A Dickens Discovery

BY rights, the little man with whom I am acquainted should belong to Dickens. He must have been lost from the pages of Martin Chuzzlewit and placed, by a trick of Fate, in this hustling, conventional young Southern town. I chanced to step into the printing-office one day, and paused upon the threshold with a Columbus-like thrill at my discovery. The little old man, his plump person stuffed into a chair, was seated at what might be called a desk, though no self-respecting desk would recognize it. Newspapers in wild disorder surrounded him; letters bulged from numerous pigeon-holes; ‘copy’ straggled out of dusty corners; and a manuscript, folded with some pretense at neatness and no doubt awaiting a day of judgment, stuck one ear out of a half-open drawer. An editorial, overcome by the heat of its attack upon the unsanitary conditions existing in a baker’s shop, reclined against an ink bottle for support. From this chaos emerged his squarish head, with a round hat distantly related to a breakfast muffin perched upon it. A high collar, in a vain effort to meet in front, and lacking two inches of accomplishing its purpose, encircled his neck. A smart white tie, realizing its superiority over the collar, met in front and formed a stiff bow. The shirt was an old friend showing signs of frequent contact with ink. Nondescript gray trousers clung tightly round his waist, but flared out generously where they touched his boots. The boots which completed this costume were square, and dented and covered with dust. Slay! Had I come unawares upon a friend of Mr. Pickwick, or a cousin of the Cheeryble Brothers? No; I was about to address the uncle of dear Tom Pinch. At my greeting he rose and clasped my hand warmly, while his blue eyes, behind a pair of large spectacles, beamed kindly into mine. From that moment our friendship is dated.

But the printing-office without the Uncle would be in a far more sorry plight than the Pecksniff household without Tom. For the strong moral tone of Tom’s master proved a sufficient prop even after Tom had been dismissed, but the printing-office — what a spineless affair it would become were the Uncle to leave! Pray, who would collect the bills or read the proof? Who would conscientiously discharge these and other duties filled as they are with a mass of petty and irritating detail? Who indeed, but the Uncle! The Editor cannot steal time for such matters. Stirring and eloquent articles glide from his pen; opinions, buttered and sugared to suit the taste of questioners, drop from his lips, Smooth and suave and sure he is— the flint-hearted fellow! For five-and-thirty years the Uncle has shouldered the responsibilities of the newspaper business, receiving small reward. What high ambitions may have been stifled beneath the weight of unavoidable duties! Yet not a breath of complaint escapes him. He always has a ready smile, a twinkle in each eye, and a hand that flashes out in welcome whenever he meets you. Everybody knows and likes the Uncle, but few detect the heart of gold beating under the ink-spotted shirt.

And what would the weekly paper be without the Uncle’s contributions? He writes under the name of the ’Rambler,’ and the information gathered from his daily rambles appears in the Mayfield News. Readers are told that Timothy Dowdle’s new barber shop will be a thing of beauty; that one of our permanent and popular places of amusement has passed to new management; that the sweetness in Mayfield is not wasted on the desert air, but put up in cans by the Syrup Factory. Or perhaps the alarm of fire was sounded about one o’clock Tuesday morning, indicating that the scene of conflagration was in the second ward; or the News joins in wishing the newly married couple a happy and prosperous voyage o’er the seas of life. The Uncle himself is a bachelor, yet he seems to impart an air of would-be domesticity. If he could but have found the right little woman of Dickensesquc style! Perhaps there was a bright spot of romance coloring the past prosaic years.

After each meeting with him, I fall to wondering about his childhood days. Did he romp and shout and play as other boys do? No; my fancy calls for a lad with a deep love of books, who could be caught any fine summer day stretched out under a shady apple tree, Treasure Island with its wealth of adventure close by, and in his hand a mammoth pippin slowly passing out of sight. Or the question recurs: where does he find his clothes? For they are undoubtedly lineal descendants of Noah’s wardrobe. He could not have selected them from a general stock, such clothes as he wears would suit no one but himself. They were made for him; they strike one as being an indispensable part of the man.

Just recently I saw him on the corner, a bulky umbrella hooked over his arm, his eyes fixed thoughtfully on the ground, coming with great deliberation toward me. He wore a tall, square, black hat set firmly on his head, and a voluminous alpaca coat reaching to his knees. He waved his hand in a salute and moved on. Farther on he stopped a passer-by and engaged in a wordy bout. Was he lonely, I pondered? It was Sunday, and he should have been returning to a cottage with roses tumbling over it in pink confusion. There, a comfortable little lady would have the supper spread out on a round table made for two. And he would know that she shared not only the meal, but all his joys and sorrows.

During our strawberry season, he took me aside to confide, ‘I thought that I would purchase several boxes of strawberries and bring them up, if you will make me a real shortcake.’ Then, in a telling whisper, ‘You know I’ve never had enough!’ Of course I promptly agreed, smiling in remembrance of meagre boarding-house helps. So he came to dinner, and when the cake was brought to the table in all its luscious glory, three layers topped with fruit, we turned to each other with a look of understanding. And let me tell you that my friend measured his appetite by the Dickens standard!

He is often a subject of affectionate discussion in our home.

‘Suppose,’ says one, ‘that he were thin.’

‘The loss of a pound would spoil him,’ I declare.

‘ It would never do,’ gravely answers great-aunt Madeline.

‘Can you imagine him with a red necktie?’ queries another.

‘A tan shoe with a pointed toe’ — suggests a third.

‘Oh!’ I implore, ‘any such innovations — and he would no longer be the Uncle.’

It is unfortunate that Dickens never found him, but good fortune left him for me. I discovered him!