
“But we’ve often wished that you were here to read to us,” replied Miss Amelia, “you do read so beautifully; will you read to us after tea?”
“Certainly, with much pleasure.”
Miss Ophelia now entered with the tea-tray; she and her sister then went into the kitchen to make some toast, and to see to the kettle boiling, while Mr Spikeman continued in conversation with the mother. Mrs James was the widow of a draper in the town, who had, at his death left her sufficient to live quietly and respectably with her daughters, who were both very good, amiable girls; and it must be acknowledged, neither of them unwilling to listen to the addresses of Mr Spikeman had he been so inclined; but they began to think that Mr Spikeman was not a marrying man, which, as the reader must know by this time, was the fact.
The evening passed very pleasantly. Mr Spikeman took a volume of poetry, and, as Miss Ophelia had said, he did read very beautifully: so much so, that Joey was in admiration, for he had never yet known the power produced by good reading. At ten o’clock they took their leave, and returned to Spikeman’s domicile.
As soon as they were upstairs, and candles lighted, Spikeman sat down on the sofa. “You see, Joey,” said he, “that it is necessary not to mention the knife-grinder’s wheel, as it would make a difference in my reception. All gentlemen do not gain their livelihood as honestly as I do; but, still prejudices are not to be overcome. You did me a kind act, and I wished to return it; I could not do so without letting you into this little secret, but I have seen enough of you to think you can be trusted.”
“I should hope so,” replied Joey: “I have learnt caution, young as I am.”
“That I have perceived already, and therefore I have said enough on the subject. I have but one bed, and you must sleep with me, as you did on our travels.”
The next morning the old woman of the house brought up their breakfast. Spikeman lived in a very comfortable way, very different to what he did as a travelling tinker; and he really appeared to Joey to be, with the exception of his conversation, which was always superior, a very different person from what he was when Joey first fell in with him. For many days they remained at Dudstone, visiting the different houses, and were always well received.
“You appear so well known, and so well liked in this town,” observed Joey, “I wonder you do not set up a business, particularly as you say you have money in the bank.”
“If I did, Joey, I should no longer be happy, no longer be my own master, and do as I please; in fact, I should no longer be the gentleman, that is, the gentleman by profession, as near as I can be one—the man who has his liberty, and enjoys it. No, no, boy; I have tried almost everything, and have come to my own conclusions. Have you been reading the book I gave you?”
“Yes; I have nearly finished it?”
“I am glad to see that you like reading. Nothing so much improves or enlarges the mind. You must never let a day pass without reading two or three hours, and when we travel again, and are alone by the way-side, we will read together: I will choose some books on purpose.”
“I should like very much to write to my sister Mary,” said Joey.
“Do so, and tell her that you have employment; but do not say exactly how. There are pens and paper in the drawer. Stop, I will find them for you.” Spikeman went to the drawer, and when taking out the pens and paper, laid hold of some manuscript writing. “By the bye,” said he laughing, “I told you, Joey, that I had been a captain’s clerk on board the Weasel, a fourteen-gun brig; I wrote the captain’s despatches for him; and here are two of them of which I kept copies, that I might laugh over them occasionally. I wrote all his letters; for he was no great penman in the first place, and had a very great confusion of ideas in the second. He certainly was indebted to me, as you will acknowledge, when you hear what I read and tell you. I served under him, cruising in the Channel; and I flatter myself that it was entirely through my writings that he got his promotion. He is now Captain Alcibiades Ajax Boggs, and all through me. We were cruising off the coast of France, close in to Ushant, where we perceived a fleet of small vessels, called chasse-marées (coasting luggers), laden with wine, coming round; and as we did not know of any batteries thereabouts, we ran in to attempt a capture. We cut off three of them, but just as we had compelled them, by firing broadsides into them, to lower their sails, a battery, which our commander did not know anything of, opened fire upon us, and before we could get out of range, which we did as soon as we could, one shot came in on deck, and cut the top-sail halyard’s fall, at the very time that the men were hoisting the sail (for we had been shaking another reef out), and the rope being divided, as the men were hauling upon it, of course they all tumbled on the deck, one over another. The other shot struck our foremast, and chipped off a large slice, besides cutting away one of the shrouds, and the signal halyards. Now, you do not know enough about ships to understand that there was very little harm done, or that the coasting vessels were very small, with only three or four men on board of each of them; it therefore required some little management to make a flaming despatch. But I did it—only listen, now—I have begun in the true Nelson style:—
“‘To the Secretary of the Admiralty.
“‘Sir,—It has pleased the Great Disposer to grant a decided victory to his Majesty’s arms, through the efforts of the vessel which I have the honour to command. On the 23rd day of August last, Ushant then bearing South West three quarters West, wind West, distant from three to four leagues, perceived an enemy’s fleet, of three-masted vessels, rounding the point, with the hopes, I presume, of gaining the port of Cherbourg. Convinced that I should have every support from the gallant officers and true British tars under my command, I immediately bore down to the attack; the movements of the enemy fully proved that they were astounded at the boldness of the manoeuvre, and instead of keeping their line, they soon separated, and sheered off in different directions, so as to receive the support of their batteries.’
“You see, Joey, I have said three-masted vessels, which implies ships, although as in this case, they were only small coasting luggers.
“‘In half an hour we were sufficiently close to the main body to open our fire, and broadside after broadside were poured in, answered by the batteries on the coast, with unerring aim. Notwithstanding the unequal contest, I have the pleasure of informing you, that in less than half an hour we succeeded in capturing three of the vessels (named as per margin), and finding nothing more could be done for the honour of his Majesty’s arms, as soon we could take possession, I considered it my duty to haul off from the incessant and galling fire of the batteries.
“‘In this well-fought and successful contest, I trust that the British flag has not been tarnished. What the enemy’s loss may have been it is impossible to say; they acknowledge themselves, however, that it has been severe.’”
“But did the enemy lose any men?” demanded Joey.
“Not one; but you observe I do not say loss of life, although the Admiralty may think I refer to it—that’s not my fault. But I was perfectly correct in saying the enemy’s loss was great; for the poor devils who were in the chasse-marées, when they were brought on board, wrung their hands, and said, that they had lost their all. Now, what loss can be greater than all?
“‘His Majesty’s vessel is much injured in her spars and rigging from the precision of the enemy’s fire; her lower rigging—running rigging being cut away, her foremast severely wounded, and, I regret to add, severely injured in the hull; but such was the activity of the officers and men, that with the exception of the foremast, which will require the services of the dockyard, in twenty-four hours we were ready to resume the contest. I am happy to say, that although we have many men hurt, we have none killed; and I trust that, under the care of the surgeon they will, most of them, be soon able to resume their duty.’”
“But you had no men wounded?” interrupted Joey.
“None wounded! I don’t say wounded, I only say hurt. Didn’t a dozen of the men, who were hoisting the main-topsail when the fall was cut away, all tumble backwards on the deck? And do you think they were not hurt by the fall?—of course they were; besides, one man nearly had his finger jammed off, and another burnt his hand by putting too much powder to the touch-hole of his carronade. So I continue:—
“‘It now becomes my duty to point out to their Lordships the very meritorious conduct of Mr John Smith, an old and deserving officer, Mr James Hammond, Mr Cross, and Mr Byfleet; indeed, I may say that all the officers under my command vied in their exertions for the honour of the British flag.’
“You see the commander had quarrelled with some of his officers at that time, and would not mention them. I tried all I could to persuade him, but he was obstinate.
“‘I have the honour to return a list of casualties, and the names of the vessels taken, and have the honour to be, Sir, your obedient servant, Alcibiades Ajax Boggs.
“‘Report of killed and wounded on board of his Majesty’s brig Weasel, in the action of the 23rd of August:– Killed, none; wounds and contusions, John Potts, William Smith, Thomas Snaggs, William Walker, and Peter Potter, able seamen; John Hobbs, Timothy Stout, and Walter Pye, marines.
“‘Return of vessels captured in the action of the 23rd of August, by his Majesty’s brig Weasel:– Notre Dame de Miséricorde, de Rochelle; La Vengeur, de Bourdeaux; L’Étoile du Matin, de Charent.
“‘Signed Alcibiades Ajax Boggs, Commander.’”
“Well, I’m sure, if you had not told me otherwise, I should have thought it had been a very hard fight.”
“That’s what they did at the Admiralty, and just what we wanted; but now I come to my other despatch, which obtained the rank for my captain; and upon which I plume myself not a little. You must know, that when cruising in the Channel, in a thick fog, and not keeping a very sharp look-out, we ran foul of a French privateer. It was about nine o’clock in the evening, and we had very few hands on deck, and those on deck were most of them, if not all, asleep. We came bang against one another, and carried away both spars and yards; and the privateer, who was by far the most alert after the accident happened, cut away a good deal of our rigging, and got clear of us before our men could be got up from below. Had they been on the look out, they might have boarded us to a certainty, for all was confusion and amazement; but they cleared themselves and got off before our men could get up and run to their guns. She was out of sight immediately, from the thickness of the fog; however, we fired several broadsides in the direction we supposed she might be; and there was an end to the matter. Altogether, as you perceive, it was not a very creditable affair.”
“Why, no,” replied Joey; “I don’t see how you could make much out of that.”
“Well, if you can’t see, now you shall hear:—
“‘To the Secretary of the Admiralty.
“‘Sir,—I have the honour to acquaint you that, on the night of the 10th of November, cruising in the Channel, with the wind from South East, and foggy, a large vessel hove in sight, on our weather bow.’
“You see, I didn’t say we perceived a vessel, for that would not have been correct.