A House to Let by Charles Dickens (book recommendations based on other books .txt) 📕

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Long years after these events,—a few months after her mother died, Ailsie and her “father” (as she always called Mr. Openshaw) drove to a cemetery a little way out of town, and she was carried to a certain mound by her maid, who was then sent back to the carriage.  There was a head-stone, with F. W. and a date.  That was all.  Sitting by the grave, Mr. Openshaw told her the story; and for the sad fate of that poor father whom she had never seen, he shed the only tears she ever saw fall from his eyes.

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“A most interesting story, all through,” I said, as Jarber folded up the first of his series of discoveries in triumph.  “A story that goes straight to the heart—especially at the end.  But”—I stopped, and looked at Trottle.

Trottle entered his protest directly in the shape of a cough.

“Well!” I said, beginning to lose my patience.  “Don’t you see that I want you to speak, and that I don’t want you to cough?”

“Quite so, ma’am,” said Trottle, in a state of respectful obstinacy which would have upset the temper of a saint.  “Relative, I presume, to this story, ma’am?”

“Yes, Yes!” said Jarber.  “By all means let us hear what this good man has to say.”

“Well, sir,” answered Trottle, “I want to know why the House over the way doesn’t let, and I don’t exactly see how your story answers the question.  That’s all I have to say, sir.”

I should have liked to contradict my opinionated servant, at that moment.  But, excellent as the story was in itself, I felt that he had hit on the weak point, so far as Jarber’s particular purpose in reading it was concerned.

“And that is what you have to say, is it?” repeated Jarber.  “I enter this room announcing that I have a series of discoveries, and you jump instantly to the conclusion that the first of the series exhausts my resources.  Have I your permission, dear lady, to enlighten this obtuse person, if possible, by reading Number Two?”

“My work is behindhand, ma’am,” said Trottle, moving to the door, the moment I gave Jarber leave to go on.

“Stop where you are,” I said, in my most peremptory manner, “and give Mr. Jarber his fair opportunity of answering your objection now you have made it.”

Trottle sat down with the look of a martyr, and Jarber began to read with his back turned on the enemy more decidedly than ever.

At one period of its reverses, the House fell into the occupation of a Showman.  He was found registered as its occupier, on the parish books of the time when he rented the House, and there was therefore no need of any clue to his name.  But, he himself was less easy to be found; for, he had led a wandering life, and settled people had lost sight of him, and people who plumed themselves on being respectable were shy of admitting that they had ever known anything of him.  At last, among the marsh lands near the river’s level, that lie about Deptford and the neighbouring market-gardens, a Grizzled Personage in velveteen, with a face so cut up by varieties of weather that he looked as if he had been tattooed, was found smoking a pipe at the door of a wooden house on wheels.  The wooden house was laid up in ordinary for the winter, near the mouth of a muddy creek; and everything near it, the foggy river, the misty marshes, and the steaming market-gardens, smoked in company with the grizzled man.  In the midst of this smoking party, the funnel-chimney of the wooden house on wheels was not remiss, but took its pipe with the rest in a companionable manner.

On being asked if it were he who had once rented the House to Let, Grizzled Velveteen looked surprised, and said yes.  Then his name was Magsman?  That was it, Toby Magsman—which lawfully christened Robert; but called in the line, from a infant, Toby.  There was nothing agin Toby Magsman, he believed?  If there was suspicion of such—mention it!

There was no suspicion of such, he might rest assured.  But, some inquiries were making about that House, and would he object to say why he left it?

Not at all; why should he?  He left it, along of a Dwarf.

Along of a Dwarf?

Mr. Magsman repeated, deliberately and emphatically, Along of a Dwarf.

Might it be compatible with Mr. Magsman’s inclination and convenience to enter, as a favour, into a few particulars?

Mr. Magsman entered into the following particulars.

It was a long time ago, to begin with;—afore lotteries and a deal more was done away with.  Mr. Magsman was looking about for a good pitch, and he see that house, and he says to himself, “I’ll have you, if you’re to be had.  If money’ll get you, I’ll have you.”

The neighbours cut up rough, and made complaints; but Mr. Magsman don’t know what they would have had.  It was a lovely thing.  First of all, there was the canvass, representin the picter of the Giant, in Spanish trunks and a ruff, who was himself half the heighth of the house, and was run up with a line and pulley to a pole on the roof, so that his Ed was coeval with the parapet.  Then, there was the canvass, representin the picter of the Albina lady, showing her white air to the Army and Navy in correct uniform.  Then, there was the canvass, representin the picter of the Wild Indian a scalpin a member of some foreign nation.  Then, there was the canvass, representin the picter of a child of a British Planter, seized by two Boa Constrictors—not that we never had no child, nor no Constrictors neither.  Similarly, there was the canvass, representin the picter of the Wild Ass of the Prairies—not that we never had no wild asses, nor wouldn’t have had ’em at a gift.  Last, there was the canvass, representin the picter of the Dwarf, and like him too (considerin), with George the Fourth in such a state of astonishment at him as His Majesty couldn’t with his utmost politeness and stoutness express.  The front of the House was so covered with canvasses, that there wasn’t a spark of daylight ever visible on that side.  “MAGSMAN’S AMUSEMENTS,” fifteen foot long by two foot high, ran over the front door and parlour winders.  The passage was a Arbour of green baize and gardenstuff.  A barrel-organ performed there unceasing.  And as to respectability,—if threepence ain’t respectable, what is?

But, the Dwarf is the principal article at present, and he was worth the money.  He was wrote up as MAJOR TPSCHOFFKI, OF THE IMPERIAL BULGRADERIAN BRIGADE.  Nobody couldn’t pronounce the name, and it never was intended anybody should.  The public always turned it, as a regular rule, into Chopski.  In the line he was called Chops; partly on that account, and partly because his real name, if he ever had any real name (which was very dubious), was Stakes.

He was a uncommon small man, he really was.  Certainly not so small as he was made out to be, but where is your Dwarf as is?  He was a most uncommon small man, with a most uncommon large Ed; and what he had inside that Ed, nobody ever knowed but himself: even supposin himself to have ever took stock of it, which it would have been a stiff job for even him to do.

The kindest little man as never growed!  Spirited, but not proud.  When he travelled with the Spotted Baby—though he knowed himself to be a nat’ral Dwarf, and knowed the Baby’s spots to be put upon him artificial, he nursed that Baby like a mother.  You never heerd him give a ill-name to a Giant.  He did allow himself to break out into strong language respectin the Fat Lady from Norfolk; but that was an affair of the ’art; and when a man’s ’art has been trifled with by a lady, and the preference giv to a Indian, he ain’t master of his actions.

He was always in love, of course; every human nat’ral phenomenon is.  And he was always in love with a large woman; I never knowed the Dwarf as could be got to love a small one.  Which helps to keep ’em the Curiosities they are.

One sing’ler idea he had in that Ed of his, which must have meant something, or it wouldn’t have been there.  It was always his opinion that he was entitled to property.  He never would put his name to anything.  He had been taught to write, by the young man without arms, who got his living with his toes (quite a writing master he was, and taught scores in the line), but Chops would have starved to death, afore he’d have gained a bit of bread by putting his hand to a paper.  This is the more curious to bear in mind, because HE had no property, nor hope of property, except his house and a sarser.  When I say his house, I mean the box, painted and got up outside like a reg’lar six-roomer, that he used to creep into, with a diamond ring (or quite as good to look at) on his forefinger, and ring a little bell out of what the Public believed to be the Drawing-room winder.  And when I say a sarser, I mean a Chaney sarser in which he made a collection for himself at the end of every Entertainment.  His cue for that, he took from me: “Ladies and gentlemen, the little man will now walk three times round the Cairawan, and retire behind the curtain.”  When he said anything important, in private life, he mostly wound it up with this form of words, and they was generally the last thing he said to me at night afore he went to bed.

He had what I consider a fine mind—a poetic mind.  His ideas respectin his property never come upon him so strong as when he sat upon a barrel-organ and had the handle turned.  Arter the wibration had run through him a little time, he would screech out, “Toby, I feel my property coming—grind away!  I’m counting my guineas by thousands, Toby—grind away!  Toby, I shall be a man of fortun!  I feel the Mint a jingling in me, Toby, and I’m swelling out into the Bank of England!”  Such is the influence of music on a poetic mind.  Not that he was partial to any other music but a barrel-organ; on the contrary, hated it.

He had a kind of a everlasting grudge agin the Public: which is a thing you may notice in many phenomenons that get their living out of it.  What riled him most in the nater of his occupation was, that it kep him out of Society.  He was continiwally saying, “Toby, my ambition is, to go into Society.  The curse of my position towards the Public is, that it keeps me hout of Society.  This don’t signify to a low beast of a Indian; he an’t formed for Society.  This don’t signify to a Spotted Baby; he an’t formed for Society.—I am.”

Nobody never could make out what Chops done with his money.  He had a good salary, down on the drum every Saturday as the day came round, besides having the run of his teeth—and he was a Woodpecker to eat—but all Dwarfs are.  The sarser was a little income, bringing him in so many halfpence that he’d carry ’em for a week together, tied up in a pocket-handkercher.  And yet he never had money.  And it couldn’t be the Fat Lady from Norfolk, as was once supposed; because it stands to reason that when you have a animosity towards a Indian,