有声名著之双城记Book2 Chapter14

　　有声名著之双城记

       CHAPTER XIVThe Honest Tradesman

       TO the eyes of Mr. Jeremiah Cruncher, sitting on his stool inFleet Street with his grisly urchin beside him, a vast numberand variety of objects in movement were every day presented.

　　Who could sit upon anything in Fleet Street during the busyhours of the day, and not be dazed and deafened by two immenseprocessions, one ever tending westward with the sun, the otherever tending eastward from the sun, both ever tending to theplains beyond the range of red and purple where the sun goesdown!

　　With his straw in his mouth, Mr. Cruncher sat watching thetwo streams, like the heathen rustic who has for severalcenturies been on duty watching one stream--saving that Jerryhad no expectation of their ever running dry. Nor would ithave been an expectation of a hopeful kind, since Ball part ofhis income was derived from the pilotage of timid women(mostly of a full habit and past the middle of life) fromTellson's side of the tides to the opposite ore. Brief as suchcompanionship was in every separate instance, Mr. Crunchernever failed to become so interested the lady as to express astrong desire to have the honour drinking her very goodhealth. And it was from the gifts towed upon him towards theexecution of this benevolent purpose, that he recruited hisfinances, as just now observed.

　　Time was, when a poet sat upon a stool in a public place, andmused in the sight of men. Mr. Cruncher, sitting on stool in apublic place, but not being a poet, mused as little aspossible, and looked about him.

　　It fell out that he was thus engaged in a season when crowdswere few, and belated women few, and when his affairs ingeneral were so unprosperous as to awaken a strong suspicionin his breast that Mrs. Cruncher must have been `flopping' insome pointed manner, when an unusual concourse pouring downFleet Street westward, attracted his attention. Looking thatway, Mr. Cruncher made out that me kind of funeral was comingalong, and that there was popular objection to this funeral,which engendered uproar.

　　`Young Jerry,' said Mr. Cruncher, turning to his offspring,`it's a buryin'.'

　　`Hooroar, father!' cried Young Jerry.

　　The young gentleman uttered this exultant sound withmysterious significance. The elder gentleman took the cry soill, that he watched his opportunity, and smote the younggentleman on the ear.

　　`What d'ye mean? What are you hooroaring at? What do you wantto conwey to your own father, you young Rip? This boy is agetting too many for me!' said Mr. Cruncher, surveying him.

　　`Him and his hooroars. Don't let me hear no more of you, oryou shall feel some more of me. D'ye hear?'

　　`I warn't doing no harm,' Young Jerry protested, rubbing hischeek.

　　`Drop it then,' said Mr. Cruncher; `I won't have none of yourno harms. Get atop of that there seat, and look at the crowd.'

　　His son obeyed, and the crowd approached; they were bawlingand hissing round a dingy hearse and dingy mourning coach, inwhich mourning coach there was only one mourner, dressed inthe dingy trappings that were considered essential to thedignity of the position. The position appeared by no means toplease him, however, with an increasing rabble surrounding thecoach, deriding him, making grimaces at him, and incessantlygroaning and calling out: `Yah! Spies! Tst! Yaha! Spies!' withmany compliments too numerous and forcible to repeat.

　　Funerals had at all times a remarkable attraction for Mr.

　　Cruncher; he always pricked up his senses, and became excited,when a funeral passed Tellson's. Naturally, therefore, afuneral with this uncommon attendance excited him greatly, andhe asked of the first man who ran against him:

　　`What is it, brother? What's it about?'

　　`I don't know,' said the man. `Spies! Yaha! Tst! Spies!'

　　He asked another man. `Who is it?'

　　`I don't know,' returned the man, clapping his hands to hismouth nevertheless, and vociferating in a surprising heat andwith the greatest ardour, `Spies! Yaha! Tst, tst! Spi-ies!'

　　At length, a person better informed on the merits of thecase, tumbled against him, and from this person he learnedthat the funeral was the funeral of One Roger Cly.

　　`Was He a spy?' asked Mr. Cruncher.

　　`Old Bailey spy,' returned his informant. `Yaha Tst! Yah! OldBailey Spi-i-ies!'

　　`Why, to be sure!' exclaimed Jerry, recalling the Trial atwhich he had assisted. `I've seen him. Dead, is he?'

　　`Dead as mutton,' returned the other, `and can't be too dead.

　　Have `em out, there Spies! Pull `em out, there! Spies!'

　　The idea was so acceptable in the prevalent absence of anyidea, that the crowd caught it up with eagerness, and, loudlyrepeating the suggestion to have `em out, and to pull em out,mobbed the two vehicles so closely that they came to a stop.

　　On the crowd's opening the coach doors, the one mournerscuffled out of himself and was in their hands for a moment;but he was so alert, and made such good use of his time, thatin another moment he was scouring away up a bystreet, aftershedding his cloak, hat, long hatband, white pockethandkerchief, and other symbolical tears.

　　These, the people tore to pieces and scattered far and widewith great enjoyment, while the tradesmen hurriedly shut uptheir shops; for a crowd in those times stopped at nothing,and was a monster much dreaded. They had already got thelength of opening the hearse to take the coffin out, when somebrighter genius proposed instead, its being escorted todestination amidst general rejoicing. Practical suggestionsbeing much needed, this suggestion, too, was received withacclamation, and the coach was immediately filled with eightinside and a dozen out, while as many people got on the roofof the hearse as could by any exercise of ingenuity stick uponit. Among the first of these volunteers was Jerry Cruncherhimself, who modestly concealed his spiky head from theobservation of Tellson's, in the further corner of themourning coach.

　　The officiating undertakers made some protest against thesechanges in the ceremonies; but, the river being alarminglynear, and several voices remarking on the efficacy of coldimmersion in bringing refractory members of the profession toreason, the protest was faint and brief. The remodelledprocession started, with a chimney-sweep driving the hearse--advised by the regular driver, who was perched beside him,under close inspection, for the purpose--and with a pieman,also attended by his cabinet minister, driving the mourningcoach. A bear-leader, a popular street character of the time,was impressed as an additional ornament, before the cavalcadehad gone far down the Strand; and his bear, who was black andvery mangy, gave quite an Undertaking air to that part of theprocession in which he walked.

　　Thus, with beer-drinking, pipe-smoking, song-roaring, andinfinite caricaturing of woe, the disorderly procession wentits way, recruiting at every step, and all the shops shuttingup before it. Its destination was the old church of SaintPancras, far off in the fields. It got there in course oftime; insisted on pouring into the burial-ground; finally,accomplished the interment of the deceased Roger Cly in itsown way, and highly to its own satisfaction.