
                                Charles Dickens

                          The Posthumous Papers of the

                                 Pickwick Club

                                    Preface

It was observed, in the Preface to the original Edition of the »Posthumous
Papers of the Pickwick Club,« that they were designed for the introduction of
diverting characters and incidents; that no ingenuity of plot was attempted, or
even at that time considered very feasible by the author in connexion with the
desultory mode of publication adopted; and that the machinery of the Club,
proving cumbrous in the management, was gradually abandoned as the work
progressed. Although, on one of these points, experience and study afterwards
taught me something, and I could perhaps wish now that these chapters were
strung together on a stronger thread of general interest, still, what they are
they were designed to be.
    I have seen various accounts of the origin of these Pickwick Papers, which
have, at all events, possessed - for me - the charm of perfect novelty. As I may
infer, from the occasional appearance of such histories, that my readers have an
interest in the matter, I will relate how they came into existence.
    I was a young man of two or three-and-twenty, when MESSRS. CHAPMAN and HALL,
attracted by some pieces I was at that time writing in the Morning Chronicle
newspaper, or had just written in the Old Monthly Magazine (of which one series
had lately been collected and published in two volumes, illustrated by MR.
GEORGE CRUIKSHANK), waited upon me to propose a something that should be
published in shilling numbers - then only known to me, or, I believe, to anybody
else, by a dim recollection of certain interminable novels in that form, which
used to be carried about the country by pedlars, and over some of which I
remember to have shed innumerable tears before I had served my apprenticeship to
Life.
    When I opened my door in Furnival's Inn to the partner who represented the
firm, I recognised in him the person from whose hands I had bought, two or three
years previously, and whom I had never seen before or since, my first copy of
the Magazine in which my first effusion - a paper in the Sketches, called MR.
MINNS AND HIS COUSIN - dropped stealthily one evening at twilight, with fear and
trembling, into a dark letter-box, in a dark office, up a dark court in Fleet
Street - appeared in all the glory of print; on which occasion I walked down to
Westminster Hall, and turned into it for half-an-hour, because my eyes were so
dimmed with joy and pride, that they could not bear the street, and were not fit
to be seen there. I told my visitor of the coincidence, which we both hailed as
a good omen; and so fell to business.
    The idea propounded to me, was, that the monthly something should be a
vehicle for certain plates to be executed by MR. SEYMOUR; and there was a
notion, either on the part of that admirable humorous artist, or of my visitor,
that a NIMROD Club, the members of which were to go out shooting, fishing, and
so forth, and getting themselves into difficulties through their want of
dexterity, would be the best means of introducing these. I objected, on
consideration, that although born and partly bred in the country I was no great
sportsman, except in regard of all kinds of locomotion; that the idea was not
novel, and had been already much used; that it would be infinitely better for
the plates to arise naturally out of the text; and that I would like to take my
own way, with a freer range of English scenes and people, and was afraid I
should ultimately do so in any case, whatever course I might prescribe to myself
at starting. My views being deferred to, I thought of Mr. Pickwick, and wrote
the first number; from the proof sheets of which, MR. SEYMOUR made his drawing
of the Club, and his happy portrait of its founder: - the latter on MR. EDWARD
CHAPMAN'S description of the dress and bearing of a real personage whom he had
often seen. I connected Mr. Pickwick with a club, because of the original
suggestion, and I put in Mr. Winkle expressly for the use of MR. SEYMOUR'S. We
started with a number of twenty-four pages instead of thirty-two, and four
illustrations in lieu of a couple. MR. SEYMOUR'S sudden and lamented death
before the second number was published, brought about a quick decision upon a
point already in agitation; the number became one of thirty-two pages with only
two illustrations, and remained so to the end.
    It is with great unwillingness that I notice some intangible and incoherent
assertions which have been made, professedly on behalf of MR. SEYMOUR, to the
effect that he had some share in the invention of this book, or of anything in
it, not faithfully described in the foregoing paragraph. With the moderation
that is due equally to my respect for the memory of a brother-artist, and to my
self-respect, I confine myself to placing on record here the facts:
    That, MR. SEYMOUR never originated or suggested an incident, a phrase, or a
word, to be found in this book. That, MR. SEYMOUR died when only twenty-four
pages of this book were published, and when assuredly not forty-eight were
written. That, I believe I never saw MR. SEYMOUR'S hand-writing in my life.
That, I never saw MR. SEYMOUR but once in my life, and that was on the night but
one before his death, when he certainly offered no suggestion whatsoever. That I
saw him then in the presence of two persons, both living, perfectly acquainted
with all these facts, and whose written testimony to them I possess. Lastly,
that MR. EDWARD CHAPMAN (the survivor of the original firm of CHAPMAN and HALL)
has set down in writing, for similar preservation, his personal knowledge of the
origin and progress of this book, of the monstrosity of the baseless assertions
in question, and (tested by details) even of the self-evident impossibility of
there being any truth in them. In the exercise of the forbearance on which I
have resolved, I do not quote MR. EDWARD CHAPMAN'S account of his deceased
partner's reception, on a certain occasion, of the pretences in question.
    »Boz,« my signature in the Morning Chronicle, and in the Old Monthly
Magazine, appended to the monthly cover of this book, and retained long
afterwards, was the nickname of a pet child, a younger brother, whom I had
dubbed Moses, in honour of the Vicar of Wakefield; which being facetiously
pronounced through the nose, became Boses, and being shortened, became Boz. Boz
was a very familiar household word to me, long before I was an author, and so I
came to adopt it.
    It has been observed of Mr. Pickwick, that there is a decided change in his
character, as these pages proceed, and that he becomes more good and more
sensible. I do not think this change will appear forced or unnatural to my
readers, if they will reflect that in real life the peculiarities and oddities
of a man who has anything whimsical about him, generally impress us first, and
that it is not until we are better acquainted with him that we usually begin to
look below these superficial traits, and to know the better part of him.
    Lest there should be any well-intentioned persons who do not perceive the
difference (as some such could not, when OLD MORTALITY was newly published),
between religion and the cant of religion, piety and the pretence of piety, a
humble reverence for the great truths of Scripture and an audacious and
offensive obtrusion of its letter and not its spirit in the commonest
dissensions and meanest affairs of life, to the extraordinary confusion of
ignorant minds, let them understand that it is always the latter, and never the
former, which is satirized here. Further, that the latter is here satirized as
being, according to all experience, inconsistent with the former, impossible of
union with it, and one of the most evil and mischievous falsehoods existent in
society - whether it establish its head-quarters, for the time being, in Exeter
Hall, or Ebenezer Chapel, or both. It may appear unnecessary to offer a word of
observation on so plain a head. But it is never out of season to protest against
that coarse familiarity with sacred things which is busy on the lip, and idle in
the heart; or against the confounding of Christianity with any class of persons
who, in the words of SWIFT, have just enough religion to make them hate, and not
enough to make them love, one another.
    I have found it curious and interesting, looking over the sheets of this
reprint, to mark what important social improvements have taken place about us,
almost imperceptibly, since they were originally written. The licence of
Counsel, and the degree to which Juries are ingeniously bewildered, are yet
susceptible of moderation; while an improvement in the mode of conducting
Parliamentary Elections (and even Parliaments too, perhaps) is still within the
bounds of possibility. But legal reforms have pared the claws of Messrs. Dodson
and Fogg; a spirit of self-respect, mutual forbearance, education, and
co-operation for such good ends, has diffused itself among their clerks; places
far apart are brought together, to the present convenience and advantage of the
Public, and to the certain destruction, in time, of a host of petty jealousies,
blindnesses, and prejudices, by which the Public alone have always been the
sufferers; the laws relating to imprisonment for debt are altered; and the Fleet
Prison is pulled down!
    Who knows, but by the time the series reaches its conclusion, it may be
discovered that there are even magistrates in town and country, who should be
taught to shake hands every day with Common-sense and Justice; that even Poor
Laws may have-mercy on the weak, the aged, and unfortunate; that Schools, on the
broad principles of Christianity, are the best adornment for the length and
breadth of this civilised land; that Prison-doors should be barred on the
outside, no less heavily and carefully than they are barred within; that the
universal diffusion of common means of decency and health is as much the right
of the poorest of the poor, as it is indispensable to the safety of the rich,
and of the State, that a few petty boards and bodies - less than drops in the
great ocean of humanity, which roars around them - are not for ever to let loose
Fever and Consumption on God's creatures at their will, or always to keep their
jobbing little fiddles going, for a Dance of Death.

                                   Chapter I

 

                               The Pickwickians.

The first ray of light which illumines the gloom, and converts into a dazzling
brilliancy that obscurity in which the earlier history of the public career of
the immortal Pickwick would appear to be involved, is derived from the perusal
of the following entry in the Transactions of the Pickwick Club, which the
editor of these papers feels the highest pleasure in laying before his readers,
as a proof of the careful attention, indefatigable assiduity, and nice
discrimination, with which his search among the multifarious documents confided
to him has been conducted.
    »May 12, 1827. Joseph Smiggers, Esq., P.V.P.M.P.C.,1 presiding. The
following resolutions unanimously agreed to: -
    That this Association has heard read, with feelings of unmingled
satisfaction, and unqualified approval, the paper communicated by Samuel
Pickwick, Esq., G.C.M.P.C.,2 entitled Speculations on the Source of the
Hampstead Ponds, with some Observations on the Theory of Tittlebats; and that
this Association does hereby return its warmest thanks to the said Samuel
Pickwick, Esq., G.C.M.P.C., for the same.
    That while this Association is deeply sensible of the advantages which must
accrue to the cause of science from the production to which they have just
adverted, - no less than from the unwearied researches of Samuel Pickwick, Esq.,
G.C.M.P.C., in Hornsey, Highgate, Brixton, and Camberwell, - they cannot but
entertain a lively sense of the inestimable benefits which must inevitably
result from carrying the speculations of that learned man into a wider field,
from extending his travels, and consequently enlarging his sphere of
observation, to the advancement of knowledge, and the diffusion of learning.
    That, with the view just mentioned, this Association has taken into its
serious consideration a proposal, emanating from the aforesaid Samuel Pickwick,
Esq., G.C.M.P.C., and three other Pickwickians hereinafter named, for forming a
new branch of United Pickwickians, under the title of The Corresponding Society
of the Pickwick Club.
    That the said proposal has received the sanction and approval of this
Association.
    That the Corresponding Society of the Pickwick Club is therefore hereby
constituted; and that Samuel Pickwick, Esq., G.C.M.P.C., Tracy Tupman, Esq.,
M.P.C., Augustus Snodgrass, Esq., M.P.C., and Nathaniel Winkle, Esq., M.P.C.,
are hereby nominated and appointed members of the same; and that they be
requested to forward, from time to time, authenticated accounts of their
journeys and investigations, of their observations of character and manners, and
of the whole of their adventures, together with all tales and papers to which
local scenery or associations may give rise, to the Pickwick Club, stationed in
London.
    That this Association cordially recognises the principle of every member of
the Corresponding Society defraying his own travelling expenses; and that it
sees no objection whatever to the members of the said society pursuing their
inquiries for any length of time they please, upon the same terms.
    That the members of the aforesaid Corresponding Society be, and are, hereby
informed, that their proposal to pay the postage of their letters, and the
carriage of their parcels, has been deliberated upon by this Association: that
this Association considers such proposal worthy of the great minds from which it
emanated, and that it hereby signifies its perfect acquiescence therein.«
    A casual observer, adds the secretary, to whose notes we are indebted for
the following account - a casual observer might possibly have remarked nothing
extraordinary in the bald head, and circular spectacles, which were intently
turned towards his (the secretary's) face, during the reading of the above
resolutions: to those who knew that the gigantic brain of Pickwick was working
beneath that forehead, and that the beaming eyes of Pickwick were twinkling
behind those glasses, the sight was indeed an interesting one. There sat the man
who had traced to their source the mighty ponds of Hampstead, and agitated the
scientific world with his Theory of Tittlebats, as calm and unmoved as the deep
waters of the one on a frosty day, or as a solitary specimen of the other in the
inmost recesses of an earthen jar. And how much more interesting did the
spectacle become, when, starting into full life and animation, as a simultaneous
call for Pickwick burst from his followers, that illustrious man slowly mounted
into the Windsor chair, on which he had been previously seated, and addressed
the club himself had founded. What a study for an artist did that exciting scene
present! The eloquent Pickwick, with one hand gracefully concealed behind his
coat tails, and the other waving in air, to assist his glowing declamation; his
elevated position revealing those tights and gaiters, which, had they clothed an
ordinary man, might have passed without observation, but which, when Pickwick
clothed them - if we may use the expression - inspired voluntary awe and
respect; surrounded by the men who had volunteered to share the perils of his
travels, and who were destined to participate in the glories of his discoveries.
On his right hand sat Mr. Tracy Tupman - the too susceptible Tupman, who to the
wisdom and experience of maturer years superadded the enthusiasm and ardour of a
boy, in the most interesting and pardonable of human weaknesses - love. Time and
feeding had expanded that once romantic form; the black silk waistcoat had
become more and more developed; inch by inch had the gold watch-chain beneath it
disappeared from within the range of Tupman's vision; and gradually had the
capacious chin encroached upon the borders of the white cravat; but the soul of
Tupman had known no change - admiration of the fair sex was still its ruling
passion. On the left of his great leader sat the poetic Snodgrass, and near him
again the sporting Winkle, the former poetically enveloped in a mysterious blue
cloak with a canine-skin collar, and the latter communicating additional lustre
to a new green shooting coat, plaid neckerchief, and closely-fitted drabs.
    Mr. Pickwick's oration upon this occasion, together with the debate thereon,
is entered on the Transactions of the Club. Both bear a strong affinity to the
discussions of other celebrated bodies; and, as it is always interesting to
trace a resemblance between the proceedings of great men, we transfer the entry
to these pages.
    »Mr. Pickwick observed (says the Secretary) that fame was dear to the heart
of every man. Poetic fame was dear to the heart of his friend Snodgrass; the
fame of conquest was equally dear to his friend Tupman; and the desire of
earning fame in the sports of the field, the air, and the water, was uppermost
in the breast of his friend Winkle. He (Mr. Pickwick) would not deny that he was
influenced by human passions, and human feelings (cheers) - possibly by human
weaknesses - (loud cries of No); but this he would say, that if ever the fire of
self-importance broke out in his bosom, the desire to benefit the human race in
preference effectually quenched it. The praise of mankind was his Swing;
philanthropy was his insurance office. (Vehement cheering.) He had felt some
pride - he acknowledged it freely, and let his enemies make the most of it - he
had felt some pride when he presented his Tittlebatian Theory to the world; it
might be celebrated or it might not. (A cry of It is; and great cheering.) He
would take the assertion of that honourable Pickwickian whose voice he had just
heard - it was celebrated; but if the fame of that treatise were to extend to
the furthest confines of the known world, the pride with which he should reflect
on the authorship of that production would be as nothing compared with the pride
with which he looked around him, on this, the proudest moment of his existence.
(Cheers.) He was a humble individual. (No, no.) Still he could not but feel that
they had selected him for a service of great honour, and of some danger.
Travelling was in a troubled state, and the minds of coachmen were unsettled.
Let them look abroad and contemplate the scenes which were enacting around them.
Stage coaches were upsetting in all directions, horses were bolting, boats were
overturning, and boilers were bursting. (Cheers - a voice No.) No! (Cheers.) Let
that honourable Pickwickian who cried No so loudly come forward and deny it, if
he could. (Cheers.) Who was it that cried No? (Enthusiastic cheering.) Was it
some vain and disappointed man - he would not say haberdasher - (loud cheers) -
who, jealous of the praise which had been - perhaps undeservedly - bestowed on
his (Mr. Pickwick's) researches, and smarting under the censure which had been
heaped upon his own feeble attempts at rivalry, now took this vile and
calumnious mode of -
    Mr. BLOTTON (of Aldgate) rose to order. Did the honourable Pickwickian
allude to him? (Cries of Order, Chair, Yes, No, Go on, Leave off, etc.)
    Mr. PICKWICK would not put up to be put down by clamour. He had alluded to
the honourable gentleman. (Great excitement.)
    Mr. BLOTTON would only say then, that he repelled the hon. gent.'s false and
scurrilous accusation, with profound contempt. (Great cheering.) The hon. gent.
was a humbug. (Immense confusion, and loud cries of Chair and Order.)
    Mr. A. SNODGRASS rose to order. He threw himself upon the chair. (Hear.) He
wished to know whether this disgraceful contest between two members of that club
should be allowed to continue. (Hear, hear.)
    The CHAIRMAN was quite sure the hon. Pickwickian would withdraw the
expression he had just made use of.
    Mr. BLOTTON, with all possible respect for the chair, was quite sure he
would not.
    The CHAIRMAN felt it his imperative duty to demand of the honourable
gentleman, whether he had used the expression which had just escaped him in a
common sense.
    Mr. BLOTTON had no hesitation in saying that he had not - he had used the
word in its Pickwickian sense. (Hear, hear.) He was bound to acknowledge that,
personally, he entertained the highest regard and esteem for the honourable
gentleman; he had merely considered him a humbug in a Pickwickian point of view.
(Hear, hear.)
    Mr. PICKWICK felt much gratified by the fair, candid, and full explanation
of his honourable friend. He begged it to be at once understood, that his own
observations had been merely intended to bear a Pickwickian construction.
(Cheers.)«
    Here the entry terminates, as we have no doubt the debate did also, after
arriving at such a highly satisfactory and intelligible point. We have no
official statement of the facts which the reader will find recorded in the next
chapter, but they have been carefully collated from letters and other MS.
authorities, so unquestionably genuine as to justify their narration in a
connected form.
 

                                   Chapter II

    The First Day's Journey, and the First Evening's Adventures; with Their
                                 Consequences.

That punctual servant of all work, the sun, had just risen, and begun to strike
a light on the morning of the thirteenth of May, one thousand eight hundred and
twenty-seven, when Mr. Samuel Pickwick burst like another sun from his slumbers,
threw open his chamber window, and looked out upon the world beneath. Goswell
Street was at his feet, Goswell Street was on his right hand - as far as the eye
could reach, Goswell Street extended on his left; and the opposite side of
Goswell Street was over the way. »Such,« thought Mr. Pickwick, »are the narrow
views of those philosophers who, content with examining the things that lie
before them, look not to the truths which are hidden beyond. As well might I be
content to gaze on Goswell Street for ever, without one effort to penetrate to
the hidden countries which on every side surround it.« And having given vent to
this beautiful reflection, Mr. Pickwick proceeded to put himself into his
clothes, and his clothes into his portmanteau. Great men are seldom over
scrupulous in the arrangement of their attire; the operation of shaving,
dressing, and coffee-imbibing was soon performed: and in another hour, Mr.
Pickwick, with his portmanteau in his hand, his telescope in his great-coat
pocket, and his note-book in his waistcoat, ready for the reception of any
discoveries worthy of being noted down, had arrived at the coach stand in St.
Martin's-le-Grand.
    »Cab!« said Mr. Pickwick.
    »Here you are, sir,« shouted a strange specimen of the human race, in a
sackcloth coat, and apron of the same, who with a brass label and number round
his neck, looked as if he were catalogued in some collection of rarities. This
was the waterman. »Here you are, sir. Now, then, fust cab!« And the first cab
having been fetched from the public-house, where he had been smoking his first
pipe, Mr. Pickwick and his portmanteau were thrown into the vehicle.
    »Golden Cross,« said Mr. Pickwick.
    »Only a bob's vorth, Tommy,« cried the driver, sulkily, for the information
of his friend the waterman, as the cab drove off.
    »How old is that horse, my friend?« inquired Mr. Pickwick, rubbing his nose
with the shilling he had reserved for the fare.
    »Forty-two,« replied the driver, eyeing him askant.
    »What!« ejaculated Mr. Pickwick, laying his hand upon his note-book. The
driver reiterated his former statement. Mr. Pickwick looked very hard at the
man's face, but his features were immovable, so he noted down the fact
forthwith.
    »And how long do you keep him out at a time?« inquired Mr. Pickwick,
searching for further information.
    »Two or three veeks,« replied the man.
    »Weeks!« said Mr. Pickwick in astonishment - and out came the note-book
again.
    »He lives at Pentonwil when he's at home,« observed the driver, coolly, »but
we seldom takes him home, on account of his veakness.«
    »On account of his weakness!« reiterated the perplexed Mr. Pickwick.
    »He always falls down when he's took out o' the cab,« continued the driver,
»but when he's in it, we bears him up werry tight, and takes him in werry short,
so as he can't werry well fall down; and we've got a pair o' precious large
wheels on, so ven he does move, they run after him, and he must go on - he can't
help it.«
    Mr. Pickwick entered every word of this statement in his note-book, with the
view of communicating it to the club, as a singular instance of the tenacity of
life in horses, under trying circumstances. The entry was scarcely completed
when they reached the Golden Cross. Down jumped the driver, and out got Mr.
Pickwick. Mr. Tupman, Mr. Snodgrass, and Mr. Winkle, who had been anxiously
waiting the arrival of their illustrious leader, crowded to welcome him.
    »Here's your fare,« said Mr. Pickwick, holding out the shilling to the
driver.
    What was the learned man's astonishment, when that unaccountable person
flung the money on the pavement, and requested in figurative terms to be allowed
the pleasure of fighting him (Mr. Pickwick) for the amount!
    »You are mad,« said Mr. Snodgrass.
    »Or drunk,« said Mr. Winkle.
    »Or both,« said Mr. Tupman.
    »Come on!« said the cab-driver, sparring away like clock-work. »Come on -
all four on you.«
    »Here's a lark!« shouted half-a-dozen hackney coachmen. »Go to vork, Sam,« -
and they crowded with great glee round the party.
    »What's the row, Sam?« inquired one gentleman in black calico sleeves.
    »Row!« replied the cab man, »what did he want my number for?«
    »I didn't want your number,« said the astonished Mr. Pickwick.
    »What did you take it for, then?« inquired the cab man.
    »I didn't take it,« said Mr. Pickwick, indignantly.
    »Would any body believe,« continued the cab-driver, appealing to the crowd,
»would any body believe as an informer 'ud go about in a man's cab, not only
taken' down his number, but ev'ry word he says into the bargain« (a light
flashed upon Mr. Pickwick - it was the note-book).
    »Did he though?« inquired another cab man.
    »Yes, did he,« replied the first; »and then arter aggerawatin' me to assault
him, gets three witnesses here to prove it. But I'll give it him, if I've six
months for it. Come on!« and the cab man dashed his hat upon the ground, with a
reckless disregard of his own private property, and knocked Mr. Pickwick's
spectacles off, and followed up the attack with a blow on Mr. Pickwick's nose,
and another on Mr. Pickwick's chest, and a third in Mr. Snodgrass's eye, and a
fourth, by way of variety, in Mr. Tupman's waistcoat, and then danced into the
road, and then back again to the pavement, and finally dashed the whole
temporary supply of breath out of Mr. Winkle's body; and all in half-a-dozen
seconds.
    »Where's an officer?« said Mr. Snodgrass.
    »Put 'em under the pump,« suggested a hot-pieman.
    »You shall smart for this,« gasped Mr. Pickwick.
    »Informers!« shouted the crowd.
    »Come on,« cried the cab man, who had been sparring without cessation the
whole time.
    The mob had hitherto been passive spectators of the scene, but as the
intelligence of the Pickwickians being informers was spread among them, they
began to canvass with considerable vivacity the propriety of enforcing the
heated pastry-vendor's proposition; and there is no saying what acts of personal
aggression they might have committed had not the affray been unexpectedly
terminated by the interposition of a new comer.
    »What's the fun?« said a rather tall thin young man, in a green coat,
emerging suddenly from the coach yard.
    »Informers!« shouted the crowd again.
    »We are not,« roared Mr. Pickwick, in a tone which, to any dispassionate
listener, carried conviction with it.
    »Ain't you, though, - ain't you?« said the young man, appealing to Mr.
Pickwick, and making his way through the crowd by the infallible process of
elbowing the countenances of its component members.
    That learned man in a few hurried words explained the real state of the
case.
    »Come along, then,« said he of the green coat, lugging Mr. Pickwick after
him by main force, and talking the whole way. »Here, No. 924, take your fare,
and take yourself off - respectable gentleman, - know him well - none of your
nonsense - this way, sir, - where's your friends? - all a mistake, I see - never
mind - accidents will happen - best regulated families - never say die - down
upon your luck - pull him up - put that in his pipe - like the flavour - damned
rascals.« And with a lengthened string of similar broken sentences, delivered
with extraordinary volubility, the stranger led the way to the travellers'
waiting-room, whither he was closely followed by Mr. Pickwick and his disciples.
    »Here, waiter!« shouted the stranger, ringing the bell with tremendous
violence, »glasses round, - brandy and water, hot and strong, and sweet, and
plenty, - eye damaged, sir? Waiter! raw beef-steak for the gentleman's eye, -
nothing like raw beef-steak for a bruise, sir; cold lamp-post very good, but
lamp-post inconvenient - damned odd standing in the open street half-an-hour,
with your eye against a lamppost - eh, - very good - ha! ha!« And the stranger,
without stopping to take breath, swallowed at a draught full half-a-pint of the
reeking brandy and water, and flung himself into a chair with as much ease as if
nothing uncommon had occurred.
    While his three companions were busily engaged in proffering their thanks to
their new acquaintance, Mr. Pickwick had leisure to examine his costume and
appearance.
    He was about the middle height, but the thinness of his body, and the length
of his legs, gave him the appearance of being much taller. The green coat had
been a smart dress garment in the days of swallow-tails, but had evidently in
those times adorned a much shorter man than the stranger, for the soiled and
faded sleeves scarcely reached to his wrists. It was buttoned closely up to his
chin, at the imminent hazard of splitting the back; and an old stock, without a
vestige of shirt collar, ornamented his neck. His scanty black trousers
displayed here and there those shiny patches which bespeak long service, and
were strapped very tightly over a pair of patched and mended shoes, as if to
conceal the dirty white stockings, which were nevertheless distinctly visible.
His long black hair escaped in negligent waves from beneath each side of his old
pinched up hat; and glimpses of his bare wrists might be observed between the
tops of his gloves, and the cuffs of his coat sleeves. His face was thin and
haggard; but an indescribable air of jaunty impudence and perfect
self-possession pervaded the whole man.
    Such was the individual on whom Mr. Pickwick gazed through his spectacles
(which he had fortunately recovered), and to whom he proceeded, when his friends
had exhausted themselves, to return in chosen terms his warmest thanks for his
recent assistance.
    »Never mind,« said the stranger, cutting the address very short, »said
enough, - no more; smart chap that cab man - handled his fives well; but if I'd
been your friend in the green jemmy - damn me - punch his head, - 'cod I would,
- pig's whisper - pieman too, - no gammon.«
    This coherent speech was interrupted by the entrance of the Rochester
coachman, to announce that The Commodore was on the point of starting.
    »Commodore!« said the stranger, starting up, »my coach, - place booked, -
one outside - leave you to pay for the brandy and water, - want change for a
five, - bad silver - Brummagem buttons - won't do - no go - eh?« and he shook
his head most knowingly.
    Now it so happened that Mr. Pickwick and his three companions had resolved
to make Rochester their first halting place too; and having intimated to their
new-found acquaintance that they were journeying to the same city, they agreed
to occupy the seat at the back of the coach, where they could all sit together.
    »Up with you,« said the stranger, assisting Mr. Pickwick on to the roof with
so much precipitation as to impair the gravity of that gentleman's deportment
very materially.
    »Any luggage, sir?« inquired the coachman.
    »Who - I? Brown paper parcel here, that's all, - other luggage gone by
water, - packing cases, nailed up - big as houses - heavy, heavy, damned heavy,«
replied the stranger, as he forced into his pocket as much as he could of the
brown paper parcel, which presented most suspicious indications of containing
one shirt and a handkerchief.
    »Heads, heads - take care of your heads!« cried the loquacious stranger, as
they came out under the low archway, which in those days formed the entrance to
the coach-yard. »Terrible place - dangerous work - other day - five children -
mother - tall lady, eating sandwiches - forgot the arch - crash - knock -
children look round - mother's head off - sandwich in her hand - no mouth to put
it in - head of a family off - shocking, shocking! Looking at Whitehall, sir? -
fine place - little window - somebody else's head off there, eh, sir? - he
didn't keep a sharp look-out enough either - eh, sir, eh?«
    »I am ruminating,« said Mr. Pickwick, »on the strange mutability of human
affairs.«
    »Ah! I see - in at the palace door one day, out at the window the next.
Philosopher, sir?«
    »An observer of human nature, sir,« said Mr. Pickwick.
    »Ah, so am I. Most people are when they've little to do and less to get.
Poet, sir?«
    »My friend Mr. Snodgrass has a strong poetic turn,« said Mr. Pickwick.
    »So have I,« said the stranger. »Epic poem, - ten thousand lines -
revolution of July - composed it on the spot - Mars by day, Apollo by night, -
bang the field-piece, twang the lyre.«
    »You were present at that glorious scene, sir?« said Mr. Snodgrass.
    »Present! think I was;3 fired a musket, - fired with an idea, - rushed into
wine shop - wrote it down - back again - whiz, bang - another idea - wine shop
again - pen and ink - back again - cut and slash - noble time, sir. Sportsman,
sir?« abruptly turning to Mr. Winkle.
    »A little, sir,« replied that gentleman.
    »Fine pursuit, sir, - fine pursuit. - Dogs, sir?«
    »Not just now,« said Mr. Winkle.
    »Ah! you should keep dogs - fine animals - sagacious creatures - dog of my
own once - Pointer - surprising instinct - out shooting one day - entering
enclosure - whistled - dog stopped - whistled again - Ponto - no go; stock still
- called him - Ponto, Ponto - wouldn't move - dog transfixed - staring at a
board - looked up, saw an inscription - Gamekeeper has orders to shoot all dogs
found in this enclosure - wouldn't pass it - wonderful dog - valuable dog that -
very.«
    »Singular circumstance that,« said Mr. Pickwick. »Will you allow me to make
a note of it?«
    »Certainly, sir, certainly - hundred more anecdotes of the same animal. -
Fine girl, sir« (to Mr. Tracy Tupman, who had been bestowing sundry
anti-Pickwickian glances on a young lady by the roadside).
    »Very!« said Mr. Tupman.
    »English girls not so fine as Spanish - noble creatures - jet hair - black
eyes - lovely forms - sweet creatures - beautiful.«
    »You have been in Spain, sir?« said Mr. Tracy Tupman.
    »Lived there - ages.«
    »Many conquests, sir?« inquired Mr. Tupman.
    »Conquests! Thousands. Don Bolaro Fizzgig - Grandee - only daughter - Donna
Christina - splendid creature - loved me to distraction - jealous father -
high-souled daughter - handsome Englishman - Donna Christina in despair -
prussic acid - stomach pump in my portmanteau - operation performed - old Bolaro
in ecstasies - consent to our union - join hands and floods of tears - romantic
story - very.«
    »Is the lady in England now, sir?« inquired Mr. Tupman, on whom the
description of her charms had produced a powerful impression.
    »Dead, sir - dead,« said the stranger, applying to his right eye the brief
remnant of a very old cambric handkerchief. »Never recovered the stomach pump -
undermined constitution - fell a victim.«
    »And her father?« inquired the poetic Snodgrass.
    »Remorse and misery,« replied the stranger. »Sudden disappearance - talk of
the whole city - search made everywhere - without success - public fountain in
the great square suddenly ceased playing - weeks elapsed - still a stoppage -
workmen employed to clean it - water drawn off - father-in-law discovered
sticking head first in the main pipe, with a full confession in his right boot -
took him out, and the fountain played away again, as well as ever.«
    »Will you allow me to note that little romance down, sir?« said Mr.
Snodgrass, deeply affected.
    »Certainly, sir, certainly, - fifty more if you like to hear 'em - strange
life mine - rather curious history - not extraordinary, but singular.«
    In this strain, with an occasional glass of ale, by way of parenthesis, when
the coach changed horses, did the stranger proceed, until they reached Rochester
bridge, by which time the note-books, both of Mr. Pickwick and Mr. Snodgrass,
were completely filled with selections from his adventures.
    »Magnificent ruin!« said Mr. Augustus Snodgrass, with all the poetic fervour
that distinguished him, when they came in sight of the fine old castle.
    »What a study for an antiquarian!« were the very words which fell from Mr.
Pickwick's mouth, as he applied his telescope to his eye.
    »Ah! fine place,« said the stranger, »glorious pile - frowning walls -
tottering arches - dark nooks - crumbling staircases - Old cathedral too -
earthy smell - pilgrims' feet worn away the old steps - little Saxon doors -
confessionals like money-takers' boxes at theatres - queer customers those monks
- Popes, and Lord Treasurers, and all sorts of old fellows, with great red
faces, and broken noses, turning up every day - buff jerkins too - match-locks -
Sarcophagus - fine place - old legends too - strange stories: capital;« and the
stranger continued to soliloquise until they reached the Bull Inn, in the High
Street, where the coach stopped.
    »Do you remain here, sir?« inquired Mr. Nathaniel Winkle.
    »Here - not I - but you'd better - good house - nice beds - Wright's next
house, dear - very dear - half-a-crown in the bill if you look at the waiter -
charge you more if you dine at a friend's than they would if you dined in the
coffee-room - rum fellows - very.«
    Mr. Winkle turned to Mr. Pickwick, and murmured a few words; a whisper
passed from Mr. Pickwick to Mr. Snodgrass, from Mr. Snodgrass to Mr. Tupman, and
nods of assent were exchanged. Mr. Pickwick addressed the stranger.
    »You rendered us a very important service this morning, sir,« said he, »will
you allow us to offer a slight mark of our gratitude by begging the favour of
your company at dinner?«
    »Great pleasure - not presume to dictate, but broiled fowl and mushrooms -
capital thing! what time?«
    »Let me see,« replied Mr. Pickwick, referring to his watch, »it is now
nearly three. Shall we say five?«
    »Suit me excellently,« said the stranger, »five precisely - till then - care
of yourselves;« and lifting the pinched-up hat a few inches from his head, and
carelessly replacing it very much on one side, the stranger, with half the brown
paper parcel sticking out of his pocket, walked briskly up the yard, and turned
into the High Street.
    »Evidently a traveller in many countries, and a close observer of men and
things,« said Mr. Pickwick.
    »I should like to see his poem,« said Mr. Snodgrass.
    »I should like to have seen that dog,« said Mr. Winkle.
    Mr. Tupman said nothing; but he thought of Donna Christina, the stomach
pump, and the fountain; and his eyes filled with tears.
    A private sitting-room having been engaged, bed-rooms inspected, and dinner
ordered, the party walked out to view the city and adjoining neigbourhood.
    We do not find, from a careful perusal of Mr. Pickwick's notes on the four
towns, Stroud, Rochester, Chatham, and Brompton, that his impressions of their
appearance differ in any material point from those of other travellers who have
gone over the same ground. His general description is easily abridged.
    »The principal productions of these towns,« says Mr. Pickwick, »appear to be
soldiers, sailors, Jews, chalk, shrimps, officers, and dockyard men. The
commodities chiefly exposed for sale in the public streets are marine stores,
hard-bake, apples, flat-fish, and oysters. The streets present a lively and
animated appearance, occasioned chiefly by the conviviality of the military. It
is truly delightful to a philanthropic mind, to see these gallant men staggering
along under the influence of an overflow, both of animal and ardent spirits;
more especially when we remember that the following them about, and jesting with
them, affords a cheap and innocent amusement for the boy population. Nothing
(adds Mr. Pickwick) can exceed their good humour. It was but the day before my
arrival that one of them had been most grossly insulted in the house of a
publican. The bar-maid had positively refused to draw him any more liquor; in
return for which he had (merely in playfulness) drawn his bayonet, and wounded
the girl in the shoulder. And yet this fine fellow was the very first to go down
to the house next morning, and express his readiness to overlook the matter, and
forget what had occurred.
    The consumption of tobacco in these towns (continues Mr. Pickwick) must be
very great: and the smell which pervades the streets must be exceedingly
delicious to those who are extremely fond of smoking. A superficial traveller
might object to the dirt which is their leading characteristic; but to those who
view it as an indication of traffic and commercial prosperity, it is truly
gratifying.«
    Punctual to five o'clock came the stranger, and shortly afterwards the
dinner. He had divested himself of his brown paper parcel, but had made no
alteration in his attire; and was, if possible, more loquacious than ever.
    »What's that?« he inquired, as the waiter removed one of the covers.
    »Soles, sir.«
    »Soles - ah! - capital fish - all come from London - stagecoach proprietors
get up political dinners - carriage of soles - dozens of baskets - cunning
fellows. Glass of wine, sir.«
    »With pleasure,« said Mr. Pickwick; and the stranger took wine, first with
him, and then with Mr. Snodgrass, and then with Mr. Tupman, and then with Mr.
Winkle, and then with the whole party together, almost as rapidly as he talked.
    »Devil of a mess on the staircase, waiter,« said the stranger. »Forms going
up - carpenters coming down - lamps, glasses, harps. What's going forward?«
    »Ball, sir,« said the waiter.
    »Assembly, eh?«
    »No, sir, not Assembly, sir. Ball for the benefit of a charity, sir.«
    »Many fine women in this town, do you know, sir?« inquired Mr. Tupman, with
great interest.
    »Splendid - capital. Kent, sir - everybody knows Kent - apples, cherries,
hops, and women. Glass of wine, sir?«
    »With great pleasure,« replied Mr. Tupman. The stranger filled, and emptied.
    »I should very much like to go,« said Mr. Tupman, resuming the subject of
the ball, »very much.«
    »Tickets at the bar, sir,« interposed the waiter; »half-a-guinea each, sir.«
    Mr. Tupman again expressed an earnest wish to be present at the festivity;
but meeting with no response in the darkened eye of Mr. Snodgrass, or the
abstracted gaze of Mr. Pickwick, he applied himself with great interest to the
port wine and dessert, which had just been placed on the table. The waiter
withdrew, and the party were left to enjoy the cosy couple of hours succeeding
dinner.
    »Beg your pardon, sir,« said the stranger, »bottle stands - pass it round -
way of the sun - through the buttonhole - no heeltaps,« and he emptied his
glass, which he had filled about two minutes before, and poured out another,
with the air of a man who was used to it.
    The wine was passed, and a fresh supply ordered. The visitor talked, the
Pickwickians listened. Mr. Tupman felt every moment more disposed for the ball.
Mr. Pickwick's countenance glowed with an expression of universal philanthropy;
and Mr. Winkle and Mr. Snodgrass fell fast asleep.
    »They're beginning up-stairs,« said the stranger - »hear the company -
fiddles tuning - now the harp - there they go.« The various sounds which found
their way down-stairs announced the commencement of the first quadrille.
    »How I should like to go,« said Mr. Tupman, again.
    »So should I,« said the stranger, - »confounded luggage - heavy smacks -
nothing to go in - odd, ain't it?«
    Now general benevolence was one of the leading features of the Pickwickian
theory, and no one was more remarkable for the zealous manner in which he
observed so noble a principle than Mr. Tracy Tupman. The number of instances,
recorded on the Transactions of the Society, in which that excellent man
referred objects of charity to the houses of other members for left-off garments
or pecuniary relief is almost incredible.
    »I should be very happy to lend you a change of apparel for the purpose,«
said Mr. Tracy Tupman, »but you are rather slim, and I am -«
    »Rather fat - grown up Bacchus - cut the leaves - dismounted from the tub,
and adopted kersey, eh? - not double distilled, but double milled - ha! ha! pass
the wine.«
    Whether Mr. Tupman was somewhat indignant at the peremptory tone in which he
was desired to pass the wine which the stranger passed so quickly away; or
whether he felt very properly scandalised, at an influential member of the
Pickwick club being ignominiously compared to a dismounted Bacchus, is a fact
not yet completely ascertained. He passed the wine, coughed twice, and looked at
the stranger for several seconds with a stern intensity; as that individual,
however, appeared perfectly collected, and quite calm under his searching
glance, he gradually relaxed, and reverted to the subject of the ball.
    »I was about to observe, sir,« he said, »that though my apparel would be too
large, a suit of my friend Mr. Winkle's would perhaps fit you better.«
    The stranger took Mr. Winkle's measure with his eye; and that feature
glistened with satisfaction as he said - »just the thing.«
    Mr. Tupman looked round him. The wine, which had exerted its somniferous
influence over Mr. Snodgrass and Mr. Winkle, had stolen upon the senses of Mr.
Pickwick. That gentleman had gradually passed through the various stages which
precede the lethargy produced by dinner, and its consequences. He had undergone
the ordinary transitions from the height of conviviality to the depth of misery,
and from the depth of misery to the height of conviviality. Like a gas lamp in
the street, with the wind in the pipe, he had exhibited for a moment an
unnatural brilliancy; then sunk so low as to be scarcely discernible: after a
short interval he had burst out again, to enlighten for a moment, then flickered
with an uncertain, staggering sort of light, and then gone out altogether. His
head was sunk upon his bosom; and perpetual snoring, with a partial choke
occasionally, were the only audible indications of the great man's presence.
    The temptation to be present at the ball, and to form his first impressions
of the beauty of the Kentish ladies, was strong upon Mr. Tupman. The temptation
to take the stranger with him was equally great. He was wholly unacquainted with
the place, and its inhabitants; and the stranger seemed to possess as great a
knowledge of both as if he had lived there from his infancy. Mr. Winkle was
asleep, and Mr. Tupman had had sufficient experience in such matters to know,
that the moment he awoke he would, in the ordinary course of nature, roll
heavily to bed. He was undecided. »Fill your glass, and pass the wine,« said the
indefatigable visitor.
    Mr. Tupman did as he was requested; and the additional stimulus of the last
glass settled his determination.
    »Winkle's bed-room is inside mine,« said Mr. Tupman; »I couldn't make him
understand what I wanted, if I woke him now, but I know he has a dress suit, in
a carpet-bag, and supposing you wore it to the ball, and took it off when we
returned, I could replace it without troubling him at all about the matter.«
    »Capital,« said the stranger, »famous plan - damned odd situation - fourteen
coats in the packing cases, and obliged to wear another man's - very good
notion, that - very.«
    »We must purchase our tickets,« said Mr. Tupman.
    »Not worth while splitting a guinea,« said the stranger, »toss who shall pay
for both - I call; you spin - first time - woman - woman - bewitching woman,«
and down came the sovereign, with the Dragon (called by courtesy a woman)
uppermost.
    Mr. Tupman rang the bell, purchased the tickets, and ordered chamber
candlesticks. In another quarter of an hour the stranger was completely arrayed
in a full suit of Mr. Nathaniel Winkle's.
    »It's a new coat,« said Mr. Tupman, as the stranger surveyed himself with
great complacency in a cheval glass; »the first that's been made with our club
button,« and he called his companion's attention to the large gilt button which
displayed a bust of Mr. Pickwick in the centre, and the letters P.C. on either
side.
    »P.C.,« said the stranger - »queer set out - old fellow's likeness, and P.C.
- What does P.C. stand for - Peculiar coat, eh?«
    Mr. Tupman, with rising indignation and great importance, explained the
mystic device.
    »Rather short in the waist, an't it?« said the stranger, screwing himself
round to catch a glimpse in the glass of the waist buttons, which were half way
up his back. »Like a general postman's coat - queer coats those - made by
contract - no measuring - mysterious dispensations of Providence - all the short
men get long coats - all the long men short ones.« Running on in this way, Mr.
Tupman's new companion adjusted his dress, or rather the dress of Mr. Winkle;
and, accompanied by Mr. Tupman, ascended the staircase leading to the ball-room.
    »What names, sir?« said the man at the door. Mr. Tracy Tupman was stepping
forward to announce his own titles, when the stranger prevented him.
    »No names at all;« and then he whispered Mr. Tupman, »Names won't do - not
known - very good names in their way, but not great ones - capital names for a
small party, but won't make an impression in public assemblies - incog. the
thing - Gentlemen from London - distinguished foreigners - anything.« The door
was thrown open; and Mr. Tracy Tupman, and the stranger, entered the ball-room.
    It was a long room, with crimson-covered benches, and wax candles in glass
chandeliers. The musicians were securely confined in an elevated den, and
quadrilles were being systematically got through by two or three sets of
dancers. Two card-tables were made up in the adjoining card-room, and two pair
of old ladies, and a corresponding number of stout gentlemen, were executing
whist therein.
    The finale concluded, the dancers promenaded the room, and Mr. Tupman and
his companion stationed themselves in a corner, to observe the company.
    »Wait a minute,« said the stranger, »fun presently - nobs not come yet -
queer place - Dock-yard people of upper rank don't know Dock-yard people of
lower rank - Dock-yard people of lower rank don't know small gentry - small
gentry don't know tradespeople - Commissioner don't know anybody.«
    »Who's that little boy with the light hair and pink eyes, in a fancy dress?«
inquired Mr. Tupman.
    »Hush, pray - pink eyes - fancy dress - little boy - nonsense - Ensign 97th
- Honourable Wilmot Snipe - great family - Snipes - very.«
    »Sir Thomas Clubber, Lady Clubber, and the Miss Clubbers!« shouted the man
at the door in a stentorian voice. A great sensation was created throughout the
room by the entrance of a tall gentleman in a blue coat and bright buttons, a
large lady in blue satin, and two young ladies, on a similar scale, in
fashionably-made dresses of the same hue.
    »Commissioner - head of the yard - great man - remarkably great man,«
whispered the stranger in Mr. Tupman's ear, as the charitable committee ushered
Sir Thomas Clubber and family to the top of the room. The Honourable Wilmot
Snipe, and other distinguished gentlemen crowded to render homage to the Miss
Clubbers; and Sir Thomas Clubber stood bolt upright, and looked majestically
over his black neckerchief at the assembled company.
    »Mr. Smithie, Mrs. Smithie, and the Misses Smithie,« was the next
announcement.
    »What's Mr. Smithie?« inquired Mr. Tracy Tupman.
    »Something in the yard,« replied the stranger. Mr. Smithie bowed
deferentially to Sir Thomas Clubber; and Sir Thomas Clubber acknowledged the
salute with conscious condescension. Lady Clubber took a telescopic view of Mrs.
Smithie and family through her eye-glass, and Mrs. Smithie stared in her turn at
Mrs. Somebody else, whose husband was not in the Dock-yard at all.
    »Colonel Bulder, Mrs. Colonel Bulder, and Miss Bulder,« were the next
arrivals.
    »Head of the Garrison,« said the stranger, in reply to Mr. Tupman's
inquiring look.
    Miss Bulder was warmly welcomed by the Miss Clubbers; the greeting between
Mrs. Colonel Bulder and Lady Clubber was of the most affectionate description;
Colonel Bulder and Sir Thomas Clubber exchanged snuff-boxes, and looked very
much like a pair of Alexander Selkirks - »Monarchs of all they surveyed.«
    While the aristocracy of the place - the Bulders, and Clubbers, and Snipes -
were thus preserving their dignity at the upper end of the room, the other
classes of society were imitating their example in other parts of it. The less
aristocratic officers of the 97th devoted themselves to the families of the less
important functionaries from the Dockyard. The solicitors' wives, and the
wine-merchant's wife, headed another grade (the brewer's wife visited the
Bulders); and Mrs. Tomlinson, the post-office keeper, seemed by mutual consent
to have been chosen the leader of the trade party.
    One of the most popular personages, in his own circle, present was a little
fat man, with a ring of upright black hair round his head, and an extensive bald
plain on the top of it - Doctor Slammer, surgeon to the 97th. The Doctor took
snuff with everybody, chatted with everybody, laughed, danced, made jokes,
played whist, did everything, and was everywhere. To these pursuits,
multifarious as they were, the little Doctor added a more important one than any
- he was indefatigable in paying the most unremitting and devoted attention to a
little old widow, whose rich dress and profusion of ornament bespoke her a most
desirable addition to a limited income.
    Upon the Doctor, and the widow, the eyes of both Mr. Tupman and his
companion had been fixed for some time, when the stranger broke silence.
    »Lots of money - old girl - pompous Doctor - not a bad idea - good fun,«
were the intelligible sentences which issued from his lips. Mr. Tupman looked
inquisitively in his face.
    »I'll dance with the widow,« said the stranger.
    »Who is she?« inquired Mr. Tupman.
    »Don't know - never saw her in all my life - cut out the Doctor - here
goes.« And the stranger forthwith crossed the room; and, leaning against a
mantel-piece, commenced gazing with an air of respectful and melancholy
admiration on the fat countenance of the little old lady. Mr. Tupman looked on,
in mute astonishment. The stranger progressed rapidly; the little Doctor danced
with another lady; the widow dropped her fan, the stranger picked it up and
presented it, - a smile - a bow - a curtsey - a few words of conversation. The
stranger walked boldly up to, and returned with, the master of the ceremonies; a
little introductory pantomime; and the stranger and Mrs. Budger took their
places in a quadrille.
    The surprise of Mr. Tupman at this summary proceeding, great as it was, was
immeasurably exceeded by the astonishment of the Doctor. The stranger was young,
and the widow was flattered. The Doctor's attentions were unheeded by the widow;
and the Doctor's indignation was wholly lost on his imperturbable rival. Doctor
Slammer was paralysed. He, Doctor Slammer, of the 97th, to be extinguished in a
moment, by a man whom nobody had ever seen before, and whom nobody knew even
now! Doctor Slammer - Doctor Slammer of the 97th rejected! Impossible! It could
not be! Yes, it was; there they were. What! introducing his friend! Could he
believe his eyes! He looked again, and was under the painful necessity of
admitting the veracity of his optics; Mrs. Budger was dancing with Mr. Tracy
Tupman, there was no mistaking the fact. There was the widow before him,
bouncing bodily, here and there, with unwonted vigour; and Mr. Tracy Tupman
hopping about, with a face expressive of the most intense solemnity, dancing (as
a good many people do) as if a quadrille were not a thing to be laughed at, but
a severe trial to the feelings, which it requires inflexible resolution to
encounter.
    Silently and patiently did the Doctor bear all this, and all the handings of
negus, and watching for glasses, and darting for biscuits, and coquetting, that
ensued; but, a few seconds after the stranger had disappeared to lead Mrs.
Budger to her carriage, he darted swiftly from the room with every particle of
his hitherto-bottled-up indignation effervescing, from all parts of his
countenance, in a perspiration of passion.
    The stranger was returning, and Mr. Tupman was beside him. He spoke in a low
tone, and laughed. The little Doctor thirsted for his life. He was exulting. He
had triumphed.
    »Sir!« said the Doctor, in an awful voice, producing a card, and retiring
into an angle of the passage, »my name is Slammer, Doctor Slammer, sir - 97th
Regiment - Chatham Barracks - my card, sir, my card.« He would have added more,
but his indignation choked him.
    »Ah!« replied the stranger, coolly, »Slammer - much obliged - polite
attention - not ill now, Slammer - but when I am - knock you up.«
    »You - you're a shuffler! sir,« gasped the furious Doctor, »a poltroon - a
coward - a liar - a - a - will nothing induce you to give me your card, sir!«
    »Oh! I see,« said the stranger, half aside, »negus too strong here - liberal
landlord - very foolish - very - lemonade much better - hot rooms - elderly
gentlemen - suffer for it in the morning - cruel - cruel;« and he moved on a
step or two.
    »You are stopping in this house, sir,« said the indignant little man; »you
are intoxicated now, sir; you shall hear from me in the morning, sir. I shall
find you out, sir; I shall find you out.«
    »Rather you found me out than found me at home,« replied the unmoved
stranger.
    Doctor Slammer looked unutterable ferocity, as he fixed his hat on his head
with an indignant knock; and the stranger and Mr. Tupman ascended to the bedroom
of the latter to restore the borrowed plumage to the unconscious Winkle.
    That gentleman was fast asleep; the restoration was soon made. The stranger
was extremely jocose; and Mr. Tracy Tupman, being quite bewildered with wine,
negus, lights, and ladies, thought the whole affair an exquisite joke. His new
friend departed; and, after experiencing some slight difficulty in finding the
orifice in his night-cap, originally intended for the reception of his head, and
finally overturning his candlestick in his struggles to put it on, Mr. Tracy
Tupman managed to get into bed by a series of complicated evolutions, and
shortly afterwards sank into repose.
    Seven o'clock had hardly ceased striking on the following morning when Mr.
Pickwick's comprehensive mind was aroused from the state of unconsciousness, in
which slumber had plunged it, by a loud knocking at his chamber door.
    »Who's there?« said Mr. Pickwick, starting up in bed.
    »Boots, sir.«
    »What do you want?«
    »Please, sir, can you tell me, which gentleman of your party wears a bright
blue dress coat, with a gilt button with P.C. on it?«
    »It's been given out to brush,« thought Mr. Pickwick, »and the man has
forgotten whom it belongs to. - Mr. Winkle,« he called out, »next room but two,
on the right hand.«
    »Thank'ee, sir,« said the Boots, and away he went.
    »What's the matter?« cried Mr. Tupman, as a loud knocking at his door roused
him from his oblivious repose.
    »Can I speak to Mr. Winkle, sir?« replied the Boots from the outside.
    »Winkle - Winkle!« shouted Mr. Tupman, calling into the inner room.
    »Hallo!« replied a faint voice from within the bedclothes.
    »You're wanted - some one at the door -« and having exerted himself to
articulate thus much, Mr. Tracy Tupman turned round and fell fast asleep again.
    »Wanted!« said Mr. Winkle, hastily jumping out of bed, and putting on a few
articles of clothing: »wanted! at this distance from town - who on earth can
want me?«
    »Gentleman in the coffee-room, sir,« replied the Boots, as Mr. Winkle opened
the door, and confronted him; »gentleman says he'll not detain you a moment,
sir, but he can take no denial.«
    »Very odd!« said Mr. Winkle; »I'll be down directly.«
    He hurriedly wrapped himself in a travelling-shawl and dressing-gown, and
proceeded down-stairs. An old woman and a couple of waiters were cleaning the
coffee-room, and an officer in undress uniform was looking out of the window. He
turned round as Mr. Winkle entered, and made a stiff inclination of the head.
Having ordered the attendants to retire, and closed the door very carefully, he
said, »Mr. Winkle, I presume?«
    »My name is Winkle, sir.«
    »You will not be surprised, sir, when I inform you, that I have called here
this morning on behalf of my friend, Dr. Slammer, of the Ninety-seventh.«
    »Doctor Slammer!« said Mr. Winkle.
    »Doctor Slammer. He begged me to express his opinion that your conduct of
last evening was of a description which no gentleman could endure: and (he
added) which no one gentleman would pursue towards another.«
    Mr. Winkle's astonishment was too real, and too evident, to escape the
observation of Dr. Slammer's friend; he therefore proceeded - »My friend, Doctor
Slammer, requested me to add, that he was firmly persuaded you were intoxicated
during a portion of the evening, and possibly unconscious of the extent of the
insult you were guilty of. He commissioned me to say, that should this be
pleaded as an excuse for your behaviour, he will consent to accept a written
apology, to be penned by you, from my dictation.«
    »A written apology!« repeated Mr. Winkle, in tine most emphatic tone of
amazement possible.
    »Of course you know the alternative,« replied the visitor, coolly.
    »Were you entrusted with this message to me, by name?« inquired Mr. Winkle,
whose intellects were hopelessly confused by this extraordinary conversation.
    »I was not present myself,« replied the visitor, »and in consequence of your
firm refusal to give your card to Doctor Slammer, I was desired by that
gentleman to identify the wearer of a very uncommon coat - a bright blue dress
coat, with a gilt button displaying a bust, and the letters P.C.«
    Mr. Winkle actually staggered with astonishment as he heard his own costume
thus minutely described. Dr. Slammer's friend proceeded: - »From the inquiries I
made at the bar, just now, I was convinced that the owner of the coat in
question arrived here, with three gentlemen, yesterday afternoon. I immediately
sent up to the gentleman who was described as appearing the head of the party,
and he at once referred me to you.«
    If the principal tower of Rochester Castle had suddenly walked from its
foundation, and stationed itself opposite the coffee-room window, Mr. Winkle's
surprise would have been as nothing compared with the profound astonishment with
which he had heard this address. His first impression was, that his coat had
been stolen. »Will you allow me to detain you one moment?« said he.
    »Certainly,« replied the unwelcome visitor.
    Mr. Winkle ran hastily up-stairs, and with a trembling hand opened the bag.
There was the coat in its usual place, but exhibiting, on a close inspection,
evident tokens of having been worn on the preceding night.
    »It must be so,« said Mr. Winkle, letting the coat fall from his hands. »I
took too much wine after dinner, and have a very vague recollection of walking
about the streets and smoking a cigar afterwards. The fact is, I was very drunk;
- I must have changed my coat - gone somewhere - and insulted somebody - I have
no doubt of it; and this message is the terrible consequence.« Saying which, Mr.
Winkle retraced his steps in the direction of the coffee-room, with the gloomy
and dreadful resolve of accepting the challenge of the warlike Doctor Slammer,
and abiding by the worst consequences that might ensue.
    To this determination Mr. Winkle was urged by a variety of considerations;
the first of which was, his reputation with the club. He had always been looked
up to as a high authority on all matters of amusement and dexterity, whether
offensive, defensive, or inoffensive; and if, on this very first occasion of
being put to the test, he shrunk back from the trial, beneath his leader's eye,
his name and standing were lost for ever. Besides, he remembered to have heard
it frequently surmised by the uninitiated in such matters, that by an understood
arrangement between the seconds, the pistols were seldom loaded with ball; and,
furthermore, he reflected that if he applied to Mr. Snodgrass to act as his
second, and depicted the danger in glowing terms, that gentleman might possibly
communicate the intelligence to Mr. Pickwick, who would certainly lose no time
in transmitting it to the local authorities, and thus prevent the killing or
maiming of his follower.
    Such were his thoughts when he returned to the coffee-room, and intimated
his intention of accepting the Doctor's challenge.
    »Will you refer me to a friend, to arrange the time and place of meeting?«
said the officer.
    »Quite unnecessary,« replied Mr. Winkle; »name them to me, and I can procure
the attendance of a friend afterwards.«
    »Shall we say - sunset this evening?« inquired the officer, in a careless
tone.
    »Very good,« replied Mr. Winkle; thinking in his heart it was very bad.
    »You know Fort Pitt?«
    »Yes; I saw it yesterday.«
    »If you will take the trouble to turn into the field which borders the
trench, take the foot-path to the left when you arrive at an angle of the
fortification, and keep straight on 'till you see me, I will precede you to a
secluded place, where the affair can be conducted without fear of interruption.«
    »Fear of interruption!« thought Mr. Winkle.
    »Nothing more to arrange, I think,« said the officer.
    »I am not aware of anything more,« replied Mr. Winkle. »Good morning.«
    »Good morning:« and the officer whistled a lively air as he strode away.
    That morning's breakfast passed heavily off. Mr. Tupman was not in a
condition to rise, after the unwonted dissipation of the previous night; Mr.
Snodgrass appeared to labour under a poetical depression of spirits; and even
Mr. Pickwick evinced an unusual attachment to silence and soda-water. Mr. Winkle
eagerly watched his opportunity: it was not long wanting. Mr. Snodgrass proposed
a visit to the castle, and as Mr. Winkle was the only other member of the party
disposed to walk, they went out together.
    »Snodgrass,« said Mr. Winkle, when they had turned out of the public street,
»Snodgrass, my dear fellow, can I rely upon your secrecy?« As he said this, he
most devoutly and earnestly hoped he could not.
    »You can,« replied Mr. Snodgrass. »Hear me swear -«
    »No, no,« interrupted Winkle, terrified at the idea of his companion's
unconsciously pledging himself not to give information; »don't swear, don't
swear; it's quite unnecessary.«
    Mr. Snodgrass dropped the hand which he had, in the spirit of poesy, raised
towards the clouds as he made the above appeal, and assumed an attitude of
attention.
    »I want your assistance, my dear fellow, in an affair of honour,« said Mr.
Winkle.
    »You shall have it,« replied Mr. Snodgrass, clasping his friend's hand.
    »With a Doctor - Doctor Slammer, of the Ninety-seventh,« said Mr. Winkle,
wishing to make the matter appear as solemn as possible; »an affair with an
officer, seconded by another officer, at sunset this evening, in a lonely field
beyond Fort Pitt.«
    »I will attend you,« said Mr. Snodgrass.
    He was astonished, but by no means dismayed. It is extraordinary how cool
any party but the principal can be in such cases. Mr. Winkle had forgotten this.
He had judged of his friend's feelings by his own.
    »The consequences may be dreadful,« said Mr. Winkle.
    »I hope not,« said Mr. Snodgrass.
    »The Doctor, I believe, is a very good shot,« said Mr. Winkle.
    »Most of these military men are,« observed Mr. Snodgrass, calmly; »but so
are you, an't you?«
    Mr. Winkle replied in the affirmative; and perceiving that he had not
alarmed his companion sufficiently, changed his ground.
    »Snodgrass,« he said, in a voice tremulous with emotion, »if I fall, you
will find in a packet which I shall place in your hands a note for my - for my
father.«
    This attack was a failure also. Mr. Snodgrass was affected, but he undertook
the delivery of the note as readily as if he had been a Twopenny Postman.
    »If I fall,« said Mr. Winkle, »or if the Doctor falls, you, my dear friend,
will be tried as an accessory before the fact. Shall I involve my friend in
transportation - possibly for life!«
    Mr. Snodgrass winced a little at this, but his heroism was invincible. »In
the cause of friendship,« he fervently exclaimed, »I would brave all dangers.«
    How Mr. Winkle cursed his companion's devoted friendship internally, as they
walked silently along, side by side, for some minutes, each immersed in his own
meditations! The morning was wearing away; he grew desperate.
    »Snodgrass,« he said, stopping suddenly, »do not let me be baulked in this
matter - do not give information to the local authorities - do not obtain the
assistance of several peace officers, to take either me or Doctor Slammer, of
the Ninety-seventh Regiment, at present quartered in Chatham Barracks, into
custody, and thus prevent this duel; - I say, do not.«
    Mr. Snodgrass seized his friend's hand warmly, as he enthusiastically
replied, »Not for worlds!«
    A thrill passed over Mr. Winkle's frame as the conviction that he had
nothing to hope from his friend's fears, and that he was destined to become an
animated target, rushed forcibly upon him.
    The state of the case having been formally explained to Mr. Snodgrass, and a
case of satisfaction pistols, with the satisfactory accompaniments of powder,
ball, and caps, having been hired from a manufacturer in Rochester, the two
friends returned to their inn; Mr. Winkle to ruminate on the approaching
struggle, and Mr. Snodgrass to arrange the weapons of war, and put them into
proper order for immediate use.
    It was a dull and heavy evening when they again sallied forth on their
awkward errand. Mr. Winkle was muffled up in a huge cloak to escape observation,
and Mr. Snodgrass bore under his the instruments of destruction.
    »Have you got everything?« said Mr. Winkle, in an agitated tone.
    »Ev'rything,« replied Mr. Snodgrass; »plenty of ammunition, in case the
shots don't take effect. There's a quarter of a pound of powder in the case, and
I have got two newspapers in my pocket for the loadings.«
    These were instances of friendship for which any man might reasonably feel
most grateful. The presumption is, that the gratitude of Mr. Winkle was too
powerful for utterance, as he said nothing, but continued to walk on - rather
slowly.
    »We are in excellent time,« said Mr. Snodgrass, as they climbed the fence of
the first field; »the sun is just going down.« Mr. Winkle looked up at the
declining orb, and painfully thought of the probability of his going down
himself, before long.
    »There's the officer,« exclaimed Mr. Winkle, after a few minutes' walking.
    »Where?« said Mr. Snodgrass.
    »There; - the gentleman in the blue cloak.« Mr. Snodgrass looked in the
direction indicated by the forefinger of his friend, and observed a figure,
muffled up, as he had described. The officer evinced his consciousness of their
presence by slightly beckoning with his hand; and the two friends followed him
at a little distance, as he walked away.
    The evening grew more dull every moment, and a melancholy wind sounded
through the deserted fields, like a distant giant whistling for his house-dog.
The sadness of the scene imparted a sombre tinge to the feelings of Mr. Winkle.
He started as they passed the angle of the trench - it looked like a colossal
grave.
    The officer turned suddenly from the path, and after climbing a paling, and
scaling a hedge, entered a secluded field. Two gentlemen were waiting in it; one
was a little fat man, with black hair; and the other - a portly personage in a
braided surtout - was sitting with perfect equanimity on a camp-stool.
    »The other party, and a surgeon, I suppose,« said Mr. Snodgrass; »take a
drop of brandy.« Mr. Winkle seized the wicker bottle which his friend proffered,
and took a lengthened pull at the exhilarating liquid.
    »My friend, sir, Mr. Snodgrass,« said Mr. Winkle, as the officer approached.
Doctor Slammer's friend bowed, and produced a case similar to that which Mr.
Snodgrass carried.
    »We have nothing farther to say, sir, I think,« he coldly remarked, as he
opened the cases; »an apology has been resolutely declined.«
    »Nothing, sir,« said Mr. Snodgrass, who began to feel rather uncomfortable
himself.
    »Will you step forward?« said the officer.
    »Certainly,« replied Mr. Snodgrass. The ground was measured, and
preliminaries arranged.
    »You will find these better than your own,« said the opposite second,
producing his pistols. »You saw me load them. Do you object to use them?«
    »Certainly not,« replied Mr. Snodgrass. The offer relieved him from
considerable embarrassment, for his previous notions of loading a pistol were
rather vague and undefined.
    »We may place our men, then, I think,« observed the officer, with as much
indifference as if the principals were chess-men, and the seconds players.
    »I think we may,« replied Mr. Snodgrass; who would have assented to any
proposition, because he knew nothing about the matter. The officer crossed to
Doctor Slammer, and Mr. Snodgrass went up to Mr. Winkle.
    »It's all ready,« he said, offering the pistol. »Give me your cloak.«
    »You have got the packet, my dear fellow,« said poor Winkle.
    »All right,« said Mr. Snodgrass. »Be steady, and wing him.«
    It occurred to Mr. Winkle that this advice was very like that which
bystanders invariably give to the smallest boy in a street fight, namely, »Go
in, and win:« - an admirable thing to recommend, if you only know how to do it.
He took off his cloak, however, in silence - it always took a long time to undo,
that cloak - and accepted the pistol. The seconds retired, the gentleman on the
camp-stool did the same, and the belligerents approached each other.
    Mr. Winkle was always remarkable for extreme humanity. It is conjectured
that his unwillingness to hurt a fellow-creature intentionally was the cause of
his shutting his eyes when he arrived at the fatal spot; and that the
circumstance of his eyes being closed, prevented his observing the very
extraordinary and unaccountable demeanour of Doctor Slammer. That gentleman
started, stared, retreated, rubbed his eyes, stared again; and, finally, shouted
»Stop, stop!«
    »What's all this?« said Doctor Slammer, as his friend and Mr. Snodgrass came
running up; »That's not the man.«
    »Not the man!« said Dr. Slammer's second.
    »Not the man!« said Mr. Snodgrass.
    »Not the man!« said the gentleman with the camp-stool in his hand.
    »Certainly not,« replied the little Doctor. »That's not the person who
insulted me last night.«
    »Very extraordinary!« exclaimed the officer.
    »Very,« said the gentleman with the camp-stool. »The only question is,
whether the gentleman, being on the ground, must not be considered, as a matter
of form, to be the individual who insulted our friend, Doctor Slammer, yesterday
evening, whether he is really that individual or not:« and having delivered this
suggestion, with a very sage and mysterious air, the man with the camp-stool
took a large pinch of snuff, and looked profoundly round, with the air of an
authority in such matters.
    Now Mr. Winkle had opened his eyes, and his ears too, when he heard his
adversary call out for a cessation of hostilities; and perceiving by what he had
afterwards said, that there was, beyond all question, some mistake in the
matter, he at once foresaw the increase of reputation he should inevitably
acquire by concealing the real motive of his coming out: he therefore stepped
boldly forward, and said -
    »I am not the person. I know it.«
    »Then, that,« said the man with the camp-stool, »is an affront to Dr.
Slammer, and a sufficient reason for proceeding immediately.«
    »Pray be quiet, Payne,« said the Doctor's second. »Why did you not
communicate this fact to me this morning, sir?«
    »To be sure - to be sure,« said the man with the camp-stool, indignantly.
    »I entreat you to be quiet, Payne,« said the other. »May I repeat my
question, sir?«
    »Because, sir,« replied Mr. Winkle, who had had time to deliberate upon his
answer, »because, sir, you described an intoxicated and ungentlemanly person as
wearing a coat which I have the honour, not only to wear, but to have invented -
the proposed uniform, sir, of the Pickwick Club in London. The honour of that
uniform I feel bound to maintain, and I therefore, without inquiry, accepted the
challenge which you offered me.«
    »My dear sir,« said the good-humoured little Doctor, advancing with extended
hand, »I honour your gallantry. Permit me to say, sir, that I highly admire your
conduct, and extremely regret having caused you the inconvenience of this
meeting, to no purpose.«
    »I beg you won't mention it, sir,« said Mr. Winkle.
    »I shall feel proud of your acquaintance, sir,« said the little Doctor.
    »It will afford me the greatest pleasure to know you, sir,« replied Mr.
Winkle. Thereupon the Doctor and Mr. Winkle shook hands, and then Mr. Winkle and
Lieutenant Tappleton (the Doctor's second), and then Mr. Winkle and the man with
the camp-stool, and, finally, Mr. Winkle and Mr. Snodgrass - the last-named
gentleman in an excess of admiration at the noble conduct of his heroic friend.
    »I think we may adjourn,« said Lieutenant Tappleton.
    »Certainly,« added the Doctor.
    »Unless,« interposed the man with the camp-stool, »unless Mr. Winkle feels
himself aggrieved by the challenge; in which case, I submit, he has a right to
satisfaction.«
    Mr. Winkle, with great self-denial, expressed himself quite satisfied
already.
    »Or possibly,« said the man with the camp-stool, »the gentleman's second may
feel himself affronted with some observations which fell from me at an early
period of this meeting: if so, I shall be happy to give him satisfaction
immediately.«
    Mr. Snodgrass hastily professed himself very much obliged with the handsome
offer of the gentleman who had spoken last, which he was only induced to decline
by his entire contentment with the whole proceedings. The two seconds adjusted
the cases, and the whole party left the ground in a much more lively manner than
they had proceeded to it.
    »Do you remain long here?« inquired Dr. Slammer of Mr. Winkle, as they
walked on most amicably together.
    »I think we shall leave here the day after to-morrow,« was the reply.
    »I trust I shall have the pleasure of seeing you and your friend at my
rooms, and of spending a pleasant evening with you, after this awkward mistake,«
said the little Doctor; »are you disengaged this evening?«
    »We have some friends here,« replied Mr. Winkle, »and I should not like to
leave them to-night. Perhaps you and your friend will join us at the Bull.«
    »With great pleasure,« said the little Doctor; »will ten o'clock be too late
to look in for half an hour?«
    »Oh dear, no,« said Mr. Winkle. »I shall be most happy to introduce you to
my friends, Mr. Pickwick and Mr. Tupman.«
    »It will give me great pleasure, I am sure,« replied Doctor Slammer, little
suspecting who Mr. Tupman was.
    »You will be sure to come?« said Mr. Snodgrass.
    »Oh, certainly.«
    By this time they had reached the road. Cordial farewells were exchanged,
and the party separated. Doctor Slammer and his friends repaired to the
barracks, and Mr. Winkle, accompanied by his friend, Mr. Snodgrass, returned to
their inn.
 

                                  Chapter III

  A New Acquaintance. The Stroller's Tale. A Disagreeable Interruption, and an
                             Unpleasant Encounter.

Mr. Pickwick had felt some apprehensions in consequence of the unusual absence
of his two friends, which their mysterious behaviour during the whole morning
had by no means tended to diminish. It was, therefore, with more than ordinary
pleasure that he rose to greet them when they again entered; and with more than
ordinary interest that he inquired what had occurred to detain them from his
society. In reply to his questions on this point, Mr. Snodgrass was about to
offer an historical account of the circumstances just now detailed, when he was
suddenly checked by observing that there were present, not only Mr. Tupman and
their stage-coach companion of the preceding day, but another stranger of
equally singular appearance. It was a care-worn looking man, whose sallow face,
and deeply sunken eyes, were rendered still more striking than nature had made
them, by the straight black hair which hung in matted disorder half way down his
face. His eyes were almost unnaturally bright and piercing; his cheek-bones were
high and prominent; and his jaws were so long and lank, that an observer would
have supposed that he was drawing the flesh of his face in, for a moment, by
some contraction of the muscles, if his half-opened mouth and immovable
expression had not announced that it was his ordinary appearance. Round his neck
he wore a green shawl, with the large ends straggling over his chest, and making
their appearance occasionally beneath the worn button-holes of his old
waistcoat. His upper garment was a long black surtout; and below it he wore wide
drab trousers, and large boots, running rapidly to seed.
    It was on this uncouth-looking person that Mr. Winkle's eye rested, and it
was towards him that Mr. Pickwick extended his hand, when he said »A friend of
our friend's here. We discovered this morning that our friend was connected with
the theatre in this place, though he is not desirous to have it generally known,
and this gentleman is a member of the same profession. He was about to favour us
with a little anecdote connected with it, when you entered.«
    »Lots of anecdote,« said the green-coated stranger of the day before,
advancing to Mr. Winkle and speaking in a low and confidential tone. »Rum fellow
- does the heavy business - no actor - strange man - all sorts of miseries -
Dismal Jemmy, we call him on the circuit.« Mr. Winkle and Mr. Snodgrass politely
welcomed the gentleman, elegantly designated as Dismal Jemmy; and calling for
brandy and water, in imitation of the remainder of the company, seated
themselves at the table.
    »Now, sir,« said Mr. Pickwick, »will you oblige us by proceeding with what
you were going to relate?«
    The dismal individual took a dirty roll of paper from his pocket, and
turning to Mr. Snodgrass, who had just taken out his note-book, said in a hollow
voice perfectly in keeping with his outward man - »Are you the poet?«
    »I - I do a little in that way,« replied Mr. Snodgrass, rather taken aback
by the abruptness of the question.
    »Ah! poetry makes life what lights and music do the stage - strip the one of
its false embellishments, and the other of its illusions, and what is there real
in either to live or care for?«
    »Very true, sir,« replied Mr. Snodgrass.
    »To be before the footlights,« continued the dismal man, »is like sitting at
a grand court show, and admiring the silken dresses of the gaudy throng - to be
behind them is to be the people who make that finery, uncared for and unknown,
and left to sink or swim, to starve or live, as fortune wills it.«
    »Certainly,« said Mr. Snodgrass: for the sunken eye of the dismal man rested
on him, and he felt it necessary to say something.
    »Go on, Jemmy,« said the Spanish traveller, »like black-eyed Susan - all in
the Downs - no croaking - speak out - look lively.«
    »Will you make another glass before you begin, sir?« said Mr. Pickwick.
    The dismal man took the hint, and having mixed a glass of brandy and water,
and slowly swallowed half of it, opened the roll of paper and proceeded, partly
to read, and partly to relate, the following incident, which we find recorded on
the Transactions of the club as »The Stroller's Tale.-
 

                              The Stroller's Tale.

»There is nothing of the marvellous in what I am going to relate,« said the
dismal man; »there is nothing even uncommon in it. Want and sickness are too
common in many stations of life, to deserve more notice than is usually bestowed
on the most ordinary vicissitudes of human nature. I have thrown these few notes
together, because the subject of them was well known to me for many years. I
traced his progress downwards, step by step, until at last he reached that
excess of destitution from which he never rose again.
    The man of whom I speak was a low pantomime actor; and, like many people of
his class, an habitual drunkard. In his better days, before he had become
enfeebled by dissipation and emaciated by disease, he had been in the receipt of
a good salary, which, if he had been careful and prudent, he might have
continued to receive for some years - not many; because these men either die
early, or, by unnaturally taxing their bodily energies, lose, prematurely, those
physical powers on which alone they can depend for subsistence. His besetting
sin gained so fast upon him, however, that it was found impossible to employ him
in the situations in which he really was useful to the theatre. The public-house
had a fascination for him which he could not resist. Neglected disease and
hopeless poverty were as certain to be his portion as death itself, if he
persevered in the same course; yet he did persevere, and the result may be
guessed. He could obtain no engagement, and he wanted bread.
    Everybody who is at all acquainted with theatrical matters knows what a host
of shabby, poverty-stricken men hang about the stage of a large establishment -
not regularly engaged actors, but ballet people, procession men, tumblers, and
so forth, who are taken on during the run of a pantomime, or an Easter piece,
and are then discharged, until the production of some heavy spectacle occasions
a new demand for their services. To this mode of life the man was compelled to
resort; and taking the chair every night, at some low theatrical house, at once
put him in possession of a few more shillings weekly, and enabled him to gratify
his old propensity. Even this resource shortly failed him; his irregularities
were too great to admit of his earning the wretched pittance he might thus have
procured, and he was actually reduced to a state bordering on starvation, only
procuring a trifle occasionally by borrowing it of some old companion, or by
obtaining an appearance at one or other of the commonest of the minor theatres;
and when he did earn anything, it was spent in the old way.
    About this time, and when he had been existing for upwards of a year no one
knew how, I had a short engagement at one of the theatres on the Surrey side of
the water, and here I saw this man whom I had lost sight of for some time; for I
had been travelling in the provinces, and he had been skulking in the lanes and
alleys of London. I was dressed to leave the house, and was crossing the stage
on my way out, when he tapped me on the shoulder. Never shall I forget the
repulsive sight that met my eye when I turned round. He was dressed for the
pantomime, in all the absurdity of a clown's costume. The spectral figures in
the Dance of Death, the most frightful shapes that the ablest painter ever
portrayed on canvas, never presented an appearance half so ghastly. His bloated
body and shrunken legs - their deformity enhanced a hundred fold by the
fantastic dress - the glassy eyes, contrasting fearfully with the thick white
paint with which the face was besmeared; the grotesquely ornamented head,
trembling with paralysis, and the long, skinny hands, rubbed with white chalk -
all gave him a hideous and unnatural appearance, of which no description could
convey an adequate idea, and which, to this day, I shudder to think of. His
voice was hollow and tremulous, as he took me aside, and in broken words
recounted a long catalogue of sickness and privations, terminating as usual with
an urgent request for the loan of a trifling sum of money. I put a few shillings
in his hand, and as I turned away I heard the roar of laughter which followed
his first tumble on to the stage.
    A few nights afterwards, a boy put a dirty scrap of paper in my hand, on
which were scrawled a few words in pencil, intimating that the man was
dangerously ill, and begging me, after the performance, to see him at his
lodging in some street - I forget the name of it now - at no great distance from
the theatre. I promised to comply, as soon as I could get away; and, after the
curtain fell, sallied forth on my melancholy errand.
    It was late, for I had been playing in the last piece; and as it was a
benefit night, the performances had been protracted to an unusual length. It was
a dark cold night, with a chill damp wind, which blew the rain heavily against
the windows and house fronts. Pools of water had collected in the narrow and
little-frequented streets, and as many of the thinly-scattered oil-lamps had
been blown out by the violence of the wind, the walk was not only a comfortless,
but most uncertain one. I had fortunately taken the right course, however, and
succeeded, after a little difficulty, in finding the house to which I had been
directed - a coal-shed, with one story above it, in the back room of which lay
the object of my search.
    A wretched-looking woman, the man's wife, met me on the stairs, and, telling
me that he had just fallen into a kind of doze, led me softly in, and placed a
chair for me at the bedside. The sick man was lying with his face turned towards
the wall; and as he took no heed of my presence, I had leisure to observe the
place in which I found myself.
    He was lying on an old bedstead, which turned up during the day. The
tattered remains of a checked curtain were drawn round the bed's head, to
exclude the wind, which however made its way into the comfortless room through
the numerous chinks in the door, and blew it to and fro every instant. There was
a low cinder fire in a rusty unfixed grate; and an old three-cornered stained
table, with some medicine bottles, a broken glass, and a few other domestic
articles, was drawn out before it. A little child was sleeping on a temporary
bed which had been made for it on the floor, and the woman sat on a chair by its
side. There were a couple of shelves, with a few plates and cups and saucers:
and a pair of stage shoes and a couple of foils hung beneath them. With the
exception of little heaps of rags and bundles which had been carelessly thrown
into the corners of the room, these were the only things in the apartment.
    I had had time to note these little particulars, and to mark the heavy
breathing and feverish startings of the sick man, before he was aware of my
presence. In his restless attempts to procure some easy resting-place for his
head, he tossed his hand out of the bed, and it fell on mine. He started up, and
stared eagerly in my face.
    Mr. Hutley, John, said his wife; Mr. Hutley, that you sent for to-night, you
know.
    Ah! said the invalid, passing his hand across his forehead; Hutley - Hutley
- let me see. He seemed endeavouring to collect his thoughts for a few seconds,
and then grasping me tightly by the wrist said, Don't leave me - don't leave me,
old fellow. She'll murder me; I know she will.
    Has he been long so? said I, addressing his weeping wife.
    Since yesterday night, she replied. John, John, don't you know me?
    Don't let her come near me, said the man, with a shudder, as she stooped
over him. Drive her away; I can't bear her near me. He stared wildly at her,
with a look of deadly apprehension, and then whispered in my ear, I beat her,
Jem; I beat her yesterday, and many times before. I have starved her and the boy
too; and now I am weak and helpless, Jem, she'll murder me for it; I know she
will. If you'd seen her cry, as I have, you'd know it too. Keep her off. He
relaxed his grasp, and sank back exhausted on the pillow.
    I knew but too well what all this meant. If I could have entertained any
doubt of it, for an instant, one glance at the woman's pale face and wasted form
would have sufficiently explained the real state of the case. You had better
stand aside, said I to the poor creature. You can do him no good. Perhaps he
will be calmer, if he does not see you. She retired out of the man's sight. He
opened his eyes, after a few seconds, and looked anxiously round.
    Is she gone? he eagerly inquired.
    Yes - yes, said I; she shall not hurt you.
    I'll tell you what, Jem, said the man, in a low voice, she does hurt me.
There's something in her eyes wakes such a dreadful fear in my heart, that it
drives me mad. All last night, her large staring eyes and pale face were close
to mine; wherever I turned, they turned; and whenever I started up from my
sleep, she was at the bedside looking at me. He drew me closer to him, as he
said in a deep, alarmed whisper - Jem, she must be an evil spirit - a devil!
Hush! I know she is. If she had been a woman she would have died long ago. No
woman could have borne what she has.
    I sickened at the thought of the long course of cruelty and neglect which
must have occurred to produce such an impression on such a man. I could say
nothing in reply; for who could offer hope, or consolation, to the abject being
before me?
    I sat there for upwards of two hours, during which time he tossed about,
murmuring exclamations of pain or impatience, restlessly throwing his arms here
and there, and turning constantly from side to side. At length he fell into that
state of partial unconsciousness, in which the mind wanders uneasily from scene
to scene, and from place to place, without the control of reason, but still
without being able to divest itself of an indescribable sense of present
suffering. Finding from his incoherent wanderings that this was the case, and
knowing that in all probability the fever would not grow immediately worse, I
left him, promising his miserable wife that I would repeat my visit next
evening, and, if necessary, sit up with the patient during the night.
    I kept my promise. The last four-and-twenty hours had produced a frightful
alteration. The eyes, though deeply sunk and heavy, shone with a lustre
frightful to behold. The lips were parched, and cracked in many places: the dry
hard skin glowed with a burning heat, and there was an almost unearthly air of
wild anxiety in the man's face, indicating even more strongly the ravages of the
disease. The fever was at its height.
    I took the seat I had occupied the night before, and there I sat for hours,
listening to sounds which must strike deep to the heart of the most callous
among human beings - the awful ravings of a dying man. From what I had heard of
the medical attendant's opinion, I knew there was no hope for him: I was sitting
by his death-bed. I saw the wasted limbs, which a few hours before had been
distorted for the amusement of a boisterous gallery, writhing under the tortures
of a burning fever - I heard the clown's shrill laugh, blending with the low
murmurings of the dying man.
    It is a touching thing to hear the mind reverting to the ordinary
occupations and pursuits of health, when the body lies before you weak and
helpless; but when those occupations are of a character the most strongly
opposed to anything we associate with grave or solemn ideas, the impression
produced is infinitely more powerful. The theatre, and the public-house, were
the chief themes of the wretched man's wanderings. It was evening, he fancied;
he had a part to play that night; it was late, and he must leave home instantly.
Why did they hold him, and prevent his going? - he should lose the money - he
must go. No! they would not let him. He hid his face in his burning hands, and
feebly bemoaned his own weakness, and the cruelty of his persecutors. A short
pause, and he shouted out a few doggrel rhymes - the last he had ever learnt. He
rose in bed, drew up his withered limbs, and rolled about in uncouth positions;
he was acting - he was at the theatre. A minute's silence, and he murmured the
burden of some roaring song. He had reached the old house at last: how hot the
room was. He had been ill, very ill, but he was well now, and happy. Fill up his
glass. Who was that, that dashed it from his lips? It was the same persecutor
that had followed him before. He fell back upon his pillow and moaned aloud. A
short period of oblivion, and he was wandering through a tedious maze of low
arched-rooms - so low, sometimes, that he must creep upon his hands and knees to
make his way along; it was close and dark, and every way he turned, some
obstacle impeded his progress. There were insects too, hideous crawling things
with eyes that stared upon him, and filled the very air around: glistening
horribly amidst the thick darkness of the place. The walls and ceiling were
alive with reptiles - the vault expanded to an enormous size - frightful figures
flitted to and fro - and the faces of men he knew, rendered hideous by gibing
and mouthing, peered out from among them; they were searing him with heated
irons, and binding his head with cords till the blood started; and he struggled
madly for life.
    At the close of one of these paroxysms, when I had with great difficulty
held him down in his bed, he sank into what appeared to be a slumber.
Overpowered with watching and exertion, I had closed my eyes for a few minutes,
when I felt a violent clutch on my shoulder. I awoke instantly. He had raised
himself up, so as to seat himself in bed - a dreadful change had come over his
face, but consciousness had returned, for he evidently knew me. The child who
had been long since disturbed by his ravings, rose from its little bed, and ran
towards its father, screaming with fright - the mother hastily caught it in her
arms, lest he should injure it in the violence of his insanity; but, terrified
by the alteration of his features, stood transfixed by the bed-side. He grasped
my shoulder convulsively, and, striking his breast with the other hand, made a
desperate attempt to articulate. It was unavailing - he extended his arm towards
them, and made another violent effort. There was a rattling noise in the throat
- a glare of the eye - a short stifled groan - and he fell back - dead!«
 
It would afford us the highest gratification to be enabled to record Mr.
Pickwick's opinion of the foregoing anecdote. We have little doubt that we
should have been enabled to present it to our readers, but for a most
unfortunate occurrence.
    Mr. Pickwick had replaced on the table the glass which, during the last few
sentences of the tale, he had retained in his hand, and had just made up his
mind to speak - indeed, we have the authority of Mr. Snodgrass's note-book for
stating, that he had actually opened his mouth - when the waiter entered the
room, and said -
    »Some gentlemen, sir.«
    It has been conjectured that Mr. Pickwick was on the point of delivering
some remarks which would have enlightened the world, if not the Thames, when he
was thus interrupted: for he gazed sternly on the waiter's countenance, and then
looked round on the company generally, as if seeking for information relative to
the new comers.
    »Oh!« said Mr. Winkle, rising, »some friends of mine - show them in. Very
pleasant fellows,« added Mr. Winkle, after the waiter had retired - »Officers of
the 97th, whose acquaintance I made rather oddly this morning. You will like
them very much.«
    Mr. Pickwick's equanimity was at once restored. The waiter returned, and
ushered three gentlemen into the room.
    »Lieutenant Tappleton,« said Mr. Winkle, »Lieutenant Tappleton, Mr. Pickwick
- Doctor Payne, Mr. Pickwick - Mr. Snodgrass, you have seen before: my friend
Mr. Tupman, Doctor Payne - Dr. Slammer, Mr. Pickwick - Mr. Tupman, Doctor Slam
-.«
    Here Mr. Winkle suddenly paused; for strong emotion was visible on the
countenance both of Mr. Tupman and the Doctor.
    »I have met this gentleman before,« said the Doctor, with marked emphasis.
    »Indeed!« said Mr. Winkle.
    »And - and that person, too, if I am not mistaken,« said the Doctor,
bestowing a scrutinising glance on the green-coated stranger. »I think I gave
that person a very pressing invitation last night, which he thought proper to
decline.« Saying which the Doctor scowled magnanimously on the stranger, and
whispered his friend Lieutenant Tappleton.
    »You don't say so,« said that gentleman, at the conclusion of the whisper.
    »I do, indeed,« replied Doctor Slammer.
    »You are bound to kick him on the spot,« murmured the owner of the
camp-stool with great importance.
    »Do be quiet, Payne,« interposed the Lieutenant. »Will you allow me to ask
you, sir,« he said, addressing Mr. Pickwick, who was considerably mystified by
this very impolite by-play, »will you allow me to ask you, sir, whether that
person belongs to your party?«
    »No, sir,« replied Mr. Pickwick, »he is a guest of ours.«
    »He is a member of your club, or I am mistaken?« said the Lieutenant,
inquiringly.
    »Certainly not,« responded Mr. Pickwick.
    »And never wears your club-button?« said the Lieutenant.
    »No - never!« replied the astonished Mr. Pickwick.
    Lieutenant Tappleton turned round to his friend Doctor Slammer, with a
scarcely perceptible shrug of the shoulder, as if implying some doubt of the
accuracy of his recollection. The little Doctor looked wrathful, but confounded;
and Mr. Payne gazed with a ferocious aspect on the beaming countenance of the
unconscious Pickwick.
    »Sir,« said the Doctor, suddenly addressing Mr. Tupman, in a tone which made
that gentleman start as perceptibly as if a pin had been cunningly inserted in
the calf of his leg, »you were at the ball here last night!«
    Mr. Tupman gasped a faint affirmative, looking very hard at Mr. Pickwick all
the while.
    »That person was your companion,« said the Doctor, pointing to the still
unmoved stranger.
    Mr. Tupman admitted the fact.
    »Now, sir,« said the Doctor to the stranger, »I ask you once again, in the
presence of these gentlemen, whether you choose to give me your card, and to
receive the treatment of a gentleman; or whether you impose upon me the
necessity of personally chastising you on the spot?«
    »Stay, sir,« said Mr. Pickwick, »I really cannot allow this matter to go any
further without some explanation. Tupman, recount the circumstances.«
    Mr. Tupman, thus solemnly abjured, stated the case in a few words; touched
slightly on the borrowing of the coat; expatiated largely on its having been
done after dinner; wound up with a little penitence on his own account; and left
the stranger to clear himself as he best could.
    He was apparently about to proceed to do so, when Lieutenant Tappleton, who
had been eyeing him with great curiosity, said with considerable scorn -
»Haven't I seen you at the theatre, sir?«
    »Certainly,« replied the unabashed stranger.
    »He is a strolling actor,« said the Lieutenant, contemptuously; turning to
Dr. Slammer - »He acts in the piece that the Officers of the 52nd get up at the
Rochester Theatre to-morrow night. You cannot proceed in this affair, Slammer -
impossible!«
    »Quite!« said the dignified Payne.
    »Sorry to have placed you in this disagreeable situation,« said Lieutenant
Tappleton, addressing Mr. Pickwick; »allow me to suggest, that the best way of
avoiding a recurrence of such scenes in future, will be to be more select in the
choice of your companions. Good evening, sir!« and the Lieutenant bounced out of
the room.
    »And allow me to say, sir,« said the irascible Doctor Payne, »that if I had
been Tappleton, or if I had been Slammer, I would have pulled your nose, sir,
and the nose of every man in this company. I would, sir, every man. Payne is my
name, sir - Doctor Payne of the 43rd. Good evening, sir.« Having concluded this
speech, and uttered the three last words in a loud key, be stalked majestically
after his friend, closely followed by Doctor Slammer, who said nothing, but
contented himself by withering the company with a look.
    Rising rage and extreme bewilderment had swelled the noble breast of Mr.
Pickwick, almost to the bursting of his waistcoat, during the delivery of the
above defiance. He stood transfixed to the spot, gazing on vacancy. The closing
of the door recalled him to himself. He rushed forward with fury in his looks,
and fire in his eye. His hand was upon the lock of the door; in another instant
it would have been on the throat of Doctor Payne of the 43rd, had not Mr.
Snodgrass seized his revered leader by the coat tail, and dragged him backwards.
    »Restrain him,« cried Mr. Snodgrass, »Winkle, Tupman - he must not peril his
distinguished life in such a cause as this.«
    »Let me go,« said Mr. Pickwick.
    »Hold him tight,« shouted Mr. Snodgrass; and by the united efforts of the
whole company, Mr. Pickwick was forced into an arm-chair.
    »Leave him alone,« said the green-coated stranger - »brandy and water -
jolly old gentleman - lots of pluck - swallow this - ah! - capital stuff.«
Having previously tested the virtues of a bumper, which had been mixed by the
dismal man, the stranger applied the glass to Mr. Pickwick's mouth; and the
remainder of its contents rapidly disappeared.
    There was a short pause; the brandy and water had done its work; the amiable
countenance of Mr. Pickwick was fast recovering its customary expression.
    »They are not worth your notice,« said the dismal man.
    »You are right, sir,« replied Mr. Pickwick, »they are not. I am ashamed to
have been betrayed into this warmth of feeling. Draw your chair up to the table,
sir.«
    The dismal man readily complied: a circle was again formed round the table,
and harmony once more prevailed. Some lingering irritability appeared to find a
resting-place in Mr. Winkle's bosom, occasioned possibly by the temporary
abstraction of his coat - though it is scarcely reasonable to suppose that so
slight a circumstance can have excited even a passing feeling of anger in a
Pickwickian breast. With this exception, their good humour was completely
restored; and the evening concluded with the conviviality with which it had
begun.
 

                                   Chapter IV

    A Field-Day and Bivouac. More New Friends. An Invitation to the Country.

Many authors entertain, not only a foolish, but a really dishonest objection to
acknowledge the sources from whence they derive much valuable information. We
have no such feeling. We are merely endeavouring to discharge, in an upright
manner, the responsible duties of our editorial functions; and whatever ambition
we might have felt under other circumstances to lay claim to the authorship of
these adventures, a regard for truth forbids us to do more than claim the merit
of their judicious arrangement and impartial narration. The Pickwick papers are
our New River Head; and we may be compared to the New River Company. The labours
of others have raised for us an immense reservoir of important facts. We merely
lay them on, and communicate them, in a clear and gentle stream, through the
medium of these numbers, to a world thirsting for Pickwickian knowledge.
    Acting in this spirit, and resolutely proceeding on our determination to
avow our obligations to the authorities we have consulted, we frankly say, that
to the note-book of Mr. Snodgrass are we indebted for the particulars recorded
in this, and the succeeding chapter - particulars which, now that we have
disburdened our conscience, we shall proceed to detail without further comment.
    The whole population of Rochester and the adjoining towns rose from their
beds at an early hour of the following morning, in a state of the utmost bustle
and excitement. A grand review was to take place upon the Lines. The manoeuvres
of half-a-dozen regiments were to be inspected by the eagle eye of the
commander-in-chief; temporary fortifications had been erected, the citadel was
to be attacked and taken, and a mine was to be sprung.
    Mr. Pickwick was, as our readers may have gathered from the slight extract
we gave from his description of Chatham, an enthusiastic admirer of the army.
Nothing could have been more delightful to him - nothing could have harmonised
so well with the peculiar feeling of each of his companions - as this sight.
Accordingly they were soon a-foot, and walking in the direction of the scene of
action, towards which crowds of people were already pouring from a variety of
quarters.
    The appearance of everything on the Lines denoted that the approaching
ceremony was one of the utmost grandeur and importance. There were sentries
posted to keep the ground for the troops, and servants on the batteries keeping
places for the ladies, and sergeants running to and fro, with vellum-covered
books under their arms, and Colonel Bulder, in full military uniform, on
horseback, galloping first to one place and then to another, and backing his
horse among the people, and prancing, and curvetting, and shouting in a most
alarming manner, and making himself very hoarse in the voice, and very red in
the face, without any assignable cause or reason whatever. Officers were running
backwards and forwards, first communicating with Colonel Bulder, and then
ordering the sergeants, and then running away altogether; and even the very
privates themselves looked from behind their glazed stocks with an air of
mysterious solemnity, which sufficiently bespoke the special nature of the
occasion.
    Mr. Pickwick and his three companions stationed themselves in the front rank
of the crowd, and patiently awaited the commencement of the proceedings. The
throng was increasing every moment; and the efforts they were compelled to make,
to retain the position they had gained, sufficiently occupied their attention
during the two hours that ensued. At one time there was a sudden pressure from
behind; and then Mr. Pickwick was jerked forward for several yards, with a
degree of speed and elasticity highly inconsistent with the general gravity of
his demeanour; at another moment there was a request to keep back from the
front, and then the butt-end of a musket was either dropped upon Mr. Pickwick's
toe, to remind him of the demand, or thrust into his chest, to ensure its being
complied with. Then some facetious gentlemen on the left, after pressing
sideways in a body, and squeezing Mr. Snodgrass into the very last extreme of
human torture, would request to know vere he vos a shovin' to; and when Mr.
Winkle had done expressing his excessive indignation at witnessing this
unprovoked assault, some person behind would knock his hat over his eyes, and
beg the favour of his putting his head in his pocket. These, and other practical
witticisms, coupled with the unaccountable absence of Mr. Tupman (who had
suddenly disappeared, and was nowhere to be found), rendered their situation
upon the whole rather more uncomfortable than pleasing or desirable.
    At length that low roar of many voices ran through the crowd, which usually
announces the arrival of whatever they have been waiting for. All eyes were
turned in the direction of the sally-port. A few moments of eager expectation,
and colours were seen fluttering gaily in the air, arms glistened brightly in
the sun, column after column poured on to the plain. The troops halted and
formed; the word of command rung through the line, there was a general clash of
muskets as arms were presented; and the commander-in-chief, attended by Colonel
Bulder and numerous officers, cantered to the front. The military bands struck
up altogether; the horses stood upon two legs each, cantered backwards, and
whisked their tails about in all directions: the dogs barked, the mob screamed,
the troops recovered, and nothing was to be seen on either side, as far as the
eye could reach, but a long perspective of red coats and white trousers, fixed
and motionless.
    Mr. Pickwick had been so fully occupied in falling about, and disentangling
himself, miraculously, from between the legs of horses, that he had not enjoyed
sufficient leisure to observe the scene before him, until it assumed the
appearance we have just described. When he was at last enabled to stand firmly
on his legs, his gratification and delight were unbounded.
    »Can anything be finer or more delightful?« he inquired of Mr. Winkle.
    »Nothing,« replied that gentleman, who had had a short man standing on each
of his feet for the quarter of an hour immediately preceding.
    »It is indeed a noble and a brilliant sight,« said Mr. Snodgrass, in whose
bosom a blaze of poetry was rapidly bursting forth, »to see the gallant
defenders of their country drawn up in brilliant array before its peaceful
citizens; their faces beaming - not with warlike ferocity, but with civilised
gentleness; their eyes flashing - not with the rude fire of rapine or revenge,
but with the soft light of humanity and intelligence.«
    Mr. Pickwick fully entered into the spirit of this eulogium, but he could
not exactly re-echo its terms; for the soft light of intelligence burnt rather
feebly in the eyes of the warriors, inasmuch as the command eyes front had been
given, and all the spectator saw before him was several thousand pairs of
optics, staring straight forward, wholly divested of any expression whatever.
    »We are in a capital situation now,« said Mr. Pickwick, looking round him.
The crowd had gradually dispersed in their immediate vicinity, and they were
nearly alone.
    »Capital!« echoed both Mr. Snodgrass and Mr. Winkle.
    »What are they doing now?« inquired Mr. Pickwick, adjusting his spectacles.
    »I - I - rather think,« said Mr. Winkle, changing colour - »I rather think
they're going to fire.«
    »Nonsense,« said Mr. Pickwick, hastily.
    »I - I - really think they are,« urged Mr. Snodgrass, somewhat alarmed.
    »Impossible,« replied Mr. Pickwick. He had hardly uttered the word, when the
whole half-dozen regiments levelled their muskets as if they had but one common
object, and that object the Pickwickians, and burst forth with the most awful
and tremendous discharge that ever shook the earth to its centre, or an elderly
gentleman off his.
    It was in this trying situation, exposed to a galling fire of blank
cartridges, and harassed by the operations of the military, a fresh body of whom
had begun to fall in on the opposite side, that Mr. Pickwick displayed that
perfect coolness and self-possession, which are the indispensable accompaniments
of a great mind. He seized Mr. Winkle by the arm, and placing himself between
that gentleman and Mr. Snodgrass, earnestly besought them to remember that
beyond the possibility of being rendered deaf by the noise, there was no
immediate danger to be apprehended from the firing.
    »But - but - suppose some of the men should happen to have ball cartridges
by mistake,« remonstrated Mr. Winkle, pallid at the supposition he was himself
conjuring up. »I heard something whistle through the air just now - so sharp;
close to my ear.«
    »We had better throw ourselves on our faces, hadn't we?« said Mr. Snodgrass.
    »No, no - it's over now,« said Mr. Pickwick. His lip might quiver, and his
cheek might blanch, but no expression of fear or concern escaped the lips of
that immortal man.
    Mr. Pickwick was right: the firing ceased; but he had scarcely time to
congratulate himself on the accuracy of his opinion, when a quick movement was
visible in the line: the hoarse shout of the word of command ran along it, and
before either of the party could form a guess at the meaning of this new
manoeuvre, the whole of the half-dozen regiments, with fixed bayonets, charged
at double quick time down upon the very spot on which Mr. Pickwick and his
friends were stationed.
    Man is but mortal: and there is a point beyond which human courage cannot
extend. Mr. Pickwick gazed through his spectacles for an instant on the
advancing mass, and then fairly turned his back and - we will not say fled;
firstly, because it is an ignoble term, and, secondly, because Mr. Pickwick's
figure was by no means adapted for that mode of retreat - he trotted away, at as
quick a rate as his legs would convey him; so quickly, indeed, that he did not
perceive the awkwardness of his situation, to the full extent, until too late.
    The opposite troops, whose falling-in had perplexed Mr. Pickwick a few
seconds before, were drawn up to repel the mimic attack of the sham besiegers of
the citadel; and the consequence was that Mr. Pickwick and his two companions
found themselves suddenly enclosed between two lines of great length, the one
advancing at a rapid pace, and the other firmly waiting the collision in hostile
array.
    »Hoi!« shouted the officers of the advancing line.
    »Get out of the way,« cried the officers of the stationary one.
    »Where are we to go to?« screamed the agitated Pickwickians.
    »Hoi - hoi - hoi!« was the only reply. There was a moment of intense
bewilderment, a heavy tramp of footsteps, a violent concussion, a smothered
laugh; the half-dozen regiments were half a thousand yards off, and the soles of
Mr. Pickwick's boots were elevated in air.
    Mr. Snodgrass and Mr. Winkle had each performed a compulsory somerset with
remarkable agility, when the first object that met the eyes of the latter as he
sat on the ground, staunching with a yellow silk handkerchief the stream of life
which issued from his nose, was his venerated leader at some distance off,
running after his own hat, which was gamboling playfully away in perspective.
    There are very few moments in a man's existence when he experiences so much
ludicrous distress, or meets with so little charitable commiseration, as when he
is in pursuit of his own hat. A vast deal of coolness, and a peculiar degree of
judgment, are requisite in catching a hat. A man must not be precipitate, or he
runs over it; he must not rush into the opposite extreme, or he loses it
altogether. The best way is, to keep gently up with the object of pursuit, to be
wary and cautious, to watch your opportunity well, get gradually before it, then
make a rapid dive, seize it by the crown, and stick it firmly on your head:
smiling pleasantly all the time, as if you thought it as good a joke as anybody
else.
    There was a fine gentle wind, and Mr. Pickwick's hat rolled sportively
before it. The wind puffed, and Mr. Pickwick puffed, and the hat rolled over and
over as merrily as a lively porpoise in a strong tide; and on it might have
rolled, far beyond Mr. Pickwick's reach, had not its course been providentially
stopped, just as that gentleman was on the point of resigning it to its fate.
    Mr. Pickwick, we say, was completely exhausted, and about to give up the
chase, when the hat was blown with some violence against the wheel of a
carriage, which was drawn up in a line with half-a-dozen other vehicles on the
spot to which his steps had been directed. Mr. Pickwick, perceiving his
advantage, darted briskly forward, secured his property, planted it on his head,
and paused to take breath. He had not been stationary half a minute, when he
heard his own name eagerly pronounced by a voice, which he at once recognised as
Mr. Tupman's, and, looking upwards, he beheld a sight which filled him with
surprise and pleasure.
    In an open barouche, the horses of which had been taken out, the better to
accommodate it to the crowded place, stood a stout old gentleman, in a blue coat
and bright buttons, corduroy breeches and top boots, two young ladies in scarfs
and feathers, a young gentleman apparently enamoured of one of the young ladies
in scarfs and feathers, a lady of doubtful age, probably the aunt of the
aforesaid, and Mr. Tupman, as easy and unconcerned as if he had belonged to the
family from the first moments of his infancy. Fastened up behind the barouche
was a hamper of spacious dimensions - one of those hampers which always awakens
in a contemplative mind associations connected with cold fowls, tongues, and
bottles of wine - and on the box sat a fat and red-faced boy, in a state of
somnolency, whom no speculative observer could have regarded for an instant
without setting down as the official dispenser of the contents of the
before-mentioned hamper, when the proper time for their consumption should
arrive.
    Mr. Pickwick had bestowed a hasty glance on these interesting objects, when
he was again greeted by his faithful disciple.
    »Pickwick - Pickwick,« said Mr. Tupman: »come up here. Make haste.«
    »Come along, sir. Pray, come up,« said the stout gentleman. »Joe! - damn
that boy, he's gone to sleep again. - Joe, let down the steps.« The fat boy
rolled slowly off the box, let down the steps, and held the carriage door
invitingly open. Mr. Snodgrass and Mr. Winkle came up at the moment.
    »Room for you all, gentlemen,« said the stout man. »Two inside, and one out.
Joe, make room for one of these gentlemen on the box. Now, sir, come along;« and
the stout gentleman extended his arm, and pulled first Mr. Pickwick, and then
Mr. Snodgrass, into the barouche by main force. Mr. Winkle mounted to the box,
the fat boy waddled to the same perch, and fell fast asleep instantly.
    »Well, gentlemen,« said the stout man, »very glad to see you. Know you very
well, gentlemen, though you mayn't remember me. I spent some ev'nins at your
club last winter - picked up my friend Mr. Tupman here this morning, and very
glad I was to see him. Well, sir, and how are you? You do look uncommon well, to
be sure.«
    Mr. Pickwick acknowledged the compliment, and cordially shook hands with the
stout gentleman in the top boots.
    »Well, and how are you, sir?« said the stout gentleman, addressing Mr.
Snodgrass with paternal anxiety. »Charming, eh? Well, that's right - that's
right. And how are you, sir (to Mr. Winkle)? Well, I am glad to hear you say you
are well; very glad I am, to be sure. My daughters, gentlemen - my gals these
are; and that's my sister, Miss Rachael Wardle. She's a Miss, she is; and yet
she an't a Miss - eh, sir, eh?« And the stout gentleman playfully inserted his
elbow between the ribs of Mr. Pickwick, and laughed very heartily.
    »Lor, brother?« said Miss Wardle, with a deprecating smile.
    »True, true,« said the stout gentleman; »no one can deny it. Gentlemen, I
beg your pardon; this is my friend Mr. Trundle. And now you all know each other,
let's be comfortable and happy, and see what's going forward; that's what I
say.« So the stout gentleman put on his spectacles, and Mr. Pickwick pulled out
his glass, and everybody stood up in the carriage, and looked over somebody
else's shoulder at the evolutions of the military.
    Astounding evolutions they were, one rank firing over the heads of another
rank, and then running away; and then the other rank firing over the heads of
another rank, and running away in their turn; and then forming squares, with
officers in the centre; and then descending the trench on one side with scaling
ladders, and ascending it on the other again by the same means; and knocking
down barricades of baskets, and behaving in the most gallant manner possible.
Then there was such a ramming down of the contents of enormous guns on the
battery, with instruments like magnified mops; such a preparation before they
were let off, and such an awful noise when they did go, that the air resounded
with the screams of ladies. The young Miss Wardles were so frightened, that Mr.
Trundle was actually obliged to hold one of them up in the carriage, while Mr.
Snodgrass supported the other, and Mr. Wardle's sister suffered under such a
dreadful state of nervous alarm, that Mr. Tupman found it indispensably
necessary to put his arm round her waist, to keep her up at all. Everybody was
excited, except the fat boy, and he slept as soundly as if the roaring of cannon
were his ordinary lullaby.
    »Joe, Joe!« said the stout gentleman, when the citadel was taken, and the
besiegers and besieged sat down to dinner. »Damn that boy, he's gone to sleep
again. Be good enough to pinch him, sir - in the leg, if you please; nothing
else wakes him - thank you. Undo the hamper, Joe.«
    The fat boy, who had been effectually roused by the compression of a portion
of his leg between the finger and thumb of Mr. Winkle, rolled off the box once
again, and proceeded to unpack the hamper, with more expedition than could have
been expected from his previous inactivity.
    »Now, we must sit close,« said the stout gentleman. After a great many jokes
about squeezing the ladies' sleeves, and a vast quantity of blushing at sundry
jocose proposals, that the ladies should sit in the gentlemen's laps, the whole
party were stowed down in the barouche; and the stout gentleman proceeded to
hand the things from the fat boy (who had mounted up behind for the purpose)
into the carriage.
    »Now, Joe, knives and forks.« The knives and forks were handed in, and the
ladies and gentlemen inside, and Mr. Winkle on the box, were each furnished with
those useful instruments.
    »Plates, Joe, plates.« A similiar process employed in the distribution of
the crockery.
    »Now, Joe, the fowls. Damn that boy; he's gone to sleep again. Joe! Joe!«
(Sundry taps on the head with a stick, and the fat boy, with some difficulty,
roused from his lethargy). »Come, hand in the eatables.«
    There was something in the sound of the last word which roused the unctuous
boy. He jumped up: and the leaden eyes, which twinkled behind his mountainous
cheeks, leered horribly upon the food as he unpacked it from the basket.
    »Now make haste,« said Mr. Wardle; for the fat boy was hanging fondly over a
capon, which he seemed wholly unable to part with. The boy sighed deeply, and,
bestowing an ardent gaze upon its plumpness, unwillingly consigned it to his
master.
    »That's right - look sharp. Now the tongue - now the pigeon-pie. Take care
of that veal and ham - mind the lobsters - take the salad out of the cloth -
give me the dressing.« Such were the hurried orders which issued from the lips
of Mr. Wardle, as he handed in the different articles described, and placed
dishes in everybody's hands, and on everybody's knees, in endless number.
    »Now, an't this capital?« inquired that jolly personage, when the work of
destruction had commenced.
    »Capital!« said Mr. Winkle, who was carving a fowl on the box.
    »Glass of wine?«
    »With the greatest pleasure.«
    »You'd better have a bottle to yourself, up there, hadn't you?«
    »You're very good.«
    »Joe!«
    »Yes, sir.« (He wasn't't asleep this time, having just succeeded in
abstracting a veal patty).
    »Bottle of wine to the gentleman on the box. Glad to see you, sir.«
    »Thankee.« Mr. Winkle emptied his glass, and placed the bottle on the
coach-box, by his side.
    »Will you permit me to have the pleasure, sir?« said Mr. Trundle to Mr.
Winkle.
    »With great pleasure,« replied Mr. Winkle to Mr. Trundle: and then the two
gentlemen took wine, after which they took a glass of wine round, ladies and
all.
    »How dear Emily is flirting with the stranger gentleman,« whispered the
spinster aunt, with true spinster-aunt-like envy, to her brother Mr. Wardle.
    »Oh! I don't know,« said the jolly old gentleman; »all very natural, I dare
say - nothing unusual. Mr. Pickwick, some wine, sir?« Mr. Pickwick, who had been
deeply investigating the interior of the pigeon-pie, readily assented.
    »Emily, my dear,« said the spinster aunt, with a patronising air, »don't
talk so loud, love.«
    »Lor, aunt!«
    »Aunt and the little old gentleman want to have it all to themselves, I
think,« whispered Miss Isabella Wardle to her sister Emily. The young ladies
laughed very heartily, and the old one tried to look amiable, but couldn't
manage it.
    »Young girls have such spirits,« said Miss Wardle to Mr. Tupman, with an air
of gentle commiseration, as if animal spirits were contraband, and their
possession without a permit, a high crime and misdemeanour.
    »Oh, they have,« replied Mr. Tupman, not exactly making the sort of reply
that was expected from him. »It's quite delightful.«
    »Hem!« said Miss Wardle, rather dubiously.
    »Will you permit me,« said Mr. Tupman, in his blandest manner, touching the
enchanting Rachael's wrist with one hand, and gently elevating the bottle with
the other. »Will you permit me?«
    »Oh, sir!« Mr. Tupman looked most impressive; and Rachael expressed her fear
that more guns were going off, in which case, of course, she would have required
support again.
    »Do you think my dear nieces pretty?« whispered their affectionate aunt to
Mr. Tupman.
    »I should, if their aunt wasn't't here,« replied the ready Pickwickian, with a
passionate glance.
    »Oh, you naughty man - but really, if their complexions were a little little
better, don't you think they would be nice-looking girls - by candle-light?«
    »Yes; I think they would;« said Mr. Tupman, with an air of indifference.
    »Oh, you quiz - I know what you were going to say.«
    »What?« inquired Mr. Tupman, who had not precisely made up his mind to say
anything at all.
    »You were going to say, that Isabel stoops - I know you were - you men are
such observers. Well, so she does; it can't be denied; and, certainly, if there
is one thing more than another that makes a girl look ugly, it is stooping. I
often tell her, that when she gets a little older, she'll be quite frightful.
Well, you are a quiz!«
    Mr. Tupman had no objection to earning the reputation at so cheap a rate: so
he looked very knowing, and smiled mysteriously.
    »What a sarcastic smile,« said the admiring Rachael; »I declare I'm quite
afraid of you.«
    »Afraid of me!«
    »Oh, you can't disguise anything from me - I know what that smile means,
very well.«
    »What?« said Mr. Tupman, who had not the slightest notion himself.
    »You mean,« said the amiable aunt, sinking her voice still lower - »You
mean, that you don't think Isabella's stooping is as bad as Emily's boldness.
Well, she is bold! You cannot think how wretched it makes me sometimes. I'm sure
I cry about it for hours together - my dear brother is so good, and so
unsuspicious, that he never sees it; if he did, I'm quite certain it would break
his heart. I wish I could think it was only manner - I hope it may be -« (here
the affectionate relative heaved a deep sigh, and shook her head despondingly.)
    »I'm sure aunt's talking about us,« whispered Miss Emily Wardle to her
sister - »I'm quite certain of it - she looks so malicious.«
    »Is she?« replied Isabella - »Hem! aunt dear!«
    »Yes, my dear love!«
    »I'm so afraid you'll catch cold, aunt - have a silk handkerchief to tie
round your dear old head - you really should take care of yourself - consider
your age!«
    However well deserved this piece of retaliation might have been, it was as
vindictive a one as could well have been resorted to. There is no guessing in
what form of reply the aunt's indignation would have vented itself, had not Mr.
Wardle unconsciously changed the subject, by calling emphatically for Joe.
    »Damn that boy,« said the old gentleman, »he's gone to sleep again.«
    »Very extraordinary boy, that,« said Mr. Pickwick, »does he always sleep in
this way!«
    »Sleep!« said the old gentleman, »he's always asleep. Goes on errands fast
asleep, and snores as he waits at table.«
    »How very odd!« said Mr. Pickwick.
    »Ah! odd indeed,« returned the old gentleman; »I'm proud of that boy -
wouldn't part with him on any account - he's a natural curiosity! Here, Joe -
Joe - take these things away, and open another bottle - d'ye hear?«
    The fat boy rose, opened his eyes, swallowed the huge piece of pie he had
been in the act of masticating when he last fell asleep, and slowly obeyed his
master's orders - gloating languidly over the remains of the feast, as he
removed the plates, and deposited them in the hamper. The fresh bottle was
produced, and speedily emptied: the hamper was made fast in its old place - the
fat boy once more mounted the box - the spectacles and pocket-glass were again
adjusted and the evolutions of the military recommenced. There was a great
fizzing and banging of guns, and starting of ladies - and then a mine was
sprung, to the gratification of everybody - and when the mine had gone off, the
military and the company followed its example, and went off too.
    »Now, mind,« said the old gentleman, as he shook hands with Mr. Pickwick at
the conclusion of a conversation which had been carried on at intervals, during
the conclusion of the proceedings - »we shall see you all to-morrow.«
    »Most certainly,« replied Mr. Pickwick.
    »You have got the address.«
    »Manor Farm, Dingley Dell,« said Mr. Pickwick, consulting his pocket-book.
    »That's it,« said the old gentleman. »I don't let you off, mind, under a
week; and undertake that you shall see everything worth seeing. If you've come
down for a country life, come to me, and I'll give you plenty of it. Joe - damn
that boy, he's gone to sleep again - Joe, help Tom put in the horses.«
    The horses were put in - the driver mounted - the fat boy clambered up by
his side - farewells were exchanged - and the carriage rattled off. As the
Pickwickians turned round to take a last glimpse of it, the setting sun cast a
rich glow on the faces of their entertainers, and fell upon the form of the fat
boy. His head was sunk upon his bosom; and he slumbered again.
 

                                   Chapter V

A Short One. Showing, among Other Matters, How Mr. Pickwick Undertook To Drive,
               and Mr. Winkle To Ride; and How They Both Did It.

Bright and pleasant was the sky, balmy the air, and beautiful the appearance of
every object around, as Mr. Pickwick leant over the balustrades of Rochester
Bridge, contemplating nature, and waiting for breakfast. The scene was indeed
one which might well have charmed a far less reflective mind, than that to which
it was presented.
    On the left of the spectator lay the ruined wall, broken in many places, and
in some, overhanging the narrow beach below in rude and heavy masses. Huge knots
of sea-weed hung upon the jagged and pointed stones, trembling in every breath
of wind; and the green ivy clung mournfully round the dark and ruined
battlements. Behind it rose the ancient castle, its towers roofless, and its
massive walls crumbling away, but telling us proudly of its own might and
strength, as when, seven hundred years ago, it rang with the clash of arms, or
resounded with the noise of feasting and revelry. On either side, the banks of
the Medway, covered with corn-fields and pastures, with here and there a
windmill, or a distant church, stretched away as far as the eye could see,
presenting a rich and varied landscape, rendered more beautiful by the changing
shadows which passed swiftly across it, as the thin and half-formed clouds
skimmed away in the light of the morning sun. The river, reflecting the clear
blue of the sky, glistened and sparkled as it flowed noiselessly on; and the
oars of the fishermen dipped into the water with a clear and liquid sound, as
the heavy but picturesque boats glided slowly down the stream.
    Mr. Pickwick was roused from the agreeable reverie into which he had been
led by the objects before him, by a deep sigh, and a touch on his shoulder. He
turned round: and the dismal man was at his side.
    »Contemplating the scene?« inquired the dismal man.
    »I was,« said Mr. Pickwick.
    »And congratulating yourself on being up so soon?« Mr. Pickwick nodded
assent.
    »Ah! people need to rise early, to see the sun in all his splendour, for his
brightness seldom lasts the day through. The morning of day and the morning of
life are but too much alike.«
    »You speak truly, sir,« said Mr. Pickwick.
    »How common the saying,« continued the dismal man, »The morning's too fine
to last. How well might it be applied to our every-day existence. God! what
would I forfeit to have the days of my childhood restored, or to be able to
forget them for ever!«
    »You have seen much trouble, sir,« said Mr. Pickwick, compassionately.
    »I have,« said the dismal man, hurriedly; »I have. More than those who see
me now would believe possible.« He paused for an instant, and then said,
abruptly -
    »Did it ever strike you, on such a morning as this, that drowning would be
happiness and peace?«
    »God bless me, no!« replied Mr. Pickwick, edging a little from the
balustrade, as the possibility of the dismal man's tipping him over, by way of
experiment, occurred to him rather forcibly.
    »I have thought so, often,« said the dismal man, without noticing the
action. »The calm, cool water seems to me to murmur an invitation to repose and
rest. A bound, a splash, a brief struggle; there is an eddy for an instant, it
gradually subsides into a gentle ripple; the waters have closed above your head,
and the world has closed upon your miseries and misfortunes for ever.« The
sunken eye of the dismal man flashed brightly as he spoke, but the momentary
excitement quickly subsided; and he turned calmly away, as he said -
    »There - enough of that. I wish to see you on another subject. You invited
me to read that paper, the night before last, and listened attentively while I
did so.«
    »I did,« replied Mr. Pickwick; »and I certainly thought -«
    »I asked for no opinion,« said the dismal man, interrupting him, »and I want
none. You are travelling for amusement and instruction. Suppose I forwarded you
a curious manuscript - observe, not curious because wild or improbable, but
curious as a leaf from the romance of real life. Would you communicate it to the
club, of which you have spoken so frequently?«
    »Certainly,« replied Mr. Pickwick, »if you wished it; and it would be
entered on their transactions.«
    »You shall have it,« replied the dismal man. »Your address;« and, Mr.
Pickwick having communicated their probable route, the dismal man carefully
noted it down in a greasy pocket-book, and, resisting Mr. Pickwick's pressing
invitation to breakfast, left that gentleman at his inn, and walked slowly away.
    Mr. Pickwick found that his three companions had risen, and were waiting his
arrival to commence breakfast, which was ready laid in tempting display. They
sat down to the meal; and broiled ham, eggs, tea, coffee, and sundries, began to
disappear with a rapidity which at once bore testimony to the excellence of the
fare, and the appetites of its consumers.
    »Now, about Manor Farm,« said Mr. Pickwick. »How shall we go?«
    »We had better consult the waiter, perhaps,« said Mr. Tupman, and the waiter
was summoned accordingly.
    »Dingley Dell, gentlemen - fifteen miles, gentlemen - cross road -
post-chaise, sir?«
    »Post-chaise won't hold more than two,« said Mr. Pickwick.
    »True, sir - beg your pardon, sir. - Very nice four-wheeled chaise, sir -
seat for two behind - one in front for the gentleman that drives - oh! beg your
pardon, sir - that'll only hold three.«
    »What's to be done?« said Mr. Snodgrass.
    »Perhaps one of the gentlemen would like to ride, sir?« suggested the
waiter, looking towards Mr. Winkle; »very good saddle horses, sir - any of Mr.
Wardle's men coming to Rochester bring 'em back, sir.«
    »The very thing,« said Mr. Pickwick. »Winkle, will you go on horseback?«
    Mr. Winkle did entertain considerable misgivings in the very lowest recesses
of his own heart, relative to his equestrian skill; but, as he would not have
them even suspected on any account, he at once replied with great hardihood,
»Certainly. I should enjoy it, of all things.«
    Mr. Winkle had rushed upon his fate; there was no resource. »Let them be at
the door by eleven,« said Mr. Pickwick.
    »Very well, sir,« replied the waiter.
    The waiter retired; the breakfast concluded; and the travellers ascended to
their respective bed-rooms, to prepare a change of clothing, to take with them
on their approaching expedition.
    Mr. Pickwick had made his preliminary arrangements, and was looking over the
coffee-room blinds at the passengers in the street, when the waiter entered, and
announced that the chaise was ready - an announcement which the vehicle itself
confirmed, by forthwith appearing before the coffee-room blinds aforesaid.
    It was a curious little green box on four wheels, with a low place like a
wine-bin for two behind, and an elevated perch for one in front, drawn by an
immense brown horse, displaying great symmetry of bone. An hostler stood near,
holding by the bridle another immense horse - apparently a near relative of the
animal in the chaise - ready saddled for Mr. Winkle.
    »Bless my soul!« said Mr. Pickwick, as they stood upon the pavement while
the coats were being put in. »Bless my soul! who's to drive? I never thought of
that.«
    »Oh! you, of course,« said Mr. Tupman.
    »Of course,« said Mr. Snodgrass.
    »I!« exclaimed Mr. Pickwick.
    »Not the slightest fear, sir,« interposed the hostler. »Warrant him quiet,
sir; a hinfant in arms might drive him.«
    »He don't shy, does he?« inquired Mr. Pickwick.
    »Shy, sir? - He wouldn't shy if he was to meet a vaggin-load of monkeys with
their tails burnt off.«
    The last recommendation was indisputable. Mr. Tupman and Mr. Snodgrass got
into the bin; Mr. Pickwick ascended to his perch, and deposited his feet on a
floor-clothed shelf, erected beneath it for that purpose.
    »Now, shiny Villiam,« said the hostler to the deputy hostler, »give the
gen'lm'n the ribbins.« »Shiny Villiam« - so called, probably, from his sleek
hair and oily countenance - placed the reins in Mr. Pickwick's left hand; and
the upper hostler thrust a whip into his right.
    »Wo - o!« cried Mr. Pickwick, as the tall quadruped evinced a decided
inclination to back into the coffee-room window.
    »Wo - o!« echoed Mr. Tupman and Mr. Snodgrass, from the bin.
    »Only his playfulness, gen'lm'n,« said the head hostler encouragingly; »just
kitch hold on him, Villiam.« The deputy restrained the animal's impetuosity, and
the principal ran to assist Mr. Winkle in mounting.
    »T'other side, sir, if you please.«
    »Blowed if the gen'lm'n worn't a getting' up on the wrong side,« whispered a
grinning post-boy to the inexpressibly gratified waiter.
    Mr. Winkle, thus instructed, climbed into his saddle, with about as much
difficulty as he would have experienced in getting up the side of a first-rate
man-of-war.
    »All right?« inquired Mr. Pickwick, with an inward presentiment that it was
all wrong.
    »All right,« replied Mr. Winkle faintly.
    »Let 'em go,« cried the hostler, - »Hold him in, sir,« and away went the
chaise, and the saddle-horse, with Mr. Pickwick on the box of the one, and Mr.
Winkle on the back of the other, to the delight and gratification of the whole
inn yard.
    »What makes him go sideways?« said Mr. Snodgrass in the bin, to Mr. Winkle
in the saddle.
    »I can't imagine,« replied Mr. Winkle. His horse was drifting up the street
in the most mysterious manner - side first, with his head towards one side of
the way, and his tail towards the other.
    Mr. Pickwick had no leisure to observe either this or any other particular,
the whole of his faculties being concentrated in the management of the animal
attached to the chaise, who displayed various peculiarities, highly interesting
to a bystander, but by no means equally amusing to any one seated behind him.
Besides constantly jerking his head up, in a very unpleasant and uncomfortable
manner, and tugging at the reins to an extent which rendered it a matter of
great difficulty for Mr. Pickwick to hold them, he had a singular propensity for
darting suddenly every now and then to the side of the road, then stopping
short, and then rushing forward for some minutes, at a speed which it was wholly
impossible to control.
    »What can he mean by this?« said Mr. Snodgrass, when the horse had executed
this manoeuvre for the twentieth time.
    »I don't know,« replied Mr. Tupman; »it looks very like shying, don't it?«
Mr. Snodgrass was about to reply, when he was interrupted by a shout from Mr.
Pickwick.
    »Woo!« said that gentleman; »I have dropped my whip.«
    »Winkle,« said Mr. Snodgrass, as the equestrian came trotting up on the tall
horse, with his hat over his ears, and shaking all over, as if he would shake to
pieces, with the violence of the exercise, »pick up the whip, there's a good
fellow.« Mr. Winkle pulled at the bridle of the tall horse till he was black in
the face; and having at length succeeded in stopping him, dismounted, handed the
whip to Mr. Pickwick, and grasping the reins, prepared to remount.
    Now whether the tall horse, in the natural playfulness of his disposition,
was desirous of having a little innocent recreation with Mr. Winkle, or whether
it occurred to him that he could perform the journey as much to his own
satisfaction without a rider as with one, are points upon which, of course, we
can arrive at no definite and distinct conclusion. By whatever motives the
animal was actuated, certain it is that Mr. Winkle had no sooner touched the
reins, than he slipped them over his head, and darted backwards to their full
length.
    »Poor fellow,« said Mr. Winkle, soothingly, - »poor fellow - good old
horse.« The poor fellow was proof against flattery: the more Mr. Winkle tried to
get nearer him, the more he sidled away; and, notwithstanding all kinds of
coaxing and wheedling, there were Mr. Winkle and the horse going round and round
each other for ten minutes, at the end of which time each was at precisely the
same distance from the other as when they first commenced - an unsatisfactory
sort of thing under any circumstances, but particularly so in a lonely road,
where no assistance can be procured.
    »What am I to do?« shouted Mr. Winkle, after the dodging had been prolonged
for a considerable time. »What am I to do? I can't get on him.«
    »You had better lead him till we come to a turnpike,« replied Mr. Pickwick
from the chaise.
    »But he won't come!« roared Mr. Winkle. »Do come, and hold him.«
    Mr. Pickwick was the very personation of kindness and humanity: he threw the
reins on the horse's back, and having descended from his seat, carefully drew
the chaise into the hedge, lest anything should come along the road, and stepped
back to the assistance of his distressed companion, leaving Mr. Tupman and Mr.
Snodgrass in the vehicle.
    The horse no sooner beheld Mr. Pickwick advancing towards him with the
chaise whip in his hand, than he exchanged the rotatory motion in which he had
previously indulged, for a retrograde movement of so very determined a
character, that it at once drew Mr. Winkle, who was still at the end of the
bridle, at a rather quicker rate than fast walking, in the direction from which
they had just come. Mr. Pickwick ran to his assistance, but the faster Mr.
Pickwick ran forward, the faster the horse ran backward. There was a great
scraping of feet, and kicking up of the dust; and at last Mr. Winkle, his arms
being nearly pulled out of their sockets, fairly let go his hold. The horse
paused, stared, shook his head, turned round, and quietly trotted home to
Rochester, leaving Mr. Winkle and Mr. Pickwick gazing on each other with
countenances of blank dismay. A rattling noise at a little distance attracted
their attention. They looked up.
    »Bless my soul!« exclaimed the agonized Mr. Pickwick, »there's the other
horse running away!«
    It was but too true. The animal was startled by the noise, and the reins
were on his back. The result may be guessed. He tore off with the four-wheeled
chaise behind him, and Mr. Tupman and Mr. Snodgrass in the four-wheeled chaise.
The heat was a short one. Mr. Tupman threw himself into the hedge, Mr. Snodgrass
followed his example, the horse dashed the four-wheeled chaise against a wooden
bridge, separated the wheels from the body, and the bin from the perch: and
finally stood stock still to gaze upon the ruin he had made.
    The first care of the two unspilt friends was to extricate their unfortunate
companions from their bed of quickset - a process which gave them the
unspeakable satisfaction of discovering that they had sustained no injury,
beyond sundry rents in their garments, and various lacerations from the
brambles. The next thing to be done was, to unharness the horse. This
complicated process having been effected, the party walked slowly forward,
leading the horse among them, and abandoning the chaise to its fate.
    An hour's walking brought the travellers to a little road-side public-house,
with two elm trees, a horse trough, and a signpost, in front; one or two
deformed hay-ricks behind, a kitchen garden at the side, and rotten sheds and
mouldering out-houses jumbled in strange confusion all about it. A red-headed
man was working in the garden; and to him Mr. Pickwick called lustily - »Hallo
there!«
    The red-headed man raised his body, shaded his eyes with his hand, and
stared, long and coolly, at Mr. Pickwick and his companions.
    »Hallo there!« repeated Mr. Pickwick.
    »Hallo!« was the red-headed man's reply.
    »How far is it to Dingley Dell?«
    »Better er seven mile.«
    »Is it a good road?«
    »No, t'ant.« Having uttered this brief reply, and apparently satisfied
himself with another scrutiny, the red-headed man resumed his work.
    »We want to put this horse up here,« said Mr. Pickwick; »I suppose we can,
can't we?«
    »Want to put that ere horse up, do ee?« repeated the red-headed man, leaning
on his spade.
    »Of course,« replied Mr. Pickwick, who had by this time advanced, horse in
hand, to the garden rails.
    »Missus« - roared the man with the red head, emerging from the garden, and
looking very hard at the horse - »Missus!«
    A tall bony woman - straight all the way down - in a coarse blue pelisse,
with the waist an inch or two below her arm-pits, responded to the call.
    »Can we put this horse up here, my good woman?« said Mr. Tupman, advancing,
and speaking in his most seductive tones. The woman looked very hard at the
whole party; and the red-headed man whispered something in her ear.
    »No,« replied the woman, after a little consideration, »I'm afeerd on it.«
    »Afraid!« exclaimed Mr. Pickwick, »what's the woman afraid of?«
    »It got us in trouble last time,« said the woman, turning into the house; »I
woant have nothing' to say to 'un.«
    »Most extraordinary thing I ever met with in my life,« said the astonished
Mr. Pickwick.
    »I - I - really believe,« whispered Mr. Winkle, as his friends gathered
round him, »that they think we have come by this horse in some dishonest
manner.«
    »What!« exclaimed Mr. Pickwick, in a storm of indignation. Mr. Winkle
modestly repeated his suggestion.
    »Hallo, you fellow!« said the angry Mr. Pickwick, »do you think we stole
this horse?«
    »I'm sure ye did,« replied the red-headed man, with a grin which agitated
his countenance from one auricular organ to the other. Saying which, he turned
into the house, and banged the door after him.
    »It's like a dream,« ejaculated Mr. Pickwick, »a hideous dream. The idea of
a man's walking about, all day, with a dreadful horse that he can't get rid of!«
The depressed Pickwickians turned moodily away, with the tall quadruped, for
which they all felt the most unmitigated disgust, following slowly at their
heels.
    It was late in the afternoon when the four friends and their four-footed
companion turned into the lane leading to Manor Farm: and even when they were so
near their place of destination, the pleasure they would otherwise have
experienced was materially damped as they reflected on the singularity of their
appearance, and the absurdity of their situation. Torn clothes, lacerated faces,
dusty shoes, exhausted looks, and, above all, the horse. Oh, how Mr. Pickwick
cursed that horse: he had eyed the noble animal from time to time with looks
expressive of hatred and revenge; more than once he had calculated the probable
amount of the expense he would incur by cutting his throat; and now the
temptation to destroy him, or to cast him loose upon the world, rushed upon his
mind with tenfold force. He was roused from a meditation on these dire
imaginings, by the sudden appearance of two figures at a turn of the lane. It
was Mr. Wardle, and his faithful attendant, the fat boy.
    »Why, where have you been?« said the hospitable old gentleman; »I've been
waiting for you all day. Well, you do look tired. What! Scratches! Not hurt, I
hope - eh? Well, I am glad to hear that - very. So you've been spilt, eh? Never
mind. Common accident in these parts. Joe - he's asleep again! - Joe, take that
horse from the gentleman, and lead it into the stable.«
    The fat boy sauntered heavily behind them with the animal; and the old
gentleman, condoling with his guests in homely phrase on so much of the day's
adventures as they thought proper to communicate, led the way to the kitchen.
    »We'll have you put to rights here,« said the old gentleman, »and then I'll
introduce you to the people in the parlour. Emma, bring out the cherry brandy;
now, Jane, a needle and thread here; towels and water, Mary. Come, girls, bustle
about.«
    Three or four buxom girls speedily dispersed in search of the different
articles in requisition, while a couple of large-headed, circular-visaged males
rose from their seats in the chimney-corner (for although it was a May evening,
their attachment to the wood fire appeared as cordial as if it were Christmas),
and dived into some obscure recesses, from which they speedily produced a bottle
of blacking, and some half-dozen brushes.
    »Bustle!« said the old gentleman again, but the admonition was quite
unnecessary, for one of the girls poured out the cherry brandy, and another
brought in the towels, and one of the men suddenly seizing Mr. Pickwick by the
leg, at imminent hazard of throwing him off his balance, brushed away at his
boot, till his corns were red-hot; while the other shampoo'd Mr. Winkle with a
heavy clothes-brush, indulging, during the operation, in that hissing sound
which hostlers are wont to produce when engaged in rubbing down a horse.
    Mr. Snodgrass, having concluded his ablutions, took a survey of the room,
while standing with his back to the fire, sipping his cherry brandy with
heartfelt satisfaction. He describes it as a large apartment, with a red brick
floor and a capacious chimney; the ceiling garnished with hams, sides of bacon,
and ropes of onions. The walls were decorated with several hunting-whips, two or
three bridles, a saddle and an old rusty blunderbuss, with an inscription below
it, intimating that it was Loaded - as it had been, on the same authority, for
half a century at least. An old eight-day clock, of solemn and sedate demeanour,
ticked gravely in one corner; and a silver watch, of equal antiquity, dangled
from one of the many hooks which ornamented the dresser.
    »Ready?« said the old gentleman inquiringly, when his guests had been
washed, mended, brushed, and brandied.
    »Quite,« replied Mr. Pickwick.
    »Come along, then,« and the party having traversed several dark passages,
and being joined by Mr. Tupman, who had lingered behind to snatch a kiss from
Emma, for which he had been duly rewarded with sundry pushings and scratchings,
arrived at the parlour door.
    »Welcome,« said their hospitable host, throwing it open and stepping forward
to announce them, »Welcome, gentlemen, to Manor Farm.«
 

                                   Chapter VI

An Old-Fashioned Card-Party. The Clergyman's Verses. The Story of the Convict's
                                    Return.

Several guests who were assembled in the old parlour rose to greet Mr. Pickwick
and his friends upon their entrance; and during the performance of the ceremony
of introduction, with all due formalities, Mr. Pickwick had leisure to observe
the appearance, and speculate upon the characters and pursuits, of the persons
by whom he was surrounded - a habit in which he in common with many other great
men delighted to indulge.
    A very old lady, in a lofty cap and faded silk gown - no less a personage
than Mr. Wardle's mother - occupied the post of honour on the right-hand corner
of the chimney-piece; and various certificates of her having been brought up in
the way she should go when young, and of her not having departed from it when
old, ornamented the walls, in the form of samplers of ancient date, worsted
landscapes of equal antiquity, and crimson silk tea-kettle holders of a more
modern period. The aunt, the two young ladies, and Mr. Wardle, each vying with
the other in paying zealous and unremitting attentions to the old lady, crowded
round her easy-chair, one holding her ear-trumpet, another an orange, and a
third a smelling-bottle, while a fourth was busily engaged in patting and
punching the pillows which were arranged for her support. On the opposite side
sat a bald-headed old gentleman, with a good-humoured benevolent face - the
clergyman of Dingley Dell; and next him sat his wife, a stout blooming old lady,
who looked as if she were well skilled, not only in the art and mystery of
manufacturing home-made cordials greatly to other people's satisfaction, but of
tasting them occasionally very much to her own. A little hard-headed,
Ribston-pippin-faced man, was conversing with a fat old gentleman in one corner;
and two or three more old gentlemen, and two or three more old ladies, sat bolt
upright and motionless on their chairs, staring very hard at Mr. Pickwick and
his fellow-voyagers.
    »Mr. Pickwick, mother,« said Mr. Wardle, at the very top of his voice.
    »Ah!« said the old lady, shaking her head; »I can't hear you.«
    »Mr. Pickwick, grandma!« screamed both the young ladies together.
    »Ah!« exclaimed the old lady. »Well; it don't much matter. He don't care for
an old 'ooman like me, I dare say.«
    »I assure you, ma'am,« said Mr. Pickwick, grasping the old lady's hand, and
speaking so loud that the exertion imparted a crimson hue to his benevolent
countenance, »I assure you, ma'am, that nothing delights me more than to see a
lady of your time of life heading so fine a family, and looking so young and
well.«
    »Ah!« said the old lady, after a short pause; »it's all very fine, I dare
say; but I can't hear him.«
    »Grandma's rather put out now,« said Miss Isabella Wardle, in a low tone;
»but she'll talk to you presently.«
    Mr. Pickwick nodded his readiness to humour the infirmities of age, and
entered into a general conversation with the other members of the circle.
    »Delightful situation this,« said Mr. Pickwick.
    »Delightful!« echoed Messrs. Snodgrass, Tupman, and Winkle.
    »Well, I think it is,« said Mr. Wardle.
    »There an't a better spot o' ground in all Kent, sir,« said the hard-headed
man with the pippin-face; »there an't indeed, sir - I'm sure there an't, sir.«
The hard-headed man looked triumphantly round, as if he had been very much
contradicted by somebody, but had got the better of him at last.
    »There an't a better spot o' ground in all Kent,« said the hard-headed man
again, after a pause.
    »'Cept Mullins's Meadows,« observed the fat man solemnly.
    »Mullins's Meadows!« ejaculated the other, with profound contempt.
    »Ah, Mullins's Meadows,« repeated the fat man.
    »Reg'lar good land that,« interposed another fat man.
    »And so it is, sure-ly,« said a third fat man.
    »Everybody knows that,« said the corpulent host.
    The hard-headed man looked dubiously round, but finding himself in a
minority, assumed a compassionate air, and said no more.
    »What are they talking about?« inquired the old lady of one of her
grand-daughters, in a very audible voice; for, like many deaf people, she never
seemed to calculate on the possibility of other persons hearing what she said
herself.
    »About the land, grandma.«
    »What about the land? - Nothing the matter, is there?«
    »No, no. Mr. Miller was saying our land was better than Mullins's Meadows.«
    »How should he know anything about it?« inquired the old lady indignantly.
»Miller's a conceited coxcomb, and you may tell him I said so.« Saying which,
the old lady, quite unconscious that she had spoken above a whisper, drew
herself up, and looked carving-knives at the hard-headed delinquent.
    »Come, come,« said the bustling host, with a natural anxiety to change the
conversation, - »What say you to a rubber, Mr. Pickwick?«
    »I should like it of all things,« replied that gentleman; »but pray don't
make up one on my account.«
    »Oh, I assure you, mother's very fond of a rubber,« said Mr. Wardle; »an't
you, mother?«
    The old lady, who was much less deaf on this subject than on any other,
replied in the affirmative.
    »Joe, Joe!« said the old gentleman; »Joe - damn that - oh, here he is; put
out the card-tables.«
    The lethargic youth contrived without any additional rousing to set out two
card-tables; the one for Pope Joan, and the other for whist. The whist-players
were Mr. Pickwick and the old lady; Mr. Miller and the fat gentleman. The round
game comprised the rest of the company.
    The rubber was conducted with all that gravity of deportment and sedateness
of demeanour which befit the pursuit entitled whist - a solemn observance, to
which, as it appears to us, the title of game has been very irreverently and
ignominiously applied. The round-game table, on the other hand, was so
boisterously merry as materially to interrupt the contemplations of Mr. Miller,
who, not being quite so much absorbed as he ought to have been, contrived to
commit various high crimes and misdemeanours, which excited the wrath of the fat
gentleman to a very great extent, and called forth the good-humour of the old
lady in a proportionate degree.
    »There!« said the criminal Miller triumphantly, as he took up the odd trick
at the conclusion of a hand; »that could not have been played better, I flatter
myself; - impossible to have made another trick!«
    »Miller ought to have trumped the diamond, oughtn't he, sir?« said the old
lady.
    Mr. Pickwick nodded assent.
    »Ought I, though?« said the unfortunate, with a doubtful appeal to his
partner.
    »You ought, sir,« said the fat gentleman, in an awful voice.
    »Very sorry,« said the crest-fallen Miller.
    »Much use that,« growled the fat gentleman.
    »Two by honours makes us eight,« said Mr. Pickwick.
    Another hand. »Can you one?« inquired the old lady.
    »I can,« replied Mr. Pickwick. »Double, single, and the rub.«
    »Never was such luck,« said Mr. Miller.
    »Never was such cards,« said the fat gentleman.
    A solemn silence: Mr. Pickwick humorous, the old lady serious, the fat
gentleman captious, and Mr. Miller timorous.
    »Another double,« said the old lady: triumphantly making a memorandum of the
circumstance, by placing one sixpence and a battered halfpenny under the
candlestick.
    »A double, sir,« said Mr. Pickwick.
    »Quite aware of the fact, sir,« replied the fat gentleman, sharply.
    Another game, with a similar result, was followed by a revoke from the
unlucky Miller; on which the fat gentleman burst into a state of high personal
excitement which lasted until the conclusion of the game, when he retired into a
corner, and remained perfectly mute for one hour and twenty-seven minutes; at
the end of which time he emerged from his retirement, and offered Mr. Pickwick a
pinch of snuff with the air of a man who had made up his mind to a Christian
forgiveness of injuries sustained. The old lady's hearing decidedly improved,
and the unlucky Miller felt as much out of his element as a dolphin in a
sentry-box.
    Meanwhile the round game proceeded right merrily. Isabella Wardle and Mr.
Trundle went partners, and Emily Wardle and Mr. Snodgrass did the same; and even
Mr. Tupman and the spinster aunt established a joint-stock company of fish and
flattery. Old Mr. Wardle was in the very height of his jollity; and he was so
funny in his management of the board, and the old ladies were so sharp after
their winnings, that the whole table was in a perpetual roar of merriment and
laughter. There was one old lady who always had about half a dozen cards to pay
for, at which everybody laughed, regularly every round; and when the old lady
looked cross at having to pay, they laughed louder than ever; on which the old
lady's face gradually brightened up, till at last she laughed louder than any of
them. Then, when the spinster aunt got matrimony, the young ladies laughed
afresh, and the spinster aunt seemed disposed to be pettish; till, feeling Mr.
Tupman squeezing her hand under the table, she brightened up too, and looked
rather knowing, as if matrimony in reality were not quite so far off as some
people thought for; whereupon everybody laughed again, and especially old Mr.
Wardle, who enjoyed a joke as much as the youngest. As to Mr. Snodgrass, he did
nothing but whisper poetical sentiments into his partner's ear, which made one
old gentleman facetiously sly, about partnerships at cards and partnerships for
life, and caused the aforesaid old gentleman to make some remarks thereupon,
accompanied with divers winks and chuckles, which made the company very merry
and the old gentleman's wife especially so. And Mr. Winkle came out with jokes
which are very well known in town, but are not at all known in the country: and
as everybody laughed at them very heartily, and said they were very capital, Mr.
Winkle was in a state of great honour and glory. And the benevolent clergyman
looked pleasantly on; for the happy faces which surrounded the table made the
good old man feel happy too; and though the merriment was rather boisterous,
still it came from the heart and not from the lips: and this is the right sort
of merriment, after all.
    The evening glided swiftly away, in these cheerful recreations; and when the
substantial though homely supper had been despatched, and the little party
formed a social circle round the fire, Mr. Pickwick thought he had never felt so
happy in his life, and at no time so much disposed to enjoy, and make the most
of, the passing moment.
    »Now this,« said the hospitable host, who was sitting in great state next
the old lady's arm-chair, with her hand fast clasped in his - »This is just what
I like - the happiest moments of my life have been passed at this old fire-side:
and I am so attached to it, that I keep up a blazing fire here every evening,
until it actually grows too hot to bear it. Why, my poor old mother, here, used
to sit before this fire-place upon that little stool when she was a girl; didn't
you, mother?«
    The tear which starts unbidden to the eye when the recollection of old times
and the happiness of many years ago is suddenly recalled, stole down the old
lady's face as she shook her head with a melancholy smile.
    »You must excuse my talking about this old place, Mr. Pickwick,« resumed the
host, after a short pause, »for I love it dearly, and know no other - the old
houses and fields seem like living friends to me: and so does our little church
with the ivy, - about which, by-the-bye, our excellent friend there made a song
when he first came amongst us. Mr. Snodgrass, have you anything in your glass?«
    »Plenty, thank you,« replied that gentleman, whose poetic curiosity had been
greatly excited by the last observations of his entertainer. »I beg your pardon,
but you were talking about the song of the Ivy.«
    »You must ask our friend opposite about that,« said the host knowingly:
indicating the clergyman by a nod of his head.
    »May I say that I should like to hear you repeat it, sir?« said Mr.
Snodgrass.
    »Why really,« replied the clergyman, »it's a very slight affair; and the
only excuse I have for having ever perpetrated it is, that I was a young man at
the time. Such as it is, however, you shall hear it if you wish.«
    A murmur of curiosity was of course the reply; and the old gentleman
proceeded to recite, with the aid of sundry promptings from his wife, the lines
in question. »I call them,« said he,
 

                                 The Ivy Green.

Oh, a dainty plant is the Ivy green,
That creepeth o'er ruins old!
Of right choice food are his meals I ween,
In his cell so lone and cold.
The wall must be crumbled, the stone decayed,
To pleasure his dainty whim:
And the mouldering dust that years have made
Is a merry meal for him.
Creeping where no life is seen,
A rare old plant is the Ivy green.
 
Fast he stealeth on, though he wears no wings,
And a staunch old heart has he.
How closely he twineth, how tight he clings
To his friend the huge Oak Tree!
And slyly he traileth along the ground,
And his leaves he gently waves,
As he joyously hugs and crawleth round
The rich mould of dead men's graves.
Creeping where grim death has been,
A rare old plant is the Ivy green.
 
Whole ages have fled and their works decayed,
And nations have scattered been;
But the stout old Ivy shall never fade,
From its hale and hearty green.
The brave old plant in its lonely days,
Shall fatten upon the past:
For the stateliest building man can raise,
Is the Ivy's food at last.
Creeping on, where time has been,
A rare old plant is the Ivy green.
 
While the old gentleman repeated these lines a second time, to enable Mr.
Snodgrass to note them down, Mr. Pickwick perused the lineaments of his face
with an expression of great interest. The old gentleman having concluded his
dictation, and Mr. Snodgrass having returned his note-book to his pocket, Mr.
Pickwick said:
    »Excuse me, sir, for making the remark on so short an acquaintance; but a
gentleman like yourself cannot fail, I should think, to have observed many
scenes and incidents worth recording, in the course of your experience as a
minister of the Gospel.«
    »I have witnessed some certainly,« replied the old gentleman; »but the
incidents and characters have been of a homely and ordinary nature, my sphere of
action being so very limited.«
    »You did make some notes, I think, about John Edmunds, did you not?«
inquired Mr. Wardle, who appeared very desirous to draw his friend out, for the
edification of his new visitors.
    The old gentleman slightly nodded his head in token of assent, and was
proceeding to change the subject, when Mr. Pickwick said -
    »I beg your pardon, sir; but pray, if I may venture to inquire, who was John
Edmunds?«
    »The very thing I was about to ask,« said Mr. Snodgrass, eagerly.
    »You are fairly in for it,« said the jolly host. »You must satisfy the
curiosity of these gentlemen, sooner or later; so you had better take advantage
of this favourable opportunity, and do so at once.«
    The old gentleman smiled good-humouredly as he drew his chair forward; - the
remainder of the party drew their chairs closer together, especially Mr. Tupman
and the spinster aunt, who were possibly rather hard of hearing; and the old
lady's ear trumpet having been duly adjusted, and Mr. Miller (who had fallen
asleep during the recital of the verses) roused from his slumbers by an
admonitory pinch, administered beneath the table by his ex-partner the solemn
fat man, the old gentleman, without farther preface, commenced the following
tale, to which we have taken the liberty of prefixing the title of
 

                             The Convict's Return.

»When I first settled in this village,« said the old gentleman, »which is now
just five-and-twenty years ago, the most notorious person among my parishioners
was a man of the name of Edmunds, who leased a small farm near this spot. He was
a morose, savage-hearted, bad man: idle and dissolute in his habits; cruel and
ferocious in his disposition. Beyond the few lazy and reckless vagabonds with
whom he sauntered away his time in the fields, or sotted in the ale-house, he
had not a single friend or acquaintance; no one cared to speak to the man whom
many feared, and every one detested - and Edmunds was shunned by all.
    This man had a wife and one son, who, when I first came here, was about
twelve years old. Of the acuteness of that woman's sufferings, of the gentle and
enduring manner in which she bore them, of the agony of solicitude with which
she reared that boy, no one can form an adequate conception. Heaven forgive me
the supposition, if it be an uncharitable one, but I do firmly and in my soul
believe, that the man systematically tried for many years to break her heart;
but she bore it all for her child's sake, and, however strange it may seem to
many, for his father's too; for brute as he was and cruelly as he had treated
her, she had loved him once; and the recollection of what he had been to her,
awakened feelings of forbearance and meekness under suffering in her bosom, to
which all God's creatures, but women, are strangers.
    They were poor - they could not be otherwise when the man pursued such
courses; but the woman's unceasing and unwearied exertions, early and late,
morning, noon, and night, kept them above actual want. Those exertions were but
ill repaid. People who passed the spot in the evening - sometimes at a late hour
of the night - reported that they had heard the moans and sobs of a woman in
distress, and the sound of blows: and more than once, when it was past midnight,
the boy knocked softly at the door of a neighbour's house, whither he had been
sent, to escape the drunken fury of his unnatural father.
    During the whole of this time, and when the poor creature often bore about
her marks of ill-usage and violence which she could not wholly conceal, she was
a constant attendant at our little church. Regularly every Sunday, morning and
afternoon, she occupied the same seat with the boy at her side; and though they
were both poorly dressed - much more so than many of their neighbours who were
in a lower station - they were always neat and clean. Every one had a friendly
nod and a kind word for poor Mrs. Edmunds; and sometimes, when she stopped to
exchange a few words with a neighbour at the conclusion of the service in the
little row of elm trees which leads to the church porch, or lingered behind to
gaze with a mother's pride and fondness upon her healthy boy, as he sported
before her with some little companions, her care-worn face would lighten up with
an expression of heartfelt gratitude; and she would look, if not cheerful and
happy, at least tranquil and contented.
    Five or six years passed away; the boy had become a robust and well-grown
youth. The time that had strengthened the child's slight frame and knit his weak
limbs into the strength of manhood had bowed his mother's form, and enfeebled
her steps; but the arm that should have supported her was no longer locked in
hers; the face that should have cheered her, no more looked upon her own. She
occupied her old seat, but there was a vacant one beside her. The Bible was kept
as carefully as ever, the places were found and folded down as they used to be:
but there was no one to read it with her; and the tears fell thick and fast upon
the book, and blotted the words from her eyes. Neighbours were as kind as they
were wont to be of old, but she shunned their greetings with averted head. There
was no lingering among the old elm trees now - no cheering anticipations of
happiness yet in store. The desolate woman drew her bonnet closer over her face,
and walked hurriedly away.
    Shall I tell you, that the young man, who, looking back to the earliest of
his childhood's days to which memory and consciousness extended, and carrying
his recollection down to that moment, could remember nothing which was not in
some way connected with a long series of voluntary privations suffered by his
mother for his sake, with ill-usage, and insult, and violence, and all endured
for him; - shall I tell you, that he, with a reckless disregard of her breaking
heart, and a sullen wilful forgetfulness of all she had done and borne for him,
had linked himself with depraved and abandoned men, and was madly pursuing a
headlong career, which must bring death to him, and shame to her? Alas for human
nature! You have anticipated it long since.
    The measure of the unhappy woman's misery and misfortune was about to be
completed. Numerous offences had been committed in the neighbourhood; the
perpetrators remained undiscovered, and their boldness increased. A robbery of a
daring and aggravated nature occasioned a vigilance of pursuit, and a strictness
of search, they had not calculated on. Young Edmunds was suspected with three
companions. He was apprehended - committed - tried - condemned - to die.
    The wild and piercing shriek from a woman's voice, which resounded through
the court when the solemn sentence was pronounced, rings in my ears at this
moment. That cry struck a terror to the culprit's heart, which trial,
condemnation - the approach of death itself, had failed to awaken. The lips
which had been compressed in dogged sullenness throughout, quivered and parted
involuntarily; the face turned ashy pale as the cold perspiration broke forth
from every pore; the sturdy limbs of the felon trembled, and he staggered in the
dock.
    In the first transports of her mental anguish, the suffering mother threw
herself upon her knees at my feet, and fervently besought the Almighty Being who
had hitherto supported her in all her troubles, to release her from a world of
woe and misery, and to spare the life of her only child. A burst of grief, and a
violent struggle, such as I hope I may never have to witness again, succeeded. I
knew that her heart was breaking from that hour; but I never once heard
complaint or murmur escape her lips.
    It was a piteous spectacle to see that woman in the prison yard from day to
day, eagerly and fervently attempting, by affection and entreaty, to soften the
hard heart of her obdurate son. It was in vain. He remained moody, obstinate,
and unmoved. Not even the unlooked-for commutation of his sentence to
transportation for fourteen years, softened for an instant the sullen hardihood
of his demeanour.
    But the spirit of resignation and endurance that had so long upheld her, was
unable to contend against bodily weakness and infirmity. She fell sick. She
dragged her tottering limbs from the bed to visit her son once more, but her
strength failed her, and she sunk powerless on the ground.
    And now the boasted coldness and indifference of the young man were tested
indeed; and the retribution that fell heavily upon him, nearly drove him mad. A
day passed away and his mother was not there; another flew by, and she came not
near him; a third evening arrived, and yet he had not seen her; and in
four-and-twenty hours he was to be separated from her - perhaps for ever. Oh!
how the long-forgotten thoughts of former days rushed upon his mind, as he
almost ran up and down the narrow yard - as if intelligence would arrive the
sooner for his hurrying - and how bitterly a sense of his helplessness and
desolation rushed upon him, when he heard the truth! His mother, the only parent
he had ever known, lay ill - it might be, dying - within one mile of the ground
he stood on; were he free and unfettered, a few minutes would place him by her
side. He rushed to the gate, and grasping the iron rails with the energy of
desperation, shook it till it rang again, and threw himself against the thick
wall as if to force a passage through the stone; but the strong building mocked
his feeble efforts, and he beat his hands together and wept like a child.
    I bore the mother's forgiveness and blessing to her son in prison; and I
carried his solemn assurance of repentance, and his fervent supplication for
pardon, to her sick bed. I heard, with pity and compassion, the repentant man
devise a thousand little plans for her comfort and support when he returned; but
I knew that many months before he could reach his place of destination, his
mother would be no longer of this world.
    He was removed by night. A few weeks afterwards the poor woman's soul took
its flight, I confidently hope, and solemnly believe, to a place of eternal
happiness and rest. I performed the burial service over her remains. She lies in
our little churchyard. There is no stone at her grave's head. Her sorrows were
known to man; her virtues to God.
    It had been arranged previously to the convict's departure, that he should
write to his mother as soon as he could obtain permission, and that the letter
should be addressed to me. The father had positively refused to see his son from
the moment of his apprehension; and it was a matter of indifference to him
whether he lived or died. Many years passed over without any intelligence of
him; and when more than half his term of transportation had expired, and I had
received no letter, I concluded him to be dead, as indeed, I almost hoped he
might be.
    Edmunds, however, had been sent a considerable distance up the country on
his arrival at the settlement; and to this circumstance, perhaps, may be
attributed the fact, that though several letters were despatched, none of them
ever reached my hands. He remained in the same place during the whole fourteen
years. At the expiration of the term, steadily adhering to his old resolution
and the pledge he gave his mother, he made his way back to England amidst
innumerable difficulties, and returned, on foot, to his native place.
    On a fine Sunday evening, in the month of August, John Edmunds set foot in
the village he had left with shame and disgrace seventeen years before. His
nearest way lay through the churchyard. The man's heart swelled as he crossed
the stile. The tall old elms, through whose branches the declining sun cast here
and there a rich ray of light upon the shady path, awakened the associations of
his earliest days. He pictured himself as he was then, clinging to his mother's
hand, and walking peacefully to church. He remembered how he used to look up
into her pale face; and how her eyes would sometimes fill with tears as she
gazed upon his features - tears which fell hot upon his forehead as she stooped
to kiss him, and made him weep too, although he little knew then what bitter
tears hers were. He thought how often he had run merrily down that path with
some childish playfellow, looking back, ever and again, to catch his mother's
smile, or hear her gentle voice; and then a veil seemed lifted from his memory,
and words of kindness unrequited, and warnings despised, and promises broken,
thronged upon his recollection till his heart failed him, and he could bear it
no longer.
    He entered the church. The evening service was concluded and the
congregation had dispersed, but it was not yet closed. His steps echoed through
the low building with a hollow sound, and he almost feared to be alone, it was
so still and quiet. He looked round him. Nothing was changed. The place seemed
smaller than it used to be, but there were the old monuments on which he had
gazed with childish awe a thousand times; the little pulpit with its faded
cushion; the Communion-table before which he had so often repeated the
Commandments he had reverenced as a child, and forgotten as a man. He approached
the old seat; it looked cold and desolate. The cushion had been removed, and the
Bible was not there. Perhaps his mother now occupied a poorer seat, or possibly
she had grown infirm and could not reach the church alone. He dared not think of
what he feared. A cold feeling crept over him, and he trembled violently as he
turned away.
    An old man entered the porch just as he reached it. Edmunds started back,
for he knew him well; many a time he had watched him digging graves in the
churchyard. What would he say to the returned convict?
    The old man raised his eyes to the stranger's face, bid him good evening,
and walked slowly on. He had forgotten him.
    He walked down the hill, and through the village. The weather was warm, and
the people were sitting at their doors, or strolling in their little gardens as
he passed, enjoying the serenity of the evening, and their rest from labour.
Many a look was turned towards him, and many a doubtful glance he cast on either
side to see whether any knew and shunned him. There were strange faces in almost
every house; in some he recognised the burly form of some old schoolfellow - a
boy when he last saw him - surrounded by a troop of merry children; in others he
saw, seated in an easy- at a cottage door, a feeble and infirm old man, whom he
only remembered as a hale and hearty labourer; but they had all forgotten him,
and he passed on unknown.
    The last soft light of the setting sun had fallen on the earth, casting a
rich glow on the yellow corn sheaves, and lengthening the shadows of the orchard
trees, as he stood before the old house - the home of his infancy - to which his
heart had yearned with an intensity of affection not to be described, through
long and weary years of captivity and sorrow. The paling was low, though he well
remembered the time when it had seemed a high wall to him: and he looked over
into the old garden. There were more seeds and gayer flowers than there used to
be, but there were the old trees still - the very tree, under which he had lain
a thousand times when tired of playing in the sun, and felt the soft mild sleep
of happy boyhood steal gently upon him. There were voices within the house. He
listened, but they fell strangely upon his ear; he knew them not. They were
merry too; and he well knew that his poor old mother could not be cheerful, and
he away. The door opened, and a group of little children bounded out, shouting
and romping. The father, with a little boy in his arms, appeared at the door,
and they crowded round him, clapping their tiny hands, and dragging him out, to
join their joyous sports. The convict thought on the many times he had shrunk
from his father's sight in that very place. He remembered how often he had
buried his trembling head beneath the bed-clothes, and heard the harsh word, and
the hard stripe, and his mother's wailing; and though the man sobbed aloud with
agony of mind as he left the spot, his fist was clenched, and his teeth were
set, in fierce and deadly passion.
    And such was the return to which he had looked through the weary perspective
of many years, and for which he had undergone so much suffering! No face of
welcome, no look of forgiveness, no house to receive, no hand to help him - and
this too in the old village. What was his loneliness in the wild thick woods,
where man was never seen, to this!
    He felt that in the distant land of his bondage and infamy, he had thought
of his native place as it was when he left it; not as it would be when he
returned. The sad reality struck coldly at his heart, and his spirit sank within
him. He had not courage to make inquiries, or to present himself to the only
person who was likely to receive him with kindness and compassion. He walked
slowly on; and shunning the road-side like a guilty man, turned into a meadow he
well remembered; and covering his face with his hands, threw himself upon the
grass.
    He had not observed that a man was lying on the bank beside him; his
garments rustled as he turned round to steal a look at the new-comer; and
Edmunds raised his head.
    The man had moved into a sitting posture. His body was much bent, and his
face was wrinkled and yellow. His dress denoted him an inmate of the workhouse:
he had the appearance of being very old, but it looked more the effect of
dissipation or disease, than length of years. He was staring hard at the
stranger, and though his eyes were lustreless and heavy at first, they appeared
to glow with an unnatural and alarmed expression after they had been fixed upon
him for a short time, until they seemed to be starting from their sockets.
Edmunds gradually raised himself to his knees, and looked more and more
earnestly upon the old man's face. They gazed upon each other in silence.
    The old man was ghastly pale. He shuddered and tottered to his feet. Edmunds
sprang to his. He stepped back a pace or two. Edmunds advanced.
    Let me hear you speak, said the convict, in a thick broken voice.
    Stand off! cried the old man, with a dreadful oath. The convict drew closer
to him.
    Stand off! shrieked the old man. Furious with terror he raised his stick,
and struck Edmunds a heavy blow across the face.
    Father - devil! murmured the convict, between his set teeth. He rushed
wildly forward, and clenched the old man by the throat - but he was his father;
and his arm fell powerless by his side.
    The old man uttered a loud yell which rang through the lonely fields like
the howl of an evil spirit. His face turned black: the gore rushed from his
mouth and nose, and dyed the grass a deep dark red, as he staggered and fell. He
had ruptured a blood-vessel: and he was a dead man before his son could raise
him.
 
In that corner of the churchyard,« said the old gentleman, after a silence of a
few moments, »in that corner of the churchyard of which I have before spoken,
there lies buried a man, who was in my employment for three years after this
event: and who was truly contrite, penitent, and humbled, if ever man was. No
one save myself knew in that man's lifetime who he was, or whence he came: - it
was John Edmunds the returned convict.«
 

                                  Chapter VII

How Mr. Winkle, Instead of Shooting at the Pigeon and Killing the Crow, Shot at
   the Crow and Wounded the Pigeon; How the Dingley Dell Cricket Club Played
  All-Muggleton, and How All-Muggleton Dined at the Dingley Dell Expense: with
                   Other Interesting and Instructive Matters.

The fatiguing adventures of the day or the somniferous influence of the
clergyman's tale operated so strongly on the drowsy tendencies of Mr. Pickwick,
that in less than five minutes after he had been shown to his comfortable
bedroom, he fell into a sound and dreamless sleep, from which he was only
awakened by the morning sun darting his bright beams reproachfully into the
apartment. Mr. Pickwick was no sluggard; and he sprang like an ardent warrior
from his tent - bedstead.
    »Pleasant, pleasant country,« sighed the enthusiastic gentleman, as he
opened his lattice window. »Who could live to gaze from day to day on bricks and
slates, who had once felt the influence of a scene like this? Who could continue
to exist, where there are no cows but the cows on the chimney-pots; nothing
redolent of Pan but pan-tiles; no crop but stone crop? Who could bear to drag
out a life in such a spot? Who I ask could endure it?« and, having
cross-examined solitude after the most approved precedents, at considerable
length, Mr. Pickwick thrust his head out of the lattice, and looked around him.
    The rich, sweet smell of the hayricks rose to his chamber window; the
hundred perfumes of the little flower-garden beneath scented the air around; the
deep-green meadows shone in the morning dew that glistened on every leaf as it
trembled in the gentle air; and the birds sang as if every sparkling drop were a
fountain of inspiration to them. Mr. Pickwick fell into an enchanting and
delicious reverie.
    »Hallo!« was the sound that roused him.
    He looked to the right, but he saw nobody; his eyes wandered to the left,
and pierced the prospect; he stared into the sky, but he wasn't't wanted there;
and then he did what a common mind would have done at once - looked into the
garden, and there saw Mr. Wardle.
    »How are you?« said that good-humoured individual, out of breath with his
own anticipations of pleasure. »Beautiful morning, an't it? Glad to see you up
so early. Make haste down, and come out. I'll wait for you here.«
    Mr. Pickwick needed no second invitation. Ten minutes sufficed for the
completion of his toilet, and at the expiration of that time he was by the old
gentleman's side.
    »Hallo!« said Mr. Pickwick in his turn: seeing that his companion was armed
with a gun, and that another lay ready on the grass. »What's going forward?«
    »Why, your friend and I,« replied the host, »are going out rook-shooting
before breakfast. He's a very good shot, an't he?«
    »I've heard him say he's a capital one,« replied Mr. Pickwick; »but I never
saw him aim at anything.«
    »Well,« said the host, »I wish he'd come. Joe - Joe!«
    The fat boy, who under the exciting influence of the morning did not appear
to be more than three parts and a fraction asleep, emerged from the house.
    »Go up, and call the gentleman, and tell him he'll find me and Mr. Pickwick
in the rookery. Show the gentleman the way there; d'ye hear?«
    The boy departed to execute his commission; and the host, carrying both guns
like a second Robinson Crusoe, led the way from the garden.
    »This is the place,« said the old gentleman, pausing after a few minutes'
walking, in an avenue of trees. The information was unnecessary; for the
incessant cawing of the unconscious rooks sufficiently indicated their
whereabout.
    The old gentleman laid one gun on the ground, and loaded the other.
    »Here they are,« said Mr. Pickwick; and as he spoke, the forms of Mr.
Tupman, Mr. Snodgrass, and Mr. Winkle appeared in the distance. The fat boy, not
being quite certain which gentleman he was directed to call, had with peculiar
sagacity, and to prevent the possibility of any mistake, called them all.
    »Come along,« shouted the old gentleman, addressing Mr. Winkle; »a keen hand
like you ought to have been up long ago, even to such poor work as this.«
    Mr. Winkle responded with a forced smile, and took up the spare gun with an
expression of countenance which a metaphysical rook, impressed with a foreboding
of his approaching death by violence, may be supposed to assume. It might have
been keenness, but it looked remarkably like misery.
    The old gentleman nodded; and two ragged boys who had been marshalled to the
spot under the direction of the infant Lambert, forthwith commenced climbing up
two of the trees.
    »What are those lads for?« inquired Mr. Pickwick abruptly. He was rather
alarmed; for he was not quite certain but that the distress of the agricultural
interest, about which he had often heard a great deal, might have compelled the
small boys attached to the soil to earn a precarious and hazardous subsistence
by making marks of themselves for inexperienced sportsmen.
    »Only to start the game,« replied Mr. Wardle, laughing.
    »To what?« inquired Mr. Pickwick.
    »Why, in plain English to frighten the rooks.«
    »Oh! is that all?«
    »You are satisfied?«
    »Quite.«
    »Very well. Shall I begin?«
    »If you please,« said Mr. Winkle, glad of any respite.
    »Stand aside, then. Now for it.«
    The boy shouted, and shook a branch with a nest on it. Half a dozen young
rooks in violent conversation, flew out to ask what the matter was. The old
gentleman fired by way of reply. Down fell one bird, and off flew the others.
    »Take him up, Joe,« said the old gentleman.
    There was a smile upon the youth's face as he advanced. Indistinct visions
of rook-pie floated through his imagination. He laughed as he retired with the
bird - it was a plump one.
    »Now, Mr. Winkle,« said the host, reloading his own gun. »Fire away.«
    Mr. Winkle advanced, and levelled his gun. Mr. Pickwick and his friends
cowered involuntarily to escape damage from the heavy fall of rooks, which they
felt quite certain would be occasioned by the devastating barrel of their
friend. There was a solemn pause - a shout - a flapping of wings - a faint
click.
    »Hallo!« said the old gentleman.
    »Won't it go?« inquired Mr. Pickwick.
    »Missed fire,« said Mr. Winkle, who was very pale: probably from
disappointment.
    »Odd,« said the old gentleman, taking the gun. »Never knew one of them miss
fire before. Why, I don't see anything of the cap.«
    »Bless my soul,« said Mr. Winkle. »I declare I forgot the cap!«
    The slight omission was rectified. Mr. Pickwick crouched again. Mr. Winkle
stepped forward with an air of determination and resolution; and Mr. Tupman
looked out from behind a tree. The boy shouted; four birds flew out. Mr. Winkle
fired. There was a scream as of an individual - not a rook - in corporeal
anguish. Mr. Tupman had saved the lives of innumerable unoffending birds by
receiving a portion of the charge in his left arm.
    To describe the confusion that ensued would be impossible. To tell how Mr.
Pickwick in the first transports of his emotion called Mr. Winkle Wretch! how
Mr. Tupman lay prostrate on the ground; and how Mr. Winkle knelt horror-stricken
beside him; how Mr. Tupman called distractedly upon some feminine Christian
name, and then opened first one eye, and then the other, and then fell back and
shut them both; - all this would be as difficult to describe in detail, as it
would be to depict the gradual recovering of the unfortunate individual, the
binding up of his arm with pocket-handkerchiefs, and the conveying him back by
slow degrees supported by the arms of his anxious friends.
    They drew near the house. The ladies were at the garden-gate, waiting for
their arrival and their breakfast. The spinster aunt appeared; she smiled, and
beckoned them to walk quicker. 'Twas evident she knew not of the disaster. Poor
thing! there are times when ignorance is bliss indeed.
    They approached nearer.
    »Why, what is the matter with the little old gentleman?« said Isabella
Wardle. The spinster aunt heeded not the remark; she thought it applied to Mr.
Pickwick. In her eyes Tracy Tupman was a youth; she viewed his years through a
diminishing glass.
    »Don't be frightened,« called out the old host, fearful of alarming his
daughters. The little party had crowded so completely round Mr. Tupman, that
they could not yet clearly discern the nature of the accident.
    »Don't be frightened,« said the host.
    »What's the matter?« screamed the ladies.
    »Mr. Tupman has met with a little accident; that's all.«
    The spinster aunt uttered a piercing scream, burst into an hysteric laugh,
and fell backwards in the arms of her nieces.
    »Throw some cold water over her,« said the old gentleman.
    »No, no,« murmured the spinster aunt; »I am better now. Bella, Emily - a
surgeon! Is he wounded? - Is he dead? - Is he -- ha, ha, ha!« Here the spinster
aunt burst into fit number two, of hysteric laughter interspersed with screams.
    »Calm yourself,« said Mr. Tupman, affected almost to tears by this
expression of sympathy with his sufferings. »Dear, dear madam, calm yourself.«
    »It is his voice!« exclaimed the spinster aunt; and strong symptoms of fit
number three developed themselves forthwith.
    »Do not agitate yourself, I entreat you, dearest madam,« said Mr. Tupman
soothingly. »I am very little hurt, I assure you.«
    »Then you are not dead!« ejaculated the hysterical lady. »Oh, say you are
not dead!«
    »Don't be a fool, Rachael,« interposed Mr. Wardle, rather more roughly than
was quite consistent with the poetic nature of the scene. »What the devil's the
use of his saying he isn't dead?«
    »No, no, I am not,« said Mr. Tupman. »I require no assistance but yours. Let
me lean on your arm.« He added, in a whisper, »Oh, Miss Rachael!« The agitated
female advanced, and offered her arm. They turned into the breakfast parlour.
Mr. Tracy Tupman gently pressed her hand to his lips, and sank upon the sofa.
    »Are you faint?« inquired the anxious Rachael.
    »No,« said Mr. Tupman. »It is nothing. I shall be better presently.« He
closed his eyes.
    »He sleeps,« murmured the spinster aunt. (His organs of vision had been
closed nearly twenty seconds). »Dear - dear - Mr. Tupman!«
    Mr. Tupman jumped up - »Oh, say those words again!« he exclaimed.
    The lady started. »Surely you did not hear them!« she said, bashfully.
    »Oh yes, I did!« replied Mr. Tupman; »repeat them. If you would have me
recover, repeat them.«
    »Hush!« said the lady. »My brother.«
    Mr. Tracy Tupman resumed his former position; and Mr. Wardle, accompanied by
a surgeon, entered the room.
    The arm was examined, the wound dressed, and pronounced to be a very slight
one; and the minds of the company having been thus satisfied, they proceeded to
satisfy their appetites with countenances to which an expression of cheerfulness
was again restored. Mr. Pickwick alone was silent and reserved. Doubt and
distrust were exhibited in his countenance. His confidence in Mr. Winkle had
been shaken - greatly shaken - by the proceedings of the morning.
    »Are you a cricketer?« inquired Mr. Wardle of the marksman.
    At any other time, Mr. Winkle would have replied in the affirmative. He felt
the delicacy of his situation, and modestly replied, »No.«
    »Are you, sir?« inquired Mr. Snodgrass.
    »I was once upon a time,« replied the host; »but I have given it up now. I
subscribe to the club here, but I don't play.«
    »The grand match is played to-day, I believe,« said Mr. Pickwick.
    »It is,« replied the host. »Of course you would like to see it.«
    »I, sir,« replied Mr. Pickwick, »am delighted to view any sports which may
be safely indulged in, and in which the impotent effects of unskillful people do
not endanger human life.« Mr. Pickwick paused, and looked steadily on Mr.
Winkle, who quailed beneath his leader's searching glance. The great man
withdrew his eyes after a few minutes, and added: »Shall we be justified in
leaving our wounded friend to the care of the ladies?«
    »You cannot leave me in better hands,« said Mr. Tupman.
    »Quite impossible,« said Mr. Snodgrass.
    It was therefore settled that Mr. Tupman should be left at home in charge of
the females; and that the remainder of the guests, under the guidance of Mr.
Wardle, should proceed to the spot where was to be held that trial of skill,
which had roused all Muggleton from its torpor, and inoculated Dingley Dell with
a fever of excitement.
    As their walk, which was not above two miles long, lay through shady lanes,
and sequestered footpaths, and as their conversation turned upon the delightful
scenery by which they were on every side surrounded, Mr. Pickwick was almost
inclined to regret the expedition they had used, when he found himself in the
main street of the town of Muggleton.
    Everybody whose genius has a topographical bent knows perfectly well that
Muggleton is a corporate town, with a mayor, burgesses, and freemen; and anybody
who has consulted the addresses of the mayor to the freemen, or the freemen to
the mayor, or both to the corporation, or all three to Parliament, will learn
from thence what they ought to have known before, that Muggleton is an ancient
and loyal borough, mingling a zealous advocacy of Christian principles with a
devoted attachment to commercial rights; in demonstration whereof, the mayor,
corporation, and other inhabitants, have presented at divers times, no fewer
than one thousand four hundred and twenty petitions against the continuance of
negro slavery abroad, and an equal number against any interference with the
factory system at home; sixty-eight in favour of the sale of livings in the
Church, and eighty-six for abolishing Sunday trading in the street.
    Mr. Pickwick stood in the principal street of this illustrious town, and
gazed with an air of curiosity, not unmixed with interest, on the objects around
him. There was an open square for the market-place; and in the centre of it, a
large inn with a sign-post in front, displaying an object very common in art,
but rarely met with in nature - to wit, a blue lion, with three bow legs in the
air, balancing himself on the extreme point of the centre claw of his fourth
foot. There were, within sight, an auctioneer's and fire-agency office, a
corn-factor's, a linen-draper's, a saddler's, a distiller's, a grocer's, and a
shoe-shop - the last-mentioned warehouse being also appropriated to the
diffusion of hats, bonnets, wearing apparel, cotton umbrellas, and useful
knowledge. There was a red brick house with a small paved court-yard in front,
which anybody might have known belonged to the attorney; and there was,
moreover, another red brick house with Venetian blinds, and a large brass
door-plate, with a very legible announcement that it belonged to the surgeon. A
few boys were making their way to the cricket-field; and two or three
shop-keepers who were standing at their doors, looked as if they should like to
be making their way to the same spot, as indeed to all appearance they might
have done, without losing any great amount of custom thereby. Mr. Pickwick
having paused to make these observations, to be noted down at a more convenient
period, hastened to rejoin his friends, who had turned out of the main street,
and were already within sight of the field of battle.
    The wickets were pitched, and so were a couple of marquees for the rest and
refreshment of the contending parties. The game had not yet commenced. Two or
three Dingley Dellers, and All-Muggletonians, were amusing themselves with a
majestic air by throwing the ball carelessly from hand to hand; and several
other gentlemen dressed like them, in straw hats, flannel jackets, and white
trousers - a costume in which they looked very much like amateur stone-masons -
were sprinkled about the tents, towards one of which Mr. Wardle conducted the
party.
    Several dozen of »How-are-you's?« hailed the old gentleman's arrival; and a
general raising of the straw hats, and bending forward of the flannel jackets,
followed his introduction of his guests as gentlemen from London, who were
extremely anxious to witness the proceedings of the day, with which, he had no
doubt, they would be greatly delighted.
    »You had better step into the marquee, I think, sir,« said one very stout
gentleman, whose body and legs looked like half a gigantic roll of flannel,
elevated on a couple of inflated pillow-cases.
    »You'll find it much pleasanter, sir,« urged another stout gentleman, who
strongly resembled the other half of the roll of flannel aforesaid.
    »You're very good,« said Mr. Pickwick.
    »This way,« said the first speaker; »they notch in here - it's the best
place in the whole field;« and the cricketer, panting on before, preceded them
to the tent.
    »Capital game - smart sport - fine exercise - very,« were the words which
fell upon Mr. Pickwick's ear as he entered the tent; and the first object that
met his eyes was his green-coated friend of the Rochester coach, holding forth,
to the no small delight and edification of a select circle of the chosen of
All-Muggleton. His dress was slightly improved, and he wore boots; but there was
no mistaking him.
    The stranger recognised his friends immediately: and, darting forward and
seizing Mr. Pickwick by the hand, dragged him to a seat with his usual
impetuosity, talking all the while as if the whole of the arrangements were
under his especial patronage and direction.
    »This way - this way - capital fun - lots of beer - hogsheads; rounds of
beef - bullocks; mustard - cart loads; glorious day - down with you - make
yourself at home - glad to see you - very.«
    Mr. Pickwick sat down as he was bid, and Mr. Winkle and Mr. Snodgrass also
complied with the directions of their mysterious friend. Mr. Wardle looked on,
in silent wonder.
    »Mr. Wardle - a friend of mine,« said Mr. Pickwick.
    »Friend of yours! - My dear sir, how are you? - Friend of my friend's - give
me your hand, sir« - and the stranger grasped Mr. Wardle's hand with all the
fervour of a close intimacy of many years, and then stepped back a pace or two
as if to take a full survey of his face and figure, and then shook hands with
him again, if possible, more warmly than before.
    »Well; and how came you here?« said Mr. Pickwick, with a smile in which
benevolence struggled with surprise.
    »Come,« replied the stranger - »stopping at Crown - Crown at Muggleton - met
a party - flannel jackets - white trousers - anchovy sandwiches - devilled
kidneys - splendid fellows - glorious.«
    Mr. Pickwick was sufficiently versed in the stranger's system of stenography
to infer from this rapid and disjointed communication that he had, somehow or
other, contracted an acquaintance with the All-Muggletons, which he had
converted, by a process peculiar to himself, into that extent of good fellowship
on which a general invitation may be easily founded. His curiosity was therefore
satisfied, and putting on his spectacles he prepared himself to watch the play
which was just commencing.
    All-Muggleton had the first innings; and the interest became intense when
Mr. Dumkins and Mr. Podder, two of the most renowned members of that most
distinguished club, walked, bat in hand, to their respective wickets. Mr.
Luffey, the highest ornament of Dingley Dell, was pitched to bowl against the
redoubtable Dumkins, and Mr. Struggles was selected to do the same kind office
for the hitherto unconquered Podder. Several players were stationed, to look
out, in different parts of the field, and each fixed himself into the proper
attitude by placing one hand on each knee, and stooping very much as if he were
making a back for some beginner at leap-frog. All the regular players do this
sort of thing; - indeed it's generally supposed that it is quite impossible to
look out properly in any other position.
    The umpires were stationed behind the wickets; the scorers were prepared to
notch the runs; a breathless silence ensued. Mr. Luffey retired a few paces
behind the wicket of the passive Podder, and applied the ball to his right eye
for several seconds. Dumkins confidently awaited its coming with his eyes fixed
on the motions of Luffey.
    »Play!« suddenly cried the bowler. The ball flew from his hand straight and
swift towards the centre stump of the wicket. The wary Dumkins was on the alert;
it fell upon the tip of the bat, and bounded far away over the heads of the
scouts, who had just stooped low enough to let it fly over them.
    »Run - run - another. - Now, then, throw her up - up with her - stop there -
another - no - yes - no - throw her up, throw her up!« - Such were the shouts
which followed the stroke; and, at the conclusion of which All-Muggleton had
scored two. Nor was Podder behindhand in earning laurels wherewith to garnish
himself and Muggleton. He blocked the doubtful balls, missed the bad ones, took
the good ones, and sent them flying to all parts of the field. The scouts were
hot and tired; the bowlers were changed and bowled till their arms ached; but
Dumkins and Podder remained unconquered. Did an elderly gentleman essay to stop
the progress of the ball, it rolled between his legs or slipped between his
fingers. Did a slim gentleman try to catch it, it struck him on the nose, and
bounded pleasantly off with redoubled violence, while the slim gentleman's eyes
filled with water, and his form writhed with anguish. Was it thrown straight up
to the wicket, Dumkins had reached it before the ball. In short, when Dumkins
was caught out, and Podder stumped out, All-Muggleton had notched some
fifty-four, while the score of the Dingley Dellers was as blank as their faces.
The advantage was too great to be recovered. In vain did the eager Luffey, and
the enthusiastic Struggles, do all that skill and experience could suggest, to
regain the ground Dingley Dell had lost in the contest; - it was of no avail;
and in an early period of the winning game Dingley Dell gave in, and allowed the
superior prowess of All-Muggleton.
    The stranger, meanwhile, had been eating, drinking, and talking, without
cessation. At every good stroke he expressed his satisfaction and approval of
the player in a most condescending and patronising manner, which could not fail
to have been highly gratifying to the party concerned; while at every bad
attempt at a catch, and every failure to stop the ball, he launched his personal
displeasure at the head of the devoted individual in such denunciations - as
»Ah, ah! - stupid« - »Now, butter- - »Muff« - »Humbug« - and so forth -
ejaculations which seemed to establish him in the opinion of all around, as a
most excellent and undeniable judge of the whole art and mystery of the noble
game of cricket.
    »Capital game - well played - some strokes admirable,« said the stranger, as
both sides crowded into the tent, at the conclusion of the game.
    »You have played it, sir?« inquired Mr. Wardle, who had been much amused by
his loquacity.
    »Played it! Think I have - thousands of times - not here - West Indies -
exciting thing - hot work - very.«
    »It must be rather a warm pursuit in such a climate,« observed Mr. Pickwick.
    »Warm! - red hot - scorching - glowing. Played a match once - single wicket
- friend the Colonel - Sir Thomas Blazo - who should get the greatest number of
runs. - Won the toss - first innings - seven o'clock A.M. - six natives to look
out - went in; kept in - heat intense - natives all fainted - taken away - fresh
half-dozen ordered - fainted also - Blazo bowling - supported by two natives -
couldn't bowl me out - fainted too - cleared away the Colonel - wouldn't give in
- faithful attendant - Quanko Samba - last man left - sun so hot, bat in
blisters, ball scorched brown - five hundred and seventy runs - rather exhausted
- Quanko mustered up last remaining strength - bowled me out - had a bath, and
went out to dinner.«
    »And what became of what's-his-name, sir?« inquired an old gentleman.
    »Blazo?«
    »No - the other gentleman.«
    »Quanko Samba?«
    »Yes, sir.«
    »Poor Quanko - never recovered it - bowled on, on my account - bowled off,
on his own - died, sir.« Here the stranger buried his countenance in a brown
jug, but whether to hide his emotion or imbibe its contents, we cannot
distinctly affirm. We only know that he paused suddenly, drew a long and deep
breath, and looked anxiously on, as two of the principal members of the Dingley
Dell club approached Mr. Pickwick, and said -
    »We are about to partake of a plain dinner at the Blue Lion, sir; we hope
you and your friends will join us.«
    »Of course,« said Mr. Wardle, »among our friends we include Mr. --;« and he
looked towards the stranger.
    »Jingle,« said that versatile gentleman, taking the hint at once. »Jingle -
Alfred Jingle, Esq., of No Hall, Nowhere.«
    »I shall be very happy, I am sure,« said Mr. Pickwick.
    »So shall I,« said Mr. Alfred Jingle, drawing one arm through Mr.
Pickwick's, and another through Mr. Wardle's, as he whispered confidentially in
the ear of the former gentleman: -
    »Devilish good dinner - cold, but capital - peeped into the room this
morning - fowls and pies, and all that sort of thing - pleasant fellows these -
well behaved, too - very.«
    There being no further preliminaries to arrange, the company straggled into
the town in little knots of twos and threes; and within a quarter of an hour
were all seated in the great room of the Blue Lion Inn, Muggleton - Mr. Dumkins
acting as chairman, and Mr. Luffey officiating as vice.
    There was a vast deal of talking and rattling of knives and forks, and
plates: a great running about of three ponderous headed waiters, and a rapid
disappearance of the substantial viands on the table; to each and every of which
item of confusion, the facetious Mr. Jingle lent the aid of half-a-dozen
ordinary men at least. When everybody had eaten as much as possible, the cloth
was removed, bottles, glasses, and dessert were placed on the table; and the
waiters withdrew to clear away, or in other words, to appropriate to their own
private use and emolument whatever remnants of the eatables and drinkables they
could contrive to lay their hands on.
    Amidst the general hum of mirth and conversation that ensued, there was a
little man with a puffy Say-nothing-to-me,-or-I'll-contradict-you sort of
countenance, who remained very quiet; occasionally looking round him when the
conversation slackened, as if he contemplated putting in something very weighty;
and now and then bursting into a short cough of inexpressible grandeur. At
length, during a moment of comparative silence, the little man called out in a
very loud, solemn voice -
    »Mr. Luffey!«
    Everybody was hushed into a profound stillness as the individual addressed,
replied -
    »Sir!«
    »I wish to address a few words to you, sir, if you will entreat the
gentlemen to fill their glasses.«
    Mr. Jingle uttered a patronising »hear, hear,« which was responded to by the
remainder of the company: and the glasses having been filled the Vice-President
assumed an air of wisdom in a state of profound attention, and said -
    »Mr. Staple.«
    »Sir,« said the little man, rising, »I wish to address what I have to say to
you and not to our worthy chairman, because our worthy chairman is in some
measure - I may say in a great degree - the subject of what I have to say, or I
may say - to -«
    »State,« suggested Mr. Jingle.
    - »Yes, to state,« said the little man. »I thank my honourable friend, if he
will allow me to call him so - (four hears, and one certainly from Mr. Jingle) -
for the suggestion. Sir, I am a Deller - a Dingley Deller (cheers). I cannot lay
claim to the honour of forming an item in the population of Muggleton; nor, sir,
I will frankly admit, do I covet that honour: and I will tell you why, sir -
(hear); to Muggleton I will readily concede all those honours and distinctions
to which it can fairly lay claim - they are too numerous and too well known to
require aid or recapitulation from me. But, sir, while we remember that
Muggleton has given birth to a Dumkins and a Podder, let us never forget that
Dingley Dell can boast a Luffey and a Struggles. (Vociferous cheering.) Let me
not be considered as wishing to detract from the merits of the former gentlemen.
Sir, I envy them the luxury of their own feelings on this occasion. (Cheers).
Every gentleman who hears me, is probably acquainted with the reply made by an
individual, who - to use an ordinary figure of speech - hung out in a tub, to
the emperor Alexander: - If I were not Diogenes, said he, I would be Alexander.
I can well imagine these gentlemen to say, If I were not Dumkins I would be
Luffey; if I were not Podder I would be Struggles. (Enthusiasm.) But, gentlemen
of Muggleton, is it in cricket alone that your fellow-townsmen stand preeminent?
Have you never heard of Dumkins and determination? Have you never been taught to
associate Podder with property? (Great applause.) Have you never, when
struggling for your rights, your liberties, and your privileges, been reduced,
if only for an instant, to misgiving and despair? And when you have been thus
depressed, has not the name of Dumkins laid afresh within your breast the fire
which had just gone out; and has not a word from that man, lighted it again as
brightly as if it had never expired? (Great cheering.) Gentlemen, I beg to
surround with a rich halo of enthusiastic cheering the united names of Dumkins
and Podder.«
    Here the little man ceased, and here the company commenced a raising of
voices, and thumping of tables, which lasted with little intermission during the
remainder of the evening. Other toasts were drunk. Mr. Luffey and Mr. Struggles,
Mr. Pickwick and Mr. Jingle, were, each in his turn, the subject of unqualified
eulogium; and each in due course returned thanks for the honour.
    Enthusiastic as we are in the noble cause to which we have devoted
ourselves, we should have felt a sensation of pride which we cannot express, and
a consciousness of having done something to merit immortality of which we are
now deprived, could we have laid the faintest outline of these addresses before
our ardent readers. Mr. Snodgrass, as usual, took a great mass of notes, which
would no doubt have afforded most useful and valuable information, had not the
burning eloquence of the words or the feverish influence of the wine made that
gentleman's hand so extremely unsteady, as to render his writing nearly
unintelligible, and his style wholly so. By dint of patient investigation, we
have been enabled to trace some characters bearing a faint resemblance to the
names of the speakers; and we can also discern an entry of a song (supposed to
have been sung by Mr. Jingle), in which the words bowl sparkling ruby bright,
and wine are frequently repeated at short intervals. We fancy too, that we can
discern at the very end of the notes, some indistinct reference to broiled
bones; and then the words cold without occur: but as any hypothesis we could
found upon them must necessarily rest upon mere conjecture, we are not disposed
to indulge in any of the speculations to which they may give rise.
    We will therefore return to Mr. Tupman; merely adding that within some few
minutes before twelve o'clock that night, the convocation of worthies of Dingley
Dell and Muggleton were heard to sing, with great feeling and emphasis, the
beautiful and pathetic national air of
 
We won't go home 'till morning,
We won't go home 'till morning,
We won't go home 'till morning,
'Till daylight doth appear.
 

                                  Chapter VIII

  Strongly Illustrative of the Position, That the Course of True Love Is Not a
                                    Railway.

The quiet seclusion of Dingley Dell, the presence of so many of the gentler sex,
and the solicitude and anxiety they evinced in his behalf, were all favourable
to the growth and development of those softer feelings which nature had
implanted deep in the bosom of Mr. Tracy Tupman, and which now appeared destined
to centre in one lovely object. The young ladies were pretty, their manners
winning, their dispositions unexceptionable; but there was a dignity in the air,
a touch-me-not-ishness in the walk, a majesty in the eye of the spinster aunt,
to which, at their time of life, they could lay no claim, which distinguished
her from any female on whom Mr. Tupman had ever gazed. That there was something
kindred in their nature, something congenial in their souls, something
mysteriously sympathetic in their bosoms, was evident. Her name was the first
that rose to Mr. Tupman's lips as he lay wounded on the grass; and her hysteric
laughter was the first sound that fell upon his ear when he was supported to the
house. But had her agitation arisen from an amiable and feminine sensibility
which would have been equally irrepressible in any case; or had it been called
forth by a more ardent and passionate feeling, which he, of all men living,
could alone awaken? These were the doubts which racked his brain as he lay
extended on the sofa: these were the doubts which he determined should be at
once and for ever resolved.
    It was evening. Isabella and Emily had strolled out with Mr. Trundle; the
deaf old lady had fallen asleep in her chair; the snoring of the fat boy,
penetrated in a low and monotonous sound from the distant kitchen; the buxom
servants were lounging at the side-door, enjoying the pleasantness of the hour,
and the delights of a flirtation, on first principles, with certain unwieldy
animals attached to the farm; and there sat the interesting pair, uncared for by
all, caring for none, and dreaming only of themselves; there they sat, in short,
like a pair of carefully-folded kid-gloves - bound up in each other.
    »I have forgotten my flowers,« said the spinster aunt.
    »Water them now,« said Mr. Tupman in accents of persuasion.
    »You will take cold in the evening air,« urged the spinster aunt,
affectionately.
    »No, no,« said Mr. Tupman rising; »it will do me good. Let me accompany
you.«
    The lady paused to adjust the sling in which the left arm of the youth was
placed, and taking his right arm led him to the garden.
    There was a bower at the further end, with honeysuckle, jessamine, and
creeping plants - one of those sweet retreats which humane men erect for the
accommodation of spiders.
    The spinster aunt took up a large watering-pot which lay in one corner, and
was about to leave the arbour. Mr. Tupman detained her, and drew her to a seat
beside him.
    »Miss Wardle!« said he.
    The spinster aunt trembled, till some pebbles which had accidentally found
their way into the large watering-pot shook like an infant's rattle.
    »Miss Wardle,« said Mr. Tupman, »you are an angel.«
    »Mr. Tupman!« exclaimed Rachael, blushing as red as the watering-pot itself.
    »Nay,« said the eloquent Pickwickian - »I know it but too well.«
    »All women are angels, they say,« murmured the lady, playfully.
    »Then what can you be; or to what, without presumption, can I compare you?«
replied Mr. Tupman. »Where was the woman ever seen who resembled you? Where else
could I hope to find so rare a combination of excellence and beauty? Where else
could I seek to - Oh!« Here Mr. Tupman paused, and pressed the hand which
clasped the handle of the happy watering-pot.
    The lady turned aside her head. »Men are such deceivers,« she softly
whispered.
    »They are, they are,« ejaculated Mr. Tupman; »but not all men. There lives
at least one being who can never change - one being who would be content to
devote his whole existence to your happiness - who lives but in your eyes - who
breathes but in your smiles - who bears the heavy burden of life itself only for
you.«
    »Could such an individual be found,« said the lady -
    »But he can be found,« said the ardent Mr. Tupman, interposing. »He is
found. He is here, Miss Wardle.« And ere the lady was aware of his intention,
Mr. Tupman had sunk upon his knees at her feet.
    »Mr. Tupman, rise,« said Rachael.
    »Never!« was the valorous reply. »Oh, Rachael!« - He seized her passive
hand, and the watering-pot fell to the ground as he pressed it to his lips. -
»Oh, Rachael! say you love me.«
    »Mr. Tupman,« said the spinster aunt, with averted head - »I can hardly
speak the words; but - but - you are not wholly indifferent to me.«
    Mr. Tupman no sooner heard this avowal, than he proceeded to do what his
enthusiastic emotions prompted, and what, for aught we know (for we are but
little acquainted with such matters), people so circumstanced always do. He
jumped up, and, throwing his arm round the neck of the spinster aunt, imprinted
upon her lips numerous kisses, which after a due show of struggling and
resistance, she received so passively, that there is no telling how many more
Mr. Tupman might have bestowed, if the lady had not given a very unaffected
start and exclaimed in an affrighted tone -
    »Mr. Tupman, we are observed! - we are discovered!«
    Mr. Tupman looked round. There was the fat boy, perfectly motionless, with
his large circular eyes staring into the arbour, but without the slightest
expression on his face that the most expert physiognomist could have referred to
astonishment, curiosity, or any other known passion that agitates the human
breast. Mr. Tupman gazed on the fat boy, and the fat boy stared at him; and the
longer Mr. Tupman observed the utter vacancy of the fat boy's countenance, the
more convinced he became that he either did not know, or did not understand,
anything that had been going forward. Under this impression, he said with great
firmness -
    »What do you want here, sir?«
    »Supper's ready, sir,« was the prompt reply.
    »Have you just come here, sir?« inquired Mr. Tupman, with a piercing look.
    »Just,« replied the fat boy.
    Mr. Tupman looked at him very hard again; but there was not a wink in his
eye, or a curve in his face.
    Mr. Tupman took the arm of the spinster aunt, and walked towards the house;
the fat boy followed behind.
    »He knows nothing of what has happened,« he whispered.
    »Nothing,« said the spinster aunt.
    There was a sound behind them, as of an imperfectly suppressed chuckle. Mr.
Tupman turned sharply round. No; it could not have been the fat boy; there was
not a gleam of mirth, or anything but feeding in his whole visage.
    »He must have been fast asleep,« whispered Mr. Tupman.
    »I have not the least doubt of it,« replied the spinster aunt.
    They both laughed heartily.
    Mr. Tupman was wrong. The fat boy, for once, had not been fast asleep. He
was awake - wide awake - to what had been going forward.
    The supper passed off without any attempt at a general conversation. The old
lady had gone to bed; Isabella Wardle devoted herself exclusively to Mr.
Trundle; the spinster's attentions were reserved for Mr. Tupman; and Emily's
thoughts appeared to be engrossed by some distant object - possibly they were
with the absent Snodgrass.
    Eleven - twelve - one o'clock had struck, and the gentlemen had not arrived.
Consternation sat on every face. Could they have been waylaid and robbed? Should
they send men and lanterns in every direction by which they could be supposed
likely to have travelled home? or should they - Hark! there they were. What
could have made them so late? A strange voice, too! To whom could it belong?
They rushed into the kitchen whither the truants had repaired, and at once
obtained rather more than a glimmering of the real state of the case.
    Mr. Pickwick, with his hands in his pockets and his hat cocked completely
over his left eye, was leaning against the dresser, shaking his head from side
to side, and producing a constant succession of the blandest and most benevolent
smiles without being moved thereunto by any discernible cause or pretence
whatsoever; old Mr. Wardle, with a highly-inflamed countenance, was grasping the
hand of a strange gentleman muttering protestations of eternal friendship; Mr.
Winkle, supporting himself by the eight-day clock, was feebly invoking
destruction upon the head of any member of the family who should suggest the
propriety of his retiring for the night; and Mr. Snodgrass had sunk into a
chair, with an expression of the most abject and hopeless misery that the human
mind can imagine, portrayed in every lineament of his expressive face.
    »Is anything the matter?« inquired the three ladies.
    »Nothing the matter,« replied Mr. Pickwick. »We - we're - all right. - I
say, Wardle, we're all right, an't we?«
    »I should think so,« replied the jolly host. - »My dears, here's my friend,
Mr. Jingle - Mr. Pickwick's friend, Mr. Jingle, come 'pon - little visit.«
    »Is anything the matter with Mr. Snodgrass, sir?« inquired Emily, with great
anxiety.
    »Nothing the matter, ma'am,« replied the stranger. »Cricket dinner -
glorious party - capital songs - old port - claret - good - very good - wine,
ma'am - wine.«
    »It wasn't't the wine,« murmured Mr. Snodgrass, in a broken voice. »It was the
salmon.« (Somehow or other, it never is the wine, in these cases.)
    »Hadn't they better go to bed, ma'am?« inquired Emma. »Two of the boys will
carry the gentlemen up stairs.«
    »I won't go to bed,« said Mr. Winkle, firmly.
    »No living boy shall carry me,« said Mr. Pickwick, stoutly; - and he went on
smiling as before.
    »Hurrah!« gasped Mr. Winkle, faintly.
    »Hurrah!« echoed Mr. Pickwick, taking off his hat and dashing it on the
floor, and insanely casting his spectacles into the middle of the kitchen. - At
this humorous feat he laughed outright.
    »Let's - have - 'nother - bottle,« cried Mr. Winkle, commencing in a very
loud key, and ending in a very faint one. His head dropped upon his breast; and,
muttering his invincible determination not to go to his bed, and a sanguinary
regret that he had not done for old Tupman in the morning, he fell fast asleep;
in which condition he was borne to his apartment by two young giants under the
personal superintendence of the fat boy, to whose protecting care Mr. Snodgrass
shortly afterwards confided his own person. Mr. Pickwick accepted the proffered
arm of Mr. Tupman and quietly disappeared, smiling more than ever; and Mr.
Wardle, after taking as affectionate a leave of the whole family as if he were
ordered for immediate execution, consigned to Mr. Trundle the honour of
conveying him up-stairs, and retired, with a very futile attempt to look
impressively solemn and dignified.
    »What a shocking scene!« said the spinster aunt.
    »Dis - gusting!« ejaculated both the young ladies.
    »Dreadful - dreadful!« said Jingle, looking very grave: he was about a
bottle and a half ahead of any of his companions. »Horrid spectacle - very!«
    »What a nice man!« whispered the spinster aunt to Mr. Tupman.
    »Good-looking, too!« whispered Emily Wardle.
    »Oh, decidedly,« observed the spinster aunt.
    Mr. Tupman thought of the widow at Rochester: and his mind was troubled. The
succeeding half-hour's conversation was not of a nature to calm his perturbed
spirit. The new visitor was very talkative, and the number of his anecdotes was
only to be exceeded by the extent of his politeness. Mr. Tupman felt that as
Jingle's popularity increased, he (Tupman) retired further into the shade. His
laughter was forced - his merriment feigned; and when at last he laid his aching
temples between the sheets, he thought, with horrid delight, on the satisfaction
it would afford him to have Jingle's head at that moment between the feather bed
and the mattress.
    The indefatigable stranger rose betimes next morning, and, although his
companions remained in bed overpowered with the dissipation of the previous
night, exerted himself most successfully to promote the hilarity of the
breakfast-table. So successful were his efforts, that even the deaf old lady
insisted on having one or two of his best jokes retailed through the trumpet;
and even she condescended to observe to the spinster aunt, that »he« (meaning
Jingle) »was an impudent young fellow:« a sentiment in which all her relations
then and there present thoroughly coincided.
    It was the old lady's habit on the fine summer mornings to repair to the
arbour in which Mr. Tupman had already signalised himself, in form and manner
following: first, the fat boy fetched from a peg behind the old lady's bed-room
door, a close black satin bonnet, a warm cotton shawl, and a thick stick with a
capacious handle; and the old lady having put on the bonnet and shawl at her
leisure, would lean one hand on the stick and the other on the fat boy's
shoulder, and walk leisurely to the arbour, where the fat boy would leave her to
enjoy the fresh air for the space of half an hour; at the expiration of which
time he would return and reconduct her to the house.
    The old lady was very precise and very particular; and as this ceremony had
been observed for three successive summers without the slightest deviation from
the accustomed form, she was not a little surprised on this particular morning,
to see the fat boy, instead of leaving the arbour, walk a few paces out of it,
look carefully round him in every direction, and return towards her with great
stealth and an air of the most profound mystery.
    The old lady was timorous - most old ladies are - and her first impression
was that the bloated lad was about to do her some grievous bodily harm with the
view of possessing himself of her loose coin. She would have cried for
assistance, but age and infirmity had long ago deprived her of the power of
screaming; she, therefore, watched his motions with feelings of intense terror,
which were in no degree diminished by his coming close up to her, and shouting
in her ear in an agitated, and as it seemed to her, a threatening tone -
    »Missus!«
    Now it so happened that Mr. Jingle was walking in the garden close to the
arbour at this moment. He too heard the shout of Missus, and stopped to hear
more. There were three reasons for his doing so. In the first place, he was idle
and curious; secondly, he was by no means scrupulous; thirdly, and lastly, he
was concealed from view by some flowering shrubs. So there he stood, and there
he listened.
    »Missus!« shouted the fat boy.
    »Well, Joe,« said the trembling old lady. »I'm sure I have been a good
mistress to you, Joe. You have invariably been treated very kindly. You have
never had too much to do; and you have always had enough to eat.«
    This last was an appeal to the fat boy's most sensitive feelings. He seemed
touched, as he replied, emphatically -
    »I knows I has.«
    »Then what can you want to do now?« said the old lady, gaining courage.
    »I wants to make your flesh creep,« replied the boy.
    This sounded like a very bloodthirsty mode of showing one's gratitude; and
as the old lady did not precisely understand the process by which such a result
was to be attained, all her former horrors returned.
    »What do you think I see in this very arbour last night?« inquired the boy.
    »Bless us! What?« exclaimed the old lady, alarmed at the solemn manner of
the corpulent youth.
    »The strange gentleman - him as had his arm hurt - a kissin' and huggin' -«
    »Who, Joe? None of the servants, I hope.«
    »Worser than that,« roared the fat boy, in the old lady's ear.
    »Not one of my grand-da'aters?«
    »Worser than that.«
    »Worse than that, Joe!« said the old lady, who had thought this the extreme
limit of human atrocity. »Who was it, Joe? I insist upon knowing.«
    The fat boy looked cautiously round, and having concluded his survey,
shouted in the old lady's ear:
    »Miss Rachael.«
    »What!« said the old lady, in a shrill tone. »Speak louder.«
    »Miss Rachael,« roared the fat boy.
    »My da'ater!«
    The train of nods which the fat boy gave by way of assent, communicated a
blanc-mange like motion to his fat cheeks.
    »And she suffered him!« exclaimed the old lady.
    A grin stole over the fat boy's features as he said:
    »I see her a kissin' of him again.«
    If Mr. Jingle, from his place of concealment, could have beheld the
expression which the old lady's face assumed at this communication, the
probability is that a sudden burst of laughter would have betrayed his close
vicinity to the summer-house. He listened attentively. Fragments of angry
sentences such as, »Without my permission!« - »At her time of life« - »Miserable
old 'ooman like me« - »Might have waited till I was dead,« and so forth, reached
his ears; and then he heard the heels of the fat boy's boots crunching the
gravel, as he retired and left the old lady alone.
    It was a remarkable coincidence perhaps, but it was nevertheless a fact,
that Mr. Jingle within five minutes after his arrival at Manor Farm on the
preceding night, had inwardly resolved to lay siege to the heart of the spinster
aunt, without delay. He had observation enough to see, that his off-hand manner
was by no means disagreeable to the fair object of his attack; and he had more
than a strong suspicion that she possessed that most desirable of all
requisites, a small independence. The imperative necessity of ousting his rival
by some means or other, flashed quickly upon him, and he immediately resolved to
adopt certain proceedings tending to that end and object, without a moment's
delay. Fielding tells us that man is fire, and woman tow, and the Prince of
Darkness sets a light to 'em. Mr. Jingle knew that young men, to spinster aunts,
are as lighted gas to gunpowder, and he determined to essay the effect of an
explosion without loss of time.
    Full of reflections upon this important decision, he crept from his place of
concealment, and, under cover of the shrubs before mentioned, approached the
house. Fortune seemed determined to favour his design. Mr. Tupman and the rest
of the gentlemen left the garden by the side gate just as he obtained a view of
it; and the young ladies, he knew, had walked out alone, soon after breakfast.
The coast was clear.
    The breakfast-parlour door was partially open. He peeped in. The spinster
aunt was knitting. He coughed; she looked up and smiled. Hesitation formed no
part of Mr. Alfred Jingle's character. He laid his finger on his lips
mysteriously, walked in, and closed the door.
    »Miss Wardle,« said Mr. Jingle, with affected earnestness, »forgive
intrusion - short acquaintance - no time for ceremony - all discovered.«
    »Sir!« said the spinster aunt, rather astonished by the unexpected
apparition and somewhat doubtful of Mr. Jingle's sanity.
    »Hush!« said Mr. Jingle, in a stage whisper; - »large boy - dumpling face -
round eyes - rascal!« Here he shook his head expressively, and the spinster aunt
trembled with agitation.
    »I presume you allude to Joseph, sir?« said the lady, making an effort to
appear composed.
    »Yes, ma'am - damn that Joe! - treacherous dog, Joe - told the old lady -
old lady furious - wild - raving - arbour - Tupman - kissing and hugging - all
that sort of thing - eh, ma'am - eh?«
    »Mr. Jingle,« said the spinster aunt, »if you come here, sir, to insult me
-«
    »Not at all - by no means,« replied the unabashed Mr. Jingle; - »overheard
the tale - came to warn you of your danger - tender my services - prevent the
hubbub. Never mind - think it an insult - leave the room« - and he turned, as if
to carry the threat into execution.
    »What shall I do!« said the poor spinster, bursting into tears. »My brother
will be furious.«
    »Of course he will,« said Mr. Jingle pausing - »outrageous.«
    »Oh, Mr. Jingle, what can I say!« exclaimed the spinster aunt, in another
flood of despair.
    »Say he dreamt it,« replied Mr. Jingle, coolly.
    A ray of comfort darted across the mind of the spinster aunt at this
suggestion. Mr. Jingle perceived it, and followed up his advantage.
    »Pooh, pooh! - nothing more easy - blackguard boy - lovely woman - fat boy
horsewhipped - you believed - end of the matter - all comfortable.«
    Whether the probability of escaping from the consequences of this ill-timed
discovery was delightful to the spinster's feelings, or whether the hearing
herself described as a »lovely woman« softened the asperity of her grief, we
know not. She blushed slightly, and cast a grateful look on Mr. Jingle.
    That insinuating gentleman sighed deeply, fixed his eyes on the spinster
aunt's face for a couple of minutes, started melo-dramatically, and suddenly
withdrew them.
    »You seem unhappy, Mr. Jingle,« said the lady, in a plaintive voice. »May I
show my gratitude for your kind interference, by inquiring into the cause, with
a view, if possible, to its removal?«
    »Ha!« exclaimed Mr. Jingle, with another start - »removal! remove my
unhappiness, and your love bestowed upon a man who is insensible to the blessing
- who even now contemplates a design upon the affections of the niece of the
creature who - but no; he is my friend; I will not expose his vices. Miss Wardle
- farewell!« At the conclusion of this address, the most consecutive he was ever
known to utter, Mr. Jingle applied to his eyes the remnant of a handkerchief
before noticed, and turned towards the door.
    »Stay, Mr. Jingle!« said the spinster aunt emphatically. »You have made an
allusion to Mr. Tupman - explain it.«
    »Never!« exclaimed Jingle, with a professional (i.e. theatrical) air.
»Never!« and, by way of showing that he had no desire to be questioned further,
he drew a chair close to that of the spinster aunt and sat down.
    »Mr. Jingle,« said the aunt, »I entreat - I implore you, if there is any
dreadful mystery connected with Mr. Tupman, reveal it.«
    »Can I,« said Mr. Jingle, fixing his eyes on the aunt's face - »can I see -
lovely creature - sacrificed at the shrine - heartless avarice!« He appeared to
be struggling with various conflicting emotions for a few seconds, and then said
in a low deep voice -
    »Tupman only wants your money.«
    »The wretch!« exclaimed the spinster, with energetic indignation. (Mr.
Jingle's doubts were resolved. She had money).
    »More than that,« said Jingle - »loves another.«
    »Another!« ejaculated the spinster. »Who?«
    »Short girl - black eyes - niece Emily.«
    There was a pause.
    Now, if there were one individual in the whole world, of whom the spinster
aunt entertained a mortal and deeply-rooted jealousy, it was this identical
niece. The colour rushed over her face and neck, and she tossed her head in
silence with an air of ineffable contempt. At last, biting her thin lips, and
bridling up, she said -
    »It can't be. I won't believe it.«
    »Watch 'em,« said Jingle.
    »I will,« said the aunt.
    »Watch his looks.«
    »I will.«
    »His whispers.«
    »I will.«
    »He'll sit next her at table.«
    »Let him.«
    »He'll flatter her.«
    »Let him.«
    »He'll pay her every possible attention.«
    »Let him.«
    »And he'll cut you.«
    »Cut me!« screamed the spinster aunt. »He cut me; - will he!« and she
trembled with rage and disappointment.
    »You will convince yourself?« said Jingle.
    »I will.«
    »You'll show your spirit?«
    »I will.«
    »You'll not have him afterwards?«
    »Never.«
    »You'll take somebody else?«
    »Yes.«
    »You shall.«
    Mr. Jingle fell on his knees, remained thereupon for five minutes
thereafter: and rose the accepted lover of the spinster aunt: conditionally upon
Mr. Tupman's perjury being made clear and manifest.
    The burden of proof lay with Mr. Alfred Jingle; and he produced his evidence
that very day at dinner. The spinster aunt could hardly believe her eyes. Mr.
Tracy Tupman was established at Emily's side, ogling, whispering, and smiling,
in opposition to Mr. Snodgrass. Not a word, not a look, not a glance, did he
bestow upon his heart's pride of the evening before.
    »Damn that boy!« thought old Mr. Wardle to himself. - He had heard the story
from his mother. »Damn that boy! He must have been asleep. It's all
imagination.«
    »Traitor!« thought the spinster aunt. »Dear Mr. Jingle was not deceiving me.
Ugh! how I hate the wretch!«
    The following conversation may serve to explain to our readers this
apparently unaccountable alteration of deportment on the part of Mr. Tracy
Tupman.
    The time was evening; the scene the garden. There were two figures walking
in a side path; one was rather short and stout; the other rather tall and slim.
They were Mr. Tupman and Mr. Jingle. The stout figure commenced the dialogue.
    »How did I do it?« he inquired.
    »Splendid - capital - couldn't act better myself - you must repeat the part
to-morrow - every evening, till further notice.«
    »Does Rachael still wish it?«
    »Of course - she don't like it - but must be done - avert suspicion - afraid
of her brother - says there's no help for it - only a few days more - when old
folks blinded - crown your happiness.«
    »Any message?«
    »Love - best love - kindest regards - unalterable affection. Can I say
anything for you?«
    »My dear fellow,« replied the unsuspicious Mr. Tupman, fervently grasping
his friend's hand - »carry my best love - say how hard I find it to dissemble -
say anything that's kind; but add how sensible I am of the necessity of the
suggestion she made to me, through you, this morning. Say I applaud her wisdom
and admire her discretion.«
    »I will. Anything more?«
    »Nothing; only add how ardently I long for the time when I may call her
mine, and all dissimulation may be unnecessary.«
    »Certainly, certainly. Anything more?«
    »Oh, my friend!« said poor Mr. Tupman, again grasping the hand of his
companion, »receive my warmest thanks for your disinterested kindness; and
forgive me if I have ever, even in thought, done you the injustice of supposing
that you could stand in my way. My dear friend, can I ever repay you?«
    »Don't talk of it,« replied Mr. Jingle. He stopped short, as if suddenly
recollecting something, and said - »By-the-bye - can't spare ten pounds, can
you? - very particular purpose - pay you in three days.«
    »I dare say I can,« replied Mr. Tupman, in the fullness of his heart. »Three
days, you say?«
    »Only three days - all over then - no more difficulties.«
    Mr. Tupman counted the money into his companion's hand, and he dropped it
piece by piece into his pocket, as they walked towards the house.
    »Be careful,« said Mr. Jingle - »not a look.«
    »Not a wink,« said Mr. Tupman.
    »Not a syllable.«
    »Not a whisper.«
    »All your attentions to the niece - rather rude, than otherwise, to the aunt
- only way of deceiving the old ones.«
    »I'll take care,« said Mr. Tupman aloud.
    »And I'll take care,« said Mr. Jingle internally; and they entered the
house.
    The scene of that afternoon was repeated that evening, and on the three
afternoons and evenings next ensuing. On the fourth, the host was in high
spirits, for he had satisfied himself that there was no ground for the charge
against Mr. Tupman. So was Mr. Tupman, for Mr. Jingle had told him that his
affair would soon be brought to a crisis. So was Mr. Pickwick, for he was seldom
otherwise. So was not Mr. Snodgrass, for he had grown jealous of Mr. Tupman. So
was the old lady, for she had been winning at whist. So were Mr. Jingle and Miss
Wardle, for reasons of sufficient importance in this eventful history to be
narrated in another chapter.
 

                                   Chapter IX

                            A Discovery and a Chase.

The supper was ready laid, the chairs were drawn round the table, bottles, jugs,
and glasses were arranged upon the sideboard, and everything betokened the
approach of the most convivial period in the whole four-and-twenty hours.
    »Where's Rachael?« said Mr. Wardle.
    »Ay, and Jingle?« added Mr. Pickwick.
    »Dear me,« said the host, »I wonder I haven't missed him before. Why, I
don't think I've heard his voice for two hours at least. Emily, my dear, ring
the bell.«
    The bell was rung, and the fat boy appeared.
    »Where's Miss Rachael?« He couldn't say.
    »Where's Mr. Jingle, then?« He didn't know.
    Everybody looked surprised. It was late - past eleven o'clock. Mr. Tupman
laughed in his sleeve. They were loitering somewhere, talking about him. Ha, ha!
capital notion that - funny.
    »Never mind,« said Wardle, after a short pause, »they'll turn up presently,
I dare say. I never wait supper for anybody.«
    »Excellent rule, that,« said Mr. Pickwick, »admirable.«
    »Pray, sit down,« said the host.
    »Certainly,« said Mr. Pickwick: and down they sat.
    There was a gigantic round of cold beef on the table, and Mr. Pickwick was
supplied with a plentiful portion of it. He had raised his fork to his lips, and
was on the very point of opening his mouth for the reception of a piece of beef,
when the hum of many voices suddenly arose in the kitchen. He paused, and laid
down his fork. Mr. Wardle paused too, and insensibly released his hold of the
carving-knife, which remained inserted in the beef. He looked at Mr. Pickwick.
Mr. Pickwick looked at him.
    Heavy footsteps were heard in the passage; the parlour door was suddenly
burst open; and the man who had cleaned Mr. Pickwick's boots on his first
arrival, rushed into the room, followed by the fat boy, and all the domestics.
    »What the devil's the meaning of this?« exclaimed the host.
    »The kitchen chimney ain't a-fire, is it, Emma?« inquired the old lady.
    »Lor grandma! No,« screamed both the young ladies.
    »What's the matter?« roared the master of the house.
    The man gasped for breath, and faintly ejaculated -
    »They ha' gone, Mas'r! - gone right clean off, sir!« (At this juncture Mr.
Tupman was observed to lay down his knife and fork, and to turn very pale.)
    »Who's gone?« said Mr. Wardle, fiercely.
    »Mus'r Jingle and Miss Rachael, in a po'-chay, from Blue Lion, Muggleton. I
was there; but I couldn't stop 'em; so I run off to tell'ee.«
    »I paid his expenses!« said Mr. Tupman, jumping up frantically. »He's got
ten pounds of mine! - stop him! - he's swindled me! - I won't bear it! - I'll
have justice, Pickwick! - I won't stand it!« and with sundry incoherent
exclamations of the like nature, the unhappy gentleman spun round and round the
apartment, in a transport of frenzy.
    »Lord preserve us!« ejaculated Mr. Pickwick, eyeing the extraordinary
gestures of his friend with terrified surprise. »He's gone mad! What shall we
do!«
    »Do!« said the stout old host, who regarded only the last words of the
sentence. »Put the horse in the gig! I'll get a chaise at the Lion, and follow
'em instantly. Where« - he exclaimed, as the man ran out to execute the
commission - »Where's that villain Joe?«
    »Here I am; but I han't a willin,« replied a voice. It was the fat boy's.
    »Let me get at him, Pickwick,« cried Wardle, as he rushed at the ill-starred
youth. »He was bribed by that scoundrel, Jingle, to put me on a wrong scent, by
telling a cock-and-a-bull story of my sister and your friend Tupman!« (Here Mr.
Tupman sunk into a chair.) »Let me get at him!«
    »Don't let him!« screamed all the women, above whose exclamations the
blubbering of the fat boy was distinctly audible.
    »I won't be held!« cried the old man. »Mr. Winkle, take your hands off. Mr.
Pickwick, let me go, sir!«
    It was a beautiful sight, in that moment of turmoil and confusion, to behold
the placid and philosophical expression of Mr. Pickwick's face, albeit somewhat
flushed with exertion, as he stood with his arms firmly clasped round the
extensive waist of their corpulent host, thus restraining the impetuosity of his
passion, while the fat boy was scratched, and pulled, and pushed from the room
by all the females congregated therein. He had no sooner released his hold, than
the man entered to announce that the gig was ready.
    »Don't let him go alone!« screamed the females. »He'll kill somebody!«
    »I'll go with him,« said Mr. Pickwick.
    »You're a good fellow, Pickwick,« said the host, grasping his hand. »Emma,
give Mr. Pickwick a shawl to tie round his neck - make haste. Look after your
grandmother, girls; she has fainted away. Now then, are you ready?«
    Mr. Pickwick's mouth and chin having been hastily enveloped in a large
shawl: his hat having been put on his head, and his great coat thrown over his
arm, he replied in the affirmative.
    They jumped into the gig. »Give her her head, Tom,« cried the host; and away
they went, down the narrow lanes: jolting in and out of the cart-ruts, and
bumping up against the hedges on either side, as if they would go to pieces
every moment.
    »How much are they a-head?« shouted Wardle, as they drove up to the door of
the Blue Lion, round which a little crowd had collected, late as it was.
    »Not above three-quarters of an hour,« was everybody's reply.
    »Chaise and four directly! - out with 'em! Put up the gig afterwards.«
    »Now, boys!« cried the landlord - »chaise and four out - make haste - look
alive there!«
    Away ran the hostlers, and the boys. The lanterns glimmered, as the men ran
to and fro; the horses' hoofs clattered on the uneven paving of the yard; the
chaise rumbled as it was drawn out of the coach-house; and all was noise and
bustle.
    »Now then! - is that chaise coming out to-night?« cried Wardle.
    »Coming down the yard now, sir,« replied the hostler.
    Out came the chaise - in went the horses - on sprung the boys - in got the
travellers.
    »Mind - the seven-mile stage in less than half an hour!« shouted Wardle.
    »Off with you!«
    The boys applied whip and spur, the waiters shouted, the hostlers cheered,
and away they went, fast and furiously.
    »Pretty situation,« thought Mr. Pickwick, when he had had a moment's time
for reflection. »Pretty situation for the General Chairman of the Pickwick Club.
Damp chaise - strange horses - fifteen miles an hour - and twelve o'clock at
night!«
    For the first three or four miles, not a word was spoken by either of the
gentlemen, each being too much immersed in his own reflections to address any
observations to his companion. When they had gone over that much ground,
however, and the horses getting thoroughly warmed began to do their work in
really good style, Mr. Pickwick became too much exhilarated with the rapidity of
the motion, to remain any longer perfectly mute.
    »We're sure to catch them, I think,« said he.
    »Hope so,« replied his companion.
    »Fine night,« said Mr. Pickwick, looking up at the moon, which was shining
brightly.
    »So much the worse,« returned Wardle; »for they'll have had all the
advantage of the moonlight to get the start of us, and we shall lose it. It will
have gone down in another hour.«
    »It will be rather unpleasant going at this rate in the dark, won't it?«
inquired Mr. Pickwick.
    »I dare say it will,« replied his friend drily.
    Mr. Pickwick's temporary excitement began to sober down a little, as he
reflected upon the inconveniences and dangers of the expedition in which he had
so thoughtlessly embarked. He was roused by a loud shouting of the post-boy on
the leader.
    »Yo - yo - yo - yo - yoe,« went the first boy.
    »Yo - yo - yo - yoe!« went the second.
    »Yo - yo - yo - yoe!« chimed in old Wardle himself, most lustily, with his
head and half his body out of the coach window.
    »Yo - yo - yo - yoe!« shouted Mr. Pickwick, taking up the burden of the cry,
though he had not the slightest notion of its meaning or object. And amidst the
yo - yoing of the whole four, the chaise stopped.
    »What's the matter?« inquired Mr. Pickwick.
    »There's a gate here,« replied old Wardle. »We shall hear something of the
fugitives.«
    After a lapse of five minutes, consumed in incessant knocking and shouting,
an old man in his shirt and trousers emerged from the turnpike-house, and opened
the gate.
    »How long is it since a post-chaise went through here?« inquired Mr. Wardle.
    »How long?«
    »Ah!«
    »Why, I don't rightly know. It worn't a long time ago, nor it worn't a short
time ago - just between the two, perhaps.«
    »Has any chaise been by at all?«
    »Oh yes, there's been a shay by.«
    »How long ago, my friend,« interposed Mr. Pickwick, »an hour?«
    »Ah, I daresay it might be,« replied the man.
    »Or two hours?« inquired the post-boy on the wheeler.
    »Well, I shouldn't wonder if it was,« returned the old man doubtfully.
    »Drive on, boys,« cried the testy old gentleman; »don't waste any more time
with that old idiot!«
    »Idiot!« exclaimed the old man with a grin, as he stood in the middle of the
road with the gate half-closed, watching the chaise which rapidly diminished in
the increasing distance. »No - not much o' that either; you've lost ten minutes
here, and gone away as wise as you came, arter all. If every man on the line as
has a guinea give him, earns it half as well, you won't catch t'other shay this
side Mich'lmas, old short-and-fat.« And with another prolonged grin, the old man
closed the gate, re-entered his house, and bolted the door after him.
    Meanwhile the chaise proceeded, without any slackening of pace, towards the
conclusion of the stage. The moon, as Wardle had foretold, was rapidly on the
wane; large tiers of dark heavy clouds, which had been gradually overspreading
the sky for some time past, now formed one black mass over head; and large drops
of rain which pattered every now and then against the windows of the chaise,
seemed to warn the travellers of the rapid approach of a stormy night. The wind,
too, which was directly against them, swept in furious gusts down the narrow
road, and howled dismally through the trees which skirted the pathway. Mr.
Pickwick drew his coat closer about him, coiled himself more snugly up into the
corner of the chaise, and fell into a sound sleep, from which he was only
awakened by the stopping of the vehicle, the sound of the hostler's bell, and a
loud cry of »Horses on directly!«
    But here another delay occurred. The boys were sleeping with such mysterious
soundness, that it took five minutes a-piece to wake them. The hostler had
somehow or other mislaid the key of the stable, and even when that was found,
two sleepy helpers put the wrong harness on the wrong horses, and the whole
process of harnessing had to be gone through afresh. Had Mr. Pickwick been
alone, these multiplied obstacles would have completely put an end to the
pursuit at once, but old Wardle was not to be so easily daunted; and he laid
about him with such hearty good-will, cuffing this man, and pushing that;
strapping a buckle here, and taking in a link there, that the chaise was ready
in a much shorter time than could reasonably have been expected, under so many
difficulties.
    They resumed their journey; and certainly the prospect before them was by no
means encouraging. The stage was fifteen miles long, the night was dark, the
wind high, and the rain pouring in torrents. It was impossible to make any great
way against such obstacles united: it was hard upon one o'clock already; and
nearly two hours were consumed in getting to the end of the stage. Here,
however, an object presented itself, which rekindled their hopes, and
re-animated their drooping spirits.
    »When did this chaise come in?« cried old Wardle, leaping out of his own
vehicle, and pointing to one covered with wet mud, which was standing in the
yard.
    »Not a quarter of an hour ago, sir;« replied the hostler, to whom the
question was addressed.
    »Lady and gentleman?« inquired Wardle, almost breathless with impatience.
    »Yes, sir.«
    »Tall gentleman - dress coat - long legs - thin body?«
    »Yes, sir.«
    »Elderly lady - thin face - rather skinny - eh?«
    »Yes, sir.«
    »By heavens, it's the couple, Pickwick,« exclaimed the old gentleman.
    »Would have been here before,« said the hostler, »but they broke a trace.«
    »It is!« said Wardle, »it is by Jove! Chaise and four instantly! We shall
catch them yet, before they reach the next stage. A guinea a-piece, boys - be
alive there - bustle about - there's good fellows.«
    And with such admonitions as these, the old gentleman ran up and down the
yard, and bustled to and fro, in a state of excitement which communicated itself
to Mr. Pickwick also; and under the influence of which, that gentleman got
himself into complicated entanglements with harness, and mixed up with horses
and wheels of chaises, in the most surprising manner, firmly believing that by
so doing he was materially forwarding the preparations for their resuming their
journey.
    »Jump in - jump in!« cried old Wardle, climbing into the chaise, pulling up
the steps, and slamming the door after him. »Come along! Make haste!« And before
Mr. Pickwick knew precisely what he was about, he felt himself forced in at the
other door, by one pull from the old gentleman, and one push from the hostler;
and off they were again.
    »Ah! we are moving now,« said the old gentleman exultingly. They were
indeed, as was sufficiently testified to Mr. Pickwick, by his constant
collisions either with the hard woodwork of the chaise, or the body of his
companion.
    »Hold up!« said the stout old Mr. Wardle, as Mr. Pickwick dived head
foremost into his capacious waistcoat.
    »I never did feel such a jolting in my life,« said Mr. Pickwick.
    »Never mind,« replied his companion, »it will soon be over. Steady, steady.«
    Mr. Pickwick planted himself into his own corner, as firmly as he could; and
on whirled the chaise faster than ever.
    They had travelled in this way about three miles, when Mr. Wardle, who had
been looking out of the window for two or three minutes, suddenly drew in his
face, covered with splashes, and exclaimed in breathless eagerness -
    »Here they are!«
    Mr. Pickwick thrust his head out of his window. Yes: there was a chaise and
four, a short distance before them, dashing along at full gallop.
    »Go on, go on,« almost shrieked the old gentleman. »Two guineas a-piece,
boys - don't let 'em gain on us - keep it up - keep it up.«
    The horses in the first chaise started on at their utmost speed; and those
in Mr. Wardle's galloped furiously behind them.
    »I see his head,« exclaimed the choleric old man. »Damme, I see his head.«
    »So do I,« said Mr. Pickwick, »that's he.«
    Mr. Pickwick was not mistaken. The countenance of Mr. Jingle, completely
coated with the mud thrown up by the wheels, was plainly discernible at the
window of his chaise; and the motion of his arm, which he was waving violently
towards the postilions, denoted that he was encouraging them to increased
exertion.
    The interest was intense. Fields, trees, and hedges, seemed to rush past
them with the velocity of a whirlwind, so rapid was the pace at which they tore
along. They were close by the side of the first chaise. Jingle's voice could be
plainly heard, even above the din of the wheels, urging on the boys. Old Mr.
Wardle foamed with rage and excitement. He roared out scoundrels and villains by
the dozen, clenched his fist and shook it expressively at the object of his
indignation; but Mr. Jingle only answered with a contemptuous smile, and replied
to his menaces by a shout of triumph, as his horses, answering the increased
application of whip and spur, broke into a faster gallop, and left the pursuers
behind.
    Mr. Pickwick had just drawn in his head, and Mr. Wardle, exhausted with
shouting, had done the same, when a tremendous jolt threw them forward against
the front of the vehicle. There was a sudden bump - a loud crash - away rolled a
wheel, and over went the chaise.
    After a very few seconds of bewilderment and confusion, in which nothing but
the plunging of horses and breaking of glass could be made out, Mr. Pickwick
felt himself violently pulled out from among the ruins of the chaise; and as
soon as he had gained his feet, and extricated his head from the skirts of his
great coat, which materially impeded the usefulness of his spectacles, the full
disaster of the case met his view.
    Old Mr. Wardle without a hat, and his clothes torn in several places, stood
by his side, and the fragments of the chaise lay scattered at their feet. The
post-boys, who had succeeded in cutting the traces, were standing, disfigured
with mud and disordered by hard riding, by the horses' heads. About a hundred
yards in advance was the other chaise, which had pulled up on hearing the crash.
The postilions, each with a broad grin convulsing his countenance, were viewing
the adverse party from their saddles, and Mr. Jingle was contemplating the wreck
from the coach-window, with evident satisfaction. The day was just breaking, and
the whole scene was rendered perfectly visible by the grey light of the morning.
    »Hallo!« shouted the shameless Jingle, »anybody damaged? - elderly gentlemen
- no light weights - dangerous work - very.«
    »You're a rascal!« roared Wardle.
    »Ha! ha!« replied Jingle; and then he added, with a knowing wink, and a jerk
of the thumb towards the interior of the chaise - »I say - she's very well -
desires her compliments - begs you won't trouble yourself - love to Tuppy -
won't you get up behind? - drive on, boys.«
    The postilions resumed their proper attitudes, and away rattled the chaise,
Mr. Jingle fluttering in derision a white handkerchief from the coach-window.
    Nothing in the whole adventure, not even the upset, had disturbed the calm
and equable current of Mr. Pickwick's temper. The villainy, however, which could
first borrow money of his faithful follower, and then abbreviate his name to
Tuppy, was more than he could patiently bear. He drew his breath hard, and
coloured up to the very tips of his spectacles, as he said, slowly and
emphatically -
    »If ever I meet that man again, I'll -«
    »Yes, yes,« interrupted Wardle, »that's all very well: but while we stand
talking here, they'll get their licence, and be married in London.«
    Mr. Pickwick paused, bottled up his vengeance, and corked it down.
    »How far is it to the next stage?« inquired Mr. Wardle, of one of the boys.
    »Six mile, an't it, Tom?«
    »Rayther better.«
    »Rayther better nor six mile, sir.«
    »Can't be helped,« said Wardle, »we must walk it, Pickwick.«
    »No help for it,« replied that truly great man.
    So sending forward one of the boys on horseback, to procure a fresh chaise
and horses, and leaving the other behind to take care of the broken one, Mr.
Pickwick and Mr. Wardle set manfully forward on the walk, first tying their
shawls round their necks, and slouching down their hats to escape as much as
possible from the deluge of rain, which after a slight cessation had again begun
to pour heavily down.
 

                                   Chapter X

Clearing Up All Doubts (if Any Existed) of the Disinterestedness of Mr. Jingle's
                                   Character.

There are in London several old inns, once the head-quarters of celebrated
coaches in the days when coaches performed their journeys in a graver and more
solemn manner than they do in these times; but which have now degenerated into
little more than the abiding and booking places of country wagons. The reader
would look in vain for any of these ancient hostelries, among the Golden Crosses
and Bull and Mouths, which rear their stately fronts in the improved streets of
London. If he would light upon any of these old places, he must direct his steps
to the obscurer quarters of the town; and there in some secluded nooks he will
find several, still standing with a kind of gloomy sturdiness, amidst the modern
innovations which surround them.
    In the Borough especially, there still remain some half dozen old inns,
which have preserved their external features unchanged, and which have escaped
alike the rage for public improvement, and the encroachments of private
speculation. Great, rambling, queer, old places they are, with galleries, and
passages, and staircases, wide enough and antiquated enough to furnish materials
for a hundred ghost stories, supposing we should ever be reduced to the
lamentable necessity of inventing any, and that the world should exist long
enough to exhaust the innumerable veracious legends connected with old London
Bridge, and its adjacent neighbourhood on the Surrey side.
    It was in the yard of one of these inns - of no less celebrated a one than
the White Hart - that a man was busily employed in brushing the dirt off a pair
of boots, early on the morning succeeding the events narrated in the last
chapter. He was habited in a coarse-striped waistcoat, with black calico
sleeves, and blue glass buttons; drab breeches and leggings. A bright red
handkerchief was wound in a very loose and unstudied style round his neck, and
an old white hat was carelessly thrown on one side of his head. There were two
rows of boots before him, one cleaned and the other dirty, and at every addition
he made to the clean row, he paused from his work, and contemplated its results
with evident satisfaction.
    The yard presented none of that bustle and activity which are the usual
characteristics of a large coach inn. Three or four lumbering wagons, each with
a pile of goods beneath its ample canopy, about the height of the second-floor
window of an ordinary house, were stowed away beneath a lofty roof which
extended over one end of the yard; and another, which was probably to commence
its journey that morning, was drawn out into the open space. A double tier of
bedroom galleries, with old clumsy balustrades, ran round two sides of the
straggling area, and a double row of bells to correspond, sheltered from the
weather by a little sloping roof, hung over the door leading to the bar and
coffee-room. Two or three gigs and chaise-carts were wheeled up under different
little sheds and pent-houses; and the occasional heavy tread of a cart-horse, or
rattling of a chain at the further end of the yard, announced to anybody who
cared about the matter, that the stable lay in that direction. When we add that
a few boys in smock frocks were lying asleep on heavy packages, woolpacks, and
other articles that were scattered about on heaps of straw, we have described as
fully as need be the general appearance of the yard of the White Hart Inn, High
Street, Borough, on the particular morning in question.
    A loud ringing of one of the bells, was followed by the appearance of a
smart chambermaid in the upper sleeping gallery, who, after tapping at one of
the doors, and receiving a request from within, called over the balustrades -
    »Sam!«
    »Hallo,« replied the man with the white hat.
    »Number twenty-two wants his boots.«
    »Ask number twenty-two, wether he'll have 'em now, or wait till he gets
'em,« was the reply.
    »Come, don't be a fool, Sam,« said the girl, coaxingly, »the gentleman wants
his boots directly.«
    »Well, you are a nice young 'ooman for a musical party, you are,« said the
boot-cleaner. »Look at these here boots - eleven pair o' boots; and one shoe as
b'longs to number six, with the wooden leg. The eleven boots is to be called at
half-past eight and the shoe at nine. Who's number twenty-two, that's to put all
the others out? No, no; reg'lar rotation, as Jack Ketch said, wen he tied the
men up. Sorry to keep you a waiting', sir, but I'll attend to you directly.«
    Saying which, the man in the white hat set to work upon a top-boot with
increased assiduity.
    There was another loud ring; and the bustling old landlady of the White Hart
made her appearance in the opposite gallery.
    »Sam,« cried the landlady, »where's that lazy, idle - why, Sam - oh, there
you are; why don't you answer?«
    »Wouldn't be gen-teel to answer, 'till you'd done talking,« replied Sam,
gruffly.
    »Here, clean them shoes for number seventeen directly, and take 'em to
private sitting-room, number five, first floor.«
    The landlady flung a pair of lady's shoes into the yard, and bustled away.
    »Number 5,« said Sam, as he picked up the shoes, and taking a piece of chalk
from his pocket, made a memorandum of their destination on the soles - »Lady's
shoes and private sittin' room! I suppose she didn't come in the waggin.«
    »She came in early this morning,« cried the girl, who was still leaning over
the railing of the gallery, »with a gentleman in a hackney-coach, and it's him
as wants his boots, and you'd better do 'em, that's all about it.«
    »Vy didn't you say so before?« said Sam, with great indignation, singling
out the boots in question from the heap before him. »For all I know'd he vas one
o' the regular three-pennies. Private room! and a lady too! If he's anything of
a gen'lm'n, he's vorth a shillin' a day, let alone the arrands.«
    Stimulated by this inspiring reflection, Mr. Samuel brushed way with such
hearty good will, that in a few minutes the boots and shoes, with a polish which
would have struck envy to the soul of the amiable Mr. Warren (for they used Day
and Martin at the White Hart), had arrived at the door of number five.
    »Come in,« said a man's voice, in reply to Sam's rap at the door.
    Sam made his best bow, and stepped into the presence of a lady and gentleman
seated at breakfast. Having officiously deposited the gentleman's boots right
and left at his feet, and the lady's shoes right and left at hers, he backed
towards the door.
    »Boots,« said the gentleman.
    »Sir,« said Sam, closing the door, and keeping his hand on the knob of the
lock.
    »Do you know - what's a-name - Doctors' Commons?«
    »Yes, sir.«
    »Where is it?«
    »Paul's Church-yard, sir; low archway on the carriage-side, bookseller's at
one corner, hot-el on the other, and two porters in the middle as touts for
licences.«
    »Touts for licences!« said the gentleman.
    »Touts for licences,« replied Sam. »Two coves in vhite aprons - touches
their hats wen you walk in - Licence, sir, licence? Queer sort, them, and their
mas'rs too, sir - Old Baily Proctors - and no mistake.«
    »What do they do?« inquired the gentleman.
    »Do! You, sir! That a'nt the wost on it, neither. They puts things into old
gen'lm'n's heads as they never dreamed of. My father, sir, wos a coachman. A
widower he wos, and fat enough for anything - uncommon fat, to be sure. His
missus dies, and leaves him four hundred pound. Down he goes to the Commons, to
see the lawyer and draw the blunt - very smart - top boots on - nosegay in his
button-hole - broad-brimmed tile - green shawl - quite the gen'lm'n. Goes
through the archvay, thinking how he should inwest the money - up comes the
touter, touches his hat - Licence, sir, licence? - What's that? says my father.
- Licence, sir, says he. - What licence? says my father. - Marriage licence,
says the touter. - Dash my veskit, says my father, I never thought o' that. - I
think you wants one, sir, says the touter. My father pulls up, and thinks abit -
No, says he, damme, I'm too old, b'sides I'm a many sizes too large, says he. -
Not a bit on it, sir, says the touter. - Think not? says my father. - I'm sure
not, says he; we married a gen'lm'n twice your size, last Monday. - Did you,
though, said my father. - To be sure we did, says the touter, you're a babby to
him - this way, sir - this way! - and sure enough my father walks arter him,
like a tame monkey behind a horgan, into a little back office, vere a feller sat
among dirty papers and tin boxes, making believe he was busy. Pray take a seat,
vile I makes out the affidavit, sir, says the lawyer. - Thankee, sir, says my
father, and down he sat, and stared with all his eyes, and his mouth vide open,
at the names on the boxes. What's your name, sir, says the lawyer. - Tony
Weller, says my father. - Parish? says the lawyer. - Belle Savage, says my
father; for he stopped there wen he drove up, and he know'd nothing about
parishes, he didn't. - And what's the lady's name? says the lawyer. My father
was struck all of a heap. Blessed if I know, says he. - Not know! says the
lawyer. - No more nor you do, says my father, can't I put that in afterwards? -
Impossible! says the lawyer. - Wery well, says my father, after he'd thought a
moment, put down Mrs. Clarke. - What Clarke? says the lawyer, dipping his pen in
the ink. - Susan Clarke, Markis o' Granby, Dorking, says my father; she'll have
me, if I ask, I des-say - I never said nothing to her, but she'll have me, I
know. The licence was made out, and she did have him, and what's more she's got
him now; and I never had any of the four hundred pound, worse luck. Beg your
pardon, sir,« said Sam, when he had concluded, »but wen I gets on this here
grievance, I runs on like a new barrow with the wheel greased.« Having said
which, and having paused for an instant to see whether he was wanted for
anything more, Sam left the room.
    »Half-past nine - just the time - off at once;« said the gentleman, whom we
need hardly introduce as Mr. Jingle.
    »Time - for what?« said the spinster aunt, coquettishly.
    »Licence, dearest of angels - give notice at the church - call you mine,
to-morrow« - said Mr. Jingle, and he squeezed the spinster aunt's hand.
    »The licence!« said Rachael, blushing.
    »The licence,« repeated Mr. Jingle -
 
»In hurry, post-haste for a licence,
In hurry, ding dong I come back.«
 
»How you run on,« said Rachael.
    »Run on - nothing to the hours, days, weeks, months, years, when we're
united - run on - they'll fly on - bolt - mizzle - steam-engine - thousand-horse
power - nothing to it.«
    »Can't - can't we be married before to-morrow morning?« inquired Rachael.
    »Impossible - can't be - notice at the church - leave the licence to-day -
ceremony come off to-morrow.«
    »I am so terrified, lest my brother should discover us!« said Rachael.
    »Discover - nonsense - too much shaken by the breakdown - besides - extreme
caution - gave up the post-chaise - walked on - took a hackney coach - came to
the Borough - last place in the world that he'd look in - ha! ha! - capital
notion that - very.«
    »Don't be long,« said the spinster, affectionately, as Mr. Jingle stuck the
pinched-up hat on his head.
    »Long away from you? - Cruel charmer,« and Mr. Jingle skipped playfully up
to the spinster aunt, imprinted a chaste kiss upon her lips, and danced out of
the room.
    »Dear man!« said the spinster as the door closed after him.
    »Rum old girl,« said Mr. Jingle, as he walked down the passage.
    It is painful to reflect upon the perfidy of our species; and we will not,
therefore, pursue the thread of Mr. Jingle's meditations, as he wended his way
to Doctors' Commons. It will be sufficient for our purpose to relate, that
escaping the snares of the dragons in white aprons, who guard the entrance to
that enchanted region, he reached the Vicar General's office in safety, and
having procured a highly flattering address on parchment, from the Archbishop of
Canterbury, to his »trusty and well-beloved Alfred Jingle and Rachael Wardle,
greeting,« he carefully deposited the mystic document in his pocket, and
retraced his steps in triumph to the Borough.
    He was yet on his way to the White Hart, when two plump gentlemen and one
thin one entered the yard, and looked round in search of some authorised person
of whom they could make a few inquiries. Mr. Samuel Weller happened to be at
that moment engaged in burnishing a pair of painted tops, the personal property
of a farmer who was refreshing himself with a slight lunch of two or three
pounds of cold beef and a pot or two of porter, after the fatigues of the
Borough market; and to him the thin gentleman straightway advanced.
    »My friend,« said the thin gentleman.
    »You're one o' the adwice gratis order,« thought Sam, »or you wouldn't be so
werry fond o' me all at once.« But he only said - »Well, sir.«
    »My friend,« said the thin gentleman, with a conciliatory hem - »Have you
got many people stopping here, now? Pretty busy. Eh?«
    Sam stole a look at the inquirer. He was a little high-dried man, with a
dark squeezed-up face, and small restless black eyes, that kept winking and
twinkling on each side of his little inquisitive nose, as if they were playing a
perpetual game of peep-bo with that feature. He was dressed all in black, with
boots as shiny as his eyes, a low white neckcloth, and a clean shirt with a
frill to it. A gold watch-chain, and seals, depended from his fob. He carried
his black kid gloves in his hands, not on them; and as he spoke, thrust his
wrists beneath his coat-tails, with the air of a man who was in the habit of
propounding some regular posers.
    »Pretty busy, eh?« said the little man.
    »Oh, werry well, sir,« replied Sam, »we shan't be bankrupts, and we shan't
make our fort'ns. We eats our biled mutton without capers, and don't care for
horse-radish wen ve can get beef.«
    »Ah,« said the little man, »you're a wag, a'nt you?«
    »My eldest brother was troubled with that complaint,« said Sam; »it may be
catching - I used to sleep with him.«
    »This is a curious old house of yours,« said the little man, looking round
him.
    »If you'd sent word you was a coming, we'd ha' had it repaired;« replied the
imperturbable Sam.
    The little man seemed rather baffled by these several repulses, and a short
consultation took place between him and the two plump gentlemen. At its
conclusion, the little man took a pinch of snuff from an oblong silver box, and
was apparently on the point of renewing the conversation, when one of the plump
gentlemen, who in additon to a benevolent countenance, possessed a pair of
spectacles, and a pair of black gaiters, interfered -
    »The fact of the matter is,« said the benevolent gentleman, »that my friend
here (pointing to the other plump gentleman) will give you half a guinea, if
you'll answer one or two -«
    »Now, my dear sir - my dear sir,« said the little man, »pray, allow me - my
dear sir, the very first principle to be observed in these cases, is this: if
you place a matter in the hands of a professional man, you must in no way
interfere in the progress of the business; you must repose implicit confidence
in him. Really, Mr. (he turned to the other plump gentleman, and said) - I
forget your friend's name.«
    »Pickwick,« said Mr. Wardle, for it was no other than that jolly personage.
    »Ah, Pickwick - really Mr. Pickwick, my dear sir, excuse me - I shall be
happy to receive any private suggestions of yours, as amicus curiæ, but you must
see the impropriety of your interfering with my conduct in this case, with such
an ad captandum argument as the offer of half a guinea. Really, my dear sir,
really;« and the little man took an argumentative pinch of snuff, and looked
very profound.
    »My only wish, sir,« said Mr. Pickwick, »was to bring this very unpleasant
matter to as speedy a close as possible.«
    »Quite right - quite right,« said the little man.
    »With which view,« continued Mr. Pickwick, »I made use of the argument which
my experience of men has taught me is the most likely to succeed in any case.«
    »Ay, ay,« said the little man, »very good, very good, indeed; but you should
have suggested it to me. My dear sir, I'm quite certain you cannot be ignorant
of the extent of confidence which must be placed in professional men. If any
authority can be necessary on such a point, my dear sir, let me refer you to the
well-known case in Barnwell and -«
    »Never mind George Barnwell,« interrupted Sam, who had remained a wondering
listener during this short colloquy; »every body knows vhat sort of a case his
was, tho' it's always been my opinion, mind you, that the young 'ooman deserved
scragging a precious sight more than he did. Hows'ever, that's neither here nor
there. You want me to except of half a guinea. Werry well, I'm agreeable: I
can't say no fairer than that, can I, sir? (Mr. Pickwick smiled.) Then the next
question is, what the devil do you want with me, as the man said wen he see the
ghost?«
    »We want to know -« said Mr. Wardle.
    »Now, my dear sir - my dear sir,« interposed the busy little man.
    Mr. Wardle shrugged his shoulders, and was silent.
    »We want to know,« said the little man, solemnly; »and we ask the question
of you, in order that we may not awaken apprehensions inside - we want to know
who you've got in this house, at present?«
    »Who there is in the house!« said Sam, in whose mind the inmates were always
represented by that particular article of their costume, which came under his
immediate superintendence. »There's a wooden leg in number six; there's a pair
of Hessians in thirteen; there's two pair of halves in the commercial; there's
these here painted tops in the snuggery inside the bar; and five more tops in
the coffee-room.«
    »Nothing more?« said the little man.
    »Stop a bit,« replied Sam, suddenly recollecting himself. »Yes; there's a
pair of Wellingtons a good deal worn, and a pair o' lady's shoes, in number
five.«
    »What sort of shoes?« hastily inquired Wardle, who, together with Mr.
Pickwick, had been lost in bewilderment at the singular catalogue of visitors.
    »Country make,« replied Sam.
    »Any maker's name?«
    »Brown.«
    »Where of?«
    »Muggleton.«
    »It is them,« exclaimed Wardle. »By Heavens, we've found them.«
    »Hush!« said Sam. »The Wellingtons has gone to Doctors' Commons.«
    »No,« said the little man.
    »Yes, for a licence.«
    »We're in time,« exclaimed Wardle. »Show us the room; not a moment is to be
lost.«
    »Pray, my dear sir - pray,« said the little man; »caution, caution.« He drew
from his pocket a red silk purse, and looked very hard at Sam as he drew out a
sovereign.
    Sam grinned expressively.
    »Show us into the room at once, without announcing us,« said the little man,
»and it's yours.«
    Sam threw the painted tops into a corner, and led the way through a dark
passage, and up a wide staircase. He paused at the end of a second passage, and
held out his hand.
    »Here it is,« whispered the attorney, as he deposited the money in the hand
of their guide.
    The man stepped forward for a few paces, followed by the two friends and
their legal adviser. He stopped at a door.
    »Is this the room?« murmured the little gentleman.
    Sam nodded assent.
    Old Wardle opened the door; and the whole three walked into the room just as
Mr. Jingle, who had that moment returned, had produced the licence to the
spinster aunt.
    The spinster uttered a loud shriek, and, throwing herself in a chair,
covered her face with her hands. Mr. Jingle crumpled up the licence, and thrust
it into his coat-pocket. The unwelcome visitors advanced into the middle of the
room.
    »You - you are a nice rascal, arn't you?« exclaimed Wardle, breathless with
passion.
    »My dear sir, my dear sir,« said the little man, laying his hat on the
table. »Pray, consider - pray. Defamation of character: action for damages. Calm
yourself, my dear sir, pray -«
    »How dare you drag my sister from my house?« said the old man.
    »Ay - ay - very good,« said the little gentleman, »you may ask that. How
dare you, sir? - eh, sir?«
    »Who the devil are you?« inquired Mr. Jingle, in so fierce a tone, that the
little gentleman involuntarily fell back a step or two.
    »Who is he, you scoundrel,« interposed Wardle. »He's my lawyer, Mr. Perker,
of Gray's Inn. Perker, I'll have this fellow prosecuted - indicted - I'll - I'll
- I'll ruin him. And you,« continued Mr. Wardle, turning abruptly round to his
sister, »you, Rachael, at a time of life when you ought to know better, what do
you mean by running away with a vagabond, disgracing your family, and making
yourself miserable. Get on your bonnet, and come back. Call a hackney-coach
there, directly, and bring this lady's bill, d'ye hear - d'ye hear?«
    »Cert'nly, sir,« replied Sam, who had answered Wardle's violent ringing of
the bell with a degree of celerity which must have appeared marvellous to
anybody who didn't know that his eye had been applied to the outside of the
keyhole during the whole interview.
    »Get on your bonnet,« repeated Wardle.
    »Do nothing of the kind,« said Jingle. »Leave the room, sir - no business
here - lady's free to act as she pleases - more than one-and-twenty.«
    »More than one-and-twenty!« ejaculated Wardle, contemptuously. »More than
one-and-forty!«
    »I a'nt,« said the spinster aunt, her indignation getting the better of her
determination to faint.
    »You are,« replied Wardle, »you're fifty if you're an hour.«
    Here the spinster aunt uttered a loud shriek, and became senseless.
    »A glass of water,« said the humane Mr. Pickwick, summoning the landlady.
    »A glass of water!« said the passionate Wardle. »Bring a bucket, and throw
it all over her; it'll do her good, and she richly deserves it.«
    »Ugh, you brute!« ejaculated the kind-hearted landlady. »Poor dear.« And
with sundry ejaculations, of »Come now, there's a dear - drink a little of this
- it'll do you good - don't give way so - there's a love,« etc., etc., the
landlady, assisted by a chamber-maid, proceeded to vinegar the forehead, beat
the hands, titillate the nose, and unlace the stays of the spinster aunt, and to
administer such other restoratives as are usually applied by compassionate
females to ladies who are endeavouring to ferment themselves into hysterics.
    »Coach is ready, sir,« said Sam, appearing at the door.
    »Come along,« cried Wardle. »I'll carry her down stairs.«
    At this proposition, the hysterics came on with redoubled violence.
    The landlady was about to enter a very violent protest against this
proceeding, and had already given vent to an indignant inquiry whether Mr.
Wardle considered himself a lord of the creation, when Mr. Jingle interposed -
    »Boots,« said he, »get me an officer.«
    »Stay, stay,« said little Mr. Perker. »Consider, sir, consider.«
    »I'll not consider,« replied Jingle. »She's her own mistress - see who dares
to take her away - unless she wishes it.«
    »I won't be taken away,« murmured the spinster aunt. »I don't wish it.«
(Here there was a frightful relapse.)
    »My dear sir,« said the little man, in a low tone, taking Mr. Wardle and Mr.
Pickwick apart: »My dear sir, we're in a very awkward situation. It's a
distressing case - very; I never knew one more so; but really, my dear sir,
really we have no power to control this lady's actions. I warned you before we
came, my dear sir, that there was nothing to look to but a compromise.«
    There was a short pause.
    »What kind of compromise would you recommend?« inquired Mr. Pickwick.
    »Why, my dear sir, our friend's in an unpleasant position - very much so. We
must be content to suffer some pecuniary loss.«
    »I'll suffer any, rather than submit to this disgrace, and let her, fool as
she is, be made miserable for life,« said Wardle.
    »I rather think it can be done,« said the bustling little man. »Mr. Jingle,
will you step with us into the next room for a moment?«
    Mr. Jingle assented, and the quartette walked into an empty apartment.
    »Now, sir,« said the little man, as he carefully closed the door, »is there
no way of accommodating this matter - step this way, sir, for a moment - into
this window, sir, where we can be alone - there, sir, there, pray sit down, sir.
Now, my dear sir, between you and I, we know very well, my dear sir, that you
have run off with this lady for the sake of her money. Don't frown, sir, don't
frown; I say, between you and I, we know it. We are both men of the world, and
we know very well that our friends here, are not - eh?«
    Mr. Jingle's face gradually relaxed; and something distantly resembling a
wink quivered for an instant in his left eye.
    »Very good, very good,« said the little man, observing the impression he had
made. »Now the fact is, that beyond a few hundreds, the lady has little or
nothing till the death of her mother - fine old lady, my dear sir.«
    »Old,« said Mr. Jingle, briefly but emphatically.
    »Why, yes,« said the attorney with a slight cough. »You are right, my dear
sir, she is rather old. She comes of an old family though, my dear sir; old in
every sense of the word. The founder of that family came into Kent, when Julius
Cæsar invaded Britain; - only one member of it, since, who hasn't lived to
eighty-five, and he was beheaded by one of the Henrys. The old lady is not
seventy-three now, my dear sir.« The little man paused, and took a pinch of
snuff.
    »Well,« cried Mr. Jingle.
    »Well, my dear sir - you don't take snuff! - ah! so much the better -
expensive habit - well, my dear sir, you're a fine young man, man of the world -
able to push your fortune, if you had capital, eh?«
    »Well,« said Mr. Jingle again.
    »Do you comprehend me?«
    »Not quite.«
    »Don't you think - now, my dear sir, I put it to you, don't you think - that
fifty pounds and liberty, would be better than Miss Wardle and expectation?«
    »Won't do - not half enough!« said Mr. Jingle rising.
    »Nay, nay, my dear sir,« remonstrated the little attorney, seizing him by
the button. »Good round sum - a man like you could treble it in no time - great
deal to be done with fifty pounds, my dear sir.«
    »More to be done with a hundred and fifty,« replied Mr. Jingle, coolly.
    »Well, my dear sir, we won't waste time in splitting straws,« resumed the
little man, »say - say - seventy.«
    »Won't do,« said Mr. Jingle.
    »Don't go away, my dear sir - pray don't hurry,« said the little man.
»Eighty; come: I'll write you a cheque at once.«
    »Won't do,« said Mr. Jingle.
    »Well, my dear sir, well,« said the little man, still detaining him; »just
tell me what will do.«
    »Expensive affair,« said Mr. Jingle. »Money out of pocket - posting, nine
pounds; licence, three - that's twelve - compensation, a hundred - hundred and
twelve - Breach of honour - and loss of the lady -«
    »Yes, my dear sir, yes,« said the little man, with a knowing look, »never
mind the last two items. That's a hundred and twelve - say a hundred - come.«
    »And twenty,« said Mr. Jingle.
    »Come, come, I'll write you a cheque,« said the little man; and down he sat
at the table for that purpose.
    »I'll make it payable the day after to-morrow,« said the little man, with a
look towards Mr. Wardle; »and we can get the lady away, meanwhile.« Mr. Wardle
sullenly nodded assent.
    »A hundred,« said the little man.
    »And twenty,« said Mr. Jingle.
    »My dear sir,« remonstrated the little man.
    »Give it him,« interposed Mr. Wardle, »and let him go.«
    The cheque was written by the little gentleman, and pocketed by Mr. Jingle.
    »Now, leave this house instantly!« said Wardle, starting up.
    »My dear sir,« urged the little man.
    »And mind,« said Mr. Wardle, »that nothing should have induced me to make
this compromise - not even a regard for my family - if I had not known that the
moment you got any money in that pocket of yours, you'd go to the devil faster,
if possible, than you would without it -«
    »My dear sir,« urged the little man again.
    »Be quiet, Perker,« resumed Wardle. »Leave the room, sir.«
    »Off directly,« said the unabashed Jingle. »Bye bye, Pickwick.«
    If any dispassionate spectator could have beheld the countenance of the
illustrious man, whose name forms the leading feature of the title of this work,
during the latter part of this conversation, he would have been almost induced
to wonder that the indignant fire which flashed from his eyes, did not melt the
glasses of his spectacles - so majestic was his wrath. His nostrils dilated, and
his fists clenched involuntarily, as he heard himself addressed by the villain.
But he restrained himself again - he did not pulverise him.
    »Here,« continued the hardened traitor, tossing the licence at Mr.
Pickwick's feet; »get the name altered - take home the lady - do for Tuppy.«
    Mr. Pickwick was a philosopher, but philosophers are only men in armour,
after all. The shaft had reached him, penetrated through his philosophical
harness, to his very heart. In the frenzy of his rage he hurled the inkstand
madly forward, and followed it up himself. But Mr. Jingle had disappeared, and
he found himself caught in the arms of Sam.
    »Hallo,« said that eccentric functionary, »furniter's cheap where you come
from, sir. Self-acting ink, that 'ere; it's wrote your mark upon the wall, old
gen'lm'n. Hold still, sir; wot's the use o' runnin' arter a man as has made his
lucky, and got to t' other end of the Borough by this time.«
    Mr. Pickwick's mind, like those of all truly great men, was open to
conviction. He was a quick and powerful reasoner; and a moment's reflection
sufficed to remind him of the impotency of his rage. It subsided as quickly as
it had been roused. He panted for breath, and looked benignantly round upon his
friends.
    Shall we tell the lamentations that ensued, when Miss Wardle found herself
deserted by the faithless Jingle? Shall we extract Mr. Pickwick's masterly
description of that heart-rending scene? His note-book, blotted with the tears
of sympathising humanity, lies open before us; one word, and it is in the
printer's hands. But, no! we will be resolute! We will not wring the public
bosom, with the delineation of such suffering!
    Slowly and sadly did the two friends and the deserted lady, return next day
in the Muggleton heavy coach. Dimly and darkly had the sombre shadows of a
summer's night fallen upon all around, when they again reached Dingley Dell, and
stood within the entrance to Manor Farm.
 

                                   Chapter XI

     Involving Another Journey, and an Antiquarian Discovery. Recording Mr.
    Pickwick's Determination To Be Present at an Election; and Containing a
                       Manuscript of the Old Clergyman's.

A night of quiet and repose in the profound silence of Dingley Dell, and an
hour's breathing of its fresh and fragrant air on the ensuing morning,
completely recovered Mr. Pickwick from the effects of his late fatigue of body
and anxiety of mind. That illustrious man had been separated from his friends
and followers, for two whole days; and it was with a degree of pleasure and
delight, which no common imagination can adequately conceive, that he stepped
forward to greet Mr. Winkle and Mr. Snodgrass, as he encountered those gentlemen
on his return from his early walk. The pleasure was mutual; for who could ever
gaze on Mr. Pickwick's beaming face without experiencing the sensation? But
still a cloud seemed to hang over his companions which that great man could not
but be sensible of, and was wholly at a loss to account for. There was a
mysterious air about them both, as unusual as it was alarming.
    »And how,« said Mr. Pickwick, when he had grasped his followers by the hand,
and exchanged warm salutations of welcome; »how is Tupman?«
    Mr. Winkle, to whom the question was more peculiarly addressed, made no
reply. He turned away his head, and appeared absorbed in melancholy reflections.
    »Snodgrass,« said Mr. Pickwick, earnestly, »How is our friend - he is not
ill?«
    »No,« replied Mr. Snodgrass; and a tear trembled on his sentimental eye-lid,
like a rain-drop on a window-frame. »No; he is not ill.«
    Mr. Pickwick stopped, and gazed on each of his friends in turn.
    »Winkle - Snodgrass,« said Mr. Pickwick: »what does this mean? Where is our
friend? What has happened? Speak - I conjure, I entreat - nay, I command you,
speak.«
    There was a solemnity - a dignity - in Mr. Pickwick's manner, not to be
withstood.
    »He is gone,« said Mr. Snodgrass.
    »Gone!« exclaimed Mr. Pickwick. »Gone!«
    »Gone,« repeated Mr. Snodgrass.
    »Where!« ejaculated Mr. Pickwick.
    »We can only guess, from that communication,« replied Mr. Snodgrass, taking
a letter from his pocket, and placing it in his friend's hand. »Yesterday
morning, when a letter was received from Mr. Wardle, stating that you would be
home with his sister at night, the melancholy which had hung over our friend
during the whole of the previous day, was observed to increase. He shortly
afterwards disappeared: he was missing during the whole day, and in the evening
this letter was brought by the hostler from the Crown, at Muggleton. It had been
left in his charge in the morning, with a strict injunction that it should not
be delivered until night.«
    Mr. Pickwick opened the epistle. It was in his friend's handwriting, and
these were its contents: -
 
        »My dear Pickwick,
            You, my dear friend, are placed far beyond the reach of many mortal
        frailties and weaknesses which ordinary people cannot overcome. You do
        not know what it is, at one blow, to be deserted by a lovely and
        fascinating creature, and to fall a victim to the artifices of a
        villain, who hid the grin of cunning, beneath the mask of friendship. I
        hope you never may.
            Any letter, addressed to me at the Leather Bottle, Cobham, Kent,
        will be forwarded - supposing I still exist. I hasten from the sight of
        that world, which has become odious to me. Should I hasten from it
        altogether, pity - forgive me. Life, my dear Pickwick, has become
        insupportable to me. The spirit which burns within us, is a porter's
        knot, on which to rest the heavy load of worldly cares and troubles; and
        when that spirit fails us, the burden is too heavy to be borne. We sink
        beneath it. You may tell Rachael - Ah, that name! -
                                                                  TRACY TUPMAN.«
 
»We must leave this place, directly,« said Mr. Pickwick, as he refolded the
note. »It would not have been decent for us to remain here, under any
circumstances, after what has happened; and now we are bound to follow in search
of our friend.« And so saying, he led the way to the house.
    His intention was rapidly communicated. The entreaties to remain were
pressing, but Mr. Pickwick was inflexible. Business, he said, required his
immediate attendance.
    The old clergyman was present.
    »You are not really going?« said he, taking Mr. Pickwick aside.
    Mr. Pickwick reiterated his former determination.
    »Then here,« said the old gentleman, »is a little manuscript, which I had
hoped to have the pleasure of reading to you myself. I found it on the death of
a friend of mine - a medical man, engaged in our County Lunatic Asylum - among a
variety of papers, which I had the option of destroying or preserving, as I
thought proper. I can hardly believe that the manuscript is genuine, though it
certainly is not in my friend's hand. However, whether it be the genuine
production of a maniac, or founded upon the ravings of some unhappy being (which
I think more probable), read it, and judge for yourself.«
    Mr. Pickwick received the manuscript, and parted from the benevolent old
gentleman with many expressions of good-will and esteem.
    It was a more difficult task to take leave of the inmates of Manor Farm,
from whom they had received so much hospitality and kindness. Mr. Pickwick
kissed the young ladies - we were going to say, as if they were his own
daughters, only as he might possibly have infused a little more warmth into the
salutation, the comparison would not be quite appropriate - hugged the old lady
with filial cordiality: and patted the rosy cheeks of the female servants in a
most patriarchal manner, as he slipped into the hands of each, some more
substantial expression of his approval. The exchange of cordialities with their
fine old host and Mr. Trundle, were even more hearty and prolonged; and it was
not until Mr. Snodgrass had been several times called for, and at last emerged
from a dark passage followed soon after by Emily (whose bright eyes looked
unusually dim), that the three friends were enabled to tear themselves from
their friendly entertainers. Many a backward look they gave at the Farm, as they
walked slowly away: and many a kiss did Mr. Snodgrass waft in the air, in
acknowledgement of something very like a lady's handkerchief, which was waved
from one of the upper windows, until a turn of the lane hid the old house from
their sight.
    At Muggleton they procured a conveyance to Rochester. By the time they
reached the last-named place, the violence of their grief had sufficiently
abated to admit of their making a very excellent early dinner; and having
procured the necessary information relative to the road, the three friends set
forward again in the afternoon to walk to Cobham.
    A delightful walk it was: for it was a pleasant afternoon in June, and their
way lay through a deep and shady wood, cooled by the light wind which gently
rustled the thick foliage, and enlivened by the songs of the birds that perched
upon the boughs. The ivy and the moss crept in thick clusters over the old
trees, and the soft green turf overspread the ground like a silken mat. They
emerged upon an open park, with an ancient hall, displaying the quaint and
picturesque architecture of Elizabeth's time. Long vistas of stately oaks and
elm trees appeared on every side: large herds of deer were cropping the fresh
grass; and occasionally a startled hare scoured along the ground, with the speed
of the shadows thrown by the light clouds which swept across a sunny landscape
like a passing breath of summer.
    »If this,« said Mr. Pickwick, looking about him, »if this were the place to
which all who are troubled with our friend's complaint came, I fancy their old
attachment to this world would very soon return.«
    »I think so too,« said Mr. Winkle.
    »And really,« added Mr. Pickwick, after half an hour's walking had brought
them to the village, »really, for a misanthrope's choice, this is one of the
prettiest and most desirable places of residence I ever met with.«
    In this opinion also, both Mr. Winkle and Mr. Snodgrass expressed their
concurrence; and having been directed to the Leathern Bottle, a clean and
commodious village ale-house, the three travellers entered, and at once inquired
for a gentleman of the name of Tupman.
    »Show the gentlemen into the parlour, Tom,« said the landlady.
    A stout country lad opened a door at the end of the passage, and the three
friends entered a long, low-roofed room, furnished with a large number of
high-backed leather-cushioned chairs of fantastic shapes, and embellished with a
great variety of old portraits and roughly-coloured prints of some antiquity. At
the upper end of the room was a table, with a white cloth upon it, well covered
with a roast fowl, bacon, ale, and et ceteras; and at the table sat Mr. Tupman,
looking as unlike a man who had taken his leave of the world, as possible.
    On the entrance of his friends, that gentleman laid down his knife and fork,
and with a mournful air advanced to meet them.
    »I did not expect to see you here,« he said, as he grasped Mr. Pickwick's
hand. »It's very kind.«
    »Ah!« said Mr. Pickwick, sitting down, and wiping from his forehead the
perspiration which the walk had engendered. »Finish your dinner, and walk out
with me. I wish to speak to you alone.«
    Mr. Tupman did as he was desired; and Mr. Pickwick having refreshed himself
with a copious draught of ale, waited his friend's leisure. The dinner was
quickly despatched, and they walked out together.
    For half an hour, their forms might have been seen pacing the churchyard to
and fro, while Mr. Pickwick was engaged in combatting his companion's
resolution. Any repetition of his arguments would be useless; for what language
could convey to them that energy and force which their great originator's manner
communicated? Whether Mr. Tupman was already tired of retirement, or whether he
was wholly unable to resist the eloquent appeal which was made to him, matters
not, he did not resist it at last.
    »It mattered little to him,« he said, »where he dragged out the miserable
remainder of his days: and since his friend laid so much stress upon his humble
companionship, he was willing to share his adventures.«
    Mr. Pickwick smiled; they shook hands; and walked back to re-join their
companions.
    It was at this moment that Mr. Pickwick made that immortal discovery, which
has been the pride and boast of his friends, and the envy of every antiquarian
in this or any other country. They had passed the door of their inn, and walked
a little way down the village, before they recollected the precise spot in which
it stood. As they turned back, Mr. Pickwick's eye fell upon a small broken
stone, partially buried in the ground, in front of a cottage door. He paused.
    »This is very strange,« said Mr. Pickwick.
    »What is strange?« inquired Mr. Tupman, staring eagerly at every object near
him, but the right one. »God bless me, what's the matter?«
    This last was an ejaculation of irrepressible astonishment, occasioned by
seeing Mr. Pickwick, in his enthusiasm for discovery, fall on his knees before
the little stone, and commence wiping the dust off it with his
pocket-handkerchief.
    »There is an inscription here,« said Mr. Pickwick.
    »Is it possible?« said Mr. Tupman.
    »I can discern,« continued Mr. Pickwick, rubbing away with all his might,
and gazing intently through his spectacles: »I can discern a cross, and a B, and
then a T. This is important,« continued Mr. Pickwick, starting up. »This is some
very old inscription, existing perhaps long before the ancient alms-houses in
this place. It must not be lost.«
    He tapped at the cottage door. A labouring man opened it.
    »Do you know how this stone came here, my friend?« inquired the benevolent
Mr. Pickwick.
    »No, I doan't sir,« replied the man civilly. »It was here long afore I war
born, or any on us.«
    Mr. Pickwick glanced triumphantly at his companion.
    »You - you - are not particularly attached to it, I dare say,« said Mr.
Pickwick, trembling with anxiety. »You wouldn't mind selling it, now?«
    »Ah! but who'd buy it?« inquired the man, with an expression of face which
he probably meant to be very cunning.
    »I'll give you ten shillings for it, at once,« said Mr. Pickwick, »if you
would take it up for me.«
    The astonishment of the village may be easily imagined, when (the little
stone having been raised with one wrench of a spade), Mr. Pickwick, by dint of
great personal exertion, bore it with his own hands to the inn, and after having
carefully washed it, deposited it on the table.
    The exultation and joy of the Pickwickians knew no bounds, when their
patience and assiduity, their washing and scraping, were crowned with success.
The stone was uneven and broken, and the letters were straggling and irregular,
but the following fragment of an inscription was clearly to be deciphered:
 
                                        
                                   B I L S T
                                      U M
                                    P S H I
                                     S. M.
                                     A R K
 
Mr. Pickwick's eyes sparkled with delight, as he sat and gloated over the
treasure he had discovered. He had attained one of the greatest objects of his
ambition. In a county known to abound in remains of the early ages; in a village
in which there still existed some memorials of the olden time, he - he, the
Chairman of the Pickwick Club - had discovered a strange and curious inscription
of unquestionable antiquity, which had wholly escaped the observation of the
many learned men who had preceded him. He could hardly trust the evidence of his
senses.
    »This - this,« said he, »determines me. We return to town, to-morrow.«
    »To-morrow!« exclaimed his admiring followers.
    »To-morrow,« said Mr. Pickwick. »This treasure must be at once deposited
where it can be thoroughly investigated, and properly understood. I have another
reason for this step. In a few days, an election is to take place for the
borough of Eatanswill, at which Mr. Perker, a gentleman whom I lately met, is
the agent of one of the candidates. We will behold, and minutely examine, a
scene so interesting to every Englishman.«
    »We will,« was the animated cry of three voices.
    Mr. Pickwick looked round him. The attachment and fervour of his followers,
lighted up a glow of enthusiasm within him. He was their leader, and he felt it.
    »Let us celebrate this happy meeting with a convivial glass,« said he. This
proposition, like the other, was received with unanimous applause. Having
himself deposited the important stone in a small deal box, purchased from the
landlady for the purpose, he placed himself in an arm-chair at the head of the
table; and the evening was devoted to festivity and conversation.
    It was past eleven o'clock - a late hour for the little village of Cobham -
when Mr. Pickwick retired to the bed-room which had been prepared for his
reception. He threw open the lattice-window, and setting his light upon the
table, fell into a train of meditation on the hurried events of the two
preceding days.
    The hour and the place were both favourable to contemplation; Mr. Pickwick
was roused by the church-clock striking twelve. The first stroke of the hour
sounded solemnly in his ear, but when the bell ceased the stillness seemed
insupportable; - he almost felt as if he had lost a companion. He was nervous
and excited; and hastily undressing himself and placing his light in the
chimney, got into bed.
    Every one has experienced that disagreeable state of mind, in which a
sensation of bodily weariness in vain contends against an inability to sleep. It
was Mr. Pickwick's condition at this moment: he tossed first on one side and
then on the other; and perseveringly closed his eyes as if to coax himself to
slumber. It was of no use. Whether it was the unwonted exertion he had
undergone, or the heat, or the brandy and water, or the strange bed - whatever
it was, his thoughts kept reverting very uncomfortably to the grim pictures down
stairs, and the old stories to which they had given rise in the course of the
evening. After half an hour's tumbling about, he came to the unsatisfactory
conclusion, that it was of no use trying to sleep; so he got up, and partially
dressed himself. Anything, he thought, was better than lying there fancying all
kinds of horrors. He looked out of the window - it was very dark. He walked
about the room - it was very lonely.
    He had taken a few turns from the door to the window, and from the window to
the door, when the clergyman's manuscript for the first time entered his head.
It was a good thought. If it failed to interest him, it might send him to sleep.
He took it from his coat-pocket, and drawing a small table towards his bedside,
trimmed the light, put on his spectacles, and composed himself to read. It was a
strange hand-writing, and the paper was much soiled and blotted. The title gave
him a sudden start, too; and he could not avoid casting a wistful glance round
the room. Reflecting on the absurdity of giving way to such feelings, however,
he trimmed the light again, and read as follows:
 



                             A Madman's Manuscript.

 
»Yes! - a madman's! How that word would have struck to my heart, many years ago!
How it would have roused the terror that used to come upon me sometimes; sending
the blood hissing and tingling through my veins, till the cold dew of fear stood
in large drops upon my skin, and my knees knocked together with fright! I like
it now though. It's a fine name. Shew me the monarch whose angry frown was ever
feared like the glare of a madman's eye - whose cord and axe were ever half so
sure as a madman's grip. Ho! ho! It's a grand thing to be mad! to be peeped at
like a wild lion through the iron bars - to gnash one's teeth and howl, through
the long still night, to the merry ring of a heavy chain - and to roll and twine
among the straw, transported with such brave music. Hurrah for the madhouse! Oh,
it's a rare place!
    I remember days when I was afraid of being mad; when I used to start from my
sleep, and fall upon my knees, and pray to be spared from the curse of my race;
when I rushed from the sight of merriment or happiness, to hide myself in some
lonely place, and spend the weary hours in watching the progress of the fever
that was to consume my brain. I knew that madness was mixed up with my very
blood, and the marrow of my bones; that one generation had passed away without
the pestilence appearing among them, and that I was the first in whom it would
revive. I knew it must be so: that so it always had been, and so it ever would
be: and when I cowered in some obscure corner of a crowded room, and saw men
whisper, and point, and turn their eyes towards me, I knew they were telling
each other of the doomed madman; and I slunk away again to mope in solitude.
    I did this for years; long, long years they were. The nights here are long
sometimes - very long; but they are nothing to the restless nights, and dreadful
dreams I had at that time. It makes me cold to remember them. Large dusky forms
with sly and jeering faces crouched in the corners of the room, and bent over my
bed at night, tempting me to madness. They told me in low whispers, that the
floor of the old house in which my father's father died, was stained with his
own blood, shed by his own hand in raging madness. I drove my fingers into my
ears, but they screamed into my head till the room rang with it, that in one
generation before him the madness slumbered, but that his grandfather had lived
for years with his hands fettered to the ground, to prevent his tearing himself
to pieces. I knew they told the truth - I knew it well. I had found it out years
before, though they had tried to keep it from me. Ha! ha! I was too cunning for
them, madman as they thought me.
    At last it came upon me, and I wondered how I could ever have feared it. I
could go into the world now, and laugh and shout with the best among them. I
knew I was mad, but they did not even suspect it. How I used to hug myself with
delight, when I thought of the fine trick I was playing them after their old
pointing and leering, when I was not mad, but only dreading that I might one day
become so! And how I used to laugh for joy, when I was alone, and thought how
well I kept my secret, and how quickly my kind friends would have fallen from
me, if they had known the truth. I could have screamed with ecstasy when I dined
alone with some fine roaring fellow, to think how pale he would have turned, and
how fast he would have run, if he had known that the dear friend who sat close
to him, sharpening a bright glittering knife, was a madman with all the power,
and half the will, to plunge it in his heart. Oh, it was a merry life!
    Riches became mine, wealth poured in upon me, and I rioted in pleasures
enhanced a thousandfold to me by the consciousness of my well-kept secret. I
inherited an estate. The law - the eagle-eyed law itself - had been deceived,
and had handed over disputed thousands to a madman's hands. Where was the wit of
the sharp-sighted men of sound mind? Where the dexterity of the lawyers, eager
to discover a flaw? The madman's cunning had over-reached them all.
    I had money. How I was courted! I spent it profusely. How I was praised! How
those three proud overbearing brothers humbled themselves before me! The old
white-headed father, too - such deference - such respect - such devoted
friendship - he worshipped me! The old man had a daughter, and the young men a
sister; and all the five were poor. I was rich; and when I married the girl, I
saw a smile of triumph play upon the faces of her needy relatives, as they
thought of their well-planned scheme, and their fine prize. It was for me to
smile. To smile! To laugh outright, and tear my hair, and roll upon the ground
with shrieks of merriment. They little thought they had married her to a madman.
    Stay. If they had known it, would they have saved her? A sister's happiness
against her husband's gold. The lightest feather I blow into the air, against
the gay chain that ornaments my body!
    In one thing I was deceived with all my cunning. If I had not been mad - for
though we madmen are sharp-witted enough, we get bewildered sometimes - I should
have known that the girl would rather have been placed, stiff and cold in a dull
leaden coffin, than borne an envied bride to my rich, glittering house. I should
have known that her heart was with the dark-eyed boy whose name I once heard her
breathe in her troubled sleep; and that she had been sacrificed to me, to
relieve the poverty of the old white-headed man, and the haughty brothers.
    I don't remember forms or faces now, but I know the girl was beautiful. I
know she was; for in the bright moonlight nights, when I start up from my sleep,
and all is quiet about me, I see, standing still and motionless in one corner of
this cell, a slight and wasted figure with long black hair, which streaming down
her back, stirs with no earthly wind, and eyes that fix their gaze on me, and
never wink or close. Hush! the blood chills at my heart as I write it down -
that form is her's; the face is very pale, and the eyes are glassy bright; but I
know them well. That figure never moves; it never frowns and mouths as others
do, that fill this place sometimes; but it is much more dreadful to me, even
than the spirits that tempted me many years ago - it comes fresh from the grave;
and is so very death-like.
    For nearly a year I saw that face grow paler; for nearly a year I saw the
tears steal down the mournful cheeks, and never knew the cause. I found it out
at last though. They could not keep it from me long. She had never liked me; I
had never thought she did: she despised my wealth, and hated the splendour in
which she lived; - I had not expected that. She loved another. This I had never
thought of. Strange feelings came over me, and thoughts, forced upon me by some
secret power, whirled round and round my brain. I did not hate her, though I
hated the boy she still wept for. I pitied - yes, I pitied - the wretched life
to which her cold and selfish relations had doomed her. I knew that she could
not live long, but the thought that before her death she might give birth to
some ill-fated being, destined to hand down madness to its offspring, determined
me. I resolved to kill her.
    For many weeks I thought of poison, and then of drowning, and then of fire.
A fine sight the grand house in flames, and the madman's wife smouldering away
to cinders. Think of the jest of a large reward, too, and of some sane man
swinging in the wind for a deed he never did, and all through a madman's
cunning! I thought often of this, but I gave it up at last. Oh! the pleasure of
stropping the razor day after day, feeling the sharp edge, and thinking of the
gash one stroke of its thin bright edge would make!
    At last the old spirits who had been with me so often before whispered in my
ear that the time was come, and thrust the open razor into my hand. I grasped it
firmly, rose softly from the bed, and leaned over my sleeping wife. Her face was
buried in her hands. I withdrew them softly, and they fell listlessly on her
bosom. She had been weeping; for the traces of the tears were still wet upon her
cheek. Her face was calm and placid; and even as I looked upon it, a tranquil
smile lighted up her pale features. I laid my hand softly on her shoulder. She
started - it was only a passing dream. I leant forward again. She screamed, and
woke.
    One motion of my hand, and she would never again have uttered cry or sound.
But I was startled, and drew back. Her eyes were fixed on mine. I know not how
it was, but they cowed and frightened me; and I quailed beneath them. She rose
from the bed, still gazing fixedly and steadily on me. I trembled; the razor was
in my hand, but I could not move. She made towards the door. As she neared it,
she turned, and withdrew her eyes from my face. The spell was broken. I bounded
forward, and clutched her by the arm. Uttering shriek upon shriek, she sunk upon
the ground.
    Now I could have killed her without a struggle; but the house was alarmed. I
heard the tread of footsteps on the stairs. I replaced the razor in its usual
drawer, unfastened the door, and called loudly for assistance.
    They came, and raised her, and placed her on the bed. She lay bereft of
animation for hours; and when life, look, and speech returned, her senses had
deserted her, and she raved wildly and furiously.
    Doctors were called in - great men who rolled up to my door in easy
carriages, with fine horses and gaudy servants. They were at her bedside for
weeks. They had a great meeting, and consulted together in low and solemn voices
in another room. One, the cleverest and most celebrated among them, took me
aside, and bidding me prepare for the worst, told me - me, the madman! - that my
wife was mad. He stood close beside me at an open window, his eyes looking in my
face, and his hand laid upon my arm. With one effort, I could have hurled him
into the street beneath. It would have been rare sport to have done it; but my
secret was at stake, and I let him go. A few days after, they told me I must
place her under some restraint: I must provide a keeper for her. I! I went into
the open fields where none could hear me, and laughed till the air resounded
with my shouts!
    She died next day. The white-headed old man followed her to the grave, and
the proud brothers dropped a tear over the insensible corpse of her whose
sufferings they had regarded in her lifetime with muscles of iron. All this was
food for my secret mirth, and I laughed behind the white handkerchief which I
held up to my face, as we rode home, 'till the tears came into my eyes.
    But though I had carried my object and killed her, I was restless and
disturbed, and I felt that before long my secret must be known. I could not hide
the wild mirth and joy which boiled within me, and made me when I was alone, at
home, jump up and beat my hands together, and dance round and round, and roar
aloud. When I went out, and saw the busy crowds hurrying about the streets; or
to the theatre, and heard the sound of music, and beheld the people dancing, I
felt such glee, that I could have rushed among them, and torn them to pieces
limb from limb, and howled in transport. But I ground my teeth, and struck my
feet upon the floor, and drove my sharp nails into my hands. I kept it down; and
no one knew I was a madman yet.
    I remember - though it's one of the last things I can remember: for now I
mix up realities with my dreams, and having so much to do, and being always
hurried here, have no time to separate the two, from some strange confusion in
which they get involved - I remember how I let it out at last. Ha! ha! I think I
see their frightened looks now, and feel the ease with which I flung them from
me, and dashed my clenched fist into their white faces, and then flew like the
wind, and left them screaming and shouting far behind. The strength of a giant
comes upon me when I think of it. There - see how this iron bar bends beneath my
furious wrench. I could snap it like a twig, only there are long galleries here
with many doors - I don't think I could find my way along them; and even if I
could, I know there are iron gates below which they keep locked and barred. They
know what a clever madman I have been, and they are proud to have me here, to
show.
    Let me see; - yes, I had been out. It was late at night when I reached home,
and found the proudest of the three proud brothers waiting to see me - urgent
business he said: I recollect it well. I hated that man with all a madman's
hate. Many and many a time had my fingers longed to tear him. They told me he
was there. I ran swiftly up-stairs. He had a word to say to me. I dismissed the
servants. It was late, and we were alone together - for the first time.
    I kept my eyes carefully from him at first, for I knew what he little
thought - and I gloried in the knowledge - that the light of madness gleamed
from them like fire. We sat in silence for a few minutes. He spoke at last. My
recent dissipation, and strange remarks, made so soon after his sister's death,
were an insult to her memory. Coupling together many circumstances which had at
first escaped his observation, he thought I had not treated her well. He wished
to know whether he was right in inferring that I meant to cast a reproach upon
her memory, and a disrespect upon her family. It was due to the uniform he wore,
to demand this explanation.
    This man had a commission in the army - a commission, purchased with my
money, and his sister's misery! This was the man who had been foremost in the
plot to ensnare me, and grasp my wealth. This was the man who had been the main
instrument in forcing his sister to wed me; well knowing that her heart was
given to that puling boy. Due to his uniform! The livery of his degradation! I
turned my eyes upon him - I could not help it - but I spoke not a word.
    I saw the sudden change that came upon him beneath my gaze. He was a bold
man, but the colour faded from his face, and he drew back his chair. I dragged
mine nearer to him; and as I laughed - I was very merry then - I saw him
shudder. I felt the madness rising within me. He was afraid of me.
    You were very fond of your sister when she was alive - I said - Very.
    He looked uneasily round him, and I saw his hand grasp the back of his
chair: but he said nothing.
    You villain, said I, I found you out; I discovered your hellish plots
against me; I know her heart was fixed on some one else before you compelled her
to marry me. I know it - I know it.
    He jumped suddenly from his chair, brandished it aloft, and bid me stand
back - for I took care to be getting closer to him all the time I spoke.
    I screamed rather than talked, for I felt tumultuous passions eddying
through my veins, and the old spirits whispering and taunting me to tear his
heart out.
    Damn you, said I, starting up, and rushing upon him; I killed her. I am a
madman. Down with you. Blood, blood! I will have it!
    I turned aside with one blow the chair he hurled at me in his terror, and
closed with him; and with a heavy crash we rolled upon the floor together.
    It was a fine struggle that; for he was a tall strong man, fighting for his
life; and I, a powerful madman, thirsting to destroy him. I knew no strength
could equal mine, and I was right. Right again, though a madman! His struggles
grew fainter. I knelt upon his chest, and clasped his brawny throat firmly with
both hands. His face grew purple; his eyes were starting from his head, and with
protruded tongue, he seemed to mock me. I squeezed the tighter.
    The door was suddenly burst open with a loud noise, and a crowd of people
rushed forward, crying aloud to each other to secure the madman.
    My secret was out; and my only struggle now was for liberty and freedom. I
gained my feet before a hand was on me, threw myself among my assailants, and
cleared my way with my strong arm, as if I bore a hatchet in my hand, and hewed
them down before me. I gained the door, dropped over the banisters, and in an
instant was in the street.
    Straight and swift I ran, and no one dared to stop me. I heard the noise of
feet behind, and redoubled my speed. It grew fainter and fainter in the
distance, and at length died away altogether: but on I bounded, through marsh
and rivulet, over fence and wall, with a wild shout which was taken up by the
strange beings that flocked around me on every side, and swelled the sound, till
it pierced the air. I was borne upon the arms of demons who swept along upon the
wind, and bore down bank and hedge before them, and spun me round and round with
a rustle and a speed that made my head swim, until at last they threw me from
them with a violent shock, and I fell heavily upon the earth. When I woke I
found myself here - here in this gay cell where the sun-light seldom comes, and
the moon steals in, in rays which only serve to show the dark shadows about me,
and that silent figure in its old corner. When I lie awake, I can sometimes hear
strange shrieks and cries from distant parts of this large place. What they are,
I know not; but they neither come from that pale form, nor does it regard them.
For from the first shades of dusk 'till the earliest light of morning, it still
stands motionless in the same place, listening to the music of my iron chain,
and watching my gambols on my straw bed.«
    At the end of the manuscript was written, in another hand, this note:
    [The unhappy man whose ravings are recorded above, was a melancholy instance
of the baneful results of energies misdirected in early life, and excesses
prolonged until their consequences could never be repaired. The thoughtless
riot, dissipation, and debauchery of his younger days, produced fever and
delirium. The first effects of the latter was the strange delusion, founded upon
a well-known medical theory, strongly contended for by some, and as strongly
contested by others, that an hereditary madness existed in his family. This
produced a settled gloom, which in time developed a morbid insanity, and finally
terminated in raving madness. There is every reason to believe that the events
he detailed, though distorted in the description by his diseased imagination,
really happened. It is only matter of wonder to those who were acquainted with
the vices of his early career, that his passions, when no longer controlled by
reason, did not lead him to the commission of still more frightful deeds.]
 
Mr. Pickwick's candle was just expiring in the socket, as he concluded the
perusal of the old clergyman's manuscript; and when the light went suddenly out,
without any previous flicker by way of warning, it communicated a very
considerable start to his excited frame. Hastily throwing off such articles of
clothing as he had put on when he rose from his uneasy bed, and casting a
fearful glance around, he once more scrambled hastily between the sheets, and
soon fell fast asleep.
    The sun was shining brilliantly into his chamber when he awoke, and the
morning was far advanced. The gloom which had oppressed him on the previous
night, had disappeared with the dark shadows which shrouded the landscape, and
his thoughts and feelings were as light and gay as the morning itself. After a
hearty breakfast, the four gentlemen sallied forth to walk to Gravesend,
followed by a man bearing the stone in its deal box. They reached that town
about one o'clock (their luggage they had directed to be forwarded to the City,
from Rochester), and being fortunate enough to secure places on the outside of a
coach, arrived in London in sound health and spirits, on that same afternoon.
    The next three or four days were occupied with the preparations which were
necessary for their journey to the borough of Eatanswill. As any reference to
that most important undertaking demands a separate chapter, we may devote the
few lines which remain at the close of this, to narrate, with great brevity, the
history of the antiquarian discovery.
    It appears from the Transactions of the Club, then, that Mr. Pickwick
lectured upon the discovery at a General Club Meeting, convened on the night
succeeding their return, and entered into a variety of ingenious and erudite
speculations on the meaning of the inscription. It also appears that a skilful
artist executed a faithful delineation of the curiosity, which was engraven on
stone, and presented to the Royal Antiquarian Society, and other learned bodies
- that heart-burnings and jealousies without number, were created by rival
controversies which were penned upon the subject - and that Mr. Pickwick himself
wrote a Pamphlet, containing ninety-six pages of very small print, and
twenty-seven different readings of the inscription. That three old gentlemen cut
off their eldest sons with a shilling a-piece for presuming to doubt the
antiquity of the fragment - and that one enthusiastic individual cut himself off
prematurely, in despair at being unable to fathom its meaning. That Mr. Pickwick
was elected an honorary member of seventeen native and foreign societies, for
making the discovery; that none of the seventeen could make anything of it; but
that all the seventeen agreed it was very extraordinary.
    Mr. Blotton, indeed - and the name will be doomed to the undying contempt of
those who cultivate the mysterious and the sublime - Mr. Blotton, we say, with
the doubt and cavilling peculiar to vulgar minds, presumed to state a view of
the case, as degrading as ridiculous. Mr. Blotton, with a mean desire to tarnish
the lustre of the immortal name of Pickwick, actually undertook a journey to
Cobham in person, and on his return, sarcastically observed in an oration at the
club, that he had seen the man from whom the stone was purchased; that the man
presumed the stone to be ancient, but solemnly denied the antiquity of the
inscription - inasmuch as he represented it to have been rudely carved by
himself in an idle mood, and to display letters intended to bear neither more
nor less than the simple construction of - BILL STUMPS, HIS MARK; and that Mr.
Stumps, being little in the habit of original composition, and more accustomed
to be guided by the sound of words than by the strict rules of orthography, had
omitted the concluding L of his christian name.
    The Pickwick Club (as might have been expected from so enlightened an
Institution) received this statement with the contempt it deserved, expelled the
presumptuous and ill-conditioned Blotton, and voted Mr. Pickwick a pair of gold
spectacles, in token of their confidence and approbation; in return for which,
Mr. Pickwick caused a portrait of himself to be painted, and hung up in the club
room.
    Mr. Blotton though ejected was not conquered. He also wrote a pamphlet,
addressed to the seventeen learned societies, native and foreign, containing a
repetition of the statement he had already made, and rather more than half
intimating his opinion that the seventeen learned societies were so many
humbugs. Hereupon the virtuous indignation of the seventeen learned societies,
native and foreign, being roused, several fresh pamphlets appeared; the foreign
learned societies corresponded with the native learned societies; the native
learned societies translated the pamphlets of the foreign learned societies into
English; the foreign learned societies translated the pamphlets of the native
learned societies into all sorts of languages; and thus commenced that
celebrated scientific discussion so well known to all men, as the Pickwick
controversy.
    But this base attempt to injure Mr. Pickwick, recoiled upon the head of its
calumnious author. The seventeen learned societies unanimously voted the
presumptuous Blotton an ignorant meddler, and forthwith set to work upon more
treatises than ever. And to this day the stone remains, an illegible monument of
Mr. Pickwick's greatness, and a lasting trophy to the littleness of his enemies.
 

                                  Chapter XII

Descriptive of a Very Important Proceeding on the Part of Mr. Pickwick; No Less
                  an Epoch in His Life, Than in This History.

Mr. Pickwick's apartments in Goswell Street, although on a limited scale, were
not only of a very neat and comfortable description, but peculiarly adapted for
the residence of a man of his genius and observation. His sitting-room was the
first floor front, his bed-room the second floor front; and thus, whether he
were sitting at his desk in his parlour, or standing before the dressing-glass
in his dormitory, he had an equal opportunity of contemplating human nature in
all the numerous phases it exhibits, in that not more populous than popular
thoroughfare. His landlady, Mrs. Bardell - the relict and sole executrix of a
deceased custom-house officer - was a comely woman of bustling manners and
agreeable appearance, with a natural genius for cooking, improved by study and
long practice, into an exquisite talent. There were no children, no servants, no
fowls. The only other inmates of the house were a large man and a small boy; the
first a lodger, the second a production of Mrs. Bardell's. The large man was
always home precisely at ten o'clock at night, at which hour he regularly
condensed himself into the limits of a dwarfish French bedstead in the back
parlour; and the infantine sports and gymnastic exercises of Master Bardell were
exclusively confined to the neighbouring pavements and gutters. Cleanliness and
quiet reigned throughout the house; and in it Mr. Pickwick's will was law.
    To any one acquainted with these points of the domestic economy of the
establishment, and conversant with the admirable regulation of Mr. Pickwick's
mind, his appearance and behaviour on the morning previous to that which had
been fixed upon for the journey to Eatanswill, would have been most mysterious
and unaccountable. He paced the room to and fro with hurried steps, popped his
head out of the window at intervals of about three minutes each, constantly
referred to his watch, and exhibited many other manifestations of impatience
very unusual with him. It was evident that something of great importance was in
contemplation, but what that something was, not even Mrs. Bardell herself had
been enabled to discover.
    »Mrs. Bardell,« said Mr. Pickwick, at last, as that amiable female
approached the termination of a prolonged dusting of the apartment.
    »Sir,« said Mrs. Bardell.
    »Your little boy is a very long time gone.«
    »Why it's a good long way to the Borough, sir,« remonstrated Mrs. Bardell.
    »Ah,« said Mr. Pickwick, »very true; so it is.«
    Mr. Pickwick relapsed into silence, and Mrs. Bardell resumed her dusting.
    »Mrs. Bardell,« said Mr. Pickwick, at the expiration of a few minutes.
    »Sir,« said Mrs. Bardell again.
    »Do you think it a much greater expense to keep two people, than to keep
one?«
    »La, Mr. Pickwick,« said Mrs. Bardell, colouring up to the very border of
her cap, as she fancied she observed a species of matrimonial twinkle in the
eyes of her lodger; »La, Mr. Pickwick, what a question!«
    »Well, but do you?« inquired Mr. Pickwick.
    »That depends -« said Mrs. Bardell, approaching the duster very near to Mr.
Pickwick's elbow, which was planted on the table - »that depends a good deal
upon the person, you know, Mr. Pickwick; and whether it's a saving and careful
person, sir.«
    »That's very true,« said Mr. Pickwick, »but the person I have in my eye
(here he looked very hard at Mrs. Bardell) I think possesses these qualities;
and has, moreover, a considerable knowledge of the world, and a great deal of
sharpness, Mrs. Bardell; which may be of material use to me.«
    »La, Mr. Pickwick,« said Mrs. Bardell; the crimson rising to her cap-border
again.
    »I do,« said Mr. Pickwick, growing energetic, as was his wont in speaking of
a subject which interested him, »I do, indeed; and to tell you the truth, Mrs.
Bardell, I have made up my mind.«
    »Dear me, sir,« exclaimed Mrs. Bardell.
    »You'll think it very strange now,« said the amiable Mr. Pickwick, with a
good-humoured glance at his companion, »that I never consulted you about this
matter, and never even mentioned it, till I sent your little boy out this
morning - eh?«
    Mrs. Bardell could only reply by a look. She had long worshipped Mr.
Pickwick at a distance, but here she was, all at once, raised to a pinnacle to
which her wildest and most extravagant hopes had never dared to aspire. Mr.
Pickwick was going to propose - a deliberate plan, too - sent her little boy to
the Borough, to get him out of the way - how thoughtful - how considerate!
    »Well,« said Mr. Pickwick, »what do you think?«
    »Oh, Mr. Pickwick,« said Mrs. Bardell, trembling with agitation, »you're
very kind, sir.«
    »It'll save you a good deal of trouble, won't it?« said Mr. Pickwick.
    »Oh, I never thought anything of the trouble, sir,« replied Mrs. Bardell;
»and, of course, I should take more trouble to please you then, than ever; but
it is so kind of you, Mr. Pickwick, to have so much consideration for my
loneliness.«
    »Ah, to be sure,« said Mr. Pickwick; »I never thought of that. When I am in
town, you'll always have somebody to sit with you. To be sure, so you will.«
    »I'm sure I ought to be a very happy woman,« said Mrs. Bardell.
    »And your little boy -« said Mr. Pickwick.
    »Bless his heart!« interposed Mrs. Bardell, with a maternal sob.
    »He, too, will have a companion,« resumed Mr. Pickwick, »a lively one,
who'll teach him, I'll be bound, more tricks in a week than he would ever learn
in a year.« And Mr. Pickwick smiled placidly.
    »Oh you dear -« said Mrs. Bardell.
    Mr. Pickwick started.
    »Oh you kind, good, playful dear,« said Mrs. Bardell; and without more ado,
she rose from her chair, and flung her arms round Mr. Pickwick's neck, with a
cataract of tears and a chorus of sobs.
    »Bless my soul,« cried the astonished Mr. Pickwick; - »Mrs. Bardell my good
woman - dear me, what a situation - pray consider. - Mrs. Bardell, don't - if
anybody should come -«
    »Oh, let them come,« exclaimed Mrs. Bardell, frantically; »I'll never leave
you - dear, kind, good, soul;« and, with these words, Mrs. Bardell clung the
tighter.
    »Mercy upon me,« said Mr. Pickwick, struggling violently, »I hear somebody
coming up the stairs. Don't, don't, there's a good creature, don't.« But
entreaty and remonstrance were alike unavailing: for Mrs. Bardell had fainted in
Mr. Pickwick's arms; and before he could gain time to deposit her on a chair,
Master Bardell entered the room, ushering in Mr. Tupman, Mr. Winkle, and Mr.
Snodgrass.
    Mr. Pickwick was struck motionless and speechless. He stood with his lovely
burden in his arms, gazing vacantly on the countenances of his friends, without
the slightest attempt at recognition or explanation. They, in their turn, stared
at him; and Master Bardell, in his turn, stared at everybody.
    The astonishment of the Pickwickians was so absorbing, and the perplexity of
Mr. Pickwick was so extreme, that they might have remained in exactly the same
relative situations until the suspended animation of the lady was restored, had
it not been for a most beautiful and touching expression of filial affection on
the part of her youthful son. Clad in a tight suit of corderoy, spangled with
brass buttons of a very considerable size, he at first stood at the door
astounded and uncertain; but by degrees, the impression that his mother must
have suffered some personal damage, pervaded his partially developed mind, and
considering Mr. Pickwick as the aggressor, he set up an appalling and
semi-earthly kind of howling, and butting forward with his head, commenced
assailing that immortal gentleman about the back and legs, with such blows and
pinches as the strength of his arm, and the violence of his excitement, allowed.
    »Take this little villain away,« said the agonised Mr. Pickwick, »he's mad.«
    »What is the matter?« said the three tongue-tied Pickwickians.
    »I don't know,« replied Mr. Pickwick, pettishly. »Take away the boy« (here
Mr. Winkle carried the interesting boy, screaming and struggling, to the further
end of the apartment). »Now, help me, lead this woman down stairs.«
    »Oh, I am better now,« said Mrs. Bardell, faintly.
    »Let me lead you down stairs,« said the ever gallant Mr. Tupman.
    »Thank you, sir - thank you;« exclaimed Mrs. Bardell, hysterically. And down
stairs she was led accordingly, accompanied by her affectionate son.
    »I cannot conceive -« said Mr. Pickwick, when his friend returned - »I
cannot conceive what has been the matter with that woman. I had merely announced
to her my intention of keeping a man servant, when she fell into the
extraordinary paroxysm in which you found her. Very extraordinary thing.«
    »Very,« said his three friends.
    »Placed me in such an extremely awkward situation,« continued Mr. Pickwick.
    »Very,« was the reply of his followers, as they coughed slightly, and looked
dubiously at each other.
    This behaviour was not lost upon Mr. Pickwick. He remarked their
incredulity. They evidently suspected him.
    »There is a man in the passage now,« said Mr. Tupman.
    »It's the man I spoke to you about,« said Mr. Pickwick, »I sent for him to
the Borough this morning. Have the goodness to call him up, Snodgrass.«
    Mr. Snodgrass did as he was desired; and Mr. Samuel Weller forthwith
presented himself.
    »Oh - you remember me, I suppose?« said Mr. Pickwick.
    »I should think so,« replied Sam, with a patronising wink. »Queer start that
'ere, but he was one too many for you, warn't he? Up to snuff and a pinch or two
over - eh?«
    »Never mind that matter now,« said Mr. Pickwick hastily, »I want to speak to
you about something else. Sit down.«
    »Thank'ee, sir,« said Sam. And down he sat without farther bidding, having
previously deposited his old white hat on the landing outside the door. »Ta'nt a
werry good 'un to look at,« said Sam, »but it's an astonishin' 'un to wear; and
afore the brim went, it was a werry handsome tile. Hows'ever it's lighter
without it, that's one thing, and every hole lets in some air, that's another -
wentilation gossamer I calls it.« On the delivery of this sentiment, Mr. Weller
smiled agreeably upon the assembled Pickwickians.
    »Now with regard to the matter on which I, with the concurrence of these
gentlemen, sent for you,« said Mr. Pickwick.
    »That's the pint, sir,« interposed Sam; »out with it, as the father said to
the child, wen he swallowed a farden.«
    »We want to know, in the first place,« said Mr. Pickwick, »whether you have
any reason to be discontented with your present situation.«
    »Afore I answers that 'ere question, gen'lm'm,« replied Mr. Weller, »I
should like to know, in the first place, whether you're a goin' to purwide me
with a better.«
    A sunbeam of placid benevolence played on Mr. Pickwick's features as he
said, »I have half made up my mind to engage you myself.«
    »Have you, though?« said Sam.
    Mr. Pickwick nodded in the affirmative.
    »Wages?« inquired Sam.
    »Twelve pounds a year,« replied Mr. Pickwick.
    »Clothes?«
    »Two suits.«
    »Work?«
    »To attend upon me; and travel about with me and these gentlemen here.«
    »Take the bill down,« said Sam, emphatically. »I'm let to a single
gentleman, and the terms is agreed upon.«
    »You accept the situation?« inquired Mr. Pickwick.
    »Certn'ly,« replied Sam. »If the clothes fits me half as well as the place,
they'll do.«
    »You can get a character of course?« said Mr. Pickwick.
    »Ask the landlady o' the White Hart about that, sir,« replied Sam.
    »Can you come this evening?«
    »I'll get into the clothes this minute, if they're here,« said Sam with
great alacrity.
    »Call at eight this evening,« said Mr. Pickwick; »and if the inquiries are
satisfactory, they shall be provided.«
    With the single exception of one amiable indiscretion, in which an assistant
housemaid had equally participated, the history of Mr. Weller's conduct was so
very blameless, that Mr. Pickwick felt fully justified in closing the engagement
that very evening. With the promptness and energy which characterised not only
the public proceedings, but all the private actions of this extraordinary man,
he at once led his new attendant to one of those convenient emporiums where
gentlemen's new and second-hand clothes are provided, and the troublesome and
inconvenient formality of measurement dispensed with; and before night had
closed in, Mr. Weller was furnished with a grey coat with the P.C. button, a
black hat with a cockade to it, a pink striped waistcoat, light breeches and
gaiters, and a variety of other necessaries, too numerous to recapitulate.
    »Well,« said that suddenly-transformed individual, as he took his seat on
the outside of the Eatanswill coach next morning; »I wonder whether I'm meant to
be a footman, or a groom, or a gamekeeper, or a seedsman. I looks like a sort of
compo of every one on 'em. Never mind; there's change of air, plenty to see, and
little to do; and all this suits my complaint uncommon; so long life to the
Pickvicks, says I!«
 

                                  Chapter XIII

Some Account of Eatanswill; of the State of Parties Therein; and of the Election
   of a Member To Serve in Parliament for That Ancient, Loyal, and Patriotic
                                    Borough.

We will frankly acknowledge, that up to the period of our being first immersed
in the voluminous papers of the Pickwick Club, we had never heard of Eatanswill;
we will with equal candour admit, that we have in vain searched for proof of the
actual existence of such a place at the present day. Knowing the deep reliance
to be placed on every note and statement of Mr. Pickwick's, and not presuming to
set up our recollection against the recorded declarations of that great man, we
have consulted every authority, bearing upon the subject, to which we could
possibly refer. We have traced every name in schedules A and B, without meeting
with that of Eatanswill; we have minutely examined every corner of the Pocket
County Maps issued for the benefit of society by our distinguished publishers,
and the same result has attended our investigation. We are therefore led to
believe, that Mr. Pickwick, with that anxious desire to abstain from giving
offence to any, and with those delicate feelings for which all who knew him well
know he was so eminently remarkable, purposely substituted a fictitious
designation, for the real name of the place in which his observations were made.
We are confirmed in this belief by a little circumstance, apparently slight and
trivial in itself, but when considered in this point of view, not undeserving of
notice. In Mr. Pickwick's note-book, we can just trace an entry of the fact,
that the places of himself and followers were booked by the Norwich coach; but
this entry was afterwards lined through, as if for the purpose of concealing
even the direction in which the borough is situated. We will not, therefore,
hazard a guess upon the subject, but will at once proceed with this history;
content with the materials which its characters have provided for us.
    It appears, then, that the Eatanswill people, like the people of many other
small towns, considered themselves of the utmost and most mighty importance, and
that every man in Eatanswill, conscious of the weight that attached to his
example, felt himself bound to unite, heart and soul, with one of the two great
parties that divided the town - the Blues and the Buffs. Now the Blues lost no
opportunity of opposing the Buffs, and the Buffs lost no opportunity of opposing
the Blues; and the consequence was, that whenever the Buffs and Blues met
together at public meeting, Town-Hall, fair, or market, disputes and high words
arose between them. With these dissensions it is almost superfluous to say that
everything in Eatanswill was made a party question. If the Buffs proposed to new
skylight the market-place, the Blues got up public meetings, and denounced the
proceeding; if the Blues proposed the erection of an additional pump in the High
Street, the Buffs rose as one man and stood aghast at the enormity. There were
Blue shops and Buff shops, Blue inns and Buff inns; - there was a Blue aisle and
a Buff aisle, in the very church itself.
    Of course it was essentially and indispensably necessary that each of these
powerful parties should have its chosen organ and representative: and,
accordingly, there were two newspapers in the town - the Eatanswill Gazette and
the Eatanswill Independent; the former advocating Blue principles, and the
latter conducted on grounds decidedly Buff. Fine newspapers they were. Such
leading articles, and such spirited attacks! - »Our worthless contemporary, the
Gazette« - »That disgraceful and dastardly journal, the Independent« - »That
false and scurrilous print, the Independent« - »That vile and slanderous
calumniator, the Gazette;« these, and other spirit-stirring denunciations were
strewn plentifully over the columns of each, in every number, and excited
feelings of the most intense delight and indignation in the bosoms of the
townspeople.
    Mr. Pickwick, with his usual foresight and sagacity, had chosen a peculiarly
desirable moment for his visit to the borough. Never was such a contest known.
The Honourable Samuel Slumkey, of Slumkey Hall, was the Blue candidate; and
Horatio Fizkin, Esq., of Fizkin Lodge, near Eatanswill, had been prevailed upon
by his friends to stand forward on the Buff interest. The Gazette warned the
electors of Eatanswill that the eyes not only of England, but of the whole
civilised world, were upon them; and the Independent imperatively demanded to
know, whether the constituency of Eatanswill were the grand fellows they had
always taken them for, or base and servile tools, undeserving alike the name of
Englishmen and the blessings of freedom. Never had such a commotion agitated the
town before.
    It was late in the evening, when Mr. Pickwick and his companions, assisted
by Sam, dismounted from the roof of the Eatanswill coach. Large blue silk flags
were flying from the windows of the Town Arms Inn, and bills were posted in
every sash, intimating, in gigantic letters, that the honourable Samuel
Slumkey's Committee sat there daily. A crowd of idlers were assembled in the
road, looking at a hoarse man in the balcony, who was apparently talking himself
very red in the face in Mr. Slumkey's behalf; but the force and point of whose
arguments were somewhat impaired by the perpetual beating of four large drums
which Mr. Fizkin's committee had stationed at the street corner. There was a
busy little man beside him, though, who took off his hat at intervals and
motioned to the people to cheer, which they regularly did, most
enthusiastically; and as the red-faced gentleman went on talking till he was
redder in the face than ever, it seemed to answer his purpose quite as well as
if anybody had heard him.
    The Pickwickians had no sooner dismounted, than they were surrounded by a
branch mob of the honest and independent, who forthwith set up three deafening
cheers, which being responded to by the main body (for it's not at all necessary
for a crowd to know what they are cheering about) swelled into a tremendous roar
of triumph, which stopped even the red-faced man in the balcony.
    »Hurrah!« shouted the mob in conclusion.
    »One cheer more,« screamed the little fugleman in the balcony, and out
shouted the mob again, as if lungs were cast iron, with steel works.
    »Slumkey for ever!« roared the honest and independent.
    »Slumkey for ever!« echoed Mr. Pickwick, taking off his hat.
    »No Fizkin!« roared the crowd.
    »Certainly not!« shouted Mr. Pickwick.
    »Hurrah!« And then there was another roaring, like that of a whole menagerie
when the elephant has rung the bell for the cold meat.
    »Who is Slumkey?« whispered Mr. Tupman.
    »I don't know,« replied Mr. Pickwick in the same tone. »Hush. Don't ask any
questions. It's always best on these occasions to do what the mob do.«
    »But suppose there are two mobs?« suggested Mr. Snodgrass.
    »Shout with the largest,« replied Mr. Pickwick.
    Volumes could not have said more.
    They entered the house, the crowd opening right and left to let them pass,
and cheering vociferously. The first object of consideration was to secure
quarters for the night.
    »Can we have beds here?« inquired Mr. Pickwick, summoning the waiter.
    »Don't know, sir,« replied the man; »afraid we're full, sir - I'll inquire,
sir.« Away he went for that purpose, and presently returned, to ask whether the
gentlemen were »Blue.«
    As neither Mr. Pickwick nor his companions took any vital interest in the
cause of either candidate, the question was rather a difficult one to answer. In
this dilemma Mr. Pickwick bethought himself of his new friend, Mr. Perker.
    »Do you know a gentleman of the name of Perker?« inquired Mr. Pickwick.
    »Certainly, sir; honourable Mr. Samuel Slumkey's agent.«
    »He is Blue, I think?«
    »Oh yes, sir.«
    »Then we are Blue,« said Mr. Pickwick; but observing that the man looked
rather doubtful at this accommodating announcement, he gave him his card, and
desired him to present it to Mr. Perker forthwith, if he should happen to be in
the house. The waiter retired; and re-appearing almost immediately with a
request that Mr. Pickwick would follow him, led the way to a large room on the
first floor, where, seated at a long table covered with books and papers, was
Mr. Perker.
    »Ah - ah, my dear sir,« said the little man, advancing to meet him; »very
happy to see you, my dear sir, very. Pray sit down. So you have carried your
intention into effect. You have come down here to see an election - eh?«
    Mr. Pickwick replied in the affirmative.
    »Spirited contest, my dear sir,« said the little man.
    »I am delighted to hear it,« said Mr. Pickwick, rubbing his hands. »I like
to see sturdy patriotism, on whatever side it is called forth; - and so it's a
spirited contest?«
    »Oh yes,« said the little man, »very much so indeed. We have opened all the
public-houses in the place, and left our adversary nothing but the beer-shops -
masterly stroke of policy that, my dear sir, eh?« - the little man smiled
complacently, and took a large pinch of snuff.
    »And what are the probabilities as to the result of the contest?« inquired
Mr. Pickwick.
    »Why doubtful, my dear sir; rather doubtful as yet,« replied the little man.
»Fizkin's people have got three-and-thirty voters in the lock-up coach-house at
the White Hart.«
    »In the coach-house!« said Mr. Pickwick, considerably astonished by this
second stroke of policy.
    »They keep 'em locked up there till they want 'em,« resumed the little man.
»The effect of that is, you see, to prevent our getting at them; and even if we
could, it would be of no use, for they keep them very drunk on purpose. Smart
fellow Fizkin's agent - very smart fellow indeed.«
    Mr. Pickwick stared, but said nothing.
    »We are pretty confident, though,« said Mr. Perker, sinking his voice almost
to a whisper. »We had a little tea-party here, last night - five-and-forty
women, my dear sir - and gave every one of 'em a green parasol when she went
away.«
    »A parasol!« said Mr. Pickwick.
    »Fact, my dear sir, fact. Five-and-forty green parasols, at seven and
sixpence a-piece. All women like finery, - extraordinary the effects of those
parasols. Secured all their husbands, and half their brothers - beats stockings,
and flannel, and all that sort of thing hollow. My idea, my dear sir, entirely.
Hail, rain, or sunshine, you can't walk half a dozen yards up the street,
without encountering half a dozen green parasols.«
    Here the little man indulged in a convulsion of mirth, which was only
checked by the entrance of a third party.
    This was a tall, thin man, with a sandy-coloured head inclined to baldness,
and a face in which solemn importance was blended with a look of unfathomable
profundity. He was dressed in a long brown surtout, with a black cloth
waistcoat, and drab trousers. A double eye-glass dangled at his waistcoat: and
on his head he wore a very low-crowned hat with a broad brim. The new-comer was
introduced to Mr. Pickwick as Mr. Pott, the editor of the Eatanswill Gazette.
After a few preliminary remarks, Mr. Pott turned round to Mr. Pickwick, and said
with solemnity -
    »This contest excites great interest in the metropolis, sir?«
    »I believe it does,« said Mr. Pickwick.
    »To which I have reason to know,« said Pott, looking towards Mr. Perker for
corroboration, - »to which I have reason to know that my article of last
Saturday in some degree contributed.«
    »Not the least doubt of it,« said the little man.
    »The press is a mighty engine, sir,« said Pott.
    Mr. Pickwick yielded his fullest assent to the proposition.
    »But I trust, sir,« said Pott, »that I have never abused the enormous power
I wield. I trust, sir, that I have never pointed the noble instrument which is
placed in my hands, against the sacred bosom of private life, or the tender
breast of individual reputation; - I trust, sir, that I have devoted my energies
to - to endeavours - humble they may be, humble I know they are - to instil
those principles of - which - are -«
    Here the editor of the Eatanswill Gazette, appearing to ramble, Mr. Pickwick
came to his relief, and said -
    »Certainly.«
    »And what, sir« - said Pott - »what, sir, let me ask you as an impartial
man, is the state of the public mind in London, with reference to my contest
with the Independent?«
    »Greatly excited, no doubt,« interposed Mr. Perker, with a look of slyness
which was very likely accidental.
    »The contest,« said Pott, »shall be prolonged so long as I have health and
strength, and that portion of talent with which I am gifted. From that contest,
sir, although it may unsettle men's minds and excite their feelings, and render
them incapable for the discharge of the every-day duties of ordinary life; from
that contest, sir, I will never shrink, till I have set my heel upon the
Eatanswill Independent. I wish the people of London, and the people of this
country to know, sir, that they may rely upon me; - that I will not desert them,
that I am resolved to stand by them, sir, to the last.«
    »Your conduct is most noble, sir,« said Mr. Pickwick; and he grasped the
hand of the magnanimous Pott.
    »You are, sir, I perceive, a man of sense and talent,« said Mr. Pott, almost
breathless with the vehemence of his patriotic declaration. »I am most happy,
sir, to make the acquaintance of such a man.«
    »And I,« said Mr. Pickwick, »feel deeply honoured by this expression of your
opinion. Allow me, sir, to introduce you to my fellow-travellers, the other
corresponding members of the club I am proud to have founded.«
    »I shall be delighted,« said Mr. Pott.
    Mr. Pickwick withdrew, and returning with his friends, presented them in due
form to the editor of the Eatanswill Gazette.
    »Now, my dear Pott,« said little Mr. Perker, »the question is, what are we
to do with our friends here?«
    »We can stop in this house, I suppose,« said Mr. Pickwick.
    »Not a spare bed in the house, my dear sir - not a single bed.«
    »Extremely awkward,« said Mr. Pickwick.
    »Very;« said his fellow-voyagers.
    »I have an idea upon this subject,« said Mr. Pott, »which I think may be
very successfully adopted. They have two beds at the Peacock, and I can boldly
say, on behalf of Mrs. Pott, that she will be delighted to accommodate Mr.
Pickwick and any of his friends, if the other two gentlemen and their servant do
not object to shifting, as they best can, at the Peacock.«
    After repeated pressings on the part of Mr. Pott, and repeated protestations
on that of Mr. Pickwick that he could not think of incommoding or troubling his
amiable wife, it was decided that it was the only feasible arrangement that
could be made. So it was made; and after dining together at the Town Arms, the
friends separated, Mr. Tupman and Mr. Snodgrass repairing to the Peacock, and
Mr. Pickwick and Mr. Winkle proceeding to the mansion of Mr. Pott; it having
been previously arranged that they should all re-assemble at the Town Arms in
the morning, and accompany the honourable Samuel Slumkey's procession to the
place of nomination.
    Mr. Pott's domestic circle was limited to himself and his wife. All men whom
mighty genius has raised to a proud eminence in the world, have usually some
little weakness which appears the more conspicuous from the contrast it presents
to their general character. If Mr. Pott had a weakness, it was, perhaps, that he
was rather too submissive to the somewhat contemptuous control and sway of his
wife. We do not feel justified in laying any particular stress upon the fact,
because on the present occasion all Mrs. Pott's most winning ways were brought
into requisition to receive the two gentlemen.
    »My dear,« said Mr. Pott, »Mr. Pickwick - Mr. Pickwick of London.«
    Mrs. Pott received Mr. Pickwick's paternal grasp of the hand with enchanting
sweetness: and Mr. Winkle, who had not been announced at all, slided and bowed,
unnoticed, in an obscure corner.
    »P. my dear -« said Mrs. Pott.
    »My life,« said Mr. Pott.
    »Pray introduce the other gentleman.«
    »I beg a thousand pardons,« said Mr. Pott »Permit me, Mrs. Pott, Mr. -«
    »Winkle,« said Mr. Pickwick.
    »Winkle,« echoed Mr. Pott; and the ceremony of introduction was complete.
    »We owe you many apologies, ma'am,« said Mr. Pickwick, »for disturbing your
domestic arrangements at so short a notice.«
    »I beg you won't mention it, sir,« replied the feminine Pott, with vivacity.
»It is a high treat to me, I assure you, to see any new faces; living as I do,
from day to day, and week to week, in this dull place, and seeing nobody.«
    »Nobody, my dear!« exclaimed Mr. Pott, archly.
    »Nobody but you,« retorted Mrs. Pott, with asperity.
    »You see, Mr. Pickwick,« said the host in explanation of his wife's lament,
»that we are in some measure cut off from many enjoyments and pleasures of which
we might otherwise partake. My public station, as editor of the Eatanswill
Gazette, the position which that paper holds in the country, my constant
immersion in the vortex of politics -«
    »P. my dear -« interposed Mrs. Pott.
    »My life -« said the editor.
    »I wish, my dear, you would endeavour to find some topic of conversation in
which these gentlemen might take some rational interest.«
    »But my love,« said Mr. Pott, with great humility, »Mr. Pickwick does take
an interest in it.«
    »It's well for him if he can,« said Mrs. Pott, emphatically; »I am wearied
out of my life with your politics, and quarrels with the Independent, and
nonsense. I am quite astonished P. at your making such an exhibition of your
absurdity.«
    »But my dear -« said Mr. Pott.
    »Oh, nonsense, don't talk to me;« said Mrs. Pott. »Do you play ecarté, sir?«
    »I shall be very happy to learn under your tuition,« replied Mr. Winkle.
    »Well, then, draw that little table into this window, and let me get out of
hearing of those prosy politics.«
    »Jane,« said Mr. Pott, to the servant who brought in candles, »go down into
the office, and bring me up the file of the Gazette for Eighteen Hundred and
Twenty Eight. I'll read you -« added the editor, turning to Mr. Pickwick, »I'll
just read you a few of the leaders I wrote at that time upon the Buff job of
appointing a new tollman to the turnpike here; I rather think they'll amuse
you.«
    »I should like to hear them very much, indeed,« said Mr. Pickwick.
    Up came the file, and down sat the editor, with Mr. Pickwick at his side.
    We have in vain pored over the leaves of Mr. Pickwick's note-book, in the
hope of meeting with a general summary of these beautiful compositions. We have
every reason to believe that he was perfectly enraptured with the vigour and
freshness of the style; indeed Mr. Winkle has recorded the fact that his eyes
were closed, as if with excess of pleasure, during the whole time of their
perusal.
    The announcement of supper put a stop to the game at ecarté, and the
recapitulation of the beauties of the Eatanswill Gazette. Mrs. Pott was in the
highest spirits and the most agreeable humour. Mr. Winkle had already made
considerable progress in her good opinion, and she did not hesitate to inform
him, confidentially, that Mr. Pickwick was »a delightful old dear.« These terms
convey a familiarity of expression, in which few of those who were intimately
acquainted with that colossal-minded man, would have presumed to indulge. We
have preserved them, nevertheless, as affording at once a touching and a
convincing proof of the estimation in which he was held by every class of
society, and the ease with which he made his way to their hearts and feelings.
    It was a late hour of the night - long after Mr. Tupman and Mr. Snodgrass
had fallen asleep in the inmost recesses of the Peacock - when the two friends
retired to rest. Slumber soon fell upon the senses of Mr. Winkle, but his
feelings had been excited, and his admiration roused; and for many hours after
sleep had rendered him insensible to earthly objects, the face and figure of the
agreeable Mrs. Pott presented themselves again and again to his wandering
imagination.
    The noise and bustle which ushered in the morning, were sufficient to dispel
from the mind of the most romantic visionary in existence, any associations but
those which were immediately connected with the rapidly-approaching election.
The beating of drums, the blowing of horns and trumpets, the shouting of men,
and tramping of horses, echoed and re-echoed through the streets from the
earliest dawn of day; and an occasional fight between the light skirmishers of
either party at once enlivened the preparations and agreeably diversified their
character.
    »Well, Sam,« said Mr. Pickwick, as his valet appeared at his bed-room door,
just as he was concluding his toilet; »all alive to-day, I suppose?«
    »Reg'lar game, sir,« replied Mr. Weller; »our people's a col-lecting down at
the Town Arms, and they're a hollering themselves hoarse already.«
    »Ah,« said Mr. Pickwick, »do they seem devoted to their party, Sam?«
    »Never see such dewotion in my life, sir.«
    »Energetic, eh?« said Mr. Pickwick.
    »Uncommon,« replied Sam; »I never see men eat and drink so much afore. I
wonder they a'nt afeer'd o' bustin.«
    »That's the mistaken kindness of the gentry here,« said Mr. Pickwick.
    »Wery likely,« replied Sam, briefly.
    »Fine, fresh, hearty fellows they seem,« said Mr. Pickwick, glancing from
the window.
    »Wery fresh,« replied Sam; »me, and the two waiters at the Peacock, has been
a pumpin' over the independent woters as supped there last night.«
    »Pumping over independent voters!« exclaimed Mr. Pickwick.
    »Yes,« said his attendant, »every man slept vere he fell down; we dragged
'em out, one by one, this mornin', and put 'em under the pump, and they're in
reg'lar fine order, now. Shillin' a head the committee paid for that 'ere job.«
    »Can such things be!« exclaimed the astonished Mr. Pickwick.
    »Lord bless your heart, sir,« said Sam, »why where was you half baptized? -
that's nothing', that a'nt.«
    »Nothing?« said Mr. Pickwick.
    »Nothin' at all, sir,« replied his attendant. »The night afore the last day
o' the last election here, the opposite party bribed the bar-maid at the Town
Arms, to hocus the brandy and water of fourteen unpolled electors as was a
stoppin' in the house.«
    »What do you mean by hocussing brandy and water?« inquired Mr. Pickwick.
    »Puttin' laud'num in it,« replied Sam. »Blessed if she didn't send 'em all
to sleep till twelve hours arter the election was over. They took one man up to
the booth, in a truck, fast asleep, by way of experiment, but it was no go -
they wouldn't poll him; so they brought him back, and put him to bed again.«
    »Strange practices, these,« said Mr. Pickwick; half speaking to himself and
half addressing Sam.
    »Not half so strange as a miraculous circumstance as happened to my own
father, at an election time, in this werry place, sir,« replied Sam.
    »What was that?« inquired Mr. Pickwick.
    »Why he drove a coach down here once,« said Sam; »'lection time came on, and
he was engaged by vun party to bring down woters from London. Night afore he was
a going to drive up, committee on t'other side sends for him quietly, and away
he goes with the messenger, who shows him in; - large room - lots of gen'l'm'n -
heaps of papers, pens and ink, and all that 'ere. Ah, Mr. Weller, says the
gen'l'm'n in the chair, glad to see you, sir; how are you? - Werry well,
thank'ee, sir, says my father; I hope you're pretty middlin, says he - Pretty
well, thank'ee, sir, says the gen'l'm'n; sit down, Mr. Weller - pray sit down,
sir. So my father sits down, and he and the gen'l'm'n looks werry hard at each
other. You don't remember me? says the gen'l'm'n. - Can't say I do, says my
father - Oh, I know you, says the gen'l'm'n; know'd you when you was a boy, says
he. - Well, I don't remember you, says my father - That's very odd, says the
gen'l'm'n - Werry, says my father - You must have a bad mem'ry, Mr. Weller, says
the gen'l'm'n - Well, it is a very bad 'un, says my father - I thought so, says
the gen'l'm'n. So then they pours him out a glass of wine, and gammons him about
his driving, and gets him into a reg'lar good humour, and at last shoves a
twenty pound note in his hand. It's a werry bad road between this and London,
says the gen'l'm'n. - Here and there it is a heavy road, says my father -
'Specially near the canal, I think, says the gen'l'm'n - Nasty bit that 'ere,
says my father - Well, Mr. Weller, says the gen'l'm'n, you're a very good whip,
and can do what you like with your horses, we know. We're all very fond o' you,
Mr. Weller, so in case you should have an accident when you're a bringing these
here woters down, and should tip 'em over into the canal vithout hurtin' of 'em,
this is for yourself, says he - Gen'l'm'n, you're very kind, says my father, and
I'll drink your health in another glass of wine, says he; which he did, and then
buttons up the money, and bows himself out. You wouldn't believe, sir,«
continued Sam, with a look of inexpressible impudence at his master, »that on
the very day as he came down with them woters, his coach was upset on that 'ere
very spot, and ev'ry man on 'em was turned into the canal.«
    »And got out again?« inquired Mr. Pickwick, hastily.
    »Why,« replied Sam, very slowly, »I rather think one old gen'l'm'n was
missin'; I know his hat was found, but I a'n't quite certain whether his head
was in it or not. But what I look at, is the hex-traordinary, and wonderful
coincidence, that arter what that gen'l'm'n said, my father's coach should be
upset in that very place, and on that very day!«
    »It is, no doubt, a very extraordinary circumstance indeed,« said Mr.
Pickwick. »But brush my hat, Sam, for I hear Mr. Winkle calling me to
breakfast.«
    With these words Mr. Pickwick descended to the parlour, where he found
breakfast laid, and the family already assembled. The meal was hastily
despatched; each of the gentlemen's hats was decorated with an enormous blue
favour, made up by the fair hands of Mrs. Pott herself; and as Mr. Winkle had
undertaken to escort that lady to a house-top, in the immediate vicinity of the
hustings, Mr. Pickwick and Mr. Pott repaired alone to the Town Arms, from the
back window of which, one of Mr. Slumkey's committee was addressing six small
boys, and one girl, whom he dignified, at every second sentence, with the
imposing title of »men of Eatanswill,« whereat the six small boys aforesaid
cheered prodigiously.
    The stable-yard exhibited unequivocal symptoms of the glory and strength of
the Eatanswill Blues. There was a regular army of blue flags, some with one
handle, and some with two, exhibiting appropriate devices, in golden characters
four feet high, and stout in proportion. There was a grand band of trumpets,
bassoons and drums, marshalled four abreast, and earning their money, if ever
men did, especially the drum beaters, who were very muscular. There were bodies
of constables with blue staves, twenty committee-men with blue scarfs, and a mob
of voters with blue cockades. There were electors on horseback, and electors
a-foot. There was an open carriage and four, for the honourable Samuel Slumkey;
and there were four carriages and pair, for his friends and supporters; and the
flags were rustling, and the band was playing, and the constables were swearing,
and the twenty committee-men were squabbling, and the mob were shouting, and the
horses were backing, and the post-boys perspiring; and everybody, and
everything, then and there assembled, was for the special use, behove, honour,
and renown, of the honourable Samuel Slumkey, of Slumkey Hall, one of the
candidates for the representation of the Borough of Eatanswill, in the Commons
House of Parliament of the United Kingdom.
    Loud and long were the cheers, and mighty was the rustling of one of the
blue flags, with »Liberty of the Press« inscribed thereon, when the sandy head
of Mr. Pott was discerned in one of the windows, by the mob beneath; and
tremendous was the enthusiasm when the honourable Samuel Slumkey himself, in
top-boots, and a blue neckerchief, advanced and seized the hand of the said
Pott, and melodramatically testified by gestures to the crowd, his ineffaceable
obligations to the Eatanswill Gazette.
    »Is everything ready?« said the honourable Samuel Slumkey to Mr. Perker.
    »Everything, my dear sir,« was the little man's reply.
    »Nothing has been omitted, I hope?« said the honourable Samuel Slumkey.
    »Nothing has been left undone, my dear sir - nothing whatever. There are
twenty washed men at the street door for you to shake hands with; and six
children in arms that you're to pat on the head, and inquire the age of; be
particular about the children, my dear sir, - it has always a great effect, that
sort of thing.«
    »I'll take care,« said the honourable Samuel Slumkey.
    »And, perhaps, my dear sir -« said the cautious little man, »perhaps if you
could - I don't mean to say it's indispensable - but if you could manage to kiss
one of 'em, it would produce a very great impression on the crowd.«
    »Wouldn't it have as good an effect if the proposer or seconder did that?«
said the honourable Samuel Slumkey.
    »Why, I am afraid it wouldn't,« replied the agent; »if it were done by
yourself, my dear sir, I think it would make you very popular.«
    »Very well,« said the honourable Samuel Slumkey, with a resigned air, »then
it must be done. That's all.«
    »Arrange the procession,« cried the twenty committee-men.
    Amidst the cheers of the assembled throng, the hand, and the constables, and
the committee-men, and the voters, and the horsemen, and the carriages, took
their places - each of the two-horse vehicles being closely packed with as many
gentlemen as could manage to stand upright in it; and that assigned to Mr.
Perker, containing Mr. Pickwick, Mr. Tupman, Mr. Snodgrass, and about half a
dozen of the committee beside.
    There was a moment of awful suspense as the procession waited for the
honourable Samuel Slumkey to step into his carriage. Suddenly the crowd set up a
great cheering.
    »He has come out,« said little Mr. Perker, greatly excited; the more so as
their position did not enable them to see what was going forward.
    Another cheer, much louder.
    »He has shaken hands with the men,« cried the little agent.
    Another cheer, far more vehement.
    »He has patted the babies on the head,« said Mr. Perker, trembling with
anxiety.
    A roar of applause that rent the air.
    »He has kissed one of 'em!« exclaimed the delighted little man.
    A second roar.
    »He has kissed another,« gasped the excited manager.
    A third roar.
    »He's kissing 'em all!« screamed the enthusiastic little gentleman. And
hailed by the deafening shouts of the multitude, the procession moved on.
    How or by what means it became mixed up with the other procession, and how
it was ever extricated from the confusion consequent thereupon, is more than we
can undertake to describe, inasmuch as Mr. Pickwick's hat was knocked over his
eyes, nose, and mouth, by one poke of a Buff flag-staff, very early in the
proceedings. He describes himself as being surrounded on every side, when he
could catch a glimpse of the scene, by angry and ferocious countenances, by a
vast cloud of dust, and by a dense crowd of combatants. He represents himself as
being forced from the carriage by some unseen power, and being personally
engaged in a pugilistic encounter; but with whom, or how, or why, he is wholly
unable to state. He then felt himself forced up some wooden steps by the persons
from behind; and on removing his hat, found himself surrounded by his friends,
in the very front of the left hand side of the hustings. The right was reserved
for the Buff party, and the centre for the Mayor and his officers; one of whom -
the fat crier of Eatanswill - was ringing an enormous bell, by way of commanding
silence, while Mr. Horatio Fizkin, and the honourable Samuel Slumkey, with their
hands upon their hearts, were bowing with the utmost affability to the troubled
sea of heads that inundated the open space in front; and from whence arose a
storm of groans, and shouts, and yells, and hootings, that would have done
honour to an earthquake.
    »There's Winkle,« said Mr. Tupman, pulling his friend by the sleeve.
    »Where?« said Mr. Pickwick, putting on his spectacles, which he had
fortunately kept in his pocket hitherto.
    »There,« said Mr. Tupman, »on the top of that house.« And there, sure
enough, in the leaden gutter of a tiled roof, were Mr. Winkle and Mrs. Pott,
comfortably seated in a couple of chairs, waving their handkerchiefs in token of
recognition - a compliment which Mr. Pickwick returned by kissing his hand to
the lady.
    The proceedings had not yet commenced; and as an inactive crowd is generally
disposed to be jocose, this very innocent action was sufficient to awaken their
facetiousness.
    »Oh you wicked old rascal,« cried one voice, »looking arter the girls, are
you?«
    »Oh you wenerable sinner,« cried another.
    »Putting on his spectacles to look at a married 'ooman!« said a third.
    »I see him a winkin' at her, with his wicked old eye,« shouted a fourth.
    »Look arter your wife, Pott,« bellowed a fifth; - and then there was a roar
of laughter.
    As these taunts were accompanied with invidious comparisons between Mr.
Pickwick and an aged ram, and several witticisms of the like nature; and as they
moreover rather tended to convey reflections upon the honour of an innocent
lady, Mr. Pickwick's indignation was excessive; but as silence was proclaimed at
the moment, he contented himself by scorching the mob with a look of pity for
their misguided minds, at which they laughed more boisterously than ever.
    »Silence!« roared the mayor's attendants.
    »Whiffin, proclaim silence,« said the mayor, with an air of pomp befitting
his lofty station. In obedience to this command the crier performed another
concerto on the bell, whereupon a gentleman in the crowd called out »muffins;«
which occasioned another laugh.
    »Gentlemen,« said the Mayor, at as loud a pitch as he could possibly force
his voice to, »Gentlemen. Brother electors of the Borough of Eatanswill. We are
met here to-day for the purpose of choosing a representative in the room of our
late -«
    Here the Mayor was interrupted by a voice in the crowd.
    »Suc-cess to the Mayor!« cried the voice, »and may he never desert the nail
and sarspan business, as he got his money by.«
    This allusion to the professional pursuits of the orator was received with a
storm of delight, which, with a bell-accompaniment, rendered the remainder of
his speech inaudible, with the exception of the concluding sentence, in which he
thanked the meeting for the patient attention with which they had heard him
throughout, - an expression of gratitude which elicited another burst of mirth,
of about a quarter of an hour's duration.
    Next, a tall thin gentleman, in a very stiff white neckerchief, after being
repeatedly desired by the crowd to »send a boy home, to ask whether he hadn't
left his woice under the pillow,« begged to nominate a fit and proper person to
represent them in Parliament. And when he said it was Horatio Fizkin, Esquire,
of Fizkin Lodge, near Eatanswill, the Fizkinites applauded, and the Slumkeyites
groaned, so long, and so loudly, that both he and the seconder might have sung
comic songs in lieu of speaking, without anybody's being a bit the wiser.
    The friends of Horatio Fizkin, Esquire, having had their innings, a little
choleric, pink-faced man stood forward to propose another fit and proper person
to represent the electors of Eatanswill in Parliament; and very swimmingly the
pink-faced gentleman would have gone on, if he had not been rather too choleric
to entertain a sufficient perception of the fun of the crowd. But after a very
few sentences of figurative eloquence, the pink-faced gentleman got from
denouncing those who interrupted him in the mob, to exchanging defiances with
the gentlemen on the hustings; whereupon arose an uproar which reduced him to
the necessity of expressing his feelings by serious pantomime, which he did, and
then left the stage to his seconder, who delivered a written speech of half an
hour's length, and wouldn't be stopped, because he had sent it all to the
Eatanswill Gazette, and the Eatanswill Gazette had already printed it, every
word.
    Then Horatio Fizkin, Esquire, of Fizkin Lodge, near Eatanswill, presented
himself for the purpose of addressing the electors; which he no sooner did, than
the band employed by the honourable Samuel Slumkey, commenced performing with a
power to which their strength in the morning was a trifle; in return for which,
the Buff crowd belaboured the heads and shoulders of the Blue crowd; on which
the Blue crowd endeavoured to dispossess themselves of their very unpleasant
neighbours the Buff crowd; and a scene of struggling, and pushing, and fighting,
succeeded, to which we can no more do justice than the Mayor could, although he
issued imperative orders to twelve constables to seize the ringleaders, who
might amount in number to two hundred and fifty, or thereabouts. At all these
encounters, Horatio Fizkin, Esquire, of Fizkin Lodge, and his friends, waxed
fierce and furious; until at last Horatio Fizkin, Esquire, of Fizkin Lodge,
begged to ask his opponent the honourable Samuel Slumkey, of Slumkey Hall,
whether that band played by his consent; which question the honourable Samuel
Slumkey declining to answer, Horatio Fizkin, Esquire, of Fizkin Lodge, shook his
fist in the countenance of the honourable Samuel Slumkey, of Slumkey Hall; upon
which the honourable Samuel Slumkey, his blood being up, defied Horatio Fizkin,
Esquire, to mortal combat. At this violation of all known rules and precedents
of order, the Mayor commanded another fantasia on the bell, and declared that he
would bring before himself, both Horatio Fizkin, Esquire, of Fizkin Lodge, and
the honourable Samuel Slumkey, of Slumkey Hall, and bind them over to keep the
peace. Upon this terrific denunciation, the supporters of the two candidates
interfered, and after the friends of each party had quarrelled in pairs, for
three-quarters of an hour, Horatio Fizkin, Esquire, touched his hat to the
honourable Samuel Slumkey: the honourable Samuel Slumkey touched his to Horatio
Fizkin, Esquire: the band was stopped: the crowd were partially quieted: and
Horatio Fizkin, Esquire, was permitted to proceed.
    The speeches of the two candidates, though differing in every other respect,
afforded a beautiful tribute to the merit and high worth of the electors of
Eatanswill. Both expressed their opinion that a more independent, a more
enlightened, a more public-spirited, a more noble-minded, a more disinterested
set of men than those who had promised to vote for him, never existed on earth;
each darkly hinted his suspicions that the electors in the opposite interest had
certain swinish and besotted infirmities which rendered them unfit for the
exercise of the important duties they were called upon to discharge. Fizkin
expressed his readiness to do anything he was wanted; Slumkey, his determination
to do nothing that was asked of him. Both said that the trade, the manufactures,
the commerce, the prosperity of Eatanswill, would ever be dearer to their hearts
than any earthly object; and each had it in his power to state, with the utmost
confidence, that he was the man who would eventually be returned.
    There was a show of hands; the Mayor decided in favour of the honourable
Samuel Slumkey, of Slumkey Hall. Horatio Fizkin, Esquire, of Fizkin Lodge,
demanded a poll, and a poll was fixed accordingly. Then a vote of thanks was
moved to the Mayor for his able conduct in the chair; and the Mayor devoutly
wishing that he had had a chair to display his able conduct in (for he had been
standing during the whole proceedings), returned thanks. The processions
re-formed, the carriages rolled slowly through the crowd, and its members
screeched and shouted after them as their feelings or caprice dictated.
    During the whole time of the polling, the town was in a perpetual fever of
excitement. Everything was conducted on the most liberal and delightful scale.
Exciseable articles were remarkably cheap at all the public-houses; and spring
vans paraded the streets for the accommodation of voters who were seized with
any temporary dizziness in the head - an epidemic which prevailed among the
electors, during the contest, to a most alarming extent, and under the influence
of which they might frequently be seen lying on the pavements in a state of
utter insensibility. A small body of electors remained unpolled on the very last
day. They were calculating and reflecting persons, who had not yet been
convinced by the arguments of either party, although they had had frequent
conferences with each. One hour before the close of the poll, Mr. Perker
solicited the honour of a private interview with these intelligent, these noble,
these patriotic men. It was granted. His arguments were brief, but satisfactory.
They went in a body to the poll; and when they returned, the honourable Samuel
Slumkey, of Slumkey Hall, was returned also.
 

                                  Chapter XIV

 Comprising a Brief Description of the Company at the Peacock Assembled; and a
                             Tale Told by a Bagman.

It is pleasant to turn from contemplating the strife and turmoil of political
existence, to the peaceful repose of private life. Although in reality no great
partisan of either side, Mr. Pickwick was sufficiently fired with Mr. Pott's
enthusiasm, to apply his whole time and attention to the proceedings, of which
the last chapter affords a description compiled from his own memoranda. Nor
while he was thus occupied was Mr. Winkle idle, his whole time being devoted to
pleasant walks and short country excursions with Mrs. Pott, who never failed,
when such an opportunity presented itself, to seek some relief from the tedious
monotony she so constantly complained of. The two gentlemen being thus
completely domesticated in the Editor's house, Mr. Tupman and Mr. Snodgrass were
in a great measure cast upon their own resources. Taking but little interest in
public affairs, they beguiled their time chiefly with such amusements as the
Peacock afforded, which were limited to a bagatelle-board in the first floor,
and a sequestered skittle-ground in the back yard. In the science and nicety of
both these recreations, which are far more abstruse than ordinary men suppose,
they were gradually initiated by Mr. Weller, who possessed a perfect knowledge
of such pastimes. Thus, notwithstanding that they were in a great measure
deprived of the comfort and advantage of Mr. Pickwick's society, they were still
enabled to beguile the time, and to prevent its hanging heavily on their hands.
    It was in the evening, however, that the Peacock presented attractions which
enabled the two friends to resist even the invitations of the gifted, though
prosy, Pott. It was in the evening that the commercial room was filled with a
social circle, whose characters and manners it was the delight of Mr. Tupman to
observe; whose sayings and doings it was the habit of Mr. Snodgrass to note
down.
    Most people know what sort of places commercial rooms usually are. That of
the Peacock differed in no material respect from the generality of such
apartments; that is to say, it was a large bare-looking room, the furniture of
which had no doubt been better when it was newer, with a spacious table in the
centre, and a variety of smaller dittos in the corners: an extensive assortment
of variously shaped chairs, and an old Turkey carpet, bearing about the same
relative proportion to the size of the room, as a lady's pocket-handkerchief
might to the floor of a watch-box. The walls were garnished with one or two
large maps; and several weather-beaten rough great coats, with complicated
capes, dangled from a long row of pegs in one corner. The mantelshelf was
ornamented with a wooden inkstand, containing one stump of a pen and half a
wafer: a road-book and directory: a county history minus the cover: and the
mortal remains of a trout in a glass coffin. The atmosphere was redolent of
tobacco-smoke, the fumes of which had communicated a rather dingy hue to the
whole room, and more especially to the dusty red curtains which shaded the
windows. On the side-board a variety of miscellaneous articles were huddled
together, the most conspicuous of which were some very cloudy fish-sauce cruets,
a couple of driving-boxes, two or three whips, and as many travelling shawls, a
tray of knives and forks, and the mustard.
    Here it was that Mr. Tupman and Mr. Snodgrass were seated on the evening
after the conclusion of the election, with several other temporary inmates of
the house, smoking and drinking.
    »Well, gents,« said a stout, hale personage of about forty, with only one
eye - a very bright black eye, which twinkled with a roguish expression of fun
and good humour, »our noble selves, gents. I always propose that toast to the
company, and drink Mary to myself. Eh, Mary!«
    »Get along with you, you wretch,« said the hand-maiden, obviously not ill
pleased with the compliment, however.
    »Don't go away, Mary,« said the black-eyed man.
    »Let me alone, imperence,« said the young lady.
    »Never mind,« said the one-eyed man, calling after the girl as she left the
room. »I'll step out by and by, Mary. Keep your spirits up, dear.« Here he went
through the not very difficult process of winking upon the company with his
solitary eye, to the enthusiastic delight of an elderly personage with a dirty
face and a clay pipe.
    »Rum creeters is women,« said the dirty-faced man, after a pause.
    »Ah! no mistake about that,« said a very red-faced man, behind a cigar.
    After this little bit of philosophy there was another pause.
    »There's rummer things than women in this world though, mind you,« said the
man with the black eye, slowly filling a large Dutch pipe, with a most capacious
bowl.
    »Are you married?« inquired the dirty-faced man.
    »Can't say I am.«
    »I thought not.« Here the dirty-faced man fell into fits of mirth at his own
retort, in which he was joined by a man of bland voice and placid countenance,
who always made it a point to agree with everybody.
    »Women, after all, gentlemen,« said the enthusiastic Mr. Snodgrass, »are the
great props and comforts of our existence.«
    »So they are,« said the placid gentleman.
    »When they're in a good humour,« interposed the dirty-faced man.
    »And that's very true,« said the placid one.
    »I repudiate that qualification,« said Mr. Snodgrass, whose thoughts were
fast reverting to Emily Wardle, »I repudiate it with disdain - with indignation.
Show me the man who says anything against women, as women, and I boldly declare
he is not a man.« And Mr. Snodgrass took his cigar from his mouth, and struck
the table violently with his clenched fist.
    »That's good sound argument,« said the placid man.
    »Containing a position which I deny,« interrupted he of the dirty
countenance.
    »And there's certainly a very great deal of truth in what you observe too,
sir,« said the placid gentleman.
    »Your health, sir,« said the bagman with the lonely eye, bestowing an
approving nod on Mr. Snodgrass.
    Mr. Snodgrass acknowledged the compliment.
    »I always like to hear a good argument,« continued the bagman, »a sharp one,
like this; it's very improving; but this little argument about women brought to
my mind a story I have heard an old uncle of mine tell, the recollection of
which, just now, made me say there were rummer things than women to be met with,
sometimes.«
    »I should like to hear that same story,« said the red-faced man with the
cigar.
    »Should you?« was the only reply of the bagman, who continued to smoke with
great vehemence.
    »So should I,« said Mr. Tupman, speaking for the first time. He was always
anxious to increase his stock of experience.
    »Should you? Well then, I'll tell it. No I won't. I know you won't believe
it,« said the man with the roguish eye, making that organ look more roguish than
ever.
    »If you say it's true, of course I shall,« said Mr. Tupman.
    »Well, upon that understanding I'll tell you,« replied the traveller. »Did
you ever hear of the great commercial house of Bilson and Slum? But it doesn't't
matter though, whether you did or not, because they retired from business long
since. It's eighty years ago, since the circumstance happened to a traveller for
that house, but he was a particular friend of my uncle's; and my uncle told the
story to me. It's a queer name; but he used to call it
 

                              The Bagman's Story,

and he used to tell it, something in this way.
    One winter's evening, about five o'clock, just as it began to grow dusk, a
man in a gig might have been seen urging his tired horse along the road which
leads across Marlborough Downs, in the direction of Bristol. I say he might have
been seen, and I have no doubt he would have been, if anybody but a blind man
had happened to pass that way; but the weather was so bad, and the night so cold
and wet, that nothing was out but the water, and so the traveller jogged along
in the middle of the road, lonesome and dreary enough. If any bagman of that day
could have caught sight of the little neck-or-nothing sort of gig, with a
clay-coloured body and red wheels, and the vixenish ill-tempered, fast-going bay
mare, that looked like a cross between a butcher's horse and a two-penny
post-office pony, he would have known at once, that this traveller could have
been no other than Tom Smart, of the great house of Bilson and Slum, Cateaton
Street, City. However, as there was no bagman to look on, nobody knew anything
at all about the matter; and so Tom Smart and his clay-coloured gig with the red
wheels, and the vixenish mare with the fast pace, went on together, keeping the
secret among them: and nobody was a bit the wiser.
    There are many pleasanter places even in this dreary world, than Marlborough
Downs when it blows hard; and if you throw in beside, a gloomy winter's evening,
a miry and sloppy road, and a pelting fall of heavy rain, and try the effect, by
way of experiment, in your own proper person, you will experience the full force
of this observation.
    The wind blew - not up the road or down it, though that's bad enough, but
sheer across it, sending the rain slanting down like the lines they used to rule
in the copy-books at school, to make the boys slope well. For a moment it would
die away, and the traveller would begin to delude himself into the belief that,
exhausted with its previous fury, it had quietly lain itself down to rest, when,
whoo! he would hear it growling and whistling in the distance, and on it would
come rushing over the hill-tops, and sweeping along the plain, gathering sound
and strength as it drew nearer, until it dashed with a heavy gust against horse
and man, driving the sharp rain into their ears, and its cold damp breath into
their very bones; and past them it would scour, far, far away, with a stunning
roar, as if in ridicule of their weakness, and triumphant in the consciousness
of its own strength and power.
    The bay mare splashed away, through the mud and water, with drooping ears;
now and then tossing her head as if to express her disgust at this very
ungentlemanly behaviour of the elements, but keeping a good pace
notwithstanding, until a gust of wind, more furious than any that had yet
assailed them, caused her to stop suddenly and plant her four feet firmly
against the ground, to prevent her being blown over. It's a special mercy that
she did this, for if she had been blown over, the vixenish mare was so light,
and the gig was so light, and Tom Smart such a light weight into the bargain,
that they must infallibly have all gone rolling over and over together, until
they reached the confines of earth, or until the wind fell; and in either case
the probability is, that neither the vixenish mare, nor the clay-coloured gig
with the red wheels, nor Tom Smart, would ever have been fit for service again.
    Well, damn my straps and whiskers, says Tom Smart, (Tom sometimes had an
unpleasant knack of swearing), Damn my straps and whiskers, says Tom, if this
ain't pleasant, blow me!
    You'll very likely ask me why, as Tom Smart had been pretty well blown
already, he expressed this wish to be submitted to the same process again. I
can't say - all I know is, that Tom Smart said so - or at least he always told
my uncle he said so, and it's just the same thing.
    Blow me, says Tom Smart; and the mare neighed as if she were precisely of
the same opinion.
    Cheer up, old girl, said Tom, patting the bay mare on the neck with the end
of his whip. It won't do pushing on, such a night as this; the first house we
come to we'll put up at, so the faster you go the sooner it's over. Soho, old
girl - gently - gently.
    Whether the vixenish mare was sufficiently well acquainted with the tones of
Tom's voice to comprehend his meaning, or whether she found it colder standing
still than moving on, of course I can't say. But I can say that Tom had no
sooner finished speaking, than she pricked up her ears, and started forward at a
speed which made the clay-coloured gig rattle till you would have supposed every
one of the red spokes were going to fly out on the turf of Marlborough Downs;
and even Tom, whip as he was, couldn't stop or check her pace, until she drew
up, of her own accord, before a road-side inn on the right-hand side of the way,
about half a quarter of a mile from the end of the Downs.
    Tom cast a hasty glance at the upper part of the house as he threw the reins
to the hostler, and stuck the whip in the box. It was a strange old place, built
of a kind of shingle, inlaid, as it were, with cross-beams, with gabled-topped
windows projecting completely over the pathway, and a low door with a dark
porch, and a couple of steep steps leading down into the house, instead of the
modern fashion of half a dozen shallow ones leading up to it. It was a
comfortable-looking place though, for there was a strong cheerful light in the
bar-window, which shed a bright ray across the road, and even lighted up the
hedge on the other side; and there was a red flickering light in the opposite
window, one moment but faintly discernible, and the next gleaming strongly
through the drawn curtains, which intimated that a rousing fire was blazing
within. Marking these little evidences with the eye of an experienced traveller,
Tom dismounted with as much agility as his half-frozen limbs would permit, and
entered the house.
    In less than five minutes' time, Tom was ensconced in the room opposite the
bar - the very room where he had imagined the fire blazing - before a
substantial matter-of-fact roaring fire, composed of something short of a bushel
of coals, and wood enough to make half a dozen decent gooseberry bushes, piled
half way up the chimney, and roaring and crackling with a sound that of itself
would have warmed the heart of any reasonable man. This was comfortable, but
this was not all, for a smartly dressed girl, with a bright eye and a neat
ankle, was laying a very clean white cloth on the table; and as Tom sat with his
slippered feet on the fender, and his back to the open door, he saw a charming
prospect of the bar reflected in the glass over the chimney-piece, with
delightful rows of green bottles and gold labels, together with jars of pickles
and preserves, and cheeses and boiled hams, and rounds of beef, arranged on
shelves in the most tempting and delicious array. Well, this was comfortable
too; but even this was not all - for in the bar, seated at tea at the nicest
possible little table, drawn close up before the brightest possible little fire,
was a buxom widow of somewhere about eight and forty or thereabouts, with a face
as comfortable as the bar, who was evidently the landlady of the house, and the
supreme ruler over all these agreeable possessions. There was only one drawback
to the beauty of the whole picture, and that was a tall man - a very tall man -
in a brown coat and bright basket buttons, and black whiskers, and wavy black
hair, who was seated at tea with the widow, and who it required no great
penetration to discover was in a fair way of persuading her to be a widow no
longer, but to confer upon him the privilege of sitting down in that bar, for
and during the whole remainder of the term of his natural life.
    Tom Smart was by no means of an irritable or envious disposition, but
somehow or other the tall man with the brown coat and the bright basket buttons
did rouse what little gall he had in his composition, and did make him feel
extremely indignant: the more especially as he could now and then observe, from
his seat before the glass, certain little affectionate familiarities passing
between the tall man and the widow, which sufficiently denoted that the tall man
was as high in favour as he was in size. Tom was fond of hot punch - I may
venture to say he was very fond of hot punch - and after he had seen the
vixenish mare well fed and well littered down, and had eaten every bit of the
nice little hot dinner which the widow tossed up for him with her own hands, he
just ordered a tumbler of it, by way of experiment. Now, if there was one thing
in the whole range of domestic art, which the widow could manufacture better
than another, it was this identical article; and the first tumbler was adapted
to Tom Smart's taste with such peculiar nicety, that he ordered a second with
the least possible delay. Hot punch is a pleasant thing, gentlemen - an
extremely pleasant thing under any circumstances - but in that snug old parlour,
before the roaring fire, with the wind blowing outside till every timber in the
old house creaked again, Tom Smart found it perfectly delightful. He ordered
another tumbler, and then another - I am not quite certain whether he didn't
order another after that - but the more he drank of the hot punch, the more he
thought of the tall man.
    Confound his impudence! said Tom to himself, what business has he in that
snug bar? Such an ugly villain too! said Tom. If the widow had any taste, she
might surely pick up some better fellow than that. Here Tom's eye wandered from
the glass on the chimney-piece, to the glass on the table; and as he felt
himself become gradually sentimental, he emptied the fourth tumbler of punch and
ordered a fifth.
    Tom Smart, gentlemen, had always been very much attached to the public line.
It had long been his ambition to stand in a bar of his own, in a green coat,
knee-cords, and tops. He had a great notion of taking the chair at convivial
dinners, and he had often thought how well he could preside in a room of his own
in the talking way, and what a capital example he could set to his customers in
the drinking department. All these things passed rapidly through Tom's mind as
he sat drinking the hot punch by the roaring fire, and he felt very justly and
properly indignant that the tall man should be in a fair way of keeping such an
excellent house, while he, Tom Smart, was as far from it as ever. So, after
deliberating over the last two tumblers, whether he hadn't a perfect right to
pick a quarrel with the tall man for having contrived to get into the good
graces of the buxom widow, Tom Smart at last arrived at the satisfactory
conclusion that he was a very ill-used and persecuted individual, and had better
go to bed.
    Up a wide and ancient staircase the smart girl preceded Tom, shading the
chamber candle with her hand, to protect it from the currents of air which in
such a rambling old place might have found plenty of room to disport themselves
in, without blowing the candle out, but which did blow it out nevertheless; thus
affording Tom's enemies an opportunity of asserting that it was he, and not the
wind, who extinguished the candle, and that while he pretended to be blowing it
alight again, he was in fact kissing the girl. Be this as it may, another light
was obtained, and Tom was conducted through a maze of rooms, and a labyrinth of
passages, to the apartment which had been prepared for his reception, where the
girl bade him good night, and left him alone.
    It was a good large room with big closets, and a bed which might have served
for a whole boarding-school, to say nothing of a couple of oaken presses that
would have held the baggage of a small army; but what struck Tom's fancy most
was a strange, grim-looking high-backed chair, carved in the most fantastic
manner, with a flowered damask cushion, and the round knobs at the bottom of the
legs carefully tied up in red cloth, as if it had got the gout in its toes. Of
any other queer chair, Tom would only have thought it was a queer chair, and
there would have been an end of the matter; but there was something about this
particular chair, and yet he couldn't tell what it was, so odd and so unlike any
other piece of furniture he had ever seen that it seemed to fascinate him. He
sat down before the fire, and stared at the old chair for half an hour; - Deuce
take the chair, it was such a strange old thing, he couldn't take his eyes off
it.
    Well, said Tom, slowly undressing himself, and staring at the old chair all
the while, which stood with a mysterious aspect by the bedside, I never saw such
a rum concern as that in my days. Very odd, said Tom, who had got rather sage
with the hot punch, Very odd. Tom shook his head with an air of profound wisdom,
and looked at the chair again. He couldn't make anything of it though, so he got
into bed, covered himself up warm, and fell asleep.
    In about half an hour, Tom woke up, with a start, from a confused dream of
tall men and tumblers of punch: and the first object that presented itself to
his waking imagination was the queer chair.
    I won't look at it any more, said Tom to himself, and he squeezed his
eyelids together, and tried to persuade himself he was going to sleep again. No
use; nothing but queer chairs danced before his eyes, kicking up their legs,
jumping over each other's backs, and playing all kinds of antics.
    I may as well see one real chair, as two or three complete sets of false
ones, said Tom, bringing out his head from under the bed-clothes. There it was,
plainly discernible by the light of the fire, looking as provoking as ever.
    Tom gazed at the chair; and, suddenly as he looked at it, a most
extraordinary change seemed to come over it. The carving of the back gradually
assumed the lineaments and expression of an old shrivelled human face; the
damask cushion became an antique, flapped waistcoat; the round knobs grew into a
couple of feet, encased in red cloth slippers; and the old chair looked like a
very ugly old man, of the previous century, with his arms a-kimbo. Tom sat up in
bed, and rubbed his eyes to dispel the illusion. No. The chair was an ugly old
gentleman; and what was more, he was winking at Tom Smart.
    Tom was naturally a headlong, careless sort of dog, and he had had five
tumblers of hot punch into the bargain; so, although he was a little startled at
first, he began to grow rather indignant when he saw the old gentleman winking
and leering at him with such an impudent air. At length he resolved that he
wouldn't stand it; and as the old face still kept winking away as fast as ever,
Tom said, in a very angry tone:
    What the devil are you winking at me for?
    Because I like it, Tom Smart, said the chair; or the old gentleman,
whichever you like to call him. He stopped winking though, when Tom spoke, and
began grinning like a superannuated monkey.
    How do you know my name, old nut-cracker face! inquired Tom Smart, rather
staggered; - though he pretended to carry it off so well.
    Come, come, Tom, said the old gentleman, that's not the way to address solid
Spanish Mahogany. Dam'me, you couldn't treat me with less respect if I was
veneered. When the old gentleman said this, he looked so fierce that Tom began
to be frightened.
    I didn't mean to treat you with any disrespect, sir, said Tom; in a much
humbler tone than he had spoken in at first.
    Well, well, said the old fellow, perhaps not - perhaps not. Tom -.
    Sir -
    I know everything about you, Tom; everything. You're very poor, Tom.
    I certainly am, said Tom Smart. But how came you to know that?
    Never mind that, said the old gentleman; you're much too fond of punch, Tom.
    Tom Smart was just on the point of protesting that he hadn't tasted a drop
since his last birth-day, but when his eye encountered that of the old
gentleman, he looked so knowing that Tom blushed, and was silent.
    Tom, said the old gentleman, the widow's a fine woman - remarkably fine
woman - eh, Tom? Here the old fellow screwed up his eyes, cocked up one of his
wasted little legs, and looked altogether so unpleasantly amorous, that Tom was
quite disgusted with the levity of his behaviour; - at his time of life, too!
    I am her guardian, Tom, said the old gentleman.
    Are you? inquired Tom Smart.
    I knew her mother, Tom, said the old fellow; and her grandmother. She was
very fond of me - made me this waistcoat, Tom.
    Did she? said Tom Smart.
    And these shoes, said the old fellow, lifting up one of the red-cloth
mufflers; but don't mention it, Tom. I shouldn't like to have it known that she
was so much attached to me. It might occasion some unpleasantness in the family.
When the old rascal said this, he looked so extremely impertinent, that, as Tom
Smart afterwards declared, he could have sat upon him without remorse.
    I have been a great favourite among the women in my time, Tom, said the
profligate old debauchee; hundreds of fine women have sat in my lap for hours
together. What do you think of that, you dog, eh! The old gentleman was
proceeding to recount some other exploits of his youth, when he was seized with
such a violent fit of creaking that he was unable to proceed.
    Just serves you right, old boy, thought Tom Smart; but he didn't say
anything.
    Ah! said the old fellow, I am a good deal troubled with this now. I am
getting old, Tom, and have lost nearly all my rails. I have had an operation
performed, too - a small piece let into my back - and I found it a severe trial,
Tom.
    I dare say you did, sir, said Tom Smart.
    However, said the old gentleman, that's not the point. Tom! I want you to
marry the widow.
    Me, sir! said Tom.
    You; said the old gentleman.
    Bless your reverend locks, said Tom - (he had a few scattered horse-hairs
left), bless your reverend locks, she wouldn't have me. And Tom sighed
involuntarily, as he thought of the bar.
    Wouldn't she? said the old gentleman, firmly.
    No, no, said Tom; there's somebody else in the wind. A tall man - a
confoundedly tall man - with black whiskers.
    Tom, said the old gentleman; she will never have him.
    Won't she? said Tom. If you stood in the bar, old gentleman, you'd tell
another story.
    Pooh, pooh, said the old gentleman. I know all about that.
    About what? said Tom.
    The kissing behind the door, and all that sort of thing, Tom, said the old
gentleman. And here he gave another impudent look, which made Tom very wroth,
because as you all know, gentlemen, to hear an old fellow, who ought to know
better, talking about these things, is very unpleasant - nothing more so.
    I know all about that, Tom, said the old gentleman. I have seen it done very
often in my time, Tom, between more people than I should like to mention to you;
but it never came to anything after all.
    You must have seen some queer things, said Tom, with an inquisitive look.
    You may say that, now, replied the old fellow, with a very complicated wink.
I am the last of my family, Tom, said the old gentleman, with a melancholy sigh.
    Was it a large one? inquired Tom Smart.
    There were twelve of us, Tom, said the old gentleman; fine straight-backed,
handsome fellows as you'd wish to see. None of your modern abortions - all with
arms, and with a degree of polish, though I say it that should not, which would
have done your heart good to behold.
    And what's become of the others, sir? asked Tom Smart.
    The old gentleman applied his elbow to his eye as he replied, Gone, Tom,
gone. We had hard service, Tom, and they hadn't all my constitution. They got
rheumatic about the legs and arms, and went into kitchens and other hospitals;
and one of 'em, with long service and hard usage, positively lost his senses: -
he got so crazy that he was obliged to be burnt. Shocking thing that, Tom.
    Dreadful! said Tom Smart.
    The old fellow paused for a few minutes, apparently struggling with his
feelings of emotion, and then said:
    However, Tom, I am wandering from the point. This tall man, Tom, is a
rascally adventurer. The moment he married the widow, he would sell off all the
furniture, and run away. What would be the consequence? She would be deserted
and reduced to ruin, and I should catch my death of cold in some broker's shop.
    Yes, but -
    Don't interrupt me, said the old gentleman. Of you, Tom, I entertain a very
different opinion; for I well know that if you once settled yourself in a public
house, you would never leave it, as long as there was anything to drink within
its walls.
    I am very much obliged to you for your good opinion, sir, said Tom Smart.
    Therefore, resumed the old gentleman, in a dictatorial tone; you shall have
her, and he shall not.
    What is to prevent it? said Tom Smart, eagerly.
    This disclosure, replied the old gentleman; he is already married.
    How can I prove it? said Tom, starting half out of bed.
    The old gentleman untucked his arm from his side, and having pointed to one
of the oaken presses, immediately replaced it in its old position.
    He little thinks, said the old gentleman, that in the right hand pocket of a
pair of trousers in that press, he has left a letter, entreating him to return
to his disconsolate wife, with six - mark me, Tom - six babes, and all of them
small ones.
    As the old gentleman solemnly uttered these words, his features grew less
and less distinct, and his figure more shadowy. A film came over Tom Smart's
eyes. The old man seemed gradually blending into the chair, the damask waistcoat
to resolve into a cushion, the red slippers to shrink into little red cloth
bags. The light faded gently away, and Tom Smart fell back on his pillow, and
dropped asleep.
    Morning aroused Tom from the lethargic slumber, into which he had fallen on
the disappearance of the old man. He sat up in bed, and for some minutes vainly
endeavoured to recall the events of the preceding night. Suddenly they rushed
upon him. He looked at the chair; it was a fantastic and grim-looking piece of
furniture, certainly, but it must have been a remarkably ingenious and lively
imagination, that could have discovered any resemblance between it and an old
man.
    How are you, old boy? said Tom. He was bolder in the daylight - most men
are.
    The chair remained motionless, and spoke not a word.
    Miserable morning, said Tom. No. The chair would not be drawn into
conversation.
    Which press did you point to? - you can tell me that, said Tom. Devil a
word, gentlemen, the chair would say.
    It's not much trouble to open it, anyhow, said Tom, getting out of bed very
deliberately. He walked up to one of the presses. The key was in the lock; he
turned it, and opened the door. There was a pair of trousers there. He put his
hand into the pocket, and drew forth the identical letter the old gentleman had
described!
    Queer sort of thing, this, said Tom Smart; looking first at the chair and
then at the press, and then at the letter, and then at the chair again. Very
queer, said Tom. But, as there was nothing in either, to lessen the queerness,
he thought he might as well dress himself, and settle the tall man's business at
once - just to put him out of his misery.
    Tom surveyed the rooms he passed through, on his way down stairs, with the
scrutinising eye of a landlord; thinking it not impossible, that before long,
they and their contents would be his property. The tall man was standing in the
snug little bar, with his hands behind him, quite at home. He grinned vacantly
at Tom. A casual observer might have supposed he did it, only to show his white
teeth; but Tom Smart thought that a consciousness of triumph was passing through
the place where the tall man's mind would have been, if he had had any. Tom
laughed in his face; and summoned the landlady.
    Good morning, ma'am, said Tom Smart, closing the door of the little parlour
as the widow entered.
    Good morning, sir, said the widow. What will you take for breakfast, sir?
    Tom was thinking how he should open the case, so he made no answer.
    There's a very nice ham, said the widow, and a beautiful cold larded fowl.
Shall I send 'em in, sir?
    These words roused Tom from his reflections. His admiration of the widow
increased as she spoke. Thoughtful creature! Comfortable provider!
    Who is that gentleman in the bar, ma'am? inquired Tom.
    His name is Jinkins, sir, said the widow, slightly blushing.
    He's a tall man, said Tom.
    He is a very fine man, sir, replied the widow, and a very nice gentleman.
    Ah! said Tom.
    Is there anything more you want, sir? inquired the widow, rather puzzled by
Tom's manner.
    Why, yes, said Tom. My dear ma'am, will you have the kindness to sit down
for one moment?
    The widow looked much amazed, but she sat down, and Tom sat down too, close
beside her. I don't know how it happened, gentlemen - indeed my uncle used to
tell me that Tom Smart said he didn't know how it happened either - but somehow
or other the palm of Tom's hand fell upon the back of the widow's hand, and
remained there while he spoke.
    My dear ma'am, said Tom Smart - he had always a great notion of committing
the amiable - My dear ma'am, you deserve a very excellent husband; - you do
indeed.
    Lor, sir! said the widow - as well she might: Tom's mode of commencing the
conversation being rather unusual, not to say startling; the fact of his never
having set eyes upon her before the previous night, being taken into
consideration. Lor, sir!
    I scorn to flatter, my dear ma'am, said Tom Smart. You deserve a very
admirable husband, and whoever he is, he'll be a very lucky man. As Tom said
this his eye involuntarily wandered from the widow's face, to the comforts
around him.
    The widow looked more puzzled than ever, and made an effort to rise. Tom
gently pressed her hand, as if to detain her, and she kept her seat. Widows,
gentlemen, are not usually timorous, as my uncle used to say.
    I am sure I am very much obliged to you, sir, for your good opinion, said
the buxom landlady, half laughing; and if ever I marry again -
    If, said Tom Smart, looking very shrewdly out of the right-hand corner of
his left eye. If -
    Well, said the widow, laughing outright this time. When I do, I hope I shall
have as good a husband as you describe.
    Jinkins to wit, said Tom.
    Lor, sir! exclaimed the widow.
    Oh, don't tell me, said Tom, I know him.
    I am sure nobody who knows him, knows anything bad of him, said the widow,
bridling up at the mysterious air with which Tom had spoken.
    Hem! said Tom Smart.
    The widow began to think it was high time to cry, so she took out her
handkerchief, and inquired whether Tom wished to insult her: whether he thought
it like a gentleman to take away the character of another gentleman behind his
back: why, if he had got anything to say, he didn't say it to the man, like a
man, instead of terrifying a poor weak woman in that way; and so forth.
    I'll say it to him fast enough, said Tom, only I want you to hear it first.
    What is it? inquired the widow, looking intently in Tom's countenance.
    I'll astonish you, said Tom, putting his hand in his pocket.
    If it is, that he wants money, said the widow, I know that already, and you
needn't trouble yourself.
    Pooh, nonsense, that's nothing, said Tom Smart. I want money. 'Tan't that.
    Oh, dear, what can it be? exclaimed the poor widow.
    Don't be frightened, said Tom Smart. He slowly drew forth the letter, and
unfolded it. You won't scream? said Tom, doubtfully.
    No, no, replied the widow; let me see it.
    You won't go fainting away, or any of that nonsense? said Tom.
    No, no, returned the widow, hastily.
    And don't run out, and blow him up, said Tom, because I'll do all that for
you; you had better not exert yourself.
    Well, well, said the widow, let me see it.
    I will, replied Tom Smart; and, with these words, he placed the letter in
the widow's hand.
    Gentlemen, I have heard my uncle say, that Tom Smart said the widow's
lamentations when she heard the disclosure would have pierced a heart of stone.
Tom was certainly very tender-hearted, but they pierced his, to the very core.
The widow rocked herself to and fro, and wrung her hands.
    Oh, the deception and villainy of man! said the widow.
    Frightful, my dear ma'am; but compose yourself, said Tom Smart.
    Oh, I can't compose myself, shrieked the widow. I shall never find any one
else I can love so much!
    Oh yes, you will, my dear soul, said Tom Smart, letting fall a shower of the
largest sized tears, in pity for the widow's misfortunes. Tom Smart, in the
energy of his compassion, had put his arm round the widow's waist; and the
widow, in a passion of grief, had clasped Tom's hand. She looked up in Tom's
face, and smiled through her tears. Tom looked down in hers, and smiled through
his.
    I never could find out, gentlemen, whether Tom did or did not kiss the widow
at that particular moment. He used to tell my uncle he didn't, but I have my
doubts about it. Between ourselves, gentlemen, I rather think he did.
    At all events, Tom kicked the very tall man out at the front door half an
hour after, and married the widow a month after. And he used to drive about the
country, with the clay-coloured gig with red wheels, and the vixenish mare with
the fast pace, till he gave up business many years afterwards, and went to
France with his wife; and then the old house was pulled down.«
 
»Will you allow me to ask you,« said the inquisitive old gentleman, »what became
of the chair?«
    »Why,« replied the one-eyed bagman, »it was observed to creak very much on
the day of the wedding; but Tom Smart couldn't say for certain whether it was
with pleasure or bodily infirmity. He rather thought it was the latter, though,
for it never spoke afterwards.«
    »Everybody believed the story, didn't they?« said the dirty-faced man,
re-filling his pipe.
    »Except Tom's enemies,« replied the bagman. »Some of 'em said Tom invented
it altogether; and others said he was drunk, and fancied it, and got hold of the
wrong trousers by mistake before he went to bed. But nobody ever minded what
they said.«
    »Tom said it was all true?«
    »Every word.«
    »And your uncle?«
    »Every letter.«
    »They must have been very nice men, both of 'em;« said the dirty-faced man.
    »Yes, they were,« replied the bagman; »very nice men indeed!«
 

                                   Chapter XV

 In Which is Given a Faithful Portraiture of Two Distinguished Persons: and an
  Accurate Description of a Public Breakfast in Their House and Grounds; Which
   Public Breakfast Leads to the Recognition of an Old Acquaintance, and the
                        Commencement of Another Chapter.

Mr. Pickwick's conscience had been somewhat reproaching him for his recent
neglect of his friends at the Peacock; and he was just on the point of walking
forth in quest of them, on the third morning after the election had terminated,
when his faithful valet put into his hand a card, on which was engraved the
following inscription: -
 
                                Mrs. Leo Hunter
                              The Den. Eatanswill.
 
»Person's a waiting',« said Sam, epigrammatically.
    »Does the person want me, Sam?« inquired Mr. Pickwick.
    »He wants you particklar; and no one else'll do, as the Devil's private
secretary said ven he fetched away Doctor Faustus,« replied Mr. Weller.
    »He. Is it a gentleman?« said Mr. Pickwick.
    »A very good imitation o' one, if it an't,« replied Mr. Weller.
    »But this is a lady's card,« said Mr. Pickwick.
    »Given me by a gen'l'm'n, hows'ever,« replied Sam, »and he's a waiting' in
the drawing-room - said he'd rather wait all day, than not see you.«
    Mr. Pickwick, on hearing this determination, descended to the drawing-room,
where sat a grave man, who started up on his entrance, and said, with an air of
profound respect:
    »Mr. Pickwick, I presume?«
    »The same.«
    »Allow me, sir, the honour of grasping your hand. Permit me, sir, to shake
it,« said the grave man.
    »Certainly,« said Mr. Pickwick.
    The stranger shook the extended hand, and then continued.
    »We have heard of your fame, sir. The noise of your antiquarian discussion
has reached the ears of Mrs. Leo Hunter - my wife, sir; I am Mr. Leo Hunter« -
the stranger paused, as if he expected that Mr. Pickwick would be overcome by
the disclosure; but seeing that he remained perfectly calm, proceeded.
    »My wife, sir - Mrs. Leo Hunter - is proud to number among her acquaintance
all those who have rendered themselves celebrated by their works and talents.
Permit me, sir, to place in a conspicuous part of the list the name of Mr.
Pickwick, and his brother members of the club that derives its name from him.«
    »I shall be extremely happy to make the acquaintance of such a lady, sir,«
replied Mr. Pickwick.
    »You shall make it, sir,« said the grave man. »To-morrow morning, sir, we
give a public breakfast - a fête champetre - to a great number of those who have
rendered themselves celebrated by their works and talents. Permit Mrs. Leo
Hunter, sir, to have the gratification of seeing you at the Den.«
    »With great pleasure,« replied Mr. Pickwick.
    »Mrs. Leo Hunter has many of these breakfasts, sir,« resumed the new
acquaintance - »feasts of reason, sir, and flows of soul, as somebody who wrote
a sonnet to Mrs. Leo Hunter on her breakfasts, feelingly and originally
observed.«
    »Was he celebrated for his works and talents?« inquired Mr. Pickwick.
    »He was, sir,« replied the grave man, »all Mrs. Leo Hunter's acquaintance
are; it is her ambition, sir, to have no other acquaintance.«
    »It is a very noble ambition,« said Mr. Pickwick.
    »When I inform Mrs. Leo Hunter, that that remark fell from your lips, sir,
she will indeed be proud,« said the grave man. »You have a gentleman in your
train, who has produced some beautiful little poems, I think, sir.«
    »My friend Mr. Snodgrass has a great taste for poetry,« replied Mr.
Pickwick.
    »So has Mrs. Leo Hunter, sir. She doats on poetry, sir. She adores it; I may
say that her whole soul and mind are wound up, and entwined with it. She has
produced some delightful pieces, herself, sir. You may have met with her Ode to
an Expiring Frog, sir.«
    »I don't think I have,« said Mr. Pickwick.
    »You astonish me, sir,« said Mr. Leo Hunter. »It created an immense
sensation. It was signed with an L and eight stars, and appeared originally in a
Lady's Magazine. It commenced
 
Can I view thee panting, lying
On thy stomach, without sighing;
Can I unmoved see thee dying
On a log,
Expiring frog!«
 
»Beautiful!« said Mr. Pickwick.
    »Fine,« said Mr. Leo Hunter, »so simple.«
    »Very,« said Mr. Pickwick.
    »The next verse is still more touching. Shall I repeat it?«
    »If you please,« said Mr. Pickwick.
    »It runs thus,« said the grave man, still more gravely.
 
»Say, have fiends in shape of boys,
With wild halloo, and brutal noise,
Hunted thee from marshy joys,
With a dog,
Expiring frog!«
 
»Finely expressed,« said Mr. Pickwick.
    »All point, sir,« said Mr. Leo Hunter, »but you shall hear Mrs. Leo Hunter
repeat it. She can do justice to it, sir. She will repeat it, in character, sir,
to-morrow morning.«
    »In character!«
    »As Minerva. But I forgot - it's a fancy-dress breakfast.«
    »Dear me,« said Mr. Pickwick, glancing at his own figure - »I can't possibly
-«
    »Can't, sir; can't!« exclaimed Mr. Leo Hunter. »Solomon Lucas, the Jew in
the High Street, has thousands of fancy dresses. Consider, sir, how many
appropriate characters are open for your selection. Plato, Zeno, Epicurus,
Pythagoras - all founders of clubs.«
    »I know that,« said Mr. Pickwick, »but as I cannot put myself in competition
with those great men, I cannot presume to wear their dresses.«
    The grave man considered deeply, for a few seconds, and then said,
    »On reflection, sir, I don't know whether it would not afford Mrs. Leo
Hunter greater pleasure, if her guests saw a gentleman of your celebrity in his
own costume, rather than in an assumed one. I may venture to promise an
exception in your case, sir - yes, I am quite certain that on behalf of Mrs. Leo
Hunter, I may venture to do so.«
    »In that case,« said Mr. Pickwick, »I shall have great pleasure in coming.«
    »But I waste your time, sir,« said the grave man, as if suddenly
recollecting himself. »I know its value, sir. I will not detain you. I may tell
Mrs. Leo Hunter, then, that she may confidently expect you and your
distinguished friends? Good morning, sir, I am proud to have beheld so eminent a
personage - not a step, sir; not a word.« And without giving Mr. Pickwick time
to offer remonstrance or denial, Mr. Leo Hunter stalked gravely away.
    Mr. Pickwick took up his hat, and repaired to the Peacock, but Mr. Winkle
had conveyed the intelligence of the fancy ball there, before him.
    »Mrs. Pott's going,« were the first words with which he saluted his leader.
    »Is she?« said Mr. Pickwick.
    »As Apollo,« replied Mr. Winkle. »Only Pott objects to the tunic.
    He is right. He is quite right,« said Mr. Pickwick emphatically.
    »Yes; - so she's going to wear a white satin gown with gold spangles.«
    »They'll hardly know what she's meant for; will they?« inquired Mr.
Snodgrass.
    »Of course they will,« replied Mr. Winkle indignantly. »They'll see her
lyre, won't they?«
    »True; I forgot that,« said Mr. Snodgrass.
    »I shall go as a Bandit,« interrupted Mr. Tupman.
    »What!« said Mr. Pickwick, with a sudden start.
    »As a bandit,« repeated Mr. Tupman, mildly.
    »You don't mean to say,« said Mr. Pickwick, gazing with solemn sternness at
his friend, »You don't mean to say, Mr. Tupman, that it is your intention to put
yourself into a green velvet jacket, with a two-inch tail?«
    »Such is my intention, sir,« replied Mr. Tupman warmly. »And why not, sir?«
    »Because, sir,« said Mr. Pickwick, considerably excited. »Because you are
too old, sir.«
    »Too old!« exclaimed Mr. Tupman.
    »And if any further ground of objection be wanting,« continued Mr. Pickwick,
»you are too fat, sir.«
    »Sir,« said Mr. Tupman, his face suffused with a crimson glow. »This is an
insult.«
    »Sir,« replied Mr. Pickwick in the same tone, »It is not half the insult to
you, that your appearance in my presence in a green velvet jacket, with a
two-inch tail, would be to me.«
    »Sir,« said Mr. Tupman, »you're a fellow.«
    »Sir,« said Mr. Pickwick, »you're another!«
    Mr. Tupman advanced a step or two, and glared at Mr. Pickwick. Mr. Pickwick
returned the glare, concentrated into a focus by means of his spectacles, and
breathed a bold defiance. Mr. Snodgrass and Mr. Winkle looked on, petrified at
beholding such a scene between two such men.
    »Sir,« said Mr. Tupman, after a short pause, speaking in a low, deep voice,
»you have called me old.«
    »I have,« said Mr. Pickwick.
    »And fat.«
    »I reiterate the charge.«
    »And a fellow.«
    »So you are!«
    There was a fearful pause.
    »My attachment to your person, sir,« said Mr. Tupman, speaking in a voice
tremulous with emotion, and tucking up his wristbands meanwhile, »is great -
very great - but upon that person, I must take summary vengeance.«
    »Come on, sir!« replied Mr. Pickwick. Stimulated by the exciting nature of
the dialogue, the heroic man actually threw himself into a paralytic attitude,
confidently supposed by the two by-standers to have been intended as a posture
of defence.
    »What!« exclaimed Mr. Snodgrass, suddenly recovering the power of speech, of
which intense astonishment had previously bereft him, and rushing between the
two, at the imminent hazard of receiving an application on the temple from each,
»What! Mr. Pickwick, with the eyes of the world upon you! Mr. Tupman! Who, in
common with us all, derives a lustre from his undying name! For shame,
gentlemen; for shame.«
    The unwonted lines which momentary passion had ruled in Mr. Pickwick's clear
and open brow, gradually melted away, as his young friend spoke, like the marks
of a black-lead pencil beneath the softening influence of India rubber. His
countenance had resumed its usual benign expression, ere he concluded.
    »I have been hasty,« said Mr. Pickwick, »very hasty. Tupman; your hand.«
    The dark shadow passed from Mr. Tupman's face, as he warmly grasped the hand
of his friend.
    »I have been hasty, too,« said he.
    »No, no,« interrupted Mr. Pickwick, »the fault was mine. You will wear the
green velvet jacket?«
    »No, no,« replied Mr. Tupman.
    »To oblige me, you will,« resumed Mr. Pickwick.
    »Well, well, I will,« said Mr. Tupman.
    It was accordingly settled that Mr. Tupman, Mr. Winkle, and Mr. Snodgrass,
should all wear fancy dresses. Thus Mr. Pickwick was led by the very warmth of
his own good feelings to give his consent to a proceeding from which his better
judgment would have recoiled - a more striking illustration of his amiable
character could hardly have been conceived, even if the events recorded in these
pages had been wholly imaginary.
    Mr. Leo Hunter had not exaggerated the resources of Mr. Solomon Lucas. His
wardrobe was extensive - very extensive - not strictly classical perhaps, nor
quite new, nor did it contain any one garment made precisely after the fashion
of any age or time, but everything was more or less spangled; and what can be
prettier than spangles! It may be objected that they are not adapted to the
daylight, but everybody knows that they would glitter if there were lamps; and
nothing can be clearer than that if people give fancy balls in the day-time, and
the dresses do not show quite as well as they would by night, the fault lies
solely with the people who give the fancy balls, and is in no wise chargeable on
the spangles. Such was the convincing reasoning of Mr. Solomon Lucas; and
influenced by such arguments did Mr. Tupman, Mr. Winkle, and Mr. Snodgrass,
engage to array themselves in costumes which his taste and experience induced
him to recommend as admirably suited to the occasion.
    A carriage was hired from the Town Arms, for the accommodation of the
Pickwickians, and a chariot was ordered from the same repository, for the
purpose of conveying Mr. and Mrs. Pott to Mrs. Leo Hunter's grounds, which Mr.
Pott, as a delicate acknowledgement of having received an invitation, had already
confidently predicted in the Eatanswill Gazette »would present a scene of varied
and delicious enchantment - a bewildering coruscation of beauty and talent - a
lavish and prodigal display of hospitality - above all, a degree of splendour
softened by the most exquisite taste; and adornment refined with perfect harmony
and the chastest good keeping - compared with which, the fabled gorgeousness of
Eastern Fairy-land itself, would appear to be clothed in as many dark and murky
colours, as must be the mind of the splenetic and unmanly being who could
presume to taint with the venom of his envy, the preparations making by the
virtuous and highly distinguished lady, at whose shrine this humble tribute of
admiration was offered.« This last was a piece of biting sarcasm against the
Independent, who in consequence of not having been invited at all, had been
through four numbers affecting to sneer at the whole affair, in his very largest
type, with all the adjectives in capital letters.
    The morning came: it was a pleasant sight to behold Mr. Tupman in full
Brigand's costume, with a very tight jacket, sitting like a pincushion over his
back and shoulders: the upper portion of his legs encased in the velvet shorts,
and the lower part thereof swathed in the complicated bandages to which all
Brigands are peculiarly attached. It was pleasing to see his open and ingenuous
countenance, well mustachioed and corked, looking out from an open shirt collar;
and to contemplate the sugar-loaf hat, decorated with ribbons of all colours,
which he was compelled to carry on his knee, inasmuch as no known conveyance
with a top to it would admit of any man's carrying it between his head and the
roof. Equally humourous and agreeable was the appearance of Mr. Snodgrass in
blue satin trunks and cloak, white silk tights and shoes, and Grecian helmet:
which everybody knows (and if they do not, Mr. Solomon Lucas did) to have been
the regular, authentic, every-day costume of a Troubadour, from the earliest
ages down to the time of their final disappearance from the face of the earth.
All this was pleasant, but this was as nothing compared with the shouting of the
populace when the carriage drew up, behind Mr. Pott's chariot, which chariot
itself drew up at Mr. Pott's door, which door itself opened, and displayed the
great Pott accoutred as a Russian officer of justice, with a tremendous knout in
his hand - tastefully typical of the stern and mighty power of the Eatanswill
Gazette, and the fearful lashings it bestowed on public offenders.
    »Bravo!« shouted Mr. Tupman and Mr. Snodgrass from the passage, when they
beheld the walking allegory.
    »Bravo!« Mr. Pickwick was heard to exclaim, from the passage.
    »Hoo - roar Pott!« shouted the populace. Amid these salutations, Mr. Pott,
smiling with that kind of bland dignity which sufficiently testified that he
felt his power, and knew how to exert it, got into the chariot.
    Then there emerged from the house, Mrs. Pott, who would have looked very
like Apollo if she hadn't had a gown on: conducted by Mr. Winkle, who in his
light-red coat, could not possibly have been mistaken for anything but a
sportsman, if he had not borne an equal resemblance to a general postman. Last
of all came Mr. Pickwick, whom the boys applauded as loud as anybody, probably
under the impression that his tights and gaiters were some remnants of the dark
ages; and then the two vehicles proceeded towards Mrs. Leo Hunter's: Mr. Weller
(who was to assist in waiting) being stationed on the box of that in which his
master was seated.
    Every one of the men, women, boys, girls, and babies, who were assembled to
see the visitors in their fancy dresses, screamed with delight and ecstasy, when
Mr. Pickwick, with the Brigand on one arm, and the Troubadour on the other,
walked solemnly up the entrance. Never were such shouts heard, as those which
greeted Mr. Tupman's efforts to fix the sugar-loaf hat on his head, by way of
entering the garden in style.
    The preparations were on the most delightful scale; fully realising the
prophetic Pott's anticipations about the gorgeousness of Eastern Fairy-land, and
at once affording a sufficient contradiction to the malignant statements of the
reptile Independent. The grounds were more than an acre and a quarter in extent,
and they were filled with people! Never was such a blaze of beauty, and fashion,
and literature. There was the young lady who did the poetry in the Eatanswill
Gazette, in the garb of a sultana, leaning upon the arm of the young gentleman
who did the review department, and who was appropriately habited in a field
marshal's uniform - the boots excepted. There were hosts of these geniuses, and
any reasonable person would have thought it honour enough to meet them. But more
than these, there were half a dozen lions from London - authors, real authors,
who had written whole books, and printed them afterwards - and here you might
see 'em, walking about, like ordinary men, smiling, and talking - aye, and
talking pretty considerable nonsense too, no doubt with the benign intention of
rendering themselves intelligible to the common people about them. Moreover,
there was a band of music in pasteboard caps; four something-ean singers in the
costume of their country, and a dozen hired waiters in the costume of their
country - and very dirty costume too. And above all, there was Mrs. Leo Hunter
in the character of Minerva, receiving the company, and overflowing with pride
and gratification at the notion of having called such distinguished individuals
together.
    »Mr. Pickwick, ma'am,« said a servant, as that gentleman approached the
presiding goddess, with his hat in his hand, and the Brigand and Troubadour on
either arm.
    »What! Where!« exclaimed Mrs. Leo Hunter, starting up, in an affected
rapture of surprise.
    »Here,« said Mr. Pickwick.
    »Is it possible that I have really the gratification of beholding Mr.
Pickwick himself!« ejaculated Mrs. Leo Hunter.
    »No other, ma'am,« replied Mr. Pickwick, bowing very low. »Permit me to
introduce my friends - Mr. Tupman - Mr. Winkle - Mr. Snodgrass - to the
authoress of The Expiring Frog.«
    Very few people but those who have tried it, know what a difficult process
it is, to bow in green velvet smalls, and a tight jacket, and high-crowned hat:
or in blue satin trunks and white silks: or knee-cords and top-boots that were
never made for the wearer, and have been fixed upon him without the remotest
reference to the comparative dimensions of himself and the suit. Never were such
distortions as Mr. Tupman's frame underwent in his efforts to appear easy and
graceful - never was such ingenious posturing, as his fancy-dressed friends
exhibited.
    »Mr. Pickwick,« said Mrs. Leo Hunter, »I must make you promise not to stir
from my side the whole day. There are hundreds of people here, that I must
positively introduce you to.«
    »You are very kind, ma'am,« said Mr. Pickwick.
    »In the first place, here are my little girls; I had almost forgotten them,«
said Minerva, carelessly pointing towards a couple of full-grown young ladies,
of whom one might be about twenty, and the other a year or two older, and who
were dressed in very juvenile costumes - whether to make them look young, or
their mamma younger, Mr. Pickwick does not distinctly inform us.
    »They are very beautiful,« said Mr. Pickwick, as the juveniles turned away,
after being presented.
    »They are very like their mamma, sir,« said Mr. Pott, majestically.
    »Oh you naughty man,« exclaimed Mrs. Leo Hunter, playfully tapping the
Editor's arm with her fan (Minerva with a fan!)
    »Why now, my dear Mrs. Hunter,« said Mr. Pott, who was trumpeter in ordinary
at the Den, »you know that when your picture was in the Exhibition of the Royal
Academy, last year, everybody inquired whether it was intended for you, or your
youngest daughter; for you were so much alike that there was no telling the
difference between you.«
    »Well, and if they did, why need you repeat it, before strangers?« said Mrs.
Leo Hunter, bestowing another tap on the slumbering lion of the Eatanswill
Gazette.
    »Count, Count,« screamed Mrs. Leo Hunter to a well-whiskered individual in a
foreign uniform, who was passing by.
    »Ah! you want me?« said the Count, turning back.
    »I want to introduce two very clever people to each other,« said Mrs. Leo
Hunter. »Mr. Pickwick, I have great pleasure in introducing you to Count
Smorltork.« She added in a hurried whisper to Mr. Pickwick - »the famous
foreigner - gathering materials for his great work on England - hem! - Count
Smorltork, Mr. Pickwick.«
    Mr. Pickwick saluted the Count with all the reverence due to so great a man,
and the Count drew forth a set of tablets.
    »What you say, Mrs. Hunt?« inquired the Count, smiling graciously on the
gratified Mrs. Leo Hunter, »Pig Vig or Big Vig - what you call - Lawyer - eh? I
see - that is it. Big Vig« - and the Count was proceeding to enter Mr. Pickwick
in his tablets, as a gentleman of the long robe, who derived his name from the
profession to which he belonged, when Mrs. Leo Hunter interposed.
    »No, no, Count,« said the lady, »Pick-wick.«
    »Ah, ah, I see,« replied the Count. »Peek - christian name; Weeks - surname;
good, ver good. Peek Weeks. How you do, Weeks?«
    »Quite well, I thank you,« replied Mr. Pickwick, with all his usual
affability. »Have you been long in England?«
    »Long - ver long time - fortnight - more.«
    »Do you stay here long?«
    »One week.«
    »You will have enough to do,« said Mr. Pickwick, smiling, »to gather all the
materials you want, in that time.«
    »Eh, they are gathered,« said the Count.
    »Indeed!« said Mr. Pickwick.
    »They are here,« added the Count, tapping his forehead significantly. »Large
book at home - full of notes - music, picture, science, poetry, poltic; all
tings.«
    »The word politics, sir,« said Mr. Pickwick, »comprises, in itself, a
difficult study of no inconsiderable magnitude.«
    »Ah!« said the Count, drawing out the tablets again, »ver good - fine words
to begin a chapter. Chapter forty-seven. Poltics. The word poltic surprises by
himself -« And down went Mr. Pickwick's remark, in Count Smorltork's tablets,
with such variations and additions as the Count's exuberant fancy suggested, or
his imperfect knowledge of the language, occasioned.
    »Count,« said Mrs. Leo Hunter.
    »Mrs. Hunt,« replied the Count.
    »This is Mr. Snodgrass, a friend of Mr. Pickwick's, and a poet.«
    »Stop,« exclaimed the Count, bringing out the tablets once more. »Head,
potry - chapter, literary friends - name, Snowgrass; ver good. Introduced to
Snowgrass - great poet, friend of Peek Weeks - by Mrs. Hunt, which wrote other
sweet poem - what is that name? - Fog - Perspiring Fog - ver good - ver good
indeed.« And the Count put up his tablets, and with sundry bows and
acknowledgments walked away, thoroughly satisfied that he had made the most
important and valuable additions to his stock of information.
    »Wonderful man, Count Smorltork,« said Mrs. Leo Hunter.
    »Sound philosopher,« said Mr. Pott.
    »Clear-headed, strong-minded person,« added Mr. Snodgrass.
    A chorus of by-standers took up the shout of Count Smorltork's praise, shook
their heads sagely, and unanimously cried »Very!«
    As the enthusiasm in Count Smorltork's favour ran very high, his praises
might have been sung until the end of the festivities, if the four something-ean
singers had not ranged themselves in front of a small apple-tree, to look
picturesque, and commenced singing their national songs, which appeared by no
means difficult of execution, inasmuch as the grand secret seemed to be, that
three of the something-ean singers should grunt, while the fourth howled. This
interesting performance having concluded amidst the loud plaudits of the whole
company, a boy forthwith proceeded to entangle himself with the rails of a
chair, and to jump over it, and crawl under it, and fall down with it, and do
everything but sit upon it, and then to make a cravat of his legs, and tie them
round his neck, and then to illustrate the ease with which a human being can be
made to look like a magnified toad - all which feats yielded delight and
satisfaction to the assembled spectators. After which, the voice of Mrs. Pott
was heard to chirp faintly forth, something which courtesy interpreted into a
song, which was all very classical, and strictly in character, because Apollo
was himself a composer, and composers can very seldom sing their own music or
anybody else's, either. This was succeeded by Mrs. Leo Hunter's recitation of
her far-famed Ode to an Expiring Frog, which was encored once, and would have
been encored twice, if the major part of the guests, who thought it was high
time to get something to eat, had not said that it was perfectly shameful to
take advantage of Mrs. Hunter's good nature. So although Mrs. Leo Hunter
professed her perfect willingness to recite the ode again, her kind and
considerate friends wouldn't hear of it on any account; and the refreshment room
being thrown open, all the people who had ever been there before, scrambled in
with all possible despatch: Mrs. Leo Hunter's usual course of proceeding, being,
to issue cards for a hundred, and breakfast for fifty, or in other words to feed
only the very particular lions, and let the smaller animals take care of
themselves.
    »Where is Mr. Pott?« said Mrs. Leo Hunter, as she placed the aforesaid lions
around her.
    »Here I am,« said the editor, from the remotest end of the room; far beyond
all hope of food, unless something was done for him by the hostess.
    »Won't you come up here?«
    »Oh pray don't mind him,« said Mrs. Pott, in the most obliging voice - »you
give yourself a great deal of unnecessary trouble, Mrs. Hunter. You'll do very
well there, won't you - dear.«
    »Certainly - love,« replied the unhappy Pott, with a grim smile. Alas for
the knout! The nervous arm that wielded it, with such gigantic force, on public
characters, was paralysed beneath the glance of the imperious Mrs. Pott.
    Mrs. Leo Hunter looked round her in triumph. Count Smorltork was busily
engaged in taking notes of the contents of the dishes; Mr. Tupman was doing the
honours of the lobster salad to several lionesses, with a degree of grace which
no Brigand ever exhibited before; Mr. Snodgrass having cut out the young
gentleman who cut up the books for the Eatanswill Gazette, was engaged in an
impassioned argument with the young lady who did the poetry: and Mr. Pickwick
was making himself universally agreeable. Nothing seemed wanting to render the
select circle complete, when Mr. Leo Hunter - whose department on these
occasions, was to stand about in doorways, and talk to the less important people
- suddenly called out -
    »My dear; here's Mr. Charles Fitz-Marshall.«
    »Oh dear,« said Mrs. Leo Hunter, »how anxiously I have been expecting him.
Pray make room, to let Mr. Fitz-Marshall pass. Tell Mr. Fitz-Marshall, my dear,
to come up to me directly, to be scolded for coming so late.«
    »Coming, my dear ma'am,« cried a voice, »as quick as I can - crowds of
people - full room - hard work - very.«
    Mr. Pickwick's knife and fork fell from his hand. He stared across the table
at Mr. Tupman, who had dropped his knife and fork, and was looking as if he were
about to sink into the ground without further notice.
    »Ah!« cried the voice, as its owner pushed his way among the last five and
twenty Turks, officers, cavaliers, and Charles the Seconds, that remained
between him and the table, »regular mangle - Baker's patent - not a crease in my
coat, after all this squeezing - might have got up my linen as I came along -
ha! ha! not a bad idea, that - queer thing to have it mangled when it's upon
one, though - trying process - very.«
    With these broken words, a young man dressed as a naval officer made his way
up to the table, and presented to the astonished Pickwickians, the identical
form and features of Mr. Alfred Jingle.
    The offender had barely time to take Mrs. Leo Hunter's proffered hand, when
his eyes encountered the indignant orbs of Mr. Pickwick.
    »Hallo!« said Jingle. »Quite forgot - no directions to postilion - give 'em
at once - back in a minute.«
    »The servant, or Mr. Hunter will do it in a moment, Mr. Fitz-Marshall,« said
Mrs. Leo Hunter.
    »No, no - I'll do it - shan't be long - back in no time,« replied Jingle.
With these words he disappeared among the crowd.
    »Will you allow me to ask you, ma'am,« said the excited Mr. Pickwick, rising
from his seat, »who that young man is, and where he resides!«
    »He is a gentleman of fortune, Mr. Pickwick,« said Mrs. Leo Hunter, »to whom
I very much want to introduce you. The Count will be delighted with him.«
    »Yes, yes,« said Mr. Pickwick, hastily. »His residence -«
    »Is at present at the Angel at Bury.«
    »At Bury?«
    »At Bury St. Edmunds, not many miles from here. But dear me, Mr. Pickwick,
you are not going to leave us: surely, Mr. Pickwick, you cannot think of going
so soon.«
    But long before Mrs. Leo Hunter had finished speaking, Mr. Pickwick had
plunged through the throng, and reached the garden, whither he was shortly
afterwards joined by Mr. Tupman, who had followed his friend closely.
    »It's of no use,« said Mr. Tupman. »He has gone.«
    »I know it,« said Mr. Pickwick, »and I will follow him.«
    »Follow him! Where?« inquired Mr. Tupman.
    »To the Angel at Bury,« replied Mr. Pickwick, speaking very quickly. »How do
we know whom he is deceiving there? He deceived a worthy man once, and we were
the innocent cause. He shall not do it again, if I can help it; I'll expose him!
Where's my servant?«
    »Here you are, sir,« said Mr. Weller, emerging from a sequestered spot,
where he had been engaged in discussing a bottle of Madeira, which he had
abstracted from the breakfast-table, an hour or two before. »Here's your
servant, sir. Proud o' the title, as the Living Skellinton said, ven they show'd
him.«
    »Follow me instantly,« said Mr. Pickwick. »Tupman, if I stay at Bury, you
can join me there, when I write. Till then, good-bye!«
    Remonstrances were useless. Mr. Pickwick was roused, and his mind was made
up. Mr. Tupman returned to his companions; and in another hour had drowned all
present recollection of Mr. Alfred Jingle, or Mr. Charles Fitz-Marshall, in an
exhilarating quadrille and a bottle of champagne. By that time, Mr. Pickwick and
Sam Weller, perched on the outside of a stage coach, were every succeeding
minute placing a less and less distance between themselves and the good old town
of Bury St. Edmunds.
 

                                  Chapter XVI

                 Too Full of Adventure To Be Briefly Described.

There is no month in the whole year, in which nature wears a more beautiful
appearance than in the month of August. Spring has many beauties, and May is a
fresh and blooming month, but the charms of this time of year are enhanced by
their contrast with the winter season. August has no such advantage. It comes
when we remember nothing but clear skies, green fields and sweet-smelling
flowers - when the recollection of snow, and ice, and bleak winds, has faded
from our minds as completely as they have disappeared from the earth, - and yet
what a pleasant time it is! Orchards and corn-fields ring with the hum of
labour; trees bend beneath the thick clusters of rich fruit which bow their
branches to the ground; and the corn, piled in graceful sheaves, or waving in
every light breath that sweeps above it, as if it wooed the sickle, tinges the
landscape with a golden hue. A mellow softness appears to hang over the whole
earth; the influence of the season seems to extend itself to the very wagon,
whose slow motion across the well-reaped field, is perceptible only to the eye,
but strikes with no harsh sound upon the ear.
    As the coach rolls swiftly past the fields and orchards which skirt the
road, groups of women and children, piling the fruit in sieves, or gathering the
scattered ears of corn, pause for an instant from their labour, and shading the
sun-burnt face with a still browner hand, gaze upon the passengers with curious
eyes, while some stout urchin, too small to work, but too mischievous to be left
at home, scrambles over the side of the basket in which he has been deposited
for security, and kicks and screams with delight. The reaper stops in his work,
and stands with folded arms, looking at the vehicle as it whirls past; and the
rough cart horses bestow a sleepy glance upon the smart coach team, which says,
as plainly as a horse's glance can, »It's all very fine to look at, but slow
going, over a heavy field, is better than warm work like that, upon a dusty
road, after all.« You cast a look behind you, as you turn a corner of the road.
The women and children have resumed their labour: the reaper once more stoops to
his work: the cart-horses have moved on: and all are again in motion.
    The influence of a scene like this, was not lost upon the well-regulated
mind of Mr. Pickwick. Intent upon the resolution he had formed, of exposing the
real character of the nefarious Jingle, in any quarter in which he might be
pursuing his fraudulent designs, he sat at first taciturn and contemplative,
brooding over the means by which his purpose could be best attained. By degrees
his attention grew more and more attracted by the objects around him; and at
last he derived as much enjoyment from the ride, as if it had been undertaken
for the pleasantest reason in the world.
    »Delightful prospect, Sam,« said Mr. Pickwick.
    »Beats the chimley pots, sir,« replied Mr. Weller, touching his hat.
    »I suppose you have hardly seen anything but chimney-pots and bricks and
mortar all your life, Sam,« said Mr. Pickwick, smiling.
    »I worn't always a boots, sir,« said Mr. Weller, with a shake of the head.
»I wos a wagginer's boy, once.«
    »When was that?« inquired Mr. Pickwick.
    »When I wos first pitched neck and crop into the world, to play at leap-frog
with its troubles,« replied Sam. »I wos a carrier's boy at startin': then a
vagginer's, then a helper, then a boots. Now I'm a gen'l'm'n's servant. I shall
be a gen'l'm'n myself one of these days, perhaps, with a pipe in my mouth, and a
summer-house in the back garden. Who knows? I shouldn't be surprised, for one.«
    »You are quite a philosopher, Sam,« said Mr. Pickwick.
    »It runs in the family, I b'lieve, sir,« replied Mr. Weller. »My father's
very much in that line, now. If my mother-in-law blows him up, he whistles. She
flies in a passion, and breaks his pipe; he steps out, and gets another. Then
she screams very loud, and falls into 'sterics; and he smokes very comfortably
'till she comes to again. That's philosophy, sir, an't it?«
    »A very good substitute for it, at all events,« replied Mr. Pickwick,
laughing. »It must have been of great service to you, in the course of your
rambling life, Sam.«
    »Service, sir,« exclaimed Sam. »You may say that. Arter I run away from the
carrier, and afore I took up with the wagginer, I had unfurnished lodgin's for a
fortnight.«
    »Unfurnished lodgings?« said Mr. Pickwick.
    »Yes - the dry arches of Waterloo Bridge. Fine sleeping-place - within ten
minutes' walk of all the public offices - only if there is any objection to it,
it is that the sitivation's rather too airy. I see some queer sights there.«
    »Ah, I suppose you did,« said Mr. Pickwick, with an air of considerable
interest.
    »Sights, sir,« resumed Mr. Weller, »as 'ud penetrate your benevolent heart,
and come out on the other side. You don't see the reg'lar wagrants there; trust
'em, they knows better than that. Young beggars, male and female, as hasn't made
a rise in their profession, takes up their quarters there sometimes; but it's
generally the worn-out, starving, houseless creeturs as rolls themselves in the
dark corners o' them lonesome places - poor creeturs as an't up to the twopenny
rope.«
    »And, pray, Sam, what is the twopenny rope?« inquired Mr. Pickwick.
    »The twopenny rope, sir,« replied Mr. Weller, »is just a cheap lodgin'
house, where the beds is twopence a night.«
    »What do they call a bed a rope for?« said Mr. Pickwick.
    »Bless your innocence, sir, that a'nt it,« replied Sam. »Wen the lady and
gen'l'm'n as keeps the Hot-el first begun business they used to make the beds on
the floor; but this wouldn't do at no price, 'cos instead o' taking a moderate
twopenn'orth o' sleep, the lodgers used to lie there half the day. So now they
has two ropes, 'bout six foot apart, and three from the floor, which goes right
down the room; and the beds are made of slips of coarse sacking, stretched
across 'em.«
    »Well,« said Mr. Pickwick.
    »Well,« said Mr. Weller, »the adwantage o' the plan's hobvious. At six
o'clock every mornin' they lets go the ropes at one end, and down falls all the
lodgers. 'Consequence is, that being thoroughly waked, they get up very quietly,
and walk away! Beg your pardon, sir,« said Sam, suddenly breaking off in his
loquacious discourse. »Is this Bury St. Edmunds?«
    »It is,« replied Mr. Pickwick.
    The coach rattled through the well-paved streets of a handsome little town,
of thriving and cleanly appearance, and stopped before a large inn situated in a
wide open street, nearly facing the old abbey.
    »And this,« said Mr. Pickwick, looking up, »is the Angel! We alight here,
Sam. But some caution is necessary. Order a private room, and do not mention my
name. You understand.«
    »Right as a trivet, sir,« replied Mr. Weller, with a wink of intelligence;
and having dragged Mr. Pickwick's portmanteau from the hind boot, into which it
had been hastily thrown when they joined the coach at Eatanswill, Mr. Weller
disappeared on his errand. A private room was speedily engaged; and into it Mr.
Pickwick was ushered without delay.
    »Now, Sam,« said Mr. Pickwick, »the first thing to be done is to -«
    »Order dinner, sir,« interposed Mr. Weller. »It's very late, sir.«
    »Ah, so it is,« said Mr. Pickwick, looking at his watch. »You are right,
Sam.«
    »And if I might adwise, sir,« added Mr. Weller, »I'd just have a good
night's rest afterwards, and not begin inquiring arter this here deep 'un 'till
the mornin'. There's nothing' so refreshin' as sleep, sir, as the servant-girl
said afore she drank the egg-cupful o' laudanum.«
    »I think you are right, Sam,« said Mr. Pickwick. »But I must first ascertain
that he is in the house, and not likely to go away.«
    »Leave that to me, sir,« said Sam. »Let me order you a snug little dinner,
and make any inquiries below while it's a getting ready; I could worm ev'ry
secret out o' the boots's heart, in five minutes, sir.«
    »Do so,« said Mr. Pickwick: and Mr. Weller at once retired.
    In half an hour, Mr. Pickwick was seated at a very satisfactory dinner; and
in three-quarters Mr. Weller returned with the intelligence that Mr. Charles
Fitz-Marshall had ordered his private room to be retained for him, until further
notice. He was going to spend the evening at some private house in the
neighbourhood, had ordered the boots to sit up until his return, and had taken
his servant with him.
    »Now, sir,« argued Mr. Weller, when he had concluded his report, »if I can
get a talk with this here servant in the mornin', he'll tell me all his master's
concerns.«
    »How do you know that?« interposed Mr. Pickwick.
    »Bless your heart, sir, servants always do,« replied Mr. Weller.
    »Oh, ah, I forgot that,« said Mr. Pickwick. »Well.«
    »Then you can arrange what's best to be done, sir, and we can act
according.«
    As it appeared that this was the best arrangement that could be made, it was
finally agreed upon. Mr. Weller, by his master's permission, retired to spend
the evening in his own way; and was shortly afterwards elected, by the unanimous
voice of the assembled company, into the tap-room chair, in which honourable
post he acquitted himself so much to the satisfaction of the
gentlemen-frequenters, that their roars of laughter and approbation penetrated
to Mr. Pickwick's bed-room, and shortened the term of his natural rest by at
least three hours.
    Early on the ensuing morning, Mr. Weller was dispelling all the feverish
remains of the previous evening's conviviality, through the instrumentality of a
halfpenny shower-bath (having induced a young gentleman attached to the
stable-department, by the offer of that coin, to pump over his head and face,
until he was perfectly restored), when he was attracted by the appearance of a
young fellow in mulberry-coloured livery, who was sitting on a bench in the
yard, reading what appeared to be a hymn-book, with an air of deep abstraction,
but who occasionally stole a glance at the individual under the pump, as if he
took some interest in his proceedings, nevertheless.
    »You're a rum 'un to look at, you are!« thought Mr. Weller, the first time
his eyes encountered the glance of the stranger in the mulberry suit: who had a
large, sallow, ugly face, very sunken eyes, and a gigantic head, from which
depended a quantity of lank black hair. »You're a rum 'un!« thought Mr. Weller;
and thinking this, he went on washing himself, and thought no more about him.
    Still the man kept glancing from his hymn-book to Sam, and from Sam to his
hymn-book, as if he wanted to open a conversation. So at last, Sam, by way of
giving him an opportunity, said with a familiar nod -
    »How are you, governor?«
    »I am happy to say, I am pretty well, sir,« said the man, speaking with
great deliberation, and closing the book. »I hope you are the same, sir?«
    »Why, if I felt less like a walking brandy-bottle, I shouldn't be quite so
staggery this mornin',« replied Sam. »Are you stoppin' in this house, old 'un?«
    The mulberry man replied in the affirmative.
    »How was it, you worn't one of us, last night?« inquired Sam, scrubbing his
face with the towel. »You seem one of the jolly sort - looks as conwivial as a
live trout in a lime basket,« added Mr. Weller, in an under tone.
    »I was out last night, with my master,« replied the stranger.
    »What's his name?« inquired Mr. Weller, colouring up very red with sudden
excitement, and the friction of the towel combined.
    »Fitz-Marshall,« said the mulberry man.
    »Give us your hand,« said Mr. Weller, advancing; »I should like to know you.
I like your appearance, old fellow.«
    »Well, that is very strange,« said the mulberry man, with great simplicity
of manner. »I like your's so much, that I wanted to speak to you, from the very
first moment I saw you under the pump.«
    »Did you though?«
    »Upon my word. Now, isn't that curious.«
    »Wery sing'ler,« said Sam, inwardly congratulating himself upon the softness
of the stranger. »What's your name, my patriarch?«
    »Job.«
    »And a very good name it is - only one I know, that ain't got a nickname to
it. What's the other name?«
    »Trotter,« said the stranger. »What is yours!«
    Sam bore in mind his master's caution, and replied.
    »My name's Walker; my master's name's Wilkins. Will you take a drop o'
something' this mornin', Mr. Trotter?«
    Mr. Trotter acquiesced in this agreeable proposal: and having deposited his
book in his coat-pocket, accompanied Mr. Weller to the tap, where they were soon
occupied in discussing an exhilarating compound, formed by mixing together, in a
pewter vessel, certain quantities of British Hollands, and the fragrant essence
of the clove.
    »And what sort of a place have you got?« inquired Sam, as he filled his
companion's glass, for the second time.
    »Bad,« said Job, smacking his lips, »very bad.«
    »You don't mean that?« said Sam.
    »I do, indeed. Worse than that, my master's going to be married.«
    »No.«
    »Yes; and worse than that, too, he's going to run away with an immense rich
heiress, from boarding-school.«
    »What a dragon!« said Sam, refilling his companion's glass. »It's some
boarding-school in this town, I suppose, a'nt it?«
    Now, although this question was put in the most careless tone imaginable,
Mr. Job Trotter plainly showed by gestures, that he perceived his new friend's
anxiety to draw forth an answer to it. He emptied his glass, looked mysteriously
at his companion, winked both of his small eyes, one after the other, and
finally made a motion with his arm, as if he were working an imaginary
pump-handle: thereby intimating that he (Mr. Trotter) considered himself as
undergoing the process of being pumped, by Mr. Samuel Weller.
    »No, no,« said Mr. Trotter, in conclusion, »that's not to be told to
everybody. That is a secret - a great secret, Mr. Walker.«
    As the mulberry man said this, he turned his glass upside down, as a means
of reminding his companion that he had nothing left wherewith to slake his
thirst. Sam observed the hint; and feeling the delicate manner in which it was
conveyed, ordered the pewter vessel to be refilled, whereat the small eyes of
the mulberry man glistened.
    »And so it's a secret?« said Sam.
    »I should rather suspect it was,« said the mulberry man, sipping his liquor,
with a complacent face.
    »I suppose your mas'r 's very rich?« said Sam.
    Mr. Trotter smiled, and holding his glass in his left hand, gave four
distinct slaps on the pocket of his mulberry indescribables with his right, as
if to intimate that his master might have done the same without alarming anybody
much by the chinking of coin.
    »Ah,« said Sam, »that's the game, is it?«
    The mulberry man nodded significantly.
    »Well, and don't you think, old feller,« remonstrated Mr. Weller, »that if
you let your master take in this here young lady, you're a precious rascal?«
    »I know that,« said Job Trotter, turning upon his companion a countenance of
deep contrition, and groaning slightly. »I know that, and that's what it is that
preys upon my mind. But what am I to do?«
    »Do!« said Sam; »di-wulge to the missis, and give up your master.«
    »Who'd believe me?« replied Job Trotter. »The young lady's considered the
very picture of innocence and discretion. She'd deny it, and so would my master.
Who'd believe me? I should lose my place, and get indicted for a conspiracy, or
some such thing; that's all I should take by my motion.«
    »There's something' in that,« said Sam, ruminating; »there's something' in
that.«
    »If I knew any respectable gentleman who would take the matter up,«
continued Mr. Trotter, »I might have some hope of preventing the elopement; but
there's the same difficulty, Mr. Walker, just the same. I know no gentleman in
this strange place, and ten to one if I did, whether he would believe my story.«
    »Come this way,« said Sam, suddenly jumping up, and grasping the mulberry
man by the arm. »My mas'r 's the man you want, I see.« And after a slight
resistance on the part of Job Trotter, Sam led his newly-found friend to the
apartment of Mr. Pickwick, to whom he presented him, together with a brief
summary of the dialogue we have just repeated.
    »I am very sorry to betray my master, sir,« said Job Trotter, applying to
his eyes a pink checked pocket handkerchief about six inches square.
    »The feeling does you a great deal of honour,« replied Mr. Pickwick; »but it
is your duty, nevertheless.«
    »I know it is my duty, sir,« replied Job, with great emotion. »We should all
try to discharge our duty, sir, and I humbly endeavour to discharge mine, sir;
but it is a hard trial to betray a master, sir, whose clothes you wear, and
whose bread you eat, even though he is a scoundrel, sir.«
    »You are a very good fellow,« said Mr. Pickwick, much affected, »an honest
fellow.«
    »Come, come,« interposed Sam, who had witnessed Mr. Trotter's tears with
considerable impatience, »blow this here water-cart bis'ness. It won't do no
good, this won't.«
    »Sam,« said Mr. Pickwick, reproachfully, »I am sorry to find that you have
so little respect for this young man's feelings.«
    »His feelins is all very well, sir,« replied Mr. Weller; »and as they're so
very fine, and it's a pity he should lose 'em, I think he'd better keep 'em in
his own buzzum, than let 'em ewaporate in hot water, 'specially as they do no
good. Tears never yet wound up a clock, or worked a steam ingen'. The next time
you go out to a smoking party, young fellow, fill your pipe with that 'ere
reflection; and for the present just put that bit of pink gingham into your
pocket. 'T'an't so handsome that you need keep waving it about, as if you was a
tight-rope dancer.«
    »My man is in the right,« said Mr. Pickwick, accosting Job, »although his
mode of expressing his opinion is somewhat homely, and occasionally
incomprehensible.«
    »He is, sir, very right,« said Mr. Trotter, »and I will give way no longer.«
    »Very well,« said Mr. Pickwick. »Now, where is this boarding-school?«
    »It is a large, old, red-brick house, just outside the town, sir,« replied
Job Trotter.
    »And when,« said Mr. Pickwick, »when is this villainous design to be carried
into execution - when is this elopement to take place?«
    »To-night, sir,« replied Job.
    »To-night!« exclaimed Mr. Pickwick.
    »This very night, sir,« replied Job Trotter. »That is what alarms me so
much.«
    »Instant measures must be taken,« said Mr. Pickwick. »I will see the lady
who keeps the establishment immediately.«
    »I beg your pardon, sir,« said Job, »but that course of proceeding will
never do.«
    »Why not?« inquired Mr. Pickwick.
    »My master, sir, is a very artful man.«
    »I know he is,« said Mr. Pickwick.
    »And he has so wound himself round the old lady's heart, sir,« resumed Job,
»that she would believe nothing to his prejudice, if you went down on your bare
knees, and swore it; especially as you have no proof but the word of a servant,
who, for anything she knows (and my master would be sure to say so), was
discharged for some fault, and does this in revenge.«
    »What had better be done, then?« said Mr. Pickwick.
    »Nothing but taking him in the very fact of eloping, will convince the old
lady, sir,« replied Job.
    »All them old cats will run their heads again mile-stones,« observed Mr.
Weller in a parenthesis.
    »But this taking him in the very act of elopement, would be a very difficult
thing to accomplish, I fear,« said Mr. Pickwick.
    »I don't know, sir,« said Mr. Trotter, after a few moments' reflection. »I
think it might be very easily done.«
    »How?« was Mr. Pickwick's inquiry.
    »Why,« replied Mr. Trotter, »my master and I, being in the confidence of the
two servants, will be secreted in the kitchen at ten o'clock. When the family
have retired to rest, we shall come out of the kitchen, and the young lady out
of her bed-room. A post-chaise will be waiting, and away we go.«
    »Well?« said Mr. Pickwick.
    »Well, sir, I have been thinking that if you were in waiting in the garden
behind, alone -«
    »Alone,« said Mr. Pickwick. »Why alone?«
    »I thought it very natural,« replied Job, »that the old lady wouldn't like
such an unpleasant discovery to be made before more persons than can possibly be
helped. The young lady too, sir - consider her feelings.«
    »You are very right,« said Mr. Pickwick. »The consideration evinces your
delicacy of feeling. Go on; you are very right.«
    »Well sir, I have been thinking that if you were waiting in the back garden
alone, and I was to let you in, at the door which opens into it, from the end of
the passage, at exactly half-past eleven o'clock, you would be just in the very
moment of time to assist me in frustrating the designs of this bad man, by whom
I have been unfortunately ensnared.« Here Mr. Trotter sighed deeply.
    »Don't distress yourself on that account,« said Mr. Pickwick, »if he had one
grain of the delicacy of feeling which distinguishes you, humble as your station
is, I should have some hopes of him.«
    Job Trotter bowed low; and in spite of Mr. Weller's previous remonstrance,
the tears again rose to his eyes.
    »I never see such a feller,« said Sam. »Blessed if I don't think he's got a
main in his head as is always turned on.«
    »Sam,« said Mr. Pickwick, with great severity. »Hold your tongue.«
    »Werry well, sir,« replied Mr. Weller.
    »I don't like this plan,« said Mr. Pickwick, after deep meditation. »Why
cannot I communicate with the young lady's friends?«
    »Because they live one hundred miles from here, sir,« responded Job Trotter.
    »That's a clincher,« said Mr. Weller, aside.
    »Then this garden,« resumed Mr. Pickwick. »How am I to get into it?«
    »The wall is very low, sir, and your servant will give you a leg up.«
    »My servant will give me a leg up,« repeated Mr. Pickwick, mechanically.
»You will be sure to be near this door that you speak of?«
    »You cannot mistake it, sir; it's the only one that opens into the garden.
Tap at it when you hear the clock strike, and I will open it instantly.«
    »I don't like the plan,« said Mr. Pickwick; »but as I see no other, and as
the happiness of this young lady's whole life is at stake, I adopt it. I shall
be sure to be there.«
    Thus, for the second time, did Mr. Pickwick's innate good-feeling involve
him in an enterprise from which he would most willingly have stood aloof.
    »What is the name of the house?« inquired Mr. Pickwick.
    »Westgate House, sir. You turn a little to the right when you get to the end
of the town; it stands by itself, some little distance off the high road, with
the name on a brass plate on the gate.«
    »I know it,« said Mr. Pickwick. »I observed it once before, when I was in
this town. You may depend upon me.«
    Mr. Trotter made another bow, and turned to depart, when Mr. Pickwick thrust
a guinea into his hand.
    »You're a fine fellow,« said Mr. Pickwick, »and I admire your goodness of
heart. No thanks. Remember - eleven o'clock.«
    »There is no fear of my forgetting it, sir,« replied Job Trotter. With these
words he left the room, followed by Sam.
    »I say,« said the latter, »not a bad notion that 'ere crying. I'd cry like a
rain-water spout in a shower on such good terms. How do you do it?«
    »It comes from the heart, Mr. Walker,« replied Job, solemnly. »Good morning,
sir.«
    »You're a soft customer, you are; - we've got it all out o' you, any how,«
thought Mr. Weller, as Job walked away.
    We cannot state the precise nature of the thoughts which passed through Mr.
Trotter's mind, because we don't know what they were.
    The day wore on, evening came, and a little before ten o'clock Sam Weller
reported that Mr. Jingle and Job had gone out together, that their luggage was
packed up, and that they had ordered a chaise. The plot was evidently in
execution, as Mr. Trotter had foretold.
    Half-past ten o'clock arrived, and it was time for Mr. Pickwick to issue
forth on his delicate errand. Resisting Sam's tender of his great-coat, in order
that he might have no encumbrance in scaling the wall, he set forth, followed by
his attendant.
    There was a bright moon, but it was behind the clouds. It was a fine dry
night, but it was most uncommonly dark. Paths, hedges, fields, houses, and
trees, were enveloped in one deep shade. The atmosphere was hot and sultry, the
summer lightning quivered faintly on the verge of the horizon, and was the only
sight that varied the dull gloom in which everything was wrapped - sound there
was none, except the distant barking of some restless house-dog.
    They found the house, read the brass-plate, walked round the wall, and
stopped at that portion of it which divided them from the bottom of the garden.
    »You will return to the inn, Sam, when you have assisted me over,« said Mr.
Pickwick.
    »Very well, sir.«
    »And you will sit up, 'till I return.«
    »Cert'nly, sir.«
    »Take hold of my leg; and, when I say Over, raise me gently.«
    »All right, sir.«
    Having settled these preliminaries, Mr. Pickwick grasped the top of the
wall, and gave the word »Over,« which was very literally obeyed. Whether his
body partook in some degree of the elasticity of his mind, or whether Mr.
Weller's notions of a gentle push were of a somewhat rougher description than
Mr. Pickwick's, the immediate effect of his assistance was to jerk that immortal
gentleman completely over the wall on to the bed beneath, where, after crushing
three gooseberry-bushes and a rose-tree, he finally alighted at full length.
    »You ha'n't hurt yourself, I hope, sir?« said Sam, in a loud whisper, as
soon as he recovered from the surprise consequent upon the mysterious
disappearance of his master.
    »I have not hurt myself, Sam, certainly,« replied Mr. Pickwick, from the
other side of the wall, »but I rather think that you have hurt me.«
    »I hope not, sir,« said Sam.
    »Never mind,« said Mr. Pickwick, rising, »it's nothing but a few scratches.
Go away, or we shall be overheard.«
    »Good-bye, sir.«
    »Good-bye.«
    With stealthy steps Sam Weller departed, leaving Mr. Pickwick alone in the
garden.
    Lights occasionally appeared in the different windows of the house, or
glanced from the staircases, as if the inmates were retiring to rest. Not caring
to go too near the door, until the appointed time, Mr. Pickwick crouched into an
angle of the wall, and awaited its arrival.
    It was a situation which might well have depressed the spirits of many a
man. Mr. Pickwick, however, felt neither depression nor misgiving. He knew that
his purpose was in the main a good one, and he placed implicit reliance on the
high-minded Job. It was dull, certainly; not to say, dreary; but a contemplative
man can always employ himself in meditation. Mr. Pickwick had meditated himself
into a doze, when he was roused by the chimes of the neighbouring church ringing
out the hour - half-past eleven.
    »That is the time,« thought Mr. Pickwick, getting cautiously on his feet. He
looked up at the house. The lights had disappeared, and the shutters were closed
- all in bed, no doubt. He walked on tip-toe to the door, and gave a gentle tap.
Two or three minutes passing without any reply, he gave another tap rather
louder, and then another rather louder than that.
    At length the sound of feet was audible upon the stairs, and then the light
of a candle shone through the key-hole of the door. There was a good deal of
unchaining and unbolting, and the door was slowly opened.
    Now the door opened outwards: and as the door opened wider and wider, Mr.
Pickwick receded behind it, more and more. What was his astonishment when he
just peeped out, by way of caution, to see that the person who had opened it was
- not Job Trotter, but a servant-girl with a candle in her hand! Mr. Pickwick
drew in his head again, with the swiftness displayed by that admirable
melodramatic performer, Punch, when he lies in wait for the flat-headed comedian
with the tin box of music.
    »It must have been the cat, Sarah,« said the girl, addressing herself to
some one in the house. »Puss, puss, puss, - tit, tit, tit.«
    But no animal being decoyed by these blandishments, the girl slowly closed
the door, and re-fastened it; leaving Mr. Pickwick drawn up straight against the
wall.
    »This is very curious,« thought Mr. Pickwick. »They are sitting up beyond
their usual hour, I suppose. Extremely unfortunate, that they should have chosen
this night, of all others, for such a purpose - exceedingly.« And with these
thoughts, Mr. Pickwick cautiously retired to the angle of the wall in which he
had been before ensconced; waiting until such time as he might deem it safe to
repeat the signal.
    He had not been here five minutes, when a vivid flash of lightning was
followed by a loud peal of thunder that crashed and rolled away in the distance
with a terrific noise - then came another flash of lightning, brighter than the
other, and a second peal of thunder louder than the first; and then down came
the rain, with a force and fury that swept everything before it.
    Mr. Pickwick was perfectly aware that a tree is a very dangerous neighbour
in a thunder-storm. He had a tree on his right, a tree on his left, a third
before him, and a fourth behind. If he remained where he was, he might fall the
victim of an accident; if he showed himself in the centre of the garden, he
might be consigned to a constable; - once or twice he tried to scale the wall,
but having no other legs this time, than those with which Nature had furnished
him, the only effect of his struggles was to inflict a variety of very
unpleasant gratings on his knees and shins, and to throw him into a state of the
most profuse perspiration.
    »What a dreadful situation,« said Mr. Pickwick, pausing to wipe his brow
after this exercise. He looked up at the house - all was dark. They must be gone
to bed now. He would try the signal again.
    He walked on tip-toe across the moist gravel, and tapped at the door. He
held his breath, and listened at the key-hole. No reply: very odd. Another
knock. He listened again. There was a low whispering inside, and then a voice
cried -
    »Who's there?
    That's not Job,« thought Mr. Pickwick, hastily drawing himself straight up
against the wall again. »It's a woman.«
    He had scarcely had time to form this conclusion, when a window above stairs
was thrown up, and three or four female voices repeated the query - »Who's
there?«
    Mr. Pickwick dared not move hand or foot. It was clear that the whole
establishment was roused. He made up his mind to remain where he was, until the
alarm had subsided: and then by a supernatural effort, to get over the wall, or
perish in the attempt.
    Like all Mr. Pickwick's determinations, this was the best that could be made
under the circumstances; but, unfortunately, it was founded upon the assumption
that they would not venture to open the door again. What was his discomfiture,
when he heard the chain and bolts withdrawn, and saw the door slowly opening,
wider and wider! He retreated into the corner, step by step; but do what he
would, the interposition of his own person, prevented its being opened to its
utmost width.
    »Who's there?« screamed a numerous chorus of treble voices from the
staircase inside, consisting of the spinster lady of the establishment, three
teachers, five female servants, and thirty boarders, all half-dressed, and in a
forest of curl-papers.
    Of course Mr. Pickwick didn't say who was there; and then the burden of the
chorus changed into - »Lor'! I am so frightened.«
    »Cook,« said the lady abbess, who took care to be on the top stair, the very
last of the group - »Cook, why don't you go a little way into the garden?«
    »Please, ma'am, I don't like,« responded the cook.
    »Lor', what a stupid thing that cook is!« said the thirty boarders.
    »Cook,« said the lady abbess, with great dignity; »don't answer me, if you
please. I insist upon your looking into the garden immediately.«
    Here the cook began to cry, and the house-maid said it was »a shame!« for
which partisanship she received a month's warning on the spot.
    »Do you hear, cook?« said the lady abbess, stamping her foot impatiently.
    »Don't you hear your missis, cook?« said the three teachers.
    »What an impudent thing, that cook is!« said the thirty boarders.
    The unfortunate cook, thus strongly urged, advanced a step or two, and
holding her candle just where it prevented her from seeing anything at all,
declared there was nothing there, and it must have been the wind. The door was
just going to be closed in consequence, when an inquisitive boarder, who had
been peeping between the hinges, set up a fearful screaming, which called back
the cook and the housemaid, and all the more adventurous, in no time.
    »What is the matter with Miss Smithers?« said the lady abbess, as the
aforesaid Miss Smithers proceeded to go into hysterics of four young lady power.
    »Lor', Miss Smithers dear,« said the other nine-and-twenty boarders.
    »Oh, the man - the man - behind the door!« screamed Miss Smithers.
    The lady abbess no sooner heard this appalling cry, than she retreated to
her own bed-room, double-locked the door, and fainted away comfortably. The
boarders, and the teachers, and the servants, fell back upon the stairs, and
upon each other; and never was such a screaming, and fainting, and struggling,
beheld. In the midst of the tumult Mr. Pickwick emerged from his concealment,
and presented himself amongst them.
    »Ladies - dear ladies,« said Mr. Pickwick.
    »Oh, he says we're dear,« cried the oldest and ugliest teacher. »Oh, the
wretch!«
    »Ladies,« roared Mr. Pickwick, rendered desperate by the danger of his
situation. »Hear me. I am no robber. I want the lady of the house.«
    »Oh, what a ferocious monster!« screamed another teacher. »He wants Miss
Tomkins.«
    Here there was a general scream.
    »Ring the alarm bell, somebody!« cried a dozen voices.
    »Don't - don't,« shouted Mr. Pickwick. »Look at me. Do I look like a robber!
My dear ladies - you may bind me hand and leg, or lock me up in a closet, if you
like. Only hear what I have got to say - only hear me.«
    »How did you come in our garden?« faltered the housemaid.
    »Call the lady of the house, and I'll tell her everything - everything:«
said Mr. Pickwick, exerting his lungs to the utmost pitch. »Call her - only be
quiet, and call her, and you shall hear everything.«
    It might have been Mr. Pickwick's appearance, or it might have been his
manner, or it might have been the temptation - irresistible to a female mind -
of hearing something at present enveloped in mystery, that reduced the more
reasonable portion of the establishment (some four individuals) to a state of
comparative quiet. By them it was proposed, as a test of Mr. Pickwick's
sincerity, that he should immediately submit to personal restraint; and that
gentleman having consented to hold a conference with Miss Tomkins, from the
interior of a closet in which the day boarders hung their bonnets and
sandwich-bags, he at once stepped into it of his own accord, and was securely
locked in. This revived the others; and Miss Tomkins having been brought to, and
brought down, the conference began.
    »What did you do in my garden, Man?« said Miss Tomkins, in a faint voice.
    »I came to warn you, that one of your young ladies was going to elope
to-night,« replied Mr. Pickwick, from the interior of the closet.
    »Elope!« exclaimed Miss Tomkins, the three teachers, the thirty boarders,
and the five servants. »Who with?«
    »Your friend, Mr. Charles Fitz-Marshall.«
    »My friend! I don't know any such person.«
    »Well; Mr. Jingle, then.«
    »I never heard the name in my life.«
    »Then, I have been deceived, and deluded,« said Mr. Pickwick. »I have been
the victim of a conspiracy - a foul and base conspiracy. Send to the Angel, my
dear ma'am, if you don't believe me. Send to the Angel for Mr. Pickwick's
man-servant, I implore you, ma'am.«
    »He must be respectable - he keeps a man-servant,« said Miss Tomkins to the
writing and ciphering governess.
    »It's my opinion, Miss Tomkins,« said the writing and ciphering governess,
»that his man-servant keeps him. I think he's a madman, Miss Tomkins, and the
other's his keeper.«
    »I think you are very right, Miss Gwynn,« responded Miss Tomkins. »Let two
of the servants repair to the Angel, and let the others remain here, to protect
us.«
    So two of the servants were despatched to the Angel in search of Mr. Samuel
Weller: and the remaining three stopped behind to protect Miss Tomkins, and the
three teachers, and the thirty boarders. And Mr. Pickwick sat down in the
closet, beneath a grove of sandwich bags, and awaited the return of the
messengers, with all the philosophy and fortitude he could summon to his aid.
    An hour and a half elapsed before they came back, and when they did come,
Mr. Pickwick recognised, in addition to the voice of Mr. Samuel Weller, two
other voices, the tones of which struck familiarly on his ear; but whose they
were, he could not for the life of him call to mind.
    A very brief conversation ensued. The door was unlocked. Mr. Pickwick
stepped out of the closet, and found himself in the presence of the whole
establishment of Westgate House, Mr. Samuel Weller, and - old Wardle, and his
destined son-in-law, Mr. Trundle!
    »My dear friend,« said Mr. Pickwick, running forward and grasping Wardle's
hand, »my dear friend, pray, for Heaven's sake, explain to this lady the
unfortunate and dreadful situation in which I am placed. You must have heard it
from my servant; say, at all events, my dear fellow, that I am neither a robber
nor a madman.«
    »I have said so, my dear friend. I have said so already,« replied Mr.
Wardle, shaking the right hand of his friend, while Mr. Trundle shook the left.
    »And whoever says, or has said, he is,« interposed Mr. Weller, stepping
forward, »says that which is not the truth, but so far from it, on the contrary,
quite the rewerse. And if there's any number o' men on these here premises as
has said so, I shall be very happy to give 'em all a very convincing proof o'
their being mistaken, in this here very room, if these very respectable ladies
'll have the goodness to retire, and order 'em up, one at a time.« Having
delivered this defiance with great volubility, Mr. Weller struck his open palm
emphatically with his clenched fist, and winked pleasantly on Miss Tomkins: the
intensity of whose horror at his supposing it within the bounds of possibility
that there could be any men on the premises of Westgate House Establishment for
Young Ladies, it is impossible to describe.
    Mr. Pickwick's explanation having already been partially made, was soon
concluded. But neither in the course of his walk home with his friends, nor
afterwards when seated before a blazing fire at the supper he so much needed,
could a single observation be drawn from him. He seemed bewildered and amazed.
Once, and only once, he turned round to Mr. Wardle, and said:
    »How did you come here?«
    »Trundle and I came down here, for some good shooting on the first,« replied
Wardle. »We arrived to-night, and were astonished to hear from your servant that
you were here too. But I am glad you are,« said the old fellow, slapping him on
the back. »I am glad you are. We shall have a jovial party on the first, and
we'll give Winkle another chance - eh, old boy?«
    Mr. Pickwick made no reply; he did not even ask after his friends at Dingley
Dell, and shortly afterwards retired for the night, desiring Sam to fetch his
candle when he rung.
    The bell did ring in due course, and Mr. Weller presented himself.
    »Sam,« said Mr. Pickwick, looking out from under the bed-clothes.
    »Sir,« said Mr. Weller.
    Mr. Pickwick paused, and Mr. Weller snuffed the candle.
    »Sam,« said Mr. Pickwick again, as if with a desperate effort.
    »Sir,« said Mr. Weller, once more.
    »Where is that Trotter?«
    »Job, sir?«
    »Yes.«
    »Gone, sir.«
    »With his master, I suppose?«
    »Friend or master, or whatever he is, he's gone with him,« replied Mr.
Weller. »There's a pair on 'em, sir.«
    »Jingle suspected my design, and set that fellow on you, with this story, I
suppose?« said Mr. Pickwick, half choking.
    »Just that, sir,« replied Mr. Weller.
    »It was all false, of course?«
    »All, sir,« replied Mr. Weller. »Reg'lar do, sir; artful dodge.«
    »I don't think he'll escape us quite so easily the next time, Sam?« said Mr.
Pickwick.
    »I don't think he will, sir.«
    »Whenever I meet that Jingle again, wherever it is,« said Mr. Pickwick,
raising himself in bed, and indenting his pillow with a tremendous blow, »I'll
inflict personal chastisement on him, in addition to the exposure he so richly
merits. I will, or my name is not Pickwick.«
    »And wenever I catches hold o' that there melan-cholly chap with the black
hair,« said Sam, »if I don't bring some real water into his eyes, for once in a
way, my name a'nt Weller. Good night, sir!«
 

                                  Chapter XVII

  Showing That an Attack of Rheumatism, in Some Cases, Acts as a Quickener to
                               Inventive Genius.

The constitution of Mr. Pickwick, though able to sustain a very considerable
amount of exertion and fatigue, was not proof against such a combination of
attacks as he had undergone on the memorable night, recorded in the last
chapter. The process of being washed in the night air, and rough-dried in a
closet, is as dangerous as it is peculiar. Mr. Pickwick was laid up with an
attack of rheumatism.
    But although the bodily powers of the great man were thus impaired, his
mental energies retained their pristine vigour. His spirits were elastic; his
good humour was restored. Even the vexation consequent upon his recent adventure
had vanished from his mind; and he could join in the hearty laughter which any
allusion to it excited in Mr. Wardle, without anger and without embarrassment.
Nay, more. During the two days Mr. Pickwick was confined to his bed, Sam was his
constant attendant. On the first, he endeavoured to amuse his master by anecdote
and conversation; on the second, Mr. Pickwick demanded his writing-desk, and pen
and ink, and was deeply engaged during the whole day. On the third, being able
to sit up in his bed-chamber, he despatched his valet with a message to Mr.
Wardle and Mr. Trundle, intimating that if they would take their wine there,
that evening, they would greatly oblige him. The invitation was most willingly
accepted; and when they were seated over their wine, Mr. Pickwick with sundry
blushes, produced the following little tale, as having been edited by himself,
during his recent indisposition, from his notes of Mr. Weller's unsophisticated
recital.
 

                               The Parish Clerk.

                              A Tale of True Love.
 
»Once upon a time in a very small country town, at a considerable distance from
London, there lived a little man named Nathaniel Pipkin, who was the parish
clerk of the little town, and lived in a little house in the little High Street,
within ten minutes' walk of the little church; and who was to be found every day
from nine till four, teaching a little learning to the little boys. Nathaniel
Pipkin was a harmless, inoffensive, good-natured being, with a turned-up nose,
and rather turned-in legs: a cast in his eye, and a halt in his gait; and he
divided his time between the church and his school, verily believing that there
existed not, on the face of the earth, so clever a man as the curate, so
imposing an apartment as the vestry-room, or so well-ordered a seminary as his
own. Once, and only once, in his life, Nathaniel Pipkin had seen a bishop - a
real bishop, with his arms in lawn sleeves, and his head in a wig. He had seen
him walk, and heard him talk, at a confirmation, on which momentous occasion
Nathaniel Pipkin was so overcome with reverence and awe, when the aforesaid
bishop laid his hand on his head, that he fainted right clean away, and was
borne out of church in the arms of the beadle.
    This was a great event, a tremendous era, in Nathaniel Pipkin's life, and it
was the only one that had ever occurred to ruffle the smooth current of his
quiet existence, when happening one fine afternoon, in a fit of mental
abstraction, to raise his eyes from the slate on which he was devising some
tremendous problem in compound addition for an offending urchin to solve, they
suddenly rested on the blooming countenance of Maria Lobbs, the only daughter of
old Lobbs, the great saddler over the way. Now, the eyes of Mr. Pipkin had
rested on the pretty face of Maria Lobbs many a time and oft before, at church
and elsewhere; but the eyes of Maria Lobbs had never looked so bright, the
cheeks of Maria Lobbs had never looked so ruddy, as upon this particular
occasion. No wonder then, that Nathaniel Pipkin was unable to take his eyes from
the countenance of Miss Lobbs; no wonder that Miss Lobbs, finding herself stared
at by a young man, withdrew her head from the window out of which she had been
peeping, and shut the casement and pulled down the blind; no wonder that
Nathaniel Pipkin, immediately thereafter, fell upon the young urchin who had
previously offended, and cuffed and knocked him about, to his heart's content.
All this was very natural, and there's nothing at all to wonder at about it.
    It is matter of wonder, though, that any one of Mr. Nathaniel Pipkin's
retiring disposition, nervous temperament, and most particularly diminutive
income, should from this day forth, have dared to aspire to the hand and heart
of the only daughter of the fiery old Lobbs - of old Lobbs the great saddler,
who could have bought up the whole village at one stroke of his pen, and never
felt the outlay - old Lobbs, who was well known to have heaps of money, invested
in the bank at the nearest market town - old Lobbs, who was reported to have
countless and inexhaustible treasures, hoarded up in the little iron safe with
the big key-hole, over the chimney-piece in the back parlour - old Lobbs, who it
was well known, on festive occasions garnished his board with a real silver
tea-pot, cream ewer, and sugar-basin, which he was wont, in the pride of his
heart, to boast should be his daughter's property when she found a man to her
mind. I repeat it, to be matter of profound astonishment and intense wonder,
that Nathaniel Pipkin should have had the temerity to cast his eyes in this
direction. But love is blind: and Nathaniel had a cast in his eye: and perhaps
these two circumstances, taken together, prevented his seeing the matter in its
proper light.
    Now, if old Lobbs had entertained the most remote or distant idea of the
state of the affections of Nathaniel Pipkin, he would just have razed the
school-room to the ground, or exterminated its master from the surface of the
earth, or committed some other outrage and atrocity of an equally ferocious and
violent description; for he was a terrible old fellow, was Lobbs, when his pride
was injured, or his blood was up. Swear! Such trains of oaths would come rolling
and pealing over the way, sometimes, when he was denouncing the idleness of the
bony apprentice with the thin legs, that Nathaniel Pipkin would shake in his
shoes with horror, and the hair of the pupil's heads would stand on end with
fright.
    Well! Day after day, when school was over, and the pupils gone, did
Nathaniel Pipkin sit himself down at the front window, and while he feigned to
be reading a book, throw sidelong glances over the way in search of the bright
eyes of Maria Lobbs; and he hadn't sat there many days, before the bright eyes
appeared at an upper window, apparently deeply engaged in reading too. This was
delightful, and gladdening to the heart of Nathaniel Pipkin. It was something to
sit there for hours together, and look upon that pretty face when the eyes were
cast down; but when Maria Lobbs began to raise her eyes from her book, and dart
their rays in the direction of Nathaniel Pipkin, his delight and admiration were
perfectly boundless. At last, one day when he knew old Lobbs was out, Nathaniel
Pipkin had the temerity to kiss his hand to Maria Lobbs; and Maria Lobbs,
instead of shutting the window, and pulling down the blind, kissed hers to him,
and smiled. Upon which, Nathaniel Pipkin determined, that, come what might, he
would develop the state of his feelings, without further delay.
    A prettier foot, a gayer heart, a more dimpled face, or a smarter form,
never bounded so lightly over the earth they graced, as did those of Maria
Lobbs, the old saddler's daughter. There was a roguish twinkle in her sparkling
eyes, that would have made its way to far less susceptible bosoms than that of
Nathaniel Pipkin; and there was such a joyous sound in her merry laugh, that the
sternest misanthrope must have smiled to hear it. Even old Lobbs himself, in the
very height of his ferocity, couldn't resist the coaxing of his pretty daughter;
and when she, and her cousin Kate - an arch, impudent-looking, bewitching little
person - made a dead set upon the old man together, as, to say the truth, they
very often did, he could have refused them nothing, even had they asked for a
portion of the countless and inexhaustible treasures, which were hidden from the
light, in the iron safe.
    Nathaniel Pipkin's heart beat high within him, when he saw this enticing
little couple some hundred yards before him one summer's evening, in the very
field in which he had many a time strolled about till night-time, and pondered
on the beauty of Maria Lobbs. But though he had often thought then, how briskly
he would walk up to Maria Lobbs and tell her of his passion if he could only
meet her, he felt now that she was unexpectedly before him, all the blood in his
body mounting to his face, manifestly to the great detriment of his legs, which,
deprived of their usual portion, trembled beneath him. When they stopped to
gather a hedge-flower, or listen to a bird, Nathaniel Pipkin stopped too, and
pretended to be absorbed in meditation, as indeed he really was; for he was
thinking what on earth he should ever do, when they turned back, as they
inevitably must in time, and meet him face to face. But though he was afraid to
make up to them, he couldn't bear to lose sight of them; so when they walked
faster, he walked faster, when they lingered he lingered, and when they stopped
he stopped; and so they might have gone on, until the darkness prevented them,
if Kate had not looked slyly back, and encouragingly beckoned Nathaniel to
advance. There was something in Kate's manner that was not to be resisted, and
so Nathaniel Pipkin complied with the invitation; and after a great deal of
blushing on his part, and immoderate laughter on that of the wicked little
cousin, Nathaniel Pipkin went down on his knees on the dewy grass, and declared
his resolution to remain there for ever, unless he were permitted to rise the
accepted lover of Maria Lobbs. Upon this, the merry laughter of Maria Lobbs rang
through the calm evening air - without seeming to disturb it, though; it had
such a pleasant sound - and the wicked little cousin laughed more immoderately
than before, and Nathaniel Pipkin blushed deeper than ever. At length, Maria
Lobbs being more strenuously urged by the love-worn little man, turned away her
head, and whispered her cousin to say, or at all events Kate did say, that she
felt much honoured by Mr. Pipkin's addresses; that her hand and heart were at
her father's disposal; but that nobody could be insensible to Mr. Pipkin's
merits. As all this was said with much gravity, and as Nathaniel Pipkin walked
home with Maria Lobbs, and struggled for a kiss at parting, he went to bed a
happy man, and dreamed all night long, of softening old Lobbs, opening the
strong box, and marrying Maria.
    The next day, Nathaniel Pipkin saw old Lobbs go out upon his old grey pony,
and after a great many signs at the window from the wicked little cousin, the
object and meaning of which he could by no means understand, the bony apprentice
with the thin legs came over to say that his master wasn't't coming home all
night, and that the ladies expected Mr. Pipkin to tea, at six o'clock precisely.
How the lessons were got through that day, neither Nathaniel Pipkin nor his
pupils knew any more than you do; but they were got through somehow, and, after
the boys had gone, Nathaniel Pipkin took till full six o'clock to dress himself
to his satisfaction. Not that it took long to select the garments he should
wear, inasmuch as he had no choice about the matter; but the putting of them on
to the best advantage, and the touching of them up previously, was a task of no
inconsiderable difficulty or importance.
    There was a very snug little party, consisting of Maria Lobbs and her cousin
Kate, and three or four romping, good-humoured, rosy-cheeked girls. Nathaniel
Pipkin had ocular demonstration of the fact, that the rumours of old Lobbs's
treasures were not exaggerated. There were the real solid silver tea-pot,
cream-ewer, and sugar-basin, on the table, and real silver spoons to stir the
tea with, and real china cups to drink it out of, and plates of the same, to
hold the cakes and toast in. The only eye-sore in the whole place, was another
cousin of Maria Lobbs's, and a brother of Kate, whom Maria Lobbs called Henry,
and who seemed to keep Maria Lobbs all to himself, up in one corner of the
table. It's a delightful thing to see affection in families, but it may be
carried rather too far, and Nathaniel Pipkin could not help thinking that Maria
Lobbs must be very particularly fond of her relations, if she paid as much
attention to all of them as to this individual cousin. After tea, too, when the
wicked little cousin proposed a game at blind man's buff, it somehow or other
happened that Nathaniel Pipkin was nearly always blind, and whenever he laid his
hand upon the male cousin, he was sure to find that Maria Lobbs was not far off.
And though the wicked little cousin and the other girls pinched him, and pulled
his hair, and pushed chairs in his way, and all sorts of things, Maria Lobbs
never seemed to come near him at all; and once - once - Nathaniel Pipkin could
have sworn he heard the sound of a kiss, followed by a faint remonstrance from
Maria Lobbs, and a half-suppressed laugh from her female friends. All this was
odd - very odd - and there is no saying what Nathaniel Pipkin might or might not
have done, in consequence, if his thoughts had not been suddenly directed into a
new channel.
    The circumstance which directed his thoughts into a new channel was a loud
knocking at the street-door, and the person who made this loud knocking at the
street-door, was no other than old Lobbs himself, who had unexpectedly returned,
and was hammering away like a coffin-maker: for he wanted his supper. The
alarming intelligence was no sooner communicated by the bony apprentice with the
thin legs, than the girls tripped up-stairs to Maria Lobbs's bed-room, and the
male cousin and Nathaniel Pipkin were thrust into a couple of closets in the
sitting-room, for want of any better places of concealment; and when Maria Lobbs
and the wicked little cousin had stowed them away, and put the room to rights,
they opened the street door to old Lobbs, who had never left off knocking since
he first began.
    Now it did unfortunately happen that old Lobbs being very hungry was
monstrous cross. Nathaniel Pipkin could hear him growling away like an old
mastiff with a sore throat; and whenever the unfortunate apprentice with the
thin legs came into the room, so surely did old Lobbs commence swearing at him
in a most Saracenic and ferocious manner, though apparently with no other end or
object than that of easing his bosom by the discharge of a few superfluous
oaths. At length some supper, which had been warming up, was placed on the
table, and then old Lobbs fell to, in regular style; and having made clear work
of it in no time, kissed his daughter, and demanded his pipe.
    Nature had placed Nathaniel Pipkin's knees in very close juxtaposition, but
when he heard old Lobbs demand his pipe, they knocked together, as if they were
going to reduce each other to powder; for, depending from a couple of hooks, in
the very closet in which he stood, was a large brown-stemmed, silver-bowled
pipe, which pipe he himself had seen in the mouth of old Lobbs, regularly every
afternoon and evening, for the last five years. The two girls went down-stairs
for the pipe, and up-stairs for the pipe, and everywhere but where they knew the
pipe was, and old Lobbs stormed away meanwhile, in the most wonderful manner. At
last he thought of the closet, and walked up to it. It was of no use a little
man like Nathaniel Pipkin pulling the door inwards when a great strong fellow
like old Lobbs was pulling it outwards. Old Lobbs gave it one tug and open it
flew, disclosing Nathaniel Pipkin standing bolt upright inside, and shaking with
apprehension from head to foot. Bless us! what an appalling look old Lobbs gave
him, as he dragged him out by the collar, and held him at arm's length.
    Why, what the devil do you want here? said old Lobbs, in a fearful voice.
    Nathaniel Pipkin could make no reply, so old Lobbs shook him backwards and
forwards, for two or three minutes, by way of arranging his ideas for him.
    What do you want here? roared Lobbs, I suppose you have come after my
daughter, now?
    Old Lobbs merely said this as a sneer: for he did not believe that mortal
presumption could have carried Nathaniel Pipkin so far. What was his
indignation, when that poor man replied:
    Yes, I did, Mr. Lobbs. I did come after your daughter. I love her, Mr.
Lobbs.
    Why, you snivelling, wry-faced, puny villain, gasped old Lobbs, paralysed by
the atrocious confession; what do you mean by that? Say this to my face! Damme,
I'll throttle you!
    It is by no means improbable that old Lobbs would have carried this threat
into execution, in the excess of his rage, if his arm had not been stayed by a
very unexpected apparition, to wit, the male cousin, who, stepping out of his
closet, and walking up to old Lobbs, said:
    I cannot allow this harmless person, sir, who has been asked here in some
girlish frolic, to take upon himself in a very noble manner, the fault (if fault
it is) which I am guilty of, and am ready to avow. I love your daughter, sir;
and I am here for the purpose of meeting her.
    Old Lobbs opened his eyes very wide at this, but not wider than Nathaniel
Pipkin.
    You did? said Lobbs: at last finding breath to speak.
    I did.
    And I forbade you this house, long ago.
    You did, or I should not have been here, clandestinely, to-night.
    I am sorry to record it, of old Lobbs, but I think he would have struck the
cousin, if his pretty daughter, with her bright eyes swimming in tears, had not
clung to his arm.
    Don't stop him, Maria, said the young man: if he has the will to strike me,
let him. I would not hurt a hair of his grey head, for the riches of the world.
    The old man cast down his eyes at this reproof, and they met those of his
daughter. I have hinted once or twice before, that they were very bright eyes,
and, though they were tearful now, their influence was by no means lessened. Old
Lobbs turned his head away, as if to avoid being persuaded by them, when, as
fortune would have it, he encountered the face of the wicked little cousin, who,
half afraid for her brother, and half laughing at Nathaniel Pipkin, presented as
bewitching an expression of countenance, with a touch of shyness in it too, as
any man, old or young, need look upon. She drew her arm coaxingly through the
old man's, and whispered something in his ear; and do what he would, old Lobbs
couldn't help breaking out into a smile, while a tear stole down his cheek at
the same time.
    Five minutes after this, the girls were brought down from the bed-room with
a great deal of giggling and modesty; and while the young people were making
themselves perfectly happy, old Lobbs got down the pipe, and smoked it: and it
was a remarkable circumstance about that particular pipe of tobacco, that it was
the most soothing and delightful one he ever smoked.
    Nathaniel Pipkin thought it best to keep his own counsel, and by so doing
gradually rose into high favour with old Lobbs, who taught him to smoke in time;
and they used to sit out in the garden on the fine evenings, for many years
afterwards, smoking and drinking in great state. He soon recovered the effects
of his attachment, for we find his name in the parish register, as a witness to
the marriage of Maria Lobbs to her cousin; and it also appears, by reference to
other documents, that on the night of the wedding he was incarcerated in the
village cage, for having, in a state of extreme intoxication, committed sundry
excesses in the streets, in all of which he was aided and abetted by the bony
apprentice with the thin legs.«
 

                                 Chapter XVIII

   Briefly Illustrative of Two Points; - First, the Power of Hysterics, and,
                     Secondly, the Force of Circumstances.

For two days after the breakfast at Mrs. Hunter's the Pickwickians remained at
Eatanswill, anxiously awaiting the arrival of some intelligence from their
revered leader. Mr. Tupman and Mr. Snodgrass were once again left to their own
means of amusement; for Mr. Winkle, in compliance with a most pressing
invitation, continued to reside at Mr. Pott's house, and to devote his time to
the companionship of his amiable lady. Nor was the occasional society of Mr.
Pott himself, wanting to complete their felicity. Deeply immersed in the
intensity of his speculations for the public weal and the destruction of the
Independent, it was not the habit of that great man to descend from his mental
pinnacle to the humble level of ordinary minds. On this occasion, however, and
as if expressly in compliment to any follower of Mr. Pickwick's, he unbent,
relaxed, stepped down from his pedestal, and walked upon the ground: benignly
adapting his remarks to the comprehension of the herd, and seeming in outward
form, if not in spirit, to be one of them.
    Such having been the demeanour of this celebrated public character towards
Mr. Winkle, it will be readily imagined that considerable surprise was depicted
on the countenance of the latter gentleman, when, as he was sitting alone in the
breakfast-room, the door was hastily thrown open, and as hastily closed, on the
entrance of Mr. Pott, who, stalking majestically towards him, and thrusting
aside his proffered hand, ground his teeth, as if to put a sharper edge on what
he was about to utter, and exclaimed, in a saw-like voice, -
    »Serpent!«
    »Sir!« exclaimed Mr. Winkle, starting from his chair.
    »Serpent, sir,« repeated Mr. Pott, raising his voice, and then suddenly
depressing it; »I said, Serpent, sir - make the most of it.«
    When you have parted with a man, at two o'clock in the morning, on terms of
the utmost good fellowship, and he meets you again, at half-past nine, and
greets you as a serpent, it is not unreasonable to conclude that something of an
unpleasant nature has occurred meanwhile. So Mr. Winkle thought. He returned Mr.
Pott's gaze of stone, and in compliance with that gentleman's request, proceeded
to make the most he could of the serpent. The most, however, was nothing at all;
so, after a profound silence of some minutes' duration, he said, -
    »Serpent, sir! Serpent, Mr. Pott! What can you mean, sir? - this is
pleasantry.«
    »Pleasantry, sir!« exclaimed Pott, with a motion of the hand, indicative of
a strong desire to hurl the Britannia metal tea-pot at the head of his visitor.
»Pleasantry, sir! -- but no, I will be calm; I will be calm, sir;« in proof of
his calmness, Mr. Pott flung himself into a chair, and foamed at the mouth.
    »My dear sir,« interposed Mr. Winkle.
    »Dear sir!« replied Pott. »How dare you address me, as dear sir, sir? How
dare you look me in the face and do it, sir?«
    »Well, sir, if you come to that,« responded Mr. Winkle, »how dare you look
me in the face, and call me a serpent, sir?«
    »Because you are one,« replied Mr. Pott.
    »Prove it, sir,« said Mr. Winkle, warmly. »Prove it.«
    A malignant scowl passed over the profound face of the editor, as he drew
from his pocket, the Independent of that morning; and laying his finger on a
particular paragraph, threw the journal across the table to Mr. Winkle.
    That gentleman took it up, and read as follows: -
    »Our obscure and filthy contemporary, in some disgusting observations on the
recent election for this borough, has presumed to violate the hallowed sanctity
of private life, and to refer, in a manner not to be misunderstood, to the
personal affairs of our late candidate - aye, and notwithstanding his base
defeat, we will add, our future member, Mr. Fizkin. What does our dastardly
contemporary mean? What would the ruffian say, if we, setting at naught, like
him, the decencies of social intercourse, were to raise the curtain which
happily conceals HIS private life from general ridicule, not to say from general
execration? What, if we were even to point out, and comment on, facts and
circumstances, which are publicly notorious, and beheld by every one, but our
mole-eyed contemporary - what if we were to print the following effusion, which
we received while we were writing the commencement of this article, from a
talented fellow-townsman and correspondent!
 



                             Lines to a Brass Pot.

 
Oh Pott! if you'd known
How false she'd, have grown,
When you heard the marriage bells tinkle;
You'd have done then, I vow,
What you cannot help now,
And handed her over to W*****«
 
»What,« said Mr. Pott, solemnly: »what rhymes to tinkle, villain?«
    »What rhymes to tinkle?« said Mrs. Pott, whose entrance at the moment
forestalled the reply. »What rhymes to tinkle? Why Winkle, I should conceive:«
saying this, Mrs. Pott smiled sweetly on the disturbed Pickwickian, and extended
her hand towards him. The agitated young man would have accepted it, in his
confusion, had not Pott indignantly interposed.
    »Back, ma'am - back!« said the editor. »Take his hand before my very face!«
    »Mr. P.!« said his astonished lady.
    »Wretched woman, look here,« exclaimed the husband. »Look here, ma'am -
Lines to a brass Pot. Brass pot; - that's me, ma'am. False she'd have grown; -
that's you, ma'am - you.« With this ebullition of rage, which was not
unaccompanied with something like a tremble, at the expression of his wife's
face, Mr. Pott dashed the current number of the Eatanswill Independent at her
feet.
    »Upon my word, sir,« said the astonished Mrs. Pott, stooping to pick up the
paper. »Upon my word, sir!«
    Mr. Pott winced beneath the contemptuous gaze of his wife. He had made a
desperate struggle to screw up his courage, but it was fast coming unscrewed
again.
    There appears nothing very tremendous in this little sentence, »Upon my
word, sir,« when it comes to be read; but the tone of voice in which it was
delivered, and the look that accompanied it, both seeming to bear reference to
some revenge to be thereafter visited upon the head of Pott, produced their full
effect upon him. The most unskillful observer could have detected in his troubled
countenance, a readiness to resign his Wellington boots to any efficient
substitute who would have consented to stand in them at that moment.
    Mrs. Pott read the paragraph, uttered a loud shriek, and threw herself at
full length on the hearth-rug, screaming, and tapping it with the heels of her
shoes, in a manner which could leave no doubt of the propriety of her feelings
on the occasion.
    »My dear,« said the petrified Pott, - »I didn't say I believed it; - I -«
but the unfortunate man's voice was drowned in the screaming of his partner.
    »Mrs. Pott, let me entreat you, my dear ma'am, to compose yourself,« said
Mr. Winkle; but the shrieks and tappings were louder, and more frequent than
ever.
    »My dear,« said Mr. Pott, »I'm very sorry. If you won't consider your own
health, consider me, my dear. We shall have a crowd round the house.« But the
more strenuously Mr. Pott entreated, the more vehemently the screams poured
forth.
    Very fortunately, however, attached to Mrs. Pott's person was a body-guard
of one, a young lady whose ostensible employment was to preside over her toilet,
but who rendered herself useful in a variety of ways, and in none more so than
in the particular department of constantly aiding and abetting her mistress in
every wish and inclination opposed to the desires of the unhappy Pott. The
screams reached this young lady's ears in due course, and brought her into the
room with a speed which threatened to derange, materially, the very exquisite
arrangement of her cap and ringlets.
    »Oh, my dear, dear mistress!« exclaimed the body-guard, kneeling frantically
by the side of the prostrate Mrs. Pott. »Oh, my dear mistress, what is the
matter?«
    »Your master - your brutal master,« murmured the patient.
    Pott was evidently giving way.
    »It's a shame,« said the body-guard, reproachfully. »I know he'll be the
death of you, ma'am. Poor dear thing!«
    He gave way more. The opposite party followed up the attack.
    »Oh don't leave me - don't leave me, Goodwin,« murmured Mrs. Pott, clutching
at the wrist of the said Goodwin with an hysteric jerk. »You're the only person
that's kind to me, Goodwin.«
    At this affecting appeal, Goodwin got up a little domestic tragedy of her
own, and shed tears copiously.
    »Never, ma'am - never,« said Goodwin. »Oh, sir, you should be careful - you
should indeed; you don't know what harm you may do missis; you'll be sorry for
it one day, I know - I've always said so.«
    The unlucky Pott looked timidly on, but said nothing.
    »Goodwin,« said Mrs. Pott, in a soft voice.
    »Ma'am,« said Goodwin.
    »If you only knew how I have loved that man -«
    »Don't distress yourself by recollecting it, ma'am,« said the body-guard.
    Pott looked very frightened. It was time to finish him.
    »And now,« sobbed Mrs. Pott, »now, after all, to be treated in this way; to
be reproached and insulted in the presence of a third party, and that party
almost a stranger. But I will not submit to it! Goodwin,« continued Mrs. Pott,
raising herself in the arms of her attendant, »my brother, the Lieutenant, shall
interfere. I'll be separated, Goodwin!«
    »It would certainly serve him right, ma'am,« said Goodwin.
    Whatever thoughts the threat of a separation might have awakened in Mr.
Pott's mind, he forebore to give utterance to them, and contented himself by
saying, with great humility:
    »My dear, will you hear me?«
    A fresh train of sobs was the only reply, as Mrs. Pott grew more hysterical,
requested to be informed why she was ever born, and required sundry other pieces
of information of a similar description.
    »My dear,« remonstrated Mr. Pott, »do not give way to these sensitive
feelings. I never believed that the paragraph had any foundation, my dear -
impossible. I was only angry, my dear - I may say outrageous - with the
Independent people for daring to insert it; that's all:« Mr. Pott cast an
imploring look at the innocent cause of the mischief, as if to entreat him to
say nothing about the serpent.
    »And what steps, sir, do you mean to take to obtain redress?« inquired Mr.
Winkle, gaining courage as he saw Pott losing it.
    »Oh, Goodwin,« observed Mrs. Pott, »does he mean to horsewhip the editor of
the Independent - does he, Goodwin?«
    »Hush, hush, ma'am; pray keep yourself quiet,« replied the body-guard. »I
dare say he will, if you wish it, ma'am.«
    »Certainly,« said Pott, as his wife evinced decided symptoms of going off
again. »Of course I shall.«
    »When, Goodwin - when?« said Mrs. Pott, still undecided about the going off.
    »Immediately, of course,« said Mr. Pott; »before the day is out.«
    »Oh, Goodwin,« resumed Mrs. Pott, »it's the only way of meeting the slander,
and setting me right with the world.«
    »Certainly, ma'am,« replied Goodwin. »No man as is a man, ma'am, could
refuse to do it.«
    So, as the hysterics were still hovering about, Mr. Pott said once more that
he would do it; but Mrs. Pott was so overcome at the bare idea of having ever
been suspected, that she was half-a-dozen times on the very verge of a relapse,
and most unquestionably would have gone off, had it not been for the
indefatigable efforts of the assiduous Goodwin, and repeated entreaties for
pardon from the conquered Pott; and finally, when that unhappy individual had
been frightened and snubbed down to his proper level, Mrs. Pott recovered, and
they went to breakfast.
    »You will not allow this base newspaper slander to shorten your stay here,
Mr. Winkle?« said Mrs. Pott, smiling through the traces of her tears.
    »I hope not,« said Mr. Pott, actuated, as he spoke, by a wish that his
visitor would choke himself with the morsel of dry toast which he was raising to
his lips at the moment: and so terminate his stay effectually.
    »I hope not.«
    »You are very good,« said Mr. Winkle; »but a letter has been received from
Mr. Pickwick - so I learn by a note from Mr. Tupman, which was brought up to my
bed-room door, this morning - in which he requests us to join him at Bury
to-day; and we are to leave by the coach at noon.«
    »But you will come back?« said Mrs. Pott.
    »Oh, certainly,« replied Mr. Winkle.
    »You are quite sure?« said Mrs. Pott, stealing a tender look at her visitor.
    »Quite,« responded Mr. Winkle.
    The breakfast passed off in silence, for each member of the party was
brooding over his, or her, own personal grievances. Mrs. Pott was regretting the
loss of a beau; Mr. Pott his rash pledge to horsewhip the Independent; Mr.
Winkle his having innocently placed himself in so awkward a situation. Noon
approached, and after many adieux and promises to return, he tore himself away.
    »If he ever comes back, I'll poison him,« thought Mr. Pott, as he turned
into the little back office where he prepared his thunderbolts.
    »If I ever do come back, and mix myself up with these people again,« thought
Mr. Winkle, as he wended his way to the Peacock, »I shall deserve to be
horsewhipped myself - that's all.«
    His friends were ready, the coach was nearly so, and in half-an-hour they
were proceeding on their journey, along the road over which Mr. Pickwick and Sam
had so recently travelled, and of which, as we have already said something, we
do not feel called upon to extract Mr. Snodgrass's poetical and beautiful
description.
    Mr. Weller was standing at the door of the Angel, ready to receive them, and
by that gentleman they were ushered to the apartment of Mr. Pickwick, where, to
the no small surprise of Mr. Winkle and Mr. Snodgrass, and the no small
embarrassment of Mr. Tupman, they found old Wardle and Trundle.
    »How are you?« said the old man, grasping Mr. Tupman's hand. »Don't hang
back, or look sentimental about it; it can't be helped, old fellow. For her
sake, I wish you'd had her; for your own, I'm very glad you have not. A young
fellow like you will do better one of these days - eh?« With this consolation,
Wardle slapped Mr. Tupman on the back, and laughed heartily.
    »Well, and how are you, my fine fellows?« said the old gentleman, shaking
hands with Mr. Winkle and Mr. Snodgrass at the same time. »I have just been
telling Pickwick that we must have you all down at Christmas. We're going to
have a wedding - a real wedding this time.«
    »A wedding!« exclaimed Mr. Snodgrass, turning very pale.
    »Yes, a wedding. But don't be frightened,« said the good-humoured old man;
»it's only Trundle there, and Bella.«
    »Oh, is that all!« said Mr. Snodgrass, relieved from a painful doubt which
had fallen heavily on his breast. »Give you joy, sir. How is Joe?«
    »Very well,« replied the old gentleman. »Sleepy as ever.«
    »And your mother, and the clergyman, and all of 'em?«
    »Quite well.«
    »Where,« said Mr. Tupman, with an effort - »where is - she, sir?« and he
turned away his head, and covered his eyes with his hand.
    »She!« said the old gentleman, with a knowing shake of the head. »Do you
mean my single relative - eh?«
    Mr. Tupman, by a nod, intimated that his question applied to the
disappointed Rachael.
    »Oh, she's gone away,« said the old gentleman. »She's living at a
relation's, far enough off. She couldn't bear to see the girls, so I let her go.
But come! Here's the dinner. You must be hungry after your ride. I am, without
any ride at all; so let us fall to.«
    Ample justice was done to the meal; and when they were seated, round the
table, after it had been disposed of, Mr. Pickwick, to the intense horror and
indignation of his followers, related the adventure he had undergone, and the
success which had attended the base artifices of the diabolical Jingle.
    »And the attack of rheumatism which I caught, in that garden,« said Mr.
Pickwick, in conclusion, »renders me lame at this moment.«
    »I, too, have had something of an adventure,« said Mr. Winkle, with a smile;
and at the request of Mr. Pickwick he detailed the malicious libel of the
Eatanswill Independent, and the consequent excitement of their friend, the
editor.
    Mr. Pickwick's brow darkened during the recital. His friends observed it,
and, when Mr. Winkle had concluded, maintained a profound silence. Mr. Pickwick
struck the table emphatically with his clenched fist, and spoke as follows
    »Is it not a wonderful circumstance,« said Mr. Pickwick, »that we seem
destined to enter no man's house without involving him in some degree of
trouble? Does it not, I ask, bespeak the indiscretion, or, worse than that, the
blackness of heart - that I should say so! - of my followers, that, beneath
whatever roof they locate, they disturb the peace of mind and happiness of some
confiding female? Is it not, I say -«
    Mr. Pickwick would in all probability have gone on for some time, had not
the entrance of Sam, with a letter, caused him to break off in his eloquent
discourse. He passed his handkerchief across his forehead, took off his
spectacles, wiped them, and put them on again; and his voice had recovered its
wonted softness of tone when he said:
    »What have you there, Sam?«
    »Called at the Post-office just now, and found this here letter, as has laid
there for two days,« replied Mr. Weller. »It's sealed with a vafer, and directed
in round hand.«
    »I don't know this hand,« said Mr. Pickwick, opening the letter. »Mercy on
us! what's this? It must be a jest; it - it - can't be true.«
    »What's the matter?« was the general inquiry.
    »Nobody dead, is there?« said Wardle, alarmed at the horror in Mr.
Pickwick's countenance.
    Mr. Pickwick made no reply, but, pushing the letter across the table, and
desiring Mr. Tupman to read it aloud, fell back in his chair with a look of
vacant astonishment quite alarming to behold.
    Mr. Tupman, with a trembling voice, read the letter, of which the following
is a copy: -
 
                 Freeman's Court, Cornhill, August 28th, 1830.
                           Bardell against Pickwick.
        Sir,
            Having been instructed by Mrs. Martha Bardell to commence an action
        against you for a breach of promise of marriage, for which the plaintiff
        lays her damages at fifteen hundred pounds, we beg to inform you that a
        writ has been issued against you in this suit in the Court of Common
        Pleas; and request to know, by return of post, the name of your attorney
        in London, who will accept service thereof.
            We are, Sir,
            Your obedient servants,
            
                                                                Dodson and Fogg.
Mr. Samuel Pickwick.
 
There was something so impressive in the mute astonishment with which each man
regarded his neighbour, and every man regarded Mr. Pickwick, that all seemed
afraid to speak. The silence was at length broken by Mr. Tupman.
    »Dodson and Fogg,« he repeated mechanically.
    »Bardell and Pickwick,« said Mr. Snodgrass, musing.
    »Peace of mind and happiness of confiding females,« murmured Mr. Winkle,
with an air of abstraction.
    »It's a conspiracy,« said Mr. Pickwick, at length recovering the power of
speech; »a base conspiracy between these two grasping attorneys, Dodson and
Fogg. Mrs. Bardell would never do it; - she hasn't the heart to do it; - she
hasn't the case to do it. Ridiculous - ridiculous.«
    »Of her heart,« said Wardle, with a smile, »you should certainly be the best
judge. I don't wish to discourage you, but I should certainly say that, of her
case, Dodson and Fogg are far better judges than any of us can be.«
    »It's a vile attempt to extort money,« said Mr. Pickwick.
    »I hope it is,« said Wardle, with a short, dry cough.
    »Who ever heard me address her in any way but that in which a lodger would
address his landlady?« continued Mr. Pickwick, with great vehemence. »Who ever
saw me with her? Not even my friends here -«
    »Except on one occasion,« said Mr. Tupman.
    Mr. Pickwick changed colour.
    »Ah,« said Mr. Wardle. »Well, that's important. There was nothing suspicious
then, I suppose?«
    Mr. Tupman glanced timidly at his leader. »Why,« said he, »there was nothing
suspicious; but - I don't know how it happened, mind - she certainly was
reclining in his arms.«
    »Gracious powers!« ejaculated Mr. Pickwick, as the recollection of the scene
in question struck forcibly upon him; »what a dreadful instance of the force of
circumstances! So she was - so she was.«
    »And our friend was soothing her anguish,« said Mr. Winkle, rather
maliciously.
    »So I was,« said Mr. Pickwick. »I won't deny it. So I was.«
    »Hallo!« said Wardle; »for a case in which there's nothing suspicious, this
looks rather queer - eh, Pickwick? Ah, sly dog - sly dog!« and he laughed till
the glasses on the side-board rang again.
    »What a dreadful conjunction of appearances!« exclaimed Mr. Pickwick,
resting his chin upon his hands. »Winkle - Tupman - I beg your pardon for the
observations I made just now. We are all the victims of circumstances, and I the
greatest.« With this apology Mr. Pickwick buried his head in his hands, and
ruminated; while Wardle measured out a regular circle of nods and winks,
addressed to the other members of the company.
    »I'll have it explained, though,« said Mr. Pickwick, raising his head and
hammering the table. »I'll see this Dodson and Fogg! I'll go to London
to-morrow.«
    »Not to-morrow,« said Wardle; »you're too lame.«
    »Well, then, next day.«
    »Next day is the first of September, and you're pledged to ride out with us,
as far as Sir Geoffrey Manning's grounds, at all events, and to meet us at
lunch, if you don't take the field.«
    »Well, then, the day after,« said Mr. Pickwick; »Thursday. - Sam!«
    »Sir,« replied Mr. Weller.
    »Take two places outside to London, on Thursday morning, for yourself and
me.«
    »Wery well, sir.«
    Mr. Weller left the room, and departed slowly on his errand, with his hands
in his pocket, and his eyes fixed on the ground.
    »Rum feller, the hemperor,« said Mr. Weller, as he walked slowly up the
street. »Think o' his making up to that ere Mrs. Bardell - with a little boy,
too! Always the vay with these here old 'uns hows'ever, as is such steady goers
to look at. I didn't think he'd ha' done it, though - I didn't think he'd ha'
done it!« Moralising in this strain, Mr. Samuel Weller bent his steps towards
the booking-office.
 

                                  Chapter XIX

                A Pleasant Day, with an Unpleasant Termination.

The birds, who, happily for their own peace of mind and personal comfort, were
in blissful ignorance of the preparations which had been making to astonish
them, on the first of September, hailed it no doubt, as one of the pleasantest
mornings they had seen that season. Many a young partridge who strutted
complacently among the stubble, with all the finicking coxcombry of youth, and
many an older one who watched his levity out of his little round eye, with the
contemptuous air of a bird of wisdom and experience, alike unconscious of their
approaching doom, basked in the fresh morning air with lively and blithesome
feelings, and a few hours afterwards were laid low upon the earth. But we grow
affecting: let us proceed.
    In plain common-place matter-of-fact, then, it was a fine morning - so fine
that you would scarcely have believed that the few months of an English summer
had yet flown by. Hedges, fields, and trees, hill and moorland, presented to the
eye their ever-varying shades of deep rich green; scarce a leaf had fallen,
scarce a sprinkle of yellow mingled with the hues of summer, warned you that
autumn had begun. The sky was cloudless, the sun shone out bright and warm; the
songs of birds, and hum of myriads of summer insects, filled the air; and the
cottage gardens, crowded with flowers of every rich and beautiful tint,
sparkled, in the heavy dew, like beds of glittering jewels. Everything bore the
stamp of summer, and none of its beautiful colours had yet faded from the die.
    Such was the morning, when an open carriage, in which were three
Pickwickians, (Mr. Snodgrass having preferred to remain at home,) Mr. Wardle,
and Mr. Trundle, with Sam Weller on the box beside the driver, pulled up by a
gate at the road-side, before which stood a tall, raw-boned gamekeeper, and a
half-booted, leather-leggined boy: each bearing a bag of capacious dimensions,
and accompanied by a brace of pointers.
    »I say,« whispered Mr. Winkle to Wardle, as the man let down the steps,
»they don't suppose we're going to kill game enough to fill those bags, do
they?«
    »Fill them!« exclaimed old Wardle. »Bless you, yes! You shall fill one, and
I the other; and when we've done with them, the pockets of our shooting-jackets
will hold as much more.«
    Mr. Winkle dismounted without saying anything in reply to this observation;
but he thought within himself, that if the party remained in the open air, until
he had filled one of the bags, they stood a considerable chance of catching
colds in their heads.
    »Hi, Juno, lass - hi, old girl; down, Daph, down,« said Wardle, caressing
the dogs. »Sir Geoffrey still in Scotland, of course, Martin?«
    The tall gamekeeper replied in the affirmative, and looked with some
surprise from Mr. Winkle, who was holding his gun as if he wished his coat
pocket to save him the trouble of pulling the trigger, to Mr. Tupman, who was
holding his as if he were afraid of it - as there is no earthly reason to doubt
he really was.
    »My friends are not much in the way of this sort of thing yet, Martin,« said
Wardle, noticing the look. »Live and learn, you know. They'll be good shots one
of these days. I beg my friend Winkle's pardon, though; he has had some
practice.«
    Mr. Winkle smiled feebly over his blue neckerchief in acknowledgement of the
compliment, and got himself so mysteriously entangled with his gun, in his
modest confusion, that if the piece had been loaded, he must inevitably have
shot himself dead upon the spot.
    »You mustn't handle your piece in that ere way, when you come to have the
charge in it, sir,« said the tall gamekeeper, gruffly, »or I'm damned if you
won't make cold meat of some on us.«
    Mr. Winkle, thus admonished, abruptly altered its position, and in so doing,
contrived to bring the barrel into pretty sharp contact with Mr. Weller's head.
    »Hallo!« said Sam, picking up his hat, which had been knocked off, and
rubbing his temple. »Hallo, sir! if you comes it this vay, you'll fill one o'
them bags, and something to spare, at one fire.«
    Here the leather-leggined boy laughed very heartily, and, then tried to look
as if it was somebody else, whereat Mr. Winkle frowned majestically.
    »Where did you tell the boy to meet us with the snack, Martin?« inquired
Wardle.
    »Side of One-tree Hill, at twelve o'clock, sir.«
    »That's not Sir Geoffrey's land, is it?«
    »No, sir; but it's close by it. It's Captain Boldwig's land; but there'll be
nobody to interrupt us, and there's a fine bit of turf there.«
    »Very well,« said old Wardle. »Now the sooner we're off the better. Will you
join us at twelve, then, Pickwick?«
    Mr. Pickwick was particularly desirous to view the sport, the more
especially as he was rather anxious in respect of Mr. Winkle's life and limbs.
On so inviting a morning, too, it was very tantalising to turn back, and leave
his friends to enjoy themselves. It was, therefore, with a very rueful air that
he replied,
    »Why, I suppose I must.«
    »An't the gentleman a shot, sir?« inquired the long gamekeeper.
    »No,« replied Wardle; »and he's lame besides.«
    »I should very much like to go,« said Mr. Pickwick, »very much.«
    There was a short pause of commiseration.
    »There's a barrow t'other side the hedge,« said the boy. »If the gentleman's
servant would wheel along the paths, he could keep nigh us, and we could lift it
over the stiles, and that.«
    »The very thing,« said Mr. Weller, who was a party interested, inasmuch as
he ardently longed to see the sport. »The very thing. Well said, Smallcheck;
I'll have it out in a minute.«
    But here a difficulty arose. The long gamekeeper resolutely protested
against the introduction into a shooting party, of a gentleman in a barrow, as a
gross violation of all established rules and precedents.
    It was a great objection, but not an insurmountable one. The gamekeeper
having been coaxed and feed, and having, moreover, eased his mind by punching
the head of the inventive youth who had first suggested the use of the machine,
Mr. Pickwick was placed in it, and off the party set; Wardle and the long
gamekeeper leading the way, and Mr. Pickwick in the barrow, propelled by Sam,
bringing up the rear.
    »Stop, Sam,« said Mr. Pickwick, when they had got half across the first
field.
    »What's the matter now?« said Wardle.
    »I won't suffer this barrow to be moved another step,« said Mr. Pickwick,
resolutely, »unless Winkle carries that gun of his, in a different manner.«
    »How am I to carry it?« said the wretched Winkle.
    »Carry it with the muzzle to the ground,« replied Mr. Pickwick.
    »It's so unsportsman-like,« reasoned Winkle.
    »I don't care whether it's unsportsman-like or not,« replied Mr. Pickwick;
»I am not going to be shot in a wheelbarrow, for the sake of appearances, to
please anybody.«
    »I know the gentleman 'll put that ere charge into somebody afore he's
done,« growled the long man.
    »Well, well - I don't mind,« said poor Winkle, turning his gun-stock
uppermost; - »there.«
    »Anythin' for a quiet life,« said Mr. Weller; and on they went again.
    »Stop!« said Mr. Pickwick, after they had gone a few yards further.
    »What now?« said Wardle.
    »That gun of Tupman's is not safe: I know it isn't,« said Mr. Pickwick.
    »Eh? What! not safe?« said Mr. Tupman, in a tone of great alarm.
    »Not as you are carrying it,« said Mr. Pickwick. »I am very sorry to make
any further objection, but I cannot consent to go on, unless you carry it as
Winkle does his.«
    »I think you had better, sir,« said the long gamekeeper, »or you're quite as
likely to lodge the charge in yourself as in anything else.«
    Mr. Tupman, with the most obliging haste, placed his piece in the position
required, and the party moved on again; the two amateurs marching with reversed
arms, like a couple of privates at a royal funeral.
    The dogs suddenly came to a dead stop, and the party advancing stealthily a
single pace, stopped too.
    »What's the matter with the dogs' legs?« whispered Mr. Winkle. »How queer
they're standing.«
    »Hush, can't you?« replied Wardle, softly. »Don't you see, they're making a
point?«
    »Making a point!« said Mr. Winkle, staring about him, as if he expected to
discover some particular beauty in the landscape, which the sagacious animals
were calling special attention to. »Making a point! What are they pointing at?«
    »Keep your eyes open,« said Wardle, not heeding the question in the
excitement of the moment. »Now then.«
    There was a sharp whirring-noise, that made Mr. Winkle start back as if he
had been shot himself. Bang, bang, went a couple of guns; - the smoke swept
quickly away over the field, and curled into the air.
    »Where are they?« said Mr. Winkle, in a state of the highest excitement,
turning round and round in all directions. »Where are they? Tell me when to
fire. Where are they - where are they?«
    »Where are they?« said Wardle, taking up a brace of birds which the dogs had
deposited at his feet. »Why, here they are.«
    »No, no; I mean the others,« said the bewildered Winkle.
    »Far enough off, by this time,« replied Wardle, coolly reloading his gun.
    »We shall very likely be up with another covey in five minutes,« said the
long gamekeeper. »If the gentleman begins to fire now, perhaps he'll just get
the shot out of the barrel by the time they rise.«
    »Ha! ha! ha!« roared Mr. Weller.
    »Sam,« said Mr. Pickwick, compassionating his follower's confusion and
embarrassment.
    »Sir.«
    »Don't laugh.«
    »Certainly not, sir.« So, by way of indemnification, Mr. Weller contorted
his features from behind the wheelbarrow, for the exclusive amusement of the boy
with the leggings, who thereupon burst into a boisterous laugh, and was
summarily cuffed by the long gamekeeper, who wanted a pretext for turning round,
to hide his own merriment.
    »Bravo, old fellow!« said Wardle to Mr. Tupman; »you fired that time, at all
events.«
    »Oh yes,« replied Mr. Tupman, with conscious pride. »I let it off.«
    »Well done. You'll hit something next time, if you look sharp. Very easy,
ain't it?«
    »Yes, it's very easy,« said Mr. Tupman. »How it hurts one's shoulder,
though. It nearly knocked me backwards. I had no idea these small fire-arms
kicked so.«
    »Ah,« said the old gentleman, smiling; »you'll get used, to it in time. Now
then - all ready - all right with the barrow there?«
    »All right, sir,« replied Mr. Weller.
    »Come along then.«
    »Hold hard, sir,« said Sam, raising the barrow.
    »Aye, aye,« replied Mr. Pickwick; and on they went, as briskly as need be.
    »Keep that barrow back now,« cried Wardle when it had been hoisted over a
stile into another field, and Mr. Pickwick had been deposited in it once more.
    »All right, sir,« replied Mr. Weller, pausing.
    »Now, Winkle,« said the old gentleman, »follow me softly, and don't be too
late this time.«
    »Never fear,« said Mr. Winkle, »Are they pointing?«
    »No, no; not now. Quietly now, quietly.« On they crept, and very quietly
they would have advanced, if Mr. Winkle, in the performance of some very
intricate evolutions with his gun, had not accidentally fired, at the most
critical moment, over the boy's head, exactly in the very spot where the tall
man's brain would have been, had he been there instead.
    »Why, what on earth did you do that for?« said old Wardle, as the birds flew
unharmed away.
    »I never saw such a gun in my life,« replied poor Mr. Winkle, looking at the
lock, as if that would do any good. »It goes off of its own accord. It will do
it.«
    »Will do it!« echoed Wardle, with something of irritation in his manner. »I
wish it would kill something of its own accord.«
    »It'll do that afore long, sir,« observed the tall man, in a low, prophetic
voice.
    »What do you mean by that observation, sir?« inquired Mr. Winkle, angrily.
    »Never mind, sir, never mind,« replied the long gamekeeper; »I've no family
myself, sir; and this here boy's mother will get something handsome from Sir
Geoffrey, if he's killed on his land. Load, again, sir, load again.«
    »Take away his gun,« cried Mr. Pickwick from the barrow, horror-stricken at
the long man's dark insinuations. »Take away his gun, do you hear, somebody?«
    Nobody, however, volunteered to obey the command; and Mr. Winkle, after
darting a rebellious glance at Mr. Pickwick, reloaded his gun, and proceeded
onwards with the rest.
    We are bound, on the authority of Mr. Pickwick, to state, that Mr. Tupman's
mode of proceeding evinced far more of prudence and deliberation, than that
adopted by Mr. Winkle. Still, this by no means detracts from the great authority
of the latter gentleman, on all matters connected with the field; because, as
Mr. Pickwick beautifully observes, it has somehow or other happened, from time
immemorial, that many of the best and ablest philosophers, who have been perfect
lights of science in matters of theory, have been wholly unable to reduce them
to practice.
    Mr. Tupman's process, like many of our most sublime discoveries, was
extremely simple. With the quickness and penetration of a man of genius, he had
at once observed that the two great points to be attained were - first, to
discharge his piece without injury to himself, and, secondly, to do so, without
danger to the by-standers; - obviously, the best thing to do, after surmounting
the difficulty of firing at all, was to shut his eyes firmly, and fire into the
air.
    On one occasion, after performing this feat, Mr. Tupman, on opening his
eyes, beheld a plump partridge in the act of falling wounded to the ground. He
was on the point of congratulating Mr. Wardle on his invariable success, when
that gentleman advanced towards him, and grasped him warmly by the hand.
    »Tupman,« said the old gentleman, »you singled out that particular bird?«
    »No,« said Mr. Tupman - »no.«
    »You did,« said Wardle. »I saw you do it - I observed you pick him out - I
noticed you, as you raised your piece to take aim; and I will say this, that the
best shot in existence could not have done it more beautifully. You are an older
hand at this, than I thought you, Tupman; you have been out before.«
    It was in vain for Mr. Tupman to protest, with a smile of self-denial that
he never had. The very smile was taken as evidence to the contrary; and from
that time forth, his reputation was established. It is not the only reputation
that has been acquired as easily, nor are such fortunate circumstances confined
to partridge-shooting.
    Meanwhile, Mr. Winkle flashed, and blazed, and smoked away, without
producing any material results worthy of being noted down; sometimes expending
his charge in mid-air, and at others sending it skimming along so near the
surface of the ground as to place the lives of the two dogs on a rather
uncertain and precarious tenure. As a display of fancy shooting, it was
extremely varied and curious; as an exhibition of firing with any precise
object, it was, upon the whole, perhaps a failure. It is an established axiom,
that every bullet has its billet. If it apply in an equal degree to shot, those
of Mr. Winkle were unfortunate foundlings, deprived of their natural rights,
cast loose upon the world, and billeted nowhere.
    »Well,« said Wardle, walking up to the side of the barrow, and wiping the
streams of perspiration from his jolly red face; »smoking day, isn't it?«
    »It is, indeed,« replied Mr. Pickwick. »The sun is tremendously hot, even to
me. I don't know how you must feel it.«
    »Why« said the old gentleman, »pretty hot. It's past twelve, though. You see
that green hill there?«
    »Certainly.«
    »That's the place where we are to lunch; and, by Jove, there's the boy with
the basket, punctual as clockwork!«
    »So he is,« said Mr. Pickwick, brightening up. »Good boy, that. I'll give
him a shilling, presently. Now, then, Sam, wheel away.«
    »Hold on, sir,« said Mr. Weller, invigorated with the prospect of
refreshments. »Out of the vay, young leathers. If you walley my precious life
don't upset me, as the gen'l'm'n said to the driver when they was a carryin' him
to Tyburn.« And quickening his pace to a sharp run, Mr. Weller wheeled his
master nimbly to the green hill, shot him dexterously out by the very side of
the basket, and proceeded to unpack it with the utmost dispatch.
    »Weal pie,« said Mr. Weller, soliloquising, as he arranged the eatables on
the grass. »Wery good thing is weal pie, when you know the lady as made it, and
is quite sure it an't kittens; and arter all though, where's the odds, when
they're so like weal that the very piemen themselves don't know the difference?«
    »Don't they, Sam?« said Mr. Pickwick.
    »Not they, sir,« replied Mr. Weller, touching his hat. »I lodged in the same
house with a pieman once, sir, and a very nice man he was - reg'lar clever chap,
too - make pies out o' anything, he could. What a number o' cats you keep, Mr.
Brooks, says I, when I'd got intimate with him. Ah, says he, I do - a good many,
says he. You must be very fond o' cats, says I. Other people is, says he, a
winkin' at me; they an't in season till the winter though, says he. Not in
season! says I. No, says he, fruits is in, cats is out. Why, what do you mean?
says I. Mean? says he. That I'll never be a party to the combination o' the
butchers, to keep up the prices o' meat, says he. Mr. Weller, says he, a
squeezing my hand very hard, and vispering in my ear - don't mention this here
again - but it's the seasonin' as does it. They're all made o' them noble
animals, says he, a pointin' to a very nice little tabby kitten, and I seasons
'em for beefsteak, weal, or kidney, 'cordin to the demand. And more than that,
says he, I can make a weal a beef-steak, or a beef-steak a kidney, or any one on
'em a mutton, at a minute's notice, just as the market changes, and appetites
wary!«
    »He must have been a very ingenious young man, that, Sam,« said Mr.
Pickwick, with a slight shudder.
    »Just was, sir,« replied Mr. Weller, continuing his occupation of emptying
the basket, »and the pies was beautiful. Tongue; well that's a very good thing
when it an't a woman's. Bread - knuckle o' ham, reg'lar picter - cold beef in
slices, very good. What's in them stone jars, young touch-and-go?«
    »Beer in this one,« replied the boy, taking from his shoulder a couple of
large stone bottles, fastened together by a leathern strap - »cold punch in
t'other.«
    »And a very good notion of a lunch it is, take it altogether,« said Mr.
Weller, surveying his arrangement of the repast with great satisfaction. »Now,
gen'l'm'n, fall on, as the English said to the French when they fixed
bagginets.«
    It needed no second invitation to induce the party to yield full justice to
the meal; and as little pressing did it require to induce Mr. Weller, the long
gamekeeper, and the two boys, to station themselves on the grass, at a little
distance, and do good execution upon a decent proportion of the viands. An old
oak afforded a pleasant shelter to the group, and a rich prospect of arable and
meadow land, intersected with luxuriant hedges, and richly ornamented with wood,
lay spread out below them.
    »This is delightful - thoroughly delightful!« said Mr. Pickwick, the skin of
whose expressive countenance was rapidly peeling off, with exposure to the sun.
    »So it is: so it is, old fellow,« replied Wardle. »Come; a glass of punch!«
    »With great pleasure,« said Mr. Pickwick; the satisfaction of whose
countenance, after drinking it, bore testimony to the sincerity of the reply.
    »Good,« said Mr. Pickwick, smacking his lips. »Very good. I'll take another.
Cool; very cool. Come, gentlemen,« continued Mr. Pickwick, still retaining his
hold upon the jar, »a toast. Our friends at Dingley Dell.«
    The toast was drunk with loud acclamations.
    »I'll tell you what I shall do, to get up my shooting again,« said Mr.
Winkle, who was eating bread and ham with a pocket-knife. »I'll put a stuffed
partridge on the top of a post, and practise at it, beginning at a short
distance, and lengthening it by degrees. I understand it's capital practice.«
    »I know a gen'l'man, sir,« said Mr. Weller, »as did that, and begun at two
yards; but he never tried it on again; for he blowed the bird right clean away at
the first fire, and nobody ever seed a feather on him afterwards.«
    »Sam,« said Mr. Pickwick.
    »Sir,« replied Mr. Weller.
    »Have the goodness to reserve your anecdotes till they are called for.«
    »Cert'nly, sir.«
    Here Mr. Weller winked the eye which was not concealed by the beer-can he
was raising to his lips with such exquisiteness, that the two boys went into
spontaneous convulsions, and even the long man condescended to smile.
    »Well that certainly is most capital cold punch,« said Mr. Pickwick, looking
earnestly at the stone bottle; »and the day is extremely warm, and - Tupman, my
dear friend, a glass of punch?«
    »With the greatest delight,« replied Mr. Tupman; and having drank that
glass, Mr. Pickwick took another, just to see whether there was any orange peel
in the punch, because orange peel always disagreed with him; and finding that
there was not, Mr. Pickwick took another glass to the health of their absent
friend, and then felt himself imperatively called upon to propose another in
honour of the punch-compounder, unknown.
    This constant succession of glasses produced considerable effect upon Mr.
Pickwick; his countenance beamed with the most sunny smiles, laughter played
around his lips, and good-humoured merriment twinkled in his eye. Yielding by
degrees to the influence of the exciting liquid, rendered more so by the heat,
Mr. Pickwick expressed a strong desire to recollect a song which he had heard in
his infancy, and the attempt proving abortive, sought to stimulate his memory
with more glasses of punch, which appeared to have quite a contrary effect; for,
from forgetting the words of the song, he began to forget how to articulate any
words at all; and finally, after rising to his legs to address the company in an
eloquent speech, he fell into the barrow, and fast asleep, simultaneously.
    The basket having been repacked, and it being found perfectly impossible to
awaken Mr. Pickwick from his torpor, some discussion took place whether it would
be better for Mr. Weller to wheel his master back again, or to leave him where
he was, until they should all be ready to return. The latter course was at
length decided on; and as the further expedition was not to exceed an hour's
duration, and as Mr. Weller begged very hard to be one of the party, it was
determined to leave Mr. Pickwick asleep in the barrow, and to call for him on
their return. So away they went, leaving Mr. Pickwick snoring most comfortably
in the shade.
    That Mr. Pickwick would have continued to snore in the shade until his
friends came back, or, in default thereof, until the shades of evening had
fallen on the landscape, there appears no reasonable cause to doubt; always
supposing that he had been suffered to remain there in peace. But he was not
suffered to remain there in peace. And this was what prevented him.
    Captain Boldwig was a little fierce man in a stiff black neckerchief and
blue surtout, who, when he did condescend to walk about his property, did it in
company with a thick rattan stick with a brass ferrule, and a gardener and
sub-gardener with meek faces, to whom (the gardeners, not the stick) Captain
Boldwig gave his orders with all due grandeur and ferocity: for Captain
Boldwig's wife's sister had married a Marquis, and the Captain's house was a
villa, and his land grounds, and it was all very high, and mighty, and great.
    Mr. Pickwick had not been asleep half an hour when little Captain Boldwig,
followed by the two gardeners, came striding along as fast as his size and
importance would let him; and when he came near the oak tree, Captain Boldwig
paused, and drew a long breath, and looked at the prospect as if he thought the
prospect ought to be highly gratified at having him to take notice of it; and
then he struck the ground emphatically with his stick, and summoned the
head-gardener.
    »Hunt,« said Captain Boldwig.
    »Yes, sir,« said the gardener.
    »Roll this place to-morrow morning - do you hear, Hunt?«
    »Yes, sir.«
    »And take care that you keep me this place in good order - do you hear,
Hunt?«
    »Yes, sir.«
    »And remind me to have a board done about trespassers, and spring guns, and
all that sort of thing, to keep the common people out. Do you hear, Hunt; do you
hear?«
    »I'll not forget it, sir.«
    »I beg your pardon, sir,« said the other man, advancing, with his hand to
his hat.
    »Well, Wilkins, what's the matter with you?« said Captain Boldwig.
    »I beg your pardon, sir - but I think there have been trespassers here
to-day.«
    »Ha!« said the Captain, scowling around him.
    »Yes, sir - they have been dining here, I think, sir.«
    »Why, confound their audacity, so they have,« said Captain Boldwig, as the
crumbs and fragments that were strewn upon the grass met his eye. »They have
actually been devouring their food here. I wish I had the vagabonds here!« said
the Captain, clenching the thick stick.
    »I wish I had the vagabonds here,« said the Captain, wrathfully.
    »Beg your pardon, sir,« said Wilkins, »but -«
    »But what? Eh?« roared the Captain; and following the timid glance of
Wilkins, his eyes encountered the wheelbarrow and Mr. Pickwick.
    »Who are you, you rascal?« said the Captain, administering several pokes to
Mr. Pickwick's body with the thick stick. »What's your name?«
    »Cold punch,« murmured Mr. Pickwick, as he sunk to sleep again.
    »What?« demanded Captain Boldwig.
    No reply.
    »What did he say his name was?« asked the Captain.
    »Punch, I think, sir,« replied Wilkins.
    »That's his impudence, that's his confounded impudence,« said Captain
Boldwig. »He's only feigning to be asleep now,« said the Captain, in a high
passion. »He's drunk; he's a drunken plebeian. Wheel him away, Wilkins, wheel
him away directly.«
    »Where shall I wheel him to, sir?« inquired Wilkins, with great timidity.
    »Wheel him to the Devil,« replied Captain Boldwig.
    »Very well, sir,« said Wilkins.
    »Stay,« said the Captain.
    Wilkins stopped accordingly.
    »Wheel him,« said the Captain, »wheel him to the pound; and let us see
whether he calls himself Punch when he comes to himself. He shall not bully me,
he shall not bully me. Wheel him away.«
    Away Mr. Pickwick was wheeled in compliance with this imperious mandate; and
the great Captain Boldwig, swelling with indignation, proceeded on his walk.
    Inexpressible was the astonishment of the little party when they returned,
to find that Mr. Pickwick had disappeared, and taken the wheelbarrow with him.
It was the most mysterious and unaccountable thing that was ever heard of. For a
lame man to have got upon his legs without any previous notice, and walked off,
would have been most extraordinary; but when it came to his wheeling a heavy
barrow before him, by way of amusement, it grew positively miraculous. They
searched every nook and corner round, together and separately; they shouted,
whistled, laughed, called - and all with the same result. Mr. Pickwick was not
to be found. After some hours of fruitless search, they arrived at the unwelcome
conclusion that they must go home without him.
    Meanwhile Mr. Pickwick had been wheeled to the Pound, and safely deposited
therein, fast asleep in the wheelbarrow, to the immeasurable delight and
satisfaction, not only of all the boys in the village, but three-fourths of the
whole population, who had gathered round, in expectation of his waking. If their
most intense gratification had been excited by seeing him wheeled in, how many
hundredfold was their joy increased when, after a few indistinct cries of »Sam!«
he sat up in the barrow, and gazed with indescribable astonishment on the faces
before him.
    A general shout was of course the signal of his having woke up; and his
involuntary inquiry of »What's the matter?« occasioned another, louder than the
first, if possible.
    »Here's a game!« roared the populace.
    »Where am I?« exclaimed Mr. Pickwick.
    »In the Pound,« replied the mob.
    »How came I here? What was I doing? Where was I brought from?«
    »Boldwig! Captain Boldwig!« was the only reply.
    »Let me out,« cried Mr. Pickwick. »Where's my servant? Where are my
friends?«
    »You an't got no friends. Hurrah!« Then there came a turnip, then a potato,
and then an egg: with a few other little tokens of the playful disposition of
the many-headed.
    How long this scene might have lasted, or how much Mr. Pickwick might have
suffered, no one can tell, had not a carriage, which was driving swiftly by,
suddenly pulled up, from whence there descended old Wardle and Sam Weller, the
former of whom, in far less time than it takes to write it, if not to read it,
had made his way to Mr. Pickwick's side, and placed him in the vehicle, just as
the latter had concluded the third and last round of a single combat with the
town-beadle.
    »Run to the Justice's!« cried a dozen voices.
    »Ah, run away,« said Mr. Weller, jumping up on the box. »Give my compliments
- Mr. Veller's compliments - to the Justice, and tell him I've spiled his
beadle, and that, if he'll svear in a new 'un, I'll come back again to-morrow and
spile him. Drive on, old feller.«
    »I'll give directions for the commencement of an action for false
imprisonment against this Captain Boldwig, directly I get to London,« said Mr.
Pickwick, as soon as the carriage turned out of the town.
    »We were trespassing, it seems,« said Wardle.
    »I don't care,« said Mr. Pickwick, »I'll bring the action.«
    »No, you won't,« said Wardle.
    »I will, by -« but as there was a humorous expression in Wardle's face, Mr.
Pickwick checked himself, and said: »Why not?«
    »Because,« said old Wardle, half-bursting with laughter, »because they might
turn round on some of us, and say we had taken too much cold punch.«
    Do what he would, a smile would come into Mr. Pickwick's face; the smile
extended into a laugh; the laugh into a roar; the roar became general. So, to
keep up their good humour, they stopped at the first roadside tavern they came
to, and ordered a glass of brandy and water all round, with a magnum of extra
strength for Mr. Samuel Weller.
 

                                   Chapter XX

   Showing How Dodson and Fogg Were Men of Business, and Their Clerks Men of
 Pleasure; and How an Affecting Interview Took Place between Mr. Weller and His
 Long-Lost Parent; Showing Also What Choice Spirits Assembled at the Magpie and
            Stump, and What a Capital Chapter the Next One Will Be.

In the ground-floor front of a dingy house, at the very furthest end of
Freeman's Court, Cornhill, sat the four clerks of Messrs. Dodson and Fogg, two
of his Majesty's Attorneys of the Courts of King's Bench and Common Pleas at
Westminster, and solicitors of the High Court of Chancery: the aforesaid clerks
catching as favourable glimpses of Heaven's light and Heaven's sun, in the
course of their daily labours, as a man might hope to do, were he placed at the
bottom of a reasonably deep well; and without the opportunity of perceiving the
stars in the day-time, which the latter secluded situation affords.
    The clerks' office of Messrs. Dodson and Fogg was a dark, mouldy,
earthy-smelling room, with a high wainscotted partition to screen the clerks
from the vulgar gaze: a couple of old wooden chairs: a very loud-ticking clock:
an almanack, an umbrella-stand, a row of hat-pegs, and a few shelves, on which
were deposited several ticketed bundles of dirty papers, some old deal boxes
with paper labels, and sundry decayed stone ink bottles of various shapes and
sizes. There was a glass door leading into the passage which formed the entrance
to the court, and on the outer side of this glass door, Mr. Pickwick, closely
followed by Sam Weller, presented himself on the Friday morning succeeding the
occurrence, of which a faithful narration is given in the last chapter.
    »Come in, can't you!« cried a voice from behind the partition, in reply to
Mr. Pickwick's gentle tap at the door. And Mr. Pickwick and Sam entered
accordingly.
    »Mr. Dodson or Mr. Fogg at home, sir?« inquired Mr. Pickwick, gently,
advancing, hat in hand, towards the partition.
    »Mr. Dodson ain't at home, and Mr. Fogg's particularly engaged,« replied the
voice; and at the same time the head to which the voice belonged, with a pen
behind its ear, looked over the partition, and at Mr. Pickwick.
    It was a ragged head, the sandy hair of which, scrupulously parted on one
side, and flattened down with pomatum, was twisted into little semi-circular
tails round a flat face ornamented with a pair of small eyes, and garnished with
a very dirty shirt collar, and a rusty black stock.
    »Mr. Dodson ain't at home, and Mr. Fogg's particularly engaged,« said the
man to whom the head belonged.
    »When will Mr. Dodson be back, sir?« inquired Mr. Pickwick.
    »Can't say.«
    »Will it be long before Mr. Fogg is disengaged, sir?«
    »Don't know.«
    Here the man proceeded to mend his pen with great deliberation, while
another clerk, who was mixing a Seidlitz powder, under cover of the lid of his
desk, laughed approvingly.
    »I think I'll wait,« said Mr. Pickwick. There was no reply; so Mr. Pickwick
sat down unbidden, and listened to the loud ticking of the clock and the
murmured conversation of the clerks.
    »That was a game, wasn't't it?« said one of the gentlemen, in a brown coat and
brass buttons, inky drabs, and bluchers, at the conclusion of some inaudible
relation of his previous evening's adventures.
    »Devilish good - devilish good,« said the Seidlitz-powder man.
    »Tom Cummins was in the chair,« said the man with the brown coat; »It was
half-past four when I got to Somers Town, and then I was so uncommon lushey,
that I couldn't find the place where the latch-key went in, and was obliged to
knock up the old 'ooman. I say, I wonder what old Fogg 'ud say, if he knew it. I
should get the sack, I s'pose - eh?«
    At this humorous notion, all the clerks laughed in concert.
    »There was such a game with Fogg here, this mornin',« said the man in the
brown coat, »while Jack was up stairs sorting the papers, and you two were gone
to the stamp-office. Fogg was down here, opening the letters, when that chap as
we issued the writ against at Camberwell, you know, came in - what's his name
again?«
    »Ramsey,« said the clerk who had spoken to Mr. Pickwick.
    »Ah, Ramsey - a precious seedy-looking customer. Well, sir, says old Fogg,
looking at him very fierce - you know his way - well, sir, have you come to
settle? Yes, I have, sir, said Ramsey, putting his hand in his pocket, and
bringing out the money, the debt's two pound ten, and the costs three pound
five, and here it is, sir; and he sighed like bricks, as he lugged out the
money, done up in a bit of blotting-paper. Old Fogg looked first at the money,
and then at him, and then he coughed in his rum way, so that I knew something
was coming. You don't know there's a declaration filed, which increases the
costs materially, I suppose? said Fogg. You don't say that, sir, said Ramsey,
starting back; the time was only out last night, sir. I do say it, though, said
Fogg, my clerk's just gone to file it. Hasn't Mr. Jackson gone to file that
declaration in Bullman and Ramsey, Mr. Wicks? Of course I said yes, and then
Fogg coughed again, and looked at Ramsey. My God! said Ramsey; and here have I
nearly driven myself mad, scraping this money together, and all to no purpose.
None at all, said Fogg, coolly; so you had better go back and scrape some more
together, and bring it here in time. I can't get it, by God! said Ramsey,
striking the desk with his fist. Don't bully me, sir, said Fogg, getting into a
passion on purpose. I am not bullying you, sir, said Ramsey. You are, said Fogg;
get out, sir; get out of this office, sir, and come back, sir, when you know how
to behave yourself. Well, Ramsey tried to speak, but Fogg wouldn't let him, so
he put the money in his pocket, and sneaked out. The door was scarcely shut,
when old Fogg turned round to me, with a sweet smile on his face, and drew the
declaration out of his coat pocket. Here, Wicks, says Fogg, take a cab, and go
down to the Temple as quick as you can, and file that. The costs are quite safe,
for he's a steady man with a large family, at a salary of five-and-twenty
shillings a week, and if he gives us a warrant of attorney, as he must in the
end, I know his employers will see it paid; so we may as well get all we can out
of him, Mr. Wicks; it's a Christian act to do it, Mr. Wicks, for with his large
family and small income, he'll be all the better for a good lesson against
getting into debt, - won't he, Mr. Wicks, won't he? - and he smiled so
good-naturedly as he went away, that it was delightful to see him. He is a
capital man of business, said Wicks, in a tone of the deepest admiration,
capital, isn't he?«
    The other three cordially subscribed to this opinion, and the anecdote
afforded the most unlimited satisfaction.
    »Nice men these here, sir,« whispered Mr. Weller to his master; »very nice
notion of fun they has, sir.«
    Mr. Pickwick nodded assent, and coughed to attract the attention of the
young gentlemen behind the partition, who, having now relaxed their minds by a
little conversation among themselves, condescended to take some notice of the
stranger.
    »I wonder whether Fogg's disengaged now?« said Jackson.
    »I'll see,« said Wicks, dismounting leisurely from his stool. »What name
shall I tell Mr. Fogg?«
    »Pickwick,« replied the illustrious subject of these memoirs.
    Mr. Jackson departed up stairs on his errand, and immediately returned with
a message that Mr. Fogg would see Mr. Pickwick in five minutes; and having
delivered it, returned again to his desk.
    »What did he say his name was?« whispered Wicks.
    »Pickwick,« replied Jackson; »it's the defendant in Bardell and Pickwick.«
    A sudden scraping of feet, mingled with the sound of suppressed laughter,
was heard from behind the partition.
    »They're a twiggin' of you, sir,« whispered Mr. Weller.
    »Twigging of me, Sam!« replied Mr. Pickwick; »what do you mean by twigging
me?«
    Mr. Weller replied by pointing with his thumb over his shoulder, and Mr.
Pickwick, on looking up, became sensible of the pleasing fact, that all the four
clerks, with countenances expressive of the utmost amusement, and with their
heads thrust over the wooden screen, were minutely inspecting the figure and
general appearance of the supposed trifler with female hearts, and disturber of
female happiness. On his looking up, the row of heads suddenly disappeared, and
the sound of pens travelling at a furious rate over paper, immediately
succeeded.
    A sudden ring at the bell which hung in the office, summoned Mr. Jackson to
the apartment of Fogg, from whence he came back to say that he (Fogg) was ready
to see Mr. Pickwick if he would step up stairs.
    Up stairs Mr. Pickwick did step accordingly, leaving Sam Weller below. The
room door of the one-pair back, bore inscribed in legible characters the
imposing words Mr. Fogg; and, having tapped thereat, and been desired to come
in, Jackson ushered Mr. Pickwick into the presence.
    »Is Mr. Dodson in?« inquired Mr. Fogg.
    »Just come in, sir,« replied Jackson.
    »Ask him to step here.«
    »Yes, sir.« Exit Jackson.
    »Take a seat, sir,« said Fogg; »there is the paper, sir; my partner will be
here directly, and we can converse about this matter, sir.«
    Mr. Pickwick took a seat and the paper, but instead of reading the latter,
peeped over the top of it, and took a survey of the man of business, who was an
elderly, pimply-faced, vegetable-diet sort of man, in a black coat, dark mixture
trousers, and small black gaiters; a kind of being who seemed to be an essential
part of the desk at which he was writing, and to have as much thought or
sentiment.
    After a few minutes' silence, Mr. Dodson, a plump, portly, stern-looking
man, with a loud voice, appeared; and the conversation commenced.
    »This is Mr. Pickwick,« said Fogg.
    »Ah! You are the defendant, sir, in Bardell and Pickwick?« said Dodson.
    »I am, sir,« replied Mr. Pickwick.
    »Well, sir,« said Dodson, »and what do you propose?«
    »Ah!« said Fogg, thrusting his hands into his trousers' pockets, and
throwing himself back in his chair, »what do you propose, Mr. Pickwick?«
    »Hush, Fogg,« said Dodson, »let me hear what Mr. Pickwick has to say.«
    »I came, gentlemen,« said Mr. Pickwick, gazing placidly on the two partners,
»I came here, gentlemen, to express the surprise with which I received your
letter of the other day, and to inquire what grounds of action you can have
against me.«
    »Grounds of -« Fogg had ejaculated this much, when he was stopped by Dodson.
    »Mr. Fogg,« said Dodson, »I am going to speak.«
    »I beg your pardon, Mr. Dodson,« said Fogg.
    »For the grounds of action, sir,« continued Dodson, with moral elevation in
his air, »you will consult your own conscience and your own feelings. We, sir,
we, are guided entirely by the statement of our client. That statement, sir, may
be true, or it may be false; it may be credible, or it may be incredible; but,
if it be true, and if it be credible, I do not hesitate to say, sir, that our
grounds of action, sir, are strong, and not to be shaken. You may be an
unfortunate man, sir, or you may be a designing one; but if I were called upon,
as a juryman upon my oath, sir, to express an opinion of your conduct, sir, I do
not hesitate to assert that I should have but one opinion about it.« Here Dodson
drew himself up, with an air of offended virtue, and looked at Fogg, who thrust
his hands further in his pockets, and, nodding his head sagely, said, in a tone
of the fullest concurrence, »Most certainly.«
    »Well, sir,« said Mr. Pickwick, with considerable pain depicted in his
countenance, »you will permit me to assure you, that I am a most unfortunate
man, so far as this case is concerned.«
    »I hope you are, sir,« replied Dodson; »I trust you may be, sir. If you are
really innocent of what is laid to your charge, you are more unfortunate than I
had believed any man could possibly be. What do you say, Mr. Fogg?«
    »I say precisely what you say,« replied Fogg, with a smile of incredulity.
    »The writ, sir, which commences the action,« continued Dodson, »was issued
regularly. Mr. Fogg, where is the proecipe book?«
    »Here it is,« said Fogg, handing over a square book, with a parchment cover.
    »Here is the entry,« resumed Dodson. »Middlesex, Capias Martha Bardell,
widow, v. Samuel Pickwick. Damages, £1500. Dodson and Fogg for the plaintiff,
Aug. 28, 1830. All regular, sir; perfectly.« Dodson coughed and looked at Fogg,
who said »Perfectly,« also. And then they both looked at Mr. Pickwick.
    »I am to understand, then,« said Mr. Pickwick, »that it really is your
intention to proceed with this action?«
    »Understand, sir? That you certainly may,« replied Dodson, with something as
near a smile as his importance would allow.
    »And that the damages are actually laid at fifteen hundred pounds?« said Mr.
Pickwick.
    »To which understanding you may add my assurance, that if we could have
prevailed upon our client, they would have been laid at treble the amount, sir,«
replied Dodson.
    »I believe Mrs. Bardell specially said, however,« observed Fogg, glancing at
Dodson, »that she would not compromise for a farthing less.«
    »Unquestionably,« replied Dodson, sternly. For the action was only just
begun; and it wouldn't have done to let Mr. Pickwick compromise it then, even if
he had been so disposed.
    »As you offer no terms, sir,« said Dodson, displaying a slip of parchment in
his right hand, and affectionately pressing a paper copy of it, on Mr. Pickwick
with his left, »I had better serve you with a copy of this writ, sir. Here is
the original, sir.«
    »Very well, gentlemen, very well,« said Mr. Pickwick, rising in person and
wrath at the same time; »you shall hear from my solicitor, gentlemen.«
    »We shall be very happy to do so,« said Fogg, rubbing his hands.
    »Very,« said Dodson, opening the door.
    »And before I go, gentlemen,« said the excited Mr. Pickwick, turning round
on the landing, »permit me to say, that of all the disgraceful and rascally
proceedings -«
    »Stay, sir, stay,« interposed Dodson, with great politeness. »Mr. Jackson!
Mr. Wicks!«
    »Sir,« said the two clerks, appearing at the bottom of the stairs.
    »I merely want you to hear what this gentleman says,« replied Dodson. »Pray,
go on, sir - disgraceful and rascally proceedings, I think you said?«
    »I did,« said Mr. Pickwick, thoroughly roused. »I said, sir, that of all the
disgraceful and rascally proceedings that ever were attempted, this is the most
so. I repeat it, sir.«
    »You hear that, Mr. Wicks?« said Dodson.
    »You won't forget these expressions, Mr. Jackson?« said Fogg.
    »Perhaps you would like to call us swindlers, sir,« said Dodson. »Pray do,
sir, if you feel disposed; now pray do, sir.«
    »I do,« said Mr. Pickwick. »You are swindlers.«
    »Very good,« said Dodson. »You can hear down there, I hope, Mr. Wicks?«
    »Oh yes, sir,« said Wicks.
    »You had better come up a step or two higher, if you can't,« added Mr. Fogg.
»Go on, sir; do go on. You had better call us thieves, sir; or perhaps you would
like to assault one of us. Pray do it, sir, if you would; we will not make the
smallest resistance. Pray do it, sir.«
    As Fogg put himself very temptingly within the reach of Mr. Pickwick's
clenched fist, there is little doubt that that gentleman would have complied
with his earnest entreaty, but for the interposition of Sam, who, hearing the
dispute, emerged from the office, mounted the stairs, and seized his master by
the arm.
    »You just come away,« said Mr. Weller. »Battledore and shuttlecock's a very
good game, vhen you an't the shuttlecock and two lawyers the battledores, in
which case it gets too excitin' to be pleasant. Come away, sir. If you want to
ease your mind by blowing up somebody, come out into the court and blow up me;
but it's rather too expensive work to be carried on here.«
    And without the slightest ceremony, Mr. Weller hauled his master down the
stairs, and down the court, and having safely deposited him in Cornhill, fell
behind, prepared to follow whithersoever he should lead.
    Mr. Pickwick walked on abstractedly, crossed opposite the Mansion House, and
bent his steps up Cheapside. Sam began to wonder where they were going, when his
master turned round, and said:
    »Sam, I will go immediately to Mr. Perker's.«
    »That's just exactly the very place vere you ought to have gone last night,
sir,« replied Mr. Weller.
    »I think it is, Sam,« said Mr. Pickwick.
    »I know it is,« said Mr. Weller.
    »Well, well, Sam,« replied Mr. Pickwick, »we will go there at once, but
first, as I have been rather ruffled, I should like a glass of brandy and water
warm, Sam. Where can I have it, Sam?«
    Mr. Weller's knowledge of London was extensive and peculiar. He replied,
without the slightest consideration:
    »Second court on the right hand side - last house but vun on the same side
the vay - take the box as stands in the first fire-place, 'cos there an't no leg
in the middle o' the table, wich all the others has, and it's very
inconwenient.«
    Mr. Pickwick observed his valet's directions implicitly, and bidding Sam
follow him, entered the tavern he had pointed out, where the hot brandy and
water was speedily placed before him; while Mr. Weller, seated at a respectful
distance, though at the same table with his master, was accommodated with a pint
of porter.
    The room was one of a very homely description, and was apparently under the
especial patronage of stage coachmen: for several gentlemen, who had all the
appearance of belonging to that learned profession, were drinking and smoking in
the different boxes. Among the number was one stout, red-faced, elderly man in
particular, seated in an opposite box, who attracted Mr. Pickwick's attention.
The stout man was smoking with great vehemence, but between every half-dozen
puffs, he took his pipe from his mouth, and looked first at Mr. Weller and then
at Mr. Pickwick. Then, he would bury in a quart pot, as much of his countenance
as the dimensions of the quart pot admitted of its receiving, and take another
look at Sam and Mr. Pickwick. Then he would take another half-dozen puffs with
an air of profound meditation and look at them again. At last the stout man,
putting up his legs on the seat, and leaning his back against the wall, began to
puff at his pipe without leaving off at all, and to stare through the smoke at
the new comers, as if he had made up his mind to see the most he could of them.
    At first the evolutions of the stout man had escaped Mr. Weller's
observation, but by degrees, as he saw Mr. Pickwick's eyes every now and then
turning towards him, he began to gaze in the same direction, at the same time
shading his eyes with his hand, as if he partially recognised the object before
him, and wished to make quite sure of its identity. His doubts were speedily
dispelled, however; for the stout man having blown a thick cloud from his pipe,
a hoarse voice, like some strange effort of ventriloquism, emerged from beneath
the capacious shawls which muffled his throat and chest, and slowly uttered
these sounds - »Wy, Sammy!«
    »Who's that, Sam?« inquired Mr. Pickwick.
    »Why, I wouldn't ha' believed it, sir,« replied Mr. Weller with astonished
eyes. »It's the old 'un.«
    »Old one,« said Mr. Pickwick. »What old one?«
    »My father, sir,« replied Mr. Weller. »How are you, my ancient?« With which
beautiful ebullition of filial affection, Mr. Weller made room on the seat
beside him, for the stout man, who advanced pipe in mouth and pot in hand, to
greet him.
    »Wy, Sammy,« said the father, »I han't seen you, for two year and better.«
    »Nor more you have, old codger,« replied the son. »How's mother in law?«
    »Wy, I'll tell you what, Sammy,« said Mr. Weller, senior, with much
solemnity in his manner; »there never was a nicer woman as a widder, than that
'ere second wentur o' mine - a sweet creature she was, Sammy; all I can say on
her now, is, that as she was such an uncommon pleasant widder, it's a great pity
she ever changed her con-dition. She don't act as a vife, Sammy.«
    »Don't she, though?« inquired Mr. Weller junior.
    The elder Mr. Weller shook his head, as he replied with a sigh, »I've done
it once too often, Sammy; I've done it once too often. Take example by your
father, my boy, and be very careful o' widders all your life, specially if
they've kept a public-house, Sammy.« Having delivered this parental advice with
great pathos, Mr. Weller senior re-filled his pipe from a tin box he carried in
his pocket, and, lighting his fresh pipe from the ashes of the old one,
commenced smoking at a great rate.
    »Beg your pardon, sir,« he said, renewing the subject, and addressing Mr.
Pickwick, after a considerable pause, »nothing' personal, I hope, sir; I hope you
han't got a widder, sir.«
    »Not I,« replied Mr. Pickwick, laughing; and while Mr. Pickwick laughed, Sam
Weller informed his parent in a whisper, of the relation in which he stood
towards that gentleman.
    »Beg your pardon, sir,« said Mr. Weller, senior, taking off his hat, »I hope
you've no fault to find with Sammy, sir?«
    »None whatever,« said Mr. Pickwick.
    »Wery glad to hear it, sir,« replied the old man; »I took a good deal o'
pains with his eddication, sir; let him run in the streets when he was very
young, and shift for his-self. It's the only way to make a boy sharp, sir.«
    »Rather a dangerous process, I should imagine,« said Mr. Pickwick, with a
smile.
    »And not a very sure one, neither,« added Mr. Weller; »I got reg'larly done
the other day.«
    »No!« said his father.
    »I did,« said the son; and he proceeded to relate, in as few words as
possible, how he had fallen a ready dupe to the stratagems of Job Trotter.
    Mr. Weller senior listened to the tale with the most profound attention,
and, at its termination, said:
    »Worn't one o' these chaps slim and tall, with long hair, and the gift o'
the gab very gallopin'?«
    Mr. Pickwick did not quite understand the last item of description, but,
comprehending the first, said »Yes« at a venture.
    »T'other's a black-haired chap in mulberry livery, with a very large head?«
    »Yes, yes, he is,« said Mr. Pickwick and Sam, with great earnestness.
    »Then I know where they are, and that's all about it,« said Mr. Weller;
»they're at Ipswich, safe enough, them two.«
    »No!« said Mr. Pickwick.
    »Fact,« said Mr. Weller, »and I'll tell you how I know it. I work an Ipswich
coach now and then for a friend o' mine. I worked down the very day arter the
night as you caught the rheumatiz, and at the Black Boy at Chelmsford - the very
place they'd come to - I took 'em up, right through to Ipswich, where the man
servant - him in the mulberries - told me they was a goin' to put up for a long
time.«
    »I'll follow him,« said Mr. Pickwick; »we may as well see Ipswich as any
other place. I'll follow him.«
    »You're quite certain it was them, governor?« inquired Mr. Weller, junior.
    »Quite, Sammy, quite,« replied his father, »for their appearance is very
sing'ler; besides that 'ere, I wondered to see the gen'lm'n so formiliar with
his servant; and, more than that, as they sat in front, right behind the box, I
heard 'em laughing, and saying how they'd done old Fireworks.«
    »Old who?« said Mr. Pickwick.
    »Old Fireworks, sir; by which, I've no doubt, they meant you, sir.«
    There is nothing positively vile or atrocious in the appellation of old
Fireworks, but still it is by no means a respectful or flattering designation.
The recollection of all the wrongs he had sustained at Jingle's hands had
crowded on Mr. Pickwick's mind, the moment Mr. Weller began to speak: it wanted
but a feather to turn the scale, and old Fireworks did it.
    »I'll follow him,« said Mr. Pickwick, with an emphatic blow on the table.
    »I shall work down to Ipswich the day arter to-morrow, sir,« said Mr. Weller
the elder, »from the Bull in Whitechapel; and if you really mean to go, you'd
better go with me.«
    »So we had,« said Mr. Pickwick; »very true; I can write to Bury, and tell
them to meet me at Ipswich. We will go with you. But don't hurry away, Mr.
Weller; won't you take anything?«
    »You're very good, sir,« replied Mr. W., stopping short; »perhaps a small
glass of brandy to drink your health, and success to Sammy, sir, wouldn't be
amiss.«
    »Certainly not,« replied Mr. Pickwick. »A glass of brandy here!« The brandy
was brought: and Mr. Weller, after pulling his hair to Mr. Pickwick, and nodding
to Sam, jerked it down his capacious throat as if it had been a small
thimble-full.
    »Well done, father,« said Sam, »take care, old fellow, or you'll have a
touch of your old complaint, the gout.«
    »I've found a sov'rin' cure for that, Sammy,« said Mr. Weller, setting down
the glass.
    »A sovereign cure for the gout,« said Mr. Pickwick, hastily producing his
note-book - »what is it?«
    »The gout, sir,« replied Mr. Weller, »the gout is a complaint as arises from
too much ease and comfort. If ever you're attacked with the gout, sir, just you
marry a widder as has got a good loud woice, with a decent notion of usin' it,
and you'll never have the gout again. It's a capital prescription, sir. I takes
it reg'lar, and I can warrant it to drive away any illness as is caused by too
much jollity.« Having imparted this valuable secret, Mr. Weller drained his
glass once more, produced a laboured wink, sighed deeply, and slowly retired.
    »Well, what do you think of what your father says, Sam?« inquired Mr.
Pickwick, with a smile.
    »Think, sir!« replied Mr. Weller; »why, I think he's the wictim o'
connubiality, as Blue Beard's domestic chaplain said, with a tear of pity, ven
he buried him.«
    There was no replying to this very apposite conclusion, and, therefore, Mr.
Pickwick, after settling the reckoning, resumed his walk to Gray's Inn. By the
time he reached its secluded groves, however, eight o'clock had struck, and the
unbroken stream of gentlemen in muddy high-lows, soiled white hats, and rusty
apparel, who were pouring towards the different avenues of egress, warned him
that the majority of the offices had closed for that day.
    After climbing two pairs of steep and dirty stairs, he found his
anticipations were realised. Mr. Perker's outer door was closed; and the dead
silence which followed Mr. Weller's repeated kicks thereat, announced that the
officials had retired from business for the night.
    »This is pleasant, Sam,« said Mr. Pickwick; »I shouldn't lose an hour in
seeing him; I shall not be able to get one wink of sleep to-night, I know,
unless I have the satisfaction of reflecting that I have confided this matter to
a professional man.«
    »Here's an old 'ooman comin' up-stairs, sir,« replied Mr. Weller; »p'raps
she knows where we can find somebody. Hallo, old lady, vere's Mr. Perker's
people?«
    »Mr. Perker's people,« said a thin, miserable-looking old woman, stopping to
recover breath after the ascent of the staircase, »Mr. Perker's people's gone,
and I'm a goin' to do the office out.«
    »Are you Mr. Perker's servant?« inquired Mr. Pickwick.
    »I am Mr. Perker's laundress,« replied the old woman.
    »Ah,« said Mr. Pickwick, half aside to Sam, »it's a curious circumstance,
Sam, that they call the old women in these inns, laundresses. I wonder what's
that for.«
    »'Cos they has a mortal awersion to washing anything', I suppose, sir,«
replied Mr. Weller.
    »I shouldn't wonder,« said Mr. Pickwick, looking at the old woman, whose
appearance, as well as the condition of the office, which she had by this time
opened, indicated a rooted antipathy to the application of soap and water; »do
you know where I can find Mr. Perker, my good woman?«
    »No, I don't,« replied the old woman, gruffly; »he's out o' town now.«
    »That's unfortunate,« said Mr. Pickwick; »where's his clerk? Do you know?«
    »Yes, I know where he is, but he won't thank me for telling you,« replied
the laundress.
    »I have very particular business with him,« said Mr. Pickwick.
    »Won't it do in the morning?« said the woman.
    »Not so well,« replied Mr. Pickwick.
    »Well,« said the old woman, »if it was anything very particular, I was to
say where he was, so I suppose there's no harm in telling. If you just go to the
Magpie and Stump, and ask at the bar for Mr. Lowten, they'll show you in to him,
and he's Mr. Perker's clerk.«
    With this direction, and having been furthermore informed that the hostelry
in question was situated in a court, happy in the double advantage of being in
the vicinity of Clare Market, and closely approximating to the back of New Inn,
Mr. Pickwick and Sam descended the ricketty staircase in safety, and issued
forth in quest of the Magpie and Stump.
    This favoured tavern, sacred to the evening orgies of Mr. Lowten and his
companions, was what ordinary people would designate a public-house. That the
landlord was a man of a money-making turn, was sufficiently testified by the
fact of a small bulk-head beneath the tap-room window, in size and shape not
unlike a sedan-chair, being underlet to a mender of shoes: and that he was a
being of a philanthropic mind, was evident from the protection he afforded to a
pieman, who vended his delicacies without fear of interruption on the very
door-step. In the lower windows, which were decorated with curtains of a saffron
hue, dangled two or three printed cards, bearing reference to Devonshire cyder
and Dantzic spruce, while a large black board, announcing in white letters to an
enlightened public that there were 500,000 barrels of double stout in the
cellars of the establishment, left the mind in a state of not unpleasing doubt
and uncertainty as to the precise direction in the bowels of the earth, in which
this mighty cavern might be supposed to extend. When we add, that the
weather-beaten sign-board bore the half-obliterated semblance of a magpie
intently eyeing a crooked streak of brown paint, which the neighbours had been
taught from infancy to consider as the stump, we have said all that need be said
of the exterior of the edifice.
    On Mr. Pickwick's presenting himself at the bar, an elderly female emerged
from behind a screen therein, and presented herself before him.
    »Is Mr. Lowten here, ma'am?« inquired Mr. Pickwick.
    »Yes he is, sir,« replied the landlady. »Here, Charley, show the gentleman
in, to Mr. Lowten.«
    »The gen'lm'n can't go in just now,« said a shambling pot-boy, with a red
head, »'cos Mr. Lowten's a singin' a comic song, and he'll put him out. He'll be
done d'rectly, sir.«
    The red-headed pot-boy had scarcely finished speaking, when a most unanimous
hammering of tables, and jingling of glasses, announced that the song had that
instant terminated; and Mr. Pickwick, after desiring Sam to solace himself in
the tap, suffered himself to be conducted into the presence of Mr. Lowten.
    At the announcement of »gentleman to speak to you, sir,« a puffy-faced young
man, who filled the chair at the head of the table, looked with some surprise in
the direction from whence the voice proceeded: and the surprise seemed to be by
no means diminished, when his eyes rested on an individual whom he had never
seen before.
    »I beg your pardon, sir,« said Mr. Pickwick, »and I am very sorry to disturb
the other gentlemen, too, but I come on very particular business, and if you
will suffer me to detain you at this end of the room for five minutes, I shall
be very much obliged to you.«
    The puffy-faced young man rose, and drawing a chair close to Mr. Pickwick in
an obscure corner of the room, listened attentively to his tale of woe.
    »Ah,« he said, when Mr. Pickwick had concluded, »Dodson and Fogg - sharp
practice theirs - capital men of business, Dodson and Fogg, sir.«
    Mr. Pickwick admitted the sharp practice of Dodson and Fogg, and Lowten
resumed.
    »Perker ain't in town, and he won't be, neither, before the end of next
week; but if you want the action defended, and will leave the copy with me, I
can do all that's needful till he comes back.«
    »That's exactly what I came here for,« said Mr. Pickwick, handing over the
document. »If anything particular occurs, you can write to me at the
post-office, Ipswich.«
    »That's all right,« replied Mr. Perker's clerk; and then seeing Mr.
Pickwick's eye wandering curiously towards the table, he added, »Will you join
us, for half-an-hour or so? We are capital company here to-night. There's Samkin
and Green's managing-clerk, and Smithers and Price's chancery, and Pimkin and
Thomas's out o' door - sings a capital song, he does - and Jack Bamber, and ever
so many more. You're come out of the country, I suppose. Would you like to join
us?«
    Mr. Pickwick could not resist so tempting an opportunity of studying human
nature. He suffered himself to be led to the table, where, after having been
introduced to the company in due form, he was accommodated with a seat near the
chairman, and called for a glass of his favourite beverage.
    A profound silence, quite contrary to Mr. Pickwick's expectation, succeeded.
    »You don't find this sort of thing disagreeable, I hope, sir?« said his
right hand neighbour, a gentleman in a checked shirt, and Mosaic studs, with a
cigar in his mouth.
    »Not in the least,« replied Mr. Pickwick, »I like it very much, although I
am no smoker myself.«
    »I should be very sorry to say I wasn't't,« interposed another gentleman on
the opposite side of the table. »It's board and lodging to me, is smoke.«
    Mr. Pickwick glanced at the speaker, and thought that if it were washing
too, it would be all the better.
    Here there was another pause. Mr. Pickwick was a stranger, and his coming
had evidently cast a damp upon the party.
    »Mr. Grundy's going to oblige the company with a song,« said the chairman.
    »No he ain't,« said Mr. Grundy.
    »Why not?« said the chairman.
    »Because he can't,« said Mr. Grundy.
    »You had better say he won't,« replied the chairman.
    »Well, then, he won't,« retorted Mr. Grundy. Mr. Grundy's positive refusal
to gratify the company occasioned another silence.
    »Won't anybody enliven us?« said the chairman, despondingly.
    »Why don't you enliven us yourself, Mr. Chairman?« said a young man with a
whisker, a squint, and an open shirt collar (dirty), from the bottom of the
table.
    »Hear! hear!« said the smoking gentleman in the Mosaic jewellery.
    »Because I only know one song, and I have sung it already, and it's a fine
of glasses round to sing the same song twice in a night,« replied the chairman.
    This was an unanswerable reply, and silence prevailed again.
    »I have been to-night, gentlemen,« said Mr. Pickwick, hoping to start a
subject which all the company could take a part in discussing, »I have been
to-night in a place which you all know very well, doubtless, but which I have
not been in before for some years, and know very little of; I mean Gray's Inn,
gentlemen. Curious little nooks in a great place, like London, these old Inns
are.«
    »By Jove,« said the chairman, whispering across the table to Mr. Pickwick,
»you have hit upon something that one of us, at least, would talk upon for ever.
You'll draw old Jack Bamber out; he was never heard to talk about anything else
but the Inns, and he has lived alone in them till he's half crazy.«
    The individual to whom Lowten alluded, was a little yellow high-shouldered
man, whose countenance, from his habit of stooping forward when silent, Mr.
Pickwick had not observed before. He wondered though, when the old man raised
his shrivelled face, and bent his grey eye upon him, with a keen inquiring look,
that such remarkable features could have escaped his attention for a moment.
There was a fixed grim smile perpetually on his countenance; he leant his chin
on a long skinny hand, with nails of extraordinary length; and as he inclined
his head to one side, and looked keenly out from beneath his ragged grey
eyebrows, there was a strange, wild slyness in his leer, quite repulsive to
behold.
    This was the figure that now started forward, and burst into an animated
torrent of words. As this chapter has been a long one, however, and as the old
man was a remarkable personage, it will be more respectful to him, and more
convenient to us, to let him speak for himself in a fresh one.
 

                                  Chapter XXI

  In Which the Old Man Launches Forth into His Favourite Theme, and Relates a
                          Story About a Queer Client.

»Aha!« said the old man, a brief description of whose manner and appearance
concluded the last chapter, »Aha! who was talking about the Inns?«
    »I was, sir,« replied Mr. Pickwick; »I was observing what singular old
places they are.«
    »You!« said the old man, contemptuously, »What do you know of the time when
young men shut themselves up in those lonely rooms, and read and read, hour
after hour, and night after night, till their reason wandered beneath their
midnight studies; till their mental powers were exhausted; till morning's light
brought no freshness or health to them; and they sank beneath the unnatural
devotion of their youthful energies to their dry old books? Coming down to a
later time, and a very different day, what do you know of the gradual sinking
beneath consumption, or the quick wasting of fever - the grand results of life
and dissipation - which men have undergone in these same rooms? How many vain
pleaders for mercy, do you think have turned away heart-sick from the lawyer's
office, to find a resting-place in the Thames, or a refuge in the gaol? They are
no ordinary houses, those. There is not a panel in the old wainscotting, but
what, if it were endowed with the powers of speech and memory, could start from
the wall, and tell its tale of horror - the romance of life, sir, the romance of
life! Common-place as they may seem now, I tell you they are strange old places,
and I would rather hear many a legend with a terrific sounding name, than the
true history of one old set of chambers.«
    There was something so odd in the old man's sudden energy, and the subject
which had called it forth, that Mr. Pickwick was prepared with no observation in
reply; and the old man checking his impetuosity, and resuming the leer, which
had disappeared during his previous excitement, said:
    »Look at them in another light: their most common-place and least romantic.
What fine places of slow torture they are! Think of the needy man who has spent
his all, beggared himself, and pinched his friends, to enter the profession,
which will never yield him a morsel of bread. The waiting - the hope - the
disappointment - the fear - the misery - the poverty - the blight on his hopes,
and end to his career - the suicide perhaps, or the shabby, slipshod drunkard.
Am I not right about them?« And the old man rubbed his hands, and leered as if
in delight at having found another point of view in which to place his favourite
subject.
    Mr. Pickwick eyed the old man with great curiosity, and the remainder of the
company smiled, and looked on in silence.
    »Talk of your German universities,« said the little old man. »Pooh, pooh!
there's romance enough at home without going half a mile for it; only people
never think of it.«
    »I never thought of the romance of this particular subject before,
certainly,« said Mr. Pickwick, laughing.
    »To be sure you didn't,« said the little old man, »of course not. As a
friend of mine used to say to me, What is there in chambers, in particular?
Queer old places, said I. Not at all, said he. Lonely, said I. Not a bit of it,
said he. He died one morning of apoplexy, as he was going to open his outer
door. Fell with his head in his own letter-box, and there he lay for eighteen
months. Every body thought he'd gone out of town.«
    »And how was he found at last?« inquired Mr. Pickwick.
    »The benchers determined to have his door broken open, as he hadn't paid any
rent for two years. So they did. Forced the lock; and a very dusty skeleton in a
blue coat, black knee-shorts, and silks, fell forward in the arms of the porter
who opened the door. Queer, that. Rather, perhaps?« The little old man put his
head more on one side, and rubbed his hands with unspeakable glee.
    »I know another case,« said the little old man, when his chuckles had in
some degree subsided. »It occurred in Clifford's Inn. Tenant of a top set - bad
character - shut himself up in his bed-room closet, and took a dose of arsenic.
The steward thought he had run away; opened the door, and put a bill up. Another
man came, took the chambers, furnished them, and went to live there. Somehow or
other he couldn't sleep - always restless and uncomfortable. Odd, says he. I'll
make the other room my bed-chamber, and this my sitting-room. He made the
change, and slept very well at night, but suddenly found that, somehow, he
couldn't read in the evening: he got nervous and uncomfortable, and used to be
always snuffing his candles and staring about him. I can't make this out, said
he, when he came home from the play one night, and was drinking a glass of cold
grog, with his back to the wall, in order that he mightn't be able to fancy
there was any one behind him - I can't make it out, said he; and just then his
eyes rested on the little closet that had been always locked up, and a shudder
ran through his whole frame from top to toe. I have felt this strange feeling
before, said he, I cannot help thinking there's something wrong about that
closet. He made a strong effort, plucked up his courage, shivered the lock with
a blow or two of the poker, opened the door, and there, sure enough, standing
bolt upright in the corner, was the last tenant, with a little bottle clasped
firmly in his hand, and his face - well!« As the little old man concluded, he
looked round on the attentive faces of his wondering auditory with a smile of
grim delight.
    »What strange things these are you tell us of, sir,« said Mr. Pickwick,
minutely scanning the old man's countenance, by the aid of his glasses.
    »Strange!« said the little old man. »Nonsense; you think them strange,
because you know nothing about it. They are funny, but not uncommon.«
    »Funny!« exclaimed Mr. Pickwick, involuntarily.
    »Yes, funny, are they not?« replied the little old man, with a diabolical
leer; and then, without pausing for an answer, he continued:
    »I knew another man - let me see - forty years ago now - who took an old,
damp, rotten set of chambers, in one of the most ancient Inns, that had been
shut up and empty for years and years before. There were lots of old women's
stories about the place, and it certainly was very far from being a cheerful
one; but he was poor, and the rooms were cheap, and that would have been quite a
sufficient reason for him, if they had been ten times worse than they really
were. He was obliged to take some mouldering fixtures that were on the place,
and, among the rest, was a great lumbering wooden press for papers, with large
glass doors, and a green curtain inside; a pretty useless thing for him, for he
had no papers to put in it; and as to his clothes, he carried them about with
him, and that wasn't't very hard work, either. Well, he had moved in all his
furniture - it wasn't't quite a truck-full - and had sprinkled it about the room,
so as to make the four chairs look as much like a dozen as possible, and was
sitting down before the fire at night, drinking the first glass of two gallons
of whiskey he had ordered on credit, wondering whether it would ever be paid
for, and if so, in how many years' time, when his eyes encountered the glass
doors of the wooden press. Ah, says he. If I hadn't been obliged to take that
ugly article at the old broker's valuation, I might have got something
comfortable for the money. I'll tell you what it is, old fellow, he said,
speaking aloud to the press, having nothing else to speak to: If it wouldn't
cost more to break up your old carcase, than it would ever be worth afterwards,
I'd have a fire out of you in less than no time. He had hardly spoken the words,
when a sound resembling a faint groan, appeared to issue from the interior of
the case. It startled him at first, but thinking, on a moment's reflection, that
it must be some young fellow in the next chamber, who had been dining out, he
put his feet on the fender, and raised the poker to stir the fire. At that
moment, the sound was repeated: and one of the glass doors slowly opening,
disclosed a pale and emaciated figure in soiled and worn apparel, standing erect
in the press. The figure was tall and thin, and the countenance expressive of
care and anxiety; but there was something in the hue of the skin, and gaunt and
unearthly appearance of the whole form, which no being of this world was ever
seen to wear. Who are you? said the new tenant, turning very pale: poising the
poker in his hand, however, and taking a very decent aim at the countenance of
the figure. Who are you? Don't throw that poker at me, replied the form; If you
hurled it with ever so sure an aim, it would pass through me, without
resistance, and expend its force on the wood behind. I am a spirit. And, pray,
what do you want here? faltered the tenant. In this room, replied the
apparition, my worldly ruin was worked, and I and my children beggared. In this
press, the papers in a long, long suit, which accumulated for years, were
deposited. In this room, when I had died of grief, and long-deferred hope, two
wily harpies divided the wealth for which I had contested during a wretched
existence, and of which, at last, not one farthing was left for my unhappy
descendants. I terrified them from the spot, and since that day have prowled by
night - the only period at which I can re-visit the earth - about the scenes of
my long-protracted misery. This apartment is mine: leave it to me. If you insist
upon making your appearance here, said the tenant, who had had time to collect
his presence of mind during this prosy statement of the ghost's, I shall give up
possession with the greatest pleasure; but I should like to ask you one
question, if you will allow me. Say on, said the apparition, sternly. Well, said
the tenant, I don't apply the observation personally to you, because it is
equally applicable to most of the ghosts I ever heard of; but it does appear to
me somewhat inconsistent, that when you have an opportunity of visiting the
fairest spots of earth - for I suppose space is nothing to you - you should
always return exactly to the very places where you have been most miserable.
Egad, that's very true; I never thought of that before, said the ghost. You see,
sir, pursued the tenant, this is a very uncomfortable room. From the appearance
of that press, I should be disposed to say that it is not wholly free from bugs;
and I really think you might find much more comfortable quarters: to say nothing
of the climate of London, which is extremely disagreeable. You are very right,
sir, said the ghost, politely, it never struck me till now; I'll try change of
air directly. In fact, he began to vanish as he spoke: his legs, indeed, had
quite disappeared. And if, sir, said the tenant, calling after him, if you would
have the goodness to suggest to the other ladies and gentlemen who are now
engaged in haunting old empty houses, that they might be much more comfortable
elsewhere, you will confer a very great benefit on society. I will, replied the
ghost; we must be dull fellows, very dull fellows, indeed; I can't imagine how
we can have been so stupid. With these words, the spirit disappeared; and what
is rather remarkable,« added the old man, with a shrewd look round the table,
»he never came back again.«
    »That ain't bad, if it's true,« said the man in the Mosaic studs, lighting a
fresh cigar.
    »If!« exclaimed the old man, with a look of excessive contempt. »I suppose,«
he added, turning to Lowten, »he'll say next, that my story about the queer
client we had, when I was in an attorney's office, is not true, either - I
shouldn't wonder.«
    »I shan't venture to say anything at all about it, seeing that I never heard
the story,« observed the owner of the Mosaic decorations.
    »I wish you would repeat it, sir,« said Mr. Pickwick.
    »Ah, do,« said Lowten, »nobody has heard it but me, and I have nearly
forgotten it.«
    The old man looked round the table, and leered more horribly than ever, as
if in triumph, at the attention which was depicted in every face. Then rubbing
his chin with his hand, and looking up to the ceiling as if to recall the
circumstances to his memory, he began as follows:
 
                   The Old Man's Tale about the Queer Client.
 
»It matters little,« said the old man, »where, or how, I picked up this brief
history. If I were to relate it in the order in which it reached me, I should
commence in the middle, and when I had arrived at the conclusion, go back for a
beginning. It is enough for me to say that some of its circumstances passed
before my own eyes. For the remainder I know them to have happened, and there
are some persons yet living, who will remember them but too well.
    In the Borough High Street, near Saint George's Church, and on the same side
of the way, stands, as most people know, the smallest of our debtors' prisons,
the Marshalsea. Although in later times it has been a very different place from
the sink of filth and dirt it once was, even its improved condition holds out
but little temptation to the extravagant, or consolation to the improvident. The
condemned felon has as good a yard for air and exercise in Newgate, as the
insolvent debtor in the Marshalsea Prison.4
    It may be my fancy, or it may be that I cannot separate the place from the
old recollections associated with it, but this part of London I cannot bear. The
street is broad, the shops are spacious, the noise of passing vehicles, the
footsteps of a perpetual stream of people - all the busy sounds of traffic,
resound in it from morn to midnight, but the streets around are mean and close;
poverty and debauchery lie festering in the crowded alleys; want and misfortune
are pent up in the narrow prison; an air of gloom and dreariness seems, in my
eyes at least, to hang about the scene, and to impart to it a squalid and sickly
hue.
    Many eyes, that have long since been closed in the grave, have looked round
upon that scene lightly enough, when entering the gate of the old Marshalsea
Prison for the first time: for despair seldom comes with the first severe shock
of misfortune. A man has confidence in untried friends, he remembers the many
offers of service so freely made by his boon companions when he wanted them not;
he has hope - the hope of happy inexperience - and however he may bend beneath
the first shock, it springs up in his bosom, and flourishes there for a brief
space, until it droops beneath the blight of disappointment and neglect. How
soon have those same eyes, deeply sunken in the head, glared from faces wasted
with famine, and sallow from confinement, in days when it was no figure of
speech to say that debtors rotted in prison, with no hope of release, and no
prospect of liberty! The atrocity in its full extent no longer exists, but there
is enough of it left to give rise to occurrences that make the heart bleed.
    Twenty years ago, that pavement was worn with the footsteps of a mother and
child, who, day by day, so surely as the morning came, presented themselves at
the prison gate; often after a night of restless misery and anxious thoughts,
were they there, a full hour too soon, and then the young mother turning meekly
away, would lead the child to the old bridge, and raising him in her arms to
show him the glistening water, tinted with the light of the morning's sun, and
stirring with all the bustling preparations for business and pleasure that the
river presented at that early hour, endeavour to interest his thoughts in the
objects before him. But she would quickly set him down, and hiding her face in
her shawl, give vent to the tears that blinded her; for no expression of
interest or amusement lighted up his thin and sickly face. His recollections
were few enough, but they were all of one kind: all connected with the poverty
and misery of his parents. Hour after hour had he sat on his mother's knee, and
with childish sympathy watched the tears that stole down her face, and then
crept quietly away into some dark corner, and sobbed himself to sleep. The hard
realities of the world, with many of its worst privations - hunger and thirst,
and cold and want - had all come home to him, from the first dawnings of reason;
and though the form of childhood was there, its light heart, its merry laugh,
and sparkling eyes, were wanting.
    The father and mother looked on upon this, and upon each other, with
thoughts of agony they dared not breathe in words. The healthy, strong-made man,
who could have borne almost any fatigue of active exertion, was wasting beneath
the close confinement and unhealthy atmosphere of a crowded prison. The slight
and delicate woman was sinking beneath the combined effects of bodily and mental
illness. The child's young heart was breaking.
    Winter came, and with it weeks of cold and heavy rain. The poor girl had
removed to a wretched apartment close to the spot of her husband's imprisonment;
and though the change had been rendered necessary by their increasing poverty,
she was happier now, for she was nearer him. For two months, she and her little
companion watched the opening of the gate as usual. One day she failed to come,
for the first time. Another morning arrived, and she came alone. The child was
dead.
    They little know, who coldly talk of the poor man's bereavements, as a happy
release from pain to the departed, and a merciful relief from expense to the
survivor - they little know, I say, what the agony of those bereavements is. A
silent look of affection and regard when all other eyes are turned coldly away -
the consciousness that we possess the sympathy and affection of one being when
all others have deserted us - is a hold, a stay, a comfort, in the deepest
affliction, which no wealth could purchase, or power bestow. The child had sat
at his parents' feet for hours together, with his little hands patiently folded
in each other, and his thin wan face raised towards them. They had seen him pine
away, from day to day; and though his brief existence had been a joyless one,
and he was now removed to that peace and rest which, child as he was, he had
never known in this world, they were his parents, and his loss sunk deep into
their souls.
    It was plain to those who looked upon the mother's altered face, that death
must soon close the scene of her adversity and trial. Her husband's
fellow-prisoners shrunk from obtruding on his grief and misery, and left to
himself alone the small room he had previously occupied in common with two
companions. She shared it with him: and lingering on without pain, but without
hope, her life ebbed slowly away.
    She had fainted one evening in her husband's arms, and he had borne her to
the open window, to revive her with the air, when the light of the moon falling
full upon her face, showed him a change upon her features, which made him
stagger beneath her weight, like a helpless infant.
    Set me down, George, she said faintly. He did so, and seating himself beside
her, covered his face with his hands, and burst into tears.
    It is very hard to leave you, George, she said, but it is God's will, and
you must bear it for my sake. Oh! how I thank Him for having taken our boy! He
is happy, and in Heaven now. What would he have done here, without his mother!
    You shall not die, Mary, you shall not die! said the husband, starting up.
He paced hurriedly to and fro, striking his head with his clenched fists; then
reseating himself beside her, and supporting her in his arms, added more calmly,
Rouse yourself, my dear girl. Pray, pray do. You will revive yet.
    Never again, George; never again, said the dying woman. Let them lay me by
my poor boy now, but promise me, that if ever you leave this dreadful place, and
should grow rich, you will have us removed to some quiet country churchyard, a
long, long way off - very far from here - where we can rest in peace. Dear
George, promise me you will.
    I do, I do, said the man, throwing himself passionately on his knees before
her. Speak to me, Mary, another word; one look - but one!
    He ceased to speak: for the arm that clasped his neck, grew stiff and heavy.
A deep sigh escaped from the wasted form before him; the lips moved, and a smile
played upon the face; but the lips were pallid, and the smile faded into a rigid
and ghastly stare. He was alone in the world.
    That night, in the silence and desolation of his miserable room, the
wretched man knelt down by the dead body of his wife, and called on God to
witness a terrible oath, that from that hour, he devoted himself to revenge her
death and that of his child; that thenceforth to the last moment of his life,
his whole energies should be directed to this one object; that his revenge
should be protracted and terrible; that his hatred should be undying and
inextinguishable; and should hunt its object through the world.
    The deepest despair, and passion scarcely human, had made such fierce
ravages on his face and form, in that one night, that his companions in
misfortune shrunk affrighted from him as he passed by. His eyes were bloodshot
and heavy, his face a deadly white, and his body bent as if with age. He had
bitten his under lip nearly through in the violence of his mental suffering, and
the blood which had flowed from the wound had trickled down his chin, and
stained his shirt and neckerchief. No tear, or sound of complaint escaped him:
but the unsettled look, and disordered haste with which he paced up and down the
yard, denoted the fever which was burning within.
    It was necessary that his wife's body should be removed from the prison,
without delay. He received the communication with perfect calmness, and
acquiesced in its propriety. Nearly all the inmates of the prison had assembled
to witness its removal; they fell back on either side when the widower appeared;
he walked hurriedly forward, and stationed himself, alone, in a little railed
area close to the lodge gate, from whence the crowd, with an instinctive feeling
of delicacy, had retired. The rude coffin was borne slowly forward on men's
shoulders. A dead silence pervaded the throng, broken only by the audible
lamentations of the women, and the shuffling steps of the bearers on the stone
pavement. They reached the spot where the bereaved husband stood: and stopped.
He laid his hand upon the coffin, and mechanically adjusting the pall with which
it was covered, motioned them onward. The turnkeys in the prison lobby took off
their hats as it passed through, and in another moment the heavy gate closed
behind it. He looked vacantly upon the crowd, and fell heavily to the ground.
    Although for many weeks after this, he was watched, night and day, in the
wildest ravings of fever, neither the consciousness of his loss, nor the
recollection of the vow he had made, ever left him for a moment. Scenes changed
before his eyes, place succeeded place, and event followed event, in all the
hurry of delirium; but they were all connected in some way with the great object
of his mind. He was sailing over a boundless expanse of sea, with a blood-red
sky above, and the angry waters, lashed into fury beneath, boiling and eddying
up, on every side. There was another vessel before them, toiling and labouring
in the howling storm: her canvas fluttering in ribbons from the mast, and her
deck thronged with figures who were lashed to the sides, over which huge waves
every instant burst, sweeping away some devoted creatures into the foaming sea.
Onward they bore, amidst the roaring mass of water, with a speed and force which
nothing could resist; and striking the stern of the foremost vessel, crushed
her, beneath their keel. From the huge whirlpool which the sinking wreck
occasioned, arose a shriek so loud and shrill - the death-cry of a hundred
drowning creatures, blended into one fierce yell - that it rung far above the
war-cry of the elements, and echoed, and re-echoed till it seemed to pierce air,
sky, and ocean. But what was that - that old grey-head that rose above the
water's surface, and with looks of agony, and screams for aid, buffeted with the
waves! One look, and he had sprung from the vessel's side, and with vigorous
strokes was swimming towards it. He reached it; he was close upon it. They were
his features. The old man saw him coming, and vainly strove to elude his grasp.
But he clasped him tight, and dragged him beneath the water. Down, down with
him, fifty fathoms down; his struggles grew fainter and fainter, until they
wholly ceased. He was dead; he had killed him, and had kept his oath.
    He was traversing the scorching sands of a mighty desert, barefoot and
alone. The sand choked and blinded him; its fine thin grains entered the very
pores of his skin, and irritated him almost to madness. Gigantic masses of the
same material, carried forward by the wind, and shone through, by the burning
sun, stalked in the distance like pillars of living fire. The bones of men, who
had perished in the dreary waste, lay scattered at his feet; a fearful light
fell on everything around; so far as the eye could reach, nothing but objects of
dread and horror presented themselves. Vainly striving to utter a cry of terror,
with his tongue cleaving to his mouth, he rushed madly forward. Armed with
supernatural strength, he waded through the sand, until exhausted with fatigue
and thirst, he fell senseless on the earth. What fragrant coolness revived him;
what gushing sound was that? Water! It was indeed a well; and the clear fresh
stream was running at his feet. He drank deeply of it, and throwing his aching
limbs upon the bank, sunk into a delicious trance. The sound of approaching
footsteps roused him. An old grey-headed man tottered forward to slake his
burning thirst. It was he again! He wound his arms round the old man's body, and
held him back. He struggled, and shrieked for water, for but one drop of water
to save his life! But he held the old man firmly, and watched his agonies with
greedy eyes; and when his lifeless head fell forward on his bosom, he rolled the
corpse from him with his feet.
    When the fever left him, and consciousness returned, he awoke to find
himself rich and free: to hear that the parent who would have let him die in
gaol - would! who had let those who were far dearer to him than his own
existence, die of want and sickness of heart that medicine cannot cure - had
been found dead on his bed of down. He had had all the heart to leave his son a
beggar, but proud even of his health and strength, had put off the act till it
was too late, and now might gnash his teeth in the other world, at the thought
of the wealth his remissness had left him. He awoke to this, and he awoke to
more. To recollect the purpose for which he lived, and to remember that his
enemy was his wife's own father - the man who had cast him into prison, and who,
when his daughter and her child sued at his feet for mercy, had spurned them
from his door. Oh, how he cursed the weakness that prevented him from being up,
and active, in his scheme of vengeance!
    He caused himself to be carried from the scene of his loss and misery, and
conveyed to a quiet residence on the sea-coast; not in the hope of recovering
his peace of mind or happiness, for both were fled for ever; but to restore his
prostrate energies, and meditate on his darling object. And here, some evil
spirit cast in his way the opportunity for his first, most horrible revenge.
    It was summer time; and wrapped in his gloomy thoughts, he would issue from
his solitary lodgings early in the evening, and wandering along a narrow path
beneath the cliffs, to a wild and lonely spot that had struck his fancy in his
ramblings, seat himself on some fallen fragment of the rock, and burying his
face in his hands, remain there for hours - sometimes until night had completely
closed in, and the long shadows of the frowning cliffs above his head cast a
thick black darkness on every object near him.
    He was seated here, one calm evening in his old position, now and then
raising his head to watch the flight of a seagull, or carry his eye along the
glorious crimson path, which, commencing in the middle of the ocean, seemed to
lead to its very verge where the sun was setting, when the profound stillness of
the spot was broken by a loud cry for help; he listened, doubtful of his having
heard aright, when the cry was repeated with even greater vehemence than before,
and starting to his feet, he hastened in the direction whence it proceeded.
    The tale told itself at once: some scattered garments lay on the beach; a
human head was just visible above the waves at a little distance from the shore;
and an old man, wringing his hands in agony, was running to and fro, shrieking
for assistance. The invalid, whose strength was now sufficiently restored, threw
off his coat, and rushed towards the sea, with the intention of plunging in, and
dragging the drowning man a-shore.
    Hasten here, sir, in God's name; help, help, sir, for the love of Heaven. He
is my son, sir, my only son! said the old man, frantically, as he advanced to
meet him. My only son, sir, and he is dying before his father's eyes!
    At the first word the old man uttered, the stranger checked himself in his
career, and, folding his arms, stood perfectly motionless.
    Great God! exclaimed the old man, recoiling. Heyling!
    The stranger smiled, and was silent.
    Heyling! said the old man, wildly: My boy, Heyling, my dear boy, look, look!
gasping for breath, the miserable father pointed to the spot where the young man
was struggling for life.
    Hark! said the old man. He cries once more. He is alive yet. Heyling, save
him, save him!
    The stranger smiled again, and remained immovable as a statue.
    I have wronged you, shrieked the old man, falling on his knees, and clasping
his hands together. Be revenged; take my all, my life; cast me into the water at
your feet, and, if human nature can repress a struggle, I will die, without
stirring hand or foot. Do it, Heyling, do it, but save my boy, he is so young,
Heyling, so young to die!
    Listen, said the stranger, grasping the old man fiercely by the wrist: I
will have life for life, and here is ONE. My child died, before his fathers
eyes, a far more agonising and painful death than that young slanderer of his
sister's worth is meeting while I speak. You laughed - laughed in your
daughter's face, where death had already set his hand - at our sufferings, then.
What think you of them now? See there, see there!
    As the stranger spoke, he pointed to the sea. A faint cry died away upon its
surface: the last powerful struggle of the dying man agitated the rippling waves
for a few seconds: and the spot where he had gone down into his early grave, was
undistinguishable from the surrounding water.
 
Three years had elapsed, when a gentleman alighted from a private carriage at
the door of a London attorney, then well known as a man of no great nicety in
his professional dealings: and requested a private interview on business of
importance. Although evidently not past the prime of life, his face was pale,
haggard, and dejected; and it did not require the acute perception of the man of
business, to discern at a glance, that disease or suffering had done more to
work a change in his appearance, than the mere hand of time could have
accomplished in twice the period of his whole life.
    I wish you to undertake some legal business for me, said the stranger.
    The attorney bowed obsequiously, and glanced at a large packet which the
gentleman carried in his hand. His visitor observed the look, and proceeded.
    It is no common business, said he; nor have these papers reached my hands
without long trouble and great expense.
    The attorney cast a still more anxious look at the packet: and his visitor,
untying the string that bound it, disclosed a quantity of promissory notes, with
copies of deeds, and other documents.
    Upon these papers, said the client, the man whose name they bear, has
raised, as you will see, large sums of money, for some years past. There was a
tacit understanding between him and the men into whose hands they originally
went - and from whom I have by degrees purchased the whole, for treble and
quadruple their nominal value - that these loans should be from time to time
renewed, until a given period had elapsed. Such an understanding is nowhere
expressed. He has sustained many losses of late; and these obligations
accumulating upon him at once, would crush him to the earth.
    The whole amount is many thousands of pounds, said the attorney, looking
over the papers.
    It is, said the client.
    What are we to do? inquired the man of business.
    Do! replied the client, with sudden vehemence. Put every engine of the law
in force, every trick that ingenuity can devise and rascality execute; fair
means and foul; the open oppression of the law, aided by all the craft of its
most ingenious practitioners. I would have him die a harassing and lingering
death. Ruin him, seize and sell his lands and goods, drive him from house and
home, and drag him forth a beggar in his old age, to die in a common grave.«
    »But the costs, my dear sir, the costs of all this, reasoned the attorney,
when he had recovered from his momentary surprise. If the defendant be a man of
straw, who is to pay the costs, sir?
    Name any sum, said the stranger, his hand trembling so violently with
excitement, that he could scarcely hold the pen he seized as he spoke; Any sum,
and it is yours. Don't be afraid to name it, man. I shall not think it dear, if
you gain my object.
    The attorney named a large sum, at hazard, as the advance he should require
to secure himself against the possibility of loss; but more with the view of
ascertaining how far his client was really disposed to go, than with any idea
that he would comply with the demand. The stranger wrote a cheque upon his
banker, for the whole amount, and left him.
    The draft was duly honoured, and the attorney, finding that his strange
client might be safely relied upon, commenced his work in earnest. For more than
two years afterwards, Mr. Heyling would sit whole days together, in the office,
poring over the papers as they accumulated, and reading again and again, his
eyes gleaming with joy, the letters of remonstrance, the prayers for a little
delay, the representations of the certain ruin in which the opposite party must
be involved, which poured in, as suit after suit, and process after process, was
commenced. To all applications for a brief indulgence, there was but one reply -
the money must be paid. Land, house, furniture, each in its turn, was taken
under some one of the numerous executions which were issued; and the old man
himself would have been immured in prison had he not escaped the vigilance of
the officers, and fled.
    The implacable animosity of Heyling, so far from being satiated by the
success of his persecution, increased a hundred-fold with the ruin he inflicted.
On being informed of the old man's flight, his fury was unbounded. He gnashed
his teeth with rage, tore the hair from his head, and assailed with horrid
imprecations the men who had been entrusted with the writ. He was only restored
to comparative calmness by repeated assurances of the certainty of discovering
the fugitive. Agents were sent in quest of him, in all directions; every
stratagem that could be invented was resorted to, for the purpose of discovering
his place of retreat; but it was all in vain. Half a year had passed over, and
he was still undiscovered.
    At length, late one night, Heyling, of whom nothing had been seen for many
weeks before, appeared at his attorney's private residence, and sent up word
that a gentleman wished to see him instantly. Before the attorney, who had
recognised his voice from above stairs, could order the servant to admit him, he
had rushed up the staircase, and entered the drawing-room pale and breathless.
Having closed the door, to prevent being overheard, he sunk into a chair, and
said, in a low voice:
    Hush! I have found him at last.
    No! said the attorney. Well done, my dear sir; well done.
    He lies concealed in a wretched lodging in Camden Town, said Heyling.
Perhaps it is as well, we did lose sight of him, for he has been living alone
there, in the most abject misery, all the time, and he is poor - very poor.
    Very good, said the attorney. You will have the caption made to-morrow, of
course?
    Yes, replied Heyling. Stay! No! The next day. You are surprised at my
wishing to postpone it, he added, with a ghastly smile; but I had forgotten. The
next day is an anniversary in his life: let it be done then.
    Very good, said the attorney. Will you write down instructions for the
officer?
    No; let him meet me here, at eight in the evening, and I will accompany him,
myself.
    They met on the appointed night, and, hiring a hackney coach, directed the
driver to stop at that corner of the old Pancras Road, at which stands the
parish workhouse. By the time they alighted there, it was quite dark; and,
proceeding by the dead wall in front of the Veterinary Hospital, they entered a
small by-street, which is, or was at that time, called Little College Street,
and which, whatever it may be now, was in those days a desolate place enough,
surrounded by little else than fields and ditches.
    Having drawn the travelling cap he had on half over his face, and muffled
himself in his cloak, Heyling stopped before the meanest-looking house in the
street, and knocked gently at the door. It was at once opened by a woman, who
dropped a curtesy of recognition, and Heyling, whispering the officer to remain
below, crept gently upstairs, and, opening the door of the front room, entered
at once.
    The object of his search and his unrelenting animosity, now a decrepit old
man, was seated at a bare deal table, on which stood a miserable candle. He
started on the entrance of the stranger, and rose feebly to his feet.
    What now, what now? said the old man. What fresh misery is this? What do you
want here?
    A word with you, replied Heyling. As he spoke, he seated himself at the
other end of the table, and, throwing off his cloak and cap, disclosed his
features.
    The old man seemed instantly deprived of the power of speech. He fell
backward in his chair, and, clasping his hands together, gazed on the apparition
with a mingled look of abhorrence and fear.
    This day six years, said Heyling, I claimed the life you owed me for my
child's. Beside the lifeless form of your daughter, old man, I swore to live a
life of revenge. I have never swerved from my purpose for a moment's space; but
if I had, one thought of her uncomplaining, suffering look, as she drooped away,
or of the starving face of our innocent child, would have nerved me to my task.
My first act of requital you well remember: this is my last.
    The old man shivered, and his hands dropped powerless by his side.
    I leave England to-morrow, said Heyling, after a moment's pause. To-night I
consign you to the living death to which you devoted her - a hopeless prison -
    He raised his eyes to the old man's countenance, and paused. He lifted the
light to his face, set it gently down, and left the apartment.
    You had better see to the old man, he said to the woman, as he opened the
door, and motioned the officer to follow him into the street. I think he is ill.
The woman closed the door, ran hastily up stairs, and found him lifeless.
 
Beneath a plain grave-stone, in one of the most peaceful and secluded
churchyards in Kent, where wild flowers mingle with the grass, and the soft
landscape around forms the fairest spot in the garden of England, lie the bones
of the young mother and her gentle child. But the ashes of the father do not
mingle with theirs; nor, from that night forward, did the attorney ever gain the
remotest clue to the subsequent history of his queer client.«
 
As the old man concluded his tale, he advanced to a peg in one corner, and
taking down his hat and coat, put them on with great deliberation; and, without
saying another word, walked slowly away. As the gentleman with the Mosaic studs
had fallen asleep, and the major part of the company were deeply occupied in the
humorous process of dropping melted tallow-grease into his brandy and water, Mr.
Pickwick departed unnoticed, and having settled his own score, and that of Mr.
Weller, issued forth, in company with that gentleman, from beneath the portal of
the Magpie and Stump.
 

                                  Chapter XXII

  Mr. Pickwick Journeys to Ipswich, and Meets with a Romantic Adventure with a
                    Middle-Aged Lady in Yellow Curl Papers.

»That 'ere your governor's luggage, Sammy?« inquired Mr. Weller of his
affectionate son, as he entered the yard of the Bull inn, Whitechapel, with a
travelling bag and a small portmanteau.
    »You might ha' made a worser guess than that, old feller,« replied Mr.
Weller the younger, setting down his burden in the yard, and sitting himself
down upon it afterwards. »The Governor himself'll be down here presently.«
    »He's a cabin' it, I suppose?« said the father.
    »Yes, he's a having' two mile o' danger at eight-pence,« responded the son.
»How's mother-in-law this mornin'?«
    »Queer, Sammy, queer,« replied the elder Mr. Weller, with impressive
gravity. »She's been getting' rather in the Methodistical order lately, Sammy;
and she is uncommon pious, to be sure. She's too good a creature for me, Sammy. I
feel I don't deserve her.«
    »Ah,« said Mr. Samuel, »that's very self-denyin' o' you.«
    »Wery,« replied his parent, with a sigh. »She's got hold o' some inwention
for grown-up people being born again, Sammy; the new birth, I thinks they calls
it. I should very much like to see that system in haction, Sammy. I should very
much like to see your mother-in-law born again. Wouldn't I put her out to
nurse!«
    »What do you think them women does t'other day,« continued Mr. Weller, after
a short pause, during which he had significantly struck the side of his nose
with his fore-finger some half-dozen times. »What do you think they does,
t'other day, Sammy?«
    »Don't know,« replied Sammy, »what?«
    »Goes and gets up a grand tea drinkin' for a feller they calls their
shepherd,« said Mr. Weller. »I was a standing starin' in at the picture shop down
at our place, when I sees a little bill about it; tickets half-a-crown. All
applications to be made to the committee. Secretary, Mrs. Weller; and when I got
home there was the committee a sittin' in our back parlour. Fourteen women; I
wish you could ha' heard 'em, Sammy. There they was, a passin' resolutions, and
wotin' supplies, and all sorts o' games. Well, what with your mother-in-law a
worrying me to go, and what with my looking for'ard to seein' some queer starts
if I did, I put my name down for a ticket; at six o'clock on the Friday evenin'
I dresses myself out very smart, and off I goes with the old 'ooman, and up we
walks into a fust floor where there was tea things for thirty, and a whole lot
o' women as begins whisperin' at one another, and looking' at me, as if they'd
never seen a rather stout gen'lm'n of eight-and-fifty afore. By and bye, there
comes a great bustle down stairs, and a lanky chap with a red nose and a white
neckcloth rushes up, and sings out, Here's the shepherd a coming to wisit his
faithful flock; and in comes a fat chap in black, with a great white face, a
smilin' away like clockwork. Such goin's on, Sammy! The kiss of peace, says the
shepherd; and then he kissed the women all round, and ven he'd done, the man
with the red nose began. I was just a thinking' whether I hadn't better begin too
- 'specially as there was a very nice lady a sittin' next me - ven in comes the
tea, and your mother-in-law, as had been making' the kettle bile down stairs. At
it they went, tooth and nail. Such a precious loud hymn, Sammy, while the tea
was a brewing; such a grace, such eatin' and drinkin'! I wish you could ha' seen
the shepherd walkin' into the ham and muffins. I never see such a chap to eat
and drink; never. The red-nosed man warn't by no means the sort of person you'd
like to grub by contract, but he was nothing' to the shepherd. Well; arter the
tea was over, they sang another hymn, and then the shepherd began to preach: and
very well he did it, considerin' how heavy them muffins must have lied on his
chest. Presently he pulls up, all of a sudden, and hollers out Where is the
sinner; where is the mis'rable sinner? Upon which, all the women looked at me,
and began to groan as if they was a dying. I thought it was rather sing'ler, but
hows'ever, I says nothing. Presently he pulls up again, and looking' very hard at
me, says, Where is the sinner; where is the mis'rable sinner? and all the women
groans again, ten times louder than afore. I got rather wild at this, so I takes
a step or two for'ard and says, My friend, says I, did you apply that 'ere
obserwation to me? 'Stead of begging my pardon as any gen'lm'n would ha' done,
he got more abusive than ever: called me a wessel, Sammy - a wessel of wrath -
and all sorts o' names. So my blood being reg'larly up, I first give him two or
three for himself, and then two or three more to hand over to the man with the
red nose, and walked off. I wish you could ha' heard how the women screamed,
Sammy, ven they picked up the shepherd from under the table - Hallo! here's the
governor, the size of life.«
    As Mr. Weller spoke, Mr. Pickwick dismounted from a cab, and entered the
yard.
    »Fine mornin', sir,« said Mr. Weller senior.
    »Beautiful indeed,« replied Mr. Pickwick.
    »Beautiful indeed,« echoed a red-haired man with an inquisitive nose and
blue spectacles, who had unpacked himself from a cab at the same moment as Mr.
Pickwick. »Going to Ipswich, sir?«
    »I am,« replied Mr. Pickwick.
    »Extraordinary coincidence. So am I.«
    Mr. Pickwick bowed.
    »Going outside?« said the red-haired man.
    Mr. Pickwick bowed again.
    »Bless my soul, how remarkable - I am going outside, too,« said the
red-haired man: »we are positively going together.« And the red-haired man, who
was an important-looking, sharp-nosed, mysterious-spoken personage, with a
bird-like habit of giving his head a jerk every time he said anything, smiled as
if he had made one of the strangest discoveries that ever fell to the lot of
human wisdom.
    »I am happy in the prospect of your company, sir,« said Mr. Pickwick.
    »Ah,« said the new-comer, »it's a good thing for both of us, isn't it?
Company, you see - company is - is - it's a very different thing from solitude -
ain't it?«
    »There's no denying that 'ere,« said Mr. Weller, joining in the
conversation, with an affable smile. »That's what I call a self-evident
proposition, as the dog's-meat man said, when the house-maid told him he warn't
a gentleman.«
    »Ah,« said the red-haired man, surveying Mr. Weller from head to foot with a
supercilious look. »Friend of yours, sir?«
    »Not exactly a friend,« replied Mr. Pickwick in a low tone. »The fact is, he
is my servant, but I allow him to take a good many liberties; for, between
ourselves, I flatter myself he is an original, and I am rather proud of him.«
    »Ah,« said the red-haired man, »that, you see, is a matter of taste. I am
not fond of anything original; I don't like it; don't see the necessity for it.
What's your name, sir?«
    »Here is my card, sir,« replied Mr. Pickwick, much amused by the abruptness
of the question, and the singular manner of the stranger.
    »Ah,« said the red-haired man, placing the card in his pocket-book,
»Pickwick; very good. I like to know a man's name, it saves so much trouble.
That's my card, sir, Magnus, you will perceive, sir - Magnus is my name. It's
rather a good name, I think, sir?«
    »A very good name, indeed,« said Mr. Pickwick, wholly unable to repress a
smile.
    »Yes, I think it is,« resumed Mr. Magnus. »There's a good name before it,
too, you will observe. Permit me, sir - if you hold the card a little slanting,
this way, you catch the light upon the up-stroke. There - Peter Magnus - sounds
well, I think, sir.«
    »Very,« said Mr. Pickwick.
    »Curious circumstance about those initials, sir,« said Mr. Magnus. »You will
observe - P.M. - post meridian. In hasty notes to intimate acquaintance, I
sometimes sign myself Afternoon. It amuses my friends very much, Mr. Pickwick.«
    »It is calculated to afford them the highest gratification, I should
conceive,« said Mr. Pickwick, rather envying the ease with which Mr. Magnus's
friends were entertained.
    »Now, gen'lm'n,« said the hostler, »coach is ready, if you please.«
    »Is all my luggage in?« inquired Mr. Magnus.
    »All right, sir.«
    »Is the red bag in?«
    »All right, sir.«
    »And the striped bag?«
    »Fore boot, sir.«
    »And the brown-paper parcel?«
    »Under the seat, sir.«
    »And the leather hat-box?«
    »They're all in, sir.«
    »Now, will you get up?« said Mr. Pickwick.
    »Excuse me,« replied Magnus, standing on the wheel. »Excuse me, Mr.
Pickwick. I cannot consent to get up, in this state of uncertainty. I am quite
satisfied from that man's manner, that that leather hat-box is not in.«
    The solemn protestations of the hostler being wholly unavailing, the leather
hat-box was obliged to be raked up from the lowest depth of the boot, to satisfy
him that it had been safely packed; and after he had been assured on this head,
he felt a solemn presentiment, first, that the red bag was mislaid, and next
that the striped bag had been stolen, and then that the brown-paper parcel had
come untied. At length when he had received ocular demonstration of the
groundless nature of each and every of these suspicions, he consented to climb
up to the roof of the coach, observing that now he had taken every thing off his
mind, he felt quite comfortable and happy.
    »You're given to nervousness, an't you, sir?« inquired Mr. Weller senior,
eyeing the stranger askance, as he mounted to his place.
    »Yes; I always am rather, about these little matters,« said the stranger,
»but I am all right now - quite right.«
    »Well, that's a blessin',« said Mr. Weller. »Sammy, help your master up to
the box: t'other leg, sir, that's it; give us your hand, sir. Up with you. You
was a lighter weight when you was a boy, sir.«
    »True enough, that, Mr. Weller,« said the breathless Mr. Pickwick, good
humouredly, as he took his seat on the box beside him.
    »Jump up in front, Sammy,« said Mr. Weller. »Now Villam, run 'em out. Take
care o' the archvay, gen'lm'n. Heads, as the pieman says. That'll do, Villam.
Let 'em alone.« And away went the coach up Whitechapel, to the admiration of the
whole population of that pretty-densely populated quarter.
    »Not a very nice neighbourhood this, sir,« said Sam, with a touch of the
hat, which always preceded his entering into conversation with his master.
    »It is not indeed, Sam,« replied Mr. Pickwick, surveying the crowded and
filthy street through which they were passing.
    »It's a very remarkable circumstance, sir,« said Sam, »that poverty and
oysters always seems to go together.«
    »I don't understand you, Sam,« said Mr. Pickwick.
    »What I mean, sir,« said Sam, »is, that the poorer a place is, the greater
call there seems to be for oysters. Look here, sir; here's a oyster stall to
every half-dozen houses. The street's lined with 'em. Blessed if I don't think
that ven a man's very poor, he rushes out of his lodgings, and eats oysters in
reg'lar desperation.«
    »To be sure he does,« said Mr. Weller senior; »and it's just the same with
pickled salmon!«
    »Those are two very remarkable facts, which never occurred to me before,«
said Mr. Pickwick. »The very first place we stop at, I'll make a note of them.«
    By this time they had reached the turnpike at Mile End; a profound silence
prevailed until they had got two or three miles further on, when Mr. Weller
senior, turning suddenly to Mr. Pickwick, said:
    »Wery queer life is a pike-keeper's, sir.«
    »A what?« said Mr. Pickwick.
    »A pike-keeper.«
    »What do you mean by a pike-keeper?« inquired Mr. Peter Magnus.
    »The old 'un means a turnpike keeper, gen'lm'n,« observed Mr. Samuel Weller,
in explanation.
    »Oh,« said Mr. Pickwick, »I see. Yes; very curious life. Very
uncomfortable.«
    »They're all on 'em men as has met with some disappointment in life,« said
Mr. Weller senior.
    »Ay, ay?« said Mr. Pickwick.
    »Yes. Consequence of vich, they retires from the world, and shuts themselves
up in pikes; partly with the view of being solitary, and partly to rewenge
themselves on mankind, by taken' tolls.«
    »Dear me,« said Mr. Pickwick, »I never knew that before.«
    »Fact, sir,« said Mr. Weller; »if they was gen'lm'n you'd call 'em
misanthropes, but as it is, they only takes to pike-keepin'.«
    With such conversation, possessing the inestimable charm of blending
amusement with instruction, did Mr. Weller beguile the tediousness of the
journey, during the greater part of the day. Topics of conversation were never
wanting, for even when any pause occurred in Mr. Weller's loquacity, it was
abundantly supplied by the desire evinced by Mr. Magnus to make himself
acquainted with the whole of the personal history of his fellow-travellers, and
his loudly-expressed anxiety at every stage, respecting the safety and
well-being of the two bags, the leather hat-box, and the brown-paper parcel.
    In the main street of Ipswich, on the left-hand side of the way, a short
distance after you have passed through the open space fronting the Town Hall,
stands an inn known far and wide by the appellation of The Great White Horse,
rendered the more conspicuous by a stone statue of some rampacious animal with
flowing mane and tail, distantly resembling an insane cart-horse, which is
elevated above the principal door. The Great White Horse is famous in the
neighbourhood, in the same degree as a prize ox, or county paper-chronicled
turnip, or unwieldy pig - for its enormous size. Never were such labyrinths of
uncarpeted passages, such clusters of mouldy, ill-lighted rooms, such huge
numbers of small dens for eating or sleeping in, beneath any one roof, as are
collected together between the four walls of the Great White Horse at Ipswich.
    It was at the door of this overgrown tavern that the London coach stopped,
at the same hour every evening; and it was from this same London coach, that Mr.
Pickwick, Sam Weller, and Mr. Peter Magnus dismounted, on the particular evening
to which this chapter of our history bears reference.
    »Do you stop here, sir?« inquired Mr. Peter Magnus, when the striped bag,
and the red bag, and the brown-paper parcel, and the leather hat-box, had all
been deposited in the passage. »Do you stop here, sir?«
    »I do,« said Mr. Pickwick.
    »Dear me,« said Mr. Magnus, »I never knew anything like these extraordinary
coincidences. Why, I stop here too. I hope we dine together?«
    »With pleasure,« replied Mr. Pickwick. »I am not quite certain whether I
have any friends here or not, though. Is there any gentleman of the name of
Tupman here, waiter?«
    A corpulent man, with a fortnight's napkin under his arm, and coeval
stockings on his legs, slowly desisted from his occupation of staring down the
street, on this question being put to him by Mr. Pickwick; and, after minutely
inspecting that gentleman's appearance, from the crown of his hat to the lowest
button of his gaiters, replied emphatically:
    »No.«
    »Nor any gentleman of the name of Snodgrass?« inquired Mr. Pickwick.
    »No!«
    »Nor Winkle?«
    »No.«
    »My friends have not arrived to-day, sir,« said Mr. Pickwick. »We will dine
alone, then. Shew us a private room, waiter.«
    On this request being preferred, the corpulent man condescended to order the
boots to bring in the gentleman's luggage; and preceding them down a long dark
passage, ushered them into a large badly-furnished apartment, with a dirty
grate, in which a small fire was making a wretched attempt to be cheerful, but
was fast sinking beneath the dispiriting influence of the place. After the lapse
of an hour, a bit of fish and a steak were served up to the travellers, and when
the dinner was cleared away, Mr. Pickwick and Mr. Peter Magnus drew their chairs
up to the fire, and having ordered a bottle of the worst possible port wine, at
the highest possible price, for the good of the house, drank brandy and water
for their own.
    Mr. Peter Magnus was naturally of a very communicative disposition, and the
brandy and water operated with wonderful effect in warming into life the deepest
hidden secrets of his bosom. After sundry accounts of himself, his family, his
connexions, his friends, his jokes, his business, and his brothers (most
talkative men have a great deal to say about their brothers), Mr. Peter Magnus
took a blue view of Mr. Pickwick through his coloured spectacles for several
minutes, and then said, with an air of modesty:
    »And what do you think - what do you think, Mr. Pickwick - I have come down
here for?«
    »Upon my word,« said Mr. Pickwick, »it is wholly impossible for me to guess;
on business, perhaps.«
    »Partly right, sir,« replied Mr. Peter Magnus, »but partly wrong, at the
same time: try again, Mr. Pickwick.«
    »Really,« said Mr. Pickwick, »I must throw myself on your mercy, to tell me
or not, as you may think best; for I should never guess, if I were to try all
night.«
    »Why, then, he - he - he!« said Mr. Peter Magnus, with a bashful titter,
»what should you think, Mr. Pickwick, if I had come down here, to make a
proposal, sir, eh? He - he - he!«
    »Think! That you are very likely to succeed,« replied Mr. Pickwick, with one
of his beaming smiles.
    »Ah!« said Mr. Magnus. »But do you really think so, Mr. Pickwick? Do you,
though?«
    »Certainly,« said Mr. Pickwick.
    »No; but you're joking, though.«
    »I am not, indeed.«
    »Why, then,« said Mr. Magnus, »to let you into a little secret, I think so
too. I don't mind telling you, Mr. Pickwick, although I'm dreadful jealous by
nature - horrid - that the lady is in this house.« Here Mr. Magnus took off his
spectacles, on purpose to wink, and then put them on again.
    »That's what you were running out of the room for, before dinner, then, so
often,« said Mr. Pickwick, archly.
    »Hush! Yes, you're right, that was it; not such a fool as to see her,
though.«
    »No!«
    »No; wouldn't do, you know, after having just come off a journey. Wait till
to-morrow, sir; double the chance then. Mr. Pickwick, sir, there is a suit of
clothes in that bag, and a hat in that box, which I expect, in the effect they
will produce, will be invaluable to me, sir.«
    »Indeed!« said Mr. Pickwick.
    »Yes; you must have observed my anxiety about them to-day. I do not believe
that such another suit of clothes, and such a hat, could be bought for money,
Mr. Pickwick.«
    Mr. Pickwick congratulated the fortunate owner of the irresistible garments,
on their acquisition; and Mr. Peter Magnus remained for a few moments apparently
absorbed in contemplation.
    »She's a fine creature« said Mr. Magnus.
    »Is she?« said Mr. Pickwick.
    »Very,« said Mr. Magnus, »very. She lives about twenty miles from here, Mr.
Pickwick. I heard she would be here to-night and all to-morrow forenoon, and
came down to seize the opportunity. I think an inn is a good sort of a place to
propose to a single woman in, Mr. Pickwick. She is more likely to feel the
loneliness of her situation in travelling, perhaps, than she would be at home.
What do you think, Mr. Pickwick?«
    »I think it very probable,« replied that gentleman.
    »I beg your pardon, Mr. Pickwick,« said Mr. Peter Magnus, »but I am
naturally rather curious; what may you have come down here for?«
    »On a far less pleasant errand, sir,« replied Mr. Pickwick, the colour
mounting to his face at the recollection. »I have come down here, sir, to expose
the treachery and falsehood of an individual, upon whose truth and honour I
placed implicit reliance.«
    »Dear me,« said Mr. Peter Magnus, »that's very unpleasant. It is a lady, I
presume? Eh? ah! Sly, Mr. Pickwick, sly. Well, Mr. Pickwick, sir, I wouldn't
probe your feelings for the world. Painful subjects, these, sir, very painful.
Don't mind me, Mr. Pickwick, if you wish to give vent to your feelings. I know
what it is to be jilted, sir; I have endured that sort of thing three or four
times.«
    »I am much obliged to you, for your condolence on what you presume to be my
melancholy case,« said Mr. Pickwick, winding up his watch, and laying it on the
table, »but -«
    »No, no,« said Mr. Peter Magnus, »not a word more: it's a painful subject. I
see, I see. What's the time, Mr. Pickwick?«
    »Past twelve.«
    »Dear me, it's time to go to bed. It will never do, sitting here. I shall be
pale to-morrow, Mr. Pickwick.«
    At the bare notion of such a calamity, Mr. Peter Magnus rang the bell for
the chamber-maid; and the striped bag, the red bag, the leathern hat-box, and
the brown-paper parcel, having been conveyed to his bed-room, he retired in
company with a japanned candlestick, to one side of the house, while Mr.
Pickwick, and another japanned candlestick, were conducted through a multitude
of tortuous windings, to another.
    »This is your room, sir,« said the chamber-maid.
    »Very well,« replied Mr. Pickwick, looking round him. It was a tolerably
large double-bedded room, with a fire; upon the whole, a more
comfortable-looking apartment than Mr. Pickwick's short experience of the
accommodations of the Great White Horse had led him to expect.
    »Nobody sleeps in the other bed, of course,« said Mr. Pickwick.
    »Oh, no, sir.«
    »Very good. Tell my servant to bring me up some hot water at half-past eight
in the morning, and that I shall not want him any more to-night.«
    »Yes, sir.« And bidding Mr. Pickwick good night, the chamber-maid retired,
and left him alone.
    Mr. Pickwick sat himself down in a chair before the fire, and fell into a
train of rambling meditations. First he thought of his friends, and wondered
when they would join him; then his mind reverted to Mrs. Martha Bardell; and
from that lady it wandered, by a natural process, to the dingy counting-house of
Dodson and Fogg. From Dodson and Fogg's it flew off at a tangent, to the very
centre of the history of the queer client; and then it came back to the Great
White Horse at Ipswich, with sufficient clearness to convince Mr. Pickwick that
he was falling asleep. So he roused himself, and began to undress, when he
recollected he had left his watch on the table down stairs.
    Now, this watch was a special favourite with Mr. Pickwick, having been
carried about, beneath the shadow of his waistcoat, for a greater number of
years than we feel called upon to state at present. The possibility of going to
sleep, unless it were ticking gently beneath his pillow, or in the watch-pocket
over his head, had never entered Mr. Pickwick's brain. So as it was pretty late
now, and he was unwilling to ring his bell at that hour of the night, he slipped
on his coat, of which he had just divested himself, and taking the japanned
candlestick in his hand, walked quietly down stairs.
    The more stairs Mr. Pickwick went down, the more stairs there seemed to be
to descend, and again and again, when Mr. Pickwick got into some narrow passage,
and began to congratulate himself on having gained the ground-floor, did another
flight of stairs appear before his astonished eyes. At last he reached a stone
hall, which he remembered to have seen when he entered the house. Passage after
passage did he explore; room after room did he peep into; at length, as he was
on the point of giving up the search in despair, he opened the door of the
identical room in which he had spent the evening, and beheld his missing
property on the table.
    Mr. Pickwick seized the watch in triumph, and proceeded to re-trace his
steps to his bed-chamber. If his progress downward had been attended with
difficulties and uncertainty, his journey back was infinitely more perplexing.
Rows of doors, garnished with boots of every shape, make, and size, branched off
in every possible direction. A dozen times did he softly turn the handle of some
bed-room door which resembled his own, when a gruff cry from within of »Who the
devil's that?« or »What do you want here?« caused him to steal away, on tiptoe,
with a perfectly marvellous celerity. He was reduced to the verge of despair,
when an open door attracted his attention. He peeped in. Right at last! There
were the two beds, whose situation he perfectly remembered, and the fire still
burning. His candle, not a long one when he first received it, had flickered
away in the drafts of air through which he had passed, and sank into the socket
as he closed the door after him. »No matter,« said Mr. Pickwick, »I can undress
myself just as well by the light of the fire.«
    The bedsteads stood one on each side of the door; and on the inner side of
each was a little path, terminating in a rush-bottomed chair, just wide enough
to admit of a person's getting into, or out of bed, on that side, if he or she
thought proper. Having carefully drawn the curtains of his bed on the outside,
Mr. Pickwick sat down on the rush-bottomed chair, and leisurely divested himself
of his shoes and gaiters. He then took off and folded up his coat, waistcoat,
and neckcloth, and slowly drawing on his tasseled night-cap, secured it firmly
on his head, by tying beneath his chin the strings which he always had attached
to that article of dress. It was at this moment that the absurdity of his recent
bewilderment struck upon his mind. Throwing himself back in the rush-bottomed
chair, Mr. Pickwick laughed to himself so heartily, that it would have been
quite delightful to any man of well-constituted mind to have watched the smiles
that expanded his amiable features as they shone forth from beneath the
night-cap.
    »It is the best idea,« said Mr. Pickwick to himself, smiling till he almost
cracked the night-cap strings: »It is the best idea, my losing myself in this
place, and wandering about those staircases, that I ever heard of. Droll, droll,
very droll.« Here Mr. Pickwick smiled again, a broader smile than before, and
was about to continue the process of undressing, in the best possible humour,
when he was suddenly stopped by a most unexpected interruption; to wit, the
entrance into the room of some person with a candle, who, after locking the
door, advanced to the dressing table, and set down the light upon it.
    The smile that played on Mr. Pickwick's features was instantaneously lost in
a look of the most unbounded and wonder-stricken surprise. The person, whoever
it was, had come in so suddenly and with so little noise, that Mr. Pickwick had
had no time to call out, or oppose their entrance. Who could it be? A robber?
Some evil-minded person who had seen him come up stairs with a handsome watch in
his hand, perhaps. What was he to do!
    The only way in which Mr. Pickwick could catch a glimpse of his mysterious
visitor with the least danger of being seen himself, was by creeping on to the
bed, and peeping out from between the curtains on the opposite side. To this
manoeuvre he accordingly resorted. Keeping the curtains carefully closed with
his hand, so that nothing more of him could be seen than his face and night-cap,
and putting on his spectacles, he mustered up courage, and looked out.
    Mr. Pickwick almost fainted with horror and dismay. Standing before the
dressing-glass was a middle-aged lady, in yellow curl-papers, busily engaged in
brushing what ladies call their »back-hair.« However the unconscious middle-aged
lady came into that room, it was quite clear that she contemplated remaining
there for the night; for she had brought a rushlight and shade with her, which,
with praiseworthy precaution against fire, she had stationed in a basin on the
floor, where it was glimmering away, like a gigantic light-house in a
particularly small piece of water.
    »Bless my soul,« thought Mr. Pickwick, »what a dreadful thing!«
    »Hem!« said the lady; and in went Mr. Pickwick's head with automaton-like
rapidity.
    »I never met with anything so awful as this,« thought poor Mr. Pickwick, the
cold perspiration starting in drops upon his night-cap. »Never. This is
fearful.«
    It was quite impossible to resist the urgent desire to see what was going
forward. So out went Mr. Pickwick's head again. The prospect was worse than
before. The middle-aged lady had finished arranging her hair; had carefully
enveloped it in a muslin night-cap with a small plaited border; and was gazing
pensively on the fire.
    »This matter is growing alarming,« reasoned Mr. Pickwick with himself. »I
can't allow things to go on in this way. By the self-possession of that lady it
is clear to me that I must have come into the wrong room. If I call out she'll
alarm the house; but if I remain here the consequences will be still more
frightful.«
    Mr. Pickwick, it is quite unnecessary to say, was one of the most modest and
delicate-minded of mortals. The very idea of exhibiting his night-cap to a lady
overpowered him, but he had tied those confounded strings in a knot, and, do
what he would, he couldn't get it off. The disclosure must be made. There was
only one other way of doing it. He shrunk behind the curtains, and called out
very loudly:
    »Ha - hum!«
    That the lady started at this unexpected sound was evident, by her falling
up against the rushlight shade; that she persuaded herself it must have been the
effect of imagination was equally clear, for when Mr. Pickwick, under the
impression that she had fainted away stone-dead from fright, ventured to peep
out again, she was gazing pensively on the fire as before.
    »Most extraordinary female this,« thought Mr. Pickwick, popping in again.
»Ha - hum!«
    These last sounds, so like those in which, as legends inform us, the
ferocious giant Blunderbore was in the habit of expressing his opinion that it
was time to lay the cloth, were too distinctly audible to be again mistaken for
the workings of fancy.
    »Gracious Heaven!« said the middle-aged lady, »what's that?«
    »It's - it's - only a gentleman, Ma'am,« said Mr. Pickwick from behind the
curtains.
    »A gentleman!« said the lady with a terrific scream.
    »It's all over!« thought Mr. Pickwick.
    »A strange man!« shrieked the lady. Another instant and the house would be
alarmed. Her garments rustled as she rushed towards the door.
    »Ma'am,« said Mr. Pickwick, thrusting out his head, in the extremity of his
desperation, »Ma'am!«
    Now, although Mr. Pickwick was not actuated by any definite object in
putting out his head, it was instantaneously productive of a good effect. The
lady, as we have already stated, was near the door. She must pass it, to reach
the staircase, and she would most undoubtedly have done so by this time, had not
the sudden apparition of Mr. Pickwick's night-cap driven her back into the
remotest corner of the apartment, where she stood staring wildly at Mr.
Pickwick, while Mr. Pickwick in his turn stared wildly at her.
    »Wretch,« said the lady, covering her eyes with her hands, »what do you want
here?«
    »Nothing, Ma'am; nothing, whatever, Ma'am;« said Mr. Pickwick earnestly.
    »Nothing!« said the lady, looking up.
    »Nothing, Ma'am, upon my honour,« said Mr. Pickwick, nodding his head so
energetically that the tassel of his night-cap danced again. »I am almost ready
to sink, Ma'am, beneath the confusion of addressing a lady in my night-cap (here
the lady hastily snatched off hers), but I can't get it off, Ma'am (here Mr.
Pickwick gave it a tremendous tug, in proof of the statement). It is evident to
me, Ma'am, now, that I have mistaken this bed-room for my own. I had not been
here five minutes, Ma'am, when you suddenly entered it.«
    »If this improbable story be really true, sir,« said the lady, sobbing
violently, »you will leave it instantly.«
    »I will, Ma'am, with the greatest pleasure,« replied Mr. Pickwick.
    »Instantly, sir,« said the lady.
    »Certainly, Ma'am,« interposed Mr. Pickwick very quickly. »Certainly, Ma'am.
I - I - am very sorry, Ma'am,« said Mr. Pickwick, making his appearance at the
bottom of the bed, »to have been the innocent occasion of this alarm and
emotion; deeply sorry, Ma'am.«
    The lady pointed to the door. One excellent quality of Mr. Pickwick's
character was beautifully displayed at this moment, under the most trying
circumstances. Although he had hastily put on his hat over his night-cap, after
the manner of the old patrol; although he carried his shoes and gaiters in his
hand, and his coat and waistcoat over his arm; nothing could subdue his native
politeness.
    »I am exceedingly sorry, Ma'am,« said Mr. Pickwick, bowing very low.
    »If you are, sir, you will at once leave the room,« said the lady.
    »Immediately, Ma'am; this instant, Ma'am,« said Mr. Pickwick, opening the
door, and dropping both his shoes with a crash in so doing.
    »I trust, Ma'am,« resumed Mr. Pickwick, gathering up his shoes, and turning
round to bow again: »I trust, Ma'am, that my unblemished character, and the
devoted respect I entertain for your sex, will plead as some slight excuse for
this« - But before Mr. Pickwick could conclude the sentence the lady had thrust
him into the passage, and locked and bolted the door behind him.
    Whatever grounds of self-congratulation Mr. Pickwick might have for having
escaped so quietly from his late awkward situation, his present position was by
no means enviable. He was alone, in an open passage, in a strange house, in the
middle of the night, half dressed; it was not to be supposed that he could find
his way in perfect darkness to a room which he had been wholly unable to
discover with a light, and if he made the slightest noise in his fruitless
attempts to do so, he stood every chance of being shot at, and perhaps killed,
by some wakeful traveller. He had no resource but to remain where he was until
daylight appeared. So after groping his way a few paces down the passage, and,
to his infinite alarm, stumbling over several pairs of boots in so doing, Mr.
Pickwick crouched into a little recess in the wall, to wait for morning as
philosophically as he might.
    He was not destined, however, to undergo this additional trial of patience:
for he had not been long ensconced in his present concealment when, to his
unspeakable horror, a man, bearing a light, appeared at the end of the passage.
His horror was suddenly converted into joy, however, when he recognised the form
of his faithful attendant. It was indeed Mr. Samuel Weller, who after sitting up
thus late, in conversation with the Boots, who was sitting up for the mail, was
now about to retire to rest.
    »Sam,« said Mr. Pickwick, suddenly appearing before him, »where's my
bed-room?«
    Mr. Weller stared at his master with the most emphatic surprise; and it was
not until the question had been repeated three several times, that he turned
round, and led the way to the long-sought apartment.
    »Sam,« said Mr. Pickwick as he got into bed, »I have made one of the most
extraordinary mistakes to-night, that ever were heard of.«
    »Wery likely, sir,« replied Mr. Weller drily.
    »But of this I am determined, Sam,« said Mr. Pickwick; »that if I were to
stop in this house for six months, I would never trust myself about it, alone,
again.«
    »That's the very prudentest resolution as you could come to, sir,« replied
Mr. Weller. »You rather want somebody to look arter you, sir, wen your judgment
goes out a wisitin'.«
    »What do you mean by that, Sam?« said Mr. Pickwick. He raised himself in
bed, and extended his hand, as if he were about to say something more; but
suddenly checking himself, turned round, and bade his valet »Good night.«
    »Good night, sir,« replied Mr. Weller. He paused when he got outside the
door - shook his head - walked on - stopped - snuffed the candle - shook his
head again - and finally proceeded slowly to his chamber, apparently buried in
the profoundest meditation.
 

                                 Chapter XXIII

  In Which Mr. Samuel Weller Begins to Devote His Energies to the Return Match
                        between Himself and Mr. Trotter.

In a small room in the vicinity of the stable-yard, betimes in the morning,
which was ushered in by Mr. Pickwick's adventure with the middle-aged lady in
the yellow curl-papers, sat Mr. Weller senior, preparing himself for his journey
to London. He was sitting in an excellent attitude for having his portrait
taken.
    It is very possible that at some earlier period of his career, Mr. Weller's
profile might have presented a bold and determined outline. His face, however,
had expanded under the influence of good living, and a disposition remarkable
for resignation; and its bold fleshy curves had so far extended beyond the
limits originally assigned them, that unless you took a full view of his
countenance in front, it was difficult to distinguish more than the extreme tip
of a very rubicund nose. His chin, from the same cause, had acquired the grave
and imposing form which is generally described by prefixing the word double to
that expressive feature; and his complexion exhibited that peculiarly mottled
combination of colours which is only to be seen in gentlemen of his profession,
and in underdone roast beef. Round his neck he wore a crimson travelling shawl,
which merged into his chin by such imperceptible gradations, that it was
difficult to distinguish the folds of the one, from the folds of the other. Over
this, he mounted a long waistcoat of a broad pink-striped pattern, and over that
again, a wide-skirted green coat, ornamented with large brass buttons, whereof
the two which garnished the waist, were so far apart, that no man had ever
beheld them both, at the same time. His hair, which was short, sleek, and black,
was just visible beneath the capacious brim of a low-crowned brown hat. His legs
were encased in knee-cord breeches, and painted top-boots: and a copper
watch-chain, terminating in one seal, and a key of the same material, dangled
loosely from his capacious waistband.
    We have said that Mr. Weller was engaged in preparing for his journey to
London - he was taking sustenance, in fact. On the table before him, stood a pot
of ale, a cold round of beef, and a very respectable-looking loaf, to each of
which he distributed his favours in turn, with the most rigid impartiality. He
had just cut a mighty slice from the latter, when the footsteps of somebody
entering the room, caused him to raise his head; and he beheld his son.
    »Mornin', Sammy!« said the father.
    The son walked up to the pot of ale, and nodding significantly to his
parent, took a long draught by way of reply.
    »Werry good power o' suction, Sammy,« said Mr. Weller the elder, looking
into the pot, when his first-born had set it down half empty. »You'd ha' made an
uncommon fine oyster, Sammy, if you'd been born in that station o' life.«
    »Yes, I des-say I should ha' managed to pick up a respectable living',«
replied Sam, applying himself to the cold beef, with considerable vigour.
    »I'm very sorry, Sammy,« said the elder Mr. Weller, shaking up the ale, by
describing small circles with the pot, preparatory to drinking, »I'm very sorry,
Sammy, to hear from your lips, as you let yourself be gammoned by that 'ere
mulberry man. I always thought, up to three days ago, that the names of Veller
and gammon could never come into contract, Sammy, never.«
    »Always exceptin' the case of a widder, of course,« said Sam.
    »Widders, Sammy,« replied Mr. Weller, slightly changing colour. »Widders are
'ceptions to ev'ry rule. I have heard how many ord'nary women, one widder's
equal to, in pint o' comin' over you. I think it's five-and-twenty, but I don't
rightly know vether it an't more.«
    »Well; that's pretty well,« said Sam.
    »Besides,« continued Mr. Weller, not noticing the interruption, »that's a
very different thing. You know what the counsel said, Sammy, as defended the
gen'lem'n as beat his wife with the poker, venever he got jolly. And arter all,
my Lord, says he, it's a amable weakness. So I says respectin' widders, Sammy,
and so you'll say, ven you gets as old as me.«
    »I ought to ha' know'd better, I know,« said Sam.
    »Ought to ha' know'd better!« repeated Mr. Weller, striking the table with
his fist. »Ought to ha' know'd better! why, I know a young 'un as hasn't had
half nor quarter your eddication - as hasn't slept about the markets, no, not
six months - who'd ha' scorned to be let in, in such a vay; scorned it, Sammy.«
In the excitement of feeling produced by this agonising reflection, Mr. Weller
rang the bell, and ordered an additional pint of ale.
    »Well, it's no use talking about it now,« said Sam. »It's over, and can't be
helped, and that's one consolation, as they always says in Turkey, ven they cuts
the wrong man's head off. It's my innings now, gov'rnor, and as soon as I
catches hold o' this ere Trotter, I'll have a good 'un.«
    »I hope you will, Sammy. I hope you will,« returned Mr. Weller. »Here's your
health, Sammy, and may you speedily vipe off the disgrace as you've inflicted on
the family name.« In honour of this toast Mr. Weller imbibed at a draught, at
least two-thirds of the newly-arrived pint, and handed it over to his son, to
dispose of the remainder, which he instantaneously did.
    »And now, Sammy,« said Mr. Weller, consulting the large double-faced silver
watch that hung at the end of the copper chain. »Now it's time I was up at the
office to get my vay-bill, and see the coach loaded; for coaches, Sammy, is like
guns - they requires to be loaded with very great care, afore they go off.«
    At this parental and professional joke, Mr. Weller junior smiled a filial
smile. His revered parent continued in a solemn tone:
    »I'm a goin' to leave you, Samivel my boy, and there's no telling ven I
shall see you again. Your mother-in-law may ha' been too much for me, or a
thousand things may have happened by the time you next hears any news o' the
celebrated Mr. Veller o' the Bell Savage. The family name depends very much upon
you, Samivel, and I hope you'll do wot's right by it. Upon all little pints o'
breedin', I know I may trust you as vell as if it was my own self. So I've only
this here one little bit of adwice to give you. If ever you gets to up'ards o'
fifty, and feels disposed to go a marryin' anybody - no matter who - just you
shut yourself up in your own room, if you've got one, and pison yourself off
hand. Hangin's wulgar, so don't you have nothing' to say to that. Pison yourself,
Samivel, my boy, pison yourself, and you'll be glad on it afterwards.« With
these affecting words, Mr. Weller looked steadfastly on his son, and turning
slowly upon his heel, disappeared from his sight.
    In the contemplative mood which these words had awakened, Mr. Samuel Weller
walked forth from the Great White Horse when his father had left him; and
bending his steps towards St. Clement's Church, endeavoured to dissipate his
melancholy, by strolling among its ancient precincts. He had loitered about, for
some time, when he found himself in a retired spot - a kind of court-yard of
venerable appearance - which he discovered had no other outlet than the turning
by which he had entered. He was about retracing his steps, when he was suddenly
transfixed to the spot by a sudden appearance: and the mode and manner of this
appearance, we now proceed to relate.
    Mr. Samuel Weller had been staring up, at the old brick houses now and then,
in his deep abstraction, bestowing a wink upon some healthy-looking servant girl
as she drew up a blind, or threw open a bed-room window, when the green gate of
a garden at the bottom of the yard opened, and a man having emerged therefrom,
closed the green gate very carefully after him, and walked briskly towards the
very spot where Mr. Weller was standing.
    Now, taking this, as an isolated fact, unaccompanied by any attendant
circumstances, there was nothing very extraordinary in it; because in many parts
of the world, men do come out of gardens, close green gates after them, and even
walk briskly away, without attracting any particular share of public
observation. It is clear, therefore, that there must have been something in the
man, or in his manner, or both, to attract Mr. Weller's particular notice.
Whether there was, or not, we must leave the reader to determine, when we have
faithfully recorded the behaviour of the individual in question.
    When the man had shut the green gate after him, he walked, as we have said
twice already, with a brisk pace up the court-yard; but he no sooner caught
sight of Mr. Weller, than he faltered, and stopped, as if uncertain, for the
moment, what course to adopt. As the green gate was closed behind him, and there
was no other outlet but the one in front, however, he was not long in perceiving
that he must pass Mr. Samuel Weller to get away. He therefore resumed his brisk
pace, and advanced, staring straight before him. The most extraordinary thing
about the man was, that he was contorting his face into the most fearful and
astonishing grimaces that ever were beheld. Nature's handywork never was
disguised with such extraordinary artificial carving, as the man had overlaid
his countenance with in one moment.
    »Well!« said Mr. Weller to himself, as the man approached. »This is very
odd. I could ha' swore it was him.«
    Up came the man, and his face became more frightfully distorted than ever,
as he drew nearer.
    »I could take my oath to that 'ere black hair, and mulberry suit,« said Mr.
Weller; »only I never see such a face as that, afore.«
    As Mr. Weller said this, the man's features assumed an unearthly twinge,
perfectly hideous. He was obliged to pass very near Sam, however, and the
scrutinising glance of that gentleman enabled him to detect, under all these
appalling twists of feature, something too like the small eyes of Mr. Job
Trotter, to be easily mistaken.
    »Hallo, you sir« shouted Sam, fiercely.
    The stranger stopped.
    »Hallo!« repeated Sam, still more gruffly.
    The man with the horrible face, looked, with the greatest surprise, up the
court, and down the court, and in at the windows of the houses - everywhere but
at Sam Weller - and took another step forward, when he was brought to again, by
another shout.
    »Hallo, you sir!« said Sam, for the third time.
    There was no pretending to mistake where the voice came from now, so the
stranger, having no other resource, at last looked Sam Weller full in the face.
    »It won't do, Job Trotter,« said Sam. »Come! None o' that 'ere nonsense. You
ain't so very 'andsome that you can afford to throw away many o' your good
looks. Bring them 'ere eyes o' your'n back into their proper places, or I'll
knock 'em out of your head. D'ye hear?«
    As Mr. Weller appeared fully disposed to act up to the spirit of this
address, Mr. Trotter gradually allowed his face to resume its natural
expression; and then giving a start of joy, exclaimed, »What do I see? Mr.
Walker!«
    »Ah,« replied Sam. »You're very glad to see me, ain't you?«
    »Glad!« exclaimed Job Trotter; »oh, Mr. Walker, if you had but known how I
have looked forward to this meeting! It is too much, Mr. Walker; I cannot bear
it, indeed I cannot.« And with these words, Mr. Trotter burst into a regular
inundation of tears, and, flinging his arms around those of Mr. Weller, embraced
him closely, in an ecstasy of joy.
    »Get off!« cried Sam, indignant at this process, and vainly endeavouring to
extricate himself from the grasp of his enthusiastic acquaintance. »Get off, I
tell you. What are you crying over me for, you portable ingine?«
    »Because I am so glad to see you,« replied Job Trotter, gradually releasing
Mr. Weller, as the first symptoms of his pugnacity disappeared. »Oh, Mr. Walker,
this is too much.«
    »Too much!« echoed Sam, »I think it is too much - rather! Now what have you
got to say to me, eh?«
    Mr. Trotter made no reply; for the little pink pocket handkerchief was in
full force.
    »What have you got to say to me, afore I knock your head off?« repeated Mr.
Weller, in a threatening manner.
    »Eh!« said Mr. Trotter, with a look of virtuous surprise.
    »What have you got to say to me?«
    »I, Mr. Walker!«
    »Don't call me Valker; my name's Veller; you know that vell enough. What
have you got to say to me?«
    »Bless you, Mr. Walker - Weller I mean - a great many things, if you will
come away somewhere, where we can talk comfortably. If you knew how I have
looked for you, Mr. Weller -«
    »Wery hard, indeed, I s'pose?« said Sam, drily.
    »Very, very, sir,« replied Mr. Trotter, without moving a muscle of his face.
»But shake hands, Mr. Weller.«
    Sam eyed his companion for a few seconds, and then, as if actuated by a
sudden impulse, complied with his request.
    »How,« said Job Trotter, as they walked away, »How is your dear, good
master? Oh, he is a worthy gentleman, Mr. Weller! I hope he didn't catch cold,
that dreadful night, sir.«
    There was a momentary look of deep slyness in Job Trotter's eye, as he said
this, which ran a thrill through Mr. Weller's clenched fist as he burnt with a
desire to make a demonstration on his ribs. Sam constrained himself, however,
and replied that his master was extremely well.
    »Oh, I am so glad,« replied Mr. Trotter, »is he here?«
    »Is your'n?« asked Sam, by way of reply.
    »Oh, yes, he is here, and I grieve to say, Mr. Weller, he is going on, worse
than ever.«
    »Ah, ah?« said Sam.
    »Oh, shocking - terrible!«
    »At a boarding-school?« said Sam.
    »No, not at a boarding-school,« replied Job Trotter, with the same sly look
which Sam had noticed before; »Not at a boarding-school.«
    »At the house with the green gate?« said Sam, eyeing his companion closely.
    »No, no - oh, not there,« replied Job, with a quickness very unusual to him,
»not there.«
    »What was you a doing' there?« asked Sam, with a sharp glance. »Got inside
the gate by accident, perhaps?«
    »Why, Mr. Weller,« replied Job, »I don't mind telling you my little secrets,
because, you know, we took such a fancy for each other when we first met. You
recollect how pleasant we were that morning?«
    »Oh yes,« said Sam, impatiently. »I remember. Well.«
    »Well,« replied Job, speaking with great precision, and in the low tone of a
man who communicates an important secret; »in that house with the green gate,
Mr. Weller, they keep a good many servants.«
    »So I should think, from the look on it,« interposed Sam.
    »Yes,« continued Mr. Trotter, »and one of them is a cook, who has saved up a
little money, Mr. Weller, and is desirous, if she can establish herself in life,
to open a little shop in the chandlery way, you see.«
    »Yes.«
    »Yes, Mr. Weller. Well, sir, I met her at a chapel that I go to; a very neat
little chapel in this town, Mr. Weller, where they sing the number four
collection of hymns, which I generally carry about with me, in a little book,
which you may perhaps have seen in my hand - and I got a little intimate with
her, Mr. Weller, and from that, an acquaintance sprung up between us, and I may
venture to say, Mr. Weller, that I am to be the chandler.«
    »Ah, and a very amiable chandler you'll make,« replied Sam, eyeing Job with
a side look of intense dislike.
    »The great advantage of this, Mr. Weller,« continued Job, his eyes filling
with tears as he spoke, »will be, that I shall be able to leave my present
disgraceful service with that bad man, and to devote myself to a better and more
virtuous life; more like the way in which I was brought up, Mr. Weller.«
    »You must ha' been very nicely brought up,« said Sam.
    »Oh, very, Mr. Weller, very,« replied Job. At the recollection of the purity
of his youthful days, Mr. Trotter pulled forth the pink handkerchief, and wept
copiously.
    »You must ha' been an uncommon nice boy, to go to school with,« said Sam.
    »I was, sir,« replied Job, heaving a deep sigh. »I was the idol of the
place.«
    »Ah,« said Sam, »I don't wonder at it. What a comfort you must ha' been to
your blessed mother.«
    At these words, Mr. Job Trotter inserted an end of the pink handkerchief
into the corner of each eye, one after the other, and began to weep copiously.
    »Wot's the matter with the man,« said Sam, indignantly. »Chelsea water-works
is nothing' to you. What are you melting with now? The consciousness o'
willainy?«
    »I cannot keep my feelings down, Mr. Weller,« said Job, after a short pause.
»To think that my master should have suspected the conversation I had with
yours, and so dragged me away in a post-chaise, and after persuading the sweet
young lady to say she knew nothing of him, and bribing the school-mistress to do
the same, deserted her for a better speculation! Oh! Mr. Weller, it makes me
shudder.«
    »Oh, that was the vay, was it?« said Mr. Weller.
    »To be sure it was,« replied Job.
    »Vell,« said Sam, as they had now arrived near the Hotel, »I vant to have a
little bit o' talk with you, Job; so if you're not particular engaged, I should
like to see you at the Great White Horse to-night, somewhere about eight o'
clock.«
    »I shall be sure to come,« said Job.
    »Yes, you'd better,« replied Sam, with a very meaning look, »or else I shall
perhaps be asking arter you, at the other side of the green gate, and then I
might cut you out, you know.«
    »I shall be sure to be with you, sir,« said Mr. Trotter; and wringing Sam's
hand with the utmost fervour, he walked away.
    »Take care, Job Trotter, take care,« said Sam, looking after him, »or I
shall be one too many for you this time. I shall, indeed.« Having uttered this
soliloquy, and looked after Job till he was to be seen no more, Mr. Weller made
the best of his way to his master's bed-room.
    »It's all in training, sir,« said Sam.
    »What's in training, Sam?« inquired Mr. Pickwick.
    »I have found 'em out, sir,« said Sam.
    »Found out who?«
    »That 'ere queer customer, and the melan-cholly chap with the black hair.«
    »Impossible, Sam!« said Mr. Pickwick, with the greatest energy. »Where are
they, Sam; where are they?«
    »Hush, hush!« replied Mr. Weller; and as he assisted Mr. Pickwick to dress,
he detailed the plan of action on which he proposed to enter.
    »But when is this to be done, Sam?« inquired Mr. Pickwick.
    »All in good time, sir,« replied Sam.
    Whether it was done in good time, or not, will be seen hereafter.
 

                                  Chapter XXIV

 Wherein Mr. Peter Magnus Grows Jealous, and the Middle-Aged Lady Apprehensive,
           Which Brings the Pickwickians Within the Grasp of the Law.

When Mr. Pickwick descended to the room in which he and Mr. Peter Magnus had
spent the preceding evening, he found that gentleman with the major part of the
contents of the two bags, the leathern hat-box, and the brown-paper parcel,
displayed to all possible advantage on his person, while he himself was pacing
up and down the room in a state of the utmost excitement and agitation.
    »Good morning, sir,« said Mr. Peter Magnus. »What do you think of this,
sir?«
    »Very effective indeed,« replied Mr. Pickwick, surveying the garments of Mr.
Peter Magnus with a good-natured smile.
    »Yes, I think it'll do,« said Mr. Magnus. »Mr. Pickwick, sir, I have sent up
my card.«
    »Have you?« said Mr. Pickwick.
    »And the waiter brought back word, that she would see me at eleven - at
eleven, sir; it only wants a quarter now.«
    »Very near the time,« said Mr. Pickwick.
    »Yes, it is rather near,« replied Mr. Magnus, »rather too near to be
pleasant - eh! Mr. Pickwick, sir?«
    »Confidence is a great thing in these cases,« observed Mr. Pickwick.
    »I believe it is, sir,« said Mr. Peter Magnus. »I am very confident, sir.
Really, Mr. Pickwick, I do not see why a man should feel any fear in such a case
as this, sir. What is it, sir? There's nothing to be ashamed of; it's a matter
of mutual accommodation, nothing more. Husband on one side, wife on the other.
That's my view of the matter, Mr. Pickwick.«
    »It is a very philosophical one,« replied Mr. Pickwick. »But breakfast is
waiting, Mr. Magnus. Come.«
    Down they sat to breakfast, but it was evident, notwithstanding the boasting
of Mr. Peter Magnus, that he laboured under a very considerable degree of
nervousness, of which loss of appetite, a propensity to upset the tea-things, a
spectral attempt at drollery, and an irresistible inclination to look at the
clock, every other second, were among the principal symptoms.
    »He - he - he,« tittered Mr. Magnus, affecting cheerfulness, and gasping
with agitation. »It only wants two minutes, Mr. Pickwick. Am I pale, sir?«
    »Not very,« replied Mr. Pickwick.
    There was a brief pause.
    »I beg your pardon, Mr. Pickwick; but have you ever done this sort of thing
in your time?« said Mr. Magnus.
    »You mean proposing?« said Mr. Pickwick.
    »Yes.«
    »Never,« said Mr. Pickwick, with great energy, »never.«
    »You have no idea, then, how it's best to begin?« said Mr. Magnus.
    »Why,« said Mr. Pickwick, »I may have formed some ideas upon the subject,
but, as I have never submitted them to the test of experience, I should be sorry
if you were induced to regulate your proceedings by them.«
    »I should feel very much obliged to you, for any advice, sir,« said Mr.
Magnus, taking another look at the clock: the hand of which was verging on the
five minutes past.
    »Well, sir,« said Mr. Pickwick, with the profound solemnity with which that
great man could, when he pleased, render his remarks so deeply impressive: »I
should commence, sir, with a tribute to the lady's beauty and excellent
qualities; from them, sir, I should diverge to my own unworthiness.«
    »Very good,« said Mr. Magnus.
    »Unworthiness for her only, mind, sir,« resumed Mr. Pickwick; »for to show
that I was not wholly unworthy, sir, I should take a brief review of my past
life, and present condition. I should argue, by analogy, that to anybody else, I
must be a very desirable object. I should then expatiate on the warmth of my
love, and the depth of my devotion. Perhaps I might then be tempted to seize her
hand.«
    »Yes, I see,« said Mr. Magnus; »that would be a very great point.«
    »I should then, sir,« continued Mr. Pickwick, growing warmer as the subject
presented itself in more glowing colours before him: »I should then, sir, come
to the plain and simple question, Will you have me? I think I am justified in
assuming that upon this, she would turn away her head.«
    »You think that may be taken for granted?« said Mr. Magnus; »because if she
did not do that at the right place, it would be embarrassing.«
    »I think she would,« said Mr. Pickwick. »Upon this, sir, I should squeeze
her hand, and I think - I think, Mr. Magnus - that after I had done that,
supposing there was no refusal, I should gently draw away the handkerchief,
which my slight knowledge of human nature leads me to suppose the lady would be
applying to her eyes at the moment, and steal a respectful kiss. I think I
should kiss her, Mr. Magnus; and at this particular point, I am decidedly of
opinion that if the lady were going to take me at all, she would murmur into my
ears a bashful acceptance.«
    Mr. Magnus started; gazed on Mr. Pickwick's intelligent face, for a short
time in silence; and then (the dial pointing to the ten minutes past) shook him
warmly by the hand, and rushed desperately from the room.
    Mr. Pickwick had taken a few strides to and fro; and the small hand of the
clock following the latter part of his example, had arrived at the figure which
indicates the half hour, when the door suddenly opened. He turned round to meet
Mr. Peter Magnus, and encountered, in his stead, the joyous face of Mr. Tupman,
the serene countenance of Mr. Winkle, and the intellectual lineaments of Mr.
Snodgrass. As Mr. Pickwick greeted them, Mr. Peter Magnus tripped into the room.
    »My friends, the gentleman I was speaking of - Mr. Magnus,« said Mr.
Pickwick.
    »Your servant, gentlemen,« said Mr. Magnus, evidently in a high state of
excitement; »Mr. Pickwick, allow me to speak to you, one moment, sir.«
    As he said this, Mr. Magnus harnessed his forefinger to Mr. Pickwick's
button-hole, and, drawing him to a window recess, said:
    »Congratulate me, Mr. Pickwick; I followed your advice to the very letter.«
    »And it was all correct, was it?« inquired Mr. Pickwick.
    »It was, sir. Could not possibly have been better,« replied Mr. Magnus. »Mr.
Pickwick, she is mine.«
    »I congratulate you with all my heart,« replied Mr. Pickwick, warmly shaking
his new friend by the hand.
    »You must see her, sir,« said Mr. Magnus; »this way, if you please. Excuse
us for one instant, gentlemen.« Hurrying on in this way, Mr. Peter Magnus drew
Mr. Pickwick from the room. He paused at the next door in the passage, and
tapped gently thereat.
    »Come in,« said a female voice. And in they went.
    »Miss Witherfield,« said Mr. Magnus, »Allow me to introduce my very
particular friend, Mr. Pickwick. Mr. Pickwick, I beg to make you known to Miss
Witherfield.«
    The lady was at the upper end of the room. As Mr. Pickwick bowed, he took
his spectacles from his waistcoat pocket, and put them on; a process which he
had no sooner gone through, than, uttering an exclamation of surprise, Mr.
Pickwick retreated several paces, and the lady, with a half-suppressed scream,
hid her face in her hands, and dropped into a chair; whereupon Mr. Peter Magnus
was stricken motionless on the spot, and gazed from one to the other, with a
countenance expressive of the extremities of horror and surprise.
    This certainly was, to all appearance, very unaccountable behaviour; but the
fact is, that Mr. Pickwick no sooner put on his spectacles, than he at once
recognised in the future Mrs. Magnus the lady into whose room he had so
unwarrantably intruded on the previous night; and the spectacles had no sooner
crossed Mr. Pickwick's nose, than the lady at once identified the countenance
which she had seen surrounded by all the horrors of a night-cap. So the lady
screamed, and Mr. Pickwick started.
    »Mr. Pickwick!« exclaimed Mr. Magnus, lost in astonishment, »What is the
meaning of this, sir? What is the meaning of it, sir?« added Mr. Magnus, in a
threatening, and a louder tone.
    »Sir,« said Mr. Pickwick, somewhat indignant at the very sudden manner in
which Mr. Peter Magnus had conjugated himself into the imperative mood, »I
decline answering that question.«
    »You decline it, sir?« said Mr. Magnus.
    »I do, sir,« replied Mr. Pickwick: »I object to saying anything which may
compromise that lady, or awaken unpleasant recollections in her breast, without
her consent and permission.«
    »Miss Witherfield,« said Mr. Peter Magnus, »do you know this person?«
    »Know him!« repeated the middle-aged lady, hesitating.
    »Yes, know him, ma'am. I said know him,« replied Mr. Magnus, with ferocity.
    »I have seen him,« replied the middle-aged lady.
    »Where?« inquired Mr. Magnus, »where?«
    »That,« said the middle-aged lady, rising from her seat, and averting her
head, »that I would not reveal for worlds.«
    »I understand you, ma'am,« said Mr. Pickwick, »and respect your delicacy; it
shall never be revealed by me, depend upon it.«
    »Upon my word, ma'am,« said Mr. Magnus, »considering the situation in which
I am placed with regard to yourself, you carry this matter off with tolerable
coolness - tolerable coolness, ma'am.«
    »Cruel Mr. Magnus!« said the middle-aged lady; here she wept very copiously
indeed.
    »Address your observations to me, sir,« interposed Mr. Pickwick; »I alone am
to blame, if anybody be.«
    »Oh! you alone are to blame, are you, sir?« said Mr. Magnus; »I - I - see
through this, sir. You repent of your determination now, do you?«
    »My determination!« said Mr. Pickwick.
    »Your determination, sir. Oh! don't stare at me, sir,« said Mr. Magnus; »I
recollect your words last night, sir. You came down here, sir, to expose the
treachery and falsehood of an individual on whose truth and honour you had
placed implicit reliance - eh?« Here Mr. Peter Magnus indulged in a prolonged
sneer; and taking off his green spectacles - which he probably found superfluous
in his fit of jealousy - rolled his little eyes about, in a manner frightful to
behold.
    »Eh?« said Mr. Magnus; and then he repeated the sneer with increased effect.
»But you shall answer it, sir.«
    »Answer what?« said Mr. Pickwick.
    »Never mind, sir,« replied Mr. Magnus, striding up and down the room. »Never
mind.«
    There must be something very comprehensive in this phrase of Never mind, for
we do not recollect to have ever witnessed a quarrel in the street, at a
theatre, public room, or elsewhere, in which it has not been the standard reply
to all belligerent inquiries. »Do you call yourself a gentleman, sir?« - »Never
mind, sir.« »Did I offer to say anything to the young woman, sir?« - »Never
mind, sir?« »Do you want your head knocked up against that wall, sir?« - »Never
mind, sir.« It is observable, too, that there would appear to be some hidden
taunt in this universal Never mind, which rouses more indignation in the bosom
of the individual addressed, than the most lavish abuse could possibly awaken.
    We do not mean to assert that the application of this brevity to himself,
struck exactly that indignation to Mr. Pickwick's soul, which it would
infallibly have roused in a vulgar breast. We merely record the fact that Mr.
Pickwick opened the room door, and abruptly called out, »Tupman, come here!«
    Mr. Tupman immediately presented himself, with a look of very considerable
surprise.
    »Tupman,« said Mr. Pickwick, »a secret of some delicacy, in which that lady
is concerned, is the cause of a difference which has just arisen between this
gentleman and myself. When I assure him, in your presence, that it has no
relation to himself, and is not in any way connected with his affairs, I need
hardly beg you to take notice that if he continue to dispute it, he expresses a
doubt of my veracity, which I shall consider extremely insulting.« As Mr.
Pickwick said this, he looked encyclopædias at Mr. Peter Magnus.
    Mr. Pickwick's upright and honourable bearing, coupled with that force and
energy of speech which so eminently distinguished him, would have carried
conviction to any reasonable mind; but unfortunately at that particular moment,
the mind of Mr. Peter Magnus was in anything but reasonable order. Consequently,
instead of receiving Mr. Pickwick's explanation as he ought to have done, he
forthwith proceeded to work himself into a red-hot, scorching, consuming,
passion, and to talk about what was due to his own feelings, and all that sort
of thing: adding force to his declamation by striding to and fro, and pulling
his hair - amusements which he would vary occasionally, by shaking his fist in
Mr. Pickwick's philanthropic countenance.
    Mr. Pickwick, in his turn, conscious of his own innocence and rectitude, and
irritated by having unfortunately involved the middle-aged lady in such an
unpleasant affair, was not so quietly disposed as was his wont. The consequence
was, that words ran high, and voices higher; and at length Mr. Magnus told Mr.
Pickwick he should hear from him; to which Mr. Pickwick replied, with laudable
politeness, that the sooner he heard from him the better; whereupon the
middle-aged lady rushed in terror from the room, out of which Mr. Tupman dragged
Mr. Pickwick, leaving Mr. Peter Magnus to himself and meditation.
    If the middle-aged lady had mingled much with the busy world, or had
profited at all by the manners and customs of those who make the laws and set
the fashions, she would have known that this sort of ferocity is the most
harmless thing in nature; but as she had lived for the most part in the country,
and never read the parliamentary debates, she was little versed in these
particular refinements of civilised life. Accordingly, when she had gained her
bed-chamber, bolted herself in, and begun to meditate on the scene she had just
witnessed, the most terrific pictures of slaughter and destruction presented
themselves to her imagination; among which, a full-length portrait of Mr. Peter
Magnus borne home by four men, with the embellishment of a whole barrel-full of
bullets in his left side, was among the very least. The more the middle-aged
lady meditated, the more terrified she became; and at length she determined to
repair to the house of the principal magistrate of the town, and request him to
secure the persons of Mr. Pickwick and Mr. Tupman without delay.
    To this decision the middle-aged lady was impelled by a variety of
considerations, the chief of which, was the incontestable proof it would afford
of her devotion to Mr. Peter Magnus, and her anxiety for his safety. She was too
well acquainted with his jealous temperament to venture the slightest allusion
to the real cause of her agitation on beholding Mr. Pickwick; and she trusted to
her own influence and power of persuasion with the little man, to quell his
boisterous jealousy, supposing that Mr. Pickwick were removed, and no fresh
quarrel could arise. Filled with these reflections, the middle-aged lady arrayed
herself in her bonnet and shawl, and repaired to the Mayor's dwelling
straightway.
    Now George Nupkins, Esquire, the principal magistrate aforesaid, was as
grand a personage as the fastest walker would find out, between sunrise and
sunset, on the twenty-first of June, which being, according to the almanacs, the
longest day in the whole year, would naturally afford him the longest period for
his search. On this particular morning, Mr. Nupkins was in a state of the utmost
excitement and irritation, for there had been a rebellion in the town; all the
day-scholars at the largest day-school had conspired to break the windows of an
obnoxious apple-seller, and had hooted the beadle, and pelted the constabulary -
an elderly gentleman in top-boots, who had been called out to repress the
tumult, and who had been a peace-officer, man and boy, for half a century at
least. And Mr. Nupkins was sitting in his easy chair, frowning with majesty, and
boiling with rage, when a lady was announced on pressing, private, and
particular business. Mr. Nupkins looked calmly terrible, and commanded that the
lady should be shown in: which command, like all the mandates of emperors, and
magistrates, and other great potentates of the earth, was forthwith obeyed; and
Miss Witherfield, interestingly agitated, was ushered in accordingly.
    »Muzzle« said the magistrate.
    Muzzle was an undersized footman, with a long body and short legs.
    »Muzzle!«
    »Yes, your worship.«
    »Place a chair, and leave the room.«
    »Yes, your worship.«
    »Now, ma'am, will you state your business?« said the magistrate.
    »It is of a very painful kind, sir,« said Miss Witherfield.
    »Very likely, ma'am,« said the magistrate. »Compose your feelings, ma'am.«
Here Mr. Nupkins looked benignant. »And then tell me what legal business brings
you here, ma'am.« Here the magistrate triumphed over the man; and he looked
stern again.
    »It is very distressing to me, sir, to give this information,« said Miss
Witherfield, »but I fear a duel is going to be fought here.«
    »Here, ma'am?« said the magistrate. »Where, ma'am?«
    »In Ipswich.«
    »In Ipswich, ma'am! A duel in Ipswich!« said the magistrate, perfectly
aghast at the notion. »Impossible, ma'am; nothing of the kind can be
contemplated in this town, I am persuaded. Bless my soul, ma'am, are you aware
of the activity of our local magistracy? Do you happen to have heard, ma'am,
that I rushed into a prize-ring on the fourth of May last, attended by only
sixty special constables; and, at the hazard of falling a sacrifice to the angry
passions of an infuriated multitude, prohibited a pugilistic contest between the
Middlesex Dumpling and the Suffolk Bantam? A duel in Ipswich, ma'am! I don't
think - I do not think,« said the magistrate, reasoning with himself, »that any
two men can have had the hardihood to plan such a breach of the peace, in this
town.«
    »My information is unfortunately but too correct,« said the middle-aged
lady, »I was present at the quarrel.«
    »It's a most extraordinary thing,« said the astounded magistrate. »Muzzle!«
    »Yes, your worship.«
    »Send Mr. Jinks here, directly! Instantly.«
    »Yes, your worship.«
    Muzzle retired; and a pale, sharp-nosed, half-fed, shabbily-clad clerk, of
middle age, entered the room.
    »Mr. Jinks,« said the magistrate. »Mr. Jinks.«
    »Sir,« said Mr. Jinks.
    »This lady, Mr. Jinks, has come here, to give information of an intended
duel in this town.«
    Mr. Jinks not knowing exactly what to do, smiled a dependent's smile.
    »What are you laughing at, Mr. Jinks?« said the magistrate.
    Mr. Jinks looked serious, instantly.
    »Mr. Jinks,« said the magistrate, »you're a fool.«
    Mr. Jinks looked humbly at the great man, and bit the top of his pen.
    »You may see something very comical in this information, sir; but I can tell
you this, Mr. Jinks; that you have very little to laugh at,« said the
magistrate.
    The hungry-looking Jinks sighed, as if he were quite aware of the fact of
his having very little indeed, to be merry about; and, being ordered to take the
lady's information, shambled to a seat, and proceeded to write it down.
    »This man, Pickwick, is the principal, I understand,« said the magistrate,
when the statement was finished.
    »He is,« said the middle-aged lady.
    »And the other rioter - what's his name, Mr. Jinks?«
    »Tupman, sir.«
    »Tupman is the second?«
    »Yes.«
    »The other principal you say, has absconded, ma'am?«
    »Yes,« replied Miss Witherfield, with a short cough.
    »Very well,« said the magistrate. »These are two cut-throats from London,
who have come down here to destroy his Majesty's population: thinking that at
this distance from the capital, the arm of the law is weak and paralysed. They
shall be made an example of. Draw up the warrants, Mr. Jinks. Muzzle!«
    »Yes, your worship.«
    »Is Grummer down stairs?«
    »Yes, your worship.«
    »Send him up.«
    The obsequious Muzzle retired, and presently returned, introducing the
elderly gentleman in the top-boots, who was chiefly remarkable for a
bottle-nose, a hoarse voice, a snuff-coloured surtout, and a wandering eye.
    »Grummer,« said the magistrate.
    »Your wash-up.«
    »Is the town quiet now?«
    »Pretty well, your wash-up,« replied Grummer. »Pop'lar feeling has in a
measure subsided, consekens o' the boys having dispersed to cricket.«
    »Nothing but vigorous measures will do in these times, Grummer,« said the
magistrate, in a determined manner. »If the authority of the king's officers is
set at nought, we must have the riot act read. If the civil power cannot protect
these windows, Grummer, the military must protect the civil power, and the
windows too. I believe that is a maxim of the constitution, Mr. Jinks?«
    »Certainly, sir,« said Jinks.
    »Very good,« said the magistrate, signing the warrants. »Grummer, you will
bring these persons before me, this afternoon. You will find them at the Great
White Horse. You recollect the case of the Middlesex Dumpling and the Suffolk
Bantam, Grummer?«
    Mr. Grummer intimated, by a retrospective shake of the head, that he should
never forget it - as indeed it was not likely he would, so long as it continued
to be cited daily.
    »This is even more unconstitutional,« said the magistrate; »this is even a
greater breach of the peace, and a grosser infringement of his Majesty's
prerogative. I believe duelling is one of his Majesty's most undoubted
prerogatives, Mr. Jinks?«
    »Expressly stipulated in Magna Charta, sir,« said Mr. Jinks.
    »One of the brightest jewels in the British crown, wrung from his Majesty by
the Barons, I believe, Mr. Jinks?« said the magistrate.
    »Just so, sir,« replied Mr. Jinks.
    »Very well,« said the magistrate, drawing himself up proudly, »it shall not
be violated in this portion of his dominions. Grummer, procure assistance, and
execute these warrants with as little delay as possible. Muzzle!«
    »Yes, your worship.«
    »Show the lady out.«
    Miss Witherfield retired, deeply impressed with the magistrate's learning
and research; Mr. Nupkins retired to lunch; Mr. Jinks retired within himself -
that being the only retirement he had, except the sofa-bedstead in the small
parlour which was occupied by his landlady's family in the daytime - and Mr.
Grummer retired, to wipe out, by his mode of discharging his present commission,
the insult which had been fastened upon himself, and the other representative of
his Majesty - the beadle - in the course of the morning.
    While these resolute and determined preparations for the conservation of the
King's peace, were pending, Mr. Pickwick and his friends, wholly unconscious of
the mighty events in progress, had sat quietly down to dinner; and very
talkative and companionable they all were. Mr. Pickwick was in the very act of
relating his adventure of the preceding night, to the great amusement of his
followers, Mr. Tupman especially, when the door opened, and a somewhat
forbidding countenance peeped into the room. The eyes in the forbidding
countenance looked very earnestly at Mr. Pickwick, for several seconds, and were
to all appearance satisfied with their investigation; for the body to which the
forbidding countenance belonged, slowly brought itself into the apartment, and
presented the form of an elderly individual in top-boots - not to keep the
reader any longer in suspense, in short, the eyes were the wandering eyes of Mr.
Grummer, and the body was the body of the same gentleman.
    Mr. Grummer's mode of proceeding was professional, but peculiar. His first
act was to bolt the door on the inside; his second, to polish his head and
countenance very carefully with a cotton handkerchief; his third, to place his
hat, with the cotton handkerchief in it, on the nearest chair; and his fourth,
to produce from the breast-pocket of his coat a short truncheon, surmounted by a
brazen crown, with which he beckoned to Mr. Pickwick with a grave and ghost-like
air.
    Mr. Snodgrass was the first to break the astonished silence. He looked
steadily at Mr. Grummer for a brief space, and then said emphatically: »This is
a private room, sir. A private room.«
    Mr. Grummer shook his head, and replied, »No room's private to his Majesty
when the street door's once passed. That's law. Some people maintains that an
Englishman's house is his castle. That's gammon.«
    The Pickwickians gazed on each other with wondering eyes.
    »Which is Mr. Tupman?« inquired Mr. Grummer. He had an intuitive perception
of Mr. Pickwick; he knew him at once.
    »My name's Tupman,« said that gentleman.
    »My name's Law,« said Mr. Grummer.
    »What?« said Mr. Tupman.
    »Law,« replied Mr. Grummer, »law, civil power, and exekative; them's my
titles; here's my authority. Blank Tupman, blank Pickvick - against the peace of
our sufferin Lord the King - stattit in that case made and purwided - and all
regular. I apprehend you Pickvick! Tupman - the aforesaid.«
    »What do you mean by this insolence?« said Mr. Tupman, starting up: »Leave
the room!«
    »Halloo,« said Mr. Grummer, retreating very expeditiously to the door, and
opening it an inch or two, »Dubbley.«
    »Well,« said a deep voice from the passage.
    »Come for'ard, Dubbley.«
    At the word of command, a dirty-faced man, something over six feet high, and
stout in proportion, squeezed himself through the half-open door (making his
face very red in the process), and entered the room.
    »Is the other specials outside, Dubbley?« inquired Mr. Grummer.
    Mr. Dubbley, who was a man of few words, nodded assent.
    »Order in the diwision under your charge, Dubbley,« said Mr. Grummer.
    Mr. Dubbley did as he was desired; and half a dozen men, each with a short
truncheon and a brass crown, flocked into the room. Mr. Grummer pocketed his
staff, and looked at Mr. Dubbley; Mr. Dubbley pocketed his staff and looked at
the division; the division pocketed their staves and looked at Messrs. Tupman
and Pickwick.
    Mr. Pickwick and his followers rose as one man.
    »What is the meaning of this atrocious intrusion upon my privacy?« said Mr.
Pickwick.
    »Who dares apprehend me?« said Mr. Tupman.
    »What do you want here, scoundrels?« said Mr. Snodgrass.
    Mr. Winkle said nothing, but he fixed his eyes on Grummer, and bestowed a
look upon him, which, if he had had any feeling, must have pierced his brain. As
it was, however, it had no visible effect upon him whatever.
    When the executive perceived that Mr. Pickwick and his friends were disposed
to resist the authority of the law, they very significantly turned up their coat
sleeves, as if knocking them down in the first instance, and taking them up
afterwards, were a mere professional act which had only to be thought of, to be
done, as a matter of course. This demonstration was not lost upon Mr. Pickwick.
He conferred a few moments with Mr. Tupman apart, and then signified his
readiness to proceed to the Mayor's residence, merely begging the parties then
and there assembled, to take notice, that it was his firm intention to resent
this monstrous invasion of his privileges as an Englishman, the instant he was
at liberty; whereat the parties then and there assembled, laughed, very
heartily, with the single exception of Mr. Grummer, who seemed to consider that
any slight cast upon the divine right of magistrates, was a species of
blasphemy, not to be tolerated.
    But when Mr. Pickwick had signified his readiness to bow to the laws of his
country; and just when the waiters, and hostlers, and chamber-maids, and
post-boys, who had anticipated a delightful commotion from his threatened
obstinacy, began to turn away, disappointed and disgusted, a difficulty arose
which had not been foreseen. With every sentiment of veneration for the
constituted authorities, Mr. Pickwick resolutely protested against making his
appearance in the public streets, surrounded and guarded by the officers of
justice, like a common criminal. Mr. Grummer, in the then disturbed state of
public feeling (for it was half-holiday, and the boys had not yet gone home), as
resolutely protested against walking on the opposite side of the way, and taking
Mr. Pickwick's parole that he would go straight to the magistrate's; and both
Mr. Pickwick and Mr. Tupman as strenuously objected to the expense of a
post-coach, which was the only respectable conveyance that could be obtained.
The dispute ran high, and the dilemma lasted long; and just as the executive
were on the point of overcoming Mr. Pickwick's objection to walking to the
magistrate's, by the trite expedient of carrying him thither, it was recollected
that there stood in the inn yard, an old sedan chair, which having been
originally built for a gouty gentleman with funded property, would hold Mr.
Pickwick and Mr. Tupman, at least as conveniently as a modern post-chaise. The
chair was hired, and brought into the hall; Mr. Pickwick and Mr. Tupman squeezed
themselves inside, and pulled down the blinds; a couple of chairmen were
speedily found; and the procession started in grand order. The specials
surrounded the body of the vehicle; Mr. Grummer and Mr. Dubbley marched
triumphantly in front; Mr. Snodgrass and Mr. Winkle walked arm-in-arm behind;
and the unsoaped of Ipswich brought up the rear.
    The shopkeepers of the town, although they had a very indistinct notion of
the nature of the offence, could not but be much edified and gratified by this
spectacle. Here was the strong arm of the law, coming down with twenty
gold-beater force, upon two offenders from the metropolis itself; the mighty
engine was directed by their own magistrate, and worked by their own officers;
and both the criminals by their united efforts, were securely shut up, in the
narrow compass of one sedan-chair. Many were the expressions of approval and
admiration which greeted Mr. Grummer, as he headed the cavalcade, staff in hand;
loud and long were the shouts raised by the unsoaped; and amidst these united
testimonials of public approbation, the procession moved slowly and majestically
along.
    Mr. Weller, habited in his morning jacket with the black calico sleeves, was
returning in a rather despondent state from an unsuccessful survey of the
mysterious house with the green gate, when, raising his eyes, he beheld a crowd
pouring down the street, surrounding an object which had very much the
appearance of a sedan-chair. Willing to divert his thoughts from the failure of
his enterprise, he stepped aside to see the crowd pass; and finding that they
were cheering away, very much to their own satisfaction, forthwith began (by way
of raising his spirits) to cheer too, with all his might and main.
    Mr. Grummer passed, and Mr. Dubbley passed, and the sedan passed, and the
body-guard of specials passed, and Sam was still responding to the enthusiastic
cheers of the mob, and waving his hat about as if he were in the very last
extreme of the wildest joy (though, of course, he had not the faintest idea of
the matter in hand), when he was suddenly stopped by the unexpected appearance
of Mr. Winkle and Mr. Snodgrass.
    »What's the row, gen'l'm'n?« cried Sam. »Who have they got in this here
watch-box in mournin'?«
    Both gentlemen replied together, but their words were lost in the tumult.
    »Who?« cried Sam again.
    Once more was a joint reply returned; and, though the words were inaudible,
Sam saw by the motion of the two pairs of lips that they had uttered the magic
word Pickwick.
    This was enough. In another minute Mr. Weller had made his way through the
crowd, stopped the chairmen, and confronted the portly Grummer.
    »Hallo, old gen'l'm'n!« said Sam. »Who have you got in this here
conwayance?«
    »Stand back,« said Mr. Grummer, whose dignity, like the dignity of a great
many other men, had been wondrously augmented by a little popularity.
    »Knock him down, if he don't,« said Mr. Dubbley.
    »I'm very much obliged to you, old gen'l'm'n,« replied Sam, »for consulting
my conwenience, and I'm still more obliged to the other gen'l'm'n, who looks as
if he'd just escaped from a giant's carrywan, for his very 'ansome suggestion;
but I should perfer your givin' me a answer to my question, if it's all the same
to you. - How are you, sir?« This last observation was addressed with a
patronising air to Mr. Pickwick, who was peeping through the front window.
    Mr. Grummer, perfectly speechless with indignation, dragged the truncheon
with the brass crown from its particular pocket, and flourished it before Sam's
eyes.
    »Ah,« said Sam, »it's very pretty, 'specially the crown, which is uncommon
like the real one.«
    »Stand back!« said the outraged Mr. Grummer. By way of adding force to the
command, he thrust the brass emblem of royalty into Sam's neckcloth with one
hand, and seized Sam's collar with the other: a compliment which Mr. Weller
returned by knocking him down out of hand: having previously, with the utmost
consideration, knocked down a chairman for him to lie upon.
    Whether Mr. Winkle was seized with a temporary attack of that species of
insanity which originates in a sense of injury, or animated by this display of
Mr. Weller's valour, is uncertain; but certain it is, that he no sooner saw Mr.
Grummer fall than he made a terrific onslaught on a small boy who stood next
him; whereupon Mr. Snodgrass, in a truly christian spirit, and in order that he
might take no one unawares, announced in a very loud tone that he was going to
begin, and proceeded to take off his coat with the utmost deliberation. He was
immediately surrounded and secured; and it is but common justice both to him and
Mr. Winkle to say, that they did not make the slightest attempt to rescue either
themselves or Mr. Weller: who, after a most vigorous resistance, was overpowered
by numbers and taken prisoner. The procession then re-formed; the chairmen
resumed their stations; and the march was re-commenced.
    Mr. Pickwick's indignation during the whole of this proceeding was beyond
all bounds. He could just see Sam upsetting the specials, and flying about in
every direction; and that was all he could see, for the sedan doors wouldn't
open, and the blinds wouldn't pull up. At length, with the assistance of Mr.
Tupman, he managed to push open the roof; and mounting on the seat, and
steadying himself as well as he could, by placing his hand on that gentleman's
shoulder, Mr. Pickwick proceeded to address the multitude; to dwell upon the
unjustifiable manner in which he had been treated; and to call upon them to take
notice that his servant had been first assaulted. In this order they reached the
magistrate's house; the chairmen trotting, the prisoners following, Mr. Pickwick
oratorising, and the crowd shouting.
 

                                  Chapter XXV

  Showing, Among a Variety of Pleasant Matters, How Majestic and Impartial Mr.
   Nupkins Was; and How Mr. Weller Returned Mr. Job Trotter's Shuttlecock as
   Heavily as It Came. With Another Matter, Which Will Be Found in Its Place.

Violent was Mr. Weller's indignation as he was borne along; numerous were the
allusions to the personal appearance and demeanour of Mr. Grummer and his
companion: and valorous were the defiances to any six of the gentlemen present:
in which he vented his dissatisfaction. Mr. Snodgrass and Mr. Winkle listened
with gloomy respect to the torrent of eloquence which their leader poured forth
from the sedan-chair, and the rapid course of which not all Mr. Tupman's earnest
entreaties to have the lid of the vehicle closed, were able to check for an
instant. But Mr. Weller's anger quickly gave way to curiosity when the
procession turned down the identical court-yard in which he had met with the
runaway Job Trotter: and curiosity was exchanged for a feeling of the most
gleeful astonishment, when the all-important Mr. Grummer, commanding the
sedan-bearers to halt, advanced with dignified and portentous steps to the very
green gate from which Job Trotter had emerged, and gave a mighty pull at the
bell-handle which hung at the side thereof. The ring was answered by a very
smart and pretty-faced servant-girl, who, after holding up her hands in
astonishment at the rebellious appearance of the prisoners, and the impassioned
language of Mr. Pickwick, summoned Mr. Muzzle. Mr. Muzzle opened one half of the
carriage gate, to admit the sedan, the captured ones, and the specials; and
immediately slammed it in the faces of the mob, who, indignant at being
excluded, and anxious to see what followed, relieved their feelings by kicking
at the gate and ringing the bell, for an hour or two afterwards. In this
amusement they all took part by turns, except three or four fortunate
individuals, who, having discovered a grating in the gate which commanded a view
of nothing, stared through it with the indefatigable perseverance with which
people will flatten their noses against the front windows of a chemist's shop,
when a drunken man, who has been run over by a dog-cart in the street, is
undergoing a surgical inspection in the back-parlour.
    At the foot of a flight of steps, leading to the house door, which was
guarded on either side by an American aloe in a green tub, the sedan-chair
stopped. Mr. Pickwick and his friends were conducted into the hall, whence,
having been previously announced by Muzzle, and ordered in by Mr. Nupkins, they
were ushered into the worshipful presence of that public-spirited officer.
    The scene was an impressive one, well calculated to strike terror to the
hearts of culprits, and to impress them with an adequate idea of the stern
majesty of the law. In front of a big book-case, in a big chair, behind a big
table, and before a big volume, sat Mr. Nupkins, looking a full size larger than
any one of them, big as they were. The table was adorned with piles of papers:
and above the further end of it, appeared the head and shoulders of Mr. Jinks,
who was busily engaged in looking as busy as possible. The party having all
entered, Muzzle carefully closed the door, and placed himself behind his
master's chair to await his orders. Mr. Nupkins threw himself back, with
thrilling solemnity, and scrutinised the faces of his unwilling visitors.
    »Now, Grummer, who is that person?« said Mr. Nupkins, pointing to Mr.
Pickwick, who, as the spokesman of his friends, stood hat in hand, bowing with
the utmost politeness and respect.
    »This here's Pickvick, your wash-up,« said Grummer.
    »Come, none o' that 'ere, old Strike-a-light,« interposed Mr. Weller,
elbowing himself into the front rank. »Beg your pardon, sir, but this here
officer o' yourn in the gambooge tops, 'ull never earn a decent living' as a
master o' the ceremonies any vere. This here, sir,« continued Mr. Weller,
thrusting Grummer aside, and addressing the magistrate with pleasant
familiarity, »This here is S. Pickvick, Esquire; this here's Mr. Tupman; that
'ere's Mr. Snodgrass; and further on, next him on the t'other side, Mr. Winkle -
all very nice genl'm'n, sir, as you'll be very happy to have the acquaintance
on; so the sooner you commits these here officers o' yourn to the tread-mill for
a month or two, the sooner we shall begin to be on a pleasant understanding.
Business first, pleasure afterwards, as King Richard the Third said wen he
stabbed the t'other king in the Tower, afore he smothered the babbies.«
    At the conclusion of this address, Mr. Weller brushed his hat with his right
elbow, and nodded benignly to Jinks, who had heard him throughout, with
unspeakable awe.
    »Who is this man, Grummer?« said the magistrate.
    »Wery desp'rate ch'racter, your wash-up,« replied Grummer. »He attempted to
rescue the prisoners, and assaulted the officers; so we took him into custody,
and brought him here.«
    »You did quite right,« replied the magistrate. »He is evidently a desperate
ruffian.«
    »He is my servant, sir,« said Mr. Pickwick, angrily.
    »Oh! he is your servant, is he?« said Mr. Nupkins. »A conspiracy to defeat
the ends of justice, and murder its officers. Pickwick's servant. Put that down,
Mr. Jinks.«
    Mr. Jinks did so.
    »What's your name, fellow?« thundered Mr. Nupkins.
    »Veller,« replied Sam.
    »A very good name for the Newgate Calendar,« said Mr. Nupkins.
    This was a joke; so Jinks, Grummer, Dubbley, all the specials, and Muzzle,
went into fits of laughter of five minutes' duration.
    »Put down his name, Mr. Jinks,« said the magistrate.
    »Two L's, old feller,« said Sam.
    Here an unfortunate special laughed again, whereupon the magistrate
threatened to commit him, instantly. It is a dangerous thing to laugh at the
wrong man, in these cases.
    »Where do you live?« said the magistrate.
    »Vare-ever I can,« replied Sam.
    »Put down that, Mr. Jinks,« said the magistrate, who was fast rising into a
rage.
    »Score it under,« said Sam.
    »He is a vagabond, Mr. Jinks,« said the magistrate. »He is a vagabond on his
own statement; is he not, Mr. Jinks?«
    »Certainly, sir.«
    »Then I'll commit him. I'll commit him as such,« said Mr. Nupkins.
    »This is a very impartial country for justice,« said Sam. »There ain't a
magistrate goin' as don't commit himself, twice as often as he commits other
people.«
    At this sally another special laughed, and then tried to look so
supernaturally solemn, that the magistrate detected him immediately.
    »Grummer,« said Mr. Nupkins, reddening with passion, »how dare you select
such an inefficient and disreputable person for a special constable, as that
man? How dare you do it, sir?«
    »I am very sorry, your wash-up,« stammered Grummer.
    »Very sorry!« said the furious magistrate. »You shall repent of this neglect
of duty, Mr. Grummer; you shall be made an example of. Take that fellow's staff
away. He's drunk. You're drunk, fellow.«
    »I am not drunk, your worship,« said the man.
    »You are drunk,« returned the magistrate. »How dare you say you are not
drunk, sir, when I say you are? Doesn't he smell of spirits, Grummer?«
    »Horrid, your wash-up,« replied Grummer who had a vague impression that
there was a smell of rum somewhere.
    »I knew he did,« said Mr. Nupkins. »I saw he was drunk when he first came
into the room, by his excited eye. Did you observe his excited eye, Mr. Jinks?«
    »Certainly, sir.«
    »I haven't touched a drop of spirits this morning,« said the man, who was as
sober a fellow as need be.
    »How dare you tell me a falsehood?« said Mr. Nupkins. »Isn't he drunk at
this moment, Mr. Jinks?«
    »Certainly, sir,« replied Jinks.
    »Mr. Jinks,« said the magistrate, »I shall commit that man, for contempt.
Make out his committal, Mr. Jinks.«
    And committed the special would have been, only Jinks, who was the
magistrate's adviser (having had a legal education of three years in a country
attorney's office), whispered the magistrate that he thought it wouldn't do; so
the magistrate made a speech, and said, that in consideration of the special's
family, he would merely reprimand and discharge him. Accordingly, the special
was abused, vehemently, for a quarter of an hour, and sent about his business:
and Grummer, Dubbley, Muzzle, and all the other specials murmured their
admiration of the magnanimity of Mr. Nupkins.
    »Now, Mr. Jinks,« said the magistrate, »swear Grummer.«
    Grummer was sworn directly; but as Grummer wandered, and Mr. Nupkins' dinner
was nearly ready, Mr. Nupkins cut the matter short, by putting leading questions
to Grummer, which Grummer answered as nearly in the affirmative as he could. So
the examination went off, all very smooth and comfortable, and two assaults were
proved against Mr. Weller, and a threat against Mr. Winkle, and a push against
Mr. Snodgrass. When all this was done to the magistrate's satisfaction, the
magistrate and Mr. Jinks consulted in whispers.
    The consultation having lasted about ten minutes, Mr. Jinks retired to his
end of the table; and the magistrate, with a preparatory cough, drew himself up
in his chair, and was proceeding to commence his address, when Mr. Pickwick
interposed.
    »I beg your pardon, sir, for interrupting you,« said Mr. Pickwick; »but
before you proceed to express, and act upon, any opinion you may have formed on
the statements which have been made here, I must claim my right to be heard, so
far as I am personally concerned.«
    »Hold your tongue, sir,« said the magistrate, peremptorily.
    »I must submit to you, sir,« said Mr. Pickwick.
    »Hold your tongue, sir,« interposed the magistrate, »or I shall order an
officer to remove you.«
    »You may order your officers to do whatever you please, sir,« said Mr.
Pickwick; »and I have no doubt, from the specimen I have had of the
subordination preserved amongst them, that whatever you order, they will
execute, sir; but I shall take the liberty, sir, of claiming my right to be
heard, until I am removed by force.«
    »Pickvick and principle!« exclaimed Mr. Weller, in a very audible voice.
    »Sam, be quiet,« said Mr. Pickwick.
    »Dumb as a drum with a hole in it, sir,« replied Sam.
    Mr. Nupkins looked at Mr. Pickwick with a gaze of intense astonishment, at
his displaying such unwonted temerity; and was apparently about to return a very
angry reply, when Mr. Jinks pulled him by the sleeve, and whispered something in
his ear. To this, the magistrate returned a half-audible answer, and then the
whispering was renewed. Jinks was evidently remonstrating.
    At length the magistrate, gulping down, with a very bad grace, his
disinclination to hear anything more, turned to Mr. Pickwick, and said sharply:
»What do you want to say?«
    »First,« said Mr. Pickwick, sending a look through his spectacles, under
which even Nupkins quailed. »First, I wish to know what I and my friend have
been brought here for?«
    »Must I tell him?« whispered the magistrate to Jinks.
    »I think you had better, sir,« whispered Jinks to the magistrate.
    »An information has been sworn before me,« said the magistrate, »that it is
apprehended you are going to fight a duel, and that the other man, Tupman, is
your aider and abettor in it. Therefore - eh, Mr. Jinks?«
    »Certainly, sir.«
    »Therefore, I call upon you both, to - I think that's the course, Mr.
Jinks?«
    »Certainly, sir.«
    »To - to - what, Mr. Jinks?« said the magistrate, pettishly.
    »To find bail, sir.«
    »Yes. Therefore, I call upon you both - as I was about to say, when I was
interrupted by my clerk - to find bail.«
    »Good bail,« whispered Mr. Jinks.
    »I shall require good bail,« said the magistrate.
    »Town's-people,« whispered Jinks.
    »They must be town's-people,« said the magistrate.
    »Fifty pounds each,« whispered Jinks, »and householders, of course.«
    »I shall require two sureties of fifty pounds each,« said the magistrate
aloud, with great dignity, »and they must be householders, of course.«
    »But, bless my heart, sir,« said Mr. Pickwick, who, together with Mr.
Tupman, was all amazement and indignation; »we are perfect strangers in this
town. I have as little knowledge of any householders here, as I have intention
of fighting a duel with anybody.«
    »I dare say,« replied the magistrate, »I dare say - don't you, Mr. Jinks?«
    »Certainly, sir.«
    »Have you anything more to say?« inquired the magistrate.
    Mr. Pickwick had a great deal more to say, which he would no doubt have
said, very little to his own advantage, or the magistrate's satisfaction, if he
had not, the moment he ceased speaking, been pulled by the sleeve by Mr. Weller,
with whom he was immediately engaged in so earnest a conversation, that he
suffered the magistrate's inquiry to pass wholly unnoticed. Mr. Nupkins was not
the man to ask a question of the kind twice over; and so, with another
preparatory cough, he proceeded, amidst the reverential and admiring silence of
the constables, to pronounce his decision.
    He should fine Weller two pounds for the first assault, and three pounds for
the second. He should fine Winkle two pounds, and Snodgrass one pound, besides
requiring them to enter into their own recognizances to keep the peace towards
all his Majesty's subjects, and especially towards his liege servant, Daniel
Grummer. Pickwick and Tupman he had already held to bail.
    Immediately on the magistrate ceasing to speak, Mr. Pickwick, with a smile
mantling on his again good-humoured countenance, stepped forward, and said:
    »I beg the magistrate's pardon, but may I request a few minutes' private
conversation with him, on a matter of deep importance to himself?«
    »What?« said the magistrate.
    Mr. Pickwick repeated his request.
    »This is a most extraordinary request,« said the magistrate. »A private
interview?«
    »A private interview,« replied Mr. Pickwick, firmly; »only, as a part of the
information which I wish to communicate is derived from my servant, I should
wish him to be present.«
    The magistrate looked at Mr. Jinks; Mr. Jinks looked at the magistrate; the
officers looked at each other in amazement. Mr. Nupkins turned suddenly pale.
Could the man Weller, in a moment of remorse, have divulged some secret
conspiracy for his assassination? It was a dreadful thought. He was a public
man: and he turned paler, as he thought of Julius Cæsar and Mr. Perceval.
    The magistrate looked at Mr. Pickwick again, and beckoned Mr. Jinks.
    »What do you think of this request, Mr. Jinks?« murmured Mr. Nupkins.
    Mr. Jinks, who didn't exactly know what to think of it, and was afraid he
might offend, smiled feebly, after a dubious fashion, and, screwing up the
corners of his mouth, shook his head slowly from side to side.
    »Mr. Jinks,« said the magistrate, gravely, »you are an ass.«
    At this little expression of opinion, Mr. Jinks smiled again - rather more
feebly than before - and edged himself by degrees, back into his own corner.
    Mr. Nupkins debated the matter within himself for a few seconds, and then,
rising from his chair, and requesting Mr. Pickwick and Sam to follow him, led
the way into a small room which opened into the justice parlour. Desiring Mr.
Pickwick to walk to the upper end of the little apartment, and holding his hand
upon the half-closed door, that he might be able to effect an immediate escape,
in case there was the least tendency to a display of hostilities, Mr. Nupkins
expressed his readiness to hear the communication, whatever it might be.
    »I will come to the point at once, sir,« said Mr. Pickwick; »it affects
yourself, and your credit, materially. I have every reason to believe, sir, that
you are harbouring in your house, a gross impostor!«
    »Two,« interrupted Sam. »Mulberry again all natur, for tears and willainny!«
    »Sam,« said Mr. Pickwick, »if I am to render myself intelligible to this
gentleman, I must beg you to control your feelings.«
    »Wery sorry, sir,« replied Mr. Weller; »but when I think o' that ere Job, I
can't help opening the walve a inch or two.«
    »In one word, sir,« said Mr. Pickwick, »is my servant right in suspecting
that a certain Captain Fitz-Marshall is in the habit of visiting here? Because,«
added Mr. Pickwick, as he saw that Mr. Nupkins was about to offer a very
indignant interruption, »because, if he be, I know that person to be a -«
    »Hush, hush,« said Mr. Nupkins, closing the door. »Know him to be what,
sir?«
    »An unprincipled adventurer - a dishonourable character - a man who preys
upon society, and makes easily-deceived people his dupes, sir; his absurd, his
foolish, his wretched dupes, sir,« said the excited Mr. Pickwick.
    »Dear me,« said Mr. Nupkins, turning very red, and altering his whole manner
directly. »Dear me, Mr. -«
    »Pickvick,« said Sam.
    »Pickwick,« said the magistrate, »dear me, Mr. Pickwick - pray take a seat -
you cannot mean this? Captain Fitz-Marshall?«
    »Don't call him a cap'en,« said Sam, »nor Fitz-Marshall neither; he ain't
neither one nor t'other. He's a strolling actor, he is, and his name's Jingle;
and if ever there was a wolf in a mulberry suit, that ere Job Trotter 's him.«
    »It is very true, sir,« said Mr. Pickwick, replying to the magistrate's look
of amazement; »my only business in this town, is to expose the person of whom we
now speak.«
    Mr. Pickwick proceeded to pour into the horror-stricken ear of Mr. Nupkins,
an abridged account of Mr. Jingle's atrocities. He related how he had first met
him; how he had eloped with Miss Wardle; how he had cheerfully resigned the lady
for a pecuniary consideration; how he had entrapped himself into a lady's
boarding-school at midnight; and how he (Mr. Pickwick) now felt it his duty to
expose his assumption of his present name and rank.
    As the narrative proceeded, all the warm blood in the body of Mr. Nupkins
tingled up into the very tips of his ears. He had picked up the captain at a
neighbouring race-course. Charmed with his long list of aristocratic
acquaintance, his extensive travel, and his fashionable demeanour, Mrs. Nupkins
and Miss Nupkins had exhibited Captain Fitz-Marshall, and quoted Captain
Fitz-Marshall, and hurled Captain Fitz-Marshall at the devoted heads of their
select circle of acquaintance, until their bosom friends, Mrs. Porkenham and the
Miss Porkenhams, and Mr. Sidney Porkenham, were ready to burst with jealousy and
despair. And now, to hear, after all, that he was a needy adventurer, a
strolling player, and if not a swindler, something so very like it, that it was
hard to tell the difference! Heavens! What would the Porkenhams say! What would
be the triumph of Mr. Sidney Porkenham when he found that his addresses had been
slighted for such a rival! How should he, Nupkins, meet the eye of old Porkenham
at the next Quarter Sessions! And what a handle would it be for the opposition
magisterial party, if the story got abroad!
    »But after all,« said Mr. Nupkins, brightening for a moment, after a long
pause; »after all, this is a mere statement. Captain Fitz-Marshall is a man of
very engaging manners, and, I dare say, has many enemies. What proof have you of
the truth of these representations?«
    »Confront me with him,« said Mr. Pickwick, »that is all I ask, and all I
require. Confront him with me and my friends here; you will want no further
proof.«
    »Why,« said Mr. Nupkins, »that might be very easily done, for he will be
here to-night, and then there would be no occasion to make the matter public,
just - just - for the young man's own sake, you know. I - I - should like to
consult Mrs. Nupkins on the propriety of the step, in the first instance,
though. At all events, Mr. Pickwick, we must despatch this legal business before
we can do anything else. Pray step back into the next room.«
    Into the next room they went.
    »Grummer,« said the magistrate, in an awful voice.
    »Your wash-up,« replied Grummer, with the smile of a favourite.
    »Come, come, sir,« said the magistrate, sternly, »don't let me see any of
this levity here. It is very unbecoming, and I can assure you that you have very
little to smile at. Was the account you gave me just now strictly true? Now be
careful, sir?«
    »Your wash-up,« stammered Grummer, »I -«
    »Oh, you are confused, are you?« said the magistrate.
    »Mr. Jinks, you observe this confusion?«
    »Certainly, sir,« replied Jinks.
    »Now,« said the magistrate, »repeat your statement, Grummer, and again I
warn you to be careful. Mr. Jinks, take his words down.«
    The unfortunate Grummer proceeded to re-state his complaint, but, what
between Mr. Jinks's taking down his words, and the magistrate's taking them up;
his natural tendency to rambling, and his extreme confusion; he managed to get
involved, in something under three minutes, in such a mass of entanglement and
contradiction, that Mr. Nupkins at once declared he didn't believe him. So the
fines were remitted, and Mr. Jinks found a couple of bail in no time. And all
these solemn proceedings having been satisfactorily concluded, Mr. Grummer was
ignominiously ordered out - an awful instance of the instability of human
greatness, and the uncertain tenure of great men's favour.
    Mrs. Nupkins was a majestic female in a pink gauze turban and a light brown
wig. Miss Nupkins possessed all her mamma's haughtiness without the turban, and
all her ill-nature without the wig; and whenever the exercise of these two
amiable qualities involved mother and daughter in some unpleasant dilemma, as
they not unfrequently did, they both concurred in laying the blame on the
shoulders of Mr. Nupkins. Accordingly, when Mr. Nupkins sought Mrs. Nupkins, and
detailed the communication which had been made by Mr. Pickwick, Mrs. Nupkins
suddenly recollected that she had always expected something of the kind; that
she had always said it would be so; that her advice was never taken; that she
really did not know what Mr. Nupkins supposed she was; and so forth.
    »The idea!« said Miss Nupkins, forcing, a tear of very scanty proportions
into the corner of each eye; »the idea of my being made such a fool of!«
    »Ah! you may thank your papa, my dear,« said Mrs. Nupkins; »how have I
implored and begged that man to inquire into the Captain's family connections;
how have I urged and entreated him to take some decisive step! I am quite
certain nobody would believe it - quite.«
    »But, my dear,« said Mr. Nupkins.
    »Don't talk to me, you aggravating thing, don't!« said Mrs. Nupkins.
    »My love,« said Mr. Nupkins, »you professed yourself very fond of Captain
Fitz-Marshall. You have constantly asked him here, my dear, and you have lost no
opportunity of introducing him elsewhere.«
    »Didn't I say so, Henrietta?« cried Mrs. Nupkins, appealing to her daughter,
with the air of a much-injured female. »Didn't I say that your papa would turn
round and lay all this at my door? Didn't I say so?« Here Mrs. Nupkins sobbed.
    »Oh pa!« remonstrated Miss Nupkins. And here she sobbed too.
    »Isn't it too much, when he has brought all this disgrace and ridicule upon
us, to taunt me with being the cause of it?« exclaimed Mrs. Nupkins.
    »How can we ever show ourselves in society!« said Miss Nupkins.
    »How can we face the Porkenhams!« cried Mrs. Nupkins.
    »Or the Griggs's!« cried Miss Nupkins.
    »Or the Slummintowkens!« cried Mrs. Nupkins. »But what does your papa care!
What is it to him!« At this dreadful reflection, Mrs. Nupkins wept with mental
anguish, and Miss Nupkins followed on the same side.
    Mrs. Nupkins's tears continued to gush forth, with great velocity, until she
had gained a little time to think the matter over: when she decided, in her own
mind, that the best thing to do would be to ask Mr. Pickwick and his friends to
remain until the Captain's arrival, and then to give Mr. Pickwick the
opportunity he sought. If it appeared that he had spoken truly, the Captain
could be turned out of the house without noising the matter abroad, and they
could easily account to the Porkenhams for his disappearance, by saying that he
had been appointed, through the Court influence of his family, to the
Governor-Generalship of Sierra Leone, or Saugur Point, or any other of those
salubrious climates which enchant Europeans so much that, when they once get
there, they can hardly ever prevail upon themselves to come back again.
    When Mrs. Nupkins dried up her tears, Miss Nupkins dried up hers, and Mr.
Nupkins was very glad to settle the matter as Mrs. Nupkins had proposed. So Mr.
Pickwick and his friends, having washed off all marks of their late encounter,
were introduced to the ladies, and soon afterwards to their dinner; and Mr.
Weller, whom the magistrate with his peculiar sagacity had discovered in half an
hour to be one of the finest fellows alive, was consigned to the care and
guardianship of Mr. Muzzle, who was specially enjoined to take him below, and
make much of him.
    »How de do, sir?« said Mr. Muzzle, as he conducted Mr. Weller down the
kitchen stairs.
    »Why, no con-siderable change has taken place in the state of my system,
since I see you cocked up behind your governor's chair in the parlour, a little
vile ago,« replied Sam.
    »You will excuse my not taking more notice of you then,« said Mr. Muzzle.
»You see, master hadn't introduced us, then. Lord, how fond he is of you, Mr.
Weller, to be sure!«
    »Ah,« said Sam, »what a pleasant chap he is!«
    »Ain't he?« replied Mr. Muzzle.
    »So much humour,« said Sam.
    »And such a man to speak,« said Mr. Muzzle. »How his ideas flow, don't
they?«
    »Wonderful,« replied Sam; »they come's a pouring out, knocking each other's
heads so fast, that they seems to stun one another; you hardly know what he's
arter, do you?«
    »That's the great merit of his style of speaking,« rejoined Mr. Muzzle.
»Take care of the last step, Mr. Weller. Would you like to wash your hands, sir,
before we join the ladies? Here's a sink, with the water laid on, sir, and a
clean jack towel behind the door.«
    »Ah! perhaps I may as well have a rinse,« replied Mr. Weller, applying
plenty of yellow soap to the towel, and rubbing away, till his face shone again.
»How many ladies are there?«
    »Only two in our kitchen,« said Mr. Muzzle, »cook and 'ousemaid. We keep a
boy to do the dirty work, and a gal besides, but they dine in the washus.«
    »Oh, they dines in the washus, do they?« said Mr. Weller.
    »Yes,« replied Mr. Muzzle, »we tried 'em at our table when they first come,
but we couldn't keep 'em. The gal's manners is dreadful vulgar; and the boy
breathes so very hard while he's eating, that we found it impossible to sit at
table with him.«
    »Young grampus!« said Mr. Weller.
    »Oh, dreadful,« rejoined Mr. Muzzle; »but that is the worst of country
service, Mr. Weller; the juniors is always so very savage. This way, sir, if you
please; this way.«
    Preceding Mr. Weller, with the utmost politeness, Mr. Muzzle conducted him
into the kitchen.
    »Mary,« said Mr. Muzzle to the pretty servant-girl, »this is Mr. Weller: a
gentleman as master has sent down, to be made as comfortable as possible.«
    »And your master's a knowin' hand, and has just sent me to the right place,«
said Mr. Weller, with a glance of admiration at Mary. »If I wos master o' this
here house, I should alvays find the materials for comfort vere Mary wos.«
    »Lor, Mr. Weller!« said Mary, blushing.
    »Well, I never!« ejaculated the cook.
    »Bless me, cook, I forgot you,« said Mr. Muzzle. »Mr. Weller, let me
introduce you.«
    »How are you, ma'am,« said Mr. Weller. »Werry glad to see you, indeed, and
hope our acquaintance may be a long 'un, as the gen'lm'n said to the fi' pun'
note.«
    When this ceremony of introduction had been gone through, the cook and Mary
retired into the back kitchen to titter, for ten minutes; then returning, all
giggles and blushes, they sat down to dinner.
    Mr. Weller's easy manners and conversational powers had such irresistible
influence with his new friends, that before the dinner was half over, they were
on footing of perfect intimacy, and in possession of a full account of the
delinquency of Job Trotter.
    »I never could a-bear that Job,« said Mary.
    »No more you never ought to, my dear,« replied Mr. Weller.
    »Why not?« inquired Mary.
    »Cos ugliness and svindlin' never ought to be formiliar with elegance and
wirtew,« replied Mr. Weller. »Ought they, Mr. Muzzle?«
    »Not by no means,« replied that gentleman.
    Here Mary laughed, and said the cook had made her; and the cook laughed, and
said she hadn't.
    »I han't got a glass,« said Mary.
    »Drink with me, my dear,« said Mr. Weller. »Put your lips to this here
tumbler, and then I can kiss you by deputy.«
    »For shame, Mr. Weller!« said Mary.
    »What's a shame, my dear?«
    »Talkin' in that way.«
    »Nonsense; it ain't no harm. It's natur; ain't it, cook?«
    »Don't ask me imperence,« replied the cook in a high state of delight: and
hereupon the cook and Mary laughed again, till what between the beer, and the
cold meat, and the laughter combined, the latter young lady was brought to the
verge of choking - an alarming crisis from which she was only recovered by
sundry pats on the back, and other necessary attentions, most delicately
administered by Mr. Samuel Weller.
    In the midst of all this jollity and conviviality, a loud ring was heard at
the garden-gate: to which the young gentleman who took his meals in the
wash-house, immediately responded. Mr. Weller was in the height of his
attentions to the pretty house-maid; Mr. Muzzle was busy doing the honours of
the table; and the cook had just paused to laugh, in the very act of raising a
huge morsel to her lips; when the kitchen-door opened, and in walked Mr. Job
Trotter.
    We have said in walked Mr. Job Trotter, but the statement is not
distinguished by our usual scrupulous adherence to fact. The door opened and Mr.
Trotter appeared. He would have walked in, and was in the very act of doing so,
indeed, when catching sight of Mr. Weller, he involuntarily shrank back a pace
or two, and stood gazing on the unexpected scene before him, perfectly
motionless with amazement and terror.
    »Here he is!« said Sam, rising with great glee. »Why we were that very
moment a speaking o' you. How are you? Where have you been? Come in.«
    Laying his hand on the mulberry collar of the unresisting Job, Mr. Weller
dragged him into the kitchen; and, locking the door, handed the key to Mr.
Muzzle, who very coolly buttoned it up in a side-pocket.
    »Well, here's a game!« cried Sam. »Only think o' my master having' the
pleasure o' meeting your'n, up stairs, and me having' the joy o' meetin' you down
here. How are yor getting' on, and how is the chandlery bis'ness likely to do?
Well, I am so glad to see you. How happy you look. It's quite a treat to see
you; ain't it, Mr. Muzzle?«
    »Quite,« said Mr. Muzzle.
    »So cheerful he is!« said Sam.
    »In such good spirits!« said Muzzle.
    »And so glad to see us - that makes it so much more comfortable,« said Sam.
»Sit down; sit down.«
    Mr. Trotter suffered himself to be forced into a chair by the fireside. He
cast his small eyes, first on Mr. Weller, and then on Mr. Muzzle, but said
nothing.
    »Well, now,« said Sam, »afore these here ladies, I should jest like to ask
you, as a sort of curiosity, wether you don't con-sider yourself as nice and
well-behaved a young gen'lm'n as ever used a pink check pocket-handkerchief, and
the number four collection?«
    »And as was ever a-going to be married to a cook,« said that lady,
indignantly. »The willin!«
    »And leave off his evil ways, and set up in the chandlery line, afterwards,«
said the house-maid.
    »Now, I'll tell you what it is, young man,« said Mr. Muzzle, solemnly,
enraged at the last two allusions, »this here lady (pointing to the cook) keeps
company with me; and when you presume, sir, to talk of keeping chandlers' shops
with her, you injure me in one of the most delicatest points in which one man
can injure another. Do you understand me, sir?«
    Here Mr. Muzzle, who had a great notion of his eloquence, in which he
imitated his master, paused for a reply.
    But Mr. Trotter made no reply. So Mr. Muzzle proceeded in a solemn manner:
    »It's very probable, sir, that you won't be wanted up stairs for several
minutes, sir, because my master is at this moment particularly engaged in
settling the hash of your master, sir; and therefore you'll have leisure, sir,
for a little private talk with me, sir. Do you understand me, sir?«
    Mr. Muzzle again paused for a reply; and again Mr. Trotter disappointed him.
    »Well, then,« said Mr. Muzzle, »I'm very sorry to have to explain myself
before ladies, but the urgency of the case will be my excuse. The back kitchen's
empty, sir. If you will step in there, sir, Mr. Weller will see fair, and we can
have mutual satisfaction 'till the bell rings. Follow me, sir!«
    As Mr. Muzzle uttered these words, he took a step or two towards the door;
and by way of saving time, began to pull off his coat as he walked along.
    Now, the cook no sooner heard the concluding words of this desperate
challenge, and saw Mr. Muzzle about to put it into execution, than she uttered a
loud and piercing shriek, and rushing on Mr. Job Trotter, who rose from his
chair on the instant, tore and buffeted his large flat face, with an energy
peculiar to excited females, and twining her hands in his long black hair, tore
therefrom about enough to make five or six dozen of the very largest-sized
mourning-rings. Having accomplished this feat with all the ardour which her
devoted love for Mr. Muzzle inspired, she staggered back; and being a lady of
very excitable and delicate feelings, she instantly fell under the dresser, and
fainted away.
    At this moment, the bell rang.
    »That's for you, Job Trotter,« said Sam; and before Mr. Trotter could offer
remonstrance or reply - even before he had time to stanch the wounds inflicted
by the insensible lady - Sam seized one arm and Mr. Muzzle the other; and one
pulling before, and the other pushing behind, they conveyed him up stairs, and
into the parlour.
    It was an impressive tableau. Alfred Jingle, Esquire, alias Captain
Fitz-Marshall, was standing near the door with his hat in his hand, and a smile
on his face, wholly unmoved by his very unpleasant situation. Confronting him,
stood Mr. Pickwick, who had evidently been inculcating some high moral lesson;
for his left hand was beneath his coat tail, and his right extended in air, as
was his wont when delivering himself of an impressive address. At a little
distance, stood Mr. Tupman with indignant countenance, carefully held back by
his two younger friends; at the further end of the room were Mr. Nupkins, Mrs.
Nupkins, and Miss Nupkins, gloomily grand, and savagely vexed.
    »What prevents me,« said Mr. Nupkins, with magisterial dignity, as Job was
brought in: »what presents me from detaining these men as rogues and impostors?
It is a foolish mercy. What prevents me?«
    »Pride, old fellow, pride,« replied Jingle, quite at his ease. »Wouldn't do
- no go - caught a captain, eh? - ha! ha! very good - husband for daughter -
biter bit - make it public - not for worlds - look stupid - very!«
    »Wretch,« said Mrs. Nupkins, »we scorn your base insinuations.«
    »I always hated him,« added Henrietta.
    »Oh, of course,« said Jingle. »Tall young man - old lover - Sidney Porkenham
- rich - fine fellow - not so rich as captain, though? - turn him away - off
with him - anything for captain - nothing like captain anywhere - all the girls
- raving mad - eh, Job?«
    Here Mr. Jingle laughed very heartily; and Job, rubbing his hands with
delight, uttered the first sound he had given vent to, since he entered the
house - a low noiseless chuckle, which seemed to intimate that he enjoyed his
laugh too much, to let any of it escape in sound.
    »Mr. Nupkins,« said the elder lady, »this is not a fit conversation for the
servants to overhear. Let these wretches be removed.«
    »Certainly, my dear,« said Mr. Nupkins. »Muzzle!«
    »Your worship.«
    »Open the front door.«
    »Yes, your worship.«
    »Leave the house!« said Mr. Nupkins, waving his hand emphatically.
    Jingle smiled, and moved towards the door.
    »Stay!« said Mr. Pickwick.
    Jingle stopped.
    »I might,« said Mr. Pickwick, »have taken a much greater revenge for the
treatment I have experienced at your hands, and that of your hypocritical friend
there.«
    Job Trotter bowed with great politeness, and laid his hand upon his heart.
    »I say,« said Mr. Pickwick, growing gradually angry, »that I might have
taken a greater revenge, but I content myself with, exposing you, which I
consider a duty I owe to society. This is a leniency, sir, which I hope you will
remember.«
    When Mr. Pickwick arrived at this point, Job Trotter, with facetious gravity
applied his hand to his ear, as if desirous not to lose a syllable he uttered.
    »And I have only to add, sir,« said Mr. Pickwick, now thoroughly angry,
»that I consider you a rascal, and a - a ruffian - and - and worse than any man
I ever saw, or heard of, except that pious and sanctified vagabond in the
mulberry livery.«
    »Ha! ha!« said Jingle, »good fellow, Pickwick - fine heart - stout old boy -
but must not be passionate - bad thing, very - bye, bye - see you again some day
- keep up your spirits - now, Job - trot!«
    With these words, Mr. Jingle stuck on his hat in the old fashion, and strode
out of the room. Job Trotter paused, looked round, smiled, and then with a bow
of mock solemnity to Mr. Pickwick, and a wink to Mr. Weller, the audacious
slyness of which baffles all description, followed the footsteps of his hopeful
master.
    »Sam,« said Mr. Pickwick, as Mr. Weller was following.
    »Sir.«
    »Stay here.«
    Mr. Weller seemed uncertain.
    »Stay here,« repeated Mr. Pickwick.
    »Mayn't I polish that ere Job off, in the front garden?« said Mr. Weller.
    »Certainly not,« replied Mr. Pickwick.
    »Mayn't I kick him out o' the gate, sir?« said Mr. Weller.
    »Not on any account,« replied his master.
    For the first time since his engagement, Mr. Weller looked, for a moment,
discontented and unhappy. But his countenance immediately cleared up; for the
wily Mr. Muzzle, by concealing himself behind the street door, and rushing
violently out, at the right instant, contrived with great dexterity to overturn
both Mr. Jingle and his attendant, down the flight of steps, into the American
aloe tubs that stood beneath.
    »Having discharged my duty, sir,« said Mr. Pickwick to Mr. Nupkins, »I will,
with my friends, bid you farewell. While we thank you for such hospitality as we
have received, permit me to assure you, in our joint names, that we should not
have accepted it, or have consented to extricate ourselves in this way, from our
previous dilemma, had we not been impelled by a strong sense of duty. We return
to London to-morrow. Your secret is safe with us.«
    Having thus entered his protest against their treatment of the morning, Mr.
Pickwick bowed low to the ladies, and notwithstanding the solicitations of the
family, left the room with his friends.
    »Get your hat, Sam,« said Mr. Pickwick.
    »It's below stairs, sir,« said Sam, and he ran down after it.
    Now, there was nobody in the kitchen, but the pretty house-maid; and as
Sam's hat was mislaid, he had to look for it; and the pretty house-maid lighted
him. They had to look all over the place for the hat. The pretty housemaid, in
her anxiety to find it, went down on her knees, and turned over all the things
that were heaped together in a little corner by the door. It was an awkward
corner. You couldn't get at it without shutting the door first.
    »Here it is,« said the pretty house-maid. »This is it, ain't it?«
    »Let me look,« said Sam.
    The pretty house-maid had stood the candle on the floor; as it gave a very
dim light, Sam was obliged to go down on his knees before he could see whether
it really was his own hat or not. It was a remarkably small corner, and so - it
was nobody's fault but the man's who built the house - Sam and the pretty
house-maid were necessarily very close together.
    »Yes, this is it,« said Sam. »Good bye!«
    »Good bye!« said the pretty house-maid.
    »Good bye!« said Sam; and as he said it, he dropped the hat that had cost so
much trouble in looking for.
    »How awkward you are,« said the pretty house-maid. »You'll lose it again, if
you don't take care.«
    So, just to prevent his losing it again, she put it on for him.
    Whether it was that the pretty house-maid's face looked prettier still, when
it was raised towards Sam's, or whether it was the accidental consequence of
their being so near to each other, is matter of uncertainty to this day; but Sam
kissed her.
    »You don't mean to say you did that on purpose,« said the pretty house-maid,
blushing.
    »No, I didn't then,« said Sam; »but I will now.«
    So he kissed her again.
    »Sam!« said Mr. Pickwick, calling over the banisters.
    »Coming, sir,« replied Sam, running up stairs.
    »How long you have been!« said Mr. Pickwick.
    »There was something behind the door, sir which perwented our getting it
open, for ever so long, sir,« replied Sam.
    And this was the first passage of Mr. Weller's first love.
 

                                  Chapter XXVI

Which Contains a Brief Account of the Progress of the Action of Bardell Against
                                   Pickwick.

Having accomplished the main end and object of his journey, by the exposure of
Jingle, Mr. Pickwick resolved on immediately returning to London, with the view
of becoming acquainted with the proceedings which had been taken against him, in
the mean time, by Messrs. Dodson and Fogg. Acting upon this resolution with all
the energy and decision of his character, he mounted to the back seat of the
first coach which left Ipswich on the morning after the memorable occurrences
detailed at length in the two preceding chapters; and accompanied by his three
friends, and Mr. Samuel Weller, arrived in the metropolis, in perfect health and
safety, the same evening.
    Here, the friends, for a short time, separated. Messrs. Tupman, Winkle, and
Snodgrass repaired to their several homes to make such preparations as might be
requisite for their forthcoming visit to Dingley Dell; and Mr. Pickwick and Sam
took up their present abode in very good, old-fashioned, and comfortable
quarters: to wit, the George and Vulture Tavern and Hotel, George Yard, Lombard
Street.
    Mr. Pickwick had dined, finished his second pint of particular port, pulled
his silk handkerchief over his head, put his feet on the fender, and thrown
himself back in an easy chair, when the entrance of Mr. Weller with his carpet
bag, aroused him from his tranquil meditations.
    »Sam,« said Mr. Pickwick.
    »Sir,« said Mr. Weller.
    »I have just been thinking, Sam,« said Mr. Pickwick, »that having left a
good many things at Mrs. Bardell's, in Goswell Street, I ought to arrange for
taking them away, before I leave town again.«
    »Wery good, sir,« replied Mr. Weller.
    »I could send them to Mr. Tupman's, for the present, Sam,« continued Mr.
Pickwick, »but before we take them away, it is necessary that they should be
looked up, and put together. I wish you would step up to Goswell Street, Sam,
and arrange about it.«
    »At once, sir?« inquired Mr. Weller.
    »At once,« replied Mr. Pickwick. »And stay, Sam,« added Mr. Pickwick,
pulling out his purse, »There is some rent to pay. The quarter is not due till
Christmas, but you may pay it, and have done with it. A month's notice
terminates my tenancy. Here it is, written out. Give it, and tell Mrs. Bardell
she may put a bill up, as soon as she likes.«
    »Wery good, sir,« replied Mr. Weller; »anything' more, sir?«
    »Nothing more, Sam.«
    Mr. Weller stepped slowly to the door, as if he expected something more;
slowly opened it, slowly stepped out, and had slowly closed it within a couple
of inches, when Mr. Pickwick called out,
    »Sam.«
    »Sir,« said Mr. Weller, stepping quickly back, and closing the door behind
him.
    »I have no objection, Sam, to your endeavouring to ascertain how Mrs.
Bardell herself seems disposed towards me, and whether it is really probable
that this vile and groundless action is to be carried to extremity. I say I do
not object to your doing this, if you wish it, Sam,« said Mr. Pickwick.
    Sam gave a short nod of intelligence, and left the room. Mr. Pickwick drew
the silk handkerchief once more over his head, and composed himself for a nap.
Mr. Weller promptly walked forth, to execute his commission.
    It was nearly nine o'clock when he reached Goswell Street. A couple of
candles were burning in the little front parlour and a couple of caps were
reflected on the window-blind. Mrs. Bardell had got company.
    Mr. Weller knocked at the door, and after a pretty long interval - occupied
by the party without, in whistling a tune, and by the party within, in
persuading a refractory flat candle to allow itself to be lighted - a pair of
small boots pattered over the floor-cloth, and Master Bardell presented himself.
    »Well, young townskip,« said Sam, »how's mother?«
    »She's pretty well,« replied Master Bardell, »so am I.«
    »Well, that's a mercy,« said Sam; »tell her I want to speak to her, will
you, my hinfant fernomenon?«
    Master Bardell, thus adjured, placed the refractory flat candle on the
bottom stair, and vanished into the front parlour with his message.
    The two caps, reflected on the window-blind, were the respective
head-dresses of a couple of Mrs. Bardell's most particular acquaintance, who had
just stepped in, to have a quiet cup of tea, and a little warm supper of a
couple of sets of pettitoes and some toasted cheese. The cheese was simmering
and browning away, most delightfully, in a little Dutch oven before the fire;
the pettitoes were getting on deliciously in a little tin saucepan on the hob;
and Mrs. Bardell and her two friends were getting on very well, also, in a
little quiet conversation about and concerning all their particular friends and
acquaintance; when Master Bardell came back from answering the door, and
delivered the message entrusted to him by Mr. Samuel Weller.
    »Mr. Pickwick's servant!« said Mrs. Bardell, turning pale.
    »Bless my soul!« said Mrs. Cluppins.
    »Well, I raly would not ha' believed it, unless I had ha' happened to ha'
been here!« said Mrs. Sanders.
    Mrs. Cluppins was a little brisk, busy-looking woman; Mrs. Sanders was a
big, fat, heavy-faced personage; and the two were the company.
    Mrs. Bardell felt it proper to be agitated; and as none of the three exactly
knew whether, under existing circumstances, any communication, otherwise than
through Dodson and Fogg, ought to be held with Mr. Pickwick's servant, they were
all rather taken by surprise. In this state of indecision, obviously the first
thing to be done, was to thump the boy for finding Mr. Weller at the door. So
his mother thumped him, and he cried melodiously.
    »Hold your noise - do - you naughty creature!« said Mrs. Bardell.
    »Yes; don't worrit your poor mother,« said Mrs. Sanders.
    »She's quite enough to worrit her, as it is, without you, Tommy,« said Mrs.
Cluppins, with sympathising resignation.
    »Ah! worse luck, poor lamb!« said Mrs. Sanders.
    At all which moral reflections, Master Bardell howled the louder.
    »Now, what shall I do?« said Mrs. Bardell to Mrs. Cluppins.
    »I think you ought to see him,« replied Mrs. Cluppins. »But on no account
without a witness.«
    »I think two witnesses would be more lawful,« said Mrs. Sanders, who, like
the other friend, was bursting with curiosity.
    »Perhaps he'd better come in here,« said Mrs. Bardell.
    »To be sure,« replied Mrs. Cluppins, eagerly catching at the idea; »Walk in,
young man; and shut the street door first, please.«
    Mr. Weller immediately took the hint; and presenting himself in the parlour,
explained his business to Mrs. Bardell thus:
    »Werry sorry to 'casion any personal inconwenience, ma'am, as the
house-breaker said to the old lady when he put her on the fire; but as me and my
governor's only jest come to town, and is jest going away again, it can't be
helped, you see.«
    »Of course, the young man can't help the faults of his master,« said Mrs.
Cluppins, much struck by Mr. Waller's appearance and conversation.
    »Certainly not,« chimed in Mrs. Sanders, who, from certain wistful glances
at the little tin saucepan, seemed to be engaged in a mental calculation of the
probable extent of the pettitoes, in the event of Sam's being asked to stop
supper.
    »So all I've come about, is jest this here,« said Sam, disregarding the
interruption; »First, to give my governor's notice - there it is. Secondly, to
pay the rent - here it is. Thirdly, to say as all his things is to be put
together, and give to anybody as we sends for 'em. Fourthly, that you may let
the place as soon as you like - and that's all.«
    »Whatever has happened,« said Mrs. Bardell, »I always have said, and always
will say, that in every respect but one, Mr. Pickwick has always behaved himself
like a perfect gentleman. His money always was as good as the bank: always.«
    As Mrs. Bardell said this, she applied her handkerchief to her eyes, and
went out of the room to get the receipt.
    Sam well knew that he had only to remain quiet, and the women were sure to
talk; so he looked alternately at the tin saucepan, the toasted cheese, the
wall, and the ceiling, in profound silence.
    »Poor dear!« said Mrs. Cluppins.
    »Ah, poor thing!« replied Mrs. Sanders.
    Sam said nothing. He saw they were coming to the subject.
    »I rally cannot contain myself,« said Mrs. Cluppins, »when I think of such
perjury. I don't wish to say anything to make you uncomfortable, young man, but
your master's an old brute, and I wish I had him here to tell him so.«
    »I wish you had,« said Sam.
    »To see how dreadful she takes on, going moping about, and taking no
pleasure in nothing, except when her friends comes in, out of charity, to sit
with her, and make her comfortable,« resumed Mrs. Cluppins, glancing at the tin
saucepan and the Dutch oven, »it's shocking!«
    »Barbareous,« said Mrs. Sanders.
    »And your master, young man! A gentleman with money, as could never feel the
expense of a wife, no more than nothing,« continued Mrs. Cluppins, with great
volubility; »why there ain't the faintest shade of an excuse for his behaviour!
Why don't he marry her?«
    »Ah,« said Sam, »to be sure; that's the question.«
    »Question, indeed,« retorted Mrs. Cluppins; »she'd question him, if she'd my
spirit. Hows'ever, there is law for us women, mis'rable creeturs as they'd make
us, if they could; and that your master will find out, young man, to his cost,
afore he's six months older.«
    At this consolatory reflection, Mrs. Cluppins bridled up, and smiled at Mrs.
Sanders, who smiled back again.
    »The action's going on, and no mistake,« thought Sam, as Mrs. Bardell
re-entered with the receipt.
    »Here's the receipt, Mr. Weller,« said Mrs. Bardell, »and here's the change,
and I hope you'll take a little drop of something to keep the cold out, if it's
only for old acquaintance' sake, Mr. Weller.«
    Sam saw the advantage he should gain, and at once acquiesced; whereupon Mrs.
Bardell produced, from a small closet, a black bottle and a wine glass; and so
great was her abstraction, in her deep mental affliction, that, after filling
Mr. Weller's glass, she brought out three more wine glasses, and filled them
too.
    »Lauk, Mrs. Bardell,« said Mrs. Cluppins, »see what you've been and done!«
    »Well, that is a good one!« ejaculated Mrs. Sanders.
    »Ah, my poor head!« said Mrs. Bardell, with a faint smile.
    Sam understood all this, of course, so he said at once, that he never could
drink before supper, unless a lady drank with him. A great deal of laughing
ensued, and Mrs. Sanders volunteered to humour him, so she took a slight sip out
of her glass. Then, Sam said it must go all round, so they all took a slight
sip. Then, little Mrs. Cluppins proposed as a toast, »Success to Bardell again
Pickwick;« and then the ladies emptied their glasses in honour of the sentiment,
and got very talkative directly.
    »I suppose you've heard what's going forward, Mr. Weller?« said Mrs.
Bardell.
    »I've heard something' on it,« replied Sam.
    »It's a terrible thing to be dragged before the public, in that way, Mr.
Weller,« said Mrs. Bardell; »but I see now, that it's the only thing I ought to
do, and my lawyers, Mr. Dodson and Fogg, tell me, that with the evidence as we
shall call, we must succeed. I don't know what I should do, Mr. Weller, if I
didn't.«
    The mere idea of Mrs. Bardell's failing in her action, affected Mrs. Sanders
so deeply, that she was under the necessity of re-filling and re-emptying her
glass immediately; feeling, as she said afterwards, that if she hadn't had the
presence of mind to do so, she must have dropped.
    »Ven is it expected to come on?« inquired Sam.
    »Either in February or March,« replied Mrs. Bardell.
    »What a number of witnesses there'll be, won't there?« said Mrs. Cluppins.
    »Ah, won't there!« replied Mrs. Sanders.
    »And won't Mr. Dodson and Fogg be wild if the plaintiff shouldn't get it?«
added Mrs. Cluppins, »when they do it all on speculation!«
    »Ah! won't they!« said Mrs. Sanders.
    »But the plaintiff must get it,« resumed Mrs. Cluppins.
    »I hope so,« said Mrs. Bardell.
    »Oh, there can't be any doubt about it,« rejoined Mrs. Sanders.
    »Vell,« said Sam, rising and setting down his glass, »All I can say is, that
I wish you may get it.«
    »Thank'ee, Mr. Weller,« said Mrs. Bardell fervently.
    »And of them Dodson and Foggs, as does these sort o' things on spec,«
continued Mr. Weller, »as well as for the other kind and gen'rous people o' the
same purfession, as sets people by the ears, free gratis for nothing', and sets
their clerks to work to find out little disputes among their neighbours and
acquaintances as vants settlin' by means o' law-suits - all I can say o' them
is, that I vish they had the revard I'd give 'em.«
    »Ah, I wish they had the reward that every kind and generous heart would be
inclined to bestow upon them!« said, the gratified Mrs. Bardell.
    »Amen to that,« replied Sam, »and a fat and happy living' they'd get out of
it! Wish you good night, ladies.«
    To the great relief of Mrs. Sanders, Sam was allowed to depart without any
reference, on the part of the hostess, to the pettitoes and toasted cheese: to
which the ladies, with such juvenile assistance as Master Bardell could afford,
soon afterwards rendered the amplest justice - indeed they wholly vanished
before their strenuous exertions.
    Mr. Weller went his way back to the George and Vulture, and faithfully
recounted to his master, such indications of the sharp practice of Dodson and
Fogg, as he had contrived to pick up in his visit to Mrs. Bardell's. An
interview with Mr. Perker, next day, more than confirmed Mr. Weller's statement;
and Mr. Pickwick was fain to prepare for his Christmas visit to Dingley Dell,
with the pleasant anticipation that some two or three months afterwards, an
action brought against him for damages sustained by reason of a breach of
promise of marriage, would be publicly tried in the Court of Common Pleas: the
plaintiff having all the advantages derivable, not only from the force of
circumstances, but from the sharp practice of Dodson and Fogg to boot.
 

                                 Chapter XXVII

  Samuel Weller Makes a Pilgrimage to Dorking, and Beholds His Mother-in-Law.

There still remaining an interval of two days before the time agreed upon for
the departure of the Pickwickians to Dingley Dell, Mr. Weller sat himself down
in a back room at the George and Vulture, after eating an early dinner, to muse
on the best way of disposing of his time. It was a remarkably fine day; and he
had not turned the matter over in his mind ten minutes, when he was suddenly
stricken filial and affectionate; and it occurred to him so strongly that he
ought to go down and see his father, and pay his duty to his mother-in-law, that
he was lost in astonishment at his own remissness in never thinking of this
moral obligation before. Anxious to atone for his past neglect without another
hour's delay, he straightway walked up stairs to Mr. Pickwick, and requested
leave of absence for this laudable purpose.
    »Certainly, Sam, certainly,« said Mr. Pickwick, his eyes glistening with
delight at this manifestation of filial feeling on the part of his attendant;
»certainly, Sam.«
    Mr. Weller made a grateful bow.
    »I am very glad to see that you have so high a sense of your duties as a
son, Sam,« said Mr. Pickwick.
    »I always had, sir,« replied Mr. Weller.
    »That's a very gratifying reflection, Sam,« said Mr. Pickwick, approvingly.
    »Wery, sir,« replied Mr. Weller; »if ever I wanted anything' o' my father, I
always asked for it in a very 'spectful and obligin' manner. If he didn't give
it me, I took it, for fear I should be led to do anything' wrong, through not
having' it. I saved him a world o' trouble in this vay, sir.«
    »That's not precisely what I meant, Sam,« said Mr. Pickwick, shaking his
head, with a slight smile.
    »All good feelin', sir - the very best intentions, as the gen'lm'n said ven
he run away from his wife 'cos she seemed unhappy with him,« replied Mr. Weller.
    »You may go, Sam,« said Mr. Pickwick.
    »Thank'ee, sir,« replied Mr. Weller; and having made his best bow, and put
on his best clothes, Sam planted himself on the top of the Arundel coach, and
journeyed on to Dorking.
    The Marquis of Granby in Mrs. Weller's time was quite a model of a road-side
public-house of the better class - just large enough to be convenient, and small
enough to be snug. On the opposite side of the road was a large sign-board on a
high post, representing the head and shoulders of a gentleman with an apoplectic
countenance, in a red coat, with deep blue facings, and a touch of the same blue
over his three-cornered hat, for a sky. Over that again were a pair of flags;
beneath the last button of his coat were a couple of cannon; and the whole
formed an expressive and undoubted likeness of the Marquis of Granby of glorious
memory.
    The bar window displayed a choice collection of geranium plants, and a
well-dusted row of spirit phials. The open shutters bore a variety of golden
inscriptions, eulogistic of good beds and neat wines; and the choice group of
countrymen and hostlers lounging about the stable-door and horse-trough,
afforded presumptive proof of the excellent quality of the ale and spirits which
were sold within. Sam Weller paused, when he dismounted from the coach, to note
all these little indications of a thriving business, with the eye of an
experienced traveller; and having done so, stepped in at once, highly satisfied
with everything he had observed.
    »Now, then!« said a shrill female voice the instant Sam thrust his head in
at the door, »what do you want, young man?«
    Sam looked round in the direction whence the voice proceeded. It came from a
rather stout lady of comfortable appearance, who was seated beside the
fire-place in the bar, blowing the fire to make the kettle boil for tea. She was
not alone; for on the other side of the fire-place, sitting bolt upright in a
high-backed chair, was a man in thread-bare black clothes, with a back almost as
long and stiff as that of the chair itself, who caught Sam's most particular and
especial attention at once.
    He was a prim-faced, red-nosed man, with a long, thin countenance, and a
semi-rattlesnake sort of eye - rather sharp, but decidedly bad. He wore very
short trousers, and black-cotton stockings, which, like the rest of his apparel,
were particularly rusty. His looks were starched, but his white neckerchief was
not, and its long limp ends straggled over his closely-buttoned waistcoat in a
very uncouth and unpicturesque fashion. A pair of old, worn beaver gloves, a
broad-brimmed hat, and a faded green umbrella, with plenty of whalebone sticking
through the bottom, as if to counterbalance the want of a handle at the top, lay
on a chair beside him, and, being disposed in a very tidy and careful manner,
seemed to imply that the red-nosed man, whoever he was, had no intention of
going away in a hurry.
    To do the red-nosed man justice, he would have been very far from wise if he
had entertained any such intention; for, to judge from all appearances, he must
have been possessed of a most desirable circle of acquaintance, if he could have
reasonably expected to be more comfortable anywhere else. The fire was blazing
brightly under the influence of the bellows, and the kettle was singing gaily
under the influence of both. A small tray of tea-things was arranged on the
table, a plate of hot buttered toast was gently simmering before the fire, and
the red-nosed man himself was busily engaged in converting a large slice of
bread into the same agreeable edible, through the instrumentality of a long
brass toasting-fork. Beside him stood a glass of reeking hot pineapple rum and
water, with a slice of lemon in it; and every time the red-nosed man stopped to
bring the round of toast to his eye, with the view of ascertaining how it got
on, he imbibed a drop or two of the hot pine-apple rum and water, and smiled
upon the rather stout lady, as she blew the fire.
    Sam was so lost in the contemplation of this comfortable scene, that he
suffered the first inquiry of the rather stout lady to pass unheeded. It was not
until it had been twice repeated, each time in a shriller tone, that he became
conscious of the impropriety of his behaviour.
    »Governor in?« inquired Sam, in reply to the question.
    »No, he isn't,« replied Mrs. Weller; for the rather stout lady was no other
than the quondam relict and sole executrix of the dead-and-gone Mr. Clarke; »No,
he isn't, and I don't expect him, either.«
    »I suppose he's a drivin' up to-day?« said Sam.
    »He may be, or he may not,« replied Mrs. Weller, buttering the round of
toast which the red-nosed man had just finished. »I don't know, and, what's
more, I don't care. Ask a blessin', Mr. Stiggins.«
    The red-nosed man did as he was desired, and instantly commenced on the
toast with fierce voracity.
    The appearance of the red-nosed man had induced Sam, at first sight, to more
than half suspect that he was the deputy shepherd of whom his estimable parent
had spoken. The moment he saw him eat, all doubt on the subject was removed, and
he perceived at once that if he purposed to take up his temporary quarters where
he was, he must make his footing good without delay. He therefore commenced
proceedings by putting his arm over the half-door of the bar, coolly unbolting
it, and leisurely walking in.
    »Mother-in-law,« said Sam, »how are you?«
    »Why, I do believe he is a Weller!« said Mrs. W., raising her eyes to Sam's
face, with no very gratified expression of countenance.
    »I rather think he is,« said the imperturbable Sam; »and I hope this here
reverend gen'lm'n 'll excuse me saying that I wish I was the Weller as owns you,
mother-in-law.«
    This was a double-barrelled compliment. It implied that Mrs. Weller was a
most agreeable female, and also that Mr. Stiggins had a clerical appearance. It
made a visible impression at once; and Sam followed up his advantage by kissing
his mother-in-law.
    »Get along with you!« said Mrs. Weller, pushing him away.
    »For shame, young man!« said the gentleman with the red nose.
    »No offence, sir, no offence,« replied Sam; »you're very right, though; it
ain't the right sort o' thing, wen mothers-in-law is young and good looking, is
it, sir?«
    »It's all vanity,« said Mr. Stiggins.
    »Ah, so it is,« said Mrs. Weller, setting her cap to rights.
    Sam thought it was, too, but he held his peace.
    The deputy shepherd seemed by no means best pleased with Sam's arrival; and
when the first effervescence of the compliment had subsided, even Mrs. Weller
looked as if she could have spared him without the smallest inconvenience.
However, there he was; and as he couldn't be decently turned out, they all three
sat down to tea.
    »And how's father?« said Sam.
    At this inquiry, Mrs. Weller raised her hands, and turned up her eyes, as if
the subject were too painful to be alluded to.
    Mr. Stiggins groaned.
    »What's the matter with that 'ere gen'lm'n?« inquired Sam.
    »He's shocked at the way your father goes on in,« replied Mrs. Weller.
    »Oh, he is, is he?« said Sam.
    »And with too good reason,« added Mrs. Weller, gravely.
    Mr. Stiggins took up a fresh piece of toast, and groaned heavily.
    »He is a dreadful reprobate,« said Mrs. Weller.
    »A man of wrath!« exclaimed Mr. Stiggins. He took a large semi-circular bite
out of the toast, and groaned again.
    Sam felt very strongly disposed to give the reverend Mr. Stiggins something
to groan for, but he repressed his inclination, and merely asked, »What's the
old 'un up to, now?«
    »Up to, indeed!« said Mrs. Weller. »Oh, he has a hard heart. Night after
night does this excellent man - don't frown, Mr. Stiggins: I will say you are an
excellent man - come and sit here, for hours together, and it has not the least
effect upon him.«
    »Well, that is odd,« said Sam; »it 'ud have a very considerable effect upon
me, if I wos in his place; I know that.«
    »The fact is, my young friend,« said Mr. Stiggins, solemnly, »he has an
obderrate bosom. Oh, my young friend, who else could have resisted the pleading
of sixteen of our fairest sisters, and withstood their exhortations to subscribe
to our noble society for providing the infant Negroes in the West Indies with
flannel waistcoats and moral pocket handkerchiefs?«
    »What's a moral pocket ankercher?« said Sam; »I never see one o' them
articles o' furniter.«
    »Those which combine amusement with instruction, my young friend,« replied
Mr. Stiggins: »blending select tales with wood-cuts.«
    »Oh, I know,« said Sam; »them as hangs up in the linen-drapers' shops, with
beggars' petitions and all that 'ere upon 'em?«
    Mr. Stiggins began a third round of toast, and nodded assent.
    »And he wouldn't be persuaded by the ladies, wouldn't he?« said Sam.
    »Sat and smoked his pipe, and said the infant Negroes were - what did he say
the infant Negroes were?« said Mrs. Weller.
    »Little humbugs,« replied Mr. Stiggins, deeply affected.
    »Said the infant Negroes were little humbugs,« repeated Mrs. Weller. And
they both groaned at the atrocious conduct of the old gentleman.
    A great many more iniquities of a similar nature might have been disclosed,
only the toast being all eaten, the tea having got very weak, and Sam holding
out no indications of meaning to go, Mr. Stiggins suddenly recollected that he
had a most pressing appointment with the shepherd, and took himself off
accordingly.
    The tea-things had been scarcely put away, and the hearth swept up, when the
London coach deposited Mr. Weller senior at the door; his legs deposited him in
the bar; and his eyes showed him his son.
    »What, Sammy!« exclaimed the father.
    »What, old Nobs!« ejaculated the son. And they shook hands heartily.
    »Werry glad to see you, Sammy,« said the elder Mr. Weller, »though how
you've managed to get over your mother-in-law, is a mystery to me. I only vish
you'd write me out the receipt, that's all.«
    »Hush!« said Sam, »she's at home, old feller.«
    »She ain't vithin hearin',« replied Mr. Weller; »she always goes and blows
up, down stairs, for a couple of hours arter tea; so we 'll just give ourselves
a damp, Sammy.«
    Saying this, Mr. Weller mixed two glasses of spirits and water, and produced
a couple of pipes. The father and son sitting down opposite each other: Sam on
one side of the fire, in the high-backed chair, and Mr. Weller senior on the
other, in an easy ditto: they proceeded to enjoy themselves with all due
gravity.
    »Anybody been here, Sammy?« asked Mr. Weller senior, drily, after a long
silence.
    Sam nodded an expressive assent.
    »Red-nosed chap?« inquired Mr. Weller.
    Sam nodded again.
    »Amiable man that 'ere, Sammy,« said Mr. Weller, smoking violently.
    »Seems so,« observed Sam.
    »Good hand at accounts,« said Mr. Weller.
    »Is he?« said Sam.
    »Borrows eighteenpence on Monday, and comes on Tuesday for a shillin' to
make it up half a crown; calls again on Vensday for another half crown to make
it five shillin's; and goes on, doubling, till he gets it up to a five pund note
in no time, like them sums in the 'rithmetic book 'bout the nails in the horse's
shoes, Sammy.«
    Sam intimated by a nod that he recollected the problem alluded to by his
parent.
    »So you vouldn't subscribe to the flannel veskits?« said Sam, after another
interval of smoking.
    »Cert'nly not,« replied Mr. Weller; »what's the good o' flannel veskits to
the young niggers abroad? But I'll tell you what it is, Sammy,« said Mr. Weller,
lowering his voice, and bending across the fire-place; »I'd come down very
handsome towards strait veskits for some people at home.«
    As Mr. Weller said this, he slowly recovered his former position, and winked
at his first-born, in a profound manner.
    »It cert'nly seems a queer start to send out pocket ankerchers to people as
don't know the use on 'em,« observed Sam.
    »They're alvays a doing' some gammon of that sort, Sammy,« replied his
father. »T'other Sunday I wos walkin' up the road, wen who should I see, a
standin' at a chapel-door, with a blue soup-plate in her hand, but your
mother-in-law! I werily believe there was change for a couple o' suv'rins in it,
then, Sammy, all in ha'pence; and as the people come out, they rattled the
pennies in it, till you'd ha' thought that no mortal plate as ever was baked,
could ha' stood the wear and tear. What d'ye think it was all for?«
    »For another tea-drinkin', perhaps,« said Sam.
    »Not a bit on it,« replied the father; »for the shepherd's water-rate,
Sammy.«
    »The shepherd's water-rate!« said Sam.
    »Ay,« replied Mr. Weller, »there was three quarters owin', and the shepherd
hadn't paid a farden, not he - perhaps it might be on account that the water
warn't o' much use to him, for it's very little o' that tap he drinks, Sammy,
very; he knows a trick worth a good half dozen of that, he does. Hows'ever, it
warn't paid, and so they cuts the water off. Down goes the shepherd to chapel,
gives out as he's a persecuted saint, and says he hopes the heart of the
turncock as cut the water off, 'll be softened, and turned in the right vay: but
he rather thinks he's booked for something' uncomfortable. Upon this, the women
calls a meetin', sings a hymn, wotes your mother-in-law into the chair,
wolunteers a collection next Sunday, and hands it all over to the shepherd. And
if he ain't got enough out on 'em, Sammy, to make him free of the water company
for life,« said Mr. Weller, in conclusion, »I'm one Dutchman, and you're
another, and that's all about it.«
    Mr. Weller smoked for some minutes in silence, and then resumed:
    »The worst o' these here shepherds is, my boy, that they reg'larly turns the
heads of all the young ladies, about here. Lord bless their little hearts, they
thinks it's all right, and don't know no better; but they're the wictims o'
gammon, Samivel, they're the wictims o' gammon.«
    »I s'pose they are,« said Sam.
    »Nothin' else,« said Mr. Weller, shaking his head gravely; »and wot
aggrawates me, Samivel, is to see 'em a wastin' all their time and labour in
making clothes for copper-coloured people as don't want 'em, and taking no
notice of flesh-coloured Christians as do. If I'd my vay, Samivel, I'd just
stick some o' these here lazy shepherds behind a heavy wheelbarrow, and run 'em
up and down a fourteen inch-wide plank all day. That 'ud shake the nonsense out
of 'em, if anything' vould.«
    Mr. Weller having delivered this gentle recipe with strong emphasis, eked
out by a variety of nods and contortions of the eye, emptied his glass at a
draught, and knocked the ashes out of his pipe, with native dignity.
    He was engaged in this operation, when a shrill voice was heard in the
passage.
    »Here's your dear relation, Sammy,« said Mr. Weller; and Mrs. W. hurried
into the room.
    »Oh, you've come back, have you!« said Mrs. Weller.
    »Yes, my dear,« replied Mr. Weller, filling a fresh pipe.
    »Has Mr. Stiggins been back?« said Mrs. Weller.
    »No, my dear, he hasn't,« replied Mr. Weller, lighting the pipe by the
ingenious process of holding to the bowl thereof, between the tongs, a red-hot
coal from the adjacent fire; »and what's more, my dear, I shall manage to
surwive it, if he don't come back at all.«
    »Ugh, you wretch!« said Mrs. Weller.
    »Thank'ee, my love,« said Mr. Weller.
    »Come, come, father,« said Sam, »none o' these little lovins afore
strangers. Here's the reverend gen'lm'n a comin' in now.«
    At this announcement, Mrs. Weller hastily wiped off the tears which she had
just begun to force on; and Mr. W. drew his chair sullenly into the chimney
corner.
    Mr. Stiggins was easily prevailed on, to take another glass of the hot
pine-apple rum and water, and a second, and a third, and then to refresh himself
with a slight supper, previous to beginning again. He sat on the same side as
Mr. Weller senior; and every time he could contrive to do so, unseen by his
wife, that gentleman indicated to his son the hidden emotions of his bosom, by
shaking his fist over the deputy shepherd's head: a process which afforded his
son the most unmingled delight and satisfaction, the more especially as Mr.
Stiggins went on, quietly drinking the hot pine-apple rum and water, wholly
unconscious of what was going on.
    The major part of the conversation was confined to Mrs. Weller and the
reverend Mr. Stiggins; and the topics principally descanted on, were the virtues
of the shepherd, the worthiness of his flock, and the high crimes and
misdemeanours of everybody beside; dissertations which the elder Mr. Weller
occasionally interrupted by half-suppressed references to a gentleman of the
name of Walker, and other running commentaries of the same kind.
    At length Mr. Stiggins, with several most indubitable symptoms of having
quite as much pine-apple rum and water about him, as he could comfortably
accommodate, took his hat, and his leave: and Sam was, immediately afterwards,
shown to bed by his father. The respectable old gentleman wrung his hand
fervently, and seemed disposed to address some observation to his son; but on
Mrs. Weller advancing towards him, he appeared to relinquish that intention, and
abruptly bade him good night.
    Sam was up betimes next day, and having partaken of a hasty breakfast,
prepared to return to London. He had scarcely set foot without the house, when
his father stood before him.
    »Goin', Sammy?« inquired Mr. Weller.
    »Off at once,« replied Sam.
    »I vish you could muffle that 'ere Stiggins, and take him with you,« said
Mr. Weller.
    »I am ashamed on you!« said Sam, reproachfully; »what do you let him show
his red nose in the Markis o' Granby at all, for?«
    Mr. Weller the elder fixed on his son an earnest look, and replied, »'Cause
I'm a married man, Samivel, 'cause I'm a married man. Wen you're a married man,
Samivel, you'll understand a good many things as you don't understand now; but
vether it's worth while goin' through so much, to learn so little, as the
charity-boy said ven he got to the end of the alphabet, is a matter o' taste. I
rather think it isn't.«
    »Well,« said Sam, »good bye.«
    »Tar, tar, Sammy,« replied his father.
    »I've only got to say this here,« said Sam, stopping short, »that if I was
the properiator o' the Markis o' Granby, and that 'ere Stiggins came and made
toast in my bar, I'd -«
    »What?« interposed Mr. Weller, with great anxiety. »What?«
    »- Pison his rum and water,« said Sam.
    »No!« said Mr. Weller, shaking his son eagerly by the hand, »would you raly,
Sammy; would you, though?«
    »I would,« said Sam. »I wouldn't be too hard upon him at first. I'd drop him
in the water-butt, and put the lid on; and if I found he was insensible to
kindness, I'd try the other persvasion.«
    The elder Mr. Weller bestowed a look of deep, unspeakable admiration on his
son: and, having once more grasped his hand, walked slowly away, revolving in
his mind the numerous reflections to which his advice had given rise.
    Sam looked after him, until he turned a corner of the road: and then set
forward on his walk to London. He meditated, at first, on the probable
consequences of his own advice, and the likelihood and unlikelihood of his
father's adopting it. He dismissed the subject from his mind, however, with the
consolatory reflection that time alone would show; and this is the reflection we
would impress upon the reader.
 

                                 Chapter XXVIII

A Good-Humoured Christmas Chapter, Containing an Account of a Wedding, and Some
   Other Sports Beside: Which Although in Their Way, Even as Good Customs as
   Marriage Itself, Are Not Quite So Religiously Kept Up, in These Degenerate
                                     Times.

As brisk as bees, if not altogether as light as fairies, did the four
Pickwickians assemble on the morning of the twenty-second day of December, in
the year of grace in which these, their faithfully-recorded adventures, were
undertaken and accomplished. Christmas was close at hand, in all his bluff and
hearty honesty; it was the season of hospitality, merriment, and
open-heartedness; the old year was preparing, like an ancient philosopher, to
call his friends around him, and amidst the sound of feasting and revelry to
pass gently and calmly away. Gay and merry was the time, and gay and merry were
at least four of the numerous hearts that were gladdened by its coming.
    And numerous indeed are the hearts to which Christmas brings a brief season
of happiness and enjoyment. How many families, whose members have been dispersed
and scattered far and wide, in the restless struggles of life, are then
reunited, and meet once again in that happy state of companionship and mutual
good-will, which is a source of such pure and unalloyed delight, and one so
incompatible with the cares and sorrows of the world, that the religious belief
of the most civilised nations, and the rude traditions of the roughest savages,
alike number it among the first joys of a future condition of existence,
provided for the blessed and happy! How many old recollections, and how many
dormant sympathies, does Christmas time awaken!
    We write these words now, many miles distant from the spot at which, year
after year, we met on that day, a merry and joyous circle. Many of the hearts
that throbbed so gaily then, have ceased to beat; many of the looks that shone
so brightly then, have ceased to glow; the hands we grasped have grown cold; the
eyes we sought have hid their lustre in the grave; and yet the old house, the
room, the merry voices and smiling faces, the jest, the laugh, the most minute
and trivial circumstances connected with those happy meetings, crowd upon our
mind at each recurrence of the season, as if the last assemblage had been but
yesterday! Happy, happy Christmas, that can win us back to the delusions of our
childish days; that can recall to the old man the pleasures of his youth; that
can transport the sailor and the traveller, thousands of miles away, back to his
own fire-side and his quiet home!
    But we are so taken up and occupied with the good qualities of this saint
Christmas, that we are keeping Mr. Pickwick and his friends waiting in the cold
on the outside of the Muggleton coach, which they have just attained, well
wrapped up in great-coats, shawls, and comforters. The portmanteaus and
carpet-bags have been stowed away, and Mr. Weller and the guard are endeavouring
to insinuate into the fore-boot a huge cod-fish several sizes too large for it -
which is snugly packed up, in a long brown basket, with a layer of straw over
the top, and which has been left to the last, in order that he may repose in
safety on the half-dozen barrels of real native oysters, all the property of Mr.
Pickwick, which have been arranged in regular order at the bottom of the
receptacle. The interest displayed in Mr. Pickwick's countenance is most
intense, as Mr. Weller and the guard try to squeeze the cod-fish into the boot,
first head first, and then tail first, and then top upward, and then bottom
upward, and then side-ways, and then long-ways, all of which artifices the
implacable cod-fish sturdily resists, until the guard accidentally hits him in
the very middle of the basket, whereupon he suddenly disappears into the boot,
and with him, the head and shoulders of the guard himself, who, not calculating
upon so sudden a cessation of the passive resistance of the cod-fish,
experiences a very unexpected shock, to the unsmotherable delight of all the
porters and bystanders. Upon this, Mr. Pickwick smiles with great good-humour,
and drawing a shilling from his waistcoat pocket, begs the guard, as he picks
himself out of the boot, to drink his health in a glass of hot brandy and water;
at which the guard smiles too, and Messrs. Snodgrass, Winkle, and Tupman, all
smile in company. The guard and Mr. Weller disappear for five minutes: most
probably to get the hot brandy and water, for they smell very strongly of it,
when they return, the coachman mounts to the box, Mr. Weller jumps up behind,
the Pickwickians pull their coats round their legs and their shawls over their
noses, the helpers pull the horse-cloths off, the coachman shouts out a cheery
»All right,« and away they go.
    They have rumbled through the streets, and jolted over the stones, and at
length reach the wide and open country. The wheels skim over the hard and frosty
ground: and the horses, bursting into a canter at a smart crack of the whip,
step along the road as if the load behind them: coach, passengers, cod-fish,
oyster barrels, and all: were but a feather at their heels. They have descended
a gentle slope, and enter upon a level, as compact and dry as a solid block of
marble, two miles long. Another crack of the whip, and on they speed, at a smart
gallop: the horses tossing their heads and rattling the harness, as if in
exhilaration at the rapidity of the motion: while the coachman, holding whip and
reins in one hand, takes off his hat with the other, and resting it on his
knees, pulls out his handkerchief, and wipes his forehead: partly because he has
a habit of doing it, and partly because it's as well to show the passengers how
cool he is, and what an easy thing it is to drive four-in-hand, when you have
had as much practice as he has. Having done this very leisurely (otherwise the
effect would be materially impaired), he replaces his handkerchief, pulls on his
hat, adjusts his gloves, squares his elbows, cracks the whip again, and on they
speed, more merrily than before.
    A few small houses, scattered on either side of the road, betoken the
entrance to some town or village. The lively notes of the guard's key-bugle
vibrate in the clear cold air, and wake up the old gentleman inside, who,
carefully letting down the window-sash half-way, and standing sentry over the
air, takes a short peep out, and then carefully pulling it up again, informs the
other inside that they're going to change directly; on which the other inside
wakes himself up, and determines to postpone his next nap until after the
stoppage. Again the bugle sounds lustily forth, and rouses the cottager's wife
and children, who peep out at the house-door, and watch the coach till it turns
the corner, when they once more crouch round the blazing fire, and throw on
another log of wood against father comes home; while father himself, a full mile
off, has just exchanged a friendly nod with the coachman, and turned round to
take a good long stare at the vehicle as it whirls away.
    And now the bugle plays a lively air as the coach rattles through the
ill-paved streets of a country-town; and the coachman, undoing the buckle which
keeps his ribands together, prepares to throw them off the moment he stops. Mr.
Pickwick emerges from his coat collar, and looks about him with great curiosity;
perceiving which, the coachman informs Mr. Pickwick of the name of the town, and
tells him it was market-day yesterday, both of which pieces of information Mr.
Pickwick retails to his fellow-passengers; whereupon they emerge from their coat
collars too, and look about them also. Mr. Winkle, who sits at the extreme edge,
with one leg dangling in the air, is nearly precipitated into the street, as the
coach twists round the sharp corner by the cheesemonger's shop, and turns into
the market-place; and before Mr. Snodgrass, who sits next to him, has recovered
from his alarm, they pull up at the inn yard, where the fresh horses, with
cloths on, are already waiting. The coachman throws down the reins and gets down
himself, and the other outside passengers drop down also: except those who have
no great confidence in their ability to get up again: and they remain where they
are, and stamp their feet against the coach to warm them - looking, with longing
eyes and red noses, at the bright fire in the inn bar, and the sprigs of holly
with red berries which ornament the window.
    But the guard has delivered at the corn-dealer's shop the brown paper packet
he took out of the little pouch which hangs over his shoulder by a leathern
strap; and has seen the horses carefully put to; and has thrown on the pavement
the saddle which was brought from London on the coach-roof; and has assisted in
the conference between the coachman and the hostler about the grey mare that
hurt her off-foreleg last Tuesday; and he and Mr. Weller are all right behind,
and the coachman is all right in front, and the old gentleman inside, who has
kept the window down full two inches all this time, has pulled it up again, and
the cloths are off, and they are all ready for starting, except the two stout
gentlemen, whom the coachman inquires after with some impatience. Hereupon the
coachman, and the guard, and Sam Weller, and Mr. Winkle, and Mr. Snodgrass, and
all the hostlers, and every one of the idlers, who are more in number than all
the others put together, shout for the missing gentlemen as loud as they can
bawl. A distant response is heard from the yard, and Mr. Pickwick and Mr. Tupman
come running down it, quite out of breath, for they have been having a glass of
ale a-piece, and Mr. Pickwick's fingers are so cold that he has been full five
minutes before he could find the sixpence to pay for it. The coachman shouts an
admonitory »Now then, gen'lm'n!« the guard re-echoes it; the old gentleman
inside thinks it a very extraordinary thing that people will get down when they
know there isn't time for it; Mr. Pickwick struggles up on one side, Mr. Tupman
on the other; Mr. Winkle cries »All right;« and off they start. Shawls are
pulled up, coat collars are re-adjusted, the pavement ceases, the houses
disappear, and they are once again dashing along the open road, with the fresh
clear air blowing in their faces, and gladdening their very hearts within them.
    Such was the progress of Mr. Pickwick and his friends by the Muggleton
Telegraph, on their way to Dingley Dell; and at three o'clock that afternoon
they all stood, high and dry, safe and sound, hale and hearty, upon the steps of
the Blue Lion, having taken on the road quite enough of ale and brandy to enable
them to bid defiance to the frost that was binding up the earth in its iron
fetters, and weaving its beautiful net-work upon the trees and hedges. Mr.
Pickwick was busily engaged in counting the barrels of oysters and
superintending the disinterment of the cod-fish, when he felt himself gently
pulled by the skirts of the coat. Looking round, he discovered that the
individual who resorted to this mode of catching his attention was no other than
Mr. Wardle's favourite page, better known to the readers of this unvarnished
history, by the distinguishing appellation of the fat boy.
    »Aha!« said Mr. Pickwick.
    »Aha!« said the fat boy.
    As he said it, he glanced from the cod-fish to the oyster-barrels, and
chuckled joyously. He was fatter than ever.
    »Well, you look rosy enough, my young friend,« said Mr. Pickwick.
    »I've been asleep, right in front of the tap-room fire,« replied the fat
boy, who had heated himself to the colour of a new chimney-pot, in the course of
an hour's nap. »Master sent me over with the shay-cart, to carry your luggage up
to the house. He'd ha' sent some saddle-horses, but he thought you'd rather
walk, being a cold day.«
    »Yes, yes,« said Mr. Pickwick, hastily, for he remembered how they had
travelled over nearly the same ground on a previous occasion. »Yes, we would
rather walk. Here, Sam!«
    »Sir,« said Mr. Weller.
    »Help Mr. Wardle's servant to put the packages into the cart, and then ride
on with him. We will walk forward at once.«
    Having given this direction, and settled with the coachman, Mr. Pickwick and
his three friends struck into the footpath across the fields, and walked briskly
away, leaving Mr. Weller and the fat boy confronted together for the first time.
Sam looked at the fat boy with great astonishment, but without saying a word;
and began to stow the luggage rapidly away in the cart, while the fat boy stood
quietly by, and seemed to think it a very interesting sort of thing to see Mr.
Weller working by himself.
    »There,« said Sam, throwing in the last carpet-bag. »There they are!«
    »Yes,« said the fat boy, in a very satisfied tone, »there they are.«
    »Vell, young twenty stun,« said Sam, »you're a nice specimen of a prize boy,
you are!«
    »Thank'ee,« said the fat boy.
    »You ain't got nothing' on your mind as makes you fret yourself, have you?«
inquired Sam.
    »Not as I knows on,« replied the fat boy.
    »I should rather ha' thought, to look at you, that you was a labourin'
under an unrequited attachment to some young 'ooman,« said Sam.
    The fat boy shook his head.
    »Vell,« said Sam, »I'm glad to hear it. Do you ever drink anything'?«
    »I likes eating, better,« replied the boy.
    »Ah,« said Sam, »I should ha' s'posed that; but what I mean is, should you
like a drop of anything' as 'd warm you? but I s'pose you never was cold, with
all them elastic fixtures, was you?«
    »Sometimes,« replied the boy; »and I likes a drop of something, when it's
good.«
    »Oh, you do, do you?« said Sam, »come this way, then!«
    The Blue Lion tap was soon gained, and the fat boy swallowed a glass of
liquor without so much as winking; a feat which considerably advanced him in Mr.
Weller's good opinion. Mr. Weller having transacted a similar piece of business
on his own account, they got into the cart.
    »Can you drive?« said the fat boy.
    »I should rather think so,« replied Sam.
    »There, then,« said the fat boy, putting the reins in his hand, and pointing
up a lane, »it's as straight as you can go; you can't miss it.«
    With these words, the fat boy laid himself affectionately down by the side
of the cod-fish: and placing an oyster-barrel under his head for a pillow, fell
asleep instantaneously.
    »Well,« said Sam, »of all the cool boys ever I set my eyes on, this here
young gen'l'm'n is the coolest. Come, wake up, young dropsy!«
    But as young dropsy evinced no symptoms of returning animation, Sam Weller
sat himself down in front of the cart, and starting the old horse with a jerk of
the rein, jogged steadily on, towards Manor Farm.
    Meanwhile, Mr. Pickwick and his friends having walked their blood into
active circulation, proceeded cheerfully on. The paths were hard; the grass was
crisp and frosty; the air had a fine, dry, bracing coldness; and the rapid
approach of the grey twilight (slate-coloured is a better term in frosty
weather) made them look forward with pleasant anticipation to the comforts which
awaited them at their hospitable entertainer's. It was the sort of afternoon
that might induce a couple of elderly gentlemen, in a lonely field, to take off
their great-coats and play at leap-frog in pure lightness of heart and gaiety;
and we firmly believe that had Mr. Tupman at that moment proffered a back, Mr.
Pickwick would have accepted his offer with the utmost avidity.
    However, Mr. Tupman did not volunteer any such accommodation, and the
friends walked on, conversing merrily. As they turned into a lane they had to
cross, the sound of many voices burst upon their ears; and before they had even
had time to form a guess to whom they belonged, they walked into the very centre
of the party who were expecting their arrival - a fact which was first notified
to the Pickwickians, by the loud »Hurrah,« which burst from old Wardle's lips,
when they appeared in sight.
    First, there was Wardle himself, looking, if possible, more jolly than ever;
then there were Bella and her faithful Trundle; and, lastly, there were Emily
and some eight or ten young ladies, who had all come down to the wedding, which
was to take place next day, and who were in as happy and important a state as
young ladies usually are, on such momentous occasions; and they were, one and
all, startling the fields and lanes, far and wide, with their frolic and
laughter.
    The ceremony of introduction, under such circumstances, was very soon
performed, or we should rather say that the introduction was soon over, without
any ceremony at all. In two minutes thereafter, Mr. Pickwick was joking with the
young ladies who wouldn't come over the stile while he looked - or who, having
pretty feet and unexceptionable ankles, preferred standing on the top-rail for
five minutes or so, declaring that they were too frightened to move - with as
much ease and absence of reserve or constraint, as if he had known them for
life. It is worthy of remark, too, that Mr. Snodgrass offered Emily far more
assistance than the absolute terrors of the stile (although it was full three
feet high, and had only a couple of stepping-stones) would seem to require;
while one black-eyed young lady in a very nice little pair of boots with fur
round the top, was observed to scream very loudly, when Mr. Winkle offered to
help her over.
    All this was very snug and pleasant. And when the difficulties of the stile
were at last surmounted, and they once more entered on the open field, old
Wardle informed Mr. Pickwick how they had all been down in a body to inspect the
furniture and fittings-up of the house, which the young couple were to tenant,
after the Christmas holidays; at which communication Bella and Trundle both
coloured up, as red as the fat boy after the tap-room fire; and the young lady
with the black eyes and the fur round the boots, whispered something in Emily's
ear, and then glanced archly at Mr. Snodgrass: to which Emily responded that she
was a foolish girl, but turned very red, notwithstanding; and Mr. Snodgrass, who
was as modest as all great geniuses usually are, felt the crimson rising to the
crown of his head, and devoutly wished in the inmost recesses of his own heart
that the young lady aforesaid, with her black eyes, and her archness, and her
boots with the fur round the top, were all comfortably deposited in the adjacent
county.
    But if they were social and happy outside the house, what was the warmth and
cordiality of their reception when they reached the farm! The very servants
grinned with pleasure at sight of Mr. Pickwick; and Emma bestowed a half-demure,
half-impudent, and all pretty, look of recognition, on Mr. Tupman, which was
enough to make the statue of Bonaparte in the passage, unfold his arms, and
clasp her within them.
    The old lady was seated in customary state in the front parlour, but she was
rather cross, and, by consequence, most particularly deaf. She never went out
herself, and like a great many other old ladies of the same stamp, she was apt
to consider it an act of domestic treason, if anybody else took the liberty of
doing what she couldn't. So, bless her old soul, she sat as upright as she
could, in her great chair, and looked as fierce as might be - and that was
benevolent after all.
    »Mother,« said Wardle, »Mr. Pickwick. You recollect him?«
    »Never mind,« replied the old lady with great dignity.
    »Don't trouble Mr. Pickwick about an old creature like me. Nobody cares about
me now, and it's very nat'ral they shouldn't.« Here the old lady tossed her
head, and smoothed down her lavender-coloured silk dress, with trembling hands.
    »Come, come, ma'am,« said Mr. Pickwick, »I can't let you cut an old friend
in this way. I have come down expressly to have a long talk, and another rubber
with you; and we'll show these boys and girls how to dance a minuet, before
they're eight-and-forty hours older.«
    The old lady was rapidly giving way, but she did not like to do it all at
once; so she only said, »Ah! I can't hear him!«
    »Nonsense, mother,« said Wardle. »Come, come, don't be cross, there's a good
soul. Recollect Bella; come, you must keep her spirits up, poor girl.«
    The good old lady heard this, for her lip quivered as her son said it. But
age has its little infirmities of temper, and she was not quite brought round
yet. So, she smoothed down the lavender-coloured dress again, and turning to Mr.
Pickwick said, »Ah, Mr. Pickwick, young people was very different, when I was a
girl.«
    »No doubt of that, ma'am,« said Mr. Pickwick, »and that's the reason why I
would make much of the few that have any traces of the old stock,« - and saying
this, Mr. Pickwick gently pulled Bella towards him, and bestowing a kiss upon
her forehead, bade her sit down on the little stool at her grandmother's feet.
Whether the expression of her countenance, as it was raised towards the old
lady's face, called up a thought of old times, or whether the old lady was
touched by Mr. Pickwick's affectionate good nature, or whatever was the cause,
she was fairly melted; so she threw herself on her grand-daughter's neck, and
all the little ill-humour evaporated in a gush of silent tears.
    A happy party they were, that night. Sedate and solemn were the score of
rubbers in which Mr. Pickwick and the old lady played together; uproarious was
the mirth of the round table. Long after the ladies had retired, did the hot
elder wine, well qualified with brandy and spice, go round, and round, and round
again; and sound was the sleep and pleasant were the dreams that followed. It is
a remarkable fact that those of Mr. Snodgrass bore constant reference to Emily
Wardle; and that the principal figure in Mr. Winkle's visions was a young lady
with black eyes, an arch smile, and a pair of remarkably nice boots with fur
round the tops.
    Mr. Pickwick was awakened, early in the morning, by a hum of voices and a
pattering of feet, sufficient to rouse even the fat boy from his heavy slumbers.
He sat up in bed and listened. The female servants and female visitors were
running constantly to and fro; and there were such multitudinous demands for hot
water, such repeated outcries for needles and thread, and so many
half-suppressed entreaties of »Oh, do come and tie me, there's a dear!« that Mr.
Pickwick in his innocence began to imagine that something dreadful must have
occurred: when he grew more awake, and remembered the wedding. The occasion
being an important one he dressed himself with peculiar care, and descended to
the breakfast room.
    There were all the female servants in a bran new uniform of pink muslin
gowns with white bows in their caps, running about the house in a state of
excitement and agitation which it would be impossible to describe. The old lady
was dressed out in a brocaded gown which had not seen the light for twenty
years, saving and excepting such truant rays as had stolen through the chinks in
the box in which it had been lain by, during the whole time. Mr. Trundle was in
high feather and spirits, but a little nervous withal. The hearty old landlord
was trying to look very cheerful and unconcerned, but failing signally in the
attempt. All the girls were in tears and white muslin, except a select two or
three who were being honoured with a private view of the bride and bridesmaids,
up stairs. All the Pickwickians were in most blooming array; and there was a
terrific roaring on the grass in front of the house, occasioned by all the men,
boys, and hobbledehoys attached to the farm, each of whom had got a white bow in
his button-hole, and all of whom were cheering with might and main: being
incited thereunto, and stimulated therein, by the precept and example of Mr.
Samuel Weller, who had managed to become mighty popular already, and was as much
at home as if he had been born on the land.
    A wedding is a licensed subject to joke upon, but there really is no great
joke in the matter after all; - we speak merely of the ceremony, and beg it to
be distinctly understood that we indulge in no hidden sarcasm upon a married
life. Mixed up with the pleasure and joy of the occasion, are the many regrets
at quitting home, the tears of parting between parent and child, the
consciousness of leaving the dearest and kindest friends of the happiest portion
of human life, to encounter its cares and troubles with others still untried and
little known: natural feelings which we would not render this chapter mournful
by describing, and which we should be still more unwilling to be supposed to
ridicule.
    Let us briefly say, then, that the ceremony was performed by the old
clergyman, in the parish church of Dingley Dell, and that Mr. Pickwick's name is
attached to the register, still preserved in the vestry thereof; that the young
lady with the black eyes signed her name in a very unsteady and tremulous
manner; that Emily's signature, as the other bridesmaid, is nearly illegible;
that it all went off in very admirable style; that the young ladies generally
thought it far less shocking than they had expected; and that although the owner
of the black eyes and the arch smile informed Mr. Winkle that she was sure she
could never submit to anything so dreadful, we have the very best reasons for
thinking she was mistaken. To all this, we may add, that Mr. Pickwick was the
first who saluted the bride, and that in so doing, he threw over her neck a rich
gold watch and chain, which no mortal eyes but the jeweller's had ever beheld
before. Then, the old church bell rang as gaily as it could, and they all
returned to breakfast.
    »Vere does the mince pies go, young opium eater?« said Mr. Weller to the fat
boy, as he assisted in laying out such articles of consumption as had not been
duly arranged on the previous night.
    The fat boy pointed to the destination of the pies.
    »Wery good,« said Sam, »stick a bit o' Christmas in 'em. T'other dish
opposite. There; now we look compact and comfortable, as the father said ven he
cut his little boy's head off, to cure him o' squintin'.«
    As Mr. Weller made the comparison, he fell, back a step or two, to give full
effect to it, and surveyed the preparations with the utmost satisfaction.
    »Wardle,« said Mr. Pickwick, almost as soon as they were all seated, »a
glass of wine, in honour of this happy occasion!«
    »I shall be delighted, my boy,« said Wardle. »Joe - damn that boy, he's gone
to sleep.«
    »No, I ain't, sir,« replied the fat boy, starting up from a remote corner,
where, like the patron saint of fat boys - the immortal Horner - he had been
devouring a Christmas pie: though not with the coolness and deliberation which
characterised that young gentleman's proceedings.
    »Fill Mr. Pickwick's glass.«
    »Yes, sir.«
    The fat boy filled Mr. Pickwick's glass, and then retired behind his
master's chair, from whence he watched the play of the knives and forks, and the
progress of the choice morsels from the dishes to the mouths of the company,
with a kind of dark and gloomy joy that was most impressive.
    »God bless you, old fellow!« said Mr. Pickwick.
    »Same to you, my boy,« replied Wardle; and they pledged each other,
heartily.
    »Mrs. Wardle,« said Mr. Pickwick, »we old folks must have a glass of wine
together, in honour of this joyful event.«
    The old lady was in a state of great grandeur just then, for she was sitting
at the top of the table in the brocaded gown, with her newly-married
granddaughter on one side and Mr. Pickwick on the other, to do the carving. Mr.
Pickwick had not spoken in a very loud tone, but she understood him at once, and
drank off a full glass of wine to his long life and happiness; after which the
worthy old soul launched forth into a minute and particular account of her own
wedding, with a dissertation on the fashion of wearing high-heeled shoes, and
some particulars concerning the life and adventures of the beautiful Lady
Tollimglower, deceased: at all of which the old lady herself laughed very
heartily indeed, and so did the young ladies too, for they were wondering among
themselves what on earth grandma was talking about. When they laughed, the old
lady laughed ten times more heartily, and said that these always had been
considered capital stories: which caused them all to laugh again, and put the
old lady into the very best of humours. Then, the cake was cut, and passed
through the ring; the young ladies saved pieces to put under their pillows to
dream of their future husbands on; and a great deal of blushing and merriment
was thereby occasioned.
    »Mr. Miller,« said Mr. Pickwick to his old acquaintance the hard-headed
gentleman, »a glass of wine?«
    »With great satisfaction, Mr. Pickwick,« replied the hard-headed gentleman,
solemnly.
    »You'll take me in?« said the benevolent old clergyman.
    »And me,« interposed his wife.
    »And me, and me,« said a couple of poor relations at the bottom of the
table, who had eaten and drank very heartily, and laughed at everything.
    Mr. Pickwick expressed his heartfelt delight at every additional suggestion;
and his eyes beamed with hilarity and cheerfulness.
    »Ladies and gentlemen,« said Mr. Pickwick, suddenly rising.
    »Hear, hear! Hear, hear! Hear, hear!« cried Mr. Weller, in the excitement of
his feelings.
    »Call in all the servants,« cried old Wardle, interposing to prevent the
public rebuke which Mr. Weller would otherwise most indubitably have received
from his master. »Give them a glass of wine each, to drink the toast in. Now,
Pickwick.«
    Amidst the silence of the company, the whispering of the women servants, and
the awkward embarrassment of the men, Mr. Pickwick proceeded.
    »Ladies and gentlemen - no, I won't say ladies and gentlemen, I'll call you
my friends, my dear friends, if the ladies will allow me to take so great a
liberty« -
    Here Mr. Pickwick was interrupted by immense applause from the ladies,
echoed by the gentlemen, during which the owner of the eyes was distinctly heard
to state that she could kiss that dear Mr. Pickwick. Whereupon Mr. Winkle
gallantly inquired if it couldn't be done by deputy: to which the young lady
with the black eyes replied, »Go away« - and accompanied the request with a look
which said as plainly as a look could do -- »if you can.«
    »My dear friends,« resumed Mr. Pickwick, »I am going to propose the health
of the bride and bridegroom - God bless 'em (cheers and tears). My young friend,
Trundle, I believe to be a very excellent and manly fellow; and his wife I know
to be a very amiable and lovely girl, well qualified to transfer to another
sphere of action the happiness which for twenty years she has diffused around
her, in her father's house. (Here, the fat boy burst forth into stentorian
blubberings, and was led forth by the coat collar, by Mr. Weller.) I wish,«
added Mr. Pickwick, »I wish I was young enough to be her sister's husband
(cheers), but, failing that, I am happy to be old enough to be her father; for,
being so, I shall not be suspected of any latent designs when I say, that I
admire, esteem, and love them both (cheers and sobs). The bride's father, our
good friend there, is a noble person, and I am proud to know him (great uproar).
He is a kind, excellent, independent-spirited, fine-hearted, hospitable, liberal
man (enthusiastic shouts from the poor relations, at all the adjectives; and
especially at the two last). That his daughter may enjoy all the happiness, even
he can desire; and that he may derive from the contemplation of her felicity all
the gratification of heart and peace of mind which he so well deserves, is, I am
persuaded, our united wish. So, let us drink their healths, and wish them
prolonged life, and every blessing!«
    Mr. Pickwick concluded amidst a whirlwind of applause; and once more were
the lungs of the supernumeraries, under Mr. Weller's command, brought into
active and efficient operation. Mr. Wardle proposed Mr. Pickwick; Mr. Pickwick
proposed the old lady. Mr. Snodgrass proposed Mr. Wardle; Mr. Wardle proposed
Mr. Snodgrass. One of the poor relations proposed Mr. Tupman, and the other poor
relation proposed Mr. Winkle; all was happiness and festivity, until the
mysterious disappearance of both the poor relations beneath the table, warned
the party that it was time to adjourn.
    At dinner they met again, after a five-and-twenty mile walk, undertaken by
the males at Wardle's recommendation, to get rid of the effects of the wine at
breakfast. The poor relations had kept in bed all day, with the view of
attaining the same happy consummation, but, as they had been unsuccessful, they
stopped there. Mr. Weller kept the domestics in a state of perpetual hilarity;
and the fat boy divided his time into small alternate allotments of eating and
sleeping.
    The dinner was as hearty an affair as the breakfast, and was quite as noisy,
without the tears. Then came the dessert and some more toasts. Then came the tea
and coffee; and then, the ball.
    The best sitting room at Manor Farm was a good, long, dark-panelled room
with a high chimney-piece, and a capacious chimney, up which you could have
driven one of the new patent cabs, wheels and all. At the upper end of the room,
seated in a shady bower of holly and evergreens, were the two best fiddlers, and
the only harp, in all Muggleton. In all sorts of recesses, and on all kinds of
brackets, stood massive old silver candlesticks with four branches each. The
carpet was up, the candles burnt bright, the fire blazed and crackled on the
hearth, and merry voices and light-hearted laughter rang through the room. If
any of the old English yeomen had turned into fairies when they died, it was
just the place in which they would have held their revels.
    If anything could have added to the interest of this agreeable scene, it
would have been the remarkable fact of Mr. Pickwick's appearing without his
gaiters, for the first time within the memory of his oldest friends.
    »You mean to dance?« said Wardle.
    »Of course I do,« replied Mr. Pickwick. »Don't you see I am dressed for the
purpose?« Mr. Pickwick called attention to his speckled silk stockings, and
smartly tied pumps.
    »You in silk stockings!« exclaimed Mr. Tupman jocosely.
    »And why not, sir - why not?« said Mr. Pickwick, turning warmly upon him.
    »Oh, of course there is no reason why you shouldn't wear them,« responded
Mr. Tupman.
    »I imagine not, sir, I imagine not,« said Mr. Pickwick in a very peremptory
tone.
    Mr. Tupman had contemplated a laugh, but he found it was a serious matter;
so he looked grave, and said they were a pretty pattern.
    »I hope they are,« said Mr. Pickwick fixing his eyes upon his friend. »You
see nothing extraordinary in the stockings, as stockings, I trust, sir?«
    »Certainly not. Oh, certainly not,« replied Mr. Tupman. He walked away; and
Mr. Pickwick's countenance resumed its customary benign expression.
    »We are all ready, I believe,« said Mr. Pickwick, who was stationed with the
old lady at the top of the dance, and had already made four false starts, in his
excessive anxiety to commence.
    »Then begin at once,« said Wardle. »Now!«
    Up struck the two fiddles and the one harp, and off went Mr. Pickwick into
hands across, when there was a general clapping of hands, and a cry of »Stop,
stop!«
    »What's the matter!« said Mr. Pickwick, who was only brought to, by the
fiddles and harp desisting, and could have been stopped by no other earthly
power, if the house had been on fire.
    »Where's Arabella Allen?« cried a dozen voices.
    »And Winkle?« added Mr. Tupman.
    »Here we are!« exclaimed that gentleman, emerging with his pretty companion
from the corner; as he did so, it would have been hard to tell which was the
redder in the face, he or the young lady with the black eyes.
    »What an extraordinary thing it is, Winkle,« said Mr. Pickwick, rather
pettishly, »that you couldn't have taken your place before.«
    »Not at all extraordinary,« said Mr. Winkle.
    »Well,« said Mr. Pickwick, with a very expressive smile, as his eyes rested
on Arabella, »well, I don't know that it was extraordinary, either, after all.«
    However, there was no time to think more about the matter, for the fiddles
and harp began in real earnest. Away went Mr. Pickwick - hands across - down the
middle to the very end of the room, and half-way up the chimney, back again to
the door - poussette everywhere - loud stamp on the ground - ready for the next
couple - off again - all the figure over once more - another stamp to beat out
the time - next couple, and the next, and the next again - never was such going!
At last, after they had reached the bottom of the dance, and full fourteen
couple after the old lady had retired in an exhausted state, and the clergyman's
wife had been substituted in her stead, did that gentleman, when there was no
demand whatever on his exertions, keep perpetually dancing in his place, to keep
time to the music: smiling on his partner all the while with a blandness of
demeanour which baffles all description.
    Long before Mr. Pickwick was weary of dancing, the newly-married couple had
retired from the scene. There was a glorious supper down-stairs,
notwithstanding, and a good long sitting after it; and when Mr. Pickwick awoke,
late the next morning, he had a confused recollection of having, severally and
confidentially, invited somewhere about five-and-forty people to dine with him
at the George and Vulture, the very first time they came to London; which Mr.
Pickwick rightly considered a pretty certain indication of his having taken
something besides exercise, on the previous night.
    »And so your family has games in the kitchen to-night, my dear, has they?«
inquired Sam of Emma.
    »Yes, Mr. Weller,« replied Emma; »we always have on Christmas eve. Master
wouldn't neglect to keep it up on any account.«
    »Your master's a very pretty notion of keepin' anything' up, my dear,« said
Mr. Weller; »I never see such a sensible sort of man as he is, or such a reg'lar
gen'l'm'n.«
    »Oh, that he is!« said the fat boy, joining in the conversation; »don't he
breed nice pork!« The fat youth gave a semi-cannibalic leer at Mr. Weller, as he
thought of the roast legs and gravy.
    »Oh, you've woke up, at last, have you?« said Sam.
    The fat boy nodded.
    »I'll tell you what it is, young boa constructer,« said Mr. Weller,
impressively; »if you don't sleep a little less, and exercise a little more, wen
you comes to be a man you'll lay yourself open to the same sort of personal
inconwenience as was inflicted on the old gen'l'm'n as wore the pigtail.«
    »What did they do to him?« inquired the fat boy, in a faltering voice.
    »I'm a-goin' to tell you,« replied Mr. Weller; »he was one o' the largest
patterns as was ever turned out - reg'lar fat man, as hadn't caught a glimpse of
his own shoes for five-and-forty-year.«
    »Lor!« exclaimed Emma.
    »No, that he hadn't, my dear,« said Mr. Weller; »and if you'd put an exact
model of his own legs on the dinin' table afore him, he wouldn't ha' known 'em.
Well, he always walks to his office with a very handsome gold watch-chain
hanging out, about a foot and a quarter, and a gold watch in his fob pocket as
was worth - I'm afraid to say how much, but as much as a watch can be - a large,
heavy, round manafacter, as stout for a watch, as he was for a man, and with a
big face in proportion. You'd better not carry that 'ere watch, says the old
gen'l'm'n's friends, you'll be robbed on it, says they. Shall I? says he. Yes,
you will, says they. Vell, says he, I should like to see the thief as could get
this here watch out, for I'm blessed if I ever can, it's such a tight fit, says
he; and venever I wants to know what's o'clock, I'm obliged to stare into the
bakers' shops, he says. Well, then he laughs as hearty as if he was a goin' to
pieces, and out he walks again' with his powdered head and pigtail, and rolls
down the Strand with the chain hangin' out further than ever, and the great round
watch almost bustin' through his grey kersey smalls. There warn't a pickpocket
in all London as didn't take a pull at that chain, but the chain 'ud never
break, and the watch 'ud never come out, so they soon got tired o' dragging such
a heavy old gen'l'm'n along the pavement, and he'd go home and laugh till the
pigtail wibrated like the penderlum of a Dutch clock. At last, one day the old
gen'l'm'n was a rollin' along, and he sees a pickpocket as he know'd by sight,
a-comin' up, arm in arm with a little boy with a very large head. Here's a game,
says the old gen'l'm'n to himself, they're a-goin' to have another try, but it
won't do! So he begins a-chucklin' very hearty, wen, all of a sudden, the little
boy leaves hold of the pickpocket's arm, and rushes headforemost straight into
the old gen'l'm'n's stomach, and for a moment doubles him right up with the
pain. Murder! says the old gen'l'm'n. All right, sir, says the pickpocket, a
wisperin' in his ear. And wen he come straight again, the watch and chain was
gone, and what's worse than that, the old gen'l'm'n's digestion was all wrong
ever artervards, to the very last day of his life; so just you look about you,
young feller, and take care you don't get too fat.«
    As Mr. Weller concluded this moral tale, with which the fat boy appeared
much affected, they all three repaired to the large kitchen, in which the family
were by this time assembled, according to annual custom on Christmas eve,
observed by old Wardle's forefathers from time immemorial.
    From the centre of the ceiling of this kitchen, old Wardle had just
suspended, with his own hands, a huge branch of mistletoe, and this same branch
of mistletoe instantaneously gave rise to a scene of general and delightful
struggling and confusion; in the midst of which. Mr. Pickwick, with a gallantry
that would have done honour to a descendant of Lady Tollimglower herself, took
the old lady by the hand, led her beneath the mystic branch, and saluted her in
all courtesy and decorum. The old lady submitted to this piece of practical
politeness with all the dignity which befitted so important and serious a
solemnity, but the younger ladies, not being so thoroughly imbued with a
superstitious veneration for the custom: or imagining that the value of a salute
is very much enhanced if it cost a little trouble to obtain it: screamed and
struggled, and ran into corners, and threatened and remonstrated, and did
everything but leave the room, until some of the less adventurous gentlemen were
on the point of desisting, when they all at once found it useless to resist any
longer, and submitted to be kissed with a good grace. Mr. Winkle kissed the
young lady with the black eyes, and Mr. Snodgrass kissed Emily, and Mr. Weller,
not being particular about the form of being under the mistletoe, kissed Emma
and the other female servants, just as he caught them. As to the poor relations,
they kissed everybody, not even excepting the plainer portions of the young-lady
visitors, who, in their excessive confusion, ran right under the mistletoe, as
soon as it was hung up, without knowing it! Wardle stood with his back to the
fire, surveying the whole scene, with the utmost satisfaction; and the fat boy
took the opportunity of appropriating to his own use, and summarily devouring, a
particularly fine mince-pie, that had been carefully put by for somebody else.
    Now, the screaming had subsided, and faces were in a glow, and curls in a
tangle, and Mr. Pickwick, after kissing the old lady as before mentioned, was
standing under the mistletoe, looking with a very pleased countenance on all
that was passing around him, when the young lady with the black eyes, after a
little whispering with the other young ladies, made a sudden dart forward, and,
putting her arm round Mr. Pickwick's neck, saluted him affectionately on the
left cheek; and before Mr. Pickwick distinctly knew what was the matter, he was
surrounded by the whole body, and kissed by every one of them.
    It was a pleasant thing to see Mr. Pickwick in the centre of the group, now
pulled this way, and then that, and first kissed on the chin, and then on the
nose, and then on the spectacles: and to hear the peals of laughter which were
raised on every side; but it was a still more pleasant thing to see Mr.
Pickwick, blinded shortly afterwards with a silk handkerchief, falling up
against the wall, and scrambling into corners, and going through all the
mysteries of blind-man's buff, with the utmost relish for the game, until at
last he caught one of the poor relations, and then had to evade the blind-man
himself, which he did with a nimbleness and agility that elicited the admiration
and applause of all beholders. The poor relations caught the people who they
thought would like it, and, when the game flagged, got caught themselves. When
they were all tired of blind-man's buff, there was a great game at snap-dragon,
and when fingers enough were burned with that, and all the raisins were gone,
they sat down by the huge fire of blazing logs to a substantial supper, and a
mighty bowl of wassail, something smaller than an ordinary wash-house copper, in
which the hot apples were hissing and bubbling with a rich look, and a jolly
sound, that were perfectly irresistible.
    »This,« said Mr. Pickwick, looking round him, »this is, indeed, comfort.«
    »Our invariable custom« replied Mr. Wardle. »Everybody sits down with us on
Christmas eve, as you see them now - servants and all; and here we wait, until
the clock strikes twelve, to usher Christmas in, and beguile the time with
forfeits and old stories. Trundle, my boy, rake up the fire.«
    Up flew the bright sparks in myriads as the logs were stirred. The deep red
blaze sent forth a rich glow, that penetrated into the furthest corner of the
room, and cast its cheerful tint on every face.
    »Come,« said Wardle, »a song - a Christmas song! I'll give you one, in
default of a better.«
    »Bravo!« said Mr. Pickwick.
    »Fill up,« cried Wardle. »It will be two hours, good, before you see the
bottom of the bowl through the deep rich colour of the wassail; fill up all
round, and now for the song.«
    Thus saying, the merry old gentleman, in a good, round, sturdy voice,
commenced without more ado:
 

                               A Christmas Carol.

I care not for Spring; on his fickle wing
Let the blossoms and buds be borne:
He woos them amain with his treacherous rain,
And he scatters them ere the morn.
An inconstant elf, he knows not himself,
Nor his own changing mind an hour,
He'll smile in your face, and, with wry grimace,
He'll wither your youngest flower.
 
Let the Summer sun to his bright home run,
He shall never be sought by me;
When he's dimmed by a cloud I can laugh aloud,
And care not how sulky he be!
For his darling child is the madness wild
That sports in fierce fever's train;
And when love is too strong, it don't last long,
As many have found to their pain.
 
A mild harvest night, by the tranquil light
Of the modest and gentle moon,
Has a far sweeter sheen, for me, I ween,
Than the broad and unblushing noon.
But every leaf awakens my grief,
As it lieth beneath the tree;
So let Autumn air be never so fair,
It by no means agrees with me.
 
But my song I troll out, for CHRISTMAS stout,
The hearty, the true, and the bold;
A bumper I drain, and with might and main
Give three cheers for this Christmas old!
We'll usher him in with a merry din
That shall gladden his joyous heart,
And we'll keep him up, while there's bite or sup,
And in fellowship good, we'll part.
 
In his fine honest pride, he scorns to hide,
One jot of his hard-weather scars;
They're no disgrace, for there's much the same trace
On the cheeks of our bravest tars.
Then again I sing 'till the roof doth ring,
And it echoes from wall to wall -
To the stout old wight, fair welcome to-night,
As the King of the Seasons all!
 
This song was tumultuously applauded - for friends and dependants make a capital
audience - and the poor relations, especially, were in perfect ecstasies of
rapture. Again was the fire replenished, and again went the wassail round.
    »How it snows!« said one of the men, in a low tone.
    »Snows, does it?« said Wardle.
    »Rough, cold night, sir,« replied the man; »and there's a wind got up, that
drifts it across the fields, in a thick white cloud.«
    »What does Jem say?« inquired, the old lady. »There ain't anything the
matter, is there?«
    »No, no, mother,« replied Wardle; »he says there's a snow-drift, and a wind
that's piercing cold. I should know that, by the way it rumbles in the chimney.«
    »Ah!« said the old lady, »there was just such a wind, and just such a fall
of snow, a good many years back, I recollect - just five years before your poor
father died. It was a Christmas eve, too; and I remember that on that very night
he told us the story about the goblins that carried away old Gabriel Grub.«
    »The story about what?« said Mr. Pickwick.
    »Oh, nothing, nothing,« replied Wardle. »About an old sexton, that the good
people down here suppose to have been carried away by goblins.«
    »Suppose!« ejaculated the old lady. »Is there any body hardy enough to
disbelieve it? Suppose! Haven't you heard ever since you were a child, that he
was carried away by the goblins, and don't you know he was?«
    »Very well, mother, he was, if you like,« said Wardle, laughing. »He was
carried away by goblins, Pickwick; and there's an end of the matter.«
    »No, no,« said Mr. Pickwick, »not an end of it, I assure you; for I must
hear how, and why, and all about it.«
    Wardle smiled, as every head was bent forward to hear; and filling out the
wassail with no stinted hand, nodded a health to Mr. Pickwick, and began as
follows:
    But bless our editorial heart, what a long chapter we have been betrayed
into! We had quite forgotten all such petty restrictions as chapters, we
solemnly declare. So here goes, to give the goblin a fair start in a new one! A
clear stage and no favour for the goblins, ladies and gentlemen, if you please.
 

                                  Chapter XXIX

                  The Story of the Goblins Who Stole a Sexton.

»In an old abbey town, down in this part of the country, a long, long while ago
- so long, that the story must be a true one, because our great grandfathers
implicitly believed it - there officiated as sexton and grave-digger in the
churchyard, one Gabriel Grub. It by no means follows that because a man is a
sexton, and constantly surrounded by the emblems of mortality, therefore he
should be a morose and melancholy man; your undertakers are the merriest fellows
in the world; and I once had the honour of being on intimate terms with a mute,
who in private life, and off duty, was as comical and jocose a little fellow as
ever chirped out a devil-may-care song, without a hitch in his memory, or
drained off the contents of a good stiff glass without stopping for breath. But,
notwithstanding these precedents to the contrary, Gabriel Grub was an
ill-conditioned, cross-grained, surly fellow - a morose and lonely man, who
consorted with nobody but himself, and an old wicker bottle which fitted into
his large deep waistcoat pocket - and who eyed each merry face, as it passed him
by, with such a deep scowl of malice and ill-humour, as it was difficult to
meet, without feeling something the worse for.
    A little before twilight, one Christmas Eve, Gabriel shouldered his spade,
lighted his lantern, and betook himself towards the old churchyard; for he had
got a grave to finish by next morning, and, feeling very low, he thought it
might raise his spirits, perhaps, if he went on with his work at once. As he
went his way, up the ancient street, he saw the cheerful light of the blazing
fires gleam through the old casements, and heard the loud laugh and the cheerful
shouts of those who were assembled around them; he marked the bustling
preparations for next day's cheer, and smelt the numerous savoury odours
consequent thereupon, as they steamed up from the kitchen windows in clouds. All
this was gall and wormwood to the heart of Gabriel Grub; and when groups of
children bounded out of the houses, tripped across the road, and were met,
before they could knock at the opposite door, by half a dozen curly-headed
little rascals who crowded round them as they flocked up-stairs to spend the
evening in their Christmas games, Gabriel smiled grimly, and clutched the handle
of his spade with a firmer grasp, as he thought of measles, scarlet-fever,
thrush, hooping-cough, and a good many other sources of consolation besides.
    In this happy frame of mind, Gabriel strode along: returning a short, sullen
growl to the good-humoured greetings of such of his neighbours as now and then
passed him: until he turned into the dark lane which led to the churchyard. Now,
Gabriel had been looking forward to reaching the dark lane, because it was,
generally speaking, a nice, gloomy, mournful place, into which the towns-people
did not much care to go, except in broad day-light, and when the sun was
shining; consequently, he was not a little indignant to hear a young urchin
roaring out some jolly song about a merry Christmas, in this very sanctuary,
which had been called Coffin Lane ever since the days of the old abbey, and the
time of the shaven-headed monks. As Gabriel walked on, and the voice drew
nearer, he found it proceeded from a small boy, who was hurrying along, to join
one of the little parties in the old street, and who, partly to keep himself
company, and partly to prepare himself for the occasion, was shouting out the
song at the highest pitch of his lungs. So Gabriel waited until the boy came up,
and then dodged him into a corner, and rapped him over the head with his lantern
five or six times, to teach him to modulate his voice. And as the boy hurried
away with his hand to his head, singing quite a different sort of tune, Gabriel
Grub chuckled very heartily to himself, and entered the churchyard: locking the
gate behind him.
    He took off his coat, put down his lantern, and getting into the unfinished
grave, worked at it for an hour or so with right good will. But the earth was
hardened with the frost, and it was no very easy matter to break it up, and
shovel it out; and although there was a moon, it was a very young one, and shed
little light upon the grave, which was in the shadow of the church. At any other
time, these obstacles would have made Gabriel Grub very moody and miserable, but
he was so well pleased with having stopped the small boy's singing, that he took
little heed of the scanty progress he had made, and looked down into the grave,
when he had finished work for the night, with grim satisfaction: murmuring as he
gathered up his things:
 
Brave lodgings for one, brave lodgings for one,
A few feet of cold earth, when life is done;
A stone at the head, a stone at the feet,
A rich, juicy meal for the worms to eat;
Rank grass over head, and damp clay around,
Brave lodgings for one, these, in holy ground!
 
Ho! ho! laughed Gabriel Grub, as he sat himself down on a flat tombstone which
was a favourite resting-place of his; and drew forth his wicker bottle. A coffin
at Christmas! A Christmas Box. Ho! ho! ho!
    Ho! ho! ho! repeated a voice which sounded close behind him.
    Gabriel paused, in some alarm, in the act of raising the wicker bottle to
his lips: and looked round. The bottom of the oldest grave about him, was not
more still and quiet, than the churchyard in the pale moonlight. The cold
hoarfrost glistened on the tombstones, and sparkled like rows of gems, among the
stone carvings of the old church. The snow lay hard and crisp upon the ground;
and spread over the thickly-strewn mounds of earth so white and smooth a cover
that it seemed as if corpses lay there, hidden only by their winding sheets. Not
the faintest rustle broke the profound tranquillity of the solemn scene. Sound
itself appeared to be frozen up, all was so cold and still.
    It was the echoes, said Gabriel Grub, raising the bottle to his lips again.
    It was not, said a deep voice.
    Gabriel started up, and stood rooted to the spot with astonishment and
terror; for his eyes rested on a form that made his blood run cold.
    Seated on an upright tombstone, close to him, was a strange unearthly
figure, whom Gabriel felt at once, was no being of this world. His long
fantastic legs which might have reached the ground, were cocked up, and crossed
after a quaint, fantastic fashion; his sinewy arms were bare; and his hands
rested on his knees. On his short round body, he wore a close covering,
ornamented with small slashes; a short cloak dangled at his back; the collar was
cut into curious peaks, which served the goblin in lieu of ruff or neckerchief;
and his shoes curled up at his toes into long points. On his head, he wore a
broad-brimmed sugar-loaf hat, garnished with a single feather. The hat was
covered with the white frost; and the goblin looked as if he had sat on the same
tombstone very comfortably, for two or three hundred years. He was sitting
perfectly still; his tongue was put out, as if in derision; and he was grinning
at Gabriel Grub with such a grin as only a goblin could call up.
    It was not the echoes, said the goblin.
    Gabriel Grub was paralysed, and could make no reply.
    What do you do here on Christmas Eve? said the goblin sternly.
    I came to dig a grave, sir, stammered Gabriel Grub.
    What man wanders among graves and churchyards on such a night as this? cried
the goblin.
    Gabriel Grub! Gabriel Grub! screamed a wild chorus of voices that seemed to
fill the churchyard. Gabriel looked fearfully round - nothing was to be seen.
    What have you got in that bottle? said the goblin.
    Hollands, sir, replied the sexton, trembling more than ever; for he had
bought it of the smugglers, and he thought that perhaps his questioner might be
in the excise department of the goblins.
    Who drinks Hollands alone, and in a churchyard, on such a night as this?
said the goblin.
    Gabriel Grub! Gabriel Grub! exclaimed the wild voices again.
    The goblin leered maliciously at the terrified sexton, and then raising his
voice, exclaimed:
    And who, then, is our fair and lawful prize?
    To this inquiry the invisible chorus replied, in a strain that sounded like
the voices of many choristers singing to the mighty swell of the old church
organ - a strain that seemed borne to the sexton's ears upon a wild wind, and to
die away as it passed onward; but the burden of the reply was still the same,
Gabriel Grub! Gabriel Grub!
    The goblin grinned a broader grin than before, as he said, Well, Gabriel,
what do you say to this?
    The sexton gasped for breath.
    What do you think of this, Gabriel? said the goblin, kicking up his feet in
the air on either side of the tombstone, and looking at the turned-up points
with as much complacency as if he had been contemplating the most fashionable
pair of Wellingtons in all Bond Street.
    It's - it's - very curious, sir, replied the sexton, half dead with fright;
very curious, and very pretty, but I think I'll go back and finish my work, sir,
if you please.
    Work! said the goblin, what work?
    The grave, sir; making the grave, stammered the sexton.
    Oh, the grave, eh? said the goblin; who makes graves at a time when all
other men are merry, and takes a pleasure in it?
    Again the mysterious voices replied, Gabriel Grub! Gabriel Grub!
    I'm afraid my friends want you, Gabriel, said the goblin, thrusting his
tongue further into his cheek than ever - and a most astonishing tongue it was -
I'm afraid my friends want you, Gabriel, said the goblin.
    Under favour, sir, replied the horror-stricken sexton, I don't think they
can, sir; they don't know me, sir; I don't think the gentlemen have ever seen
me, sir.
    Oh yes they have, replied the goblin; we know the man with the sulky face
and grim scowl, that came down the street to-night, throwing his evil looks at
the children, and grasping his burying spade the tighter. We know the man who
struck the boy in the envious malice of his heart, because the boy could be
merry, and he could not. We know him, we know him.
    Here, the goblin gave a loud shrill laugh, which the echoes returned
twenty-fold: and throwing his legs up in the air, stood upon his head, or rather
upon the very point of his sugar-loaf hat, on the narrow edge of the tomb-stone:
whence he threw a somerset with extraordinary agility, right to the sexton's
feet, at which he planted himself in the attitude in which tailors generally sit
upon the shop-board.
    I - I - am afraid I must leave you, sir, said the sexton, making an effort
to move.
    Leave us! said the goblin, Gabriel Grub going to leave us. Ho! ho! ho!
    As the goblin laughed, the sexton observed, for one instant, a brilliant
illumination within the windows of the church, as if the whole building were
lighted up; it disappeared, the organ pealed forth a lively air, and whole
troops of goblins, the very counterpart of the first one, poured into the
church-yard, and began playing at leap-frog with the tomb-stones: never stopping
for an instant to take breath, but overing the highest among them, one after the
other, with the utmost marvellous dexterity. The first goblin was a most
astonishing leaper, and none of the others could come near him; even in the
extremity of his terror the sexton could not help observing, that while his
friends were content to leap over the common-sized gravestones, the first one
took the family vaults, iron railings and all, with as much ease as if they had
been so many street posts.
    At last the game reached to a most exciting pitch; the organ played quicker
and quicker; and the goblins leaped faster and faster: coiling themselves up,
rolling head over heels upon the ground, and bounding over the tombstones like
foot-balls. The sexton's brain whirled round with the rapidity of the motion he
beheld, and his legs reeled beneath him, as the spirits flew before his eyes:
when the goblin king, suddenly darting towards him, laid his hand upon his
collar, and sank with him through the earth.
    When Gabriel Grub had had time to fetch his breath, which the rapidity of
his descent had for the moment taken away, he found himself in what appeared to
be a large cavern, surrounded on all sides by crowds of goblins, ugly and grim;
in the centre of the room, on an elevated seat, was stationed his friend of the
churchyard; and close beside him stood Gabriel Grub himself, without power of
motion.
    Cold to-night, said the king of the goblins, very cold. A glass of something
warm, here!
    At this command, half a dozen officious goblins, with a perpetual smile upon
their faces, whom Gabriel Grub imagined to be courtiers, on that account,
hastily disappeared, and presently returned with a goblet of liquid fire, which
they presented to the king.
    Ah! cried the goblin, whose cheeks and throat were transparent, as he tossed
down the flame, This warms one, indeed! Bring a bumper of the same, for Mr.
Grub.
    It was in vain for the unfortunate sexton to protest that he was not in the
habit of taking anything warm at night; one of the goblins held him while
another poured the blazing liquid down his throat; the whole assembly screeched
with laughter as he coughed and choked, and wiped away the tears which gushed
plentifully from his eyes, after swallowing the burning draught.
    And now, said the king, fantastically poking the taper corner of his
sugar-loaf hat into the sexton's eye, and thereby occasioning him the most
exquisite pain: And now, show the man of misery and gloom, a few of the pictures
from our own great storehouse!
    As the goblin said this, a thick cloud I which obscured the remoter end of
the cavern, rolled gradually away, and disclosed, apparently at a great
distance, a small and scantily furnished, but neat and clean apartment. A crowd
of little children were gathered round a bright fire, clinging to their mother's
gown, and gambolling around her chair. The mother occasionally rose, and drew
aside the window-curtain, as if to look for some expected object: a frugal meal
was ready spread upon the table; and an elbow chair was placed near the fire. A
knock was heard at the door: the mother opened it, and the children crowded
round her, and clapped their hands for joy, as their father entered. He was wet
and weary, and shook the snow from his garments, as the children crowded round
him, and seizing his cloak, hat, stick, and gloves, with busy zeal, ran with
them from the room. Then, as he sat down to his meal before the fire, the
children climbed about his knee, and the mother sat by his side, and all seemed
happiness and comfort.
    But a change came upon the view, almost imperceptibly. The scene was altered
to a small bed-room, where the fairest and youngest child lay dying; the roses
had fled from his cheek, and the light from his eye; and even as the sexton
looked upon him with an interest he had never felt or known before, he died. His
young brothers and sisters crowded round his little bed, and seized his tiny
hand, so cold and heavy; but they shrunk back from its touch, and looked with
awe on his infant face; for calm and tranquil as it was, and sleeping in rest
and peace as the beautiful child seemed to be, they saw that he was dead, and
they knew that he was an Angel looking down upon, and blessing them, from a
bright and happy Heaven.
    Again the light cloud passed across the picture, and again the subject
changed. The father and mother were old and helpless now, and the number of
those about them was diminished more than half; but content and cheerfulness sat
on every face, and beamed in every eye, as they crowded round the fireside, and
told and listened to old stories of earlier and bygone days. Slowly and
peacefully, the father sank into the grave, and, soon after, the sharer of all
his cares and troubles followed him to a place of rest. The few, who yet
survived them, knelt by their tomb, and watered the green turf which covered it,
with their tears; then rose, and turned away: sadly and mournfully, but not with
bitter cries, or despairing lamentations, for they knew that they should one day
meet again; and once more they mixed with the busy world, and their content and
cheerfulness were restored. The cloud settled upon the picture, and concealed it
from the sexton's view.
    What do you think of that? said the goblin, turning his large face towards
Gabriel Grub.
    Gabriel murmured out something about its being very pretty, and looked
somewhat ashamed, as the goblin bent his fiery eyes upon him.
    You a miserable man! said the goblin, in a tone of excessive contempt. You!
He appeared disposed to add more, but indignation choked his utterance, so he
lifted up one of his very pliable legs, and flourishing it above his head a
little, to insure his aim, administered a good sound kick to Gabriel Grub;
immediately after which, all the goblins in waiting, crowded round the wretched
sexton, and kicked him without mercy: according to the established and
invariable custom of courtiers upon earth, who kick whom royalty kicks, and hug
whom royalty hugs.
    Show him some more! said the king of the goblins.
    At these words, the cloud was dispelled, and a rich and beautiful landscape
was disclosed to view - there is just such another, to this day, within half a
mile of the old abbey town. The sun shone from out the clear blue sky, the water
sparkled beneath his rays, and the trees looked greener, and the flowers more
gay, beneath his cheering influence. The water rippled on, with a pleasant
sound; the trees rustled in the light wind that murmured among their leaves; the
birds sang upon the boughs; and the lark carolled on high her welcome to the
morning. Yes, it was morning; the bright, balmy morning of summer; the minutest
leaf, the smallest blade of grass, was instinct with life. The ant crept forth
to her daily toil, the butterfly fluttered and basked in the warm rays of the
sun; myriads of insects spread their transparent wings, and revelled in their
brief but happy existence. Man walked forth, elated with the scene; and all was
brightness and splendour.
    You a miserable man! said the king of the goblins, in a more contemptuous
tone than before. And again the king of the goblins gave his leg a flourish;
again it descended on the shoulders of the sexton; and again the attendant
goblins imitated the example of their chief.
    Many a time the cloud went and came, and many a lesson it taught to Gabriel
Grub, who, although his shoulders smarted with pain from the frequent
applications of the goblin's feet, looked on with an interest that nothing could
diminish. He saw that men who worked hard, and earned their scanty bread with
lives of labour, were cheerful and happy; and that to the most ignorant, the
sweet face of nature was a never-failing source of cheerfulness and joy. He saw
those who had been delicately nurtured, and tenderly brought up, cheerful under
privations, and superior to suffering that would have crushed many of a rougher
grain, because they bore within their own bosoms the materials of happiness,
contentment, and peace. He saw that women, the tenderest and most fragile of all
God's creatures, were the oftenest superior to sorrow, adversity, and distress;
and he saw that it was because they bore, in their own hearts, an inexhaustible
well- of affection and devotion. Above all, he saw that men like himself, who
snarled at the mirth and cheerfulness of others, were the foulest weeds on the
fair surface of the earth; and setting all the good of the world against the
evil, he came to the conclusion that it was a very decent and respectable sort
of world after all. No sooner had he formed it, than the cloud which closed over
the last picture, seemed to settle on his senses, and lull him to repose. One by
one, the goblins faded from his sight; and as the last one disappeared, he sunk
to sleep.
    The day had broken when Gabriel Grub awoke, and found himself lying, at full
length on the flat grave-stone in the churchyard, with the wicker bottle lying
empty by his side, and his coat, spade, and lantern, all well whitened by the
last night's frost, scattered on the ground. The stone on which he had first
seen the goblin seated, stood bolt upright before him, and the grave at which he
had worked, the night before, was not far off. At first, he began to doubt the
reality of his adventures, but the acute pain in his shoulders when he attempted
to rise, assured him that the kicking of the goblins was certainly not ideal. He
was staggered again, by observing no traces of footsteps in the snow on which
the goblins had played at leap-frog with the grave-stones, but he speedily
accounted for this circumstance when he remembered that, being spirits, they
would leave no visible impression behind them. So, Gabriel Grub got on his feet
as well as he could, for the pain in his back; and brushing the frost off his
coat, put it on, and turned his face towards the town.
    But he was an altered man, and he could not bear the thought of returning to
a place where his repentance would be scoffed at, and his reformation
disbelieved. He hesitated for a few moments; and then turned away to wander
where he might, and seek his bread elsewhere.
    The lantern, the spade, and the wicker bottle, were found, that day, in the
churchyard. There were a great many speculations about the sexton's fate, at
first, but it was speedily determined that he had been carried away by the
goblins; and there were not wanting some very credible witnesses who had
distinctly seen him whisked through the air on the back of a chestnut horse
blind of one eye, with the hindquarters of a lion, and the tail of a bear. At
length all this was devoutly believed; and the new sexton used to exhibit to the
curious, for a trifling emolument, a good-sized piece of the church weathercock
which had been accidentally kicked off by the aforesaid horse in his aërial
flight, and picked up by himself in the churchyard, a year or two afterwards.
    Unfortunately, these stories were somewhat disturbed by the unlooked-for
re-appearance of Gabriel Grub himself, some ten years afterwards, a ragged,
contented, rheumatic old man. He told his story to the clergyman, and also to
the mayor; and in course of time it began to be received, as a matter of
history, in which form it has continued down to this very day. The believers in
the weathercock tale, having misplaced their confidence once, were not easily
prevailed upon to part with it again, so they looked as wise as they could,
shrugged their shoulders, touched their foreheads, and murmured something about
Gabriel Grub having drunk all the Hollands, and then fallen asleep on the flat
tombstone; and they affected to explain what he supposed he had witnessed in the
goblin's cavern, by saying that he had seen the world, and grown wiser. But this
opinion, which was by no means a popular one at any time, gradually died off;
and be the matter how it may, as Gabriel Grub was afflicted with rheumatism to
the end of his days, this story has at least one moral, if it teach no better
one - and that is, that if a man turn sulky and drink by himself at Christmas
time, he may make up his mind to be not a bit the better for it: let the spirits
be never so good, or let them be even as many degrees beyond proof, as those
which Gabriel Grub saw in the goblin's cavern.«
 

                                  Chapter XXX

 How the Pickwickians Made and Cultivated the Acquaintance of a Couple of Nice
   Young Men Belonging to One of the Liberal Professions; How They Disported
     Themselves on the Ice; and How Their First Visit Came to a Conclusion.

»Well, Sam,« said Mr. Pickwick as that favoured servitor entered his bed-chamber
with his warm water, on the morning of Christmas Day, »Still frosty?«
    »Water in the wash-hand basin's a mask o' ice, sir,« responded Sam.
    »Severe weather, Sam,« observed Mr. Pickwick.
    »Fine time for them as is well wropped up, as the Polar Bear said to
himself, ven he was practising his skating,« replied Mr. Weller.
    »I shall be down in a quarter of an hour, Sam,« said Mr. Pickwick, untying
his nightcap.
    »Wery good, sir,« replied Sam. »There's a couple o' Sawbones down stairs.«
    »A couple of what!« exclaimed Mr. Pickwick, sitting up in bed.
    »A couple o' Sawbones,« said Sam.
    »What's a Sawbones?« inquired Mr. Pickwick, not quite certain whether it was
a live animal, or something to eat.
    »What! Don't you know what a Sawbones is, sir?« inquired Mr. Weller. »I
thought everybody know'd as a Sawbones was a Surgeon.«
    »Oh, a Surgeon, eh?« said Mr. Pickwick, with a smile.
    »Just that, sir,« replied Sam. »These here ones as is below, though, aint
reg'lar thorough-bred Sawbones; they're only in trainin'.«
    »In other words they're Medical Students, I suppose?« said Mr. Pickwick.
    Sam Weller nodded assent.
    »I am glad of it,« said Mr. Pickwick, casting his nightcap energetically on
the counterpane, »They are fine fellows; very fine fellows; with judgments
matured by observation and reflection; tastes refined by reading and study. I am
very glad of it.«
    »They're a smokin' cigars by the kitchen fire,« said Sam.
    »Ah!« observed Mr. Pickwick, rubbing his hands, »overflowing with kindly
feelings and animal spirits. Just what I like to see.«
    »And one on 'em,« said Sam, not noticing his master's interruption, »one on
'em's got his legs on the table, and is a drinkin' brandy neat, vile the t'other
one - him in the barnacles - has got a barrel o' oysters atween his knees, wich
he's a openin' like steam, and as fast as he eats 'em, he takes a aim with the
shells at young dropsy, who's a sittin' down fast asleep, in the chimbley
corner.«
    »Eccentricities of genius, Sam,« said Mr. Pickwick. »You may retire.«
    Sam did retire accordingly; Mr. Pickwick, at the expiration of the quarter
of an hour, went down to breakfast.
    »Here he is at last!« said old Mr. Wardle. »Pickwick, this is Miss Allen's
brother, Mr. Benjamin Allen. Ben we call him, and so may you if you like. This
gentleman is his very particular friend, Mr. -«
    »Mr. Bob Sawyer,« interposed Mr. Benjamin Allen; whereupon Mr. Bob Sawyer
and Mr. Benjamin Allen laughed in concert.
    Mr. Pickwick bowed to Bob Sawyer, and Bob Sawyer bowed to Mr. Pickwick; Bob
and his very particular friend then applied themselves most assiduously to the
eatables before them; and Mr. Pickwick had an opportunity of glancing at them
both.
    Mr. Benjamin Allen was a coarse, stout, thick-set young man, with black hair
cut rather short, and a white face cut rather long. He was embellished with
spectacles, and wore a white neckerchief. Below his single-breasted black
surtout, which was buttoned up to his chin, appeared the usual number of
pepper-and- coloured legs, terminating in a pair of imperfectly polished boots.
Although his coat was short in the sleeves, it disclosed no vestige of a linen
wristband; and although there was quite enough of his face to admit of the
encroachment of a shirt collar, it was not graced by the smallest approach to
that appendage. He presented, altogether, rather a mildewy appearance, and
emitted a fragrant odour of full-flavoured Cubas.
    Mr. Bob Sawyer, who was habited in a coarse blue coat, which, without being
either a great-coat or a surtout, partook of the nature and qualities of both,
had about him that sort of slovenly smartness, and swaggering gait, which is
peculiar to young gentlemen who smoke in the streets by day, shout and scream in
the same by night, call waiters by their Christian names, and do various other
acts and deeds of an equally facetious description. He wore a pair of plaid
trousers, and a large rough double-breasted waistcoat; out of doors, he carried
a thick stick with a big top. He eschewed gloves, and looked, upon the whole,
something like a dissipated Robinson Crusoe.
    Such were the two worthies to whom Mr. Pickwick was introduced, as he took
his seat at the breakfast table on Christmas morning.
    »Splendid morning, gentlemen,« said Mr. Pickwick.
    Mr. Bob Sawyer slightly nodded his assent to the proposition, and asked Mr.
Benjamin Allen for the mustard.
    »Have you come far this morning, gentlemen?« inquired Mr. Pickwick.
    »Blue Lion at Muggleton,« briefly responded Mr. Allen.
    »You should have joined us last night,« said Mr. Pickwick.
    »So we should,« replied Bob Sawyer, »but the brandy was too good to leave in
a hurry: wasn't't it, Ben?«
    »Certainly,« said Mr. Benjamin Allen; »and the cigars were not bad, or the
pork chops either: were they, Bob?«
    »Decidedly not,« said Bob. The particular friends resumed their attack upon
the breakfast, more freely than before, as if the recollection of last night's
supper had imparted a new relish to the meal.
    »Peg away, Bob,« said Mr. Allen to his companion, encouragingly.
    »So I do,« replied Bob Sawyer. And so, to do him justice, he did.
    »Nothing like dissecting, to give one an appetite,« said Mr. Bob Sawyer,
looking round the table.
    Mr. Pickwick slightly shuddered.
    »By the bye, Bob,« said Mr. Allen, »have you finished that leg yet?«
    »Nearly,« replied Sawyer, helping himself to half a fowl as he spoke. »It's
a very muscular one for a child's.«
    »Is it?« inquired Mr. Allen, carelessly.
    »Very,« said Bob Sawyer, with his mouth full.
    »I've put my name down for an arm, at our place,« said Mr. Allen. »We're
clubbing for a subject, and the list is nearly full, only we can't get hold of
any fellow that wants a head. I wish you'd take it.«
    »No,« replied Bob Sawyer; »can't afford expensive luxuries.«
    »Nonsense!« said Allen.
    »Can't indeed,« rejoined Bob Sawyer. »I wouldn't mind a brain, but I
couldn't stand a whole head.«
    »Hush, hush, gentlemen, pray,« said Mr. Pickwick, »I hear the ladies.«
    As Mr. Pickwick spoke, the ladies, gallantly escorted by Messrs. Snodgrass,
Winkle, and Tupman, returned from an early walk.
    »Why, Ben!« said Arabella, in a tone which expressed more surprise than
pleasure at the sight of her brother.
    »Come to take you home to-morrow,« replied Benjamin.
    Mr. Winkle turned pale.
    »Don't you see Bob Sawyer, Arabella?« inquired Mr. Benjamin Allen, somewhat
reproachfully. Arabella gracefully held out her hand, in acknowledgement of Bob
Sawyer's presence. A thrill of hatred struck to Mr. Winkle's heart, as Bob
Sawyer inflicted on the proffered hand a perceptible squeeze.
    »Ben, dear!« said Arabella, blushing; »have - have - you been introduced to
Mr. Winkle?«
    »I have not been, but I shall be very happy to be, Arabella,« replied her
brother gravely. Here Mr. Allen bowed grimly to Mr. Winkle, while Mr. Winkle and
Mr. Bob Sawyer glanced mutual distrust out of the corners of their eyes.
    The arrival of the two new visitors, and the consequent check upon Mr.
Winkle and the young lady with the fur round her boots, would in all probability
have proved a very unpleasant interruption to the hilarity of the party, had not
the cheerfulness of Mr. Pickwick, and the good humour of the host, been exerted
to the very utmost for the common weal. Mr. Winkle gradually insinuated himself
into the good graces of Mr. Benjamin Allen, and even joined in a friendly
conversation with Mr. Bob Sawyer; who, enlivened with the brandy, and the
breakfast, and the talking, gradually ripened into a state of extreme
facetiousness, and related with much glee an agreeable anecdote, about the
removal of a tumour on some gentleman's head: which he illustrated by means of
an oyster-knife and a half-quartern loaf, to the great edification of the
assembled company. Then, the whole train went to church, where Mr. Benjamin
Allen fell fast asleep: while Mr. Bob Sawyer abstracted his thoughts from
worldly matters, by the ingenious process of carving his name on the seat of the
pew, in corpulent letters of four inches long.
    »Now,« said Wardle, after a substantial lunch, with the agreeable items of
strong-beer and cherry-brandy, had been done ample justice to; »what say you to
an hour on the ice? We shall have plenty of time.«
    »Capital!« said Mr. Benjamin Allen.
    »Prime!« ejaculated Mr. Bob Sawyer.
    »You skate, of course, Winkle?« said Wardle.
    »Ye-yes; oh, yes,« replied Mr. Winkle. »I - I - am rather out of practice.«
    »Oh, do skate, Mr. Winkle;« said Arabella. »I like to see it so much.«
    »Oh, it is so graceful,« said another young lady.
    A third young lady said it was elegant, and a fourth expressed her opinion
that it was »swan-like.«
    »I should be very happy, I'm sure,« said Mr. Winkle, reddening; »but I have
no skates.«
    This objection was at once overruled. Trundle had a couple of pair, and the
fat boy announced that there were half-a-dozen more down stairs: whereat Mr.
Winkle expressed exquisite delight, and looked exquisitely uncomfortable.
    Old Wardle led the way to a pretty large sheet of ice; and the fat boy and
Mr. Weller, having shovelled and swept away the snow which had fallen on it
during the night, Mr. Bob Sawyer adjusted his skates with a dexterity which to
Mr. Winkle was perfectly marvellous, and described circles with his left leg,
and cut figures of eight, and inscribed upon the ice, without once stopping for
breath, a great many other pleasant and astonishing devices, to the excessive
satisfaction of Mr. Pickwick, Mr. Tupman, and the ladies: which reached a pitch
of positive enthusiasm, when old Wardle and Benjamin Allen, assisted by the
aforesaid Bob Sawyer, performed some mystic evolutions, which they called a
reel.
    All this time, Mr. Winkle, with his face and hands blue with the cold, had
been forcing a gimlet into the soles of his feet, and putting his skates on,
with the points behind, and getting the straps into a very complicated and
entangled state, with the assistance of Mr. Snodgrass, who knew rather less
about skates than a Hindoo. At length, however, with the assistance of Mr.
Weller, the unfortunate skates were firmly screwed and buckled on, and Mr.
Winkle was raised to his feet.
    »Now, then, sir,« said Sam, in an encouraging tone; »off with you, and show
'em how to do it.«
    »Stop, Sam, stop!« said Mr. Winkle, trembling violently, and clutching hold
of Sam's arms with the grasp of a drowning man. »How slippery it is, Sam!«
    »Not an uncommon thing upon ice, sir,« replied Mr. Weller. »Hold up, sir!«
    This last observation of Mr. Weller's bore reference to a demonstration Mr.
Winkle made at the instant, of a frantic desire to throw his feet in the air,
and dash the back of his head on the ice.
    »These - these - are very awkward skates; ain't they, Sam?« inquired Mr.
Winkle, staggering.
    »I'm afeerd there's a orkard gen'l'm'n in 'em, sir,« replied Sam.
    »Now, Winkle,« cried Mr. Pickwick, quite unconscious that there was anything
the matter. »Come; the ladies are all anxiety.«
    »Yes, yes,« replied Mr. Winkle, with a ghastly smile. »I'm coming.«
    »Just a goin' to begin,« said Sam, endeavouring to disengage himself. »Now,
sir, start off!«
    »Stop an instant, Sam,« gasped Mr. Winkle, clinging most affectionately to
Mr. Weller. »I find I've got a couple of coats at home that I don't want, Sam.
You may have them, Sam.«
    »Thank'ee, sir,« replied Mr. Weller.
    »Never mind touching your hat, Sam,« said Mr. Winkle, hastily. »You needn't
take your hand away to do that. I meant to have given you five shillings this
morning for a Christmas-box, Sam. I'll give it you this afternoon, Sam.«
    »You're very good, sir,« replied Mr. Weller.
    »Just hold me at first, Sam; will you?« said Mr. Winkle. »There - that's
right. I shall soon get in the way of it, Sam. Not too fast, Sam; not too fast.«
    Mr. Winkle stooping forward, with his body half doubled up, was being
assisted over the ice by Mr. Weller, in a very singular and un-swan-like manner,
when Mr. Pickwick most innocently shouted from the opposite bank:
    »Sam!«
    »Sir?«
    »Here. I want you.«
    »Let go, sir,« said Sam. »Don't you hear the governor a callin'? Let go,
sir.«
    With a violent effort, Mr. Weller disengaged himself from the grasp of the
agonised Pickwickian, and, in so doing, administered a considerable impetus to
the unhappy Mr. Winkle. With an accuracy which no degree of dexterity or
practice could have insured, that unfortunate gentleman bore swiftly down into
the centre of the reel, at the very moment when Mr. Bob Sawyer was performing a
flourish of unparalleled beauty. Mr. Winkle struck wildly against him, and with
a loud crash they both fell heavily down. Mr. Pickwick ran to the spot. Bob
Sawyer had risen to his feet, but Mr. Winkle was far too wise to do anything of
the kind, in skates. He was seated on the ice, making spasmodic efforts to
smile; but anguish was depicted on every lineament of his countenance.
    »Are you hurt?« inquired Mr. Benjamin Allen, with great anxiety.
    »Not much,« said Mr. Winkle, rubbing his back very hard.
    »I wish you'd let me bleed you,« said Mr. Benjamin, with great eagerness.
    »No, thank you,« replied Mr. Winkle hurriedly.
    »I really think you had better,« said Allen.
    »Thank you,« replied Mr. Winkle; »I'd rather not.«
    »What do you think, Mr. Pickwick?« inquired Bob Sawyer.
    Mr. Pickwick was excited and indignant. He beckoned to Mr. Weller, and said
in a stern voice, »Take his skates off.«
    »No; but really I had scarcely begun,« remonstrated Mr. Winkle.
    »Take his skates off,« repeated Mr. Pickwick firmly.
    The command was not to be resisted. Mr. Winkle allowed Sam to obey it in
silence.
    »Lift him up,« said Mr. Pickwick. Sam assisted him to rise.
    Mr. Pickwick retired a few paces apart from the by-standers; and, beckoning
his friend to approach, fixed a searching look upon him, and uttered in a low,
but distinct and emphatic tone, these remarkable words:
    »You're a humbug, sir.«
    »A what?« said Mr. Winkle, starting.
    »A humbug, sir. I will speak plainer, if you wish it. An impostor, sir.«
    With those words, Mr. Pickwick turned slowly on his heel, and rejoined his
friends.
    While Mr. Pickwick was delivering himself of the sentiment just recorded,
Mr. Weller and the fat boy, having by their joint endeavours cut out a slide,
were exercising themselves thereupon, in a very masterly and brilliant manner.
Sam Weller, in particular, was displaying that beautiful feat of fancy-sliding
which is currently denominated knocking at the cobbler's door, and which is
achieved by skimming over the ice on one foot, and occasionally giving a
postman's knock upon it with the other. It was a good long slide, and there was
something in the motion which Mr. Pickwick, who was very cold with standing
still, could not help envying.
    »It looks a nice warm exercise that, doesn't't it?« he inquired of Wardle,
when that gentleman was thoroughly out of breath, by reason of the indefatigable
manner in which he had converted his legs into a pair of compasses, and drawn
complicated problems on the ice.
    »Ah, it does indeed,« replied Wardle. »Do you slide?«
    »I used to do so, on the gutters, when I was a boy,« replied Mr. Pickwick.
    »Try it now,« said Wardle.
    »Oh do please, Mr. Pickwick!« cried all the ladies.
    »I should be very happy to afford you any amusement,« replied Mr. Pickwick,
»but I haven't done such a thing these thirty years.«
    »Pooh! pooh! Nonsense!« said Wardle, dragging off his skates with the
impetuosity which characterised all his proceedings. »Here; I'll keep you
company; come along!« And away went the good tempered old fellow down the slide,
with a rapidity which came very close upon Mr. Weller, and beat the fat boy all
to nothing.
    Mr. Pickwick paused, considered, pulled off his gloves and put them in his
hat: took two or three short runs, baulked himself as often, and at last took
another run, and went slowly and gravely down the slide, with his feet about a
yard and a quarter apart, amidst the gratified shouts of all the spectators.
    »Keep the pot a bilin', sir!« said Sam; and down went Wardle again, and then
Mr. Pickwick, and then Sam, and then Mr. Winkle, and then Mr. Bob Sawyer, and
then the fat boy, and then Mr. Snodgrass, following closely upon each other's
heels, and running after each other with as much eagerness as if all their
future prospects in life depended on their expedition.
    It was the most intensely interesting thing, to observe the manner in which
Mr. Pickwick performed his share in the ceremony; to watch the torture of
anxiety with which he viewed the person behind, gaining upon him at the imminent
hazard of tripping him up; to see him gradually expend the painful force he had
put on at first, and turn slowly round on the slide, with his face towards the
point from which he had started; to contemplate the playful smile which mantled
on his face when he had accomplished the distance, and the eagerness with which
he turned round when he had done so, and ran after his predecessor: his black
gaiters tripping pleasantly through the snow, and his eyes beaming cheerfulness
and gladness through his spectacles. And when he was knocked down (which
happened upon the average every third round), it was the most invigorating sight
that can possibly be imagined, to behold him gather up his hat, gloves, and
handkerchief, with a glowing countenance, and resume his station in the rank,
with an ardour and enthusiasm that nothing could abate.
    The sport was at its height, the sliding was at the quickest, the laughter
was at the loudest, when a sharp smart crack was heard. There was a quick rush
towards the bank, a wild scream from the ladies, and a shout from Mr. Tupman. A
large mass of ice disappeared; the water bubbled up over it; Mr. Pickwick's hat,
gloves, and handkerchief were floating on the surface; and this was all of Mr.
Pickwick that anybody could see.
    Dismay and anguish were depicted on every countenance, the males turned
pale, and the females fainted, Mr. Snodgrass and Mr. Winkle grasped each other
by the hand, and gazed at the spot where their leader had gone down, with
frenzied eagerness: while Mr. Tupman, by way of rendering the promptest
assistance, and at the same time conveying to any persons who might be within
hearing, the clearest possible notion of the catastrophe, ran off across the
country at his utmost speed, screaming »Fire!« with all his might.
    It was at this moment, when old Wardle and Sam Weller were approaching the
hole with cautious steps, and Mr. Benjamin Allen was holding a hurried
consultation with Mr. Bob Sawyer, on the advisability of bleeding the company
generally, as an improving little bit of professional practice - it was at this
very moment, that a face, head, and shoulders, emerged from beneath the water,
and disclosed the features and spectacles of Mr. Pickwick.
    »Keep yourself up for an instant - for only one instant!« bawled Mr.
Snodgrass.
    »Yes, do; let me implore you - for my sake!« roared Mr. Winkle, deeply
affected. The adjuration was rather unnecessary; the probability being, that if
Mr. Pickwick had declined to keep himself up for anybody else's sake, it would
have occurred to him that he might as well do so, for his own.
    »Do you feel the bottom there, old fellow?« said Wardle.
    »Yes, certainly,« replied Mr. Pickwick, wringing the water from his head and
face, and gasping for breath. »I fell upon my back. I couldn't get on my feet at
first.«
    The clay upon so much of Mr. Pickwick's coat as was yet visible, bore
testimony to the accuracy of this statement; and as the fears of the spectators
were still further relieved by the fat boy's suddenly recollecting that the
water was nowhere more than five feet deep, prodigies of valour were performed
to get him out. After a vast quantity of splashing, and cracking, and
struggling, Mr. Pickwick was at length fairly extricated from his unpleasant
position, and once more stood on dry land.
    »Oh, he'll catch his death of cold,« said Emily.
    »Dear old thing!« said Arabella. »Let me wrap this shawl round you, Mr.
Pickwick.«
    »Ah, that's the best thing you can do,« said Wardle; »and when you've got it
on, run home as fast as your legs can carry you, and jump into bed directly.«
    A dozen shawls were offered on the instant. Three or four of the thickest
having been selected, Mr. Pickwick was wrapped up, and started off, under the
guidance of Mr. Weller: presenting the singular phenomenon of an elderly
gentleman, dripping wet, and without a hat, with his arms bound down to his
sides, skimming over the ground, without any clearly defined purpose, at the
rate of six good English miles an hour.
    But Mr. Pickwick cared not for appearances in such an extreme case, and
urged on by Sam Weller, he kept at the very top of his speed until he reached
the door of Manor Farm, where Mr. Tupman had arrived some five minutes before,
and had frightened the old lady into palpitations of the heart by impressing her
with the unalterable conviction that the kitchen chimney was on fire - a
calamity which always presented itself in glowing colours to the old lady's
mind, when anybody about her evinced the smallest agitation.
    Mr. Pickwick paused not an instant until he was snug in bed. Sam Weller
lighted a blazing fire in the room, and took up his dinner; a bowl of punch was
carried up afterwards, and a grand carouse held in honour of his safety. Old
Wardle would not hear of his rising, so they made the bed the chair, and Mr.
Pickwick presided. A second and a third bowl were ordered in; and when Mr.
Pickwick awoke next morning, there was not a symptom of rheumatism about him:
which proves, as Mr. Bob Sawyer very justly observed, that there is nothing like
hot punch in such cases: and that if ever hot punch did fail to act as a
preventive, it was merely because the patient fell into the vulgar error of not
taking enough of it.
    The jovial party broke up next morning. Breakings up are capital things in
our school days, but in after life they are painful enough. Death,
self-interest, and fortune's changes, are every day breaking up many a happy
group, and scattering them far and wide; and the boys and girls never come back
again. We do not mean to say that it was exactly the case in this particular
instance; all we wish to inform the reader is, that the different members of the
party dispersed to their several homes; that Mr. Pickwick and his friends once
more took their seats on the top of the Muggleton coach; and that Arabella Allen
repaired to her place of destination, wherever it might have been - we dare say
Mr. Winkle knew, but we confess we don't - under the care and guardianship of
her brother Benjamin, and his most intimate and particular friend, Mr. Bob
Sawyer.
    Before they separated, however, that gentleman and Mr. Benjamin Allen drew
Mr. Pickwick aside with an air of some mystery: and Mr. Bob Sawyer thrusting his
forefinger between two of Mr. Pickwick's ribs, and thereby displaying his native
drollery, and his knowledge of the anatomy of the human frame, at one and the
same time, inquired:
    »I say, old boy, where do you hang out?«
    Mr. Pickwick replied that he was at present suspended at the George and
Vulture.
    »I wish you'd come and see me,« said Bob Sawyer.
    »Nothing would give me greater pleasure,« replied Mr. Pickwick.
    »There's my lodgings,« said Mr. Bob Sawyer, producing a card. »Lant Street,
Borough; it's near Guy's, and handy for me, you know. Little distance after
you've passed Saint George's Church - turns out of the High Street on the right
hand side the way.«
    »I shall find it,« said Mr. Pickwick.
    »Come on Thursday fortnight, and bring the other chaps with you,« said Mr.
Bob Sawyer, »I'm going to have a few medical fellows that night.«
    Mr. Pickwick expressed the pleasure it would afford him to meet the medical
fellows; and after Mr. Bob Sawyer had informed him that he meant to be very
cosey, and that his friend Ben was to be one of the party, they shook hands and
separated.
    We feel that in this place we lay ourself open to the inquiry whether Mr.
Winkle was whispering, during this brief conversation, to Arabella Allen; and if
so, what he said; and furthermore, whether Mr. Snodgrass was conversing apart
with Emily Wardle; and if so, what he said. To this, we reply, that whatever
they might have said to the ladies, they said nothing at all to Mr. Pickwick or
Mr. Tupman for eight-and-twenty miles, and that they sighed very often, refused
ale and brandy, and looked gloomy. If our observant lady readers can deduce any
satisfactory inferences from these facts, we beg them by all means to do so.
 

                                  Chapter XXXI

   Which Is All About the Law, and Sundry Great Authorities Learned Therein.

Scattered about, in various holes and corners of the Temple, are certain dark
and dirty chambers, in and out of which, all the morning in Vacation, and half
the evening too in Term time, there may be seen constantly hurrying with bundles
of papers under their arms, and protruding from their pockets, an almost
uninterrupted succession of Lawyers' Clerks. There are several grades of
Lawyers' Clerks. There is the Articled Clerk, who has paid a premium, and is an
attorney in perspective, who runs a tailor's bill, receives invitations to
parties, knows a family in Gower Street, and another in Tavistock Square: who
goes out of town every Long Vacation to see his father, who keeps live horses
innumerable; and who is, in short, the very aristocrat of clerks. There is the
salaried clerk - out of door, or in door, as the case may be - who devotes the
major part of his thirty shillings a week to his personal pleasure and
adornment, repairs half-price to the Adelphi Theatre at least three times a
week, dissipates majestically at the cider cellars afterwards, and is a dirty
caricature of the fashion which expired six months ago. There is the middle-aged
copying clerk, with a large family, who is always shabby, and often drunk. And
there are the office lads in their first surtouts, who feel a befitting contempt
for boys at day-schools: club as they go home at night, for saveloys and porter:
and think there's nothing like life. There are varieties of the genus, too
numerous to recapitulate, but however numerous they may be, they are all to be
seen, at certain regulated business hours, hurrying to and from the places we
have just mentioned.
    These sequestered nooks are the public offices of the legal profession,
where writs are issued, judgments signed, declarations filed, and numerous other
ingenious machines put in motion for the torture and torment of His Majesty's
liege subjects, and the comfort and emolument of the practitioners of the law.
They are, for the most part, low-roofed, mouldy rooms, where innumerable rolls
of parchment, which have been perspiring in secret for the last century, send
forth an agreeable odour, which is mingled by day with the scent of the dry rot,
and by night with the various exhalations which arise from damp cloaks,
festering umbrellas, and the coarsest tallow candles.
    About half-past seven o'clock in the evening, some ten days or a fortnight
after Mr. Pickwick and his friends returned to London, there hurried into one of
these offices, an individual in a brown coat and brass buttons, whose long hair
was scrupulously twisted round the rim of his napless hat, and whose soiled drab
trousers were so tightly strapped over his Blucher boots, that his knees
threatened every moment to start from their concealment. He produced from his
coat pockets a long and narrow strip of parchment, on which the presiding
functionary impressed an illegible black stamp. He then drew forth four scraps
of paper, of similar dimensions, each containing a printed copy of the strip of
parchment with blanks for a name; and having filled up the blanks, put all the
five documents in his pocket, and hurried away.
    The man in the brown coat, with the cabalistic documents in his pocket, was
no other than our old acquaintance Mr. Jackson, of the house of Dodson and Fogg,
Freeman's Court, Cornhill. Instead of returning to the office from whence he
came, however, he bent his steps direct to Sun Court, and walking straight into
the George and Vulture, demanded to know whether one Mr. Pickwick was within.
    »Call Mr. Pickwick's servant, Tom,« said the barmaid of the George and
Vulture.
    »Don't trouble yourself,« said Mr. Jackson, »I've come on business. If
you'll show me Mr. Pickwick's room I'll step up myself.«
    »What name, sir?« said the waiter.
    »Jackson,« replied the clerk.
    The waiter stepped up stairs to announce Mr. Jackson; but Mr. Jackson saved
him the trouble by following close at his heels, and walking into the apartment
before he could articulate a syllable.
    Mr. Pickwick had, that day, invited his three friends to dinner; they were
all seated round the fire, drinking their wine, when Mr. Jackson presented
himself, as above described.
    »How de do, sir?« said Mr. Jackson, nodding to Mr. Pickwick.
    That gentleman bowed, and looked somewhat surprised, for the physiognomy of
Mr. Jackson dwelt not in his recollection.
    »I have called from Dodson and Fogg's,« said Mr. Jackson, in an explanatory
tone.
    Mr. Pickwick roused at the name. »I refer you to my attorney, sir: Mr.
Perker, of Gray's Inn,« said he. »Waiter, show this gentleman out.«
    »Beg your pardon, Mr. Pickwick,« said Jackson, deliberately depositing his
hat on the floor, and drawing from his pocket the strip of parchment. »But
personal service, by clerk or agent, in these cases, you know, Mr. Pickwick -
nothing like caution, sir, in all legal forms?«
    Here Mr. Jackson cast his eye on the parchment; and, resting his hands on
the table, and looking round with a winning and persuasive smile, said: »Now,
come; don't let's have no words about such a little matter as this. Which of you
gentlemen's name's Snodgrass?«
    At this inquiry Mr. Snodgrass gave such a very undisguised and palpable
start, that no further reply was needed.
    »Ah! I thought so,« said Mr. Jackson, more affably than before. »I've got a
little something to trouble you with, sir.«
    »Me!« exclaimed Mr. Snodgrass.
    »It's only a subpoena in Bardell and Pickwick on behalf of the plaintiff,«
replied Jackson, singling out one of the slips of paper, and producing a
shilling from his waistcoat pocket. »It'll come on, in the settens after Term;
fourteenth of Febooary, we expect; we've marked it a special jury cause, and
it's only ten down the paper. That's yours, Mr. Snodgrass.« As Jackson said this
he presented the parchment before the eyes of Mr. Snodgrass, and slipped the
paper and the shilling into his hand.
    Mr. Tupman had witnessed this process in silent astonishment, when Jackson,
turning sharply upon him, said:
    »I think I ain't mistaken when I say your name's Tupman, am I?«
    Mr. Tupman looked at Mr. Pickwick; but, perceiving no encouragement in that
gentleman's widely-opened eyes to deny his name, said:
    »Yes, my name is Tupman, sir.«
    »And that other gentleman's Mr. Winkle, I think?« said Jackson.
    Mr. Winkle faltered out a reply in the affirmative; and both gentlemen were
forthwith invested with a slip of paper, and a shilling each, by the dexterous
Mr. Jackson.
    »Now,« said Jackson, »I'm afraid you'll think me rather troublesome, but I
want somebody else, if it ain't inconvenient. I have Samuel Weller's name here,
Mr. Pickwick.«
    »Send my servant here, waiter,« said Mr. Pickwick. The waiter retired,
considerably astonished, and Mr. Pickwick motioned Jackson to a seat.
    There was a painful pause, which was at length broken by the innocent
defendant.
    »I suppose, sir,« said Mr. Pickwick, his indignation rising while he spoke;
»I suppose, sir, that it is the intention of your employers to seek to criminate
me upon the testimony of my own friends?«
    Mr. Jackson struck his forefinger several times against the left side of his
nose, to intimate that he was not there to disclose the secrets of the
prison-house, and playfully rejoined:
    »Not knowin', can't say.«
    »For what other reason, sir,« pursued Mr. Pickwick, »are these subpoenas
served upon them, if not for this?«
    »Very good plant, Mr. Pickwick,« replied Jackson, slowly shaking his head.
»But it won't do. No harm in trying, but there's little to be got out of me.«
    Here Mr. Jackson smiled once more upon the company, and, applying his left
thumb to the tip of his nose, worked a visionary coffee-mill with his right
hand: thereby performing a very graceful piece of pantomime (then much in vogue,
but now, unhappily, almost obsolete) which was familiarly denominated »taking a
grinder.«
    »No, no, Mr. Pickwick,« said Jackson, in conclusion; »Perker's people must
guess what we've served these subpoenas for. If they can't, they must wait till
the action comes on, and then they'll find out.«
    Mr. Pickwick bestowed a look of excessive disgust on his unwelcome visitor,
and would probably have hurled some tremendous anathema at the heads of Messrs.
Dodson and Fogg, had not Sam's entrance at the instant interrupted him.
    »Samuel Weller?« said Mr. Jackson, inquiringly.
    »Vun o' the truest things as you've said for many a long year,« replied Sam,
in a most composed manner.
    »Here's a subpoena for you, Mr. Weller,« said Jackson.
    »What's that in English?« inquired Sam.
    »Here's the original,« said Jackson, declining the required explanation.
    »Which?« said Sam.
    »This,« replied Jackson, shaking the parchment.
    »Oh, that's the 'rig'nal, is it?« said Sam. »Well, I'm very glad I've seen
the 'rig'nal, cos it's a gratifyin' sort o' thing, and eases vun's mind so
much.«
    »And here's the shilling,« said Jackson. »It's from Dodson and Fogg's.«
    »And it's uncommon handsome o' Dodson and Fogg, as knows so little of me, to
come down with a present,« said Sam. »I feel it as a very high compliment, sir;
it's a very hon'rable thing to them, as they knows how to reward merit werever
they meets it. Besides wich, it's affectin' to one's feelin's.«
    As Mr. Weller said this, he inflicted a little friction on his right
eye-lid, with the sleeve of his coat, after the most approved manner of actors
when they are in domestic pathetics.
    Mr. Jackson seemed rather puzzled by Sam's proceedings; but, as he had
served the subpoenas, and had nothing more to say, he made a feint of putting on
the one glove which he usually carried in his hand, for the sake of appearances;
and returned to the office to report progress.
    Mr. Pickwick slept little that night; his memory had received a very
disagreeable refresher on the subject of Mrs. Bardell's action. He breakfasted
betimes next morning, and, desiring Sam to accompany him, set forth towards
Gray's Inn Square.
    »Sam!« said Mr. Pickwick, looking round, when they got to the end of
Cheapside.
    »Sir?« said Sam, stepping up to his master.
    »Which way?«
    »Up Newgate Street.«
    Mr. Pickwick did not turn round immediately, but looked vacantly in Sam's
face for a few seconds, and heaved a deep sigh.
    »What's the matter, sir?« inquired Sam.
    »This action, Sam,« said Mr. Pickwick, »is expected to come on, on the
fourteenth of next month.«
    »Remarkable coincidence that 'ere, sir,« replied Sam.
    »Why remarkable, Sam?« inquired Mr. Pickwick.
    »Walentine's day, sir,« responded Sam; »reg'lar good day for a breach o'
promise trial.«
    Mr. Weller's smile awakened no gleam of mirth in his master's countenance.
Mr. Pickwick turned abruptly round, and led the way in silence.
    They had walked some distance: Mr. Pickwick trotting on before, plunged in
profound meditation, and Sam following behind, with a countenance expressive of
the most enviable and easy defiance of everything and everybody: when the
latter, who was always especially anxious to impart to his master any exclusive
information he possessed, quickened his pace until he was close at Mr.
Pickwick's heels; and, pointing up at a house they were passing, said:
    »Wery nice pork-shop that 'ere, sir.«
    »Yes, it seems so,« said Mr. Pickwick.
    »Celebrated Sassage factory,« said Sam.
    »Is it?« said Mr. Pickwick.
    »Is it!« reiterated Sam, with some indignation; »I should rather think it
was. Why, sir, bless your innocent eyebrows, that's where the mysterious
disappearance of a 'spectable tradesman took place four year ago.«
    »You don't mean to say he was burked, Sam?« said Mr. Pickwick, looking
hastily round.
    »No, I don't indeed, sir,« replied Mr. Weller, »I wish I did; far worse than
that. He was the master o' that 'ere shop, sir, and the inwenter o' the
patent-never-leavin'-off sassage steam ingine, as ud swaller up a pavin' stone
if you put it too near, and grind it into sassages as easy as if it was a tender
young babby. Wery proud o' that machine he was, as it was nat'ral he should be,
and he'd stand down in the celler a looking' at it wen it was in full play, till
he got quite melancholy with joy. A very happy man he'd ha' been, sir, in the
procession o' that 'ere ingine and two more lovely hinfants besides, if it
hadn't been for his wife, who was a most ow-dacious wixin. She was always a
follerin' him about, and dinnin' in his ears, 'till at last he couldn't stand it
no longer. I'll tell you what it is, my dear, he says one day; if you persewere
in this here sort of amusement, he says, I'm blessed if I don't go away to
'Merriker; and that's all about it. You're a idle willin, says she, and I wish
the 'Merrikins joy of their bargain. Arter wich she keeps on abusin' of him for
half an hour, and then runs into the little parlour behind the shop, sets to a
screamin', says he'll be the death on her, and falls in a fit, which lasts for
three good hours - one o' them fits wich is all screamin' and kickin'. Well,
next mornin', the husband was missin'. He hadn't taken nothing' from the till, -
hadn't even put on his great-coat - so it was quite clear he warn't gone to
'Merriker. Didn't come back next day; didn't come back next week; Missis had
bills printed, saying' that, if he'd come back, he should be forgiven everythin'
(which was very liberal, seein' that he hadn't done nothing' at all); the canals
was dragged, and for two months artervards, wenever a body turned up, it was
carried, as a reg'lar thing, straight off to the sassage shop. Hows'ever, none
on 'em answered; so they gave out that he'd run away, and she kept on the
bis'ness. One Saturday night, a little thin old gen'l'm'n comes into the shop in
a great passion and says, Are you the missis o' this here shop? Yes, I am, says
she. Well, ma'am, says he, then I've just looked in to say that me and my family
ain't a goin' to be choked for nothing'; and more than that, ma'am, he says,
you'll allow me to observe, that as you don't use the primest parts of the meat
in the manafacter o' sassages, I think you'd find beef come nearly as cheap as
buttons. As buttons, sir! says she. Buttons, ma'am, says the little old
gentleman, unfolding a bit of paper, and shewin' twenty or thirty halves o'
buttons. Nice seasonin' for sassages, is trousers' buttons, ma'am. They're my
husband's buttons! says the widder, beginnin' to faint. What! screams the little
old gen'l'm'n, turnin' very pale. I see it all, says the widder; in a fit of
temporary insanity he rashly converted his-self into sassages! And so he had,
sir,« said Mr. Weller, looking steadily into Mr. Pickwick's horror-stricken
countenance, »or else he'd been draw'd into the ingine; but however that might
ha' been, the little old gen'l'm'n, who had been remarkably partial to sassages
all his life, rushed out o' the shop in a wild state, and was never heard on
artervards!«
    The relation of this affecting incident of private life brought master and
man to Mr. Perker's chambers. Lowten, holding the door half open, was in
conversation with a rustily-clad, miserable-looking man, in boots without toes
and gloves without fingers. There were traces of privation and suffering -
almost of despair - in his lank and care-worn countenance; he felt his poverty,
for he shrunk to the dark side of the staircase as Mr. Pickwick approached.
    »It's very unfortunate,« said the stranger, with a sigh.
    »Very,« said Lowten, scribbling his name on the door-post with his pen, and
rubbing it out again with the feather. »Will you leave a message for him?«
    »When do you think he'll be back?« inquired the stranger.
    »Quite uncertain,« replied Lowten, winking at Mr. Pickwick, as the stranger
cast his eyes towards the ground.
    »You don't think it would be of any use my waiting for him?« said the
stranger, looking wistfully into the office.
    »Oh no, I'm sure it wouldn't,« replied the clerk, moving a little more into
the centre of the door-way. »He's certain not to be back this week, and it's a
chance whether he will be next; for when Perker once gets out of town, he's
never in a hurry to come back again.«
    »Out of town!« said Mr. Pickwick; »dear me, how unfortunate!«
    »Don't go away, Mr. Pickwick,« said Lowten, »I've got a letter for you.« The
stranger seeming to hesitate, once more looked towards the ground, and the clerk
winked slyly at Mr. Pickwick, as if to intimate that some exquisite piece of
humour was going forward, though what it was Mr. Pickwick could not for the life
of him divine.
    »Step in, Mr. Pickwick,« said Lowten. »Well, will you leave a message, Mr.
Watty, or will you call again?«
    »Ask him to be so kind as to leave out word what has been done in my
business,« said the man; »for God's sake don't neglect it, Mr. Lowten.«
    »No, no; I won't forget it,« replied the clerk. »Walk in, Mr. Pickwick. Good
morning, Mr. Watty; it's a fine day for walking, isn't it?« Seeing that the
stranger still lingered, he beckoned Sam Weller to follow his master in, and
shut the door in his face.
    »There never was such a pestering bankrupt as that since the world began, I
do believe!« said Lowten, throwing down his pen with the air of an injured man.
»His affairs haven't been in Chancery quite four years yet, and I'm d-d if he
don't come worrying here twice a week. Step this way, Mr. Pickwick. Perker is
in, and he'll see you, I know. Devilish cold,« he added, pettishly, »standing at
that door, wasting one's time with such seedy vagabonds!« Having very vehemently
stirred a particularly large fire with a particularly small poker, the clerk led
the way to his principal's private room, and announced Mr. Pickwick.
    »Ah, my dear sir,« said little Mr. Perker, bustling up from his chair.
»Well, my dear sir, and what's the news about your matter, eh? Anything more
about our friends in Freeman's Court? They've not been sleeping, I know that.
Ah, they're very smart fellows; very smart, indeed.«
    As the little man concluded, he took an emphatic pinch of snuff, as a
tribute to the smartness of Messrs. Dodson and Fogg.
    »They are great scoundrels,« said Mr. Pickwick.
    »Aye, aye,« said the little man; »that's a matter of opinion, you know, and
we won't dispute about terms; because of course you can't be expected to view
these subjects with a professional eye. Well, we've done everything that's
necessary. I have retained Serjeant Snubbin.«
    »Is he a good man?« inquired Mr. Pickwick.
    »Good man!« replied Perker; »bless your heart and soul, my dear sir,
Serjeant Snubbin is at the very top of his profession. Gets treble the business
of any man in court - engaged in every case. You needn't mention it abroad; but
we say - we of the profession - that Serjeant Snubbin leads the court by the
nose.«
    The little man took another pinch of snuff as he made this communication,
and nodded mysteriously to Mr. Pickwick.
    »They have subpoena'd my three friends,« said Mr. Pickwick.
    »Ah! of course they would,« replied Perker. »Important witnesses; saw you in
a delicate situation.«
    »But she fainted of her own accord,« said Mr. Pickwick. »She threw herself
into my arms.«
    »Very likely, my dear sir,« replied Perker; »very likely and very natural.
Nothing more so, my dear sir, nothing. But who's to prove it?«
    »They have subpoena'd my servant too,« said Mr. Pickwick, quitting the other
point; for there Mr. Perker's question had somewhat staggered him.
    »Sam?« said Perker.
    Mr. Pickwick replied in the affirmative.
    »Of course, my dear sir; of course. I knew they would. I could have told you
that, a month ago. You know, my dear sir, if you will take the management of
your affairs into your own hands after intrusting them to your solicitor, you
must also take the consequences.« Here Mr. Perker drew himself up with conscious
dignity, and brushed some stray grains of snuff from his shirt frill.
    »And what do they want him to prove?« asked Mr. Pickwick, after two or three
minutes' silence.
    »That you sent him up to the plaintiff's to make some offer of a compromise,
I suppose,« replied Perker. »It don't matter much, though; I don't think many
counsel could get a great deal out of him.«
    »I don't think they could,« said Mr. Pickwick; smiling, despite his
vexation, at the idea of Sam's appearance as a witness. »What course do we
pursue?«
    »We have only one to adopt, my dear sir,« replied Perker; »cross-examine the
witnesses; trust to Snubbin's eloquence; throw dust in the eyes of the judge;
throw ourselves on the jury.«
    »And suppose the verdict is against me?« said Mr. Pickwick.
    Mr. Perker smiled, took a very long pinch of snuff, stirred the fire,
shrugged his shoulders, and remained expressively silent.
    »You mean that in that case I must pay the damages?« said Mr. Pickwick, who
had watched this telegraphic answer with considerable sternness.
    Perker gave the fire another very unnecessary poke, and said »I am afraid
so.«
    »Then I beg to announce to you, my unalterable determination to pay no
damages whatever,« said Mr. Pickwick, most emphatically. »None, Perker. Not a
pound, not a penny, of my money, shall find its way into the pockets of Dodson
and Fogg. That is my deliberate and irrevocable determination.« Mr. Pickwick
gave a heavy blow on the table before him, in confirmation of the irrevocability
of his intention.
    »Very well, my dear sir, very well,« said Perker. »You know best, of
course.«
    »Of course,« replied Mr. Pickwick hastily. »Where does Serjeant Snubbin
live?«
    »In Lincoln's Inn Old Square,« replied Perker.
    »I should like to see him,« said Mr. Pickwick.
    »See Serjeant Snubbin, my dear sir!« rejoined Perker, in utter amazement.
»Pooh, pooh, my dear sir, impossible. See Serjeant Snubbin! Bless you, my dear
sir, such a thing was never heard of, without a consultation fee being
previously paid, and a consultation fixed. It couldn't be done, my dear sir; it
couldn't be done.«
    Mr. Pickwick, however, had made up his mind not only that it could be done,
but that it should be done; and the consequence was, that within ten minutes
after he had received the assurance that the thing was impossible, he was
conducted by his solicitor into the outer office of the great Serjeant Snubbin
himself.
    It was an uncarpeted room of tolerable dimensions, with a large
writing-table drawn up near the fire: the baize top of which had long since lost
all claim to its original hue of green, and had gradually grown grey with dust
and age, except where all traces of its natural colour were obliterated by
ink-stains. Upon the table were numerous little bundles of papers tied with red
tape; and behind it, sat an elderly clerk, whose sleek appearance, and heavy
gold watch-chain, presented imposing indications of the extensive and lucrative
practice of Mr. Serjeant Snubbin.
    »Is the Serjeant in his room, Mr. Mallard?« inquired Perker, offering his
box with all imaginable courtesy.
    »Yes, he is,« was the reply, »but he's very busy. Look here; not an opinion
given yet, on any one of these cases; and an expedition fee paid with all of
'em.« The clerk smiled as he said this, and inhaled the pinch of snuff with a
zest which seemed to be compounded of a fondness for snuff and a relish for
fees.
    »Something like practice that,« said Perker.
    »Yes,« said the barrister's clerk, producing his own box, and offering it
with the greatest cordiality; »and the best of it is, that as nobody alive
except myself can read the Serjeant's writing, they are obliged to wait for the
opinions, when he has given them, till I have copied 'em, ha - ha - ha!«
    »Which makes good for we know who, besides the Serjeant, and draws a little
more out of the clients, eh?« said Perker; »Ha, ha, ha!« At this the Serjeant's
clerk laughed again; not a noisy boisterous laugh, but a silent, internal
chuckle, which Mr. Pickwick disliked to hear. When a man bleeds inwardly, it is
a dangerous thing for himself; but when he laughs inwardly, it bodes no good to
other people.
    »You haven't made me out that little list of the fees that I'm in your debt,
have you?« said Perker.
    »No, I have not,« replied the clerk.
    »I wish you would,« said Perker. »Let me have them, and I'll send you a
cheque. But I suppose you're too busy pocketing the ready money, to think of the
debtors, eh? ha, ha, ha!« This sally seemed to tickle the clerk amazingly, and
he once more enjoyed a little quiet laugh to himself.
    »But, Mr. Mallard, my dear friend,« said Perker, suddenly recovering his
gravity, and drawing the great man's great man into a corner, by the lappel of
his coat; »you must persuade the Serjeant to see me, and my client here.«
    »Come, come,« said the clerk, »that's not bad either. See the Serjeant!
come, that's too absurd.« Notwithstanding the absurdity of the proposal,
however, the clerk allowed himself to be gently drawn beyond the hearing of Mr.
Pickwick; and after a short conversation conducted in whispers, walked softly
down a little dark passage, and disappeared into the legal luminary's sanctum:
whence he shortly returned on tiptoe, and informed Mr. Perker and Mr. Pickwick
that the Serjeant had been prevailed upon, in violation of all established rules
and customs, to admit them at once.
    Mr. Serjeant Snubbin was a lantern-faced, sallow-complexioned man, of about
five-and-forty, or - as the novels say - he might be fifty. He had that
dull-looking boiled eye which is often to be seen in the heads of people who
have applied themselves during many years to a weary and laborious course of
study; and which would have been sufficient, without the additional eye-glass
which dangled from a broad black riband round his neck, to warn a stranger that
he was very near-sighted. His hair was thin and weak, which was partly
attributable to his having never devoted much time to its arrangement, and
partly to his having worn for five-and-twenty years the forensic wig which hung
on a block beside him. The marks of hair-powder on his coat-collar, and the
ill-washed and worse tied white handkerchief round his throat, showed that he
had not found leisure since he left the court to make any alteration in his
dress: while the slovenly style of the remainder of his costume warranted the
inference that his personal appearance would not have been very much improved if
he had. Books of practice, heaps of papers, and opened letters, were scattered
over the table, without any attempt at order or arrangement; the furniture of
the room was old and ricketty; the doors of the book-case were rotting on their
hinges; the dust flew out from the carpet in little clouds at every step; the
blinds were yellow with age and dirt; the state of everything in the room
showed, with a clearness not to be mistaken, that Mr. Serjeant Snubbin was far
too much occupied with his professional pursuits to take any great heed or
regard of his personal comforts.
    The Serjeant was writing when his clients entered; he bowed abstractedly
when Mr. Pickwick was introduced by his solicitor; and then, motioning them to a
seat, put his pen carefully in the inkstand, nursed his left leg, and waited to
be spoken to.
    »Mr. Pickwick is the defendant in Bardell and Pickwick, Serjeant Snubbin,«
said Perker.
    »I am retained in that, am I?« said the Serjeant.
    »You are, sir,« replied Perker.
    The Serjeant nodded his head, and waited for something else.
    »Mr. Pickwick was anxious to call upon you, Serjeant Snubbin,« said Perker,
»to state to you, before you entered upon the case, that he denies there being
any ground or pretence whatever for the action against him; and that unless he
came into court with clean hands, and without the most conscientious conviction
that he was right in resisting the plaintiff's demand, he would not be there at
all. I believe I state your views correctly; do I not, my dear sir?« said the
little man, turning to Mr. Pickwick.
    »Quite so,« replied that gentleman.
    Mr. Serjeant Snubbin unfolded his glasses, raised them to his eyes; and,
after looking at Mr. Pickwick for a few seconds with great curiosity, turned to
Mr. Perker, and said, smiling slightly as he spoke:
    »Has Mr. Pickwick a strong case?«
    The attorney shrugged his shoulders.
    »Do you purpose calling witnesses?«
    »No.«
    The smile on the Serjeant's countenance became more defined; he rocked his
leg with increased violence; and, throwing himself back in his easy-chair,
coughed dubiously.
    These tokens of the Serjeant's presentiments on the subject, slight as they
were, were not lost on Mr. Pickwick. He settled the spectacles, through which he
had attentively regarded such demonstrations of the barrister's feelings as he
had permitted himself to exhibit, more firmly on his nose; and said with great
energy, and in utter disregard of all Mr. Perker's admonitory winkings and
frownings:
    »My wishing to wait upon you, for such a purpose as this, sir, appears, I
have no doubt, to a gentleman who sees so much of these matters as you must
necessarily do, a very extraordinary circumstance.«
    The Serjeant tried to look gravely at the fire, but the smile came back
again.
    »Gentlemen of your profession, sir,« continued Mr. Pickwick, »see the worst
side of human nature. All its disputes, all its ill-will and bad blood, rise up
before you. You know from your experience of juries (I mean no disparagement to
you, or them) how much depends upon effect: and you are apt to attribute to
others, a desire to use, for purposes of deception and self-interest, the very
instruments which you, in pure honesty and honour of purpose, and with a
laudable desire to do your utmost for your client, know the temper and worth of
so well, from constantly employing them yourselves. I really believe that to
this circumstance may be attributed the vulgar but very general notion of your
being, as a body, suspicious, distrustful, and over-cautious. Conscious as I am,
sir, of the disadvantage of making such a declaration to you, under such
circumstances, I have come here, because I wish you distinctly to understand, as
my friend Mr. Perker has said, that I am innocent of the falsehood laid to my
charge; and although I am very well aware of the inestimable value of your
assistance, sir, I must beg to add, that unless you sincerely believe this, I
would rather be deprived of the aid of your talents than have the advantage of
them.«
    Long before the close of this address, which we are bound to say was of a
very prosy character for Mr. Pickwick, the Serjeant had relapsed into a state of
abstraction. After some minutes, however, during which he had reassumed his pen,
he appeared to be again aware of the presence of his clients; raising his head
from the paper, he said, rather snappishly,
    »Who is with me in this case?«
    »Mr. Phunky, Serjeant Snubbin,« replied the attorney.
    »Phunky, Phunky,« said the Serjeant, »I never heard the name before. He must
be a very young man.«
    »Yes, he is a very young man,« replied the attorney. »He was only called the
other day. Let me see - he has not been at the Bar eight years yet.«
    »Ah, I thought not,« said the Sergeant, in that sort of pitying tone in
which ordinary folks would speak of a very helpless little child. »Mr. Mallard,
send round to Mr. - Mr. -.«
    »Phunky's - Holborn Court, Gray's Inn,« interposed Perker. (Holborn Court,
by the bye, is South Square now). »Mr. Phunky, and say I should be glad if he'd
step here, a moment.«
    Mr. Mallard departed to execute his commission; and Serjeant Snubbin
relapsed into abstraction until Mr. Phunky himself was introduced.
    Although an infant barrister, he was a full-grown man. He had a very nervous
manner, and a painful hesitation in his speech; it did not appear to be a
natural defect, but seemed rather the result of timidity, arising from the
consciousness of being kept down by want of means, or interest, or connexion, or
impudence, as the case might be. He was overawed by the Serjeant, and profoundly
courteous to the attorney.
    »I have not had the pleasure of seeing you before, Mr. Phunky,« said
Serjeant Snubbin, with haughty condescension.
    Mr. Phunky bowed. He had had the pleasure of seeing the Serjeant, and of
envying him too, with all a poor man's envy, for eight years and a quarter.
    »You are with me in this case, I understand?« said the Serjeant.
    If Mr. Phunky had been a rich man, he would have instantly sent for his
clerk to remind him; if he had been a wise one, he would have applied his
fore-finger to his forehead, and endeavoured to recollect, whether, in the
multiplicity of his engagements he had undertaken this one, or not; but as he
was neither rich nor wise (in this sense at all events) he turned red, and
bowed.
    »Have you read the papers, Mr. Phunky?« inquired the Serjeant.
    Here again, Mr. Phunky should have professed to have forgotten all about the
merits of the case; but as he had read such papers as had been laid before him
in the course of the action, and had thought of nothing else, waking or
sleeping, throughout the two months during which he had been retained as Mr.
Serjeant Snubbin's junior, he turned a deeper red, and bowed again.
    »This is Mr. Pickwick,« said the Serjeant, waving his pen in the direction
in which that gentleman was standing.
    Mr. Phunky bowed to Mr. Pickwick with a reverence which a first client must
ever awaken; and again inclined his head towards his leader.
    »Perhaps you will take Mr. Pickwick away,« said the Serjeant, »and - and -
and - hear anything Mr. Pickwick may wish to communicate. We shall have a
consultation, of course.« With this hint that he had been interrupted quite long
enough, Mr. Serjeant Snubbin, who had been gradually growing more and more
abstracted, applied his glass to his eyes for an instant, bowed slightly round,
and was once more deeply immersed in the case before him: which arose out of an
interminable lawsuit, originating in the act of an individual, deceased a
century or so ago, who had stopped up a pathway leading from some place which
nobody ever came from, to some other place which nobody ever went to.
    Mr. Phunky would not hear of passing through any door until Mr. Pickwick and
his solicitor had passed through before him, so it was some time before they got
into the Square; and when they did reach it, they walked up and down, and held a
long conference, the result of which was, that it was a very difficult matter to
say how the verdict would go; that nobody could presume to calculate on the
issue of an action; that it was very lucky they had prevented the other party
from getting Serjeant Snubbin; and other topics of doubt and consolation, common
in such a position of affairs.
    Mr. Weller was then roused by his master from a sweet sleep of an hour's
duration; and, bidding adieu to Lowten, they returned to the City.
 

                                 Chapter XXXII

 Describes, Far More Fully Than the Court Newsman Ever Did, a Bachelor's Party,
            Given by Mr. Bob Sawyer at His Lodgings in the Borough.

There is a repose about Lant Street, in the Borough, which sheds a gentle
melancholy upon the soul. There are always a good many houses to let in the
street: it is a bye-street too, and its dullness is soothing. A house in Lant
Street would not come within the denomination of a first-rate residence, in the
strict acceptation of the term; but it is a most desirable spot nevertheless. If
a man wished to abstract himself from the world - to remove himself from within
the reach of temptation - to place himself beyond the possibility of any
inducement to look out of the window - he should by all means go to Lant Street.
    In this happy retreat are colonised a few clear-starchers, a sprinkling of
journeymen bookbinders, one or two prison agents for the Insolvent Court,
several small housekeepers who are employed in the Docks, a handful of
mantua-makers, and a seasoning of jobbing tailors. The majority of the
inhabitants either direct their energies to the letting of furnished apartments,
or devote themselves to the healthful and invigorating pursuit of mangling. The
chief features in the still life of the street are green shutters,
lodging-bills, brass door-plates, and bell-handles; the principal specimens of
animated nature, the pot-boy, the muffin youth, and the baked-potato man. The
population is migratory, usually disappearing on the verge of quarter-day, and
generally by night. His Majesty's revenues are seldom collected in this happy
valley; the rents are dubious; and the water communication is very frequently
cut off.
    Mr. Bob Sawyer embellished one side of the fire, in his first-floor front,
early on the evening for which he had invited Mr. Pickwick; and Mr. Ben Allen
the other. The preparations for the reception of visitors appeared to be
completed. The umbrellas in the passage had been heaped into the little corner
outside the back-parlour door; the bonnet and shawl of the landlady's servant
had been removed from the bannisters; there were not more than two pairs of
pattens on the street-door mat, and a kitchen candle, with a very long snuff,
burnt cheerfully on the ledge of the staircase window. Mr. Bob Sawyer had
himself purchased the spirits at a wine vaults in High Street, and had returned
home preceding the bearer thereof, to preclude the possibility of their delivery
at the wrong house. The punch was ready-made in a red pan in the bed-room; a
little table, covered with a green baize cloth, had been borrowed from the
parlour, to play at cards on; and the glasses of the establishment, together
with those which had been borrowed for the occasion from the public-house, were
all drawn up in a tray, which was deposited on the landing outside the door.
    Notwithstanding the highly satisfactory nature of all these arrangements,
there was a cloud on the countenance of Mr. Bob Sawyer, as he sat by the
fireside. There was a sympathising expression, too, in the features of Mr. Ben
Allen, as he gazed intently on the coals; and a tone of melancholy in his voice,
as he said, after a long silence:
    »Well, it is unlucky she should have taken it in her head to turn sour, just
on this occasion. She might at least have waited till to-morrow.«
    »That's her malevolence, that's her malevolence,« returned Mr. Bob Sawyer,
vehemently. »She says that if I can afford to give a party I ought to be able to
pay her confounded little bill.«
    »How long has it been running?« inquired Mr. Ben Allen. A bill, by the bye,
is the most extraordinary locomotive engine that the genius of man ever
produced. It would keep on running during the longest lifetime, without ever
once stopping of its own accord.
    »Only a quarter, and a month or so,« replied Mr. Bob Sawyer.
    Ben Allen coughed hopelessly, and directed a searching look between the two
top bars of the stove.
    »It'll be a deuced unpleasant thing if she takes it into her head to let
out, when those fellows are here, won't it?« said Mr. Ben Allen at length.
    »Horrible,« replied Bob Sawyer, »horrible.«
    A low tap was heard at the room door. Mr. Bob Sawyer looked expressively at
his friend, and bade the tapper come in; whereupon a dirty slipshod girl in
black cotton stockings, who might have passed for the neglected daughter of a
superannuated dustman in very reduced circumstances, thrust in her head, and
said,
    »Please, Mister Sawyer, Missis Raddle wants to speak to you.«
    Before Mr. Bob Sawyer could return any answer, the girl suddenly disappeared
with a jerk, as if somebody had given her a violent pull behind; this mysterious
exit was no sooner accomplished, than there was another tap at the door - a
smart pointed tap, which seemed to say, »Here I am, and in I'm coming.«
    Mr. Bob Sawyer glanced at his friend with a look of abject apprehension, and
once more cried »Come in.«
    The permission was not at all necessary, for, before Mr. Bob Sawyer had
uttered the words, a little fierce woman bounced into the room, all in a tremble
with passion, and pale with rage.
    »Now, Mr. Sawyer,« said the little fierce woman, trying to appear very calm,
»if you'll have the kindness to settle that little bill of mine I'll thank you,
because I've got my rent to pay this afternoon, and my landlord's a waiting
below now.« Here the little woman rubbed her hands, and looked steadily over Mr.
Bob Sawyer's head, at the wall behind him.
    »I am very sorry to put you to any inconvenience, Mrs. Raddle,« said Bob
Sawyer, deferentially, »but -«
    »Oh, it isn't any inconvenience,« replied the little woman, with a shrill
titter. »I didn't want it particular before to-day; leastways, as it has to go
to my landlord directly, it was as well for you to keep it as me. You promised
me this afternoon, Mr. Sawyer, and every gentleman as has ever lived here, has
kept his word, sir, as of course anybody as calls himself a gentleman, does.«
Mrs. Raddle tossed her head, bit her lips, rubbed her hands harder, and looked
at the wall more steadily than ever. It was plain to see, as Mr. Bob Sawyer
remarked in a style of eastern allegory on a subsequent occasion, that she was
»getting the steam up.«
    »I am very sorry, Mrs. Raddle,« said Bob Sawyer with all imaginable
humility, »but the fact is, that I have been disappointed in the City to-day.« -
Extraordinary place that City. An astonishing number of men always are getting
disappointed there.
    »Well, Mr. Sawyer,« said Mrs. Raddle, planting herself firmly on a purple
cauliflower in the Kidderminster carpet, »and what's that to me, sir?«
    »I - I - have no doubt, Mrs. Raddle,« said Bob Sawyer, blinking this last
question, »that before the middle of next week we shall be able to set ourselves
quite square, and go on, on a better system, afterwards.«
    This was all Mrs. Raddle wanted. She had bustled up to the apartment of the
unlucky Bob Sawyer, so bent upon going into a passion, that, in all probability,
payment would have rather disappointed her than otherwise. She was in excellent
order for a little relaxation of the kind: having just exchanged a few
introductory compliments with Mr. R. in the front kitchen.
    »Do you suppose, Mr. Sawyer,« said Mrs. Raddle, elevating her voice for the
information of the neighbours, »do you suppose that I'm a-going day after day to
let a fellar occupy my lodgings as never thinks of paying his rent, nor even the
very money laid out for the fresh butter and lump sugar that's bought for his
breakfast, and the very milk that's took in, at the street door? Do you suppose
a hard-working and industrious woman as has lived in this street for twenty year
(ten year over the way, and nine year and three quarter in this very house) has
nothing else to do but to work herself to death after a parcel of lazy idle
fellars, that are always smoking and drinking, and lounging, when they ought to
be glad to turn their hands to anything that would help 'em to pay their bills?
Do you -«
    »My good soul,« interposed Mr. Benjamin Allen, soothingly.
    »Have the goodness to keep your observashuns to yourself, sir, I beg,« said
Mrs. Raddle, suddenly arresting the rapid torrent of her speech, and addressing
the third party with impressive slowness and solemnity. »I am not aweer, sir,
that you have any right to address your conversation to me. I don't think I let
these apartments to you, sir.«
    »No, you certainly did not,« said Mr. Benjamin Allen.
    »Very good, sir,« responded Mrs. Raddle, with lofty politeness. »Then
p'raps, sir, you'll confine yourself to breaking the arms and legs of the poor
people in the hospitals, and keep yourself to yourself, sir, or there may be
some persons here as will make you, sir.«
    »But you are such an unreasonable woman,« remonstrated Mr. Benjamin Allen.
    »I beg your parding, young man,« said Mrs. Raddle, in a cold perspiration of
anger. »But will you have the goodness just to call me that again, sir?«
    »I didn't make use of the word in any invidious sense, ma'am,« replied Mr.
Benjamin Allen, growing somewhat uneasy on his own account.
    »I beg your parding, young man,« demanded Mrs. Raddle in a louder and more
imperative tone. »But who do you call a woman? Did you make that remark to me,
sir?«
    »Why, bless my heart!« said Mr. Benjamin Allen.
    »Did you apply that name to me, I ask of you, sir?« interrupted Mrs. Raddle,
with intense fierceness, throwing the door wide open.
    »Why, of course I did,« replied Mr. Benjamin Allen.
    »Yes, of course you did,« said Mrs. Raddle, backing gradually to the door,
and raising her voice to its loudest pitch, for the special behove of Mr. Raddle
in the kitchen. »Yes, of course you did! And everybody knows that they may
safely insult me in my own 'ouse while my husband sits sleeping down stairs, and
taking no more notice than if I was a dog in the streets. He ought to be ashamed
of himself (here Mrs. Raddle sobbed) to allow his wife to be treated in this way
by a parcel of young cutters and carvers of live people's bodies, that disgraces
the lodgings (another sob), and leaving her exposed to all manner of abuse; a
base, faint-hearted, timorous wretch, that's afraid to come up stairs, and face
the ruffinly creatures - that's afraid - that's afraid to come!« Mrs. Raddle
paused to listen whether the repetition of the taunt had roused her better half;
and, finding that it had not been successful, proceeded to descend the stairs
with sobs innumerable: when there came a loud double knock at the street door:
whereupon she burst into an hysterical fit of weeping, accompanied with dismal
moans, which was prolonged until the knock had been repeated six times, when, in
an uncontrollable burst of mental agony, she threw down all the umbrellas, and
disappeared into the back parlour, closing the door after her with an awful
crash.
    »Does Mr. Sawyer live here?« said Mr. Pickwick, when the door was opened.
    »Yes,« said the girl, »first floor. It's the door straight afore you, when
you gets to the top of the stairs.« Having given this instruction, the handmaid,
who had been brought up among the aboriginal inhabitants of Southwark,
disappeared, with the candle in her hand, down the kitchen stairs: perfectly
satisfied that she had done everything that could possibly be required of her
under the circumstances.
    Mr. Snodgrass, who entered last, secured the street door, after several
ineffectual efforts, by putting up the chain; and the friends stumbled up
stairs, where they were received by Mr. Bob Sawyer, who had been afraid to go
down, lest he should be waylaid by Mrs. Raddle.
    »How are you?« said the discomfited student. »Glad to see you, - take care
of the glasses.« This caution was addressed to Mr. Pickwick, who had put his hat
in the tray.
    »Dear me,« said Mr. Pickwick, »I beg your pardon.«
    »Don't mention it, don't mention it,« said Bob Sawyer. »I'm rather confined
for room here, but you must put up with all that, when you come to see a young
bachelor. Walk in. You've seen this gentleman before, I think?« Mr. Pickwick
shook hands with Mr. Benjamin Allen, and his friends followed his example. They
had scarcely taken their seats when there was another double knock.
    »I hope that's Jack Hopkins!« said Mr. Bob Sawyer. »Hush. Yes, it is. Come
up, Jack; come up.«
    A heavy footstep was heard upon the stairs, and Jack Hopkins presented
himself. He wore a black velvet waistcoat, with thunder-and-lightning buttons;
and a blue striped shirt, with a white false collar.
    »You're late, Jack?« said Mr. Benjamin Allen.
    »Been detained at Bartholomew's,« replied Hopkins.
    »Anything new?«
    »No, nothing particular. Rather a good accident brought into the casualty
ward.«
    »What was that, sir?« inquired Mr. Pickwick.
    »Only a man fallen out of a four pair of stairs' window; - but it's a very
fair case - very fair case indeed.«
    »Do you mean that the patient is in a fair way to recover?« inquired Mr.
Pickwick.
    »No,« replied Hopkins, carelessly. »No, I should rather say he wouldn't.
There must be a splendid operation though, to-morrow - magnificent sight if
Slasher does it.«
    »You consider Mr. Slasher a good operator?« said Mr. Pickwick.
    »Best alive,« replied Hopkins. »Took a boy's leg out of the socket last week
- boy ate five apples and a gingerbread cake - exactly two minutes after it was
all over, boy said he wouldn't lie there to be made game of, and he'd tell his
mother if they didn't begin.«
    »Dear me!« said Mr. Pickwick, astonished.
    »Pooh! That's nothing, that ain't,« said Jack Hopkins. »Is it, Bob?«
    »Nothing at all,« replied Mr. Bob Sawyer.
    »By the bye, Bob,« said Hopkins, with a scarcely perceptible glance at Mr.
Pickwick's attentive face, »we had a curious accident last night. A child was
brought in, who had swallowed a necklace.«
    »Swallowed what, sir?« interrupted Mr. Pickwick.
    »A necklace,« replied Jack Hopkins. »Not all at once, you know, that would
be too much - you couldn't swallow that, if the child did - eh, Mr. Pickwick,
ha! ha!« Mr. Hopkins appeared highly gratified with his own pleasantry; and
continued. »No, the way was this. Child's parents were poor people who lived in
a court. Child's eldest sister bought a necklace; common necklace, made of large
black wooden beads. Child, being fond of toys, cribbed the necklace, hid it,
played with it, cut the string, and swallowed a bead. Child thought it capital
fun, went back next day, and swallowed another bead.«
    »Bless my heart,« said Mr. Pickwick, »what a dreadful thing! I beg your
pardon, sir. Go on.«
    »Next day, child swallowed two beads; the day after that, he treated himself
to three, and so on, till in a week's time he had got through the necklace -
five-and-twenty beads in all. The sister, who was an industrious girl, and
seldom treated herself to a bit of finery, cried her eyes out, at the loss of
the necklace; looked high and low for it; but, I needn't say, didn't find it. A
few days afterwards, the family were at dinner - baked shoulder of mutton, and
potatoes under it - the child, who wasn't't hungry, was playing about the room,
when suddenly there was heard a devil of a noise, like a small hail storm. Don't
do that, my boy, said the father. I ain't a doing' nothing, said the child. Well,
don't do it again, said the father. There was a short silence, and then the
noise began again, worse than ever. If you don't mind what I say, my boy, said
the father, you'll find yourself in bed, in something less than a pig's whisper.
He gave the child a shake to make him obedient, and such a rattling ensued as
nobody ever heard before. Why, damme, it's in the child! said the father, he's
got the croup in the wrong place! No I haven't, father, said the child,
beginning to cry, it's the necklace; I swallowed it, father. - The father caught
the child up, and ran with him to the hospital: the beads in the boy's stomach
rattling all the way with the jolting; and the people looking up in the air, and
down in the cellars, to see where the unusual sound came from. He's in the
hospital now,« said Jack Hopkins, »and he makes such a devil of a noise when he
walks about, that they're obliged to muffle him in a watchman's coat, for fear
he should wake the patients!«
    »That's the most extraordinary case I ever heard of,« said Mr. Pickwick,
with an emphatic blow on the table.
    »Oh, that's nothing,« said Jack Hopkins; »is it, Bob?«
    »Certainly not,« replied Mr. Bob Sawyer.
    »Very singular things occur in our profession, I can assure you, sir,« said
Hopkins.
    »So I should be disposed to imagine,« replied Mr. Pickwick.
    Another knock at the door, announced a large-headed young man in a black
wig, who brought with him a scorbutic youth in a long stock. The next comer was
a gentleman in a shirt emblazoned with pink anchors, who was closely followed by
a pale youth with a plated watchguard. The arrival of a prim personage in clean
linen and cloth boots rendered the party complete. The little table with the
green baize cover was wheeled out; the first instalment of punch was brought in,
in a white jug; and the succeeding three hours were devoted to vingt-et-un at
sixpence a dozen, which was only once interrupted by a slight dispute between
the scorbutic youth and the gentleman with the pink anchors; in the course of
which, the scorbutic youth intimated a burning desire to pull the nose of the
gentleman with the emblems of hope: in reply to which, that individual expressed
his decided unwillingness to accept of any sauce on gratuitous terms, either
from the irascible young gentleman with the scorbutic countenance, or any other
person who was ornamented with a head.
    When the last natural had been declared, and the profit and loss account of
fish and sixpences adjusted, to the satisfaction of all parties, Mr. Bob Sawyer
rang for supper, and the visitors squeezed themselves into corners while it was
getting ready.
    It was not so easily got ready as some people may imagine. First of all, it
was necessary to awaken the girl, who had fallen asleep with her face on the
kitchen table; this took a little time, and, even when she did answer the bell,
another quarter of an hour was consumed in fruitless endeavours to impart to her
a faint and distant glimmering of reason. The man to whom the order for the
oysters had been sent, had not been told to open them; it is a very difficult
thing to open an oyster with a limp knife or a two-pronged fork; and very little
was done in this way. Very little of the beef was done either; and the ham
(which was also from the German-sausage shop round the corner) was in a similar
predicament. However, there was plenty of porter in a tin can; and the cheese
went a great way, for it was very strong. So upon the whole, perhaps, the supper
was quite as good as such matters usually are.
    After supper, another jug of punch was put upon the table, together with a
paper of cigars, and a couple of bottles of spirits. Then, there was an awful
pause; and this awful pause was occasioned by a very common occurrence in this
sort of places, but a very embarrassing one notwithstanding.
    The fact is, the girl was washing the glasses. The establishment boasted
four; we do not record the circumstance as at all derogatory to Mrs. Raddle, for
there never was a lodging-house yet, that was not short of glasses. The
landlady's glasses were little thin blown glass tumblers, and those which had
been borrowed from the public-house were great, dropsical, bloated articles,
each supported on a huge gouty leg. This would have been in itself sufficient to
have possessed the company with the real state of affairs; but the young woman
of all work had prevented the possibility of any misconception arising in the
mind of any gentleman upon the subject, by forcibly dragging every man's glass
away, long before he had finished his beer, and audibly stating, despite the
winks and interruptions of Mr. Bob Sawyer, that it was to be conveyed down
stairs, and washed forthwith.
    It is a very ill wind that blows nobody any good. The prim man in the cloth
boots, who had been unsuccessfully attempting to make a joke during the whole
time the round game lasted, saw his opportunity, and availed himself of it. The
instant the glasses disappeared, he commenced a long story about a great public
character, whose name he had forgotten, making a particularly happy reply to
another eminent and illustrious individual whom he had never been able to
identify. He enlarged at some length and with great minuteness upon divers
collateral circumstances, distantly connected with the anecdote in hand, but for
the life of him he couldn't recollect at that precise moment what the anecdote
was, although he had been in the habit of telling the story with great applause
for the last ten years.
    »Dear me,« said the prim man in the cloth boots, »it is a very extraordinary
circumstance.«
    »I am sorry you have forgotten it,« said Mr. Bob Sawyer, glancing eagerly at
the door, as he thought he heard the noise of glasses jingling; »very sorry.«
    »So am I,« responded the prim man, »because I know it would have afforded so
much amusement. Never mind; I dare say I shall manage to recollect it, in the
course of half-an-hour or so.«
    The prim man arrived at this point, just as the glasses came back, when Mr.
Bob Sawyer, who had been absorbed in attention during the whole time, said he
should very much like to hear the end of it, for, so far as it went, it was,
without exception, the very best story he had ever heard.
    The sight of the tumblers restored Bob Sawyer to a degree of equanimity
which he had not possessed since his interview with his landlady. His face
brightened up, and he began to feel quite convivial.
    »Now, Betsy,« said Mr. Bob Sawyer, with great suavity, and dispersing, at
the same time, the tumultuous little mob of glasses the girl had collected in
the centre of the table: »now, Betsy, the warm water; be brisk, there's a good
girl.«
    »You can't have no warm water,« replied Betsy.
    »No warm water!« exclaimed Mr. Bob Sawyer.
    »No,« said the girl, with a shake of the head which expressed a more decided
negative than the most copious language could have conveyed. »Missis Raddle said
you warn't to have none.«
    The surprise depicted on the countenances of his guests imparted new courage
to the host.
    »Bring up the warm water instantly - instantly!« said Mr. Bob Sawyer, with
desperate sternness.
    »No. I can't,« replied the girl; »Missis Raddle raked out the kitchen fire
afore she went to bed, and locked up the kittle.«
    »Oh, never mind; never mind. Pray don't disturb yourself about such a
trifle,« said Mr. Pickwick, observing the conflict of Bob Sawyer's passions, as
depicted in his countenance, »cold water will do very well.«
    »Oh, admirably,« said Mr. Benjamin Allen.
    »My landlady is subject to some slight attacks of mental derangement,«
remarked Bob Sawyer with a ghastly smile; »And I fear I must give her warning.«
    »No, don't,« said Ben Allen.
    »I fear I must,« said Bob with heroic firmness. »I'll pay her what I owe
her, and give her warning to-morrow morning.« Poor fellow! how devoutly he
wished he could!
    Mr. Bob Sawyer's heart-sickening attempts to rally under this last blow,
communicated a dispiriting influence to the company, the greater part of whom,
with the view of raising their spirits, attached themselves with extra
cordiality to the cold brandy and water, the first perceptible effects of which
were displayed in a renewal of hostilities between the scorbutic youth and the
gentleman in the shirt. The belligerents vented their feelings of mutual
contempt, for some time, in a variety of frownings and snortings, until at last
the scorbutic youth felt it necessary to come to a more explicit understanding
on the matter; when the following clear understanding took place.
    »Sawyer,« said the scorbutic youth, in a loud voice.
    »Well, Noddy,« replied Mr. Bob Sawyer.
    »I should be very sorry, Sawyer,« said Mr. Noddy, »to create any
unpleasantness at any friend's table, and much less at yours, Sawyer - very; but
I must take this opportunity of informing Mr. Gunter that he is no gentleman.«
    »And I should be very sorry, Sawyer, to create any disturbance in the street
in which you reside,« said Mr. Gunter, »but I'm afraid I shall be under the
necessity of alarming the neighbours by throwing the person who has just spoken,
out o' window.«
    »What do you mean by that, sir?« inquired Mr. Noddy.
    »What I say, sir,« replied Mr. Gunter.
    »I should like to see you do it, sir,« said Mr. Noddy.
    »You shall feel me do it in half a minute, sir,« replied Mr. Gunter.
    »I request that you'll favour me with your card, sir,« said Mr. Noddy.
    »I'll do nothing of the kind, sir,« replied Mr. Gunter.
    »Why not, sir?« inquired Mr. Noddy.
    »Because you'll stick it up over your chimney-piece, and delude your
visitors into the false belief that a gentleman has been to see you, sir,«
replied Mr. Gunter.
    »Sir, a friend of mine shall wait on you in the morning,« said Mr. Noddy.
    »Sir, I'm very much obliged to you for the caution, and I'll leave
particular directions with the servant to lock up the spoons,« replied Mr.
Gunter.
    At this point the remainder of the guests interposed, and remonstrated with
both parties on the impropriety of their conduct; on which Mr. Noddy begged to
state that his father was quite as respectable as Mr. Gunter's father; to which
Mr. Gunter replied that his father was to the full as respectable as Mr. Noddy's
father, and that his father's son was as good a man as Mr. Noddy, any day in the
week. As this announcement seemed the prelude to a recommencement of the
dispute, there was another interference on the part of the company; and a vast
quantity of talking and clamouring ensued, in the course of which Mr. Noddy
gradually allowed his feelings to overpower him, and professed that he had ever
entertained a devoted personal attachment towards Mr. Gunter. To this Mr. Gunter
replied that, upon the whole, he rather preferred Mr. Noddy to his own brother;
on hearing which admission, Mr. Noddy magnanimously rose from his seat, and
proffered his hand to Mr. Gunter. Mr. Gunter grasped it with affecting fervour;
and everybody said that the whole dispute had been conducted in a manner which
was highly honourable to both parties concerned.
    »Now,« said Jack Hopkins, »just to set us going again, Bob, I don't mind
singing a song.« And Hopkins, incited thereto, by tumultuous applause, plunged
himself at once into »The King, God bless him,« which he sang as loud as he
could, to a novel air, compounded of the »Bay of Biscay,« and »A Frog he would.«
The chorus was the essence of the song; and, as each gentleman sang it to the
tune he knew best, the effect was very striking indeed.
    It was at the end of the chorus to the first verse, that Mr. Pickwick held
up his hand in a listening attitude, and said, as soon as silence was restored:
    »Hush! I beg your pardon. I thought I heard somebody calling from up
stairs.«
    A profound silence immediately ensued; and Mr. Bob Sawyer was observed to
turn pale.
    »I think I hear it now,« said Mr. Pickwick. »Have the goodness to open the
door.«
    The door was no sooner opened than all doubt on the subject was removed.
    »Mr. Sawyer! Mr. Sawyer!« screamed a voice from the two-pair landing.
    »It's my landlady,« said Bob Sawyer, looking round him with great dismay.
»Yes, Mrs. Raddle.«
    »What do you mean by this, Mr. Sawyer?« replied the voice, with great
shrillness and rapidity of utterance. »Ain't it enough to be swindled out of
one's rent, and money lent out of pocket besides, and abused and insulted by
your friends that dares to call themselves men: without having the house turned
out of window, and noise enough made to bring the fire-engines here, at two
o'clock in the morning? - Turn them wretches away.«
    »You ought to be ashamed of yourselves,« said the voice of Mr. Raddle, which
appeared to proceed from beneath some distant bed-clothes.
    »Ashamed of themselves,« said Mrs. Raddle. »Why don't you go down and knock
'em every one down stairs? You would if you was a man.«
    »I should if I was a dozen men, my dear,« replied Mr. Raddle, pacifically,
»but they've the advantage of me in numbers, my dear.«
    »Ugh, you coward!« replied Mrs. Raddle, with supreme contempt. »Do you mean
to turn them wretches out, or not, Mr. Sawyer?«
    »They're going, Mrs. Raddle, they're going,« said the miserable Bob. »I am
afraid you'd better go,« said Mr. Bob Sawyer to his friends. »I thought you were
making too much noise.«
    »It's a very unfortunate thing,« said the prim man. »Just as we were getting
so comfortable too!« The prim man was just beginning to have a dawning
recollection of the story he had forgotten.
    »It's hardly to be borne,« said the prim man, looking round. »Hardly to be
borne, is it?«
    »Not to be endured,« replied Jack Hopkins; »let's have the other verse, Bob.
Come, here goes!«
    »No, no, Jack, don't,« interposed Bob Sawyer; »it's a capital song, but I am
afraid we had better not have the other verse. They are very violent people, the
people of the house.«
    »Shall I step up stairs, and pitch into the landlord?« inquired Hopkins, »or
keep on ringing the bell, or go and groan on the staircase? You may command me,
Bob.«
    »I am very much indebted to you for your friendship and good nature,
Hopkins,« said the wretched Mr. Bob Sawyer, »but I think the best plan to avoid
any further dispute is for us to break up at once.«
    »Now, Mr. Sawyer!« screamed the shrill voice of Mrs. Raddle, »are them
brutes going?«
    »They're only looking for their hats, Mrs. Raddle,« said Bob; »they are
going directly.«
    »Going!« said Mrs. Raddle, thrusting her night-cap over the banisters just
as Mr. Pickwick, followed by Mr. Tupman, emerged from the sitting-room. »Going!
what did they ever come for?«
    »My dear ma'am,« remonstrated Mr. Pickwick, looking up.
    »Get along with you, you old wretch!« replied Mrs. Raddle, hastily
withdrawing the night-cap. »Old enough to be his grandfather, you willin! You're
worse than any of 'em.«
    Mr. Pickwick found it in vain to protest his innocence, so hurried down
stairs into the street, whither he was closely followed by Mr. Tupman, Mr.
Winkle, and Mr. Snodgrass. Mr. Ben Allen, who was dismally depressed with
spirits and agitation, accompanied them as far as London Bridge, and in the
course of the walk confided to Mr. Winkle, as an especially eligible person to
entrust the secret to, that he was resolved to cut the throat of any gentleman
except Mr. Bob Sawyer who should aspire to the affections of his sister
Arabella. Having expressed his determination to perform this painful duty of a
brother with proper firmness, he burst into tears, knocked his hat over his
eyes, and, making the best of his way back, knocked double knocks at the door of
the Borough Market office, and took short naps on the steps alternately, until
daybreak, under the firm impression that he lived there, and had forgotten the
key.
    The visitors having all departed, in compliance with the rather pressing
request of Mrs. Raddle, the luckless Mr. Bob Sawyer was left alone, to meditate
on the probable events of to-morrow, and the pleasures of the evening.
 

                                 Chapter XXXIII

   Mr. Weller the Elder Delivers Some Critical Sentiments Respecting Literary
    Composition; and, Assisted by His Son Samuel, Pays a Small Instalment of
    Retaliation to the Account of the Reverend Gentleman with the Red Nose.

The morning of the thirteenth of February, which the readers of this authentic
narrative know, as well as we do, to have been the day immediately preceding
that which was appointed for the trial of Mrs. Bardell's action, was a busy time
for Mr. Samuel Weller, who was perpetually engaged in travelling from the George
and Vulture to Mr. Perker's chambers and back again, from and between the hours
of nine o'clock in the morning and two in the afternoon, both inclusive. Not
that there was anything whatever to be done, for the consultation had taken
place, and the course of proceeding to be adopted, had been finally determined
on; but Mr. Pickwick being in a most extreme state of excitement, persevered in
constantly sending small notes to his attorney, merely containing the inquiry,
»Dear Perker. Is all going on well?« to which Mr. Perker invariably forwarded
the reply, »Dear Pickwick. As well as possible;« the fact being, as we have
already hinted, that there was nothing whatever to go on, either well or ill,
until the sitting of the court on the following morning.
    But people who go voluntarily to law, or are taken forcibly there, for the
first time, may be allowed to labour under some temporary irritation and
anxiety: and Sam, with a due allowance for the frailties of human nature, obeyed
all his master's behests with that imperturbable good humour and unruffable
composure which formed one of his most striking and amiable characteristics.
    Sam had solaced himself with a most agreeable little dinner, and was waiting
at the bar for the glass of warm mixture in which Mr. Pickwick had requested him
to drown the fatigues of his morning's walks, when a young boy of about three
feet high, or thereabouts, in a hairy cap and fustian over-alls, whose garb
bespoke a laudable ambition to attain in time the elevation of an hostler,
entered the passage of the George and Vulture, and looked first up the stairs,
and then along the passage, and then into the bar, as if in search of somebody
to whom he bore a commission; whereupon the barmaid, conceiving it not
improbable that the said commission might be directed to the tea or table spoons
of the establishment, accosted the boy with.
    »Now, young man, what do you want?«
    »Is there anybody here, named Sam?« inquired the youth, in a loud voice of
treble quality.
    »What's the t'other name?« said Sam Weller, looking round.
    »How should I know?« briskly replied the young gentleman below the hairy
cap.
    »You're a sharp boy, you are,« said Mr. Weller; »only I wouldn't show that
very fine edge too much, if I was you, in case anybody took it off. What do you
mean by comin' to a hot-el, and asking arter Sam, with as much politeness as a
vild Indian?«
    »'Cos an old gen'l'm'n told me to,« replied the boy.
    »What old gen'l'm'n?« inquired Sam, with deep disdain.
    »Him as drives a Ipswich coach, and uses our parlour,« rejoined the boy. »He
told me yesterday mornin' to come to the George and Wultur this arteroon, and
ask for Sam.«
    »It's my father, my dear,« said Mr. Weller, turning with an explanatory air
to the young lady in the bar; »blessed if I think he hardly knows wot my other
name is. Vell, young brockiley sprout, wot then?«
    »Why, then,« said the boy, »you was to come to him at six o'clock to our
'ouse, 'cos he wants to see you - Blue Boar, Leaden'all Markit. Shall I say
you're comin'?«
    »You may wenture on that 'ere statement, sir,« replied Sam. And thus
empowered, the young gentleman walked away, awakening all the echoes in George
Yard as he did so, with several chaste and extremely correct imitations of a
drover's whistle, delivered in a tone of peculiar richness and volume.
    Mr. Weller having obtained leave of absence from Mr. Pickwick, who, in his
then state of excitement and worry was by no means displeased at being left
alone, set forth, long before the appointed hour, and having plenty of time at
his disposal, sauntered down as far as the Mansion House, where he paused and
contemplated, with a face of great calmness and philosophy, the numerous cads
and drivers of short stages who assemble near that famous place of resort, to
the great terror and confusion of the old-lady population of these realms.
Having loitered here, for half an hour or so, Mr. Weller turned, and began
wending his way towards Leadenhall Market, through a variety of bye streets and
courts. As he was sauntering away his spare time, and stopped to look at almost
every object that met his gaze, it is by no means surprising that Mr. Weller
should have paused before a small stationer's and print-seller's window; but
without further explanation it does appear surprising that his eyes should have
no sooner rested on certain pictures which were exposed for sale therein, than
he gave a sudden start, smote his right leg with great vehemence, and exclaimed
with energy, »If it hadn't been for this, I should ha' forgot all about it, till
it was too late!«
    The particular picture on which Sam Weller's eyes were fixed, as he said
this, was a highly coloured representation of a couple of human hearts skewered
together with an arrow, cooking before a cheerful fire, while a male and female
cannibal in modern attire: the gentleman being clad in a blue coat and white
trousers, and the lady in a deep red pelisse with a parasol of the same: were
approaching the meal with hungry eyes, up a serpentine gravel path leading
thereunto. A decidedly indelicate young gentleman, in a pair of wings and
nothing else, was depicted as superintending the cooking; a representation of
the spire of the church in Langham Place, London, appeared in the distance; and
the whole formed a valentine, of which, as a written inscription in the window
testified, there was a large assortment within, which the shopkeeper pledged
himself to dispose of, to his countrymen generally, at the reduced rate of one
and sixpence each.
    »I should ha' forgot it; I should certainly ha' forgot it!« said Sam; so
saying, he at once stepped into the stationer's shop, and requested to be served
with a sheet of the best gilt-edged letter-paper, and a hard-nibbed pen which
could be warranted not to splutter. These articles having been promptly
supplied, he walked on direct towards Leadenhall Market at a good round pace,
very different from his recent lingering one. Looking round him, he there beheld
a sign-board on which the painter's art had delineated something remotely
resembling a cerulean elephant with an aquiline nose in lieu of trunk. Rightly
conjecturing that this was the Blue Boar himself, he stepped into the house, and
inquired concerning his parent.
    »He won't be here this three quarters of an hour or more,« said the young
lady who superintended the domestic arrangements of the Blue Boar.
    »Wery good, my dear,« replied Sam. »Let me have nine penn'orth' o' brandy
and water luke, and the inkstand, will you, miss?«
    The brandy and water luke, and the inkstand, having been carried into the
little parlour, and the young lady having carefully flattened down the coals to
prevent their blazing, and carried away the poker to preclude the possibility of
the fire being stirred, without the full privity and concurrence of the Blue
Boar being first had and obtained, Sam Weller sat himself down in a box near the
stove, and pulled out the sheet of gilt-edged letter-paper, and the hard-nibbed
pen. Then looking carefully at the pen to see that there were no hairs in it,
and dusting down the table, so that there might be no crumbs of bread under the
paper, Sam tucked up the cuffs of his coat, squared his elbows, and composed
himself to write.
    To ladies and gentlemen who are not in the habit of devoting themselves
practically to the science of penmanship, writing a letter is no very easy task;
it being always considered necessary in such cases for the writer to recline his
head on his left arm, so as to place his eyes as nearly as possible on a level
with the paper, while glancing sideways at the letters he is constructing, to
form with his tongue imaginary characters to correspond. These motions, although
unquestionably of the greatest assistance to original composition, retard in
some degree the progress of the writer; and Sam had unconsciously been a full
hour and a half writing words in small text, smearing out wrong letters with his
little finger, and putting in new ones which required going over very often to
render them visible through the old blots, when he was roused by the opening of
the door and the entrance of his parent.
    »Vell, Sammy,« said the father.
    »Vell, my Prooshan Blue,« responded the son, laying down his pen. »What's
the last bulletin about mother-in-law?«
    »Mrs. Veller passed a very good night, but is uncommon perwerse, and
unpleasant this mornin'. Signed upon oath, S. Veller, Esquire, Senior. That's
the last vun as was issued, Sammy,« replied Mr. Weller, untying his shawl.
    »No better yet?« inquired Sam.
    »All the symptoms aggerawated,« replied Mr. Weller, shaking his head. »But
wot's that, you're a doing' of? Pursuit of knowledge under difficulties, Sammy?«
    »I've done now,« said Sam with slight embarrassment; »I've been a writin'.«
    »So I see,« replied Mr. Weller. »Not to any young 'ooman, I hope, Sammy?«
    »Why it's no use a saying' it ain't,« replied Sam, »It's a walentine.«
    »A what!« exclaimed Mr. Weller, apparently horror-stricken by the word.
    »A walentine,« replied Sam.
    »Samivel, Samivel,« said Mr. Weller, in reproachful accents, »I didn't think
you'd ha' done it. Arter the warnin' you've had o' your father's wicious
propensities; arter all I've said to you upon this here very subject; arter
actiwally seein' and bein' in the company o' your own mother-in-law, vich I
should ha' thought wos a moral lesson as no man could never ha' forgotten to his
dyin' day! I didn't think you'd ha' done it, Sammy, I didn't think you'd ha'
done it!« These reflections were too much for the good old man. He raised Sam's
tumbler to his lips and drank off its contents.
    »Wot's the matter now?« said Sam.
    »Nev'r mind, Sammy,« replied Mr. Weller, »it'll be a very agonizin' trial to
me at my time of life, but I'm pretty tough, that's vun consolation, as the very
old turkey remarked wen the farmer said he wos afeerd he should be obliged to
kill him for the London market.«
    »Wot'll be a trial?« inquired Sam.
    »To see you married, Sammy - to see you a dilluded wictim, and thinking' in
your innocence that it's all very capital,« replied Mr. Weller. »It's a dreadful
trial to a father's feelin's, that 'ere, Sammy.«
    »Nonsense,« said Sam. »I ain't a goin' to get married, don't you fret
yourself about that; I know you're a judge of these things. Order in your pipe,
and I'll read you the letter. There!«
    We cannot distinctly say whether it was the prospect of the pipe, or the
consolatory reflection that a fatal disposition to get married ran in the family
and couldn't be helped, which calmed Mr. Weller's feelings, and caused his grief
to subside. We should be rather disposed to say that the result was attained by
combining the two sources of consolation, for he repeated the second in a low
tone, very frequently; ringing the bell meanwhile, to order in the first. He
then divested himself of his upper coat; and lighting the pipe and placing
himself in front of the fire with his back towards it, so that he could feel its
full heat, and recline against the mantelpiece at the same time, turned towards
Sam, and, with a countenance greatly mollified by the softening influence of
tobacco, requested him to »fire away.«
    Sam dipped his pen into the ink to be ready for any corrections, and began
with a very theatrical air:
    »Lovely -.«
    »Stop,« said Mr. Weller, ringing the bell. »A double glass o' the
inwariable, my dear.«
    »Very well, sir,« replied the girl; who with great quickness appeared,
vanished, returned, and disappeared.
    »They seem to know your ways here,« observed Sam.
    »Yes,« replied his father, »I've been here before, in my time. Go on,
Sammy.«
    »Lovely creature,« repeated Sam.
    »'Tain't in poetry, is it?« interposed his father.
    »No, no,« replied Sam.
    »Werry glad to hear it,« said Mr. Weller. »Poetry's unnat'ral; no man ever
talked poetry 'cept a beadle on boxin' day, or Warren's blackin', or Rowland's
oil, or some o' them low fellows; never you let yourself down to talk poetry, my
boy. Begin again, Sammy.«
    Mr. Weller resumed his pipe with critical solemnity, and Sam once more
commenced, and read as follows:
    »Lovely creature i feel myself a dammed -.«
    »That ain't proper,« said Mr. Weller, taking his pipe from his mouth.
    »No; it ain't dammed,« observed Sam, holding the letter up to the light,
»it's shamed, there's a blot there - I feel myself ashamed.«
    »Werry good,« said Mr. Weller. »Go on.«
    »Feel myself ashamed, and completely cir - I forget what this here word is,«
said Sam, scratching his head with the pen, in vain attempts to remember.
    »Why don't you look at it, then?« inquired Mr. Weller.
    »So I am a looking' at it,« replied Sam, »but there's another blot. Here's a
c, and a i, and a d.«
    »Circumwented, p'haps,« suggested Mr. Weller.
    »No, it ain't that,« said Sam, »circumscribed; that's it.«
    »That ain't as good a word as circumwented, Sammy,« said Mr. Weller,
gravely.
    »Think not?« said Sam.
    »Nothin' like it,« replied his father.
    »But don't you think it means more?« inquired Sam.
    »Vell p'raps it is a more tenderer word,« said Mr. Weller, after a few
moments' reflection. »Go on, Sammy.«
    »Feel myself ashamed and completely circumscribed in a dressin' of you, for
you are a nice gal and nothing' but it.«
    »That's a werry pretty sentiment,« said the elder Mr. Weller, removing his
pipe to make way for the remark.
    »Yes, I think it is rather good,« observed Sam, highly flattered.
    »Wot I like in that 'ere style of writin',« said the elder Mr. Weller, »is,
that there ain't no callin' names in it, - no Wenuses, nor nothing' o' that kind.
Wot's the good o' callin' a young 'ooman a Wenus or a angel, Sammy?«
    »Ah! what, indeed?« replied Sam.
    »You might just as well call her a griffin, or a unicorn, or a king's arms
at once, which is werry well known to be a col-lection o' fabulous animals,«
added Mr. Weller.
    »Just as well,« replied Sam.
    »Drive on, Sammy,« said Mr. Weller.
    Sam complied with the request, and proceeded as follows; his father
continuing to smoke, with a mixed expression of wisdom and complacency, which
was particularly edifying.
    »Afore I see you, I thought all women was alike.«
    »So they are,« observed the elder Mr. Weller, parenthetically.
    »But now, continued Sam, now I find what a reg'lar soft-headed, inkred'lous
turnip I must ha' been; for there ain't nobody like you, though I like you
better than nothing' at all. I thought it best to make that rather strong,« said
Sam, looking up.
    Mr. Weller nodded approvingly, and Sam resumed.
    »So I take the privilidge of the day, Mary, my dear - as the gen'l'm'n in
difficulties did, ven he valked out of a Sunday, - to tell you that the first
and only time I see you, your likeness was took on my hart in much quicker time
and brighter colours than ever a likeness was took by the profeel macheen (wich
p'raps you may have heard on Mary my dear) altho it does finish a portrait and
put the frame and glass on complete, with a hook at the end to hang it up by,
and all in two minutes and a quarter.«
    »I am afeerd that werges on the poetical, Sammy,« said Mr. Weller,
dubiously.
    »No it don't,« replied Sam, reading on very quickly, to avoid contesting the
point:
    »Except of me Mary my dear as your walentine and think over what I've said.
- My dear Mary I will now conclude. That's all,« said Sam.
    »That's rather a sudden pull up, ain't it, Sammy?« inquired Mr. Weller.
    »Not a bit on it,« said Sam; »she'll vish there wos more, and that's the
great art o' letter writin'.«
    »Well,« said Mr. Weller, »there's something' in that; and I wish your
mother-in-law 'ud only conduct her conwersation on the same gen-teel principle.
Ain't you a goin' to sign it?«
    »That's the difficulty,« said Sam; »I don't know what to sign it.«
    »Sign it, Veller,« said the oldest surviving proprietor of that name.
    »Won't do,« said Sam. »Never sign a walentine with your own name.«
    »Sign it Pickvick, then,« said Mr. Weller; »it's a werry good name, and a
easy one to spell.«
    »The very thing,« said Sam. »I could end with a werse; what do you think?«
    »I don't like it, Sam,« rejoined Mr. Weller. »I never know'd a respectable
coachman as wrote poetry, 'cept one, as made an affectin' copy o' werses the
night afore he wos hung for a highway robbery; and he wos only a Cambervell man,
so even that's no rule.«
    But Sam was not to be dissuaded from the poetical idea that had occurred to
him, so he signed the letter,
 
                                »Your love-sick
                                   Pickwick.«
 
And having folded it, in a very intricate manner, squeezed a down-hill direction
in one corner: »To Mary, Housemaid, at Mr. Nupkins's Mayor's, Ipswich, Suffolk;«
and put it into his pocket, wafered, and ready for the General Post. This
important business having been transacted, Mr. Weller the elder proceeded to
open that, on which he had summoned his son.
    »The first matter relates to your governor, Sammy,« said Mr. Weller. »He's a
goin' to be tried to-morrow, ain't he?«
    »The trial's a comin' on,« replied Sam.
    »Vell,« said Mr. Weller, »Now I s'pose he'll want to call some witnesses to
speak to his character, or p'haps to prove a alleybi. I've been a turnin' the
bis'ness over in my mind, and he may make his-self easy, Sammy. I've got some
friends as'll do either for him, but my adwice 'ud be this here - never mind the
character, and stick to the alleybi. Nothing like a alleybi, Sammy, nothing.«
Mr. Weller looked very profound as he delivered this legal opinion; and burying
his nose in his tumbler, winked over the top thereof, at his astonished son.
    »Why, what do you mean?« said Sam; »you don't think he's a goin' to be tried
at the Old Bailey, do you?«
    »That ain't no part of the present con-sideration, Sammy,« replied Mr.
Weller. »Verever he's a goin' to be tried, my boy, a alleybi's the thing to get
him off. Ve got Tom Vildspark off that 'ere manslaughter, with a alleybi, ven
all the big vigs to a man said as nothing couldn't save him. And my 'pinion is,
Sammy, that if your governor don't prove a alleybi, he'll be what the Italians
call reg'larly flummoxed, and that's all about it.«
    As the elder Mr. Weller entertained a firm and unalterable conviction that
the Old Bailey was the supreme court of judicature in this country, and that its
rules and forms of proceeding regulated and controlled the practice of all other
courts of justice whatsoever, he totally disregarded the assurances and
arguments of his son, tending to show that the alibi was inadmissible; and
vehemently protested that Mr. Pickwick was being wictimised. Finding that it was
of no use to discuss the matter further, Sam changed the subject, and inquired
what the second topic was, on which his revered parent wished to consult him.
    »That's a pint o' domestic policy, Sammy,« said Mr. Weller. »This here
Stiggins -«
    »Red-nosed man?« inquired Sam.
    »The very same,« replied Mr. Weller. »This here red-nosed man, Sammy, wisits
your mother-in-law with a kindness and constancy as I never see equalled. He's
sitch a friend o' the family, Sammy, that wen he's away from us, he can't be
comfortable unless he has something' to remember us by.«
    »And I'd give him something' as 'ud turpentine and bees'-vax his memory for
the next ten years or so, if I wos you,« interposed Sam.
    »Stop a minute,« said Mr. Weller; »I wos a going to say, he always brings
now, a flat bottle as holds about a pint and a-half, and fills it with the
pine-apple rum afore he goes away.«
    »And empties it afore he comes back, I s'pose?« said Sam.
    »Clean!« replied Mr. Weller; »never leaves nothing' in it but the cork and
the smell; trust him for that, Sammy. Now, these here fellows, my boy, are a
goin' to-night to get up the monthly meetin' o' the Brick Lane Branch o' the
United Grand Junction Ebenezer Temperance Association. Your mother-in-law wos a
goin', Sammy, but she's got the rheumatics, and can't; and I, Sammy - I've got
the two tickets as wos sent her.« Mr. Weller communicated this secret with great
glee, and winked so indefatigably after doing so, that Sam began to think he
must have got the tic doloureux in his right eye-lid.
    »Well?« said that young gentleman.
    »Well,« continued his progenitor, looking round him very cautiously, »you
and I'll go, punctiwal to the time. The deputy shepherd won't, Sammy; the deputy
shepherd won't.« Here Mr. Weller was seized with a paroxysm of chuckles, which
gradually terminated in as near an approach to a choke as an elderly gentleman
can, with safety, sustain.
    »Well, I never see sitch an old ghost in all my born days,« exclaimed Sam,
rubbing the old gentleman's back, hard enough to set him on fire with the
friction. »What are you a laughin' at, corpilence?«
    »Hush! Sammy,« said Mr. Weller, looking round him with increased caution,
and speaking in a whisper: »Two friends o' mine, as works the Oxford Road, and
is up to all kinds o' games, has got the deputy shepherd safe in tow, Sammy; and
ven he does come to the Ebenezer Junction, (vich he's sure to do: for they'll
see him to the door, and shove him in if necessary) he'll be as far gone in rum
and water as ever he wos at the Markis o' Granby, Dorkin', and that's not saying'
a little neither.« And with this, Mr. Weller once more laughed immoderately, and
once more relapsed into a state of partial suffocation, in consequence.
    Nothing could have been more in accordance with Sam Weller's feelings, than
the projected exposure of the real propensities and qualities of the red-nosed
man; and it being very near the appointed hour of meeting, the father and son
took their way at once to Brick Lane: Sam not forgetting to drop his letter into
a general post-office as they walked along.
    The monthly meetings of the Brick Lane Branch of the United Grand Junction
Ebenezer Temperance Association, were held in a large room, pleasantly and
airily situated at the top of a safe and commodious ladder. The president was
the straight-walking Mr. Anthony Humm, a converted fireman, now a schoolmaster,
and occasionally an itinerant preacher; and the secretary was Mr. Jonas Mudge,
chandler's shop-keeper, an enthusiastic and disinterested vessel, who sold tea
to the members. Previous to the commencement of business, the ladies sat upon
forms, and drank tea, till such time as they considered it expedient to leave
off; and a large wooden money-box was conspicuously placed upon the green baize
cloth of the business table, behind which the secretary stood, and acknowledged,
with a gracious smile, every addition to the rich vein of copper which lay
concealed within.
    On this particular occasion the women drank tea to a most alarming extent;
greatly to the horror of Mr. Weller senior, who, utterly regardless of all Sam's
admonitory nudgings, stared about him in every direction with the most
undisguised astonishment.
    »Sammy,« whispered Mr. Weller, »if some o' these here people don't want
tappin' to-morrow mornin', I ain't your father, and that's wot it is. Why, this
here old lady next me is a drowndin' herself in tea.«
    »Be quiet, can't you,« murmured Sam.
    »Sam,« whispered Mr. Weller, a moment afterwards, in a tone of deep
agitation, »mark my vords, my boy. If that 'ere secretary fellow keeps on for
only five minutes more, he'll blow himself up with toast and water.«
    »Well, let him, if he likes,« replied Sam; »it ain't no bis'ness o' yourn.«
    »If this here lasts much longer, Sammy,« said Mr. Weller, in the same low
voice, »I shall feel it my duty, as a human bein', to rise and address the
cheer. There's a young 'ooman on the next form but two, as has drunk nine
breakfast cups and a half; and she's a swellin' wisibly before my very eyes.«
    There is little doubt that Mr. Weller would have carried his benevolent
intention into immediate execution, if a great noise, occasioned by putting up
the cups and saucers, had not very fortunately announced that the tea-drinking
was over. The crockery having been removed, the table with the green baize cover
was carried out into the centre of the room, and the business of the evening was
commenced by a little emphatic man, with a bald head, and drab shorts, who
suddenly rushed up the ladder, at the imminent peril of snapping the two little
legs encased in the drab shorts, and said:
    »Ladies and gentlemen, I move our excellent brother, Mr. Anthony Humm, into
the chair.«
    The ladies waved a choice collection of pocket-handkerchiefs at this
proposition: and the impetuous little man literally moved Mr. Humm into the
chair by taking him by the shoulders and thrusting him into a mahogany-frame
which had once represented that article of furniture. The waving of
handkerchiefs was renewed; and Mr. Humm, who was a sleek, white-faced man, in a
perpetual perspiration, bowed meekly, to the great admiration of the females,
and formally took his seat. Silence was then proclaimed by the little man in the
drab shorts, and Mr. Humm rose and said - That, with the permission of his Brick
Lane Branch brothers and sisters, then and there present, the secretary would
read the report of the Brick Lane Branch committee; a proposition which was
again received with a demonstration of pocket-handkerchiefs.
    The secretary having sneezed in a very impressive manner, and the cough
which always seizes an assembly, when anything particular is going to be done,
having been duly performed, the following document was read:
 
 »Report of the Committee of the Brick Lane Branch of the United Grand Junction
                        Ebenezer Temperance Association.
 
Your committee have pursued their grateful labours during the past month, and
have the unspeakable pleasure of reporting the following additional cases of
converts to Temperance.
    H. Walker, tailor, wife, and two children. When in better circumstances,
owns to having been in the constant habit of drinking ale and beer; says he is
not certain whether he did not twice a week, for twenty years, taste dog's nose,
which your committee find upon inquiry, to be compounded of warm porter, moist
sugar, gin, and nutmeg (a groan, and So it is! from an elderly female.) Is now
out of work and pennyless; thinks it must be the porter (cheers) or the loss of
the use of his right hand; is not certain which, but thinks it very likely that,
if he had drank nothing but water all his life, his fellow work-man would never
have stuck a rusty needle in him, and thereby occasioned his accident
(tremendous cheering). Has nothing but cold water to drink, and never feels
thirsty (great applause).
    Betsy Martin, widow, one child, and one eye. Goes out charing and washing,
by the day; never had more than one eye, but knows her mother drank bottled
stout, and shouldn't wonder if that caused it (immense cheering). Thinks it not
impossible that if she had always abstained from spirits, she might have had two
eyes by this time (tremendous applause). Used, at every place she went to, to
have eighteen pence a day, a pint of porter, and a glass of spirits; but since
she became a member of the Brick Lane Branch, has always demanded three and
sixpence instead (the announcement of this most interesting fact was received
with deafening enthusiasm).
    Henry Beller was for many years toast-master at various corporation dinners,
during which time he drank a great deal of foreign wine; may sometimes have
carried a bottle or two home with him; is not quite certain of that, but is sure
if he did, that he drank the contents. Feels very low and melancholy, is very
feverish, and has a constant thirst upon him; thinks it must be the wine he used
to drink (cheers). Is out of employ now: and never touches a drop of foreign
wine by any chance (tremendous plaudits).
    Thomas Burton is purveyor of cat's meat to the Lord Mayor and Sheriffs, and
several members of the Common Council (the announcement of this gentleman's name
was received with breathless interest). Has a wooden leg; finds a wooden leg
expensive, going over the stones; used to wear second-hand wooden legs, and
drink a glass of hot gin and water regularly every night - sometimes two (deep
sighs). Found the second-hand wooden legs split and rot very quickly; is firmly
persuaded that their constitution was undermined by the gin and water (prolonged
cheering). Buys new wooden legs now, and drinks nothing but water and weak tea.
The new legs last twice as long as the others used to do, and he attributes this
solely to his temperate habits (triumphant cheers).«
    Anthony Humm now moved that the assembly do regale itself with a song. With
a view to their rational and moral enjoyment, brother Mordlin had adapted the
beautiful words of »Who hasn't heard of a Jolly Young Waterman?« to the tune of
the Old Hundredth, which he would request them to join him in singing (great
applause). He might take that opportunity of expressing his firm persuasion that
the late Mr. Dibdin, seeing the errors of his former life, had written that song
to show the advantages of abstinence. It was a temperance song (whirlwinds of
cheers). The neatness of the young man's attire, the dexterity of his
feathering, the enviable state of mind which enabled him in the beautiful words
of the poet, to
 
»Row along, thinking of nothing at all,«
 
all combined to prove that he must have been a water-drinker (cheers). Oh, what
a state of virtuous jollity! (rapturous cheering.) And what was the young man's
reward? Let all young men present mark this:
 
»The maidens all flock'd to his boat so readily.«
 
(Loud cheers, in which the ladies joined.) What a bright example! The
sisterhood, the maidens, flocking round the young waterman, and urging him along
the stream of duty and of temperance. But, was it the maidens of humble life
only, who soothed, consoled, and supported him? No!
 
»He was always first oars with the fine city ladies.«
 
(Immense cheering.) The soft sex to a man - he begged pardon, to a female -
rallied round the young waterman, and turned with disgust from the drinker of
spirits (cheers). The Brick Lane Branch brothers were watermen (cheers and
laughter). That room was their boat; that audience were the maidens; and he (Mr.
Anthony Humm), however unworthily, was first oars (unbounded applause).
    »Wot does he mean by the soft sex, Sammy?« inquired Mr. Weller, in a
whisper.
    »The womin,« said Sam, in the same tone.
    »He ain't far out there, Sammy,« replied Mr. Weller; »they must be a soft
sex, - a very soft sex, indeed - if they let themselves be gammoned by such
fellows as him.«
    Any further observations from the indignant old gentleman were cut short by
the announcement of the song, which Mr. Anthony Humm gave out, two lines at a
time, for the information of such of his hearers as were unacquainted with the
legend. While it was being sung, the little man with the drab shorts
disappeared; he returned immediately on its conclusion, and whispered Mr.
Anthony Humm, with a face of the deepest importance.
    »My friends,« said Mr. Humm, holding up his hand in a deprecatory manner, to
bespeak the silence of such of the stout old ladies as were yet a line or two
behind; »my friends, a delegate from the Dorking branch of our society, Brother
Stiggins, attends below.«
    Out came the pocket-handkerchiefs again, in greater force than ever; for Mr.
Stiggins was excessively popular among the female constituency of Brick Lane.
    »He may approach, I think,« said Mr. Humm, looking round him, with a fat
smile. »Brother Tadger, let him come forth and greet us.«
    The little man in the drab shorts who answered to the name of Brother
Tadger, bustled down the ladder with great speed, and was immediately afterwards
heard tumbling up with the reverend Mr. Stiggins.
    »He's a comin', Sammy,« whispered Mr. Weller, purple in the countenance with
suppressed laughter.
    »Don't say nothing' to me,« replied Sam, »for I can't bear it. He's close to
the door. I heard him a-knockin' his head again the lath and plaster now.«
    As Sam Weller spoke, the little door flew open, and brother Tadger appeared,
closely followed by the reverend Mr. Stiggins, who no sooner entered, than there
was a great clapping of hands, and stamping of feet, and flourishing of
handkerchiefs; to all of which manifestations of delight, Brother Stiggins
returned no other acknowledgement than staring with a wild eye, and a fixed
smile, at the extreme top of the wick of the candle on the table: swaying his
body to and fro, meanwhile, in a very unsteady and uncertain manner.
    »Are you unwell, brother Stiggins?« whispered Mr. Anthony Humm.
    »I am all right, sir,« replied Mr. Stiggins, in a tone in which ferocity was
blended with an extreme thickness of utterance; »I am all right, sir.«
    »Oh, very well,« rejoined Mr. Anthony Humm, retreating a few paces.
    »I believe no man here, has ventured to say that I am not all right, sir?«
said Mr. Stiggins.
    »Oh, certainly not,« said Mr. Humm.
    »I should advise him not to, sir; I should advise him not,« said Mr.
Stiggins.
    By this time the audience were perfectly silent, and waited with some
anxiety for the resumption of business.
    »Will you address the meeting, brother?« said Mr. Humm, with a smile of
invitation.
    »No, sir,« rejoined Mr. Stiggins; »No, sir. I will not, sir.«
    The meeting looked at each other with raised eye-lids; and a murmur of
astonishment ran through the room.
    »It's my opinion, sir,« said Mr. Stiggins, unbuttoning his coat, and
speaking very loudly; »it's my opinion, sir, that this meeting is drunk, sir.
Brother Tadger, sir!« said Mr. Stiggins, suddenly increasing in ferocity, and
turning sharp round on the little man in the drab shorts, »you are drunk, sir!«
With this, Mr. Stiggins, entertaining a praiseworthy desire to promote the
sobriety of the meeting, and to exclude therefrom all improper characters, hit
brother Tadger on the summit of the nose with such unerring aim, that the drab
shorts disappeared like a flash of lightning. Brother Tadger had been knocked,
head first, down the ladder.
    Upon this, the women set up a loud and dismal screaming; and rushing in
small parties before their favourite brothers, flung their arms around them to
preserve them from danger. An instance of affection, which had nearly proved
fatal to Humm, who, being extremely popular, was all but suffocated, by the
crowd of female devotees that hung about his neck, and heaped caresses upon him.
The greater part of the lights were quickly put out, and nothing but noise and
confusion resounded on all sides.
    »Now, Sammy,« said Mr. Weller, taking off his great coat with much
deliberation, »just you step out, and fetch in a watchman.«
    »And wot are you a goin' to do, the while?« inquired Sam.
    »Never you mind me, Sammy,« replied the old gentleman; »I shall ockipy
myself in having' a small settlement with that 'ere Stiggins.« Before Sam could
interfere to prevent it, his heroic parent had penetrated into a remote corner
of the room, and attacked the reverend Mr. Stiggins with manual dexterity.
    »Come off!« said Sam.
    »Come on!« cried Mr. Weller; and without further invitation he gave the
reverend Mr. Stiggins a preliminary tap on the head, and began dancing round him
in a buoyant and cork-like manner, which in a gentleman at his time of life was
a perfect marvel to behold.
    Finding all remonstrance unavailing, Sam pulled his hat firmly on, threw his
father's coat over his arm, and taking the old man round the waist, forcibly
dragged him down the ladder, and into the street; never releasing his hold, or
permitting him to stop, until they reached the corner. As they gained it, they
could hear the shouts of the populace, who were witnessing the removal of the
reverend Mr. Stiggins to strong lodgings for the night: and could hear the noise
occasioned by the dispersion in various directions of the members of the Brick
Lane Branch of the United Grand Junction Ebenezer Temperance Association.
 

                                 Chapter XXXIV

   Is Wholly Devoted to a Full and Faithful Report of the Memorable Trial of
                           Bardell Against Pickwick.

»I wonder what the foreman of the jury, whoever he'll be, has got for
breakfast,« said Mr. Snodgrass, by way of keeping up a conversation on the
eventful morning of the fourteenth of February.
    »Ah!« said Perker, »I hope he's got a good one.«
    »Why so?« inquired Mr. Pickwick.
    »Highly important; very important, my dear sir,« replied Perker. »A good,
contented, well-breakfasted juryman, is a capital thing to get hold of.
Discontented or hungry jurymen, my dear sir, always find for the plaintiff.«
    »Bless my heart,« said Mr. Pickwick, looking very blank; »what do they do
that for?«
    »Why, I don't know,« replied the little man, coolly; »saves time, I suppose.
If it's near dinner-time, the foreman takes out his watch when the jury has
retired, and says, Dear me, gentlemen, ten minutes to five, I declare! I dine at
five, gentlemen. So do I, says every body else, except two men who ought to have
dined at three, and seem more than half disposed to stand out in consequence.
The foreman smiles, and puts up his watch: - Well, gentlemen, what do we say,
plaintiff or defendant, gentlemen? I rather think, so far as I am concerned,
gentlemen, - I say, I rather think, - but don't let that influence you - I
rather think the plaintiff's the man. Upon this, two or three other men are sure
to say that they think so too - as of course they do; and then they get on very
unanimously and comfortably. Ten minutes past nine!« said the little man,
looking at his watch. »Time we were off, my dear sir; breach of promise trial -
court is generally full in such cases. You had better ring for a coach, my dear
sir, or we shall be rather late.«
    Mr. Pickwick immediately rang the bell; and a coach having been procured,
the four Pickwickians and Mr. Perker ensconced themselves therein, and drove to
Guildhall; Sam Weller, Mr. Lowten, and the blue bag, following in a cab.
    »Lowten,« said Perker, when they reached the outer hall of the court, »put
Mr. Pickwick's friends in the students' box; Mr. Pickwick himself had better sit
by me. This way, my dear sir, this way.« Taking Mr. Pickwick by the coat-sleeve,
the little man led him to the low seat just beneath the desks of the King's
Counsel, which is constructed for the convenience of attorneys, who from that
spot can whisper into the ear of the leading counsel in the case, any
instructions that may be necessary during the progress of the trial. The
occupants of this seat are invisible to the great body of spectators, inasmuch
as they sit on a much lower level than either the barristers or the audience,
whose seats are raised above the floor. Of course they have their backs to both,
and their faces towards the judge.
    »That's the witness-box, I suppose?« said Mr. Pickwick, pointing to a kind
of pulpit, with a brass rail, on his left hand.
    »That's the witness-box, my dear sir,« replied Perker, disinterring a
quantity of papers from the blue bag, which Lowten had just deposited at his
feet.
    »And that,« said Mr. Pickwick, pointing to a couple of enclosed seats on his
right, »that's where the jurymen sit, is it not?«
    »The identical place, my dear sir,« replied Perker, tapping the lid of his
snuff-box.
    Mr. Pickwick stood up in a state of great agitation, and took a glance at
the court. There were already a pretty large sprinkling of spectators in the
gallery, and a numerous muster of gentlemen in wigs, in the barristers' seats:
who presented, as a body, all that pleasing and extensive variety of nose and
whisker for which the bar of England is so justly celebrated. Such of the
gentlemen as had a brief to carry, carried it in as conspicuous a manner as
possible, and occasionally scratched their noses therewith, to impress the fact
more strongly on the observation of the spectators. Other gentlemen, who had no
briefs to show, carried under their arms goodly octavos, with a red label
behind, and that underdone-pie-crust-coloured cover, which is technically known
as law calf. Others, who had neither briefs nor books, thrust their hands into
their pockets, and looked as wise as they conveniently could; others, again,
moved here and there with great restlessness and earnestness of manner, content
to awaken thereby the admiration and astonishment of the uninitiated strangers.
The whole, to the great wonderment of Mr. Pickwick, were divided into little
groups, who were chatting and discussing the news of the day in the most
unfeeling manner possible, - just as if no trial at all were coming on.
    A bow from Mr. Phunky, as he entered, and took his seat behind the row
appropriated to the King's Counsel, attracted Mr. Pickwick's attention; and he
had scarcely returned it, when Mr. Serjeant Snubbin appeared, followed by Mr.
Mallard, who half hid the Serjeant behind a large crimson bag, which he placed
on his table, and, after shaking hands with Perker, withdrew. Then there entered
two or three more Serjeants; and among them, one with a fat body and a red face,
who nodded in a friendly manner to Mr. Serjeant Snubbin, and said it was a fine
morning.
    »Who's that red-faced man, who said it was a fine morning, and nodded to our
counsel?« whispered Mr. Pickwick.
    »Mr. Serjeant Buzfuz,« replied Perker. »He's opposed to us; he leads on the
other side. That gentleman behind him is Mr. Skimpin, his junior.«
    Mr. Pickwick was on the point of inquiring, with great abhorrence of the
man's cold-blooded villainy, how Mr. Serjeant Buzfuz, who was counsel for the
opposite party, dared to presume to tell Mr. Serjeant Snubbin, who was counsel
for him, that it was a fine morning, when he was interrupted by a general rising
of the barristers, and a loud cry of »Silence!« from the officers of the court.
Looking round, he found that this was caused by the entrance of the judge.
    Mr. Justice Stareleigh (who sat in the absence of the Chief Justice,
occasioned by indisposition), was a most particularly short man, and so fat,
that he seemed all face and waistcoat. He rolled in, upon two little turned
legs, and having bobbed gravely to the bar, who bobbed gravely to him, put his
little legs underneath his table, and his little three-cornered hat upon it; and
when Mr. Justice Stareleigh had done this, all you could see of him was two
queer little eyes, one broad pink face, and somewhere about half of a big and
very comical-looking wig.
    The judge had no sooner taken his seat, than the officer on the floor of the
court called out »Silence!« in a commanding tone, upon which another officer in
the gallery cried »Silence!« in an angry manner, whereupon three or four more
ushers shouted »Silence!« in a voice of indignant remonstrance. This being done,
a gentleman in black, who sat below the judge, proceeded to call over the names
of the jury; and after a great deal of bawling, it was discovered that only ten
special jurymen were present. Upon this, Mr. Serjeant Buzfuz prayed a tales; the
gentleman in black then proceeded to press into the special jury, two of the
common jurymen; and a green-grocer and a chemist were caught directly.
    »Answer to your names, gentlemen, that you may be sworn,« said the gentleman
in black. »Richard Upwitch.«
    »Here,« said the green-grocer.
    »Thomas Groffin.«
    »Here,« said the chemist.
    »Take the book, gentlemen. You shall well and truly try -«
    »I beg this court's pardon,« said the chemist, who was a tall, thin,
yellow-visaged man, »but I hope this court will excuse my attendance.«
    »On what grounds, sir?« said Mr. Justice Stareleigh.
    »I have no assistant, my Lord,« said the chemist.
    »I can't help that, sir,« replied Mr. Justice Stareleigh. »You should hire
one.«
    »I can't afford it, my Lord,« rejoined the chemist.
    »Then you ought to be able to afford it, sir,« said the judge, reddening;
for Mr. Justice Stareleigh's temper bordered on the irritable, and brooked not
contradiction.
    »I know I ought to do, if I got on as well as I deserved, but I don't, my
Lord,« answered the chemist.
    »Swear the gentleman,« said the judge, peremptorily.
    The officer had got no further than the »You shall well and truly try,« when
he was again interrupted by the chemist.
    »I am to be sworn, my Lord, am I?« said the chemist.
    »Certainly, sir,« replied the testy little judge.
    »Very well, my Lord,« replied the chemist, in a resigned manner. »Then
there'll be murder before this trial's over; that's all. Swear me, if you
please, sir;« and sworn the chemist was, before the judge could find words to
utter.
    »I merely wanted to observe, my Lord,« said the chemist, taking his seat
with great deliberation, »that I've left nobody but an errand-boy in my shop. He
is a very nice boy, my Lord, but he is not acquainted with drugs; and I know
that the prevailing impression on his mind is, that Epsom salts means oxalic
acid; and syrup of senna, laudanum. That's all, my Lord.« With this, the tall
chemist composed himself into a comfortable attitude, and, assuming a pleasant
expression of countenance, appeared to have prepared himself for the worst.
    Mr. Pickwick was regarding the chemist with feelings of the deepest horror,
when a slight sensation was perceptible in the body of the court; and
immediately afterwards Mrs. Bardell, supported by Mrs. Cluppins, was led in, and
placed, in a drooping state, at the other end of the seat on which Mr. Pickwick
sat. An extra sized umbrella was then handed in by Mr. Dodson, and a pair of
pattens by Mr. Fogg, each of whom had prepared a most sympathising and
melancholy face for the occasion. Mrs. Sanders then appeared, leading in Master
Bardell. At sight of her child, Mrs. Bardell started; suddenly recollecting
herself, she kissed him in a frantic manner; then relapsing into a state of
hysterical imbecility, the good lady requested to be informed where she was. In
reply to this, Mrs. Cluppins and Mrs. Sanders turned their heads away and wept,
while Messrs. Dodson and Fogg entreated the plaintiff to compose herself.
Serjeant Buzfuz rubbed his eyes very hard with a large white handkerchief, and
gave an appealing look towards the jury, while the judge was visibly affected,
and several of the beholders tried to cough down their emotions.
    »Very good notion that, indeed,« whispered Perker to Mr. Pickwick. »Capital
fellows those Dodson and Fogg; excellent ideas of effect, my dear sir,
excellent.«
    As Perker spoke, Mrs. Bardell began to recover by slow degrees, while Mrs.
Cluppins, after a careful survey of Master Bardell's buttons and the
button-holes to which they severally belonged, placed him on the floor of the
court in front of his mother, - a commanding position in which he could not fail
to awaken the full commiseration and sympathy of both judge and jury. This was
not done without considerable opposition, and many tears, on the part of the
young gentleman himself, who had certain inward misgivings that the placing him
within the full glare of the judge's eye was only a formal prelude to his being
immediately ordered away for instant execution, or for transportation beyond the
seas, during the whole term of his natural life, at the very least.
    »Bardell and Pickwick,« cried the gentleman in black, calling on the case,
which stood first on the list.
    »I am for the plaintiff, my Lord,« said Mr. Serjeant Buzfuz.
    »Who is with you, brother Buzfuz?« said the judge. Mr. Skimpin bowed, to
intimate that he was.
    »I appear for the defendant, my Lord,« said Mr. Serjeant Snubbin.
    »Anybody with you, brother Snubbin?« inquired the court.
    »Mr. Phunky, my Lord,« replied Serjeant Snubbin.
    »Serjeant Buzfuz and Mr. Skimpin for the plaintiff,« said the judge, writing
down the names in his note-book, and reading as he wrote; »for the defendant,
Serjeant Snubbin and Mr. Monkey.«
    »Beg your Lordship's pardon, Phunky.«
    »Oh, very good,« said the judge; »I never had the pleasure of hearing the
gentleman's name before.« Here Mr. Phunky bowed and smiled, and the judge bowed
and smiled too, and then Mr. Phunky, blushing into the very whites of his eyes,
tried to look as if he didn't know that everybody was gazing at him: a thing
which no man ever succeeded in doing yet, or in all reasonable probability, ever
will.
    »Go on,« said the judge.
    The ushers again called silence, and Mr. Skimpin proceeded to open the case;
and the case appeared to have very little inside it when he had opened it, for
he kept such particulars as he knew, completely to himself, and sat down, after
a lapse of three minutes, leaving the jury in precisely the same advanced stage
of wisdom as they were in before.
    Serjeant Buzfuz then rose with all the majesty and dignity which the grave
nature of the proceedings demanded, and having whispered to Dodson, and
conferred briefly with Fogg, pulled his gown over his shoulders, settled his
wig, and addressed the jury.
    Serjeant Buzfuz began by saying, that never, in the whole course of his
professional experience - never, from the very first moment of his applying
himself to the study and practice of the law - had he approached a case with
feelings of such deep emotion, or with such a heavy sense of the responsibility
imposed upon him - a responsibility, he would say, which he could never have
supported, were he not buoyed up and sustained by a conviction so strong, that
it amounted to positive certainty that the cause of truth and justice, or, in
other words, the cause of his much-injured and most oppressed client, must
prevail with the high-minded and intelligent dozen of men whom he now saw in
that box before him.
    Counsel usually begin in this way, because it puts the jury on the very best
terms with themselves, and makes them think what sharp fellows they must be. A
visible effect was produced immediately; several jurymen beginning to take
voluminous notes with the utmost eagerness.
    »You have heard from my learned friend, gentlemen,« continued Serjeant
Buzfuz, well knowing that, from the learned friend alluded to, the gentlemen of
the jury had heard just nothing at all - »you have heard from my learned friend,
gentlemen, that this is an action for a breach of promise of marriage, in which
the damages are laid at £1,500. But you have not heard from my learned friend,
inasmuch as it did not come within my learned friend's province to tell you,
what are the facts and circumstances of the case. Those facts and circumstances,
gentlemen, you shall hear detailed by me, and proved by the unimpeachable female
whom I will place in that box before you.«
    Here Mr. Serjeant Buzfuz, with a tremendous emphasis on the word box, smote
his table with a mighty sound, and glanced at Dodson and Fogg, who nodded
admiration of the sergeant, and indignant defiance of the defendant.
    »The plaintiff, gentlemen,« continued Serjeant Buzfuz, in a soft and
melancholy voice, »the plaintiff is a widow; yes, gentlemen, a widow. The late
Mr. Bardell, after enjoying, for many years, the esteem and confidence of his
sovereign, as one of the guardians of his royal revenues, glided almost
imperceptibly from the world, to seek elsewhere for that repose and peace which
a custom-house can never afford.«
    At this pathetic description of the decease of Mr. Bardell, who had been
knocked on the head with a quart-pot in a public-house cellar, the learned
sergeant's voice faltered, and he proceeded with emotion:
    »Some time before his death, he had stamped his likeness upon a little boy.
With this little boy, the only pledge of her departed exciseman, Mrs. Bardell
shrunk from the world, and courted the retirement and tranquillity of Goswell
Street; and here she placed in her front parlour-window a written placard,
bearing this inscription - Apartments furnished for a single gentleman. Inquire
within.« Here Serjeant Buzfuz paused, while several gentlemen of the jury took a
note of the document.
    »There is no date to that, is there, sir?« inquired a juror.
    »There is no date, gentlemen,« replied Serjeant Buzfuz; »but I am instructed
to say that it was put in the plaintiff's parlour-window just this time three
years. I entreat the attention of the jury to the wording of this document.
Apartments furnished for a single gentleman! Mrs. Bardell's opinions of the
opposite sex, gentlemen, were derived from a long contemplation of the
inestimable qualities of her lost husband. She had no fear, she had no distrust,
she had no suspicion, all was confidence and reliance. Mr. Bardell, said the
widow; Mr. Bardell was a man of honour, Mr. Bardell was a man of his word, Mr.
Bardell was no deceiver, Mr. Bardell was once a single gentleman himself; to
single gentlemen I look for protection, for assistance, for comfort, and for
consolation; in single gentlemen I shall perpetually see something to remind me
of what Mr. Bardell was, when he first won my young and untried affections; to a
single gentleman, then, shall my lodgings be let. Actuated by this beautiful and
touching impulse (among the best impulses of our imperfect nature, gentlemen,)
the lonely and desolate widow dried her tears, furnished her first floor, caught
the innocent boy to her maternal bosom, and put the bill up in her
parlour-window. Did it remain there long? No. The serpent was on the watch, the
train was laid, the mine was preparing, the sapper and miner was at work. Before
the bill had been in the parlour-window three days - three days - gentlemen - a
Being, erect upon two legs, and bearing all the outward semblance of a man, and
not of a monster, knocked at the door of Mrs. Bardell's house. He inquired
within; he took the lodgings; and on the very next day he entered into
possession of them. This man was Pickwick - Pickwick, the defendant.«
    Serjeant Buzfuz, who had proceeded with such volubility that his face was
perfectly crimson, here paused for breath. The silence awoke Mr. Justice
Stareleigh, who immediately wrote down something with a pen without any ink in
it, and looked unusually profound, to impress the jury with the belief that he
always thought most deeply with his eyes shut. Serjeant Buzfuz proceeded.
    »Of this man Pickwick I will say little; the subject presents but few
attractions; and I, gentlemen, am not the man, nor are you, gentlemen, the men,
to delight in the contemplation of revolting heartlessness, and of systematic
villainy.«
    Here Mr. Pickwick, who had been writhing in silence for some time, gave a
violent start, as if some vague idea of assaulting Serjeant Buzfuz, in the
august presence of justice and law, suggested itself to his mind. An admonitory
gesture from Perker restrained him, and he listened to the learned gentleman's
continuation with a look of indignation, which contrasted forcibly with the
admiring faces of Mrs. Cluppins and Mrs. Sanders.
    »I say systematic villainy, gentlemen,« said Serjeant Buzfuz, looking through
Mr. Pickwick, and talking at him; »and when I say systematic villainy, let me
tell the defendant Pickwick, if he be in court, as I am informed he is, that it
would have been more decent in him, more becoming, in better judgment, and in
better taste, if he had stopped away. Let me tell him, gentlemen, that any
gestures of dissent or disapprobation in which he may indulge in this court will
not go down with you; that you will know how to value and how to appreciate
them; and let me tell him further, as my lord will tell you, gentlemen, that a
counsel, in the discharge of his duty to his client, is neither to be
intimidated nor bullied, nor put down; and that any attempt to do either the one
or the other, or the first, or the last, will recoil on the head of the
attempter, be he plaintiff or be he defendant, be his name Pickwick, or Noakes,
or Stoakes, or Stiles, or Brown, or Thompson.«
    This little divergence from the subject in hand, had of course, the intended
effect of turning all eyes to Mr. Pickwick. Sergeant Buzfuz, having partially
recovered from the state of moral elevation into which he had lashed himself,
resumed:
    »I shall show you, gentlemen, that for two years Pickwick continued to
reside constantly, and without interruption or intermission, at Mrs. Bardell's
house. I shall show you that Mrs. Bardell, during the whole of that time waited
on him, attended to his comforts, cooked his meals, looked out his linen for the
washerwoman when it went abroad, darned, aired, and prepared it for wear, when
it came home, and, in short, enjoyed his fullest trust and confidence. I shall
show you that, on many occasions, he gave halfpence, and on some occasions even
sixpences, to her little boy; and I shall prove to you, by a witness whose
testimony it will be impossible for my learned friend to weaken or controvert,
that on one occasion he patted the boy on the head, and, after inquiring whether
he had won any alley tors or commoneys lately (both of which I understand to be
a particular species of marbles much prized by the youth of this town), made use
of this remarkable expression: How should you like to have another father? I
shall prove to you, gentlemen, that about a year ago, Pickwick suddenly began to
absent himself from home, during long intervals, as if with the intention of
gradually breaking off from my client; but I shall show you also, that his
resolution was not at that time sufficiently strong, or that his better feelings
conquered, if better feelings he has, or that the charms and accomplishments of
my client prevailed against his unmanly intentions; by proving to you, that on
one occasion, when he returned from the country, he distinctly and in terms,
offered her marriage: previously however, taking special care that there should
be no witness to their solemn contract; and I am in a situation to prove to you,
on the testimony of three of his own friends, - most unwilling witnesses,
gentlemen - most unwilling witnesses - that on that morning he was discovered by
them holding the plaintiff in his arms, and soothing her agitation by his
caresses and endearments.«
    A visible impression was produced upon the auditors by this part of the
learned sergeant's address. Drawing forth two very small scraps of paper, he
proceeded:
    »And now, gentlemen, but one word more. Two letters have passed between
these parties, letters which are admitted to be in the hand-writing of the
defendant, and which speak volumes indeed. These letters, too, bespeak the
character of the man. They are not open, fervent, eloquent epistles, breathing
nothing but the language of affectionate attachment. They are covert, sly,
underhanded communications, but, fortunately, far more conclusive than if
couched in the most glowing language and the most poetic imagery - letters that
must be viewed with a cautious and suspicious eye - letters that were evidently
intended at the time, by Pickwick, to mislead and delude any third parties into
whose hands they might fall. Let me read the first: - Garraway's, twelve
o'clock. Dear Mrs. B. - Chops and Tomata sauce. Yours, PICKWICK. Gentlemen, what
does this mean? Chops and Tomata sauce. Yours, Pickwick! Chops! Gracious
heavens! and Tomata sauce! Gentlemen, is the happiness of a sensitive and
confiding female to be trifled away, by such shallow artifices as these? The
next has no date whatever, which is in itself suspicious. Dear Mrs. B., I shall
not be at home till to-morrow. Slow coach. And then follows this very remarkable
expression. Don't trouble yourself about the warming-pan. The warming pan! Why,
gentlemen, who does trouble himself about a warming-pan? When was the peace of
mind of man or woman broken or disturbed by a warming-pan, which is in itself a
harmless, a useful, and I will add, gentlemen, a comforting article of domestic
furniture? Why is Mrs. Bardell so earnestly entreated not to agitate herself
about this warming-pan, unless (as is no doubt the case) it is a mere cover for
hidden fire - a mere substitute for some endearing word or promise, agreeably to
a preconcerted system of correspondence, artfully contrived by Pickwick with a
view to his contemplated desertion, and which I am not in a condition to
explain? And what does this allusion to the slow coach mean? For aught I know,
it may be a reference to Pickwick himself, who has most unquestionably been a
criminally slow coach during the whole of this transaction, but whose speed will
now be very unexpectedly accelerated, and whose wheels, gentlemen, as he will
find to his cost, will very soon be greased by you!«
    Mr. Serjeant Buzfuz paused in this place, to see whether the jury smiled at
his joke; but as nobody took it but the green-grocer, whose sensitiveness on the
subject was very probably occasioned by his having subjected a chaise-cart to
the process in question on that identical morning, the learned sergeant
considered it advisable to undergo a slight relapse into the dismals before he
concluded.
    »But enough of this, gentlemen,« said Mr. Serjeant Buzfuz, »it is difficult
to smile with an aching heart; it is ill jesting when our deepest sympathies are
awakened. My client's hopes and prospects are ruined, and it is no figure of
speech to say that her occupation is gone indeed. The bill is down - but there
is no tenant. Eligible single gentlemen pass and repass - but there is no
invitation for them to inquire within or without. All is gloom and silence in
the house; even the voice of the child is hushed; his infant sports are
disregarded when his mother weeps; his alley tors and his commoneys are alike
neglected; he forgets the long familiar cry of knuckle down, and at tip-cheese,
or odd and even, his hand is out. But Pickwick, gentlemen, Pickwick, the
ruthless destroyer of this domestic oasis in the desert of Goswell Street -
Pickwick, who has choked up the well, and thrown ashes on the sward - Pickwick,
who comes before you to-day with his heartless Tomata sauce and warming-pans -
Pickwick still rears his head with unblushing effrontery, and gazes without a
sigh on the ruin he has made. Damages, gentlemen - heavy damages - is the only
punishment with which you can visit him; the only recompense you can award to my
client. And for those damages she now appeals to an enlightened, a high-minded,
a right-feeling, a conscientious, a dispassionate, a sympathising, a
contemplative jury of her civilised countrymen.« With this beautiful peroration,
Mr. Serjeant Buzfuz sat down, and Mr. Justice Stareleigh woke up.
    »Call Elizabeth Cluppins,« said Serjeant Buzfuz, rising a minute afterwards,
with renewed vigour.
    The nearest usher called for Elizabeth Tuppins; another one, at a little
distance off, demanded Elizabeth Jupkins; and a third rushed in a breathless
state into King Street, and screamed for Elizabeth Muffins till he was hoarse.
    Meanwhile Mrs. Cluppins, with the combined assistance of Mrs. Bardell, Mrs.
Sanders, Mr. Dodson, and Mr. Fogg, was hoisted into the witness-box; and when
she was safely perched on the top step, Mrs. Bardell stood on the bottom one,
with the pocket-handkerchief and pattens in one hand, and a glass bottle that
might hold about a quarter of a pint of smelling salts in the other, ready for
any emergency. Mrs. Sanders, whose eyes were intently fixed on the judge's face,
planted herself close by, with the large umbrella: keeping her right thumb
pressed on the spring with an earnest countenance, as if she were fully prepared
to put it up at a moment's notice.
    »Mrs. Cluppins,« said Serjeant Buzfuz, »pray compose yourself, ma'am.« Of
course, directly Mrs. Cluppins was desired to compose herself she sobbed with
increased vehemence, and gave divers alarming manifestations of an approaching
fainting fit, or, as she afterwards said, of her feelings being too many for
her.
    »Do you recollect, Mrs. Cluppins?« said Serjeant Buzfuz, after a few
unimportant questions, »do you recollect being in Mrs. Bardell's back one pair
of stairs, on one particular morning in July last, when she was dusting
Pickwick's apartment?«
    »Yes, my Lord and Jury, I do,« replied Mrs. Cluppins.
    »Mr. Pickwick's sitting-room was the first-floor front, I believe?«
    »Yes, it were, sir,« replied Mrs. Cluppins.
    »What were you doing in the back room, ma'am?« inquired the little judge.
    »My Lord and Jury,« said Mrs. Cluppins, with interesting agitation, »I will
not deceive you.«
    »You had better not, ma'am,« said the little judge.
    »I was there,« resumed Mrs. Cluppins, »unbeknown to Mrs. Bardell; I had been
out with a little basket, gentlemen, to buy three pound of red kidney purtaties,
which was three pound tuppense ha'penny, when I see Mrs. Bardell's street door
on the jar.«
    »On the what?« exclaimed the little judge.
    »Partly open, my Lord,« said Serjeant Snubbin.
    »She said on the jar,« said the little judge, with a cunning look.
    »It's all the same, my Lord,« said Serjeant Snubbin. The little judge looked
doubtful, and said he'd make a note of it. Mrs. Cluppins then resumed:
    »I walked in, gentlemen, just to say good mornin', and went, in a
permiscuous manner, up stairs, and into the back room. Gentlemen, there was the
sound of voices in the front room, and -«
    »And you listened, I believe, Mrs. Cluppins?« said Serjeant Buzfuz.
    »Beggin' your pardon, sir,« replied Mrs. Cluppins, in a majestic manner, »I
would scorn the haction. The voices was very loud, sir, and forced themselves
upon my ear.«
    »Well, Mrs. Cluppins, you were not listening, but you heard the voices. Was
one of those voices, Pickwick's?«
    »Yes, it were, sir.«
    And Mrs. Cluppins, after distinctly stating that Mr. Pickwick addressed
himself to Mrs. Bardell, repeated, by slow degrees, and by dint of many
questions, the conversation with which our readers are already acquainted.
    The jury looked suspicious, and Mr. Serjeant Buzfuz smiled and sat down.
They looked positively awful when Serjeant Snubbin intimated that he should not
cross-examine the witness, for Mr. Pickwick wished it to be distinctly stated
that it was due to her to say, that her account was in substance correct.
    Mrs. Cluppins having once broken the ice, thought it a favourable
opportunity for entering into a short dissertation on her own domestic affairs;
so, she straightway proceeded to inform the court that she was the mother of
eight children at that present speaking, and that she entertained confident
expectations of presenting Mr. Cluppins with a ninth, somewhere about that day
six months. At this interesting point, the little judge interposed most
irascibly; and the effect of the interposition was, that both the worthy lady
and Mrs. Sanders were politely taken out of court, under the escort of Mr.
Jackson, without further parley.
    »Nathaniel Winkle!« said Mr. Skimpin.
    »Here!« replied a feeble voice. Mr. Winkle entered the witness box, and
having been duly sworn, bowed to the judge with considerable deference.
    »Don't look at me, sir,« said the judge, sharply, in acknowledgement of the
salute; »look at the jury.«
    Mr. Winkle obeyed the mandate, and looked at the place where he thought it
most probable the jury might be; for seeing anything in his then state of
intellectual complication was wholly out of the question.
    Mr. Winkle was then examined by Mr. Skimpin, who, being a promising young
man of two or three and forty, was of course anxious to confuse a witness who
was notoriously predisposed in favour of the other side, as much as he could.
    »Now, sir,« said Mr. Skimpin, »have the goodness to let his Lordship and the
jury know what your name is, will you?« and Mr. Skimpin inclined his head on one
side to listen with great sharpness to the answer, and glanced at the jury
meanwhile, as if to imply that he rather expected Mr. Winkle's natural taste for
perjury would induce him to give some name which did not belong to him.
    »Winkle,« replied the witness.
    »What's your Christian name, sir?« angrily inquired the little judge.
    »Nathaniel, sir.«
    »Daniel, - any other name?«
    »Nathaniel, sir - my Lord, I mean.«
    »Nathaniel Daniel, or Daniel Nathaniel?«
    »No, my Lord, only Nathaniel; not Daniel at all.«
    »What did you tell me it was Daniel for, then, sir?« inquired the judge.
    »I didn't, my Lord,« replied Mr. Winkle.
    »You did, sir,« replied the judge, with a severe frown. »How could I have
got Daniel on my notes, unless you told me so, sir?«
    This argument, was, of course, unanswerable.
    »Mr. Winkle has rather a short memory, my Lord,« interposed Mr. Skimpin,
with another glance at the jury. »We shall find means to refresh it before we
have quite done with him, I dare say.«
    »You had better be careful, sir,« said the little judge, with a sinister
look at the witness.
    Poor Mr. Winkle bowed, and endeavoured to feign an easiness of manner,
which, in his then state of confusion, gave him rather the air of a disconcerted
pickpocket.
    »Now, Mr. Winkle,« said Mr. Skimpin, »attend to me, if you please, sir; and
let me recommend you, for your own sake, to bear in mind his Lordship's
injunction to be careful. I believe you are a particular friend of Pickwick, the
defendant, are you not?«
    »I have known Mr. Pickwick now, as well as I recollect at this moment,
nearly -«
    »Pray, Mr. Winkle, do not evade the question. Are you, or are you not, a
particular friend of the defendant's?«
    »I was just about to say, that -«
    »Will you, or will you not, answer my question, sir?«
    »If you don't answer the question you'll be committed, sir,« interposed the
little judge, looking over his note-book.
    »Come, sir,« said Mr. Skimpin, »yes or no, if you please.«
    »Yes, I am,« replied Mr. Winkle.
    »Yes, you are. And why couldn't you say that at once, sir? Perhaps you know
the plaintiff, too? Eh, Mr. Winkle?«
    »I don't know her; I've seen her.«
    »Oh, you don't know her, but you've seen her? Now, have the goodness to tell
the gentlemen of the jury what you mean by that, Mr. Winkle.«
    »I mean that I am not intimate with her, but I have seen her when I went to
call on Mr. Pickwick in Goswell Street.«
    »How often have you seen her, sir?«
    »How often?«
    »Yes, Mr. Winkle, how often? I'll repeat the question for you a dozen times,
if you require it, sir.« And the learned gentleman, with a firm and steady
frown, placed his hands on his hips, and smiled suspiciously at the jury.
    On this question there arose the edifying brow-beating, customary on such
points. First of all, Mr. Winkle said it was quite impossible for him to say how
many times he had seen Mrs. Bardell. Then he was asked if he had seen her twenty
times, to which he replied, »Certainly, - more than that.« Then he was asked
whether he hadn't seen her a hundred times - whether he couldn't swear that he
had seen her more than fifty times - whether he didn't know that he had seen her
at least seventy-five times - and so forth; the satisfactory conclusion which
was arrived at, at last, being, that he had better take care of himself, and
mind what he was about. The witness having been by these means reduced to the
requisite ebb of nervous perplexity, the examination was continued as follows:
    »Pray, Mr. Winkle, do you remember calling on the defendant Pickwick at
these apartments in the plaintiff's house in Goswell Street, on one particular
morning, in the month of July last?«
    »Yes, I do.«
    »Were you accompanied on that occasion by a friend of the name of Tupman,
and another of the name of Snodgrass?«
    »Yes, I was.«
    »Are they here?«
    »Yes, they are,« replied Mr. Winkle, looking very earnestly towards the spot
where his friends were stationed.
    »Pray attend to me, Mr. Winkle, and never mind your friends,« said Mr.
Skimpin, with another expressive look at the jury. »They must tell their stories
without any previous consultation with you, if none has yet taken place (another
look at the jury). Now, sir, tell the gentlemen of the jury what you saw on
entering the defendant's room, on this particular morning. Come; out with it,
sir; we must have it, sooner or later.«
    »The defendant, Mr. Pickwick, was holding the plaintiff in his arms, with
his hands clasping her waist,« replied Mr. Winkle with natural hesitation, »and
the plaintiff appeared to have fainted away.«
    »Did you hear the defendant say anything?«
    »I heard him call Mrs. Bardell a good creature, and I heard him ask her to
compose herself, for what a situation it was, if any body should come, or words
to that effect.«
    »Now, Mr. Winkle, I have only one more question to ask you, and I beg you to
bear in mind his lordship's caution. Will you undertake to swear that Pickwick,
the defendant, did not say on the occasion in question, My dear Mrs. Bardell,
you're a good creature; compose yourself to this situation, for to this
situation you must come, or words to that effect?«
    »I - I didn't understand him so, certainly,« said Mr. Winkle, astounded at
this ingenious dove-tailing of the few words he had heard. »I was on the
staircase, and couldn't hear distinctly; the impression on my mind is -«
    »The gentlemen of the jury want none of the impressions on your mind, Mr.
Winkle, which I fear would be of little service to honest, straightforward men,«
interposed Mr. Skimpin. »You were on the staircase, and didn't distinctly hear;
but you will not swear that Pickwick did not make use of the expressions I have
quoted? Do I understand that?«
    »No, I will not,« replied Mr. Winkle; and down sat Mr. Skimpin with a
triumphant countenance.
    Mr. Pickwick's case had not gone off in so particularly happy a manner, up
to this point, that it could very well afford to have any additional suspicion
cast upon it. But as it could afford to be placed in a rather better light, if
possible, Mr. Phunky rose for the purpose of getting something important out of
Mr. Winkle in cross-examination. Whether he did get anything important out of
him, will immediately appear.
    »I believe, Mr. Winkle,« said Mr. Phunky, »that Mr. Pickwick is not a young
man?«
    »Oh no,« replied Mr. Winkle, »old enough to be my father.«
    »You have told my learned friend that you have known Mr. Pickwick a long
time. Had you ever any reason to suppose or believe that he was about to be
married?«
    »Oh no; certainly not;« replied Mr. Winkle with so much eagerness, that Mr.
Phunky ought to have got him out of the box with all possible dispatch. Lawyers
hold that there are two kinds of particularly bad witnesses: a reluctant
witness, and a too-willing witness; it was Mr. Winkle's fate to figure in both
characters.
    »I will even go further than this, Mr. Winkle,« continued Mr. Phunky in a
most smooth and complacent manner. »Did you ever see anything in Mr. Pickwick's
manner and conduct towards the opposite sex, to induce you to believe that he
ever contemplated matrimony of late years, in any case?«
    »Oh no; certainly not,« replied Mr. Winkle.
    »Has his behaviour, when females have been in the case, always been that of
a man, who, having attained a pretty advanced period of life, content with his
own occupations and amusements, treats them only as a father might his
daughters?«
    »Not the least doubt of it,« replied Mr. Winkle, in the fullness of his
heart. »That is - yes - oh yes - certainly.«
    »You have never known anything in his behaviour towards Mrs. Bardell, or any
other female, in the least degree suspicious?« said Mr. Phunky, preparing to sit
down; for Serjeant Snubbin was winking at him.
    »N - n - no,« replied Mr. Winkle, »except on one trifling occasion, which, I
have no doubt, might be easily explained.«
    Now, if the unfortunate Mr. Phunky had sat down when Serjeant Snubbin winked
at him, or if Serjeant Buzfuz had stopped this irregular cross-examination at
the outset (which he knew better than to do; observing Mr. Winkle's anxiety, and
well knowing it would, in all probability, lead to something serviceable to
him), this unfortunate admission would not have been elicited. The moment the
words fell from Mr. Winkle's lips, Mr. Phunky sat down, and Serjeant Snubbin
rather hastily told him he might leave the box, which Mr. Winkle prepared to do
with great readiness, when Serjeant Buzfuz stopped him.
    »Stay, Mr. Winkle, stay!« said Serjeant Buzfuz, »will your lordship have the
goodness to ask him, what this one instance of suspicious behaviour towards
females on the part of this gentleman, who is old enough to be his father, was?«
    »You hear what the learned counsel says, sir,« observed the judge, turning
to the miserable and agonized Mr. Winkle. »Describe the occasion to which you
refer.«
    »My lord,« said Mr. Winkle, trembling with anxiety, »I - I'd rather not.«
    »Perhaps so,« said the little judge; »but you must.«
    Amid the profound silence of the whole court, Mr. Winkle faltered out, that
the trifling circumstance of suspicion was Mr. Pickwick's being found in a
lady's sleeping apartment at midnight; which had terminated, he believed, in the
breaking off of the projected marriage of the lady in question, and had led, he
knew, to the whole party being forcibly carried before George Nupkins, Esq.,
magistrate and justice of the peace, for the borough of Ipswich!
    »You may leave the box, sir,« said Serjeant Snubbin. Mr. Winkle did leave
the box, and rushed with delirious haste to the George and Vulture, where he was
discovered some hours after, by the waiter, groaning in a hollow and dismal
manner, with his head buried beneath the sofa cushions.
    Tracy Tupman, and Augustus Snodgrass, were severally called into the box;
both corroborated the testimony of their unhappy friend; and each was driven to
the verge of desperation by excessive badgering.
    Susannah Sanders was then called, and examined by Serjeant Buzfuz, and
cross-examined by Serjeant Snubbin. Had always said and believed that Pickwick
would marry Mrs. Bardell; knew that Mrs. Bardell's being engaged to Pickwick was
the current topic of conversation in the neighbourhood, after the fainting in
July; had been told it herself by Mrs. Mudberry which kept a mangle, and Mrs.
Bunkin which clear-starched, but did not see either Mrs. Mudberry or Mrs. Bunkin
in court. Had heard Pickwick ask the little boy how he should like to have
another father. Did not know that Mrs. Bardell was at that time keeping company
with the baker, but did know that the baker was then a single man and is now
married. Couldn't swear that Mrs. Bardell was not very fond of the baker, but
should think that the baker was not very fond of Mrs. Bardell, or he wouldn't
have married somebody else. Thought Mrs. Bardell fainted away on the morning in
July, because Pickwick asked her to name the day; knew that she (witness)
fainted away stone dead when Mr. Sanders asked her to name the day, and believed
that everybody as called herself a lady would do the same, under similar
circumstances. Heard Pickwick ask the boy the question about the marbles, but
upon her oath did not know the difference between an alley tor and a commoney.
    By the COURT. - During the period of her keeping company with Mr. Sanders,
had received love letters, like other ladies. In the course of their
correspondence Mr. Sanders had often called her a duck, but never chops, nor yet
tomata sauce. He was particularly fond of ducks. Perhaps if he had been as fond
of chops and tomata sauce, he might have called her that, as a term of
affection.
    Serjeant Buzfuz now rose with more importance than he had yet exhibited, if
that were possible, and vociferated: »Call Samuel Weller.«
    It was quite unnecessary to call Samuel Weller; for Samuel Weller stepped
briskly into the box the instant his name was pronounced; and placing his hat on
the floor, and his arms on the rail, took a bird's-eye view of the bar, and a
comprehensive survey of the bench, with a remarkably cheerful and lively aspect.
    »What's your name, sir?« inquired the judge.
    »Sam Weller, my lord,« replied that gentleman.
    »Do you spell it with a V or a W?« inquired the judge.
    »That depends upon the taste and fancy of the speller, my lord,« replied
Sam; »I never had occasion to spell it more than once or twice in my life, but I
spells it with a V.«
    Here a voice in the gallery exclaimed aloud, »Quite right too, Samivel,
quite right. Put it down a we, my lord, put it down a we.«
    »Who is that, who dares to address the court?« said the little judge,
looking up. »Usher.«
    »Yes, my lord.«
    »Bring that person here instantly.«
    »Yes, my lord.«
    But as the usher didn't find the person, he didn't bring him; and, after a
great commotion, all the people who had got up to look for the culprit, sat down
again. The little judge turned to the witness as soon as his indignation would
allow him to speak, and said,
    »Do you know who that was, sir?«
    »I rather suspect it was my father, my lord,« replied Sam.
    »Do you see him here now?« said the judge.
    »No, I don't, my lord,« replied Sam, staring right up into the lantern in
the roof of the court.
    »If you could have pointed him out, I would have committed him instantly,«
said the judge.
    Sam bowed his acknowledgments and turned, with unimpaired cheerfulness of
countenance, towards Serjeant Buzfuz.
    »Now, Mr. Weller,« said Serjeant Buzfuz.
    »Now, sir,« replied Sam.
    »I believe you are in the service of Mr. Pickwick, the defendant in this
case. Speak up, if you please, Mr. Weller.«
    »I mean to speak up, sir,« replied Sam; »I am in the service o' that 'ere
gen'l'man, and a very good service it is.«
    »Little to do, and plenty to get, I suppose?« said Serjeant Buzfuz, with
jocularity.
    »Oh, quite enough to get, sir, as the soldier said ven they ordered him
three hundred and fifty lashes,« replied Sam.
    »You must not tell us what the soldier, or any other man, said, sir,«
interposed the judge; »it's not evidence.«
    »Wery good, my lord,« replied Sam.
    »Do you recollect anything particular happening on the morning when you were
first engaged by the defendant; eh, Mr. Weller?« said Serjeant Buzfuz.
    »Yes I do, sir,« replied Sam.
    »Have the goodness to tell the jury what it was.«
    »I had a reg'lar new fit out o' clothes that mornin', gen'l'men of the
jury,« said Sam, »and that was a very particular and uncommon circumstance with
me in those days.«
    Hereupon there was a general laugh; and the little judge, looking with an
angry countenance over his desk, said, »You had better be careful, sir.«
    »So Mr. Pickwick said at the time, my lord,« replied Sam; »and I was very
careful o' that 'ere suit o' clothes; very careful indeed, my lord.«
    The judge looked sternly at Sam for full two minutes, but Sam's features
were so perfectly calm and serene that the judge said nothing, and motioned
Serjeant Buzfuz to proceed.
    »Do you mean to tell me, Mr. Weller,« said Serjeant Buzfuz, folding his arms
emphatically, and turning half-round to the jury, as if in mute assurance that
he would bother the witness yet: »Do you mean to tell me, Mr. Weller, that you
saw nothing of this fainting on the part of the plaintiff in the arms of the
defendant, which you have heard described by the witnesses?«
    »Certainly not,« replied Sam. »I was in the passage 'till they called me up,
and then the old lady was not there.«
    »Now, attend, Mr. Weller,« said Serjeant Buzfuz, dipping a large pen into
the inkstand before him, for the purpose of frightening Sam with a show of
taking down his answer. »You were in the passage, and yet saw nothing of what
was going forward. Have you a pair of eyes, Mr. Weller?«
    »Yes, I have a pair of eyes,« replied Sam, »and that's just it. If they wos
a pair o' patent double million magnifyin' gas microscopes of hextra power,
p'raps I might be able to see through a flight o' stairs and a deal door; but
bein' only eyes, you see, my wision 's limited.«
    At this answer, which was delivered without the slightest appearance of
irritation, and with the most complete simplicity and equanimity of manner, the
spectators tittered, the little judge smiled, and Serjeant Buzfuz looked
particularly foolish. After a short consultation with Dodson and Fogg, the
learned Serjeant again turned towards Sam, and said, with a painful effort to
conceal his vexation, »Now, Mr. Weller, I'll ask you a question on another
point, if you please.«
    »If you please, sir,« rejoined Sam, with the utmost good-humour.
    »Do you remember going up to Mrs. Bardell's house, one night in November
last?«
    »Oh yes, very well.«
    »Oh, you do remember that, Mr. Weller,« said Serjeant Buzfuz, recovering his
spirits; »I thought we should get at something at last.«
    »I rather thought that, too, sir,« replied Sam; and at this the spectators
tittered again.
    »Well; I suppose you went up to have a little talk about this trial - eh,
Mr. Weller?« said Serjeant Buzfuz, looking knowingly at the jury.
    »I went up to pay the rent; but we did get a talking' about the trial,«
replied Sam.
    »Oh, you did get a talking about the trial,« said Serjeant Buzfuz,
brightening up with the anticipation of some important discovery. »Now what
passed about the trial; will you have the goodness to tell us, Mr. Weller?«
    »Vith all the pleasure in life, sir,« replied Sam. »Arter a few unimportant
obserwations from the two wirtuous females as has been examined here to-day, the
ladies gets into a very great state o' admiration at the honourable conduct of
Mr. Dodson and Fogg - them two gen'l'men as is settin' near you now.« This, of
course, drew general attention to Dodson and Fogg, who looked as virtuous as
possible.
    »The attorneys for the plaintiff,« said Mr. Serjeant Buzfuz. »Well! They
spoke in high praise of the honourable conduct of Messrs. Dodson and Fogg, the
attorneys for the plaintiff, did they?«
    »Yes,« said Sam, »they said what a very gen'rous thing it was o' them to
have taken up the case on spec, and to charge nothing at all for costs, unless
they got 'em out of Mr. Pickwick.«
    At this very unexpected reply, the spectators tittered again, and Dodson and
Fogg, turning very red, leant over to Serjeant Buzfuz, and in a hurried manner
whispered something in his ear.
    »You are quite right,« said Serjeant Buzfuz aloud, with affected composure.
»It's perfectly useless, my lord, attempting to get at any evidence through the
impenetrable stupidity of this witness. I will not trouble the court by asking
him any more questions. Stand down, sir.«
    »Would any other gen'l'man like to ask me anything'?« inquired Sam, taking up
his hat, and looking round most deliberately.
    »Not I, Mr. Weller, thank you,« said Serjeant Snubbin, laughing.
    »You may go down, sir,« said Serjeant Buzfuz, waving his hand impatiently.
Sam went down accordingly, after doing Messrs. Dodson and Fogg's case as much
harm as he conveniently could, and saying just as little respecting Mr. Pickwick
as might be, which was precisely the object he had had in view all along.
    »I have no objection to admit, my lord,« said Serjeant Snubbin, »if it will
save the examination of another witness, that Mr. Pickwick has retired from
business, and is a gentleman of considerable independent property.«
    »Very well,« said Serjeant Buzfuz, putting in the two letters to be read,
»Then that's my case, my lord.«
    Serjeant Snubbin then addressed the jury on behalf of the defendant; and a
very long and a very emphatic address he delivered, in which he bestowed the
highest possible eulogiums on the conduct and character of Mr. Pickwick; but
inasmuch as our readers are far better able to form a correct estimate of that
gentleman's merits and deserts, than Serjeant Snubbin could possibly be, we do
not feel called upon to enter at any length into the learned gentleman's
observations. He attempted to show that the letters which had been exhibited,
merely related to Mr. Pickwick's dinner, or to the preparations for receiving
him in his apartments on his return from some country excursion. It is
sufficient to add in general terms, that he did the best he could for Mr.
Pickwick; and the best, as every body knows, on the infallible authority of the
old adage, could do no more.
    Mr. Justice Stareleigh summed up, in the old-established and most approved
form. He read as much of his notes to the jury as he could decipher on so short
a notice, and made running comments on the evidence as he went along. If Mrs.
Bardell were right, it was perfectly clear that Mr. Pickwick was wrong, and if
they thought the evidence of Mrs. Cluppins worthy of credence they would believe
it, and, if they didn't, why they wouldn't. If they were satisfied that a breach
of promise of marriage had been committed, they would find for the plaintiff
with such damages as they thought proper; and if, on the other hand, it appeared
to them that no promise of marriage had ever been given, they would find for the
defendant with no damages at all. The jury then retired to their private room to
talk the matter over, and the judge retired to his private room, to refresh
himself with a mutton chop and a glass of sherry.
    An anxious quarter of an hour elapsed; the jury came back; the judge was
fetched in. Mr. Pickwick put on his spectacles, and gazed at the foreman with an
agitated countenance and a quickly beating heart.
    »Gentlemen,« said the individual in black, »are you all agreed upon your
verdict?«
    »We are,« replied the foreman.
    »Do you find for the plaintiff, gentlemen, or for the defendant?«
    »For the plaintiff.«
    »With what damages, gentlemen?«
    »Seven hundred and fifty pounds.«
    Mr. Pickwick took off his spectacles, carefully wiped the glasses, folded
them into their case, and put them in his pocket; then having drawn on his
gloves with great nicety, and stared at the foreman all the while, he
mechanically followed Mr. Perker and the blue bag out of court.
    They stopped in a side room while Perker paid the court fees; and here, Mr.
Pickwick was joined by his friends. Here, too, he encountered Messrs. Dodson and
Fogg, rubbing their hands with every token of outward satisfaction.
    »Well, gentlemen,« said Mr. Pickwick.
    »Well, sir,« said Dodson: for self and partner.
    »You imagine you'll get your costs, don't you, gentlemen?« said Mr.
Pickwick.
    Fogg said they thought it rather probable. Dodson smiled, and said they'd
try.
    »You may try, and try, and try again, Messrs. Dodson and Fogg,« said Mr.
Pickwick vehemently, »but not one farthing of costs or damages do you ever get
from me, if I spend the rest of my existence in a debtor's prison.«
    »Ha, ha!« laughed Dodson. »You'll think better of that, before next term,
Mr. Pickwick.«
    »He, he, he! We'll soon see about that, Mr. Pickwick,« grinned Fogg.
    Speechless with indignation, Mr. Pickwick allowed himself to be led by his
solicitor and friends to the door, and there assisted into a hackney-coach,
which had been fetched for the purpose, by the ever watchful Sam Weller.
    Sam had put up the steps, and was preparing to jump upon the box, when he
felt himself gently touched on the shoulder; and looking round, his father stood
before him. The old gentleman's countenance wore a mournful expression, as he
shook his head gravely, and said, in warning accents:
    »I know'd what 'ud come o' this here mode o' doing' bisness. Oh Sammy, Sammy,
vy worn't there a alleybi!«
 

                                  Chapter XXXV

  In Which Mr. Pickwick Thinks He Had Better Go to Bath; and Goes Accordingly.

»But surely, my dear sir,« said little Perker, as he stood in Mr. Pickwick's
apartment on the morning after the trial: »Surely you don't really mean - really
and seriously now, and irritation apart - that you won't pay these costs and
damages?«
    »Not one halfpenny,« said Mr. Pickwick, firmly; »not one halfpenny.«
    »Hooroar for the principle, as the money-lender said ven he vouldn't renew
the bill,« observed Mr. Weller, who was clearing away the breakfast things.
    »Sam,« said Mr. Pickwick, »have the goodness to step down stairs.«
    »Cert'nly, sir,« replied Mr. Weller; and acting on Mr. Pickwick's gentle
hint, Sam retired.
    »No, Perker,« said Mr. Pickwick, with great seriousness of manner, »my
friends here, have endeavoured to dissuade me from this determination, but
without avail. I shall employ myself as usual, until the opposite party have the
power of issuing a legal process of execution against me; and if they are vile
enough to avail themselves of it, and to arrest my person, I shall yield myself
up with perfect cheerfulness and content of heart. When can they do this?«
    »They can issue execution, my dear sir, for the amount of the damages and
taxed costs, next term,« replied Perker, »just two months hence, my dear sir.«
    »Very good,« said Mr. Pickwick. »Until that time, my dear fellow, let me
hear no more of the matter. And now,« continued Mr. Pickwick, looking round on
his friends with a good-humoured smile, and a sparkle in the eye which no
spectacles could dim or conceal, »the only question is, Where shall we go next?«
    Mr. Tupman and Mr. Snodgrass were too much affected by their friend's
heroism to offer any reply. Mr. Winkle had not yet sufficiently recovered the
recollection of his evidence at the trial, to make any observation on any
subject, so Mr. Pickwick paused in vain.
    »Well,« said that gentleman, »if you leave me to suggest our destination, I
say Bath. I think none of us have ever been there.«
    Nobody had; and as the proposition was warmly seconded by Perker, who
considered it extremely probable that if Mr. Pickwick saw a little change and
gaiety he would be inclined to think better of his determination, and worse of a
debtor's prison, it was carried unanimously: and Sam was at once dispatched to
the White Horse Cellar, to take five places by the half-past seven o'clock
coach, next morning.
    There were just two places to be had inside, and just three to be had out;
so Sam Weller booked for them all, and having exchanged a few compliments with
the booking-office clerk on the subject of a pewter half-crown which was
tendered him as a portion of his change, walked back to the George and Vulture,
where he was pretty busily employed until bed-time in reducing clothes and linen
into the smallest possible compass, and exerting his mechanical genius in
constructing a variety of ingenious devices for keeping the lids on boxes which
had neither locks nor hinges.
    The next was a very unpropitious morning for a journey - muggy, damp, and
drizzly. The horses in the stages that were going out, and had come through the
city, were smoking so, that the outside passengers were invisible. The
newspaper-sellers looked moist, and smelt mouldy; the wet ran off the hats of
the orange-venders as they thrust their heads into the coach windows, and
diluted the insides in a refreshing manner. The Jews with the fifty-bladed
penknives shut them up in despair; the men with the pocket-books made
pocket-books of them. Watch-guards and toasting-forks were alike at a discount,
and pencil-cases and sponge were a drug in the market.
    Leaving Sam Weller to rescue the luggage from the seven or eight porters who
flung themselves savagely upon it, the moment the coach stopped: and finding
that they were about twenty minutes too early, Mr. Pickwick and his friends went
for shelter into the travellers' room - the last resource of human dejection.
    The travellers' room at the White Horse Cellar is of course uncomfortable;
it would be no travellers' room if it were not. It is the right-hand parlour,
into which an aspiring kitchen fire-place appears to have walked, accompanied by
a rebellious poker, tongs, and shovel. It is divided into boxes, for the
solitary confinement of travellers, and is furnished with a clock, a
looking-glass, and a live waiter: which latter article is kept in a small kennel
for washing glasses, in a corner of the apartment.
    One of these boxes was occupied, on this particular occasion, by a
stern-eyed man of about five-and-forty, who had a bald and glossy forehead, with
a good deal of black hair at the sides and back of his head, and large black
whiskers. He was buttoned up to the chin in a brown coat; and had a large
seal-skin travelling cap, and a great-coat and cloak, lying on the seat beside
him. He looked up from his breakfast as Mr. Pickwick entered, with a fierce and
peremptory air, which was very dignified; and having scrutinised that gentleman
and his companions to his entire satisfaction, hummed a tune, in a manner which
seemed to say that he rather suspected somebody wanted to take advantage of him,
but it wouldn't do.
    »Waiter,« said the gentleman with the whiskers.
    »Sir?« replied a man with a dirty complexion, and a towel of the same,
emerging from the kennel before mentioned.
    »Some more toast.«
    »Yes, sir.«
    »Buttered toast, mind,« said the gentleman, fiercely.
    »D'rectly, sir,« replied the waiter.
    The gentleman with the whiskers hummed a tune in the same manner as before,
and pending the arrival of the toast, advanced to the front of the fire, and,
taking his coat tails under his arms, looked at his boots, and ruminated.
    »I wonder whereabouts in Bath this coach puts up,« said Mr. Pickwick, mildly
addressing Mr. Winkle.
    »Hum - eh - what's that?« said the strange man.
    »I made an observation to my friend, sir,« replied Mr. Pickwick, always
ready to enter into conversation. »I wondered at what house the Bath coach put
up. Perhaps you can inform me.«
    »Are you going to Bath?« said the strange man.
    »I am, sir,« replied Mr. Pickwick.
    »And those other gentlemen?«
    »They are going also,« said Mr. Pickwick.
    »Not inside - I'll be damned if you're going inside,« said the strange man.
    »Not all of us,« said Mr. Pickwick.
    »No, not all of you,« said the strange man emphatically. »I've taken two
places. If they try to squeeze six people into an infernal box that only holds
four, I'll take a post-chaise and bring an action. I've paid my fare. It won't
do; I told the clerk when I took my places that it wouldn't do. I know these
things have been done. I know they are done every day; but I never was done, and
I never will be. Those who know me best, best know it; crush me!« Here the
fierce gentleman rang the bell with great violence, and told the waiter he'd
better bring the toast in five seconds, or he'd know the reason why.
    »My good sir,« said Mr. Pickwick, »you will allow me to observe that this is
a very unnecessary display of excitement. I have only taken places inside for
two.«
    »I am glad to hear it,« said the fierce man. »I withdraw my expressions. I
tender an apology. There's my card. Give me your acquaintance.«
    »With great pleasure, sir,« replied Mr. Pickwick. »We are to be fellow
travellers, and I hope we shall find each other's society mutually agreeable.«
    »I hope we shall,« said the fierce gentleman. »I know we shall. I like your
looks; they please me. Gentlemen, your hands and names. Know me.«
    Of course, an interchange of friendly salutations followed this gracious
speech; and the fierce gentleman immediately proceeded to inform the friends, in
the same short, abrupt, jerking sentences, that his name was Dowler; that he was
going to Bath on pleasure; that he was formerly in the army; that he had now set
up in business as a gentleman; that he lived upon the profits; and that the
individual for whom the second place was taken, was a personage no less
illustrious than Mrs. Dowler his lady wife.
    »She's a fine woman,« said Mr. Dowler. »I am proud of her. I have reason.«
    »I hope I shall have the pleasure of judging,« said Mr. Pickwick, with a
smile.
    »You shall,« replied Dowler. »She shall know you. She shall esteem you. I
courted her under singular circumstances. I won her through a rash vow. Thus. I
saw her; I loved her; I proposed; she refused me. - You love another? - Spare my
blushes. - I know him. - You do. - Very good; if he remains here, I'll skin
him.«
    »Lord bless me!« exclaimed Mr. Pickwick, involuntarily.
    »Did you skin the gentleman, sir?« inquired Mr. Winkle, with a very pale
face.
    »I wrote him a note. I said it was a painful thing. And so it was.«
    »Certainly,« interposed Mr. Winkle.
    »I said I had pledged my word as a gentleman to skin him. My character was
at stake. I had no alternative. As an officer in His Majesty's service, I was
bound to skin him. I regretted the necessity, but it must be done. He was open
to conviction. He saw that the rules of the service were imperative. He fled. I
married her. Here's the coach. That's her head.«
    As Mr. Dowler concluded, he pointed to a stage which had just driven up,
from the open window of which a rather pretty face in a bright blue bonnet was
looking among the crowd on the pavement: most probably for the rash man himself.
Mr. Dowler paid his bill and hurried out with his travelling-cap, coat, and
cloak; and Mr. Pickwick and his friends followed to secure their places.
    Mr. Tupman and Mr. Snodgrass had seated themselves at the back part of the
coach; Mr. Winkle had got inside; and Mr. Pickwick was preparing to follow him,
when Sam Weller came up to his master, and whispering in his ear, begged to
speak to him, with an air of the deepest mystery.
    »Well, Sam,« said Mr. Pickwick, »what's the matter now?«
    »Here's rather a rum go, sir,« replied Sam.
    »What?« inquired Mr. Pickwick.
    »This here, sir,« rejoined Sam. »I'm very much afeerd, sir, that the
proprieator o' this here coach is a playin' some imperence with us.«
    »How is that, Sam?« said Mr. Pickwick; »aren't the names down on the
way-bill?«
    »The names is not only down on the vay-bill, sir,« replied Sam, »but they've
painted vun on 'em up, on the door o' the coach.« As Sam spoke, he pointed to
that part of the coach door on which the proprietor's name usually appears; and
there, sure enough, in gilt letters of a goodly size, was the magic name of
PICKWICK!
    »Dear me,« exclaimed Mr. Pickwick, quite staggered by the coincidence; »what
a very extraordinary thing!«
    »Yes, but that ain't all,« said Sam, again directing his master's attention
to the coach door; »not content with writin' up Pickwick, they puts Moses afore
it, vich I call addin' insult to injury, as the parrot said ven they not only
took him from his native land, but made him talk the English langwidge
afterwards.«
    »It's odd enough certainly, Sam,« said Mr. Pickwick; »but if we stand
talking here, we shall lose our places.«
    »Wot, ain't nothing' to be done in consequence, sir?« exclaimed Sam,
perfectly aghast at the coolness with which Mr. Pickwick appeared to ensconce
himself inside.
    »Done!« said Mr. Pickwick. »What should be done?«
    »Ain't nobody to be whopped for taken' this here liberty, sir?« said Mr.
Weller, who had expected that at least he would have been commissioned to
challenge the guard and coachman to a pugilistic encounter on the spot.
    »Certainly not,« replied Mr. Pickwick eagerly; »not on any account. Jump up
to your seat directly.«
    »I'm very much afeerd,« muttered Sam to himself, as he turned away, »that
something' queer's come over the governor, or he'd never ha' stood this so quiet.
I hope that 'ere trial hasn't broke his spirit, but it looks bad, very bad.« Mr.
Weller shook his head gravely; and it is worthy of remark, as an illustration of
the manner in which he took this circumstance to heart, that he did not speak
another word until the coach reached the Kensington turnpike. Which was so long
a time for him to remain taciturn, that the fact may be considered wholly
unprecedented.
    Nothing worthy of special mention occurred during the journey. Mr. Dowler
related a variety of anecdotes, all illustrative of his own personal prowess and
desperation, and appealed to Mrs. Dowler in corroboration thereof: when Mrs.
Dowler invariably brought in, in the form of an appendix, some remarkable fact
or circumstance which Mr. Dowler had forgotten, or had perhaps through modesty
omitted: for the addenda in every instance went to show that Mr. Dowler was even
a more wonderful fellow than he made himself out to be. Mr. Pickwick and Mr.
Winkle listened with great admiration, and at intervals conversed with Mrs.
Dowler, who was a very agreeable and fascinating person. So, what between Mr.
Dowler's stories, and Mrs. Dowler's charms, and, Mr. Pickwick's good humour, and
Mr. Winkle's good listening, the insides contrived to be very companionable all
the way.
    The outsides did as outsides always do. They were very cheerful and
talkative at the beginning of every stage, and very dismal and sleepy in the
middle, and very bright and wakeful again towards the end. There was one young
gentleman in an India-rubber cloak, who smoked cigars all day; and there was
another young gentleman in a parody upon a great coat, who lighted a good many,
and feeling obviously unsettled after the second whiff, threw them away when he
thought nobody was looking at him. There was a third young man on the box who
wished to be learned in cattle; and an old one behind, who was familiar with
farming. There was a constant succession of Christian names in smock frocks and
white coats, who were invited to have a lift by the guard, and who knew every
horse and hostler on the road and off it; and there was a dinner which would
have been cheap at half-a-crown a mouth, if any moderate number of mouths could
have eaten it in the time. And at seven o'clock P.M., Mr. Pickwick and his
friends, and Mr. Dowler and his wife, respectively retired to their private
sitting-rooms at the White Hart hotel, opposite the Great Pump Room, Bath, where
the waiters, from their costume, might be mistaken for Westminster boys, only
they destroy the illusion by behaving themselves much better.
    Breakfast had scarcely been cleared away on the succeeding morning, when a
waiter brought in Mr. Dowler's card, with a request to be allowed permission to
introduce a friend. Mr. Dowler at once followed up the delivery of the card, by
bringing himself and the friend also.
    The friend was a charming young man of not much more than fifty, dressed in
a very bright blue coat with resplendent buttons, black trousers, and the
thinnest possible pair of highly-polished boots. A gold eye-glass was suspended
from his neck by a short broad black ribbon; a gold snuff-box was lightly
clasped in his left hand; gold rings innumerable, glittered on his fingers; and
a large diamond pin set in gold glistened in his shirt frill. He had a gold
watch, and a gold curb chain with large gold seals; and he carried a pliant
ebony cane with a heavy gold top. His linen was of the very whitest, finest, and
stiffest; his wig of the glossiest, blackest, and curliest. His snuff was
princes' mixture; his scent bouquet du roi. His features were contracted into a
perpetual smile; and his teeth were in such perfect order that it was difficult
at a small distance to tell the real from the false.
    »Mr. Pickwick,« said Mr. Dowler; »my friend, Angelo Cyrus Bantam, Esquire,
M.C. Bantam; Mr. Pickwick. Know each other.«
    »Welcome to Ba - ath, sir. This is indeed an acquisition. Most welcome to Ba
- ath, sir. It is long - very long, Mr. Pickwick, since you drank the waters. It
appears an age, Mr. Pickwick. Re - markable!«
    Such were the expressions with which Angelo Cyrus Bantam, Esquire, M.C.,
took Mr. Pickwick's hand; retaining it in his, meantime, and shrugging up his
shoulders with a constant succession of bows, as if he really could not make up
his mind to the trial of letting it go again.
    »It is a very long time since I drank the waters, certainly,« replied Mr.
Pickwick; »for to the best of my knowledge, I was never here before.«
    »Never in Ba - ath, Mr. Pickwick!« exclaimed the Grand Master, letting the
hand fall in astonishment. »Never in Ba - ath! He! he! Mr. Pickwick, you are a
wag. Not bad, not bad. Good, good. He! he! he! Re - markable!«
    »To my shame, I must say that I am perfectly serious,« rejoined Mr.
Pickwick. »I really never was here before.«
    »Oh, I see,« exclaimed the Grand Master, looking extremely pleased; »Yes,
yes - good, good - better and better. You are the gentleman of whom we have
heard. Yes; we know you, Mr. Pickwick; we know you.«
    »The reports of the trial in those confounded papers,« thought Mr. Pickwick.
»They have heard all about me.«
    »You are the gentleman residing on Clapham Green,« resumed Bantam, »who lost
the use of his limbs from imprudently taking cold after port wine; who could not
be moved in consequence of acute suffering, and who had the water from the
King's Bath bottled at one hundred and three degrees, and sent by wagon to his
bed-room in town, where he bathed, sneezed, and same day recovered. Very re -
markable!«
    Mr. Pickwick acknowledged the compliment which the supposition implied, but
had the self-denial to repudiate it, notwithstanding; and taking advantage of a
moment's silence on the part of the M.C., begged to introduce his friends, Mr.
Tupman, Mr. Winkle, and Mr. Snodgrass. An introduction which overwhelmed the
M.C. with delight and honour.
    »Bantam,« said Mr. Dowler, »Mr. Pickwick and his friends are strangers. They
must put their names down. Where's the book?«
    »The register of the distinguished visitors in Ba - ath will be at the Pump
Room this morning at two o'clock,« replied the M.C. »Will you guide our friends
to that splendid building, and enable me to procure their autographs?«
    »I will,« rejoined Dowler. »This is a long call. It's time to go. I shall be
here again in an hour. Come.«
    »This is a ball night,« said the M.C., again taking Mr. Pickwick's hand, as
he rose to go. »The ball-nights in Ba - ath are moments snatched from Paradise;
rendered bewitching by music, beauty, elegance, fashion, etiquette, and - and -
above all, by the absence of tradespeople, who are quite inconsistent with
Paradise; and who have an amalgamation of themselves at the Guildhall every
fortnight, which is, to say the least, remarkable. Good bye, good bye!« and
protesting all the way down stairs that he was most satisfied, and most
delighted, and most overpowered, and most flattered, Angelo Cyrus Bantam,
Esquire, M.C., stepped into a very elegant chariot that waited at the door, and
rattled off.
    At the appointed hour, Mr. Pickwick and his friends, escorted by Dowler,
repaired to the Assembly Rooms, and wrote their names down in a book. An
instance of condescension at which Angelo Bantam was even more overpowered than
before. Tickets of admission to that evening's assembly were to have been
prepared for the whole party, but as they were not ready, Mr. Pickwick
undertook, despite all the protestations to the contrary of Angelo Bantam, to
send Sam for them at four o'clock in the afternoon, to the M.C.'s house in Queen
Square. Having taken a short walk through the city, and arrived at the unanimous
conclusion that Park Street was very much like the perpendicular street a man
sees in a dream, which he cannot get up for the life of him, they returned to
the White Hart, and despatched Sam on the errand to which his master had pledged
him.
    Sam Weller put on his hat in a very easy and graceful manner, and thrusting
his hands in his waistcoat pockets, walked with great deliberation to Queen
Square, whistling as he went along, several of the most popular airs of the day,
as arranged with entirely new movements for that noble instrument the organ,
either mouth or barrel. Arriving at the number in Queen Square to which he had
been directed, he left off whistling, and gave a cheerful knock, which was
instantaneously answered by a powdered-headed footman in gorgeous livery, and of
symmetrical stature.
    »Is this here Mr. Bantam's, old feller?« inquired Sam Weller, nothing
abashed by the blaze of splendour which burst upon his sight, in the person of
the powdered-headed footman with the gorgeous livery.
    »Why, young man?« was the haughty inquiry of the powdered-headed footman.
    »'Cos if it is, just you step into him with that 'ere card, and say Mr.
Veller's a waiting', will you?« said Sam. And saying it, he very coolly walked
into the hall, and sat down.
    The powdered-headed footman slammed the door very hard, and scowled very
grandly; but both the slam and the scowl were lost upon Sam, who was regarding a
mahogany umbrella stand with every outward token of critical approval.
    Apparently, his master's reception of the card had impressed the
powdered-headed footman in Sam's favour, for when he came back from delivering
it, he smiled in a friendly manner, and said that the answer would be ready
directly.
    »Werry good,« said Sam. »Tell the old gen'lm'n not to put himself in a
perspiration. No hurry, six-foot. I've had my dinner.«
    »You dine early, sir,« said the powdered-headed footman.
    »I find I gets on better at supper when I does,« replied Sam.
    »Have you been long in Bath, sir?« inquired the powdered-headed footman. »I
have not had the pleasure of hearing of you before.«
    »I haven't created any very surprisin' sensation here, as yet,« rejoined
Sam, »for me and the other fash'nables only come last night.«
    »Nice place, sir,« said the powdered-headed footman.
    »Seems so,« observed Sam.
    »Pleasant society, sir,« remarked the powdered-headed footman. »Very
agreeable servants, sir.«
    »I should think they wos,« replied Sam. »Affable, unaffected,
say-nothing'-to-nobody sort o' fellows.«
    »Oh, very much so, indeed, sir,« said the powdered-headed footman, taking
Sam's remark as a high compliment. »Very much so indeed. Do you do anything in
this way, sir?« inquired the tall footman, producing a small snuff-box with a
fox's head on the top of it.
    »Not without sneezing,« replied Sam.
    »Why, it is difficult, sir, I confess,« said the tall footman. »It may be
done by degrees, sir. Coffee is the best practice. I carried coffee, sir, for a
long time. It looks very like rappee, sir.«
    Here, a sharp pull at the bell, reduced the powdered-headed footman to the
ignominious necessity of putting the fox's head in his pocket, and hastening
with a humble countenance to Mr. Bantam's study. By the by, who ever knew a man
who never read or wrote either, who hadn't got some small back parlour which he
would call a study!
    »There is the answer, sir,« said the powdered-headed footman. »I am afraid
you'll find it inconveniently large.«
    »Don't mention it,« said Sam, taking a letter with a small enclosure. »It's
just possible as exhausted nature may manage to surwive it.«
    »I hope we shall meet again, sir,« said the powdered-headed footman, rubbing
his hands, and following Sam out to the door-step.
    »You are very obligin', sir,« replied Sam. »Now, don't allow yourself to be
fatigued beyond your powers; there's a amiable bein'. Consider what you owe to
society, and don't let yourself be injured by too much work. For the sake o'
your feller creeturs, keep your self as quiet as you can; only think what a loss
you would be!« with these pathetic words, Sam Weller departed.
    »A very singular young man that,« said the powdered-headed footman, looking
after Mr. Weller, with a countenance which clearly showed he could make nothing
of him.
    Sam said nothing at all. He winked, shook his head, smiled, winked again;
and with an expression of countenance which seemed to denote that he was greatly
amused with something or other, walked merrily away.
    At precisely twenty minutes before eight o'clock that night, Angelo Cyrus
Bantam, Esq., the Master of the Ceremonies, emerged from his chariot at the door
of the Assembly Rooms in the same wig, the same teeth, the same eye-glass, the
same watch and seals, the same rings, the same shirt-pin, and the same cane. The
only observable alterations in his appearance were, that he wore a brighter blue
coat, with a white silk lining: black tights, black silk stockings, and pumps,
and a white waistcoat, and was, if possible, just a thought more scented.
    Thus attired, the Master of the Ceremonies, in strict discharge of the
important duties of his all-important office, planted himself in the rooms to
receive the company.
    Bath being full, the company and the sixpences for tea, poured in, in
shoals. In the ball-room, the long card-room, the octagonal card-room, the
staircases, and the passages, the hum of many voices, and the sound of many
feet, were perfectly bewildering. Dresses rustled, feathers waved, lights shone,
and jewels sparkled. There was the music - not of the quadrille band, for it had
not yet commenced; but the music of soft tiny footsteps, with now and then a
clear merry laugh - low and gentle, but very pleasant to hear in a female voice,
whether in Bath or elsewhere. Brilliant eyes, lighted up with pleasurable
expectation, gleamed from every side; and look where you would, some exquisite
form glided gracefully through the throng, and was no sooner lost, than it was
replaced by another as dainty and bewitching.
    In the tea-room, and hovering round the card-tables, were a vast number of
queer old ladies and decrepid old gentlemen, discussing all the small talk and
scandal of the day, with a relish and gusto which sufficiently bespoke the
intensity of the pleasure they derived from the occupation. Mingled with these
groups, were three or four matchmaking mammas, appearing to be wholly absorbed
by the conversation in which they were taking part, but failing not from time to
time to cast an anxious sidelong glance upon their daughters, who, remembering
the maternal injunction to make the best use of their youth, had already
commenced incipient flirtations in the mislaying of scarves, putting on gloves,
setting down cups, and so forth; slight matters apparently, but which may be
turned to surprisingly good account by expert practitioners.
    Lounging near the doors, and in remote corners, were various knots of silly
young men, displaying various varieties of puppyism and stupidity; amusing all
sensible people near them with their folly and conceit; and happily thinking
themselves the objects of general admiration. A wise and merciful dispensation
which no good man will quarrel with.
    And lastly, seated on some of the back benches, where they had already taken
up their positions for the evening, were divers unmarried ladies past their
grand climacteric, who, not dancing because there were no partners for them, and
not playing cards lest they should be set down as irretrievably single, were in
the favourable situation of being able to abuse everybody without reflecting on
themselves. In short, they could abuse everybody, because everybody was there.
It was a scene of gaiety, glitter, and show; of richly-dressed people, handsome
mirrors, chalked floors, girandoles, and wax-candles; and in all parts of the
scene, gliding from spot to spot in silent softness, bowing obsequiously to this
party, nodding familiarly to that, and smiling complacently on all, was the
sprucely attired person of Angelo Cyrus Bantam, Esquire, Master of the
Ceremonies.
    »Stop in the tea-room. Take your sixpenn'orth. They lay on hot water, and
call it tea. Drink it,« said Mr. Dowler, in a loud voice, directing Mr.
Pickwick, who advanced at the head of the little party, with Mrs. Dowler on his
arm. Into the tea-room Mr. Pickwick turned; and catching sight of him, Mr.
Bantam corkscrewed his way through the crowd, and welcomed him with ecstasy.
    »My dear sir, I am highly honoured. Ba - ath is favoured. Mrs. Dowler, you
embellish the rooms. I congratulate you on your feathers. Re - markable!«
    »Any body here?« inquired Dowler, suspiciously.
    »Any body! The élite of Ba - ath. Mr. Pickwick, do you see the lady in the
gauze turban?«
    »The fat old lady?« inquired Mr. Pickwick, innocently.
    »Hush, my dear sir - nobody's fat or old in Ba - ath. That's the Dowager
Lady Snuphanuph.«
    »Is it indeed?« said Mr. Pickwick.
    »No less a person, I assure you,« said the Master of the Ceremonies. »Hush.
Draw a little nearer, Mr. Pickwick. You see the splendidly dressed young man
coming this way?«
    »The one with the long hair, and the particularly small forehead?« inquired
Mr. Pickwick.
    »The same. The richest young man in Ba - ath at this moment. Young Lord
Mutanhed.«
    »You don't say so?« said Mr. Pickwick.
    »Yes. You'll hear his voice in a moment, Mr. Pickwick. He'll speak to me.
The other gentleman with him, in the red under waistcoat and dark moustache, is
the Honourable Mr. Crushton, his bosom friend. How do you do, my lord?«
    »Veway hot, Bantam,« said his lordship.
    »It is very warm, my lord,« replied the M.C.
    »Confounded,« assented the Honourable Mr. Crushton.
    »Have you seen his lordship's mail cart, Bantam?« inquired the Honourable
Mr. Crushton, after a short pause, during which young Lord Mutanhed had been
endeavouring to stare Mr. Pickwick out of countenance, and Mr. Crushton had been
reflecting what subject his lordship could talk about best.
    »Dear me, no,« replied the M.C. »A mail cart! What an excellent idea. Re -
markable!«
    »Gwacious heavens!« said his lordship, »I thought evewebody had seen the new
mail cart; it's the neatest, pwettiest, gwacefullest thing that ever wan upon
wheels. Painted wed, with a cweam piebald.«
    »With a real box for the letters, and all complete,« said the Honourable Mr.
Crushton.
    »And a little seat in fwont, with an iwon wail, for the dwiver,« added his
lordship. »I dwove it over to Bwistol the other morning, in a cwimson coat, with
two servants widing a quarter of a mile behind; and confound me if the people
didn't wush out of their cottages, and awest my pwogwess, to know if I wasn't't
the post. Glorwious, glorwious!«
    At this anecdote his lordship laughed very heartily, as did the listeners,
of course. Then, drawing his arm through that of the obsequious Mr. Crushton,
Lord Mutanhed walked away.
    »Delightful young man, his lordship,« said the Master of the Ceremonies.
    »So I should think,« rejoined Mr. Pickwick, drily.
    The dancing having commenced, the necessary introductions having been made,
and all preliminaries arranged, Angelo Bantam rejoined Mr. Pickwick, and led him
into the card-room.
    Just at the very moment of their entrance, the Dowager Lady Snuphanuph and
two other ladies of an ancient and whist-like appearance, were hovering over an
unoccupied card-table; and they no sooner set eyes upon Mr. Pickwick under the
convoy of Angelo Bantam, than they exchanged glances with each other, seeing
that he was precisely the very person they wanted, to make up the rubber.
    »My dear Bantam,« said the Dowager Lady Snuphanuph, coaxingly, »find us some
nice creature to make up this table; there's a good soul.« Mr. Pickwick happened
to be looking another way at the moment, so her ladyship nodded her head towards
him, and frowned expressively.
    »My friend Mr. Pickwick, my lady, will be most happy, I am sure, re-markably
so,« said the M.C., taking the hint. »Mr. Pickwick, Lady Snuphanuph - Mrs.
Colonel Wugsby - Miss Bolo.«
    Mr. Pickwick bowed to each of the ladies, and, finding escape impossible,
cut. Mr. Pickwick and Miss Bolo against Lady Snuphanuph and Mrs. Colonel Wugsby.
    As the trump card was turned up, at the commencement of the second deal, two
young ladies hurried into the room, and took their stations on either side of
Mrs. Colonel Wugsby's chair, where they waited patiently until the hand was
over.
    »Now, Jane,« said Mrs. Colonel Wugsby, turning to one of the girls, »what is
it?«
    »I came to ask, ma, whether I might dance with the youngest Mr. Crawley,«
whispered the prettier and younger of the two.
    »Good God, Jane, how can you think of such things?« replied the mamma,
indignantly. »Haven't you repeatedly heard that his father has eight hundred
a-year, which dies with him? I am ashamed of you. Not on any account.«
    »Ma,« whispered the other, who was much older than her sister, and very
insipid and artificial, »Lord Mutanhed has been introduced to me. I said I
thought I wasn't't engaged, ma.«
    »You're a sweet pet, my love,« replied Mrs. Colonel Wugsby, tapping her
daughter's cheek with her fan, »and are always to be trusted. He's immensely
rich, my dear. Bless you!« With these words Mrs. Colonel Wugsby kissed her
eldest daughter most affectionately, and frowning in a warning manner upon the
other, sorted her cards.
    Poor Mr. Pickwick! he had never played with three thorough-paced female
card-players before. They were so desperately sharp, that they quite frightened
him. If he played a wrong card, Miss Bolo looked a small armoury of daggers; if
he stopped to consider which was the right one, Lady Snuphanuph would throw
herself back in her chair, and smile with a mingled glance of impatience and
pity to Mrs. Colonel Wugsby; at which Mrs. Colonel Wugsby would shrug up her
shoulders, and cough, as much as to say she wondered whether he ever would
begin. Then, at the end of every hand, Miss Bolo would inquire with a dismal
countenance and reproachful sigh, why Mr. Pickwick had not returned that
diamond, or led the club, or roughed the spade, or finessed the heart, or led
through the honour, or brought out the ace, or played up to the king, or some
such thing; and in reply to all these grave charges, Mr. Pickwick would be
wholly unable to plead any justification whatever, having by this time forgotten
all about the game. People came and looked on, too, which made Mr. Pickwick
nervous. Besides all this, there was a great deal of distracting conversation
near the table, between Angelo Bantam and the two Miss Matinters, who, being
single and singular, paid great court to the Master of the Ceremonies, in the
hope of getting a stray partner now and then. All these things, combined with
the noises and interruptions of constant comings in and goings out, made Mr.
Pickwick play rather badly; the cards were against him, also; and when they left
off at ten minutes past eleven, Miss Bolo rose from the table considerably
agitated, and went straight home, in a flood of tears, and a sedan-chair.
    Being joined by his friends, who one and all protested that they had
scarcely ever spent a more pleasant evening, Mr. Pickwick accompanied them to
the White Hart, and having soothed his feelings with something hot, went to bed,
and to sleep, almost simultaneously.
 

                                 Chapter XXXVI

  The Chief Features of Which, Will Be Found To Be an Authentic Version of the
   Legend of Prince Bladud, and a Most Extraordinary Calamity That Befel Mr.
                                    Winkle.

As Mr. Pickwick contemplated a stay of at least two months in Bath, he deemed it
advisable to take private lodgings for himself and friends for that period; and
as a favourable opportunity offered for their securing, on moderate terms, the
upper portion of a house in the Royal Crescent, which was larger than they
required, Mr. and Mrs. Dowler offered to relieve them of a bed-room and
sitting-room. This proposition was at once accepted, and in three days' time
they were all located in their new abode, when Mr. Pickwick began to drink the
waters with the utmost assiduity. Mr. Pickwick took them systematically. He
drank a quarter of a pint before breakfast, and then walked up a hill; and
another quarter of a pint after breakfast, and then walked down a hill; and
after every fresh quarter of a pint, Mr. Pickwick declared, in the most solemn
and emphatic terms, that he felt a great deal better: whereat his friends were
very much delighted, though they had not been previously aware that there was
anything the matter with him.
    The great pump-room is a spacious saloon, ornamented with Corinthian
pillars, and a music gallery, and a Tompion clock, and a statue of Nash, and a
golden inscription, to which all the water-drinkers should attend, for it
appeals to them in the cause of a deserving charity. There is a large bar with a
marble vase, out of which the pumper gets the water; and there are a number of
yellow-looking tumblers, out of which the company get it; and it is a most
edifying and satisfactory sight to behold the perseverance and gravity with
which they swallow it. There are baths near at hand, in which a part of the
company wash themselves; and a band plays afterwards, to congratulate the
remainder on their having done so. There is another pump-room, into which infirm
ladies and gentlemen are wheeled, in such an astonishing variety of chairs and
chaises, that any adventurous individual who goes in with the regular number of
toes, is in imminent danger of coming out without them; and there is a third,
into which the quiet people go, for it is less noisy than either. There is an
immensity of promenading, on crutches and off, with sticks and without, and a
great deal of conversation, and liveliness, and pleasantry.
    Every morning, the regular water-drinkers, Mr. Pickwick among the number,
met each other in the pump-room, took their quarter of a pint, and walked
constitutionally. At the afternoon's promenade, Lord Mutanhed, and the
Honourable Mr. Crushton, the Dowager Lady Snuphanuph, Mrs. Colonel Wugsby, and
all the great people, and all the morning water-drinkers, met in grand
assemblage. After this, they walked out, or drove out, or were pushed out in
bath chairs, and met one another again. After this, the gentlemen went to the
reading-rooms and met divisions of the mass. After this, they went home. If it
were theatre night, perhaps they met at the theatre; if it were assembly night,
they met at the rooms; and if it were neither, they met the next day. A very
pleasant routine, with perhaps a slight tinge of sameness.
    Mr. Pickwick was sitting up by himself, after a day spent in this manner,
making entries in his journal: his friends having retired to bed: when he was
roused by a gentle tap at the room door.
    »Beg your pardon, sir,« said Mrs. Craddock, the landlady, peeping in; »but
did you want anything more, sir?«
    »Nothing more, ma'am,« replied Mr. Pickwick.
    »My young girl is gone to bed, sir,« said Mrs. Craddock; »and Mr. Dowler is
good enough to say that he'll sit up for Mrs. Dowler, as the party isn't
expected to be over till late; so I was thinking if you wanted nothing more, Mr.
Pickwick, I would go to bed.«
    »By all means, ma'am,« replied Mr. Pickwick.
    »Wish you good night, sir,« said Mrs. Craddock.
    »Good night, ma'am,« rejoined Mr. Pickwick.
    Mrs. Craddock closed the door, and Mr. Pickwick resumed his writing.
    In half an hour's time the entries were concluded. Mr. Pickwick carefully
rubbed the last page on the blotting-paper, shut up the book, wiped his pen on
the bottom of the inside of his coat tail, and opened the drawer of the inkstand
to put it carefully away. There were a couple of sheets of writing-paper, pretty
closely written over, in the inkstand drawer, and they were folded so, that the
title, which was in a good round hand, was fully disclosed to him. Seeing from
this, that it was no private document: and as it seemed to relate to Bath, and
was very short: Mr. Pickwick unfolded it, lighted his bed-room candle that it
might burn up well by the time he finished; and drawing his chair nearer the
fire, read as follows:
 



                       The True Legend Of Prince Bladud.

 
»Less than two hundred years agone, on one of the public baths in this city,
there appeared an inscription in honour of its mighty founder, the renowned
Prince Bladud. That inscription is now erased.
    For many hundred years before that time, there had been handed down, from
age to age, an old legend, that the illustrious Prince being afflicted with
leprosy, on his return from reaping a rich harvest of knowledge in Athens,
shunned the court of his royal father, and consorted moodily with husbandmen and
pigs. Among the herd (so said the legend) was a pig of grave and solemn
countenance, with whom the Prince had a fellow feeling - for he too was wise - a
pig of thoughtful and reserved demeanour; an animal superior to his fellows,
whose grunt was terrible, and whose bite was sharp. The young Prince sighed
deeply as he looked upon the countenance of the majestic swine; he thought of
his royal father, and his eyes were bedewed with tears.
    This sagacious pig was fond of bathing in rich, moist mud. Not in summer, as
common pigs do, now, to cool themselves, and did even in those distant ages
(which is a proof that the light of civilisation had already begun to dawn,
though feebly), but in the cold sharp days of winter. His coat was ever so
sleek, and his complexion so clear, that the Prince resolved to essay the
purifying qualities of the same water that his friend resorted to. He made the
trial. Beneath that black mud, bubbled the hot springs of Bath. He washed, and
was cured. Hastening to his father's court, he paid his best respects, and
returning quickly hither, founded this city, and its famous baths.
    He sought the pig with all the ardour of their early friendship - but, alas!
the waters had been his death. He had imprudently taken a bath at too high a
temperature, and the natural philosopher was no more! He was succeeded by Pliny,
who also fell a victim to his thirst for knowledge.
    This was the legend. Listen to the true one.
    A great many centuries since, there flourished, in great state, the famous
and renowned Lud Hudibras, king of Britain. He was a mighty monarch. The earth
shook when he walked; he was so very stout. His people basked in the light of
his countenance: it was so red and glowing. He was, indeed, every inch a king.
And there were a good many inches of him too, for although he was not very tall,
he was a remarkable size round, and the inches that he wanted in height, he made
up in circumference. If any degenerate monarch of modern times could be in any
way compared with him, I should say the venerable King Cole would be that
illustrious potentate.
    This good king had a queen, who eighteen years before, had had a son, who
was called Bladud. He was sent to a preparatory seminary in his father's
dominions until he was ten years old, and was then dispatched, in charge of a
trusty messenger, to a finishing school at Athens; and as there was no extra
charge for remaining during the holidays, and no notice required previous to the
removal of a pupil, there he remained for eight long years, at the expiration of
which time, the king his father sent the lord chamberlain over, to settle the
bill, and to bring him home; which, the lord chamberlain doing, was received
with shouts, and pensioned immediately.
    When King Lud saw the Prince his son, and found he had grown up such a fine
young man, he perceived at once what a grand thing it would be to have him
married without delay, so that his children might be the means of perpetuating
the glorious race of Lud, down to the very latest ages of the world. With this
view, he sent a special embassy, composed of great noblemen who had nothing
particular to do, and wanted lucrative employment, to a neighbouring king, and
demanded his fair daughter in marriage for his son; stating at the same time
that he was anxious to be on the most affectionate terms with his brother and
friend, but that if they couldn't agree in arranging this marriage, he should be
under the unpleasant necessity of invading his kingdom, and putting his eyes
out. To this, the other king (who was the weaker of the two) replied, that he
was very much obliged to his friend and brother for all his goodness and
magnanimity, and that his daughter was quite ready to be married, whenever
Prince Bladud liked to come and fetch her.
    This answer no sooner reached Britain, than the whole nation were
transported with joy. Nothing was heard, on all sides, but the sounds of
feasting and revelry, - except the chinking of money as it was paid in by the
people to the collector of the Royal Treasures, to defray the expenses of the
happy ceremony. It was upon this occasion that King Lud, seated on the top of
his throne in full council, rose, in the exuberance of his feelings, and
commanded the lord chief justice to order in the richest wines and the court
minstrels: an act of graciousness which has been, through the ignorance of
traditionary historians, attributed to King Cole, in those celebrated lines in
which his majesty is represented as
 
Calling for his pipe, and calling for his pot,
And calling for his fiddlers three.
 
Which is an obvious injustice to the memory of King Lud, and a dishonest
exaltation of the virtues of King Cole.
    But, in the midst of all this festivity and rejoicing, there was one
individual present, who tasted not when the sparkling wines were poured forth,
and who danced not, when the minstrels played. This was no other than Prince
Bladud himself, in honour of whose happiness a whole people were at that very
moment, straining alike their throats and purse-strings. The truth was, that the
Prince, forgetting the undoubted right of the minister for foreign affairs to
fall in love on his behalf, had, contrary to every precedent of policy and
diplomacy, already fallen in love on his own account, and privately contracted
himself unto the fair daughter of a noble Athenian.
    Here we have a striking example of one of the manifold advantages of
civilisation and refinement. If the Prince had lived in later days, he might at
once have married the object of his father's choice, and then set himself
seriously to work, to relieve himself of the burden which rested heavily upon
him. He might have endeavoured to break her heart by a systematic course of
insult and neglect; or, if the spirit of her sex, and a proud consciousness of
her many wrongs had upheld her under this ill treatment, he might have sought to
take her life, and so get rid of her effectually. But neither mode of relief
suggested itself to Prince Bladud; so he solicited a private audience, and told
his father.
    It is an old prerogative of kings to govern everything but their passions.
King Lud flew into a frightful rage, tossed his crown up to the ceiling, and
caught it again - for in those days kings kept their crowns on their heads, and
not in the Tower - stamped the ground, rapped his forehead, wondered why his own
flesh and blood rebelled against him, and, finally, calling in his guards,
ordered the Prince away to instant confinement in a lofty turret; a course of
treatment which the kings of old very generally pursued towards their sons, when
their matrimonial inclinations did not happen to point to the same quarter as
their own.
    When Prince Bladud had been shut up in the lofty turret for the greater part
of a year, with no better prospect before his bodily eyes than a stone wall, or
before his mental vision than prolonged imprisonment, he naturally began to
ruminate on a plan of escape, which, after months of preparation, he managed to
accomplish; considerately leaving his dinner knife in the heart of his gaoler,
lest the poor fellow (who had a family) should be considered privy to his
flight, and punished accordingly by the infuriated king.
    The monarch was frantic at the loss of his son. He knew not on whom to vent
his grief and wrath, until fortunately bethinking himself of the Lord
Chamberlain who had brought him home, he struck off his pension and his head
together.
    Meanwhile, the young Prince, effectually disguised, wandered on foot through
his father's dominions, cheered and supported in all his hardships by sweet
thoughts of the Athenian maid, who was the innocent cause of his weary trials.
One day he stopped to rest in a country village; and seeing that there were gay
dances going forward on the green, and gay faces passing to and fro, ventured to
inquire of a reveller who stood near him, the reason for this rejoicing.
    Know you not, O stranger, was the reply, of the recent proclamation of our
gracious king?
    Proclamation! No. What proclamation? rejoined the Prince - for he had
travelled along the bye and little-frequented ways, and knew nothing of what had
passed upon the public roads, such as they were.
    Why, replied the peasant, the foreign lady that our Prince wished to wed, is
married to a foreign noble of her own country; and the king proclaims the fact,
and a great public festival besides; for now, of course. Prince Bladud will come
back and marry the lady his father chose, who they say is as beautiful as the
noonday sun. Your health, sir. God save the King!
    The Prince remained to hear no more. He fled from the spot, and plunged into
the thickest recesses of a neighbouring wood. On, on, he wandered, night and
day: beneath the blazing sun, and the cold pale moon: through the dry heat of
noon, and the damp cold of night: in the grey light of morn, and the red glare
of eve. So heedless was he of time or object, that being bound for Athens, he
wandered as far out of his way as Bath.
    There was no city where Bath stands, then. There was no vestige of human
habitation, or sign of man's resort, to bear the name; but there was the same
noble country, the same broad expanse of hill and dale, the same beautiful
channel stealing on, far away; the same lofty mountains which, like the troubles
of life, viewed at a distance, and partially obscured by the bright mist of its
morning, lose their ruggedness and asperity, and seem all ease and softness.
Moved by the gentle beauty of the scene, the Prince sank upon the green turf,
and bathed his swollen feet in his tears.
    Oh! said the unhappy Bladud, clasping his hands, and mournfully raising his
eyes towards the sky, would that my wanderings might end here! Would that these
grateful tears with which I now mourn hope misplaced, and love despised, might
flow in peace for ever!
    The wish was heard. It was in the time of the heathen deities, who used
occasionally to take people at their words, with a promptness, in some cases
extremely awkward. The ground opened beneath the Prince's feet; he sunk into the
chasm; and instantaneously it closed upon his head for ever, save where his hot
tears welled up through the earth, and where they have continued to gush forth
ever since.
    It is observable that, to this day, large numbers of elderly ladies and
gentlemen who have been disappointed in procuring partners, and almost as many
young ones who are anxious to obtain them, repair, annually, to Bath to drink
the waters, from which they derive much strength and comfort. This is most
complimentary to the virtue of Prince Bladud's tears, and strongly corroborative
of the veracity of this legend.«
 
Mr. Pickwick yawned several times, when he had arrived at the end of this little
manuscript: carefully refolded, and replaced it in the inkstand drawer: and
then, with a countenance expressive of the utmost weariness, lighted his chamber
candle, and went up stairs to bed.
    He stopped at Mr. Dowler's door, according to custom, and knocked to say
good night.
    »Ah!« said Dowler, »going to bed? I wish I was. Dismal night. Windy; isn't
it?«
    »Very,« said Mr. Pickwick. »Good night.«
    »Good night.«
    Mr. Pickwick went to his bed-chamber, and Mr. Dowler resumed his seat before
the fire, in fulfilment of his rash promise to sit up till his wife came home.
    There are few things more worrying than sitting up for somebody, especially
if that somebody be at a party. You cannot help thinking how quickly the time
passes with them, which drags so heavily with you; and the more you think of
this, the more your hopes of their speedy arrival decline. Clocks tick so loud,
too, when you are sitting up alone, and you seem as if you had an under garment
of cobwebs on. First, something tickles your right knee, and then the same
sensation irritates your left. You have no sooner changed your position, than it
comes again in the arms; when you have fidgeted your limbs into all sorts of odd
shapes, you have a sudden relapse in the nose, which you rub as if to rub it off
- as there is no doubt you would, if you could. Eyes, too, are mere personal
inconveniences; and the wick of one candle gets an inch and a half long, while
you are snuffing the other. These, and various other little nervous annoyances,
render sitting up for a length of time after everybody else has gone to bed,
anything but a cheerful amusement.
    This was just Mr. Dowler's opinion, as he sat before the fire, and felt
honestly indignant with all the inhuman people at the party who were keeping him
up. He was not put into better humour either, by the reflection that he had
taken it into his head, early in the evening, to think he had got an ache there,
and so stopped at home. At length, after several droppings asleep, and fallings
forward towards the bars, and catchings backward soon enough to prevent being
branded in the face, Mr. Dowler made up his mind that he would throw himself on
the bed in the back-room and think - not sleep, of course.
    »I'm a heavy sleeper,« said Mr. Dowler, as he flung himself on the bed. »I
must keep awake. I suppose I shall hear a knock here. Yes. I thought so. I can
hear the watchman. There he goes. Fainter now though. A little fainter. He's
turning the corner. Ah!« When Mr. Dowler arrived at this point, he turned the
comer at which he had been long hesitating, and fell fast asleep.
    Just as the clock struck three, there was blown into the crescent a
sedan-chair with Mrs. Dowler inside, borne by one short fat chairman, and one
long thin one, who had had much ado to keep their bodies perpendicular: to say
nothing of the chair. But on that high ground, and in the crescent, which the
wind swept round and round as if it were going to tear the paving stones up, its
fury was tremendous. They were very glad to set the chair down, and give a good
round loud double-knock at the street door.
    They waited some time, but nobody came.
    »Servants is in the arms o' Porpus, I think,« said the short chairman,
warming his hands at the attendant link-boy's torch.
    »I wish he'd give 'em a squeeze and wake 'em,« observed the long one.
    »Knock again, will you, if you please,« cried Mrs. Dowler from the chair.
»Knock two or three times, if you please.«
    The short man was quite willing to get the job over, as soon as possible; so
he stood on the step, and gave four or five most startling double knocks, of
eight or ten knocks a piece: while the long man went into the road, and looked
up at the windows for a light.
    Nobody came. It was all as silent and dark as ever.
    »Dear me!« said Mrs. Dowler. »You must knock again, if you please.«
    »There ain't a bell, is there, ma'am?« said the short chairman.
    »Yes, there is,« interposed the link-boy, »I've been a ringing at it ever so
long.«
    »It's only a handle,« said Mrs. Dowler, »the wire's broken.«
    »I wish the servants' heads wos,« growled the long man.
    »I must trouble you to knock again, if you please,« said Mrs. Dowler with
the utmost politeness.
    The short man did knock again several times, without producing the smallest
effect. The tall man, growing very impatient, then relieved him, and kept on
perpetually knocking double-knocks of two loud knocks each, like an insane
postman.
    At length Mr. Winkle began to dream that he was at a club, and that the
members being very refractory, the chairman was obliged to hammer the table a
good deal to preserve order; then, he had a confused notion of an auction room
where there were no bidders, and the auctioneer was buying everything in; and
ultimately he began to think it just within the bounds of possibility that
somebody might be knocking at the street door. To make quite certain, however,
he remained quiet in bed for ten minutes or so, and listened; and when he had
counted two or three and thirty knocks, he felt quite satisfied, and gave
himself a great deal of credit for being so wakeful.
    »Rap rap - rap rap - rap rap - ra, ra, ra, ra, ra, rap!« went the knocker.
    Mr. Winkle jumped out of bed, wondering very much what could possibly be the
matter, and hastily putting on his stockings and slippers, folded his dressing
gown round him, lighted a flat candle from the rush-light that was burning in
the fire-place, and hurried down stairs.
    »Here's somebody comin' at last, ma'am,« said the short chairman.
    »I wish I wos behind him with a bradawl,« muttered the long one.
    »Who's there?« cried Mr. Winkle, undoing the chain.
    »Don't stop to ask questions, cast-iron head,« replied the long man, with
great disgust, taking it for granted that the inquirer was a footman; »but open
the door.«
    »Come, look sharp, timber eye-lids,« added the other encouragingly.
    Mr. Winkle, being half asleep, obeyed the command mechanically, opened the
door a little, and peeped out. The first thing he saw, was the red glare of the
link-boy's torch. Startled by the sudden fear that the house might be on fire,
he hastily threw the door wide open, and holding the candle above his head,
stared eagerly before him, not quite certain whether what he saw was a
sedan-chair or a fire engine. At this instant there came a violent gust of wind;
the light was blown out; Mr. Winkle felt himself irresistibly impelled on to the
steps; and the door blew to, with a loud crash.
    »Well, young man, now you have done it!« said the short chairman.
    Mr. Winkle, catching sight of a lady's face at the window of the sedan,
turned hastily round, plied the knocker with all his might and main, and called
frantically upon the chairman to take the chair away again.
    »Take it away, take it away,« cried Mr. Winkle. »Here's somebody coming out
of another house; put me into the chair. Hide me! Do something with me!«
    All this time he was shivering with cold; and every time he raised his hand
to the knocker, the wind took the dressing gown in a most unpleasant manner.
    »The people are coming down the Crescent now. There are ladies with 'em;
cover me up with something. Stand before me!« roared Mr. Winkle. But the
chairmen were too much exhausted with laughing to afford him the slightest
assistance, and the ladies were every moment approaching nearer and nearer.
    Mr. Winkle gave a last hopeless knock; the ladies were only a few doors off.
He threw away the extinguished candle, which, all this time, he had held above
his head, and fairly bolted into the sedan-chair where Mrs. Dowler was.
    Now, Mrs. Craddock had heard the knocking and the voices at last; and, only
waiting to put something smarter on her head than her night-cap, ran down into
the front drawing-room to make sure that it was the right party. Throwing up the
window-sash as Mr. Winkle was rushing into the chair, she no sooner caught sight
of what was going forward below, than she raised a vehement and dismal shriek,
and implored Mr. Dowler to get up directly, for his wife was running away with
another gentleman.
    Upon this Mr. Dowler bounced off the bed as abruptly as an India-rubber
ball, and rushing into the front room, arrived at one window just as Mr.
Pickwick threw up the other: when the first object that met the gaze of both,
was Mr. Winkle bolting into the sedan-chair.
    »Watchman,« shouted Dowler furiously; »stop him - hold him - keep him tight
- shut him in, till I come down. I'll cut his throat - give me a knife - from
ear to ear, Mrs. Craddock - I will!« And breaking from the shrieking landlady,
and from Mr. Pickwick, the indignant husband seized a small supper-knife, and
tore into the street.
    But Mr. Winkle didn't wait for him. He no sooner heard the horrible threat
of the valorous Dowler, than he bounced out of the sedan, quite as quickly as he
had bounced in, and throwing off his slippers into the road, took to his heels
and tore round the Crescent, hotly pursued by Dowler and the watchman. He kept
ahead; the door was open as he came round the second time; he rushed in, slammed
it in Dowler's face, mounted to his bed-room, locked the door, piled a
wash-hand-stand, chest of drawers, and table against it, and packed up a few
necessaries ready for flight with the first ray of morning.
    Dowler came up to the outside of the door; avowed, through the key-hole, his
steadfast determination of cutting Mr. Winkle's throat next day; and, after a
great confusion of voices in the drawing-room, amidst which that of Mr. Pickwick
was distinctly heard endeavouring to make peace, the inmates dispersed to their
several bed-chambers, and all was quiet once more.
    It is not unlikely that the inquiry may be made, where Mr. Weller was, all
this time? We will state where he was in the next chapter.
 

                                 Chapter XXXVII

Honorably Accounts for Mr. Weller's Absence, by Describing a Soiree to Which He
 Was Invited and Went; also Relates How He Was Entrusted by Mr. Pickwick with a
                  Private Mission of Delicacy and Importance.

»Mr. Weller,« said Mrs. Craddock, upon the morning of this very eventful day,
»here's a letter for you.«
    »Wery odd that,« said Sam, »I'm afeerd there must be something' the matter,
for I don't recollect any gen'lm'n in my circle of acquaintance as is capable o'
writin' one.«
    »Perhaps something uncommon has taken place,« observed Mrs. Craddock.
    »It must be something' very uncommon indeed, as could produce a letter out o'
any friend o' mine,« replied Sam, shaking his head dubiously; »nothing' less than
a nat'ral conwulsion, as the young gen'lm'n observed ven he wos took with fits.
It can't be from the gov'ner,« said Sam, looking at the direction. »He always
prints, I know, 'cos he learnt writin' from the large bills in the bookin'
offices. It's a very strange thing now, where this here letter can ha' come
from.«
    As Sam said this, he did what a great many people do when they are uncertain
about the writer of a note, - looked at the seal, and the at the front, and then
at the back, and then at the sides, and then at the superscription; and, as a
last resource, thought perhaps he might as well look at the inside, and try to
find out, from that.
    »It's wrote on gilt-edged paper,« said Sam, as he unfolded it, »and sealed
in bronze vax with the top of a door-key. Now for it.« And, with a very grave
face, Mr. Weller slowly read as follows:
 
        »A select company of the Bath footmen presents their compliments to Mr.
        Weller, and requests the pleasure of his company this evening, to a
        friendly swarry, consisting of a boiled leg of mutton with the usual
        trimmings. The swarry to be on table at half-past nine o'clock
        punctually.«
 
This was enclosed in another note, which ran thus -
 
        »Mr. John Smauker, the gentleman who had the pleasure of meeting Mr.
        Weller at the house of their mutual acquaintance, Mr. Bantam, a few days
        since, begs to enclose Mr. Weller the herewith invitation. If Mr. Weller
        will call on Mr. John Smauker at nine o'clock, Mr. John Smauker will
        have the pleasure of introducing Mr. Weller.
                                                                        (Signed)
                                                                  JOHN SMAUKER.«
 
The envelope was directed to blank Weller, Esq., at Mr. Pickwick's; and in a
parenthesis, in the left hand corner, were the words airy bell, as an
instruction to the bearer.
    »Vell,« said Sam, »this is comin' it rather powerful, this is. I never
heard a biled leg o' mutton called a swarry afore. I wonder wot they'd call a
roast one.«
    However, without waiting to debate the point, Sam at once betook himself
into the presence of Mr. Pickwick, and requested leave of absence for that
evening, which was readily granted. With this permission, and the street-door
key, Sam Weller issued forth a little before the appointed time, and strolled
leisurely towards Queen Square, which he no sooner gained than he had the
satisfaction of beholding Mr. John Smauker leaning his powdered head against a
lamp post at a short distance off, smoking a cigar through an amber tube.
    »How do you do, Mr. Weller?« said Mr. John Smauker, raising his hat
gracefully with one hand, while he gently waved the other in a condescending
manner. »How do you do, sir?«
    »Why, reasonably conwalessent,« replied Sam. »How do you find yourself, my
dear feller?«
    »Only so so,« said Mr. John Smauker.
    »Ah, you've been a workin' too hard,« observed Sam. »I was fearful you
would; it won't do, you know; you must not give way to that 'ere uncompromisin'
spirit o' your'n.«
    »It's not so much that, Mr. Weller,« replied Mr. John Smauker, »as bad wine;
I'm afraid I've been dissipating.«
    »Oh! that's it, is it?« said Sam; »that's a very bad complaint, that.«
    »And yet the temptation, you see, Mr. Weller,« observed Mr. John Smauker.
    »Ah, to be sure,« said Sam.
    »Plunged into the very vortex of society, you know, Mr. Weller,« said Mr.
John Smauker with a sigh.
    »Dreadful indeed!« rejoined Sam.
    »But it's always the way,« said Mr. John Smauker; »if your destiny leads you
into public life, and public station, you must expect to be subjected to
temptations which other people is free from, Mr. Weller.«
    »Precisely what my uncle said, ven he vent into the public line,« remarked
Sam, »and very right the old gen'lm'n wos, for he drank himself to death in
something' less than a quarter.«
    Mr. John Smauker looked deeply indignant at any parallel being drawn between
himself and the deceased gentleman in question; but as Sam's face was in the
most immoveable state of calmness, he thought better of it, and looked affable
again.
    »Perhaps we had better be walking,« said Mr. Smauker, consulting a copper
time-piece which dwelt at the bottom of a deep watch-pocket, and was raised to
the surface by means of a black string, with a copper key at the other end.
    »P'raps we had,« replied Sam, »or they'll overdo the swarry, and that'll
spile it.«
    »Have you drank the waters, Mr. Weller?« inquired his companion, as they
walked towards High Street.
    »Once,« replied Sam.
    »What did you think of 'em, sir?«
    »I thought they wos particklery unpleasant,« replied Sam.
    »Ah,« said Mr. John Smauker, »you disliked the killibeate taste, perhaps?«
    »I don't know much about that 'ere,« said Sam. »I thought they'd a very
strong flavour o' warm flat irons.«
    »That is the killibeate, Mr. Weller,« observed Mr. John Smauker,
contemptuously.
    »Well, if it is, it's a very inexpressive word, that's all,« said Sam. »It
may be, but I ain't much in the chimical line myself, so I can't say.« And here,
to the great horror of Mr. John Smauker, Sam Weller began to whistle.
    »I beg your pardon, Mr. Weller,« said Mr. John Smauker, agonized at the
exceedingly ungenteel sound, »Will you take my arm?«
    »Thankee, you're very good, but I won't deprive you of it,« replied Sam.
»I've rather a way o' puttin' my hands in my pockets, if it's all the same to
you.« As Sam said this, he suited the action to the word, and whistled far
louder than before.
    »This way,« said his new friend, apparently much relieved as they turned
down a bye street; »we shall soon be there.«
    »Shall we?« said Sam, quite unmoved by the announcement of his close
vicinity to the select footmen of Bath.
    »Yes,« said Mr. John Smauker. »Don't be alarmed, Mr. Weller.«
    »Oh no,« said Sam.
    »You'll see some very handsome uniforms, Mr. Weller,« continued Mr. John
Smauker; »and perhaps you'll find some of the gentlemen rather high at first,
you know, but they'll soon come round.«
    »That's very kind on 'em,« replied Sam.
    »And you know,« resumed Mr. John Smauker, with an air of sublime protection;
»you know, as you're a stranger, perhaps they'll be rather hard upon you at
first.«
    »They won't be very cruel, though, will they?« inquired Sam.
    »No, no,« replied Mr. John Smauker, pulling forth the fox's head, and taking
a gentlemanly pinch. »There are some funny dogs among us, and they will have
their joke, you know; but you mustn't mind 'em, you mustn't mind 'em.«
    »I'll try and bear up again such a reg'lar knock down o' talent,« replied
Sam.
    »That's right,« said Mr. John Smauker, putting up the fox's head, and
elevating his own; »I'll stand by you.«
    By this time they had reached a small greengrocer's shop, which Mr. John
Smauker entered, followed by Sam: who, the moment he got behind him, relapsed
into a series of the very broadest and most unmitigated grins, and manifested
other demonstrations of being in a highly enviable state of inward merriment.
    Crossing the greengrocer's shop, and putting their hats on the stairs in the
little passage behind it, they walked into a small parlour; and here the full
splendour of the scene burst upon Mr. Weller's view.
    A couple of tables were put together in the middle of the parlour, covered
with three or four cloths of different ages and dates of washing, arranged to
look as much like one as the circumstances of the case would allow. Upon these
were laid knives and forks for six or eight people. Some of the knife handles
were green, others red, and a few yellow; and as all the forks were black, the
combination of colours was exceedingly striking. Plates for a corresponding
number of guests were warming behind the fender; and the guests themselves were
warming before it: the chief and most important of whom appeared to be a
stoutish gentleman in a bright crimson coat with long tails, vividly red
breeches, and a cocked hat, who was standing with his back to the fire, and had
apparently just entered, for besides retaining his cocked hat on his head, he
carried in his hand a high stick, such as gentlemen of his profession usually
elevate in a sloping position over the roofs of carriages.
    »Smauker, my lad, your fin,« said the gentleman with the cocked hat.
    Mr. Smauker dovetailed the top joint of his right hand little finger into
that of the gentleman with the cocked hat, and said he was charmed to see him
looking so well.
    »Well, they tell me I am looking pretty blooming,« said the man with the
cocked hat, »and it's a wonder, too. I've been following our old woman about,
two hours a-day, for the last fortnight; and if a constant contemplation of the
manner in which she hooks-and-eyes that infernal lavender coloured old gown of
hers behind, isn't enough to throw any body into a low state of despondency for
life, stop my quarter's salary.«
    At this, the assembled selections laughed very heartily; and one gentleman
in a yellow waistcoat, with a coach trimming border, whispered a neighbour in
green foil smalls, that Tuckle was in spirits to-night.
    »By the bye,« said Mr. Tuckle, »Smauker, my boy, you -« The remainder of the
sentence was forwarded into Mr. John Smauker's ear, by whisper.
    »Oh, dear me, I quite forgot,« said Mr. John Smauker. »Gentlemen, my friend
Mr. Weller.«
    »Sorry to keep the fire off you, Weller,« said Mr. Tuckle, with a familiar
nod. »Hope you're not cold, Weller.«
    »Not by no means, Blazes,« replied Sam. »It 'ud be a very chilly subject as
felt cold wen you stood opposit. You'd save coals if they put you behind the
fender in the waiting' room at a public office, you would.«
    As this retort appeared to convey rather a personal allusion to Mr. Tuckle's
crimson livery, that gentleman looked majestic for a few seconds, but gradually
edging away from the fire, broke into a forced smile, and said it wasn't't bad.
    »Wery much obliged for your good opinion, sir,« replied Sam. »We shall get
on by degrees, I des-say. We'll try a better one, bye-and-bye.«
    At this point the conversation was interrupted by the arrival of a gentleman
in orange-coloured plush, accompanied by another selection in purple cloth, with
a great extent of stocking. The new comers having been welcomed by the old ones,
Mr. Tuckle put the question that supper be ordered in, which was carried
unanimously.
    The greengrocer and his wife then arranged upon the table a boiled leg of
mutton, hot, with caper sauce, turnips, and potatoes. Mr. Tuckle took the chair,
and was supported at the other end of the board by the gentleman in orange
plush. The greengrocer put on a pair of wash-leather gloves to hand the plates
with, and stationed himself behind Mr. Tuckle's chair.
    »Harris,« said Mr. Tuckle, in a commanding tone.
    »Sir,« said the greengrocer.
    »Have you got your gloves on?«
    »Yes, sir.«
    »Then take the kiver off.«
    »Yes, sir.«
    The greengrocer did as he was told, with a show of great humility, and
obsequiously handed Mr. Tuckle the carving knife; in doing which, he
accidentally gaped.
    »What do you mean by that, sir?« said Mr. Tuckle, with great asperity.
    »I beg your pardon, sir,« replied the crest-fallen greengrocer, »I didn't
mean to do it, sir; I was up very late last night, sir.«
    »I tell you what my opinion of you is, Harris,« said Mr. Tuckle with a most
impressive air, »you're a wulgar beast.«
    »I hope, gentlemen,« said Harris, »that you won't be severe with me,
gentlemen. I'm very much obliged to you indeed, gentlemen, for your patronage,
and also for your recommendations, gentlemen, whenever additional assistance in
waiting is required. I hope, gentlemen, I give satisfaction.«
    »No, you don't, sir,« said Mr. Tuckle. »Very far from it, sir.«
    »We consider you an inattentive reskel,« said the gentleman in the orange
plush.
    »And a low thief,« added the gentleman in the green-foil smalls.
    »And an unreclaimable blaygaird,« added the gentleman in purple.
    The poor greengrocer bowed very humbly while these little epithets were
bestowed upon him, in the true spirit of the very smallest tyranny; and when
every body had said something to show his superiority, Mr. Tuckle proceeded to
carve the leg of mutton, and to help the company.
    This important business of the evening had hardly commenced, when the door
was thrown briskly open, and another gentleman in a light-blue suit, and leaden
buttons, made his appearance.
    »Against the rules,« said Mr. Tuckle. »Too late, too late.«
    »No, no; positively I couldn't help it,« said the gentleman in blue. »I
appeal to the company. An affair of gallantry now, an appointment at the
theayter.«
    »Oh, that indeed,« said the gentleman in the orange plush.
    »Yes; raly now, honour bright,« said the man in blue. »I made a promese to
fetch our youngest daughter at half-past ten, and she is such an uncauminly fine
gal, that I raly hadn't the art to disappint her. No offence to the present
company, sir, but a petticut, sir, a petticut, sir, is irrevokeable.«
    »I begin to suspect there's something in that quarter,« said Tuckle, as the
new comer took his seat next Sam. »I've remarked, once or twice, that she leans
very heavy on your shoulder when she gets in and out of the carriage.«
    »Oh raly, raly, Tuckle, you shouldn't,« said the man in blue. »It's not
fair. I may have said to one or two friends that she was a very divine
creechure, and had refused one or two offers without any hobvus cause, but - no,
no, no, indeed, Tuckle - before strangers, too it's not right - you shouldn't.
Delicacy, my dear friend, delicacy!« And the man in blue, pulling up his
neckerchief, and adjusting his coat cuffs, nodded and frowned as if there were
more behind, which he could say if he liked, but was bound in honour to
suppress.
    The man in blue being a light-haired, stiff-necked, free and easy sort of
footman, with a swaggering air and pert face, had attracted Mr. Weller's
especial attention at first, but when he began to come out in this way, Sam felt
more than ever disposed to cultivate his acquaintance; so he launched himself
into the conversation at once, with characteristic independence.
    »Your health, sir,« said Sam. »I like your conwersation much. I think it's
very pretty.«
    At this the man in blue smiled, as if it were a compliment he was well used
to; but looked approvingly on Sam at the same time, and said he hoped he should
be better acquainted with him, for without any flattery at all he seemed to have
the makings of a very nice fellow about him, and to be just the man after his
own heart.
    »You're very good, sir,« said Sam. »What a lucky feller you are!«
    »How do you mean?« inquired the gentleman in blue.
    »That 'ere young lady,« replied Sam. »She knows wot's wot, she does. Ah! I
see.« Mr. Weller closed one eye, and shook his head from side to side, in a
manner which was highly gratifying to the personal vanity of the gentleman in
blue.
    »I'm afraid you're a cunning fellow, Mr. Weller,« said that individual.
    »No, no,« said Sam. »I leave all that 'ere to you. It's a great deal more in
your way than mine, as the gen'lm'n on the right side o' the garden vall said to
the man on the wrong 'un, ven the mad bull wos a comin' up the lane.«
    »Well, well, Mr. Weller,« said the gentleman in blue, »I think she has
remarked my air and manner, Mr. Weller.«
    »I should think she couldn't very well be off o' that,« said Sam.
    »Have you any little thing of that kind in hand, sir?« inquired the favoured
gentleman in blue, drawing a toothpick from his waistcoat pocket.
    »Not exactly,« said Sam. »There's no daughters at my place, else o' course I
should ha' made up to vun on 'em. As it is, I don't think I can do with any
thin' under a female markis. I might take up with a young ooman o' large
property as hadn't a title, if she made very fierce love to me. Not else.«
    »Of course not, Mr. Weller,« said the gentleman in blue, »one can't be
troubled, you know; and we know, Mr. Weller - we, who are men of the world -
that a good uniform must work its way with the women, sooner or later. In fact,
that's the only thing, between you and me, that makes the service worth entering
into.«
    »Just so,« said Sam. »That's it, o' course.«
    When this confidential dialogue had gone thus far, glasses were placed
round, and every gentleman ordered what he liked best, before the public-house
shut up. The gentleman in blue, and the man in orange, who were the chief
exquisites of the party, ordered »cold srub and water,« but with the others, gin
and water, sweet, appeared to be the favourite beverage. Sam called the
greengrocer a »desp'rate willin,« and ordered a large bowl of punch; two
circumstances which seemed to raise him very much in the opinion of the
selections.
    »Gentlemen,« said the man in blue, with an air of the most consummate
dandyism, »I'll give you the ladies; come.«
    »Hear, hear!« said Sam, »The young mississes.«
    Here there was a loud cry of Order, and Mr. John Smauker, as the gentleman
who had introduced Mr. Weller into that company, begged to inform him that the
word he had just made use of, was unparliamentary.
    »Which word was that 'ere, sir?« inquired Sam.
    »Mississes, sir,« replied Mr. John Smauker, with an alarming frown. »We
don't recognise such distinctions here.«
    »Oh, very good,« said Sam; »then I'll amend the observation, and call 'em
the dear creeturs, if Blazes vill allow me.«
    Some doubt appeared to exist in the mind of the gentleman in the green-foil
smalls, whether the chairman could be legally appealed to, as Blazes, but as the
company seemed more disposed to stand upon their own rights than his, the
question was not raised. The man with the cocked hat, breathed short, and looked
long at Sam, but apparently thought it as well to say nothing, in case he should
get the worst of it.
    After a short silence, a gentleman in an embroidered coat reaching down to
his heels, and a waistcoat of the same which kept one half of his legs warm,
stirred his gin and water with great energy, and putting himself upon his feet,
all at once, by a violent effort, said he was desirous of offering a few remarks
to the company: whereupon the person in the cocked hat, had no doubt that the
company would be very happy to hear any remarks that the man in the long coat
might wish to offer.
    »I feel a great delicacy, gentlemen, in coming for'ard,« said the man in the
long coat, »having the misforchune to be a coachman, and being only admitted as
a honorary member of these agreeable swarrys, but I do feel myself bound,
gentlemen - drove into a corner, if I may use the expression - to make known an
afflicting circumstance which has come to my knowledge; which has happened I may
say within the soap of my every day contemplation. Gentlemen, our friend Mr.
Whiffers (everybody looked at the individual in orange), our friend Mr. Whiffers
has resigned.«
    Universal astonishment fell upon the hearers. Each gentleman looked in his
neighbour's face, and then transferred his glance to the upstanding coachman.
    »You may well be sapparised, gentlemen,« said the coachman. »I will not
wenchure to state the reasons of this irrepairabel loss to the service, but I
will beg Mr. Whiffers to state them himself, for the improvement and imitation
of his admiring friend.«
    The suggestion being loudly approved of, Mr. Whiffers explained. He said he
certainly could have wished to have continued to hold the appointment he had
just resigned. The uniform was extremely rich and expensive, the females of the
family was most agreeable, and the duties of the situation was not, he was bound
to say, too heavy; the principal service that was required of him, being, that
he should look out of the hall window as much as possible, in company with
another gentleman, who had also resigned. He could have wished to have spared
that company the painful and disgusting detail on which he was about to enter,
but as the explanation had been demanded of him, he had no alternative but to
state, boldly and distinctly, that he had been required to eat cold meat.
    It is impossible to conceive the disgust which this avowal awakened in the
bosoms of the hearers. Loud cries of »Shame!« mingled with groans and hisses,
prevailed for a quarter of an hour.
    Mr. Whiffers then added that he feared a portion of this outrage might be
traced to his own forbearing and accommodating disposition. He had a distinct
recollection of having once consented to eat salt butter, and he had, moreover,
on an occasion of sudden sickness in the house, so far forgotten himself as to
carry a coal scuttle up to the second floor. He trusted he had not lowered
himself in the good opinion of his friends by this frank confession of his
faults; and he hoped the promptness with which he had resented the last unmanly
outrage on his feelings, to which he had referred, would reinstate him in their
good opinion, if he had.
    Mr. Whiffers' address was responded to, with a shout of admiration, and the
health of the interesting martyr was drunk in a most enthusiastic manner; for
this, the martyr returned thanks, and proposed their visitor, Mr. Weller; a
gentleman whom he had not the pleasure of an intimate acquaintance with, but who
was the friend of Mr. John Smauker, which was a sufficient letter of
recommendation to any society of gentlemen whatever, or wherever. On this
account, he should have been disposed to have given Mr. Weller's health with all
the honours, if his friends had been drinking wine; but as they were taking
spirits by way of a change, and as it might be inconvenient to empty a tumbler
at every toast, he should propose that the honours be understood.
    At the conclusion of this speech, everybody took a sip in honour of Sam; and
Sam having ladled out, and drunk, two full glasses of punch in honour of
himself, returned thanks in a neat speech.
    »Wery much obliged to you, old fellows,« said Sam, ladling away at the punch
in the most unembarrassed manner possible, »for this here compliment; wich,
comin' from such a quarter, is very overvelmin'. I've heard a good deal on you
as a body, but I will say, that I never thought you was such uncommon nice men
as I find you air. I only hope you'll take care o' yourselves, and not
compromise nothing' o' your dignity, which is a very charmin' thing to see, when
one's out a walkin' and has always made me very happy to look at, ever since I
was a boy about half as high as the brass-headed stick o' my very respectable
friend, Blazes, there. As to the wictim of oppression in the suit o' brimstone,
all I can say of him, is, that I hope he'll get just as good a berth as he
deserves: in vich case it's very little cold swarry as ever he'll be troubled
with again.«
    Here Sam sat down with a pleasant smile, and his speech having been
vociferously applauded, the company broke up.
    »Why, you don't mean to say you're a goin', old feller?« said Sam Weller to
his friend Mr. John Smauker.
    »I must indeed,« said Mr. Smauker; »I promised Bantam.«
    »Oh, very well,« said Sam; »that's another thing. P'raps he'd resign if you
disappinted him. You ain't a goin', Blazes?«
    »Yes, I am,« said the man with the cocked hat.
    »Wot, and leave three quarters of a bowl of punch behind you!« said Sam;
»nonsense, set down again.«
    Mr. Tuckle was not proof against this invitation. He laid aside the cocked
hat and stick which he had just taken up, and said he would have one glass, for
good fellowship's sake.
    As the gentleman in blue went home the same way as Mr. Tuckle, he was
prevailed upon to stop too. When the punch was about half gone, Sam ordered in
some oysters from the greengrocer's shop; and the effect of both was so
extremely exhilarating, that Mr. Tackle, dressed out with the cocked hat and
stick, danced the frog hornpipe among the shells on the table: while the
gentleman in blue played an accompaniment upon an ingenious musical instrument
formed of a hair comb and a curl-paper. At last, when the punch was all gone,
and the night nearly so, they sallied forth to see each other home. Mr. Tuckle
no sooner got into the open air, than he was seized with a sudden desire to lie
on the curb-stone; Sam thought it would be a pity to contradict him, and so let
him have his own way. As the cocked hat would have been spoilt if left there,
Sam very considerately flattened it down on the head of the gentleman in blue,
and putting the big stick in his hand, propped him up against his own
street-door, rang the bell, and walked quietly home.
    At a much earlier hour next morning than his usual time of rising, Mr.
Pickwick walked down stairs completely dressed, and rang the bell.
    »Sam,« said Mr. Pickwick, when Mr. Weller appeared in reply to the summons,
»shut the door.«
    Mr. Weller did so.
    »There was an unfortunate occurrence here, last night, Sam,« said Mr.
Pickwick, »which gave Mr. Winkle some cause to apprehend violence from Mr.
Dowler.«
    »So I've heard from the old lady down stairs, sir,« replied Sam.
    »And I'm sorry to say, Sam,« continued Mr. Pickwick, with a most perplexed
countenance, »that in dread of this violence, Mr. Winkle has gone away.«
    »Gone away!« said Sam.
    »Left the house early this morning, without the slightest previous
communication with me,« replied Mr. Pickwick. »And is gone, I know not where.«
    »He should ha' stopped and fought it out, sir,« replied Sam, contemptuously.
»It wouldn't take much to settle that 'ere Dowler, sir.«
    »Well, Sam,« said Mr. Pickwick, »I may have my doubts of his great bravery
and determination, also. But however that may be, Mr. Winkle is gone. He must be
found, Sam. Found and brought back to me.«
    »And s'pose he won't come back, sir?« said Sam.
    »He must be made, Sam,« said Mr. Pickwick.
    »Who's to do it, sir?« inquired Sam with a smile.
    »You,« replied Mr. Pickwick.
    »Wery good, sir.«
    With these words Mr. Weller left the room, and immediately afterwards was
heard to shut the street door. In two hours' time he returned with as much
coolness as if he had been despatched on the most ordinary message possible, and
brought the information that an individual, in every respect answering Mr.
Winkle's description, had gone over to Bristol that morning, by the branch coach
from the Royal Hotel.
    »Sam,« said Mr. Pickwick, grasping his hand, »you're a capital fellow; an
invaluable fellow. You must follow him, Sam.«
    »Cert'nly, sir,« replied Mr. Weller.
    »The instant you discover him, write to me immediately, Sam,« said Mr.
Pickwick. »If he attempts to run away from you, knock him down, or lock him up.
You have my full authority, Sam.«
    »I'll be very careful, sir,« rejoined Sam.
    »You'll tell him,« said Mr. Pickwick, »that I am highly excited, highly
displeased, and naturally indignant, at the very extraordinary course he has
thought proper to pursue.«
    »I will, sir,« replied Sam.
    »You'll tell him,« said Mr. Pickwick, »that if he does not come back to this
very house, with you, he will come back with me, for I will come and fetch him.«
    »I'll mention that 'ere, sir,« rejoined Sam.
    »You think you can find him, Sam?« said Mr. Pickwick, looking earnestly in
his face.
    »Oh, I'll find him if he's any vere,« rejoined Sam, with great confidence.
    »Very well,« said Mr. Pickwick. »Then the sooner you go the better.«
    With these instructions, Mr. Pickwick placed a sum of money in the hands of
his faithful servitor, and ordered him to start for Bristol immediately, in
pursuit of the fugitive.
    Sam put a few necessaries in a carpet bag, and was ready for starting. He
stopped when he had got to the end of the passage, and walking quietly back,
thrust his head in at the parlour door.
    »Sir,« whispered Sam.
    »Well, Sam,« said Mr. Pickwick.
    »I fully understands my instructions, do I, sir?« inquired Sam.
    »I hope so,« said Mr. Pickwick.
    »It's reg'larly understood about the knockin' down, is it, sir?« inquired
Sam.
    »Perfectly,« replied Mr. Pickwick. »Thoroughly. Do what you think necessary.
You have my orders.«
    Sam gave a nod of intelligence, and withdrawing his head from the door, set
forth on his pilgrimage with a light heart.
 

                                Chapter XXXVIII

    How Mr. Winkle, When He Stepped Out of the Frying-Pan, Walked Gently and
                           Comfortably into the Fire.

The ill-starred gentleman who had been the unfortunate cause of the unusual
noise and disturbance which alarmed the inhabitants of the Royal Crescent in
manner and form already described, after passing a night of great confusion and
anxiety, left the roof beneath which his friends still slumbered, bound he knew
not whither. The excellent and considerate feelings which prompted Mr. Winkle to
take this step can never be too highly appreciated or too warmly extolled. »If,«
reasoned Mr. Winkle with himself, »if this Dowler attempts (as I have no doubt
he will) to carry into execution his threat of personal violence against myself,
it will be incumbent on me to call him out. He has a wife; that wife is attached
to, and dependent on him. Heavens! If I should kill him in the blindness of my
wrath, what would be my feelings ever afterwards!« This painful consideration
operated so powerfully on the feelings of the humane young man, as to cause his
knees to knock together, and his countenance to exhibit alarming manifestations
of inward emotion. Impelled by such reflections, he grasped his carpet-bag, and
creeping stealthily down stairs, shut the detestable street-door with as little
noise as possible, and walked off. Bending his steps towards the Royal Hotel, he
found a coach on the point of starting for Bristol, and, thinking Bristol as
good a place for his purpose as any other he could go to, he mounted the box,
and reached his place of destination in such time as the pair of horses, who
went the whole stage and back again twice a day or more, could be reasonably
supposed to arrive there.
    He took up his quarters at The Bush, and, designing to postpone any
communication by letter with Mr. Pickwick until it was probable that Mr.
Dowler's wrath might have in some degree evaporated, walked forth to view the
city, which struck him as being a shade more dirty than any place he had ever
seen. Having inspected the docks and shipping, and viewed the cathedral, he
inquired his way to Clifton, and being directed thither, took the route which
was pointed out to him. But, as the pavements of Bristol are not the widest or
cleanest upon earth, so its streets are not altogether the straightest or least
intricate; Mr. Winkle being greatly puzzled by their manifold windings and
twistings, looked about him for a decent shop in which he could apply afresh,
for counsel and instruction.
    His eye fell upon a newly-painted tenement which had been recently converted
into something between a shop and a private-house, and which a red lamp,
projecting over the fan-light of the street-door, would have sufficiently
announced as the residence of a medical practitioner, even if the word Surgery
had not been inscribed in golden characters on a wainscot ground, above the
window of what, in times bygone, had been the front parlour. Thinking this an
eligible place wherein to make his inquiries, Mr. Winkle stepped into the little
shop where the gilt-labelled drawers and bottles were; and finding nobody there,
knocked with a half-crown on the counter, to attract the attention of anybody
who might happen to be in the back parlour, which he judged to be the innermost
and peculiar sanctum of the establishment, from the repetition of the word
surgery on the door - painted in white letters this time, by way of taking off
the monotony.
    At the first knock, a sound, as of persons fencing with fire-irons, which
had until now been very audible, suddenly ceased; at the second, a
studious-looking young gentleman in green spectacles, with a very large book in
his hand, glided quietly into the shop, and stepping behind the counter,
requested to know the visitor's pleasure.
    »I am sorry to trouble you, sir,« said Mr. Winkle, »but will you have the
goodness to direct me to -«
    »Ha! ha! ha!« roared the studious young gentleman, throwing the large book
up into the air, and catching it with great dexterity at the very moment when it
threatened to smash to atoms all the bottles on the counter. »Here's a start!«
    There was, without doubt; for Mr. Winkle was so very much astonished at the
extraordinary behaviour of the medical gentleman, that he involuntarily
retreated towards the door, and looked very much disturbed at his strange
reception.
    »What, don't you know me?« said the medical gentleman.
    Mr. Winkle murmured, in reply, that he had not that pleasure.
    »Why, then,« said the medical gentleman, »there are hopes for me yet; I may
attend half the old women in Bristol if I've decent luck. Get out, you mouldy
old villain, get out!« With this adjuration, which was addressed to the large
book, the medical gentleman kicked the volume with remarkable agility to the
further end of the shop, and, pulling of his green spectacles, grinned the
identical grin of Robert Sawyer, Esquire, formerly of Guy's Hospital in the
Borough, with a private residence in Lant Street.
    »You don't mean to say you weren't down upon me!« said Mr. Bob Sawyer,
shaking Mr. Winkle's hand with friendly warmth.
    »Upon my word I was not,« replied Mr. Winkle, returning the pressure.
    »I wonder you didn't see the name,« said Bob Sawyer, calling his friend's
attention to the outer door, on which, in the same white paint, were traced the
words »Sawyer, late Nockemorf.«
    »It never caught my eye,« returned Mr. Winkle.
    »Lord, if I had known who you were, I should have rushed out, and caught you
in my arms,« said Bob Sawyer; »but upon my life, I thought you were the
King's-taxes.«
    »No!« said Mr. Winkle.
    »I did, indeed,« responded Bob Sawyer, »and I was just going to say that I
wasn't't at home, but if you'd leave a message I'd be sure to give it to myself;
for he don't know me; no more does the Lighting and Paving. I think the
Church-rates guesses who I am, and I know the Water-works does, because I drew a
tooth of his when I first came down here. But come in, come in!« Chattering in
this way, Mr. Bob Sawyer pushed Mr. Winkle into the back room, where, amusing
himself by boring little circular caverns in the chimney-piece with a red-hot
poker, sat no less a person than Mr. Benjamin Allen.
    »Well!« said Mr. Winkle. »This is indeed a pleasure I did not expect. What a
very nice place you have here!«
    »Pretty well, pretty well,« replied Bob Sawyer. »I passed, soon after that
precious party, and my friends came down with the needful for this business; so
I put on a black suit of clothes, and a pair of spectacles, and came here to
look as solemn as I could.«
    »And a very snug little business you have, no doubt?« said Mr. Winkle,
knowingly.
    »Very,« replied Bob Sawyer. »So snug, that at the end of a few years you
might put all the profits in a wine glass, and cover 'em over with a gooseberry
leaf.«
    »You cannot surely mean that?« said Mr. Winkle. »The stock itself -«
    »Dummies, my dear boy,« said Bob Sawyer; »half the drawers have nothing in
'em, and the other half don't open.«
    »Nonsense!« said Mr. Winkle.
    »Fact - honour!« returned Bob Sawyer, stepping out into the shop, and
demonstrating the veracity of the assertion by divers hard pulls at the little
gilt knobs on the counterfeit drawers. »Hardly anything real in the shop but the
leeches, and they are second-hand.«
    »I shouldn't have thought it!« exclaimed Mr. Winkle, much surprised.
    »I hope not,« replied Bob Sawyer, »else where's the use of appearances, eh?
But what will you take? Do as we do? That's right. Ben, my fine fellow, put your
hand into the cupboard, and bring out the patent digester.«
    Mr. Benjamin Allen smiled his readiness, and produced from the closet at his
elbow a black bottle half full of brandy.
    »You don't take water, of course?« said Bob Sawyer.
    »Thank you,« replied Mr. Winkle. »It's rather early. I should like to
qualify it, if you have no objection.«
    »None in the least, if you can reconcile it to your conscience,« replied Bob
Sawyer; tossing off, as he spoke, a glass of the liquor with great relish. »Ben,
the pipkin!«
    Mr. Benjamin Allen drew forth, from the same hiding-place, a small brass
pipkin, which Bob Sawyer observed he prided himself upon, particularly because
it looked so business-like. The water in the professional pipkin having been
made to boil, in course of time, by various little shovelsfull of coal, which
Mr. Bob Sawyer took out of a practicable window-seat, labelled Soda Water, Mr.
Winkle adulterated his brandy; and the conversation was becoming general, when
it was interrupted by the entrance into the shop of a boy, in a sober grey
livery and a gold-laced hat, with a small covered basket under his arm: whom Mr.
Bob Sawyer immediately hailed with, »Tom, you vagabond, come here.«
    The boy presented himself accordingly.
    »You've been stopping to over all the posts in Bristol, you idle young
scamp!« said Mr. Bob Sawyer.
    »No, sir, I haven't,« replied the boy.
    »You had better not!« said Mr. Bob Sawyer, with a threatening aspect. »Who
do you suppose will ever employ a professional man, when they see his boy
playing at marbles in the gutter, or flying the garter in the horse-road? Have
you no feeling for your profession, you groveller? Did you leave all the
medicine?«
    »Yes, sir.«
    »The powders for the child, at the large house with the new family, and the
pills to be taken four times a day at the ill-tempered old gentleman's with the
gouty leg?«
    »Yes, sir.«
    »Then shut the door, and mind the shop.«
    »Come,« said Mr. Winkle, as the boy retired, »things are not quite so bad as
you would have me believe, either. There is some medicine to be sent out.«
    Mr. Bob Sawyer peeped into the shop to see that no stranger was within
hearing, and leaning forward to Mr. Winkle, said, in a low tone:
    »He leaves it all at the wrong houses.«
    Mr. Winkle looked perplexed, and Bob Sawyer and his friend laughed.
    »Don't you see?« said Bob. »He goes up to a house, rings the area bell,
pokes a packet of medicine without a direction into the servant's hand, and
walks off. Servant takes it into the dining-parlour; master opens it, and reads
the label: Draught to be taken at bed-time - pills as before - lotion as usual -
the powder. From Sawyer's, late Nockemorf's. Physicians' prescriptions carefully
prepared, and all the rest of it. Shows it to his wife - she reads the label; it
goes down to the servants - they read the label. Next day, boy calls: Very sorry
- his mistake - immense business - great many parcels to deliver - Mr. Sawyer's
compliments - late Nockemorf. The name gets known, and that's the thing, my boy,
in the medical way. Bless your heart, old fellow, it's better than all the
advertising in the world. We have got one four-ounce bottle that's been to half
the houses in Bristol, and hasn't done yet.«
    »Dear me, I see,« observed Mr. Winkle; »what an excellent plan!«
    »Oh, Ben and I have hit upon a dozen such,« replied Bob Sawyer, with great
glee. »The lamplighter has eighteenpence a week to pull the night-bell for ten
minutes every time he comes round; and my boy always rushes into church, just
before the psalms, when the people have got nothing to do but look about 'em,
and calls me out, with horror and dismay depicted on his countenance. Bless my
soul, everybody says, somebody taken suddenly ill! Sawyer, late Nockemorf, sent
for. What a business that young man has!«
    At the termination of this disclosure of some of the mysteries of medicine,
Mr. Bob Sawyer and his friend, Ben Allen, threw themselves back in their
respective chairs, and laughed boisterously. When they had enjoyed the joke to
their hearts' content, the discourse changed to topics in which Mr. Winkle was
more immediately interested.
    We think we have hinted elsewhere, that Mr. Benjamin Allen had a way of
becoming sentimental after brandy. The case is not a peculiar one, as we
ourselves can testify: having, on a few occasions, had to deal with patients who
have been afflicted in a similar manner. At this precise period of his
existence, Mr. Benjamin Allen had perhaps a greater predisposition to maudlinism
than he had ever known before; the cause of which malady was briefly this. He
had been staying nearly three weeks with Mr. Bob Sawyer; Mr. Bob Sawyer was not
remarkable for temperance, nor was Mr. Benjamin Allen for the ownership of a
very strong head; the consequence was, that, during the whole space of time just
mentioned, Mr. Benjamin Allen had been wavering between intoxication partial,
and intoxication complete.
    »My dear friend,« said Mr. Ben Allen, taking advantage of Mr. Bob Sawyer's
temporary absence behind the counter, whither he had retired to dispense some of
the second-hand leeches, previously referred to: »my dear friend, I am very
miserable.«
    Mr. Winkle professed his heartfelt regret to hear it, and begged to know
whether he could do anything to alleviate the sorrows of the suffering student.
    »Nothing, my dear boy, nothing,« said Ben. »You recollect Arabella, Winkle?
My sister Arabella - a little girl, Winkle, with black eyes - when we were down
at Wardle's? I don't know whether you happened to notice her, a nice little
girl, Winkle. Perhaps my features may recall her countenance to your
recollection?«
    Mr. Winkle required nothing to recall the charming Arabella to his mind; and
it was rather fortunate he did not, for the features of her brother Benjamin
would unquestionably have proved but an indifferent refresher to his memory. He
answered, with as much calmness as he could assume, that he perfectly remembered
the young lady referred to, and sincerely trusted she was in good health.
    »Our friend Bob is a delightful fellow, Winkle,« was the only reply of Mr.
Ben Allen.
    »Very,« said Mr. Winkle; not much relishing this close connexion of the two
names.
    »I designed 'em for each other; they were made for each other, sent into the
world for each other, born for each other, Winkle,« said Mr. Ben Allen, setting
down his glass with emphasis. »There's a special destiny in the matter, my dear
sir; there's only five years' difference between 'em, and both their birthdays
are in August.«
    Mr. Winkle was too anxious to hear what was to follow, to express much
wonderment at this extraordinary coincidence, marvellous as it was; so Mr. Ben
Allen, after a tear or two, went on to say, that, notwithstanding all his esteem
and respect and veneration for his friend, Arabella had unaccountably and
undutifully evinced the most determined antipathy to his person.
    »And I think,« said Mr. Ben Allen, in conclusion, »I think there's a prior
attachment.«
    »Have you any idea who the object of it might be?« asked Mr. Winkle, with
great trepidation.
    Mr. Ben Allen seized the poker, flourished it in a warlike manner above his
head, inflicted a savage blow on an imaginary skull, and wound up by saying, in
a very expressive manner, that he only wished he could guess; that was all.
    »I'd show him what I thought of him,« said Mr. Ben Allen. And round went the
poker again, more fiercely than before.
    All this was, of course, very soothing to the feelings of Mr. Winkle, who
remained silent for a few minutes; but at length mustered up resolution to
inquire whether Miss Allen was in Kent.
    »No, no,« said Mr. Ben Allen, laying aside the poker, and looking very
cunning; »I didn't think Wardle's exactly the place for a headstrong girl; so,
as I am her natural protector and guardian, our parents being dead, I have
brought her down into this part of the country to spend a few months at an old
aunt's, in a nice dull close place. I think that will cure her, my boy. If it
doesn't't, I'll take her abroad for a little while, and see what that'll do.«
    »Oh, the aunt's is in Bristol, is it?« faltered Mr. Winkle.
    »No, no, not in Bristol,« replied Mr. Ben Allen, jerking his thumb over his
right shoulder: »over that way; down there. But, hush, here's Bob. Not a word,
my dear friend, not a word.«
    Short as this conversation was, it roused in Mr. Winkle the highest degree
of excitement and anxiety. The suspected prior attachment rankled in his heart.
Could he be the object of it? Could it be for him that the fair Arabella had
looked scornfully on the sprightly Bob Sawyer, or had he a successful rival? He
determined to see her, cost what it might; but here an insurmountable objection
presented itself, for whether the explanatory »over that way,« and »down there,«
of Mr. Ben Allen, meant three miles off, or thirty, or three hundred, he could
in no wise guess.
    But he had no opportunity of pondering over his love just then, for Bob
Sawyer's return was the immediate precursor of the arrival of a meat pie from
the baker's, of which that gentleman insisted on his staying to partake. The
cloth was laid by an occasional charwoman, who officiated in the capacity of Mr.
Bob Sawyer's housekeeper; and a third knife and fork having been borrowed from
the mother of the boy in the grey livery (for Mr. Sawyer's domestic arrangements
were as yet conducted on a limited scale), they sat down to dinner; the beer
being served up, as Mr. Sawyer remarked, »in its native pewter.«
    After dinner, Mr. Bob Sawyer ordered in the largest mortar in the shop, and
proceeded to brew a reeking jorum of rum-punch therein: stirring up and
amalgamating the materials with a pestle in a very creditable and
apothecary-like manner. Mr. Sawyer, being a bachelor, had only one tumbler in
the house, which was assigned to Mr. Winkle as a compliment to the visitor: Mr.
Ben Allen being accommodated with a funnel with a cork in the narrow end: and
Bob Sawyer contented himself with one of these wide-lipped crystal vessels
inscribed with a variety of cabalistic characters, in which chemists are wont to
measure out their liquid drugs in compounding prescriptions. These preliminaries
adjusted, the punch was tasted, and pronounced excellent; and it having been
arranged that Bob Sawyer and Ben Allen should be considered at liberty to fill
twice to Mr. Winkle's once, they started fair, with great satisfaction and
good-fellowship.
    There was no singing, because Mr. Bob Sawyer said it wouldn't look
professional; but to make amends for this deprivation there was so much talking
and laughing that it might have been heard, and very likely was, at the end of
the street. Which conversation materially lightened the hours and improved the
mind of Mr. Bob Sawyer's boy, who, instead of devoting the evening to his
ordinary occupation of writing his name on the counter, and rubbing it out
again, peeped through the glass door, and thus listened and looked on at the
same time.
    The mirth of Mr. Bob Sawyer was rapidly ripening into the furious; Mr. Ben
Allen was fast relapsing into the sentimental, and the punch had well-nigh
disappeared altogether, when the boy hastily running in, announced that a young
woman had just come over, to say that Sawyer late Nockemorf was wanted directly,
a couple of streets off. This broke up the party. Mr. Bob Sawyer, understanding
the message, after some twenty repetitions, tied a wet cloth round his head to
sober himself, and, having partially succeeded, put on his green spectacles and
issued forth. Resisting all entreaties to stay till he came back, and finding it
quite impossible to engage Mr. Ben Allen in any intelligible conversation on the
subject nearest his heart, or indeed on any other, Mr. Winkle took his
departure, and returned to the Bush.
    The anxiety of his mind, and the numerous meditations which Arabella had
awakened, prevented his share of the mortar of punch producing that effect upon
him which it would have had, under other circumstances. So, after taking a glass
of soda-water and brandy at the bar, he turned into the coffee-room, dispirited
rather than elevated by the occurrences of the evening.
    Sitting in the front of the fire, with his back towards him, was a tallish
gentleman in a great-coat: the only other occupant of the room. It was rather a
cool evening for the season of the year, and the gentleman drew his chair aside
to afford the new comer a sight of the fire. What were Mr. Winkle's feelings
when, in doing so, he disclosed to view the face and figure of the vindictive
and sanguinary Dowler!
    Mr. Winkle's first impulse was to give a violent pull at the nearest
bell-handle, but that unfortunately happened to be immediately behind Mr.
Dowler's head. He had made one step towards it, before he checked himself. As he
did so, Mr. Dowler very hastily drew back.
    »Mr. Winkle, sir. Be calm. Don't strike me. I won't bear it. A blow! Never!«
said Mr. Dowler, looking meeker than Mr. Winkle had expected in a gentleman of
his ferocity.
    »A blow, sir?« stammered Mr. Winkle.
    »A blow, sir,« replied Dowler. »Compose your feelings. Sit down. Hear me.«
    »Sir,« said Mr. Winkle, trembling from head to foot, »before I consent to
sit down beside, or opposite you, without the presence of a waiter, I must be
secured by some further understanding. You used a threat against me last night,
sir, a dreadful threat, sir.« Here Mr. Winkle turned very pale indeed, and
stopped short.
    »I did,« said Dowler, with a countenance almost as white as Mr. Winkle's.
»Circumstances were suspicious. They have been explained. I respect your
bravery. Your feeling is upright. Conscious innocence. There's my hand. Grasp
it.«
    »Really, sir,« said Mr. Winkle, hesitating whether to give his hand or not,
and almost fearing that it was demanded in order that he might be taken at an
advantage, »really, sir, I -«
    »I know what you mean,« interposed Dowler. »You feel aggrieved. Very
natural. So should I. I was wrong. I beg your pardon. Be friendly. Forgive me.«
With this, Dowler fairly forced his hand upon Mr. Winkle, and shaking it with
the utmost vehemence, declared he was a fellow of extreme spirit, and he had a
higher opinion of him than ever.
    »Now,« said Dowler, »sit down. Relate it all. How did you find me? When did
you follow? Be frank. Tell me.«
    »It's quite accidental,« replied Mr. Winkle, greatly perplexed by the
curious and unexpected nature of the interview, »Quite.«
    »Glad of it,« said Dowler. »I woke this morning. I had forgotten my threat.
I laughed at the accident. I felt friendly. I said so.«
    »To whom?« inquired Mr. Winkle.
    »To Mrs. Dowler. You made a vow, said she. I did, said I. It was a rash one,
said she. It was, said I. I'll apologise. Where is he?«
    »Who?« inquired Mr. Winkle.
    »You,« replied Dowler. »I went down stairs. You were not to be found.
Pickwick looked gloomy. Shook his head. Hoped no violence would be committed. I
saw it all. You felt yourself insulted. You had gone, for a friend perhaps.
Possibly for pistols. High spirit, said I. I admire him.«
    Mr. Winkle coughed, and beginning to see how the land lay, assumed a look of
importance.
    »I left a note for you,« resumed Dowler. »I said I was sorry. So I was.
Pressing business called me here. You were not satisfied. You followed. You
required a verbal explanation. You were right. It's all over now. My business is
finished. I go back to-morrow. Join me.«
    As Dowler progressed in his explanation, Mr. Winkle's countenance grew more
and more dignified. The mysterious nature of the commencement of their
conversation was explained; Mr. Dowler had as great an objection to duelling as
himself; in short, this blustering and awful personage was one of the most
egregious cowards in existence, and interpreting Mr. Winkle's absence through
the medium of his own fears, had taken the same step as himself, and prudently
retired until all excitement of feeling should have subsided.
    As the real state of the case dawned upon Mr. Winkle's mind, he looked very
terrible, and said he was perfectly satisfied; but at the same time, said so,
with an air that left Mr. Dowler no alternative but to infer that if he had not
been, something most horrible and destructive must inevitably have occurred. Mr.
Dowler appeared to be impressed with a becoming sense of Mr. Winkle's
magnanimity and condescension; and the two belligerents parted for the night,
with many protestations of eternal friendship.
    About half-past twelve o'clock, when Mr. Winkle had been revelling some
twenty minutes in the full luxury of his first sleep, he was suddenly awakened
by a loud knocking at his chamber-door, which, being repeated with increased
vehemence, caused him to start up in bed, and inquire who was there, and what
the matter was.
    »Please, sir, here's a young man which says he must see you directly,«
responded the voice of the chambermaid.
    »A young man!« exclaimed Mr. Winkle.
    »No mistake about that 'ere, sir,« replied another voice through the
keyhole; »and if that very same interestin' young creature ain't let in vithout
delay, it's very possible as his legs vill enter afore his countenance.« The
young man gave a gentle kick at one of the lower panels of the door, after he
had given utterance to this hint, as if to add force and point to the remark.
    »Is that you, Sam?« inquired Mr. Winkle, springing out of bed.
    »Quite unpossible to identify any gen'l'm'n with any degree o' mental
satisfaction, vithout looking' at him, sir,« replied the voice, dogmatically.
    Mr. Winkle, not much doubting who the young man was, unlocked the door;
which he had no sooner done, than Mr. Samuel Weller entered with great
precipitation, and carefully re-locking it on the inside, deliberately put the
key in his waistcoat pocket: and, after surveying Mr. Winkle from head to foot,
said:
    »You're a very humorous young gen'l'm'n, you air, sir!«
    »What do you mean by this conduct, Sam?« inquired Mr. Winkle, indignantly.
»Get out, sir, this instant. What do you mean, sir?«
    »What do I mean,« retorted Sam; »come, sir, this is rather too rich, as the
young lady said, wen she remonstrated with the pastry-cook, arter he'd sold her
a pork-pie as had got nothing' but fat inside. What do I mean! Well, that ain't a
bad 'un, that ain't.«
    »Unlock that door, and leave this room immediately, sir,« said Mr. Winkle.
    »I shall leave this here room, sir, just precisely at the very same moment
as you leaves it,« responded Sam, speaking in a forcible manner, and seating
himself with perfect gravity. »If I find it necessary to carry you away,
pick-a-back, o' course I shall leave it the least bit o' time possible afore
you; but allow me to express a hope as you won't reduce me to ex-tremities; in
saying wich, I merely quote wot the nobleman said to the fractious pennywinkle,
ven he vouldn't come out of his shell by means of a pin, and he conseqvently
began to be afeered that he should be obliged to crack him in the parlour-door.«
At the end of this address, which was unusually lengthy for him, Mr. Weller
planted his hands on his knees, and looked full in Mr. Winkle's face, with an
expression of countenance which showed that he had not the remotest intention of
being trifled with.
    »You're a amiably-disposed young man, sir, I don't think,« resumed Mr.
Weller, in a tone of moral reproof, »to go inwolving our precious governor in
all sorts o' fanteegs, wen he's made up his mind to go through every think for
principle. You're far worse nor Dodson, sir; and as for Fogg, I consider him a
born angel to you!« Mr. Weller having accompanied this last sentiment with an
emphatic slap on each knee, folded his arms with a look of great disgust, and
threw himself back in his chair, as if awaiting the criminal's defence.
    »My good fellow,« said Mr. Winkle, extending his hand; his teeth chattering
all the time he spoke, for he had been standing, during the whole of Mr.
Weller's lecture, in his night-gear; »My good fellow, I respect your attachment
to my excellent friend, and I am very sorry indeed, to have added to his causes
for disquiet. There, Sam, there!«
    »Well,« said Sam, rather sulkily, but giving the proffered hand a respectful
shake at the same time: »Well, so you ought to be, and I am very glad to find
you air; for, if I can help it, I won't have him put upon by nobody, and that's
all about it.«
    »Certainly not, Sam,« said Mr. Winkle. »There! Now go to bed, Sam, and we'll
talk further about this, in the morning.«
    »I'm very sorry,« said Sam, »but I can't go to bed.«
    »Not go to bed!« repeated Mr. Winkle.
    »No,« said Sam, shaking his head. »Can't be done.«
    »You don't mean to say you're going back to-night, Sam?« urged Mr. Winkle,
greatly surprised.
    »Not unless you particklerly wish it,« replied Sam; »but I musn't leave this
here room. The governor's orders wos peremptory.«
    »Nonsense, Sam,« said Mr. Winkle, »I must stop here two or three days; and
more than that, Sam, you must stop here too, to assist me in gaining an
interview with a young lady - Miss Allen, Sam; you remember her - whom I must
and will see before I leave Bristol.«
    But in reply to each of these positions, Sam shook his head with great
firmness, and energetically replied, »It can't be done.«
    After a great deal of argument and representation on the part of Mr. Winkle,
however, and a full disclosure of what had passed in the interview with Dowler,
Sam began to waver; and at length a compromise was effected, of which the
following were the main and principal conditions:
    That Sam should retire, and leave Mr. Winkle in the undisturbed possession
of his apartment, on the condition that he had permission to lock the door on
the outside, and carry off the key; provided always, that in the event of an
alarm of fire, or other dangerous contingency, the door should be instantly
unlocked. That a letter should be written to Mr. Pickwick early next morning,
and forwarded per Dowler, requesting his consent to Sam and Mr. Winkle's
remaining at Bristol, for the purpose, and with the object, already assigned,
and begging an answer by the next coach; if favourable, the aforesaid parties to
remain accordingly, and if not, to return to Bath immediately on the receipt
thereof. And, lastly, that Mr. Winkle should be understood as distinctly
pledging himself not to resort to the window, fireplace, or other surreptitious
mode of escape, in the meanwhile. These stipulations having been concluded, Sam
locked the door and departed.
    He had nearly got down stairs, when he stopped, and drew the key from his
pocket.
    »I quite forgot about the knockin' down,« said Sam, half turning back. »The
governor distinctly said it was to be done. Amazin' stupid o' me, that 'ere!
Never mind,« said Sam, brightening up, »it's easily done to-morrow, anyvays.«
    Apparently much consoled by this reflection, Mr. Weller once more deposited
the key in his pocket, and descending the remainder of the stairs without any
fresh visitations of conscience, was soon, in common with the other inmates of
the house, buried in profound repose.
 

                                 Chapter XXXIX

 Mr. Samuel Weller, Being Entrusted with a Mission of Love, Proceeds To Execute
                 It; with What Success Will Hereinafter Appear.

During the whole of next day, Sam kept Mr. Winkle steadily in sight, fully
determined not to take his eye off him for one instant, until he should receive
express instructions from the fountain-head. However disagreeable Sam's very
close watch and great vigilance were to Mr. Winkle, he thought it better to bear
with them, than, by any act of violent opposition, to hazard being carried away
by force, which Mr. Weller more than once strongly hinted was the line of
conduct that a strict sense of duty prompted him to pursue. There is little
reason to doubt that Sam would very speedily have quieted his scruples, by
bearing Mr. Winkle back to Bath, bound hand and foot, had not Mr. Pickwick's
prompt attention to the note, which Dowler had undertaken to deliver,
forestalled any such proceeding. In short, at eight o'clock in the evening, Mr.
Pickwick himself walked into the coffee-room of the Bush tavern, and told Sam
with a smile, to his very great relief, that he had done quite right, and it was
unnecessary for him to mount guard any longer.
    »I thought it better to come myself,« said Mr. Pickwick, addressing Mr.
Winkle, as Sam disencumbered him of his great-coat and travelling shawl, »to
ascertain, before I gave my consent to Sam's employment in this matter, that you
are quite in earnest and serious, with respect to this young lady.«
    »Serious, from my heart - from my soul!« returned Mr. Winkle, with great
energy.
    »Remember,« said Mr. Pickwick, with beaming eyes, »we met her at our
excellent and hospitable friend's, Winkle. It would be an ill return to tamper
lightly, and without due consideration with this young lady's affections. I'll
not allow that, sir. I'll not allow it.«
    »I have no such intention, indeed,« exclaimed Mr. Winkle, warmly. »I have
considered the matter well, for a long time, and I feel that my happiness is
bound up in her.«
    »That's wot we call tying it up in a small parcel, sir,« interposed Mr.
Weller, with an agreeable smile.
    Mr. Winkle looked somewhat stern at this interruption, and Mr. Pickwick
angrily requested his attendant not to jest with one of the best feelings of our
nature; to which Sam replied, »That he wouldn't, if he was aware on it; but
there were so many on 'em, that he hardly know'd which was the best ones wen he
heard 'em mentioned.«
    Mr. Winkle then recounted what had passed between himself and Mr. Ben Allen,
relative to Arabella; stated that his object was to gain an interview with the
young lady, and make a formal disclosure of his passion; and declared his
conviction, founded on certain dark hints and mutterings of the aforesaid Ben,
that, wherever she was at present immured, it was somewhere near the Downs. And
this was his whole stock of knowledge or suspicion on the subject.
    With this very slight clue to guide him, it was determined that Mr. Weller
should start next morning on an expedition of discovery; it was also arranged
that Mr. Pickwick and Mr. Winkle, who were less confident of their powers,
should parade the town meanwhile, and accidentally drop in upon Mr. Bob Sawyer
in the course of the day, in the hope of seeing or hearing something of the
young lady's whereabout.
    Accordingly, next morning, Sam Weller issued forth upon his quest, in no way
daunted by the very discouraging prospect before him; and away he walked, up one
street and down another - we were going to say, up one hill and down another,
only it's all uphill at Clifton - without meeting with anything or anybody that
tended to throw the faintest light on the matter in hand. Many were the
colloquies into which Sam entered with grooms who were airing horses on roads,
and nursemaids who were airing children in lanes; but nothing could Sam elicit
from either the first-mentioned or the last, which bore the slightest reference
to the object of his artfully-prosecuted inquiries. There were a great many
young ladies in a great many houses, the greater part whereof were shrewdly
suspected by the male and female domestics to be deeply attached to somebody, or
perfectly ready to become so, if opportunity offered. But as none among these
young ladies was Miss Arabella Allen, the information left Sam at exactly the
old point of wisdom at which he had stood before.
    Sam struggled across the Downs against a good high wind, wondering whether
it was always necessary to hold your hat on with both hands in that part of the
country, and came to a shady by-place about which were sprinkled several little
villas of quiet and secluded appearance. Outside a stable-door at the bottom of
a long back lane without a thoroughfare, a groom in undress was idling about,
apparently persuading himself that he was doing something with a spade and a
wheelbarrow. We may remark, in this place, that we have scarcely ever seen a
groom near a stable, in his lazy moments, who has not been, to a greater or less
extent, the victim of this singular delusion.
    Sam thought he might as well talk to this groom as to any one else,
especially as he was very tired with walking, and there was a good large stone
just opposite the wheelbarrow; so he strolled down the lane, and, seating
himself on the stone, opened a conversation with the ease and freedom for which
he was remarkable.
    »Mornin', old friend,« said Sam.
    »Arternoon, you mean,« replied the groom, casting a surly look at Sam.
    »You're very right, old friend,« said Sam; »I do mean arternoon. How are
you?«
    »Why, I don't find myself much the better for seeing of you,« replied the
ill-tempered groom.
    »That's very odd - that is,« said Sam, »for you look so uncommon cheerful,
and seem altogether so lively, that it does vun's heart good to see you.«
    The surly groom looked surlier still at this, but not sufficiently so to
produce any effect upon Sam, who immediately inquired, with a countenance of
great anxiety, whether his master's name was not Walker.
    »No, it ain't,« said the groom.
    »Nor Brown, I s'pose?« said Sam.
    »No, it ain't.«
    »Nor Vilson?«
    »No; nor that neither,« said the groom.
    »Vell,« replied Sam, »then I'm mistaken, and he hasn't got the honour o' my
acquaintance, which I thought he had. Don't wait here out o' compliment to me,«
said Sam, as the groom wheeled in the barrow, and prepared to shut the gate.
»Ease afore ceremony, old boy; I'll excuse you.«
    »I'd knock your head off for half-a-crown,« said the surly groom, bolting
one half of the gate.
    »Couldn't afford to have it done on those terms,« rejoined Sam. »It 'ud be
worth a life's board vages at least, to you, and 'ud be cheap at that. Make my
compliments in doors. Tell 'em not to vait dinner for me, and say they needn't
mind puttin' any by, for it'll be cold afore I come in.«
    In reply to this, the groom waxing very wrath, muttered a desire to damage
somebody's person; but disappeared without carrying it into execution, slamming
the door angrily after him, and wholly unheeding Sam's affectionate request,
that he would leave him a lock of his hair before he went.
    Sam continued to sit on the large stone, meditating upon what was best to be
done, and revolving in his mind a plan for knocking at all the doors within five
miles of Bristol, taking them at a hundred and fifty or two hundred a day, and
endeavouring to find Miss Arabella by that expedient, when accident all of a
sudden threw in his way what he might have sat there for a twelvemonth and yet
not found without it.
    Into the lane where he sat, there opened three or four garden-gates,
belonging to as many houses, which though detached from each other, were only
separated by their gardens. As these were large and long, and well planted with
trees, the houses were not only at some distance off, but the greater part of
them were nearly concealed from view. Sam was sitting with his eyes fixed upon
the dust-heap outside the next gate to that by which the groom had disappeared,
profoundly turning over in his mind the difficulties of his present undertaking,
when the gate opened, and a female servant came out into the lane to shake some
bed-side carpets.
    Sam was so very busy with his own thoughts, that it is probable he would
have taken no more notice of the young woman than just raising his head and
remarking that she had a very neat and pretty figure, if his feelings of
gallantry had not been most strongly roused by observing that she had no one to
help her, and that the carpets seemed too heavy for her single strength. Mr.
Weller was a gentleman of great gallantry in his own way, and he no sooner
remarked this circumstance than he hastily rose from the large stone, and
advanced towards her.
    »My dear,« said Sam, sliding up with an air of great respect, »You'll spile
that very pretty figure out o' all perportion if you shake them carpets by
yourself. Let me help you.«
    The young lady, who had been coyly affecting not to know that a gentleman
was so near, turned round as Sam spoke - no doubt (indeed she said so,
afterwards) to decline this offer from a perfect stranger - when instead of
speaking, she started back, and uttered a half-suppressed scream. Sam was
scarcely less stupefied, for in the countenance of the well-shaped female
servant, he beheld the very eyes of his Valentine, the pretty housemaid from Mr.
Nupkins's.
    »Wy, Mary my dear!« said Sam.
    »Lauk, Mr. Weller,« said Mary, »how you do frighten one!«
    Sam made no verbal answer to this complaint, nor can we precisely say what
reply he did make. We merely know that after a short pause Mary said, »Lor, do
adun, Mr. Weller!« and that his hat had fallen off a few moments before - from
both of which tokens we should be disposed to infer that one kiss or more, had
passed between the parties.
    »Why, how did you come here?« said Mary, when the conversation to which this
interruption had been offered, was resumed.
    »O' course I came to look arter you, my darlin,« replied Mr. Weller; for
once permitting his passion to get the better of his veracity.
    »And how did you know I was here?« inquired Mary. »Who could have told you
that I took another service at Ipswich, and that they afterwards moved all the
way here? Who could have told you that, Mr. Weller?«
    »Ah to be sure,« said Sam with a cunning look, »that's the pint. Who could
ha' told me?«
    »It wasn't't Mr. Muzzle, was it?« inquired Mary.
    »Oh, no,« replied Sam, with a solemn shake of the head, »it warn't him.«
    »It must have been the cook,« said Mary.
    »O' course it must,« said Sam.
    »Well, I never heard the like of that!« exclaimed Mary.
    »No more did I,« said Sam. »But Mary, my dear:« here Sam's manner grew
extremely affectionate: »Mary, my dear, I've got another affair in hand as is
very pressin'. There's one o' my governor's friends - Mr. Winkle, you remember
him.«
    »Him in the green coat?« said Mary. »Oh, yes, I remember him.«
    »Well,« said Sam, »he's in a horrid state o' love; reg'larly comfoozled, and
done over with it.«
    »Lor!« interposed Mary.
    »Yes,« said Sam: »but that's nothing' if we could find out the young 'ooman;«
and here Sam, with many digressions upon the personal beauty of Mary, and the
unspeakable tortures he had experienced since he last saw her, gave a faithful
account of Mr. Winkle's present predicament.
    »Well,« said Mary, »I never did!«
    »O' course not,« said Sam, »and nobody never did, nor never vill neither;
and here am I a walkin' about like the wandering Jew - a sportin' character you
have perhaps heard on, Mary, my dear, as wos alvays doing' a match again' time,
and never vent to sleep - looking arter this here Miss Arabella Allen.«
    »Miss who?« said Mary, in great astonishment.
    »Miss Arabella Allen,« said Sam.
    »Goodness gracious!« said Mary, pointing to the garden door which the sulky
groom had locked after him. »Why, it's that very house; she's been living there
these six weeks. Their upper housemaid, which is lady's maid too, told me all
about it over the wash-house palin's before the family was out of bed, one
mornin'.«
    »Wot, the very next door to you?« said Sam.
    »The very next,« replied Mary.
    Mr. Weller was so deeply overcome on receiving this intelligence that he
found it absolutely necessary to cling to his fair informant for support; and
divers little love passages had passed between them, before he was sufficiently
collected to return to the subject.
    »Vell,« said Sam at length, »if this don't beat cock-fighting', nothing' never
vill, as the Lord Mayor said, ven the chief secretary o' state proposed his
missis's health arter dinner. That very next house! Wy, I've got a message to
her as I've been a tryin' all day to deliver.«
    »Ah,« said Mary, »but you can't deliver it now, because she only walks in
the garden in the evening, and then only for a very little time; she never goes
out, without the old lady.«
    Sam ruminated for a few moments, and finally hit upon the following plan of
operations; that he should return just at dusk - the time at which Arabella
invariably took her walk - and, being admitted by Mary into the garden of the
house to which she belonged, would contrive to scramble up the wall, beneath the
over-hanging boughs of a large pear-tree, which would effectually screen him
from observation; would there deliver his message, and arrange, if possible, an
interview on behalf of Mr. Winkle for the ensuing evening at the same hour.
Having made this arrangement with great dispatch, he assisted Mary in the
long-deferred occupation of shaking the carpets.
    It is not half as innocent a thing as it looks, that shaking little pieces
of carpet - at least, there may be no great harm in the shaking, but the folding
is a very insidious process. So long as the shaking lasts, and the two parties
are kept the carpet's length apart, it is as innocent an amusement as can well
be devised; but when the folding begins, and the distance between them gets
gradually lessened from one half its former length to a quarter, and then to an
eighth, and then to a sixteenth, and then to a thirty-second, if the carpet be
long enough: it becomes dangerous. We do not know, to a nicety, how many pieces
of carpet were folded in this instance, but we can venture to state that as many
pieces as there were, so many times did Sam kiss the pretty housemaid.
    Mr. Weller regaled himself with moderation at the nearest tavern until it
was nearly dusk, and then returned to the lane without the thoroughfare. Having
been admitted into the garden by Mary, and having received from that lady sundry
admonitions concerning the safety of his limbs and neck, Sam mounted into the
pear-tree, to wait until Arabella should come in sight.
    He waited so long without this anxiously expected event occurring, that he
began to think it was not going to take place at all, when he heard light
footsteps upon the gravel, and immediately afterwards beheld Arabella walking
pensively down the garden. As soon as she came nearly below the tree, Sam began,
by way of gently indicating his presence, to make sundry diabolical noises
similar to those which would probably be natural to a person of middle age who
had been afflicted with a combination of inflammatory sore throat, croup, and
hooping-cough, from his earliest infancy.
    Upon this, the young lady cast a hurried glance towards the spot from whence
the dreadful sounds proceeded; and her previous alarm being not at all
diminished when she saw a man among the branches, she would most certainly have
decamped, and alarmed the house, had not fear fortunately deprived her of the
power of moving, and caused her to sink down on a garden seat; which happened by
good luck to be near at hand.
    »She's a goin' off,« soliloquised Sam in great perplexity. »Wot a thing it
is, as these here young creeturs will go a faintin' away just wen they oughtn't
to. Here, young 'ooman, Miss Sawbones, Mrs. Vinkle, don't!«
    Whether it was the magic of Mr. Winkle's name, or the coolness of the open
air, or some recollection of Mr. Weller's voice, that revived Arabella, matters
not. She raised her head and languidly inquired, »Who's that, and what do you
want?«
    »Hush,« said Sam, swinging himself on to the wall, and crouching there in as
small a compass as he could reduce himself to, »only me, miss, only me.«
    »Mr. Pickwick's servant;« said Arabella, earnestly.
    »The very same, miss,« replied Sam. »Here's Mr. Vinkle reg'larly sewed up
with desperation, miss.«
    »Ah!« said Arabella, drawing nearer the wall.
    »Ah indeed,« said Sam. »Ve thought ve should ha' been obliged to
straightveskit him last night; he's been a ravin' all day; and he says if he
can't see you afore to-morrow night's over, he vishes he may be
something'-unpleasanted if he don't drownd himself.«
    »Oh no, no, Mr. Weller!« said Arabella, clasping her hands.
    »That's wot he says, miss,« replied Sam. »He's a man of his word, and it's
my opinion he'll do it, miss. He's heard all about you from the Sawbones in
barnacles.«
    »From my brother!« said Arabella, having some faint recognition of Sam's
description.
    »I don't rightly know which is your brother, miss,« replied Sam. »Is it the
dirtiest vun o' the two?«
    »Yes, yes, Mr. Weller,« returned Arabella, »go on. Make haste, pray.«
    »Well, miss,« said Sam, »he's heard all about it from him; and it's the
gov'nor's opinion that if you don't see him very quick, the Sawbones as we've
been a speaking on, 'ull get as much extra lead in his head as'll damage the
dewelopment o' the orgins if they ever put it in spirits artervards.«
    »Oh, what can I do to prevent these dreadful quarrels!« exclaimed Arabella.
    »It's the suspicion of a priory 'tachment as is the cause of it all,«
replied Sam. »You'd better see him, miss.«
    »But how? - where?« cried Arabella. »I dare not leave the house alone. My
brother is so unkind, so unreasonable! I know how strange my talking thus to you
must appear, Mr. Weller, but I am very, very unhappy -« and here poor Arabella
wept so bitterly, that Sam grew chivalrous.
    »It may seem very strange talking' to me about these here affairs, miss,«
said Sam with great vehemence: »but all I can say is, that I'm not only ready
but villin' to do anything' as'll make matters agreeable; and if chuckin' either
o' them Sawboneses out o' winder 'ull do it, I'm the man.« As Sam Weller said
this, he tucked up his wristbands, at the imminent hazard of falling off the
wall in so doing, to intimate his readiness to set to work immediately.
    Flattering as these professions of good feeling were, Arabella resolutely
declined (most unaccountably as Sam thought,) to avail herself of them. For some
time she strenuously refused to grant Mr. Winkle the interview Sam had so
pathetically requested; but at length, when the conversation threatened to be
interrupted by the unwelcome arrival of a third party, she hurriedly gave him to
understand, with many professions of gratitude, that it was barely possible she
might be in the garden an hour later, next evening. Sam understood this
perfectly well; and Arabella bestowing upon him one of her sweetest smiles,
tripped gracefully away, leaving Mr. Weller in a state of very great admiration
of her charms, both personal and mental.
    Having descended in safety from the wall, and not forgotten to devote a few
moments to his own particular business in the same department, Mr. Weller then
made the best of his way back to the Bush, where his prolonged absence had
occasioned much speculation and some alarm.
    »We must be careful,« said Mr. Pickwick, after listening attentively to
Sam's tale, »not for our own sakes, but for that of the young lady. We must be
very cautious.«
    »We!« said Mr. Winkle, with marked emphasis.
    Mr. Pickwick's momentary look of indignation at the tone of this remark,
subsided into his characteristic expression of benevolence, as he replied:
    »We, sir! I shall accompany you.«
    »You!« said Mr. Winkle.
    »I,« replied Mr. Pickwick, mildly. »In affording you this interview, the
young lady has taken a natural, perhaps, but still a very imprudent step. If I
am present at the meeting, a mutual friend, who is old enough to be the father
of both parties, the voice of calumny can never be raised against her
hereafter.«
    Mr. Pickwick's eyes lightened with honest exultation at his own foresight,
as he spoke thus. Mr. Winkle was touched by this little trait of his delicate
respect for the young protégée of his friend, and took his hand with a feeling
of regard, akin to veneration.
    »You shall go,« said Mr. Winkle.
    »I will,« said Mr. Pickwick. »Sam, have my great-coat and shawl ready, and
order a conveyance to be at the door to-morrow evening, rather earlier than is
absolutely necessary, in order that we may be in good time.«
    Mr. Weller touched his hat, as an earnest of his obedience, and withdrew to
make all needful preparations for the expedition.
    The coach was punctual to the time appointed; and Mr. Weller, after duly
installing Mr. Pickwick and Mr. Winkle inside, took his seat on the box by the
driver. They alighted, as had been agreed on, about a quarter of a mile from the
place of rendezvous, and desiring the coachman to await their return, proceeded
the remaining distance on foot.
    It was at this stage of the undertaking that Mr. Pickwick, with many smiles
and various other indications of great self satisfaction, produced from one of
his coat pockets a dark lantern, with which he had specially provided himself
for the occasion, and the great mechanical beauty of which, he proceeded to
explain to Mr. Winkle as they walked along, to the no small surprise of the few
stragglers they met.
    »I should have been the better for something of this kind, in my last garden
expedition at night; eh, Sam?« said Mr. Pickwick, looking good-humouredly round
at his follower, who was trudging behind.
    »Wery nice things, if they're managed properly, sir,« replied Mr. Weller;
»but when you don't want to be seen, I think they're more useful arter the
candle's gone out, than wen it's alight.«
    Mr. Pickwick appeared struck by Sam's remarks, for he put the lantern into
his pocket again, and they walked on in silence.
    »Down here, sir,« said Sam. »Let me lead the way. This is the lane, sir.«
    Down the lane they went, and dark enough it was. Mr. Pickwick brought out
the lantern, once or twice, as they groped their way along, and threw a very
brilliant little tunnel of light before them, about a foot in diameter. It was
very pretty to look at, but seemed to have the effect of rendering surrounding
objects rather darker than before.
    At length they arrived at the large stone. Here Sam recommended his master
and Mr. Winkle to seat themselves, while he reconnoitred, and ascertained
whether Mary was yet in waiting.
    After an absence of five or ten minutes, Sam returned, to say that the gate
was opened, and all quiet. Following him with stealthy tread, Mr. Pickwick and
Mr. Winkle soon found themselves in the garden. Here everybody said »Hush!« a
good many times; and that being done, no one seemed to have any very distinct
apprehension of what was to be done next.
    »Is Miss Allen in the garden yet, Mary?« inquired Mr. Winkle, much agitated.
    »I don't know, sir,« replied the pretty housemaid. »The best thing to be
done, sir, will be for Mr. Weller to give you a hoist up into the tree, and
perhaps Mr. Pickwick will have the goodness to see that nobody comes up the
lane, while I watch at the other end of the garden. Goodness gracious, what's
that!«
    »That 'ere blessed lantern 'ull be the death on us all,« exclaimed Sam,
peevishly. »Take care wot you're a doing' on, sir; you're a sendin' a blaze o'
light, right into the back parlour winder.«
    »Dear me!« said Mr. Pickwick, turning hastily aside, »I didn't mean to do
that.«
    »Now, it's in the next house, sir,« remonstrated Sam.
    »Bless my heart!« exclaimed Mr. Pickwick, turning round again.
    »Now, it's in the stable, and they'll think the place is a' fire,« said Sam.
»Shut it up, sir, can't you?«
    »It's the most extraordinary lantern I ever met with, in all my life!«
exclaimed Mr. Pickwick, greatly bewildered by the effects he had so
unintentionally produced. »I never saw such a powerful reflector.«
    »It'll be vun too powerful for us, if you keep blazin' away in that manner,
sir,« replied Sam, as Mr. Pickwick, after various unsuccessful efforts, managed
to close the slide. »There's the young lady's footsteps. Now, Mr. Vinkle, sir,
up with you.«
    »Stop, stop!« said Mr. Pickwick, »I must speak to her first. Help me up,
Sam.«
    »Gently, sir,« said Sam, planting his head against the wall, and making a
platform of his back. »Step a top o' that 'ere flower-pot, sir. Now then, up
with you.«
    »I'm afraid I shall hurt you, Sam,« said Mr. Pickwick.
    »Never mind me, sir,« replied Sam. »Lend him a hand, Mr. Vinkle, sir.
Steady, sir, steady! That's the time o' day!«
    As Sam spoke, Mr. Pickwick, by exertions almost supernatural in a gentleman
of his years and weight, contrived to get upon Sam's back; and Sam gently
raising himself up, and Mr. Pickwick holding on fast by the top of the wall,
while Mr. Winkle clasped him tight by the legs, they contrived by these means to
bring his spectacles just above the level of the coping.
    »My dear,« said Mr. Pickwick, looking over the wall, and catching sight of
Arabella, on the other side, »Don't be frightened, my dear, it's only me.«
    »Oh pray go away, Mr. Pickwick,« said Arabella. »Tell them all to go away. I
am so dreadfully frightened. Dear, dear Mr. Pickwick, don't stop there. You'll
fall down and kill yourself, I know you will.«
    »Now, pray don't alarm yourself, my dear,« said Mr. Pickwick, soothingly.
»There is not the least cause for fear, I assure you. Stand firm, Sam,« said Mr.
Pickwick, looking down.
    »All right, sir,« replied Mr. Weller. »Don't be longer than you can
conweniently help, sir. You're rather heavy.«
    »Only another moment, Sam,« replied Mr. Pickwick. »I merely wished you to
know, my dear, that I should not have allowed my young friend to see you in this
clandestine way, if the situation in which you are placed, had left him any
alternative; and lest the impropriety of this step should cause you any
uneasiness, my love, it may be a satisfaction to you, to know that I am present.
That's all, my dear.«
    »Indeed, Mr. Pickwick, I am very much obliged to you for your kindness and
consideration,« replied Arabella, drying her tears with her handkerchief. She
would probably have said much more, had not Mr. Pickwick's head disappeared with
great swiftness, in consequence of a false step on Sam's shoulder, which brought
him suddenly to the ground. He was up again in an instant, however, and bidding
Mr. Winkle make haste and get the interview over, ran out into the lane to keep
watch, with all the courage and ardour of youth. Mr. Winkle himself, inspired by
the occasion, was on the wall in a moment, merely pausing to request Sam to be
careful of his master.
    »I'll take care on him, sir,« replied Sam. »Leave him to me.«
    »Where is he? What's he doing, Sam?« inquired Mr. Winkle.
    »Bless his old gaiters,« rejoined Sam, looking out at the garden-door. »He's
a keepin' guard in the lane with that 'ere dark lantern, like a amiable Guy
Fawkes! I never see such a fine creature in my days. Blessed if I don't think his
heart must ha' been born five-and-twenty year arter his body, at least!«
    Mr. Winkle stayed not to hear the encomium upon his friend. He had dropped
from the wall; thrown himself at Arabella's feet; and by this time was pleading
the sincerity of his passion with an eloquence worthy even of Mr. Pickwick
himself.
    While these things were going on in the open air, an elderly gentleman of
scientific attainments was seated in his library, two or three houses off,
writing a philosophical treatise, and ever and anon moistening his clay and his
labours with a glass of claret from a venerable-looking bottle which stood by
his side. In the agonies of composition, the elderly gentleman looked sometimes
at the carpet, sometimes at the ceiling, and sometimes at the wall; and when
neither carpet, ceiling, nor wall, afforded the requisite degree of inspiration,
he looked out of the window.
    In one of these pauses of invention, the scientific gentleman was gazing
abstractedly on the thick darkness outside, when he was very much surprised by
observing a most brilliant light glide through the air, at a short distance
above the ground, and almost instantaneously vanish. After a short time the
phenomenon was repeated, not once or twice, but several times: at last the
scientific gentleman, laying down his pen, began to consider to what natural
causes these appearances were to be assigned.
    They were not meteors; they were too low. They were not glow-worms; they
were too high. They were not will-o'-the-wisps; they were not fire-flies; they
were not fire-works. What could they be? Some extraordinary and wonderful
phenomenon of nature, which no philosopher had ever seen before; something which
it had been reserved for him alone to discover, and which he should immortalize
his name by chronicling for the benefit of posterity. Full of this idea, the
scientific gentleman seized his pen again, and committed to paper sundry notes
of these unparalleled appearances, with the date, day, hour, minute, and precise
second at which they were visible: all of which were to form the data of a
voluminous treatise of great research and deep learning, which should astonish
all the atmospherical sages that ever drew breath in any part of the civilised
globe.
    He threw himself back in his easy chair, wrapped in contemplations of his
future greatness. The mysterious light appeared more brilliantly than before:
dancing, to all appearance, up and down the lane, crossing from side to side,
and moving in an orbit as eccentric as comets themselves.
    The scientific gentleman was a bachelor. He had no wife to call in and
astonish, so he rang the bell for his servant.
    »Pruffle,« said the scientific gentleman, »there is something very
extraordinary in the air to-night. Did you see that?« said the scientific
gentleman, pointing out of the window, as the light again became visible.
    »Yes, I did, sir.«
    »What do you think of it, Pruffle?«
    »Think of it, sir?«
    »Yes. You have been bred up in this country. What should you say was the
cause of those lights, now?«
    The scientific gentleman smilingly anticipated Pruffle's reply that he could
assign no cause for them at all. Pruffle meditated.
    »I should say it was thieves, sir,« said Pruffle at length.
    »You're a fool, and may go down stairs,« said the scientific gentleman.
    »Thank you, sir,« said Pruffle. And down he went.
    But the scientific gentleman could not rest under the idea of the ingenious
treatise he had projected being lost to the world, which must inevitably be the
case if the speculation of the ingenious Mr. Pruffle were not stifled in its
birth. He put on his hat and walked quickly down the garden, determined to
investigate the matter to the very bottom.
    Now, shortly before the scientific gentleman walked out into the garden, Mr.
Pickwick had run down the lane as fast as he could, to convey a false alarm that
somebody was coming that way; occasionally drawing back the slide of the dark
lantern to keep himself from the ditch. The alarm was no sooner given, than Mr.
Winkle scrambled back over the wall, and Arabella ran into the house; the
garden-gate was shut, and the three adventurers were making the best of their
way down the lane, when they were startled by the scientific gentleman unlocking
his garden-gate.
    »Hold hard,« whispered Sam, who was, of course, the first of the party.
»Show a light for just vun second, sir.«
    Mr. Pickwick did as he was desired, and Sam, seeing a man's head peeping out
very cautiously within half-a-yard of his own, gave it a gentle tap with his
clenched fist, which knocked it, with a hollow sound, against the gate. Having
performed this feat with great suddenness and dexterity, Mr. Weller caught Mr.
Pickwick up on his back, and followed Mr. Winkle down the lane at a pace which,
considering the burden he carried, was perfectly astonishing.
    »Have you got your vind back again, sir,« inquired Sam, when they had reached
the end.
    »Quite. Quite, now,« replied Mr. Pickwick.
    »Then come along, sir,« said Sam, setting his master on his feet again.
»Come betveen us, sir. Not half a mile to run. Think you're vinnin a cup, sir.
Now for it.«
    Thus encouraged, Mr. Pickwick made the very best use of his legs. It may be
confidently stated that a pair of black gaiters never got over the ground in
better style than did those of Mr. Pickwick on this memorable occasion.
    The coach was waiting, the horses were fresh, the roads were good, and the
driver was willing. The whole party arrived in safety at the Bush before Mr.
Pickwick recovered his breath.
    »In with you at once, sir,« said Sam, as he helped his master out. »Don't
stop a second in the street, arter that 'ere exercise. Beg your pardon, sir,«
continued Sam, touching his hat as Mr. Winkle descended. »Hope there warn't a
priory 'tachment, sir?«
    Mr. Winkle grasped his humble friend by the hand, and whispered in his ear,
»It's all right, Sam; quite right.« Upon which Mr. Weller struck three distinct
blows upon his nose in token of intelligence, smiled, winked, and proceeded to
put the steps up, with a countenance expressive of lively satisfaction.
    As to the scientific gentleman, he demonstrated, in a masterly treatise,
that these wonderful lights were the effect of electricity; and clearly proved
the same by detailing how a flash of fire danced before his eyes when he put his
head out of the gate, and how he received a shock which stunned him for a
quarter of an hour afterwards; which demonstration delighted all the Scientific
Associations beyond measure, and caused him to be considered a light of science
ever afterwards.
 

                                   Chapter XL

Introduces Mr. Pickwick to a New and Not Uninteresting Scene in the Great Drama
                                    Of Life.

The remainder of the period which Mr. Pickwick had assigned as the duration of
the stay at Bath, passed over without the occurrence of anything material.
Trinity Term commenced. On the expiration of its first week, Mr. Pickwick and
his friends returned to London; and the former gentleman, attended of course by
Sam, straightway repaired to his old quarters at the George and Vulture.
    On the third morning after their arrival, just as all the clocks in the city
were striking nine individually, and somewhere about nine hundred and
ninety-nine collectively, Sam was taking the air in George Yard, when a queer
sort of fresh painted vehicle drove up, out of which there jumped with great
agility, throwing the reins to a stout man who sat beside him, a queer sort of
gentleman, who seemed made for the vehicle, and the vehicle for him.
    The vehicle was not exactly a gig, neither was it a stanhope. It was not
what is currently denominated a dog-cart, neither was it a taxed-cart, nor a
chaise-cart, nor a guillotined cabriolet; and yet it had something of the
character of each and every of these machines. It was painted a bright yellow,
with the shafts and wheels picked out in black; and the driver sat, in the
orthodox sporting style, on cushions piled about two feet above the rail. The
horse was a bay, a well-looking animal enough; but with something of a flash and
dog-fighting air about him, nevertheless, which accorded both with the vehicle
and his master.
    The master himself was a man of about forty, with black hair, and carefully
combed whiskers. He was dressed in a particularly gorgeous manner, with plenty
of articles of jewellery about him - all about three sizes larger than those
which are usually worn by gentlemen - and a rough great-coat to crown the whole.
Into one pocket of this great-coat, he thrust his left hand the moment he
dismounted, while from the other he drew forth, with his right, a very bright
and glaring silk handkerchief, with which he whisked a speck or two of dust from
his boots, and then, crumbling it in his hand, swaggered up the court.
    It had not escaped Sam's attention that, when this person dismounted, a
shabby-looking man in a brown great-coat shorn of divers buttons, who had been
previously slinking about, on the opposite side of the way, crossed over, and
remained stationary close by. Having something more than a suspicion of the
object of the gentleman's visit, Sam preceded him to the George and Vulture,
and, turning sharp round, planted himself in the centre of the doorway.
    »Now, my fine fellow!« said the man in the rough coat, in an imperious tone,
attempting at the same time to push his way past.
    »Now, sir, wot's the matter!« replied Sam, returning the push with compound
interest.
    »Come, none of this, my man; this won't do with me,« said the owner of the
rough coat, raising his voice, and turning white. »Here, Smouch!«
    »Well, wot's amiss here?« growled the man in the brown coat, who had been
gradually sneaking up the court during this short dialogue.
    »Only some insolence of this young man's,« said the principal, giving Sam
another push.
    »Come, none o' this gammon,« growled Smouch, giving him another, and a
harder one.
    This last push had the effect which it was intended by the experienced Mr.
Smouch to produce; for while Sam, anxious to return the compliment, was grinding
that gentleman's body against the doorpost, the principal crept past, and made
his way to the bar: whither Sam, after bandying a few epithetical remarks with
Mr. Smouch, followed at once.
    »Good morning, my dear,« said the principal, addressing the young lady at
the bar, with Botany Bay ease, and New South Wales gentility; »which is Mr.
Pickwick's room, my dear?«
    »Show him up,« said the bar-maid to a waiter, without deigning another look
at the exquisite, in reply to his inquiry.
    The waiter led the way up stairs as he was desired, and the man in the rough
coat followed, with Sam behind him: who, in his progress up the staircase,
indulged in sundry gestures indicative of supreme contempt and defiance: to the
unspeakable gratification of the servants and other lookers-on. Mr. Smouch, who
was troubled with a hoarse cough, remained below, and expectorated in the
passage.
    Mr. Pickwick was fast asleep in bed, when his early visitor, followed by
Sam, entered the room. The noise they made in so doing, awoke him.
    »Shaving water, Sam,« said Mr. Pickwick, from within the curtains.
    »Shave you directly, Mr. Pickwick,« said the visitor, drawing one of them
back from the bed's head. »I've got an execution against you, at the suit of
Bardell. - Here's the warrant. - Common Pleas. - Here's my card. I suppose
you'll come over to my house.« Giving Mr. Pickwick a friendly tap on the
shoulder, the sheriff's officer (for such he was) threw his card on the
counterpane, and pulled a gold toothpick from his waistcoat pocket.
    »Namby's the name,« said the sheriff's deputy, as Mr. Pickwick took his
spectacles from under the pillow, and put them on, to read the card. »Namby,
Bell Alley, Coleman Street.«
    At this point, Sam Weller, who had had his eyes fixed hitherto on Mr.
Namby's shining beaver, interfered:
    »Are you a Quaker?« said Sam.
    »I'll let you know who I am, before I've done with you,« replied the
indignant officer. »I'll teach you manners, my fine fellow, one of these fine
mornings.«
    »Thankee,« said Sam. »I'll do the same to you. Take your hat off.« With
this, Mr. Weller, in the most dexterous manner, knocked Mr. Namby's hat to the
other side of the room with such violence, that he had very nearly caused him to
swallow the gold tooth-pick into the bargain.
    »Observe this, Mr. Pickwick,« said the disconcerted officer, gasping for
breath. »I've been assaulted in the execution of my dooty by your servant in
your chamber. I'm in bodily fear. I call you to witness this.«
    »Don't witness nothing', sir,« interposed Sam. »Shut your eyes up tight, sir.
I'd pitch him out o' winder, only he couldn't fall far enough, 'cause o' the
leads outside.«
    »Sam,« said Mr. Pickwick in an angry voice, as his attendant made various
demonstrations of hostilities, »if you say another word, or offer the slightest
interference with this person, I discharge you that instant.«
    »But, sir!« said Sam.
    »Hold your tongue,« interposed Mr. Pickwick. »Take that hat up again.«
    But this Sam flatly and positively refused to do; and, after he had been
severely reprimanded by his master, the officer, being in a hurry, condescended
to pick it up himself: venting a great variety of threats against Sam meanwhile,
which that gentleman received with perfect composure: merely observing that if
Mr. Namby would have the goodness to put his hat on again, he would knock it
into the latter end of next week. Mr. Namby, perhaps thinking that such a
process might be productive of inconvenience to himself, declined to offer the
temptation, and, soon after, called up Smouch. Having informed him that the
capture was made, and that he was to wait for the prisoner until he should have
finished dressing, Namby then swaggered out, and drove away. Smouch, requesting
Mr. Pickwick in a surly manner »to be as alive as he could, for it was a busy
time,« drew up a chair by the door, and sat there, until he had finished
dressing. Sam was then dispatched for a hackney coach, and in it the triumvirate
proceeded to Coleman Street. It was fortunate the distance was short, for Mr.
Smouch, besides possessing no very enchanting conversational powers, was
rendered a decidedly unpleasant companion in a limited space, by the physical
weakness to which we have elsewhere adverted.
    The coach having turned into a very narrow and dark street, stopped before a
house with iron bars to all the windows; the door-posts of which were graced by
the name and title of »Namby, Officer to the Sheriffs of London:« the inner gate
having been opened by a gentleman who might have passed for a neglected twin
brother of Mr. Smouch, and who was endowed with a large key for the purpose, Mr.
Pickwick was shown into the coffee-room.
    This coffee-room was a front parlour: the principal features of which were
fresh sand and stale tobacco smoke. Mr. Pickwick bowed to the three persons who
were seated in it when he entered; and having dispatched Sam for Perker,
withdrew into an obscure corner, and from thence looked with some curiosity upon
his new companions.
    One of these was a mere boy of nineteen or twenty, who, though it was yet
barely ten o'clock, was drinking gin and water, and smoking a cigar: amusements
to which, judging from his inflamed countenance, he had devoted himself pretty
constantly for the last year or two of his life. Opposite him, engaged in
stirring the fire with the toe of his right boot, was a coarse vulgar young man
of about thirty, with a sallow face and harsh voice: evidently possessed of that
knowledge of the world, and captivating freedom of manner, which is to be
acquired in public-house parlours, and at low billiard-tables. The third tenant
of the apartment was a middle-aged man in a very old suit of black, who looked
pale and haggard, and paced up and down the room incessantly; stopping, now and
then, to look with great anxiety out of the window as if he expected somebody,
and then resuming his walk.
    »You'd better have the loan of my razor this morning, Mr. Ayresleigh,« said
the man who was stirring the fire, tipping the wink to his friend the boy.
    »Thank you, no, I shan't want it; I expect I shall be out, in the course of
an hour or so,« replied the other in a hurried manner. Then, walking again up to
the window, and once more returning disappointed, he sighed deeply, and left the
room; upon which the other two burst into a loud laugh.
    »Well, I never saw such a game as that,« said the gentleman who had offered
the razor, whose name appeared to be Price. »Never!« Mr. Price confirmed the
assertion with an oath, and then laughed again, when of course the boy (who
thought his companion one of the most dashing fellows alive) laughed also.
    »You'd hardly think, would you now,« said Price, turning towards Mr.
Pickwick, »that that chap's been here a week yesterday, and never once shaved
himself yet, because he feels so certain he's going out in half an hour's time,
that he thinks he may as well put it off till he gets home?«
    »Poor man!« said Mr. Pickwick. »Are his chances of getting out of his
difficulties really so great?«
    »Chances be d - d,« replied Price; »he hasn't half the ghost of one. I
wouldn't give that for his chance of walking about the streets this time ten
years.« With this Mr. Price snapped his fingers contemptuously, and rang the
bell.
    »Give me a sheet of paper, Crookey,« said Mr. Price to the attendant, who in
dress and general appearance looked something between a bankrupt grazier, and a
drover in a state of insolvency; »and a glass of brandy and water, Crookey, d'ye
hear? I'm going to write to my father, and I must have a stimulant, or I shan't
be able to pitch it strong enough into the old boy.« At this facetious speech,
the young boy, it is almost needless to say, was fairly convulsed.
    »That's right,« said Mr. Price. »Never say die. All fun, ain't it?«
    »Prime!« said the young gentleman.
    »You've some spirit about you, you have,« said Price. »You've seen something
of life.«
    »I rather think I have!« replied the boy. He had looked at it through the
dirty panes of glass in a bar door.
    Mr. Pickwick feeling not a little disgusted with this dialogue, as well as
with the air and manner of the two beings by whom it had been carried on, was
about to inquire whether he could not be accommodated with a private
sitting-room, when two or three strangers of genteel appearance entered, at
sight of whom the boy threw his cigar into the fire, and whispering to Mr. Price
that they had come to »make it all right« for him, joined them at a table in the
further end of the room.
    It would appear, however, that matters were not going to be made all right
quite so speedily as the young gentleman anticipated; for a very long
conversation ensued, of which Mr. Pickwick could not avoid hearing certain angry
fragments regarding dissolute conduct, and repeated forgiveness. At last, there
were very distinct allusions made by the oldest gentleman of the party to one
Whitecross Street, at which the young gentleman, notwithstanding his primeness
and his spirit and his knowledge of life into the bargain, reclined his head
upon the table, and howled dismally.
    Very much satisfied with this sudden bringing down of the youth's valour,
and this effectual lowering of his tone, Mr. Pickwick rang the bell, and was
shown, at his own request, into a private room furnished with a carpet, table,
chairs, sideboard and sofa, and ornamented with a looking-glass, and various old
prints. Here, he had the advantage of hearing Mrs. Namby's performance on a
square piano over head, while the breakfast was getting ready; when it came, Mr.
Perker came too.
    »Aha, my dear sir,« said the little man, »nailed at last, eh? Come, come,
I'm not sorry for it either, because now you'll see the absurdity of this
conduct. I've noted down the amount of the taxed costs and damages for which the
ca-sa was issued, and we had better settle at once and lose no time. Namby is
come home by this time, I dare say. What say you, my dear sir? Shall I draw a
cheque, or will you?« The little man rubbed his hands with affected cheerfulness
as he said this, but glancing at Mr. Pickwick's countenance, could not forbear
at the same time casting a despondent look towards Sam Weller.
    »Perker,« said Mr. Pickwick, »let me hear no more of this, I beg. I see no
advantage in staying here, so I shall go to prison to-night.«
    »You can't go to Whitecross Street, my dear sir,« said Perker. »Impossible!
There are sixty beds in a ward; and the bolt's on, sixteen hours out of the
four-and-twenty.«
    »I would rather go to some other place of confinement if I can,« said Mr.
Pickwick. »If not, I must make the best I can of that.«
    »You can go to the Fleet, my dear sir, if you're determined to go
somewhere,« said Perker.
    »That'll do,« said Mr. Pickwick. »I'll go there directly I have finished my
breakfast.«
    »Stop, stop, my dear sir; not the least occasion for being in such a violent
hurry to get into a place that most other men are as eager to get out of,« said
the good-natured little attorney. »We must have a habeas corpus. There'll be no
judge at chambers till four o'clock this afternoon. You must wait till then.«
    »Very good,« said Mr. Pickwick, with unmoved patience. »Then we will have a
chop, here, at two. See about it, Sam, and tell them to be punctual.«
    Mr. Pickwick remaining firm, despite all the remonstrances and arguments of
Perker, the chops appeared and disappeared in due course; he was then put into
another hackney-coach, and carried off to Chancery Lane, after waiting half an
hour or so for Mr. Namby, who had a select dinner-party and could on no account
be disturbed before.
    There were two judges in attendance at Sergeant's Inn - one King's Bench,
and one Common Pleas - and a great deal of business appeared to be transacting
before them, if the number of lawyers clerks who were hurrying in and out with
bundles of papers, afforded any test. When they reached the low archway which
forms the entrance to the Inn, Perker was detained a few moments parleying with
the coachman about the fare and the change; and Mr. Pickwick, stepping to one
side to be out of the way of the stream of people that were pouring in and out,
looked about him with some curiosity.
    The people that attracted his attention most, were three or four men of
shabby-genteel appearance, who touched their hats to many of the attorneys who
passed, and seemed to have some business there, the nature of which Mr. Pickwick
could not divine. They were curious-looking fellows. One, was a slim and rather
lame man in rusty black, and a white neckerchief; another, was a stout burly
person, dressed in the same apparel, with a great reddish-black cloth round his
neck; a third, was a little weazen drunken-looking body, with a pimply face.
They were loitering about, with their hands behind them, and now and then with
an anxious countenance whispered something in the ear of some of the gentlemen
with papers, as they hurried by. Mr. Pickwick remembered to have very often
observed them lounging under the archway when he had been walking past; and his
curiosity was quite excited to know to what branch of the profession these
dingy-looking loungers could possibly belong.
    He was about to propound the question to Namby, who kept close beside him,
sucking a large gold ring on his little finger, when Perker bustled up, and
observing that there was no time to lose, led the way into the Inn. As Mr.
Pickwick followed, the lame man stepped up to him, and civilly touching his hat,
held out a written card, which Mr. Pickwick, not wishing to hurt the man's
feelings by refusing, courteously accepted and deposited in his
waistcoat-pocket.
    »Now,« said Perker, turning round before he entered one of the offices, to
see that his companions were close behind him. »In here, my dear sir. Hallo,
what do you want?«
    This last question was addressed to the lame man, who, unobserved by Mr.
Pickwick, made one of the party. In reply to it, the lame man touched his hat
again, with all imaginable politeness, and motioned towards Mr. Pickwick.
    »No, no,« said Perker with a smile. »We don't want you, my dear friend, we
don't want you.«
    »I beg your pardon, sir,« said the lame man. »The gentleman took my card. I
hope you will employ me, sir. The gentleman nodded to me. I'll be judged by the
gentleman himself. You nodded to me, sir?«
    »Pooh, pooh, nonsense. You didn't nod to any body, Pickwick? A mistake, a
mistake,« said Perker.
    »The gentleman handed me his card,« replied Mr. Pickwick, producing it from
his waistcoat-pocket. »I accepted it, as the gentleman seemed to wish it - in
fact I had some curiosity to look at it when I should be at leisure. I -«
    The little attorney burst into a loud laugh, and returning the card to the
lame man, informing him it was all a mistake, whispered to Mr. Pickwick as the
man turned away in dudgeon, that he was only a bail.
    »A what!« exclaimed Mr. Pickwick.
    »A bail!« replied Perker.
    »A bail!«
    »Yes, my dear sir - half a dozen of 'em here. Bail you to any amount, and
only charge half-a-crown. Curious trade, isn't it?« said Perker, regaling
himself with a pinch of snuff.
    »What! Am I to understand that these men earn a livelihood by waiting about
here, to perjure themselves before the judges of the land, at the rate of
half-a-crown a crime!« exclaimed Mr. Pickwick, quite aghast at the disclosure.
    »Why, I don't exactly know about perjury, my dear sir,« replied the little
gentleman. »Harsh word, my dear sir, very harsh word indeed. It's a legal
fiction, my dear sir, nothing more.« Saying which, the attorney shrugged his
shoulders, smiled, took a second pinch of snuff, and led the way into the office
of the judge's clerk.
    This was a room of specially dirty appearance, with a very low ceiling and
old panelled walls; and so badly lighted, that although it was broad day
outside, great tallow candles were burning on the desks. At one end, was a door
leading to the judge's private apartment, round which were congregated a crowd
of attorneys and managing clerks, who were called in, in the order in which
their respective appointments stood upon the file. Every time this door was
opened to let a party out, the next party made a violent rush to get in; and, as
in addition to the numerous dialogues which passed between the gentlemen who
were waiting to see the judge, a variety of personal squabbles ensued between
the greater part of those who had seen him, there was as much noise as could
well be raised in an apartment of such confined dimensions.
    Nor were the conversations of these gentlemen the only sounds that broke
upon the ear. Standing on a box behind a wooden bar at another end of the room,
was a clerk in spectacles, who was taking the affidavits: large batches of which
were, from time to time, carried into the private room by another clerk for the
judge's signature. There were a large number of attorneys' clerks to be sworn,
and it being a moral impossibility to swear them all at once, the struggles of
these gentlemen to reach the clerk in spectacles, were like those of a crowd to
get in at the pit door of a theatre when Gracious Majesty honours it with its
presence. Another functionary, from time to time, exercised his lungs in calling
over the names of those who had been sworn, for the purpose of restoring to them
their affidavits after they had been signed by the judge: which gave rise to a
few more scuffles; and all these things going on at the same time, occasioned as
much bustle as the most active and excitable person could desire to behold.
There were yet another class of persons - those who were waiting to attend
summonses their employers had taken out, which it was optional to the attorney
on the opposite side to attend or not - and whose business it was, from time to
time, to cry out the opposite attorney's name, to make certain that he was not
in attendance without their knowledge.
    For example. Leaning against the wall, close beside the seat Mr. Pickwick
had taken, was an office-lad of fourteen, with a tenor voice; near him, a
common-law clerk with a bass one.
    A clerk hurried in with a bundle of papers, and stared about him.
    »Sniggle and Blink,« cried the tenor.
    »Porkin and Snob,« growled the bass.
    »Stumpy and Deacon,« said the new comer.
    Nobody answered; the next man who came in, was hailed by the whole three;
and he in his turn shouted for another firm; and then somebody else roared in a
loud voice for another; and so forth.
    All this time, the man in the spectacles was hard at work, swearing the
clerks: the oath being invariably administered, without any effort at
punctuation, and usually in the following terms:
    »Take the book in your right hand this is your name and hand-writing you
swear that the contents of this your affidavit are true so help you God a
shilling you must get change I haven't got it.«
    »Well, Sam,« said Mr. Pickwick, »I suppose they are getting the habeas
corpus ready.«
    »Yes,« said Sam, »and I vish they'd bring out the have-his-carcase. It's
very unpleasant keepin' us vaitin' here. I'd ha' got half a dozen
have-his-carcases ready, pack'd up and all, by this time.«
    What sort of cumbrous and unmanageable machine, Sam Weller imagined a habeas
corpus to be, does not appear; for Perker, at that moment, walked up, and took
Mr. Pickwick away.
    The usual forms having been gone through, the body of Samuel Pickwick was
soon afterwards confided to the custody of the tipstaff, to be by him taken to
the Warden of the Fleet Prison, and there detained until the amount of the
damages and costs in the action of Bardell against Pickwick was fully paid and
satisfied.
    »And that,« said Mr. Pickwick, laughing, »will be a very long time. Sam,
call another hackney-coach. Perker, my dear friend, good bye.«
    »I shall go with you, and see you safe there,« said Perker.
    »Indeed,« replied Mr. Pickwick, »I would rather go without any other
attendant than Sam. As soon as I get settled, I will write and let you know, and
I shall expect you immediately. Until then, good bye.«
    As Mr. Pickwick said this, he got into the coach which had by this time
arrived: followed by the tipstaff. Sam having stationed himself on the box, it
rolled away.
    »A most extraordinary man that!« said Perker, as he stopped to pull on his
gloves.
    »What a bankrupt he'd make, sir,« observed Mr. Lowten, who was standing
near. »How he would bother the commissioners! He'd set 'em at defiance if they
talked of committing him, sir.«
    The attorney did not appear very much delighted with his clerk's
professional estimate of Mr. Pickwick's character, for he walked away without
deigning any reply.
    The hackney-coach jolted along Fleet Street, as hackney-coaches usually do.
The horses »went better,« the driver said, when they had anything before them,
(they must have gone at a most extraordinary pace when there was nothing,) and
so the vehicle kept behind a cart; when the cart stopped, it stopped; and when
the cart went on again, it did the same. Mr. Pickwick sat opposite the tipstaff;
and the tipstaff sat with his hat between his knees, whistling a tune, and
looking out of the coach window.
    Time performs wonders. By the powerful old gentleman's aid, even a
hackney-coach gets over half a mile of ground. They stopped at length, and Mr.
Pickwick alighted at the gate of the Fleet.
    The tipstaff, looking over his shoulder to see that his charge was following
close at his heels, preceded Mr. Pickwick into the prison; turning to the left,
after they had entered, they passed through an open door into a lobby, from
which a heavy gate: opposite to that by which they had entered, and which was
guarded by a stout turnkey with the key in his hand: led at once into the
interior of the prison.
    Here they stopped, while the tipstaff delivered his papers; and here Mr.
Pickwick was apprised that he would remain, until he had undergone the ceremony,
known to the initiated as »sitting for your portrait.«
    »Sitting for my portrait!« said Mr. Pickwick.
    »Having your likeness taken, sir,« replied the stout turnkey. »We're capital
hands at likenesses here. Take 'em in no time, and always exact. Walk in, sir,
and make yourself at home.«
    Mr. Pickwick complied with the invitation, and sat himself down: when Mr.
Weller, who stationed himself at the back of the chair, whispered that the
sitting was merely another term for undergoing an inspection by the different
turnkeys, in order that they might know prisoners from visitors.
    »Well, Sam,« said Mr. Pickwick, »then I wish the artists would come. This is
rather a public place.«
    »They vont be long, sir, I des-say,« replied Sam. »There's a Dutch clock,
sir.«
    »So I see,« observed Mr. Pickwick.
    »And a bird-cage, sir,« says Sam. »Veels vithin veels, a prison in a prison.
Ain't it, sir?«
    As Mr. Weller made this philosophical remark, Mr. Pickwick was aware that
his sitting had commenced. The stout turnkey having been relieved from the lock,
sat down, and looked at him carelessly, from time to time, while a long thin man
who had relieved him, thrust his hands beneath his coat-tails, and planting
himself opposite, took a good long view of him. A third rather surly-looking
gentleman: who had apparently been disturbed at his tea, for he was disposing of
the last remnant of a crust and butter when he came in: stationed himself close
to Mr. Pickwick; and, resting his hands on his hips, inspected him narrowly;
while two others mixed with the group, and studied his features with most intent
and thoughtful faces. Mr. Pickwick winced a good deal under the operation, and
appeared to sit very uneasily in his chair; but he made no remark to anybody
while it was being performed, not even to Sam, who reclined upon the back of the
chair, reflecting, partly on the situation of his master, and partly on the
great satisfaction it would have afforded him to make a fierce assault upon all
the turnkeys there assembled, one after the other, if it were lawful and
peaceable so to do.
    At length the likeness was completed, and Mr. Pickwick was informed, that he
might now proceed into the prison.
    »Where am I to sleep to-night?« inquired Mr. Pickwick.
    »Why I don't rightly know about to-night,« replied the stout turnkey.
»You'll be chummed on somebody to-morrow, and then you'll be all snug and
comfortable. The first night's generally rather unsettled, but you'll be set all
squares to-morrow.«
    After some discussion, it was discovered that one of the turnkeys had a bed
to let, which Mr. Pickwick could have for that night. He gladly agreed to hire
it.
    »If you'll come with me, I'll show it you at once,« said the man. »It ain't
a large 'un; but it's an out-and-outer to sleep in. This way, sir.«
    They passed through the inner gate, and descended a short flight of steps.
The key was turned after them; and Mr. Pickwick found himself, for the first
time in his life, within the walls of a debtor's prison.
 

                                  Chapter XLI

What Befel Mr. Pickwick When He Got into the Fleet; What Prisoners He Saw There;
                          and How He Passed the Night.

Mr. Tom Roker, the gentleman who had accompanied Mr. Pickwick into the prison,
turned sharp round to the right when he got to the bottom of the little flight
of steps, and led the way, through an iron gate which stood open, and up another
short flight of steps, into a long narrow gallery, dirty and low, paved with
stone, and very dimly lighted by a window at each remote end.
    »This,« said the gentleman, thrusting his hands into his pockets, and
looking carelessly over his shoulder to Mr. Pickwick, »This here is the hall
flight.«
    »Oh,« replied Mr. Pickwick, looking down a dark and filthy staircase, which
appeared to lead to a range of damp and gloomy stone vaults, beneath the ground,
»and those, I suppose, are the little cellars where the prisoners keep their
small quantities of coals. Unpleasant places to have to go down to; but very
convenient, I dare say.«
    »Yes, I shouldn't wonder if they was convenient,« replied the gentleman,
»seeing that a few people live there, pretty snug. That's the Fair, that is.«
    »My friend,« said Mr. Pickwick, »you don't really mean to say that human
beings live down in those wretched dungeons?«
    »Don't I?« replied Mr. Roker, with indignant astonishment; »why shouldn't
I?«
    »Live! Live down there!« exclaimed Mr. Pickwick.
    »Live down there! Yes, and die down there, too, very often!« replied Mr.
Roker; »and what of that? Who's got to say anything again it? Live down there!
Yes, and a very good place it is to live in, ain't it?«
    As Roker turned somewhat fiercely upon Mr. Pickwick in saying this, and,
moreover muttered in an excited fashion certain unpleasant invocations
concerning his own eyes, limbs, and circulating fluids, the latter gentleman
deemed it advisable to pursue the discourse no further. Mr. Roker then proceeded
to mount another staircase, as dirty as that which led to the place which had
just been the subject of discussion, in which ascent he was closely followed by
Mr. Pickwick and Sam.
    »There,« said Mr. Roker, pausing for breath when they reached another
gallery of the same dimensions as the one below, »this is the coffee-room
flight; the one above's the third, and the one above that's the top; and the
room where you're a-going to sleep to-night is the warden's room, and it's this
way - come on.« Having said all this in a breath, Mr. Roker mounted another
flight of stairs, with Mr. Pickwick and Sam Weller following at his heels.
    These staircases received light from sundry windows placed at some little
distance above the floor, and looking into a gravelled area bounded by a high
brick wall, with iron chevaux-de-frise at the top. This area, it appeared from
Mr. Roker's statement, was the racket-ground; and it further appeared, on the
testimony of the same gentleman, that there was a smaller area in that portion
of the prison which was nearest Farringdon Street, denominated and called »the
Painted Ground,« from the fact of its walls having once displayed the semblances
of various men-of-war in full sail, and other artistical effects achieved in
bygone times by some imprisoned draughtsman in his leisure hours.
    Having communicated this piece of information, apparently more for the
purpose of discharging his bosom of an important fact, than with any specific
view of enlightening Mr. Pickwick, the guide, having at length reached another
gallery, led the way into a small passage at the extreme end: opened a door: and
disclosed an apartment of an appearance by no means inviting, containing eight
or nine iron bedsteads.
    »There,« said Mr. Roker, holding the door open, and looking triumphantly
round at Mr. Pickwick, »there's a room!«
    Mr. Pickwick's face, however, betokened such a very trifling portion of
satisfaction at the appearance of his lodging, that Mr. Roker looked for a
reciprocity of feeling into the countenance of Samuel Weller, who, until now,
had observed a dignified silence.
    »There's a room, young man,« observed Mr. Roker.
    »I see it,« replied Sam, with a placid nod of the head.
    »You wouldn't think to find such a room as this in the Farringdon Hotel,
would you?« said Mr. Roker, with a complacent smile.
    To this Mr. Weller replied with an easy and unstudied closing of one eye;
which might be considered to mean, either that he would have thought it, or that
he would not have thought it, or that he had never thought anything at all about
it: as the observer's imagination suggested. Having executed this feat, and
re-opened his eye, Mr. Weller proceeded to inquire which was the individual
bedstead that Mr. Roker had so flatteringly described as an out-an-outer to
sleep in.
    »That's it,« replied Mr. Roker, pointing to a very rusty one in a corner.
»It would make any one go to sleep, that bedstead would, whether they wanted to
or not.«
    »I should think,« said Sam, eyeing the piece of furniture in question with a
look of excessive disgust, »I should think poppies was nothing to it.«
    »Nothing at all,« said Mr. Roker.
    »And I s'pose,« said Sam, with a sidelong glance at his master, as if to see
whether there were any symptoms of his determination being shaken by what
passed, »I s'pose the other gen'l'men as sleeps here, are gen'l'men.«
    »Nothing but it,« said Mr. Roker. »One of 'em takes his twelve pints of ale
a-day, and never leaves off smoking even at his meals.«
    »He must be a first-rater,« said Sam.
    »A, 1,« replied Mr. Roker.
    Nothing daunted, even by this intelligence, Mr. Pickwick smilingly announced
his determination to test the powers of the narcotic bedstead for that night;
and Mr. Roker, after informing him that he could retire to rest at whatever hour
he thought proper, without any further notice or formality, walked off, leaving
him standing with Sam in the gallery.
    It was getting dark; that is to say, a few gas jets were kindled in this
place which was never light, by way of compliment to the evening, which had set
in outside. As it was rather warm, some of the tenants of the numerous little
rooms which opened into the gallery on either hand, had set their doors ajar.
Mr. Pickwick peeped into them as he passed along, with great curiosity and
interest. Here four or five great hulking fellows, just visible through a cloud
of tobacco-smoke, were engaged in noisy and riotous conversation over
half-emptied pots of beer, or playing at all-fours with a very greasy pack of
cards. In the adjoining room, some solitary tenant might be seen, poring, by the
light of a feeble tallow candle, over a bundle of soiled and tattered papers,
yellow with dust and dropping to pieces from age: writing, for the hundredth
time, some lengthened statement of his grievances, for the perusal of some great
man whose eyes it would never reach, or whose heart it would never touch. In a
third, a man, with his wife and a whole crowd of children, might be seen making
up a scanty bed on the ground, or upon a few chairs, for the younger ones to
pass the night in. And in a fourth, and a fifth, and a sixth, and a seventh, the
noise, and the beer, and the tobacco-smoke, and the cards, all came over again
in greater force than before.
    In the galleries themselves, and more especially on the staircases, there
lingered a great number of people, who came there, some because their rooms were
empty and lonesome, others because their rooms were full and hot: the greater
part because they were restless and uncomfortable, and not possessed of the
secret of exactly knowing what to do with themselves. There were many classes of
people here, from the labouring man in his fustian jacket, to the broken-down
spendthrift in his shawl dressing-gown, most appropriately out at elbows; but
there was the same air about them all - a listless jail-bird careless swagger, a
vagabondish who's-afraid sort of bearing, which is wholly indescribable in
words, but which any man can understand in one moment if he wish, by setting
foot in the nearest debtor's prison, and looking at the very first group of
people he sees there, with the same interest as Mr. Pickwick did.
    »It strikes me, Sam,« said Mr. Pickwick, leaning over the iron-rail at the
stairhead, »It strikes me, Sam, that imprisonment for debt is scarcely any
punishment at all.«
    »Think not, sir?« inquired Mr. Weller.
    »You see how these fellows drink, and smoke, and roar,« replied Mr.
Pickwick. »It's quite impossible that they can mind it much.«
    »Ah, that's just the very thing, sir,« rejoined Sam, »they don't mind it;
it's a regular holiday to them - all porter and skittles. It's the t'other vuns
as gets done over, with this sort o' thing: them down-hearted fellows as can't
svig away at the beer, nor play at skittles neither; them as vould pay if they
could, and gets low by being boxed up. I'll tell you wot it is, sir; them as is
always a idlin' in public houses it don't damage at all, and them as is alvays a
workin' wen they can, it damages too much. It's unekal, as my father used to say
wen his grog worn't made half-and-half: It's unekal, and that's the fault on
it.«
    »I think you're right, Sam,« said Mr. Pickwick, after a few moments'
reflection, »quite right.«
    »P'raps, now and then, there's some honest people as likes it,« observed Mr.
Weller, in a ruminative tone, »but I never heard o' one as I can call to mind,
'cept the little dirty-faced man in the brown coat; and that was force of
habit.«
    »And who was he?« inquired Mr. Pickwick.
    »Wy, that's just the very point as nobody never know'd,« replied Sam.
    »But what did he do?«
    »Wy he did wot many men as has been much better know'd has done in their
time, sir,« replied Sam, »he run a match again the constable, and vun it.«
    »In other words, I suppose,« said Mr. Pickwick, »he got into debt.«
    »Just that, sir,« replied Sam, »and in course o' time he come here in
consekens. It warn't much - execution for nine pound nothing', multiplied by five
for costs; but hows'ever here he stopped for seventeen year. If he got any
wrinkles in his face, they was stopped up with the dirt, for both the dirty face
and the brown coat wos just the same at the end o' that time as they wos at the
beginnin'. He wos a very peaceful inoffendin' little creature, and wos alvays a
bustlin' about for somebody, or playin' rackets and never vinnin'; till at last
the turnkeys they got quite fond on him, and he wos in the lodge ev'ry night, a
chattering with 'em, and telling' stories, and all that 'ere. Vun night he wos in
there as usual, along with a very old friend of his, as wos on the lock, ven he
says all of a sudden, I ain't seen the market outside, Bill, he says (Fleet
Market wos there at that time) - I ain't seen the market outside, Bill, he says,
for seventeen year. I know you ain't, says the turnkey, smoking his pipe. I
should like to see it for a minit, Bill, he says. Wery probable, says the
turnkey, smoking his pipe very fierce, and making believe he warn't up to wot
the little man wanted. Bill, says the little man, more abrupt than afore, I've
got the fancy in my head. Let me see the public streets once more afore I die;
and if I ain't struck with apoplexy, I'll be back in five minits by the clock.
And wot 'ud become o' me if you was struck with apoplexy? said the turnkey. Wy,
says the little creature, whoever found me, 'ud bring me home, for I've got my
card in my pocket, Bill, he says, No. 20, Coffee-room Flight: and that wos true,
sure enough, for wen he wanted to make the acquaintance of any new comer, he
used to pull out a little limp card with them words on it and nothing' else; in
consideration of vich, he wos alvays called Number Tventy. The turnkey takes a
fixed look at him, and at last he says in a solemn manner, Tventy, he says, I'll
trust you; you won't get your old friend into trouble. No, my boy; I hope I've
something' better behind here, says the little man; and as he said it he hit his
little veskit very hard, and then a tear started out o' each eye, which wos very
extraordinary, for it wos supposed as water never touched his face. He shook the
turnkey by the hand; out he vent -«
    »And never came back again,« said Mr. Pickwick.
    »Wrong for vunce, sir,« replied Mr. Weller, »for back he come, two minits
afore the time, a bilin' with rage: saying' how he'd been nearly run over by a
hackney-coach: that he warn't used to it: and he was blowed if he wouldn't write
to the Lord Mayor. They got him pacified at last; and for five years arter that,
he never even so much as peeped out o' the lodge-gate.«
    »At the expiration of that time he died, I suppose,« said Mr. Pickwick.
    »No he didn't, sir,« replied Sam. »He got a curiosity to go and taste the
beer at a new public-house over the way, and it wos such a very nice parlour,
that he took it into his head to go there every night, wich he did for a long
time, always comin' back reg'lar about a quarter of an hour afore the gate shut,
wich wos all very snug and comfortable. At last he began to get so precious
jolly, that he used to forget how the time vent, or care nothing' at all about
it, and he vent on getting' later and later, till vun night his old friend wos
just a shuttin' the gate - had turned the key in fact - wen he come up. Hold
hard, Bill, he says. Wot, ain't you come home yet, Tventy? says the turnkey, I
thought you wos in, long ago. No I wasn't't, says the little man, with a smile.
Well then, I'll tell you wot it is, my friend, says the turnkey, openin' the
gate very slow and sulky, it's my 'pinion as you've got into bad company o'
late, which I'm very sorry to see. Now, I don't wish to do nothing harsh, he
says, but if you can't confine yourself to steady circles, and find your vay
back at reg'lar hours, as sure as you're a standin' there, I'll shut you out
altogether! The little man was seized with a wiolent fit o' tremblin', and never
vent outside the prison walls artervards!«
    As Sam concluded, Mr. Pickwick slowly retraced his steps down stairs. After
a few thoughtful turns in the Painted Ground, which, as it was now dark, was
nearly deserted, he intimated to Mr. Weller that he thought it high time for him
to withdraw for the night; requesting him to seek a bed in some adjacent
public-house, and return early in the morning, to make arrangements for the
removal of his master's wardrobe from the George and Vulture. This request Mr.
Samuel Weller prepared to obey, with as good a grace as he could assume, but
with a very considerable show of reluctance nevertheless. He even went so far as
to essay sundry ineffectual hints regarding the expediency of stretching himself
on the gravel for that night; but finding Mr. Pickwick obstinately deaf to any
such suggestions, finally withdrew.
    There is no disguising the fact that Mr. Pickwick felt very low-spirited and
uncomfortable; not for lack of society, for the prison was very full, and a
bottle of wine would at once have purchased the utmost good-fellowship of a few
choice spirits, without any more formal ceremony of introduction; but he was
alone in the coarse vulgar crowd, and felt the depression of spirit and sinking
of heart, naturally consequent on the reflection that he was cooped and caged
up, without a prospect of liberation. As to the idea of releasing himself by
ministering to the sharpness of Dodson and Fogg, it never for an instant entered
his thoughts.
    In this frame of mind he turned again into the coffee-room gallery, and
walked slowly to and fro. The place was intolerably dirty, and the smell of
tobacco-smoke perfectly suffocating. There was a perpetual slamming and banging
of doors as the people went in and out; and the noise of their voices and
footsteps echoed and re-echoed through the passages constantly. A young woman,
with a child in her arms, who seemed scarcely able to crawl, from emaciation and
misery, was walking up and down the passage in conversation with her husband,
who had no other place to see her in. As they passed Mr. Pickwick, he could hear
the female sob; and once she burst into such a passion of grief, that she was
compelled to lean against the wall for support, while the man took the child in
his arms, and tried to soothe her.
    Mr. Pickwick's heart was really too full to bear it, and he went up stairs
to bed.
    Now, although the warden's room was a very uncomfortable one (being, in
every point of decoration and convenience, several hundred degrees inferior to
the common infirmary of a county gaol), it had at present the merit of being
wholly deserted save by Mr. Pickwick himself. So, he sat down at the foot of his
little iron bedstead, and began to wonder how much a year the warden made out of
the dirty room. Having satisfied himself, by mathematical calculation, that the
apartment was about equal in annual value to the freehold of a small street in
the suburbs of London, he took to wondering what possible temptation could have
induced a dingy-looking fly that was crawling over his pantaloons, to come into
a close prison, when he had the choice of so many airy situations - a course of
meditation which led him to the irresistible conclusion that the insect was mad.
After settling this point, he began to be conscious that he was getting sleepy;
whereupon he took his nightcap out of the pocket in which he had had the
precaution to stow it in the morning, and, leisurely undressing himself, got
into bed, and fell asleep.
    »Bravo! Heel over toe - cut and shuffle - pay away at it, Zephyr! I'm
smothered if the Opera House isn't your proper hemisphere. Keep it up! Hooray!«
These expressions, delivered in a most boisterous tone, and accompanied with
loud peals of laughter, roused Mr. Pickwick from one of those sound slumbers
which, lasting in reality some half hour, seem to the sleeper to have been
protracted for three weeks or a month.
    The voice had no sooner ceased than the room was shaken with such violence
that the windows rattled in their frames, and the bedsteads trembled again. Mr.
Pickwick started up, and remained for some minutes fixed in mute astonishment at
the scene before him.
    On the floor of the room, a man in a broad-skirted green coat, with corderoy
knee smalls and grey cotton stockings, was performing the most popular steps of
a hornpipe, with a slang and burlesque caricature of grace and lightness, which,
combined with the very appropriate character of his costume, was inexpressibly
absurd. Another man, evidently very drunk, who had probably been tumbled into
bed by his companions, was sitting up between the sheets, warbling as much as he
could recollect of a comic song, with the most intensely sentimental feeling and
expression; while a third, seated on one of the bedsteads, was applauding both
performers with the air of a profound connoisseur, and encouraging them by such
ebullitions of feeling as had already roused Mr. Pickwick from his sleep.
    This last man was an admirable specimen of a class of gentry which never can
be seen in full perfection but in such places; - they may be met with, in an
imperfect state, occasionally about stable-yards and public-houses; but they
never attain their full bloom except in these hot-beds, which would almost seem
to be considerately provided by the Legislature for the sole purpose of rearing
them.
    He was a tall fellow, with an olive complexion, long dark hair, and very
thick bushy whiskers meeting under his chin. He wore no neckerchief, as he had
been playing rackets all day, and his open shirt collar displayed their full
luxuriance. On his head he wore one of the common eighteenpenny French
skull-caps, with a gawdy tassel dangling therefrom, very happily in keeping with
a common fustian coat. His legs: which, being long, were afflicted with
weakness: graced a pair of Oxford-mixture trousers, made to show the full
symmetry of those limbs. Being somewhat negligently braced, however, and,
moreover, but imperfectly buttoned, they fell in a series of not the most
graceful folds over a pair of shoes sufficiently down at heel to display a pair
of very soiled white stockings. There was a rakish, vagabond smartness, and a
kind of boastful rascality, about the whole man, that was worth a mine of gold.
    This figure was the first to perceive that Mr. Pickwick was looking on; upon
which he winked to the Zephyr, and entreated him, with mock gravity, not to wake
the gentleman.
    »Why, bless the gentleman's honest heart and soul!« said the Zephyr, turning
round and affecting the extremity of surprise; »the gentleman is awake. Hem,
Shakespeare! How do you do, sir? How is Mary and Sarah, sir? and the dear old
lady at home, sir? Will you have the kindness to put my compliments into the
first little parcel you're sending that way, sir, and say that I would have sent
'em before, only I was afraid they might be broken in the wagon, sir?«
    »Don't overwhelm the gentleman with ordinary civilities when you see he's
anxious to have something to drink,« said the gentleman with the whiskers, with
a jocose air. »Why don't you ask the gentleman what he'll take?«
    »Dear me, I quite forgot,« replied the other. »What will you take, sir? Will
you take port wine, sir, or sherry wine, sir? I can recommend the ale, sir; or
perhaps you'd like to taste the porter, sir? Allow me to have the felicity of
hanging up your nightcap, sir.«
    With this, the speaker snatched that article of dress from Mr. Pickwick's
head, and fixed it in a twinkling on that of the drunken man, who, firmly
impressed with the belief that he was delighting a numerous assembly, continued
to hammer away at the comic song in the most melancholy strains imaginable.
    Taking a man's nightcap from his brow by violent means, and adjusting it on
the head of an unknown gentleman of dirty exterior, however ingenious a
witticism in itself, is unquestionably one of those which come under the
denomination of practical jokes. Viewing the matter precisely in this light, Mr.
Pickwick, without the slightest intimation of his purpose, sprang vigorously out
of bed, struck the Zephyr so smart a blow in the chest as to deprive him of a
considerable portion of the commodity which sometimes bears his name, and then,
recapturing his nightcap, boldly placed himself in an attitude of defence.
    »Now,« said Mr. Pickwick, gasping no less from excitement than from the
expenditure of so much energy, »come on - both of you - both of you!« With this
liberal invitation the worthy gentleman communicated a revolving motion to his
clenched fists, by way of appalling his antagonists with a display of science.
    It might have been Mr. Pickwick's very unexpected gallantry, or it might
have been the complicated manner in which he had got himself out of bed, and
fallen all in a mass upon the hornpipe man, that touched his adversaries.
Touched they were; for, instead of then and there making an attempt to commit
manslaughter, as Mr. Pickwick implicitly believed they would have done, they
paused, stared at each other a short time, and finally laughed outright.
    »Well; you're a trump, and I like you all the better for it,« said the
Zephyr. »Now jump into bed again, or you'll catch the rheumatics. No malice, I
hope?« said the man, extending a hand the size of the yellow clump of fingers
which sometimes swing over a glover's door.
    »Certainly not,« said Mr. Pickwick with great alacrity; for, now that the
excitement was over, he began to feel rather cool about the legs.
    »Allow me the honour,« said the gentleman with the whiskers, presenting his
dexter hand, and aspirating the h.
    »With much pleasure, sir,« said Mr. Pickwick; and having executed a very
long and solemn shake, he got into bed again.
    »My name is Smangle, sir,« said the man with the whiskers.
    »Oh,« said Mr. Pickwick.
    »Mine is Mivins,« said the man in the stockings.
    »I am delighted to hear it, sir,« said Mr. Pickwick.
    »Hem,« coughed Mr. Smangle.
    »Did you speak, sir?« said Mr. Pickwick.
    »No, I did not, sir,« said Mr. Smangle.
    »I thought you did, sir,« said Mr. Pickwick.
    All this was very genteel and pleasant; and, to make matters still more
comfortable, Mr. Smangle assured Mr. Pickwick a great many times that he
entertained a very high respect for the feelings of a gentleman; which
sentiment, indeed, did him infinite credit, as he could be in no wise supposed
to understand them.
    »Are you going through the Court, sir?« inquired Mr. Smangle.
    »Through the what?« said Mr. Pickwick.
    »Through the Court - Portugal Street - the Court for the Relief of -- you
know.«
    »Oh, no,« replied Mr. Pickwick. »No, I am not.«
    »Going out, perhaps?« suggested Mivins.
    »I fear not,« replied Mr. Pickwick. »I refuse to pay some damages, and am
here in consequence.«
    »Ah,« said Mr. Smangle, »paper has been my ruin.«
    »A stationer, I presume, sir?« said Mr. Pickwick, innocently.
    »Stationer! No, no; confound and curse me! Not so low as that. No trade.
When I say paper, I mean bills.«
    »Oh, you use the word in that sense. I see,« said Mr. Pickwick.
    »Damme! A gentleman must expect reverses,« said Smangle. »What of that? Here
am I in the Fleet Prison. Well; good. What then? I'm none the worse for that, am
I?«
    »Not a bit,« replied Mr. Mivins. And he was quite right; for, so far from
Mr. Smangle being any the worse for it, he was something the better, inasmuch as
to qualify himself for the place, he had attained gratuitous possession of
certain articles of jewellery, which, long before that, had found their way to
the pawnbroker's.
    »Well; but come,« said Mr. Smangle; »this is dry work. Let's rinse our
mouths with a drop of burnt sherry; the last comer shall stand it, Mivins shall
fetch it, and I'll help to drink it. That's a fair and gentlemanlike division of
labour, any how. Curse me!«
    Unwilling to hazard another quarrel, Mr. Pickwick gladly assented to the
proposition, and consigned the money to Mr. Mivins, who, as it was nearly eleven
o'clock, lost no time in repairing to the coffee-room on his errand.
    »I say,« whispered Smangle, the moment his friend had left the room; »what
did you give him?«
    »Half a sovereign,« said Mr. Pickwick.
    »He's a devilish pleasant gentlemanly dog,« said Mr. Smangle; - »infernal
pleasant. I don't know anybody more so; but -« Here Mr. Smangle stopped short,
and shook his head dubiously.
    »You don't think there is any probability of his appropriating the money to
his own use?« said Mr. Pickwick.
    »Oh, no! Mind, I don't say that; I expressly say that he's a devilish
gentlemanly fellow,« said Mr. Smangle. »But I think, perhaps, if somebody went
down, just to see that he didn't dip his beak into the jug by accident, or make
some confounded mistake in losing the money as he came up stairs, it would be as
well. Here, you sir, just run down stairs, and look after that gentleman, will
you?«
    This request was addressed to a little timid-looking nervous man, whose
appearance bespoke great poverty, and who had been crouching on his bedstead all
this while, apparently stupefied by the novelty of his situation.
    »You know where the coffee-room is,« said Smangle; »just run down, and tell
that gentleman you've come to help him up with the jug. Or - stop - I'll tell
you what - I'll tell you how we'll do him,« said Smangle, with a cunning look.
    »How?« said Mr. Pickwick.
    »Send down word that he's to spend the change in cigars. Capital thought.
Run and tell him that; d'ye hear? They shan't be wasted,« continued Smangle,
turning to Mr. Pickwick. »I'll smoke 'em.«
    This manoeuvering was so exceedingly ingenious, and, withal, performed with
such immovable composure and coolness, that Mr. Pickwick would have had no wish
to disturb it, even if he had had the power. In a short time Mr. Mivins
returned, bearing the sherry, which Mr. Smangle dispensed in two little cracked
mugs: considerately remarking, with reference to himself, that a gentleman must
not be particular under such circumstances, and that, for his part, he was not
too proud to drink out of the jug. In which, to show his sincerity, he forthwith
pledged the company in a draught which half emptied it.
    An excellent understanding having been by these means promoted, Mr. Smangle
proceeded to entertain his hearers with a relation of divers romantic adventures
in which he had been from time to time engaged, involving various interesting
anecdotes of a thorough-bred horse, and a magnificent Jewess, both of surpassing
beauty, and much coveted by the nobility and gentry of these kingdoms.
    Long before these elegant extracts from the biography of a gentleman, were
concluded, Mr. Mivins had betaken himself to bed, and had set in snoring for the
night: leaving the timid stranger and Mr. Pickwick to the full benefit of Mr.
Smangle's experiences.
    Nor were the two last-named gentlemen as much edified as they might have
been, by the moving passages narrated. Mr. Pickwick had been in a state of
slumber for some time, when he had a faint perception of the drunken man
bursting out afresh with the comic song, and receiving from Mr. Smangle a gentle
intimation, through the medium of the water jug, that his audience were not
musically disposed. Mr. Pickwick then once again dropped off to sleep, with a
confused consciousness that Mr. Smangle was still engaged in relating a long
story, the chief point of which appeared to be, that, on some occasion
particularly stated and set forth, he had done a bill and a gentleman at the
same time.
 

                                  Chapter XLII

Illustrative, Like the Preceding One, of the Old Proverb, that Adversity Brings
 a Man Acquainted with Strange Bed-Fellows. Likewise Containing Mr. Pickwick's
         Extraordinary and Startling Announcement to Mr. Samuel Weller.

When Mr. Pickwick opened his eyes next morning, the first object upon which they
rested, was Samuel Weller, seated upon a small black portmanteau, intently
regarding, apparently in a condition of profound abstraction, the stately figure
of the dashing Mr. Smangle: while Mr. Smangle himself, who was already partially
dressed, was seated on his bedstead, occupied in the desperately hopeless
attempt of staring Mr. Weller out of countenance. We say desperately hopeless,
because Sam, with a comprehensive gaze which took in Mr. Smangle's cap, feet,
head, face, legs, and whiskers, all at the same time, continued to look steadily
on, with every demonstration of lively satisfaction, but with no more regard to
Mr. Smangle's personal sentiments on the subject than he would have displayed
had he been inspecting a wooden statue, or a straw-embowelled Guy Faux.
    »Well; will you know me again?« said Mr. Smangle, with a frown.
    »I'd svear to you anyveres, sir,« replied Sam, cheerfully.
    »Don't be impertinent to a gentleman, sir,« said Mr. Smangle.
    »Not on no account,« replied Sam. »If you'll tell me wen he wakes, I'll be
upon the very best extra-super behaviour!« This observation, having a remote
tendency to imply that Mr. Smangle was no gentleman, kindled his ire.
    »Mivins!« said Mr. Smangle, with a passionate air.
    »What's the office?« replied that gentleman from his couch.
    »Who the devil is this fellow?«
    »'Gad,« said Mr. Mivins, looking lazily out from under the bed-clothes, »I
ought to ask you that. Hasn't he any business here?«
    »No,« replied Mr. Smangle.
    »Then knock him down stairs, and tell him not to presume to get up till I
come and kick him,« rejoined Mr. Mivins; with this prompt advice that excellent
gentleman again betook himself to slumber.
    The conversation exhibiting these unequivocal symptoms of verging on the
personal, Mr. Pickwick deemed it a fit point at which to interpose.
    »Sam,« said Mr. Pickwick.
    »Sir,« rejoined that gentleman.
    »Has anything new occurred since last night?«
    »Nothin' particular, sir,« replied Sam, glancing at Mr. Smangle's whiskers;
»the late prewailance of a close and confined atmosphere has been rather
favourable to the growth of veeds, of an alarmin' and sangvinary natur; but with
that 'ere exception things is quiet enough.«
    »I shall get up,« said Mr. Pickwick; »give me some clean things.«
    Whatever hostile intentions Mr. Smangle might have entertained, his thoughts
were speedily diverted by the unpacking of the portmanteau; the contents of
which, appeared to impress him at once with a most favourable opinion, not only
of Mr. Pickwick, but of Sam also, who, he took an early opportunity of declaring
in a tone of voice loud enough for that eccentric personage to overhear, was a
regular thorough-bred original, and consequently the very man after his own
heart. As to Mr. Pickwick, the affection he conceived for him knew no limits.
    »Now is there anything I can do for you, my dear sir?« said Smangle.
    »Nothing that I am aware of, I am obliged to you,« replied Mr. Pickwick.
    »No linen that you want sent to the washerwoman's? I know a delightful
washerwoman outside, that comes for my things twice a week; and, by Jove! - how
devilish lucky! - this is the day she calls. Shall I put any of those little
things up with mine? Don't say anything about the trouble. Confound and curse
it! if one gentleman under a cloud, is not to put himself a little out of the
way to assist another gentleman in the same condition, what's human nature?«
    Thus spoke Mr. Smangle, edging himself meanwhile as near as possible to the
portmanteau, and beaming forth looks of the most fervent and disinterested
friendship.
    »There's nothing you want to give out for the man to brush, my dear
creature, is there?« resumed Smangle.
    »Nothin' whatever, my fine feller,« rejoined Sam, taking the reply into his
own mouth. »P'raps if vun of us wos to brush, without troubling the man, it 'ud
be more agreeable for all parties, as the schoolmaster said wen the young
gentleman objected to being flogged by the butler.«
    »And there's nothing that I can send in my little box to the washerwoman's,
is there?« said Smangle, turning from Sam to Mr. Pickwick, with an air of some
discomfiture.
    »Nothin' whatever, sir,« retorted Sam; »I'm afeerd the little box must be
chock full o' your own as it is.«
    This speech was accompanied with such a very expressive look at that
particular portion of Mr. Smangle's attire, by the appearance of which the skill
of laundresses in getting up gentlemen's linen is generally tested, that he was
fain to turn upon his heel, and, for the present at any rate, to give up all
design on Mr. Pickwick's purse and wardrobe. He accordingly retired in dudgeon
to the racket-ground, where he made a light and wholesome breakfast on a couple
of the cigars which had been purchased on the previous night.
    Mr. Mivins, who was no smoker, and whose account for small articles of
chandlery had also reached down to the bottom of the slate, and been carried
over to the other side, remained in bed, and, in his own words, »took it out in
sleep.«
    After breakfasting in a small closet attached to the coffee-room, which bore
the imposing title of the Snuggery; the temporary inmate of which, in
consideration of a small additional charge, had the unspeakable advantage of
overhearing all the conversation in the coffee-room aforesaid; and after
dispatching Mr. Weller on some necessary errands, Mr. Pickwick repaired to the
Lodge, to consult Mr. Roker concerning his future accommodation.
    »Accommodation, eh?« said that gentleman, consulting a large book. »Plenty
of that, Mr. Pickwick. Your chummage ticket will be on twenty- in the third.«
    »Oh,« said Mr. Pickwick. »My what, did you say?«
    »Your chummage ticket,« replied Mr. Roker; »you're up to that?«
    »Not quite,« replied Mr. Pickwick, with a smile.
    »Why,« said Mr. Roker, »it's as plain as Salisbury. You'll have a chummage
ticket upon twenty-seven in the third, and them as is in the room will be your
chums.«
    »Are there many of them?« inquired Mr. Pickwick, dubiously.
    »Three,« replied Mr. Roker.
    Mr. Pickwick coughed.
    »One of 'em's a parson,« said Mr. Roker, filling up a little piece of paper
as he spoke; »another's a butcher.«
    »Eh?« exclaimed Mr. Pickwick.
    »A butcher,« repeated Mr. Roker, giving the nib of his pen a tap on the desk
to cure it of a disinclination to mark. »What a thorough-paced goer he used to
be sure-ly! You remember Tom Martin, Neddy?« said Roker, appealing to another
man in the lodge, who was paring the mud off his shoes with a five-and-twenty
bladed pocket knife.
    »I should think so,« replied the party addressed, with a strong emphasis on
the personal pronoun.
    »Bless my dear eyes!« said Mr. Roker, shaking his head slowly from side to
side, and gazing abstractedly out of the grated windows before him, as if he
were fondly recalling some peaceful scene of his early youth; »it seems but
yesterday that he whopped the coal-heaver down Fox-under-the-Hill by the wharf
there. I think I can see him now, a coming up the Strand between the two
street-keepers, a little sobered by the bruising, with a patch o' winegar and
brown paper over his right eyelid, and that 'ere lovely bulldog, as pinned the
little boy afterwards, a following at his heels. What a rum thing Time is, ain't
it, Neddy?«
    The gentleman to whom these observations were addressed, who appeared of a
taciturn and thoughtful cast, merely echoed the inquiry; Mr. Roker, shaking off
the poetical and gloomy train of thought into which he had been betrayed,
descended to the common business of life, and resumed his pen.
    »Do you know what the third gentleman is?« inquired Mr. Pickwick, not very
much gratified by this description of his future associates.
    »What is that Simpson, Neddy?« said Mr. Roker, turning to his companion.
    »What Simpson?« said Neddy.
    »Why him in twenty-seven in the third, that this gentleman's going to be
chummed on.«
    »Oh, him!« replied Neddy: »he's nothing exactly. He was a horse chaunter:
he's a leg now.«
    »Ah, so I thought,« rejoined Mr. Roker, closing the book, and placing the
small piece of paper in Mr. Pickwick's hands. »That's the ticket, sir.«
    Very much perplexed by this summary disposition of his person, Mr. Pickwick
walked back into the prison, revolving in his mind what he had better do.
Convinced, however, that before he took any other steps it would be advisable to
see, and hold personal converse with, the three gentlemen with whom it was
proposed to quarter him, he made the best of his way to the third flight.
    After groping about in the gallery for some time, attempting in the dim
light to decipher the numbers on the different doors, he at length appealed to a
potboy, who happened to be pursuing his morning occupation of gleaning for
pewter.
    »Which is twenty-seven, my good fellow?« said Mr. Pickwick.
    »Five doors further on,« replied the potboy. »There's the likeness of a man
being hung, and smoking a pipe the while, chalked outside the door.«
    Guided by this direction, Mr. Pickwick proceeded slowly along the gallery
until he encountered the »portrait of a gentleman,« above described, upon whose
countenance he tapped, with the knuckle of his fore-finger - gently at first,
and then audibly. After repeating this process several times without effect, he
ventured to open the door and peep in.
    There was only one man in the room, and he was leaning out of window as far
as he could without overbalancing himself, endeavouring, with great
perseverance, to spit upon the crown of the hat of a personal friend on the
parade below. As neither speaking, coughing, sneezing, knocking, nor any other
ordinary mode of attracting attention, made this person aware of the presence of
a visitor, Mr. Pickwick, after some delay, stepped up to the window, and pulled
him gently by the coat-tail. The individual brought in his head and shoulders
with great swiftness, and surveying Mr. Pickwick from head to foot, demanded in
a surly tone what the - something beginning with a capital H - he wanted.
    »I believe,« said Mr. Pickwick, consulting his ticket, »I believe this is
twenty-seven in the third?«
    »Well?« replied the gentleman.
    »I have come here in consequence of receiving this bit of paper,« rejoined
Mr. Pickwick.
    »Hand it over,« said the gentleman.
    Mr. Pickwick complied.
    »I think Roker might have chummed you somewhere else,« said Mr. Simpson (for
it was the leg), after a very discontented sort of a pause.
    Mr. Pickwick thought so also; but, under all the circumstances, he
considered it a matter of sound policy to be silent.
    Mr. Simpson mused for a few moments after this, and then, thrusting his head
out of the window, gave a shrill whistle, and pronounced some word aloud,
several times. What the word was, Mr. Pickwick could not distinguish; but he
rather inferred that it must be some nickname which distinguished Mr. Martin:
from the fact of a great number of gentlemen on the ground below, immediately
proceeding to cry »Butcher!« in imitation of the tone in which that useful class
of society are wont, diurnally, to make their presence known at area railings.
    Subsequent occurrences confirmed the accuracy of Mr. Pickwick's impression;
for, in a few seconds, a gentleman, prematurely broad for his years: clothed in
a professional blue jean frock, and top-boots with circular toes: entered the
room nearly out of breath, closely followed by another gentleman in very shabby
black, and a seal-skin cap. The latter gentleman, who fastened his coat all the
way up to his chin by means of a pin and a button alternately, had a very coarse
red face, and looked like a drunken chaplain; which, indeed, he was.
    These two gentlemen having by turns perused Mr. Pickwick's billet, the one
expressed his opinion that it was »a rig,« and the other his conviction that it
was »a go.« Having recorded their feelings in these very intelligible terms,
they looked at Mr. Pickwick and each other in awkward silence.
    »It's an aggravating thing, just as we got the beds so snug,« said the
chaplain, looking at three dirty mattresses, each rolled up in a blanket: which
occupied one corner of the room during the day, and formed a kind of slab, on
which were placed an old cracked basin, ewer, and soap-dish, of common yellow
earthenware, with a blue flower: »Very aggravating.«
    Mr. Martin expressed the same opinion in rather stronger terms; Mr. Simpson,
after having let a variety of expletive adjectives loose upon society without
any substantive to accompany them, tucked up his sleeves, and began to wash the
greens for dinner.
    While this was going on, Mr. Pickwick had been eyeing the room, which was
filthily dirty, and smelt intolerably close. There was no vestige of either
carpet, curtain, or blind. There was not even a closet in it. Unquestionably
there were but few things to put away, if there had been one; but, however few
in number, or small in individual amount, still, remnants of loaves and pieces
of cheese, and damp towels, and scrags of meat, and articles of wearing apparel,
and mutilated crockery, and bellows without nozzles, and toasting-forks without
prongs, do present somewhat of an uncomfortable appearance when they are
scattered about the floor of a small apartment, which is the common sitting and
sleeping room of three idle men.
    »I suppose this can be managed somehow,« said the butcher, after a pretty
long silence. »What will you take to go out?«
    »I beg your pardon,« replied Mr. Pickwick. »What did you say? I hardly
understand you.«
    »What will you take to be paid out?« said the butcher. »The regular chummage
is two-and-six. Will you take three bob?«
    »- And a bender,« suggested the clerical gentleman.
    »Well, I don't mind that; it's only twopence a-piece more,« said Mr. Martin.
    »What do you say, now? We'll pay you out for three-and-sixpence a week.
Come!«
    »And stand a gallon of beer down,« chimed in Mr. Simpson. »There!«
    »And drink it on the spot,« said the chaplain. »Now!«
    »I really am so wholly ignorant of the rules of this place,« returned Mr.
Pickwick, »that I do not yet comprehend you. Can I live anywhere else? I thought
I could not.«
    At this inquiry Mr. Martin looked, with a countenance of excessive surprise,
at his two friends, and then each gentleman pointed with his right thumb over
his left shoulder. This action, imperfectly described in words by the very
feeble term of over the left, when performed by any number of ladies or
gentlemen who are accustomed to act in unison, has a very graceful and airy
effect; its expression is one of light and playful sarcasm.
    »Can you!« repeated Mr. Martin, with a smile of pity.
    »Well, if I knew as little of life as that, I'd eat my hat and swallow the
buckle whole,« said the clerical gentleman.
    »So would I,« added the sporting one, solemnly.
    After this introductory preface, the three chums informed Mr. Pickwick, in a
breath, that money was, in the Fleet, just what money was out of it; that it
would instantly procure him almost anything he desired; and that, supposing he
had it, and had no objection to spend it, if he only signified his wish to have
a room to himself, he might take possession of one, furnished and fitted to
boot, in half an hour's time.
    With this, the parties separated, very much to their common satisfaction:
Mr. Pickwick once more retracing his steps to the lodge: and the three
companions adjourning to the coffee-room, there to spend the five shillings
which the clerical gentleman had, with admirable prudence and foresight,
borrowed of him for the purpose.
    »I knew it!« said Mr. Roker, with a chuckle, when Mr. Pickwick stated the
object with which he had returned. »Didn't I say so, Neddy?«
    The philosophical owner of the universal penknife, growled an affirmative.
    »I knew you'd want a room for yourself, bless you!« said Mr. Roker. »Let
me see. You'll want some furnitur. You'll hire that of me, I suppose? That's the
reg'lar thing.«
    »With great pleasure,« replied Mr. Pickwick.
    »There's a capital room up in the coffee-room flight, that belongs to a
Chancery prisoner,« said Mr. Roker. »It'll stand you in a pound a-week. I
suppose you don't mind that?«
    »Not at all,« said Mr. Pickwick.
    »Just step there with me,« said Roker, taking up his hat with great
alacrity; »the matter's settled in five minutes. Lord! why didn't you say at
first that you was willing to come down handsome?«
    The matter was soon arranged, as the turnkey had foretold. The Chancery
prisoner had been there long enough to have lost friends, fortune, home, and
happiness, and to have acquired the right of having a room to himself. As he
laboured, however, under the inconvenience of often wanting a morsel of bread,
he eagerly listened to Mr. Pickwick's proposal to rent the apartment, and
readily covenanted and agreed to yield him up the sole and undisturbed
possession thereof, in consideration of the weekly payment of twenty shillings;
from which fund he furthermore contracted to pay out any person or persons that
might be chummed upon it.
    As they struck the bargain, Mr. Pickwick surveyed him with a painful
interest. He was a tall, gaunt, cadaverous man, in an old great-coat and
slippers: with sunken cheeks, and a restless, eager eye. His lips were
bloodless, and his bones sharp and thin. God help him! the iron teeth of
confinement and privation had been slowly filing him down for twenty years.
    »And where will you live meanwhile, sir?« said Mr. Pickwick, as he laid the
amount of the first week's rent, in advance, on the tottering table.
    The man gathered up the money with a trembling hand, and replied that he
didn't know yet; he must go and see where he could move his bed to.
    »I am afraid, sir,« said Mr. Pickwick, laying his hand gently and
compassionately on his arm; »I am afraid you will have to live in some noisy
crowded place. Now, pray, consider this room your own when you want quiet, or
when any of your friends come to see you.«
    »Friends!« interposed the man, in a voice which rattled in his throat. »If I
lay dead at the bottom of the deepest mine in the world; tight screwed down and
soldered in my coffin; rotting in the dark and filthy ditch that drags its slime
along, beneath the foundations of this prison; I could not be more forgotten or
unheeded than I am here. I am a dead man; dead to society, without the pity they
bestow on those whose souls have passed to judgment. Friends to see me! My God!
I have sunk, from the prime of life into old age, in this place, and there is
not one to raise his hand above my bed when I lie dead upon it, and say, It is a
blessing he is gone!«
    The excitement, which had cast an unwonted light over the man's face, while
he spoke, subsided as he concluded; and, pressing his withered hands together in
a hasty and disordered manner, he shuffled from the room.
    »Rides rather rusty,« said Mr. Roker, with a smile. »Ah! they're like the
elephants. They feel it now and then, and it makes 'em wild!«
    Having made this deeply-sympathising remark, Mr. Roker entered upon his
arrangements with such expedition, that in a short time the room was furnished
with a carpet, six chairs, a table, a sofa bedstead, a tea-kettle, and various
small articles, on hire, at the very reasonable rate of seven-and-twenty
shillings and sixpence per week.
    »Now, is there anything more we can do for you?« inquired Mr. Roker, looking
round with great satisfaction, and gaily chinking the first week's hire in his
closed fist.
    »Why, yes,« said Mr. Pickwick, who had been musing deeply for some time.
»Are there any people here, who run on errands, and so forth?«
    »Outside, do you mean?« inquired Mr. Roker.
    »Yes. I mean who are able to go outside. Not prisoners.«
    »Yes, there is,« said Roker. »There's an unfortunate devil, who has got a
friend on the poor side, that's glad to do anything of that sort. He's been
running odd jobs, and that, for the last two months. Shall I send him?«
    »If you please,« rejoined Mr. Pickwick. »Stay; no. The poor side, you say? I
should like to see it. I'll go to him myself.«
    The poor side of a debtor's prison, is, as its name imports, that in which
the most miserable and abject class of debtors are confined. A prisoner having
declared upon the poor side, pays neither rent nor chummage. His fees, upon
entering and leaving the gaol, are reduced in amount, and he becomes entitled to
a share of some small quantities of food: to provide which, a few charitable
persons have, from time to time, left trifling legacies in their wills. Most of
our readers will remember, that, until within a very few years past, there was a
kind of iron cage in the wall of the Fleet Prison, within which was posted some
man of hungry looks, who, from time to time, rattled a money-box, and exclaimed
in a mournful voice, »Pray, remember the poor debtors; pray, remember the poor
debtors.« The receipts of this box, when there were any, were divided among the
poor prisoners; and the men on the poor side relieved each other in this
degrading office.
    Although this custom has been abolished, and the cage is now boarded up, the
miserable and destitute condition of these unhappy persons remains the same. We
no longer suffer them to appeal at the prison gates to the charity and
compassion of the passers by; but we still leave unblotted in the leaves of our
statute book, for the reverence and admiration of succeeding ages, the just and
wholesome law which declares that the sturdy felon shall be fed and clothed, and
that the penniless debtor shall be left to die of starvation and nakedness. This
is no fiction. Not a week passes over our heads, but, in every one of our
prisons for debt, some of these men must inevitably expire in the slow agonies
of want, if they were not relieved by their fellow-prisoners.
    Turning these things in his mind, as he mounted the narrow staircase at the
foot of which Roker had left him, Mr. Pickwick gradually worked himself to the
boiling-over point; and so excited was he with his reflections on this subject,
that he had burst into the room to which he had been directed, before he had any
distinct recollection, either of the place in which he was, or of the object of
his visit.
    The general aspect of the room recalled him to himself at once; but he had
no sooner cast his eyes on the figure of a man who was brooding over the dusty
fire, than, letting his hat fall on the floor, he stood perfectly fixed, and
immoveable, with astonishment.
    Yes; in tattered garments, and without a coat; his common calico shirt,
yellow and in rags; his hair hanging over his face; his features changed with
suffering, and pinched with famine; there sat Mr. Alfred Jingle: his head
resting on his hand, his eyes fixed upon the fire, and his whole appearance
denoting misery and dejection!
    Near him, leaning listlessly against the wall, stood a strong-built
countryman, flicking with a worn-out hunting-whip the top-boot that adorned his
right foot: his left being (for he dressed by easy stages) thrust into an old
slipper. Horses, dogs, and drink, had brought him there, pell-mell. There was a
rusty spur on the solitary boot, which he occasionally jerked into the empty
air, at the same time giving the boot a smart blow, and muttering some of the
sounds by which a sportsman encourages his horse. He was riding, in imagination,
some desperate steeple-chase at that moment. Poor wretch! He never rode a match
on the swiftest animal in his costly stud, with half the speed at which he had
torn along the course that ended in the Fleet.
    On the opposite side of the room an old man was seated on a small wooden
box, with his eyes riveted on the floor, and his face settled into an
expression of the deepest and most hopeless despair. A young girl - his little
grand-daughter - was hanging about him: endeavouring, with a thousand childish
devices, to engage his attention; but the old man neither saw nor heard her. The
voice that had been music to him, and the eyes that had been light, fell coldly
on his senses. His limbs were shaking with disease, and the palsy had fastened
on his mind.
    There were two or three other men in the room, congregated in a little knot,
and noisily talking among themselves. There was a lean and haggard woman, too -
a prisoner's wife - who was watering, with great solicitude, the wretched stump
of a dried-up, withered plant, which, it was plain to see, could never send
forth a green leaf again; - too true an emblem, perhaps, of the office she had
come there to discharge.
    Such were the objects which presented themselves to Mr. Pickwick's view, as
he looked round him in amazement. The noise of some one stumbling hastily into
the room, roused him. Turning his eyes towards the door, they encountered the
new comer; and in him, through his rags and dirt, he recognised the familiar
features of Mr. Job Trotter.
    »Mr. Pickwick!« exclaimed Job aloud.
    »Eh?« said Jingle, starting from his seat. »Mr. --! So it is - queer place -
strange thing - serves me right - very.« Mr. Jingle thrust his hands into the
place where his trousers pockets used to be, and, dropping his chin upon his
breast, sank back into his chair.
    Mr. Pickwick was affected; the two men looked so very miserable. The sharp
involuntary glance Jingle had cast at a small piece of raw loin of mutton, which
Job had brought in with him, said more of their reduced state than two hours'
explanation could have done. Mr. Pickwick looked mildly at Jingle, and said:
    »I should like to speak to you in private. Will you step out for an
instant?«
    »Certainly,« said Jingle, rising hastily. »Can't step far - no danger of
over-walking yourself here - Spike park - grounds pretty - romantic, but not
extensive - open for public inspection - family always in town - housekeeper
desperately careful - very.«
    »You have forgotten your coat,« said Mr. Pickwick, as they walked out to the
staircase, and closed the door after them.
    »Eh?« said Jingle. »Spout - dear relation - uncle Tom - couldn't help it -
must eat, you know. Wants of nature - and all that.«
    »What do you mean?«
    »Gone, my dear sir - last coat - can't help it. Lived on a pair of boots -
whole fortnight. Silk umbrella - ivory handle - week - fact - honour - ask Job -
knows it.«
    »Lived for three weeks upon a pair of boots, and a silk umbrella with an
ivory handle!« exclaimed Mr. Pickwick, who had only heard of such things in
shipwrecks, or read of them in Constable's Miscellany.
    »True,« said Jingle, nodding his head. »Pawnbroker's shop - duplicates here
- small sums - mere nothing - all rascals.«
    »Oh,« said Mr. Pickwick, much relieved by this explanation; »I understand
you. You have pawned your wardrobe.«
    »Everything - Job's too - all shirts gone - never mind - saves washing.
Nothing soon - lie in bed - starve - die - Inquest - little bone-house - poor
prisoner - common necessaries - hush it up - gentlemen of the jury - warden's
tradesmen - keep it snug - natural death - coroner's order - workhouse funeral -
serve him right - all over - drop the curtain.«
    Jingle delivered this singular summary or his prospects in life, with his
accustomed volubility, and with various twitches of the countenance to
counterfeit smiles. Mr. Pickwick easily perceived that his recklessness was
assumed, and looking him full, but not unkindly, in the face, saw that his eyes
were moist with tears.
    »Good fellow,« said Jingle, pressing his hand, and turning his head away.
»Ungrateful dog - boyish to cry - can't help it - bad fever - weak - ill -
hungry. Deserved it all - but suffered much - very.« Wholly unable to keep up
appearances any longer, and perhaps rendered worse by the effort he had made,
the dejected stroller sat down on the stairs, and, covering his face with his
hands, sobbed like a child.
    »Come, come,« said Mr. Pickwick, with considerable emotion, »we'll see what
can be done, when I know all about the matter. Here, Job; where is that fellow?«
    »Here, sir,« replied Job, presenting himself on the staircase. We have
described him, by-the-bye, as having deeply-sunken eyes, in the best of times.
In his present state of want and distress, he looked as if those features had
gone out of town altogether.
    »Here, sir,« cried Job.
    »Come here, sir,« said Mr. Pickwick, trying to look stern, with four large
tears running down his waistcoat. »Take that, sir.«
    Take what? In the ordinary acceptation of such language, it should have been
a blow. As the world runs, it ought to have been a sound, hearty cuff; for Mr.
Pickwick had been duped, deceived, and wronged by the destitute outcast who was
now wholly in his power. Must we tell the truth? It was something from Mr.
Pickwick's waistcoat-pocket, which chinked as it was given into Job's hand, and
the giving of which, somehow or other imparted a sparkle to the eye, and a
swelling to the heart, of our excellent old friend, as he hurried away.
    Sam had returned when Mr. Pickwick reached his own room, and was inspecting
the arrangements that had been made for his comfort, with a kind of grim
satisfaction which was very pleasant to look upon. Having a decided objection to
his master's being there at all, Mr. Weller appeared to consider it a high moral
duty not to appear too much pleased with anything that was done, said,
suggested, or proposed.
    »Well, Sam,« said Mr. Pickwick.
    »Well, sir,« replied Mr. Weller.
    »Pretty comfortable now, eh, Sam?«
    »Pretty vell, sir,« responded Sam, looking round him in a disparaging
manner.
    »Have you seen Mr. Tupman and our other friends?«
    »Yes, I have seen 'em, sir, and they're a comin' to-morrow, and wos very
much surprised to hear they warn't to come to-day,« replied Sam.
    »You have brought the things I wanted?«
    Mr. Weller in reply pointed to various packages which he had arranged, as
neatly as he could, in a corner of the room.
    »Very well, Sam,« said Mr. Pickwick, after a little hesitation; »listen to
what I am going to say, Sam.«
    »Cert'nly, sir,« rejoined Mr. Weller, »fire away, sir.«
    »I have felt from the first, Sam,« said Mr. Pickwick, with much solemnity,
»that this is not the place to bring a young man to.«
    »Nor an old 'un neither, sir,« observed Mr. Weller.
    »You're quite right, Sam,« said Mr. Pickwick; »but old men may come here,
through their own heedlessness and unsuspicion: and young men may be brought
here by the selfishness of those they serve. It is better for those young men,
in every point of view, that they should not remain here. Do you understand me,
Sam?«
    »Vy no, sir, I do NOT,« replied Mr. Weller, doggedly.
    »Try, Sam,« said Mr. Pickwick.
    »Vell, sir,« rejoined Sam, after a short pause, »I think I see your drift;
and if I do see your drift, it's my 'pinion that you 're a comin' it a great
deal too strong, as the mail-coachman said to the snow-storm, ven it overtook
him.«
    »I see you comprehend me, Sam,« said Mr. Pickwick. »Independently of my wish
that you should not be idling about a place like this, for years to come, I feel
that for a debtor in the Fleet to be attended by his man-servant is a monstrous
absurdity. Sam,« said Mr. Pickwick, »for a time, you must leave me.«
    »Oh, for a time, eh, sir?« rejoined Mr. Weller, rather sarcastically.
    »Yes, for the time that I remain here,« said Mr. Pickwick. »Your wages I
shall continue to pay. Any one of my three friends will be happy to take you,
were it only out of respect to me. And if I ever do leave this place, Sam,«
added Mr. Pickwick, with assumed cheerfulness: »if I do, I pledge you my word
that you shall return to me instantly.«
    »Now I'll tell you wot it is, sir,« said Mr. Weller, in a grave and solemn
voice, »This here sort o' thing won't do at all, so don't let's hear no more
about it.«
    »I am serious, and resolved, Sam,« said Mr. Pickwick.
    »You air, air you, sir?« inquired Mr. Weller, firmly. »Wery good, sir. Then
so am I.«
    Thus speaking, Mr. Weller fixed his hat on his head with great precision,
and abruptly left the room.
    »Sam!« cried Mr. Pickwick, calling after him, »Sam! Here!«
    But the long gallery ceased to re-echo the sound of footsteps. Sam Weller
was gone.
 

                                 Chapter XLIII

              Showing How Mr. Samuel Weller Got into Difficulties.

In a lofty room, ill-lighted and worse ventilated, situate in Portugal Street,
Lincoln's Inn Fields, there sit nearly the whole year round, one, two, three, or
four gentlemen in wigs, as the case may be, with little writing desks before
them, constructed after the fashion of those used by the judges of the land,
barring the French polish. There is a box of barristers on their right hand;
there is an inclosure of insolvent debtors on their left; and there is an
inclined plane of most especially dirty faces in their front. These gentlemen
are the Commissioners of the Insolvent Court, and the place in which they sit,
is the Insolvent Court itself.
    It is, and has been, time out of mind, the remarkable fate of this Court to
be, somehow or other, held and understood, by the general consent of all the
destitute shabby-genteel people in London, as their common resort, and place of
daily refuge. It is always full. The steams of beer and spirits perpetually
ascend to the ceiling, and, being condensed by the heat, roll down the walls
like rain; there are more old suits of clothes in it at one time, than will be
offered for sale in all Houndsditch in a twelvemonth; more unwashed skins and
grizzly beards than all the pumps and shaving-shops between Tyburn and
Whitechapel could render decent, between sunrise and sunset.
    It must not be supposed that any of these people have the least shadow of
business in, or the remotest connection with, the place they so indefatigably
attend. If they had, it would be no matter of surprise, and the singularity of
the thing would cease. Some of them sleep during the greater part of the
sitting; others carry small portable dinners wrapped in pocket-handkerchiefs or
sticking out of their worn-out pockets, and munch and listen with equal relish;
but no one among them was ever known to have the slightest personal interest in
any case that was ever brought forward. Whatever they do, there they sit from
the first moment to the last. When it is heavy rainy weather, they all come in,
wet through; and at such times the vapours of the Court are like those of a
fungus-pit.
    A casual visitor might suppose this place to be a Temple dedicated to the
Genius of Seediness. There is not a messenger or process-server attached to it,
who wears a coat that was made for him; not a tolerably fresh, or
wholesome-looking man in the whole establishment, except a little white-headed
apple- tipstaff, and even he, like an ill-conditioned cherry preserved in
brandy, seems to have artificially dried and withered up into a state of
preservation to which he can lay no natural claim. The very barristers' wigs are
ill-powdered, and their curls lack crispness.
    But the attorneys, who sit at a large bare table below the Commissioners,
are, after all, the greatest curiosities. The professional establishment of the
more opulent of these gentlemen, consists of a blue bag and a boy: generally a
youth of the Jewish persuasion. They have no fixed offices, their legal business
being transacted in the parlours of public-houses, or the yards of prisons:
whither they repair in crowds, and canvass for customers after the manner of
omnibus cads. They are of a greasy and mildewed appearance; and if they can be
said to have any vices at all, perhaps drinking and cheating are the most
conspicuous among them. Their residences are usually on the outskirts of the
Rules chiefly lying within a circle of one mile from the obelisk in St. George's
Fields. Their looks are not prepossessing, and their manners are peculiar.
    Mr. Solomon Pell, one of this learned body, was a fat flabby pale man, in a
surtout which looked green one minute and brown the next: with a velvet collar
of the same cameleon tints. His forehead was narrow, his face wide, his head
large, and his nose all on one side, as if Nature, indignant with the
propensities she observed in him in his birth, had given it an angry tweak which
it had never recovered. Being short-necked and asthmatic, however, he respired
principally through this feature; so, perhaps, what it wanted in ornament, it
made up in usefulness.
    »I'm sure to bring him through it,« said Mr. Pell.
    »Are you though?« replied the person to whom the assurance was pledged.
    »Certain sure,« replied Pell; »but if he'd gone to any irregular
practitioner, mind you, I wouldn't have answered for the consequences.«
    »Ah!« said the other, with open mouth.
    »No, that I wouldn't,« said Mr. Pell; and he pursed up his lips, frowned,
and shook his head mysteriously.
    Now, the place where this discourse occurred, was the public-house just
opposite to the Insolvent Court; and the person with whom it was held, was no
other than the elder Mr. Weller, who had come there, to comfort and console a
friend, whose petition to be discharged under the act, was to be that day heard,
and whose attorney he was at that moment consulting.
    »And vere is George?« inquired the old gentleman.
    Mr. Pell jerked his head in the direction of a back parlour: whither Mr.
Weller at once repairing, was immediately greeted in the warmest and most
flattering manner by some half-dozen of his professional brethren, in token of
their gratification at his arrival. The insolvent gentleman, who had contracted
a speculative but imprudent passion for horsing long stages, which had led to
his present embarrassments, looked extremely well, and was soothing the
excitement of his feelings with shrimps and porter.
    The salutation between Mr. Weller and his friends was strictly confined to
the freemasonry of the craft; consisting of a jerking round of the right wrist,
and a tossing of the little finger into the air at the same time. We once knew
two famous coachmen (they are dead now, poor fellows) who were twins, and
between whom an unaffected and devoted attachment existed. They passed each
other on the Dover road, every day, for twenty-four years, never exchanging any
other greeting than this; and yet, when one died, the other pined away, and soon
afterwards followed him!
    »Vell, George,« said Mr. Weller, senior, taking off his upper coat, and
seating himself with his accustomed gravity. »How is it? All right behind, and
full inside?«
    »All right, old feller,« replied the embarrassed gentleman.
    »Is the grey mare made over to any body?« inquired Mr. Weller, anxiously.
    George nodded in the affirmative.
    »Vell, that's all right,« said Mr. Weller. »Coach taken care on, also?«
    »Con-signed in a safe quarter,« replied George, wringing the heads off
half-a-dozen shrimps, and swallowing them without any more ado.
    »Wery good, very good,« said Mr. Weller. »Alvays see to the drag ven you go
down hill. Is the vay-bill all clear and straight for'erd?«
    »The schedule, sir,« said Pell, guessing at Mr. Weller's meaning, »the
schedule is as plain and satisfactory as pen and ink can make it.«
    Mr. Weller nodded in a manner which bespoke his inward approval of these
arrangements; and then, turning to Mr. Pell, said, pointing to his friend
George:
    »Ven do you take his cloths off?«
    »Why,« replied Mr. Pell, »he stands third on the opposed list, and I should
think it would be his turn in about half an hour. I told my clerk to come over
and tell us when there was a chance.«
    Mr. Weller surveyed the attorney from head to foot with great admiration,
and said emphatically:
    »And what'll you take, sir?«
    »Why, really,« replied Mr. Pell, »you're very -. Upon my word and honour,
I'm not in the habit of -. It's so very early in the morning, that, actually, I
am almost -. Well, you may bring me three penn'orth of rum, my dear.«
    The officiating damsel, who had anticipated the order before it was given,
set the glass of spirits before Pell, and retired.
    »Gentlemen,« said Mr. Pell, looking round upon the company, »Success to your
friend! I don't like to boast, gentlemen; it's not my way; but I can't help
saying, that, if your friend hadn't been fortunate enough to fall into hands
that -- but I won't say what I was going to say. Gentlemen, my service to you.«
Having emptied the glass in a twinkling, Mr. Pell smacked his lips, and looked
complacently round on the assembled coachmen, who evidently regarded him as a
species of divinity.
    »Let me see,« said the legal authority. »What was I a-saying, gentlemen?«
    »I think you was remarkin' as you wouldn't have no objection to another o'
the same, sir,« said Mr. Weller, with grave facetiousness.
    »Ha, ha!« laughed Mr. Pell. »Not bad, not bad. A professional man, too! At
this time of the morning, it would be rather too good a -. Well, I don't know,
my dear - you may do that again, if you please. Hem!«
    This last sound was a solemn and dignified cough, in which Mr. Pell
observing an indecent tendency to mirth in some of his auditors, considered it
due to himself to indulge.
    »The late Lord Chancellor, gentlemen, was very fond of me,« said Mr. Pell.
    »And very creditable in him, too,« interposed Mr. Weller.
    »Hear, hear,« assented Mr. Pell's client. »Why shouldn't he be?«
    »Ah! Why, indeed!« said a very red-faced man, who had said nothing yet, and
who looked extremely unlikely to say anything more. »Why shouldn't he?«
    A murmur of assent ran through the company.
    »I remember, gentlemen,« said Mr. Pell, »dining with him on one occasion; -
there was only us two, but every thing as splendid as if twenty people had been
expected - the great seal on a dumb-waiter at his right hand, and a man in a
bag-wig and suit of armour guarding the mace with a drawn sword and silk
stockings - which is perpetually done, gentlemen, night and day; when he said,
Pell, he said, no false delicacy, Pell. You're a man of talent; you can get any
body through the Insolvent Court, Pell; and your country should be proud of you.
Those were his very words. My Lord, I said, you flatter me. - Pell, he said, if
I do, I'm damned.«
    »Did he say that?« inquired Mr. Weller.
    »He did,« replied Pell.
    »Vell, then,« said Mr. Weller, »I say Parliament ought to ha' took it up;
and if he'd been a poor man, they would ha' done it.«
    »But, my dear friend,« argued Mr. Pell, »it was in confidence.«
    »In what?« said Mr. Weller.
    »In confidence.«
    »Oh! very good,« replied Mr. Weller, after a little reflection. »If he
damned his-self in confidence, o' course that was another thing.«
    »Of course it was,« said Mr. Pell. »The distinction's obvious, you will
perceive.«
    »Alters the case entirely,« said Mr. Weller. »Go on, sir.«
    »No, I will not go on, sir,« said Mr. Pell, in a low and serious tone. »You
have reminded me, sir, that this conversation was private - private and
confidential, gentlemen. Gentlemen, I am a professional man. It may be that I am
a good deal looked up to, in my profession - it may be that I am not. Most
people know. I say nothing. Observations have already been made, in this room,
injurious to the reputation of my noble friend. You will excuse me, gentlemen; I
was imprudent. I feel that I have no right to mention this matter without his
concurrence. Thank you, sir; thank you.« Thus delivering himself, Mr. Pell
thrust his hands into his pockets, and, frowning grimly around, rattled
three-halfpence with terrible determination.
    This virtuous resolution had scarcely been formed, when the boy and the blue
bag, who were inseparable companions, rushed violently into the room, and said
(at least the boy did, for the blue bag took no part in the announcement) that
the case was coming on directly. The intelligence was no sooner received than
the whole party hurried across the street, and began to fight their way into
Court - a preparatory ceremony, which has been calculated to occupy, in ordinary
cases, from twenty-five minutes to thirty.
    Mr. Weller, being stout, cast himself at once into the crowd, with the
desperate hope of ultimately turning up in some place which would suit him. His
success was not quite equal to his expectations; for having neglected to take
his hat off, it was knocked over his eyes by some unseen person, upon whose toes
he had alighted with considerable force. Apparently, this individual regretted
his impetuosity immediately afterwards; for, muttering an indistinct exclamation
of surprise, he dragged the old man out into the hall, and, after a violent
struggle, released his head and face.
    »Samivel!« exclaimed Mr. Weller, when he was thus enabled to behold his
rescuer.
    Sam nodded.
    »You're a dutiful and affectionate little boy, you are, ain't you?« said Mr.
Weller, »to come a bonnetin' your father in his old age?«
    »How should I know who you wos?« responded the son. »Do you s'pose I wos to
tell you by the weight o' your foot?«
    »Vell, that's very true, Sammy,« replied Mr. Weller, mollified at once; »but
wot are you a doing' on here? Your gov'nor can't do no good here, Sammy. They
won't pass that werdick, they won't pass it, Sammy.« And Mr. Weller shook his
head, with legal solemnity.
    »Wot a perwerse old file it is!« exclaimed Sam, »alvays a goin' on about
werdicks and alleybis, and that. Who said anything about the werdick?«
    Mr. Weller made no reply, but once more shook his head most learnedly.
    »Leave off rattlin' that 'ere nob o' yourn, if you don't want it to come off
the springs altogether,« said Sam impatiently, »and behave reasonable. I vent
all the vay down to the Markis o' Granby, arter you, last night.«
    »Did you see the Marchioness o' Granby, Sammy?« inquired Mr. Weller, with a
sigh.
    »Yes, I did,« replied Sam.
    »How wos the dear creature a looking'?«
    »Wery queer,« said Sam. »I think she's a injurin' herself gradivally with
too much o' that 'ere pine-apple rum, and other strong medicines o' the same
natur.«
    »You don't mean that, Sammy?« said the senior, earnestly.
    »I do, indeed,« replied the junior.
    Mr. Weller seized his son's hand, clasped it, and let it fall. There was an
expression on his countenance in doing so - not of dismay or apprehension, but
partaking more of the sweet and gentle character of hope. A gleam of
resignation, and even of cheerfulness, passed over his face too, as he slowly
said, »I ain't quite certain, Sammy; I wouldn't like to say I wos altogether
positive, in case of any subsekent disappintment, but I rather think, my boy, I
rather think, that the shepherd's got the liver complaint!«
    »Does he look bad?« inquired Sam.
    »He's uncommon pale,« replied his father, »'cept about the nose, wich is
redder than ever. His appetite is very so-so, but he imbibes wunderful.«
    Some thoughts of the rum appeared to obtrude themselves on Mr. Weller's
mind, as he said this; for he looked gloomy and thoughtful; but he very shortly
recovered, as was testified by a perfect alphabet of winks, in which he was only
wont to indulge when particularly pleased.
    »Vell, now,« said Sam, »about my affair. Just open them ears o' yourn, and
don't say nothing' till I've done.« With this brief preface, Sam related, as
succinctly as he could, the last memorable conversation he had had with Mr.
Pickwick.
    »Stop there by himself, poor creature!« exclaimed the elder Mr. Weller,
»without nobody to take his part! It can't be done, Samivel, it can't be done.«
    »O' course it can't,« asserted Sam: »I know'd that, afore I came.«
    »Wy, they'll eat him up alive, Sammy,« exclaimed Mr. Weller.
    Sam nodded his concurrence in the opinion.
    »He goes in rather raw, Sammy,« said Mr. Weller metaphorically, »and he'll
come out, done so ex-ceedin' brown, that his most familiar friends won't know
him. Roast pigeon's nothing' to it, Sammy.«
    Again Sam Weller nodded.
    »It oughtn't to be, Samivel,« said Mr. Weller, gravely.
    »It mustn't be,« said Sam.
    »Cert'nly not,« said Mr. Weller.
    »Vell now,« said Sam, »you've been a prophecyin' away, very fine, like a
red-faced Nixon as the sixpenny books gives picters on.«
    »Who wos he, Sammy?« inquired Mr. Weller.
    »Never mind who he was,« retorted Sam; »he warn't a coachman; that's enough
for you.«
    »I know'd a ostler o' that name,« said Mr. Weller, musing.
    »It warn't him,« said Sam. »This here gen'l'm'n was a prophet.«
    »Wot's a prophet?« inquired Mr. Weller, looking sternly on his son.
    »Wy, a man as tells what's a goin' to happen,« replied Sam.
    »I wish I'd know'd him, Sammy,« said Mr. Weller. »P'raps he might ha'
throw'd a small light on that 'ere liver complaint as we wos a speakin' on, just
now. Hows'ever, if he's dead, and ain't left the bisness to nobody, there's an
end on it. Go on, Sammy,« said Mr. Weller, with a sigh.
    »Well,« said Sam, »you've been a prophecyin' away, about wot'll happen to
the gov'nor if he's left alone. Don't you see any vay o' taken' care on him?«
    »No, I don't, Sammy,« said Mr. Weller, with a reflective visage.
    »No vay at all?« inquired Sam.
    »No vay,« said Mr. Weller, »unless« - and a gleam of intelligence lighted up
his countenance as he sunk his voice to a whisper, and applied his mouth to the
ear of his offspring: »unless it is getting him out in a turn-up bedstead,
unbeknown to the turnkeys, Sammy, or dressin' him up like a old 'ooman with a
green wail.«
    Sam Weller received both of these suggestions with unexpected contempt, and
again propounded his question.
    »No,« said the old gentleman; »if he von't let you stop there, I see no vay
at all. It's no thoroughfare, Sammy, no thoroughfare.«
    »Well, then, I'll tell you wot it is,« said Sam, »I'll trouble you for the
loan of five-and-twenty pound.«
    »Wot good 'ull that do?« inquired Mr. Weller.
    »Never mind,« replied Sam. »P'raps you may ask for it, five minits
artervards; p'raps I may say I von't pay, and cut up rough. You von't think o'
arrestin' your own son for the money, and sendin' him off to the Fleet, will
you, you unnat'ral wagabone?«
    At this reply of Sam's, the father and son exchanged a complete code of
telegraphic nods and gestures, after which, the elder Mr. Weller sat himself
down on a stone step, and laughed till he was purple.
    »Wot a old image it is!« exclaimed Sam, indignant at this loss of time.
»What are you a settin' down there for, con-wertin' your face into a street-door
knocker, wen there's so much to be done. Where's the money?«
    »In the boot, Sammy, in the boot,« replied Mr. Weller, composing his
features. »Hold my hat, Sammy.«
    Having divested himself of this encumbrance, Mr. Weller gave his body a
sudden wrench to one side, and, by a dexterous twist, contrived to get his right
hand into a most capacious pocket, from whence, after a great deal of panting
and exertion, he extricated a pocket-book of the large octavo size, fastened by
a huge leathern strap. From this ledger he drew forth a couple of whip-lashes,
three or four buckles, a little sample-bag of corn, and finally a small roll of
very dirty bank-notes: from which he selected the required amount, which he
handed over to Sam.
    »And now, Sammy,« said the old gentleman, when the whip-lashes, and the
buckles, and the samples, had been all put back, and the book once more
deposited at the bottom of the same pocket, »Now, Sammy, I know a gen'l'm'n
here, as'll do the rest o' the bisness for us, in no time - a limb o' the law,
Sammy, as has got brains like the frogs, dispersed all over his body, and
reachin' to the very tips of his fingers; a friend of the Lord Chancellorship's,
Sammy, who'd only have to tell him what he wanted, and he'd lock you up for
life, if that wos all.«
    »I say,« said Sam, »none o' that.«
    »None o' wot?« inquired Mr. Weller.
    »Wy, none o' them unconstitootional ways o' doing it,« retorted Sam. »The
have-his-carcase, next to the perpetual motion, is vun of the blessedest things
as wos ever made. I've read that 'ere in the newspapers, very of'en.«
    »Well, wot's that got to do with it?« inquired Mr. Weller.
    »Just this here,« said Sam, »that I'll patronise the inwention, and go in,
that vay. No visperin's to the Chancellorship, I don't like the notion. It
mayn't be altogether safe, with reference to getting' out again.«
    Deferring to his son's feeling upon this point, Mr. Weller at once sought
the erudite Solomon Pell, and acquainted him with his desire to issue a writ,
instantly, for the sum of twenty-five pounds, and costs of process; to be
executed without delay upon the body of one Samuel Weller; the charges thereby
incurred, to be paid in advance to Solomon Pell.
    The attorney was in high glee, for the embarrassed coach-horser was ordered
to be discharged forthwith. He highly approved of Sam's attachment to his
master; declared that it strongly reminded him of his own feelings of devotion
to his friend, the Chancellor; and at once led the elder Mr. Weller down to the
Temple, to swear the affidavit of debt, which the boy, with the assistance of
the blue bag, had drawn up on the spot.
    Meanwhile, Sam, having been formally introduced to the whitewashed gentleman
and his friends, as the offspring of Mr. Weller, of the Belle Savage, was
treated with marked distinction, and invited to regale himself with them in
honour of the occasion; an invitation which he was by no means backward in
accepting.
    The mirth of gentlemen of this class is of a grave and quiet character,
usually; but the present instance was one of peculiar festivity, and they
relaxed in proportion. After some rather tumultuous toasting of the Chief
Commissioner and Mr. Solomon Pell, who had that day displayed such transcendent
abilities, a mottled-faced gentleman in a blue shawl proposed that somebody
should sing a song. The obvious suggestion was, that the mottled-faced
gentleman, being anxious for a song, should sing it himself; but this the
mottled-faced gentleman sturdily, and somewhat offensively, declined to do. Upon
which, as is not unusual in such cases, a rather angry colloquy ensued.
    »Gentlemen,« said the coach-horser, »rather than disturb the harmony of this
delightful occasion, perhaps Mr. Samuel Weller will oblige the company.«
    »Raly, gentlemen,« said Sam, »I'm not very much in the habit o' singin'
without the instrument; but anything' for a quiet life, as the man said wen he
took the sitivation at the lighthouse.«
    With this prelude, Mr. Samuel Weller burst at once into the following wild
and beautiful legend, which, under the impression that it is not generally
known, we take the liberty of quoting. We would beg to call particular attention
to the monosyllable at the end of the second and fourth lines, which not only
enables the singer to take breath at those points, but greatly assists the
metre.
 

                                    Romance.

                                       I.
 
Bold Turpin vunce, on Hounslow Heath,
His bold mare Bess bestrode - er;
Ven there he see'd the Bishop's coach
A-coming along the road - er.
So he gallops close to the 'orse's legs,
And he claps his head vithin;
And the Bishop says, »Sure as eggs is eggs,
This here's the bold Turpin!«
 
                                    Chorus.
 
And the Bishop says, »Sure as eggs is eggs,
This here's the bold Turpin!«
 
                                      II.
 
Says Turpin, »Yon shall eat your words,
With a sarse of leaden bul-let;«
So he puts a pistol to his mouth,
And he fires it down his gul-let.
The coachman he not likin' the job,
Set off at a full gal-lop,
But Dick put a couple of balls in his nob,
And perwailed on him to stop.
 
                            Chorus (sarcastically).
 
But Dick put a couple of balls in his nob,
And perwailed on him to stop.
 
»I maintain that that 'ere song's personal to the cloth,« said the mottled-faced
gentleman, interrupting it at this point. »I demand the name o' that coachman.«
    »Nobody know'd,« replied Sam. »He hadn't got his card in his pocket.«
    »I object to the introduction o' politics,« said the mottle-faced gentleman.
»I submit that, in the present company, that 'ere song's political; and, wot's
much the same, that it ain't true. I say that that coachman did not run away;
but that he died game - game as pheasants; and I won't hear nothing' said to the
contrairey.«
    As the mottle-faced gentleman spoke with great energy and determination: and
as the opinions of the company seemed divided on the subject: it threatened to
give rise to fresh altercation, when Mr. Weller and Mr. Pell most opportunely
arrived.
    »All right, Sammy,« said Mr. Weller.
    »The officer will be here at four o'clock,« said Mr. Pell. »I suppose you
won't run away meanwhile, eh? Ha! ha!«
    »P'raps my cruel pa 'ull relent afore then,« replied Sam, with a broad grin.
    »Not I,« said the elder Mr. Weller.
    »Do,« said Sam.
    »Not on no account,« replied the inexorable creditor.
    »I'll give bills for the amount, at sixpence a month,« said Sam.
    »I won't take 'em,« said Mr. Weller.
    »Ha, ha, ha! very good, very good,« said Mr. Solomon Pell, who was making
out his little bill of costs; »a very amusing incident indeed! Benjamin, copy
that.« And Mr. Pell smiled again, as he called Mr. Weller's attention to the
amount.
    »Thank you, thank you,« said the professional gentleman, taking up another
of the greasy notes as Mr. Weller took it from the pocket-book. »Three ten and
one ten is five. Much obliged to you, Mr. Weller. Your son is a most deserving
young man, very much so indeed, sir. It's a very pleasant trait in a young man's
character, very much so,« added Mr. Pell, smiling smoothly round, as he buttoned
up the money.
    »Wot a game it is!« said the elder Mr. Weller, with a chuckle. »A reg'lar
prodigy son!«
    »Prodigal, prodigal son, sir,« suggested Mr. Pell, mildly.
    »Never mind, sir,« said Mr. Weller, with dignity. »I know wot's o'clock,
sir. Wen I don't, I'll ask you, sir.«
    By the time the officer arrived, Sam had made himself so extremely popular,
that the congregated gentlemen determined to see him to prison in a body. So,
off they set; the plaintiff and defendant walking arm-in-arm; the officer in
front; and eight stout coachmen bringing up the rear. At Serjeant's Inn
Coffee-house the whole party halted to refresh, and, the legal arrangements
being completed, the procession moved on again.
    Some little commotion was occasioned in Fleet Street, by the pleasantry of
the eight gentlemen in the flank, who persevered in walking four abreast; it was
also found necessary to leave the mottle-faced gentleman behind, to fight a
ticket-porter, it being arranged that his friends should call for him as they
came back. Nothing but these little incidents occurred on the way. When they
reached the gate of the Fleet, the cavalcade, taking the time from the
plaintiff, gave three tremendous cheers for the defendant, and, after having
shaken hands all round, left him.
    Sam, having been formally delivered into the warden's custody, to the
intense astonishment of Roker, and to the evident emotion of even the phlegmatic
Neddy, passed at once into the prison, walked straight to his master's room, and
knocked at the door.
    »Come in,« said Mr. Pickwick.
    Sam appeared, pulled off his hat, and smiled.
    »Ah, Sam, my good lad!« said Mr. Pickwick, evidently delighted to see his
humble friend again; »I had no intention of hurting your feelings yesterday, my
faithful fellow, by what I said. Put down your hat, Sam, and let me explain my
meaning, a little more at length.«
    »Won't presently do, sir?« inquired Sam.
    »Certainly,« said Mr. Pickwick; »but why not now?«
    »I'd rather not now, sir,« rejoined Sam.
    »Why?« inquired Mr. Pickwick.
    »'Cause -« said Sam, hesitating.
    »Because of what?« inquired Mr. Pickwick, alarmed at his follower's manner.
»Speak out, Sam.«
    »'Cause,« rejoined Sam; »'cause I've got a little bisness as I want to do.«
    »What business?« inquired Mr. Pickwick, surprised at Sam's confused manner.
    »Nothin' particular, sir,« replied Sam.
    »Oh, if it's nothing particular,« said Mr. Pickwick, with a smile, »you can
speak with me first«.
    »I think I'd better see arter it at once,« said Sam, still hesitating.
    Mr. Pickwick looked amazed, but said nothing.
    »The fact is,« said Sam, stopping short.
    »Well!« said Mr. Pickwick. »Speak out, Sam.«
    »Why, the fact is,« said Sam, with a desperate effort, »P'raps I'd better
see arter my bed afore I do anything' else.«
    »Your bed!« exclaimed Mr. Pickwick, in astonishment.
    »Yes, my bed, sir,« replied Sam. »I'm a pris'ner. I was arrested, this here
very arternoon, for debt.«
    »You arrested for debt!« exclaimed Mr. Pickwick, sinking into a chair.
    »Yes, for debt, sir,« replied Sam. »And the man as puts me in, 'ull never
let me out, till you go yourself.«
    »Bless my heart and soul!« ejaculated Mr. Pickwick. »What do you mean?«
    »Wot I say, sir,« rejoined Sam. »If it's forty year to come, I shall be a
pris'ner, and I'm very glad on it, and if it had been Newgate, it would ha' been
just the same. Now the murder's out, and, damme, there's an end on it!«
    With these words, which he repeated with great emphasis and violence, Sam
Weller dashed his hat upon the ground, in a most unusual state of excitement;
and then, folding his arms, looked firmly and fixedly in his master's face.
 

                                  Chapter XLIV

Treats of Divers Little Matters Which Occurred in the Fleet, and of Mr. Winkle's
  Mysterious Behaviour; and Shows How the Poor Chancery Prisoner Obtained His
                                Release at Last.

Mr. Pickwick felt a great deal too much touched by the warmth of Sam's
attachment, to be able to exhibit any manifestation of anger or displeasure at
the precipitate course he had adopted, in voluntarily consigning himself to a
debtors' prison, for an indefinite period. The only point on which he persevered
in demanding any explanation, was, the name of Sam's detaining creditor; but
this Mr. Weller as perseveringly withheld.
    »It ain't o' no use, sir,« said Sam, again and again. »He's a ma-licious,
bad-disposed, vorldly-minded, spiteful, windictive creature, with a hard heart as
there ain't no soft'nin'. As the wirtuous clergyman remarked of the old
gen'l'm'n with the dropsy, ven he said, that upon the whole he thought he'd
rather leave his property to his vife than build a chapel with it.«
    »But consider, Sam,« Mr. Pickwick remonstrated, »the sum is so small that it
can very easily be paid; and having made up my mind that you shall stop with me,
you should recollect how much more useful you would be, if you could go outside
the walls.«
    »Wery much obliged to you, sir,« replied Mr. Weller gravely; »but I'd
rather not.«
    »Rather not do what, Sam?«
    »Wy, I'd rather not let myself down to ask a favour o' this here
unremorseful enemy.«
    »But it is no favour asking him to take his money, Sam,« reasoned Mr.
Pickwick.
    »Beg your pardon, sir,« rejoined Sam; »but it 'ud be a very great favour to
pay it, and he don't deserve none; that's where it is, sir.«
    Here Mr. Pickwick, rubbing his nose with an air of some vexation, Mr. Weller
thought it prudent to change the theme of the discourse.
    »I takes my determination on principle, sir,« remarked Sam, »and you takes
yours on the same ground; wich puts me in mind o' the man as killed his-self on
principle, wich o' course you've heard on, sir.« Mr. Weller paused when he
arrived at this point, and cast a comical look at his master out of the corners
of his eyes.
    »There is no of course in the case, Sam,« said Mr. Pickwick, gradually
breaking into a smile, in spite of the uneasiness which Sam's obstinacy had
given him. »The fame of the gentleman in question, never reached my ears.«
    »No, sir!« exclaimed Mr. Weller. »You astonish me, sir; he wos a clerk in a
gov'ment office, sir.«
    »Was he?« said Mr. Pickwick.
    »Yes, he wos, sir,« rejoined Mr. Weller; »and a very pleasant gen'l'm'n too
- one o' the precise and tidy sort, as puts their feet in little India-rubber
fire-buckets wen its wet weather, and never has no other bosom friends but
hare-skins; he saved up his money on principle, wore a clean shirt ev'ry day on
principle; never spoke to none of his relations on principle, 'fear they should'd
want to borrow money of him; and wos altogether, in fact, an uncommon agreeable
character. He had his hair cut on principle vunce a fortnight, and contracted
for his clothes on the economic principle - three suits a year, and send back
the old uns. Being a very reg'lar gen'l'm'n, he din'd ev'ry day at the same
place, where it wos one and nine to cut off the joint, and a very good one and
nine's worth he used to cut, as the landlord often said, with the tears a
tricklin' down his face: let alone the way he used to poke the fire in the
vinter time, which wos a dead loss o' four-pence ha'penny a day: to say nothing'
at all o' the aggrawation o' seein' him do it. So uncommon grand with it too!
Post arter the next gen'lm'n', he sings out ev'ry day ven he comes in. See arter
the Times, Thomas; let me look at the Mornin' Herald, wen it's out o' hand;
don't forget to bespeak the Chronicle; and just bring the 'Tizer, vill you: and
then he'd set with his eyes fixed on the clock, and rush out, just a quarter of
a minit afore the time, to waylay the boy as wos a comin' in with the evenin'
paper, wich he'd read with such intense interest and persewerance as worked the
other customers up to the very confines o' desperation and insanity, 'specially
one i-rascible old gen'l'm'n as the vaiter wos always obliged to keep a sharp
eye on, at such times, fear he should be tempted to commit some rash act with
the carving knife. Vell, sir, here he'd stop, occupyin' the best place for three
hours, and never taken' nothing' arter his dinner, but sleep, and then he'd go
away to a coffee-house a few streets off, and have a small pot o' coffee and
four crumpets, arter wich he'd walk home to Kensington and go to bed. One night
he wos took very ill; sends for a doctor; doctor comes in a green fly, with a
kind o' Robinson Crusoe set o' steps, as he could let down wen he got out, and
pull up arter him wen he got in, to perwent the necessity o' the coachman's
getting' down, and thereby undeceivin' the public by lettin' 'em see that it wos
only a livery coat as he'd got on, and not the trousers to match. Wot's the
matter? says the doctor. Wery ill, says the patient. Wot have you been a eatin'
on? says the doctor. Roast weal, says the patient. Wot's the last thing you
dewoured? says the doctor. Crumpets, says the patient. That's it! says the
doctor. I'll send you a box of pills directly, and don't you never take no more
of 'em, he says. No more o' wot? says the patient - Pills? No; crumpets, says
the doctor. Wy? says the patient, starting up in bed; I've eat four crumpets,
ev'ry night for fifteen year, on principle. Well, then, you'd better leave 'em
off, on principle, says the doctor. Crumpets is wholesome, sir, says the
patient. Crumpets is not wholesome, sir, says the doctor, very fierce. But
they're so cheap, says the patient, comin' down a little, and so very fillin' at
the price. They'd be dear to you, at any price; dear if you wos paid to eat 'em,
says the doctor. Four crumpets a night, he says, vill do your business in six
months! The patient looks him full in the face, and turns it over in his mind
for a long time, and at last he says, Are you sure o' that 'ere, sir? I'll stake
my professional reputation on it, says the doctor. How many crumpets, at a
sittin', do you think 'ud kill me off at once? says the patient. I don't know,
says the doctor. Do you think half a crown's wurth 'ud do it? says the patient.
I think it might, says the doctor. Three shillins' wurth 'ud be sure to do it, I
s'pose? says the patient. Certainly, says the doctor. Wery good, says the
patient; good night. Next mornin' he gets up, has a fire lit, orders in three
shillins' wurth o' crumpets, toasts 'em all, eats 'em all, and blows his brains
out.«
    »What did he do that for?« inquired Mr. Pickwick abruptly; for he was
considerably startled by this tragical termination of the narrative.
    »Wot did he do it for, sir?« reiterated Sam. »Wy in support of his great
principle that crumpets wos wholesome, and to show that he wouldn't be put out
of his way for nobody!«
    With such like shiftings and changings of the discourse, did Mr. Weller meet
his master's questioning on the night of his taking up his residence in the
Fleet. Finding all gentle remonstrance useless, Mr. Pickwick at length yielded a
reluctant consent to his taking lodgings by the week, of a bald-headed cobbler,
who rented a small slip-room in one of the upper galleries. To this humble
apartment Mr. Weller moved a mattress and bedding, which he hired of Mr. Roker;
and, by the time he lay down upon it at night, was as much at home as if he had
been bred in the prison, and his whole family had vegetated therein for three
generations.
    »Do you always smoke arter you goes to bed, old cock?« inquired Mr. Weller
of his landlord, when they had both retired for the night.
    »Yes, I does, young bantam,« replied the cobbler.
    »Will you allow me to in-quire wy you make up your bed under that 'ere deal
table?« said Sam.
    »'Cause I was always used to a four-poster afore I came here, and I find the
legs of the table answer just as well,« replied the cobbler.
    »You're a character, sir,« said Sam.
    »I haven't got anything of the kind belonging to me,« rejoined the cobbler,
shaking his head; »and if you want to meet with a good one, I'm afraid you'll
find some difficulty in suiting yourself at this register office.«
    The above short dialogue took place as Mr. Weller lay extended on his
mattress at one end of the room, and the cobbler on his, at the other; the
apartment being illumined by the light of a rush candle, and the cobbler's pipe,
which was glowing below the table, like a red-hot coal. The conversation, brief
as it was, predisposed Mr. Weller strongly in his landlord's favour; and raising
himself on his elbow he took a more lengthened survey of his appearance than he
had yet had either time or inclination to make.
    He was a sallow man - all cobblers are; and had a strong bristly beard - all
cobblers have. His face was a queer, good-tempered, crooked-featured piece of
workmanship, ornamented with a couple of eyes that must have worn a very joyous
expression at one time, for they sparkled yet. The man was sixty, by years, and
Heaven knows how old by imprisonment, so that his having any look approaching to
mirth or contentment, was singular enough. He was a little man, and, being half
doubled up as he lay in bed, looked about as long as he ought to have been
without his legs. He had a great red pipe in his mouth, and was smoking, and
staring at the rush-light, in a state of enviable placidity.
    »Have you been here long?« inquired Sam, breaking the silence which had
lasted for some time.
    »Twelve year,« replied the cobbler, biting the end of his pipe as he spoke.
    »Contempt?« inquired Sam.
    The cobbler nodded.
    »Well, then,« said Sam, with some sternness, »wot do you persevere in bein'
obstinit for, vastin' your precious life away in this here magnified pound? Wy
don't you give in, and tell the Chancellorship that you're very sorry for making'
his court contemptible, and you won't do so no more?«
    The cobbler put his pipe in the corner of his mouth, while he smiled, and
then brought it back to its old place again; but said nothing.
    »Wy don't you?« said Sam, urging his question strenuously.
    »Ah,« said the cobbler, »you don't quite understand these matters. What do
you suppose ruined me, now?«
    »Wy,« said Sam, trimming the rush-light, »I s'pose the beginnin' wos, that
you got into debt, eh?«
    »Never owed a farden,« said the cobbler; »try again.«
    »Well, perhaps,« said Sam, »you bought houses, wich is delicate English for
goin' mad: or took to buildin', wich is a medical term for bein' incurable.«
    The cobbler shook his head and said, »Try again.«
    »You didn't go to law, I hope?« said Sam, suspiciously.
    »Never in my life,« replied the cobbler. »The fact is, I was ruined by
having money left me.«
    »Come, come,« said Sam, »that von't do. I wish some rich enemy 'ud try to
vork my destruction in that 'ere vay. I'd let him.«
    »Oh, I dare say you don't believe it,« said the cobbler, quietly smoking his
pipe. »I wouldn't if I was you; but it's true for all that.«
    »How wos it?« inquired Sam, half induced to believe the fact already, by the
look the cobbler gave him.
    »Just this,« replied the cobbler; »an old gentleman that I worked for, down
in the country, and a humble relation of whose I married - she's dead, God bless
her, and thank Him for it! - was seized with a fit and went off.«
    »Where?« inquired Sam, who was growing sleepy after the numerous events of
the day.
    »How should I know where he went?« said the cobbler, speaking through his
nose in an intense enjoyment of his pipe. »He went off dead.«
    »Oh, that indeed,« said Sam. »Well?«
    »Well,« said the cobbler, »he left five thousand pound behind him.«
    »And very gen-teel in him so to do,« said Sam.
    »One of which,« continued the cobbler, »he left to me, 'cause I'd married
his relation, you see.«
    »Wery good,« murmured Sam.
    »And being surrounded by a great number of nieces and nevys, as was always a
quarrelling and fighting among themselves for the property, he makes me his
executor, and leaves the rest to me: in trust, to divide it among 'em as the
will prowided.«
    »Wot do you mean by leavin' it on trust?« inquired Sam, waking up a little.
»If it ain't ready money, where's the use on it?«
    »It's a law term, that's all,« said the cobbler.
    »I don't think that,« said Sam, shaking his head. »There's very little trust
at that shop. Hows'ever, go on.«
    »Well,« said the cobbler: »when I was going to take out a probate of the
will, the nieces and nevys, who was desperately disappointed at not getting all
the money, enters a caveat against it.«
    »What's that?« inquired Sam.
    »A legal instrument, which is as much as to say, it's no go,« replied the
cobbler.
    »I see,« said Sam, »a sort of brother-in-law o' the have-his-carcase. Well.«
    »But,« continued the cobbler, »finding that they couldn't agree among
themselves, and consequently couldn't get up a case against the will, they
withdrew the caveat, and I paid all the legacies. I'd hardly done it, when one
nevy brings an action to set the will aside. The case comes on, some months
afterwards, afore a deaf old gentleman, in a back room somewhere down by Paul's
Churchyard; and arter four counsels had taken a day a-piece to bother him
regularly, he takes a week or two to consider, and read the evidence in six
vollums, and then gives his judgment that how the testator was not quite right
in his head, and I must pay all the money back again, and all the costs. I
appealed; the case come on before three or four very sleepy gentlemen, who had
heard it all before in the other court, where they're lawyers without work; the
only difference being, that, there, they're called doctors, and in the other
place delegates, if you understand that; and they very dutifully confirmed the
decision of the old gentleman below. After that, we went into Chancery, where we
are still, and where I shall always be. My lawyers have had all my thousand
pound long ago; and what between the estate, as they call it, and the costs, I'm
here for ten thousand, and shall stop here, till I die, mending shoes. Some
gentlemen have talked of bringing it afore parliament, and I dare say would have
done it, only they hadn't time to come to me, and I hadn't power to go to them,
and they got tired of my long letters, and dropped the business. And this is
God's truth, without one word of suppression or exaggeration, as fifty people,
both in this place and out of it, very well know.«
    The cobbler paused to ascertain what effect his story had produced on Sam;
but finding that he had dropped asleep, knocked the ashes out of his pipe,
sighed, put it down, drew the bedclothes over his head, and went to sleep too.
    Mr. Pickwick was sitting at breakfast, alone, next morning (Sam being busily
engaged in the cobbler's room, polishing his master's shoes and brushing the
black gaiters) when there came a knock at the door, which, before Mr. Pickwick
could cry »Come in!« was followed by the appearance of a head of hair and a
cotton-velvet cap, both of which articles of dress he had no difficulty in
recognising as the personal property of Mr. Smangle.
    »How are you?« said that worthy, accompanying the inquiry with a score or
two of nods; »I say - do you expect anybody this morning? Three men - devilish
gentlemanly fellows - have been asking after you down stairs, and knocking at
every door on the Hall flight; for which they've been most infernally blown up
by the collegians that had the trouble of opening 'em.«
    »Dear me! How very foolish of them,« said Mr. Pickwick, rising. »Yes; I have
no doubt they are some friends whom I rather expected to see, yesterday.«
    »Friends of yours!« exclaimed Smangle, seizing Mr. Pickwick by the hand.
»Say no more. Curse me, they're friends of mine from this minute, and friends of
Mivins's too. Infernal pleasant, gentlemanly dog, Mivins, isn't he?« said
Smangle, with great feeling.
    »I know so little of the gentleman,« said Mr. Pickwick, hesitating, »that I
-«
    »I know you do,« interposed Smangle, clasping Mr. Pickwick by the shoulder.
»You shall know him better. You'll be delighted with him. That man, sir,« said
Smangle, with a solemn countenance, »has comic powers that would do honour to
Drury Lane Theatre.«
    »Has he indeed?« said Mr. Pickwick.
    »Ah, by Jove he has!« replied Smangle. »Hear him come the four cats in the
wheelbarrow - four distinct cats, sir, I pledge you my honour. Now you know
that's infernal clever! Damme, you can't help liking a man, when you see these
traits about him. He's only one fault - that little failing I mentioned to you,
you know.«
    As Mr. Smangle shook his head in a confidential and sympathising manner at
this juncture, Mr. Pickwick felt that he was expected to say something, so he
said »Ah!« and looked restlessly at the door.
    »Ah!« echoed Mr. Smangle, with a long-drawn sigh. »He's delightful company,
that man is, sir. I don't know better company anywhere; but he has that one
drawback. If the ghost of his grandfather, sir, was to rise before him this
minute, he'd ask him for the loan of his acceptance on an eighteenpenny stamp.«
    »Dear me!« exclaimed Mr. Pickwick.
    »Yes,« added Mr. Smangle; »and if he'd the power of raising him again, he
would, in two months and three days from this time, to renew the bill!«
    »Those are very remarkable traits,« said Mr. Pickwick; »but I'm afraid that
while we are talking here, my friends may be in a state of great perplexity at
not finding me.«
    »I'll show 'em the way,« said Smangle, making for the door. »Good day. I
won't disturb you while they're here, you know. By-the-bye -«
    As Smangle pronounced the last three words, he stopped suddenly, re-closed
the door which he had opened, and, walking softly back to Mr. Pickwick, stepped
close up to him on tip-toe, and said in a very soft whisper:
    »You couldn't make it convenient to lend me half-a-crown till the latter end
of next week, could you?«
    Mr. Pickwick could scarcely forbear smiling, but managing to preserve his
gravity, he drew forth the coin, and placed it in Mr. Smangle's palm; upon
which, that gentleman, with many nods and winks, implying profound mystery,
disappeared in quest of the three strangers, with whom he presently returned;
and having coughed thrice, and nodded as many times, as an assurance to Mr.
Pickwick that he would not forget to pay, he shook hands all round, in an
engaging manner, and at length took himself off.
    »My dear friends,« said Mr. Pickwick, shaking hands alternately with Mr.
Tupman, Mr. Winkle, and Mr. Snodgrass, who were the three visitors in question,
»I am delighted to see you.«
    The triumvirate were much affected. Mr. Tupman shook his head deploringly;
Mr. Snodgrass drew forth his handkerchief, with undisguised emotion; and Mr.
Winkle retired to the window, and sniffed aloud.
    »Mornin', gen'l'm'n,« said Sam, entering at the moment with the shoes and
gaiters. »Avay with melincholly, as the little boy said ven his school-missis
died. Velcome to the College, gen'l'm'n.«
    »This foolish fellow,« said Mr. Pickwick, tapping Sam on the head as he
knelt down to button up his master's gaiters: »This foolish fellow has got
himself arrested, in order to be near me.«
    »What!« exclaimed the three friends.
    »Yes, gen'l'm'n,« said Sam, »I'm a - stand steady, sir, if you please - I'm
a pris'ner, gen'l'm'n. Con-fined, as the lady said.«
    »A prisoner« exclaimed Mr. Winkle, with unaccountable vehemence.
    »Hallo, sir!« responded Sam, looking up. »Wot's the matter, sir?«
    »I had hoped, Sam, that -- nothing, nothing,« said Mr. Winkle,
precipitately.
    There was something so very abrupt and unsettled in Mr. Winkle's manner,
that Mr. Pickwick involuntarily looked at his two friends, for an explanation.
    »We don't know,« said Mr. Tupman, answering this mute appeal aloud. »He has
been much excited for two days past, and his whole demeanour very unlike what it
usually is. We feared there must be something the matter, but he resolutely
denies it.«
    »No, no,« said Mr. Winkle, colouring beneath Mr. Pickwick's gaze; »there is
really nothing. I assure you there is nothing, my dear sir. It will be necessary
for me to leave town, for a short time, on private business, and I had hoped to
have prevailed upon you to allow Sam to accompany me.«
    Mr. Pickwick looked more astonished than before.
    »I think,« faltered Mr. Winkle, »that Sam would have had no objection to do
so; but, of course, his being a prisoner here, renders it impossible. So I must
go alone.«
    As Mr. Winkle said these words, Mr. Pickwick felt, with some astonishment,
that Sam's fingers were trembling at the gaiters, as if he were rather surprised
or startled. Sam looked up at Mr. Winkle, too, when he had finished speaking;
and though the glance they exchanged was instantaneous, they seemed to
understand each other.
    »Do you know anything of this, Sam?« said Mr. Pickwick, sharply.
    »No, I don't, sir,« replied Mr. Weller, beginning to button with
extraordinary assiduity.
    »Are you sure, Sam?« said Mr. Pickwick.
    »Wy, sir,« responded Mr. Weller; »I'm sure so far, that I've never heard
anything' on the subject afore this moment. If I makes any guess about it,« added
Sam, looking at Mr. Winkle, »I haven't got any right to say wot it is, 'fear it
should be a wrong 'un.«
    »I have no right to make any further inquiry into the private affairs of a
friend, however intimate a friend,« said Mr. Pickwick, after a short silence;
»at present let me merely say, that I do not understand this at all. There. We
have had quite enough of the subject.«
    Thus expressing himself, Mr. Pickwick led the conversation to different
topics, and Mr. Winkle gradually appeared more at ease, though still very far
from being completely so. They had all so much to converse about, that the
morning very quickly passed away; and when, at three o'clock, Mr. Weller
produced upon the little dining table, a roast leg of mutton and an enormous
meat pie, with sundry dishes of vegetables, and pots of porter, which stood upon
the chairs or the sofa-bedstead, or where they could, everybody felt disposed to
do justice to the meal, notwithstanding that the meat had been purchased, and
dressed, and the pie made, and baked, at the prison cookery hard by.
    To these, succeeded a bottle or two of very good wine, for which a messenger
was dispatched by Mr. Pickwick to the Horn Coffeehouse, in Doctors' Commons. The
bottle or two, indeed, might be more properly described as a bottle or six, for
by the time it was drunk, and tea over, the bell began to ring for strangers to
withdraw.
    But, if Mr. Winkle's behaviour had been unaccountable in the morning, it
became perfectly unearthly and solemn when, under the influence of his feelings,
and his share of the bottle or six, he prepared to take leave of his friend. He
lingered behind, until Mr. Tupman and Mr. Snodgrass had disappeared, and then
fervently clenched Mr. Pickwick's hand, with an expression of face in which deep
and mighty resolve was fearfully blended with the very concentrated essence of
gloom.
    »Good night, my dear sir!« said Mr. Winkle between his set teeth.
    »Bless you, my dear fellow!« replied the warm-hearted Mr. Pickwick, as he
returned the pressure of his young friend's hand.
    »Now then!« cried Mr. Tupman from the gallery.
    »Yes, yes, directly,« replied Mr. Winkle. »Good night!«
    »Good night,« said Mr. Pickwick.
    There was another good night, and another, and half-a-dozen more after that,
and still Mr. Winkle had fast hold of his friend's hand, and was looking into
his face with the same strange expression.
    »Is anything the matter?« said Mr. Pickwick at last, when his arm was quite
sore with shaking.
    »Nothing,« said Mr. Winkle.
    »Well then, good night,« said Mr. Pickwick, attempting to disengage his
hand.
    »My friend, my benefactor, my honoured companion,« murmured Mr. Winkle,
catching at his wrist. »Do not judge me harshly; do not, when you hear that,
driven to extremity by hopeless obstacles, I -«
    »Now then,« said Mr. Tupman, re-appearing at the door. »Are you coming, or
are we to be locked in?«
    »Yes, yes, I am ready,« replied Mr. Winkle. And with a violent effort he
tore himself away.
    As Mr. Pickwick was gazing down the passage after them in silent
astonishment, Sam Weller appeared at the stair-head, and whispered for one
moment in Mr. Winkle's ear.
    »Oh certainly, depend upon me,« said that gentleman aloud.
    »Thankee, sir. You won't forget, sir?« said Sam.
    »Of course not,« replied Mr. Winkle.
    »Wish you luck, sir,« said Sam, touching his hat. »I should very much like
to ha' joined you, sir; but the gov'ner o' course is pairamount.«
    »It is very much to your credit that you remain here,« said Mr. Winkle. With
these words they disappeared down the stairs.
    »Very extraordinary,« said Mr. Pickwick, going back into his room, and
seating himself at the table in a musing attitude. »What can that young man be
going to do?«
    He had sat ruminating about the matter for some time, when the voice of
Roker, the turnkey, demanded whether he might come in.
    »By all means,« said Mr. Pickwick.
    »I've brought you a softer pillow, sir,« said Roker, »instead of the
temporary one you had last night.«
    »Thank you,« said Mr. Pickwick. »Will you take a glass of wine?«
    »You're very good, sir,« replied Mr. Roker, accepting the proffered glass.
»Yours, sir.«
    »Thank you,« said Mr. Pickwick.
    »I'm sorry to say that your landlord's very bad to-night, sir,« said Roker,
setting down the glass, and inspecting the lining of his hat preparatory to
putting it on again.
    »What! The Chancery prisoner!« exclaimed Mr. Pickwick.
    »He won't be a Chancery prisoner very long, sir,« replied Roker, turning his
hat round, so as to get the maker's name right side upwards, as he looked into
it.
    »You make my blood run cold,« said Mr. Pickwick. »What do you mean?«
    »He's been consumptive for a long time past,« said Mr. Roker, »and he's
taken very bad in the breath to-night. The doctor said, six months ago, that
nothing but change of air could save him.«
    »Great Heaven!« exclaimed Mr. Pickwick; »has this man been slowly murdered
by the law for six months?«
    »I don't know about that,« replied Roker, weighing the hat by the brims in
both hands. »I suppose he'd have been took the same, wherever he was. He went
into the infirmary, this morning; the doctor says his strength is to be kept up
as much as possible; and the warden's sent him wine and broth and that, from his
own house. It's not the warden's fault, you know, sir.«
    »Of course not,« replied Mr. Pickwick hastily.
    »I'm afraid, however,« said Roker, shaking his head, »that it's all up with
him. I offered Neddy two six penn'orths to one upon it just now, but he wouldn't
take it, and quite right. Thankee, sir. Good night, sir.«
    »Stay,« said Mr. Pickwick earnestly. »Where is this infirmary?«
    »Just over where you slept, sir,« replied Roker. »I'll show you, if you like
to come.« Mr. Pickwick snatched up his hat without speaking, and followed at
once.
    The turnkey led the way in silence; and gently raising the latch of the
room-door, motioned Mr. Pickwick to enter. It was a large, bare, desolate room,
with a number of stump bedsteads made of iron: on one of which lay stretched,
the shadow of a man: wan, pale, and ghastly. His breathing was hard and thick,
and he moaned painfully as it came and went. At the bedside, sat a short old man
in a cobbler's apron, who, by the aid of a pair of horn spectacles, was reading
from the Bible aloud. It was the fortunate legatee.
    The sick man laid his hand upon his attendant's arm, and motioned him to
stop. He closed the book, and laid it on the bed.
    »Open the window,« said the sick man.
    He did so. The noise of carriages and carts, the rattle of wheels, the cries
of men and boys, all the busy sounds of a mighty multitude instinct with life
and occupation, blended into one deep murmur, floated into the room. Above the
hoarse loud hum, arose from time to time a boisterous laugh; or a scrap of some
jingling song, shouted forth by one of the giddy crowd, would strike upon the
ear for an instant, and then be lost amidst the roar of voices and the tramp of
footsteps; the breaking of the billows of the restless sea of life that rolled
heavily on, without. Melancholy sounds to a quiet listener at any time; how
melancholy to the watcher by the bed of death!
    »There is no air here,« said the sick man faintly. »The place pollutes it.
It was fresh round about, when I walked there, years ago; but it grows hot and
heavy in passing these walls. I cannot breathe it.«
    »We have breathed it together, for a long time,« said the old man. »Come,
come.«
    There was a short silence, during which the two spectators approached the
bed. The sick man drew a hand of his old fellow prisoner towards him, and
pressing it affectionately between both his own, retained it in his grasp.
    »I hope,« he gasped after a while: so faintly that they bent their ears
close over the bed to catch the half-formed sounds his pale lips gave vent to:
»I hope my merciful Judge will bear in mind my heavy punishment on earth. Twenty
years, my friend, twenty years in this hideous grave! My heart broke when my
child died, and I could not even kiss him in his little coffin. My loneliness
since then, in all this noise and riot, has been very dreadful. May God forgive
me! He has seen my solitary, lingering death.«
    He folded his hands, and murmuring something more they could not hear, fell
into a sleep - only a sleep at first, for they saw him smile.
    They whispered together for a little time, and the turnkey, stooping over
the pillow, drew hastily back. »He has got his discharge, by G-!« said the man.
    He had. But he had grown so like death in life, that they knew not when he
died.
 

                                  Chapter XLV

  Descriptive of an Affecting Interview between Mr. Samuel Weller and a Family
   Party. Mr. Pickwick Makes a Tour of the Diminutive World He Inhabits, and
           Resolves To Mix with It, in Future, as Little as Possible.

A few mornings after his incarceration, Mr. Samuel Weller, having arranged his
master's room with all possible care, and seen him comfortably seated over his
books and papers, withdrew to employ himself for an hour or two to come, as he
best could. It was a fine morning, and it occurred to Sam that a pint of porter
in the open air would lighten his next quarter of an hour or so, as well as any
little amusement in which he could indulge.
    Having arrived at this conclusion, he betook himself to the tap. Having
purchased the beer, and obtained, moreover, the day-but-one-before-yesterday's
paper, he repaired to the skittle-ground, and seating himself on a bench,
proceeded to enjoy himself in a very sedate and methodical manner.
    First of all, he took a refreshing draught of the beer, and then he looked
up at a window, and bestowed a Platonic wink on a young lady who was peeling
potatoes thereat. Then he opened the paper, and folded it so as to get the
police reports outwards; and this being a vexatious and difficult thing to do,
when there is any wind stirring, he took another draught of the beer when he had
accomplished it. Then, he read two lines of the paper, and stopped short, to
look at a couple of men who were finishing a game at rackets, which being
concluded, he cried out »very good« in an approving manner, and looked round
upon the spectators, to ascertain whether their sentiments coincided with his
own. This involved the necessity of looking up at the windows also; and as the
young lady was still there, it was an act of common politeness to wink again,
and to drink to her good health in dumb show, in another draught of the beer,
which Sam did; and having frowned hideously upon a small boy who had noted this
latter proceeding with open eyes, he threw one leg over the other, and, holding
the newspaper in both hands, began to read in real earnest.
    He had hardly composed himself into the needful state of abstraction, when
he thought he heard his own name proclaimed in some distant passage. Nor was he
mistaken, for it quickly passed from mouth to mouth, and in a few seconds the
air teemed with shouts of »Weller!«
    »Here!« roared Sam, in a stentorian voice. »Wot's the matter? Who wants him?
Has an express come to say that his country-house is a-fire?«
    »Somebody wants you in the hall,« said a man who was standing by.
    »Just mind that 'ere paper and the pot, old feller, will you?« said Sam.
»I'm a comin' Blessed, if they was a callin' me to the bar, they couldn't make
more noise about it!«
    Accompanying these words with a gentle rap on the head of the young
gentleman before noticed, who, unconscious of his close vicinity to the person
in request, was screaming »Weller!« with all his might, Sam hastened across the
ground, and ran up the steps into the hall. Here, the first object that met his
eyes was his beloved father sitting on a bottom stair, with his hat in his hand,
shouting out »Weller!« in his very loudest tone, at half-minute intervals.
    »Wot are you a roarin' at?« said Sam impetuously, when the old gentleman had
discharged himself of another shout; »making' yourself so precious hot that you
looks like a aggravated glass-blower. Wot's the matter?«
    »Aha!« replied the old gentleman, »I began to be afeerd that you'd gone for
a walk round the Regency Park, Sammy.«
    »Come,« said Sam, »none o' them taunts again the wictim o' avarice, and come
off that 'ere step. Wot are you a settin' down there for? I don't live there.«
    »I've got such a game for you, Sammy,« said the elder Mr. Weller, rising.
    »Stop a minit,« said Sam, »you're all vite behind.«
    »That's right, Sammy, rub it off,« said Mr. Weller, as his son dusted him.
»It might look personal here, if a man walked about with whitevash on his
clothes, eh, Sammy?«
    As Mr. Weller exhibited in this place unequivocal symptoms of an approaching
fit of chuckling, Sam interposed to stop it.
    »Keep quiet, do,« said Sam, »there never vos such a old picter-card born.
Wot are you bustin' with, now?«
    »Sammy,« said Mr. Weller, wiping his forehead, »I'm afeerd that vun o' these
days I shall laugh myself into a appleplexy, my boy.«
    »Vell, then, wot do you do it for?« said Sam. »Now; wot have you got to
say?«
    »Who do you think's come here with me, Samivel?« said Mr. Weller, drawing
back a pace or two, pursing up his mouth, and extending his eyebrows.
    »Pell?« said Sam.
    Mr. Weller shook his head, and his red cheek expanded with the laughter that
was endeavouring to find a vent.
    »Mottled-faced man, p'r'aps?« suggested Sam.
    Again Mr. Weller shook his head.
    »Who then?« asked Sam.
    »Your mother-in-law,« said Mr. Weller; and it was lucky he did say it, or
his cheeks must inevitably have cracked, from their most unnatural distension.
    »Your mother-in-law, Sammy,« said Mr. Weller, »and the red-nosed man, my
boy; and the red-nosed man. Ho! ho! ho!«
    With this, Mr. Weller launched into convulsions of laughter, while Sam
regarded him with a broad grin gradually overspreading his whole countenance.
    »They've come to have a little serious talk with you, Samivel,« said Mr.
Weller, wiping his eyes. »Don't let out nothing' about the unnat'ral creditor,
Sammy.«
    »Wot, don't they know who it is?« inquired Sam.
    »Not a bit on it,« replied his father.
    »Vere are they?« said Sam, reciprocating all the old gentleman's grins.
    »In the snuggery,« rejoined Mr. Weller. »Catch the red-nosed man a goin' any
vere but vere the liquors is; not he, Samivel, not he. Ve'd a very pleasant ride
along the road from the Markis this mornin', Sammy,« said Mr. Weller, when he
felt himself equal to the task of speaking in an articulate manner. »I drove the
old piebald in that 'ere little shay-cart as belonged to your mother-in-law's
first wenter, into vich a harm-cheer wos lifted for the shepherd; and I'm
blessed,« said Mr. Weller, with a look of deep scorn: »I'm blessed if they didn't
bring a portable flight o' steps out into the road a front o' our door, for him
to get up by.«
    »You don't mean that?« said Sam.
    »I do mean that, Sammy,« replied his father, »and I vish you could ha' seen
how tight he held on by the sides wen he did get up, as if he wos afeerd o'
being precipitayted down full six foot, and dashed into a million o' hatoms. He
tumbled in at last, however, and away ve vent; and I rather think, I say I
rather think, Samivel, that he found his-self a little jolted wen ve turned the
corners.«
    »Wot, I s'pose you happened to drive up again a post or two?« said Sam.
    »I'm afeerd,« replied Mr. Weller, in a rapture of winks, »I'm afeerd I took
vun or two on 'em, Sammy; he wos a flyin' out o' the harm-cheer all the way.«
    Here the old gentleman shook his head from side to side, and was seized with
a hoarse internal rumbling, accompanied with a violent swelling of the
countenance, and a sudden increase in the breadth of all his features; symptoms
which alarmed his son not a little.
    »Don't be frightened, Sammy, don't be frightened,« said the old gentleman,
when, by dint of much struggling, and various convulsive stamps upon the ground,
he had recovered his voice. »It's only a kind o' quiet laugh as I'm a tryin' to
come, Sammy.«
    »Well, if that's wot it is,« said Sam, »you'd better not try to come it
again. You'll find it rather a dangerous inwention.«
    »Don't you like it, Sammy?« inquired the old gentleman.
    »Not at all,« replied Sam.
    »Well,« said Mr. Weller, with the tears still running down his cheeks, »it
'ud ha' been a very great accommodation to me if I could ha' done it, and 'ud
ha' saved a good many vords atween your mother-in-law and me, sometimes; but I
am afeerd you're right, Sammy: it's too much in the apple-plexy line - a deal
too much, Samivel.«
    This conversation brought them to the door of the snuggery, into which Sam -
pausing for an instant to look over his shoulder, and cast a sly leer at his
respected progenitor, who was still giggling behind - at once led the way.
    »Mother-in-law,« said Sam, politely saluting the lady, »very much obliged to
you for this here wisit. Shepherd, how air you?«
    »Oh, Samuel!« said Mrs. Weller. »This is dreadful.«
    »Not a bit on it, mum,« replied Sam. »Is it, shepherd?«
    Mr. Stiggins raised his hands, and turned up his eyes, till the whites - or
rather the yellows - were alone visible; but made no reply in words.
    »Is this here gen'l'm'n troubled with any painful complaint?« said Sam,
looking to his mother-in-law for explanation.
    »The good man is grieved to see you here, Samuel,« replied Mrs. Weller.
    »Oh, that's it, is it?« said Sam. »I was afeerd, from his manner, that he
might ha' forgotten to take pepper with that 'ere last cowcumber he eat. Set
down, sir; ve make no extra charge for the settin' down, as the king remarked
wen he blowed up his ministers.«
    »Young man,« said Mr. Stiggins, ostentatiously, »I fear you are not softened
by imprisonment.«
    »Beg your pardon, sir,« replied Sam; »wot wos you graciously pleased to
hobserve?«
    »I apprehend, young man, that your nature is no softer for this chastening,«
said Mr. Stiggins, in a loud voice.
    »Sir,« replied Sam, »you're very kind to say so. I hope my natur is not a
soft vun, sir. Wery much obliged to you for your good opinion, sir.«
    At this point of the conversation, a sound, indecorously approaching to a
laugh, was heard to proceed from the chair in which the elder Mr. Weller was
seated; upon which Mrs. Weller, on a hasty consideration of all the
circumstances of the case, considered it her bounden duty to become gradually
hysterical.
    »Weller,« said Mrs. W. (the old gentleman was seated in a corner); »Weller!
Come forth.«
    »Wery much obliged to you, my dear,« replied Mr. Weller; »but I'm quite
comfortable vere I am.«
    Upon this, Mrs. Weller burst into tears.
    »Wot's gone wrong, mum?« said Sam.
    »Oh, Samuel!« replied Mrs. Weller, »your father makes me wretched. Will
nothing do him good?«
    »Do you hear this here?« said Sam. »Lady wants to know vether nothing' 'ull
do you good.«
    »Wery much indebted to Mrs. Weller for her po-lite inquiries, Sammy,«
replied the old gentleman. »I think a pipe vould benefit me a good deal. Could I
be accommodated, Sammy?«
    Here Mrs. Weller let fall some more tears, and Mr. Stiggins groaned.
    »Hallo! Here's this unfort'nate gen'l'm'n took ill again,« said Sam, looking
round. »Were do you feel it now, sir?«
    »In the same place, young man,« rejoined Mr. Stiggins: »in the same place.«
    »Were may that be, sir?« inquired Sam, with great outward simplicity.
    »In the buzzim, young man,« replied Mr. Stiggins, placing his umbrella on
his waistcoat.
    At this affecting reply, Mrs. Weller, being wholly unable to suppress her
feelings, sobbed aloud, and stated her conviction that the red-nosed man was a
saint; whereupon Mr. Weller, senior, ventured to suggest, in an undertone, that
he must be the representative of the united parishes of Saint Simon Without, and
Saint Walker Within.
    »I'm afeerd, mum,« said Sam, »that this here gen'l'm'n, with the twist in
his countenance, feels rather thirsty, with the melancholy spectacle afore him.
Is it the case, mum?«
    The worthy lady looked at Mr. Stiggins for a reply; that gentleman, with
many rollings of the eye, clenched his throat with his right hand, and mimicked
the act of swallowing, to intimate that he was athirst.
    »I am afraid, Samuel, that his feelings have made him so, indeed,« said Mrs.
Weller, mournfully.
    »Wot's your usual tap, sir,« replied Sam.
    »Oh, my dear young friend,« replied Mr. Stiggins, »all taps is vanities!«
    »Too true, too true, indeed,« said Mrs. Weller, murmuring a groan, and
shaking her head assentingly.
    »Well,« said Sam, »I des-say they may be, sir; but which is your particular
wanity. Vich wanity do you like the flavour on best, sir?«
    »Oh, my dear young friend,« replied Mr. Stiggins, »I despise them all. If,«
said Mr. Stiggins, »if there is any one of them less odious than another, it is
the liquor called rum. Warm, my dear young friend, with three lumps of sugar to
the tumbler.«
    »Wery sorry to say, sir,« said Sam, »that they don't allow that particular
wanity to be sold in this here establishment.«
    »Oh, the hardness of heart of these inveterate men!« ejaculated Mr.
Stiggins. »Oh, the accursed cruelty of these inhuman persecutors!«
    With these words, Mr. Stiggins again cast up his eyes, and rapped his breast
with his umbrella; and it is but justice to the reverend gentleman to say, that
his indignation appeared very real and unfeigned indeed.
    After Mrs. Weller and the red-nosed gentleman had commented on this inhuman
usage in a very forcible manner, and had vented a variety of pious and holy
execrations against its authors, the latter recommended a bottle of port wine,
warmed with a little water, spice, and sugar, as being grateful to the stomach,
and savouring less of vanity than many other compounds. It was accordingly
ordered to be prepared. Pending its preparation the red-nosed man and Mrs.
Weller looked at the elder W. and groaned.
    »Well, Sammy,« said that gentleman, »I hope you'll find your spirits rose by
this here lively wisit. Wery cheerful and improvin' conwersation, ain't it,
Sammy?«
    »You're a reprobate,« replied Sam; »and I desire you won't address no more
o' them ungraceful remarks to me.«
    So far from being edified by this very proper reply, the elder Mr. Weller at
once relapsed into a broad grin; and this inexorable conduct causing the lady
and Mr. Stiggins to close their eyes, and rock themselves to and fro on their
chairs, in a troubled manner, he furthermore indulged in several acts of
pantomime, indicative of a desire to pummel and wring the nose of the aforesaid
Stiggins: the performance of which, appeared to afford him great mental relief.
The old gentleman very narrowly escaped detection in one instance; for Mr.
Stiggins happening to give a start on the arrival of the negus, brought his head
in smart contact with the clenched fist with which Mr. Weller had been
describing imaginary fireworks in the air, within two inches of his ear, for
some minutes.
    »Wot are you a reachin' out your hand for the tumbler in that 'ere sawage
way for?« said Sam, with great promptitude. »Don't you see you've hit the
gen'l'm'n?«
    »I didn't go to do it, Sammy,« said Mr. Weller, in some degree abashed by
the very unexpected occurrence of the incident.
    »Try an in'ard application, sir,« said Sam, as the red-nosed gentleman
rubbed his head with a rueful visage. »Wot do you think o' that, for a go o'
wanity warm, sir?«
    Mr. Stiggins made no verbal answer, but his manner was expressive. He tasted
the contents of the glass which Sam had placed in his hand; put his umbrella on
the floor, and tasted it again: passing his hand placidly across his stomach
twice or thrice; he then drank the whole at a breath, and smacking his lips,
held out the tumbler for more.
    Nor was Mrs. Weller behind-hand in doing justice to the composition. The
good lady began by protesting that she couldn't touch a drop - then took a small
drop - then a large drop - then a great many drops; and her feelings being of
the nature of those substances which are powerfully affected by the application
of strong waters, she dropped a tear with every drop of negus, and so got on,
melting the feelings down, until at length she had arrived at a very pathetic
and decent pitch of misery.
    The elder Mr. Weller observed these signs and tokens with many
manifestations of disgust, and when, after a second jug of the same, Mr.
Stiggins began to sigh in a dismal manner, he plainly evinced his disapprobation
of the whole proceedings, by sundry incoherent ramblings of speech, among which
frequent angry repetitions of the word gammon were alone distinguishable to the
ear.
    »I'll tell you wot it is, Samivel, my boy,« whispered the old gentleman into
his son's ear, after a long and steadfast contemplation of his lady and Mr.
Stiggins; »I think there must be something' wrong in your mother-in-law's inside,
as vell as in that o' the red-nosed man.«
    »Wot do you mean?« said Sam.
    »I mean this here, Sammy,« replied the old gentleman, »that wot they drink,
don't seem no nourishment to 'em; it all turns to warm water, and comes a'
pourin' out o' their eyes. 'Pend upon it, Sammy, it's a constitootional
infirmity.«
    Mr. Weller delivered this scientific opinion with many confirmatory frowns
and nods; which, Mrs. Weller remarking, and concluding that they bore some
disparaging reference either to herself or to Mr. Stiggins, or to both, was on
the point of becoming infinitely worse, when Mr. Stiggins, getting on his legs
as well as he could, proceeded to deliver an edifying discourse for the benefit
of the company, but more especially of Mr. Samuel, whom he adjured in moving
terms to be upon his guard in that sink of iniquity into which he was cast; to
abstain from all hypocrisy and pride of heart; and to take in all things exact
pattern and copy by him (Stiggins), in which case he might calculate on
arriving, sooner or later at the comfortable conclusion, that, like him, he was
a most estimable and blameless character, and that all his acquaintance and
friends were hopelessly abandoned and profligate wretches. Which consideration,
he said, could not but afford him the liveliest satisfaction.
    He furthermore conjured him to avoid, above all things, the vice of
intoxication, which he likened unto the filthy habits of swine, and to those
poisonous and baleful drugs which being chewed in the mouth, are said to filch
away the memory. At this point of his discourse, the reverend and red-nosed
gentleman became singularly incoherent, and staggering to and fro in the
excitement of his eloquence, was fain to catch at the back of a chair to
preserve his perpendicular.
    Mr. Stiggins did not desire his hearers to be upon their guard against those
false prophets and wretched mockers of religion, who, without sense to expound
its first doctrines, or hearts to feel its first principles, are more dangerous
members of society than the common criminal; imposing, as they necessarily do,
upon the weakest and worst informed, casting scorn and contempt on what should
be held most sacred, and bringing into partial disrepute large bodies of
virtuous and well-conducted persons of many excellent sects and persuasions. But
as he leant over the back of the chair for a considerable time, and closing one
eye, winked a good deal with the other, it is presumed that he thought all this,
but kept it to himself.
    During the delivery of the oration, Mrs. Weller sobbed and wept at the end
of the paragraphs: while Sam, sitting cross-legged on a chair and resting his
arms on the top-rail, regarded the speaker with great suavity and blandness of
demeanour; occasionally bestowing a look of recognition on the old gentleman,
who was delighted at the beginning, and went to sleep about half-way.
    »Brayvo; very pretty!« said Sam, when the red-nosed man having finished,
pulled his worn gloves on: thereby thrusting his fingers through the broken tops
till the knuckles were disclosed to view. »Wery pretty.«
    »I hope it may do you good, Samuel,« said Mrs. Weller solemnly.
    »I think it vill, mum,« replied Sam.
    »I wish I could hope that it would do your father good,« said Mrs. Weller.
    »Thankee, my dear,« said Mr. Weller, senior. »How do you find yourself arter
it, my love?«
    »Scoffer!« exclaimed Mrs. Weller.
    »Benighted man!« said the reverend Mr. Stiggins.
    »If I don't get no better light than that 'ere moonshine o' yourn, my worthy
creature,« said the elder Mr. Weller, »it's very likely as I shall continey to be
a night coach till I'm took off the road altogether. Now, Mrs. We, if the
piebald stands at livery much longer, he'll stand at nothing' as we go back, and
p'raps that 'ere harm cheer 'ull be tipped over into some hedge or another, with
the shepherd in it.«
    At this supposition, the reverend Mr. Stiggins, in evident consternation,
gathered up his hat and umbrella, and proposed an immediate departure, to which
Mrs. Weller assented. Sam walked with them to the lodge-gate, and took a dutiful
leave.
    »A-do, Samivel,« said the old gentleman.
    »Wot's a-do?« inquired Sammy.
    »Well, good-bye, then,« said the old gentleman.
    »Oh, that's wot you're a aimin' at, is it?« said Sam. »Good-bye!«
    »Sammy,« whispered Mr. Weller, looking cautiously round; »my duty to your
gov'ner, and tell him if he thinks better o' this here bis'ness, to commoonicate
with me. Me and a cab'net-maker has dewised a plan for getting' him out. A
pianner, Samivel, a pianner!« said Mr. Weller, striking his son on the chest
with the back of his hand, and falling back a step or two.
    »Wot do you mean?« said Sam.
    »A pianner forty, Samivel,« rejoined Mr. Weller, in a still more mysterious
manner, »as he can have on hire; vun as von't play, Sammy.«
    »And wot 'ud be the good o' that?« said Sam.
    »Let him send to my friend, the cab'net-maker, to fetch it back, Sammy,«
replied Mr. Weller. »Are you avake, now?«
    »No,« rejoined Sam.
    »There ain't no vurks in it,« whispered his father. »It 'ull hold him easy,
with his hat and shoes on, and breathe through the legs, vich his holler. Have a
passage ready taken for 'Merriker. The 'Merrikin gov'ment will never give him
up, ven they find as he's got money to spend, Sammy. Let the gov'ner stop there,
till Mrs. Bardell's dead, or Mr. Dodson and Fogg's hung (wich last ewent I think
is the most likely to happen first, Sammy), and then let him come back and write
a book about the 'Merrikins as'll pay all his expenses and more, if he blows 'em
up enough.«
    Mr. Weller delivered this hurried abstract of his plot with great vehemence
of whisper; then, as if fearful of weakening the effect of the tremendous
communication, by any further dialogue, he gave the coachman's salute, and
vanished.
    Sam had scarcely recovered his usual composure of countenance, which had
been greatly disturbed by the secret communication of his respected relative,
when Mr. Pickwick accosted him.
    »Sam,« said that gentleman.
    »Sir,« replied Mr. Weller.
    »I am going for a walk round the prison, and I wish you to attend me. I see
a prisoner we know coming this way, Sam,« said Mr. Pickwick, smiling.
    »Wich, sir?« inquired Mr. Weller; »the gen'l'm'n with the head o' hair, or
the interestin' captive in the stockin's?«
    »Neither,« rejoined Mr. Pickwick. »He is an older friend of yours, Sam.«
    »O' mine, sir?« exclaimed Mr. Weller.
    »You recollect the gentleman very well, I dare say, Sam,« replied Mr.
Pickwick, »or else you are more unmindful of your old acquaintances than I think
you are. Hush! not a word, Sam; not a syllable. Here he is.«
    As Mr. Pickwick spoke, Jingle walked up. He looked less miserable than
before, being clad in a half-worn suit of clothes, which, with Mr. Pickwick's
assistance, had been released from the pawnbroker's. He wore clean linen too,
and had had his hair cut. He was very pale and thin, however; and as he crept
slowly up, leaning on a stick, it was easy to see that he had suffered severely
from illness and want, and was still very weak. He took off his hat as Mr.
Pickwick saluted him, and seemed much humbled and abashed at sight of Sam
Weller.
    Following close at his heels, came Mr. Job Trotter, in the catalogue of
whose vices, want of faith and attachment to his companion could at all events
find no place. He was still ragged and squalid, but his face was not quite so
hollow as on his first meeting with Mr. Pickwick, a few days before. As he took
off his hat to our benevolent old friend, he murmured some broken expressions of
gratitude, and muttered something about having been saved from starving.
    »Well, well,« said Mr. Pickwick, impatiently interrupting him, »you can
follow with Sam. I want to speak to you, Mr. Jingle. Can you walk without his
arm?«
    »Certainly, sir - all ready - not too fast - legs shaky - head queer - round
and round - earthquaky sort of feeling - very.«
    »Here, give me your arm,« said Mr. Pickwick.
    »No, no,« replied Jingle; »won't indeed - rather not.«
    »Nonsense,« said Mr. Pickwick, »lean upon me, I desire, sir.«
    Seeing that he was confused and agitated, and uncertain what to do, Mr.
Pickwick cut the matter short by drawing the invalided stroller's arm through
his, and leading him away, without saying another word about it.
    During the whole of this time, the countenance of Mr. Samuel Weller had
exhibited an expression of the most overwhelming and absorbing astonishment that
the imagination can portray. After looking from Job to Jingle, and from Jingle
to Job in profound silence, he softly ejaculated the words, »Well, I am damn'd!«
Which he repeated at least a score of times: after which exertion, he appeared
wholly bereft of speech, and again cast his eyes, first upon the one and then
upon the other, in mute perplexity and bewilderment.
    »Now, Sam!« said Mr. Pickwick, looking back.
    »I'm a comin', sir,« replied Mr. Weller, mechanically following his master;
and still he lifted not his eyes from Mr. Job Trotter, who walked at his side,
in silence.
    Job kept his eyes fixed on the ground for some time. Sam, with his glued to
Job's countenance, ran up against the people who were walking about, and fell
over little children, and stumbled against steps and railings, without appearing
at all sensible of it, until Job, looking stealthily up, said:
    »How do you do, Mr. Weller?«
    »It is him!« exclaimed Sam: and having established Job's identity beyond all
doubt, he smote his leg, and vented his feelings in a long shrill whistle.
    »Things has altered with me, sir,« said Job.
    »I should think they had,« exclaimed Mr. Weller, surveying his companion's
rags with undisguised wonder. »This is rather a change for the worse, Mr.
Trotter, as the gen'l'm'n said, wen he got two doubtful shillin's and
sixpenn'orth o' pocket pieces for a good half-crown.«
    »It is, indeed,« replied Job, shaking his head. »There is no deception now,
Mr. Weller. Tears,« said Job, with a look of momentary slyness, »tears are not
the only proofs of distress, nor the best ones.«
    »No, they ain't,« replied Sam, expressively.
    »They may be put on, Mr. Weller,« said Job.
    »I know they may,« said Sam; »some people, indeed, has 'em always ready laid
on, and can pull out the plug wenever they likes.«
    »Yes,« replied Job; »but these sort of things are not so easily
counterfeited, Mr. Weller, and it is a more painful process to get them up.« As
he spoke, he pointed to his sallow sunken cheeks, and, drawing up his coat
sleeves, disclosed an arm which looked as if the bone could be broken at a
touch: so sharp and brittle did it appear, beneath its thin covering of flesh.
    »Wot have you been a doing' to yourself?« said Sam, recoiling.
    »Nothing,« replied Job.
    »Nothin'!« echoed Sam.
    »I have been doing' nothing for many weeks past,« said Job; »and eating and
drinking almost as little.«
    Sam took one comprehensive glance at Mr. Trotter's thin face and wretched
apparel; and then, seizing him by the arm, commenced dragging him away with
great violence.
    »Where are you going, Mr. Weller?« said Job, vainly struggling in the
powerful grasp of his old enemy.
    »Come on,« said Sam; »come on!« He deigned no further explanation until they
reached the tap; and then called for a pot of porter, which was speedily
produced.
    »Now,« said Sam, »drink that up, ev'ry drop on it, and then turn the pot
upside down, to let me see as you've took the med'cine.«
    »But, my dear Mr. Weller,« remonstrated Job.
    »Down with it!« said Sam, peremptorily.
    Thus admonished, Mr. Trotter raised the pot to his lips, and, by gentle and
almost imperceptible degrees, tilted it into the air. He paused once, and only
once, to draw a long breath, but without raising his face from the vessel,
which, in a few moments thereafter, he held out at arm's length, bottom upward.
Nothing fell upon the ground but a few particles of froth, which slowly detached
themselves from the rim, and trickled lazily down.
    »Well done!« said Sam. »How do you find yourself arter it?«
    »Better, sir. I think I am better,« responded Job.
    »O' course you air,« said Sam, argumentatively. »It's like puttin' gas in a
balloon. I can see with the naked eye that you gets stouter under the operation.
Wot do you say to another o' the same di-mensions?«
    »I would rather not, I am much obliged to you, sir,« replied Job, »much
rather not.«
    »Vell, then, wot do you say to some wittles?« inquired Sam.
    »Thanks to your worthy governor, sir,« said Mr. Trotter, »we have half a leg
of mutton, baked, at a quarter before three, with the potatoes under it to save
boiling.«
    »Wot! Has he been a purwidin' for you?« asked Sam, emphatically.
    »He has, sir,« replied Job. »More than that, Mr. Weller; my master being
very ill, he got us a room - we were in a kennel before - and paid for it, sir;
and come to look at us, at night, when nobody should know. Mr. Weller,« said
Job, with real tears in his eyes, for once, »I could serve that gentleman till I
fell down dead at his feet.«
    »I say!« said Sam, »I'll trouble you, my friend! None o' that!«
    Job Trotter looked amazed.
    »None o' that, I say, young feller,« repeated Sam, firmly. »No man serves
him but me. And now we're upon it, I'll let you into another secret besides
that,« said Sam, as he paid for the beer. »I never heard, mind you, nor read of
in story-books, nor see in picters, any angel in tights and gaiters - not even
in spectacles, as I remember, though that may ha' been done for anything' I know
to the contrairey - but mark my vords, Job Trotter, he's a reg'lar thorough-bred
angel for all that; and let me see the man as wenturs to tell me he knows a
better vun.« With this defiance, Mr. Weller buttoned up his change in a side
pocket, and, with many confirmatory nods and gestures by the way, proceeded in
search of the subject of discourse.
    They found Mr. Pickwick, in company with Jingle, talking very earnestly, and
not bestowing a look on the groups who were congregated on the racket-ground;
they were very motley groups too, and worth the looking at, if it were only in
idle curiosity.
    »Well,« said Mr. Pickwick, as Sam and his companion drew nigh, »you will see
how your health becomes, and think about it meanwhile. Make the statement out
for me when you feel yourself equal to the task, and I will discuss the subject
with you when I have considered it. Now, go to your room. You are tired, and not
strong enough to be out long.«
    Mr. Alfred Jingle, without one spark of his old animation - with nothing
even of the dismal gaiety which he had assumed when Mr. Pickwick first stumbled
on him in his misery - bowed low without speaking, and, motioning to Job not to
follow him just yet, crept slowly away.
    »Curious scene this, is it not, Sam?« said Mr. Pickwick, looking
good-humouredly round.
    »Wery much so, sir,« replied Sam. »Wonders 'ull never cease,« added Sam,
speaking to himself. »I'm very much mistaken if that 'ere Jingle worn't a doing'
something' in the water-cart way!«
    The area formed by the wall in that part of the Fleet in which Mr. Pickwick
stood, was just wide enough to make a good racket court; one side being formed,
of course, by the wall itself and the other by that portion of the prison which
looked (or rather would have looked, but for the wall) towards St. Paul's
Cathedral. Sauntering or sitting about, in every possible attitude of listless
idleness, were a great number of debtors, the major part of whom were waiting in
prison until their day of going up before the Insolvent Court should arrive;
while others had been remanded for various terms, which they were idling away,
as they best could. Some were shabby, some were smart, many dirty, a few clean;
but there they all lounged, and loitered, and slunk about, with as little spirit
or purpose as the beasts in a menagerie.
    Lolling from the windows which commanded a view of this promenade, were a
number of persons, some in noisy conversation with their acquaintance below,
others playing at ball with some adventurous throwers outside, others looking on
at the racket-players, or watching the boys as they cried the game. Dirty
slipshod women passed and re-passed, on their way to the cooking-house in one
corner of the yard; children screamed, and fought, and played together, in
another; the tumbling of the skittles, and the shouts of the players, mingled
perpetually with these and a hundred other sounds; and all was noise and tumult
- save in a little miserable shed a few yards off, where lay, all quiet and
ghastly, the body of the Chancery prisoner who had died the night before,
awaiting the mockery of an inquest. The body! It is the lawyer's term for the
restless whirling mass of cares and anxieties, affections, hopes, and griefs,
that make up the living man. The law had his body; and there it lay, clothed in
grave clothes, an awful witness to its tender mercy.
    »Would you like to see a whistling-shop, sir?« inquired Job Trotter.
    »What do you mean?« was Mr. Pickwick's counter inquiry.
    »A vistlin' shop, sir,« interposed Mr. Weller.
    »What is that, Sam? A bird-fancier's?« inquired Mr. Pickwick.
    »Bless your heart, no, sir,« replied Job; »a whistling-shop, sir, is where
they sell spirits.« Mr. Job Trotter briefly explained here, that all persons,
being prohibited under heavy penalties from conveying spirits into debtors'
prisons, and such commodities being highly prized by the ladies and gentlemen
confined therein, it had occurred to some speculative turnkey to connive, for
certain lucrative considerations, at two or three prisoners retailing the
favourite article of gin, for their own profit and advantage.
    »This plan, you see, sir, has been gradually introduced into all the prisons
for debt,« said Mr. Trotter.
    »And it has this very great advantage,« said Sam, »that the turnkeys takes
very good care to seize hold o' ev'ry body but them as pays 'em, that attempts
the willainy, and wen it gets in the papers they're applauded for their
wigilance; so it cuts two ways - frightens other people from the trade, and
elewates their own characters.«
    »Exactly so, Mr. Weller,« observed Job.
    »Well, but are these rooms never searched, to ascertain whether any spirits
are concealed in them?« said Mr. Pickwick.
    »Cert'nly they are, sir,« replied Sam; »but the turnkeys knows beforehand,
and gives the word to the wistlers, and you may wistle for it wen you go to
look.«
    By this time, Job had tapped at a door, which was opened by a gentleman with
an uncombed head, who bolted it after them when they had walked in, and grinned;
upon which Job grinned, and Sam also; whereupon Mr. Pickwick, thinking it might
be expected of him, kept on smiling to the end of the interview.
    The gentleman with the uncombed head appeared quite satisfied with this mute
announcement of their business, arid, producing a flat stone bottle, which might
hold about a couple of quarts, from beneath his bedstead, filled out three
glasses of gin, which Job Trotter and Sam disposed of in a most workmanlike
manner.
    »Any more?« said the whistling gentleman.
    »No more,« replied Job Trotter.
    Mr. Pickwick paid, the door was unbolted, and out they came; the uncombed
gentleman bestowing a friendly nod upon Mr. Roker, who happened to be passing at
the moment.
    From this spot, Mr. Pickwick wandered along all the galleries, up and down
all the staircases, and once again round the whole area of the yard. The great
body of the prison population appeared to be Mivins, and Smangle, and the
parson, and the butcher, and the leg, over and over, and over again. There were
the same squalor, the same turmoil and noise, the same general characteristics,
in every corner; in the best and the worst alike. The whole place seemed
restless and troubled; and the people were crowding and flitting to and fro,
like the shadows in an uneasy dream.
    »I have seen enough,« said Mr. Pickwick, as he threw himself into a chair in
his little apartment. »My head aches with these scenes, and my heart too.
Henceforth I will be a prisoner in my own room.«
    And Mr. Pickwick steadfastly adhered to this determination. For three long
months he remained shut up, all day; only stealing out at night to breathe the
air when the greater part of his fellow prisoners were in bed or carousing in
their rooms. His health was beginning to suffer from the closeness of the
confinement, but neither the often-repeated entreaties of Perker and his
friends, nor the still more frequently-repeated warnings and admonitions of Mr.
Samuel Weller, could induce him to alter one jot of his inflexible resolution.
 

                                  Chapter XLVI

    Records a Touching Act of Delicate Feeling, Not Unmixed with Pleasantry,
               Achieved and Performed by Messrs. Dodson and Fogg.

It was within a week of the close of the month of July, that a hackney
cabriolet, number unrecorded, was seen to proceed at a rapid pace up Goswell
Street; three people were squeezed into it besides the driver, who sat in his
own particular little dickey at the side; over the apron were hung two shawls,
belonging to two small vixenish-looking ladies under the apron; between whom,
compressed into a very small compass, was stowed away, a gentleman of heavy and
subdued demeanour, who, whenever he ventured to make an observation, was snapped
up short by one of the vixenish ladies before-mentioned. Lastly, the two
vixenish ladies and the heavy gentleman were giving the driver contradictory
directions, all tending to the one point that he should stop at Mrs. Bardell's
door; which the heavy gentleman, in direct opposition to, and defiance of, the
vixenish ladies, contended was a green door and not a yellow one.
    »Stop at the house with the green door, driver,« said the heavy gentleman.
    »Oh! You perwerse creature!« exclaimed one of the vixenish ladies. »Drive to
the ouse with the yellow door, cabmin.«
    Upon this, the cab man, who in a sudden effort to pull up at the house with
the green door, had pulled the horse up so high that he nearly pulled him
backward into the cabriolet, let the animal's fore legs down to the ground
again, and paused.
    »Now vere am I to pull up?« inquired the driver. »Settle it among
yourselves. All I ask is, vere?«
    Here the contest was renewed with increased violence; and the horse being
troubled with a fly on his nose, the cab man humanely employed his leisure in
lashing him about the head, on the counter-irritation principle.
    »Most wotes carries the day!« said one of the vixenish ladies at length.
»The ouse with the yellow door, cabmin.«
    But after the cabriolet had dashed up, in splendid style, to the house with
the yellow door: »making,« as one of the vixenish ladies triumphantly said,
»acterrally more noise than if one had come in one's own carriage« - and after
the driver had dismounted to assist the ladies in getting out - the small round
head of Master Thomas Bardell was thrust out of the one pair window of a house
with a red door, a few numbers off.
    »Aggrawatin' thing!« said the vixenish lady last mentioned, darting a
withering glance at the heavy gentleman.
    »My dear, it's not my fault,« said the gentleman.
    »Don't talk to me, you creature, don't,« retorted the lady. »The house with
the red door, cabmin. Oh! If ever a woman was troubled with a ruffinly creature,
that takes a pride and a pleasure in disgracing his wife on every possible
occasion afore strangers, I am that woman!«
    »You ought to be ashamed of yourself, Raddle,« said the other little woman,
who was no other than Mrs. Cluppins.
    »What have I been a doing of?« asked Mr. Raddle.
    »Don't talk to me, don't, you brute, for fear I should be perwoked to forgit
my sect and strike you!« said Mrs. Raddle.
    While this dialogue was going on, the driver was most ignominiously leading
the horse, by the bridle, up to the house with the red door, which Master
Bardell had already opened. Here was a mean and low way of arriving at a
friend's house! No dashing up, with all the fire and fury of the animal; no
jumping down of the driver; no loud knocking at the door; no opening of the
apron with a crash at the very last moment, for fear of the ladies sitting in a
draught and then the man handing the shawls out, afterwards, as if he were a
private coachman! The whole edge of the thing had been taken off; it was flatter
than walking.
    »Well, Tommy,« said Mrs. Cluppins, »How's your poor dear mother?«
    »Oh, she's very well,« replied Master Bardell. »She's in the front parlour,
all ready. I'm ready too, I am.« Here Master Bardell put his hands in his
pockets, and jumped off and on the bottom step of the door.
    »Is anybody else a goin', Tommy?« said Mrs. Cluppins, arranging her
pelerine.
    »Mrs. Sanders is going, she is,« replied Tommy, »I'm going too, I am.«
    »Drat the boy,« said little Mrs. Cluppins. »He thinks of nobody but himself.
Here, Tommy, dear.«
    »Well,« said Master Bardell.
    »Who else is a goin', lovey?« said Mrs. Cluppins in an insinuating manner.
    »Oh! Mrs. Rogers is a goin',« replied Master Bardell, opening his eyes very
wide as he delivered the intelligence.
    »What! The lady as has taken the lodgings!« ejaculated Mrs. Cluppins.
    Master Bardell put his hands deeper down into his pockets, and nodded
exactly thirty-five times, to imply that it was the lady lodger, and no other.
    »Bless us!« said Mrs. Cluppins. »It's quite a party!«
    »Ah, if you knew what was in the cupboard, you'd say so,« replied Master
Bardell.
    »What is there, Tommy?« said Mrs. Cluppins, coaxingly. »You'll tell me,
Tommy, I know.«
    »No, I won't,« replied Master Bardell, shaking his head, and applying
himself to the bottom step again.
    »Drat the child!« muttered Mrs. Cluppins. »What a prowokin' little wretch it
is! Come, Tommy, tell your dear Cluppy.«
    »Mother said I wasn't't to,« rejoined Master Bardell, »I'm a goin' to have
some, I am.« Cheered by this prospect, the precocious boy applied himself to his
infantile treadmill, with increased vigour.
    The above examination of a child of tender years, took place while Mr. and
Mrs. Raddle and the cab-driver were having an altercation concerning the fare:
which, terminating at this point in favour of the cab man, Mrs. Raddle came up
tottering.
    »Lauk, Mary Ann! what's the matter?« said Mrs. Cluppins.
    »It's put me all over in such a tremble, Betsy,« replied Mrs. Raddle.
»Raddle ain't like a man; he leaves everythink to me.«
    This was scarcely fair upon the unfortunate Mr. Raddle, who had been thrust
aside by his good lady in the commencement of the dispute, and peremptorily
commanded to hold his tongue. He had no opportunity of defending himself,
however, for Mrs. Raddle gave unequivocal signs of fainting; which, being
perceived from the parlour window, Mrs. Bardell, Mrs. Sanders, the lodger, and
the lodger's servant, darted precipitately out, and conveyed her into the house:
all talking at the same time, and giving utterance to various expressions of
pity and condolence, as if she were one of the most suffering mortals on earth.
Being conveyed into the front parlour, she was there deposited on a sofa; and
the lady from the first floor running up to the first floor, returned with a
bottle of sal volatile, which, holding Mrs. Raddle tight round the neck, she
applied in all womanly kindness and pity to her nose, until that lady with many
plunges and struggles was fain to declare herself decidedly better.
    »Ah, poor thing!« said Mrs. Rogers, »I know what her feelin's is, too well.«
    »Ah, poor thing! so do I,« said Mrs. Sanders: and then all the ladies moaned
in unison, and said they knew what it was, and they pitied her from their
hearts, they did. Even the lodger's little servant, who was thirteen years old,
and three feet high, murmured her sympathy.
    »But what's been the matter?« said Mrs. Bardell.
    »Ah, what has decomposed you, ma'am?« inquired Mrs. Rogers.
    »I have been a good deal flurried,« replied Mrs. Raddle, in a reproachful
manner. Thereupon the ladies cast indignant looks at Mr. Raddle.
    »Why, the fact is,« said that unhappy gentleman, stepping forward, »when we
alighted at this door, a dispute arose with the driver of the cabrioily -« A
loud scream from his wife, at the mention of this word, rendered all further
explanation inaudible.
    »You'd better leave us to bring her round, Raddle,« said Mrs. Cluppins.
»She'll never get better as long as you're here.«
    All the ladies concurred in this opinion; so Mr. Raddle was pushed out of
the room, and requested to give himself an airing in the back yard. Which he did
for about a quarter of an hour, when Mrs. Bardell announced to him with a solemn
face that he might come in now, but that he must be very careful how he behaved
towards his wife. She knew he didn't mean to be unkind; but Mary Ann was very
far from strong, and, if he didn't take care, he might lose her when he least
expected it, which would be a very dreadful reflection for him afterwards; and
so on. All this, Mr. Raddle heard with great submission, and presently returned
to the parlour in a most lamb-like manner.
    »Why, Mrs. Rogers, ma'am,« said Mrs. Bardell, »you've never been introduced,
I declare! Mr. Raddle, ma'am; Mrs. Cluppins, ma'am; Mrs. Raddle, ma'am.«
    - »Which is Mrs. Cluppins's sister,« suggested Mrs. Sanders.
    »Oh, indeed!« said Mrs. Rogers, graciously; for she was the lodger, and her
servant was in waiting, so she was more gracious than intimate, in right of her
position. »Oh, indeed!«
    Mrs. Raddle smiled sweetly, Mr. Raddle bowed, and Mrs. Cluppins said »she
was sure she was very happy to have a opportunity of being known to a lady which
she had heard so much in favour of, as Mrs. Rogers.« A compliment which the
last-named lady acknowledged with graceful condescension.
    »Well, Mr. Raddle,« said Mrs. Bardell; »I'm sure you ought to feel very much
honoured at you and Tommy being the only gentlemen to escort so many ladies all
the way to the Spaniards, at Hampstead. Don't you think he ought, Mrs. Rogers,
ma'am?«
    »Oh, certainly, ma'am,« replied Mrs. Rogers; after whom all the other ladies
responded »Oh, certainly.«
    »Of course I feel it, ma'am,« said Mr. Raddle, rubbing his hands, and
evincing a slight tendency to brighten up a little. »Indeed, to tell you the
truth, I said, as we was a coming along in the cabrioily -«
    At the recapitulation of the word which awakened so many painful
recollections, Mrs. Raddle applied her handkerchief to her eyes again, and
uttered a half- scream; so Mrs. Bardell frowned upon Mr. Raddle, to intimate
that he had better not say anything more, and desired Mrs. Rogers's servant,
with an air, to put the wine on.
    This was the signal for displaying the hidden treasures of the closet, which
comprised sundry plates of oranges and biscuits, and a bottle of old crusted
port - that at one and nine - with another of the celebrated East India sherry
at fourteenpence, which were all produced in honour of the lodger, and afforded
unlimited satisfaction to everybody. After great consternation had been excited
in the mind of Mrs. Cluppins, by an attempt on the part of Tommy to recount how
he had been cross-examined regarding the cupboard then in action, (which was
fortunately nipped in the bud by his imbibing half a glass of the old crusted
the wrong way, and thereby endangering his life for some seconds,) the party
walked forth, in quest of a Hampstead stage. This was soon found, and in a
couple of hours they all arrived safely in the Spaniards Teagardens, where the
luckless Mr. Raddle's very first act nearly occasioned his good lady a relapse;
it being neither more nor less than to order tea for seven, whereas (as the
ladies one and all remarked), what could have been easier than for Tommy to have
drank out of anybody's cup - or everybody's, if that was all - when the waiter
wasn't't looking: which would have saved one head of tea, and the tea just as
good!
    However, there was no help for it, and the tea-tray came, with seven cups
and saucers, and bread and butter on the same scale. Mrs. Bardell was
unanimously voted into the chair, and Mrs. Rogers being stationed on her right
hand, and Mrs. Raddle on her left, the meal proceeded with great merriment and
success.
    »How sweet the country is, to-be-sure!« sighed Mrs. Rogers; »I almost wish I
lived in it always.«
    »Oh, you wouldn't like that, ma'am,« replied Mrs. Bardell, rather hastily;
for it was not at all advisable, with reference to the lodgings, to encourage
such notions; »you wouldn't like it, ma'am.«
    »Oh! I should think you was a deal too lively and sought-after, to be
content with the country, ma'am,« said little Mrs. Cluppins.
    »Perhaps I am, ma'am. Perhaps I am,« sighed the first-floor lodger.
    »For lone people as have got nobody to care for them, or take care of them,
or as have been hurt in their mind, or that kind of thing,« observed Mr. Raddle,
plucking up a little cheerfulness, and looking round, »the country is all very
well. The country for a wounded spirit, they say.«
    Now, of all things in the world that the unfortunate man could have said,
any would have been preferable to this. Of course Mrs. Bardell burst into tears,
and requested to be led from the table instantly; upon which the affectionate
child began to cry too, most dismally.
    »Would anybody believe, ma'am,« exclaimed Mrs. Raddle, turning fiercely to
the first-floor lodger, »that a woman could be married to such a unmanly
creature, which can tamper with a woman's feelings as he does, every hour in the
day, ma'am?«
    »My dear,« remonstrated Mr. Raddle, »I didn't mean anything, my dear.«
    »You didn't mean!« repeated Mrs. Raddle, with great scorn and contempt. »Go
away. I can't bear the sight on you, you brute.«
    »You must not flurry yourself, Mary Ann,« interposed Mrs. Cluppins. »You
really must consider yourself, my dear, which you never do. Now go away, Raddle,
there's a good soul, or you'll only aggravate her.«
    »You had better take your tea by yourself, sir, indeed,« said Mrs. Rogers,
again applying the smelling-bottle.
    Mrs. Sanders, who according to custom was very busy with the bread and
butter, expressed the same opinion, and Mr. Raddle quietly retired.
    After this, there was a great hoisting up of Master Bardell, who was rather
a large size for hugging, into his mother's arms: in which operation he got his
boots in the tea-board, and occasioned some confusion among the cups and
saucers. But that description of fainting fits, which is contagious among
ladies, seldom lasts long; so when he had been well kissed, and a little cried
over, Mrs. Bardell recovered, set him down again, wondered how she could have
been so foolish, and poured out some more tea.
    It was at this moment, that the sound of approaching wheels was heard, and
that the ladies, looking up, saw a hackney-coach stop at the garden-gate.
    »More company!« said Mrs. Sanders.
    »It's a gentleman,« said Mrs. Raddle.
    »Well, if it ain't Mr. Jackson, the young man from Dodson and Fogg's!« cried
Mrs. Bardell. »Why, gracious! Surely Mr. Pickwick can't have paid the damages.«
    »Or hoffered marriage!« said Mrs. Cluppins.
    »Dear me, how slow the gentleman is,« exclaimed Mrs. Rogers: »Why doesn't't he
make haste?«
    As the lady spoke these words, Mr. Jackson turned from the coach where he
had been addressing some observations to a shabby man in black leggings, who had
just emerged from the vehicle with a thick ash stick in his hand, and made his
way to the place where the ladies were seated; winding his hair round the brim
of his hat as he came along.
    »Is anything the matter? Has anything taken place, Mr. Jackson?« said Mrs.
Bardell, eagerly.
    »Nothing whatever, ma'am,« replied Mr. Jackson. »How de do, ladies? I have
to ask pardon, ladies, for intruding - but the law, ladies - the law.« With this
apology Mr. Jackson smiled, made a comprehensive bow, and gave his hair another
wind. Mrs. Rogers whispered Mrs. Raddle that he was really a elegant young man.
    »I called in Goswell Street,« resumed Jackson, »and hearing that you were
here, from the slavey, took a coach and came on. Our people want you down in the
city directly, Mrs. Bardell.«
    »Lor!« ejaculated that lady, starting at the sudden nature of the
communication.
    »Yes,« said Jackson, biting his lip. »It's very important and pressing
business, which can't be postponed on any account. Indeed, Dodson expressly said
so to me, and so did Fogg. I've kept the coach on purpose for you to go back
in.«
    »How very strange!« exclaimed Mrs. Bardell.
    The ladies agreed that it was very strange, but were unanimously of opinion
that it must be very important, or Dodson and Fogg would never have sent; and
further, that the business being urgent, she ought to repair to Dodson and
Fogg's without any delay.
    There was a certain degree of pride and importance about being wanted by
one's lawyers in such a monstrous hurry, that was by no means displeasing to
Mrs. Bardell, especially as it might be reasonably supposed to enhance her
consequence in the eyes of the first-floor lodger. She simpered a little,
affected extreme vexation and hesitation, and at last arrived at the conclusion
that she supposed she must go.
    »But won't you refresh yourself after your walk, Mr. Jackson?« said Mrs.
Bardell, persuasively.
    »Why, really there ain't much time to lose,« replied Jackson; »and I've got
a friend here,« he continued, looking towards the man with the ash stick.
    »Oh, ask your friend to come here, sir,« said Mrs. Bardell. »Pray ask your
friend here, sir.«
    »Why, thankee, I'd rather not,« said Mr. Jackson, with some embarrassment of
manner. »He's not much used to ladies' society, and it makes him bashful. If
you'll order the waiter to deliver him anything short, he won't drink it off at
once, won't he! - only try him!« Mr. Jackson's fingers wandered playfully round
his nose, at this portion of his discourse, to warn his hearers that he was
speaking ironically.
    The waiter was at once despatched to the bashful gentleman, and the bashful
gentleman took something; Mr. Jackson also took something, and the ladies took
something, for hospitality's sake. Mr. Jackson then said he was afraid it was
time to go; upon which, Mrs. Sanders, Mrs. Cluppins, and Tommy (who it was
arranged should accompany Mrs. Bardell: leaving the others to Mr. Raddle's
protection), got into the coach.
    »Isaac,« said Jackson, as Mrs. Bardell prepared to get in: looking up at the
man with the ash stick, who was seated on the box, smoking a cigar.
    »Well?«
    »This is Mrs. Bardell.«
    »Oh, I know'd that, long ago,« said the man.
    Mrs. Bardell got in, Mr. Jackson got in after her, and away they drove. Mrs.
Bardell could not help ruminating on what Mr. Jackson's friend had said. Shrewd
creatures, those lawyers. Lord bless us, how they find people out!
    »Sad thing about these costs of our people's, ain't it?« said Jackson, when
Mrs. Cluppins and Mrs. Sanders had fallen asleep; »your bill of costs, I mean.«
    »I'm very sorry they can't get them,« replied Mrs. Bardell. »But if you
law-gentlemen do these things on speculation, why you must get a loss now and
then, you know.«
    »You gave them a cognovit for the amount of your costs, after the trial, I'm
told?« said Jackson.
    »Yes. Just as a matter of form,« replied Mrs. Bardell.
    »Certainly,« replied Jackson, drily. »Quite a matter of form. Quite.«
    On they drove, and Mrs. Bardell fell asleep. She was awakened, after some
time, by the stopping of the coach.
    »Bless us!« said the lady. »Are we at Freeman's Court?«
    »We're not going quite so far,« replied Jackson. »Have the goodness to step
out.«
    Mrs. Bardell, not yet thoroughly awake, complied. It was a curious place: a
large wall, with a gate in the middle, and a gas-light burning inside.
    »Now, ladies,« cried the man with the ash stick, looking into the coach, and
shaking Mrs. Sanders to wake her, »Come!« Rousing her friend, Mrs. Sanders
alighted. Mrs. Bardell, leaning on Jackson's arm, and leading Tommy by the hand,
had already entered the porch. They followed.
    The room they turned into, was even more odd-looking than the porch. Such a
number of men standing about! And they stared so!
    »What place is this?« inquired Mrs. Bardell, pausing.
    »Only one of our public offices,« replied Jackson, hurrying her through a
door, and looking round to see that the other women were following. »Look sharp,
Isaac!«
    »Safe and sound,« replied the man with the ash stick. The door swung heavily
after them, and they descended a small flight of steps.
    »Here we are, at last. All right and tight, Mrs. Bardell!« said Jackson,
looking exultingly round.
    »What do you mean?« said Mrs. Bardell, with a palpitating heart.
    »Just this,« replied Jackson, drawing her a little on one side; »don't be
frightened, Mrs. Bardell. There never was a more delicate man than Dodson,
ma'am, or a more humane man than Fogg. It was their duty, in the way of
business, to take you in execution for them costs; but they were anxious to
spare your feelings as much as they could. What a comfort it must be, to you, to
think how it's been done! This is the Fleet, ma'am. Wish you good night, Mrs.
Bardell. Good night, Tommy!«
    As Jackson hurried away in company with the man with the ash stick, another
man with a key in his hand, who had been looking on, led the bewildered female
to a second short flight of steps leading to a doorway. Mrs. Bardell screamed
violently; Tommy roared; Mrs. Cluppins shrunk within herself; and Mrs. Sanders
made off without more ado. For, there, stood the injured Mr. Pickwick, taking
his nightly allowance of air; and beside him leant Samuel Weller, who, seeing
Mrs. Bardell, took his hat off with mock reverence, while his master turned
indignantly on his heel.
    »Don't bother the woman,« said the turnkey to Weller: »she's just come in.«
    »A pris'ner!« said Sam, quickly replacing his hat. »Who's the plaintives?
What for? Speak up, old feller.«
    »Dodson and Fogg,« replied the man; »execution on cognovit for costs.«
    »Here Job, Job!« shouted Sam, dashing into the passage. »Run to Mr.
Perker's, Job. I want him directly. I see some good in this. Here's a game.
Hooray! were's the gov'nor?«
    But there was no reply to these inquiries, for Job had started furiously
off, the instant he received his commission, and Mrs. Bardell had fainted in
real downright earnest.
 

                                 Chapter XLVII

Is Chiefly Devoted to Matters of Business, and the Temporal Advantage of Dodson
     and Fogg. Mr. Winkle Re-Appears under Extraordinary Circumstances. Mr.
           Pickwick's Benevolence Proves Stronger than His Obstinacy.

Job Trotter, abating nothing of his speed, ran up Holborn; sometimes in the
middle of the road, sometimes on the pavement, sometimes in the gutter, as the
chances of getting along varied with the press of men, women, children, and
coaches in each division of the thoroughfare; regardless of all obstacles, he
stopped not for an instant until he reached the gate of Gray's Inn.
Notwithstanding all the expedition he had used, however, the gate had been
closed a good half hour when he reached it, and by the time he had discovered
Mr. Perker's laundress, who lived with a married daughter, who had bestowed her
hand upon a non-resident waiter, who occupied the one-pair of some number in
some street closely adjoining to some brewery somewhere behind Gray's Inn Lane,
it was within fifteen minutes of closing the prison for the night. Mr. Lowten
had still to be ferreted out from the back parlour of the Magpie and Stump; and
Job had scarcely accomplished this object, and communicated Sam Weller's
message, when the clock struck ten.
    »There,« said Lowten, »it's too late now. You can't get in to-night; you've
got the key of the street, my friend.«
    »Never mind me,« replied Job. »I can sleep anywhere. But won't it be better
to see Mr. Perker to-night, so that we may be there, the first thing in the
morning?«
    »Why,« responded Lowten, after a little consideration, »if it was in anybody
else's case, Perker wouldn't be best pleased at my going up to his house; but as
it's Mr. Pickwick's, I think I may venture to take a cab and charge it to the
office.« Deciding on this line of conduct, Mr. Lowten took up his hat, and
begging the assembled company to appoint a deputy chairman during his temporary
absence, led the way to the nearest coach-stand. Summoning the cab of most
promising appearance, he directed the driver to repair to Montague Place,
Russell Square.
    Mr. Perker had had a dinner party that day, as was testified by the
appearance of lights in the drawing-room windows, the sound of an improved grand
piano, and an improvable cabinet voice issuing therefrom, and a rather
overpowering smell of meat which pervaded the steps and entry. In fact a couple
of very good country agencies happening to come up to town, at the same time, an
agreeable little party had been got together to meet them: comprising Mr. Snicks
the Life Office Secretary, Mr. Prosee the eminent counsel, three solicitors, one
commissioner of bankrupts, a special pleader from the Temple, a small-eyed
peremptory young gentleman, his pupil, who had written a lively book about the
law of demises, with a vast quantity of marginal notes and references; and
several other eminent and distinguished personages. From this society, little
Mr. Perker detached himself, on his clerk being announced in a whisper; and
repairing to the dining-room, there found Mr. Lowten and Job Trotter looking
very dim and shadowy by the light of a kitchen candle, which the gentleman who
condescended to appear in plush shorts and cottons for a quarterly stipend, had,
with a becoming contempt for the clerk and all things appertaining to the
office, placed upon the table.
    »Now, Lowten,« said little Mr. Perker, shutting the door, »what's the
matter? No important letter come in a parcel, is there?«
    »No, sir,« replied Lowten. »This is a messenger from Mr. Pickwick, sir.«
    »From Pickwick, eh?« said the little man, turning quickly to Job. »Well,
what is it?«
    »Dodson and Fogg have taken Mrs. Bardell in execution for her costs, sir,«
said Job.
    »No!« exclaimed Perker, putting his hands in his pockets, and reclining
against the sideboard.
    »Yes,« said Job. »It seems they got a cognovit out of her, for the amount of
'em, directly after the trial.«
    »By Jove!« said Perker, taking both hands out of his pockets, and striking
the knuckles of his right against the palm of his left, emphatically, »those are
the cleverest scamps I ever had anything to do with!«
    »The sharpest practitioners I ever knew, sir,« observed Lowten.
    »Sharp!« echoed Perker. »There's no knowing where to have them.«
    »Very true, sir, there is not,« replied Lowten; and then, both master and
man pondered for a few seconds, with animated countenances, as if they were
reflecting upon one of the most beautiful and ingenious discoveries that the
intellect of man had ever made. When they had in some measure recovered from
their trance of admiration, Job Trotter discharged himself of the rest of his
commission. Perker nodded his head thoughtfully, and pulled out his watch.
    »At ten precisely, I will be there,« said the little man. »Sam is quite
right. Tell him so. Will you take a glass of wine, Lowten?«
    »No, thank you, sir.«
    »You mean yes, I think,« said the little man, turning to the sideboard for a
decanter and glasses.
    As Lowten did mean yes, he said no more on the subject, but inquired of Job,
in an audible whisper, whether the portrait of Perker, which hung opposite the
fire-place, wasn't't a wonderful likeness, to which, Job of course replied that it
was. The wine being by this time poured out, Lowten drank to Mrs. Perker and the
children, and Job to Perker. The gentleman in the plush shorts and cottons
considering it no part of his duty to show the people from the office out,
consistently declined to answer the bell, and they showed themselves out. The
attorney betook himself to his drawing-room, the clerk to the Magpie and Stump,
and Job to Covent Garden Market to spend the night in a vegetable basket.
    Punctually at the appointed hour next morning, the good-humoured little
attorney tapped at Mr. Pickwick's door, which was opened with great alacrity by
Sam Weller.
    »Mr. Perker, sir,« said Sam, announcing the visitor to Mr. Pickwick, who was
sitting at the window in a thoughtful attitude. »Wery glad you've looked in
accidentally, sir. I rather think the gov'nor wants to have a word and a half
with you, sir.«
    Perker bestowed a look of intelligence on Sam, intimating that he understood
he was not to say he had been sent for: and beckoning him to approach, whispered
briefly in his ear.
    »You don't mean that 'ere, sir?« said Sam, starting back in excessive
surprise.
    Perker nodded and smiled.
    Mr. Samuel Weller looked at the little lawyer, then at Mr. Pickwick, then at
the ceiling, then at Perker again; grinned, laughed outright, and finally,
catching up his hat from the carpet, without further explanation, disappeared.
    »What does this mean?« inquired Mr. Pickwick, looking at Perker with
astonishment. »What has put Sam into this most extraordinary state?«
    »Oh, nothing, nothing,« replied Perker. »Come, my dear sir, draw up your
chair to the table. I have a good deal to say to you.«
    »What papers are those?« inquired Mr. Pickwick, as the little man deposited
on the table a small bundle of documents tied with red tape.
    »The papers in Bardell and Pickwick,« replied Perker, undoing the knot with
his teeth.
    Mr. Pickwick grated the legs of his chair against the ground; and throwing
himself into it, folded his hands and looked sternly - if Mr. Pickwick ever
could look sternly - at his legal friend.
    »You don't like to hear the name of the cause?« said the little man, still
busying himself with the knot.
    »No, I do not indeed,« replied Mr. Pickwick.
    »Sorry for that,« resumed Perker, »because it will form the subject of our
conversation.«
    »I would rather that the subject should be never mentioned between us,
Perker,« interposed Mr. Pickwick, hastily.
    »Pooh, pooh, my dear sir,« said the little man, untying the bundle, and
glancing eagerly at Mr. Pickwick out of the corners of his eyes. »It must be
mentioned. I have come here on purpose. Now, are you ready to hear what I have
to say, my dear sir? No hurry; if you are not, I can wait. I have this morning's
paper here. Your time shall be mine. There!« Hereupon, the little man threw one
leg over the other, and made a show of beginning to read with great composure
and application.
    »Well, well,« said Mr. Pickwick, with a sigh, but softening into a smile at
the same time. »Say what you have to say; it's the old story, I suppose?«
    »With a difference, my dear sir; with a difference,« rejoined Perker,
deliberately folding up the paper and putting it into his pocket again. »Mrs.
Bardell, the plaintiff in the action, is within these walls, sir.«
    »I know it,« was Mr. Pickwick's reply.
    »Very good,« retorted Perker. »And you know how she comes here, I suppose; I
mean on what grounds, and at whose suit?«
    »Yes; at least I have heard Sam's account of the matter,« said Mr. Pickwick,
with affected carelessness.
    »Sam's account of the matter,« replied Perker, »is, I will venture to say, a
perfectly correct one. Well now, my dear sir, the first question I have to ask,
is, whether this woman is to remain here?«
    »To remain here!« echoed Mr. Pickwick.
    »To remain here, my dear sir,« rejoined Perker, leaning back in his chair
and looking steadily at his client.
    »How can you ask me?« said that gentleman. »It rests with Dodson and Fogg;
you know that, very well.«
    »I know nothing of the kind,« retorted Perker, firmly. »It does not rest
with Dodson and Fogg; you know the men, my dear sir, as well as I do. It rests
solely, wholly, and entirely with you.«
    »With me!« ejaculated Mr. Pickwick, rising nervously from his chair, and
reseating himself directly afterwards.
    The little man gave a double knock on the lid of his snuff-box, opened it,
took a great pinch, shut it up again, and repeated the words, »With you.«
    »I say, my dear sir,« resumed the little man, who seemed to gather
confidence from the snuff; »I say, that her speedy liberation or perpetual
imprisonment rests with you, and with you alone. Hear me out, my dear sir, if
you please, and do not be so very energetic, for it will only put you into a
perspiration and do no good whatever. I say,« continued Perker, checking off
each position on a different finger, as he laid it down; »I say that nobody but
you can rescue her from this den of wretchedness; and that you can only do that,
by paying the costs of this suit - both of plaintiff and defendant - into the
hands of these Freeman's Court sharks. Now pray be quiet, my dear sir.«
    Mr. Pickwick, whose face had been undergoing most surprising changes during
this speech, and who was evidently on the verge of a strong burst of
indignation, calmed his wrath as well as he could. Perker, strengthening his
argumentative powers with another pinch of snuff, proceeded.
    »I have seen the woman, this morning. By paying the costs, you can obtain a
full release and discharge from the damages; and further - this I know is a far
greater object of consideration with you, my dear sir - a voluntary statement,
under her hand, in the form of a letter to me, that this business was, from the
very first, fomented, and encouraged, and brought about, by these men, Dodson
and Fogg; that she deeply regrets ever having been the instrument of annoyance
or injury to you; and that she entreats me to intercede with you, and implore
your pardon.«
    »If I pay her costs for her,« said Mr. Pickwick, indignantly. »A valuable
document, indeed!«
    »No if in the case, my dear sir,« said Perker, triumphantly. »There is the
very letter I speak of. Brought to my office by another woman at nine o'clock
this morning, before I had set foot in this place, or held any communication
with Mrs. Bardell, upon my honour.« Selecting the letter from the bundle, the
little lawyer laid it at Mr. Pickwick's elbow, and took snuff for two
consecutive minutes, without winking.
    »Is this all you have to say to me?« inquired Mr. Pickwick, mildly.
    »Not quite,« replied Perker. »I cannot undertake to say, at this moment,
whether the wording of the cognovit, the nature of the ostensible consideration,
and the proof we can get together about the whole conduct of the suit, will be
sufficient to justify an indictment for conspiracy. I fear not, my dear sir;
they are too clever for that, I doubt. I do mean to say, however, that the whole
facts, taken together, will be sufficient to justify you, in the minds of all
reasonable men. And now, my dear sir, I put it to you. This one hundred and
fifty pounds, or whatever it may be - take it in round numbers - is nothing to
you. A jury has decided against you; well, their verdict is wrong, but still
they decided as they thought right, and it is against you. You have now an
opportunity, on easy terms, of placing yourself in a much higher position than
you ever could, by remaining here; which would only be imputed, by people who
didn't know you, to sheer dogged, wrongheaded, brutal obstinacy: nothing else,
my dear sir, believe me. Can you hesitate to avail yourself of it, when it
restores you to your friends, your old pursuits, your health and amusements;
when it liberates your faithful and attached servant, whom you otherwise doom to
imprisonment for the whole of your life; and above all, when it enables you to
take the very magnanimous revenge - which I know, my dear sir, is one after your
own heart - of releasing this woman from a scene of misery and debauchery, to
which no man should ever be consigned, if I had my will, but the infliction of
which on any woman, is even more frightful and barbarous. Now I ask you, my dear
sir, not only as your legal adviser, but as your very true friend, will you let
slip the occasion of attaining all these objects, and doing all this good, for
the paltry consideration of a few pounds finding their way into the pockets of a
couple of rascals, to whom it makes no manner of difference, except that the
more they gain, the more they'll seek, and so the sooner be led into some piece
of knavery that must end in a crash? I have put these considerations to you, my
dear sir, very feebly and imperfectly, but I ask you to think of them. Turn them
over in your mind as long as you please. I wait here most patiently for your
answer.«
    Before Mr. Pickwick could reply; before Mr. Perker had taken one twentieth
part of the snuff with which so unusually long an address imperatively required
to be followed up; there was a low murmuring of voices outside, and then a
hesitating knock at the door.
    »Dear, dear,« exclaimed Mr. Pickwick, who had been evidently roused by his
friend's appeal; »what an annoyance that door is! Who is that?«
    »Me, sir,« replied Sam Weller, putting in his head.
    »I can't speak to you just now, Sam,« said Mr. Pickwick. »I am engaged, at
this moment, Sam.«
    »Beg your pardon, sir,« rejoined Mr. Weller. »But here's a lady here, sir,
as says she's something' very particular to disclose.«
    »I can't see any lady,« replied Mr. Pickwick, whose mind was filled with
visions of Mrs. Bardell.
    »I vouldn't make too sure o' that, sir,« urged Mr. Weller, shaking his head.
»If you know'd who was near, sir, I rather think you'd change your note. As the
hawk remarked to himself with a cheerful laugh, ven he heard the robin redbreast
a singin' round the corner.«
    »Who is it?« inquired Mr. Pickwick.
    »Will you see her, sir?« asked Mr. Weller, holding the door in his hand as
if he had some curious live animal on the other side.
    »I suppose I must,« said Mr. Pickwick, looking at Perker.
    »Well then, all in to begin!« cried Sam. »Sound the gong, draw up the
curtain, and enter the two con-spiraytors.«
    As Sam Weller spoke, he threw the door open, and there rushed tumultuously
into the room, Mr. Nathaniel Winkle: leading after him by the hand, the
identical young lady who at Dingley Dell had worn the boots with the fur round
the tops, and who, now a very pleasing compound of blushes and confusion and
lilac silk and a smart bonnet and a rich lace veil, looked prettier than ever.
    »Miss Arabella Allen!« exclaimed Mr. Pickwick, rising from his chair.
    »No,« replied Mr. Winkle, dropping on his knees, »Mrs. Winkle. Pardon, my
dear friend, pardon?«
    Mr. Pickwick could scarcely believe the evidence of his senses, and perhaps
would not have done so, but for the corroborative testimony afforded by the
smiling countenance of Perker, and the bodily presence, in the background, of
Sam and the pretty housemaid; who appeared to contemplate the proceedings with
the liveliest satisfaction.
    »Oh, Mr. Pickwick!« said Arabella, in a low voice, as if alarmed at the
silence. »Can you forgive my imprudence?«
    Mr. Pickwick returned no verbal response to this appeal; but he took off his
spectacles in great haste, and seizing both the young lady's hands in his,
kissed her a great number of times - perhaps a greater number than was
absolutely necessary - and then, still retaining one of her hands, told Mr.
Winkle he was an audacious young dog, and bade him get up. This, Mr. Winkle, who
had been for some seconds scratching his nose with the brim of his hat, in a
penitent manner, did; whereupon Mr. Pickwick slapped him on the back several
times, and then shook hands heartily with Perker, who, not to be behind-hand in
the compliments of the occasion, saluted both the bride and the pretty housemaid
with right good will, and, having wrung Mr. Winkle's hand most cordially, wound
up his demonstrations of joy by taking snuff enough to set any half dozen men
with ordinarily constructed noses, a sneezing for life.
    »Why, my dear girl,« said Mr. Pickwick, »how has all this come about? Come!
Sit down, and let me hear it all. How well she looks, doesn't't she, Perker?«
added Mr. Pickwick, surveying Arabella's face with a look of as much pride and
exultation, as if she had been his daughter.
    »Delightful, my dear sir,« replied the little man. »If I were not a married
man myself, I should be disposed to envy you, you dog.« Thus expressing himself,
the little lawyer gave Mr. Winkle a poke in the chest, which that gentleman
reciprocated; after which they both laughed very loudly, but not so loudly as
Mr. Samuel Weller. Who had just relieved his feelings by kissing the pretty
housemaid, under cover of the cupboard-door.
    »I can never be grateful enough to you, Sam, I am sure,« said Arabella, with
the sweetest smile imaginable. »I shall not forget your exertions in the garden
at Clifton.«
    »Don't say nothing' wotever about it, ma'm,« replied Sam. »I only assisted
natur', ma'm; as the doctor said to the boy's mother, arter he'd bled him to
death.«
    »Mary, my dear, sit down,« said Mr. Pickwick, cutting short these
compliments. »Now then; how long have you been married, eh?«
    Arabella looked bashfully at her lord and master, who replied, »Only three
days.«
    »Only three days, eh?« said Mr. Pickwick. »Why, what have you been doing
these three months?«
    »Ah, to be sure!« interposed Perker; »come! Account for this idleness. You
see Pickwick's only astonishment is, that it wasn't't all over, months ago.«
    »Why, the fact is,« replied Mr. Winkle, looking at his blushing young wife,
»that I could not persuade Bella to run away, for a long time. And when I had
persuaded her, it was a long time more, before we could find an opportunity.
Mary had to give a month's warning, too, before she could leave her place next
door, and we couldn't possibly have done it without her assistance.«
    »Upon my word,« exclaimed Mr. Pickwick, who by this time had resumed his
spectacles, and was looking from Arabella to Winkle, and from Winkle to
Arabella, with as much delight depicted in his countenance as warm-heartedness
and kindly feeling can communicate to the human face: »upon my word! you seem to
have been very systematic in your proceedings. And is your brother acquainted
with all this, my dear?«
    »Oh, no, no,« replied Arabella, changing colour. »Dear Mr. Pickwick, he must
only know it from you - from your lips alone. He is so violent, so prejudiced,
and has been so - so anxious in behalf of his friend, Mr. Sawyer,« added
Arabella, looking down, »that I fear the consequences dreadfully.«
    »Ah, to be sure,« said Perker gravely. »You must take this matter in hand
for them, my dear sir. These young men will respect you, when they would listen
to nobody else. You must prevent mischief, my dear sir. Hot blood, hot blood.«
And the little man took a warning pinch, and shook his head doubtfully.
    »You forget, my love,« said Mr. Pickwick, gently, »you forget that I am a
prisoner.«
    »No, indeed I do not, my dear sir,« replied Arabella. »I never have
forgotten it. I have never ceased to think how great your sufferings must have
been in this shocking place. But I hoped that what no consideration for yourself
would induce you to do, a regard to our happiness, might. If my brother hears of
this, first, from you, I feel certain we shall be reconciled. He is my only
relation in the world, Mr. Pickwick, and unless you plead for me, I fear I have
lost even him. I have done wrong, very, very wrong, I know.« Here poor Arabella
hid her face in her handkerchief, and wept bitterly.
    Mr. Pickwick's nature was a good deal worked upon, by these same tears; but
when Mrs. Winkle, drying her eyes, took to coaxing and entreating in the
sweetest tones of a very sweet voice, he became particularly restless, and
evidently undecided how to act. As was evinced by sundry nervous rubbings of his
spectacle-glasses, nose, tights, head, and gaiters.
    Taking advantage of these symptoms of indecision, Mr. Perker (to whom, it
appeared, the young couple had driven straight that morning) urged with legal
point and shrewdness that Mr. Winkle, senior, was still unacquainted with the
important rise in life's flight of steps which his son had taken; that the
future expectations of the said son depended entirely upon the said Winkle,
senior, continuing to regard him with undiminished feelings of affection and
attachment, which it was very unlikely he would, if this great event were long
kept a secret from him; that Mr. Pickwick, repairing to Bristol to seek Mr.
Allen, might, with equal reason, repair to Birmingham to seek Mr. Winkle,
senior; lastly, that Mr. Winkle, senior, had good right and title to consider
Mr. Pickwick as in some degree the guardian and adviser of his son, and that it
consequently behoved that gentleman, and was indeed due to his personal
character, to acquaint the aforesaid Winkle, senior, personally, and by word of
mouth, with the whole circumstances of the case, and with the share he had taken
in the transaction.
    Mr. Tupman and Mr. Snodgrass arrived, most opportunely, in this stage of the
pleadings, and as it was necessary to explain to them all that had occurred,
together with the various reasons pro and con, the whole of the arguments were
gone over again, after which everybody urged every argument in his own way, and
at his own length. And, at last, Mr. Pickwick, fairly argued and remonstrated
out of all his resolutions, and being in imminent danger of being argued and
remonstrated out of his wits, caught Arabella in his arms, and declaring that
she was a very amiable creature, and that he didn't know how it was, but he had
always been very fond of her from the first, said he could never find it in his
heart to stand in the way of young people's happiness, and they might do with
him as they pleased.
    Mr. Weller's first act, on hearing this concession, was to despatch Job
Trotter to the illustrious Mr. Pell, with an authority to deliver to the bearer
the formal discharge which his prudent parent had had the foresight to leave in
the hands of that learned gentleman, in case it should be, at any time, required
on an emergency; his next proceeding was, to invest his whole stock of ready
money, in the purchase of five-and-twenty gallons of mild porter: which he
himself dispensed on the racket ground to everybody who would partake of it;
this done, he hurra'd in divers parts of the building until he lost his voice,
and then quietly relapsed into his usual collected and philosophical condition.
    At three o'clock that afternoon, Mr. Pickwick took a last look at his little
room, and made his way, as well as he could, through the throng of debtors who
pressed eagerly forward to shake him by the hand, until he reached the lodge
steps. He turned here, to look about him, and his eye lightened as he did so. In
all the crowd of wan, emaciated faces, he saw not one which was not the happier
for his sympathy and charity.
    »Perker,« said Mr. Pickwick, beckoning one young man towards him, »this is
Mr. Jingle, whom I spoke to you about.«
    »Very good, my dear sir,« replied Perker, looking hard at Jingle. »You will
see me again, young man, to-morrow. I hope you may live to remember and feel
deeply, what I shall have to communicate, sir.«
    Jingle bowed respectfully, trembled very much as he took Mr. Pickwick's
proffered hand, and withdrew.
    »Job you know, I think?« said Mr. Pickwick, presenting that gentleman.
    »I know the rascal,« replied Perker, good-humouredly. »See after your
friend, and be in the way to-morrow at one. Do you hear? Now, is there anything
more?«
    »Nothing,« rejoined Mr. Pickwick. »You have delivered the little parcel I
gave you for your old landlord, Sam?«
    »I have, sir,« replied Sam. »He bust out a cryin', sir, and said you wos
very gen'rous and thoughtful, and he only wished you could have him innokilated
for a gallopin' consumption, for his old friend as had lived here so long, wos
dead, and he'd noweres to look for another.«
    »Poor fellow, poor fellow!« said Mr. Pickwick. »God bless you, my friends!«
    As Mr. Pickwick uttered this adieu, the crowd raised a loud shout. Many
among them were pressing forward to shake him by the hand, again, when he drew
his arm through Perker's, and hurried from the prison: far more sad and
melancholy, for the moment, than when he had first entered it. Alas! how many
sad and unhappy beings had he left behind!
    A happy evening was that, for, at least, one party in the George and
Vulture; and light and cheerful were two of the hearts that emerged from its
hospitable door next morning. The owners thereof were Mr. Pickwick and Sam
Weller, the former of whom was speedily deposited inside a comfortable post
coach, with a little dickey behind, in which the latter mounted with great
agility.
    »Sir,« called out Mr. Weller to his master.
    »Well, Sam,« replied Mr. Pickwick, thrusting his head out of the window.
    »I wish them horses had been three months and better in the Fleet, sir.«
    »Why, Sam?« inquired Mr. Pickwick.
    »Wy, sir,« exclaimed Mr. Weller, rubbing his hands, »how they would go if
they had been!«
 

                                 Chapter XLVIII

   Relates How Mr. Pickwick, with the Assistance of Samuel Weller, Essayed To
 Soften the Heart of Mr. Benjamin Allen, and To Mollify the Wrath of Mr. Robert
                                    Sawyer.

Mr. Ben Allen and Mr. Bob Sawyer sat together in the little surgery behind the
shop, discussing minced veal and future prospects, when the discourse, not
unnaturally, turned upon the practice acquired by Bob the aforesaid, and his
present chances of deriving a competent independence from the honourable
profession to which he had devoted himself.
    » - Which, I think,« observed Mr. Bob Sawyer, pursuing the thread of the
subject, »which, I think, Ben, are rather dubious.«
    »What's rather dubious?« inquired Mr. Ben Allen, at the same time sharpening
his intellects with a draught of beer. »What's dubious?«
    »Why, the chances,« responded Mr. Bob Sawyer.
    »I forgot,« said Mr. Ben Allen. »The beer has reminded me that I forgot, Bob
- yes; they are dubious.«
    »It's wonderful how the poor people patronise me,« said Mr. Bob Sawyer,
reflectively. »They knock me up, at all hours of the night; they take medicine
to an extent which I should have conceived impossible; they put on blisters and
leeches with a perseverance worthy of a better cause; they make additions to
their families, in a manner which is quite awful. Six of those last-named little
promissory notes, all due on the same day, Ben, and all entrusted to me!«
    »It's very gratifying, isn't it?« said Mr. Ben Allen, holding his plate for
some more minced veal.
    »Oh, very,« replied Bob; »only not quite so much so, as the confidence of
patients with a shilling or two to spare, would be. This business was capitally
described in the advertisement, Ben. It is a practice, a very extensive practice
- and that's all.«
    »Bob,« said Mr. Ben Allen, laying down his knife and fork, and fixing his
eyes on the visage of his friend: »Bob, I'll tell you what it is.«
    »What is it?« inquired Mr. Bob Sawyer.
    »You must make yourself, with as little delay as possible, master of
Arabella's one thousand pounds.«
    »Three per cent. consolidated Bank annuities, now standing in her name in
the book or books of the Governor and Company of the Bank of England,« added Bob
Sawyer, in legal phraseology.
    »Exactly so,« said Ben. »She has it when she comes of age, or marries. She
wants a year of coming of age, and if you plucked up a spirit she needn't want a
month of being married.«
    »She's a very charming and delightful creature,« quoth Mr. Robert Sawyer, in
reply; »and has only one fault that I know of, Ben. It happens, unfortunately,
that that single blemish is a want of taste. She don't like me.«
    »It's my opinion that she don't know what she does like,« said Mr. Ben
Allen, contemptuously.
    »Perhaps not,« remarked Mr. Bob Sawyer. »But it's my opinion that she does
know what she doesn't't like, and that's of more importance.«
    »I wish,« said Mr. Ben Allen, setting his teeth together, and speaking more
like a savage warrior who fed on raw wolf's flesh which he carved with his
fingers, than a peaceable young gentleman who ate minced veal with a knife and
fork, »I wish I knew whether any rascal really has been tampering with her, and
attempting to engage her affections. I think I should assassinate him, Bob.«
    »I'd put a bullet in him, if I found him out,« said Mr. Sawyer, stopping in
the course of a long draught of beer, and looking malignantly out of the porter
pot. »If that didn't do his business, I'd extract it afterwards, and kill him
that way.«
    Mr. Benjamin Allen gazed abstractedly on his friend for some minutes in
silence, and then said:
    »You have never proposed to her, point-blank, Bob?«
    »No. Because I saw it would be of no use,« replied Mr. Robert Sawyer.
    »You shall do it, before you are twenty-four hours older,« retorted Ben,
with desperate calmness. »She shall have you, or I'll know the reason why. I'll
exert my authority.«
    »Well,« said Mr. Bob Sawyer, »we shall see.«
    »We shall see, my friend,« replied Mr. Ben Allen, fiercely. He paused for a
few seconds, and added in a voice broken by emotion, »You have loved her from a
child, my friend. You loved her when we were boys at school together, and, even
then, she was wayward, and slighted your young feelings. Do you recollect, with
all the eagerness of a child's love, one day pressing upon her acceptance, two
small caraway-seed biscuits and one sweet apple, neatly folded into a circular
parcel with the leaf of a copybook?«
    »I do,« replied Bob Sawyer.
    »She slighted that, I think?« said Ben Allen.
    »She did,« rejoined Bob. »She said I had kept the parcel so long in the
pockets of my corduroys, that the apple was unpleasantly warm.«
    »I remember,« said Mr. Allen, gloomily. »Upon which we ate it ourselves, in
alternate bites.«
    Bob Sawyer intimated his recollection of the circumstance last alluded to,
by a melancholy frown; and the two friends remained for some time absorbed, each
in his own meditations.
    While these observations were being exchanged between Mr. Bob Sawyer and Mr.
Benjamin Allen; and while the boy in the grey livery, marvelling at the unwonted
prolongation of the dinner, cast an anxious look, from time to time, towards the
glass door, distracted by inward misgivings regarding the amount of minced veal
which would be ultimately reserved for his individual cravings; there rolled
soberly on through the streets of Bristol, a private fly, painted of a sad green
colour, drawn by a chubby sort of brown horse, and driven by a surly-looking man
with his legs dressed like the legs of a groom, and his body attired in the coat
of a coachman. Such appearances are common to many vehicles belonging to, and
maintained by, old ladies of economic habits; and in this vehicle, sat an old
lady who was its mistress and proprietor.
    »Martin!« said the old lady, calling to the surly man, out of the front
window.
    »Well?« said the surly man, touching his hat to the old lady.
    »Mr. Sawyer's,« said the old lady.
    »I was going there,« said the surly man.
    The old lady nodded the satisfaction which this proof of the surly man's
foresight imparted to her feelings; and the surly man giving a smart lash to the
chubby horse, they all repaired to Mr. Bob Sawyer's together.
    »Martin!« said the old lady, when the fly stopped at the door of Mr. Robert
Sawyer late Nockemorf.
    »Well?« said Martin.
    »Ask the lad to step out, and mind the horse.«
    »I'm going to mind the horse myself,« said Martin, laying his whip on the
roof of the fly.
    »I can't permit it, on any account,« said the old lady; »your testimony will
be very important, and I must take you into the house with me. You must not stir
from my side during the whole interview. Do you hear?«
    »I hear,« replied Martin.
    »Well; what are you stopping for?«
    »Nothing,« replied Martin. So saying, the surly man leisurely descended from
the wheel, on which he had been poising himself on the tops of the toes of his
right foot, and having summoned the boy in the grey livery, opened the
coach-door, flung down the steps, and thrusting in a hand enveloped in a dark
wash-leather glove, pulled out the old lady with as much unconcern in his manner
as if she were a bandbox.
    »Dear me!« exclaimed the old lady. »I am so flurried, now I have got here,
Martin, that I'm all in a tremble.«
    Mr. Martin coughed behind the dark wash-leather glove, but expressed no
sympathy; so the old lady, composing herself, trotted up Mr. Bob Sawyer's steps,
and Mr. Martin followed. Immediately on the old lady's entering the shop, Mr.
Benjamin Allen and Mr. Bob Sawyer, who had been putting the spirits and water
out of sight, and upsetting nauseous drugs to take off the smell of the
tobacco-smoke, issued hastily forth in a transport of pleasure and affection.
    »My dear aunt,« exclaimed Mr. Ben Allen, »how kind of you to look in upon
us! Mr. Sawyer, aunt; my friend Mr. Bob Sawyer whom I have spoken to you about,
regarding - you know, aunt.« And here Mr. Ben Allen, who was not at the moment
extraordinarily sober, added the word Arabella, in what was meant to be a
whisper, but which was an especially audible and distinct tone of speech, which
nobody could avoid hearing, if anybody were so disposed.
    »My dear Benjamin,« said the old lady, struggling with a great shortness of
breath, and trembling from head to foot: »don't be alarmed, my dear, but I think
I had better speak to Mr. Sawyer, alone, for a moment. Only for one moment.«
    »Bob,« said Mr. Ben Allen, »will you take my aunt into the surgery?«
    »Certainly,« responded Bob, in a most professional voice. »Step this way, my
dear ma'am. Don't be frightened, ma'am. We shall be able to set you to rights in
a very short time, I have no doubt, ma'am. Here, my dear ma'am. Now then!« With
this, Mr. Bob Sawyer having handed the old lady to a chair, shut the door, drew
another chair close to her, and waited to hear detailed the symptoms of some
disorder from which he saw in perspective a long train of profits and
advantages.
    The first thing the old lady did, was to shake her head a great many times,
and begin to cry.
    »Nervous,« said Bob Sawyer complacently. »Camphor-julep and water three
times a-day, and composing draught at night.«
    »I don't know how to begin, Mr. Sawyer,« said the old lady. »It is so very
painful and distressing.«
    »You need not begin, ma'am,« rejoined Mr. Bob Sawyer. »I can anticipate all
you would say. The head is in fault.«
    »I should be very sorry to think it was the heart,« said the old lady, with
a slight groan.
    »Not the slightest danger of that, ma'am,« replied Bob Sawyer. »The stomach
is the primary cause.«
    »Mr. Sawyer!« exclaimed the old lady, starting.
    »Not the least doubt of it, ma'am,« rejoined Bob, looking wondrous wise.
»Medicine, in time, my dear ma'am, would have prevented it all.«
    »Mr. Sawyer,« said the old lady, more flurried than before, »this conduct is
either great impertinence to one in my situation, sir, or it arises from your
not understanding the object of my visit. If it had been in the power of
medicine, or any foresight I could have used, to prevent what has occurred, I
should certainly have done so. I had better see my nephew at once,« said the old
lady, twirling her reticule indignantly, and rising as she spoke.
    »Stop a moment, ma'am,« said Bob Sawyer; »I'm afraid I have not understood
you. What is the matter, ma'am?«
    »My niece, Mr. Sawyer,« said the old lady; »your friend's sister.«
    »Yes, ma'am,« said Bob, all impatience; for the old lady, although much
agitated, spoke with the most tantalising deliberation, as old ladies often do.
»Yes, ma'am.«
    »Left my home, Mr. Sawyer, three days ago, on a pretended visit to my
sister, another aunt of hers, who keeps the large boarding-school just beyond
the third mile-stone where there is a very large laburnum tree and an oak gate,«
said the old lady, stopping in this place to dry her eyes.
    »Oh, devil take the laburnum tree! ma'am,« said Bob, quite forgetting his
professional dignity in his anxiety. »Get on a little faster; put a little more
steam on, ma'am, pray.«
    »This morning,« said the old lady, slowly, »this morning, she -«
    »She came back, ma'am, I suppose,« said Bob, with great amimation. »Did she
come back?«
    »No, she did not; she wrote,« replied the old lady.
    »What did she say?« inquired Bob, eagerly.
    »She said, Mr. Sawyer,« replied the old lady - »and it is this, I want you
to prepare Benjamin's mind for, gently and by degrees; she said that she was - I
have got the letter in my pocket, Mr. Sawyer, but my glasses are in the
carriage, and I should only waste your time if I attempted to point out the
passage to you, without them; she said, in short, Mr. Sawyer, that she was
married.«
    »What!« said, or rather shouted, Mr. Bob Sawyer.
    »Married,« repeated the old lady.
    Mr. Bob Sawyer stopped to hear no more; but darting from the surgery into
the outer shop, cried in a stentorian voice, »Ben, my boy, she's bolted!«
    Mr. Ben Allen, who had been slumbering behind the counter, with his head
half a foot or so below his knees, no sooner heard this appalling communication,
than he made a precipitate rush at Mr. Martin, and, twisting his hand in the
neckcloth of that taciturn servitor, expressed an intention of choking him where
he stood. This intention, with a promptitude often the effect of desperation, he
at once commenced carrying into execution, with much vigour and surgical skill.
    Mr. Martin, who was a man of few words and possessed but little power of
eloquence or persuasion, submitted to this operation with a very calm and
agreeable expression of countenance, for some seconds; finding, however, that it
threatened speedily to lead to a result which would place it beyond his power to
claim any wages, board or otherwise, in all time to come, he muttered an
inarticulate remonstrance and felled Mr. Benjamin Allen to the ground. As that
gentleman had his hands entangled in his cravat, he had no alternative but to
follow him to the floor. There they both lay struggling, when the shop door
opened, and the party was increased by the arrival of two most unexpected
visitors: to wit, Mr. Pickwick, and Mr. Samuel Weller.
    The impression at once produced on Mr. Weller's mind by what he saw, was,
that Mr. Martin was hired by the establishment of Sawyer late Nockemorf, to take
strong medicine, or to go into fits and be experimentalised upon, or to swallow
poison now and then with the view of testing the efficacy of some new antidotes,
or to do something or other to promote the great science of medicine, and
gratify the ardent spirit of inquiry burning in the bosoms of its two young
professors. So, without presuming to interfere, Sam stood perfectly still, and
looked on, as if he were mightily interested in the result of the then pending
experiment. Not so, Mr. Pickwick. He at once threw himself on the astonished
combatants, with his accustomed energy, and loudly called upon the by-standers
to interpose.
    This roused Mr. Bob Sawyer, who had been hitherto quite paralysed by the
frenzy of his companion. With that gentleman's assistance, Mr. Pickwick raised
Ben Allen to his feet. Mr. Martin finding himself alone on the floor, got up,
and looked about him.
    »Mr. Allen,« said Mr. Pickwick, »what is the matter, sir?«
    »Never mind, sir!« replied Mr. Allen, with haughty defiance.
    »What is it?« inquired Mr. Pickwick, looking at Bob Sawyer. »Is he unwell?«
    Before Bob could reply, Mr. Ben Allen seized Mr. Pickwick by the hand, and
murmured, in sorrowful accents, »My sister, my dear sir; my sister.«
    »Oh, is that all!« said Mr. Pickwick. »We shall easily arrange that matter,
I hope. Your sister is safe and well, and I am here, my dear sir, to -«
    »Sorry to do anything' as may cause an interruption to such very pleasant
proceedin's, as the king said wen he dissolved the parliament,« interposed Mr.
Weller, who had been peeping through the glass door; »but there's another
experiment here, sir. Here's a wenerable old lady a lyin' on the carpet waiting'
for dissection, or galwinism, or some other rewivin' and scientific inwention.«
    »I forgot,« exclaimed Mr. Ben Allen. »It is my aunt.«
    »Dear me!« said Mr. Pickwick. »Poor lady! Gently, Sam, gently.«
    »Strange sitivation for one o' the family,« observed Sam Weller, hoisting
the aunt into a chair. »Now, depitty Sawbones, bring out the wollatilly!«
    The latter observation was addressed to the boy in grey, who, having handed
over the fly to the care of the street-keeper, had come back to see what all the
noise was about. Between the boy in grey, and Mr. Bob Sawyer, and Mr. Benjamin
Allen (who having frightened his aunt into a fainting fit, was affectionately
solicitous for her recovery) the old lady was, at length, restored to
consciousness; then Mr. Ben Allen, turning with a puzzled countenance to Mr.
Pickwick, asked him what he was about to say, when he had been so alarmingly
interrupted.
    »We are all friends here, I presume?« said Mr. Pickwick, clearing his voice,
and looking towards the man of few words with the surly countenance, who drove
the fly with the chubby horse.
    This reminded Mr. Bob Sawyer that the boy in grey was looking on, with eyes
wide open, and greedy ears. The incipient chemist having been lifted up by his
coat collar, and dropped outside the door, Bob Sawyer assured Mr. Pickwick that
he might speak without reserve.
    »Your sister, my dear sir,« said Mr. Pickwick, turning to Benjamin Allen,
»is in London; well and happy.«
    »Her happiness is no object to me, sir,« said Mr. Benjamin Allen, with a
flourish of the hand.
    »Her husband is an object to me, sir,« said Bob Sawyer. »He shall be an
object to me, sir, at twelve paces, and a very pretty object I'll make of him,
sir - a mean-spirited scoundrel!« This, as it stood, was a very pretty
denunciation, and magnanimous withal; but Mr. Bob Sawyer rather weakened its
effect, by winding up with some general observations concerning the punching of
heads and knocking out of eyes, which were commonplace by comparison.
    »Stay, sir,« said Mr. Pickwick; »before you apply those epithets to the
gentleman in question, consider, dispassionately, the extent of his fault, and
above all remember that he is a friend of mine.«
    »What!« said Mr. Bob Sawyer.
    »His name!« cried Ben Allen. »His name!«
    »Mr. Nathaniel Winkle,« said Mr. Pickwick.
    Mr. Benjamin Allen deliberately crushed his spectacles beneath the heel of
his boot, and having picked up the pieces, and put them into three separate
pockets, folded his arms, bit his lips, and looked in a threatening manner at
the bland features of Mr. Pickwick.
    »Then it's you, is it, sir, who have encouraged and brought about this
match?« inquired Mr. Benjamin Allen at length.
    »And it's this gentleman's servant, I suppose,« interrupted the old lady,
»who has been skulking about my house, and endeavouring to entrap my servants to
conspire against their mistress. Martin!«
    »Well?« said the surly man, coming forward.
    »Is that the young man you saw in the lane, whom you told me about, this
morning?«
    Mr. Martin, who, as it has already appeared, was a man of few words, looked
at Sam Weller, nodded his head, and growled forth, »That's the man!« Mr. Weller,
who was never proud, gave a smile of friendly recognition as his eyes
encountered those of the surly groom, and admitted, in courteous terms, that he
had »knew him afore.«
    »And this is the faithful creature,« exclaimed Mr. Ben Allen, »whom I had
nearly suffocated! Mr. Pickwick, how dare you allow your fellow to be employed
in the abduction of my sister? I demand that you explain this matter, sir.«
    »Explain it, sir!« cried Bob Sawyer, fiercely.
    »It's a conspiracy,« said Ben Allen.
    »A regular plant,« added Mr. Bob Sawyer.
    »A disgraceful imposition,« observed the old lady.
    »Nothing but a do,« remarked Martin.
    »Pray hear me,« urged Mr. Pickwick, as Mr. Ben Allen fell into a chair that
patients were bled in, and gave way to his pocket-handkerchief. »I have rendered
no assistance in this matter, beyond that of being present at one interview
between the young people, which I could not prevent, and from which I conceived
my presence would remove any slight colouring of impropriety that it might
otherwise have had; this is the whole share I have taken in the transaction, and
I had no suspicion that an immediate marriage was even contemplated. Though,
mind,« added Mr. Pickwick, hastily checking himself, »mind, I do not say I
should have prevented it, if I had known that it was intended.«
    »You hear that, all of you; you hear that?« said Mr. Benjamin Allen.
    »I hope they do,« mildly observed Mr. Pickwick, looking round, »and,« added
that gentleman: his colour mounting as he spoke: »I hope they hear this, sir,
also. That from what has been stated to me, sir, I assert that you were by no
means justified in attempting to force your sister's inclinations as you did,
and that you should rather have endeavoured by your kindness and forbearance to
have supplied the place of other nearer relations whom she has never known, from
a child. As regards my young friend, I must beg to add, that in every point of
worldly advantage, he is, at least, on an equal footing with yourself, if not on
a much better one, and that unless I hear this question discussed with becoming
temper and moderation, I decline hearing any more said upon the subject.«
    »I wish to make a very few remarks in addition to wot has been put forard by
the honourable gen'l'm'n as has just give over,« said Mr. Weller, stepping forth,
»wich is this here: a indiwidual in company has called me a feller.«
    »That has nothing whatever to do with the matter, Sam,« interposed Mr.
Pickwick. »Pray hold your tongue.«
    »I ain't a goin' to say nothing' on that ere pint, sir,« replied Sam, »but
merely this here. P'raps that gen'l'm'n may think as there wos a priory
'tachment; but there worn't nothing' o' the sort, for the young lady said, in the
very beginnin' o' the keepin' company, that she couldn't abide him. Nobody's cut
him out, and it 'ud ha' been just the very same for him if the young lady had
never seen Mr. Vinkle. That's wot I wished to say, sir, and I hope I've now made
that 'ere gen'l'm'n's mind easy.«
    A short pause followed these consolatory remarks of Mr. Weller. Then Mr. Ben
Allen rising from his chair, protested that he would never see Arabella's face
again: while Mr. Bob Sawyer, despite Sam's flattering assurance, vowed dreadful
vengeance on the happy bridegroom.
    But, just when matters were at their height, and threatening to remain so,
Mr. Pickwick found a powerful assistant in the old lady, who, evidently much
struck by the mode in which he had advocated her niece's cause, ventured to
approach Mr. Benjamin Allen with a few comforting reflections, of which the
chief were, that after all, perhaps, it was well it was no worse; the least said
the soonest mended, and upon her word she did not know that it was so very bad
after all; what was over couldn't be begun, and what couldn't be cured must be
endured: with various other assurances of the like novel and strengthening
description. To all of these, Mr. Benjamin Allen replied that he meant no
disrespect to his aunt, or anybody there, but if it were all the same to them,
and they would allow him to have his own way, he would rather have the pleasure
of hating his sister till death, and after it.
    At length, when this determination had been announced half a hundred times,
the old lady suddenly bridling up and looking very majestic, wished to know what
she had done that no respect was to be paid to her years or station, and that
she should be obliged to beg and pray, in that way, of her own nephew, whom she
remembered about five-and-twenty years before he was born, and whom she had
known, personally, when he hadn't a tooth in his head? To say nothing of her
presence on the first occasion of his having his hair cut, and assistance at
numerous other times and ceremonies during his babyhood, of sufficient
importance to found a claim upon his affection, obedience, and sympathies, for
ever.
    While the good lady was bestowing this objurgation on Mr. Ben Allen, Bob
Sawyer and Mr. Pickwick had retired in close conversation to the inner room,
where Mr. Sawyer was observed to apply himself several times to the mouth of a
black bottle, under the influence of which, his features gradually assumed a
cheerful and even jovial expression. And at last he emerged from the room,
bottle in hand, and, remarking that he was very sorry to say he had been making
a fool of himself, begged to propose the health and happiness of Mr. and Mrs.
Winkle, whose felicity, so far from envying, he would be the first to
congratulate them upon. Hearing this, Mr. Ben Allen suddenly arose from his
chair, and, seizing the black bottle, drank the toast so heartily, that, the
liquor being strong, he became nearly as black in the face as the bottle.
Finally, the black bottle went round till it was empty, and there was so much
shaking of hands and interchanging of compliments, that even the metal-visaged
Mr. Martin condescended to smile.
    »And now,« said Bob Sawyer, rubbing his hands, »we'll have a jolly night.«
    »I am sorry,« said Mr. Pickwick, »that I must return to my inn. I have not
been accustomed to fatigue lately, and my journey has tired me exceedingly.«
    »You'll take some tea, Mr. Pickwick?« said the old lady, with irresistible
sweetness.
    »Thank you, I would rather not,« replied that gentleman. The truth is, that
the old lady's evidently increasing admiration, was Mr. Pickwick's principal
inducement for going away. He thought of Mrs. Bardell; and every glance of the
old lady's eyes threw him into a cold perspiration.
    As Mr. Pickwick could by no means be prevailed upon to stay, it was arranged
at once, on his own proposition, that Mr. Benjamin Allen should accompany him on
his journey to the elder Mr. Winkle's, and that the coach should be at the door,
at nine o'clock next morning. He then took his leave, and, followed by Samuel
Weller, repaired to the Bush. It is worthy of remark, that Mr. Martin's face was
horribly convulsed as he shook hands with Sam at parting, and that he gave vent
to a smile and an oath simultaneously: from which tokens it has been inferred by
those who were best acquainted with that gentleman's peculiarities, that he
expressed himself much pleased with Mr. Weller's society, and requested the
honour of his further acquaintance.
    »Shall I order a private room, sir?« inquired Sam, when they reached the
Bush.
    »Why, no, Sam,« replied Mr. Pickwick; »as I dined in the coffee room, and
shall go to bed soon, it is hardly worth while. See who there is in the
travellers' room, Sam.«
    Mr. Weller departed on his errand, and presently returned to say, that there
was only a gentleman with one eye; and that he and the landlord were drinking a
bowl of bishop together.
    »I will join them,« said Mr. Pickwick.
    »He's a queer customer, the vun-eyed vun, sir,« observed Mr. Weller, as he
led the way. »He's a gammonin' that 'ere landlord, he is, sir, till he don't
rightly know wether he's a standing on the soles of his boots or the crown of
his hat.«
    The individual to whom this observation referred, was sitting at the upper
end of the room when Mr. Pickwick entered, and was smoking a large Dutch pipe,
with his eye intently fixed on the round face of the landlord: a jolly looking
old personage, to whom he had recently been relating some tale of wonder, as was
testified by sundry disjointed exclamations of, »Well, I wouldn't have believed
it! The strangest thing I ever heard! Couldn't have supposed it possible!« and
other expressions of astonishment which burst spontaneously from his lips, as he
returned the fixed gaze of the one-eyed man.
    »Servant, sir,« said the one-eyed man to Mr. Pickwick. »Fine night, sir.«
    »Very much so indeed,« replied Mr. Pickwick, as the waiter placed a small
decanter of brandy, and some hot water before him.
    While Mr. Pickwick was mixing his brandy and water, the one-eyed man looked
round at him earnestly, from time to time, and at length said:
    »I think I've seen you before.«
    »I don't recollect you,« rejoined Mr. Pickwick.
    »I dare say not,« said the one-eyed man. »You didn't know me, but I knew two
friends of yours that were stopping at the Peacock at Eatanswill, at the time of
the Election.«
    »Oh, indeed!« exclaimed Mr. Pickwick.
    »Yes,« rejoined the one-eyed man. »I mentioned a little circumstance to them
about a friend of mine of the name of Tom Smart. Perhaps you've heard them speak
of it.«
    »Often,« rejoined Mr. Pickwick, smiling. »He was your uncle, I think?«
    »No, no; only a friend of my uncle's,« replied the one-eyed man.
    »He was a wonderful man, that uncle of yours, though,« remarked the
landlord, shaking his head.
    »Well, I think he was, I think I may say he was,« answered the one-eyed man.
»I could tell you a story about that same uncle, gentlemen, that would rather
surprise you.«
    »Could you?« said Mr. Pickwick. »Let us hear it, by all means.«
    The one-eyed Bagman ladled out a glass of negus from the bowl, and drank it;
smoked a long whiff out of the Dutch pipe; and then, calling to Sam Weller who
was lingering near the door, that he needn't go away unless he wanted to,
because the story was no secret, fixed his eye upon the landlord's and
proceeded, in the words of the next chapter.
 

                                  Chapter XLIX

                  Containing the Story of the Bagman's Uncle.

»My uncle, gentlemen,« said the bagman, »was one of the merriest, pleasantest,
cleverest fellows that ever lived. I wish you had known him, gentlemen. On
second thoughts, gentlemen, I don't wish you had known him, for if you had, you
would have been all, by this time, in the ordinary course of nature, if not
dead, at all events so near it, as to have taken to stopping at home and giving
up company: which would have deprived me of the inestimable pleasure of
addressing you at this moment. Gentlemen, I wish your fathers and mothers had
known my uncle. They would have been amazingly fond of him, especially your
respectable mothers; I know they would. If any two of his numerous virtues
predominated over the many that adorned his character, I should say they were
his mixed punch and his after supper song. Excuse my dwelling on these
melancholy recollections of departed worth; you won't see a man like my uncle
every day in the week.
    I have always considered it a great point in my uncle's character,
gentlemen, that he was the intimate friend and companion of Tom Smart, of the
great house of Bilson and Slum, Cateaton Street, City. My uncle collected for
Tiggin and Welps, but for a long time he went pretty near the same journey as
Tom; and the very first night they met, my uncle took a fancy for Tom, and Tom
took a fancy for my uncle. They made a bet of a new hat before they had known
each other half an hour, who should brew the best quart of punch and drink it
the quickest. My uncle was judged to have won the making, but Tom Smart beat him
in the drinking by about half a salt-spoon-full. They took another quart a-piece
to drink each other's health in, and were staunch friends ever afterwards.
There's a destiny in these things, gentlemen; we can't help it.
    In personal appearance, my uncle was a trifle shorter than the middle size;
he was a thought stouter too, than the ordinary run of people, and perhaps his
face might be a shade redder. He had the jolliest face you ever saw, gentlemen:
something like Punch, with a handsomer nose and chin; his eyes were always
twinkling and sparkling with good humour; and a smile - not one of your
unmeaning wooden grins, but a real, merry, hearty, good-tempered smile - was
perpetually on his countenance. He was pitched out of his gig once, and knocked,
head first, against a mile-stone. There he lay, stunned, and so cut about the
face with some gravel which had been heaped up alongside it, that, to use my
uncle's own strong expression, if his mother could have revisited the earth, she
wouldn't have known him. Indeed, when I come to think of the matter, gentlemen,
I feel pretty sure she wouldn't, for she died when my uncle was two years and
seven months old, and I think it's very likely that, even without the gravel,
his top-boots would have puzzled the good lady not a little: to say nothing of
his jolly red face. However, there he lay, and I have heard my uncle say, many a
time, that the man said who picked him up that he was smiling as merrily as if
he had tumbled out for a treat, and that after they had bled him, the first
faint glimmerings of returning animation, were, his jumping up in bed, bursting
out into a loud laugh, kissing the young woman who held the basin, and demanding
a mutton chop and a pickled walnut. He was very fond of pickled walnuts,
gentlemen. He said he always found that, taken without vinegar, they relished
the beer.
    My uncle's great journey was in the fall of the leaf, at which time he
collected debts, and took orders, in the north: going from London to Edinburgh,
from Edinburgh to Glasgow, from Glasgow back to Edinburgh, and thence to London
by the smack. You are to understand that his second visit to Edinburgh was for
his own pleasure. He used to go back for a week, just to look up his old
friends; and what with breakfasting with this one, lunching with that, dining
with a third, and supping with another, a pretty tight week he used to make of
it. I don't know whether any of you, gentlemen, ever partook of a real
substantial hospitable Scotch breakfast, and then went out to a slight lunch of
a bushel of oysters, a dozen or so of bottled ale, and a noggin or two of
whiskey to close up with. If you ever did, you will agree with me that it
requires a pretty strong head to go out to dinner and supper afterwards.
    But, bless your hearts and eye-brows, all this sort of thing was nothing to
my uncle! He was so well seasoned, that it was mere child's play. I have heard
him say that he could see the Dundee people out, any day, and walk home
afterwards without staggering; and yet the Dundee people have as strong heads
and as strong punch, gentlemen, as you are likely to meet with, between the
poles. I have heard of a Glasgow man and a Dundee man drinking against each
other for fifteen hours at a sitting. They were both suffocated, as nearly as
could be ascertained, at the same moment, but with this trifling exception,
gentlemen, they were not a bit the worse for it.
    One night, within four-and-twenty hours of the time when he had settled to
take shipping for London, my uncle supped at the house of a very old friend of
his, a Baillie Mac something and four syllables after it, who lived in the old
town of Edinburgh. There were the baillie's wife, and the baillie's three
daughters, and the baillie's grown-up son, and three or four stout, bushy
eye-browed, canny old Scotch fellows, that the baillie had got together to do
honour to my uncle, and help to make merry. It was a glorious supper. There were
kippered salmon, and Finnan haddocks, and a lamb's head, and a haggis - a
celebrated Scotch dish, gentlemen, which my uncle used to say always looked to
him, when it came to table, very much like a cupid's stomach - and a great many
other things besides, that I forget the names of, but very good things
notwithstanding. The lassies were pretty and agreeable; the baillie's wife was
one of the best creatures that ever lived; and my uncle was in thoroughly good
cue. The consequence of which was, that the young ladies tittered and giggled,
and the old lady laughed out loud, and the baillie and the other old fellows
roared till they were red in the face, the whole mortal time. I don't quite
recollect how many tumblers of whiskey toddy each man drank after supper; but
this I know, that about one o'clock in the morning, the baillie's grown-up son
became insensible while attempting the first verse of Willie brewed a peck o'
maut; and he having been, for half an hour before, the only other man visible
above the mahogany, it occurred to my uncle that it was almost time to think
about going: especially as drinking had set in at seven o'clock, in order that
he might get home at a decent hour. But, thinking it might not be quite polite
to go just then, my uncle voted himself into the chair, mixed another glass,
rose to propose his own health, addressed himself in a neat and complimentary
speech, and drank the toast with great enthusiasm. Still nobody woke; so my
uncle took a little drop more - neat this time, to prevent the toddy from
disagreeing with him - and, laying violent hands on his hat, sallied forth into
the street.
    It was a wild gusty night when my uncle closed the baillie's door, and
settling his hat firmly on his head, to prevent the wind from taking it, thrust
his hands into his pockets, and looking upward, took a short survey of the state
of the weather. The clouds were drifting over the moon at their giddiest speed:
at one time wholly obscuring her: at another, suffering her to burst forth in
full splendour and shed her light on all the objects around: anon, driving over
her again, with increased velocity, and shrouding everything in darkness.
Really, this won't do, said my uncle, addressing himself to the weather, as if
he felt himself personally offended. This is not at all the kind of thing for my
voyage. It will not do, at any price, said my uncle very impressively. Having
repeated this, several times, he recovered his balance with some difficulty -
for he was rather giddy with looking up into the sky so long - and walked
merrily on.
    The baillie's house was in the Canongate, and my uncle was going to the
other end of Leith Walk, rather better than a mile's journey. On either side of
him, there shot up against the dark sky, tall gaunt straggling houses, with
time-stained fronts, and windows that seemed to have shared the lot of eyes in
mortals, and to have grown dim and sunken with age. Six, seven, eight stories
high, were the houses; story piled above story, as children build with cards -
throwing their dark shadows over the roughly paved road, and making the dark
night darker. A few oil lamps were scattered at long distances, but they only
served to mark the dirty entrance to some narrow close, or to show where a
common stair communicated, by steep and intricate windings, with the various
flats above. Glancing at all these things with the air of a man who had seen
them too often before, to think them worthy of much notice now, my uncle walked
up the middle of the street, with a thumb in each waistcoat pocket, indulging
from time to time in various snatches of song, chaunted forth with such good
will and spirit, that the quiet honest folk started from their first sleep and
lay trembling in bed till the sound died away in the distance; when, satisfying
themselves that it was only some drunken ne'er-do- finding his way home, they
covered themselves up warm and fell asleep again.
    I am particular in describing how my uncle walked up the middle of the
street, with his thumbs in his waistcoat pockets, gentlemen, because, as he
often used to say (and with great reason too) there is nothing at all
extraordinary in this story, unless you distinctly understand at the beginning
that he was not by any means of a marvellous or romantic turn.
    Gentlemen, my uncle walked on with his thumbs in his waistcoat pockets,
taking the middle of the street to himself, and singing, now a verse of a love
song, and then a verse of a drinking one, and when he was tired of both,
whistling melodiously, until he reached the North Bridge, which, at this point,
connects the old and new towns of Edinburgh. Here he stopped for a minute, to
look at the strange irregular clusters of lights piled one above the other, and
twinkling afar off so high, that they looked like stars, gleaming from the
castle walls on the one side and the Calton Hill on the other, as if they
illuminated veritable castles in the air; while the old picturesque town slept
heavily on, in gloom and darkness below: its palace and chapel of Holyrood,
guarded day and night, as a friend of my uncle's used to say, by old Arthur's
Seat, towering, surly and dark, like some gruff genius, over the ancient city he
has watched so long. I say, gentlemen, my uncle stopped here, for a minute, to
look about him; and then, paying a compliment to the weather which had a little
cleared up, though the moon was sinking, walked on again, as royally as before;
keeping the middle of the road with great dignity, and looking as if he would
very much like to meet with somebody who would dispute possession of it with
him. There was nobody at all disposed to contest the point, as it happened; and
so, on he went, with his thumbs in his waistcoat pockets, like a lamb.
    When my uncle reached the end of Leith Walk, he had to cross a pretty large
piece of waste ground which separated him from a short street which he had to
turn down, to go direct to his lodging. Now, in this piece of waste ground,
there was, at that time, an enclosure belonging to some wheelwright who
contracted with the Post-office for the purchase of old worn-out mail coaches;
and my uncle, being very fond of coaches, old, young, or middle-aged, all at
once took it into his head to step out of his road for no other purpose than to
peep between the palings at these mails - about a dozen of which, he remembered
to have seen, crowded together in a very forlorn and dismantled state, inside.
My uncle was a very enthusiastic, emphatic sort of person, gentlemen; so,
finding that he could not obtain a good peep between the palings, he got over
them, and sitting himself quietly down on an old axletree, began to contemplate
the mail coaches with a deal of gravity.
    There might be a dozen of them, or there might be more - my uncle was never
quite certain on this point, and being a man of very scrupulous veracity about
numbers, didn't like to say - but there they stood, all huddled together in the
most desolate condition imaginable. The doors had been torn from their hinges
and removed; the linings had been stripped off: only a shred hanging here and
there by a rusty nail; the lamps were gone, the poles had long since vanished,
the iron-work was rusty, the paint was worn away; the wind whistled through the
chinks in the bare wood work; and the rain, which had collected on the roofs,
fell, drop by drop, into the insides with a hollow and melancholy sound. They
were the decaying skeletons of departed mails, and in that lonely place, at that
time of night, they looked chill and dismal.
    My uncle rested his head upon his hands, and thought of the busy bustling
people who had rattled about, years before, in the old coaches, and were now as
silent and changed; he thought of the numbers of people to whom one of those
crazy mouldering vehicles had borne, night after night, for many years, and
through all weathers, the anxiously expected intelligence, the eagerly
looked-for remittance, the promised assurance of health and safety, the sudden
announcement of sickness and death. The merchant, the lover, the wife, the
widow, the mother, the schoolboy, the very child who tottered to the door at the
postman's knock - how had they all looked forward to the arrival of the old
coach. And where were they all now!
    Gentlemen, my uncle used to say that he thought all this at the time, but I
rather suspect he learnt it out of some book afterwards, for he distinctly
stated that he fell into a kind of doze, as he sat on the old axletree looking
at the decayed mail coaches, and that he was suddenly awakened by some deep
church-bell striking two. Now, my uncle was never a fast thinker, and if he had
thought all these things, I am quite certain it would have taken him till full
half-past two o'clock, at the very least. I am, therefore, decidedly of opinion,
gentlemen, that my uncle fell into the kind of doze, without having thought
about any thing at all.
    Be this, as it may, a church bell struck two. My uncle woke, rubbed his
eyes, and jumped up in astonishment.
    In one instant after the clock struck two, the whole of this deserted and
quiet spot had become a scene of most extraordinary life and animation. The mail
coach doors were on their hinges, the lining was replaced, the iron-work was as
good as new, the paint was restored, the lamps were alight, cushions and great
coats were on every coach box, porters were thrusting parcels into every boot,
guards were stowing away letter-bags, hostlers were dashing pails of water
against the renovated wheels; numbers of men were rushing about, fixing poles
into every coach; passengers arrived, portmanteaus were handed up, horses were
put to; in short, it was perfectly clear that every mail there was to be off
directly. Gentlemen, my uncle opened his eyes so wide at all this, that, to the
very last moment of his life, he used to wonder how it fell out that he had ever
been able to shut 'em again.
    Now then! said a voice, as my uncle felt a hand on his shoulder, You're
booked for one inside. You'd better get in.
    I booked! said my uncle, turning round.
    Yes, certainly.
    My uncle, gentlemen, could say nothing; he was so very much astonished. The
queerest thing of all, was, that although there was such a crowd of persons, and
although fresh faces were pouring in, every moment, there was no telling where
they came from. They seemed to start up, in some strange manner, from the
ground, or the air, and disappear in the same way. When a porter had put his
luggage in the coach, and received his fare, he turned round and was gone; and
before my uncle had well begun to wonder what had become of him, half-a-dozen
fresh ones started up, and staggered along under the weight of parcels which
seemed big enough to crush them. The passengers were all dressed so oddly too!
Large, broad-skirted laced coats with great cuffs and no collars; and wigs,
gentlemen, - great formal wigs with a tie behind. My uncle could make nothing of
it.
    Now, are you going to get in? said the person who had addressed my uncle
before. He was dressed as a mail guard, with a wig on his head and most enormous
cuffs to his coat, and had a lantern in one hand, and a huge blunderbuss in the
other, which he was going to stow away in his little arm-chest. Are you going to
get in, Jack Martin? said the guard, holding the lantern to my uncle's face.
    Hallo! said my uncle, falling back a step or two. That's familiar!
    It's so on the way-bill, replied the guard.
    Isn't there a »Mister« before it? said my uncle. For he felt, gentlemen,
that for a guard he didn't know, to call him Jack Martin, was a liberty which
the Post-office wouldn't have sanctioned if they had known it.
    No, there is not, rejoined the guard coolly.
    Is the fare paid? inquired my uncle.
    Of course it is, rejoined the guard.
    It is, is it? said my uncle. Then here goes! Which coach?
    This, said the guard, pointing to an old-fashioned Edinburgh and London
Mail, which had the steps down, and the door open. Stop! Here are the other
passengers. Let them get in first.
    As the guard spoke, there all at once appeared, right in front of my uncle,
a young gentleman in a powdered wig, and a sky-blue coat trimmed with silver,
made very full and broad in the skirts, which were lined with buckram. Tiggin
and Welps were in the printed calico and waistcoat piece line, gentlemen, so my
uncle knew all the materials at once. He wore knee breeches, and a kind of
leggings rolled up over his silk stockings, and shoes with buckles; he had
ruffles at his wrists, a three-cornered hat on his head, and a long taper sword
by his side. The flaps of his waistcoat came half way down his thighs, and the
ends of his cravat reached to his waist. He stalked gravely to the coach-door,
pulled off his hat, and held it above his head at arm's length: cocking his
little finger in the air at the same time, as some affected people do, when they
take a cup of tea. Then he drew his feet together, and made a low grave bow, and
then put out his left hand. My uncle was just going to step forward, and shake
it heartily, when he perceived that these attentions were directed, not towards
him, but to a young lady who just then appeared at the foot of the steps,
attired in an old-fashioned green velvet dress with a long waist and stomacher.
She had no bonnet on her head, gentlemen, which was muffled in a black silk
hood, but she looked round for an instant as she prepared to get into the coach,
and such a beautiful face as she disclosed, my uncle had never seen - not even
in a picture. She got into the coach, holding up her dress with one hand; and,
as my uncle always said with a round oath, when he told the story, he wouldn't
have believed it possible that legs and feet could have been brought to such a
state of perfection unless he had seen them with his own eyes.
    But, in this one glimpse of the beautiful face, my uncle saw that the young
lady cast an imploring look upon him, and that she appeared terrified and
distressed. He noticed, too, that the young fellow in the powdered wig,
notwithstanding his show of gallantry, which was all very fine and grand,
clasped her tight by the wrist when she got in, and followed himself immediately
afterwards. An uncommonly ill-looking fellow, in a close brown wig and a
plum-coloured suit, wearing a very large sword, and boots up to his hips,
belonged to the party; and when he sat himself down next to the young lady, who
shrunk into a corner at his approach, my uncle was confirmed in his original
impression that something dark and mysterious was going forward, or, as he
always said himself, that there was a screw loose somewhere. It's quite
surprising how quickly he made up his mind to help the lady at any peril, if she
needed help.
    Death and lightning! exclaimed the young gentleman, laying his hand upon his
sword as my uncle entered the coach.
    Blood and thunder! roared the other gentleman. With this, he whipped his
sword out, and made a lunge at my uncle without further ceremony. My uncle had
no weapon about him, but with great dexterity he snatched the ill-looking
gentleman's three-cornered hat from his head, and, receiving the point of his
sword right through the crown, squeezed the sides together, and held it tight.
    Pink him behind! cried the ill-looking gentleman to his companion, as he
struggled to regain his sword.
    He had better not, cried my uncle, displaying the heel of one of his shoes,
in a threatening manner. I'll kick his brains out, if he has any, or fracture
his skull if he hasn't. Exerting all his strength, at this moment, my uncle
wrenched the ill-looking man's sword from his grasp, and flung it clean out of
the coach-window: upon which the younger gentleman vociferated Death and
lightning! again, and laid his hand upon the hilt of his sword, in a very fierce
manner, but didn't draw it. Perhaps, gentlemen, as my uncle used to say with a
smile, perhaps he was afraid of alarming the lady.
    Now, gentlemen, said my uncle, taking his seat deliberately, I don't want to
have any death, with or without lightning, in a lady's presence, and we have had
quite blood and thundering enough for one journey; so, if you please, we'll sit
in our places like quiet insides. Here, guard, pick up that gentleman's
carving-knife.
    As quickly as my uncle said the words, the guard appeared at the
coach-window, with the gentleman's sword in his hand. He held up his lantern,
and looked earnestly in my uncle's face, as he handed it in: when, by its light,
my uncle saw, to his great surprise, that an immense crowd of mail-coach guards
swarmed round the window, every one of whom had his eyes earnestly fixed upon
him too. He had never seen such a sea of white faces, red bodies, and earnest
eyes, in all his born days.
    This is the strangest sort of thing I ever had anything to do with, thought
my uncle; allow me to return you your hat, sir.
    The ill-looking gentleman received his three-cornered hat in silence, looked
at the hole in the middle with an inquiring air, and finally stuck it on the top
of his wig with a solemnity the effect of which was a trifle impaired by his
sneezing violently at the moment, and jerking it off again.
    All right! cried the guard with the lantern, mounting into his little seat
behind. Away they went. My uncle peeped out of the coach-window as they emerged
from the yard, and observed that the other mails, with coachmen, guards, horses,
and passengers, complete, were driving round and round in circles, at a slow
trot of about five miles an hour. My uncle burnt with indignation, gentlemen. As
a commercial man, he felt that the mail bags were not to be trifled with, and he
resolved to memorialise the Post-office on the subject, the very instant he
reached London.
    At present, however, his thoughts were occupied with the young lady who sat
in the farthest corner of the coach, with her face muffled closely in her hood;
the gentleman with the sky-blue coat sitting opposite to her; the other man in
the plum-coloured suit, by her side, and both watching her intently. If she so
much as rustled the folds of her hood, he could hear the ill-looking man clap
his hand upon his sword, and could tell by the other's breathing (it was so dark
he couldn't see his face) that he was looking as big as if he were going to
devour her at a mouthful. This roused my uncle more and more, and he resolved,
come what come might, to see the end of it. He had a great admiration for bright
eyes, and sweet faces, and pretty legs and feet; in short, he was fond of the
whole sex. It runs in our family, gentlemen - so am I.
    Many were the devices which my uncle practised, to attract the lady's
attention, or at all events, to engage the mysterious gentlemen in conversation.
They were all in vain; the gentlemen wouldn't talk, and the lady didn't dare. He
thrust his head out of the coach-window at intervals, and bawled out to know why
they didn't go faster? But he called till he was hoarse; nobody paid the least
attention to him. He leant back in the coach, and thought of the beautiful face,
and the feet and legs. This answered better; it whiled away the time, and kept
him from wondering where he was going, and how it was that he found himself in
such an odd situation. Not that this would have worried him much, any way - he
was a mighty free and easy, roving, devil-may-care sort of person, was my uncle,
gentlemen.
    All of a sudden the coach stopped. Hallo! said my uncle, What's in the wind
now?
    Alight here, said the guard, letting down the steps.
    Here! cried my uncle.
    Here, rejoined the guard.
    I'll do nothing of the sort, said my uncle.
    Very well, then stop where you are, said the guard.
    I will, said my uncle.
    Do, said the guard.
    The other passengers had regarded this colloquy with great attention, and,
finding that my uncle was determined not to alight, the younger man squeezed
past him, to hand the lady out. At this moment, the ill-looking man was
inspecting the hole in the crown of his three-cornered hat. As the young lady
brushed past, she dropped one of her gloves into my uncle's hand, and softly
whispered, with her lips so close to his face that he felt her warm breath on
his nose, the single word Help! Gentlemen, my uncle leaped out of the coach at
once, with such violence that it rocked on the springs again.
    Oh! You've thought better of it, have you? said the guard when he saw my
uncle standing on the ground.
    My uncle looked at the guard for a few seconds, in some doubt whether it
wouldn't be better to wrench his blunderbuss from him, fire it in the face of
the man with the big sword, knock the rest of the company over the head with the
stock, snatch up the young lady, and go off in the smoke. On second thoughts,
however, he abandoned this plan, as being a shade too melodramatic in the
execution, and followed the two mysterious men, who, keeping the lady between
them, were now entering an old house in front of which the coach had stopped.
They turned into the passage, and my uncle followed.
    Of all the ruinous and desolate places my uncle had ever beheld, this was
the most so. It looked as if it had once been a large house of entertainment;
but the roof had fallen in, in many places, and the stairs were steep, rugged,
and broken. There was a huge fire-place in the room into which they walked, and
the chimney was blackened with smoke; but no warm blaze lighted it up now. The
white feathery dust of burnt wood was still strewed over the hearth, but the
stove was cold, and all was dark and gloomy.
    Well, said my uncle, as he looked about him, A mail travelling at the rate
of six miles and a half an hour, and stopping for an indefinite time at such a
hole as this, is rather an irregular sort of proceeding, I fancy. This shall be
made known. I'll write to the papers.
    My uncle said this in a pretty loud voice, and in an open unreserved sort of
manner, with the view of engaging the two strangers in conversation if he could.
But, neither of them took any more notice of him than whispering to each other,
and scowling at him as they did so. The lady was at the farther end of the room,
and once she ventured to wave her hand, as if beseeching my uncle's assistance.
    At length the two strangers advanced a little, and the conversation began in
earnest.
    You don't know this is a private room, I suppose, fellow? said the gentleman
in sky-blue.
    No, I do not, fellow, rejoined my uncle. Only if this is a private room
specially ordered for the occasion, I should think the public room must be a
very comfortable one; with this my uncle sat himself down in a high-backed
chair, and took such an accurate measure of the gentleman, with his eyes, that
Tiggin and Welps could have supplied him with printed calico for a suit, and not
an inch too much or too little, from that estimate alone.
    Quit this room, said both the men together, grasping their swords.
    Eh? said my uncle, not at all appearing to comprehend their meaning.
    Quit the room, or you are a dead man, said the ill-looking fellow with the
large sword, drawing it at the same time and flourishing it in the air.
    Down with him! cried the gentleman in sky-blue, drawing his sword also, and
falling back two or three yards. Down with him! The lady gave a loud scream.
    Now, my uncle was always remarkable for great boldness, and great presence
of mind. All the time that he had appeared so indifferent to what was going on,
he had been looking slyly about, for some missile or weapon of defence, and at
the very instant when the swords were drawn, he espied, standing in the chimney
corner, an old basket-hilted rapier in a rusty scabbard. At one bound, my uncle
caught it in his hand, drew it, flourished it gallantly above his head, called
aloud to the lady to keep out of the way, hurled the chair at the man in
sky-blue, and the scabbard at the man in plum-colour, and taking advantage of
the confusion, fell upon them both, pell-mell.
    Gentlemen, there is an old story - none the worse for being true - regarding
a fine young Irish gentleman, who being asked if he could play the fiddle,
replied he had no doubt he could, but he couldn't exactly say, for certain,
because he had never tried. This is not inapplicable to my uncle and his
fencing. He had never had a sword in his hand before, except once when he played
Richard the Third at a private theatre: upon which occasion it was arranged with
Richmond that he was to be run through, from behind, without showing fight at
all. But here he was, cutting and slashing with two experienced swordsmen:
thrusting and guarding and poking and slicing, and acquitting himself in the
most manful and dexterous manner possible, although up to that time he had never
been aware that he had the least notion of the science. It only shows how true
the old saying is, that a man never knows what he can do, till he tries,
gentlemen.
    »The noise of the combat was terrific; each of the three combatants swearing
like troopers, and their swords clashing with as much noise as if all the knives
and steels in Newport market were rattling together, at the same time. When it
was at its very height, the lady (to encourage my uncle most probably) withdrew
her hood entirely from her face, and disclosed a countenance of such dazzling
beauty, that he would have fought against fifty men, to win one smile from it,
and die. He had done wonders before, but now he began to powder away like a
raving mad giant.
    At this very moment, the gentleman in sky-blue turning round, and seeing the
young lady with her face uncovered, vented an exclamation of rage and jealousy,
and, turning his weapon against her beautiful bosom, pointed a thrust at her
heart, which caused my uncle to utter a cry of apprehension that made the
building ring. The lady stepped lightly aside, and snatching the young man's
sword from his hand, before he had recovered his balance, drove him to the wall,
and running it through him, and the panelling, up to the very hilt, pinned him
there, hard and fast. It was a splendid example. My uncle, with a loud shout of
triumph, and a strength that was irresistible, made his adversary retreat in the
same direction, and plunging the old rapier into the very centre of a large red
flower in the pattern of his waistcoat, nailed him beside his friend; there they
both stood, gentlemen, jerking their arms and legs about, in agony, like the
toy-shop figures that are moved by a piece of packthread. My uncle always said,
afterwards, that this was one of the surest means he knew of, for disposing of
an enemy; but it was liable to one objection on the ground of expense, inasmuch
as it involved the loss of a sword for every man disabled.
    The mail, the mail! cried the lady, running up to my uncle and throwing her
beautiful arms round his neck; we may yet escape.
    May! cried my uncle; why, my dear, there's nobody else to kill, is there? My
uncle was rather disappointed, gentlemen, for he thought a little quiet bit of
love-making would be agreeable after the slaughtering, if it were only to change
the subject.
    We have not an instant to lose here, said the young lady. He (pointing to
the young gentleman in sky-blue) is the only son of the powerful Marquess of
Filletoville.
    Well, then, my dear, I'm afraid he'll never come to the title, said my
uncle, looking coolly at the young gentleman as he stood fixed up against the
wall, in the cockchafer fashion I have described. You have cut off the entail,
my love.
    I have been torn from my home and friends by these villains, said the young
lady, her features glowing with indignation. That wretch would have married me
by violence in another hour.
    Confound his impudence! said my uncle, bestowing a very contemptuous look on
the dying heir of Filletoville.
    As you may guess from what you have seen, said the young lady, the party
were prepared to murder me if I appealed to any one for assistance. If their
accomplices find us here, we are lost. Two minutes hence may be too late. The
mail! With these words, overpowered by her feelings, and the exertion of
sticking the young Marquess of Filletoville, she sunk into my uncle's arms. My
uncle caught her up, and bore her to the house-door. There stood the mail, with
four long-tailed, flowing-maned, black horses, ready harnessed; but no coachman,
no guard, no hostler even, at the horses' heads.
    Gentlemen, I hope I do no injustice to my uncle's memory, when I express my
opinion, that although he was a bachelor, he had held some ladies in his arms,
before this time; I believe indeed, that he had rather a habit of kissing
barmaids; and I know, that in one or two instances, he had been seen by credible
witnesses, to hug a landlady in a very perceptible manner. I mention the
circumstance, to show what a very uncommon sort of person this beautiful young
lady must have been, to have affected my uncle in the way she did; he used to
say, that as her long dark hair trailed over his arm, and her beautiful dark
eyes fixed themselves upon his face when she recovered, he felt so strange and
nervous that his legs trembled beneath him. But, who can look in a sweet soft
pair of dark eyes, without feeling queer? I can't, gentlemen. I am afraid to
look at some eyes I know, and that's the truth of it.
    You will never leave me, murmured the young lady.
    Never, said my uncle. And he meant it too.
    My dear preserver! exclaimed the young lady. My dear, kind, brave preserver!
    Don't, said my uncle, interrupting her.
    Why? inquired the young lady.
    Because your mouth looks so beautiful when you speak, rejoined my uncle,
that I'm afraid I shall be rude enough to kiss it.
    The young lady put up her hand as if to caution my uncle not to do so, and
said - no, she didn't say anything - she smiled. When you are looking at a pair
of the most delicious lips in the world, and see them gently break into a
roguish smile - if you are very near them, and nobody else by - you cannot
better testify your admiration of their beautiful form and colour than by
kissing them at once. My uncle did so, and I honour him for it.
    Hark! cried the young lady, starting. The noise of wheels and horses!
    So it is, said my uncle, listening. He had a good ear for wheels, and the
trampling of hoofs; but there appeared to be so many horses and carriages
rattling towards them, from a distance, that it was impossible to form a guess
at their number. The sound was like that of fifty breaks, with six blood cattle
in each.
    We are pursued! cried the young lady, clasping her hands. We are pursued. I
have no hope but in you!
    There was such an expression of terror in her beautiful face, that my uncle
made up his mind at once. He lifted her into the coach, told her not to be
frightened, pressed his lips to hers once more, and then advising her to draw up
the window to keep the cold air out, mounted to the box.
    Stay, love, cried the young lady.
    What's the matter? said my uncle, from the coach-box.
    I want to speak to you, said the young lady; only a word. Only one word,
dearest.
    Must I get down? inquired my uncle. The lady made no answer, but she smiled
again. Such a smile, gentlemen! It beat the other one, all to nothing. My uncle
descended from his perch in a twinkling.
    What is it, my dear? said my uncle, looking in at the coach window. The lady
happened to bend forward at the same time, and my uncle thought she looked more
beautiful than she had done yet. He was very close to her just then, gentlemen,
so he really ought to know.
    What is it, my dear? said my uncle.
    Will you never love any one but me; never marry any one beside? said the
young lady.
    My uncle swore a great oath that he never would marry any body else, and the
young lady drew in her head, and pulled up the window. He jumped upon the box,
squared his elbows, adjusted the ribands, seized the whip which lay on the roof,
gave one flick to the off leader, and away went the four long-tailed
flowing-maned black horses, at fifteen good English miles an hour, with the old
mail coach behind them. Whew! How they tore along!
    The noise behind grew louder. The faster the old mail went, the faster came
the pursuers - men, horses, dogs, were leagued in the pursuit. The noise was
frightful, but, above all, rose the voice of the young lady, urging my uncle on,
and shrieking, Faster! Faster!
    They whirled past the dark trees, as feathers would be swept before a
hurricane. Houses, gates, churches, haystacks, objects of every kind they shot
by, with a velocity and noise like roaring waters suddenly let loose. Still the
noise of pursuit grew louder, and still my uncle could hear the young lady
wildly screaming, Faster! Faster!
    My uncle plied whip and rein, and the horses flew onward till they were
white with foam; and yet the noise behind increased; and yet the young lady
cried Faster! Faster! My uncle gave a loud stamp on the boot in the energy of
the moment, and - found that it was grey morning, and he was sitting in the
wheelwright's yard, on the box of an old Edinburgh mail, shivering with the cold
and wet and stamping his feet to warm them! He got down, and looked eagerly
inside for the beautiful young lady. Alas! There was neither door nor seat to
the coach. It was a mere shell.
    Of course, my uncle knew very well that there was some mystery in the
matter, and that everything had passed exactly as he used to relate it. He
remained staunch to the great oath he had sworn to the beautiful young lady:
refusing several eligible landladies on her account, and dying a bachelor at
last. He always said, what a curious thing it was that he should have found out,
by such a mere accident as his clambering over the palings, that the ghosts of
mail-coaches and horses, guards, coachmen, and passengers, were in the habit of
making journeys regularly every night. He used to add, that he believed he was
the only living person who had ever been taken as a passenger on one of these
excursions. And I think he was right, gentlemen - at least I never heard of any
other.«
 
»I wonder what these ghosts of mail-coaches carry in their bags,« said the
landlord, who had listened to the whole story with profound attention.
    »The dead letters, of course,« said the Bagman.
    »Oh, ah! To be sure,« rejoined the landlord. »I never thought of that.«
 

                                   Chapter L

How Mr. Pickwick Sped upon His Mission, and How He Was Reinforced in the Outset
                        by a Most Unexpected Auxiliary.

The horses were put to, punctually at a quarter before nine next morning, and
Mr. Pickwick and Sam Weller having each taken his seat, the one inside and the
other out, the postillion was duly directed to repair in the first instance to
Mr. Bob Sawyer's house, for the purpose of taking up Mr. Benjamin Allen.
    It was with feelings of no small astonishment, when the carriage drew up
before the door with the red lamp, and the very legible inscription of »Sawyer,
late Nockemorf,« that Mr. Pickwick saw, on popping his head out of the
coach-window, the boy in the grey livery very busily employed in putting up the
shutters: the which, being an unusual and an un-business-like proceeding at that
hour of the morning, at once suggested to his mind, two inferences; the one,
that some good friend and patient of Mr. Bob Sawyer's was dead; the other, that
Mr. Bob Sawyer himself was bankrupt.
    »What is the matter?« said Mr. Pickwick to the boy.
    »Nothing's the matter, sir,« replied the boy, expanding his mouth to the
whole breadth of his countenance.
    »All right, all right!« cried Bob Sawyer suddenly appearing at the door,
with a small leathern knapsack, limp and dirty, in one hand, and a rough coat
and shawl thrown over the other arm. »I'm going, old fellow.«
    »You!« exclaimed Mr. Pickwick.
    »Yes,« replied Bob Sawyer, »and a regular expedition we'll make of it. Here,
Sam! Look out!« Thus briefly bespeaking Mr. Weller's attention, Mr. Bob Sawyer
jerked the leathern knapsack into the dickey, where it was immediately stowed
away, under the seat, by Sam, who regarded the proceeding with great admiration.
This done, Mr. Bob Sawyer, with the assistance of the boy, forcibly worked
himself into the rough coat, which was a few sizes too small for him, and then
advancing to the coach window, thrust in his head, and laughed boisterously.
    »What a start it is, isn't it!« cried Bob, wiping the tears out of his eyes,
with one of the cuffs of the rough coat.
    »My dear sir,« said Mr. Pickwick, with some embarrassment, »I had no idea of
your accompanying us.«
    »No, that's just the very thing,« replied Bob, seizing Mr. Pickwick by the
lappel of his coat. »That's the joke.«
    »Oh, that's the joke?« said Mr. Pickwick.
    »Of course,« replied Bob. »It's the whole point of the thing, you know -
that, and leaving the business to take care of itself, as it seems to have made
up its mind not to take care of me.« With this explanation of the phenomenon of
the shutters, Mr. Bob Sawyer pointed to the shop, and relapsed into an ecstasy
of mirth.
    »Bless me, you are surely not mad enough to think of leaving your patients
without anybody to attend them!« remonstrated Mr. Pickwick in a very serious
tone.
    »Why not?« asked Bob, in reply. »I shall save by it, you know. None of them
ever pay. Besides,« said Bob, lowering his voice to a confidential whisper,
»they will be all the better for it; for, being nearly out of drugs, and not
able to increase my account just now, I should have been obliged to give them
calomel all round, and it would have been certain to have disagreed with some of
them. So it's all for the best.«
    There was a philosophy, and a strength of reasoning, about this reply, which
Mr. Pickwick was not prepared for. He paused a few moments, and added, less
firmly than before:
    »But this chaise, my young friend, will only hold two; and I am pledged to
Mr. Allen.«
    »Don't think of me for a minute,« replied Bob. »I've arranged it all; Sam
and I will share the dickey between us. Look here. This little bill is to be
wafered on the shop door: Sawyer, late Nockemorf. Enquire of Mrs. Cripps over
the way. Mrs. Cripps is my boy's mother. Mr. Sawyer's very sorry, says Mrs.
Cripps, couldn't help it - fetched away early this morning to a consultation of
the very first surgeons in the country - couldn't do without him - would have
him at any price - tremendous operation. The fact is,« said Bob in conclusion,
»it'll do me more good than otherwise, I expect. If it gets into one of the
local papers, it will be the making of me. Here's Ben; now then, jump in!«
    With these hurried words, Mr. Bob Sawyer pushed the postboy on one side,
jerked his friend into the vehicle, slammed the door, put up the steps, wafered
the bill on the street door, locked it, put the key in his pocket, jumped into
the dickey, gave the word for starting, and did the whole with such
extraordinary precipitation, that before Mr. Pickwick had well began to consider
whether Mr. Bob Sawyer ought to go or not, they were rolling away, with Mr. Bob
Sawyer thoroughly established as part and parcel of the equipage.
    So long as their progress was confined to the streets of Bristol, the
facetious Bob kept his professional green spectacles on, and conducted himself
with becoming steadiness and gravity of demeanour; merely giving utterance to
divers verbal witticisms for the exclusive behove and entertainment of Mr.
Samuel Weller. But when they emerged on the open road, he threw off his green
spectacles and his gravity together, and performed a great variety of practical
jokes, which were calculated to attract the attention of the passers-by, and to
render the carriage and those it contained, objects of more than ordinary
curiosity; the least conspicuous among these feats, being, a most vociferous
imitation of a key-bugle, and the ostentatious display of a crimson silk
pocket-handkerchief attached to a walking-stick, which was occasionally waved in
the air with various gestures indicative of supremacy and defiance.
    »I wonder,« said Mr. Pickwick, stopping in the midst of a most sedate
conversation with Ben Allen, bearing reference to the numerous good qualities of
Mr. Winkle and his sister: »I wonder what all the people we pass, can see in us
to make them stare so.«
    »It's a neat turn-out,« replied Ben Allen, with something of pride in his
tone. »They're not used to see this sort of thing, every day, I dare say.«
    »Possibly,« replied Mr. Pickwick. »It may be so. Perhaps it is.«
    Mr. Pickwick might very probably have reasoned himself into the belief that
it really was: had he not, just then happening to look out of the coach window,
observed that the looks of the passengers betokened anything but respectful
astonishment, and that various telegraphic communications appeared to be passing
between them and some persons outside the vehicle: whereupon it occurred to him
that these demonstrations might be, in some remote degree, referable to the
humorous deportment of Mr. Robert Sawyer.
    »I hope,« said Mr. Pickwick, »that our volatile friend is committing no
absurdities in that dickey behind.«
    »Oh dear, no,« replied Ben Allen. »Except when he's elevated, Bob's the
quietest creature breathing.«
    Here a prolonged imitation of a key-bugle broke upon the ear, succeeded by
cheers and screams, all of which evidently proceeded from the throat and lungs
of the quietest creature breathing, or in plainer designation, of Mr. Bob Sawyer
himself.
    Mr. Pickwick and Mr. Ben Allen looked expressively at each other, and the
former gentleman taking off his hat, and leaning out of the coach-window until
nearly the whole of his waistcoat was outside it, was at length enabled to catch
a glimpse of his facetious friend.
    Mr. Bob Sawyer was seated: not in the dickey, but on the roof of the chaise,
with his legs as far asunder as they would conveniently go, wearing Mr. Samuel
Weller's hat on one side of his head, and bearing, in one hand, a most enormous
sandwich, while, in the other, he supported a goodly-sized case bottle, to both
of which he applied himself with intense relish: varying the monotony of the
occupation by an occasional howl, or the interchange of some lively badinage
with any passing stranger. The crimson flag was carefully tied in an erect
position to the rail of the dickey; and Mr. Samuel Weller, decorated with Bob
Sawyer's hat, was seated in the centre thereof, discussing a twin sandwich, with
an animated countenance, the expression of which betokened his entire and
perfect approval of the whole arrangement.
    This was enough to irritate a gentleman with Mr. Pickwick's sense of
propriety, but it was not the whole extent of the aggravation, for a stage-coach
full, inside and out, was meeting them at the moment, and the astonishment of
the passengers was very palpably evinced. The congratulations of an Irish
family, too, who were keeping up with the chaise, and begging all the time, were
of rather a boisterous description; especially those of its male head, who
appeared to consider the display as part and parcel of some political, or other
procession of triumph.
    »Mr. Sawyer!« cried Mr. Pickwick, in a state of great excitement. »Mr.
Sawyer, sir!«
    »Hallo!« responded that gentleman, looking over the side of the chaise with
all the coolness in life.
    »Are you mad, sir?« demanded Mr. Pickwick.
    »Not a bit of it,« replied Bob; »only cheerful.«
    »Cheerful, sir!« ejaculated Mr. Pickwick. »Take down that scandalous red
handkerchief, I beg. I insist, sir. Sam, take it down.«
    Before Sam could interpose, Mr. Bob Sawyer gracefully struck his colours,
and having put them in his pocket, nodded in a courteous manner to Mr. Pickwick,
wiped the mouth of the case-bottle, and applied it to his own; thereby informing
him, without any unnecessary waste of words, that he devoted that draught to
wishing him all manner of happiness and prosperity. Having done this, Bob
replaced the cork with great care, and looking benignantly down on Mr. Pickwick,
took a large bite out of the sandwich, and smiled.
    »Come,« said Mr. Pickwick, whose momentary anger was not quite proof against
Bob's immovable self-possession, »pray let us have no more of this absurdity.«
    »No, no,« replied Bob, once more exchanging hats with Mr. Weller; »I didn't
mean to do it, only I got so enlivened with the ride that I couldn't help it.«
    »Think of the look of the thing,« expostulated Mr. Pickwick; »have some
regard to appearances.«
    »Oh, certainly,« said Bob, »it's not the sort of thing at all. All over,
governor.«
    Satisfied with this assurance, Mr. Pickwick once more drew his head into the
chaise and pulled up the glass; but he had scarcely resumed the conversation
which Mr. Bob Sawyer had interrupted, when he was somewhat startled by the
apparition of a small dark body, of an oblong form, on the outside of the
window, which gave sundry taps against it, as if impatient of admission.
    »What's this?« exclaimed Mr. Pickwick.
    »It looks like a case-bottle;« remarked Ben Allen, eyeing the object in
question through his spectacles with some interest; »I rather think it belongs
to Bob.«
    The impression was perfectly accurate; for Mr. Bob Sawyer having attached
the case-bottle to the end of the walking-stick, was battering the window with
it, in token of his wish that his friends inside would partake of its contents,
in all good fellowship and harmony.
    »What's to be done?« said Mr. Pickwick, looking at the bottle. »This
proceeding is more absurd than the other.«
    »I think it would be best to take it in,« replied Mr. Ben Allen; »it would
serve him right to take it in and keep it, wouldn't it?«
    »It would,« said Mr. Pickwick: »shall I?«
    »I think it the most proper course we could possibly adopt,« replied Ben.
    This advice quite coinciding with his own opinion, Mr. Pickwick gently let
down the window and disengaged the bottle from the stick: upon which the latter
was drawn up, and Mr. Bob Sawyer was heard to laugh heartily.
    »What a merry dog it is!« said Mr. Pickwick, looking round at his companion
with the bottle in his hand.
    »He is,« said Mr. Allen.
    »You cannot possibly be angry with him,« remarked Mr. Pickwick.
    »Quite out of the question,« observed Benjamin Allen.
    During this short interchange of sentiments, Mr. Pickwick had, in an
abstracted mood, uncorked the bottle.
    »What is it?« inquired Ben Allen, carelessly.
    »I don't know,« replied Mr. Pickwick, with equal carelessness. »It smells, I
think, like milk-punch.«
    »Oh, indeed?« said Ben.
    »I think so,« rejoined Mr. Pickwick, very properly guarding himself against
the possibility of stating an untruth: »mind, I could not undertake to say
certainly, without tasting it.«
    »You had better do so,« said Ben; »we may as well know what it is.«
    »Do you think so?« replied Mr. Pickwick. »Well; if you are curious to know,
of course I have no objection.«
    Ever willing to sacrifice his own feelings to the wishes of his friend, Mr.
Pickwick at once took a pretty long taste.
    »What is it?« inquired Ben Allen, interrupting him with some impatience.
    »Curious,« said Mr. Pickwick, smacking his lips, »I hardly know, now. Oh,
yes!« said Mr. Pickwick, after a second taste. »It is punch.«
    Mr. Ben Allen looked at Mr. Pickwick; Mr. Pickwick looked at Mr. Ben Allen;
Mr. Ben Allen smiled; Mr. Pickwick did not.
    »It would serve him right,« said the last-named gentleman, with some
severity, »it would serve him right to drink it every drop.«
    »The very thing that occurred to me,« said Ben Allen.
    »Is it indeed?« rejoined Mr. Pickwick. »Then here's his health!« With these
words, that excellent person took a most energetic pull at the bottle, and
handed it to Ben Allen, who was not slow to imitate his example. The smiles
became mutual, and the milk-punch was gradually and cheerfully disposed of.
    »After all,« said Mr. Pickwick, as he drained the last drop, »his pranks are
really very amusing; very entertaining indeed.«
    »You may say that,« rejoined Mr. Ben Allen. In proof of Bob Sawyer's being
one of the funniest fellows alive, he proceeded to entertain Mr. Pickwick with a
long and circumstantial account how that gentleman once drank himself into a
fever and got his head shaved; the relation of which pleasant and agreeable
history was only stopped by the stoppage of the chaise at the Bell at Berkeley
Heath, to change horses.
    »I say! We're going to dine here, aren't we?« said Bob, looking in at the
window.
    »Dine!« said Mr. Pickwick. »Why, we have only come nineteen miles, and have
eighty-seven and a half to go.«
    »Just the reason why we should take something to enable us to bear up
against the fatigue,« remonstrated Mr. Bob Sawyer.
    »Oh, it's quite impossible to dine at half-past eleven o'clock in the day,«
replied Mr. Pickwick, looking at his watch.
    »So it is,« rejoined Bob, »lunch is the very thing. Hallo, you sir! Lunch
for three, directly, and keep the horses back for a quarter of an hour. Tell
them to put everything they have cold, on the table, and some bottled ale, and
let us taste your very best Madeira.« Issuing these orders with monstrous
importance and bustle, Mr. Bob Sawyer at once hurried into the house to
superintend the arrangements; in less than five minutes he returned and declared
them to be excellent.
    The quality of the lunch fully justified the eulogium which Bob had
pronounced, and very great justice was done to it, not only by that gentleman,
but Mr. Ben Allen and Mr. Pickwick also. Under the auspices of the three, the
bottled ale and the Madeira were promptly disposed of; and when (the horses
being once more put to) they resumed their seats, with the case-bottle full of
the best substitute for milk-punch that could be procured on so short a notice,
the key-bugle sounded, and the red flag waved, without the slightest opposition
on Mr. Pickwick's part.
    At the Hop Pole at Tewkesbury, they stopped to dine; upon which occasion
there was more bottled ale, with some more Madeira, and some Port besides; and
here the case-bottle was replenished for the fourth time. Under the influence of
these combined stimulants, Mr. Pickwick and Mr. Ben Allen fell fast asleep for
thirty miles, while Bob and Mr. Weller sang duets in the dickey.
    It was quite dark when Mr. Pickwick roused himself sufficiently to look out
of window. The straggling cottages by the road-side, the dingy hue of every
object visible, the murky atmosphere, the paths of cinders and brick-dust, the
deep-red glow of furnace fires in the distance, the volumes of dense smoke
issuing heavily forth from high toppling chimneys, blackening and obscuring
everything around; the glare of distant lights, the ponderous wagons which
toiled along the road, laden with clashing rods of iron, or piled with heavy
goods - all betokened their rapid approach to the great working town of
Birmingham.
    As they rattled through the narrow thoroughfares leading to the heart of the
turmoil, the sights and sounds of earnest occupation struck more forcibly on the
senses. The streets were thronged with working-people. The hum of labour
resounded from every house, lights gleamed from the long casement windows in the
attic stories, and the whirl of wheels and noise of machinery shook the
trembling walls. The fires, whose lurid sullen light had been visible for miles,
blazed fiercely up, in the great works and factories of the town. The din of
hammers, the rushing of steam, and the dead heavy clanking of engines, was the
harsh music which arose from every quarter.
    The postboy was driving briskly through the open streets, and past the
handsome and well-lighted shops which intervene between the outskirts of the
town and the Old Royal Hotel, before Mr. Pickwick had begun to consider the very
difficult and delicate nature of the commission which had carried him thither.
    The delicate nature of this commission, and the difficulty of executing it
in a satisfactory manner, were by no means lessened by the voluntary
companionship of Mr. Bob Sawyer. Truth to tell, Mr. Pickwick felt that his
presence on the occasion, however considerate and gratifying, was by no means an
honour he would willingly have sought; in fact, he would cheerfully have given a
reasonable sum of money to have had Mr. Bob Sawyer removed to any place at not
less than fifty miles' distance, without delay.
    Mr. Pickwick had never held any personal communication with Mr. Winkle,
senior, although he had once or twice corresponded with him by letter, and
returned satisfactory answers to his inquiries concerning the moral character
and behaviour of his son; he felt nervously sensible that to wait upon him, for
the first time, attended by Bob Sawyer and Ben Allen, both slightly fuddled, was
not the most ingenious and likely means that could have been hit upon to
prepossess him in his favour.
    »However,« said Mr. Pickwick, endeavouring to re-assure himself, »I must do
the best I can. I must see him to-night, for I faithfully promised to do so. If
they persist in accompanying me, I must make the interview as brief as possible,
and be content to hope that, for their own sakes, they will not expose
themselves.«
    As he comforted himself with these reflections, the chaise stopped at the
door of the Old Royal. Ben Allen having been partially awakened from a
stupendous sleep, and dragged out by the collar by Mr. Samuel Weller, Mr.
Pickwick was enabled to alight. They were shown to a comfortable apartment, and
Mr. Pickwick at once propounded a question to the waiter concerning the
whereabout of Mr. Winkle's residence.
    »Close by, sir,« said the waiter, »not above five hundred yards, sir. Mr.
Winkle is a wharfinger, sir, at the canal, sir. Private residence is not - oh
dear no, sir, not five hundred yards, sir.« Here the waiter blew a candle out,
and made a feint of lighting it again, in order to afford Mr. Pickwick an
opportunity of asking any further questions, if he felt so disposed.
    »Take anything now, sir?« said the waiter, lighting the candle in
desperation at Mr. Pickwick's silence. »Tea or coffee, sir? Dinner, sir?«
    »Nothing now.«
    »Very good, sir. Like to order supper, sir?«
    »Not just now.«
    »Very good, sir.« Here, he walked softly to the door, and then stopping
short, turned round, and said, with great suavity:
    »Shall I send the chambermaid, gentlemen?«
    »You may if you please;« replied Mr. Pickwick.
    »If you please, sir.«
    »And bring some soda water,« said Bob Sawyer.
    »Soda water, sir? Yes, sir.« With his mind apparently relieved from an
overwhelming weight, by having at last got an order for something, the waiter
imperceptibly melted away. Waiters never walk or run. They have a peculiar and
mysterious power of skimming out of rooms, which other mortals possess not.
    Some slight symptoms of vitality having been awakened in Mr. Ben Allen by
the soda water, he suffered himself to be prevailed upon to wash his face and
hands, and to submit to be brushed by Sam. Mr. Pickwick and Bob Sawyer having
also repaired the disorder which the journey had made in their apparel, the
three started forth, arm in arm, to Mr. Winkle's; Bob Sawyer impregnating the
atmosphere with tobacco smoke as he walked along.
    About a quarter of a mile off, in a quiet, substantial-looking street, stood
an old red-brick house with three steps before the door, and a brass plate upon
it, bearing, in fat Roman capitals, the words, Mr. Winkle. The steps were very
white, and the bricks were very red, and the house was very clean; and here
stood Mr. Pickwick, Mr. Benjamin Allen, and Mr. Bob Sawyer, as the clock struck
ten.
    A smart servant girl answered the knock, and started on beholding the three
strangers.
    »Is Mr. Winkle at home, my dear?« inquired Mr. Pickwick.
    »He is just going to supper, sir,« replied the girl.
    »Give him that card if you please,« rejoined Mr. Pickwick. »Say I am sorry
to trouble him at so late an hour; but I am anxious to see him to-night, and
have only just arrived.«
    The girl looked timidly at Mr. Bob Sawyer, who was expressing his admiration
of her personal charms by a variety of wonderful grimaces; and casting an eye at
the hats and great coats which hung in the passage, called another girl to mind
the door while she went up stairs. The sentinel was speedily relieved; for the
girl returned immediately, and begging pardon of the gentlemen for leaving them
in the street, ushered them into a floor-clothed back parlour, half office and
half dressing-room, in which the principal useful and ornamental articles of
furniture, were a desk, a wash-hand stand and shaving glass, a boot-rack and
boot-jack, a high stool, four chairs, a table, and an old eight-day clock. Over
the mantel-piece were the sunken doors of an iron safe, while a couple of
hanging shelves for books, an almanack, and several files of dusty papers,
decorated the walls.
    »Very sorry to leave you standing at the door, sir,« said the girl, lighting
a lamp, and addressing Mr. Pickwick with a winning smile, »but you was quite
strangers to me; and we have such a many trampers that only come to see what
they can lay their hands on, that really -«
    »There is not the least occasion for any apology, my dear,« said Mr.
Pickwick good humouredly.
    »Not the slightest, my love,« said Bob Sawyer, playfully stretching forth
his arms, and skipping from side to side, as if to prevent the young lady's
leaving the room.
    The young lady was not at all softened by these allurements, for she at once
expressed her opinion that Mr. Bob Sawyer was an odous creature; and, on his
becoming rather more pressing in his attentions, imprinted her fair fingers upon
his face, and bounced out of the room with many expressions of aversion and
contempt.
    Deprived of the young lady's society, Mr. Bob Sawyer proceeded to divert
himself by peeping into the desk, looking into all the table-drawers, feigning
to pick the lock of the iron safe, turning the almanack with its face to the
wall, trying on the boots of Mr. Winkle, senior, over his own, and making
several other humorous experiments upon the furniture, all of which afforded Mr.
Pickwick unspeakable horror and agony, and yielded Mr. Bob Sawyer proportionate
delight.
    At length the door opened, and a little old gentleman in a snuff-coloured
suit, with a head and face the precise counterpart of those belonging to Mr.
Winkle, junior, excepting that he was rather bald, trotted into the room with
Mr. Pickwick's card in one hand, and a silver candlestick in the other.
    »Mr. Pickwick, sir, how do you do?« said Winkle the elder, putting down the
candlestick and proffering his hand. »Hope I see you well, sir. Glad to see you.
Be seated, Mr. Pickwick, I beg, sir. This gentleman is -«
    »My friend, Mr. Sawyer,« interposed Mr. Pickwick, »your son's friend.«
    »Oh,« said Mr. Winkle the elder, looking rather grimly at Bob. »I hope you
are well, sir.«
    »Right as a trivet, sir,« replied Bob Sawyer.
    »This other gentleman,« cried Mr. Pickwick, »is, as you will see, when you
have read the letter with which I am entrusted, a very near relative, or I
should rather say a very particular friend of your son's. His name is Allen.«
    »That gentleman?« inquired Mr. Winkle, pointing with the card towards Ben
Allen, who had fallen asleep in an attitude which left nothing of him visible
but his spine and his coat collar.
    Mr. Pickwick was on the point of replying to the question, and reciting Mr.
Benjamin Allen's name and honourable distinctions at full length, when the
sprightly Mr. Bob Sawyer, with a view of rousing his friend to a sense of his
situation, inflicted a startling pinch upon the fleshy part of his arm, which
caused him to jump up with a shriek. Suddenly aware that he was in the presence
of a stranger, Mr. Ben Allen advanced, and, shaking Mr. Winkle most
affectionately by both hands for about five minutes, murmured, in some
half-intelligible fragments of sentences, the great delight he felt in seeing
him, and a hospitable inquiry whether he felt disposed to take anything after
his walk, or would prefer waiting till dinner-time; which done, he sat down and
gazed about him with a petrified stare, as if he had not the remotest idea where
he was, which indeed he had not.
    All this was most embarrassing to Mr. Pickwick, the more especially as Mr.
Winkle, senior, evinced palpable astonishment at the eccentric - not to say
extraordinary - behaviour of his two companions. To bring the matter to an issue
at once, he drew a letter from his pocket, and presenting it to Mr. Winkle,
senior, said:
    »This letter, sir, is from your son. You will see, by its contents, that on
your favourable and fatherly consideration of it, depend his future happiness
and welfare. Will you oblige me by giving it the calmest and coolest perusal,
and by discussing the subject afterwards, with me, in the tone and spirit in
which alone it ought to be discussed? You may judge of the importance of your
decision to your son, and his intense anxiety upon the subject, by my waiting
upon you, without any previous warning, at so late an hour; and,« added Mr.
Pickwick, glancing slightly at his two companions, »and under such unfavourable
circumstances.«
    With this prelude, Mr. Pickwick placed four closely written sides of extra
superfine wire-wove penitence in the hands of the astounded Mr. Winkle, senior.
Then reseating himself in his chair, he watched his looks and manner: anxiously,
it is true, but with the open front of a gentleman who feels he has taken no
part which he need excuse or palliate.
    The old wharfinger turned the letter over; looked at the front, back, and
sides; made a microscopic examination of the fat little boy on the seal; raised
his eyes to Mr. Pickwick's face; and then, seating himself on the high stool,
and drawing the lamp closer to him, broke the wax, unfolded the epistle, and
lifting it to the light, prepared to read.
    Just at this moment, Mr. Bob Sawyer, whose wit had lain dormant for some
minutes, placed his hands upon his knees, and made a face after the portraits of
the late Mr. Grimaldi, as clown. It so happened that Mr. Winkle, senior, instead
of being deeply engaged in reading the letter, as Mr. Bob Sawyer thought,
chanced to be looking over the top of it at no less a person than Mr. Bob Sawyer
himself; rightly conjecturing that the face aforesaid was made in ridicule and
derision of his own person, he fixed his eyes on Bob with such expressive
sternness, that the late Mr. Grimaldi's lineaments gradually resolved themselves
into a very fine expression of humility and confusion.
    »Did you speak, sir?« inquired Mr. Winkle, senior, after on awful silence.
    »No, sir,« replied Bob, with no remains of the clown about him, save and
except the extreme redness of his cheeks.
    »You are sure you did not, sir?« said Mr. Winkle, senior.
    »Oh dear, yes, sir, quite,« replied Bob.
    »I thought you did, sir,« rejoined the old gentleman, with indignant
emphasis. »Perhaps you looked at me, sir?«
    »Oh, no! sir, not at all,« replied Bob, with extreme civility.
    »I am very glad to hear it, sir,« said Mr. Winkle, senior. Having frowned
upon the abashed Bob with great magnificence, the old gentleman again brought
the letter to the light, and began to read it seriously.
    Mr. Pickwick eyed him intently as he turned from the bottom line of the
first page to the top line of the second, and from the bottom of the second to
the top of the third, and from the bottom of the third to the top of the fourth;
but not the slightest alteration of countenance afforded a clue to the feelings
with which he received the announcement of his son's marriage, which Mr.
Pickwick knew was in the very first half-dozen lines.
    He read the letter to the last word; folded it again with all the
carefulness and precision of a man of business; and, just when Mr. Pickwick
expected some great outbreak of feeling, dipped a pen in the inkstand, and said
as quietly as if he were speaking on the most ordinary counting-house topic:
    »What is Nathaniel's address, Mr. Pickwick?«
    »The George and Vulture, at present,« replied that gentleman.
    »George and Vulture. Where is that?«
    »George Yard, Lombard Street.«
    »In the City?«
    »Yes.«
    The old gentleman methodically indorsed the address on the back of the
letter; and then, placing it in the desk, which he locked, said as he got off
the stool and put the bunch of keys in his pocket:
    »I suppose there is nothing else which need detain us, Mr. Pickwick?«
    »Nothing else, my dear sir!« observed that warm-hearted person in indignant
amazement. »Nothing else! Have you no opinion to express on this momentous event
in our young friend's life? No assurance to convey to him, through me, of the
continuance of your affection and protection? Nothing to say which will cheer
and sustain him, and the anxious girl who looks to him for comfort and support?
My dear sir, consider.«
    »I will consider,« replied the old gentleman. »I have nothing to say just
now. I am a man of business, Mr. Pickwick. I never commit myself hastily in any
affair, and from what I see of this, I by no means like the appearance of it. A
thousand pounds is not much, Mr. Pickwick.«
    »You're very right, sir,« interposed Ben Allen, just awake enough to know
that he had spent his thousand pounds without the smallest difficulty. »You're
an intelligent man. Bob, he's a very knowing fellow this.«
    »I am very happy to find that you do me the justice to make the admission,
sir,« said Mr. Winkle, senior, looking contemptuously at Ben Allen, who was
shaking his head profoundly. »The fact is, Mr. Pickwick, that when I gave my son
a roving license for a year or so, to see something of men and manners (which he
has done under your auspices), so that he might not enter into life a mere
boarding-school milk-sop to be gulled by everybody, I never bargained for this.
He knows that, very well, so if I withdraw my countenance from him on this
account, he has no call to be surprised. He shall hear from me, Mr. Pickwick.
Good night, sir. Margaret, open the door.«
    All this time, Bob Sawyer had been nudging Mr. Ben Allen to say something on
the right side; Ben accordingly now burst, without the slightest preliminary
notice, into a brief but impassioned piece of eloquence.
    »Sir,« said Mr. Ben Allen, staring at the old gentleman, out of a pair of
very dim and languid eyes, and working his right arm vehemently up and down,
»you - you ought to be ashamed of yourself.«
    »As the lady's brother, of course you are an excellent judge of the
question,« retorted Mr. Winkle, senior. »There; that's enough. Pray say no more,
Mr. Pickwick. Good night, gentlemen!«
    With these words the old gentleman took up the candlestick, and opening the
room door, politely motioned towards the passage.
    »You will regret this, sir,« said Mr. Pickwick, setting his teeth close
together to keep down his choler; for he felt how important the effect might
prove to his young friend.
    »I am at present of a different opinion,« calmly replied Mr. Winkle, senior.
»Once again, gentlemen, I wish you a good night.«
    Mr. Pickwick walked, with angry strides, into the street. Mr. Bob Sawyer,
completely quelled by the decision of the old gentleman's manner, took the same
course. Mr. Ben Allen's hat rolled down the steps immediately afterwards, and
Mr. Ben Allen's body followed it directly. The whole party went silent and
supperless to bed; and Mr. Pickwick thought, just before he fell asleep, that if
he had known Mr. Winkle, senior, had been quite so much of a man of business, it
was extremely probable he might never have waited upon him on such an errand.
 

                                   Chapter LI

    In Which Mr. Pickwick Encounters an Old Acquaintance. To Which Fortunate
  Circumstance the Reader Is Mainly Indebted for Matter of Thrilling Interest
      Herein Set Down, Concerning Two Great Public Men of Might and Power.

The morning which broke upon Mr. Pickwick's sight, at eight o'clock, was not at
all calculated to elevate his spirits, or to lessen the depression which the
unlooked-for result of his embassy inspired. The sky was dark and gloomy, the
air was damp and raw, the streets were wet and sloppy. The smoke hung sluggishly
above the chimney-tops as if it lacked the courage to rise, and the rain came
slowly and doggedly down, as if it had not even the spirit to pour. A game-cock
in the stable-yard, deprived of every spark of his accustomed animation,
balanced himself dismally on one leg in a corner; a donkey, moping with drooping
head under the narrow roof of an outhouse, appeared from his meditative and
miserable countenance to be contemplating suicide. In the street, umbrellas were
the only things to be seen, and the clicking of pattens and splashing of
rain-drops, were the only sounds to be heard.
    The breakfast was interrupted by very little conversation; even Mr. Bob
Sawyer felt the influence of the weather, and the previous day's excitement. In
his own expressive language he was floored. So was Mr. Ben Allen. So was Mr.
Pickwick.
    In protracted expectation of the weather clearing up, the last evening paper
from London was read and re-read with an intensity of interest only known in
cases of extreme destitution; every inch of the carpet was walked over, with
similar perseverance; the windows were looked out of, often enough to justify
the imposition of an additional duty upon them; all kinds of topics of
conversation were started, and failed; and at length Mr. Pickwick, when noon had
arrived, without a change for the better, rang the bell resolutely and ordered
out the chaise.
    Although the roads were miry, and the drizzling rain came down harder than
it had done yet, and although the mud and wet splashed in at the open windows of
the carriage to such an extent that the discomfort was almost as great to the
pair of insides as to the pair of outsides, still there was something in the
motion, and the sense of being up and doing, which was so infinitely superior to
being pent in a dull room, looking at the dull rain dripping into a dull street,
that they all agreed, on starting, that the change was a great improvement, and
wondered how they could possibly have delayed making it, as long as they had
done.
    When they stopped to change at Coventry, the steam ascended from the horses
in such clouds as wholly to obscure the hostler, whose voice was however heard
to declare from the mist, that he expected the first Gold Medal from the Humane
Society on their next distribution of rewards, for taking the postboy's hat off;
the water descending from the brim of which, the invisible gentleman declared
must inevitably have drowned him (the postboy), but for his great presence of
mind in tearing it promptly from his head, and drying the gasping man's
countenance with a wisp of straw.
    »This is pleasant,« said Bob Sawyer, turning up his coat collar, and pulling
the shawl over his mouth to concentrate the fumes of a glass of brandy just
swallowed.
    »Wery,« replied Sam, composedly.
    »You don't seem to mind it,« observed Bob.
    »Vy, I don't exactly see no good my mindin' on it 'ud do, sir,« replied Sam.
    »That's an unanswerable reason, anyhow,« said Bob.
    »Yes, sir,« rejoined Mr. Weller. »Wotever is, is right, as the young
nobleman sveetly remarked wen they put him down in the pension list 'cos his
mother's uncle's vife's grandfather vunce lit the king's pipe with a portable
tinder-box.«
    »Not a bad notion that, Sam,« said Mr. Bob Sawyer approvingly.
    »Just wot the young nobleman said ev'ry quarter-day afterwards for the rest
of his life,« replied Mr. Weller.
    »Wos you ever called in,« inquired Sam, glancing at the driver, after a
short silence, and lowering his voice to a mysterious whisper: »wos you ever
called in, ven you wos 'prentice to a sawbones, to wisit a postboy?«
    »I don't remember that I ever was,« replied Bob Sawyer.
    »You never see a postboy in that 'ere hospital as you walked (as they says
o' the ghosts), did you?« demanded Sam.
    »No,« replied Bob Sawyer. »I don't think I ever did.«
    »Never know'd a churchyard were there wos a postboy's tombstone, or see a
dead postboy, did you?« inquired Sam, pursuing his catechism.
    »No,« rejoined Bob, »I never did.«
    »No!« rejoined Sam, triumphantly. »Nor never vill; and there's another thing
that no man never see, and that's a dead donkey. No man never see a dead donkey,
'cept the gen'l'm'n in the black silk smalls as know'd the young 'ooman as kept a
goat; and that wos a French donkey, so very likely he warn't wun o' the reg'lar
breed.«
    »Well, what has that got to do with the postboys?« asked Bob Sawyer.
    »This here,« replied Sam. »Without goin' so far as to as-sert, as some very
sensible people do, that postboys and donkeys is both immortal, wot I say is
this; that wenever they feels theirselves getting' stiff and past their work,
they just rides off together, wun postboy to a pair in the usual way; wot
becomes on 'em nobody knows, but it's very probable as they starts away to take
their pleasure in some other vorld, for there ain't a man alive as ever see,
either a donkey or a postboy, a taken' his pleasure in this!«
    Expatiating upon this learned and remarkable theory, and citing many curious
statistical and other facts in its support, Sam Weller beguiled the time until
they reached Dunchurch, where a dry postboy and fresh horses were procured; the
next stage was Daventry, and the next Towcester; and at the end of each stage it
rained harder than it had done at the beginning.
    »I say,« remonstrated Bob Sawyer, looking in at the coach window, as they
pulled up before the door of the Saracen's Head, Towcester, »this won't do, you
know.«
    »Bless me!« said Mr. Pickwick, just awaking from a nap, »I'm afraid you're
wet.«
    »Oh you are, are you?« returned Bob. »Yes, I am, a little that way.
Uncomfortably damp, perhaps.«
    Bob did look dampish, inasmuch as the rain was streaming from his neck,
elbows, cuffs, skirts, and knees; and his whole apparel shone so with the wet,
that it might have been mistaken for a full suit of prepared oilskin.
    »I am rather wet,« said Bob, giving himself a shake, and casting a little
hydraulic shower around, like a Newfoundland dog just emerged from the water.
    »I think it's quite impossible to go on to-night,« interposed Ben.
    »Out of the question, sir,« remarked Sam Weller, coming to assist in the
conference; »it's a cruelty to animals, sir, to ask 'em to do it. There's beds
here, sir,« said Sam, addressing his master, »everything clean and comfortable.
Wery good little dinner, sir, they can get ready in half an hour - pair of
fowls, sir, and a weal cutlet; French beans, 'taturs, tart, and tidiness. You'd
better stop vere you are, sir, if I might recommend. Take adwice, sir, as the
doctor said.«
    The host of the Saracen's Head opportunely appeared at this moment, to
confirm Mr. Weller's statement relative to the accommodations of the
establishment, and to back his entreaties with a variety of dismal conjectures
regarding the state of the roads, the doubt of fresh horses being to be had at
the next stage, the dead certainty of its raining all night, the equally mortal
certainty of its clearing up in the morning, and other topics of inducement
familiar to innkeepers.
    »Well,« said Mr. Pickwick; »but I must send a letter to London by some
conveyance, so that it may be delivered the very first thing in the morning, or
I must go forward at all hazards.«
    The landlord smiled his delight. Nothing could be easier than for the
gentleman to enclose a letter in a sheet of brown paper, and send it on, either
by the mail or the night coach from Birmingham. If the gentleman were
particularly anxious to have it left as soon as possible, he might write
outside, »To be delivered immediately,« which was sure to be attended to; or
»pay the bearer half-a-crown extra for instant delivery,« which was surer still.
    »Very well,« said Mr. Pickwick, »then we will stop here.«
    »Lights in the Sun, John; make up the fire; the gentlemen are wet!« cried
the landlord. »This way, gentlemen; don't trouble yourselves about the postboy
now, sir. I'll send him to you when you ring for him, sir. Now, John, the
candles.«
    The candles were brought, the fire was stirred up, and a fresh log of wood
thrown on. In ten minutes' time, a waiter was laying the cloth for dinner, the
curtains were drawn, the fire was blazing brightly, and everything looked (as
everything always does, in all decent English inns) as if the travellers had
been expected, and their comforts prepared, for days beforehand.
    Mr. Pickwick sat down at a side table, and hastily indited a note to Mr.
Winkle, merely informing him that he was detained by stress of weather, but
would certainly be in London next day; until when he deferred any account of his
proceedings. This note was hastily made into a parcel, and despatched to the bar
per Mr. Samuel Weller.
    Sam left it with the landlady, and was returning to pull his master's boots
off, after drying himself by the kitchen fire, when, glancing casually through a
half-opened door, he was arrested by the sight of a gentleman with a sandy head
who had a large bundle of newspapers lying on the table before him, and was
perusing the leading article of one with a settled sneer which curled up his
nose and all his other features into a majestic expression of haughty contempt.
    »Hallo!« said Sam, »I ought to know that 'ere head and them features; the
eye-glass, too, and the broad brimmed tile! Eatansvill to vit, or I'm a Roman.«
    Sam was taken with a troublesome cough, at once, for the purpose of
attracting the gentleman's attention; the gentleman starting at the sound,
raised his head and his eye-glass, and disclosed to view the profound and
thoughtful features of Mr. Pott, of the Eatanswill Gazette.
    »Beggin' your pardon, sir,« said Sam, advancing with a bow, »my master's
here, Mr. Pott.«
    »Hush, hush!« cried Pott, drawing Sam into the room, and closing the door,
with a countenance of mysterious dread and apprehension.
    »Wot's the matter, sir?« inquired Sam, looking vacantly about him.
    »Not a whisper of my name,« replied Pott; »this is a buff neighbourhood. If
the excited and irritable populace knew I was here, I should be torn to pieces.«
    »No! Vould you, sir?« inquired Sam.
    »I should be the victim of their fury,« replied Pott. »Now, young man, what
of your master?«
    »He's a stopping here to-night on his vay to town, with a couple of
friends,« replied Sam.
    »Is Mr. Winkle one of them?« inquired Pott, with a slight frown.
    »No, sir. Mr. Vinkle stops at home now,« rejoined Sam. »He's married.«
    »Married!« exclaimed Pott, with frightful vehemence. He stopped, smiled
darkly, and added, in a low, vindictive tone: »It serves him right!«
    Having given vent to this cruel ebullition of deadly malice and cold-blooded
triumph over a fallen enemy, Mr. Pott inquired whether Mr. Pickwick's friends
were blue? Receiving a most satisfactory answer in the affirmative from Sam, who
knew as much about the matter as Pott himself, he consented to accompany him to
Mr. Pickwick's room, where a hearty welcome awaited him. An agreement to club
dinners together was at once made and ratified.
    »And how are matters going on in Eatanswill?« inquired Mr. Pickwick, when
Pott had taken a seat near the fire, and the whole party had got their wet boots
off, and dry slippers on. »Is the Independent still in being?«
    »The Independent, sir,« replied Pott, »is still dragging on a wretched and
lingering career. Abhorred and despised by even the few who are cognizant of its
miserable and disgraceful existence; stifled by the very filth it so profusely
scatters; rendered deaf and blind by the exhalations of its own slime; the
obscene journal, happily unconscious of its degraded state, is rapidly sinking
beneath that treacherous mud which, while it seems to give it a firm standing
with the low and debased classes of society, is nevertheless, rising above its
detested head, and will speedily engulf it for ever.«
    Having delivered this manifesto (which formed a portion of his last week's
leader) with vehement articulation, the editor paused to take breath, and looked
majestically at Bob Sawyer.
    »You are a young man, sir,« said Pott.
    Mr. Bob Sawyer nodded.
    »So are you, sir,« said Pott, addressing Mr. Ben Allen.
    Ben admitted the soft impeachment.
    »And are both deeply imbued with those blue principles, which, so long as I
live, I have pledged myself to the people of these kingdoms to support and to
maintain?« suggested Pott.
    »Why, I don't exactly know about that,« replied Bob Sawyer. »I am -«
    »Not buff, Mr. Pickwick,« interrupted Pott, drawing back his chair, »your
friend is not buff, sir?«
    »No, no,« rejoined Bob, »I'm a kind of plaid at present; a compound of all
sorts of colours.«
    »A waverer,« said Pott, solemnly, »a waverer. I should like to show you a
series of eight articles, sir, that have appeared in the Eatanswill Gazette. I
think I may venture to say that you would not be long in establishing your
opinions on a firm and solid blue basis, sir.«
    »I dare say I should turn very blue, long before I got to the end of them,«
responded Bob.
    Mr. Pott looked dubiously at Bob Sawyer for some seconds, and, turning to
Mr. Pickwick, said:
    »You have seen the literary articles which have appeared at intervals in the
Eatanswill Gazette in the course of the last three months, and which have
excited such general - I may say such universal - attention and admiration?«
    »Why,« replied Mr. Pickwick, slightly embarrassed by the question, »the fact
is, I have been so much engaged in other ways, that I really have not had an
opportunity of perusing them.«
    »You should do so, sir,« said Pott, with a severe countenance.
    »I will,« said Mr. Pickwick.
    »They appeared in the form of a copious review of a work on Chinese
metaphysics, sir,« said Pott.
    »Oh,« observed Mr. Pickwick; »from your pen, I hope?«
    »From the pen of my critic, sir,« rejoined Pott with dignity.
    »An abstruse subject I should conceive,« said Mr. Pickwick.
    »Very, sir,« responded Pott, looking intensely sage. »He crammed for it, to
use a technical but expressive term; he read up for the subject, at my desire,
in the Encyclopoedia Britannica.«
    »Indeed!« said Mr. Pickwick; »I was not aware that that valuable work
contained any information respecting Chinese metaphysics.«
    »He read, sir,« rejoined Pott, laying his hand on Mr. Pickwick's knee, and
looking round with a smile of intellectual superiority, »he read for metaphysics
under the letter M, and for China under the letter C, and combined his
information, sir?«
    Mr. Pott's features assumed so much additional grandeur at the recollection
of the power and research displayed in the learned effusions in question, that
some minutes elapsed before Mr. Pickwick felt emboldened to renew the
conversation; at length, as the Editor's countenance gradually relaxed into its
customary expression of moral supremacy, he ventured to resume the discourse by
asking:
    »Is it fair to inquire what great object has brought you so far from home?«
    »That object which actuates and animates me in all my gigantic labours,
sir,« replied Pott, with a calm smile; »my country's good.«
    »I supposed it was some public mission,« observed Mr. Pickwick.
    »Yes, sir,« resumed Pott, »it is.« Here, bending towards Mr. Pickwick, he
whispered in a deep hollow voice, »A buff ball, sir, will take place in
Birmingham to-morrow evening.«
    »God bless me!« exclaimed Mr. Pickwick.
    »Yes, sir, and supper,« added Pott.
    »You don't say so!« ejaculated Mr. Pickwick.
    Pott nodded portentously.
    Now, although Mr. Pickwick feigned to stand aghast at this disclosure, he
was so little versed in local politics that he was unable to form an adequate
comprehension of the importance of the dire conspiracy it referred to; observing
which, Mr. Pott, drawing forth the last number of the Eatanswill Gazette, and
referring to the same, delivered himself of the following paragraph:
 
                           »HOLE-AND-CORNER BUFFERY.
 
A reptile contemporary has recently sweltered forth his black venom in the vain
and hopeless attempt of sullying the fair name of our distinguished and
excellent representative, the Honourable Mr. Slumkey - that Slumkey whom we,
long before he gained his present noble and exalted position, predicted would
one day be, as he now is, at once his country's brightest honour, and her
proudest boast: alike her bold defender and her honest pride - our reptile
contemporary, we say, has made himself merry, at the expense of a superbly
embossed plated coal-scuttle, which has been presented to that glorious man by
his enraptured constituents, and towards the purchase of which, the nameless
wretch insinuates, the Honourable Mr. Slumkey himself contributed, through a
confidential friend of his butler's, more than three-fourths of the whole sum
subscribed. Why, does not the crawling creature see, that even if this be the
fact, the Honourable Mr. Slumkey only appears in a still more amiable and
radiant light than before, if that be possible? Does not even his obtuseness
perceive that this amiable and touching desire to carry out the wishes of the
constituent body, must for ever endear him to the hearts and souls of such of
his fellow townsmen as are not worse than swine; or, in other words, who are not
as debased as our contemporary himself? But such is the wretched trickery of
hole-and-corner Buffery! These are not its only artifices. Treason is abroad. We
boldly state, now that we are goaded to the disclosure, and we throw ourselves
on the country and its constables for protection - we boldly state that secret
preparations are at this moment in progress for a Buff ball; which is to be held
in a Buff town, in the very heart and centre of a Buff population; which is to
be conducted by a Buff master of the ceremonies; which is to be attended by four
ultra Buff members of parliament, and the admission to which, is to be by Buff
tickets! Does our fiendish contemporary wince? Let him writhe, in impotent
malice, as we pen the words, WE WILL BE THERE.«
    »There, sir,« said Pott, folding up the paper quite exhausted, »that is the
state of the case!«
    The landlord and waiter entering at the moment with dinner, caused Mr. Pott
to lay his finger on his lips, in token that he considered his life in Mr.
Pickwick's hands, and depended on his secrecy. Messrs. Bob Sawyer and Benjamin
Allen, who had irreverently fallen asleep during the reading of the quotation
from the Eatanswill Gazette, and the discussion which followed it, were roused
by the mere whispering of the talismanic word Dinner in their ears: and to
dinner they went with good digestion waiting on appetite, and health on both,
and a waiter on all three.
    In the course of the dinner and the sitting which succeeded it, Mr. Pott
descending, for a few moments, to domestic topics, informed Mr. Pickwick that
the air of Eatanswill not agreeing with his lady, she was then engaged in making
a tour of different fashionable watering-places with a view to the recovery of
her wonted health and spirits; this was a delicate veiling of the fact that Mrs.
Pott, acting upon her often repeated threat of separation, had, in virtue of an
arrangement negociated by her brother, the Lieutenant, and concluded by Mr.
Pott, permanently retired with the faithful body-guard upon one moiety or
half-part of the annual income and profits arising from the editorship and sale
of the Eatanswill Gazette.
    While the great Mr. Pott was dwelling upon this and other matters,
enlivening the conversation from time to time with various extracts from his own
lucubrations, a stern stranger, calling from the window of a stage-coach,
outward bound, which halted at the inn to deliver packages, requested to know,
whether, if he stopped short on his journey and remained there for the night, he
could be furnished with the necessary accommodation of a bed and bedstead.
    »Certainly, sir,« replied the landlord.
    »I can, can I?« inquired the stranger, who seemed habitually suspicious in
look and manner.
    »No doubt of it, sir,« replied the landlord.
    »Good,« said the stranger. »Coachman, I get down here. Guard, my
carpet-bag!«
    Bidding the other passengers good night, in a rather snappish manner, the
stranger alighted. He was a shortish gentleman, with very stiff black hair cut
in the porcupine or blacking-brush style, and standing stiff and straight all
over his head; his aspect was pompous and threatening; his manner was
peremptory; his eyes were sharp and restless; and his whole bearing bespoke a
feeling of great confidence in himself, and a consciousness of immeasurable
superiority over all other people.
    This gentleman was shown into the room originally assigned to the patriotic
Mr. Pott; and the waiter remarked, in dumb astonishment at the singular
coincidence, that he had no sooner lighted the candles than the gentleman,
diving into his hat, drew forth a newspaper, and began to read it with the very
same expression of indignant scorn, which, upon the majestic features of Pott,
had paralysed his energies an hour before. The man observed too, that whereas
Mr. Pott's scorn had been roused by a newspaper headed The Eatanswill
Independent, this gentleman's withering contempt was awakened by a newspaper
entitled The Eatanswill Gazette.
    »Send the landlord,« said the stranger.
    »Yes, sir,« rejoined the waiter.
    The landlord was sent, and came.
    »Are you the landlord?« inquired the gentleman.
    »I am, sir,« replied the landlord.
    »Do you know me?« demanded the gentleman.
    »I have not that pleasure, sir,« rejoined the landlord.
    »My name is Slurk,« said the gentleman.
    The landlord slightly inclined his head.
    »Slurk, sir,« repeated the gentleman, haughtily. »Do you know me now, man?«
    The landlord scratched his head, looked at the ceiling, and at the stranger,
and smiled feebly.
    »Do you know me, man?« inquired the stranger, angrily.
    The landlord made a strong effort, and at length replied: »Well, sir, I do
not know you.«
    »Great Heaven!« said the stranger, dashing his clenched fist upon the table.
»And this is popularity!«
    The landlord took a step or two towards the door; the stranger fixing his
eyes upon him, resumed.
    »This,« said the stranger, »this is gratitude for years of labour and study
in behalf of the masses. I alight wet and weary; no enthusiastic crowds press
forward to greet their champion; the church-bells are silent; the very name
elicits no responsive feeling in their torpid bosoms. It is enough,« said the
agitated Mr. Slurk, pacing to and fro, »to curdle the ink in one's pen, and
induce one to abandon their cause for ever.«
    »Did you say brandy and water, sir?« said the landlord, venturing a hint.
    »Rum,« said Mr. Slurk, turning fiercely upon him. »Have you got a fire
anywhere?«
    »We can light one directly, sir,« said the landlord.
    »Which will throw out no heat until it is bed-time,« interrupted Mr. Slurk.
»Is there anybody in the kitchen?«
    Not a soul. There was a beautiful fire. Everybody had gone, and the house
door was closed for the night.
    »I will drink my rum and water,« said Mr. Slurk, »by the kitchen fire.« So,
gathering up his hat and newspaper, he stalked solemnly behind the landlord to
that humble apartment, and throwing himself on a settle by the fireside, resumed
his countenance of scorn, and began to read and drink in silent dignity.
    Now, some demon of discord, flying over the Saracen's Head at that moment,
on casting down his eyes in mere idle curiosity, happened to behold Slurk
established comfortably by the kitchen fire, and Pott slightly elevated with
wine in another room; upon which the malicious demon, darting down into the
last-mentioned apartment with inconceivable rapidity, passed at once into the
head of Mr. Bob Sawyer, and prompted him for his (the demon's) own evil purposes
to speak as follows:
    »I say, we've let the fire out. It's uncommonly cold after the rain, isn't
it?«
    »It really is,« replied Mr. Pickwick, shivering.
    »It wouldn't be a bad notion to have a cigar by the kitchen fire, would it?«
said Bob Sawyer, still prompted by the demon aforesaid.
    »It would be particularly comfortable, I think,« replied Mr. Pickwick. »Mr.
Pott, what do you say?«
    Mr. Pott yielded a ready assent; and all four travellers, each with his
glass in his hand, at once betook themselves to the kitchen, with Sam Weller
heading the procession to show them the way.
    The stranger was still reading; he looked up and started. Mr. Pott started.
    »What's the matter?« whispered Mr. Pickwick.
    »That reptile!« replied Pott.
    »What reptile?« said Mr. Pickwick, looking about him for fear he should
tread on some overgrown black beetle, or dropsical spider.
    »That reptile,« whispered Pott, catching Mr. Pickwick by the arm, and
pointing towards the stranger. »That reptile Slurk, of the Independent!«
    »Perhaps we had better retire,« whispered Mr. Pickwick.
    »Never, sir,« rejoined Pott, pot-valiant in a double sense, »never.« With
these words, Mr. Pott took up his position on an opposite settle, and selecting
one from a little bundle of newspapers, began to read against his enemy.
    Mr. Pott, of course, read the Independent, and Mr. Slurk, of course, read
the Gazette; and each gentleman audibly expressed his contempt of the other's
compositions by bitter laughs and sarcastic sniffs; whence they proceeded to
more open expressions of opinion, such as absurd, wretched, atrocity, humbug,
knavery, dirt, filth, slime, ditch-water, and other critical remarks of the like
nature.
    Both Mr. Bob Sawyer and Mr. Ben Allen had beheld these symptoms of rivalry
and hatred, with a degree of delight which imparted great additional relish to
the cigars at which they were puffing most vigorously. The moment they began to
flag, the mischievous Mr. Bob Sawyer, addressing Slurk with great politeness,
said:
    »Will you allow me to look at your paper, sir, when you have quite done with
it!«
    »You will find very little to repay you for your trouble in this
contemptible thing, sir,« replied Slurk, bestowing a Satanic frown on Pott.
    »You shall have this presently,« said Pott, looking up, pale with rage, and
quivering in his speech, from the same cause. »Ha! ha! you will be amused with
this fellow's audacity.«
    Terrific emphasis was laid upon this thing and fellow; and the faces of both
editors began to glow with defiance.
    »The ribaldry of this miserable man is despicably disgusting,« said Pott,
pretending to address Bob Sawyer, and scowling upon Slurk.
    Here, Mr. Slurk laughed very heartily, and folding up the paper so as to get
at a fresh column conveniently, said, that the blockhead really amused him.
    »What an impudent blunderer this fellow is,« said Pott, turning from pink to
crimson.
    »Did you ever read any of this man's foolery, sir?« inquired Slurk, of Bob
Sawyer.
    »Never,« replied Bob; »is it very bad?«
    »Oh, shocking! shocking!« rejoined Slurk.
    »Really! Dear me, this is too atrocious!« exclaimed Pott, at this juncture;
still feigning to be absorbed in his reading.
    »If you can wade through a few sentences of malice, meanness, falsehood,
perjury, treachery, and cant,« said Slurk, handing the paper to Bob, »you will,
perhaps, be somewhat repaid by a laugh at the style of this ungrammatical
twaddler.«
    »What's that you said, sir?« inquired Mr. Pott, looking up, trembling all
over with passion.
    »What's that to you, sir?« replied Slurk.
    »Ungrammatical twaddler, was it, sir?« said Pott.
    »Yes, sir, it was,« replied Slurk; »and blue bore, sir, if you like that
better; ha! ha!«
    Mr. Pott retorted not a word to this jocose insult, but deliberately folded
up his copy of the Independent, flattened it carefully down, crushed it beneath
his boot, spat upon it with great ceremony, and flung it into the fire.
    »There, sir,« said Pott, retreating from the stove, »and that's the way I
would serve the viper who produces it, if I were not, fortunately for him,
restrained by the laws of my country.«
    »Serve him so, sir!« cried Slurk, starting up. »Those laws shall never be
appealed to by him, sir, in such a case. Serve him so, sir!«
    »Hear! hear!« said Bob Sawyer.
    »Nothing can be fairer,« observed Mr. Ben Allen.
    »Serve him so, sir!« reiterated Slurk, in a loud voice.
    Mr. Pott darted a look of contempt, which might have withered an anchor.
    »Serve him so, sir!« reiterated Slurk, in a louder voice than before.
    »I will not, sir,« rejoined Pott.
    »Oh, you won't, won't you, sir?« said Mr. Slurk, in a taunting manner; »you
hear this, gentlemen! He won't; not that he's afraid; oh, no! he won't. Ha! ha!«
    »I consider you, sir,« said Mr. Pott, moved by this sarcasm, »I consider you
a viper. I look upon you, sir, as a man who has placed himself beyond the pale
of society, by his most audacious, disgraceful, and abominable public conduct. I
view you, sir, personally and politically, in no other light than as a most
unparalleled and unmitigated viper.«
    The indignant Independent did not wait to hear the end of this personal
denunciation; for, catching up his carpet-bag which was well stuffed with
moveables, he swung it in the air as Pott turned away, and, letting it fall with
a circular sweep on his head, just at that particular angle of the bag where a
good thick hair-brush happened to be packed, caused a sharp crash to be heard
throughout the kitchen, and brought him at once to the ground.
    »Gentlemen,« cried Mr. Pickwick, as Pott started up and seized the
fire-shovel, »gentlemen! Consider, for Heaven's sake - help - Sam - here - pray,
gentlemen - interfere, somebody.«
    Uttering these incoherent exclamations, Mr. Pickwick rushed between the
infuriated combatants just in time to receive the carpet-bag on one side of his
body, and the fire-shovel on the other. Whether the representatives of the
public feeling of Eatanswill were blinded by animosity, or (being both acute
reasoners) saw the advantage of having a third party between them to bear all
the blows, certain it is that they paid not the slightest attention to Mr.
Pickwick, but defying each other with great spirit plied the carpet-bag and the
fire-shovel most fearlessly. Mr. Pickwick would unquestionably have suffered
severely for his humane interference, if Mr. Weller, attracted by his master's
cries, had not rushed in at the moment, and, snatching up a meal-sack,
effectually stopped the conflict by drawing it over the head and shoulders of
the mighty Pott, and clasping him tight round the shoulders.
    »Take away that 'ere bag from the t'other madman,« said Sam to Ben Allen and
Bob Sawyer, who had done nothing but dodge round the group, each with a
tortoise-shell lancet in his hand, ready to bleed the first man stunned. »Give
it up, you wretched little creature, or I'll smother you in it.«
    Awed by these threats, and quite out of breath, the Independent suffered
himself to be disarmed; and Mr. Weller, removing the extinguisher from Pott, set
him free with a caution.
    »You take yourselves off to bed quietly,« said Sam, »or I'll put you both in
it, and let you fight it out with the mouth tied, as I vould a dozen such, if
they played these games. And you have the goodness to come this here vay, sir,
if you please.«
    Thus addressing his master, Sam took him by the arm, and led him off, while
the rival editors were severally removed to their beds by the landlord, under
the inspection of Mr. Bob Sawyer and Mr. Benjamin Allen; breathing, as they went
away, many sanguinary threats, and making vague appointments for mortal combat
next day. When they came to think it over, however, it occurred to them that
they could do it much better in print, so they recommenced deadly hostilities
without delay; and all Eatanswill rung with their boldness - on paper.
    They had taken themselves off in separate coaches, early next morning,
before the other travellers were stirring; and the weather having now cleared
up, the chaise companions once more turned their faces to London.
 

                                  Chapter LII

 Involving a Serious Change in the Weller Family, and the Untimely Downfall of
                          the Red-Nosed Mr. Stiggins.

Considering it a matter of delicacy to abstain from introducing either Bob
Sawyer or Ben Allen to the young couple, until they were fully prepared to
expect them, and wishing to spare Arabella's feelings as much as possible, Mr.
Pickwick proposed that he and Sam should alight in the neighbourhood of the
George and Vulture, and that the two young men should for the present take up
their quarters elsewhere. To this, they very readily agreed, and the proposition
was accordingly acted upon; Mr. Ben Allen and Mr. Bob Sawyer betaking themselves
to a sequestered pot-shop on the remotest confines of the Borough, behind the
bar-door of which their names had in other days very often appeared, at the head
of long and complex calculations worked in white chalk.
    »Dear me, Mr. Weller,« said the pretty housemaid, meeting Sam at the door.
    »Dear me I vish it vos, my dear,« replied Sam, dropping behind, to let his
master get out of hearing. »Wot a sweet looking' creature you are, Mary!«
    »Lor, Mr. Weller, what nonsense you do talk!«, said Mary. »Oh! don't, Mr.
Weller.«
    »Don't what, my dear?« said Sam.
    »Why, that,« replied the pretty housemaid. »Lor, do get along with you.«
Thus admonishing him, the pretty housemaid pushed Sam against the wall,
declaring that he had tumbled her cap, and put her hair quite out of curl.
    »And prevented what I was going to say, besides,« added Mary. »There's a
letter been waiting here for you four days; you hadn't been gone away, half an
hour, when it came; and more than that, it's got, immediate, on the outside.«
    »Vere is it, my love?« inquired Sam.
    »I took care of it, for you, or I dare say it would have been lost long
before this,« replied Mary. »There, take it; it's more than you deserve.«
    With these words, after many pretty little coquettish doubts and fears, and
wishes that she might not have lost it, Mary produced the letter from behind the
nicest little muslin tucker possible, and handed it to Sam, who thereupon kissed
it with much gallantry and devotion.
    »My goodness me!« said Mary, adjusting the tucker, and feigning
unconsciousness, »you seem to have grown very fond of it all at once.«
    To this Mr. Weller only replied by a wink, the intense meaning of which no
description could convey the faintest idea of; and, sitting himself down beside
Mary on a window-seat, opened the letter and glanced at the contents.
    »Hallo!« exclaimed Sam, »wot's all this?«
    »Nothing the matter, I hope?« said Mary, peeping over his shoulder.
    »Bless them eyes o' yourn!« said Sam, looking up.
    »Never mind my eyes; you had much better read your letter,« said the pretty
housemaid; and as she said so, she made the eyes twinkle with such slyness and
beauty that they were perfectly irresistible.
    Sam refreshed himself with a kiss, and read as follows:
                                  »Markis Gran
By dorken
Wensdy
 
        My dear Sammle,
            I am very sorry to have the pleasure of bein a Bear of ill news your
        Mother in law cort cold consekens of imprudently settin too long on the
        damp grass in the rain a hearin of a shepherd who warnt able to leave
        off till late at night owen to his having vound his-self up with brandy
        and vater and not being able to stop himself till he got a little sober
        which took a many hours to do the doctor says that if she'd svallo'd
        varm brandy and vater artervards insted of afore she mightn't have been
        no vus her veels wos immedetly greased and everythink done to set her
        agoin as could be inwented your farther had hopes as she vould have
        vorked round as usual but just as she wos a turnen the corner my boy she
        took the wrong road and vent down hill with a welocity you never see and
        notvithstandin that the drag wos put on drectly by the medikel man it
        wornt of no use at all for she paid the last pike at twenty minutes
        afore six o'clock yesterday evenin having done the jouney very much under
        the reglar time vich praps was partly owen to her haven taken in very
        little luggage by the vay your father says that if you vill come and see
        me Sammy he vill take it as a very great favour for I am very lonely
        Samivel n b he vill have it spelt that vay vich I say ant right and as
        there is such a many things to settle he is sure your guvner wont object
        of course he vill not Sammy for I knows him better so he sends his dooty
        in which I join and am Samivel infernally yours
                                                                   TONY VELLER.«
 
»Wot a incomprehensible letter,« said Sam; »who's to know wot it means, with all
this he-ing and I-ing! It ain't my father's writing', 'cept this here signater
in print letters; that's his.«
    »Perhaps he got somebody to write it for him, and signed it himself
afterwards,« said the pretty housemaid.
    »Stop a minit,« replied Sam, running over the letter again, and pausing here
and there, to reflect, as he did so. »You've hit it. The gen'l'm'n as wrote it
wos a telling' all about the misfortun' in a proper vay, and then my father comes
a looking' over him, and complicates the whole concern by puttin' his oar in.
That's just the very sort o' thing he'd do. You're right, Mary, my dear.«
    Having satisfied himself on this point, Sam read the letter all over, once
more, and, appearing to form a clear notion of its contents for the first time,
ejaculated thoughtfully, as he folded it up:
    »And so the poor creature's dead! I'm sorry for it. She warn't a bad-disposed
'ooman, if them shepherds had let her alone. I'm very sorry for it.«
    Mr. Weller uttered these words in so serious a manner, that the pretty
housemaid cast down her eyes and looked very grave.
    »Hows'ever,« said Sam, putting the letter in his pocket with a gentle sigh,
»it wos to be - and wos, as the old lady said arter she'd married the footman.
Can't be helped now, can it, Mary?«
    Mary shook her head, and sighed too.
    »I must apply to the hemperor for leave of absence,« said Sam.
    Mary sighed again. The letter was so very affecting.
    »Good bye!« said Sam.
    »Good bye,« rejoined the pretty housemaid, turning her head away.
    »Well, shake hands, won't you?« said Sam.
    The pretty housemaid put out a hand which, although it was a housemaid's,
was a very small one, and rose to go.
    »I shan't be very long away,« said Sam.
    »You're always away,« said Mary, giving her head the slightest possible toss
in the air. »You no sooner come, Mr. Weller, than you go again.«
    Mr. Weller drew the household beauty closer to him, and entered upon a
whispering conversation, which had not proceeded far, when she turned her face
round and condescended to look at him again. When they parted, it was somehow or
other indispensably necessary for her to go to her room, and arrange the cap and
curls before she could think of presenting herself to her mistress; which
preparatory ceremony she went off to perform, bestowing many nods and smiles on
Sam over the banisters as she tripped up stairs.
    »I shan't be away more than a day, or two, sir, at the farthest,« said Sam,
when he had communicated to Mr. Pickwick the intelligence of his father's loss.
    »As long as may be necessary, Sam,« replied Mr. Pickwick, »you have my full
permission to remain.«
    Sam bowed.
    »You will tell your father, Sam, that if I can be of any assistance to him
in his present situation, I shall be most willing and ready to lend him any aid
in my power,« said Mr. Pickwick.
    »Thankee, sir,« rejoined Sam. »I'll mention it, sir.«
    And with some expressions of mutual good-will and interest, master and man
separated.
    It was just seven o'clock when Samuel Weller, alighting from the box of a
stage-coach which passed through Dorking, stood within a few hundred yards of
the Marquis of Granby. It was a cold dull evening; the little street looked
dreary and dismal; and the mahogany countenance of the noble and gallant Marquis
seemed to wear a more sad and melancholy expression than it was wont to do, as
it swung to and fro, creaking mournfully in the wind. The blinds were pulled
down, and the shutters partly closed; of the knot of loungers that usually
collected about the door, not one was to be seen; the place was silent and
desolate.
    Seeing nobody of whom he could ask any preliminary questions, Sam walked
softly in. Glancing round, he quickly recognised his parent in the distance.
    The widower was seated at a small round table in the little room behind the
bar, smoking a pipe, with his eyes intently fixed upon the fire. The funeral had
evidently taken place that day; for attached to his hat, which he still retained
on his head, was a hatband measuring about a yard and a half in length, which
hung over the top rail of the chair and streamed negligently down. Mr. Weller
was in a very abstracted and contemplative mood. Notwithstanding that Sam called
him by name several times, he still continued to smoke with the same fixed and
quiet countenance, and was only roused ultimately by his son's placing the palm
of his hand on his shoulder.
    »Sammy,« said Mr. Weller, »you're welcome.«
    »I've been a callin' to you half a dozen times,« said Sam, hanging his hat
on a peg, »but you didn't hear me.«
    »No, Sammy,« replied Mr. Weller, again looking thoughtfully at the fire. »I
wos in a referee, Sammy.«
    »Wot about?« inquired Sam, drawing his chair up to the fire.
    »In a referee, Sammy,« replied the elder Mr. Weller, »regarding her,
Samivel.« Here Mr. Weller jerked his head in the direction of Dorking
churchyard, in mute explanation that his words referred to the late Mrs. Weller.
    »I wos a thinking', Sammy,« said Mr. Weller, eyeing his son, with great
earnestness, over his pipe; as if to assure him that however extraordinary and
incredible the declaration might appear, it was nevertheless calmly and
deliberately uttered. »I wos a thinking', Sammy, that upon the whole I wos very
sorry she wos gone.«
    »Vell, and so you ought to be,« replied Sam.
    Mr. Weller nodded his acquiescence in the sentiment, and again fastening his
eyes on the fire, shrouded himself in a cloud, and mused deeply.
    »Those wos very sensible observations as she made, Sammy,« said Mr. Weller,
driving the smoke away with his hand, after a long silence.
    »Wot observations?« inquired Sam.
    »Them as she made, arter she was took ill,« replied the old gentleman.
    »Wot was they?«
    »Somethin' to this here effect. Veller, she says, I'm afraid I've not done
by you quite wot I ought to have done; you're a very kind-hearted man, and I
might ha' made your home more comfortabler. I begin to see now, she says, ven
it's too late, that if a married 'ooman vishes to be religious, she should begin
with dischargin' her dooties at home, and making' them as is about her cheerful
and happy, and that vile she goes to church, or chapel, or wot not, at all
proper times, she should be very careful not to con-wert this sort o' thing into
a excuse for idleness or self-indulgence. I have done this, she says, and I've
vasted time and substance on them as has done it more than me; but I hope ven
I'm gone, Veller, that you'll think on me as I wos afore I know'd them people,
and as I raly wos by natur'. Susan, says I, - I wos took up very short by this,
Samivel; I von't deny it, my boy - Susan, I says, you've been a very good vife
to me, altogether; don't say nothing' at all about it; keep a good heart my dear;
and you'll live to see me punch that 'ere Stiggins's head yet. She smiled at
this, Samivel,« said the old gentleman, stifling a sigh with his pipe, »but she
died arter all!«
    »Vell,« said Sam, venturing to offer a little homely consolation, after the
lapse of three or four minutes, consumed by the old gentleman in slowly shaking
his head from side to side, and solemnly smoking; »vell, gov'ner, ve must all
come to it, one day or another.«
    »So we must, Sammy,« said Mr. Weller the elder.
    »There's a Providence in it all,« said Sam.
    »O' course there is,« replied his father with a nod of grave approval. »Wot
'ud become of the undertakers vithout it, Sammy?«
    Lost in the immense field of conjecture opened by this reflection, the elder
Mr. Weller laid his pipe on the table, and stirred the fire with a meditative
visage.
    While the old gentleman was thus engaged, a very buxom-looking cook, dressed
in mourning, who had been bustling about, in the bar, glided into the room, and
bestowing many smirks of recognition upon Sam, silently stationed herself at the
back of his father's chair, and announced her presence by a slight cough: the
which, being disregarded, was followed by a louder one.
    »Hallo!« said the elder Mr. Weller, dropping the poker as he looked round,
and hastily drew his chair away. »Wot's the matter now?«
    »Have a cup of tea, there's a good soul,« replied the buxom female,
coaxingly.
    »I von't,« replied Mr. Weller, in a somewhat boisterous manner, »I'll see
you -« Mr. Weller hastily checked himself, and added in a low tone, »further
fust.«
    »Oh, dear, dear! How adversity does change people!« said the lady, looking
upwards.
    »It's the only think 'twixt this and the doctor as shall change my
condition,« muttered Mr. Weller.
    »I really never saw a man so cross,« said the buxom female.
    »Never mind. It's all for my own good; vich is the reflection with wich the
penitent schoolboy comforted his feelin's ven they flogged him,« rejoined the
old gentleman.
    The buxom female shook her head with a compassionate and sympathising air;
and, appealing to Sam, inquired whether his father really ought not to make an
effort to keep up, and not give way to that lowness of spirits.
    »You see, Mr. Samuel,« said the buxom female, »as I was telling him
yesterday, he will feel lonely, he can't expect but what he should, sir, but he
should keep up a good heart, because, dear me, I'm sure we all pity his loss,
and are ready to do anything for him; and there's no situation in life so bad,
Mr. Samuel, that it can't be mended. Which is what a very worthy person said to
me when my husband died.« Here the speaker, putting her hand before her mouth,
coughed again, and looked affectionately at the elder Mr. Weller.
    »As I don't rekvire any o' your conversation just now, mum, vill you have
the goodness to re-tire?« inquired Mr. Weller in a grave and steady voice.
    »Well, Mr. Weller,« said the buxom female, »I'm sure I only spoke to you out
of kindness.«
    »Wery likely, mum,« replied Mr. Weller. »Samivel, show the lady out, and
shut the door arter her.«
    This hint was not lost upon the buxom female; for she at once left the room,
and slammed the door behind her, upon which Mr. Weller, senior, falling back in
his chair in a violent perspiration, said:
    »Sammy, if I wos to stop here alone vun veek - only vun veek, my boy - that
'ere 'ooman 'ud marry me by force and wiolence afore it was over.«
    »Wot! Is she so very fond on you?« inquired Sam.
    »Fond!« replied his father, »I can't keep her away from me. If I was locked
up in a fire-proof chest with a patent Brahmin, she'd find means to get at me,
Sammy.«
    »Wot a thing it is, to be so sought arter!« observed Sam, smiling.
    »I don't take no pride out on it, Sammy,« replied Mr. Weller, poking the
fire vehemently, »it's a horrid sitiwation. I'm actiwally drove out o' house and
home by it. The breath was scarcely out o' your poor mother-in-law's body, ven
vun old 'ooman sends me a pot o' jam, and another a pot o' jelly, and another
brews a blessed large jug o' camomile-tea, vich she brings in with her own
hands.« Mr. Weller paused with an aspect of intense disgust, and, looking round,
added in a whisper: »They wos all widders, Sammy, all on 'em, 'cept the
camomile-tea vun, as wos a single young lady o' fifty-three.«
    Sam gave a comical look in reply, and the old gentleman having broken an
obstinate lump of coal, with a countenance expressive of as much earnestness and
malice as if it had been the head of one of the widows last-mentioned, said:
    »In short, Sammy, I feel that I ain't safe anyveres but on the box.«
    »How are you safer there than anyveres else?« interrupted Sam.
    »'Cos a coachman's a privileged indiwidual,« replied Mr. Weller, looking
fixedly at his son. »'Cos a coachman may do vithout suspicion wot other men may
not; 'cos a coachman may be on the very amicablest terms with eighty mile o'
females, and yet nobody think that he ever means to marry any vun among 'em. And
wot other man can say the same, Sammy?«
    »Vell, there's something' in that,« said Sam.
    »If your gov'ner had been a coachman,« reasoned Mr. Weller, »do you s'pose
as that 'ere jury 'ud ever ha' conwicted him, s'posin' it possible as the matter
could ha' gone to that extremity? They dustn't ha' done it.«
    »Wy not?« said Sam, rather disparagingly.
    »Wy not!« rejoined Mr. Weller; »'cos it 'ud ha' gone again their consciences.
A reg'lar coachman's a sort o' connectin' link betwixt singleness and matrimony,
and every practicable man knows it.«
    »Wot! You mean, they're gen'ral fav'rites, and nobody takes adwantage on
'em, p'raps?« said Sam.
    His father nodded.
    »How it ever come to that 'ere pass,« resumed the parent Weller, »I can't
say. Wy it is that long-stage coachmen possess such insiniwations, and is alvays
looked up to - adored I may say - by ev'ry young 'ooman in ev'ry town he vurks
through, I don't know. I only know that so it is. It's a reg'lation of natur - a
dispensary, as your poor mother-in-law used to say.«
    »A dispensation,« said Sam, correcting the old gentleman.
    »Wery good, Samivel, a dispensation if you like it better,« returned Mr.
Weller; »I call it a dispensary, and it's alvays writ up so, at the places vere
they gives you physic for nothing' in your own bottles; that's all.«
    With these words, Mr. Weller re-filled and re-lighted his pipe, and once
more summoning up a meditative expression of countenance, continued as follows:
    »Therefore, my boy, as I do not see the adwisability o' stoppin' here to be
marrid vether I vant to or not, and as at the same time I do not vish to
separate myself from them interestin' members o' society altogether, I have come
to the determination o' drivin' the Safety, and puttin' up vunce more at the
Bell Savage, vich is my nat'ral-born element, Sammy.«
    »And wot's to become o' the bis'ness?« inquired Sam.
    »The bis'ness, Samivel,« replied the old gentleman, »good-vill, stock, and
fixters, vill be sold by private contract; and out o' the money, two hundred
pound, agreeable to a rekvest o' your mother-in-law's to me a little afore she
died, vill be inwested in your name in - wot do you call them things again?«
    »Wot things?« inquired Sam.
    »Them things as is always a goin' up and down, in the City.«
    »Omnibuses?« suggested Sam.
    »Nonsense,« replied Mr. Weller. »Them things as is alvays a fluctooatin',
and getting' theirselves inwolved somehow or another with the national debt, and
the checquers bills, and all that.«
    »Oh! the funds,« said Sam.
    »Ah!« rejoined Mr. Weller, »the funs; two hundred pounds o' the money is to
be inwested for you, Samivel, in the funs; four and a half per cent. reduced
counsels, Sammy.«
    »Wery kind o' the old lady to think o' me,« said Sam, »and I'm very much
obliged to her.«
    »The rest vill be inwested in my name,« continued the elder Mr. Weller; »and
ven I'm took off the road, it'll come to you, so take care you don't spend it
all at vunst, my boy, and mind that no widder gets a inklin' o' your fortun', or
you're done.«
    Having delivered this warning, Mr. Weller resumed his pipe with a more
serene countenance; the disclosure of these matters appearing to have eased his
mind considerably.
    »Somebody's a tappin' at the door,« said Sam.
    »Let 'em tap,« replied his father, with dignity.
    Sam acted upon the direction. There was another tap, and another, and then a
long row of taps; upon which Sam inquired why the tapper was not admitted.
    »Hush,« whispered Mr. Weller, with apprehensive looks, »don't take no notice
on 'em, Sammy, it's vun o' the widders, p'raps.«
    No notice being taken of the taps, the unseen visitor, after a short lapse,
ventured to open the door and peep in. It was no female head that was thrust in
at the partially opened door, but the long black locks and red face of Mr.
Stiggins. Mr. Weller's pipe fell from his hands.
    The reverend gentleman gradually opened the door by almost imperceptible
degrees, until the aperture was just wide enough to admit of the passage of his
lank body, when he glided into the room and closed it after him with great care
and gentleness. Turning towards Sam, and raising his hands and eyes in token of
the unspeakable sorrow with which he regarded the calamity that had befallen the
family, he carried the high-backed chair to his old corner by the fire, and,
seating himself on the very edge, drew forth a brown pocket-handkerchief, and
applied the same to his optics.
    While this was going forward, the elder Mr. Weller sat back in his chair,
with his eyes wide open, his hands planted on his knees, and his whole
countenance expressive of absorbing and overwhelming astonishment. Sam sat
opposite him in perfect silence, waiting, with eager curiosity, for the
termination of the scene.
    Mr. Stiggins kept the brown pocket-handkerchief before his eyes for some
minutes, moaning decently meanwhile, and then, mastering his feelings by a
strong effort, put it in his pocket and buttoned it up. After this, he stirred
the fire; after that, he rubbed his hands and looked at Sam.
    »Oh my young friend,« said Mr. Stiggins, breaking the silence in a very low
voice, »here's a sorrowful affliction!«
    Sam nodded, very slightly.
    »For the man of wrath, too!« added Mr. Stiggins; »it makes a vessel's heart
bleed!«
    Mr. Weller was overheard by his son to murmur something relative to making a
vessel's nose bleed; but Mr. Stiggins heard him not.
    »Do you know, young man,« whispered Mr. Stiggins, drawing his chair closer
to Sam, »whether she has left Emanuel anything?«
    »Who's he?« inquired Sam.
    »The chapel,« replied Mr. Stiggins; »our chapel; our fold, Mr. Samuel.«
    »She hasn't left the fold nothing', nor the shepherd nothing', nor the animals
nothing',« said Sam, decisively; »nor the dogs neither.«
    Mr. Stiggins looked slyly at Sam; glanced at the old gentleman, who was
sitting with his eyes closed, as if asleep; and drawing his chair still nearer,
said:
    »Nothing for me, Mr. Samuel?«
    Sam shook his head.
    »I think there's something,« said Stiggins, turning as pale as he could
turn. »Consider, Mr. Samuel; no little token?«
    »Not so much as the vorth o' that 'ere old umberella o' yourn,« replied Sam.
    »Perhaps,« said Mr. Stiggins, hesitatingly, after a few moments' deep
thought, »perhaps she recommended me to the care of the man of wrath, Mr.
Samuel?«
    »I think that's very likely, from what he said,« rejoined Sam; »he wos a
speakin' about you, just now.«
    »Was he, though?« exclaimed Stiggins brightening up. »Ah! He's changed, I
dare say. We might live very comfortably together now, Mr. Samuel, eh? I could
take care of his property when you are away - good care, you see.«
    Heaving a long-drawn sigh, Mr. Stiggins paused for a response. Sam nodded,
and Mr. Weller, the elder, gave vent to an extraordinary sound, which being
neither a groan, nor a grunt, nor a gasp, nor a growl, seemed to partake in some
degree of the character of all four.
    Mr. Stiggins, encouraged by this sound, which he understood to betoken
remorse or repentance, looked about him, rubbed his hands, wept, smiled, wept
again, and then, walking softly across the room to a well-remembered shelf in
one corner, took down a tumbler, and with great deliberation put four lumps of
sugar in it. Having got thus far, he looked about him again, and sighed
grievously; with that, he walked softly into the bar, and presently returning
with the tumbler half full of pine-apple rum, advanced to the kettle which was
singing gaily on the hob, mixed his grog, stirred it, sipped it, sat down, and
taking a long and hearty pull at the rum and water, stopped for breath.
    The elder Mr. Weller, who still continued to make various strange and
uncouth attempts to appear asleep, offered not a single word during these
proceedings; but when Stiggins stopped for breath, he darted upon him, and
snatching the tumbler from his hand, threw the remainder of the rum and water in
his face, and the glass itself into the grate. Then, seizing the reverend
gentleman firmly by the collar, he suddenly fell to kicking him most furiously:
accompanying every application of his top-boots to Mr. Stiggins's person, with
sundry violent and incoherent anathemas upon his limbs, eyes, and body.
    »Sammy,« said Mr. Weller, »put my hat on tight for me.«
    Sam dutifully adjusted the hat with the long hatband more firmly on his
father's head, and the old gentleman, resuming his kicking with greater agility
than before, tumbled with Mr. Stiggins through the bar, and through the passage,
out at the front door, and so into the street; the kicking continuing the whole
way, and increasing in vehemence, rather than diminishing, every time the
top-boot was lifted.
    It was a beautiful and exhilarating sight to see the red-nosed man writhing
in Mr. Weller's grasp, and his whole frame quivering with anguish as kick
followed kick in rapid succession; it was a still more exciting spectacle to
behold Mr. Weller, after a powerful struggle, immersing Mr. Stiggins's head in a
horse-trough full of water, and holding it there, until he was half suffocated.
    »There!« said Mr. Weller, throwing all his energy into one most complicated
kick, as he at length permitted Mr. Stiggins to withdraw his head from the
trough, »send any vun o' them lazy shepherds here, and I'll pound him to a jelly
first, and drownd him artervards! Sammy, help me in, and fill me a small glass
of brandy. I'm out o' breath, my boy.«
 

                                  Chapter LIII

Comprising the Final Exit of Mr. Jingle and Job Trotter; with a Great Morning of
 Business in Gray's Inn Square. Concluding with a Double Knock at Mr. Perker's
                                     Door.

When Arabella, after some gentle preparation, and many assurances that there was
not the least occasion for being low-spirited, was at length made acquainted by
Mr. Pickwick with the unsatisfactory result of his visit to Birmingham, she
burst into tears, and sobbing aloud, lamented in moving terms that she should
have been the unhappy cause of any estrangement between a father and his son.
    »My dear girl,« said Mr. Pickwick, kindly, »it is no fault of yours. It was
impossible to foresee that the old gentleman would be so strongly prepossessed
against his son's marriage, you know. I am sure,« added Mr. Pickwick, glancing
at her pretty face, »he can have very little idea of the pleasure he denies
himself.«
    »Oh my dear Mr. Pickwick,« said Arabella, »what shall we do, if he continues
to be angry with us?«
    »Why, wait patiently, my dear, until he thinks better of it,« replied Mr.
Pickwick, cheerfully.
    »But, dear Mr. Pickwick, what is to become of Nathaniel if his father
withdraws his assistance?« urged Arabella.
    »In that case, my love,« rejoined Mr. Pickwick, »I will venture to prophesy
that he will find some other friend who will not be backward in helping him to
start in the world.«
    The significance of this reply was not so well disguised by Mr. Pickwick but
that Arabella understood it. So, throwing her arms around his neck, and kissing
him affectionately, she sobbed louder than before.
    »Come, come,« said Mr. Pickwick, taking her hand, »we will wait here a few
days longer, and see whether he writes or takes any other notice of your
husband's communication. If not, I have thought of half a dozen plans, any one
of which would make you happy at once. There, my dear, there!«
    With these words, Mr. Pickwick gently pressed Arabella's hand, and bade her
dry her eyes, and not distress her husband. Upon which, Arabella, who was one of
the best little creatures alive, put her handkerchief in her reticule, and by
the time Mr. Winkle joined them, exhibited in full lustre the same beaming
smiles and sparkling eyes that had originally captivated him.
    »This is a distressing predicament for these young people,« thought Mr.
Pickwick, as he dressed himself next morning. »I'll walk up to Perker's, and
consult him about the matter.«
    As Mr. Pickwick was further prompted to betake himself to Gray's Inn Square
by an anxious desire to come to a pecuniary settlement with the kind-hearted
little attorney without further delay, he made a hurried breakfast, and executed
his intention so speedily, that ten o'clock had not struck when he reached
Gray's Inn.
    It still wanted ten minutes to the hour when he had ascended the staircase
on which Perker's chambers were. The clerks had not arrived yet, and he beguiled
the time by looking out of the staircase window.
    The healthy light of a fine October morning made even the dingy old houses
brighten up a little: some of the dusty windows actually looking almost cheerful
as the sun's rays gleamed upon them. Clerk after clerk hastened into the square
by one or other of the entrances, and looking up at the Hall clock, accelerated
or decreased his rate of walking according to the time at which his office hours
nominally commenced; the half-past nine o'clock people suddenly becoming very
brisk, and the ten o'clock gentlemen felling into a pace of most aristocratic
slowness. The clock struck ten, and clerks poured in faster than ever, each one
in a greater perspiration than his predecessor. The noise of unlocking and
opening doors echoed and re-echoed on every side; heads appeared as if by magic
in every window; the porters took up their stations for the day; the slipshod
laundresses hurried off; the postman ran from house to house; and the whole
legal hive was in a bustle.
    »You're early, Mr. Pickwick,« said a voice behind him.
    »Ah, Mr. Lowten,« replied that gentleman, looking round, and recognising his
old acquaintance.
    »Precious warm walking, isn't it?« said Lowten, drawing a Bramah key from
his pocket, with a small plug therein, to keep the dust out.
    »You appear to feel it so,« rejoined Mr. Pickwick, smiling at the clerk, who
was literally red hot.
    »I've come along rather, I can tell you,« replied Lowten. »It went the half
hour as I came through the Polygon. I'm here before him, though, so I don't
mind.«
    Comforting himself with this reflection, Mr. Lowten extracted the plug from
the door-key, and having opened the door, replugged and repocketed his Bramah,
and picked up the letters which the postman had dropped through the box. He then
ushered Mr. Pickwick into the office. Here, in the twinkling of an eye, he
divested himself of his coat, put on a threadbare garment which he took out of a
desk, hung up his hat, pulled forth a few sheets of cartridge and blotting-paper
in alternate layers, and sticking a pen behind his ear, rubbed his hands with an
air of great satisfaction.
    »There you see, Mr. Pickwick,« he said, »now I'm complete. I've got my
office coat on, and my pad out, and let him come as soon as he likes. You
haven't got a pinch of snuff about you, have you?«
    »No, I have not,« replied Mr. Pickwick.
    »I'm sorry for it,« said Lowten. »Never mind. I'll run out presently, and
get a bottle of soda. Don't I look rather queer about the eyes, Mr. Pickwick?«
    The individual appealed to, surveyed Mr. Lowten's eyes from a distance, and
expressed his opinion that no unusual queerness was perceptible in those
features.
    »I'm glad of it,« said Lowten. »We were keeping it up pretty tolerably at
the Stump last night, and I'm rather out of sorts this morning. Perker's been
about that business of yours, by the bye.«
    »What business?« inquired Mr. Pickwick. »Mrs. Bardell's costs?«
    »No, I don't mean that,« replied Mr. Lowten. »About getting that customer
that we paid the ten shillings in the pound to the bill discounter for, on your
account - to get him out of the Fleet, you know - about getting him to
Demerara.«
    »Oh? Mr. Jingle?« said Mr. Pickwick, hastily. »Yes. Well?«
    »Well, it's all arranged,« said Lowten, mending his pen. »The agent at
Liverpool said he had been obliged to you many times when you were in business,
and he would be glad to take him on your recommendation.«
    »That's well,« said Mr. Pickwick. »I am delighted to hear it.«
    »But I say,« resumed Lowten, scraping the back of the pen preparatory to
making a fresh split, »what a soft chap that other is!«
    »Which other?«
    »Why, that servant, or friend, or whatever he is; you know; Trotter.«
    »Ah?« said Mr. Pickwick, with a smile. »I always thought him the reverse.«
    »Well, and so did I, from what little I saw of him,« replied Lowten, »it
only shows how one may be deceived. What do you think of his going to Demerara,
too?«
    »What! And giving up what was offered him here!« exclaimed Mr. Pickwick.
    »Treating Perker's offer of eighteen bob a-week, and a rise if he behaved
himself, like dirt,« replied Lowten. »He said he must go along with the other
one, and so they persuaded Perker to write again, and they've got him something
on the same estate; not near so good, Perker says, as a convict would get in New
South Wales, if he appeared at his trial in a new suit of clothes.«
    »Foolish fellow,« said Mr. Pickwick, with glistening eyes. »Foolish fellow.«
    »Oh, it's worse than foolish; it's downright sneaking, you know,« replied
Lowten, nibbing the pen with a contemptuous face. »He says that he's the only
friend he ever had, and he's attached to him, and all that. Friendship's a very
good thing in its way: we are all very friendly and comfortable at the Stump,
for instance, over our grog, where every man pays for himself; but damn hurting
yourself for anybody else, you know! No man should have more than two
attachments - the first, to number one, and the second to the ladies; that's
what I say - ha! ha!« Mr. Lowten concluded with a loud laugh, half in
jocularity, and half in derision, which was prematurely cut short by the sound
of Perker's footsteps on the stairs: at the first approach of which, he vaulted
on his stool with an agility most remarkable, and wrote intensely.
    The greeting between Mr. Pickwick and his professional adviser was warm and
cordial; the client was scarcely ensconced in the attorney's arm chair, however,
when a knock was heard at the door, and a voice inquired whether Mr. Perker was
within.
    »Hark!« said Perker, »that's one of our vagabond friends - Jingle himself,
my dear sir. Will you see him?«
    »What do you think?« inquired Mr. Pickwick, hesitating.
    »Yes, I think you had better. Here, you sir, what's your name, walk in, will
you?«
    In compliance with this unceremonious invitation, Jingle and Job walked into
the room, but, seeing Mr. Pickwick, stopped short in some confusion.
    »Well,« said Perker, »don't you know that gentleman?«
    »Good reason to,« replied Mr. Jingle, stepping forward. »Mr. Pickwick -
deepest obligations - life preserver - made a man of me - you shall never repent
it, sir.«
    »I am happy to hear you say so,« said Mr. Pickwick. »You look much better.«
    »Thanks to you, sir - great change - Majesty's Fleet - unwholesome place -
very,« said Jingle, shaking his head. He was decently and cleanly dressed, and
so was Job, who stood bolt upright behind him, staring at Mr. Pickwick with a
visage of iron.
    »When do they go to Liverpool?« inquired Mr. Pickwick, half aside to Perker.
    »This evening, sir, at seven o'clock,« said Job, taking one step forward.
»By the heavy coach from the city, sir.«
    »Are your places taken?«
    »They are, sir,« replied Job.
    »You have fully made up your mind to go?«
    »I have, sir,« answered Job.
    »With regard to such an outfit as was indispensable for Jingle,« said
Perker, addressing Mr. Pickwick aloud, »I have taken upon myself to make an
arrangement for the deduction of a small sum from his quarterly salary, which,
being made only for one year, and regularly remitted, will provide for that
expense. I entirely disapprove of your doing anything for him, my dear sir,
which is not dependent on his own exertions and good conduct.«
    »Certainly,« interposed Jingle, with great firmness. »Clear head - man of
the world - quite right - perfectly.«
    »By compounding with his creditor, releasing his clothes from the
pawnbroker's, relieving him in prison, and paying for his passage,« continued
Perker, without noticing Jingle's observation, »you have already lost upwards of
fifty pounds.«
    »Not lost,« said Jingle, hastily. »Pay it all - stick to business - cash up
- every farthing. Yellow fever, perhaps - can't help that - if not -« Here Mr.
Jingle paused, and striking the crown of his hat with great violence, passed his
hand over his eyes, and sat down.
    »He means to say,« said Job, advancing a few paces, »that if he is not
carried off by the fever, he will pay the money back again. If he lives, he
will, Mr. Pickwick. I will see it done. I know he will, sir,« said Job, with
energy. »I could undertake to swear it.«
    »Well, well,« said Mr. Pickwick, who had been bestowing a score or two of
frowns upon Perker, to stop his summary of benefits conferred, which the little
attorney obstinately disregarded, »you must be careful not to play any more
desperate cricket matches, Mr. Jingle, or to renew your acquaintance with Sir
Thomas Blazo, and I have little doubt of your preserving your health.«
    Mr. Jingle smiled at this sally, but looked rather foolish notwithstanding;
so, Mr. Pickwick changed the subject by saying,
    »You don't happen to know, do you, what has become of another friend of
yours - a more humble one, whom I saw at Rochester?«
    »Dismal Jemmy?« inquired Jingle.
    »Yes.«
    Jingle shook his head.
    »Clever rascal - queer fellow, hoaxing genius - Job's brother.«
    »Job's brother!« exclaimed Mr. Pickwick. »Well, now I look at him closely,
there is a likeness.«
    »We were always considered like each other, sir,« said Job, with a cunning
look just lurking in the corners of his eyes, »only I was really of a serious
nature, and he never was. He emigrated to America, sir, in consequence of being
too much sought after here, to be comfortable; and has never been heard of
since.«
    »That accounts for my not having received the page from the romance of real
life, which he promised me one morning when he appeared to be contemplating
suicide on Rochester Bridge, I suppose,« said Mr. Pickwick, smiling. »I need not
inquire wheter his dismal behaviour was natural or assumed.«
    »He could assume anything, sir,« said Job. »You may consider yourself very
fortunate in having escaped him so easily. On intimate terms he would have been
even a more dangerous acquaintance than -« Job looked at Jingle, hesitated, and
finally added, »than - than - myself even.«
    »A hopeful family yours, Mr. Trotter,« said Perker, sealing a letter which
he had just finished writing.
    »Yes, sir,« replied Job. »Very much so.«
    »Well,« said the little man, laughing; »I hope you are going to disgrace it.
Deliver this letter to the agent when you reach Liverpool, and let me advise
you, gentlemen, not to be too knowing in the West Indies. If you throw away this
chance, you will both richly deserve to be hanged, as I sincerely trust you will
be. And now you had better leave Mr. Pickwick and me alone, for we have other
matters to talk over, and time is precious.« As Perker said this, he looked
towards the door, with an evident desire to render the leave-taking as brief as
possible.
    It was brief enough on Mr. Jingle's part. He thanked the little attorney in
a few hurried words for the kindness and promptitude with which he had rendered
his assistance, and, turning to his benefactor, stood for a few seconds as if
irresolute what to say or how to act. Job Trotter relieved his perplexity; for,
with a humble and a grateful bow to Mr. Pickwick, he took his friend gently by
the arm, and led him away.
    »A worthy couple!« said Perker, as the door closed behind them.
    »I hope they may become so,« replied Mr. Pickwick. »What do you think? Is
there any chance of their permanent reformation?«
    Perker shrugged his shoulders doubtfully, but observing Mr. Pickwick's
anxious and disappointed look, rejoined:
    »Of course there is a chance. I hope it may prove a good one. They are
unquestionably penitent now; but then, you know, they have the recollection of
very recent suffering fresh upon them. What they may become, when that fades
away, is a problem that neither you nor I can solve. However, my dear sir,«
added Perker, laying his hand on Mr. Pickwick's shoulder, »your object is
equally honourable, whatever the result is. Whether that species of benevolence
which is so very cautious and long-sighted that it is seldom exercised at all,
lest its owner should be imposed upon, and so wounded in his self-love, be real
charity or a worldly counterfeit, I leave to wiser heads than mine to determine.
But if those two fellows were to commit a burglary to-morrow, my opinion of this
action would be equally high.«
    With these remarks, which were delivered in a much more animated and earnest
manner than is usual in legal gentlemen, Perker drew his chair to his desk, and
listened to Mr. Pickwick's recital of old Mr. Winkle's obstinacy.
    »Give him a week,« said Perker, nodding his head prophetically.
    »Do you think he will come round?« inquired Mr. Pickwick.
    »I think he will,« rejoined Perker. »If not, we must try the young lady's
persuasion; and that is what anybody but you, would have done at first.«
    Mr. Perker was taking a pinch of snuff with various grotesque contractions
of countenance, eulogistic of the persuasive powers appertaining unto young
ladies, when the murmur of inquiry and answer was heard in the outer office, and
Lowten tapped at the door.
    »Come in!« cried the little man.
    The clerk came in, and shut the door after him, with great mystery.
    »What's the matter?« inquired Perker.
    »You're wanted, sir.«
    »Who wants me?«
    Lowten looked at Mr. Pickwick, and coughed.
    »Who wants me? Can't you speak, Mr. Lowten?«
    »Why, sir,« replied Lowten, »it's Dodson; and Fogg is with him.«
    »Bless my life!« said the little man, looking at his watch, »I appointed
them to be here, at half-past eleven, to settle that matter of yours, Pickwick.
I gave them an undertaking on which they sent down your discharge; it's very
awkward, my dear sir; what will you do? Would you like to step into the next
room?«
    The next room being the identical room in which Messrs. Dodson and Fogg
were, Mr. Pickwick replied that he would remain where he was: the more
especially as Messrs. Dodson and Fogg ought to be ashamed to look him in the
face, instead of his being ashamed to see them. Which latter circumstance he
begged Mr. Perker to note, with a glowing countenance and many marks of
indignation.
    »Very well, my dear sir, very well,« replied Perker, »I can only say that if
you expect either Dodson or Fogg to exhibit any symptom of shame or confusion at
having to look you, or anybody else, in the face, you are the most sanguine man
in your expectations that I ever met with. Show them in, Mr. Lowten.«
    Mr. Lowten disappeared with a grin, and immediately returned ushering in the
firm, in due form of precedence: Dodson first, and Fogg afterwards.
    »You have seen Mr. Pickwick, I believe?« said Perker to Dodson, inclining
his pen in the direction where that gentleman was seated.
    »How do you do, Mr. Pickwick?« said Dodson in a loud voice.
    »Dear me,« cried Fogg, »how do you do, Mr. Pickwick? I hope you are well,
sir. I thought I knew the face,« said Fogg, drawing up a chair, and looking
round him with a smile.
    Mr. Pickwick bent his head very slightly, in answer to these salutations,
and, seeing Fogg pull a bundle of papers from his coat-pocket, rose and walked
to the window.
    »There's no occasion for Mr. Pickwick to move, Mr. Perker,« said Fogg,
untying the red tape which encircled the little bundle, and smiling again more
sweetly than before. »Mr. Pickwick is pretty well acquainted with these
proceedings. There are no secrets between us, I think. He! he! he!«
    »Not many, I think,« said Dodson. »Ha! ha! ha!« Then both the partners
laughed together - pleasantly and cheerfully, as men who are going to receive
money, often do.
    »We shall make Mr. Pickwick pay for peeping,« said Fogg, with considerable
native humour, as he unfolded his papers. »The amount of the taxed costs is one
hundred and thirty three, six, four, Mr. Perker.«
    There was a great comparing of papers, and turning over of leaves, by Fogg
and Perker, after this statement of profit and loss. Meanwhile, Dodson said in
an affable manner to Mr. Pickwick:
    »I don't think you are looking quite so stout as when I had the pleasure of
seeing you last, Mr. Pickwick.«
    »Possibly not, sir,« replied Mr. Pickwick, who had been flashing forth looks
of fierce indignation, without producing the smallest effect on either of the
sharp practitioners; »I believe I am not, sir. I have been persecuted and
annoyed by Scoundrels of late, sir.«
    Perker coughed violently, and asked Mr. Pickwick whether he wouldn't like to
look at the morning paper? To which inquiry Mr. Pickwick returned a most decided
negative.
    »True,« said Dodson, »I dare say you have been annoyed in the Fleet; there
are some odd gentry there. Whereabouts were your apartments, Mr. Pickwick?«
    »My one room,« replied that much-injured gentleman, »was on the Coffee Room
flight.«
    »Oh, indeed!« said Dodson. »I believe that is a very pleasant part of the
establishment.«
    »Very,« replied Mr. Pickwick drily.
    There was a coolness about all this, which, to a gentleman of an excitable
temperament, had, under the circumstances, rather an exasperating tendency. Mr.
Pickwick restrained his wrath by gigantic efforts; but when Perker wrote a
cheque for the whole amount, and Fogg deposited it in a small pocket-book with a
triumphant smile playing over his pimply features which communicated itself
likewise to the stern countenance of Dodson, he felt the blood in his cheeks
tingling with indignation.
    »Now, Mr. Dodson,« said Fogg, putting up the pocket-book and drawing on his
gloves, »I am at your service.«
    »Very good,« said Dodson, rising, »I am quite ready.«
    »I am very happy,« said Fogg, softened by the cheque, »to have had the
pleasure of making Mr. Pickwick's acquaintance. I hope you don't think quite so
ill of us, Mr. Pickwick, as when we first had the pleasure of seeing you.«
    »I hope not,« said Dodson, with the high tone of calumniated virtue. »Mr.
Pickwick now knows us better. I trust: whatever your opinion of gentlemen of our
profession may be, I beg to assure you, sir, that I bear no ill-will or
vindictive feeling towards you for the sentiments you thought proper to express
in our office in Freeman's Court, Cornhill, on the occasion to which my partner
has referred.«
    »Oh no, no; nor I,« said Fogg, in a most forgiving manner.
    »Our conduct, sir,« said Dodson, »will speak for itself, and justify itself
I hope, upon every occasion. We have been in the profession some years, Mr.
Pickwick, and have been honoured with the confidence of many excellent clients.
I wish you good morning, sir.«
    »Good morning, Mr. Pickwick,« said Fogg. So saying, he put his umbrella
under his arm, drew off his right glove, and extended the hand of reconciliation
to that most indignant gentleman: who, thereupon, thrust his hands beneath his
coat tails, and eyed the attorney with looks of scornful amazement.
    »Lowten!« cried Perker at this moment. »Open the door.«
    »Wait one instant,« said Mr. Pickwick, »Perker, I will speak.«
    »My dear sir, pray let the matter rest where it is,« said the little
attorney, who had been in a state of nervous apprehension during the whole
interview; »Mr. Pickwick, I beg!«
    »I will not be put down, sir,« replied Mr. Pickwick hastily. »Mr. Dodson,
you have addressed some remarks to me.«
    Dodson turned round, bent his head meekly, and smiled.
    »Some remarks to me,« repeated Mr. Pickwick, almost breathless; »and your
partner has tendered me his hand, and you have both assumed a tone of
forgiveness and high-mindedness, which is an extent of impudence that I was not
prepared for, even in you.«
    »What, sir!« exclaimed Dodson.
    »What, sir!« reiterated Fogg.
    »Do you know that I have been the victim of your plots and conspiracies?«
continued Mr. Pickwick. »Do you know that I am the man whom you have been
imprisoning and robbing? Do you know that you were the attorneys for the
plaintiff, in Bardell and Pickwick?«
    »Yes, sir, we do know it,« replied Dodson.
    »Of course we know it, sir,« rejoined Fogg, slapping his pocket - perhaps by
accident.
    »I see that you recollect it with satisfaction,« said Mr. Pickwick,
attempting to call up a sneer for the first time in his life, and failing most
signally in so doing. »Although I have long been anxious to tell you, in plain
terms, what my opinion of you is, I should have let even this opportunity pass,
in deference to my friend Perker's wishes, but for the unwarrantable tone you
have assumed, and your insolent familiarity. I say insolent familiarity, sir,«
said Mr. Pickwick, turning upon Fogg with a fierceness of gesture which caused
that person to retreat towards the door with great expedition.
    »Take care, sir,« said Dodson, who, though he was the biggest man of the
party, had prudently intrenched himself behind Fogg, and was speaking over his
head with a very pale face. »Let him assault you, Mr. Fogg; don't return it on
any account.«
    »No, no, I won't return it,« said Fogg, falling back a little more as he
spoke; to the evident relief of his partner, who by these means was gradually
getting into the outer office.
    »You are,« continued Mr. Pickwick, resuming the thread of his discourse,
»you are a well-matched pair of mean, rascally, pettifogging robbers.«
    »Well,« interposed Perker, »is that all?«
    »It is all summed up in that,« rejoined Mr. Pickwick; »they are mean,
rascally, pettifogging robbers.«
    »There!« said Perker in a most conciliatory tone. »My dear sirs, he has said
all he has to say. Now pray go. Lowten, is that door open?«
    Mr. Lowten, with a distant giggle, replied in the affirmative.
    »There, there - good morning - good morning - now pray, my dear sirs, - Mr.
Lowten, the door!« cried the little man, pushing Dodson and Fogg, nothing loath,
out of the office; »this way, my dear sirs, - now pray don't prolong this - dear
me - Mr. Lowten - the door, sir - why don't you attend?«
    »If there's law in England, sir,« said Dodson, looking towards Mr. Pickwick,
as he put on his hat, »you shall smart for this.«
    »You are a couple of mean -«
    »Remember, sir, you pay dearly for this,« said Fogg.
    »- Rascally, pettifogging robbers!« continued Mr. Pickwick, taking not the
least notice of the threats that were addressed to him.
    »Robbers!« cried Mr. Pickwick, running to the stair-head, as the two
attorneys descended.
    »Robbers!« shouted Mr. Pickwick, breaking from Lowten and Perker, and
thrusting his head out of the staircase window.
    When Mr. Pickwick drew in his head again, his countenance was smiling and
placid; and, walking quietly back into the office, he declared that he had now
removed a great weight from his mind, and that he felt perfectly comfortable and
happy.
    Perker said nothing at all until he had emptied his snuffbox, and sent
Lowten out to fill it, when he was seized with a fit of laughing, which lasted
five minutes; at the expiration of which time he said that he supposed he ought
to be very angry, but he couldn't think of the business seriously yet - when he
could, he would be.
    »Well, now,« said Mr. Pickwick, »let me have a settlement with you.«
    »Of the same kind as the last?« inquired Perker, with another laugh.
    »Not exactly,« rejoined Mr. Pickwick, drawing out his pocket-book, and
shaking the little man heartily by the hand, »I only mean a pecuniary
settlement. You have done me many acts of kindness that I can never repay, and
have no wish to repay, for I prefer continuing the obligation.«
    With this preface, the two friends dived into some very complicated accounts
and vouchers, which, having been duly displayed and gone through by Perker, were
at once discharged by Mr. Pickwick with many professions of esteem and
friendship.
    They had no sooner arrived at this point, than a most violent and startling
knocking was heard at the door; it was not an ordinary double knock, but a
constant and uninterrupted succession of the loudest single raps, as if the
knocker were endowed with the perpetual motion, or the person outside had
forgotten to leave off.
    »Dear me, what's that!« exclaimed Perker, starting.
    »I think it is a knock at the door,« said Mr. Pickwick, as if there could be
the smallest doubt of the fact!
    The knocker made a more energetic reply than words could have yielded, for
it continued to hammer with surprising force and noise, without a moment's
cessation.
    »Dear me!« said Perker, ringing his bell, »we shall alarm the Inn. Mr.
Lowten, don't you hear a knock?«
    »I'll answer the door in one moment, sir,« replied the clerk. The knocker
appeared to hear the response, and to assert that it was quite impossible he
could wait so long. It made a stupendous uproar.
    »It's quite dreadful,« said Mr. Pickwick, stopping his ears.
    »Make haste, Mr. Lowten,« Perker called out, »we shall have the panels
beaten in.«
    Mr. Lowten, who was washing his hands in a dark closet, hurried to the door,
and turning the handle, beheld the appearance which is described in the next
chapter.
 

                                  Chapter LIV

  Containing Some Particulars Relative to the Double Knock, and Other Matters:
  among Which Certain Interesting Disclosures Relative to Mr. Snodgrass and a
             Young Lady Are by No Means Irrelevant to This History.

The object that presented itself to the eyes of the astonished clerk, was a boy
- a wonderfully fat boy - habited as a serving lad, standing upright on the mat,
with his eyes closed as if in sleep. He had never seen such a fat boy, in or out
of a travelling caravan; and this, coupled with the calmness and repose of his
appearance, so very different from what was reasonably to have been expected of
the inflicter of such knocks, smote him with wonder.
    »What's the matter?« inquired the clerk.
    The extraordinary boy replied not a word; but he nodded once, and seemed, to
the clerk's imagination, to snore feebly.
    »Where do you come from?« inquired the clerk.
    The boy made no sign. He breathed heavily, but in all other respects was
motionless.
    The clerk repeated the question thrice, and receiving no answer, prepared to
shut the door, when the boy suddenly opened his eyes, winked several times,
sneezed once, and raised his hand as if to repeat the knocking. Finding the door
open, he stared about him with astonishment, and at length fixed his eyes on Mr.
Lowten's face.
    »What the devil do you knock in that way for?« inquired the clerk, angrily.
    »Which way?« said the boy, in a slow and sleepy voice.
    »Why, like forty hackney-coachmen,« replied the clerk.
    »Because master said, I wasn't't to leave off knocking till they opened the
door, for fear I should go to sleep,« said the boy.
    »Well,« said the clerk, »what message have you brought?«
    »He's down stairs,« rejoined the boy.
    »Who?«
    »Master. He wants to know whether you're at home.«
    Mr. Lowten bethought himself, at this juncture, of looking out of the
window. Seeing an open carriage with a hearty old gentleman in it, looking up
very anxiously, he ventured to beckon him; on which, the old gentleman jumped
out directly.
    »That's your master in the carriage, I suppose?« said Lowten.
    The boy nodded.
    All further inquiries were superseded by the appearance of old Wardle, who,
running up stairs, and just recognising Lowten, passed at once into Mr. Perker's
room.
    »Pickwick!« said the old gentleman. »Your hand, my boy! Why have I never
heard until the day before yesterday of your suffering yourself to be cooped up
in jail? And why did you let him do it, Perker?«
    »I couldn't help it, my dear sir,« replied Perker, with a smile and a pinch
of snuff: »you know how obstinate he is.«
    »Of course I do, of course I do,« replied the old gentleman. »I am heartily
glad to see him, notwithstanding. I will not lose sight of him again, in a
hurry.«
    With these words, Wardle shook Mr. Pickwick's hand once more, and, having
done the same by Perker, threw himself into an arm-chair; his jolly red face
shining again with smiles and health.
    »Well!« said Wardle. »Here are pretty goings on - a pinch of your snuff,
Perker, my boy - never were such times, eh?«
    »What do you mean?« inquired Mr. Pickwick.
    »Mean!« replied Wardle. »Why, I think the girls are all running mad; that's
no news, you'll say? Perhaps it's not; but it's true, for all that.«
    »You have not come up to London, of all places in the world, to tell us
that, my dear sir, have you?« inquired Perker.
    »No, not altogether,« replied Wardle; »though it was the main cause of my
coming. How's Arabella?«
    »Very well,« replied Mr. Pickwick, »and will be delighted to see you, I am
sure.«
    »Black-eyed little jilt!« replied Wardle, »I had a great idea of marrying
her myself, one of these odd days. But I am glad of it too, very glad.«
    »How did the intelligence reach you?« asked Mr. Pickwick.
    »Oh, it came to my girls, of course,« replied Wardle. »Arabella wrote, the
day before yesterday, to say she had made a stolen match without her husband's
father's consent, and so you had gone down to get it when his refusing it
couldn't prevent the match, and all the rest of it. I thought it a very good
time to say something serious to my girls; so I said what a dreadful thing it
was that children should marry without their parents' consent, and so forth;
but, bless your hearts, I couldn't make the least impression upon them. They
thought it such a much more dreadful thing that there should have been a wedding
without bridesmaids, that I might as well have preached to Joe himself.«
    Here the old gentleman stopped to laugh; and having done so to his heart's
content, presently resumed.
    »But this is not the best of it, it seems. This is only half the love-making
and plotting that have been going forward. We have been walking on mines for the
last six months, and they're sprung at last.«
    »What do you mean!« exclaimed Mr. Pickwick, turning pale; »no other secret
marriage, I hope?«
    »No, no,« replied old Wardle; »not so bad as that; no.«
    »What then?« inquired Mr. Pickwick; »am I interested in it?«
    »Shall I answer that question, Perker?« said Wardle.
    »If you don't commit yourself by doing so, my dear sir.«
    »Well then, you are,« said Wardle.
    »How?« asked Mr. Pickwick anxiously. »In what way?«
    »Really,« replied Wardle, »you're such a fiery sort of young fellow that I
am almost afraid to tell you; but, however, if Perker will sit between us to
prevent mischief, I'll venture.«
    Having closed the room-door, and fortified himself with another application
to Perker's snuff-box, the old gentleman proceeded with his great disclosure in
these words.
    »The fact is, that my daughter Bella - Bella, who married young Trundle, you
know.«
    »Yes, yes, we know,« said Mr. Pickwick impatiently.
    »Don't alarm me at the very beginning. My daughter Bella, Emily having gone
to bed with a headache after she had read Arabella's letter to me, sat herself
down by my side the other evening, and began to talk over this marriage affair.
Well, pa, she says, what do you think of it? Why, my dear, I said, I suppose
it's all very well; I hope it's for the best. I answered in this way because I
was sitting before the fire at the time, drinking my grog rather thoughtfully,
and I knew my throwing in an undecided word now and then, would induce her to
continue talking. Both my girls are pictures of their dear mother, and as I grow
old I like to sit with only them by me; for their voices and looks carry me back
to the happiest period of my life, and make me, for the moment, as young as I
used to be then, though not quite so light-hearted. It's quite a marriage of
affection, pa, said Bella, after a short silence. Yes, my dear, said I, but such
marriages do not always turn out the happiest.«
    »I question that, mind!« interposed Mr. Pickwick, warmly.
    »Very good,« responded Wardle, »question anything you like when it's your
turn to speak, but don't interrupt me.«
    »I beg your pardon,« said Mr. Pickwick.
    »Granted,« replied Wardle. »I am sorry to hear you express your opinion
against marriages of affection, pa, said Bella, colouring a little. I was wrong;
I ought not to have said so, my dear, either, said I, patting her cheek as
kindly as a rough old fellow like me could pat it, for your mother's was one,
and so was yours. It's not that, I meant, pa, said Bella. The fact is, pa, I
wanted to speak to you about Emily.«
    Mr. Pickwick started.
    »What's the matter now?« inquired Wardle, stopping in his narrative.
    »Nothing,« replied Mr. Pickwick. »Pray go on.«
    »I never could spin out a story,« said Wardle abruptly. »It must come out,
sooner or later, and it'll save us all a great deal of time if it comes at once.
The long and the short of it is, then, that Bella at last mustered up courage to
tell me that Emily was very unhappy; that she and your young friend Snodgrass
had been in constant correspondence and communication ever since last Christmas;
that she had very dutifully made up her mind to run away with him, in laudable
imitation of her old friend and schoolfellow; but that having some compunctions
of conscience on the subject, inasmuch as I had always been rather kindly
disposed to both of them, they had thought it better in the first instance to
pay me the compliment of asking whether I would have any objection to their
being married in the usual matter-of-fact manner. There now, Mr. Pickwick, if
you can make it convenient to reduce your eyes to their usual size again, and to
let me hear what you think we ought to do, I shall feel rather obliged to you!«
    The testy manner in which the hearty old gentleman uttered this last
sentence was not wholly unwarranted; for Mr. Pickwick's face had settled down
into an expression of blank amazement and perplexity, quite curious to behold.
    »Snodgrass! Since last Christmas!« were the first broken words that issued
from the lips of the confounded gentleman.
    »Since last Christmas,« replied Wardle; »that's plain enough, and very bad
spectacles we must have worn, not to have discovered it before.«
    »I don't understand it,« said Mr. Pickwick, ruminating; »I really cannot
understand it.«
    »It's easy enough to understand,« replied the choleric old gentleman. »If
you had been a younger man, you would have been in the secret long ago; and
besides,« added Wardle after a moment's hesitation, »the truth is, that, knowing
nothing of this matter, I have rather pressed Emily for four or five months
past, to receive favourably (if she could; I would never attempt to force a
girl's inclinations) the addresses of a young gentleman down in our
neighbourhood. I have no doubt that, girl-like, to enhance her own value and
increase the ardour of Mr. Snodgrass, she has represented this matter in very
glowing colours, and that they have both arrived at the conclusion that they are
a terribly persecuted pair of unfortunates, and have no resource but clandestine
matrimony or charcoal. Now the question is, what's to be done?«
    »What have you done?« inquired Mr. Pickwick.
    »I!«
    »I mean what did you do when your married daughter told you this?«
    »Oh, I made a fool of myself, of course,« rejoined Wardle.
    »Just so,« interposed Perker, who had accompanied this dialogue with sundry
twitchings of his watch-chain, vindictive rubbings of his nose, and other
symptoms of impatience. »That's very natural; but how?«
    »I went into a great passion and frightened my mother into a fit,« said
Wardle.
    »That was judicious,« remarked Perker; »and what else?«
    »I fretted and fumed all next day, and raised a great disturbance,« rejoined
the old gentleman. »At last I got tired of rendering myself unpleasant and
making everybody miserable; so I hired a carriage at Muggleton, and, putting my
own horses in it, came up to town, under pretence of bringing Emily to see
Arabella.«
    »Miss Wardle is with you, then?« said Mr. Pickwick.
    »To be sure she is,« replied Wardle. »She is at Osborne's hotel in the
Adelphi at this moment, unless your enterprising friend has run away with her
since I came out this morning.«
    »You are reconciled, then?« said Perker.
    »Not a bit of it,« answered Wardle; »she has been crying and moping ever
since, except last night, between tea and supper, when she made a great parade
of writing a letter that I pretended to take no notice of.«
    »You want my advice in this matter, I suppose?« said Perker, looking from
the musing face of Mr. Pickwick to the eager countenance of Wardle, and taking
several consecutive pinches of his favourite stimulant.
    »I suppose so,« said Wardle, looking at Mr. Pickwick.
    »Certainly,« replied that gentleman.
    »Well then,« said Perker, rising and pushing his chair back, »my advice is
that you both walk away together, or ride away, or get away by some means or
other, for I'm tired of you, and just talk this matter over between you. If you
have not settled it by the next time I see you, I'll tell you what to do.«
    »This is satisfactory,« said Wardle, hardly knowing whether to smile or be
offended.
    »Pooh, pooh, my dear sir,« returned Perker. »I know you both a great deal
better than you know yourselves. You have settled it already, to all intents and
purposes.«
    Thus expressing himself, the little gentleman poked his snuff-box, first
into the chest of Mr. Pickwick, and then into the waistcoat of Mr. Wardle, upon
which they all three laughed, but especially the two last-named gentlemen, who
at once shook hands again, without any obvious or particular reason.
    »You dine with me to-day,« said Wardle to Perker, as he showed them out.
    »Can't promise, my dear sir, can't promise,« replied Perker. »I'll look in,
in the evening, at all events.«
    »I shall expect you at five,« said Wardle. »Now, Joe!« And Joe having been
at length awakened, the two friends departed in Mr. Wardle's carriage, which in
common humanity had a dickey behind for the fat boy, who, if there had been a
foot-board instead, would have rolled off and killed himself in his very first
nap.
    Driving to the George and Vulture, they found that Arabella and her maid had
sent for a hackney-coach immediately on the receipt of a short note from Emily
announcing her arrival in town, and had proceeded straight to the Adelphi. As
Wardle had business to transact in the city, they sent the carriage and the fat
boy to his hotel, with the information that he and Mr. Pickwick would return
together to dinner at five o'clock.
    Charged with this message, the fat boy returned, slumbering as peaceably in
his dickey, over the stones, as if it had been a down bed on watch-springs. By
some extraordinary miracle he awoke of his own accord, when the coach stopped,
and giving himself a good shake to stir up his faculties, went up stairs to
execute his commission.
    Now, whether the shake had jumbled the fat boy's faculties together, instead
of arranging them in proper order, or had roused such a quantity of new ideas
within him as to render him oblivious of ordinary forms and ceremonies, or
(which is also possible) had proved unsuccessful in preventing his falling
asleep as he ascended the stairs, it is an undoubted fact that he walked into
the sitting-room without previously knocking at the door; and so beheld a
gentleman with his arms clasping his young mistress's waist, sitting very
lovingly by her side on a sofa, while Arabella and her pretty handmaid feigned
to be absorbed in looking out of a window at the other end of the room. At sight
of this phenomenon, the fat boy uttered an interjection, the ladies a scream,
and the gentleman an oath, almost simultaneously.
    »Wretched creature, what do you want here?« said the gentleman, who it is
needless to say was Mr. Snodgrass.
    To this the fat boy, considerably terrified, briefly responded, »Missis.«
    »What do you want me for?« inquired Emily, turning her head aside, »you
stupid creature!«
    »Master and Mr. Pickwick is a going to dine here at five,« replied the fat
boy.
    »Leave the room!« said Mr. Snodgrass, glaring upon the bewildered youth.
    »No, no, no,« added Emily hastily. »Bella, dear, advise me.«
    Upon this, Emily and Mr. Snodgrass, and Arabella and Mary, crowded into a
corner, and conversed earnestly in whispers for some minutes, during which the
fat boy dozed.
    »Joe,« said Arabella, at length, looking round with a most bewitching smile,
»how do you do, Joe?«
    »Joe,« said Emily, »you're a very good boy; I won't forget you, Joe.«
    »Joe,« said Mr. Snodgrass, advancing to the astonished youth, and seizing
his hand, »I didn't know you before. There's five shillings for you, Joe!«
    »I'll owe you five, Joe,« said Arabella, »for old acquaintance sake, you
know;« and another most captivating smile was bestowed upon the corpulent
intruder.
    The fat boy's perception being slow, he looked rather puzzled at first to
account for this sudden prepossession in his favour, and stared about him in a
very alarming manner. At length his broad face began to show symptoms of a grin
of proportionately broad dimensions; and then, thrusting half-a-crown into each
of his pockets, and a hand and wrist after it, he burst into a horse laugh:
being for the first and only time in his existence.
    »He understands us, I see,« said Arabella.
    »He had better have something to eat, immediately,« remarked Emily.
    The fat boy almost laughed again when he heard this suggestion. Mary, after
a little more whispering, tripped forth from the group, and said:
    »I am going to dine with you to-day, sir, if you have no objection.«
    »This way,« said the fat boy, eagerly. »There is such a jolly meat pie!«
    With these words, the fat boy led the way down stairs; his pretty companion
captivating all the waiters and angering all the chambermaids as she followed
him to the eating-room.
    There was the meat-pie of which the youth had spoken so feelingly, and there
were, moreover, a steak, and a dish of potatoes, and a pot of porter.
    »Sit down,« said the fat boy. »Oh, my eye, how prime! I am so hungry.«
    Having apostrophised his eye, in a species of rapture, five or six times,
the youth took the head of the little table, and Mary seated herself at the
bottom.
    »Will you have some of this?« said the fat boy, plunging into the pie up to
the very ferules of the knife and fork.
    »A little, if you please,« replied Mary.
    The fat boy assisted Mary to a little, and himself to a great deal, and was
just going to begin eating when he suddenly laid down his knife and fork, leant
forward in his chair, and letting his hands, with the knife and fork in them,
fall on his knees, said, very slowly:
    »I say! How nice you look!«
    This was said in an admiring manner, and was, so far, gratifying; but still
there was enough of the cannibal in the young gentleman's eyes to render the
compliment a double one.
    »Dear me, Joseph,« said Mary, affecting to blush, »what do you mean?«
    The fat boy gradually recovering his former position, replied with a heavy
sigh, and remaining thoughtful for a few moments, drank a long draught of the
porter. Having achieved this feat he sighed again, and applied himself
assiduously to the pie.
    »What a nice young lady Miss Emily is!« said Mary, after a long silence.
    The fat boy had by this time finished the pie. He fixed his eyes on Mary,
and replied:
    »I knows a nicerer.«
    »Indeed!« said Mary.
    »Yes, indeed!« replied the fat boy, with unwonted vivacity.
    »What's her name?« inquired Mary.
    »What's yours?«
    »Mary.«
    »So's hers,« said the fat boy. »You're her.« The boy grinned to add point to
the compliment, and put his eyes into something between a squint and a cast,
which there is reason to believe he intended for an ogle.
    »You mustn't talk to me in that way,« said Mary; »you don't mean it.«
    »Don't I, though?« replied the fat boy; »I say!«
    »Well.«
    »Are you going to come here regular?«
    »No,« rejoined Mary, shaking her head, »I'm going away again to-night. Why?«
    »Oh!« said the fat boy in a tone of strong feeling; »how we should have
enjoyed ourselves at meals, if you had been!«
    »I might come here sometimes, perhaps, to see you,« said Mary, plaiting the
table-cloth in assumed coyness, »if you would do me a favour.«
    The fat boy looked from the pie-dish to the steak, as if he thought a favour
must be in a manner connected with something to eat; and then took out one of
the half-crowns and glanced at it nervously.
    »Don't you understand me?« said Mary, looking slyly in his fat face.
    Again he looked at the half-crown, and said faintly, »No.«
    »The ladies want you not to say anything to the old gentleman about the
young gentleman having been up stairs; and I want you too.«
    »Is that all?« said the fat boy, evidently very much relieved as he pocketed
the half-crown again. »Of course I ain't a going to.«
    »You see,« said Mary, »Mr. Snodgrass is very fond of Miss Emily, and Miss
Emily's very fond of him, and if you were to tell about it, the old gentleman
would carry you all away miles into the country, where you'd see nobody.«
    »No, no, I won't tell,« said the fat boy, stoutly.
    »That's a dear,« said Mary. »Now it's time I went up stairs, and got my lady
ready for dinner.«
    »Don't go yet,« urged the fat boy.
    »I must,« replied Mary. »Good bye, for the present.«
    The fat boy, with elephantine playfulness, stretched out his arms to ravish
a kiss; but as it required no great agility to elude him, his fair enslaver had
vanished before he closed them again; upon which the apathetic youth ate a pound
or so of steak with a sentimental countenance, and fell fast asleep.
    There was so much to say up stairs, and there were so many plans to concert
for elopement and matrimony in the event of old Wardle continuing to be cruel,
that it wanted only half an hour of dinner when Mr. Snodgrass took his final
adieu. The ladies ran to Emily's bedroom to dress, and the lover taking up his
hat, walked out of the room. He had scarcely got outside the door, when he heard
Wardle's voice talking loudly, and looking over the banisters, beheld him,
followed by some other gentlemen, coming straight up stairs. Knowing nothing of
the house, Mr. Snodgrass in his confusion stepped hastily back into the room he
had just quitted, and passing from thence into an inner apartment (Mr. Wardle's
bed-chamber), closed the door softly, just as the persons he had caught a
glimpse of, entered the sitting-room. These were Mr. Wardle, Mr. Pickwick, Mr.
Nathaniel Winkle, and Mr. Benjamin Allen, whom he had no difficulty in
recognising by their voices.
    »Very lucky I had the presence of mind to avoid them,« thought Mr. Snodgrass
with a smile, and walking on tiptoe to another door near the bedside; »this
opens into the same passage, and I can walk, quietly and comfortably, away.«
    There was only one obstacle to his walking quietly and comfortably away,
which was that the door was locked and the key gone.
    »Let us have some of your best wine to-day, waiter,« said old Wardle,
rubbing his hands.
    »You shall have some of the very best, sir,« replied the waiter.
    »Let the ladies know we have come in.«
    »Yes, sir.«
    Devoutly and ardently did Mr. Snodgrass wish that the ladies could know he
had come in. He ventured once to whisper »Waiter!« through the keyhole, but as
the probability of the wrong waiter coming to his relief, flashed upon his mind,
together with a sense of the strong resemblance between his own situation and
that in which another gentleman had been recently found in a neighbouring hotel
(an account of whose misfortunes had appeared under the head of Police in that
morning's paper), he sat himself on a portmanteau, and trembled violently.
    »We won't wait a minute for Perker,« said Wardle, looking at his watch; »he
is always exact. He will be here, in time, if he means to come; and if he does
not, it's of no use waiting. Ha! Arabella!«
    »My sister!« exclaimed Mr. Benjamin Allen, folding her in a most romantic
embrace.
    »Oh, Ben, dear, how you do smell of tobacco,« said Arabella, rather overcome
by this mark of affection.
    »Do I?« said Mr. Benjamin Allen, »Do I, Bella? Well, perhaps I do.«
    Perhaps he did; having just left a pleasant little smoking party of twelve
medical students, in a small back parlour with a large fire.
    »But I am delighted to see you,« said Mr. Ben Allen. »Bless you, Bella!«
    »There,« said Arabella, bending forward to kiss her brother; »don't take
hold of me again, Ben dear, because you tumble me so.«
    At this point of the reconciliation, Mr. Ben Allen allowed his feelings and
the cigars and porter to overcome him, and looked round upon the beholders with
damp spectacles.
    »Is nothing to be said to me?« cried Wardle with open arms.
    »A great deal,« whispered Arabella, as she received the old gentleman's
hearty caress and congratulation. »You are a hard-hearted, unfeeling, cruel,
monster!«
    »You are a little rebel,« replied Wardle, in the same tone, »and I am afraid
I shall be obliged to forbid you the house. People like you, who get married in
spite of everybody, ought not to be let loose on society. But come!« added the
old gentleman aloud, »Here's the dinner; you shall sit by me. Joe; why, damn the
boy, he's awake!«
    To the great distress of his master, the fat boy was indeed in a state of
remarkable vigilance; his eyes being wide open, and looking as if they intended
to remain so. There was an alacrity in his manner, too, which was equally
unaccountable; every time his eyes met those of Emily or Arabella, he smirked
and grinned; once, Wardle could have sworn he saw him wink.
    This alteration in the fat boy's demeanour, originated in his increased
sense of his own importance, and the dignity he acquired from having been taken
into the confidence of the young ladies; and the smirks, and grins, and winks,
were so many condescending assurances that they might depend upon his fidelity.
As these tokens were rather calculated to awaken suspicion than allay it, and
were somewhat embarrassing besides, they were occasionally answered by a frown
or shake of the head from Arabella, which the fat boy considering as hints to be
on his guard, expressed his perfect understanding of, by smirking, grinning, and
winking, with redoubled assiduity.
    »Joe,« said Mr. Wardle, after an unsuccessful search in all his pockets, »is
my snuff-box on the sofa?«
    »No, sir,« replied the fat boy.
    »Oh, I recollect; I left it on my dressing-table this morning,« said Wardle.
»Run into the next room and fetch it.«
    The fat boy went into the next room; and having been absent about a minute,
returned with the snuff-box, and the palest face that ever a fat boy wore.
    »What's the matter with the boy!« exclaimed Wardle.
    »Nothen's the matter with me,« replied Joe, nervously.
    »Have you been seeing any spirits?« inquired the old gentleman.
    »Or taking any?« added Ben Allen.
    »I think you're right,« whispered Wardle across the table. »He is
intoxicated, I'm sure.«
    Ben Allen replied that he thought he was; and as that gentleman had seen a
vast deal of the disease in question, Wardle was confirmed in an impression
which had been hovering about his mind for half an hour, and at once arrived at
the conclusion that the fat boy was drunk.
    »Just keep your eye upon him for a few minutes,« murmured Wardle. »We shall
soon find out whether he is or not.«
    The unfortunate youth had only interchanged a dozen words with Mr.
Snodgrass: that gentleman having implored him to make a private appeal to some
friend to release him, and then pushed him out with the snuff-box, lest his
prolonged absence should lead to a discovery. He ruminated a little with a most
disturbed expression of face, and left the room in search of Mary.
    But Mary had gone home after dressing her mistress, and the fat boy came
back again more disturbed than before.
    Wardle and Mr. Ben Allen exchanged glances.
    »Joe!« said Wardle.
    »Yes, sir.«
    »What did you go away for?«
    The fat boy looked hopelessly in the face of everybody at table, and
stammered out, that he didn't know.
    »Oh,« said Wardle, »you don't know, eh? Take this cheese to Mr. Pickwick.«
    Now, Mr. Pickwick being in the very best health and spirits, had been making
himself perfectly delightful all dinner-time, and was at this moment engaged in
an energetic conversation with Emily and Mr. Winkle: bowing his head,
courteously, in the emphasis of his discourse, gently waving his left hand to
lend force to his observations, and all glowing with placid smiles. He took a
piece of cheese from the plate, and was on the point of turning round to renew
the conversation, when the fat boy, stooping so as to bring his head on a level
with that of Mr. Pickwick, pointed with his thumb over his shoulder, and made
the most horrible and hideous face that was ever seen out of a Christmas
pantomime.
    »Dear me!« said Mr. Pickwick, starting, »what a very - eh?« He stopped, for
the fat boy had drawn himself up, and was, or pretended to be, fast asleep.
    »What's the matter?« inquired Wardle.
    »This is such an extremely singular lad!« replied Mr. Pickwick, looking
uneasily at the boy. »It seems an odd thing to say, but upon my word I am afraid
that, at times, he is a little deranged.«
    »Oh! Mr. Pickwick, pray don't say so,« cried Emily and Arabella, both at
once.
    »I am not certain, of course,« said Mr. Pickwick, amidst profound silence,
and looks of general dismay; »but his manner to me this moment was really very
alarming. Oh!« ejaculated Mr. Pickwick, suddenly jumping up with a short scream.
»I beg your pardon, ladies, but at that moment he ran some sharp instrument into
my leg. Really he is not safe.«
    »He's drunk,« roared old Wardle, passionately. »Ring the bell! Call the
waiters! He's drunk.«
    »I ain't,« said the fat boy, falling on his knees as his master seized him
by the collar. »I ain't drunk.«
    »Then you're mad; that's worse. Call the waiters,« said the old gentleman.
    »I ain't mad; I'm sensible,« rejoined the fat boy, beginning to cry.
    »Then, what the devil do you run sharp instruments into Mr. Pickwick's legs
for?« inquired Wardle, angrily.
    »He wouldn't look at me,« replied the boy. »I wanted to speak to him.«
    »What did you want to say?« asked half a dozen voices at once.
    The fat boy gasped, looked at the bedroom door, gasped again, and wiped two
tears away with the knuckle of each of his forefingers.
    »What did you want to say?« demanded Wardle, shaking him.
    »Stop!« said Mr. Pickwick; »allow me. What did you wish to communicate to
me, my poor boy?«
    »I want to whisper to you,« replied the fat boy.
    »You want to bite his ear off, I suppose,« said Wardle. »Don't come near
him; he's vicious; ring the bell, and let him be taken down stairs.«
    Just as Mr. Winkle caught the bell-rope in his hand, it was arrested by a
general expression of astonishment; the captive lover, his face burning with
confusion, suddenly walked in from the bedroom, and made a comprehensive bow to
the company.
    »Hallo!« cried Wardle, releasing the fat boy's collar, and staggering back,
»What's this!«
    »I have been concealed in the next room, sir, since you returned,« explained
Mr. Snodgrass.
    »Emily, my girl,« said Wardle, reproachfully, »I detest meanness and deceit;
this is unjustifiable and indelicate in the highest degree. I don't deserve this
at your hands, Emily, indeed!«
    »Dear papa,« said Emily, »Arabella knows - everybody here knows - Joe knows
- that I was no party to this concealment. Augustus, for Heaven's sake, explain
it!«
    Mr. Snodgrass, who had only waited for a hearing, at once recounted how he
had been placed in his then distressing predicament; how the fear of giving rise
to domestic dissensions had alone prompted him to avoid Mr. Wardle on his
entrance; how he merely meant to depart by another door, but, finding it locked,
had been compelled to stay against his will. It was a painful situation to be
placed in; but he now regretted it the less, inasmuch as it afforded him an
opportunity of acknowledging, before their mutual friends, that he loved Mr.
Wardle's daughter, deeply and sincerely; that he was proud to avow that the
feeling was mutual; and that if thousands of miles were placed between them, or
oceans rolled their waters, he could never for an instant forget those happy
days, when first - and so on.
    Having delivered himself to this effect, Mr. Snodgrass bowed again, looked
into the crown of his hat, and stepped towards the door.
    »Stop!« shouted Wardle. »Why, in the name of all that's -«
    »Inflammable,« mildly suggested Mr. Pickwick, who thought something worse
was coming.
    »Well - that's inflammable,« said Wardle, adopting the substitute; »couldn't
you say all this to me in the first instance?«
    »Or confide in me?« added Mr. Pickwick.
    »Dear, dear,« said Arabella, taking up the defence, »what is the use of
asking all that now, especially when you know you had set your covetous old
heart on a richer son-in-law, and are so wild and fierce besides, that everybody
is afraid of you, except me. Shake hands with him, and order him some dinner,
for goodness gracious sake, for he looks half-starved; and pray have your wine
up at once, for you'll not be tolerable until you have taken two bottles at
least.«
    The worthy old gentleman pulled Arabella's ear, kissed her without the
smallest scruple, kissed his daughter also with great affection, and shook Mr.
Snodgrass warmly by the hand.
    »She is right on one point at all events,« said the old gentleman,
cheerfully. »Ring for the wine!«
    The wine came, and Perker came up stairs at the same moment. Mr. Snodgrass
had dinner at a side table, and, when he had despatched it, drew his chair next
Emily, without the smallest opposition on the old gentleman's part.
    The evening was excellent. Little Mr. Perker came out wonderfully, told
various comic stories, and sang a serious song which was almost as funny as the
anecdotes. Arabella was very charming, Mr. Wardle very jovial, Mr. Pickwick very
harmonious, Mr. Ben Allen very uproarious, the lovers very silent, Mr. Winkle
very talkative, and all of them very happy.
 

                                   Chapter LV

   Mr. Solomon Pell, Assisted by a Select Committee of Coachmen, Arranges the
                        Affairs of the Elder Mr. Weller.

»Samivel,« said Mr. Weller, accosting his son on the morning after the funeral,
»I've found it, Sammy. I thought it wos there.«
    »Thought wot wos were?« inquired Sam.
    »Your mother-in-law's vill, Sammy,« replied Mr. Weller. »In wirtue o' vich,
them arrangements is to be made as I told you on, last night, respectin' the
funs.«
    »Wot, didn't she tell you were it wos?« inquired Sam.
    »Not a bit on it, Sammy,« replied Mr. Weller. »We wos a adjestin' our little
differences, and I wos a cheerin' her spirits and bearin' her up, so that I
forgot to ask anything' about it. I don't know as I should ha' done it indeed, if
I had remembered it,« added Mr. Weller, »for it's a rum sort o' thing, Sammy, to
go a hankerin' arter anybody's property, ven you're assistin' 'em in illness.
It's like helping an outside passenger up, ven he's been pitched off a coach,
and puttin' your hand in his pocket, vile you ask him with a sigh how he finds
himself, Sammy.«
    With this figurative illustration of his meaning, Mr. Weller unclasped his
pocket-book, and drew forth a dirty sheet of letter paper, on which were
inscribed various characters crowded together in remarkable confusion.
    »This here is the dockyment, Sammy,« said Mr. Weller. »I found it in the
little black teapot, on the top shelf o' the bar closet. She used to keep bank
notes there, afore she vos married, Samivel. I've seen her take the lid off, to
pay a bill, many and many a time. Poor creeter, she might ha' filled all the
teapots in the house with vills, and not have inconwenienced herself neither,
for she took very little of anything' in that vay lately, 'cept on the Temperance
nights, ven they just laid a foundation o' tea to put the spirits a-top on!«
    »What does it say?« inquired Sam.
    »Jist vot I told you, my boy,« rejoined his parent. »Two hundred pound vurth
o' reduced counsels to my son-in-law, Samivel, and all the rest o' my property,
of ev'ry kind and description votsoever to my husband, Mr. Tony Veller, who I
appint as my sole eggzekiter.«
    »That's all, is it?« said Sam.
    »That's all,« replied Mr. Weller. »And I s'pose as it's all right and
satisfactory to you and me as is the only parties interested, ve may as vell put
this bit o' paper into the fire.«
    »Wot are you a-doing' on, you lunatic?« said Sam, snatching the paper away,
as his parent, in all innocence, stirred the fire preparatory to suiting the
action to the word. »You're a nice eggzekiter, you are.«
    »Vy not?« inquired Mr. Weller, looking sternly round, with the poker in his
hand.
    »Vy not!« exclaimed Sam. »'Cos it must be proved, and probated, and swore
to, and all manner o' formalities.«
    »You don't mean that?« said Mr. Weller, laying down the poker.
    Sam buttoned the will carefully in a side pocket; intimating by a look,
meanwhile, that he did mean it, and very seriously too.
    »Then I'll tell you wot it is,« said Mr. Weller, after a short meditation,
»this is a case for that 'ere confidential pal o' the Chancellorship's. Pell
must look into this, Sammy. He's the man for a difficult question at law. Ve'll
have this here, brought afore the Solvent Court directly, Samivel.«
    »I never did see such a addle-headed old creature!« exclaimed Sam, irritably,
»Old Baileys, and Solvent Courts, and alleybis, and ev'ry species o' gammon
alvays a runnin' through his brain! You'd better get your out o' door clothes
on, and come to town about this bisness, than stand a preachin' there about wot
you don't understand nothing' on.«
    »Wery good, Sammy,« replied Mr. Weller, »I'm quite agreeable to anything' as
vill hexpedite business, Sammy. But mind this here, my boy, nobody but Pell -
nobody but Pell as a legal adwiser.«
    »I don't want anybody else,« replied Sam. »Now, are you a-comin'?«
    »Vait a minit, Sammy,« replied Mr. Weller, who, having tied his shawl with
the aid of a small glass that hung in the window, was now, by dint of the most
wonderful exertions, struggling into his upper garments. »Vait a minit, Sammy;
ven you grow as old as your father, you von't get into your veskit quite as easy
as you do now, my boy.«
    »If I couldn't get into it easier than that, I'm blessed if I'd vear vun at
all,« rejoined his son.
    »You think so now,« said Mr. Weller, with the gravity of age, »but you'll
find that as you get vider, you'll get viser. Vidth and visdom, Sammy, alvays
grows together.«
    As Mr. Weller delivered this infallible maxim - the result of many years'
personal experience and observation - he contrived, by a dexterous twist of his
body, to get the bottom button of his coat to perform its office. Having paused
a few seconds to recover breath, he brushed his hat with his elbow, and declared
himself ready.
    »As four heads is better than two, Sammy,« said Mr. Weller, as they drove
along the London Road in the chaise cart, »and as all this here property is a
very great temptation to a legal gen'l'm'n, ve'll take a couple o' friends o'
mine with us, as'll be very soon down upon him if he comes anything' irreg'lar;
two o' them as saw you to the Fleet that day. They're the very best judges,«
added Mr. Weller in a half whisper, »the very best judges of a horse, you ever
know'd.«
    »And of a lawyer too?« inquired Sam.
    »The man as can form a ackerate judgment of a animal, can form a ackerate
judgment of anything',« replied his father; so dogmatically, that Sam did not
attempt to controvert the position.
    In pursuance of this notable resolution, the services of the mottled-faced
gentleman and of two other very fat coachmen - selected by Mr. Weller, probably,
with a view to their width and consequent wisdom - were put into requisition;
and this assistance having been secured, the party proceeded to the public-house
in Portugal Street, whence a messenger was despatched to the Insolvent Court
over the way, requiring Mr. Solomon Pell's immediate attendance.
    The messenger fortunately found Mr. Solomon Pell in court, regaling himself,
business being rather slack, with a cold collation of an Abernethy biscuit and a
saveloy. The message was no sooner whispered in his ear than he thrust them in
his pocket among various professional documents, and hurried over the way with
such alacrity, that he reached the parlour before the messenger had even
emancipated himself from the court.
    »Gentlemen,« said Mr. Pell, touching his hat, »my service to you all. I
don't say it to flatter you, gentlemen, but there are not five other men in the
world, that I'd have come out of that court for, to-day.«
    »So busy, eh?« said Sam.
    »Busy!« replied Pell; »I'm completely sewn up, as my friend the late Lord
Chancellor many a time used to say to me, gentlemen, when he came out from
hearing appeals in the House of Lords. Poor fellow! he was very susceptible of
fatigue; he used to feel those appeals uncommonly. I actually thought more than
once that he'd have sunk under 'em; I did indeed.«
    Here Mr. Pell shook his head and paused; on which, the elder Mr. Weller,
nudging his neighbour, as begging him to mark the attorney's high connections,
asked whether the duties in question produced any permanent ill effects on the
constitution of his noble friend.
    »I don't think he ever quite recovered them,« replied Pell; »in fact I'm
sure he never did. Pell, he used to say to me many a time, how the blazes you
can stand the head-work you do, is a mystery to me. - Well, I used to answer, I
hardly know how I do it, upon my life. - Pell, he'd add, sighing, and looking at
me with a little envy - friendly envy, you know, gentlemen, mere friendly envy;
I never minded it - Pell, you're a wonder; a wonder. Ah! you'd have liked him
very much if you had known him, gentlemen. Bring me three penn'orth of rum, my
dear.«
    Addressing this latter remark to the waitress in a tone of subdued grief,
Mr. Pell sighed, looked at his shoes, and the ceiling; and, the rum having by
that time arrived, drunk it up.
    »However,« said Pell, drawing a chair to the table, »a professional man has
no right to think of his private friendships when his legal assistance is
wanted. By the bye, gentlemen, since I saw you here before, we have had to weep
over a very melancholy occurrence.«
    Mr. Pell drew out a pocket-handkerchief, when he came to the word weep, but
he made no further use of it than to wipe away a slight tinge of rum which hung
upon his upper lip.
    »I saw it in the Advertiser, Mr. Weller,« continued Pell. »Bless my soul,
not more than fifty-two! Dear me - only think.«
    These indications of a musing spirit were addressed to the mottled-faced
man, whose eyes Mr. Pell had accidentally caught; on which, the mottled-faced
man, whose apprehension of matters in general was of a foggy nature, moved
uneasily in his seat, and opined that indeed, so far as that went, there was no
saying how things was brought about; which observation, involving one of those
subtle propositions which it is difficult to encounter in argument, was
controverted by nobody.
    »I have heard it remarked that she was a very fine woman, Mr. Weller,« said
Pell in a sympathising manner.
    »Yes, sir, she wos,« replied the elder Mr. Weller, not much relishing this
mode of discussing the subject, and yet thinking that the attorney, from his
long intimacy with the late Lord Chancellor, must know best on all matters of
polite breeding. »She wos a very fine 'ooman, sir, ven I first know'd her. She
wos a widder, sir, at that time.«
    »Now, it's curious,« said Pell, looking round with a sorrowful smile; »Mrs.
Pell was a widow.«
    »That's very extraordinary,« said the mottled-faced man.
    »Well, it is a curious coincidence,« said Pell.
    »Not at all,« gruffly remarked the elder Mr. Weller. »More widders is
married than single wimin.«
    »Very good, very good,« said Pell, »you're quite right, Mr. Weller. Mrs.
Pell was a very elegant and accomplished woman; her manners were the theme of
universal admiration in our neighbourhood. I was proud to see that woman dance;
there was something so firm and dignified, and yet natural, in her motion. Her
cutting, gentlemen, was simplicity itself. Ah! well, well! Excuse my asking the
question, Mr. Samuel,« continued the attorney in a lower voice, »was your
mother-in-law tall?«
    »Not very,« replied Sam.
    »Mrs. Pell was a tall figure,« said Pell, »a splendid woman, with a noble
shape, and a nose, gentlemen, formed to command and be majestic. She was very
much attached to me - very much - highly connected, too. Her mother's brother,
gentlemen, failed for eight hundred pounds, as a Law Stationer.«
    »Vell,« said Mr. Weller, who had grown rather restless during this
discussion, »with regard to bis'ness.«
    The word was music to Pell's ears. He had been revolving in his mind whether
any business was to be transacted, or whether he had been merely invited to
partake of a glass of brandy and water, or a bowl of punch, or any similar
professional compliment, and now the doubt was set at rest without his appearing
at all eager for its solution. His eyes glistened as he laid his hat on the
table, and said:
    »What is the business upon which - um? Either of these gentlemen wish to go
through the court? We require an arrest; a friendly arrest will do, you know; we
are all friends here, I suppose?«
    »Give me the dockyment, Sammy,« said Mr. Weller, taking the will from his
son, who appeared to enjoy the interview amazingly. »Wot we rekvire, sir, is a
probe o' this here.«
    »Probate, my dear sir, probate,« said Pell.
    »Well, sir,« replied Mr. Weller sharply, »probe and probe it, is very much
the same; if you don't understand wot I mean, sir, I dessay I can find them as
does.«
    »No offence, I hope, Mr. Weller,« said Pell, meekly. »You are the executor,
I see,« he added, casting his eyes over the paper.
    »I am, sir,« replied Mr. Weller.
    »These other gentlemen, I presume, are legatees, are they?« inquired Pell
with a congratulatory smile.
    »Sammy is a leg-at-ease,« replied Mr. Weller; »these other gen'l'm'n is
friends o' mine, just come to see fair; a kind of umpires.«
    »Oh!« said Pell, »very good. I have no objections, I'm sure. I shall want a
matter of five pound of you before I begin, ha! ha! ha!«
    It being decided by the committee that the five pound might be advanced, Mr.
Weller produced that sum; after which, a long consultation about nothing
particular, took place, in the course whereof Mr. Pell demonstrated to the
perfect satisfaction of the gentlemen who saw fair, that unless the management
of the business had been entrusted to him, it must all have gone wrong, for
reasons not clearly made out, but no doubt sufficient. This important point
being despatched, Mr. Pell refreshed himself with three chops, and liquids both
malt and spirituous, at the expense of the estate; and then they all went away
to Doctors' Commons.
    The next day, there was another visit to Doctors' Commons, and a great to do
with an attesting hostler, who, being inebriated, declined swearing anything but
profane oaths, to the great scandal of a proctor and surrogate. Next week, there
were more visits to Doctors' Commons, and there was a visit to the Legacy Duty
Office besides, and there were treaties entered into, for the disposal of the
lease and business, and ratifications of the same, and inventories to be made
out, and lunches to be taken, and dinners to be eaten, and so many profitable
things to be done, and such a mass of papers accumulated, that Mr. Solomon Pell,
and the boy, and the blue bag to boot, all got so stout that scarcely anybody
would have known them for the same man, boy, and bag, that had loitered about
Portugal Street, a few days before.
    At length all these weighty matters being arranged, a day was fixed for
selling out and transferring the stock, and of waiting with that view upon
Wilkins Flasher, Esq., stockbroker, of somewhere near the Bank, who had been
recommended by Mr. Solomon Pell for the purpose.
    It was a kind of festive occasion, and the parties were attired accordingly.
Mr. Weller's top were newly cleaned, and his dress was arranged with peculiar
care; the mottled-faced gentleman wore at his button-hole a full-sized dahlia
with several leaves; and the coats of his two friends were adorned with nosegays
of laurel and other evergreens. All three were habited in strict holiday
costume; that is to say, they were wrapped up to the chins, and wore as many
clothes as possible, which is, and has been, a stage-coachman's idea of full
dress ever since stage coaches were invented.
    Mr. Pell was waiting at the usual place of meeting at the appointed time;
even Mr. Pell wore a pair of gloves and a clean shirt much frayed at the collar
and wristbands by frequent washings.
    »A quarter to two,« said Pell, looking at the parlour clock. »If we are with
Mr. Flasher at a quarter past, we shall just hit the best time.«
    »What should you say to a drop o' beer, gen'l'm'n?« suggested the
mottled-faced man.
    »And a little bit o' cold beef,« said the second coachman.
    »Or a oyster,« added the third, who was a hoarse gentleman, supported by
very round legs.
    »Hear, hear!« said Pell; »to congratulate Mr. Weller, on his coming into
possession of his property: eh? ha! ha!«
    »I'm quite agreeable, gen'l'm'n,« answered Mr. Weller. »Sammy, pull the
bell.«
    Sam complied; and the porter, cold beef, and oysters being promptly
produced, the lunch was done ample justice to. Where everybody took so active a
part, it is almost invidious to make a distinction; but if one individual
evinced greater powers than another, it was the coachman with the hoarse voice,
who took an imperial pint of vinegar with his oysters, without betraying the
least emotion.
    »Mr. Pell, sir,« said the elder Mr. Weller, stirring a glass of brandy and
water, of which one was placed before every gentleman when the oyster shells
were removed, »Mr. Pell, sir, it wos my intention to have proposed the funs on
this occasion, but Samivel has vispered to me -«
    Here Mr. Samuel Weller, who had silently eaten his oysters with tranquil
smiles, cried »Hear!« in a very loud voice.
    »- Has vispered to me,« resumed his father, »that it vould be better to
dewote the liquor to vishin' you success and prosperity, and thankin' you for
the manner in which you've brought this here business through. Here's your
health, sir.«
    »Hold hard there,« interposed the mottled-faced gentleman, with sudden
energy, »your eyes on me, gen'l'm'n!«
    Saying this, the mottled-faced gentleman rose, as did the other gentlemen.
The mottled-faced gentleman reviewed the company, and slowly lifted his hand,
upon which every man (including him of the mottled countenance) drew a long
breath, and lifted his tumbler to his lips. In one instant the mottled-faced
gentleman depressed his hand again, and every glass was set down empty. It is
impossible to describe the thrilling effect produced by this striking ceremony.
At once dignified, solemn, and impressive, it combined every element of
grandeur.
    »Well, gentlemen,« said Mr. Pell, »all I can say is, that such marks of
confidence must be very gratifying to a professional man. I don't wish to say
anything that might appear egotistical, gentlemen, but I'm very glad, for your
own sakes, that you came to me: that's all. If you had gone to any low member of
the profession, it's my firm conviction, and I assure you of it as a fact, that
you would have found yourselves in Queer Street before this. I could have wished
my noble friend had been alive to have seen my management of this case. I don't
say it out of pride, but I think - however, gentlemen, I won't trouble you with
that. I'm generally to be found here, gentlemen, but if I'm not here, or over
the way, that's my address. You'll find my terms very cheap and reasonable, and
no man attends more to his clients than I do, and I hope I know a little of my
profession besides. If you have any opportunity of recommending me to any of
your friends, gentlemen, I shall be very much obliged to you, and so will they
too, when they come to know me. Your healths, gentlemen.«
    With this expression of his feelings, Mr. Solomon Pell laid three small
written cards before Mr. Weller's friends, and, looking at the clock again,
feared it was time to be walking. Upon this hint Mr. Weller settled the bill,
and, issuing forth, the executor, legatee, attorney, and umpires, directed their
steps towards the City.
    The office of Wilkins Flasher, Esquire, of the Stock Exchange, was in a
first floor up a court behind the Bank of England; the house of Wilkins Flasher,
Esquire, was at Brixton, Surrey; the horse and stanhope of Wilkins Flasher,
Esquire, were at an adjacent livery stable; the groom of Wilkins Flasher,
Esquire, was on his way to the West End to deliver some game; the clerk of
Wilkins Flasher, Esquire, had gone to his dinner; and so Wilkins Flasher,
Esquire, himself, cried, »Come in,« when Mr. Pell and his companions knocked at
the counting-house door.
    »Good morning, sir,« said Pell, bowing obsequiously. »We want to make a
little transfer, if you please.«
    »Oh, come in, will you?« said Mr. Flasher. »Sit down a minute; I'll attend
to you directly.«
    »Thank you, sir,« said Pell, »there's no hurry. Take a chair, Mr. Weller.«
    Mr. Weller took a chair, and Sam took a box, and the umpires took what they
could get, and looked at the almanack and one or two papers which were wafered
against the wall, with as much open-eyed reverence as if they had been the
finest efforts of the old masters.
    »Well, I'll bet you half a dozen of claret on it; come!« said Wilkins
Flasher, Esquire, resuming the conversation to which Mr. Pell's entrance had
caused a momentary interruption.
    This was addressed to a very smart young gentleman who wore his hat on his
right whisker, and was lounging over the desk, killing flies with a ruler.
Wilkins Flasher, Esquire, was balancing himself on two legs of an office stool,
spearing a wafer-box with a pen-knife, which he dropped every now and then with
great dexterity into the very centre of a small red wafer that was stuck
outside. Both gentlemen had very open waistcoats and very rolling collars, and
very small boots, and very big rings, and very little watches, and very large
guard chains, and symmetrical inexpressibles, and scented pocket-handkerchiefs.
    »I never bet half a dozen,« said the other gentleman. »I'll take a dozen.«
    »Done, Simmery, done!« said Wilkins Flasher, Esquire.
    »P.P., mind,« observed the other.
    »Of course,« replied Wilkins Flasher, Esquire. Wilkins Flasher, Esquire,
entered it in a little book, with a gold pencil-case, and the other gentleman
entered it also, in another little book with another gold pencil-case.
    »I see there's a notice up this morning about Boffer,« observed Mr. Simmery.
»Poor devil, he's expelled the house!«
    »I'll bet you ten guineas to five, he cuts his throat,« said Wilkins
Flasher, Esquire.
    »Done,« replied Mr. Simmery.
    »Stop! I bar,« said Wilkins Flasher, Esquire, thoughtfully. »Perhaps he may
hang himself.«
    »Very good,« rejoined Mr. Simmery, pulling out the gold pencil-case again.
»I've no objection to take you that way. Say, makes away with himself.«
    »Kills himself, in fact,« said Wilkins Flasher, Esquire.
    »Just so,« replied Mr. Simmery, putting it down. »Flasher - ten guineas to
five, Boffer kills himself. Within what time shall we say?«
    »A fortnight?« suggested Wilkins Flasher, Esquire.
    »Con-found it, no;« rejoined Mr. Simmery, stopping for an instant to smash a
fly with the ruler. »Say a week.«
    »Split the difference,« said Wilkins Flasher, Esquire. »Make it ten days.«
    »Well; ten days,« rejoined Mr. Simmery.
    So, it was entered down in the little books that Boffer was to kill himself
within ten days, or Wilkins Flasher, Esquire, was to hand over to Frank Simmery,
Esquire, the sum of ten guineas; and that if Boffer did kill himself within that
time, Frank Simmery, Esquire, would pay to Wilkins Flasher, Esquire, five
guineas, instead.
    »I'm very sorry he has failed,« said Wilkins Flasher, Esquire. »Capital
dinners he gave.«
    »Fine port he had too,« remarked Mr. Simmery. »We are going to send our
butler to the sale to-morrow, to pick up some of that sixty-four.«
    »The devil you are,« said Wilkins Flasher, Esquire. »My man's going too.
Five guineas my man outbids your man.«
    »Done.«
    Another entry was made in the little books, with the gold pencil-cases; and
Mr. Simmery having, by this time, killed all the flies and taken all the bets,
strolled away to the Stock Exchange to see what was going forward.
    Wilkins Flasher, Esquire, now condescended to receive Mr. Solomon Pell's
instructions, and having filled up some printed forms, requested the party to
follow him to the Bank: which they did: Mr. Weller and his three friends staring
at all they beheld in unbounded astonishment, and Sam encountering everything
with a coolness which nothing could disturb.
    Crossing a court-yard which was all noise and bustle; and passing a couple
of porters who seemed dressed to match the red fire engine which was wheeled
away into a corner; they passed into an office where their business was to be
transacted, and where Pell and Mr. Flasher left them standing for a few moments,
while they went up stairs into the Will Office.
    »Wot place is this here?« whispered the mottled-faced gentleman to the elder
Mr. Weller.
    »Counsel's Office,« replied the executor in a whisper.
    »Wot are them gen'l'men a settin' behind the counters?« asked the hoarse
coachman.
    »Reduced counsels, I s'pose,« replied Mr. Weller. »Ain't they the reduced
counsels, Samivel?«
    »Wy, you don't suppose the reduced counsels is alive, do you?« inquired Sam,
with some disdain.
    »How should I know?« retorted Mr. Weller; »I thought they looked very like
it. Wot are they, then?«
    »Clerks,« replied Sam.
    »Wot are they all a eatin' ham sangwidges for?« inquired his father.
    »'Cos it's in their dooty, I suppose,« replied Sam, »it's a part o' the
system; they're alvays a doing' it here, all day long!«
    Mr. Weller and his friends had scarcely had a moment to reflect upon this
singular regulation as connected with the monetary system of the country, when
they were rejoined by Pell and Wilkins Flasher, Esquire, who led them to a part
of the counter above which was a round black board with a large W. on it.
    »Wot's that for, sir?« inquired Mr. Weller, directing Pell's attention to
the target in question.
    »The first letter of the name of the deceased,« replied Pell.
    »I say,« said Mr. Weller, turning round to the umpires. »There's something'
wrong here. We's our letter - this won't do.«
    The referees at once gave it as their decided opinion that the business
could not be legally proceeded with, under the letter W, and in all probability
it would have stood over for one day at least, had it not been for the prompt,
though, at first sight, undutiful behaviour of Sam, who, seizing his father by
the skirt of the coat, dragged him to the counter, and pinned him there, until
he had affixed his signature to a couple of instruments; which from Mr. Weller's
habit of printing, was a work of so much labour and time, that the officiating
clerk peeled and ate three Ribston pippins while it was performing.
    As the elder Mr. Weller insisted on selling out his portion forthwith, they
proceeded from the Bank to the gate of the Stock Exchange, to which Wilkins
Flasher, Esquire, after a short absence, returned with a cheque on Smith, Payne,
and Smith, for five hundred and thirty pounds; that being the sum of money to
which Mr. Weller at the market price of the day, was entitled, in consideration
of the balance of the second Mrs. Weller's funded savings. Sam's two hundred
pounds stood transferred to his name, and Wilkins Flasher, Esquire, having been
paid his commission, dropped the money carelessly into his coat pocket, and
lounged back to his office.
    Mr. Weller was at first obstinately determined on cashing the cheque in
nothing but sovereigns: but it being represented by the umpires that by so doing
he must incur the expense of a small sack to carry them home in, he consented to
receive the amount in five-pound notes.
    »My son,« said Mr. Weller as they came out of the banking-house, »my son and
me has a very particular engagement this arternoon, and I should like to have
this here bis'ness settled out of hand, so let's jest go straight away
someveres, vere ve can hordit the accounts.«
    A quiet room was soon found, and the accounts were produced and audited. Mr.
Pell's bill was taxed by Sam, and some charges were disallowed by the umpires;
but, notwithstanding Mr. Pell's declaration, accompanied with many solemn
asseverations that they were really too hard upon him, it was by very many
degrees the best professional job he had ever had, and one on which he boarded,
lodged, and washed, for six months afterwards.
    The umpires having partaken of a dram, shook hands and departed, as they had
to drive out of town that night. Mr. Solomon Pell, finding that nothing more was
going forward, either in the eating or drinking way, took a friendly leave, and
Sam and his father were left alone.
    »There!« said Mr. Weller, thrusting his pocket-book in his side pocket.
»Vith the bills for the lease, and that, there's eleven hundred and eighty pound
here. Now, Samivel, my boy, turn the horses' heads to the George and Wulter!«
 

                                  Chapter LVI

 An Important Conference Takes Place between Mr. Pickwick and Samuel Weller, at
  Which His Parent Assists. An Old Gentleman in a Snuff-Coloured Suit Arrives
                                 Unexpectedly.

Mr. Pickwick was sitting alone, musing over many things, and thinking among
other considerations how he could best provide for the young couple whose
present unsettled condition was matter of constant regret and anxiety to him,
when Mary stepped lightly into the room, and, advancing to the table, said,
rather hastily:
    »Oh, if you please, sir, Samuel is down stairs, and he says may his father
see you?«
    »Surely,« replied Mr. Pickwick.
    »Thank you, sir,« said Mary, tripping towards the door again.
    »Sam has not been here long, has he?« inquired Mr. Pickwick.
    »Oh, no, sir,« replied Mary eagerly. »He has only just come home. He is not
going to ask you for any more leave, sir, he says.«
    Mary might have been conscious that she had communicated this last
intelligence with more warmth than seemed actually necessary, or she might have
observed the good-humoured smile with which Mr. Pickwick regarded her, when she
had finished speaking. She certainly held down her head, and examined the corner
of a very smart little apron, with more closeness than there appeared any
absolute occasion for.
    »Tell them they can come up at once, by all means,« said Mr. Pickwick.
    Mary, apparently much relieved, hurried away with her message.
    Mr. Pickwick took two or three turns up and down the room; and rubbing his
chin with his left hand as he did so, appeared lost in thought.
    »Well, well,« said Mr. Pickwick at length, in a kind but somewhat melancholy
tone, »it is the best way in which I could reward him for his attachment and
fidelity; let it be so, in Heaven's name. It is the fate of a lonely old man,
that those about him should form new and different attachments and leave him. I
have no right to expect that it should be otherwise with me. No, no,« added Mr.
Pickwick more cheerfully, »it would be selfish and ungrateful. I ought to be
happy to have an opportunity of providing for him so well. I am. Of course I
am.«
    Mr. Pickwick had been so absorbed in these reflections, that a knock at the
door was three or four times repeated before he heard it. Hastily seating
himself, and calling up his accustomed pleasant looks, he gave the required
permission, and Sam Weller entered, followed by his father.
    »Glad to see you back again, Sam,« said Mr. Pickwick. »How do you do, Mr.
Weller?«
    »Wery hearty, thankee, sir,« replied the widower; »hope I see you well,
sir.«
    »Quite, I thank you,« replied Mr. Pickwick.
    »I wanted to have a little bit o' conwersation with you, sir,« said Mr.
Weller, »if you could spare me five minits or so, sir.«
    »Certainly,« replied Mr. Pickwick. »Sam, give your father a chair.«
    »Thankee, Samivel, I've got a cheer here,« said Mr. Weller, bringing one
forward as he spoke; »uncommon fine day it's been, sir,« added the old
gentleman, laying his hat on the floor as he sat himself down.
    »Remarkably so indeed,« replied Mr. Pickwick. »Very seasonable.«
    »Seasonablest veather I ever see, sir,« rejoined Mr. Weller. Here, the old
gentleman was seized with a violent fit of coughing, which, being terminated, he
nodded his head and winked and made several supplicatory and threatening
gestures to his son, all of which Sam Weller steadily abstained from seeing.
    Mr. Pickwick, perceiving that there was some embarrassment on the old
gentleman's part, affected to be engaged in cutting the leaves of a book that
lay beside him, and waited patiently until Mr. Weller should arrive at the
object of his visit.
    »I never see such a aggerawatin' boy as you are, Samivel,« said Mr. Weller,
looking indignantly at his son, »never in all my born days.«
    »What is he doing, Mr. Weller?« inquired Mr. Pickwick.
    »He von't begin, sir,« rejoined Mr. Weller; »he knows I ain't ekal to
ex-pressin' myself ven there's anything' particular to be done, and yet he'll
stand and see me a settin' here taken' up your walable time, and making' a
reg'lar spectacle o' myself, rather than help me out with a syllable. It ain't
filial conduct, Samivel,« said Mr. Weller, wiping his forehead; »very far from
it.«
    »You said you'd speak,« replied Sam; »how should I know you wos done up at
the very beginnin'?«
    »You might ha' seen I warn't able to start,« rejoined his father; »I'm on
the wrong side of the road, and backin' into the palins, and all manner of
unpleasantness, and yet you von't put out a hand to help me. I'm ashamed on you,
Samivel.«
    »The fact is, sir,« said Sam, with a slight bow, »the gov'ner's been a
drawin' his money.«
    »Wery good, Samivel, very good,« said Mr. Weller, nodding his head with a
satisfied air, »I didn't mean to speak harsh to you, Sammy. Wery good. That's
the vay to begin. Come to the pint at once. Wery good indeed, Samivel.«
    Mr. Weller nodded his head an extraordinary number of times, in the excess
of his gratification, and waited in a listening attitude for Sam to resume his
statement.
    »You may sit down, Sam,« said Mr. Pickwick, apprehending that the interview
was likely to prove rather longer than he had expected.
    Sam bowed again and sat down; his father looking round, he continued,
    »The gov'ner, sir, has drawn out five hundred and thirty pound.«
    »Reduced counsels,« interposed Mr. Weller, senior, in an undertone.
    »It don't much matter vether it's reduced counsels, or wot not,« said Sam;
»five hundred and thirty pound is the sum, ain't it?«
    »All right, Samivel,« replied Mr. Weller.
    »To vich sum, he has added for the house and bisness -«
    »Lease, good-vill, stock, and fixters,« interposed Mr. Weller.
    - »As much as makes it,« continued Sam, »altogether, eleven hundred and
eighty pound.«
    »Indeed!« said Mr. Pickwick. »I am delighted to hear it. I congratulate you,
Mr. Weller, on having done so well.«
    »Vait a minit, sir,« said Mr. Weller, raising his hand in a deprecatory
manner. »Get on, Samivel.«
    »This here money,« said Sam, with a little hesitation, »he's anxious to put
someveres, vere he knows it'll be safe, and I'm very anxious too, for if he
keeps it, he'll go a lendin' it to somebody, or inwestin' property in horses, or
droppin' his pocket-book down a airy, or making' a Egyptian mummy of his-self in
some vay or another.«
    »Wery good, Samivel,« observed Mr. Weller, in as complacent a manner as if
Sam had been passing the highest eulogiums on his prudence and foresight. »Wery
good.«
    »For vich reasons,« continued Sam, plucking nervously at the brim of his
hat; »for vich reasons, he's drawd it out to-day, and come here with me to say,
leastvays to offer, or in other vords to -«
    »- To say this here,« said the elder Mr. Weller, impatiently, »that it ain't
o' no use to me. I'm a goin' to vork a coach reg'lar, and ha'nt got noveres to
keep it in, unless I vos to pay the guard for taken' care on it, or to put it in
vun o' the coach pockets, vich 'ud be a temptation to the insides. If you'll
take care on it for me, sir, I shall be very much obliged to you. P'raps,« said
Mr. Weller, walking up to Mr. Pickwick and whispering in his ear, »p'raps it'll
go a little vay towards the expenses o' that 'ere conwiction. All I say is, just
you keep it till I ask you for it again.« With these words, Mr. Weller placed
the pocket-book in Mr. Pickwick's hands, caught up his hat, and ran out of the
room with a celerity scarcely to be expected from so corpulent a subject.
    »Stop him, Sam!« exclaimed Mr. Pickwick, earnestly. »Overtake him; bring him
back instantly! Mr. Weller - here - come back!«
    Sam saw that his master's injunctions were not to be disobeyed; and catching
his father by the arm as he was descending the stairs, dragged him back by main
force.
    »My good friend,« said Mr. Pickwick, taking the old man by the hand; »your
honest confidence overpowers me.«
    »I don't see no occasion for nothing' o' the kind, sir,« replied Mr. Weller,
obstinately.
    »I assure you, my good friend, I have more money than I can ever need; far
more than a man at my age can ever live to spend,« said Mr. Pickwick.
    »No man knows how much he can spend, till he tries,« observed Mr. Weller.
    »Perhaps not,« replied Mr. Pickwick; »but as I have no intention of trying
any such experiments, I am not likely to come to want. I must beg you to take
this back, Mr. Weller.«
    »Wery well,« said Mr. Weller with a discontented look. »Mark my vords,
Sammy. I'll do something' desperate with this here property; something'
desperate!«
    »You'd better not,« replied Sam.
    Mr. Weller reflected for a short time, and then, buttoning up his coat with
great determination, said:
    »I'll keep a pike.«
    »Wot!« exclaimed Sam.
    »A pike,« rejoined Mr. Weller, through his set teeth; »I'll keep a pike. Say
good bye to your father, Samivel. I dewote the remainder o' my days to a pike.«
    This threat was such an awful one, and Mr. Weller besides appearing fully
resolved to carry it into execution, seemed so deeply mortified by Mr.
Pickwick's refusal, that that gentleman, after a short reflection, said:
    »Well, well, Mr. Weller, I will keep the money. I can do more good with it,
perhaps, than you can.«
    »Just the very thing, to be sure,« said Mr. Weller, brightening up; »o'
course you can, sir.«
    »Say no more about it,« said Mr. Pickwick, locking the pocket-book in his
desk; »I am heartily obliged to you, my good friend. Now sit down again. I want
to ask your advice.«
    The internal laughter occasioned by the triumphant success of his visit,
which had convulsed not only Mr. Weller's face, but his arms, legs, and body
also, during the locking up of the pocket-book, suddenly gave place to the most
dignified gravity as he heard these words.
    »Wait outside a few minutes, Sam, will you?« said Mr. Pickwick.
    Sam immediately withdrew.
    Mr. Weller looked uncommonly wise and very much amazed, when Mr. Pickwick
opened the discourse by saying:
    »You are not an advocate for matrimony, I think, Mr. Weller?«
    Mr. Weller shook his head. He was wholly unable to speak; vague thoughts of
some wicked widow having been successful in her designs on Mr. Pickwick, choked
his utterance.
    »Did you happen to see a young girl down stairs when you came in just now
with your son?« inquired Mr. Pickwick.
    »Yes. I see a young gal,« replied Mr. Weller, shortly.
    »What did you think of her, now? Candidly, Mr. Weller, what did you think of
her?«
    »I thought she wos very plump, and vell made,« said Mr. Weller, with a
critical air.
    »So she is,« said Mr. Pickwick, »so she is. What did you think of her
manners, from what you saw of her?«
    »Wery pleasant,« rejoined Mr. Weller. »Wery pleasant and conformable.«
    The precise meaning which Mr. Weller attached to this last-mentioned
adjective, did not appear; but, as it was evident from the tone in which he used
it that it was a favourable expression, Mr. Pickwick was as well satisfied as if
he had been thoroughly enlightened on the subject.
    »I take a great interest in her, Mr. Weller,« said Mr. Pickwick.
    Mr. Weller coughed.
    »I mean an interest in her doing well,« resumed Mr. Pickwick; »a desire that
she may be comfortable and prosperous. You understand?«
    »Wery clearly,« replied Mr. Weller, who understood nothing yet.
    »That young person,« said Mr. Pickwick, »is attached to your son.«
    »To Samivel Veller!« exclaimed the parent.
    »Yes,« said Pickwick.
    »It's nat'ral,« said Mr. Weller, after some consideration, »nat'ral, but
rather alarmin'. Sammy must be careful.«
    »How do you mean?« inquired Mr. Pickwick.
    »Wery careful that he don't say nothing' to her,« responded Mr. Weller. »Wery
careful that he ain't led away, in a innocent moment, to say anythink as may
lead to a conwiction for breach. You're never safe with 'em, Mr. Pickwick, ven
they vunce has designs on you; there's no knowin' vere to have 'em; and vile
you're a-considering of it, they have you. I wos married fust, that vay myself,
sir, and Sammy wos the consekens o' the manoover.«
    »You give me no great encouragement to conclude what I have to say,«
observed Mr. Pickwick, »but I had better do so at once. This young person is not
only attached to your son, Mr. Weller, but your son is attached to her.«
    »Vell,« said Mr. Weller, »this here's a pretty sort o' thing to come to a
father's ears, this is!«
    »I have observed them on several occasions,« said Mr. Pickwick, making no
comment on Mr. Weller's last remark; »and entertain no doubt at all about it.
Supposing I were desirous of establishing them comfortably as man and wife in
some little business or situation, where they might hope to obtain a decent
living, what should you think of it, Mr. Weller?«
    At first, Mr. Weller received, with wry faces, a proposition involving the
marriage of anybody in whom he took an interest; but, as Mr. Pickwick argued the
point with him, and laid great stress on the fact that Mary was not a widow, he
gradually became more tractable. Mr. Pickwick had great influence over him, and
he had been much struck with Mary's appearance; having, in fact, bestowed
several very unfatherly winks upon her, already. At length he said that it was
not for him to oppose Mr. Pickwick's inclination, and that he would be very
happy to yield to his advice; upon which, Mr. Pickwick joyfully took him at his
word, and called Sam back into the room.
    »Sam,« said Mr. Pickwick, clearing his throat, »your father and I have been
having some conversation about you.«
    »About you, Samivel,« said Mr. Weller, in a patronising and impressive
voice.
    »I am not so blind, Sam, as not to have seen, a long time since, that you
entertain something more than a friendly feeling towards Mrs. Winkle's maid,«
said Mr. Pickwick.
    »You hear this, Samivel?« said Mr. Weller in the same judicial form of
speech as before.
    »I hope, sir,« said Sam, addressing his master: »I hope there's no harm in a
young man taken' notice of a young 'ooman as is undeniably good-looking and
well-conducted.«
    »Certainly not,« said Mr. Pickwick.
    »Not by no means,« acquiesced Mr. Weller, affably but magisterially.
    »So far from thinking there is anything wrong, in conduct so natural,«
resumed Mr. Pickwick, »it is my wish to assist and promote your wishes in this
respect. With this view, I have had a little conversation with your father; and
finding that he is of my opinion -«
    »The lady not bein' a widder,« interposed Mr. Weller in explanation.
    »The lady not being a widow,« said Mr. Pickwick, smiling. »I wish to free
you from the restraint which your present position imposes upon you, and to mark
my sense of your fidelity and many excellent qualities, by enabling you to marry
this girl at once, and to earn an independent livelihood for yourself and
family. I shall be proud, Sam,« said Mr. Pickwick, whose voice had faltered a
little hitherto, but now resumed its customary tone, »proud and happy to make
your future prospects in life, my grateful and peculiar care.«
    There was a profound silence for a short time, and then Sam said, in a low
husky sort of voice, but firmly withal:
    »I'm very much obliged to you for your goodness, sir, as is only like
yourself; but it can't be done.«
    »Can't be done!« ejaculated Mr. Pickwick in astonishment.
    »Samivel!« said Mr. Weller, with dignity.
    »I say it can't be done,« repeated Sam in a louder key. »Wot's to become of
you, sir?«
    »My good fellow,« replied Mr. Pickwick, »the recent changes among my friends
will alter my mode of life in future, entirely; besides, I am growing older, and
want repose and quiet. My rambles, Sam, are over.«
    »How do I know that 'ere, sir?« argued Sam. »You think so now! S'pose you
wos to change your mind, vich is not unlikely, for you've the spirit o'
five-and-tventy in you still, what 'ud become on you vithout me? It can't be
done, sir, it can't be done.«
    »Wery good, Samivel, there's a good deal in that,« said Mr. Weller,
encouragingly.
    »I speak after long deliberation, Sam, and with the certainty that I shall
keep my word,« said Mr. Pickwick, shaking his head. »New scenes have closed upon
me; my rambles are at an end.«
    »Wery good,« rejoined Sam. »Then, that's the very best reason wy you should
alvays have somebody by you as understands you, to keep you up and make you
comfortable. If you vant a more polished sort o' feller, vell and good, have
him; but vages or no vages, notice or no notice, board or no board, lodgin' or
no lodgin', Sam Veller, as you took from the old inn in the Borough, sticks by
you, come what come may; and let ev'rythin' and ev'rybody do their very
fiercest, nothing' shall ever perwent it!«
    At the close of this declaration, which Sam made with great emotion, the
elder Mr. Weller rose from his chair, and, forgetting all considerations of
time, place, or propriety, waved his hat above his head, and gave three vehement
cheers.
    »My good fellow,« said Mr. Pickwick, when Mr. Weller had sat down again,
rather abashed at his own enthusiasm, »you are bound to consider the young woman
also.«
    »I do consider the young 'ooman, sir,« said Sam. »I have considered the
young 'ooman. I've spoke to her. I've told her how I'm sitivated; she's ready to
vait till I'm ready, and I believe she vill. If she don't, she's not the young
'ooman I take her for, and I give her up with readiness. You've know'd me afore,
sir. My mind's made up, and nothing' can ever alter it.«
    Who could combat this resolution? Not Mr. Pickwick. He derived, at that
moment, more pride and luxury of feeling from the disinterested attachment of
his humble friends, than ten thousand protestations from the greatest men living
could have awakened in his heart.
    While this conversation was passing in Mr. Pickwick's room, a little old
gentleman in a suit of snuff- clothes, followed by a porter carrying a small
portmanteau, presented himself below; and after securing a bed for the night,
inquired of the waiter whether one Mrs. Winkle was staying there, to which
question the waiter, of course, responded in the affirmative.
    »Is she alone?« inquired the little old gentleman.
    »I believe she is, sir,« replied the waiter; »I can call her own maid, sir,
if you -«
    »No, I don't want her,« said the old gentleman quickly. »Show me to her room
without announcing me.«
    »Eh, sir?« said the waiter.
    »Are you deaf?« inquired the little old gentleman.
    »No, sir.«
    »Then listen, if you please. Can you hear me now?«
    »Yes, sir.«
    »That's well. Show me to Mrs. Winkle's room, without announcing me.«
    As the little old gentleman uttered this command, he slipped five shillings
into the waiter's hand, and looked steadily at him.
    »Really, sir,« said the waiter, »I don't know, sir, whether -«
    »Ah! you'll do it, I see,« said the little old gentleman. »You had better do
it at once. It will save time.«
    There was something so very cool and collected in the gentleman's manner,
that the waiter put the five shillings in his pocket, and led him up stairs
without another word.
    »This is the room, is it?« said the gentleman. »You may go.«
    The waiter complied, wondering much who the gentleman could be, and what he
wanted; the little old gentleman waiting till he was out of sight, tapped at the
door.
    »Come in,« said Arabella.
    »Um, a pretty voice at any rate,« murmured the little old gentleman; »but
that's nothing.« As he said this, he opened the door and walked in. Arabella,
who was sitting at work, rose on beholding a stranger - a little confused - but
by no means ungracefully so.
    »Pray don't rise, ma'am,« said the unknown, walking in, and closing the door
after him. »Mrs. Winkle, I believe?«
    Arabella inclined her head.
    »Mrs. Nathaniel Winkle, who married the son of the old man at Birmingham?«
said the stranger, eyeing Arabella with visible curiosity.
    Again, Arabella inclined her head, and looked uneasily round, as if
uncertain whether to call for assistance.
    »I surprise you, I see, ma'am,« said the old gentleman.
    »Rather, I confess,« replied Arabella, wondering more and more.
    »I'll take a chair, if you'll allow me, ma'am,« said the stranger.
    He took one; and drawing a spectacle-case from his pocket, leisurely pulled
out a pair of spectacles, which he adjusted on his nose.
    »You don't know me, ma'am?« he said, looking so intently at Arabella that
she began to feel alarmed.
    »No, sir,« she replied timidly.
    »No,« said the gentleman, nursing his left leg; »I don't know how you
should. You know my name, though, ma'am.«
    »Do I?« said Arabella, trembling, though she scarcely knew why. »May I ask
what it is?«
    »Presently, ma'am, presently,« said the stranger, not having yet removed his
eyes from her countenance. »You have been recently married, ma'am?«
    »I have,« replied Arabella, in a scarcely audible tone, laying aside her
work, and becoming greatly agitated as a thought, that had occurred to her
before, struck more forcibly upon her mind.
    »Without having represented to your husband the propriety of first
consulting his father, on whom he is dependent, I think?« said the stranger.
    Arabella applied her handkerchief to her eyes.
    »Without an endeavour, even, to ascertain, by some indirect appeal, what
were the old man's sentiments on a point in which he would naturally feel much
interested?« said the stranger.
    »I cannot deny it, sir,« said Arabella.
    »And without having sufficient property of your own to afford your husband
any permanent assistance in exchange for the worldly advantages which you knew
he would have gained if he had married agreeably to his father's wishes?« said
the old gentleman. »This is what boys and girls call disinterested affection,
till they have boys and girls of their own, and then they see it in a rougher
and very different light!«
    Arabella's tears flowed fast, as she pleaded in extenuation that she was
young and inexperienced; that her attachment had alone induced her to take the
step to which she had resorted; and that she had been deprived of the counsel
and guidance of her parents almost from infancy.
    »It was wrong,« said the old gentleman in a milder tone, »very wrong. It was
foolish, romantic, unbusiness-like.«
    »It was my fault; all my fault, sir,« replied poor Arabella, weeping.
    »Nonsense,« said the old gentleman; »it was not your fault that he fell in
love with you, I suppose? Yes it was thought,« said the old gentleman, looking
rather slyly at Arabella. »It was your fault. He couldn't help it.«
    This little compliment, or the little gentleman's odd way of paying it, or
his altered manner - so much kinder than it was, at first - or all three
together, forced a smile from Arabella in the midst of her tears.
    »Where's your husband?« inquired the old gentleman, abruptly; stopping a
smite which was just coming over his own face.
    »I expect him every instant, sir,« said Arabella. »I persuaded him to take a
walk this morning. He is very low and wretched at not having heard from his
father.«
    »Low, is he?« said the old gentleman. »Serve him right!«
    »He feels it on my account, I am afraid,« said Arabella; »and indeed, sir, I
feel it deeply on his. I have been the sole means of bringing him to his present
condition.«
    »Don't mind it on his account, my dear,« said the old gentleman. »It serves
him right. I am glad of it - actually glad of it, as far as he is concerned.«
    The words were scarcely out of the old gentleman's lips, when footsteps were
heard ascending the stairs, which he and Arabella seemed both to recognise at
the same moment. The little gentleman turned pale, and making a strong effort to
appear composed, stood up, as Mr. Winkle entered the room.
    »Father!« cried Mr. Winkle, recoiling in amazement.
    »Yes, sir,« replied the little old gentleman. »Well, sir, what have you got
to say to me?«
    Mr. Winkle remained silent.
    »You are ashamed of yourself, I hope, sir?« said the old gentleman.
    Still Mr. Winkle said nothing.
    »Are you ashamed of yourself, sir, or are you not?« inquired the old
gentleman.
    »No, sir,« replied Mr. Winkle, drawing Arabella's arm through his. »I am not
ashamed of myself, or of my wife either.«
    »Upon my word!« cried the old gentleman, ironically.
    »I am very sorry to have done anything which has lessened your affection for
me, sir,« said Mr. Winkle; »but I will say, at the same time, that I have no
reason to be ashamed of having this lady for my wife, nor you of having her for
a daughter.«
    »Give me your hand, Nat,« said the old gentleman in an altered voice. »Kiss
me, my love. You are a very charming little daughter-in-law after all!«
    In a few minutes' time Mr. Winkle went in search of Mr. Pickwick, and
returning with that gentleman, presented him to his father, whereupon they shook
hands for five minutes incessantly.
    »Mr. Pickwick, I thank you most heartily for all your kindness to my son,«
said old Mr. Winkle, in a bluff straightforward way. »I am a hasty fellow, and
when I saw you last, I was vexed and taken by surprise. I have judged for myself
now, and am more than satisfied. Shall I make any more apologies, Mr. Pickwick?«
    »Not one,« replied that gentleman. »You have done the only thing wanting to
complete my happiness.«
    Hereupon, there was another shaking of hands for five minutes longer,
accompanied by a great number of complimentary speeches, which, besides being
complimentary, had the additional and very novel recommendation of being
sincere.
    Sam had dutifully seen his father to the Bell Sauvage, when, on returning,
he encountered the fat boy in the court, who had been charged with the delivery
of a note from Emily Wardle.
    »I say,« said Joe, who was unusually loquacious, »what a pretty girl Mary
is, isn't she? I am so fond of her, I am!«
    Mr. Weller made no verbal remark in reply; but eyeing the fat boy for a
moment, quite transfixed at his presumption, led him by the collar to the
corner, and dismissed him with a harmless but ceremonious kick. After which, he
walked home, whistling.
 

                                  Chapter LVII

In Which the Pickwick Club Is Finally Dissolved, and Everything Concluded to the
                           Satisfaction of Everybody.

For a whole week after the happy arrival of Mr. Winkle from Birmingham, Mr.
Pickwick and Sam Weller were from home all day long, only returning just in time
for dinner, and then wearing an air of mystery and importance quite foreign to
their natures. It was evident that very grave and eventful proceedings were on
foot; but various surmises were afloat, respecting their precise character. Some
(among whom was Mr. Tupman) were disposed to think that Mr. Pickwick
contemplated a matrimonial alliance; but this idea the ladies most strenuously
repudiated. Others, rather inclined to the belief that he had projected some
distant tour, and was at present occupied in effecting the preliminary
arrangements; but this again was stoutly denied by Sam himself, who had
unequivocally stated when cross-examined by Mary that no new journeys were to be
undertaken. At length, when the brains of the whole party had been racked for
six long days, by unavailing speculation, it was unanimously resolved that Mr.
Pickwick should be called upon to explain his conduct, and to state distinctly
why he had thus absented himself from the society of his admiring friends.
    With this view, Mr. Wardle invited the full circle to dinner at the Adelphi;
and, the decanters having been twice sent round, opened the business.
    »We are all anxious to know,« said the old gentleman, »what we have done to
offend you, and to induce you to desert us and devote yourself to these solitary
walks.«
    »Are you?« said Mr. Pickwick. »It is singular enough that I had intended to
volunteer a full explanation this very day; so, if you will give me another
glass of wine, I will satisfy your curiosity.«
    The decanters passed from hand to hand with unwonted briskness, and Mr.
Pickwick looking round on the faces of his friends, with a cheerful smile,
proceeded:
    »All the changes that have taken place among us,« said Mr. Pickwick, »I mean
the marriage that has taken place, and the marriage that will take place, with
the changes they involve, rendered it necessary for me to think, soberly and at
once, upon my future plans. I determined on retiring to some quiet pretty
neighbourhood in the vicinity of London; I saw a house which exactly suited my
fancy; I have taken it and furnished it. It is fully prepared for my reception,
and I intend entering upon it at once, trusting that I may yet live to spend
many quiet years in peaceful retirement, cheered through life by the society of
my friends, and followed in death by their affectionate remembrance.«
    Here Mr. Pickwick paused, and a low murmur ran round the table.
    »The house I have taken,« said Mr. Pickwick, »is at Dulwich. It has a large
garden, and is situated in one of the most pleasant spots near London. It has
been fitted up with every attention to substantial comfort; perhaps to a little
elegance besides; but of that you shall judge for yourselves. Sam accompanies me
there. I have engaged, on Perker's representation, a housekeeper - a very old
one - and such other servants as she thinks I shall require. I propose to
consecrate this little retreat, by having a ceremony in which I take a great
interest, performed there. I wish, if my friend Wardle entertains no objection,
that his daughter should be married from my new house, on the day I take
possession of it. The happiness of young people,« said Mr. Pickwick, a little
moved, »has ever been the chief pleasure of my life. It will warm my heart to
witness the happiness of those friends who are dearest to me, beneath my own
roof.«
    Mr. Pickwick paused again: Emily and Arabella sobbed audibly.
    »I have communicated, both personally and by letter, with the club,« resumed
Mr. Pickwick, »acquainting them with my intention. During our long absence, it
had suffered much from internal dissensions; and the withdrawal of my name,
coupled with this and other circumstances, has occasioned its dissolution. The
Pickwick Club exists no longer.
    I shall never regret,« said Mr. Pickwick in a low voice, »I shall never
regret having devoted the greater part of two years to mixing with different
varieties and shades of human character: frivolous as my pursuit of novelty may
have appeared to many. Nearly the whole of my previous life having been devoted
to business and the pursuit of wealth, numerous scenes of which I had no
previous conception have dawned upon me - I hope to the enlargement of my mind,
and the improvement of my understanding. If I have done but little good, I trust
I have done less harm, and that none of my adventures will be other than a
source of amusing and pleasant recollection to me in the decline of life. God
bless you all!«
    With these words, Mr. Pickwick filled and drained a bumper with a trembling
hand, and his eyes moistened as his friends rose with one accord, and pledged
him from their hearts.
    There were very few preparatory arrangements to be made for the marriage of
Mr. Snodgrass. As he had neither father nor mother, and had been in his minority
a ward of Mr. Pickwick's, that gentleman was perfectly well acquainted with his
possessions and prospects. His account of both was quite satisfactory to Wardle
- as almost any other account would have been, for the good old gentleman was
overflowing with hilarity, and kindness - and a handsome portion having been
bestowed upon Emily, the marriage was fixed to take place on the fourth day from
that time: the suddenness of which preparations reduced three dress-makers and a
tailor to the extreme verge of insanity.
    Getting post-horses to the carriage, old Wardle started off, next day, to
bring his mother up to town. Communicating his intelligence to the old lady with
characteristic impetuosity, she instantly fainted away; but being promptly
revived, ordered the brocaded silk gown to be packed up forthwith, and proceeded
to relate some circumstances of a similar nature attending the marriage of the
eldest daughter of Lady Tollimglower, deceased, which occupied three hours in
the recital, and were not half finished at last.
    Mrs. Trundle had to be informed of all the mighty preparations that were
making in London, and being in a delicate state of health was informed thereof
through Mr. Trundle, lest the news should be too much for her; but it was not
too much for her, inasmuch as she at once wrote off to Muggleton, to order a new
cap and a black satin gown, and moreover avowed her determination of being
present at the ceremony. Hereupon, Mr. Trundle called in the doctor, and the
doctor said Mrs. Trundle ought to know best how she felt herself, to which Mrs.
Trundle replied that she felt herself quite equal to it, and that she had made
up her mind to go; upon which the doctor, who was a wise and discreet doctor,
and knew what was good for himself as well as for other people, said that
perhaps if Mrs. Trundle stopped at home she might hurt herself more by fretting,
than by going, so perhaps she had better go. And she did go; the doctor with
great attention sending in half a dozen of medicine, to be drunk upon the road.
    In addition to these points of distraction, Wardle was entrusted with two
small letters to two small young ladies who were to act as bridesmaids; upon the
receipt of which, the two young ladies were driven to despair by having no
things ready for so important an occasion, and no time to make them in - a
circumstance which appeared to afford the two worthy papas of the two small
young ladies rather a feeling of satisfaction than otherwise. However, old
frocks were trimmed, and new bonnets made, and the young ladies looked as well
as could possibly have been expected of them. And as they cried at the
subsequent ceremony in the proper places, and trembled at the right times, they
acquitted themselves to the admiration of all beholders.
    How the two poor relations ever reached London - whether they walked, or got
behind coaches, or procured lifts in wagons, or carried each other by turns - is
uncertain; but there they were, before Wardle; and the very first people that
knocked at the door of Mr. Pickwick's house, on the bridal morning were the two
poor relations, all smiles and shirt collar.
    They were welcomed heartily though, for riches or poverty had no influence
on Mr. Pickwick; the new servants were all alacrity and readiness; Sam was in a
most unrivalled state of high spirits and excitement; Mary was glowing with
beauty and smart ribands.
    The bridegroom, who had been staying at the house for two or three days
previous, sallied forth gallantly to Dulwich Church to meet the bride, attended
by Mr. Pickwick, Ben Allen, Bob Sawyer, and Mr. Tupman; with Sam Weller outside,
having at his button-hole a white favour, the gift of his lady love, and clad in
a new and gorgeous suit of livery invented for the occasion. They were met by
the Wardles, and the Winkles, and the bride and bridesmaids, and the Trundles;
and the ceremony having been performed, the coaches rattled back to Mr.
Pickwick's to breakfast, where little Mr. Perker already awaited them.
    Here, all the light clouds of the more solemn part of the proceedings passed
away; every face shone forth joyously; nothing was to be heard but
congratulations and commendations. Everything was so beautiful! The lawn in
front, the garden behind, the miniature conservatory, the dining-room, the
drawing-room, the bed-rooms, the smoking-room, and above all the study with its
pictures and easy chairs, and odd cabinets, and queer tables, and books out of
number, with a large cheerful window opening upon a pleasant lawn and commanding
a pretty landscape, dotted here and there with little houses almost hidden by
the trees; and then the curtains, and the carpets, and the chairs, and the
sofas! Everything was so beautiful, so compact, so neat, and in such exquisite
taste, said everybody, that there really was no deciding what to admire most.
    And in the midst of all this, stood Mr. Pickwick, his countenance lighted up
with smiles, which the heart of no man, woman, or child, could resist: himself
the happiest of the group: shaking hands, over and over again with the same
people, and when his own hands were not so employed, rubbing them with pleasure:
turning round in a different direction at every fresh expression of
gratification or curiosity, and inspiring everybody with his looks of gladness
and delight.
    Breakfast is announced. Mr. Pickwick leads the old lady (who has been very
eloquent on the subject of Lady Tollimglower), to the top of a long table;
Wardle takes the bottom; the friends arrange themselves on either side; Sam
takes his station behind his master's chair; the laughter and talking cease; Mr.
Pickwick, having said grace, pauses for an instant, and looks round him. As he
does so, the tears roll down his cheeks, in the fullness of his joy.
    Let us leave our old friend in one of those moments of unmixed happiness, of
which, if we seek them, there are ever some, to cheer our transitory existence
here. There are dark shadows on the earth, but its lights are stronger in the
contrast. Some men, like bats or owls, have better eyes for the darkness than
for the light. We, who have no such optical powers, are better pleased to take
our last parting look at the visionary companions of many solitary hours, when
the brief sunshine of the world is blazing full upon them.
 
It is the fate of most men who mingle with the world, and attain even the prime
of life, to make many real friends, and lose them in the course of nature. It is
the fate of all authors or chroniclers to create imaginary friends, and lose
them in the course of art. Nor is this the full extent of their misfortunes; for
they are required to furnish an account of them besides.
    In compliance with this custom - unquestionably a bad one - we subjoin a few
biographical words, in relation to the party at Mr. Pickwick's assembled.
    Mr. and Mrs. Winkle, being fully received into favour by the old gentleman,
were shortly afterwards installed in a newly-built house, not half a mile from
Mr. Pickwick's. Mr. Winkle, being engaged in the City as agent or town
correspondent of his father, exchanged his old costume for the ordinary dress of
Englishmen, and presented all the external appearance of a civilised Christian
ever afterwards.
    Mr. and Mrs. Snodgrass settled at Dingley Dell, where they purchased and
cultivated a small farm, more for occupation than profit. Mr. Snodgrass, being
occasionally abstracted and melancholy, is to this day reputed a great poet
among his friends and acquaintance, although we do not find that he has ever
written anything to encourage the belief. There are many celebrated characters,
literary, philosophical, and otherwise, who hold a high reputation on a similar
tenure.
    Mr. Tupman, when his friends married, and Mr. Pickwick settled, took
lodgings at Richmond, where he has ever since resided. He walks constantly on
the Terrace during the summer months, with a youthful and jaunty air which has
rendered him the admiration of the numerous elderly ladies of single condition,
who reside in the vicinity. He has never proposed again.
    Mr. Bob Sawyer, having previously passed through the Gazette, passed over to
Bengal, accompanied by Mr. Benjamin Allen; both gentlemen having received
surgical appointments from the East India Company. They each had the yellow
fever fourteen times, and then resolved to try a little abstinence; since which
period, they have been doing well.
    Mrs. Bardell let lodgings to many conversable single gentlemen, with great
profit, but never brought any more actions for breach of promise of marriage.
Her attorneys, Messrs. Dodson and Fogg, continue in business, from which they
realise a large income, and in which they are universally considered among the
sharpest of the sharp.
    Sam Weller kept his word, and remained unmarried, for two years. The old
housekeeper dying at the end of that time, Mr. Pickwick promoted Mary to the
situation, on condition of her marrying Mr. Weller at once, which she did
without a murmur. From the circumstance of two sturdy little boys having been
repeatedly seen at the gate of the back garden, there is reason to suppose that
Sam has some family.
    The elder Mr. Weller drove a coach for twelve months, but being afflicted
with the gout, was compelled to retire. The contents of the pocket-book had been
so well invested for him, however, by Mr. Pickwick, that he had a handsome
independence to retire on, upon which he still lives at an excellent
public-house near Shooter's Hill, where he is quite reverenced as an oracle:
boasting very much of his intimacy with Mr. Pickwick, and retaining a most
unconquerable aversion to widows.
    Mr. Pickwick himself continued to reside in his new house, employing his
leisure hours in arranging the memoranda which he afterwards presented to the
secretary of the once famous club, or in hearing Sam Weller read aloud, with
such remarks as suggested themselves to his mind, which never failed to afford
Mr. Pickwick great amusement. He was much troubled at first, by the numerous
applications made to him by Mr. Snodgrass, Mr. Winkle, and Mr. Trundle, to act
as godfather to their offspring; but he has become used to it now, and
officiates as a matter of course. He never had occasion to regret his bounty to
Mr. Jingle; for both that person and Job Trotter became, in time, worthy members
of society, although they have always steadily objected to return to the scenes
of their old haunts and temptations. Mr. Pickwick is somewhat infirm now; but he
retains all his former juvenility of spirit, and may still be frequently seen,
contemplating the pictures in the Dulwich Gallery, or enjoying a walk about the
pleasant neighbourhood on a fine day. He is known by all the poor people about,
who never fail to take their hats off, as he passes, with great respect. The
children idolise him, and so indeed does the whole neighbourhood. Every year, he
repairs to a large family merry-making at Mr. Wardle's; on this, as on all other
occasions, he is invariably attended by the faithful Sam, between whom and his
master there exists a steady and reciprocal attachment which nothing but death
will terminate.
 

                                     Notes

1 Perpetual Vice-President - Member Pickwick Club.
 
2 General Chairman - Member Pickwick Club.
 
3 A remarkable instance of the prophetic force of Mr. Jingle's imagination; this
dialogue occurring in the year 1827, and the Revolution in 1830.
 
4 Better. But this is past, in a better age, and the prison exists no longer.
