UNSUSPECTED WAYS OF EARNING A LIVELIHOOD.

'Why, sir, we never should wake of our own accord, specially these dark mornings, if we hadn't somebody to knock us up.'

The speaker was a worthy artisan whom I often used to meet at a certain steam-boat pier on the Thames; his after-breakfast labours appearing to begin about the time I usually was in waiting for the boat.

'You see, sir,' he continued in answer to a question I had put to him—'you see, sir, there's about sixty of us hereabouts down by the water-side; and there's so much that depends upon the tide, that we have to be called at all hours—sometimes two o'clock in the morning, or three or four, just as the case may be.'

'But who is it calls you?' I asked. 'A policeman, I suppose?'

'No; not a policeman,' my companion answered; 'it would take up a deal too much of his time; besides, fresh policemen are always coming on to the beat, and we could not be bothered with constantly having to shew and tell a new man the way.'

'Well, it must be rather an awkward matter,' I observed.

'No; it isn't. We each pay fourpence a week to Phil Larkins; and he wakes us as regular as clockwork.'

'But if sixty people want to be called at all sorts of irregular hours, how does the awakener manage to know his duties?' I asked.

'Oh, we chalk on our doors or shutters the time, and that way he knows. Phil is to be depended upon always. But he very nearly lost the work a year ago, and it was a shame. Some fellow wanted to step into his shoes, and morning after morning went and altered the chalkings, so that we were either called two hours before our time, or over-slept ourselves, and so got into trouble. There was no end of quarrels and misunderstandings till the trick was found out. And I think the rascal who did it deserved a ducking—only, you see Phil is such a little fellow he couldn't give it him.'

'It was a dastardly trick!' I exclaimed with indignation, bidding the man good-bye.

Another speaking acquaintance of mine was an old man whose duty consisted in sweeping down the steps which were submerged at high-tide, but quite bare at low-water. I had often seen him at work cleansing from mud and silt step by step as the tide receded; and now it occurred to me that from the nature of his occupation he, of all others, must work at the most irregular hours. It was a dull wintry morning, but the old man was working cheerfully at his accustomed task, which, as the water was getting low, was very nearly completed. He was pale and thin, but had that air of decent respectability which happily is often seen in the very humblest classes.

I opened the conversation in true English fashion by a remark on the weather, asking his opinion as to the probability of rain.

'Snow more likely,' he answered laconically, but quite civilly.

'I daresay you are right,' was my reply, 'for I should think you are one of the weather-wise people.'

'Ought to be, if there's anything learned in being always twelve hours in the four-and-twenty out of doors all seasons,' was the rejoinder.

'Rather hard work for you, my man,' I said sympathisingly.

'I don't complain. There's lighter work to be sure, but there's some that's a deal heavier; and after being at it so many years, maybe it comes easier to me than it would to another. I was only fifty-five when I began, and now I'm seventy-three.'

'And is it necessary that you should work all the six hours that the tide is ebbing?' I asked, really desiring the information.

'Quite necessary,' he replied, descending a step, and plying his broom vigorously as he spoke. 'Why, if I did not begin at the beginning and go on regularly, the mud would harden, and I should have to drag up buckets of water to wash the steps with. And gentlefolks want nice clean steps going to the boats.'

'I suppose you are glad when your work does not happen to be in the dead of the night?' I observed.

'I don't know that I care. It is the change in the time that makes the variety in the work. And sometimes on fine nights, when the stars are blinking and winking, or the moon floating in the sky, with the clouds rushing along as if every now and then they were washing her face—I think things and feel things as I don't at other times. I think it is a mistake for people always to sleep of nights, I do.'

'I suppose you depend on some one to call you up at the turn of the tide?' I said inquiringly.

'No; I don't,' replied the old man, with a shake of his head. 'I tried that at first, but it didn't answer. I daresay Larkins might do it; but it was before he took to the business of knocking at doors; and the man I trusted to made mistakes or else forgot, and didn't wake me right, and I very nearly lost the place; and ever since I have trusted to myself.'

'Then how do you manage?' I said.

'That is just what I don't know, except that it seems to me it is managed for me. I only know that if it is high-water in the deadest hour of the night, I always do wake. It is just as if something said: "Look alive; time's up;" and sure enough it always is. I often wonder at it; but I have come to think that wondering is of no more use than wondering at the tides coming up so surely, and the new moons shining just as they are expected, and the stars all keeping their places so safely. O sir, some folks, no doubt, are very learned, but there's a deal more in the world than people can ever make out.'

'Do you know, my friend, that you are speaking the thoughts of one of the greatest of men?' I exclaimed, reflecting on Hamlet's words to Horatio.

'Am I? What did he say?' was the rejoinder.

'He said,' I exclaimed, '"there are more things in heaven and earth than are dreamt of in our philosophy."'

'Well, he was right, whoever he was,' exclaimed the old man, with a sort of innocent satisfaction at his own corroboration of a great man's words. 'And what's more, I think the world would be a worse place than it is if we had nothing left to wonder at.'

'I heartily agree with you,' was my reply.

'And there's more to wonder at than even the stars and the tides,' continued the sweeper, 'and that's the ways of men, the good and the bad that's in the most of us. But then I do think we river-side people see more than others, what with the partings and meetings going on; and now and again the dead bodies that come to shore, and sometimes the miserable despairing people who would drown themselves if they weren't hindered. Well, it's these things that set me wondering and thinking, and that make the working hours pass quickly, especially at night.'

'You seem a bit of a philosopher,' I said admiringly.

'What's that?' cried the old man.

'It means lover of wisdom,' I replied; 'and he is happy who can justly lay claim to the title. My friend, we must have another talk another day.'

'Well, sir, you'll always find me here according to the tide; leastways unless I am ill again, as I was last year.'

'How was that?' I asked.

'Well, I don't quite know myself,' the old man answered, 'for I don't remember much about it. When they found the steps neglected, some of the wharf people came to look after me, and then they took me off to the hospital, where I was for a matter of six weeks. You see, sir, since my poor old missus died I am all alone, for my grandson went to sea; his father is a soldier; and my daughter has been in service these thirty years; so I had no one to go for a doctor or give me a drink of water.'

'Oh, that was very sad,' I exclaimed.

'Well, it was rather hard lines; but you see no one knew how I was taken; and when they found me, folks were mighty good to me, and they gave me back my place when I got well; so I ought not to complain.'

The boat by which I travel was now nearing the pier, and I stepped on board, with a friendly nod to the old man, reflecting with some sympathy on the many such stories which doubtless, if we knew them, would serve to swell