Mad: A Story of Dust and Ashes

Volume One—Chapter Seventeen.

“Nothing like Leather.”

The very morning upon which waiter Charles of the County Arms, Somesham, spoke so disparagingly of Septimus Hardon’s boots, the maker, or rather re-maker, of the said boots sat, as soon as it was broad daylight—not an extremely early hour in his home—industriously plying his craft, till, after divers muttered anathemas, a voice growled:

“Confound it, Ike, I wish that old lapstone was at the bottom of the Thames. Who’s to sleep?”

“Get up, then,” said the lapstone-smiter slowly and heavily.

“Get up!” growled the voice, “get up!”

“What, in the middle of the night! Ain’t six yet, is it?”

“Just struck,” said the lapstone-man, following the example of the clock, and hammering vigorously at a scrap of leather about to be used in the repair of an old boot before him; while from sundry smothered growls coming from the room behind the shop where the shoemaker was at work, it was evident that the idler had buried a portion, if not the whole of his face, beneath the blankets, and again offered sacrifice to the sleepy god.

It had always been a matter of dispute amongst the confraternity as to where Matthew Space slept. Some said that he reposed nightly amongst the casuals at Saint Martin’s Workhouse; but as, when he had work, he would often be at it by half-past eight in the morning, it was evident that he did not lodge there; for the most industrious would not be at liberty for another hour, on account of the work to be done in payment for the lodging. Others talked of the Adelphi, and the recesses of Waterloo Bridge. In short, there was always plenty of chaff flying concerning old Matt’s lodgings; but the cleverest never threshed out the grain of wheat they sought, for the old man was as close a tusk as was ever attacked by flail. His club was generally considered to be the mouldy, fungoid-looking house in Hemlock-court, where he could mostly be found of an evening, if the seeker had failed to see him sitting over his pint-pot in Bell-yard; and, according to circumstances, he dined at various places. If trade flourished, and the ill wind that blew misery to Chancery suitors wafted half-crowns to his pocket, he dined in state at the cook-shop, shut up in one of the little elbow-cramping boxes, where there were dirty table-cloths, and everything was steamy and sticky with the pervading vapour, whose odour was as that of the soup-copper after the “inmates” have had their pauper repast; sometimes in the street, as we have seen, when his dinners varied—kidney-pies, saveloys, peas-pudding served on paper, or perhaps only the warm tuber taken from a potato can; though, when funds were low, Matt generally leaned towards the kidney pieman, an old friend with a red nose and a white apron, augmented at night by very business-like white sleeves, when, extinguishing the coke-fire of his tin, he became a trotter himself for the time being, as he went from public-house to gin-palace disposing of his stock of succulent sheep’s-feet. There was a great deal of the epicure in Matt Space, and had he been a Roman emperor he might have been as lavish in the recorded worship of the gastric region. As it was, he had always looked upon money as of value only for the pleasure it afforded his palate, till better feelings had been roused within him. Well versed was Matt in the edibles best suited for families of large size but small income; he was deep in tripe, was old Matt Space, and he knew the shop in Clare-market and Newport-market best worthy of confidence. You never caught him buying sausages at random, nor yet purchasing his baked sheep’s-heads or fagots in Leather-lane. No; Matt knew better; and if he could not get the prime article, he would content himself with a penny-loaf and two ounces of single Glo’ster. No one could get such scraps from the butcher’s as Matt; and if any one of his acquaintance wanted a pound or two, it was almost worth their while to ask the old man to dinner, for the sake of getting him to undertake the commission. For did not the old fox always go into the Lane by Lincoln’s-inn, where such a trade was done in chops that the butcher must have bought his sheep nearly all loin, and that, too, of the primest, for the legal gentlemen of the district were rather particular. As to distance Matt never studied that when he was bent upon any delicacy, being ready to visit Saint Martin’s-lane for hot black-puddings, Leadenhall-market for cocks’-heads or giblets, Billingsgate for cockles or mussels; but all to oblige friends.

Now, although old Matt made great shifts over his dinners, he revelled in his tea; that is to say, his evening coffee—coffee-shop tea being a decoction, as the tea is carefully boiled to the extraction of all its strength, but to the destruction of all flavour, and Matt foolishly preferred the simple infusion of everyday life. So Matt enjoyed his evening coffee—a half-pint cup for a penny, and three large greasy slices of bread-and-butter for the same coin—the butter being always the best Dorset, slightly rank in the eating, and prepared by some peculiar Dutch process without the assistance of cows. Old Matt never missed his tea if his funds would at all hold out; for at this delectable coffee-house there were newspapers and, better still, magazines of so tempting a nature that they often made the old man late back to his duties. The real enjoyment that he felt over his book must have flavoured the repast, for he always seemed to relish these meals immensely. Generally speaking, men of his trade—haunters of his haunts—are rabid politicians; but not so Matt: missing a glance at the morning or evening paper never troubled him; but still there were times when the old printer took an interest in questions current; and if “the poor man” happened to be on the tapis, Matt digested the leading articles most carefully.

But no one knew where Matt slept, and many a job he lost in consequence; though this he set down to the score of his ill-luck. And yet he need not have been so nervous about anyone tracking him to his den; for Lower Series-place was once the resort of many of the choice spirits of a bygone age: lordly gallants strutted there in the showy costumes of their day; here, too, was the famous Kit-cat Club; but the glory had departed when Matt chose the court for his resting-place: where the wits made their rendezvous, were misery and dirt, frouzy rotting tenements, vice and disease. Trade was in the place, but in its lowest and least attractive forms; for there might be bought “half-hundreds” of coals in little sacks; ginger-beer; great spongy-shelled oysters, opened by dirty women, ready to place a discoloured thumb upon the loosened bivalve, and to rinse it in the muddy tub from which it was fished; fruit, too, in its seasons; potatoes and greens always; mussels, farthing balls of cotton, brass thimbles, comic songs, and sweets. But the two most flourishing trades here were those of translating, and dealing in marine-stores—businesses carried on next door to one another by Isaac Gross and Mrs Slagg. And a busy shop was Mrs Slagg’s, a shop where, in place of the customary gibbeted black doll, hung a painted and lettered huge bladebone that might, from its size, have belonged to the celebrated vastotherium itself, only that it was composed of wood, carved in his leisure hours with a shoemaker’s knife, as a delicate attention to Mrs Slagg, by her neighbour, Isaac Gross. Gay was Mrs Slagg’s shop with gaudily-illustrated placards, touching the wealth, ease, and comfort to be obtained by carrying all the worn apparel, rags, bones, and old iron to Slagg’s; serving-maids were walking out in the gayest of dresses bought with kitchen-stuff; men were fitting on impossible tail-coats and solid-looking hats bought with old iron, brass, and pewter; while the demand for white and coloured rags, waste-paper, bones, and horsehair, appeared insatiable; and to obtain them, it seemed that Mrs Slagg was ready to ruin herself outright by giving unheard-of prices. A wonderfully heterogeneous collection was here of the odds and ends of civilisation: one pane of the window resembled the foul comb of some mammoth bee, filled up as it was with bottles presenting their ends to the spectator, who shuddered as he thought of the labels that once decked those vials, such as “The draught at bedtime,” “The mixture as before,” “A tablespoonful every two hours,” etc; while many a wild and fevered dream that shudder brought back, of nights followed by days of pain and misery, aching heads, watching, anxious faces, sleek doctors of the Hardon class, wondering thoughts of the future, and of past hours unappreciated, unvalued. Every medicine-bottle in Mrs Slagg’s shop was a very telescope, which, if applied to the eye, presented such a diorama of sickness and sorrow as caused sensations as of grits getting into the cogs of the wheels of life and staying their would-be even course. Mrs Slagg’s was an obtrusive shop, irrespective of the flaming placards that literally shouted at you, and the black board, painted in old-bony skeleton letters, with the legend “Keziah Slagg, Dealer in Marine-stores,” though the terrene ruled to the exclusion of the marine. In its way, it was in everybody’s way, and seemed to have taken the disease rampant in the region of Lowther Arcadia—“a breaking out”—in this case a hideous leprosy of loathsome objects, that would have at you, catching skirt or umbrella, or being run over after they had been kicked in the way by racing children. The shop was gorged, and its contents oozed out, ran over, and trickled down the steps into the cellar, which was also full and repulsive, sending foul fungoid growths up through the trap to the pavement, and also apparently dipping under where the traffic lay to force its way up on the other side, where the growth spread again along the wall, so that passengers had to run the gauntlet on their journey to and from Temple Bar. In fact, Mrs Slagg’s shop was a very refiner’s furnace for old refuse, which boiled and bubbled over into court and cellar, as we have seen; while in front of the shop of Mr Isaac Gross, extended trays of old iron, bundles of white and coloured rags, odorous bones, crippled tools, wormy screws, screws without worms, odds and ends—odds without ends, and ends that seemed at odds with the world, and tried to trip it up as it went by.

Watching over her treasures would sit Mrs Slagg, just inside her door, stout, happy, and dirty, in a bower of old garments, which waved in every passing breeze; and, saving when clients came to obtain the unheard-of prices for the rags and metal, and the bones and grease, upon which this ogress lived, Mrs Slagg’s time was divided between shouting, “You bring that ’ere back!” to the children, and playing “Bo-peep” with Mr Isaac Gross, who, also working just inside his shop, would lean out occasionally to look at Mrs Slagg; though it took upon an average about nine peeps before both peeped together, when Mrs Slagg would nod and smile at Mr Gross, and Mr Gross would nod and smile at Mrs Slagg; and then work would be resumed, while it was understood in the court that something was to come of it.

But, beyond what has been described, there was another fact which pointed towards something coming of the neighbours’ intimacy; for Mrs Slagg’s cellar being, as she termed it, “chock!” a portion of her stock-in-trade had worked its way into Mr Gross’s back-parlour, and there stood in the shape of a large heap of waste-paper—a heap that Mr Gross would look at occasionally, and then smile in a very slow, heavy manner, as if smiling was a difficult task, and took time, for fear it should be broken if hastily performed, and become a laugh.

And a nice spot was Lower Series-place! Like Bennett’s-rents, it seemed as if every house was a school, and it was always leaving-time; for if, for a short cut, you hazarded a walk through the court, you were attacked by hordes of little savages, who pegged at you with tops, ran hoops between your legs, yelled in your ears, knocked tipcats in your eyes, kicked your shins at hopscotch, drove shuttlecocks upon your hat, lassoed you with skipping-ropes, and forming rings around, apostrophised you in tuneful, metrical language.

No doubt old Matt was used to all this, and so enjoyed a second nature; for be it known that he lodged with Mr Isaac Gross, boot and shoemaker, in Lower Series-place, otherwise Rogue’s, otherwise Shire-lane.

Matt’s landlord was a big bachelor of six-and-thirty, with much more body than he seemed to have muscles to control, the effect being that he was slow—Mrs Slagg said, “And sure,” which is doubtful. Mr Gross had round high shoulders, and more hair than he knew what to do with, or he would have had it cut; but he did not, only oiled it, brushed it down straightly, parted it in the middle, and then stopped it from falling down over his eyes when at work, by confining it with a band of black ribbon crossing his forehead and tied behind—the effect altogether, when taken in conjunction with his fat, heavy, sparsely-bearded face, being decidedly pleasing—judging by Mrs Slagg’s standard. He was not a dirty man, but he never by any chance looked clean, on account of a peculiar tinge in his skin, due perhaps to his trade, the short pipe in his mouth from morn till night, and the salubrious air of the court. Mr Gross was a doctor in his way, buying boots and shoes in the last stage of consumption, and then, by a grafting, splicing, and budding process, with the sounder portions of many he produced a few wearable articles, which, blacked to the highest pitch of lustre, shone upon his board to tempt purchasers from amongst those who could not afford the new article. You might buy a pair of boots from Isaac whose component parts were the work, perhaps, of the cordwainers of many lands, which scraps he would build up again as if they were so many bricks, or perhaps mere bats, rough with mortar; and in this way Isaac Gross lived and flourished.

It was from first wearing his boots that old Matt came to lodge with Isaac Gross, sharing with him the back-parlour, turned for their accommodation into a double-bedded room without bedsteads; but of itself a pleasant grove, whose fruitful sides teemed with boots and shoes in every stage of decay or remanufacture, hung upon nails wherever a nail would hold, the window-frame and its cross-bars not being spared. As to the large and ever-increasing pile of waste-paper owned by Mrs Slagg, old Matt resisted the encroachment with some bitterness; but still it grew, and though the old man grumbled, he would not move, for he liked his abode for its freedom from all restraint, since he could go to bed when he liked, stay as long as he liked, and use his own discretion respecting the removal of boots or other articles of clothing. The place was dirty, but that he did not mind; odorous, but then it was the true sherry twang; but what suited Matt best was, that his landlord troubled him little about rent, leaving him to pay when so minded, and never hinting at arrears; while still another advantage was that, next to a lamp-post, old Matt found his landlord the most satisfactory listener he knew, one ready to be talked to upon any subject, and to fall into the talker’s way of thinking.

On the morning when the words at the head of this chapter were spoken, in spite of the hammering, Matt continued to sleep on until nearly eight, when he rose, had his boots polished at half-price in the shade of Temple Bar, and then walked to the barber’s, declaring a brushing to be the finest thing in the world for corns. Here he had an easy shave and a wash for a penny; breakfasted heartily and sumptuously to the surprise of habitués and waitress, by calling for a rasher of bacon, and having a crumpled, greasy, brown dog’s ear brought him to devour with his bread-and-butter and coffee. For Matt was in high spirits: he was in full work upon a newspaper for a few days, and he had discovered the paragraph which, in spite of the drawback of its terrible contents, was a piece of news that should give Mr Septimus Hardon the income and position “of what I always said he was, sir,—a gentleman.” So old Matt breakfasted, as he said, “like a prince,” for fivepence, spent the change of his sixpence in a morning paper, and walked back to his lodging to read it at leisure, for his work would not begin till the afternoon.

Mr Isaac Gross had finished his economical bachelor breakfast, consisting of bread-and-butter and packet-cocoa, combining cheapness, succulence, and convenience. The breakfast-things were cleared away—not a long task—and Isaac was about to add a pile of old account-books to the waste-paper heap in the back-room.

“She bring them in?” said Matt.

Isaac, with his pipe in his mouth, nodded, and said in a gruff, slow growl, “Waste-paper.”

“So it seems,” said Matt, opening one or two of the books, and then closing them with an air of disgust, when his landlord took them up, added them to the heap, and before returning to his bench, had a peep out towards Mrs Slagg’s; but evidently the look was wasted, for he sighed, and took up his stirrup-leather, while old Matt drew down his mouth and bestowed a grim, contemptuous smile upon him as he rustled his paper, and, sitting down on a low workman’s bench, began to read.

“Ah!” said Matt, stopping in his reading to refresh himself with a pinch of snuff from a pill-box, “I thought so; they had an adjourned inquest about that case I told you of; but there’s only a short para here.”

“Umph!” ejaculated Isaac, taking a good pull at his wax-end, and then readjusting his boot in the stirrup, but directly after disarranging it, to take a peep at Mrs Slagg—this time with success; but he frowned at her—a telegram that she knew meant the lodger was at home, and that friendly communications must stop.

“They’ve brought it in—”

“Ain’t seen my wax, have you?” said Isaac slowly.

“Accidental death,” said Matt, not noticing the interruption; “and it’s my opinion that—What?”

“I want my wax,” said Isaac, hunting about.

“Well, get it,” growled Matt, rather annoyed at being interrupted.

“Ain’t seen it, have you?” said Isaac.

“No!” growled the old man, turning over his paper.

“Had it along with the dubbin just before breakfast,” said Isaac.

“And then,” continued Matt, “the coroner gave his order for the burial, and—”

But Isaac Gross, who, in his slow fashion, was as industrious as the bees, like them, could not get on without his wax, so he interrupted the speaker with, “I want my wax,” as he routed amongst his tools for the missing necessary.

“You’re waxing a great nuisance, Ike,” said Matt, “and I wish you’d find your wax;” and then he readjusted his spectacles, and had another pinch of snuff. “Hullo!” he growled, starting up and going to the door to speak to a woman who stood there, and who eagerly, whispered a few words as she passed a note and a shilling into his hand. “Yes; I’ll take the note, but I don’t want that,” he said, refusing the shilling, which fell upon the door-step. “Now, look here,” he said aloud, and very gruffly—for the woman had already turned to go—“I don’t like this business at all; but if I’m to do it, I don’t want paying for it; and if you don’t take back that money, I sha’n’t take the letter.”

“Hush, pray!” whispered the woman, glancing at Isaac’s round, wide-open eyes. “Don’t be angry with me, please—don’t speak so loud.”

The appealing voice somewhat softened the old man, but he kept on growling and muttering, as, after a few more words, the woman—the same who had visited the Jarkers—picked up the shilling and left him, watched all the while most eagerly by Mrs Slagg, who did not seem to be easy in her mind respecting female visitors to her neighbour’s place of business.

“It won’t do, it won’t do,” muttered the old man, taking his seat after glancing at the note. “I don’t like it.—Well,” he said aloud, “have you found that wax?”

“It was in my pocket,” said Isaac, slowly and seriously pointing to the discovered necessary covered with bread-crumbs, tobacco-dust, and flue.

“Now then, let’s have a bit more news,” said Matt, once more settling himself.

“Ain’t there a murder nowheres?” said Isaac, whose work was now progressing.

“No, there ain’t!” said Matt gruffly. “Nice taste you’ve got; but here’s two fires—p’r’aps they’ll do for you?”

“Ah!” said Isaac slowly, “let’s have them;” but again, to Matt’s annoyance, further progress was stayed by the entrance of a man to dispose of three pairs of old boots.

Old Matt crumpled up his paper and put it away in disgust, and as soon as the man had taken his departure he began to examine the boots.

“Ah!” he said, “nice trade yours—three pair of decent boots for three shillings; and then you’ll touch them up and sell them for five shillings a pair. Tell you what—I’ll give you a shilling and my old ones for this pair.”

“Why, you can’t wear ’em till they’re mended,” said Isaac.

“Can’t I?” replied Mat with a grim smile; “I can wear these, old fellow, which are a deal worse;” and he placed one of his old ones on the bench.

This was unanswerable, so Isaac only smoked.

“Try which pair fits you best,” he said at last, “and I’ll do them up a little bit for another shilling.”

“No book-cover soles,” said Matt, pointing with his thumb over his shoulder at the heap in the back-room.

Isaac grinned after his slow fashion, and then growled, “Fust-class leather and good workmanship.”

“For two shillings?” said Matt.

“And the old ones,” said Isaac.

“Why, they’re worth nothing to you,” said Matt.

“And they ain’t worth nothing to you,” said Isaac.

“S’pose I’m going out to dinner and want a change?” said the old man with a grin.

“’Nother shilling, then,” said Isaac determinedly.

“Why, they ain’t worth sixpence!” exclaimed Matt indignantly.

“Not to you,” said Isaac slowly.

“No, nor you, nor anybody, except the owner,” said Matt.

“Which is it to be?” said Isaac in intervals, between drawing home stitches. “Two bob and the old uns, or three bob wi’out?”

“Done up?” said Matt.

“Done up,” said Isaac.

“With new leather?” said Matt.

“With fust-class, well-seasoned leather,” said Isaac, cutting off his wax-ends.

“Take ’em at two, then,” said Matt, rising; “and I’ll tell you what it is, Ike, I put up with your smoke and your courting; but if you don’t make an end of choking me up with your confounded waste-paper, I’ll move, Ike—I’ll move.”

Isaac Gross smiled, faster this time, for he took his pipe out of his mouth to allow the smile to break into a grin; he then had a peep at Mrs Slagg, who was on the watch, having seen Matt outside; and then, as the old man made his way through the impedimenta of Lower Series-place, turning the note he had received over and over in his hand, and muttering as he went, Isaac’s hammer went on “tap, tap, tap,” till he was out of hearing.

End of Volume One.