A TALE OF TWO CITIES - 2 - 14 in English Moral Stories by Charles Dickens books and stories PDF | A TALE OF TWO CITIES - 2 - 14




By Charles Dickens

The Golden Thread


The Honest Tradesman

To the eyes of Mr. Jeremiah Cruncher, sitting on his stool in

Fleet-street with his grisly urchin beside him, a vast number and

variety of objects in movement were every day presented. Who could sit

upon anything in Fleet-street during the busy hours of the day, and

not be dazed and deafened by two immense processions, one ever tending

westward with the sun, the other ever tending eastward from the sun,

both ever tending to the plains beyond the range of red and purple where

the sun goes down!

With his straw in his mouth, Mr. Cruncher sat watching the two streams,

like the heathen rustic who has for several centuries been on duty

watching one stream--saving that Jerry had no expectation of their ever

running dry. Nor would it have been an expectation of a hopeful kind,

since a small part of his income was derived from the pilotage of timid

women (mostly of a full habit and past the middle term of life) from

Tellson's side of the tides to the opposite shore. Brief as such

companionship was in every separate instance, Mr. Cruncher never failed

to become so interested in the lady as to express a strong desire to

have the honour of drinking her very good health. And it was from

the gifts bestowed upon him towards the execution of this benevolent

purpose, that he recruited his finances, as just now observed.

Time was, when a poet sat upon a stool in a public place, and mused in

the sight of men. Mr. Cruncher, sitting on a stool in a public place,

but not being a poet, mused as little as possible, and looked about him.

It fell out that he was thus engaged in a season when crowds were

few, and belated women few, and when his affairs in general were so

unprosperous as to awaken a strong suspicion in his breast that Mrs.

Cruncher must have been “flopping” in some pointed manner, when an

unusual concourse pouring down Fleet-street westward, attracted his

attention. Looking that way, Mr. Cruncher made out that some kind of

funeral was coming along, and that there was popular objection to this

funeral, which engendered uproar.

“Young Jerry,” said Mr. Cruncher, turning to his offspring, “it's a


“Hooroar, father!” cried Young Jerry.

The young gentleman uttered this exultant sound with mysterious

significance. The elder gentleman took the cry so ill, that he watched

his opportunity, and smote the young gentleman on the ear.

“What d'ye mean? What are you hooroaring at? What do you want to conwey

to your own father, you young Rip? This boy is a getting too many for

_me_!” said Mr. Cruncher, surveying him. “Him and his hooroars! Don't

let me hear no more of you, or you shall feel some more of me. D'ye


“I warn't doing no harm,” Young Jerry protested, rubbing his cheek.

“Drop it then,” said Mr. Cruncher; “I won't have none of _your_ no

harms. Get a top of that there seat, and look at the crowd.”

His son obeyed, and the crowd approached; they were bawling and hissing

round a dingy hearse and dingy mourning coach, in which mourning coach

there was only one mourner, dressed in the dingy trappings that were

considered essential to the dignity of the position. The position

appeared by no means to please him, however, with an increasing rabble

surrounding the coach, deriding him, making grimaces at him, and

incessantly groaning and calling out: “Yah! Spies! Tst! Yaha! Spies!”

with many 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, a funeral with this uncommon attendance

excited him greatly, and he 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 his mouth

nevertheless, and vociferating in a surprising heat and with the

greatest ardour, “Spies! Yaha! Tst, tst! Spi--ies!”

At length, a person better informed on the merits of the case, tumbled

against him, and from this person he learned that 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! Old Bailey


“Why, to be sure!” exclaimed Jerry, recalling the Trial at which 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 any idea,

that the crowd caught it up with eagerness, and loudly repeating 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 mourner scuffled out by himself and was in their hands

for a moment; but he was so alert, and made such good use of his time,

that in another moment he was scouring away up a bye-street, after

shedding his cloak, hat, long hatband, white pocket-handkerchief, and

other symbolical tears.

These, the people tore to pieces and scattered far and wide with great

enjoyment, while the tradesmen hurriedly shut up their shops; for a

crowd in those times stopped at nothing, and was a monster much dreaded.

They had already got the length of opening the hearse to take the coffin

out, when some brighter genius proposed instead, its being escorted to

its destination amidst general rejoicing. Practical suggestions being

much needed, this suggestion, too, was received with acclamation, and

the coach was immediately filled with eight inside and a dozen out,

while as many people got on the roof of the hearse as could by any

exercise of ingenuity stick upon it. Among the first of these volunteers

was Jerry Cruncher himself, who modestly concealed his spiky head from

the observation of Tellson's, in the further corner of the mourning


The officiating undertakers made some protest against these changes in

the ceremonies; but, the river being alarmingly near, and several voices

remarking on the efficacy of cold immersion in bringing refractory

members of the profession to reason, the protest was faint and brief.

The remodelled procession 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 mourning coach. A bear-leader, a

popular street character of the time, was impressed as an additional

ornament, before the cavalcade had gone far down the Strand; and his

bear, who was black and very mangy, gave quite an Undertaking air to

that part of the procession in which he walked.

Thus, with beer-drinking, pipe-smoking, song-roaring, and infinite

caricaturing of woe, the disorderly procession went its way, recruiting

at every step, and all the shops shutting up before it. Its destination

was the old church of Saint Pancras, far off in the fields. It got there

in course of time; insisted on pouring into the burial-ground; finally,

accomplished the interment of the deceased Roger Cly in its own way, and

highly to its own satisfaction.

The dead man disposed of, and the crowd being under the necessity of

providing some other entertainment for itself, another brighter

genius (or perhaps the same) conceived the humour of impeaching casual

passers-by, as Old Bailey spies, and wreaking vengeance on them. Chase

was given to some scores of inoffensive persons who had never been near

the Old Bailey in their lives, in the realisation of this fancy, and

they were roughly hustled and maltreated. The transition to the sport of

window-breaking, and thence to the plundering of public-houses, was easy

and natural. At last, after several hours, when sundry summer-houses had

been pulled down, and some area-railings had been torn up, to arm

the more belligerent spirits, a rumour got about that the Guards were

coming. Before this rumour, the crowd gradually melted away, and perhaps

the Guards came, and perhaps they never came, and this was the usual

progress of a mob.

Mr. Cruncher did not assist at the closing sports, but had remained

behind in the churchyard, to confer and condole with the undertakers.

The place had a soothing influence on him. He procured a pipe from a

neighbouring public-house, and smoked it, looking in at the railings and

maturely considering the spot.

“Jerry,” said Mr. Cruncher, apostrophising himself in his usual way,

“you see that there Cly that day, and you see with your own eyes that he

was a young 'un and a straight made 'un.”

Having smoked his pipe out, and ruminated a little longer, he turned

himself about, that he might appear, before the hour of closing, on his

station at Tellson's. Whether his meditations on mortality had touched

his liver, or whether his general health had been previously at all

amiss, or whether he desired to show a little attention to an eminent

man, is not so much to the purpose, as that he made a short call upon

his medical adviser--a distinguished surgeon--on his way back.

Young Jerry relieved his father with dutiful interest, and reported No

job in his absence. The bank closed, the ancient clerks came out, the

usual watch was set, and Mr. Cruncher and his son went home to tea.

“Now, I tell you where it is!” said Mr. Cruncher to his wife, on

entering. “If, as a honest tradesman, my wenturs goes wrong to-night, I

shall make sure that you've been praying again me, and I shall work you

for it just the same as if I seen you do it.”

The dejected Mrs. Cruncher shook her head.

“Why, you're at it afore my face!” said Mr. Cruncher, with signs of

angry apprehension.

“I am saying nothing.”

“Well, then; don't meditate nothing. You might as well flop as meditate.

You may as well go again me one way as another. Drop it altogether.”

“Yes, Jerry.”

“Yes, Jerry,” repeated Mr. Cruncher sitting down to tea. “Ah! It _is_

yes, Jerry. That's about it. You may say yes, Jerry.”

Mr. Cruncher had no particular meaning in these sulky corroborations,

but made use of them, as people not unfrequently do, to express general

ironical dissatisfaction.

“You and your yes, Jerry,” said Mr. Cruncher, taking a bite out of his

bread-and-butter, and seeming to help it down with a large invisible

oyster out of his saucer. “Ah! I think so. I believe you.”

“You are going out to-night?” asked his decent wife, when he took

another bite.

“Yes, I am.”

“May I go with you, father?” asked his son, briskly.

“No, you mayn't. I'm a going--as your mother knows--a fishing. That's

where I'm going to. Going a fishing.”

“Your fishing-rod gets rayther rusty; don't it, father?”

“Never you mind.”

“Shall you bring any fish home, father?”

“If I don't, you'll have short commons, to-morrow,” returned that

gentleman, shaking his head; “that's questions enough for you; I ain't a

going out, till you've been long abed.”

He devoted himself during the remainder of the evening to keeping a

most vigilant watch on Mrs. Cruncher, and sullenly holding her in

conversation that she might be prevented from meditating any petitions

to his disadvantage. With this view, he urged his son to hold her in

conversation also, and led the unfortunate woman a hard life by dwelling

on any causes of complaint he could bring against her, rather than

he would leave her for a moment to her own reflections. The devoutest

person could have rendered no greater homage to the efficacy of an

honest prayer than he did in this distrust of his wife. It was as if a

professed unbeliever in ghosts should be frightened by a ghost story.

“And mind you!” said Mr. Cruncher. “No games to-morrow! If I, as a

honest tradesman, succeed in providing a jinte of meat or two, none

of your not touching of it, and sticking to bread. If I, as a honest

tradesman, am able to provide a little beer, none of your declaring

on water. When you go to Rome, do as Rome does. Rome will be a ugly

customer to you, if you don't. _I_'m your Rome, you know.”

Then he began grumbling again:

“With your flying into the face of your own wittles and drink! I don't

know how scarce you mayn't make the wittles and drink here, by your

flopping tricks and your unfeeling conduct. Look at your boy: he _is_

your'n, ain't he? He's as thin as a lath. Do you call yourself a mother,

and not know that a mother's first duty is to blow her boy out?”

This touched Young Jerry on a tender place; who adjured his mother to

perform her first duty, and, whatever else she did or neglected, above

all things to lay especial stress on the discharge of that maternal

function so affectingly and delicately indicated by his other parent.

Thus the evening wore away with the Cruncher family, until Young Jerry

was ordered to bed, and his mother, laid under similar injunctions,

obeyed them. Mr. Cruncher beguiled the earlier watches of the night with

solitary pipes, and did not start upon his excursion until nearly one

o'clock. Towards that small and ghostly hour, he rose up from his chair,

took a key out of his pocket, opened a locked cupboard, and brought

forth a sack, a crowbar of convenient size, a rope and chain, and other

fishing tackle of that nature. Disposing these articles about him

in skilful manner, he bestowed a parting defiance on Mrs. Cruncher,

extinguished the light, and went out.

Young Jerry, who had only made a feint of undressing when he went to

bed, was not long after his father. Under cover of the darkness he

followed out of the room, followed down the stairs, followed down the

court, followed out into the streets. He was in no uneasiness concerning

his getting into the house again, for it was full of lodgers, and the

door stood ajar all night.

Impelled by a laudable ambition to study the art and mystery of his

father's honest calling, Young Jerry, keeping as close to house fronts,

walls, and doorways, as his eyes were close to one another, held his

honoured parent in view. The honoured parent steering Northward, had not

gone far, when he was joined by another disciple of Izaak Walton, and

the two trudged on together.

Within half an hour from the first starting, they were beyond the

winking lamps, and the more than winking watchmen, and were out upon a

lonely road. Another fisherman was picked up here--and that so silently,

that if Young Jerry had been superstitious, he might have supposed the

second follower of the gentle craft to have, all of a sudden, split

himself into two.

The three went on, and Young Jerry went on, until the three stopped

under a bank overhanging the road. Upon the top of the bank was a low

brick wall, surmounted by an iron railing. In the shadow of bank and

wall the three turned out of the road, and up a blind lane, of which

the wall--there, risen to some eight or ten feet high--formed one side.

Crouching down in a corner, peeping up the lane, the next object that

Young Jerry saw, was the form of his honoured parent, pretty well

defined against a watery and clouded moon, nimbly scaling an iron gate.

He was soon over, and then the second fisherman got over, and then the

third. They all dropped softly on the ground within the gate, and lay

there a little--listening perhaps. Then, they moved away on their hands

and knees.

It was now Young Jerry's turn to approach the gate: which he did,

holding his breath. Crouching down again in a corner there, and looking

in, he made out the three fishermen creeping through some rank grass!

and all the gravestones in the churchyard--it was a large churchyard

that they were in--looking on like ghosts in white, while the church

tower itself looked on like the ghost of a monstrous giant. They did not

creep far, before they stopped and stood upright. And then they began to


They fished with a spade, at first. Presently the honoured parent

appeared to be adjusting some instrument like a great corkscrew.

Whatever tools they worked with, they worked hard, until the awful

striking of the church clock so terrified Young Jerry, that he made off,

with his hair as stiff as his father's.

But, his long-cherished desire to know more about these matters, not

only stopped him in his running away, but lured him back again. They

were still fishing perseveringly, when he peeped in at the gate for

the second time; but, now they seemed to have got a bite. There was a

screwing and complaining sound down below, and their bent figures were

strained, as if by a weight. By slow degrees the weight broke away the

earth upon it, and came to the surface. Young Jerry very well knew what

it would be; but, when he saw it, and saw his honoured parent about to

wrench it open, he was so frightened, being new to the sight, that he

made off again, and never stopped until he had run a mile or more.

He would not have stopped then, for anything less necessary than breath,

it being a spectral sort of race that he ran, and one highly desirable

to get to the end of. He had a strong idea that the coffin he had seen

was running after him; and, pictured as hopping on behind him, bolt

upright, upon its narrow end, always on the point of overtaking him

and hopping on at his side--perhaps taking his arm--it was a pursuer to

shun. It was an inconsistent and ubiquitous fiend too, for, while it

was making the whole night behind him dreadful, he darted out into the

roadway to avoid dark alleys, fearful of its coming hopping out of them

like a dropsical boy's kite without tail and wings. It hid in doorways

too, rubbing its horrible shoulders against doors, and drawing them up

to its ears, as if it were laughing. It got into shadows on the road,

and lay cunningly on its back to trip him up. All this time it was

incessantly hopping on behind and gaining on him, so that when the boy

got to his own door he had reason for being half dead. And even then

it would not leave him, but followed him upstairs with a bump on every

stair, scrambled into bed with him, and bumped down, dead and heavy, on

his breast when he fell asleep.

From his oppressed slumber, Young Jerry in his closet was awakened after

daybreak and before sunrise, by the presence of his father in the

family room. Something had gone wrong with him; at least, so Young Jerry

inferred, from the circumstance of his holding Mrs. Cruncher by the

ears, and knocking the back of her head against the head-board of the


“I told you I would,” said Mr. Cruncher, “and I did.”

“Jerry, Jerry, Jerry!” his wife implored.

“You oppose yourself to the profit of the business,” said Jerry, “and me

and my partners suffer. You was to honour and obey; why the devil don't


“I try to be a good wife, Jerry,” the poor woman protested, with tears.

“Is it being a good wife to oppose your husband's business? Is it

honouring your husband to dishonour his business? Is it obeying your

husband to disobey him on the wital subject of his business?”

“You hadn't taken to the dreadful business then, Jerry.”

“It's enough for you,” retorted Mr. Cruncher, “to be the wife of a

honest tradesman, and not to occupy your female mind with calculations

when he took to his trade or when he didn't. A honouring and obeying

wife would let his trade alone altogether. Call yourself a religious

woman? If you're a religious woman, give me a irreligious one! You have

no more nat'ral sense of duty than the bed of this here Thames river has

of a pile, and similarly it must be knocked into you.”

The altercation was conducted in a low tone of voice, and terminated in

the honest tradesman's kicking off his clay-soiled boots, and lying down

at his length on the floor. After taking a timid peep at him lying on

his back, with his rusty hands under his head for a pillow, his son lay

down too, and fell asleep again.

There was no fish for breakfast, and not much of anything else. Mr.

Cruncher was out of spirits, and out of temper, and kept an iron pot-lid

by him as a projectile for the correction of Mrs. Cruncher, in case

he should observe any symptoms of her saying Grace. He was brushed

and washed at the usual hour, and set off with his son to pursue his

ostensible calling.

Young Jerry, walking with the stool under his arm at his father's side

along sunny and crowded Fleet-street, was a very different Young Jerry

from him of the previous night, running home through darkness and

solitude from his grim pursuer. His cunning was fresh with the day,

and his qualms were gone with the night--in which particulars it is not

improbable that he had compeers in Fleet-street and the City of London,

that fine morning.

“Father,” said Young Jerry, as they walked along: taking care to keep

at arm's length and to have the stool well between them: “what's a


Mr. Cruncher came to a stop on the pavement before he answered, “How

should I know?”

“I thought you knowed everything, father,” said the artless boy.

“Hem! Well,” returned Mr. Cruncher, going on again, and lifting off his

hat to give his spikes free play, “he's a tradesman.”

“What's his goods, father?” asked the brisk Young Jerry.

“His goods,” said Mr. Cruncher, after turning it over in his mind, “is a

branch of Scientific goods.”

“Persons' bodies, ain't it, father?” asked the lively boy.

“I believe it is something of that sort,” said Mr. Cruncher.

“Oh, father, I should so like to be a Resurrection-Man when I'm quite

growed up!”

Mr. Cruncher was soothed, but shook his head in a dubious and moral way.

“It depends upon how you dewelop your talents. Be careful to dewelop

your talents, and never to say no more than you can help to nobody, and

there's no telling at the present time what you may not come to be fit

for.” As Young Jerry, thus encouraged, went on a few yards in advance,

to plant the stool in the shadow of the Bar, Mr. Cruncher added to

himself: “Jerry, you honest tradesman, there's hopes wot that boy will

yet be a blessing to you, and a recompense to you for his mother!”


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