Rattlin the Reefer | Page 6

The strange lady hurried up to the font
before us. When the clergyman saw the state in which Ford was, he
refused to proceed in the ceremony. The sexton then answered for him,
whilst the drunkard was led out of the church. The office went on, and
the lady seemed studiously to avoid looking upon her intended godson;
I was christened simply, Ralph Rattlin. The lady wrote her name in the
book the last, and it was instantly removed by the clerk. She thrust a
guinea into his hand, and then, for the first time, bent her veiled face
over me. I must have been a miserable-looking object, for no sooner
had she seen me, than she gave a bitter shriek, and laying hold of the
woodwork of the pews, she slowly assisted herself out of the church.
Two or three persons who happened to be present, as well as Mr and
Mrs Brandon, stepped forward to support her, but the clergyman, who
seemed to have had a previous conversation with her, signed them to
desist. It was altogether a most melancholy affair. Old Ford, when we
left the church, was helped into the coach again, Joe Brandon, being
either justly irritated at his conduct, or angry that he could not see my
unknown godmother's face, when we were all fairly on our way home,
gave the old sot such a tremendous beating, that Mrs Brandon nearly
went into fits with alarm, and Ford himself was confined to his bed for
a week after. When I reflect upon the manner in which I was christened,
though I cannot exactly call it a "maimed rite," I have a great mind to
have it done over again, only I am deterred by the expense.
All now was bustle in removing from Felix Street, Lambeth, to Bath,
where it was ordered that I should be dipped every morning in some
spring, that at that time had much celebrity. Old Ford was left behind.
At Bath I remained three years, Joe Brandon doing no work, and
persuading himself now, that he actually was a gentleman. In my third
year, my foster-sister, little robust, ruddy Mary, died, and the weakly,
stunted, and drooping sapling lived on. This death endeared me more
and more to my nurse, and Joe himself was, by self-interest, taught an
affection for me. He knew that if I went to the grave, he must go to
work; and he now used himself to perform the office of dry-nurse to me,
taking me to the spring, and allowing no one to dip me but himself.
When I grew older, he had many stories to tell me about my pantings,

and my implorings, and my offers of unnumbered kisses, and of all my
playthings, if he would not put me in that cold water--only this one, one
morning. And about a certain Dr Buck, who had taken a wonderful
liking to me, after the manner of the Lambeth surgeon, and had
prescribed for me, and sent me physic, and port wine, all out of pure
philanthropy; and how much I hated this same Dr Buck, and his
horrible "Give him t'other dip, Brandon." But all these are as things that
had long died from my own recollection.
CHAPTER FOUR.
MY PROXIMITY TO THE CLERGY IMPELS ME TO PREACH--I
ADVOCATE THE VULGAR, AND PROVE THAT NEITHER THE
HUMBLE NOR THE LOW ARE NECESSARILY THE
DEBASED--CONSEQUENTLY THIS CHAPTER NEED NOT BE
READ.
What with dipping, port wine, bark, and Dr Buck, at the age of four
years my limbs began to expand properly, and my countenance to
assume the hue of health. I have recorded the death of my foster-sister
Mary; but, about this time, the top-sawyer, wishing to perpetuate the
dynasty of the Brandons, began to enact pater familias in a most
reckless manner. He was wrong; but this must be said in extenuation of
his impiously acting upon the divine command, "to increase and
multiply," that at that time, Mr Malthus had not corrected the mistake
of the Omniscient, nor had Miss Harriet Martineau begun her
pilgrimage after the "preventive check." There was no longer any
pretence for my remaining at Bath, or for my worthy foster-father
abstaining from work; so we again removed, with a small family, in our
search after saw-pits and happiness, to one of the best houses in Felix
Street, somewhere near Lambeth Marsh. This place, after the
experience of some time, proving not to be sufficiently blissful, we
removed to Paradise Row; some furlongs nearer to the Father in God,
his Grace the Archbishop of Canterbury. I have a laudable pride in
showing that I had a respectable--I beg pardon, the word is
inapplicable--I mean a grand neighbour. "I am not the rose," said the
flower in the Persian