Charles Dickens - Life And Adventures Of Martin Chuzzlewit

“What have they been making so much of him for, now?” said Mark, slyly. “Come!”

“Our people like ex-citement,” answered Kedgick, sucking his cigar.

“But how has he excited “em?” asked Mark.

The Captain looked at him as if he were half inclined to unburden his mind of a capital joke.

“You air a-going?” he said.

“Going!” cried Mark. “Ain't every moment precious?”

“Our people like ex-citement,” said the Captain, whispering. “He ain't like emigrants in gin'ral; and he excited “em along of this;” he winked and burst into a smothered laugh; “along of this. Scadder is a smart man, and—and—nobody as goes to Eden ever comes back alive!”

The wharf was close at hand, and at that instant Mark could hear them shouting out his name; could even hear Martin calling to him to make haste, or they would be separated. It was too late to mend the matter, or put any face upon it but the best. He gave the Captain a parting benediction, and ran off like a race-horse.

“Mark! Mark!” cried Martin.

“Here am I, sir!” shouted Mark, suddenly replying from the edge of the quay, and leaping at a bound on board. “Never was half so jolly, sir. All right. Haul in! Go ahead!”

The sparks from the wood fire streamed upward from the two chimneys, as if the vessel were a great firework just lighted; and they roared away upon the dark water.

There happened to be on board the steamboat several gentlemen passengers, of the same stamp as Martin's New York friend Mr Bevan; and in their society he was cheerful and happy. They released him as well as they could from the intellectual entanglements of Mrs Hominy; and exhibited, in all they said and did, so much good sense and high feeling, that he could not like them too well. “If this were a republic of Intellect and Worth,” he said, “instead of vapouring and jobbing, they would not want the levers to keep it in motion.”

“Having good tools, and using bad ones,” returned Mr Tapley, “would look as if they was rather a poor sort of carpenters, sir, wouldn't it?”

Martin nodded. “As if their work were infinitely above their powers and purpose, Mark; and they botched it in consequence.”

“The best on it is,” said Mark, “that when they do happen to make a decent stroke; such as better workmen, with no such opportunities, make every day of their lives and think nothing of—they begin to sing out so surprising loud. Take notice of my words, sir. If ever the defaulting part of this here country pays its debts—along of finding that not paying “em won't do in a commercial point of view, you see, and is inconvenient in its consequences—they'll take such a shine out of it, and make such bragging speeches, that a man might suppose no borrowed money had ever been paid afore, since the world was first begun. That's the way they gammon each other, sir. Bless you, I know “em. Take notice of my words, now!”

“You seem to be growing profoundly sagacious!” cried Martin, laughing.

“Whether that is,” thought Mark, “because I'm a day's journey nearer Eden, and am brightening up afore I die, I can't say. P'rhaps by the time I get there I shall have growed into a prophet.”

He gave no utterance to these sentiments; but the excessive joviality they inspired within him, and the merriment they brought upon his shining face, were quite enough for Martin. Although he might sometimes profess to make light of his partner's inexhaustible cheerfulness, and might sometimes, as in the case of Zephaniah Scadder, find him too jocose a commentator, he was always sensible of the effect of his example in rousing him to hopefulness and courage. Whether he were in the humour to profit by it, mattered not a jot. It was contagious, and he could not choose but be affected.

At first they parted with some of their passengers once or twice a day, and took in others to replace them. But by degrees, the towns upon their route became more thinly scattered; and for many hours together they would see no other habitations than the huts of the wood-cutters, where the vessel stopped for fuel. Sky, wood, and water all the livelong day; and heat that blistered everything it touched.

On they toiled through great solitudes, where the trees upon the banks grew thick and close; and floatad in the stream; and held up shrivelled arms from out the river's depths; and slid down from the margin of the land, half growing, half decaying, in the miry water. On through the weary day and melancholy night; beneath the burning sun, and in the mist and vapour of the evening; on, until return appeared impossible, and restoration to their home a miserable dream.

They had now but few people on board, and these few were as flat, as dull, and stagnant, as the vegetation that oppressed their eyes. No sound of cheerfulness or hope was heard; no pleasant talk beguiled the tardy time; no little group made common cause against the full depression of the scene. But that, at certain periods, they swallowed food together from a common trough, it might have been old Charon's boat, conveying melancholy shades to judgment.

At length they drew near New Thermopylae; where, that same evening, Mrs Hominy would disembark. A gleam of comfort sunk into Martin's bosom when she told him this. Mark needed none; but he was not displeased.

It was almost night when they came alongside the landing-place. A steep bank with an hotel like a barn on the top of it; a wooden store or two; and a few scattered sheds.

“You sleep here to-night, and go on in the morning, I suppose, ma'am?” said Martin.

“Where should I go on to?” cried the mother of the modern Gracchi.

“To New Thermopylae.”

“My! ain't I there?” said Mrs Hominy.

Martin looked for it all round the darkening panorama; but he couldn't see it, and was obliged to say so.

“Why that's it!” cried Mrs Hominy, pointing to the sheds just mentioned.

“THAT!” exclaimed Martin.

“Ah! that; and work it which way you will, it whips Eden,” said Mrs Hominy, nodding her head with great expression.

The married Miss Hominy, who had come on board with her husband, gave to this statement her most unqualified support, as did that gentleman also. Martin gratefully declined their invitation to regale himself at their house during the half hour of the vessel's stay; and having escorted Mrs Hominy and the red pocket-handkerchief (which was still on active service) safely across the gangway, returned in a thoughtful mood to watch the emigrants as they removed their goods ashore.

Mark, as he stood beside him, glanced in his face from time to time; anxious to discover what effect this dialogue had had upon him, and not unwilling that his hopes should be dashed before they reached their destination, so that the blow he feared might be broken in its fall. But saving that he sometimes looked up quickly at the poor erections on the hill, he gave him no clue to what was passing in his mind, until they were again upon their way.

“Mark,” he said then, “are there really none but ourselves on board this boat who are bound for Eden?”

“None at all, sir. Most of “em, as you know, have stopped short; and the few that are left are going further on. What matters that! More room there for us, sir.”

“Oh, to be sure!” said Martin. “But I was thinking—” and there he paused.

“Yes, sir?” observed Mark.

“How odd it was that the people should have arranged to try their fortune at a wretched hole like that, for instance, when there is such a much better, and such a very different kind of place, near at hand, as one may say.”