"LIFE AND ADVENTURES OF MARTIN CHUZZLEWIT\n\nby Charles Dickens\n\n\n\n\nPREFACE\n\nWhat is exaggeration to one class of minds and perceptions, is plain\ntruth to another. That which is commonly called a long-sight, perceives\nin a prospect innumerable features and bearings non-existent to\na short-sighted person. I sometimes ask myself whether there may\noccasionally be a difference of this kind between some writers and some\nreaders; whether it is ALWAYS the writer who colours highly, or whether\nit is now and then the reader whose eye for colour is a little dull?\n\nOn this head of exaggeration I have a positive experience, more curious\nthan the speculation I have just set down. It is this: I have never\ntouched a character precisely from the life, but some counterpart of\nthat character has incredulously asked me: \"Now really, did I ever\nreally, see one like it?\"\n\nAll the Pecksniff family upon earth are quite agreed, I believe, that\nMr Pecksniff is an exaggeration, and that no such character ever\nexisted. I will not offer any plea on his behalf to so powerful and\ngenteel a body, but will make a remark on the character of Jonas\nChuzzlewit.\n\nI conceive that the sordid coarseness and brutality of Jonas would be\nunnatural, if there had been nothing in his early education, and in the\nprecept and example always before him, to engender and develop the vices\nthat make him odious. But, so born and so bred, admired for that which\nmade him hateful, and justified from his cradle in cunning, treachery,\nand avarice; I claim him as the legitimate issue of the father upon whom\nthose vices are seen to recoil. And I submit that their recoil upon that\nold man, in his unhonoured age, is not a mere piece of poetical justice,\nbut is the extreme exposition of a direct truth.\n\nI make this comment, and solicit the reader's attention to it in his or\nher consideration of this tale, because nothing is more common in real\nlife than a want of profitable reflection on the causes of many vices\nand crimes that awaken the general horror. What is substantially true of\nfamilies in this respect, is true of a whole commonwealth. As we sow,\nwe reap. Let the reader go into the children's side of any prison in\nEngland, or, I grieve to add, of many workhouses, and judge whether\nthose are monsters who disgrace our streets, people our hulks and\npenitentiaries, and overcrowd our penal colonies, or are creatures whom\nwe have deliberately suffered to be bred for misery and ruin.\n\nThe American portion of this story is in no other respect a caricature\nthan as it is an exhibition, for the most part (Mr Bevan expected), of\na ludicrous side, ONLY, of the American character--of that side which\nwas, four-and-twenty years ago, from its nature, the most obtrusive, and\nthe most likely to be seen by such travellers as Young Martin and Mark\nTapley. As I had never, in writing fiction, had any disposition to\nsoften what is ridiculous or wrong at home, so I then hoped that the\ngood-humored people of the United States would not be generally disposed\nto quarrel with me for carrying the same usage abroad. I am happy to\nbelieve that my confidence in that great nation was not misplaced.\n\nWhen this book was first published, I was given to understand, by some\nauthorities, that the Watertoast Association and eloquence were beyond\nall bounds of belief. Therefore I record the fact that all that portion\nof Martin Chuzzlewit's experiences is a literal paraphrase of some\nreports of public proceedings in the United States (especially of the\nproceedings of a certain Brandywine Association), which were printed in\nthe Times Newspaper in June and July, 1843--at about the time when I was\nengaged in writing those parts of the book; and which remain on the file\nof the Times Newspaper, of course.\n\nIn all my writings, I hope I have taken every available opportunity of\nshowing the want of sanitary improvements in the neglected dwellings\nof the poor. Mrs Sarah Gamp was, four-and-twenty years ago, a fair\nrepresentation of the hired attendant on the poor in sickness. The\nhospitals of London were, in many respects, noble Institutions; in\nothers, very defective. I think it not the least among the instances\nof their mismanagement, that Mrs Betsey Prig was a fair specimen of\na Hospital Nurse; and that the Hospitals, with their means and funds,\nshould have left it to private humanity and enterprise, to enter on\nan attempt to improve that class of persons--since, greatly improved\nthrough the agency of good women.\n\n\n\n\nPOSTSCRIPT\n\nAt a Public Dinner given to me on Saturday the 18th of April, 1868, in\nthe city of New York, by two hundred representatives of the Press of\nthe United States of America, I made the following observations, among\nothers:--\n\n\"So much of my voice has lately been heard in the land, that I might\nhave been contented with troubling you no further from my present\nstanding-point, were it not a duty with which I henceforth charge\nmyself, not only here but on every suitable occasion, whatsoever\nand wheresoever, to express my high and grateful sense of my second\nreception in America, and to bear my honest testimony to the national\ngenerosity and magnanimity. Also, to declare how astounded I have been\nby the amazing changes I have seen around me on every side--changes\nmoral, changes physical, changes in the amount of land subdued and\npeopled, changes in the rise of vast new cities, changes in the growth\nof older cities almost out of recognition, changes in the graces and\namenities of life, changes in the Press, without whose advancement no\nadvancement can take place anywhere. Nor am I, believe me, so arrogant\nas to suppose that in five-and-twenty years there have been no changes\nin me, and that I had nothing to learn and no extreme impressions to\ncorrect when I was here first. And this brings me to a point on which I\nhave, ever since I landed in the United States last November, observed\na strict silence, though sometimes tempted to break it, but in reference\nto which I will, with your good leave, take you into my confidence now.\nEven the Press, being human, may be sometimes mistaken or misinformed,\nand I rather think that I have in one or two rare instances observed\nits information to be not strictly accurate with reference to myself.\nIndeed, I have, now and again, been more surprised by printed news that\nI have read of myself, than by any printed news that I have ever read\nin my present state of existence. Thus, the vigour and perseverance with\nwhich I have for some months past been collecting materials for, and\nhammering away at, a new book on America has much astonished me; seeing\nthat all that time my declaration has been perfectly well known to my\npublishers on both sides of the Atlantic, that no consideration on earth\nwould induce me to write one. But what I have intended, what I have\nresolved upon (and this is the confidence I seek to place in you), is,\non my return to England, in my own person, in my own Journal, to bear,\nfor the behoof of my countrymen, such testimony to the gigantic changes\nin this country as I have hinted at to-night. Also, to record that\nwherever I have been, in the smallest places equally with the largest,\nI have been received with unsurpassable politeness, delicacy, sweet\ntemper, hospitality, consideration, and with unsurpassable respect for\nthe privacy daily enforced upon me by the nature of my avocation here\nand the state of my health. This testimony, so long as I live, and so\nlong as my descendants have any legal right in my books, I shall cause\nto be republished, as an appendix to every copy of those two books of\nmine in which I have referred to America. And this I will do and cause\nto be done, not in mere love and thankfulness, but because I regard it\nas an act of plain justice and honour.\"\n\nI said these words with the greatest earnestness that I could lay upon\nthem, and I repeat them in print here with equal earnestness. So long as\nthis book shall last, I hope that they will form a part of it, and will\nbe fairly read as inseparable from my experiences and impressions of\nAmerica.\n\nCHARLES DICKENS.\n\nMay, 1868.\n\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER ONE\n\nINTRODUCTORY, CONCERNING THE PEDIGREE OF THE CHUZZLEWIT FAMILY\n\n\nAs no lady or gentleman, with any claims to polite breeding, can\npossibly sympathize with the Chuzzlewit Family without being first\nassured of the extreme antiquity of the race, it is a great satisfaction\nto know that it undoubtedly descended in a direct line from Adam and\nEve; and was, in the very earliest times, closely connected with the\nagricultural interest. If it should ever be urged by grudging and\nmalicious persons, that a Chuzzlewit, in any period of the family\nhistory, displayed an overweening amount of family pride, surely the\nweakness will be considered not only pardonable but laudable, when the\nimmense superiority of the house to the rest of mankind, in respect of\nthis its ancient origin, is taken into account.\n\nIt is remarkable that as there was, in the oldest family of which we\nhave any record, a murderer and a vagabond, so we never fail to meet,\nin the records of all old families, with innumerable repetitions of\nthe same phase of character. Indeed, it may be laid down as a general\nprinciple, that the more extended the ancestry, the greater the amount\nof violence and vagabondism; for in ancient days those two amusements,\ncombining a wholesome excitement with a promising means of repairing\nshattered fortunes, were at once the ennobling pursuit and the healthful\nrecreation of the Quality of this land.\n\nConsequently, it is a source of inexpressible comfort and happiness\nto find, that in various periods of our history, the Chuzzlewits were\nactively connected with divers slaughterous conspiracies and bloody\nfrays. It is further recorded of them, that being clad from head to\nheel in steel of proof, they did on many occasions lead their\nleather-jerkined soldiers to the death with invincible courage, and\nafterwards return home gracefully to their relations and friends.\n\nThere can be no doubt that at least one Chuzzlewit came over with\nWilliam the Conqueror. It does not appear that this illustrious ancestor\n'came over' that monarch, to employ the vulgar phrase, at any subsequent\nperiod; inasmuch as the Family do not seem to have been ever greatly\ndistinguished by the possession of landed estate. And it is well known\nthat for the bestowal of that kind of property upon his favourites,\nthe liberality and gratitude of the Norman were as remarkable as those\nvirtues are usually found to be in great men when they give away what\nbelongs to other people.\n\nPerhaps in this place the history may pause to congratulate itself upon\nthe enormous amount of bravery, wisdom, eloquence, virtue, gentle birth,\nand true nobility, that appears to have come into England with the\nNorman Invasion: an amount which the genealogy of every ancient family\nlends its aid to swell, and which would beyond all question have been\nfound to be just as great, and to the full as prolific in giving birth\nto long lines of chivalrous descendants, boastful of their origin, even\nthough William the Conqueror had been William the Conquered; a change of\ncircumstances which, it is quite certain, would have made no manner of\ndifference in this respect.\n\nThere was unquestionably a Chuzzlewit in the Gunpowder Plot, if indeed\nthe arch-traitor, Fawkes himself, were not a scion of this remarkable\nstock; as he might easily have been, supposing another Chuzzlewit\nto have emigrated to Spain in the previous generation, and there\nintermarried with a Spanish lady, by whom he had issue, one\nolive-complexioned son. This probable conjecture is strengthened, if not\nabsolutely confirmed, by a fact which cannot fail to be interesting\nto those who are curious in tracing the progress of hereditary tastes\nthrough the lives of their unconscious inheritors. It is a notable\ncircumstance that in these later times, many Chuzzlewits, being\nunsuccessful in other pursuits, have, without the smallest rational\nhope of enriching themselves, or any conceivable reason, set up as\ncoal-merchants; and have, month after month, continued gloomily to watch\na small stock of coals, without in any one instance negotiating with a\npurchaser. The remarkable similarity between this course of proceeding\nand that adopted by their Great Ancestor beneath the vaults of the\nParliament House at Westminster, is too obvious and too full of\ninterest, to stand in need of comment.\n\nIt is also clearly proved by the oral traditions of the Family, that\nthere existed, at some one period of its history which is not distinctly\nstated, a matron of such destructive principles, and so familiarized to\nthe use and composition of inflammatory and combustible engines, that\nshe was called 'The Match Maker;' by which nickname and byword she is\nrecognized in the Family legends to this day. Surely there can be\nno reasonable doubt that this was the Spanish lady, the mother of\nChuzzlewit Fawkes.\n\nBut there is one other piece of evidence, bearing immediate reference\nto their close connection with this memorable event in English History,\nwhich must carry conviction, even to a mind (if such a mind there be)\nremaining unconvinced by these presumptive proofs.\n\nThere was, within a few years, in the possession of a highly respectable\nand in every way credible and unimpeachable member of the Chuzzlewit\nFamily (for his bitterest enemy never dared to hint at his being\notherwise than a wealthy man), a dark lantern of undoubted antiquity;\nrendered still more interesting by being, in shape and pattern,\nextremely like such as are in use at the present day. Now this\ngentleman, since deceased, was at all times ready to make oath, and\ndid again and again set forth upon his solemn asseveration, that he had\nfrequently heard his grandmother say, when contemplating this venerable\nrelic, 'Aye, aye! This was carried by my fourth son on the fifth of\nNovember, when he was a Guy Fawkes.' These remarkable words wrought\n(as well they might) a strong impression on his mind, and he was in the\nhabit of repeating them very often. The just interpretation which\nthey bear, and the conclusion to which they lead, are triumphant and\nirresistible. The old lady, naturally strong-minded, was nevertheless\nfrail and fading; she was notoriously subject to that confusion of\nideas, or, to say the least, of speech, to which age and garrulity\nare liable. The slight, the very slight, confusion apparent in these\nexpressions is manifest, and is ludicrously easy of correction. 'Aye,\naye,' quoth she, and it will be observed that no emendation whatever is\nnecessary to be made in these two initiative remarks, 'Aye, aye!\nThis lantern was carried by my forefather'--not fourth son, which is\npreposterous--'on the fifth of November. And HE was Guy Fawkes.' Here\nwe have a remark at once consistent, clear, natural, and in strict\naccordance with the character of the speaker. Indeed the anecdote is\nso plainly susceptible of this meaning and no other, that it would be\nhardly worth recording in its original state, were it not a proof of\nwhat may be (and very often is) affected not only in historical prose\nbut in imaginative poetry, by the exercise of a little ingenious labour\non the part of a commentator.\n\nIt has been said that there is no instance, in modern times, of a\nChuzzlewit having been found on terms of intimacy with the Great. But\nhere again the sneering detractors who weave such miserable figments\nfrom their malicious brains, are stricken dumb by evidence. For letters\nare yet in the possession of various branches of the family, from which\nit distinctly appears, being stated in so many words, that one Diggory\nChuzzlewit was in the habit of perpetually dining with Duke Humphrey.\nSo constantly was he a guest at that nobleman's table, indeed; and so\nunceasingly were His Grace's hospitality and companionship forced, as\nit were, upon him; that we find him uneasy, and full of constraint and\nreluctance; writing his friends to the effect that if they fail to do\nso and so by bearer, he will have no choice but to dine again with Duke\nHumphrey; and expressing himself in a very marked and extraordinary\nmanner as one surfeited of High Life and Gracious Company.\n\nIt has been rumoured, and it is needless to say the rumour originated in\nthe same base quarters, that a certain male Chuzzlewit, whose birth must\nbe admitted to be involved in some obscurity, was of very mean and low\ndescent. How stands the proof? When the son of that individual, to whom\nthe secret of his father's birth was supposed to have been communicated\nby his father in his lifetime, lay upon his deathbed, this question was\nput to him in a distinct, solemn, and formal way: 'Toby Chuzzlewit,\nwho was your grandfather?' To which he, with his last breath, no less\ndistinctly, solemnly, and formally replied: and his words were taken\ndown at the time, and signed by six witnesses, each with his name and\naddress in full: 'The Lord No Zoo.' It may be said--it HAS been said,\nfor human wickedness has no limits--that there is no Lord of that\nname, and that among the titles which have become extinct, none at all\nresembling this, in sound even, is to be discovered. But what is the\nirresistible inference? Rejecting a theory broached by some well-meaning\nbut mistaken persons, that this Mr Toby Chuzzlewit's grandfather, to\njudge from his name, must surely have been a Mandarin (which is wholly\ninsupportable, for there is no pretence of his grandmother ever having\nbeen out of this country, or of any Mandarin having been in it within\nsome years of his father's birth; except those in the tea-shops, which\ncannot for a moment be regarded as having any bearing on the question,\none way or other), rejecting this hypothesis, is it not manifest that\nMr Toby Chuzzlewit had either received the name imperfectly from his\nfather, or that he had forgotten it, or that he had mispronounced it?\nand that even at the recent period in question, the Chuzzlewits were\nconnected by a bend sinister, or kind of heraldic over-the-left, with\nsome unknown noble and illustrious House?\n\nFrom documentary evidence, yet preserved in the family, the fact is\nclearly established that in the comparatively modern days of the Diggory\nChuzzlewit before mentioned, one of its members had attained to\nvery great wealth and influence. Throughout such fragments of his\ncorrespondence as have escaped the ravages of the moths (who, in right\nof their extensive absorption of the contents of deeds and papers, may\nbe called the general registers of the Insect World), we find him making\nconstant reference to an uncle, in respect of whom he would seem to have\nentertained great expectations, as he was in the habit of seeking to\npropitiate his favour by presents of plate, jewels, books, watches, and\nother valuable articles. Thus, he writes on one occasion to his\nbrother in reference to a gravy-spoon, the brother's property, which he\n(Diggory) would appear to have borrowed or otherwise possessed himself\nof: 'Do not be angry, I have parted with it--to my uncle.' On another\noccasion he expresses himself in a similar manner with regard to a\nchild's mug which had been entrusted to him to get repaired. On another\noccasion he says, 'I have bestowed upon that irresistible uncle of mine\neverything I ever possessed.' And that he was in the habit of paying\nlong and constant visits to this gentleman at his mansion, if, indeed,\nhe did not wholly reside there, is manifest from the following sentence:\n'With the exception of the suit of clothes I carry about with me,\nthe whole of my wearing apparel is at present at my uncle's.' This\ngentleman's patronage and influence must have been very extensive, for\nhis nephew writes, 'His interest is too high'--'It is too much'--'It is\ntremendous'--and the like. Still it does not appear (which is strange)\nto have procured for him any lucrative post at court or elsewhere, or\nto have conferred upon him any other distinction than that which was\nnecessarily included in the countenance of so great a man, and the being\ninvited by him to certain entertainment's, so splendid and costly in\ntheir nature, that he calls them 'Golden Balls.'\n\nIt is needless to multiply instances of the high and lofty station, and\nthe vast importance of the Chuzzlewits, at different periods. If it\ncame within the scope of reasonable probability that further proofs were\nrequired, they might be heaped upon each other until they formed an Alps\nof testimony, beneath which the boldest scepticism should be crushed\nand beaten flat. As a goodly tumulus is already collected, and decently\nbattened up above the Family grave, the present chapter is content to\nleave it as it is: merely adding, by way of a final spadeful, that many\nChuzzlewits, both male and female, are proved to demonstration, on the\nfaith of letters written by their own mothers, to have had chiselled\nnoses, undeniable chins, forms that might have served the sculptor for a\nmodel, exquisitely-turned limbs and polished foreheads of so transparent\na texture that the blue veins might be seen branching off in various\ndirections, like so many roads on an ethereal map. This fact in itself,\nthough it had been a solitary one, would have utterly settled and\nclenched the business in hand; for it is well known, on the authority\nof all the books which treat of such matters, that every one of these\nphenomena, but especially that of the chiselling, are invariably\npeculiar to, and only make themselves apparent in, persons of the very\nbest condition.\n\nThis history having, to its own perfect satisfaction, (and,\nconsequently, to the full contentment of all its readers,) proved the\nChuzzlewits to have had an origin, and to have been at one time or other\nof an importance which cannot fail to render them highly improving and\nacceptable acquaintance to all right-minded individuals, may now proceed\nin earnest with its task. And having shown that they must have had, by\nreason of their ancient birth, a pretty large share in the foundation\nand increase of the human family, it will one day become its province to\nsubmit, that such of its members as shall be introduced in these pages,\nhave still many counterparts and prototypes in the Great World about us.\nAt present it contents itself with remarking, in a general way, on this\nhead: Firstly, that it may be safely asserted, and yet without\nimplying any direct participation in the Manboddo doctrine touching the\nprobability of the human race having once been monkeys, that men do\nplay very strange and extraordinary tricks. Secondly, and yet without\ntrenching on the Blumenbach theory as to the descendants of Adam having\na vast number of qualities which belong more particularly to swine than\nto any other class of animals in the creation, that some men certainly\nare remarkable for taking uncommon good care of themselves.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER TWO\n\nWHEREIN CERTAIN PERSONS ARE PRESENTED TO THE READER, WITH WHOM HE MAY,\nIF HE PLEASE, BECOME BETTER ACQUAINTED\n\n\nIt was pretty late in the autumn of the year, when the declining sun\nstruggling through the mist which had obscured it all day, looked\nbrightly down upon a little Wiltshire village, within an easy journey of\nthe fair old town of Salisbury.\n\nLike a sudden flash of memory or spirit kindling up the mind of an old\nman, it shed a glory upon the scene, in which its departed youth and\nfreshness seemed to live again. The wet grass sparkled in the light;\nthe scanty patches of verdure in the hedges--where a few green twigs\nyet stood together bravely, resisting to the last the tyranny of nipping\nwinds and early frosts--took heart and brightened up; the stream which\nhad been dull and sullen all day long, broke out into a cheerful smile;\nthe birds began to chirp and twitter on the naked boughs, as though the\nhopeful creatures half believed that winter had gone by, and spring\nhad come already. The vane upon the tapering spire of the old church\nglistened from its lofty station in sympathy with the general gladness;\nand from the ivy-shaded windows such gleams of light shone back upon\nthe glowing sky, that it seemed as if the quiet buildings were the\nhoarding-place of twenty summers, and all their ruddiness and warmth\nwere stored within.\n\nEven those tokens of the season which emphatically whispered of the\ncoming winter, graced the landscape, and, for the moment, tinged its\nlivelier features with no oppressive air of sadness. The fallen leaves,\nwith which the ground was strewn, gave forth a pleasant fragrance, and\nsubduing all harsh sounds of distant feet and wheels created a repose\nin gentle unison with the light scattering of seed hither and thither by\nthe distant husbandman, and with the noiseless passage of the plough as\nit turned up the rich brown earth, and wrought a graceful pattern in\nthe stubbled fields. On the motionless branches of some trees, autumn\nberries hung like clusters of coral beads, as in those fabled orchards\nwhere the fruits were jewels; others stripped of all their garniture,\nstood, each the centre of its little heap of bright red leaves, watching\ntheir slow decay; others again, still wearing theirs, had them all\ncrunched and crackled up, as though they had been burnt; about the stems\nof some were piled, in ruddy mounds, the apples they had borne that\nyear; while others (hardy evergreens this class) showed somewhat stern\nand gloomy in their vigour, as charged by nature with the admonition\nthat it is not to her more sensitive and joyous favourites she grants\nthe longest term of life. Still athwart their darker boughs, the\nsunbeams struck out paths of deeper gold; and the red light, mantling in\namong their swarthy branches, used them as foils to set its brightness\noff, and aid the lustre of the dying day.\n\nA moment, and its glory was no more. The sun went down beneath the long\ndark lines of hill and cloud which piled up in the west an airy city,\nwall heaped on wall, and battlement on battlement; the light was all\nwithdrawn; the shining church turned cold and dark; the stream forgot\nto smile; the birds were silent; and the gloom of winter dwelt on\neverything.\n\nAn evening wind uprose too, and the slighter branches cracked and\nrattled as they moved, in skeleton dances, to its moaning music. The\nwithering leaves no longer quiet, hurried to and fro in search of\nshelter from its chill pursuit; the labourer unyoked his horses, and\nwith head bent down, trudged briskly home beside them; and from the\ncottage windows lights began to glance and wink upon the darkening\nfields.\n\nThen the village forge came out in all its bright importance. The lusty\nbellows roared Ha ha! to the clear fire, which roared in turn, and bade\nthe shining sparks dance gayly to the merry clinking of the hammers on\nthe anvil. The gleaming iron, in its emulation, sparkled too, and shed\nits red-hot gems around profusely. The strong smith and his men dealt\nsuch strokes upon their work, as made even the melancholy night rejoice,\nand brought a glow into its dark face as it hovered about the door and\nwindows, peeping curiously in above the shoulders of a dozen loungers.\nAs to this idle company, there they stood, spellbound by the place, and,\ncasting now and then a glance upon the darkness in their rear, settled\ntheir lazy elbows more at ease upon the sill, and leaned a little\nfurther in: no more disposed to tear themselves away than if they had\nbeen born to cluster round the blazing hearth like so many crickets.\n\nOut upon the angry wind! how from sighing, it began to bluster round the\nmerry forge, banging at the wicket, and grumbling in the chimney, as if\nit bullied the jolly bellows for doing anything to order. And what an\nimpotent swaggerer it was too, for all its noise; for if it had any\ninfluence on that hoarse companion, it was but to make him roar his\ncheerful song the louder, and by consequence to make the fire burn\nthe brighter, and the sparks to dance more gayly yet; at length, they\nwhizzed so madly round and round, that it was too much for such a surly\nwind to bear; so off it flew with a howl giving the old sign before the\nale-house door such a cuff as it went, that the Blue Dragon was more\nrampant than usual ever afterwards, and indeed, before Christmas, reared\nclean out of its crazy frame.\n\nIt was small tyranny for a respectable wind to go wreaking its vengeance\non such poor creatures as the fallen leaves, but this wind happening to\ncome up with a great heap of them just after venting its humour on the\ninsulted Dragon, did so disperse and scatter them that they fled away,\npell-mell, some here, some there, rolling over each other, whirling\nround and round upon their thin edges, taking frantic flights into the\nair, and playing all manner of extraordinary gambols in the extremity\nof their distress. Nor was this enough for its malicious fury; for not\ncontent with driving them abroad, it charged small parties of them and\nhunted them into the wheel wright's saw-pit, and below the planks and\ntimbers in the yard, and, scattering the sawdust in the air, it looked\nfor them underneath, and when it did meet with any, whew! how it drove\nthem on and followed at their heels!\n\nThe scared leaves only flew the faster for all this, and a giddy chase\nit was; for they got into unfrequented places, where there was no\noutlet, and where their pursuer kept them eddying round and round at his\npleasure; and they crept under the eaves of houses, and clung tightly to\nthe sides of hay-ricks, like bats; and tore in at open chamber windows,\nand cowered close to hedges; and, in short, went anywhere for safety.\nBut the oddest feat they achieved was, to take advantage of the sudden\nopening of Mr Pecksniff's front-door, to dash wildly into his passage;\nwhither the wind following close upon them, and finding the back-door\nopen, incontinently blew out the lighted candle held by Miss Pecksniff,\nand slammed the front-door against Mr Pecksniff who was at that moment\nentering, with such violence, that in the twinkling of an eye he lay on\nhis back at the bottom of the steps. Being by this time weary of such\ntrifling performances, the boisterous rover hurried away rejoicing,\nroaring over moor and meadow, hill and flat, until it got out to sea,\nwhere it met with other winds similarly disposed, and made a night of\nit.\n\nIn the meantime Mr Pecksniff, having received from a sharp angle in the\nbottom step but one, that sort of knock on the head which lights up, for\nthe patient's entertainment, an imaginary general illumination of very\nbright short-sixes, lay placidly staring at his own street door. And it\nwould seem to have been more suggestive in its aspect than street\ndoors usually are; for he continued to lie there, rather a lengthy and\nunreasonable time, without so much as wondering whether he was hurt\nor no; neither, when Miss Pecksniff inquired through the key-hole in a\nshrill voice, which might have belonged to a wind in its teens, 'Who's\nthere' did he make any reply; nor, when Miss Pecksniff opened the door\nagain, and shading the candle with her hand, peered out, and looked\nprovokingly round him, and about him, and over him, and everywhere but\nat him, did he offer any remark, or indicate in any manner the least\nhint of a desire to be picked up.\n\n'I see you,' cried Miss Pecksniff, to the ideal inflicter of a runaway\nknock. 'You'll catch it, sir!'\n\nStill Mr Pecksniff, perhaps from having caught it already, said nothing.\n\n'You're round the corner now,' cried Miss Pecksniff. She said it at a\nventure, but there was appropriate matter in it too; for Mr Pecksniff,\nbeing in the act of extinguishing the candles before mentioned pretty\nrapidly, and of reducing the number of brass knobs on his street door\nfrom four or five hundred (which had previously been juggling of their\nown accord before his eyes in a very novel manner) to a dozen or so,\nmight in one sense have been said to be coming round the corner, and\njust turning it.\n\nWith a sharply delivered warning relative to the cage and the constable,\nand the stocks and the gallows, Miss Pecksniff was about to close the\ndoor again, when Mr Pecksniff (being still at the bottom of the steps)\nraised himself on one elbow, and sneezed.\n\n'That voice!' cried Miss Pecksniff. 'My parent!'\n\nAt this exclamation, another Miss Pecksniff bounced out of the parlour;\nand the two Miss Pecksniffs, with many incoherent expressions, dragged\nMr Pecksniff into an upright posture.\n\n'Pa!' they cried in concert. 'Pa! Speak, Pa! Do not look so wild my\ndearest Pa!'\n\nBut as a gentleman's looks, in such a case of all others, are by no\nmeans under his own control, Mr Pecksniff continued to keep his mouth\nand his eyes very wide open, and to drop his lower jaw, somewhat after\nthe manner of a toy nut-cracker; and as his hat had fallen off, and his\nface was pale, and his hair erect, and his coat muddy, the spectacle he\npresented was so very doleful, that neither of the Miss Pecksniffs could\nrepress an involuntary screech.\n\n'That'll do,' said Mr Pecksniff. 'I'm better.'\n\n'He's come to himself!' cried the youngest Miss Pecksniff.\n\n'He speaks again!' exclaimed the eldest.\n\nWith these joyful words they kissed Mr Pecksniff on either cheek; and\nbore him into the house. Presently, the youngest Miss Pecksniff ran\nout again to pick up his hat, his brown paper parcel, his umbrella, his\ngloves, and other small articles; and that done, and the door closed,\nboth young ladies applied themselves to tending Mr Pecksniff's wounds in\nthe back parlour.\n\nThey were not very serious in their nature; being limited to abrasions\non what the eldest Miss Pecksniff called 'the knobby parts' of her\nparent's anatomy, such as his knees and elbows, and to the development\nof an entirely new organ, unknown to phrenologists, on the back of his\nhead. These injuries having been comforted externally, with patches of\npickled brown paper, and Mr Pecksniff having been comforted internally,\nwith some stiff brandy-and-water, the eldest Miss Pecksniff sat down\nto make the tea, which was all ready. In the meantime the youngest Miss\nPecksniff brought from the kitchen a smoking dish of ham and eggs, and,\nsetting the same before her father, took up her station on a low stool\nat his feet; thereby bringing her eyes on a level with the teaboard.\n\nIt must not be inferred from this position of humility, that the\nyoungest Miss Pecksniff was so young as to be, as one may say, forced to\nsit upon a stool, by reason of the shortness of her legs. Miss Pecksniff\nsat upon a stool because of her simplicity and innocence, which were\nvery great, very great. Miss Pecksniff sat upon a stool because she was\nall girlishness, and playfulness, and wildness, and kittenish buoyancy.\nShe was the most arch and at the same time the most artless creature,\nwas the youngest Miss Pecksniff, that you can possibly imagine. It\nwas her great charm. She was too fresh and guileless, and too full of\nchild-like vivacity, was the youngest Miss Pecksniff, to wear combs in\nher hair, or to turn it up, or to frizzle it, or braid it. She wore it\nin a crop, a loosely flowing crop, which had so many rows of curls in\nit, that the top row was only one curl. Moderately buxom was her shape,\nand quite womanly too; but sometimes--yes, sometimes--she even wore\na pinafore; and how charming THAT was! Oh! she was indeed 'a gushing\nthing' (as a young gentleman had observed in verse, in the Poet's Corner\nof a provincial newspaper), was the youngest Miss Pecksniff!\n\nMr Pecksniff was a moral man--a grave man, a man of noble sentiments and\nspeech--and he had had her christened Mercy. Mercy! oh, what a charming\nname for such a pure-souled Being as the youngest Miss Pecksniff! Her\nsister's name was Charity. There was a good thing! Mercy and Charity!\nAnd Charity, with her fine strong sense and her mild, yet not\nreproachful gravity, was so well named, and did so well set off and\nillustrate her sister! What a pleasant sight was that the contrast\nthey presented; to see each loved and loving one sympathizing with, and\ndevoted to, and leaning on, and yet correcting and counter-checking,\nand, as it were, antidoting, the other! To behold each damsel in her\nvery admiration of her sister, setting up in business for herself on\nan entirely different principle, and announcing no connection with\nover-the-way, and if the quality of goods at that establishment don't\nplease you, you are respectfully invited to favour ME with a call! And\nthe crowning circumstance of the whole delightful catalogue was, that\nboth the fair creatures were so utterly unconscious of all this!\nThey had no idea of it. They no more thought or dreamed of it than Mr\nPecksniff did. Nature played them off against each other; THEY had no\nhand in it, the two Miss Pecksniffs.\n\nIt has been remarked that Mr Pecksniff was a moral man. So he was.\nPerhaps there never was a more moral man than Mr Pecksniff, especially\nin his conversation and correspondence. It was once said of him by a\nhomely admirer, that he had a Fortunatus's purse of good sentiments in\nhis inside. In this particular he was like the girl in the fairy tale,\nexcept that if they were not actual diamonds which fell from his lips,\nthey were the very brightest paste, and shone prodigiously. He was a\nmost exemplary man; fuller of virtuous precept than a copy book. Some\npeople likened him to a direction-post, which is always telling the\nway to a place, and never goes there; but these were his enemies, the\nshadows cast by his brightness; that was all. His very throat was moral.\nYou saw a good deal of it. You looked over a very low fence of white\ncravat (whereof no man had ever beheld the tie for he fastened it\nbehind), and there it lay, a valley between two jutting heights of\ncollar, serene and whiskerless before you. It seemed to say, on the part\nof Mr Pecksniff, 'There is no deception, ladies and gentlemen, all is\npeace, a holy calm pervades me.' So did his hair, just grizzled with\nan iron-grey which was all brushed off his forehead, and stood bolt\nupright, or slightly drooped in kindred action with his heavy eyelids.\nSo did his person, which was sleek though free from corpulency. So did\nhis manner, which was soft and oily. In a word, even his plain black\nsuit, and state of widower and dangling double eye-glass, all tended to\nthe same purpose, and cried aloud, 'Behold the moral Pecksniff!'\n\nThe brazen plate upon the door (which being Mr Pecksniff's, could\nnot lie) bore this inscription, 'PECKSNIFF, ARCHITECT,' to which Mr\nPecksniff, on his cards of business, added, AND LAND SURVEYOR.' In one\nsense, and only one, he may be said to have been a Land Surveyor on a\npretty large scale, as an extensive prospect lay stretched out before\nthe windows of his house. Of his architectural doings, nothing was\nclearly known, except that he had never designed or built anything; but\nit was generally understood that his knowledge of the science was almost\nawful in its profundity.\n\nMr Pecksniff's professional engagements, indeed, were almost, if not\nentirely, confined to the reception of pupils; for the collection of\nrents, with which pursuit he occasionally varied and relieved his graver\ntoils, can hardly be said to be a strictly architectural employment. His\ngenius lay in ensnaring parents and guardians, and pocketing premiums. A\nyoung gentleman's premium being paid, and the young gentleman come to\nMr Pecksniff's house, Mr Pecksniff borrowed his case of mathematical\ninstruments (if silver-mounted or otherwise valuable); entreated him,\nfrom that moment, to consider himself one of the family; complimented\nhim highly on his parents or guardians, as the case might be; and\nturned him loose in a spacious room on the two-pair front; where, in the\ncompany of certain drawing-boards, parallel rulers, very stiff-legged\ncompasses, and two, or perhaps three, other young gentlemen, he improved\nhimself, for three or five years, according to his articles, in making\nelevations of Salisbury Cathedral from every possible point of sight;\nand in constructing in the air a vast quantity of Castles, Houses of\nParliament, and other Public Buildings. Perhaps in no place in the\nworld were so many gorgeous edifices of this class erected as under\nMr Pecksniff's auspices; and if but one-twentieth part of the churches\nwhich were built in that front room, with one or other of the Miss\nPecksniffs at the altar in the act of marrying the architect, could only\nbe made available by the parliamentary commissioners, no more churches\nwould be wanted for at least five centuries.\n\n'Even the worldly goods of which we have just disposed,' said Mr\nPecksniff, glancing round the table when he had finished, 'even cream,\nsugar, tea, toast, ham--'\n\n'And eggs,' suggested Charity in a low voice.\n\n'And eggs,' said Mr Pecksniff, 'even they have their moral. See how they\ncome and go! Every pleasure is transitory. We can't even eat, long.\nIf we indulge in harmless fluids, we get the dropsy; if in exciting\nliquids, we get drunk. What a soothing reflection is that!'\n\n'Don't say WE get drunk, Pa,' urged the eldest Miss Pecksniff.\n\n'When I say we, my dear,' returned her father, 'I mean mankind in\ngeneral; the human race, considered as a body, and not as individuals.\nThere is nothing personal in morality, my love. Even such a thing as\nthis,' said Mr Pecksniff, laying the fore-finger of his left hand upon\nthe brown paper patch on the top of his head, 'slight casual baldness\nthough it be, reminds us that we are but'--he was going to say 'worms,'\nbut recollecting that worms were not remarkable for heads of hair, he\nsubstituted 'flesh and blood.'\n\n'Which,' cried Mr Pecksniff after a pause, during which he seemed to\nhave been casting about for a new moral, and not quite successfully,\n'which is also very soothing. Mercy, my dear, stir the fire and throw up\nthe cinders.'\n\nThe young lady obeyed, and having done so, resumed her stool, reposed\none arm upon her father's knee, and laid her blooming cheek upon\nit. Miss Charity drew her chair nearer the fire, as one prepared for\nconversation, and looked towards her father.\n\n'Yes,' said Mr Pecksniff, after a short pause, during which he had been\nsilently smiling, and shaking his head at the fire--'I have again been\nfortunate in the attainment of my object. A new inmate will very shortly\ncome among us.'\n\n'A youth, papa?' asked Charity.\n\n'Ye-es, a youth,' said Mr Pecksniff. 'He will avail himself of the\neligible opportunity which now offers, for uniting the advantages of the\nbest practical architectural education with the comforts of a home, and\nthe constant association with some who (however humble their sphere,\nand limited their capacity) are not unmindful of their moral\nresponsibilities.'\n\n'Oh Pa!' cried Mercy, holding up her finger archly. 'See advertisement!'\n\n'Playful--playful warbler,' said Mr Pecksniff. It may be observed in\nconnection with his calling his daughter a 'warbler,' that she was not\nat all vocal, but that Mr Pecksniff was in the frequent habit of using\nany word that occurred to him as having a good sound, and rounding a\nsentence well without much care for its meaning. And he did this so\nboldly, and in such an imposing manner, that he would sometimes stagger\nthe wisest people with his eloquence, and make them gasp again.\n\nHis enemies asserted, by the way, that a strong trustfulness in sounds\nand forms was the master-key to Mr Pecksniff's character.\n\n'Is he handsome, Pa?' inquired the younger daughter.\n\n'Silly Merry!' said the eldest: Merry being fond for Mercy. 'What is the\npremium, Pa? tell us that.'\n\n'Oh, good gracious, Cherry!' cried Miss Mercy, holding up her hands with\nthe most winning giggle in the world, 'what a mercenary girl you are! oh\nyou naughty, thoughtful, prudent thing!'\n\nIt was perfectly charming, and worthy of the Pastoral age, to see how\nthe two Miss Pecksniffs slapped each other after this, and then subsided\ninto an embrace expressive of their different dispositions.\n\n'He is well looking,' said Mr Pecksniff, slowly and distinctly; 'well\nlooking enough. I do not positively expect any immediate premium with\nhim.'\n\nNotwithstanding their different natures, both Charity and Mercy\nconcurred in opening their eyes uncommonly wide at this announcement,\nand in looking for the moment as blank as if their thoughts had actually\nhad a direct bearing on the main chance.\n\n'But what of that!' said Mr Pecksniff, still smiling at the fire. 'There\nis disinterestedness in the world, I hope? We are not all arrayed in two\nopposite ranks; the OFfensive and the DEfensive. Some few there are\nwho walk between; who help the needy as they go; and take no part with\neither side. Umph!'\n\nThere was something in these morsels of philanthropy which reassured the\nsisters. They exchanged glances, and brightened very much.\n\n'Oh! let us not be for ever calculating, devising, and plotting for the\nfuture,' said Mr Pecksniff, smiling more and more, and looking at the\nfire as a man might, who was cracking a joke with it: 'I am weary of\nsuch arts. If our inclinations are but good and open-hearted, let us\ngratify them boldly, though they bring upon us Loss instead of Profit.\nEh, Charity?'\n\nGlancing towards his daughters for the first time since he had begun\nthese reflections, and seeing that they both smiled, Mr Pecksniff eyed\nthem for an instant so jocosely (though still with a kind of saintly\nwaggishness) that the younger one was moved to sit upon his knee\nforthwith, put her fair arms round his neck, and kiss him twenty times.\nDuring the whole of this affectionate display she laughed to a most\nimmoderate extent: in which hilarious indulgence even the prudent Cherry\njoined.\n\n'Tut, tut,' said Mr Pecksniff, pushing his latest-born away and running\nhis fingers through his hair, as he resumed his tranquil face. 'What\nfolly is this! Let us take heed how we laugh without reason lest we cry\nwith it. What is the domestic news since yesterday? John Westlock is\ngone, I hope?'\n\n'Indeed, no,' said Charity.\n\n'And why not?' returned her father. 'His term expired yesterday. And his\nbox was packed, I know; for I saw it, in the morning, standing in the\nhall.'\n\n'He slept last night at the Dragon,' returned the young lady, 'and had\nMr Pinch to dine with him. They spent the evening together, and Mr Pinch\nwas not home till very late.'\n\n'And when I saw him on the stairs this morning, Pa,' said Mercy with her\nusual sprightliness, 'he looked, oh goodness, SUCH a monster! with his\nface all manner of colours, and his eyes as dull as if they had been\nboiled, and his head aching dreadfully, I am sure from the look of\nit, and his clothes smelling, oh it's impossible to say how strong,\noh'--here the young lady shuddered--'of smoke and punch.'\n\n'Now I think,' said Mr Pecksniff with his accustomed gentleness, though\nstill with the air of one who suffered under injury without complaint,\n'I think Mr Pinch might have done better than choose for his companion\none who, at the close of a long intercourse, had endeavoured, as he\nknew, to wound my feelings. I am not quite sure that this was delicate\nin Mr Pinch. I am not quite sure that this was kind in Mr Pinch. I will\ngo further and say, I am not quite sure that this was even ordinarily\ngrateful in Mr Pinch.'\n\n'But what can anyone expect from Mr Pinch!' cried Charity, with as\nstrong and scornful an emphasis on the name as if it would have given\nher unspeakable pleasure to express it, in an acted charade, on the calf\nof that gentleman's leg.\n\n'Aye, aye,' returned her father, raising his hand mildly: 'it is\nvery well to say what can we expect from Mr Pinch, but Mr Pinch is\na fellow-creature, my dear; Mr Pinch is an item in the vast total of\nhumanity, my love; and we have a right, it is our duty, to expect in\nMr Pinch some development of those better qualities, the possession\nof which in our own persons inspires our humble self-respect. No,'\ncontinued Mr Pecksniff. 'No! Heaven forbid that I should say, nothing\ncan be expected from Mr Pinch; or that I should say, nothing can be\nexpected from any man alive (even the most degraded, which Mr Pinch is\nnot, no, really); but Mr Pinch has disappointed me; he has hurt me;\nI think a little the worse of him on this account, but not if human\nnature. Oh, no, no!'\n\n'Hark!' said Miss Charity, holding up her finger, as a gentle rap was\nheard at the street door. 'There is the creature! Now mark my words, he\nhas come back with John Westlock for his box, and is going to help\nhim to take it to the mail. Only mark my words, if that isn't his\nintention!'\n\nEven as she spoke, the box appeared to be in progress of conveyance from\nthe house, but after a brief murmuring of question and answer, it was\nput down again, and somebody knocked at the parlour door.\n\n'Come in!' cried Mr Pecksniff--not severely; only virtuously. 'Come in!'\n\nAn ungainly, awkward-looking man, extremely short-sighted, and\nprematurely bald, availed himself of this permission; and seeing that\nMr Pecksniff sat with his back towards him, gazing at the fire,\nstood hesitating, with the door in his hand. He was far from handsome\ncertainly; and was drest in a snuff-coloured suit, of an uncouth make at\nthe best, which, being shrunk with long wear, was twisted and tortured\ninto all kinds of odd shapes; but notwithstanding his attire, and his\nclumsy figure, which a great stoop in his shoulders, and a ludicrous\nhabit he had of thrusting his head forward, by no means redeemed, one\nwould not have been disposed (unless Mr Pecksniff said so) to consider\nhim a bad fellow by any means. He was perhaps about thirty, but he might\nhave been almost any age between sixteen and sixty; being one of those\nstrange creatures who never decline into an ancient appearance, but look\ntheir oldest when they are very young, and get it over at once.\n\nKeeping his hand upon the lock of the door, he glanced from Mr Pecksniff\nto Mercy, from Mercy to Charity, and from Charity to Mr Pecksniff again,\nseveral times; but the young ladies being as intent upon the fire as\ntheir father was, and neither of the three taking any notice of him, he\nwas fain to say, at last,\n\n'Oh! I beg your pardon, Mr Pecksniff: I beg your pardon for intruding;\nbut--'\n\n'No intrusion, Mr Pinch,' said that gentleman very sweetly, but without\nlooking round. 'Pray be seated, Mr Pinch. Have the goodness to shut the\ndoor, Mr Pinch, if you please.'\n\n'Certainly, sir,' said Pinch; not doing so, however, but holding it\nrather wider open than before, and beckoning nervously to somebody\nwithout: 'Mr Westlock, sir, hearing that you were come home--'\n\n'Mr Pinch, Mr Pinch!' said Pecksniff, wheeling his chair about, and\nlooking at him with an aspect of the deepest melancholy, 'I did not\nexpect this from you. I have not deserved this from you!'\n\n'No, but upon my word, sir--' urged Pinch.\n\n'The less you say, Mr Pinch,' interposed the other, 'the better. I utter\nno complaint. Make no defence.'\n\n'No, but do have the goodness, sir,' cried Pinch, with great\nearnestness, 'if you please. Mr Westlock, sir, going away for good and\nall, wishes to leave none but friends behind him. Mr Westlock and you,\nsir, had a little difference the other day; you have had many little\ndifferences.'\n\n'Little differences!' cried Charity.\n\n'Little differences!' echoed Mercy.\n\n'My loves!' said Mr Pecksniff, with the same serene upraising of his\nhand; 'My dears!' After a solemn pause he meekly bowed to Mr Pinch, as\nwho should say, 'Proceed;' but Mr Pinch was so very much at a loss how\nto resume, and looked so helplessly at the two Miss Pecksniffs, that\nthe conversation would most probably have terminated there, if a\ngood-looking youth, newly arrived at man's estate, had not stepped\nforward from the doorway and taken up the thread of the discourse.\n\n'Come, Mr Pecksniff,' he said, with a smile, 'don't let there be any\nill-blood between us, pray. I am sorry we have ever differed, and\nextremely sorry I have ever given you offence. Bear me no ill-will at\nparting, sir.'\n\n'I bear,' answered Mr Pecksniff, mildly, 'no ill-will to any man on\nearth.'\n\n'I told you he didn't,' said Pinch, in an undertone; 'I knew he didn't!\nHe always says he don't.'\n\n'Then you will shake hands, sir?' cried Westlock, advancing a step or\ntwo, and bespeaking Mr Pinch's close attention by a glance.\n\n'Umph!' said Mr Pecksniff, in his most winning tone.\n\n'You will shake hands, sir.'\n\n'No, John,' said Mr Pecksniff, with a calmness quite ethereal; 'no, I\nwill not shake hands, John. I have forgiven you. I had already forgiven\nyou, even before you ceased to reproach and taunt me. I have embraced\nyou in the spirit, John, which is better than shaking hands.'\n\n'Pinch,' said the youth, turning towards him, with a hearty disgust of\nhis late master, 'what did I tell you?'\n\nPoor Pinch looked down uneasily at Mr Pecksniff, whose eye was fixed\nupon him as it had been from the first; and looking up at the ceiling\nagain, made no reply.\n\n'As to your forgiveness, Mr Pecksniff,' said the youth, 'I'll not have\nit upon such terms. I won't be forgiven.'\n\n'Won't you, John?' retorted Mr Pecksniff, with a smile. 'You must. You\ncan't help it. Forgiveness is a high quality; an exalted virtue; far\nabove YOUR control or influence, John. I WILL forgive you. You cannot\nmove me to remember any wrong you have ever done me, John.'\n\n'Wrong!' cried the other, with all the heat and impetuosity of his age.\n'Here's a pretty fellow! Wrong! Wrong I have done him! He'll not even\nremember the five hundred pounds he had with me under false pretences;\nor the seventy pounds a year for board and lodging that would have been\ndear at seventeen! Here's a martyr!'\n\n'Money, John,' said Mr Pecksniff, 'is the root of all evil. I grieve\nto see that it is already bearing evil fruit in you. But I will not\nremember its existence. I will not even remember the conduct of that\nmisguided person'--and here, although he spoke like one at peace with\nall the world, he used an emphasis that plainly said \"I have my eye\nupon the rascal now\"--'that misguided person who has brought you here\nto-night, seeking to disturb (it is a happiness to say, in vain) the\nheart's repose and peace of one who would have shed his dearest blood to\nserve him.'\n\nThe voice of Mr Pecksniff trembled as he spoke, and sobs were heard from\nhis daughters. Sounds floated on the air, moreover, as if two spirit\nvoices had exclaimed: one, 'Beast!' the other, 'Savage!'\n\n'Forgiveness,' said Mr Pecksniff, 'entire and pure forgiveness is not\nincompatible with a wounded heart; perchance when the heart is wounded,\nit becomes a greater virtue. With my breast still wrung and grieved to\nits inmost core by the ingratitude of that person, I am proud and glad\nto say that I forgive him. Nay! I beg,' cried Mr Pecksniff, raising his\nvoice, as Pinch appeared about to speak, 'I beg that individual not to\noffer a remark; he will truly oblige me by not uttering one word, just\nnow. I am not sure that I am equal to the trial. In a very short space\nof time, I shall have sufficient fortitude, I trust to converse with\nhim as if these events had never happened. But not,' said Mr Pecksniff,\nturning round again towards the fire, and waving his hand in the\ndirection of the door, 'not now.'\n\n'Bah!' cried John Westlock, with the utmost disgust and disdain the\nmonosyllable is capable of expressing. 'Ladies, good evening. Come,\nPinch, it's not worth thinking of. I was right and you were wrong.\nThat's small matter; you'll be wiser another time.'\n\nSo saying, he clapped that dejected companion on the shoulder, turned\nupon his heel, and walked out into the passage, whither poor Mr\nPinch, after lingering irresolutely in the parlour for a few seconds,\nexpressing in his countenance the deepest mental misery and gloom\nfollowed him. Then they took up the box between them, and sallied out to\nmeet the mail.\n\nThat fleet conveyance passed, every night, the corner of a lane at some\ndistance; towards which point they bent their steps. For some minutes\nthey walked along in silence, until at length young Westlock burst into\na loud laugh, and at intervals into another, and another. Still there\nwas no response from his companion.\n\n'I'll tell you what, Pinch!' he said abruptly, after another lengthened\nsilence--'You haven't half enough of the devil in you. Half enough! You\nhaven't any.'\n\n'Well!' said Pinch with a sigh, 'I don't know, I'm sure. It's compliment\nto say so. If I haven't, I suppose, I'm all the better for it.'\n\n'All the better!' repeated his companion tartly: 'All the worse, you\nmean to say.'\n\n'And yet,' said Pinch, pursuing his own thoughts and not this last\nremark on the part of his friend, 'I must have a good deal of what\nyou call the devil in me, too, or how could I make Pecksniff so\nuncomfortable? I wouldn't have occasioned him so much distress--don't\nlaugh, please--for a mine of money; and Heaven knows I could find good\nuse for it too, John. How grieved he was!'\n\n'HE grieved!' returned the other.\n\n'Why didn't you observe that the tears were almost starting out of his\neyes!' cried Pinch. 'Bless my soul, John, is it nothing to see a man\nmoved to that extent and know one's self to be the cause! And did you\nhear him say that he could have shed his blood for me?'\n\n'Do you WANT any blood shed for you?' returned his friend, with\nconsiderable irritation. 'Does he shed anything for you that you DO\nwant? Does he shed employment for you, instruction for you, pocket\nmoney for you? Does he shed even legs of mutton for you in any decent\nproportion to potatoes and garden stuff?'\n\n'I am afraid,' said Pinch, sighing again, 'that I am a great eater; I\ncan't disguise from myself that I'm a great eater. Now, you know that,\nJohn.'\n\n'You a great eater!' retorted his companion, with no less indignation\nthan before. 'How do you know you are?'\n\nThere appeared to be forcible matter in this inquiry, for Mr Pinch only\nrepeated in an undertone that he had a strong misgiving on the subject,\nand that he greatly feared he was.\n\n'Besides, whether I am or no,' he added, 'that has little or nothing to\ndo with his thinking me ungrateful. John, there is scarcely a sin in the\nworld that is in my eyes such a crying one as ingratitude; and when\nhe taxes me with that, and believes me to be guilty of it, he makes me\nmiserable and wretched.'\n\n'Do you think he don't know that?' returned the other scornfully.\n'But come, Pinch, before I say anything more to you, just run over the\nreasons you have for being grateful to him at all, will you? Change\nhands first, for the box is heavy. That'll do. Now, go on.'\n\n'In the first place,' said Pinch, 'he took me as his pupil for much less\nthan he asked.'\n\n'Well,' rejoined his friend, perfectly unmoved by this instance of\ngenerosity. 'What in the second place?'\n\n'What in the second place?' cried Pinch, in a sort of desperation, 'why,\neverything in the second place. My poor old grandmother died happy to\nthink that she had put me with such an excellent man. I have grown up\nin his house, I am in his confidence, I am his assistant, he allows me a\nsalary; when his business improves, my prospects are to improve too.\nAll this, and a great deal more, is in the second place. And in the very\nprologue and preface to the first place, John, you must consider this,\nwhich nobody knows better than I: that I was born for much plainer and\npoorer things, that I am not a good hand for his kind of business, and\nhave no talent for it, or indeed for anything else but odds and ends\nthat are of no use or service to anybody.'\n\nHe said this with so much earnestness, and in a tone so full of feeling,\nthat his companion instinctively changed his manner as he sat down on\nthe box (they had by this time reached the finger-post at the end of the\nlane); motioned him to sit down beside him; and laid his hand upon his\nshoulder.\n\n'I believe you are one of the best fellows in the world,' he said, 'Tom\nPinch.'\n\n'Not at all,' rejoined Tom. 'If you only knew Pecksniff as well as I do,\nyou might say it of him, indeed, and say it truly.'\n\n'I'll say anything of him, you like,' returned the other, 'and not\nanother word to his disparagement.'\n\n'It's for my sake, then; not his, I am afraid,' said Pinch, shaking his\nhead gravely.\n\n'For whose you please, Tom, so that it does please you. Oh! He's a\nfamous fellow! HE never scraped and clawed into his pouch all your poor\ngrandmother's hard savings--she was a housekeeper, wasn't she, Tom?'\n\n'Yes,' said Mr Pinch, nursing one of his large knees, and nodding his\nhead; 'a gentleman's housekeeper.'\n\n'HE never scraped and clawed into his pouch all her hard savings;\ndazzling her with prospects of your happiness and advancement, which he\nknew (and no man better) never would be realised! HE never speculated\nand traded on her pride in you, and her having educated you, and on her\ndesire that you at least should live to be a gentleman. Not he, Tom!'\n\n'No,' said Tom, looking into his friend's face, as if he were a little\ndoubtful of his meaning. 'Of course not.'\n\n'So I say,' returned the youth, 'of course he never did. HE didn't take\nless than he had asked, because that less was all she had, and more than\nhe expected; not he, Tom! He doesn't keep you as his assistant\nbecause you are of any use to him; because your wonderful faith in his\npretensions is of inestimable service in all his mean disputes; because\nyour honesty reflects honesty on him; because your wandering about this\nlittle place all your spare hours, reading in ancient books and foreign\ntongues, gets noised abroad, even as far as Salisbury, making of him,\nPecksniff the master, a man of learning and of vast importance. HE gets\nno credit from you, Tom, not he.'\n\n'Why, of course he don't,' said Pinch, gazing at his friend with a more\ntroubled aspect than before. 'Pecksniff get credit from me! Well!'\n\n'Don't I say that it's ridiculous,' rejoined the other, 'even to think\nof such a thing?'\n\n'Why, it's madness,' said Tom.\n\n'Madness!' returned young Westlock. 'Certainly it's madness. Who but\na madman would suppose he cares to hear it said on Sundays, that the\nvolunteer who plays the organ in the church, and practises on summer\nevenings in the dark, is Mr Pecksniff's young man, eh, Tom? Who but a\nmadman would suppose it is the game of such a man as he, to have his\nname in everybody's mouth, connected with the thousand useless odds and\nends you do (and which, of course, he taught you), eh, Tom? Who but a\nmadman would suppose you advertised him hereabouts, much cheaper and\nmuch better than a chalker on the walls could, eh, Tom? As well might\none suppose that he doesn't on all occasions pour out his whole heart\nand soul to you; that he doesn't make you a very liberal and indeed\nrather an extravagant allowance; or, to be more wild and monstrous\nstill, if that be possible, as well might one suppose,' and here, at\nevery word, he struck him lightly on the breast, 'that Pecksniff traded\nin your nature, and that your nature was to be timid and distrustful\nof yourself, and trustful of all other men, but most of all, of him who\nleast deserves it. There would be madness, Tom!'\n\nMr Pinch had listened to all this with looks of bewilderment, which\nseemed to be in part occasioned by the matter of his companion's speech,\nand in part by his rapid and vehement manner. Now that he had come to a\nclose, he drew a very long breath; and gazing wistfully in his face as\nif he were unable to settle in his own mind what expression it wore, and\nwere desirous to draw from it as good a clue to his real meaning as it\nwas possible to obtain in the dark, was about to answer, when the sound\nof the mail guard's horn came cheerily upon their ears, putting\nan immediate end to the conference; greatly as it seemed to the\nsatisfaction of the younger man, who jumped up briskly, and gave his\nhand to his companion.\n\n'Both hands, Tom. I shall write to you from London, mind!'\n\n'Yes,' said Pinch. 'Yes. Do, please. Good-bye. Good-bye. I can hardly\nbelieve you're going. It seems, now, but yesterday that you came.\nGood-bye! my dear old fellow!'\n\nJohn Westlock returned his parting words with no less heartiness of\nmanner, and sprung up to his seat upon the roof. Off went the mail at\na canter down the dark road; the lamps gleaming brightly, and the horn\nawakening all the echoes, far and wide.\n\n'Go your ways,' said Pinch, apostrophizing the coach; 'I can hardly\npersuade myself but you're alive, and are some great monster who visits\nthis place at certain intervals, to bear my friends away into the world.\nYou're more exulting and rampant than usual tonight, I think; and you\nmay well crow over your prize; for he is a fine lad, an ingenuous lad,\nand has but one fault that I know of; he don't mean it, but he is most\ncruelly unjust to Pecksniff!'\n\n\n\nCHAPTER THREE\n\nIN WHICH CERTAIN OTHER PERSONS ARE INTRODUCED; ON THE SAME TERMS AS IN\nTHE LAST CHAPTER\n\n\nMention has been already made more than once, of a certain Dragon who\nswung and creaked complainingly before the village alehouse door. A\nfaded, and an ancient dragon he was; and many a wintry storm of rain,\nsnow, sleet, and hail, had changed his colour from a gaudy blue to a\nfaint lack-lustre shade of grey. But there he hung; rearing, in a state\nof monstrous imbecility, on his hind legs; waxing, with every month that\npassed, so much more dim and shapeless, that as you gazed at him on\none side of the sign-board it seemed as if he must be gradually melting\nthrough it, and coming out upon the other.\n\nHe was a courteous and considerate dragon, too; or had been in his\ndistincter days; for in the midst of his rampant feebleness, he kept\none of his forepaws near his nose, as though he would say, 'Don't\nmind me--it's only my fun;' while he held out the other in polite and\nhospitable entreaty. Indeed it must be conceded to the whole brood\nof dragons of modern times, that they have made a great advance in\ncivilisation and refinement. They no longer demand a beautiful virgin\nfor breakfast every morning, with as much regularity as any tame single\ngentleman expects his hot roll, but rest content with the society of\nidle bachelors and roving married men; and they are now remarkable\nrather for holding aloof from the softer sex and discouraging their\nvisits (especially on Saturday nights), than for rudely insisting on\ntheir company without any reference to their inclinations, as they are\nknown to have done in days of yore.\n\nNor is this tribute to the reclaimed animals in question so wide a\ndigression into the realms of Natural History as it may, at first sight,\nappear to be; for the present business of these pages in with the dragon\nwho had his retreat in Mr Pecksniff's neighbourhood, and that courteous\nanimal being already on the carpet, there is nothing in the way of its\nimmediate transaction.\n\nFor many years, then, he had swung and creaked, and flapped himself\nabout, before the two windows of the best bedroom of that house of\nentertainment to which he lent his name; but never in all his swinging,\ncreaking, and flapping, had there been such a stir within its dingy\nprecincts, as on the evening next after that upon which the incidents,\ndetailed in the last chapter occurred; when there was such a hurrying up\nand down stairs of feet, such a glancing of lights, such a whispering\nof voices, such a smoking and sputtering of wood newly lighted in a\ndamp chimney, such an airing of linen, such a scorching smell of hot\nwarming-pans, such a domestic bustle and to-do, in short, as never\ndragon, griffin, unicorn, or other animal of that species presided over,\nsince they first began to interest themselves in household affairs.\n\nAn old gentleman and a young lady, travelling, unattended, in a rusty\nold chariot with post-horses; coming nobody knew whence and going nobody\nknew whither; had turned out of the high road, and driven unexpectedly\nto the Blue Dragon; and here was the old gentleman, who had taken this\nstep by reason of his sudden illness in the carriage, suffering the most\nhorrible cramps and spasms, yet protesting and vowing in the very midst\nof his pain, that he wouldn't have a doctor sent for, and wouldn't take\nany remedies but those which the young lady administered from a small\nmedicine-chest, and wouldn't, in a word, do anything but terrify the\nlandlady out of her five wits, and obstinately refuse compliance with\nevery suggestion that was made to him.\n\nOf all the five hundred proposals for his relief which the good woman\npoured out in less than half an hour, he would entertain but one. That\nwas that he should go to bed. And it was in the preparation of his bed\nand the arrangement of his chamber, that all the stir was made in the\nroom behind the Dragon.\n\nHe was, beyond all question, very ill, and suffered exceedingly; not the\nless, perhaps, because he was a strong and vigorous old man, with a will\nof iron, and a voice of brass. But neither the apprehensions which\nhe plainly entertained, at times, for his life, nor the great pain he\nunderwent, influenced his resolution in the least degree. He would have\nno person sent for. The worse he grew, the more rigid and inflexible he\nbecame in his determination. If they sent for any person to attend him,\nman, woman, or child, he would leave the house directly (so he told\nthem), though he quitted it on foot, and died upon the threshold of the\ndoor.\n\nNow, there being no medical practitioner actually resident in the\nvillage, but a poor apothecary who was also a grocer and general dealer,\nthe landlady had, upon her own responsibility, sent for him, in the\nvery first burst and outset of the disaster. Of course it followed, as\na necessary result of his being wanted, that he was not at home. He had\ngone some miles away, and was not expected home until late at night; so\nthe landlady, being by this time pretty well beside herself, dispatched\nthe same messenger in all haste for Mr Pecksniff, as a learned man\nwho could bear a deal of responsibility, and a moral man who could\nadminister a world of comfort to a troubled mind. That her guest had\nneed of some efficient services under the latter head was obvious enough\nfrom the restless expressions, importing, however, rather a worldly than\na spiritual anxiety, to which he gave frequent utterance.\n\nFrom this last-mentioned secret errand, the messenger returned with no\nbetter news than from the first; Mr Pecksniff was not at home. However,\nthey got the patient into bed without him; and in the course of two\nhours, he gradually became so far better that there were much longer\nintervals than at first between his terms of suffering. By degrees, he\nceased to suffer at all; though his exhaustion was occasionally so great\nthat it suggested hardly less alarm than his actual endurance had done.\n\nIt was in one of his intervals of repose, when, looking round with\ngreat caution, and reaching uneasily out of his nest of pillows, he\nendeavoured, with a strange air of secrecy and distrust, to make use\nof the writing materials which he had ordered to be placed on a table\nbeside him, that the young lady and the mistress of the Blue Dragon\nfound themselves sitting side by side before the fire in the sick\nchamber.\n\nThe mistress of the Blue Dragon was in outward appearance just what a\nlandlady should be: broad, buxom, comfortable, and good looking, with a\nface of clear red and white, which, by its jovial aspect, at once bore\ntestimony to her hearty participation in the good things of the larder\nand cellar, and to their thriving and healthful influences. She was a\nwidow, but years ago had passed through her state of weeds, and burst\ninto flower again; and in full bloom she had continued ever since; and\nin full bloom she was now; with roses on her ample skirts, and roses\non her bodice, roses in her cap, roses in her cheeks,--aye, and roses,\nworth the gathering too, on her lips, for that matter. She had still a\nbright black eye, and jet black hair; was comely, dimpled, plump, and\ntight as a gooseberry; and though she was not exactly what the world\ncalls young, you may make an affidavit, on trust, before any mayor or\nmagistrate in Christendom, that there are a great many young ladies in\nthe world (blessings on them one and all!) whom you wouldn't like half\nas well, or admire half as much, as the beaming hostess of the Blue\nDragon.\n\nAs this fair matron sat beside the fire, she glanced occasionally with\nall the pride of ownership, about the room; which was a large apartment,\nsuch as one may see in country places, with a low roof and a sunken\nflooring, all downhill from the door, and a descent of two steps on\nthe inside so exquisitely unexpected, that strangers, despite the\nmost elaborate cautioning, usually dived in head first, as into a\nplunging-bath. It was none of your frivolous and preposterously bright\nbedrooms, where nobody can close an eye with any kind of propriety or\ndecent regard to the association of ideas; but it was a good, dull,\nleaden, drowsy place, where every article of furniture reminded you\nthat you came there to sleep, and that you were expected to go to sleep.\nThere was no wakeful reflection of the fire there, as in your modern\nchambers, which upon the darkest nights have a watchful consciousness of\nFrench polish; the old Spanish mahogany winked at it now and then, as\na dozing cat or dog might, nothing more. The very size and shape, and\nhopeless immovability of the bedstead, and wardrobe, and in a minor\ndegree of even the chairs and tables, provoked sleep; they were plainly\napoplectic and disposed to snore. There were no staring portraits\nto remonstrate with you for being lazy; no round-eyed birds upon the\ncurtains, disgustingly wide awake, and insufferably prying. The\nthick neutral hangings, and the dark blinds, and the heavy heap\nof bed-clothes, were all designed to hold in sleep, and act as\nnonconductors to the day and getting up. Even the old stuffed fox upon\nthe top of the wardrobe was devoid of any spark of vigilance, for his\nglass eye had fallen out, and he slumbered as he stood.\n\nThe wandering attention of the mistress of the Blue Dragon roved to\nthese things but twice or thrice, and then for but an instant at a time.\nIt soon deserted them, and even the distant bed with its strange burden,\nfor the young creature immediately before her, who, with her downcast\neyes intently fixed upon the fire, sat wrapped in silent meditation.\n\nShe was very young; apparently no more than seventeen; timid and\nshrinking in her manner, and yet with a greater share of self possession\nand control over her emotions than usually belongs to a far more\nadvanced period of female life. This she had abundantly shown, but now,\nin her tending of the sick gentleman. She was short in stature; and her\nfigure was slight, as became her years; but all the charms of youth and\nmaidenhood set it off, and clustered on her gentle brow. Her face was\nvery pale, in part no doubt from recent agitation. Her dark brown hair,\ndisordered from the same cause, had fallen negligently from its bonds,\nand hung upon her neck; for which instance of its waywardness no male\nobserver would have had the heart to blame it.\n\nHer attire was that of a lady, but extremely plain; and in her manner,\neven when she sat as still as she did then, there was an indefinable\nsomething which appeared to be in kindred with her scrupulously\nunpretending dress. She had sat, at first looking anxiously towards the\nbed; but seeing that the patient remained quiet, and was busy with his\nwriting, she had softly moved her chair into its present place; partly,\nas it seemed, from an instinctive consciousness that he desired to avoid\nobservation; and partly that she might, unseen by him, give some vent to\nthe natural feelings she had hitherto suppressed.\n\nOf all this, and much more, the rosy landlady of the Blue Dragon took\nas accurate note and observation as only woman can take of woman. And at\nlength she said, in a voice too low, she knew, to reach the bed:\n\n'You have seen the gentleman in this way before, miss? Is he used to\nthese attacks?'\n\n'I have seen him very ill before, but not so ill as he has been\ntonight.'\n\n'What a Providence!' said the landlady of the Dragon, 'that you had the\nprescriptions and the medicines with you, miss!'\n\n'They are intended for such an emergency. We never travel without them.'\n\n'Oh!' thought the hostess, 'then we are in the habit of travelling, and\nof travelling together.'\n\nShe was so conscious of expressing this in her face, that meeting\nthe young lady's eyes immediately afterwards, and being a very honest\nhostess, she was rather confused.\n\n'The gentleman--your grandpapa'--she resumed, after a short pause,\n'being so bent on having no assistance, must terrify you very much,\nmiss?'\n\n'I have been very much alarmed to-night. He--he is not my grandfather.'\n\n'Father, I should have said,' returned the hostess, sensible of having\nmade an awkward mistake.\n\n'Nor my father' said the young lady. 'Nor,' she added, slightly smiling\nwith a quick perception of what the landlady was going to add, 'Nor my\nuncle. We are not related.'\n\n'Oh dear me!' returned the landlady, still more embarrassed than before;\n'how could I be so very much mistaken; knowing, as anybody in their\nproper senses might that when a gentleman is ill, he looks so much older\nthan he really is? That I should have called you \"Miss,\" too, ma'am!'\nBut when she had proceeded thus far, she glanced involuntarily at the\nthird finger of the young lady's left hand, and faltered again; for\nthere was no ring upon it.\n\n'When I told you we were not related,' said the other mildly, but not\nwithout confusion on her own part, 'I meant not in any way. Not even by\nmarriage. Did you call me, Martin?'\n\n'Call you?' cried the old man, looking quickly up, and hurriedly drawing\nbeneath the coverlet the paper on which he had been writing. 'No.'\n\nShe had moved a pace or two towards the bed, but stopped immediately,\nand went no farther.\n\n'No,' he repeated, with a petulant emphasis. 'Why do you ask me? If I\nhad called you, what need for such a question?'\n\n'It was the creaking of the sign outside, sir, I dare say,' observed the\nlandlady; a suggestion by the way (as she felt a moment after she had\nmade it), not at all complimentary to the voice of the old gentleman.\n\n'No matter what, ma'am,' he rejoined: 'it wasn't I. Why how you stand\nthere, Mary, as if I had the plague! But they're all afraid of me,' he\nadded, leaning helplessly backward on his pillow; 'even she! There is a\ncurse upon me. What else have I to look for?'\n\n'Oh dear, no. Oh no, I'm sure,' said the good-tempered landlady, rising,\nand going towards him. 'Be of better cheer, sir. These are only sick\nfancies.'\n\n'What are only sick fancies?' he retorted. 'What do you know about\nfancies? Who told you about fancies? The old story! Fancies!'\n\n'Only see again there, how you take one up!' said the mistress of the\nBlue Dragon, with unimpaired good humour. 'Dear heart alive, there is\nno harm in the word, sir, if it is an old one. Folks in good health have\ntheir fancies, too, and strange ones, every day.'\n\nHarmless as this speech appeared to be, it acted on the traveller's\ndistrust, like oil on fire. He raised his head up in the bed, and,\nfixing on her two dark eyes whose brightness was exaggerated by the\npaleness of his hollow cheeks, as they in turn, together with his\nstraggling locks of long grey hair, were rendered whiter by the tight\nblack velvet skullcap which he wore, he searched her face intently.\n\n'Ah! you begin too soon,' he said, in so low a voice that he seemed to\nbe thinking it, rather than addressing her. 'But you lose no time. You\ndo your errand, and you earn your fee. Now, who may be your client?'\n\nThe landlady looked in great astonishment at her whom he called Mary,\nand finding no rejoinder in the drooping face, looked back again at him.\nAt first she had recoiled involuntarily, supposing him disordered in\nhis mind; but the slow composure of his manner, and the settled purpose\nannounced in his strong features, and gathering, most of all, about his\npuckered mouth, forbade the supposition.\n\n'Come,' he said, 'tell me who is it? Being here, it is not very hard for\nme to guess, you may suppose.'\n\n'Martin,' interposed the young lady, laying her hand upon his arm;\n'reflect how short a time we have been in this house, and that even your\nname is unknown here.'\n\n'Unless,' he said, 'you--' He was evidently tempted to express a\nsuspicion of her having broken his confidence in favour of the landlady,\nbut either remembering her tender nursing, or being moved in some sort\nby her face, he checked himself, and changing his uneasy posture in the\nbed, was silent.\n\n'There!' said Mrs Lupin; for in that name the Blue Dragon was licensed\nto furnish entertainment, both to man and beast. 'Now, you will be well\nagain, sir. You forgot, for the moment, that there were none but friends\nhere.'\n\n'Oh!' cried the old man, moaning impatiently, as he tossed one restless\narm upon the coverlet; 'why do you talk to me of friends! Can you or\nanybody teach me to know who are my friends, and who my enemies?'\n\n'At least,' urged Mrs Lupin, gently, 'this young lady is your friend, I\nam sure.'\n\n'She has no temptation to be otherwise,' cried the old man, like one\nwhose hope and confidence were utterly exhausted. 'I suppose she is.\nHeaven knows. There, let me try to sleep. Leave the candle where it is.'\n\nAs they retired from the bed, he drew forth the writing which had\noccupied him so long, and holding it in the flame of the taper burnt\nit to ashes. That done, he extinguished the light, and turning his face\naway with a heavy sigh, drew the coverlet about his head, and lay quite\nstill.\n\nThis destruction of the paper, both as being strangely inconsistent with\nthe labour he had devoted to it, and as involving considerable danger of\nfire to the Dragon, occasioned Mrs Lupin not a little consternation. But\nthe young lady evincing no surprise, curiosity, or alarm, whispered her,\nwith many thanks for her solicitude and company, that she would remain\nthere some time longer; and that she begged her not to share her watch,\nas she was well used to being alone, and would pass the time in reading.\n\nMrs Lupin had her full share and dividend of that large capital of\ncuriosity which is inherited by her sex, and at another time it might\nhave been difficult so to impress this hint upon her as to induce her to\ntake it. But now, in sheer wonder and amazement at these mysteries, she\nwithdrew at once, and repairing straightway to her own little parlour\nbelow stairs, sat down in her easy-chair with unnatural composure.\nAt this very crisis, a step was heard in the entry, and Mr Pecksniff,\nlooking sweetly over the half-door of the bar, and into the vista of\nsnug privacy beyond, murmured:\n\n'Good evening, Mrs Lupin!'\n\n'Oh dear me, sir!' she cried, advancing to receive him, 'I am so very\nglad you have come.'\n\n'And I am very glad I have come,' said Mr Pecksniff, 'if I can be of\nservice. I am very glad I have come. What is the matter, Mrs Lupin?'\n\n'A gentleman taken ill upon the road, has been so very bad upstairs,\nsir,' said the tearful hostess.\n\n'A gentleman taken ill upon the road, has been so very bad upstairs, has\nhe?' repeated Mr Pecksniff. 'Well, well!'\n\nNow there was nothing that one may call decidedly original in this\nremark, nor can it be exactly said to have contained any wise precept\ntheretofore unknown to mankind, or to have opened any hidden source of\nconsolation; but Mr Pecksniff's manner was so bland, and he nodded his\nhead so soothingly, and showed in everything such an affable sense of\nhis own excellence, that anybody would have been, as Mrs Lupin was,\ncomforted by the mere voice and presence of such a man; and, though he\nhad merely said 'a verb must agree with its nominative case in number\nand person, my good friend,' or 'eight times eight are sixty-four, my\nworthy soul,' must have felt deeply grateful to him for his humanity and\nwisdom.\n\n'And how,' asked Mr Pecksniff, drawing off his gloves and warming his\nhands before the fire, as benevolently as if they were somebody else's,\nnot his; 'and how is he now?'\n\n'He is better, and quite tranquil,' answered Mrs Lupin.\n\n'He is better, and quite tranquil,' said Mr Pecksniff. 'Very well! Ve-ry\nwell!'\n\nHere again, though the statement was Mrs Lupin's and not Mr Pecksniff's,\nMr Pecksniff made it his own and consoled her with it. It was not much\nwhen Mrs Lupin said it, but it was a whole book when Mr Pecksniff said\nit. 'I observe,' he seemed to say, 'and through me, morality in general\nremarks, that he is better and quite tranquil.'\n\n'There must be weighty matters on his mind, though,' said the hostess,\nshaking her head, 'for he talks, sir, in the strangest way you ever\nheard. He is far from easy in his thoughts, and wants some proper advice\nfrom those whose goodness makes it worth his having.'\n\n'Then,' said Mr Pecksniff, 'he is the sort of customer for me.' But\nthough he said this in the plainest language, he didn't speak a word. He\nonly shook his head; disparagingly of himself too.\n\n'I am afraid, sir,' continued the landlady, first looking round to\nassure herself that there was nobody within hearing, and then looking\ndown upon the floor. 'I am very much afraid, sir, that his conscience\nis troubled by his not being related to--or--or even married to--a very\nyoung lady--'\n\n'Mrs Lupin!' said Mr Pecksniff, holding up his hand with something in\nhis manner as nearly approaching to severity as any expression of his,\nmild being that he was, could ever do. 'Person! young person?'\n\n'A very young person,' said Mrs Lupin, curtseying and blushing; '--I beg\nyour pardon, sir, but I have been so hurried to-night, that I don't know\nwhat I say--who is with him now.'\n\n'Who is with him now,' ruminated Mr Pecksniff, warming his back (as he\nhad warmed his hands) as if it were a widow's back, or an orphan's back,\nor an enemy's back, or a back that any less excellent man would have\nsuffered to be cold. 'Oh dear me, dear me!'\n\n'At the same time I am bound to say, and I do say with all my heart,'\nobserved the hostess, earnestly, 'that her looks and manner almost\ndisarm suspicion.'\n\n'Your suspicion, Mrs Lupin,' said Mr Pecksniff gravely, 'is very\nnatural.'\n\nTouching which remark, let it be written down to their confusion, that\nthe enemies of this worthy man unblushingly maintained that he always\nsaid of what was very bad, that it was very natural; and that he\nunconsciously betrayed his own nature in doing so.\n\n'Your suspicion, Mrs Lupin,' he repeated, 'is very natural, and I have\nno doubt correct. I will wait upon these travellers.'\n\nWith that he took off his great-coat, and having run his fingers through\nhis hair, thrust one hand gently in the bosom of his waist-coat and\nmeekly signed to her to lead the way.\n\n'Shall I knock?' asked Mrs Lupin, when they reached the chamber door.\n\n'No,' said Mr Pecksniff, 'enter if you please.'\n\nThey went in on tiptoe; or rather the hostess took that precaution for\nMr Pecksniff always walked softly. The old gentleman was still asleep,\nand his young companion still sat reading by the fire.\n\n'I am afraid,' said Mr Pecksniff, pausing at the door, and giving\nhis head a melancholy roll, 'I am afraid that this looks artful. I am\nafraid, Mrs Lupin, do you know, that this looks very artful!'\n\nAs he finished this whisper, he advanced before the hostess; and at the\nsame time the young lady, hearing footsteps, rose. Mr Pecksniff glanced\nat the volume she held, and whispered Mrs Lupin again; if possible, with\nincreased despondency.\n\n'Yes, ma'am,' he said, 'it is a good book. I was fearful of that\nbeforehand. I am apprehensive that this is a very deep thing indeed!'\n\n'What gentleman is this?' inquired the object of his virtuous doubts.\n\n'Hush! don't trouble yourself, ma'am,' said Mr Pecksniff, as the\nlandlady was about to answer. 'This young'--in spite of himself he\nhesitated when \"person\" rose to his lips, and substituted another word:\n'this young stranger, Mrs Lupin, will excuse me for replying briefly,\nthat I reside in this village; it may be in an influential manner,\nhowever, undeserved; and that I have been summoned here by you. I am\nhere, as I am everywhere, I hope, in sympathy for the sick and sorry.'\n\nWith these impressive words, Mr Pecksniff passed over to the bedside,\nwhere, after patting the counterpane once or twice in a very solemn\nmanner, as if by that means he gained a clear insight into the patient's\ndisorder, he took his seat in a large arm-chair, and in an attitude of\nsome thoughtfulness and much comfort, waited for his waking. Whatever\nobjection the young lady urged to Mrs Lupin went no further, for nothing\nmore was said to Mr Pecksniff, and Mr Pecksniff said nothing more to\nanybody else.\n\nFull half an hour elapsed before the old man stirred, but at length he\nturned himself in bed, and, though not yet awake, gave tokens that\nhis sleep was drawing to an end. By little and little he removed the\nbed-clothes from about his head, and turned still more towards the side\nwhere Mr Pecksniff sat. In course of time his eyes opened; and he\nlay for a few moments as people newly roused sometimes will, gazing\nindolently at his visitor, without any distinct consciousness of his\npresence.\n\nThere was nothing remarkable in these proceedings, except the influence\nthey worked on Mr Pecksniff, which could hardly have been surpassed by\nthe most marvellous of natural phenomena. Gradually his hands became\ntightly clasped upon the elbows of the chair, his eyes dilated with\nsurprise, his mouth opened, his hair stood more erect upon his forehead\nthan its custom was, until, at length, when the old man rose in bed,\nand stared at him with scarcely less emotion than he showed himself, the\nPecksniff doubts were all resolved, and he exclaimed aloud:\n\n'You ARE Martin Chuzzlewit!'\n\nHis consternation of surprise was so genuine, that the old man, with all\nthe disposition that he clearly entertained to believe it assumed, was\nconvinced of its reality.\n\n'I am Martin Chuzzlewit,' he said, bitterly: 'and Martin Chuzzlewit\nwishes you had been hanged, before you had come here to disturb him in\nhis sleep. Why, I dreamed of this fellow!' he said, lying down again,\nand turning away his face, 'before I knew that he was near me!'\n\n'My good cousin--' said Mr Pecksniff.\n\n'There! His very first words!' cried the old man, shaking his grey head\nto and fro upon the pillow, and throwing up his hands. 'In his very\nfirst words he asserts his relationship! I knew he would; they all do\nit! Near or distant, blood or water, it's all one. Ugh! What a calendar\nof deceit, and lying, and false-witnessing, the sound of any word of\nkindred opens before me!'\n\n'Pray do not be hasty, Mr Chuzzlewit,' said Pecksniff, in a tone that\nwas at once in the sublimest degree compassionate and dispassionate;\nfor he had by this time recovered from his surprise, and was in full\npossession of his virtuous self. 'You will regret being hasty, I know\nyou will.'\n\n'You know!' said Martin, contemptuously.\n\n'Yes,' retorted Mr Pecksniff. 'Aye, aye, Mr Chuzzlewit; and don't\nimagine that I mean to court or flatter you; for nothing is further from\nmy intention. Neither, sir, need you entertain the least misgiving that\nI shall repeat that obnoxious word which has given you so much offence\nalready. Why should I? What do I expect or want from you? There is\nnothing in your possession that I know of, Mr Chuzzlewit, which is much\nto be coveted for the happiness it brings you.'\n\n'That's true enough,' muttered the old man.\n\n'Apart from that consideration,' said Mr Pecksniff, watchful of the\neffect he made, 'it must be plain to you (I am sure) by this time, that\nif I had wished to insinuate myself into your good opinion, I should\nhave been, of all things, careful not to address you as a relative;\nknowing your humour, and being quite certain beforehand that I could not\nhave a worse letter of recommendation.'\n\nMartin made not any verbal answer; but he as clearly implied though only\nby a motion of his legs beneath the bed-clothes, that there was reason\nin this, and that he could not dispute it, as if he had said as much in\ngood set terms.\n\n'No,' said Mr Pecksniff, keeping his hand in his waistcoat as though\nhe were ready, on the shortest notice, to produce his heart for\nMartin Chuzzlewit's inspection, 'I came here to offer my services to\na stranger. I make no offer of them to you, because I know you would\ndistrust me if I did. But lying on that bed, sir, I regard you as a\nstranger, and I have just that amount of interest in you which I hope I\nshould feel in any stranger, circumstanced as you are. Beyond that, I am\nquite as indifferent to you, Mr Chuzzlewit, as you are to me.'\n\nHaving said which, Mr Pecksniff threw himself back in the easy-chair;\nso radiant with ingenuous honesty, that Mrs Lupin almost wondered not to\nsee a stained-glass Glory, such as the Saint wore in the church, shining\nabout his head.\n\nA long pause succeeded. The old man, with increased restlessness,\nchanged his posture several times. Mrs Lupin and the young lady gazed\nin silence at the counterpane. Mr Pecksniff toyed abstractedly with his\neye-glass, and kept his eyes shut, that he might ruminate the better.\n\n'Eh?' he said at last, opening them suddenly, and looking towards the\nbed. 'I beg your pardon. I thought you spoke. Mrs Lupin,' he continued,\nslowly rising 'I am not aware that I can be of any service to you here.\nThe gentleman is better, and you are as good a nurse as he can have.\nEh?'\n\nThis last note of interrogation bore reference to another change\nof posture on the old man's part, which brought his face towards Mr\nPecksniff for the first time since he had turned away from him.\n\n'If you desire to speak to me before I go, sir,' continued that\ngentleman, after another pause, 'you may command my leisure; but I\nmust stipulate, in justice to myself, that you do so as to a stranger,\nstrictly as to a stranger.'\n\nNow if Mr Pecksniff knew, from anything Martin Chuzzlewit had expressed\nin gestures, that he wanted to speak to him, he could only have found it\nout on some such principle as prevails in melodramas, and in virtue of\nwhich the elderly farmer with the comic son always knows what the dumb\ngirl means when she takes refuge in his garden, and relates her personal\nmemoirs in incomprehensible pantomime. But without stopping to make any\ninquiry on this point, Martin Chuzzlewit signed to his young companion\nto withdraw, which she immediately did, along with the landlady leaving\nhim and Mr Pecksniff alone together. For some time they looked at each\nother in silence; or rather the old man looked at Mr Pecksniff, and Mr\nPecksniff again closing his eyes on all outward objects, took an inward\nsurvey of his own breast. That it amply repaid him for his trouble,\nand afforded a delicious and enchanting prospect, was clear from the\nexpression of his face.\n\n'You wish me to speak to you as to a total stranger,' said the old man,\n'do you?'\n\nMr Pecksniff replied, by a shrug of his shoulders and an apparent\nturning round of his eyes in their sockets before he opened them, that\nhe was still reduced to the necessity of entertaining that desire.\n\n'You shall be gratified,' said Martin. 'Sir, I am a rich man. Not so\nrich as some suppose, perhaps, but yet wealthy. I am not a miser sir,\nthough even that charge is made against me, as I hear, and currently\nbelieved. I have no pleasure in hoarding. I have no pleasure in the\npossession of money, The devil that we call by that name can give me\nnothing but unhappiness.'\n\nIt would be no description of Mr Pecksniff's gentleness of manner to\nadopt the common parlance, and say that he looked at this moment as if\nbutter wouldn't melt in his mouth. He rather looked as if any quantity\nof butter might have been made out of him, by churning the milk of human\nkindness, as it spouted upwards from his heart.\n\n'For the same reason that I am not a hoarder of money,' said the old\nman, 'I am not lavish of it. Some people find their gratification in\nstoring it up; and others theirs in parting with it; but I have no\ngratification connected with the thing. Pain and bitterness are the only\ngoods it ever could procure for me. I hate it. It is a spectre walking\nbefore me through the world, and making every social pleasure hideous.'\n\nA thought arose in Pecksniff's mind, which must have instantly mounted\nto his face, or Martin Chuzzlewit would not have resumed as quickly and\nas sternly as he did:\n\n'You would advise me for my peace of mind, to get rid of this source of\nmisery, and transfer it to some one who could bear it better. Even you,\nperhaps, would rid me of a burden under which I suffer so grievously.\nBut, kind stranger,' said the old man, whose every feature darkened as\nhe spoke, 'good Christian stranger, that is a main part of my trouble.\nIn other hands, I have known money do good; in other hands I have known\nit triumphed in, and boasted of with reason, as the master-key to all\nthe brazen gates that close upon the paths to worldly honour,\nfortune, and enjoyment. To what man or woman; to what worthy, honest,\nincorruptible creature; shall I confide such a talisman, either now\nor when I die? Do you know any such person? YOUR virtues are of course\ninestimable, but can you tell me of any other living creature who will\nbear the test of contact with myself?'\n\n'Of contact with yourself, sir?' echoed Mr Pecksniff.\n\n'Aye,' returned the old man, 'the test of contact with me--with me. You\nhave heard of him whose misery (the gratification of his own foolish\nwish) was, that he turned every thing he touched into gold. The curse\nof my existence, and the realisation of my own mad desire is that by the\ngolden standard which I bear about me, I am doomed to try the metal of\nall other men, and find it false and hollow.'\n\nMr Pecksniff shook his head, and said, 'You think so.'\n\n'Oh yes,' cried the old man, 'I think so! and in your telling me \"I\nthink so,\" I recognize the true unworldly ring of YOUR metal. I tell\nyou, man,' he added, with increasing bitterness, 'that I have gone, a\nrich man, among people of all grades and kinds; relatives, friends, and\nstrangers; among people in whom, when I was poor, I had confidence, and\njustly, for they never once deceived me then, or, to me, wronged each\nother. But I have never found one nature, no, not one, in which, being\nwealthy and alone, I was not forced to detect the latent corruption that\nlay hid within it waiting for such as I to bring it forth. Treachery,\ndeceit, and low design; hatred of competitors, real or fancied, for my\nfavour; meanness, falsehood, baseness, and servility; or,' and here\nhe looked closely in his cousin's eyes, 'or an assumption of honest\nindependence, almost worse than all; these are the beauties which my\nwealth has brought to light. Brother against brother, child against\nparent, friends treading on the faces of friends, this is the social\ncompany by whom my way has been attended. There are stories told--they\nmay be true or false--of rich men who, in the garb of poverty, have\nfound out virtue and rewarded it. They were dolts and idiots for their\npains. They should have made the search in their own characters. They\nshould have shown themselves fit objects to be robbed and preyed upon\nand plotted against and adulated by any knaves, who, but for joy, would\nhave spat upon their coffins when they died their dupes; and then their\nsearch would have ended as mine has done, and they would be what I am.'\n\nMr Pecksniff, not at all knowing what it might be best to say in the\nmomentary pause which ensued upon these remarks, made an elaborate\ndemonstration of intending to deliver something very oracular indeed;\ntrusting to the certainty of the old man interrupting him, before he\nshould utter a word. Nor was he mistaken, for Martin Chuzzlewit having\ntaken breath, went on to say:\n\n'Hear me to an end; judge what profit you are like to gain from any\nrepetition of this visit; and leave me. I have so corrupted and changed\nthe nature of all those who have ever attended on me, by breeding\navaricious plots and hopes within them; I have engendered such domestic\nstrife and discord, by tarrying even with members of my own family; I\nhave been such a lighted torch in peaceful homes, kindling up all the\ninflammable gases and vapours in their moral atmosphere, which, but for\nme, might have proved harmless to the end, that I have, I may say, fled\nfrom all who knew me, and taking refuge in secret places have lived, of\nlate, the life of one who is hunted. The young girl whom you just now\nsaw--what! your eye lightens when I talk of her! You hate her already,\ndo you?'\n\n'Upon my word, sir!' said Mr Pecksniff, laying his hand upon his breast,\nand dropping his eyelids.\n\n'I forgot,' cried the old man, looking at him with a keenness which the\nother seemed to feel, although he did not raise his eyes so as to see\nit. 'I ask your pardon. I forgot you were a stranger. For the moment\nyou reminded me of one Pecksniff, a cousin of mine. As I was saying--the\nyoung girl whom you just now saw, is an orphan child, whom, with one\nsteady purpose, I have bred and educated, or, if you prefer the word,\nadopted. For a year or more she has been my constant companion, and she\nis my only one. I have taken, as she knows, a solemn oath never to\nleave her sixpence when I die, but while I live I make her an annual\nallowance; not extravagant in its amount and yet not stinted. There is\na compact between us that no term of affectionate cajolery shall ever be\naddressed by either to the other, but that she shall call me always by\nmy Christian name; I her, by hers. She is bound to me in life by ties\nof interest, and losing by my death, and having no expectation\ndisappointed, will mourn it, perhaps; though for that I care little.\nThis is the only kind of friend I have or will have. Judge from such\npremises what a profitable hour you have spent in coming here, and leave\nme, to return no more.'\n\nWith these words, the old man fell slowly back upon his pillow. Mr\nPecksniff as slowly rose, and, with a prefatory hem, began as follows:\n\n'Mr Chuzzlewit.'\n\n'There. Go!' interposed the other. 'Enough of this. I am weary of you.'\n\n'I am sorry for that, sir,' rejoined Mr Pecksniff, 'because I have a\nduty to discharge, from which, depend upon it, I shall not shrink. No,\nsir, I shall not shrink.'\n\nIt is a lamentable fact, that as Mr Pecksniff stood erect beside the\nbed, in all the dignity of Goodness, and addressed him thus, the old man\ncast an angry glance towards the candlestick, as if he were possessed\nby a strong inclination to launch it at his cousin's head. But he\nconstrained himself, and pointing with his finger to the door, informed\nhim that his road lay there.\n\n'Thank you,' said Mr Pecksniff; 'I am aware of that. I am going.\nBut before I go, I crave your leave to speak, and more than that, Mr\nChuzzlewit, I must and will--yes indeed, I repeat it, must and will--be\nheard. I am not surprised, sir, at anything you have told me tonight.\nIt is natural, very natural, and the greater part of it was known to\nme before. I will not say,' continued Mr Pecksniff, drawing out his\npocket-handkerchief, and winking with both eyes at once, as it were,\nagainst his will, 'I will not say that you are mistaken in me. While\nyou are in your present mood I would not say so for the world. I almost\nwish, indeed, that I had a different nature, that I might repress even\nthis slight confession of weakness; which I cannot disguise from you;\nwhich I feel is humiliating; but which you will have the goodness to\nexcuse. We will say, if you please,' added Mr Pecksniff, with great\ntenderness of manner, 'that it arises from a cold in the head, or is\nattributable to snuff, or smelling-salts, or onions, or anything but the\nreal cause.'\n\nHere he paused for an instant, and concealed his face behind his\npocket-handkerchief. Then, smiling faintly, and holding the bed\nfurniture with one hand, he resumed:\n\n'But, Mr Chuzzlewit, while I am forgetful of myself, I owe it to myself,\nand to my character--aye, sir, and I HAVE a character which is very dear\nto me, and will be the best inheritance of my two daughters--to tell\nyou, on behalf of another, that your conduct is wrong, unnatural,\nindefensible, monstrous. And I tell you, sir,' said Mr Pecksniff,\ntowering on tiptoe among the curtains, as if he were literally rising\nabove all worldly considerations, and were fain to hold on tight, to\nkeep himself from darting skyward like a rocket, 'I tell you without\nfear or favour, that it will not do for you to be unmindful of your\ngrandson, young Martin, who has the strongest natural claim upon you.\nIt will not do, sir,' repeated Mr Pecksniff, shaking his head. 'You may\nthink it will do, but it won't. You must provide for that young man;\nyou shall provide for him; you WILL provide for him. I believe,' said Mr\nPecksniff, glancing at the pen-and-ink, 'that in secret you have already\ndone so. Bless you for doing so. Bless you for doing right, sir. Bless\nyou for hating me. And good night!'\n\nSo saying, Mr Pecksniff waved his right hand with much solemnity, and\nonce more inserting it in his waistcoat, departed. There was emotion in\nhis manner, but his step was firm. Subject to human weaknesses, he was\nupheld by conscience.\n\nMartin lay for some time, with an expression on his face of silent\nwonder, not unmixed with rage; at length he muttered in a whisper:\n\n'What does this mean? Can the false-hearted boy have chosen such a\ntool as yonder fellow who has just gone out? Why not! He has conspired\nagainst me, like the rest, and they are but birds of one feather. A new\nplot; a new plot! Oh self, self, self! At every turn nothing but self!'\n\nHe fell to trifling, as he ceased to speak, with the ashes of the burnt\npaper in the candlestick. He did so, at first, in pure abstraction, but\nthey presently became the subject of his thoughts.\n\n'Another will made and destroyed,' he said, 'nothing determined on,\nnothing done, and I might have died to-night! I plainly see to what foul\nuses all this money will be put at last,' he cried, almost writhing in\nthe bed; 'after filling me with cares and miseries all my life, it will\nperpetuate discord and bad passions when I am dead. So it always is.\nWhat lawsuits grow out of the graves of rich men, every day; sowing\nperjury, hatred, and lies among near kindred, where there should be\nnothing but love! Heaven help us, we have much to answer for! Oh self,\nself, self! Every man for himself, and no creature for me!'\n\nUniversal self! Was there nothing of its shadow in these reflections,\nand in the history of Martin Chuzzlewit, on his own showing?\n\n\n\nCHAPTER FOUR\n\nFROM WHICH IT WILL APPEAR THAT IF UNION BE STRENGTH, AND FAMILY\nAFFECTION BE PLEASANT TO CONTEMPLATE, THE CHUZZLEWITS WERE THE STRONGEST\nAND MOST AGREEABLE FAMILY IN THE WORLD\n\n\nThat worthy man Mr Pecksniff having taken leave of his cousin in the\nsolemn terms recited in the last chapter, withdrew to his own home, and\nremained there three whole days; not so much as going out for a walk\nbeyond the boundaries of his own garden, lest he should be hastily\nsummoned to the bedside of his penitent and remorseful relative,\nwhom, in his ample benevolence, he had made up his mind to forgive\nunconditionally, and to love on any terms. But such was the obstinacy\nand such the bitter nature of that stern old man, that no repentant\nsummons came; and the fourth day found Mr Pecksniff apparently much\nfarther from his Christian object than the first.\n\nDuring the whole of this interval, he haunted the Dragon at all times\nand seasons in the day and night, and, returning good for evil evinced\nthe deepest solicitude in the progress of the obdurate invalid, in so\nmuch that Mrs Lupin was fairly melted by his disinterested anxiety (for\nhe often particularly required her to take notice that he would do the\nsame by any stranger or pauper in the like condition), and shed many\ntears of admiration and delight.\n\nMeantime, old Martin Chuzzlewit remained shut up in his own chamber, and\nsaw no person but his young companion, saving the hostess of the Blue\nDragon, who was, at certain times, admitted to his presence. So surely\nas she came into the room, however, Martin feigned to fall asleep. It\nwas only when he and the young lady were alone, that he would utter a\nword, even in answer to the simplest inquiry; though Mr Pecksniff\ncould make out, by hard listening at the door, that they two being left\ntogether, he was talkative enough.\n\nIt happened on the fourth evening, that Mr Pecksniff walking, as usual,\ninto the bar of the Dragon and finding no Mrs Lupin there, went straight\nupstairs; purposing, in the fervour of his affectionate zeal, to apply\nhis ear once more to the keyhole, and quiet his mind by assuring himself\nthat the hard-hearted patient was going on well. It happened that Mr\nPecksniff, coming softly upon the dark passage into which a spiral ray\nof light usually darted through the same keyhole, was astonished to find\nno such ray visible; and it happened that Mr Pecksniff, when he had felt\nhis way to the chamber-door, stooping hurriedly down to ascertain by\npersonal inspection whether the jealousy of the old man had caused this\nkeyhole to be stopped on the inside, brought his head into such violent\ncontact with another head that he could not help uttering in an audible\nvoice the monosyllable 'Oh!' which was, as it were, sharply unscrewed\nand jerked out of him by very anguish. It happened then, and lastly,\nthat Mr Pecksniff found himself immediately collared by something which\nsmelt like several damp umbrellas, a barrel of beer, a cask of warm\nbrandy-and-water, and a small parlour-full of stale tobacco smoke,\nmixed; and was straightway led downstairs into the bar from which he\nhad lately come, where he found himself standing opposite to, and in\nthe grasp of, a perfectly strange gentleman of still stranger appearance\nwho, with his disengaged hand, rubbed his own head very hard, and looked\nat him, Pecksniff, with an evil countenance.\n\nThe gentleman was of that order of appearance which is currently termed\nshabby-genteel, though in respect of his dress he can hardly be said to\nhave been in any extremities, as his fingers were a long way out of his\ngloves, and the soles of his feet were at an inconvenient distance from\nthe upper leather of his boots. His nether garments were of a\nbluish grey--violent in its colours once, but sobered now by age and\ndinginess--and were so stretched and strained in a tough conflict\nbetween his braces and his straps, that they appeared every moment in\ndanger of flying asunder at the knees. His coat, in colour blue and of\na military cut, was buttoned and frogged up to his chin. His cravat was,\nin hue and pattern, like one of those mantles which hairdressers are\naccustomed to wrap about their clients, during the progress of the\nprofessional mysteries. His hat had arrived at such a pass that it would\nhave been hard to determine whether it was originally white or black.\nBut he wore a moustache--a shaggy moustache too; nothing in the meek and\nmerciful way, but quite in the fierce and scornful style; the regular\nSatanic sort of thing--and he wore, besides, a vast quantity of\nunbrushed hair. He was very dirty and very jaunty; very bold and very\nmean; very swaggering and very slinking; very much like a man who might\nhave been something better, and unspeakably like a man who deserved to\nbe something worse.\n\n'You were eaves-dropping at that door, you vagabond!' said this\ngentleman.\n\nMr Pecksniff cast him off, as Saint George might have repudiated the\nDragon in that animal's last moments, and said:\n\n'Where is Mrs Lupin, I wonder! can the good woman possibly be aware that\nthere is a person here who--'\n\n'Stay!' said the gentleman. 'Wait a bit. She DOES know. What then?'\n\n'What then, sir?' cried Mr Pecksniff. 'What then? Do you know, sir,\nthat I am the friend and relative of that sick gentleman? That I am his\nprotector, his guardian, his--'\n\n'Not his niece's husband,' interposed the stranger, 'I'll be sworn; for\nhe was there before you.'\n\n'What do you mean?' said Mr Pecksniff, with indignant surprise. 'What do\nyou tell me, sir?'\n\n'Wait a bit!' cried the other, 'Perhaps you are a cousin--the cousin who\nlives in this place?'\n\n'I AM the cousin who lives in this place,' replied the man of worth.\n\n'Your name is Pecksniff?' said the gentleman.\n\n'It is.'\n\n'I am proud to know you, and I ask your pardon,' said the gentleman,\ntouching his hat, and subsequently diving behind his cravat for a\nshirt-collar, which however he did not succeed in bringing to the\nsurface. 'You behold in me, sir, one who has also an interest in that\ngentleman upstairs. Wait a bit.'\n\nAs he said this, he touched the tip of his high nose, by way of\nintimation that he would let Mr Pecksniff into a secret presently; and\npulling off his hat, began to search inside the crown among a mass of\ncrumpled documents and small pieces of what may be called the bark of\nbroken cigars; whence he presently selected the cover of an old letter,\nbegrimed with dirt and redolent of tobacco.\n\n'Read that,' he cried, giving it to Mr Pecksniff.\n\n'This is addressed to Chevy Slyme, Esquire,' said that gentleman.\n\n'You know Chevy Slyme, Esquire, I believe?' returned the stranger.\n\nMr Pecksniff shrugged his shoulders as though he would say 'I know there\nis such a person, and I am sorry for it.'\n\n'Very good,' remarked the gentleman. 'That is my interest and business\nhere.' With that he made another dive for his shirt-collar and brought\nup a string.\n\n'Now, this is very distressing, my friend,' said Mr Pecksniff, shaking\nhis head and smiling composedly. 'It is very distressing to me, to be\ncompelled to say that you are not the person you claim to be. I know Mr\nSlyme, my friend; this will not do; honesty is the best policy you had\nbetter not; you had indeed.'\n\n'Stop' cried the gentleman, stretching forth his right arm, which was\nso tightly wedged into his threadbare sleeve that it looked like a cloth\nsausage. 'Wait a bit!'\n\nHe paused to establish himself immediately in front of the fire with his\nback towards it. Then gathering the skirts of his coat under his left\narm, and smoothing his moustache with his right thumb and forefinger, he\nresumed:\n\n'I understand your mistake, and I am not offended. Why? Because it's\ncomplimentary. You suppose I would set myself up for Chevy Slyme.\nSir, if there is a man on earth whom a gentleman would feel proud and\nhonoured to be mistaken for, that man is my friend Slyme. For he is,\nwithout an exception, the highest-minded, the most independent-spirited,\nmost original, spiritual, classical, talented, the most thoroughly\nShakspearian, if not Miltonic, and at the same time the most\ndisgustingly-unappreciated dog I know. But, sir, I have not the vanity\nto attempt to pass for Slyme. Any other man in the wide world, I am\nequal to; but Slyme is, I frankly confess, a great many cuts above me.\nTherefore you are wrong.'\n\n'I judged from this,' said Mr Pecksniff, holding out the cover of the\nletter.\n\n'No doubt you did,' returned the gentleman. 'But, Mr Pecksniff, the\nwhole thing resolves itself into an instance of the peculiarities\nof genius. Every man of true genius has his peculiarity. Sir, the\npeculiarity of my friend Slyme is, that he is always waiting round the\ncorner. He is perpetually round the corner, sir. He is round the corner\nat this instant. Now,' said the gentleman, shaking his forefinger before\nhis nose, and planting his legs wider apart as he looked attentively in\nMr Pecksniff's face, 'that is a remarkably curious and interesting trait\nin Mr Slyme's character; and whenever Slyme's life comes to be written,\nthat trait must be thoroughly worked out by his biographer or society\nwill not be satisfied. Observe me, society will not be satisfied!'\n\nMr Pecksniff coughed.\n\n'Slyme's biographer, sir, whoever he may be,' resumed the gentleman,\n'must apply to me; or, if I am gone to that what's-his-name from which\nno thingumbob comes back, he must apply to my executors for leave to\nsearch among my papers. I have taken a few notes in my poor way, of some\nof that man's proceedings--my adopted brother, sir,--which would amaze\nyou. He made use of an expression, sir, only on the fifteenth of last\nmonth when he couldn't meet a little bill and the other party wouldn't\nrenew, which would have done honour to Napoleon Bonaparte in addressing\nthe French army.'\n\n'And pray,' asked Mr Pecksniff, obviously not quite at his ease, 'what\nmay be Mr Slyme's business here, if I may be permitted to inquire, who\nam compelled by a regard for my own character to disavow all interest in\nhis proceedings?'\n\n'In the first place,' returned the gentleman, 'you will permit me to\nsay, that I object to that remark, and that I strongly and indignantly\nprotest against it on behalf of my friend Slyme. In the next place, you\nwill give me leave to introduce myself. My name, sir, is Tigg. The name\nof Montague Tigg will perhaps be familiar to you, in connection with the\nmost remarkable events of the Peninsular War?'\n\nMr Pecksniff gently shook his head.\n\n'No matter,' said the gentleman. 'That man was my father, and I bear his\nname. I am consequently proud--proud as Lucifer. Excuse me one moment.\nI desire my friend Slyme to be present at the remainder of this\nconference.'\n\nWith this announcement he hurried away to the outer door of the Blue\nDragon, and almost immediately returned with a companion shorter than\nhimself, who was wrapped in an old blue camlet cloak with a lining of\nfaded scarlet. His sharp features being much pinched and nipped by long\nwaiting in the cold, and his straggling red whiskers and frowzy hair\nbeing more than usually dishevelled from the same cause, he certainly\nlooked rather unwholesome and uncomfortable than Shakspearian or\nMiltonic.\n\n'Now,' said Mr Tigg, clapping one hand on the shoulder of his\nprepossessing friend, and calling Mr Pecksniff's attention to him with\nthe other, 'you two are related; and relations never did agree, and\nnever will; which is a wise dispensation and an inevitable thing, or\nthere would be none but family parties, and everybody in the world\nwould bore everybody else to death. If you were on good terms, I should\nconsider you a most confoundedly unnatural pair; but standing\ntowards each other as you do, I took upon you as a couple of devilish\ndeep-thoughted fellows, who may be reasoned with to any extent.'\n\nHere Mr Chevy Slyme, whose great abilities seemed one and all to point\ntowards the sneaking quarter of the moral compass, nudged his friend\nstealthily with his elbow, and whispered in his ear.\n\n'Chiv,' said Mr Tigg aloud, in the high tone of one who was not to\nbe tampered with. 'I shall come to that presently. I act upon my own\nresponsibility, or not at all. To the extent of such a trifling loan\nas a crownpiece to a man of your talents, I look upon Mr Pecksniff\nas certain;' and seeing at this juncture that the expression of Mr\nPecksniff's face by no means betokened that he shared this certainty, Mr\nTigg laid his finger on his nose again for that gentleman's private\nand especial behoof; calling upon him thereby to take notice that the\nrequisition of small loans was another instance of the peculiarities of\ngenius as developed in his friend Slyme; that he, Tigg, winked at the\nsame, because of the strong metaphysical interest which these weaknesses\npossessed; and that in reference to his own personal advocacy of such\nsmall advances, he merely consulted the humour of his friend, without\nthe least regard to his own advantage or necessities.\n\n'Oh, Chiv, Chiv!' added Mr Tigg, surveying his adopted brother with an\nair of profound contemplation after dismissing this piece of pantomime.\n'You are, upon my life, a strange instance of the little frailties that\nbeset a mighty mind. If there had never been a telescope in the world,\nI should have been quite certain from my observation of you, Chiv,\nthat there were spots on the sun! I wish I may die, if this isn't the\nqueerest state of existence that we find ourselves forced into without\nknowing why or wherefore, Mr Pecksniff! Well, never mind! Moralise as we\nwill, the world goes on. As Hamlet says, Hercules may lay about him with\nhis club in every possible direction, but he can't prevent the cats from\nmaking a most intolerable row on the roofs of the houses, or the\ndogs from being shot in the hot weather if they run about the streets\nunmuzzled. Life's a riddle; a most infernally hard riddle to guess, Mr\nPecksniff. My own opinions, that like that celebrated conundrum, \"Why's\na man in jail like a man out of jail?\" there's no answer to it. Upon my\nsoul and body, it's the queerest sort of thing altogether--but there's\nno use in talking about it. Ha! Ha!'\n\nWith which consolatory deduction from the gloomy premises recited,\nMr Tigg roused himself by a great effort, and proceeded in his former\nstrain.\n\n'Now I'll tell you what it is. I'm a most confoundedly soft-hearted\nkind of fellow in my way, and I cannot stand by, and see you two blades\ncutting each other's throats when there's nothing to be got by it. Mr\nPecksniff, you're the cousin of the testator upstairs and we're the\nnephew--I say we, meaning Chiv. Perhaps in all essential points you are\nmore nearly related to him than we are. Very good. If so, so be it. But\nyou can't get at him, neither can we. I give you my brightest word of\nhonour, sir, that I've been looking through that keyhole with short\nintervals of rest, ever since nine o'clock this morning, in expectation\nof receiving an answer to one of the most moderate and gentlemanly\napplications for a little temporary assistance--only fifteen pounds, and\nMY security--that the mind of man can conceive. In the meantime, sir, he\nis perpetually closeted with, and pouring his whole confidence into the\nbosom of, a stranger. Now I say decisively with regard to this state of\ncircumstances, that it won't do; that it won't act; that it can't be;\nand that it must not be suffered to continue.'\n\n'Every man,' said Mr Pecksniff, 'has a right, an undoubted right, (which\nI, for one, would not call in question for any earthly consideration; oh\nno!) to regulate his own proceedings by his own likings and dislikings,\nsupposing they are not immoral and not irreligious. I may feel in my\nown breast, that Mr Chuzzlewit does not regard--me, for instance; say\nme--with exactly that amount of Christian love which should subsist\nbetween us. I may feel grieved and hurt at the circumstance; still I\nmay not rush to the conclusion that Mr Chuzzlewit is wholly without a\njustification in all his coldnesses. Heaven forbid! Besides; how, Mr\nTigg,' continued Pecksniff even more gravely and impressively than he\nhad spoken yet, 'how could Mr Chuzzlewit be prevented from having these\npeculiar and most extraordinary confidences of which you speak; the\nexistence of which I must admit; and which I cannot but deplore--for\nhis sake? Consider, my good sir--' and here Mr Pecksniff eyed him\nwistfully--'how very much at random you are talking.'\n\n'Why, as to that,' rejoined Tigg, 'it certainly is a difficult\nquestion.'\n\n'Undoubtedly it is a difficult question,' Mr Pecksniff answered. As he\nspoke he drew himself aloft, and seemed to grow more mindful, suddenly,\nof the moral gulf between himself and the creature he addressed.\n'Undoubtedly it is a very difficult question. And I am far from feeling\nsure that it is a question any one is authorized to discuss. Good\nevening to you.'\n\n'You don't know that the Spottletoes are here, I suppose?' said Mr Tigg.\n\n'What do you mean, sir? what Spottletoes?' asked Pecksniff, stopping\nabruptly on his way to the door.\n\n'Mr and Mrs Spottletoe,' said Chevy Slyme, Esquire, speaking aloud for\nthe first time, and speaking very sulkily; shambling with his legs the\nwhile. 'Spottletoe married my father's brother's child, didn't he?\nAnd Mrs Spottletoe is Chuzzlewit's own niece, isn't she? She was his\nfavourite once. You may well ask what Spottletoes.'\n\n'Now upon my sacred word!' cried Mr Pecksniff, looking upwards. 'This is\ndreadful. The rapacity of these people is absolutely frightful!'\n\n'It's not only the Spottletoes either, Tigg,' said Slyme, looking at\nthat gentleman and speaking at Mr Pecksniff. 'Anthony Chuzzlewit and his\nson have got wind of it, and have come down this afternoon. I saw 'em\nnot five minutes ago, when I was waiting round the corner.'\n\n'Oh, Mammon, Mammon!' cried Mr Pecksniff, smiting his forehead.\n\n'So there,' said Slyme, regardless of the interruption, 'are his brother\nand another nephew for you, already.'\n\n'This is the whole thing, sir,' said Mr Tigg; 'this is the point and\npurpose at which I was gradually arriving when my friend Slyme here,\nwith six words, hit it full. Mr Pecksniff, now that your cousin (and\nChiv's uncle) has turned up, some steps must be taken to prevent his\ndisappearing again; and, if possible, to counteract the influence which\nis exercised over him now, by this designing favourite. Everybody who\nis interested feels it, sir. The whole family is pouring down to this\nplace. The time has come when individual jealousies and interests must\nbe forgotten for a time, sir, and union must be made against the\ncommon enemy. When the common enemy is routed, you will all set up for\nyourselves again; every lady and gentleman who has a part in the game,\nwill go in on their own account and bowl away, to the best of their\nability, at the testator's wicket, and nobody will be in a worse\nposition than before. Think of it. Don't commit yourself now. You'll\nfind us at the Half Moon and Seven Stars in this village, at any time,\nand open to any reasonable proposition. Hem! Chiv, my dear fellow, go\nout and see what sort of a night it is.'\n\nMr Slyme lost no time in disappearing, and it is to be presumed in going\nround the corner. Mr Tigg, planting his legs as wide apart as he could\nbe reasonably expected by the most sanguine man to keep them, shook his\nhead at Mr Pecksniff and smiled.\n\n'We must not be too hard,' he said, 'upon the little eccentricities of\nour friend Slyme. You saw him whisper me?'\n\nMr Pecksniff had seen him.\n\n'You heard my answer, I think?'\n\nMr Pecksniff had heard it.\n\n'Five shillings, eh?' said Mr Tigg, thoughtfully. 'Ah! what an\nextraordinary fellow! Very moderate too!'\n\nMr Pecksniff made no answer.\n\n'Five shillings!' pursued Mr Tigg, musing; 'and to be punctually repaid\nnext week; that's the best of it. You heard that?'\n\nMr Pecksniff had not heard that.\n\n'No! You surprise me!' cried Tigg. 'That's the cream of the thing sir. I\nnever knew that man fail to redeem a promise, in my life. You're not in\nwant of change, are you?'\n\n'No,' said Mr Pecksniff, 'thank you. Not at all.'\n\n'Just so,' returned Mr Tigg. 'If you had been, I'd have got it for you.'\nWith that he began to whistle; but a dozen seconds had not elapsed when\nhe stopped short, and looking earnestly at Mr Pecksniff, said:\n\n'Perhaps you'd rather not lend Slyme five shillings?'\n\n'I would much rather not,' Mr Pecksniff rejoined.\n\n'Egad!' cried Tigg, gravely nodding his head as if some ground of\nobjection occurred to him at that moment for the first time, 'it's\nvery possible you may be right. Would you entertain the same sort of\nobjection to lending me five shillings now?'\n\n'Yes, I couldn't do it, indeed,' said Mr Pecksniff.\n\n'Not even half-a-crown, perhaps?' urged Mr Tigg.\n\n'Not even half-a-crown.'\n\n'Why, then we come,' said Mr Tigg, 'to the ridiculously small amount of\neighteen pence. Ha! ha!'\n\n'And that,' said Mr Pecksniff, 'would be equally objectionable.'\n\nOn receipt of this assurance, Mr Tigg shook him heartily by both hands,\nprotesting with much earnestness, that he was one of the most consistent\nand remarkable men he had ever met, and that he desired the honour\nof his better acquaintance. He moreover observed that there were many\nlittle characteristics about his friend Slyme, of which he could by no\nmeans, as a man of strict honour, approve; but that he was prepared to\nforgive him all these slight drawbacks, and much more, in consideration\nof the great pleasure he himself had that day enjoyed in his social\nintercourse with Mr Pecksniff, which had given him a far higher and more\nenduring delight than the successful negotiation of any small loan on\nthe part of his friend could possibly have imparted. With which remarks\nhe would beg leave, he said, to wish Mr Pecksniff a very good evening.\nAnd so he took himself off; as little abashed by his recent failure as\nany gentleman would desire to be.\n\nThe meditations of Mr Pecksniff that evening at the bar of the Dragon,\nand that night in his own house, were very serious and grave indeed; the\nmore especially as the intelligence he had received from Messrs Tigg and\nSlyme touching the arrival of other members of the family, were fully\nconfirmed on more particular inquiry. For the Spottletoes had actually\ngone straight to the Dragon, where they were at that moment housed and\nmounting guard, and where their appearance had occasioned such a vast\nsensation that Mrs Lupin, scenting their errand before they had been\nunder her roof half an hour, carried the news herself with all possible\nsecrecy straight to Mr Pecksniff's house; indeed it was her great\ncaution in doing so which occasioned her to miss that gentleman, who\nentered at the front door of the Dragon just as she emerged from\nthe back one. Moreover, Mr Anthony Chuzzlewit and his son Jonas were\neconomically quartered at the Half Moon and Seven Stars, which was an\nobscure ale-house; and by the very next coach there came posting to the\nscene of action, so many other affectionate members of the family (who\nquarrelled with each other, inside and out, all the way down, to the\nutter distraction of the coachman), that in less than four-and-twenty\nhours the scanty tavern accommodation was at a premium, and all the\nprivate lodgings in the place, amounting to full four beds and sofa,\nrose cent per cent in the market.\n\nIn a word, things came to that pass that nearly the whole family sat\ndown before the Blue Dragon, and formally invested it; and Martin\nChuzzlewit was in a state of siege. But he resisted bravely; refusing\nto receive all letters, messages, and parcels; obstinately declining to\ntreat with anybody; and holding out no hope or promise of capitulation.\nMeantime the family forces were perpetually encountering each other\nin divers parts of the neighbourhood; and, as no one branch of the\nChuzzlewit tree had ever been known to agree with another within the\nmemory of man, there was such a skirmishing, and flouting, and snapping\noff of heads, in the metaphorical sense of that expression; such a\nbandying of words and calling of names; such an upturning of noses and\nwrinkling of brows; such a formal interment of good feelings and violent\nresurrection of ancient grievances; as had never been known in those\nquiet parts since the earliest record of their civilized existence.\n\nAt length, in utter despair and hopelessness, some few of the\nbelligerents began to speak to each other in only moderate terms of\nmutual aggravation; and nearly all addressed themselves with a show of\ntolerable decency to Mr Pecksniff, in recognition of his high character\nand influential position. Thus, by little and little, they made common\ncause of Martin Chuzzlewit's obduracy, until it was agreed (if such a\nword can be used in connection with the Chuzzlewits) that there should\nbe a general council and conference held at Mr Pecksniff's house upon\na certain day at noon; which all members of the family who had brought\nthemselves within reach of the summons, were forthwith bidden and\ninvited, solemnly, to attend.\n\nIf ever Mr Pecksniff wore an apostolic look, he wore it on this\nmemorable day. If ever his unruffled smile proclaimed the words, 'I am\na messenger of peace!' that was its mission now. If ever man combined\nwithin himself all the mild qualities of the lamb with a considerable\ntouch of the dove, and not a dash of the crocodile, or the least\npossible suggestion of the very mildest seasoning of the serpent, that\nman was he. And, oh, the two Miss Pecksniffs! Oh, the serene expression\non the face of Charity, which seemed to say, 'I know that all my family\nhave injured me beyond the possibility of reparation, but I forgive\nthem, for it is my duty so to do!' And, oh, the gay simplicity of Mercy;\nso charming, innocent, and infant-like, that if she had gone out\nwalking by herself, and it had been a little earlier in the season, the\nrobin-redbreasts might have covered her with leaves against her will,\nbelieving her to be one of the sweet children in the wood, come out of\nit, and issuing forth once more to look for blackberries in the young\nfreshness of her heart! What words can paint the Pecksniffs in that\ntrying hour? Oh, none; for words have naughty company among them, and\nthe Pecksniffs were all goodness.\n\nBut when the company arrived! That was the time. When Mr Pecksniff,\nrising from his seat at the table's head, with a daughter on either\nhand, received his guests in the best parlour and motioned them to\nchairs, with eyes so overflowing and countenance so damp with gracious\nperspiration, that he may be said to have been in a kind of moist\nmeekness! And the company; the jealous stony-hearted distrustful\ncompany, who were all shut up in themselves, and had no faith in\nanybody, and wouldn't believe anything, and would no more allow\nthemselves to be softened or lulled asleep by the Pecksniffs than if\nthey had been so many hedgehogs or porcupines!\n\nFirst, there was Mr Spottletoe, who was so bald and had such big\nwhiskers, that he seemed to have stopped his hair, by the sudden\napplication of some powerful remedy, in the very act of falling off his\nhead, and to have fastened it irrevocably on his face. Then there was\nMrs Spottletoe, who being much too slim for her years, and of a poetical\nconstitution, was accustomed to inform her more intimate friends that\nthe said whiskers were 'the lodestar of her existence;' and who could\nnow, by reason of her strong affection for her uncle Chuzzlewit, and the\nshock it gave her to be suspected of testamentary designs upon him, do\nnothing but cry--except moan. Then there were Anthony Chuzzlewit, and\nhis son Jonas; the face of the old man so sharpened by the wariness and\ncunning of his life, that it seemed to cut him a passage through the\ncrowded room, as he edged away behind the remotest chairs; while the son\nhad so well profited by the precept and example of the father, that he\nlooked a year or two the elder of the twain, as they stood winking their\nred eyes, side by side, and whispering to each other softly. Then there\nwas the widow of a deceased brother of Mr Martin Chuzzlewit, who being\nalmost supernaturally disagreeable, and having a dreary face and a bony\nfigure and a masculine voice, was, in right of these qualities, what is\ncommonly called a strong-minded woman; and who, if she could, would have\nestablished her claim to the title, and have shown herself, mentally\nspeaking, a perfect Samson, by shutting up her brother-in-law in a\nprivate madhouse, until he proved his complete sanity by loving her very\nmuch. Beside her sat her spinster daughters, three in number, and of\ngentlemanly deportment, who had so mortified themselves with tight\nstays, that their tempers were reduced to something less than their\nwaists, and sharp lacing was expressed in their very noses. Then there\nwas a young gentleman, grandnephew of Mr Martin Chuzzlewit, very dark\nand very hairy, and apparently born for no particular purpose but to\nsave looking-glasses the trouble of reflecting more than just the first\nidea and sketchy notion of a face, which had never been carried out.\nThen there was a solitary female cousin who was remarkable for nothing\nbut being very deaf, and living by herself, and always having the\ntoothache. Then there was George Chuzzlewit, a gay bachelor cousin,\nwho claimed to be young but had been younger, and was inclined to\ncorpulency, and rather overfed himself; to that extent, indeed, that his\neyes were strained in their sockets, as if with constant surprise; and\nhe had such an obvious disposition to pimples, that the bright spots on\nhis cravat, the rich pattern on his waistcoat, and even his glittering\ntrinkets, seemed to have broken out upon him, and not to have come into\nexistence comfortably. Last of all there were present Mr Chevy Slyme and\nhis friend Tigg. And it is worthy of remark, that although each person\npresent disliked the other, mainly because he or she DID belong to the\nfamily, they one and all concurred in hating Mr Tigg because he didn't.\n\nSuch was the pleasant little family circle now assembled in Mr\nPecksniff's best parlour, agreeably prepared to fall foul of Mr\nPecksniff or anybody else who might venture to say anything whatever\nupon any subject.\n\n'This,' said Mr Pecksniff, rising and looking round upon them with\nfolded hands, 'does me good. It does my daughters good. We thank you for\nassembling here. We are grateful to you with our whole hearts. It is a\nblessed distinction that you have conferred upon us, and believe me'--it\nis impossible to conceive how he smiled here--'we shall not easily\nforget it.'\n\n'I am sorry to interrupt you, Pecksniff,' remarked Mr Spottletoe, with\nhis whiskers in a very portentous state; 'but you are assuming too much\nto yourself, sir. Who do you imagine has it in contemplation to confer a\ndistinction upon YOU, sir?'\n\nA general murmur echoed this inquiry, and applauded it.\n\n'If you are about to pursue the course with which you have begun, sir,'\npursued Mr Spottletoe in a great heat, and giving a violent rap on\nthe table with his knuckles, 'the sooner you desist, and this assembly\nseparates, the better. I am no stranger, sir, to your preposterous\ndesire to be regarded as the head of this family, but I can tell YOU,\nsir--'\n\nOh yes, indeed! HE tell. HE! What? He was the head, was he? From the\nstrong-minded woman downwards everybody fell, that instant, upon Mr\nSpottletoe, who after vainly attempting to be heard in silence was\nfain to sit down again, folding his arms and shaking his head most\nwrathfully, and giving Mrs Spottletoe to understand in dumb show, that\nthat scoundrel Pecksniff might go on for the present, but he would cut\nin presently, and annihilate him.\n\n'I am not sorry,' said Mr Pecksniff in resumption of his address, 'I am\nreally not sorry that this little incident has happened. It is good to\nfeel that we are met here without disguise. It is good to know that we\nhave no reserve before each other, but are appearing freely in our own\ncharacters.'\n\nHere, the eldest daughter of the strong-minded woman rose a little way\nfrom her seat, and trembling violently from head to foot, more as it\nseemed with passion than timidity, expressed a general hope that some\npeople WOULD appear in their own characters, if it were only for such\na proceeding having the attraction of novelty to recommend it; and that\nwhen they (meaning the some people before mentioned) talked about their\nrelations, they would be careful to observe who was present in company\nat the time; otherwise it might come round to those relations' ears, in\na way they little expected; and as to red noses (she observed) she\nhad yet to learn that a red nose was any disgrace, inasmuch as people\nneither made nor coloured their own noses, but had that feature provided\nfor them without being first consulted; though even upon that branch of\nthe subject she had great doubts whether certain noses were redder than\nother noses, or indeed half as red as some. This remark being received\nwith a shrill titter by the two sisters of the speaker, Miss Charity\nPecksniff begged with much politeness to be informed whether any of\nthose very low observations were levelled at her; and receiving no more\nexplanatory answer than was conveyed in the adage 'Those the cap fits,\nlet them wear it,' immediately commenced a somewhat acrimonious and\npersonal retort, wherein she was much comforted and abetted by her\nsister Mercy, who laughed at the same with great heartiness; indeed\nfar more naturally than life. And it being quite impossible that any\ndifference of opinion can take place among women without every woman who\nis within hearing taking active part in it, the strong-minded lady and\nher two daughters, and Mrs Spottletoe, and the deaf cousin (who was\nnot at all disqualified from joining in the dispute by reason of being\nperfectly unacquainted with its merits), one and all plunged into the\nquarrel directly.\n\nThe two Miss Pecksniffs being a pretty good match for the three Miss\nChuzzlewits, and all five young ladies having, in the figurative\nlanguage of the day, a great amount of steam to dispose of, the\naltercation would no doubt have been a long one but for the high valour\nand prowess of the strong-minded woman, who, in right of her reputation\nfor powers of sarcasm, did so belabour and pummel Mrs Spottletoe with\ntaunting words that the poor lady, before the engagement was two minutes\nold, had no refuge but in tears. These she shed so plentifully, and so\nmuch to the agitation and grief of Mr Spottletoe, that that gentleman,\nafter holding his clenched fist close to Mr Pecksniff's eyes, as if\nit were some natural curiosity from the near inspection whereof he was\nlikely to derive high gratification and improvement, and after offering\n(for no particular reason that anybody could discover) to kick Mr George\nChuzzlewit for, and in consideration of, the trifling sum of sixpence,\ntook his wife under his arm and indignantly withdrew. This diversion, by\ndistracting the attention of the combatants, put an end to the strife,\nwhich, after breaking out afresh some twice or thrice in certain\ninconsiderable spurts and dashes, died away in silence.\n\nIt was then that Mr Pecksniff once more rose from his chair. It was then\nthat the two Miss Pecksniffs composed themselves to look as if there\nwere no such beings--not to say present, but in the whole compass of the\nworld--as the three Miss Chuzzlewits; while the three Miss Chuzzlewits\nbecame equally unconscious of the existence of the two Miss Pecksniffs.\n\n'It is to be lamented,' said Mr Pecksniff, with a forgiving recollection\nof Mr Spottletoe's fist, 'that our friend should have withdrawn himself\nso very hastily, though we have cause for mutual congratulation even in\nthat, since we are assured that he is not distrustful of us in regard\nto anything we may say or do while he is absent. Now, that is very\nsoothing, is it not?'\n\n'Pecksniff,' said Anthony, who had been watching the whole party with\npeculiar keenness from the first--'don't you be a hypocrite.'\n\n'A what, my good sir?' demanded Mr Pecksniff.\n\n'A hypocrite.'\n\n'Charity, my dear,' said Mr Pecksniff, 'when I take my chamber\ncandlestick to-night, remind me to be more than usually particular in\npraying for Mr Anthony Chuzzlewit; who has done me an injustice.'\n\nThis was said in a very bland voice, and aside, as being addressed to\nhis daughter's private ear. With a cheerfulness of conscience, prompting\nalmost a sprightly demeanour, he then resumed:\n\n'All our thoughts centring in our very dear but unkind relative, and he\nbeing as it were beyond our reach, we are met to-day, really as if we\nwere a funeral party, except--a blessed exception--that there is no body\nin the house.'\n\nThe strong-minded lady was not at all sure that this was a blessed\nexception. Quite the contrary.\n\n'Well, my dear madam!' said Mr Pecksniff. 'Be that as it may, here we\nare; and being here, we are to consider whether it is possible by any\njustifiable means--'\n\n'Why, you know as well as I,' said the strong-minded lady, 'that any\nmeans are justifiable in such a case, don't you?'\n\n'Very good, my dear madam, very good; whether it is possible by ANY\nmeans, we will say by ANY means, to open the eyes of our valued\nrelative to his present infatuation. Whether it is possible to make\nhim acquainted by any means with the real character and purpose of that\nyoung female whose strange, whose very strange position, in reference\nto himself'--here Mr Pecksniff sunk his voice to an impressive\nwhisper--'really casts a shadow of disgrace and shame upon this family;\nand who, we know'--here he raised his voice again--'else why is she his\ncompanion? harbours the very basest designs upon his weakness and his\nproperty.'\n\nIn their strong feeling on this point, they, who agreed in nothing else,\nall concurred as one mind. Good Heaven, that she should harbour designs\nupon his property! The strong-minded lady was for poison, her three\ndaughters were for Bridewell and bread-and-water, the cousin with\nthe toothache advocated Botany Bay, the two Miss Pecksniffs suggested\nflogging. Nobody but Mr Tigg, who, notwithstanding his extreme\nshabbiness, was still understood to be in some sort a lady's man,\nin right of his upper lip and his frogs, indicated a doubt of the\njustifiable nature of these measures; and he only ogled the three Miss\nChuzzlewits with the least admixture of banter in his admiration, as\nthough he would observe, 'You are positively down upon her to too great\nan extent, my sweet creatures, upon my soul you are!'\n\n'Now,' said Mr Pecksniff, crossing his two forefingers in a manner which\nwas at once conciliatory and argumentative; 'I will not, upon the one\nhand, go so far as to say that she deserves all the inflictions which\nhave been so very forcibly and hilariously suggested;' one of his\nornamental sentences; 'nor will I, upon the other, on any account\ncompromise my common understanding as a man, by making the assertion\nthat she does not. What I would observe is, that I think some practical\nmeans might be devised of inducing our respected, shall I say our\nrevered--?'\n\n'No!' interposed the strong-minded woman in a loud voice.\n\n'Then I will not,' said Mr Pecksniff. 'You are quite right, my\ndear madam, and I appreciate and thank you for your discriminating\nobjection--our respected relative, to dispose himself to listen to the\npromptings of nature, and not to the--'\n\n'Go on, Pa!' cried Mercy.\n\n'Why, the truth is, my dear,' said Mr Pecksniff, smiling upon his\nassembled kindred, 'that I am at a loss for a word. The name of those\nfabulous animals (pagan, I regret to say) who used to sing in the water,\nhas quite escaped me.'\n\nMr George Chuzzlewit suggested 'swans.'\n\n'No,' said Mr Pecksniff. 'Not swans. Very like swans, too. Thank you.'\n\nThe nephew with the outline of a countenance, speaking for the first and\nlast time on that occasion, propounded 'Oysters.'\n\n'No,' said Mr Pecksniff, with his own peculiar urbanity, 'nor oysters.\nBut by no means unlike oysters; a very excellent idea; thank you, my\ndear sir, very much. Wait! Sirens. Dear me! sirens, of course. I think,\nI say, that means might be devised of disposing our respected relative\nto listen to the promptings of nature, and not to the siren-like\ndelusions of art. Now we must not lose sight of the fact that our\nesteemed friend has a grandson, to whom he was, until lately, very much\nattached, and whom I could have wished to see here to-day, for I have a\nreal and deep regard for him. A fine young man, a very fine young man!\nI would submit to you, whether we might not remove Mr Chuzzlewit's\ndistrust of us, and vindicate our own disinterestedness by--'\n\n'If Mr George Chuzzlewit has anything to say to ME,' interposed the\nstrong-minded woman, sternly, 'I beg him to speak out like a man; and\nnot to look at me and my daughters as if he could eat us.'\n\n'As to looking, I have heard it said, Mrs Ned,' returned Mr George,\nangrily, 'that a cat is free to contemplate a monarch; and therefore\nI hope I have some right, having been born a member of this family, to\nlook at a person who only came into it by marriage. As to eating, I\nbeg to say, whatever bitterness your jealousies and disappointed\nexpectations may suggest to you, that I am not a cannibal, ma'am.'\n\n'I don't know that!' cried the strong-minded woman.\n\n'At all events, if I was a cannibal,' said Mr George Chuzzlewit, greatly\nstimulated by this retort, 'I think it would occur to me that a lady\nwho had outlived three husbands, and suffered so very little from their\nloss, must be most uncommonly tough.'\n\nThe strong-minded woman immediately rose.\n\n'And I will further add,' said Mr George, nodding his head violently at\nevery second syllable; 'naming no names, and therefore hurting nobody\nbut those whose consciences tell them they are alluded to, that I think\nit would be much more decent and becoming, if those who hooked and\ncrooked themselves into this family by getting on the blind side of some\nof its members before marriage, and manslaughtering them afterwards by\ncrowing over them to that strong pitch that they were glad to die, would\nrefrain from acting the part of vultures in regard to other members of\nthis family who are living. I think it would be full as well, if not\nbetter, if those individuals would keep at home, contenting themselves\nwith what they have got (luckily for them) already; instead of hovering\nabout, and thrusting their fingers into, a family pie, which they\nflavour much more than enough, I can tell them, when they are fifty\nmiles away.'\n\n'I might have been prepared for this!' cried the strong-minded woman,\nlooking about her with a disdainful smile as she moved towards the door,\nfollowed by her three daughters. 'Indeed I was fully prepared for it\nfrom the first. What else could I expect in such an atmosphere as this!'\n\n'Don't direct your halfpay-officers' gaze at me, ma'am, if you please,'\ninterposed Miss Charity; 'for I won't bear it.'\n\nThis was a smart stab at a pension enjoyed by the strong-minded woman,\nduring her second widowhood and before her last coverture. It told\nimmensely.\n\n'I passed from the memory of a grateful country, you very miserable\nminx,' said Mrs Ned, 'when I entered this family; and I feel now, though\nI did not feel then, that it served me right, and that I lost my claim\nupon the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Ireland when I so degraded\nmyself. Now, my dears, if you're quite ready, and have sufficiently\nimproved yourselves by taking to heart the genteel example of these two\nyoung ladies, I think we'll go. Mr Pecksniff, we are very much obliged\nto you, really. We came to be entertained, and you have far surpassed\nour utmost expectations, in the amusement you have provided for us.\nThank you. Good-bye!'\n\nWith such departing words, did this strong-minded female paralyse the\nPecksniffian energies; and so she swept out of the room, and out of\nthe house, attended by her daughters, who, as with one accord, elevated\ntheir three noses in the air, and joined in a contemptuous titter.\nAs they passed the parlour window on the outside, they were seen to\ncounterfeit a perfect transport of delight among themselves; and\nwith this final blow and great discouragement for those within, they\nvanished.\n\nBefore Mr Pecksniff or any of his remaining visitors could offer a\nremark, another figure passed this window, coming, at a great rate in\nthe opposite direction; and immediately afterwards, Mr Spottletoe burst\ninto the chamber. Compared with his present state of heat, he had gone\nout a man of snow or ice. His head distilled such oil upon his whiskers,\nthat they were rich and clogged with unctuous drops; his face was\nviolently inflamed, his limbs trembled; and he gasped and strove for\nbreath.\n\n'My good sir!' cried Mr Pecksniff.\n\n'Oh yes!' returned the other; 'oh yes, certainly! Oh to be sure! Oh, of\ncourse! You hear him? You hear him? all of you!'\n\n'What's the matter?' cried several voices.\n\n'Oh nothing!' cried Spottletoe, still gasping. 'Nothing at all! It's of\nno consequence! Ask him! HE'll tell you!'\n\n'I do not understand our friend,' said Mr Pecksniff, looking about him\nin utter amazement. 'I assure you that he is quite unintelligible to\nme.'\n\n'Unintelligible, sir!' cried the other. 'Unintelligible! Do you mean\nto say, sir, that you don't know what has happened! That you haven't\ndecoyed us here, and laid a plot and a plan against us! Will you venture\nto say that you didn't know Mr Chuzzlewit was going, sir, and that you\ndon't know he's gone, sir?'\n\n'Gone!' was the general cry.\n\n'Gone,' echoed Mr Spottletoe. 'Gone while we were sitting here. Gone.\nNobody knows where he's gone. Oh, of course not! Nobody knew he was\ngoing. Oh, of course not! The landlady thought up to the very last\nmoment that they were merely going for a ride; she had no other\nsuspicion. Oh, of course not! She's not this fellow's creature. Oh, of\ncourse not!'\n\nAdding to these exclamations a kind of ironical howl, and gazing upon\nthe company for one brief instant afterwards, in a sudden silence, the\nirritated gentleman started off again at the same tremendous pace, and\nwas seen no more.\n\nIt was in vain for Mr Pecksniff to assure them that this new and\nopportune evasion of the family was at least as great a shock\nand surprise to him as to anybody else. Of all the bullyings and\ndenunciations that were ever heaped on one unlucky head, none can\never have exceeded in energy and heartiness those with which he was\ncomplimented by each of his remaining relatives, singly, upon bidding\nhim farewell.\n\nThe moral position taken by Mr Tigg was something quite tremendous; and\nthe deaf cousin, who had the complicated aggravation of seeing all the\nproceedings and hearing nothing but the catastrophe, actually scraped\nher shoes upon the scraper, and afterwards distributed impressions of\nthem all over the top step, in token that she shook the dust from her\nfeet before quitting that dissembling and perfidious mansion.\n\nMr Pecksniff had, in short, but one comfort, and that was the knowledge\nthat all these his relations and friends had hated him to the very\nutmost extent before; and that he, for his part, had not distributed\namong them any more love than, with his ample capital in that respect,\nhe could comfortably afford to part with. This view of his affairs\nyielded him great consolation; and the fact deserves to be noted, as\nshowing with what ease a good man may be consoled under circumstances of\nfailure and disappointment.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER FIVE\n\nCONTAINING A FULL ACCOUNT OF THE INSTALLATION OF MR PECKSNIFF'S NEW\nPUPIL INTO THE BOSOM OF MR PECKSNIFF'S FAMILY. WITH ALL THE FESTIVITIES\nHELD ON THAT OCCASION, AND THE GREAT ENJOYMENT OF MR PINCH\n\n\nThe best of architects and land surveyors kept a horse, in whom the\nenemies already mentioned more than once in these pages pretended to\ndetect a fanciful resemblance to his master. Not in his outward\nperson, for he was a raw-boned, haggard horse, always on a much shorter\nallowance of corn than Mr Pecksniff; but in his moral character,\nwherein, said they, he was full of promise, but of no performance.\nHe was always in a manner, going to go, and never going. When at his\nslowest rate of travelling he would sometimes lift up his legs so high,\nand display such mighty action, that it was difficult to believe he was\ndoing less than fourteen miles an hour; and he was for ever so\nperfectly satisfied with his own speed, and so little disconcerted by\nopportunities of comparing himself with the fastest trotters, that the\nillusion was the more difficult of resistance. He was a kind of animal\nwho infused into the breasts of strangers a lively sense of hope, and\npossessed all those who knew him better with a grim despair. In what\nrespect, having these points of character, he might be fairly likened\nto his master, that good man's slanderers only can explain. But it is a\nmelancholy truth, and a deplorable instance of the uncharitableness of\nthe world, that they made the comparison.\n\nIn this horse, and the hooded vehicle, whatever its proper name might\nbe, to which he was usually harnessed--it was more like a gig with a\ntumour than anything else--all Mr Pinch's thoughts and wishes centred,\none bright frosty morning; for with this gallant equipage he was about\nto drive to Salisbury alone, there to meet with the new pupil, and\nthence to bring him home in triumph.\n\nBlessings on thy simple heart, Tom Pinch, how proudly dost thou button\nup that scanty coat, called by a sad misnomer, for these many years,\na 'great' one; and how thoroughly, as with thy cheerful voice thou\npleasantly adjurest Sam the hostler 'not to let him go yet,' dost thou\nbelieve that quadruped desires to go, and would go if he might! Who\ncould repress a smile--of love for thee, Tom Pinch, and not in jest at\nthy expense, for thou art poor enough already, Heaven knows--to think\nthat such a holiday as lies before thee should awaken that quick flow\nand hurry of the spirits, in which thou settest down again, almost\nuntasted, on the kitchen window-sill, that great white mug (put by, by\nthy own hands, last night, that breakfast might not hold thee late), and\nlayest yonder crust upon the seat beside thee, to be eaten on the road,\nwhen thou art calmer in thy high rejoicing! Who, as thou drivest off, a\nhappy, man, and noddest with a grateful lovingness to Pecksniff in his\nnightcap at his chamber-window, would not cry, 'Heaven speed thee, Tom,\nand send that thou wert going off for ever to some quiet home where thou\nmightst live at peace, and sorrow should not touch thee!'\n\nWhat better time for driving, riding, walking, moving through the air by\nany means, than a fresh, frosty morning, when hope runs cheerily through\nthe veins with the brisk blood, and tingles in the frame from head to\nfoot! This was the glad commencement of a bracing day in early winter,\nsuch as may put the languid summer season (speaking of it when it can't\nbe had) to the blush, and shame the spring for being sometimes cold by\nhalves. The sheep-bells rang as clearly in the vigorous air, as if they\nfelt its wholesome influence like living creatures; the trees, in lieu\nof leaves or blossoms, shed upon the ground a frosty rime that sparkled\nas it fell, and might have been the dust of diamonds. So it was to Tom.\nFrom cottage chimneys, smoke went streaming up high, high, as if the\nearth had lost its grossness, being so fair, and must not be oppressed\nby heavy vapour. The crust of ice on the else rippling brook was so\ntransparent, and so thin in texture, that the lively water might of its\nown free will have stopped--in Tom's glad mind it had--to look upon the\nlovely morning. And lest the sun should break this charm too eagerly,\nthere moved between him and the ground, a mist like that which waits\nupon the moon on summer nights--the very same to Tom--and wooed him to\ndissolve it gently.\n\nTom Pinch went on; not fast, but with a sense of rapid motion, which did\njust as well; and as he went, all kinds of things occurred to keep him\nhappy. Thus when he came within sight of the turnpike, and was--oh a\nlong way off!--he saw the tollman's wife, who had that moment checked a\nwaggon, run back into the little house again like mad, to say (she knew)\nthat Mr Pinch was coming up. And she was right, for when he drew within\nhail of the gate, forth rushed the tollman's children, shrieking in tiny\nchorus, 'Mr Pinch!' to Tom's intense delight. The very tollman, though\nan ugly chap in general, and one whom folks were rather shy of handling,\ncame out himself to take the toll, and give him rough good morning; and\nthat with all this, and a glimpse of the family breakfast on a little\nround table before the fire, the crust Tom Pinch had brought away with\nhim acquired as rich a flavour as though it had been cut from a fairy\nloaf.\n\nBut there was more than this. It was not only the married people and the\nchildren who gave Tom Pinch a welcome as he passed. No, no. Sparkling\neyes and snowy breasts came hurriedly to many an upper casement as he\nclattered by, and gave him back his greeting: not stinted either, but\nsevenfold, good measure. They were all merry. They all laughed. And some\nof the wickedest among them even kissed their hands as Tom looked back.\nFor who minded poor Mr Pinch? There was no harm in HIM.\n\nAnd now the morning grew so fair, and all things were so wide awake and\ngay, that the sun seeming to say--Tom had no doubt he said--'I can't\nstand it any longer; I must have a look,' streamed out in radiant\nmajesty. The mist, too shy and gentle for such lusty company, fled off,\nquite scared, before it; and as it swept away, the hills and mounds and\ndistant pasture lands, teeming with placid sheep and noisy crows, came\nout as bright as though they were unrolled bran new for the occasion. In\ncompliment to which discovery, the brook stood still no longer, but ran\nbriskly off to bear the tidings to the water-mill, three miles away.\n\nMr Pinch was jogging along, full of pleasant thoughts and cheerful\ninfluences, when he saw, upon the path before him, going in the same\ndirection with himself, a traveller on foot, who walked with a light\nquick step, and sang as he went--for certain in a very loud voice, but\nnot unmusically. He was a young fellow, of some five or six-and-twenty\nperhaps, and was dressed in such a free and fly-away fashion, that the\nlong ends of his loose red neckcloth were streaming out behind him\nquite as often as before; and the bunch of bright winter berries in the\nbuttonhole of his velveteen coat was as visible to Mr Pinch's rearward\nobservation, as if he had worn that garment wrong side foremost. He\ncontinued to sing with so much energy, that he did not hear the sound\nof wheels until it was close behind him; when he turned a whimsical\nface and a very merry pair of blue eyes on Mr Pinch, and checked himself\ndirectly.\n\n'Why, Mark?' said Tom Pinch, stopping. 'Who'd have thought of seeing you\nhere? Well! this is surprising!'\n\nMark touched his hat, and said, with a very sudden decrease of vivacity,\nthat he was going to Salisbury.\n\n'And how spruce you are, too!' said Mr Pinch, surveying him with great\npleasure. 'Really, I didn't think you were half such a tight-made\nfellow, Mark!'\n\n'Thankee, Mr Pinch. Pretty well for that, I believe. It's not my fault,\nyou know. With regard to being spruce, sir, that's where it is, you\nsee.' And here he looked particularly gloomy.\n\n'Where what is?' Mr Pinch demanded.\n\n'Where the aggravation of it is. Any man may be in good spirits and good\ntemper when he's well dressed. There an't much credit in that. If I was\nvery ragged and very jolly, then I should begin to feel I had gained a\npoint, Mr Pinch.'\n\n'So you were singing just now, to bear up, as it were, against being\nwell dressed, eh, Mark?' said Pinch.\n\n'Your conversation's always equal to print, sir,' rejoined Mark, with a\nbroad grin. 'That was it.'\n\n'Well!' cried Pinch, 'you are the strangest young man, Mark, I ever knew\nin my life. I always thought so; but now I am quite certain of it. I am\ngoing to Salisbury, too. Will you get in? I shall be very glad of your\ncompany.'\n\nThe young fellow made his acknowledgments and accepted the offer;\nstepping into the carriage directly, and seating himself on the very\nedge of the seat with his body half out of it, to express his being\nthere on sufferance, and by the politeness of Mr Pinch. As they went\nalong, the conversation proceeded after this manner.\n\n'I more than half believed, just now, seeing you so very smart,' said\nPinch, 'that you must be going to be married, Mark.'\n\n'Well, sir, I've thought of that, too,' he replied. 'There might be some\ncredit in being jolly with a wife, 'specially if the children had the\nmeasles and that, and was very fractious indeed. But I'm a'most afraid\nto try it. I don't see my way clear.'\n\n'You're not very fond of anybody, perhaps?' said Pinch.\n\n'Not particular, sir, I think.'\n\n'But the way would be, you know, Mark, according to your views of\nthings,' said Mr Pinch, 'to marry somebody you didn't like, and who was\nvery disagreeable.'\n\n'So it would, sir; but that might be carrying out a principle a little\ntoo far, mightn't it?'\n\n'Perhaps it might,' said Mr Pinch. At which they both laughed gayly.\n\n'Lord bless you, sir,' said Mark, 'you don't half know me, though. I\ndon't believe there ever was a man as could come out so strong under\ncircumstances that would make other men miserable, as I could, if I\ncould only get a chance. But I can't get a chance. It's my opinion\nthat nobody never will know half of what's in me, unless something very\nunexpected turns up. And I don't see any prospect of that. I'm a-going\nto leave the Dragon, sir.'\n\n'Going to leave the Dragon!' cried Mr Pinch, looking at him with great\nastonishment. 'Why, Mark, you take my breath away!'\n\n'Yes, sir,' he rejoined, looking straight before him and a long way off,\nas men do sometimes when they cogitate profoundly. 'What's the use of my\nstopping at the Dragon? It an't at all the sort of place for ME. When\nI left London (I'm a Kentish man by birth, though), and took that\nsituation here, I quite made up my mind that it was the dullest little\nout-of-the-way corner in England, and that there would be some credit in\nbeing jolly under such circumstances. But, Lord, there's no dullness at\nthe Dragon! Skittles, cricket, quoits, nine-pins, comic songs, choruses,\ncompany round the chimney corner every winter's evening. Any man could\nbe jolly at the Dragon. There's no credit in THAT.'\n\n'But if common report be true for once, Mark, as I think it is, being\nable to confirm it by what I know myself,' said Mr Pinch, 'you are the\ncause of half this merriment, and set it going.'\n\n'There may be something in that, too, sir,' answered Mark. 'But that's\nno consolation.'\n\n'Well!' said Mr Pinch, after a short silence, his usually subdued tone\nbeing even now more subdued than ever. 'I can hardly think enough of\nwhat you tell me. Why, what will become of Mrs Lupin, Mark?'\n\nMark looked more fixedly before him, and further off still, as he\nanswered that he didn't suppose it would be much of an object to her.\nThere were plenty of smart young fellows as would be glad of the place.\nHe knew a dozen himself.\n\n'That's probable enough,' said Mr Pinch, 'but I am not at all sure that\nMrs Lupin would be glad of them. Why, I always supposed that Mrs Lupin\nand you would make a match of it, Mark; and so did every one, as far as\nI know.'\n\n'I never,' Mark replied, in some confusion, 'said nothing as was in a\ndirect way courting-like to her, nor she to me, but I don't know what I\nmightn't do one of these odd times, and what she mightn't say in answer.\nWell, sir, THAT wouldn't suit.'\n\n'Not to be landlord of the Dragon, Mark?' cried Mr Pinch.\n\n'No, sir, certainly not,' returned the other, withdrawing his gaze from\nthe horizon, and looking at his fellow-traveller. 'Why that would be the\nruin of a man like me. I go and sit down comfortably for life, and no\nman never finds me out. What would be the credit of the landlord of the\nDragon's being jolly? Why, he couldn't help it, if he tried.'\n\n'Does Mrs Lupin know you are going to leave her?' Mr Pinch inquired.\n\n'I haven't broke it to her yet, sir, but I must. I'm looking out this\nmorning for something new and suitable,' he said, nodding towards the\ncity.\n\n'What kind of thing now?' Mr Pinch demanded.\n\n'I was thinking,' Mark replied, 'of something in the grave-digging.\nway.'\n\n'Good gracious, Mark?' cried Mr Pinch.\n\n'It's a good damp, wormy sort of business, sir,' said Mark, shaking his\nhead argumentatively, 'and there might be some credit in being jolly,\nwith one's mind in that pursuit, unless grave-diggers is usually given\nthat way; which would be a drawback. You don't happen to know how that\nis in general, do you, sir?'\n\n'No,' said Mr Pinch, 'I don't indeed. I never thought upon the subject.'\n\n'In case of that not turning out as well as one could wish, you know,'\nsaid Mark, musing again, 'there's other businesses. Undertaking now.\nThat's gloomy. There might be credit to be gained there. A broker's man\nin a poor neighbourhood wouldn't be bad perhaps. A jailor sees a deal of\nmisery. A doctor's man is in the very midst of murder. A bailiff's an't\na lively office nat'rally. Even a tax-gatherer must find his feelings\nrather worked upon, at times. There's lots of trades in which I should\nhave an opportunity, I think.'\n\nMr Pinch was so perfectly overwhelmed by these remarks that he could\ndo nothing but occasionally exchange a word or two on some indifferent\nsubject, and cast sidelong glances at the bright face of his odd friend\n(who seemed quite unconscious of his observation), until they reached a\ncertain corner of the road, close upon the outskirts of the city, when\nMark said he would jump down there, if he pleased.\n\n'But bless my soul, Mark,' said Mr Pinch, who in the progress of\nhis observation just then made the discovery that the bosom of his\ncompanion's shirt was as much exposed as if it was Midsummer, and was\nruffled by every breath of air, 'why don't you wear a waistcoat?'\n\n'What's the good of one, sir?' asked Mark.\n\n'Good of one?' said Mr Pinch. 'Why, to keep your chest warm.'\n\n'Lord love you, sir!' cried Mark, 'you don't know me. My chest don't\nwant no warming. Even if it did, what would no waistcoat bring it to?\nInflammation of the lungs, perhaps? Well, there'd be some credit in\nbeing jolly, with a inflammation of the lungs.'\n\nAs Mr Pinch returned no other answer than such as was conveyed in his\nbreathing very hard, and opening his eyes very wide, and nodding his\nhead very much, Mark thanked him for his ride, and without troubling\nhim to stop, jumped lightly down. And away he fluttered, with his red\nneckerchief, and his open coat, down a cross-lane; turning back from\ntime to time to nod to Mr Pinch, and looking one of the most careless,\ngood-humoured comical fellows in life. His late companion, with a\nthoughtful face pursued his way to Salisbury.\n\nMr Pinch had a shrewd notion that Salisbury was a very desperate sort of\nplace; an exceeding wild and dissipated city; and when he had put up the\nhorse, and given the hostler to understand that he would look in again\nin the course of an hour or two to see him take his corn, he set forth\non a stroll about the streets with a vague and not unpleasant idea that\nthey teemed with all kinds of mystery and bedevilment. To one of\nhis quiet habits this little delusion was greatly assisted by the\ncircumstance of its being market-day, and the thoroughfares about the\nmarket-place being filled with carts, horses, donkeys, baskets, waggons,\ngarden-stuff, meat, tripe, pies, poultry and huckster's wares of every\nopposite description and possible variety of character. Then there were\nyoung farmers and old farmers with smock-frocks, brown great-coats, drab\ngreat-coats, red worsted comforters, leather-leggings, wonderful shaped\nhats, hunting-whips, and rough sticks, standing about in groups, or\ntalking noisily together on the tavern steps, or paying and receiving\nhuge amounts of greasy wealth, with the assistance of such bulky\npocket-books that when they were in their pockets it was apoplexy to\nget them out, and when they were out it was spasms to get them in again.\nAlso there were farmers' wives in beaver bonnets and red cloaks, riding\nshaggy horses purged of all earthly passions, who went soberly into all\nmanner of places without desiring to know why, and who, if required,\nwould have stood stock still in a china shop, with a complete\ndinner-service at each hoof. Also a great many dogs, who were strongly\ninterested in the state of the market and the bargains of their masters;\nand a great confusion of tongues, both brute and human.\n\nMr Pinch regarded everything exposed for sale with great delight, and\nwas particularly struck by the itinerant cutlery, which he considered\nof the very keenest kind, insomuch that he purchased a pocket knife with\nseven blades in it, and not a cut (as he afterwards found out) among\nthem. When he had exhausted the market-place, and watched the farmers\nsafe into the market dinner, he went back to look after the horse.\nHaving seen him eat unto his heart's content he issued forth again,\nto wander round the town and regale himself with the shop windows;\npreviously taking a long stare at the bank, and wondering in what\ndirection underground the caverns might be where they kept the money;\nand turning to look back at one or two young men who passed him, whom\nhe knew to be articled to solicitors in the town; and who had a sort of\nfearful interest in his eyes, as jolly dogs who knew a thing or two, and\nkept it up tremendously.\n\nBut the shops. First of all there were the jewellers' shops, with all\nthe treasures of the earth displayed therein, and such large silver\nwatches hanging up in every pane of glass, that if they were anything\nbut first-rate goers it certainly was not because the works could\ndecently complain of want of room. In good sooth they were big enough,\nand perhaps, as the saying is, ugly enough, to be the most correct of\nall mechanical performers; in Mr Pinch's eyes, however they were smaller\nthan Geneva ware; and when he saw one very bloated watch announced as a\nrepeater, gifted with the uncommon power of striking every quarter of an\nhour inside the pocket of its happy owner, he almost wished that he were\nrich enough to buy it.\n\nBut what were even gold and silver, precious stones and clockwork, to\nthe bookshops, whence a pleasant smell of paper freshly pressed came\nissuing forth, awakening instant recollections of some new grammar had\nat school, long time ago, with 'Master Pinch, Grove House Academy,'\ninscribed in faultless writing on the fly-leaf! That whiff of russia\nleather, too, and all those rows on rows of volumes neatly ranged\nwithin--what happiness did they suggest! And in the window were\nthe spick-and-span new works from London, with the title-pages, and\nsometimes even the first page of the first chapter, laid wide open;\ntempting unwary men to begin to read the book, and then, in the\nimpossibility of turning over, to rush blindly in, and buy it! Here too\nwere the dainty frontispiece and trim vignette, pointing like handposts\non the outskirts of great cities, to the rich stock of incident beyond;\nand store of books, with many a grave portrait and time-honoured name,\nwhose matter he knew well, and would have given mines to have, in any\nform, upon the narrow shell beside his bed at Mr Pecksniff's. What a\nheart-breaking shop it was!\n\nThere was another; not quite so bad at first, but still a trying shop;\nwhere children's books were sold, and where poor Robinson Crusoe\nstood alone in his might, with dog and hatchet, goat-skin cap and\nfowling-pieces; calmly surveying Philip Quarn and the host of imitators\nround him, and calling Mr Pinch to witness that he, of all the crowd,\nimpressed one solitary footprint on the shore of boyish memory, whereof\nthe tread of generations should not stir the lightest grain of sand.\nAnd there too were the Persian tales, with flying chests and students of\nenchanted books shut up for years in caverns; and there too was Abudah,\nthe merchant, with the terrible little old woman hobbling out of the box\nin his bedroom; and there the mighty talisman, the rare Arabian Nights,\nwith Cassim Baba, divided by four, like the ghost of a dreadful sum,\nhanging up, all gory, in the robbers' cave. Which matchless wonders,\ncoming fast on Mr Pinch's mind, did so rub up and chafe that wonderful\nlamp within him, that when he turned his face towards the busy street,\na crowd of phantoms waited on his pleasure, and he lived again, with new\ndelight, the happy days before the Pecksniff era.\n\nHe had less interest now in the chemists' shops, with their great\nglowing bottles (with smaller repositories of brightness in their very\nstoppers); and in their agreeable compromises between medicine and\nperfumery, in the shape of toothsome lozenges and virgin honey. Neither\nhad he the least regard (but he never had much) for the tailors', where\nthe newest metropolitan waistcoat patterns were hanging up, which by\nsome strange transformation always looked amazing there, and never\nappeared at all like the same thing anywhere else. But he stopped to\nread the playbill at the theatre and surveyed the doorway with a kind\nof awe, which was not diminished when a sallow gentleman with long dark\nhair came out, and told a boy to run home to his lodgings and bring down\nhis broadsword. Mr Pinch stood rooted to the spot on hearing this, and\nmight have stood there until dark, but that the old cathedral bell began\nto ring for vesper service, on which he tore himself away.\n\nNow, the organist's assistant was a friend of Mr Pinch's, which was a\ngood thing, for he too was a very quiet gentle soul, and had been, like\nTom, a kind of old-fashioned boy at school, though well liked by the\nnoisy fellow too. As good luck would have it (Tom always said he had\ngreat good luck) the assistant chanced that very afternoon to be on duty\nby himself, with no one in the dusty organ loft but Tom; so while he\nplayed, Tom helped him with the stops; and finally, the service being\njust over, Tom took the organ himself. It was then turning dark, and the\nyellow light that streamed in through the ancient windows in the choir\nwas mingled with a murky red. As the grand tones resounded through\nthe church, they seemed, to Tom, to find an echo in the depth of every\nancient tomb, no less than in the deep mystery of his own heart. Great\nthoughts and hopes came crowding on his mind as the rich music rolled\nupon the air and yet among them--something more grave and solemn in\ntheir purpose, but the same--were all the images of that day, down to\nits very lightest recollection of childhood. The feeling that the sounds\nawakened, in the moment of their existence, seemed to include his whole\nlife and being; and as the surrounding realities of stone and wood\nand glass grew dimmer in the darkness, these visions grew so much the\nbrighter that Tom might have forgotten the new pupil and the expectant\nmaster, and have sat there pouring out his grateful heart till midnight,\nbut for a very earthy old verger insisting on locking up the cathedral\nforthwith. So he took leave of his friend, with many thanks, groped his\nway out, as well as he could, into the now lamp-lighted streets, and\nhurried off to get his dinner.\n\nAll the farmers being by this time jogging homewards, there was nobody\nin the sanded parlour of the tavern where he had left the horse; so he\nhad his little table drawn out close before the fire, and fell to\nwork upon a well-cooked steak and smoking hot potatoes, with a strong\nappreciation of their excellence, and a very keen sense of enjoyment.\nBeside him, too, there stood a jug of most stupendous Wiltshire beer;\nand the effect of the whole was so transcendent, that he was obliged\nevery now and then to lay down his knife and fork, rub his hands, and\nthink about it. By the time the cheese and celery came, Mr Pinch had\ntaken a book out of his pocket, and could afford to trifle with the\nviands; now eating a little, now drinking a little, now reading a\nlittle, and now stopping to wonder what sort of a young man the new\npupil would turn out to be. He had passed from this latter theme and was\ndeep in his book again, when the door opened, and another guest came in,\nbringing with him such a quantity of cold air, that he positively seemed\nat first to put the fire out.\n\n'Very hard frost to-night, sir,' said the newcomer, courteously\nacknowledging Mr Pinch's withdrawal of the little table, that he might\nhave place: 'Don't disturb yourself, I beg.'\n\nThough he said this with a vast amount of consideration for Mr Pinch's\ncomfort, he dragged one of the great leather-bottomed chairs to the\nvery centre of the hearth, notwithstanding; and sat down in front of the\nfire, with a foot on each hob.\n\n'My feet are quite numbed. Ah! Bitter cold to be sure.'\n\n'You have been in the air some considerable time, I dare say?' said Mr\nPinch.\n\n'All day. Outside a coach, too.'\n\n'That accounts for his making the room so cool,' thought Mr Pinch. 'Poor\nfellow! How thoroughly chilled he must be!'\n\nThe stranger became thoughtful likewise, and sat for five or ten minutes\nlooking at the fire in silence. At length he rose and divested himself\nof his shawl and great-coat, which (far different from Mr Pinch's) was\na very warm and thick one; but he was not a whit more conversational out\nof his great-coat than in it, for he sat down again in the same place\nand attitude, and leaning back in his chair, began to bite his nails. He\nwas young--one-and-twenty, perhaps--and handsome; with a keen dark eye,\nand a quickness of look and manner which made Tom sensible of a great\ncontrast in his own bearing, and caused him to feel even more shy than\nusual.\n\nThere was a clock in the room, which the stranger often turned to\nlook at. Tom made frequent reference to it also; partly from a nervous\nsympathy with its taciturn companion; and partly because the new pupil\nwas to inquire for him at half after six, and the hands were getting\non towards that hour. Whenever the stranger caught him looking at this\nclock, a kind of confusion came upon Tom as if he had been found out in\nsomething; and it was a perception of his uneasiness which caused the\nyounger man to say, perhaps, with a smile:\n\n'We both appear to be rather particular about the time. The fact is, I\nhave an engagement to meet a gentleman here.'\n\n'So have I,' said Mr Pinch.\n\n'At half-past six,' said the stranger.\n\n'At half-past six,' said Tom in the very same breath; whereupon the\nother looked at him with some surprise.\n\n'The young gentleman, I expect,' remarked Tom, timidly, 'was to inquire\nat that time for a person by the name of Pinch.'\n\n'Dear me!' cried the other, jumping up. 'And I have been keeping the\nfire from you all this while! I had no idea you were Mr Pinch. I am the\nMr Martin for whom you were to inquire. Pray excuse me. How do you do?\nOh, do draw nearer, pray!'\n\n'Thank you,' said Tom, 'thank you. I am not at all cold, and you are;\nand we have a cold ride before us. Well, if you wish it, I will. I--I am\nvery glad,' said Tom, smiling with an embarrassed frankness peculiarly\nhis, and which was as plainly a confession of his own imperfections, and\nan appeal to the kindness of the person he addressed, as if he had drawn\none up in simple language and committed it to paper: 'I am very glad\nindeed that you turn out to be the party I expected. I was thinking, but\na minute ago, that I could wish him to be like you.'\n\n'I am very glad to hear it,' returned Martin, shaking hands with him\nagain; 'for I assure you, I was thinking there could be no such luck as\nMr Pinch's turning out like you.'\n\n'No, really!' said Tom, with great pleasure. 'Are you serious?'\n\n'Upon my word I am,' replied his new acquaintance. 'You and I will get\non excellently well, I know; which it's no small relief to me to feel,\nfor to tell you the truth, I am not at all the sort of fellow who could\nget on with everybody, and that's the point on which I had the greatest\ndoubts. But they're quite relieved now.--Do me the favour to ring the\nbell, will you?'\n\nMr Pinch rose, and complied with great alacrity--the handle hung just\nover Martin's head, as he warmed himself--and listened with a smiling\nface to what his friend went on to say. It was:\n\n'If you like punch, you'll allow me to order a glass apiece, as hot\nas it can be made, that we may usher in our friendship in a becoming\nmanner. To let you into a secret, Mr Pinch, I never was so much in want\nof something warm and cheering in my life; but I didn't like to run the\nchance of being found drinking it, without knowing what kind of person\nyou were; for first impressions, you know, often go a long way, and last\na long time.'\n\nMr Pinch assented, and the punch was ordered. In due course it came; hot\nand strong. After drinking to each other in the steaming mixture, they\nbecame quite confidential.\n\n'I'm a sort of relation of Pecksniff's, you know,' said the young man.\n\n'Indeed!' cried Mr Pinch.\n\n'Yes. My grandfather is his cousin, so he's kith and kin to me, somehow,\nif you can make that out. I can't.'\n\n'Then Martin is your Christian name?' said Mr Pinch, thoughtfully. 'Oh!'\n\n'Of course it is,' returned his friend: 'I wish it was my surname for\nmy own is not a very pretty one, and it takes a long time to sign\nChuzzlewit is my name.'\n\n'Dear me!' cried Mr Pinch, with an involuntary start.\n\n'You're not surprised at my having two names, I suppose?' returned the\nother, setting his glass to his lips. 'Most people have.'\n\n'Oh, no,' said Mr Pinch, 'not at all. Oh dear no! Well!' And then\nremembering that Mr Pecksniff had privately cautioned him to say nothing\nin reference to the old gentleman of the same name who had lodged at\nthe Dragon, but to reserve all mention of that person for him, he had\nno better means of hiding his confusion than by raising his own glass\nto his mouth. They looked at each other out of their respective tumblers\nfor a few seconds, and then put them down empty.\n\n'I told them in the stable to be ready for us ten minutes ago,' said Mr\nPinch, glancing at the clock again. 'Shall we go?'\n\n'If you please,' returned the other.\n\n'Would you like to drive?' said Mr Pinch; his whole face beaming with a\nconsciousness of the splendour of his offer. 'You shall, if you wish.'\n\n'Why, that depends, Mr Pinch,' said Martin, laughing, 'upon what sort\nof a horse you have. Because if he's a bad one, I would rather keep my\nhands warm by holding them comfortably in my greatcoat pockets.'\n\nHe appeared to think this such a good joke, that Mr Pinch was quite sure\nit must be a capital one. Accordingly, he laughed too, and was fully\npersuaded that he enjoyed it very much. Then he settled his bill, and Mr\nChuzzlewit paid for the punch; and having wrapped themselves up, to the\nextent of their respective means, they went out together to the front\ndoor, where Mr Pecksniff's property stopped the way.\n\n'I won't drive, thank you, Mr Pinch,' said Martin, getting into the\nsitter's place. 'By the bye, there's a box of mine. Can we manage to\ntake it?'\n\n'Oh, certainly,' said Tom. 'Put it in, Dick, anywhere!'\n\nIt was not precisely of that convenient size which would admit of its\nbeing squeezed into any odd corner, but Dick the hostler got it in\nsomehow, and Mr Chuzzlewit helped him. It was all on Mr Pinch's side,\nand Mr Chuzzlewit said he was very much afraid it would encumber him; to\nwhich Tom said, 'Not at all;' though it forced him into such an awkward\nposition, that he had much ado to see anything but his own knees. But it\nis an ill wind that blows nobody any good; and the wisdom of the saying\nwas verified in this instance; for the cold air came from Mr Pinch's\nside of the carriage, and by interposing a perfect wall of box and\nman between it and the new pupil, he shielded that young gentleman\neffectually; which was a great comfort.\n\nIt was a clear evening, with a bright moon. The whole landscape was\nsilvered by its light and by the hoar-frost; and everything looked\nexquisitely beautiful. At first, the great serenity and peace through\nwhich they travelled, disposed them both to silence; but in a very short\ntime the punch within them and the healthful air without, made them\nloquacious, and they talked incessantly. When they were halfway home,\nand stopped to give the horse some water, Martin (who was very generous\nwith his money) ordered another glass of punch, which they drank between\nthem, and which had not the effect of making them less conversational\nthan before. Their principal topic of discourse was naturally Mr\nPecksniff and his family; of whom, and of the great obligations they had\nheaped upon him, Tom Pinch, with the tears standing in his eyes, drew\nsuch a picture as would have inclined any one of common feeling\nalmost to revere them; and of which Mr Pecksniff had not the slightest\nforesight or preconceived idea, or he certainly (being very humble)\nwould not have sent Tom Pinch to bring the pupil home.\n\nIn this way they went on, and on, and on--in the language of the\nstory-books--until at last the village lights appeared before them, and\nthe church spire cast a long reflection on the graveyard grass; as if\nit were a dial (alas, the truest in the world!) marking, whatever light\nshone out of Heaven, the flight of days and weeks and years, by some new\nshadow on that solemn ground.\n\n'A pretty church!' said Martin, observing that his companion slackened\nthe slack pace of the horse, as they approached.\n\n'Is it not?' cried Tom, with great pride. 'There's the sweetest little\norgan there you ever heard. I play it for them.'\n\n'Indeed?' said Martin. 'It is hardly worth the trouble, I should think.\nWhat do you get for that, now?'\n\n'Nothing,' answered Tom.\n\n'Well,' returned his friend, 'you ARE a very strange fellow!'\n\nTo which remark there succeeded a brief silence.\n\n'When I say nothing,' observed Mr Pinch, cheerfully, 'I am wrong, and\ndon't say what I mean, because I get a great deal of pleasure from it,\nand the means of passing some of the happiest hours I know. It led to\nsomething else the other day; but you will not care to hear about that I\ndare say?'\n\n'Oh yes I shall. What?'\n\n'It led to my seeing,' said Tom, in a lower voice, 'one of the loveliest\nand most beautiful faces you can possibly picture to yourself.'\n\n'And yet I am able to picture a beautiful one,' said his friend,\nthoughtfully, 'or should be, if I have any memory.'\n\n'She came' said Tom, laying his hand upon the other's arm, 'for the\nfirst time very early in the morning, when it was hardly light; and when\nI saw her, over my shoulder, standing just within the porch, I turned\nquite cold, almost believing her to be a spirit. A moment's reflection\ngot the better of that, of course, and fortunately it came to my relief\nso soon, that I didn't leave off playing.'\n\n'Why fortunately?'\n\n'Why? Because she stood there, listening. I had my spectacles on, and\nsaw her through the chinks in the curtains as plainly as I see you; and\nshe was beautiful. After a while she glided off, and I continued to play\nuntil she was out of hearing.'\n\n'Why did you do that?'\n\n'Don't you see?' responded Tom. 'Because she might suppose I hadn't seen\nher; and might return.'\n\n'And did she?'\n\n'Certainly she did. Next morning, and next evening too; but always when\nthere were no people about, and always alone. I rose earlier and sat\nthere later, that when she came, she might find the church door open,\nand the organ playing, and might not be disappointed. She strolled that\nway for some days, and always stayed to listen. But she is gone now,\nand of all unlikely things in this wide world, it is perhaps the most\nimprobable that I shall ever look upon her face again.'\n\n'You don't know anything more about her?'\n\n'No.'\n\n'And you never followed her when she went away?'\n\n'Why should I distress her by doing that?' said Tom Pinch. 'Is it likely\nthat she wanted my company? She came to hear the organ, not to see me;\nand would you have had me scare her from a place she seemed to grow\nquite fond of? Now, Heaven bless her!' cried Tom, 'to have given her but\na minute's pleasure every day, I would have gone on playing the organ\nat those times until I was an old man; quite contented if she sometimes\nthought of a poor fellow like me, as a part of the music; and more than\nrecompensed if she ever mixed me up with anything she liked as well as\nshe liked that!'\n\nThe new pupil was clearly very much amazed by Mr Pinch's weakness, and\nwould probably have told him so, and given him some good advice, but\nfor their opportune arrival at Mr Pecksniff's door; the front door this\ntime, on account of the occasion being one of ceremony and rejoicing.\nThe same man was in waiting for the horse who had been adjured by Mr\nPinch in the morning not to yield to his rabid desire to start;\nand after delivering the animal into his charge, and beseeching Mr\nChuzzlewit in a whisper never to reveal a syllable of what he had just\ntold him in the fullness of his heart, Tom led the pupil in, for instant\npresentation.\n\nMr Pecksniff had clearly not expected them for hours to come; for he was\nsurrounded by open books, and was glancing from volume to volume, with a\nblack lead-pencil in his mouth, and a pair of compasses in his hand,\nat a vast number of mathematical diagrams, of such extraordinary shapes\nthat they looked like designs for fireworks. Neither had Miss Charity\nexpected them, for she was busied, with a capacious wicker basket before\nher, in making impracticable nightcaps for the poor. Neither had Miss\nMercy expected them, for she was sitting upon her stool, tying on\nthe--oh good gracious!--the petticoat of a large doll that she was\ndressing for a neighbour's child--really, quite a grown-up doll, which\nmade it more confusing--and had its little bonnet dangling by the ribbon\nfrom one of her fair curls, to which she had fastened it lest it should\nbe lost or sat upon. It would be difficult, if not impossible, to\nconceive a family so thoroughly taken by surprise as the Pecksniffs\nwere, on this occasion.\n\nBless my life!' said Mr Pecksniff, looking up, and gradually exchanging\nhis abstracted face for one of joyful recognition. 'Here already!\nMartin, my dear boy, I am delighted to welcome you to my poor house!'\n\nWith this kind greeting, Mr Pecksniff fairly took him to his arms, and\npatted him several times upon the back with his right hand the while,\nas if to express that his feelings during the embrace were too much for\nutterance.\n\n'But here,' he said, recovering, 'are my daughters, Martin; my two only\nchildren, whom (if you ever saw them) you have not beheld--ah, these sad\nfamily divisions!--since you were infants together. Nay, my dears, why\nblush at being detected in your everyday pursuits? We had prepared\nto give you the reception of a visitor, Martin, in our little room of\nstate,' said Mr Pecksniff, smiling, 'but I like this better, I like this\nbetter!'\n\nOh blessed star of Innocence, wherever you may be, how did you glitter\nin your home of ether, when the two Miss Pecksniffs put forth each her\nlily hand, and gave the same, with mantling cheeks, to Martin! How did\nyou twinkle, as if fluttering with sympathy, when Mercy, reminded of\nthe bonnet in her hair, hid her fair face and turned her head aside; the\nwhile her gentle sister plucked it out, and smote her with a sister's\nsoft reproof, upon her buxom shoulder!\n\n'And how,' said Mr Pecksniff, turning round after the contemplation of\nthese passages, and taking Mr Pinch in a friendly manner by the elbow,\n'how has our friend used you, Martin?'\n\n'Very well indeed, sir. We are on the best terms, I assure you.'\n\n'Old Tom Pinch!' said Mr Pecksniff, looking on him with affectionate\nsadness. 'Ah! It seems but yesterday that Thomas was a boy fresh from\na scholastic course. Yet years have passed, I think, since Thomas Pinch\nand I first walked the world together!'\n\nMr Pinch could say nothing. He was too much moved. But he pressed his\nmaster's hand, and tried to thank him.\n\n'And Thomas Pinch and I,' said Mr Pecksniff, in a deeper voice, 'will\nwalk it yet, in mutual faithfulness and friendship! And if it comes to\npass that either of us be run over in any of those busy crossings which\ndivide the streets of life, the other will convey him to the hospital in\nHope, and sit beside his bed in Bounty!'\n\n'Well, well, well!' he added in a happier tone, as he shook Mr Pinch's\nelbow hard. 'No more of this! Martin, my dear friend, that you may be at\nhome within these walls, let me show you how we live, and where. Come!'\n\nWith that he took up a lighted candle, and, attended by his young\nrelative, prepared to leave the room. At the door, he stopped.\n\n'You'll bear us company, Tom Pinch?'\n\nAye, cheerfully, though it had been to death, would Tom have followed\nhim; glad to lay down his life for such a man!\n\n'This,' said Mr Pecksniff, opening the door of an opposite parlour, 'is\nthe little room of state, I mentioned to you. My girls have pride in it,\nMartin! This,' opening another door, 'is the little chamber in which my\nworks (slight things at best) have been concocted. Portrait of myself\nby Spiller. Bust by Spoker. The latter is considered a good likeness.\nI seem to recognize something about the left-hand corner of the nose,\nmyself.'\n\nMartin thought it was very like, but scarcely intellectual enough. Mr\nPecksniff observed that the same fault had been found with it before. It\nwas remarkable it should have struck his young relation too. He was glad\nto see he had an eye for art.\n\n'Various books you observe,' said Mr Pecksniff, waving his hand towards\nthe wall, 'connected with our pursuit. I have scribbled myself, but\nhave not yet published. Be careful how you come upstairs. This,' opening\nanother door, 'is my chamber. I read here when the family suppose I have\nretired to rest. Sometimes I injure my health rather more than I can\nquite justify to myself, by doing so; but art is long and time is short.\nEvery facility you see for jotting down crude notions, even here.'\n\nThese latter words were explained by his pointing to a small round table\non which were a lamp, divers sheets of paper, a piece of India rubber,\nand a case of instruments; all put ready, in case an architectural idea\nshould come into Mr Pecksniff's head in the night; in which event he\nwould instantly leap out of bed, and fix it for ever.\n\nMr Pecksniff opened another door on the same floor, and shut it again,\nall at once, as if it were a Blue Chamber. But before he had well done\nso, he looked smilingly round, and said, 'Why not?'\n\nMartin couldn't say why not, because he didn't know anything at all\nabout it. So Mr Pecksniff answered himself, by throwing open the door,\nand saying:\n\n'My daughters' room. A poor first-floor to us, but a bower to them. Very\nneat. Very airy. Plants you observe; hyacinths; books again; birds.'\nThese birds, by the bye, comprised, in all, one staggering old sparrow\nwithout a tail, which had been borrowed expressly from the kitchen.\n'Such trifles as girls love are here. Nothing more. Those who seek\nheartless splendour, would seek here in vain.'\n\nWith that he led them to the floor above.\n\n'This,' said Mr Pecksniff, throwing wide the door of the memorable\ntwo-pair front; 'is a room where some talent has been developed I\nbelieve. This is a room in which an idea for a steeple occurred to me\nthat I may one day give to the world. We work here, my dear Martin. Some\narchitects have been bred in this room; a few, I think, Mr Pinch?'\n\nTom fully assented; and, what is more, fully believed it.\n\n'You see,' said Mr Pecksniff, passing the candle rapidly from roll to\nroll of paper, 'some traces of our doings here. Salisbury Cathedral\nfrom the north. From the south. From the east. From the west. From the\nsouth-east. From the nor'west. A bridge. An almshouse. A jail. A\nchurch. A powder-magazine. A wine-cellar. A portico. A summer-house. An\nice-house. Plans, elevations, sections, every kind of thing. And this,'\nhe added, having by this time reached another large chamber on the same\nstory, with four little beds in it, 'this is your room, of which Mr\nPinch here is the quiet sharer. A southern aspect; a charming prospect;\nMr Pinch's little library, you perceive; everything agreeable and\nappropriate. If there is any additional comfort you would desire to have\nhere at anytime, pray mention it. Even to strangers, far less to you, my\ndear Martin, there is no restriction on that point.'\n\nIt was undoubtedly true, and may be stated in corroboration of Mr\nPecksniff, that any pupil had the most liberal permission to mention\nanything in this way that suggested itself to his fancy. Some young\ngentlemen had gone on mentioning the very same thing for five years\nwithout ever being stopped.\n\n'The domestic assistants,' said Mr Pecksniff, 'sleep above; and that\nis all.' After which, and listening complacently as he went, to the\nencomiums passed by his young friend on the arrangements generally, he\nled the way to the parlour again.\n\nHere a great change had taken place; for festive preparations on\na rather extensive scale were already completed, and the two Miss\nPecksniffs were awaiting their return with hospitable looks. There were\ntwo bottles of currant wine, white and red; a dish of sandwiches (very\nlong and very slim); another of apples; another of captain's biscuits\n(which are always a moist and jovial sort of viand); a plate of oranges\ncut up small and gritty; with powdered sugar, and a highly geological\nhome-made cake. The magnitude of these preparations quite took away Tom\nPinch's breath; for though the new pupils were usually let down softly,\nas one may say, particularly in the wine department, which had so many\nstages of declension, that sometimes a young gentleman was a whole\nfortnight in getting to the pump; still this was a banquet; a sort of\nLord Mayor's feast in private life; a something to think of, and hold on\nby, afterwards.\n\nTo this entertainment, which apart from its own intrinsic merits, had\nthe additional choice quality, that it was in strict keeping with the\nnight, being both light and cool, Mr Pecksniff besought the company to\ndo full justice.\n\n'Martin,' he said, 'will seat himself between you two, my dears, and\nMr Pinch will come by me. Let us drink to our new inmate, and may we be\nhappy together! Martin, my dear friend, my love to you! Mr Pinch, if you\nspare the bottle we shall quarrel.'\n\nAnd trying (in his regard for the feelings of the rest) to look as if\nthe wine were not acid and didn't make him wink, Mr Pecksniff did honour\nto his own toast.\n\n'This,' he said, in allusion to the party, not the wine, 'is a mingling\nthat repays one for much disappointment and vexation. Let us be merry.'\nHere he took a captain's biscuit. 'It is a poor heart that never\nrejoices; and our hearts are not poor. No!'\n\nWith such stimulants to merriment did he beguile the time, and do the\nhonours of the table; while Mr Pinch, perhaps to assure himself that\nwhat he saw and heard was holiday reality, and not a charming dream, ate\nof everything, and in particular disposed of the slim sandwiches to a\nsurprising extent. Nor was he stinted in his draughts of wine; but on\nthe contrary, remembering Mr Pecksniff's speech, attacked the bottle\nwith such vigour, that every time he filled his glass anew, Miss\nCharity, despite her amiable resolves, could not repress a fixed and\nstony glare, as if her eyes had rested on a ghost. Mr Pecksniff also\nbecame thoughtful at those moments, not to say dejected; but as he\nknew the vintage, it is very likely he may have been speculating on the\nprobable condition of Mr Pinch upon the morrow, and discussing within\nhimself the best remedies for colic.\n\nMartin and the young ladies were excellent friends already, and compared\nrecollections of their childish days, to their mutual liveliness and\nentertainment. Miss Mercy laughed immensely at everything that was said;\nand sometimes, after glancing at the happy face of Mr Pinch, was\nseized with such fits of mirth as brought her to the very confines of\nhysterics. But for these bursts of gaiety, her sister, in her better\nsense, reproved her; observing, in an angry whisper, that it was far\nfrom being a theme for jest; and that she had no patience with the\ncreature; though it generally ended in her laughing too--but much more\nmoderately--and saying that indeed it was a little too ridiculous and\nintolerable to be serious about.\n\nAt length it became high time to remember the first clause of that great\ndiscovery made by the ancient philosopher, for securing health, riches,\nand wisdom; the infallibility of which has been for generations verified\nby the enormous fortunes constantly amassed by chimney-sweepers and\nother persons who get up early and go to bed betimes. The young ladies\naccordingly rose, and having taken leave of Mr Chuzzlewit with much\nsweetness, and of their father with much duty and of Mr Pinch with\nmuch condescension, retired to their bower. Mr Pecksniff insisted on\naccompanying his young friend upstairs for personal superintendence of\nhis comforts; and taking him by the arm, conducted him once more to his\nbedroom, followed by Mr Pinch, who bore the light.\n\n'Mr Pinch,' said Pecksniff, seating himself with folded arms on one of\nthe spare beds. 'I don't see any snuffers in that candlestick. Will you\noblige me by going down, and asking for a pair?'\n\nMr Pinch, only too happy to be useful, went off directly.\n\n'You will excuse Thomas Pinch's want of polish, Martin,' said Mr\nPecksniff, with a smile of patronage and pity, as soon as he had left\nthe room. 'He means well.'\n\n'He is a very good fellow, sir.'\n\n'Oh, yes,' said Mr Pecksniff. 'Yes. Thomas Pinch means well. He is very\ngrateful. I have never regretted having befriended Thomas Pinch.'\n\n'I should think you never would, sir.'\n\n'No,' said Mr Pecksniff. 'No. I hope not. Poor fellow, he is always\ndisposed to do his best; but he is not gifted. You will make him useful\nto you, Martin, if you please. If Thomas has a fault, it is that he is\nsometimes a little apt to forget his position. But that is soon checked.\nWorthy soul! You will find him easy to manage. Good night!'\n\n'Good night, sir.'\n\nBy this time Mr Pinch had returned with the snuffers.\n\n'And good night to YOU, Mr Pinch,' said Pecksniff. 'And sound sleep to\nyou both. Bless you! Bless you!'\n\nInvoking this benediction on the heads of his young friends with great\nfervour, he withdrew to his own room; while they, being tired, soon fell\nasleep. If Martin dreamed at all, some clue to the matter of his visions\nmay possibly be gathered from the after-pages of this history. Those\nof Thomas Pinch were all of holidays, church organs, and seraphic\nPecksniffs. It was some time before Mr Pecksniff dreamed at all, or even\nsought his pillow, as he sat for full two hours before the fire in his\nown chamber, looking at the coals and thinking deeply. But he, too,\nslept and dreamed at last. Thus in the quiet hours of the night, one\nhouse shuts in as many incoherent and incongruous fancies as a madman's\nhead.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER SIX\n\nCOMPRISES, AMONG OTHER IMPORTANT MATTERS, PECKSNIFFIAN AND\nARCHITECTURAL, AND EXACT RELATION OF THE PROGRESS MADE BY MR PINCH IN\nTHE CONFIDENCE AND FRIENDSHIP OF THE NEW PUPIL\n\n\nIt was morning; and the beautiful Aurora, of whom so much hath been\nwritten, said, and sung, did, with her rosy fingers, nip and tweak Miss\nPecksniff's nose. It was the frolicsome custom of the Goddess, in her\nintercourse with the fair Cherry, so to do; or in more prosaic phrase,\nthe tip of that feature in the sweet girl's countenance was always\nvery red at breakfast-time. For the most part, indeed, it wore, at that\nseason of the day, a scraped and frosty look, as if it had been rasped;\nwhile a similar phenomenon developed itself in her humour, which was\nthen observed to be of a sharp and acid quality, as though an extra\nlemon (figuratively speaking) had been squeezed into the nectar of her\ndisposition, and had rather damaged its flavour.\n\nThis additional pungency on the part of the fair young creature led, on\nordinary occasions, to such slight consequences as the copious dilution\nof Mr Pinch's tea, or to his coming off uncommonly short in respect\nof butter, or to other the like results. But on the morning after the\nInstallation Banquet, she suffered him to wander to and fro among the\neatables and drinkables, a perfectly free and unchecked man; so utterly\nto Mr Pinch's wonder and confusion, that like the wretched captive who\nrecovered his liberty in his old age, he could make but little use of\nhis enlargement, and fell into a strange kind of flutter for want of\nsome kind hand to scrape his bread, and cut him off in the article of\nsugar with a lump, and pay him those other little attentions to which\nhe was accustomed. There was something almost awful, too, about the\nself-possession of the new pupil; who 'troubled' Mr Pecksniff for the\nloaf, and helped himself to a rasher of that gentleman's own particular\nand private bacon, with all the coolness in life. He even seemed to\nthink that he was doing quite a regular thing, and to expect that Mr\nPinch would follow his example, since he took occasion to observe of\nthat young man 'that he didn't get on'; a speech of so tremendous a\ncharacter, that Tom cast down his eyes involuntarily, and felt as if\nhe himself had committed some horrible deed and heinous breach of Mr\nPecksniff's confidence. Indeed, the agony of having such an indiscreet\nremark addressed to him before the assembled family, was breakfast\nenough in itself, and would, without any other matter of reflection,\nhave settled Mr Pinch's business and quenched his appetite, for one\nmeal, though he had been never so hungry.\n\nThe young ladies, however, and Mr Pecksniff likewise, remained in\nthe very best of spirits in spite of these severe trials, though with\nsomething of a mysterious understanding among themselves. When the meal\nwas nearly over, Mr Pecksniff smilingly explained the cause of their\ncommon satisfaction.\n\n'It is not often,' he said, 'Martin, that my daughters and I desert our\nquiet home to pursue the giddy round of pleasures that revolves abroad.\nBut we think of doing so to-day.'\n\n'Indeed, sir!' cried the new pupil.\n\n'Yes,' said Mr Pecksniff, tapping his left hand with a letter which\nhe held in his right. 'I have a summons here to repair to London;\non professional business, my dear Martin; strictly on professional\nbusiness; and I promised my girls, long ago, that whenever that happened\nagain, they should accompany me. We shall go forth to-night by the\nheavy coach--like the dove of old, my dear Martin--and it will be a week\nbefore we again deposit our olive-branches in the passage. When I say\nolive-branches,' observed Mr Pecksniff, in explanation, 'I mean, our\nunpretending luggage.'\n\n'I hope the young ladies will enjoy their trip,' said Martin.\n\n'Oh! that I'm sure we shall!' cried Mercy, clapping her hands. 'Good\ngracious, Cherry, my darling, the idea of London!'\n\n'Ardent child!' said Mr Pecksniff, gazing on her in a dreamy way. 'And\nyet there is a melancholy sweetness in these youthful hopes! It is\npleasant to know that they never can be realised. I remember thinking\nonce myself, in the days of my childhood, that pickled onions grew on\ntrees, and that every elephant was born with an impregnable castle on\nhis back. I have not found the fact to be so; far from it; and yet those\nvisions have comforted me under circumstances of trial. Even when I have\nhad the anguish of discovering that I have nourished in my breast on\nostrich, and not a human pupil--even in that hour of agony, they have\nsoothed me.'\n\nAt this dread allusion to John Westlock, Mr Pinch precipitately choked\nin his tea; for he had that very morning received a letter from him, as\nMr Pecksniff very well knew.\n\n'You will take care, my dear Martin,' said Mr Pecksniff, resuming his\nformer cheerfulness, 'that the house does not run away in our absence.\nWe leave you in charge of everything. There is no mystery; all is free\nand open. Unlike the young man in the Eastern tale--who is described as\na one-eyed almanac, if I am not mistaken, Mr Pinch?--'\n\n'A one-eyed calender, I think, sir,' faltered Tom.\n\n'They are pretty nearly the same thing, I believe,' said Mr Pecksniff,\nsmiling compassionately; 'or they used to be in my time. Unlike that\nyoung man, my dear Martin, you are forbidden to enter no corner of this\nhouse; but are requested to make yourself perfectly at home in every\npart of it. You will be jovial, my dear Martin, and will kill the fatted\ncalf if you please!'\n\nThere was not the least objection, doubtless, to the young man's\nslaughtering and appropriating to his own use any calf, fat or lean,\nthat he might happen to find upon the premises; but as no such animal\nchanced at that time to be grazing on Mr Pecksniff's estate, this\nrequest must be considered rather as a polite compliment that\na substantial hospitality. It was the finishing ornament of the\nconversation; for when he had delivered it, Mr Pecksniff rose and led\nthe way to that hotbed of architectural genius, the two-pair front.\n\n'Let me see,' he said, searching among the papers, 'how you can best\nemploy yourself, Martin, while I am absent. Suppose you were to give\nme your idea of a monument to a Lord Mayor of London; or a tomb for a\nsheriff; or your notion of a cow-house to be erected in a nobleman's\npark. Do you know, now,' said Mr Pecksniff, folding his hands, and\nlooking at his young relation with an air of pensive interest, 'that I\nshould very much like to see your notion of a cow-house?'\n\nBut Martin by no means appeared to relish this suggestion.\n\n'A pump,' said Mr Pecksniff, 'is very chaste practice. I have found that\na lamp post is calculated to refine the mind and give it a classical\ntendency. An ornamental turnpike has a remarkable effect upon the\nimagination. What do you say to beginning with an ornamental turnpike?'\n\n'Whatever Mr Pecksniff pleased,' said Martin, doubtfully.\n\n'Stay,' said that gentleman. 'Come! as you're ambitious, and are a very\nneat draughtsman, you shall--ha ha!--you shall try your hand on these\nproposals for a grammar-school; regulating your plan, of course, by the\nprinted particulars. Upon my word, now,' said Mr Pecksniff, merrily, 'I\nshall be very curious to see what you make of the grammar-school.\nWho knows but a young man of your taste might hit upon something,\nimpracticable and unlikely in itself, but which I could put into shape?\nFor it really is, my dear Martin, it really is in the finishing touches\nalone, that great experience and long study in these matters tell. Ha,\nha, ha! Now it really will be,' continued Mr Pecksniff, clapping his\nyoung friend on the back in his droll humour, 'an amusement to me, to\nsee what you make of the grammar-school.'\n\nMartin readily undertook this task, and Mr Pecksniff forthwith proceeded\nto entrust him with the materials necessary for its execution; dwelling\nmeanwhile on the magical effect of a few finishing touches from the hand\nof a master; which, indeed, as some people said (and these were the\nold enemies again!) was unquestionably very surprising, and almost\nmiraculous; as there were cases on record in which the masterly\nintroduction of an additional back window, or a kitchen door, or\nhalf-a-dozen steps, or even a water spout, had made the design of a\npupil Mr Pecksniff's own work, and had brought substantial rewards into\nthat gentleman's pocket. But such is the magic of genius, which changes\nall it handles into gold!\n\n'When your mind requires to be refreshed by change of occupation,' said\nMr Pecksniff, 'Thomas Pinch will instruct you in the art of surveying\nthe back garden, or in ascertaining the dead level of the road between\nthis house and the finger-post, or in any other practical and pleasing\npursuit. There are a cart-load of loose bricks, and a score or two of\nold flower-pots, in the back yard. If you could pile them up my dear\nMartin, into any form which would remind me on my return say of St.\nPeter's at Rome, or the Mosque of St. Sophia at Constantinople, it would\nbe at once improving to you and agreeable to my feelings. And now,' said\nMr Pecksniff, in conclusion, 'to drop, for the present, our professional\nrelations and advert to private matters, I shall be glad to talk with\nyou in my own room, while I pack up my portmanteau.'\n\nMartin attended him; and they remained in secret conference together for\nan hour or more; leaving Tom Pinch alone. When the young man returned,\nhe was very taciturn and dull, in which state he remained all day; so\nthat Tom, after trying him once or twice with indifferent conversation,\nfelt a delicacy in obtruding himself upon his thoughts, and said no\nmore.\n\nHe would not have had leisure to say much, had his new friend been ever\nso loquacious; for first of all Mr Pecksniff called him down to stand\nupon the top of his portmanteau and represent ancient statues there,\nuntil such time as it would consent to be locked; and then Miss Charity\ncalled him to come and cord her trunk; and then Miss Mercy sent for him\nto come and mend her box; and then he wrote the fullest possible cards\nfor all the luggage; and then he volunteered to carry it all downstairs;\nand after that to see it safely carried on a couple of barrows to the\nold finger-post at the end of the lane; and then to mind it till the\ncoach came up. In short, his day's work would have been a pretty heavy\none for a porter, but his thorough good-will made nothing of it; and as\nhe sat upon the luggage at last, waiting for the Pecksniffs, escorted by\nthe new pupil, to come down the lane, his heart was light with the hope\nof having pleased his benefactor.\n\n'I was almost afraid,' said Tom, taking a letter from his pocket and\nwiping his face, for he was hot with bustling about though it was a cold\nday, 'that I shouldn't have had time to write it, and that would have\nbeen a thousand pities; postage from such a distance being a serious\nconsideration, when one's not rich. She will be glad to see my hand,\npoor girl, and to hear that Pecksniff is as kind as ever. I would have\nasked John Westlock to call and see her, and tell her all about me by\nword of mouth, but I was afraid he might speak against Pecksniff to her,\nand make her uneasy. Besides, they are particular people where she is,\nand it might have rendered her situation uncomfortable if she had had a\nvisit from a young man like John. Poor Ruth!'\n\nTom Pinch seemed a little disposed to be melancholy for half a minute or\nso, but he found comfort very soon, and pursued his ruminations thus:\n\n'I'm a nice man, I don't think, as John used to say (John was a kind,\nmerry-hearted fellow; I wish he had liked Pecksniff better), to be\nfeeling low, on account of the distance between us, when I ought to\nbe thinking, instead, of my extraordinary good luck in having ever got\nhere. I must have been born with a silver spoon in my mouth, I am sure,\nto have ever come across Pecksniff. And here have I fallen again into\nmy usual good luck with the new pupil! Such an affable, generous, free\nfellow, as he is, I never saw. Why, we were companions directly! and he\na relation of Pecksniff's too, and a clever, dashing youth who might cut\nhis way through the world as if it were a cheese! Here he comes while\nthe words are on my lips' said Tom; 'walking down the lane as if the\nlane belonged to him.'\n\nIn truth, the new pupil, not at all disconcerted by the honour of having\nMiss Mercy Pecksniff on his arm, or by the affectionate adieux of that\nyoung lady, approached as Mr Pinch spoke, followed by Miss Charity and\nMr Pecksniff. As the coach appeared at the same moment, Tom lost no time\nin entreating the gentleman last mentioned, to undertake the delivery of\nhis letter.\n\n'Oh!' said Mr Pecksniff, glancing at the superscription. 'For your\nsister, Thomas. Yes, oh yes, it shall be delivered, Mr Pinch. Make your\nmind easy upon that score. She shall certainly have it, Mr Pinch.'\n\nHe made the promise with so much condescension and patronage, that\nTom felt he had asked a great deal (this had not occurred to his mind\nbefore), and thanked him earnestly. The Miss Pecksniffs, according to\na custom they had, were amused beyond description at the mention of\nMr Pinch's sister. Oh the fright! The bare idea of a Miss Pinch! Good\nheavens!\n\nTom was greatly pleased to see them so merry, for he took it as a token\nof their favour, and good-humoured regard. Therefore he laughed too and\nrubbed his hands and wished them a pleasant journey and safe return,\nand was quite brisk. Even when the coach had rolled away with the\nolive-branches in the boot and the family of doves inside, he stood\nwaving his hand and bowing; so much gratified by the unusually courteous\ndemeanour of the young ladies, that he was quite regardless, for the\nmoment, of Martin Chuzzlewit, who stood leaning thoughtfully against\nthe finger-post, and who after disposing of his fair charge had hardly\nlifted his eyes from the ground.\n\nThe perfect silence which ensued upon the bustle and departure of the\ncoach, together with the sharp air of the wintry afternoon, roused them\nboth at the same time. They turned, as by mutual consent, and moved off\narm-in-arm.\n\n'How melancholy you are!' said Tom; 'what is the matter?'\n\n'Nothing worth speaking of,' said Martin. 'Very little more than was\nthe matter yesterday, and much more, I hope, than will be the matter\nto-morrow. I'm out of spirits, Pinch.'\n\n'Well,' cried Tom, 'now do you know I am in capital spirits today, and\nscarcely ever felt more disposed to be good company. It was a very kind\nthing in your predecessor, John, to write to me, was it not?'\n\n'Why, yes,' said Martin carelessly; 'I should have thought he would have\nhad enough to do to enjoy himself, without thinking of you, Pinch.'\n\n'Just what I felt to be so very likely,' Tom rejoined; 'but no, he keeps\nhis word, and says, \"My dear Pinch, I often think of you,\" and all sorts\nof kind and considerate things of that description.'\n\n'He must be a devilish good-natured fellow,' said Martin, somewhat\npeevishly: 'because he can't mean that, you know.'\n\n'I don't suppose he can, eh?' said Tom, looking wistfully in his\ncompanion's face. 'He says so to please me, you think?'\n\n'Why, is it likely,' rejoined Martin, with greater earnestness, 'that\na young man newly escaped from this kennel of a place, and fresh to all\nthe delights of being his own master in London, can have much leisure\nor inclination to think favourably of anything or anybody he has left\nbehind him here? I put it to you, Pinch, is it natural?'\n\nAfter a short reflection, Mr Pinch replied, in a more subdued tone, that\nto be sure it was unreasonable to expect any such thing, and that he had\nno doubt Martin knew best.\n\n'Of course I know best,' Martin observed.\n\n'Yes, I feel that,' said Mr Pinch mildly. 'I said so.' And when he had\nmade this rejoinder, they fell into a blank silence again, which lasted\nuntil they reached home; by which time it was dark.\n\nNow, Miss Charity Pecksniff, in consideration of the inconvenience of\ncarrying them with her in the coach, and the impossibility of preserving\nthem by artificial means until the family's return, had set forth, in a\ncouple of plates, the fragments of yesterday's feast. In virtue of which\nliberal arrangement, they had the happiness to find awaiting them in\nthe parlour two chaotic heaps of the remains of last night's pleasure,\nconsisting of certain filmy bits of oranges, some mummied sandwiches,\nvarious disrupted masses of the geological cake, and several entire\ncaptain's biscuits. That choice liquor in which to steep these dainties\nmight not be wanting, the remains of the two bottles of currant wine\nhad been poured together and corked with a curl-paper; so that every\nmaterial was at hand for making quite a heavy night of it.\n\nMartin Chuzzlewit beheld these roystering preparations with infinite\ncontempt, and stirring the fire into a blaze (to the great destruction\nof Mr Pecksniff's coals), sat moodily down before it, in the most\ncomfortable chair he could find. That he might the better squeeze\nhimself into the small corner that was left for him, Mr Pinch took up\nhis position on Miss Mercy Pecksniff's stool, and setting his glass down\nupon the hearthrug and putting his plate upon his knees, began to enjoy\nhimself.\n\nIf Diogenes coming to life again could have rolled himself, tub and all,\ninto Mr Pecksniff's parlour and could have seen Tom Pinch as he sat on\nMercy Pecksniff's stool with his plate and glass before him he could\nnot have faced it out, though in his surliest mood, but must have\nsmiled good-temperedly. The perfect and entire satisfaction of Tom; his\nsurpassing appreciation of the husky sandwiches, which crumbled in his\nmouth like saw-dust; the unspeakable relish with which he swallowed the\nthin wine by drops, and smacked his lips, as though it were so rich and\ngenerous that to lose an atom of its fruity flavour were a sin; the look\nwith which he paused sometimes, with his glass in his hand, proposing\nsilent toasts to himself; and the anxious shade that came upon his\ncontented face when, after wandering round the room, exulting in\nits uninvaded snugness, his glance encountered the dull brow of his\ncompanion; no cynic in the world, though in his hatred of its men a very\ngriffin, could have withstood these things in Thomas Pinch.\n\nSome men would have slapped him on the back, and pledged him in a bumper\nof the currant wine, though it had been the sharpest vinegar--aye, and\nliked its flavour too; some would have seized him by his honest hand,\nand thanked him for the lesson that his simple nature taught them. Some\nwould have laughed with, and others would have laughed at him; of which\nlast class was Martin Chuzzlewit, who, unable to restrain himself, at\nlast laughed loud and long.\n\n'That's right,' said Tom, nodding approvingly. 'Cheer up! That's\ncapital!'\n\nAt which encouragement young Martin laughed again; and said, as soon as\nhe had breath and gravity enough:\n\n'I never saw such a fellow as you are, Pinch.'\n\n'Didn't you though?' said Tom. 'Well, it's very likely you do find me\nstrange, because I have hardly seen anything of the world, and you have\nseen a good deal I dare say?'\n\n'Pretty well for my time of life,' rejoined Martin, drawing his chair\nstill nearer to the fire, and spreading his feet out on the fender.\n'Deuce take it, I must talk openly to somebody. I'll talk openly to you,\nPinch.'\n\n'Do!' said Tom. 'I shall take it as being very friendly of you,'\n\n'I'm not in your way, am I?' inquired Martin, glancing down at Mr Pinch,\nwho was by this time looking at the fire over his leg.\n\n'Not at all!' cried Tom.\n\n'You must know then, to make short of a long story,' said Martin,\nbeginning with a kind of effort, as if the revelation were not\nagreeable to him; 'that I have been bred up from childhood with great\nexpectations, and have always been taught to believe that I should be,\none day, very rich. So I should have been, but for certain brief\nreasons which I am going to tell you, and which have led to my being\ndisinherited.'\n\n'By your father?' inquired Mr Pinch, with open eyes.\n\n'By my grandfather. I have had no parents these many years. Scarcely\nwithin my remembrance.'\n\n'Neither have I,' said Tom, touching the young man's hand with his own\nand timidly withdrawing it again. 'Dear me!'\n\n'Why, as to that, you know, Pinch,' pursued the other, stirring the fire\nagain, and speaking in his rapid, off-hand way; 'it's all very right\nand proper to be fond of parents when we have them, and to bear them in\nremembrance after they're dead, if you have ever known anything of them.\nBut as I never did know anything about mine personally, you know, why, I\ncan't be expected to be very sentimental about 'em. And I am not; that's\nthe truth.'\n\nMr Pinch was just then looking thoughtfully at the bars. But on\nhis companion pausing in this place, he started, and said 'Oh! of\ncourse'--and composed himself to listen again.\n\n'In a word,' said Martin, 'I have been bred and reared all my life by\nthis grandfather of whom I have just spoken. Now, he has a great many\ngood points--there is no doubt about that; I'll not disguise the fact\nfrom you--but he has two very great faults, which are the staple of his\nbad side. In the first place, he has the most confirmed obstinacy of\ncharacter you ever met with in any human creature. In the second, he is\nmost abominably selfish.'\n\n'Is he indeed?' cried Tom.\n\n'In those two respects,' returned the other, 'there never was such a\nman. I have often heard from those who know, that they have been, time\nout of mind, the failings of our family; and I believe there's some\ntruth in it. But I can't say of my own knowledge. All I have to do, you\nknow, is to be very thankful that they haven't descended to me, and, to\nbe very careful that I don't contract 'em.'\n\n'To be sure,' said Mr Pinch. 'Very proper.'\n\n'Well, sir,' resumed Martin, stirring the fire once more, and drawing\nhis chair still closer to it, 'his selfishness makes him exacting,\nyou see; and his obstinacy makes him resolute in his exactions. The\nconsequence is that he has always exacted a great deal from me in the\nway of respect, and submission, and self-denial when his wishes were in\nquestion, and so forth. I have borne a great deal from him, because I\nhave been under obligations to him (if one can ever be said to be under\nobligations to one's own grandfather), and because I have been really\nattached to him; but we have had a great many quarrels for all that, for\nI could not accommodate myself to his ways very often--not out of the\nleast reference to myself, you understand, but because--' he stammered\nhere, and was rather at a loss.\n\nMr Pinch being about the worst man in the world to help anybody out of a\ndifficulty of this sort, said nothing.\n\n'Well! as you understand me,' resumed Martin, quickly, 'I needn't hunt\nfor the precise expression I want. Now I come to the cream of my story,\nand the occasion of my being here. I am in love, Pinch.'\n\nMr Pinch looked up into his face with increased interest.\n\n'I say I am in love. I am in love with one of the most beautiful girls\nthe sun ever shone upon. But she is wholly and entirely dependent upon\nthe pleasure of my grandfather; and if he were to know that she favoured\nmy passion, she would lose her home and everything she possesses in the\nworld. There is nothing very selfish in THAT love, I think?'\n\n'Selfish!' cried Tom. 'You have acted nobly. To love her as I am sure\nyou do, and yet in consideration for her state of dependence, not even\nto disclose--'\n\n'What are you talking about, Pinch?' said Martin pettishly: 'don't\nmake yourself ridiculous, my good fellow! What do you mean by not\ndisclosing?'\n\n'I beg your pardon,' answered Tom. 'I thought you meant that, or I\nwouldn't have said it.'\n\n'If I didn't tell her I loved her, where would be the use of my being in\nlove?' said Martin: 'unless to keep myself in a perpetual state of worry\nand vexation?'\n\n'That's true,' Tom answered. 'Well! I can guess what SHE said when you\ntold her,' he added, glancing at Martin's handsome face.\n\n'Why, not exactly, Pinch,' he rejoined, with a slight frown; 'because\nshe has some girlish notions about duty and gratitude, and all the rest\nof it, which are rather hard to fathom; but in the main you are right.\nHer heart was mine, I found.'\n\n'Just what I supposed,' said Tom. 'Quite natural!' and, in his great\nsatisfaction, he took a long sip out of his wine-glass.\n\n'Although I had conducted myself from the first with the utmost\ncircumspection,' pursued Martin, 'I had not managed matters so well but\nthat my grandfather, who is full of jealousy and distrust, suspected me\nof loving her. He said nothing to her, but straightway attacked me\nin private, and charged me with designing to corrupt the fidelity to\nhimself (there you observe his selfishness), of a young creature whom\nhe had trained and educated to be his only disinterested and faithful\ncompanion, when he should have disposed of me in marriage to his heart's\ncontent. Upon that, I took fire immediately, and told him that with his\ngood leave I would dispose of myself in marriage, and would rather\nnot be knocked down by him or any other auctioneer to any bidder\nwhomsoever.'\n\nMr Pinch opened his eyes wider, and looked at the fire harder than he\nhad done yet.\n\n'You may be sure,' said Martin, 'that this nettled him, and that he\nbegan to be the very reverse of complimentary to myself. Interview\nsucceeded interview; words engendered words, as they always do; and the\nupshot of it was, that I was to renounce her, or be renounced by him.\nNow you must bear in mind, Pinch, that I am not only desperately fond\nof her (for though she is poor, her beauty and intellect would reflect\ngreat credit on anybody, I don't care of what pretensions who might\nbecome her husband), but that a chief ingredient in my composition is a\nmost determined--'\n\n'Obstinacy,' suggested Tom in perfect good faith. But the suggestion was\nnot so well received as he had expected; for the young man immediately\nrejoined, with some irritation,\n\n'What a fellow you are, Pinch!'\n\n'I beg your pardon,' said Tom, 'I thought you wanted a word.'\n\n'I didn't want that word,' he rejoined. 'I told you obstinacy was no\npart of my character, did I not? I was going to say, if you had given\nme leave, that a chief ingredient in my composition is a most determined\nfirmness.'\n\n'Oh!' cried Tom, screwing up his mouth, and nodding. 'Yes, yes; I see!'\n\n'And being firm,' pursued Martin, 'of course I was not going to yield to\nhim, or give way by so much as the thousandth part of an inch.'\n\n'No, no,' said Tom.\n\n'On the contrary, the more he urged, the more I was determined to oppose\nhim.'\n\n'To be sure!' said Tom.\n\n'Very well,' rejoined Martin, throwing himself back in his chair, with\na careless wave of both hands, as if the subject were quite settled, and\nnothing more could be said about it--'There is an end of the matter, and\nhere am I!'\n\nMr Pinch sat staring at the fire for some minutes with a puzzled look,\nsuch as he might have assumed if some uncommonly difficult conundrum had\nbeen proposed, which he found it impossible to guess. At length he said:\n\n'Pecksniff, of course, you had known before?'\n\n'Only by name. No, I had never seen him, for my grandfather kept not\nonly himself but me, aloof from all his relations. But our separation\ntook place in a town in the adjoining country. From that place I came to\nSalisbury, and there I saw Pecksniff's advertisement, which I answered,\nhaving always had some natural taste, I believe, in the matters to which\nit referred, and thinking it might suit me. As soon as I found it to be\nhis, I was doubly bent on coming to him if possible, on account of his\nbeing--'\n\n'Such an excellent man,' interposed Tom, rubbing his hands: 'so he is.\nYou were quite right.'\n\n'Why, not so much on that account, if the truth must be spoken,'\nreturned Martin, 'as because my grandfather has an inveterate dislike to\nhim, and after the old man's arbitrary treatment of me, I had a natural\ndesire to run as directly counter to all his opinions as I could. Well!\nAs I said before, here I am. My engagement with the young lady I have\nbeen telling you about is likely to be a tolerably long one; for neither\nher prospects nor mine are very bright; and of course I shall not think\nof marrying until I am well able to do so. It would never do, you know,\nfor me to be plunging myself into poverty and shabbiness and love in one\nroom up three pair of stairs, and all that sort of thing.'\n\n'To say nothing of her,' remarked Tom Pinch, in a low voice.\n\n'Exactly so,' rejoined Martin, rising to warm his back, and leaning\nagainst the chimney-piece. 'To say nothing of her. At the same time,\nof course it's not very hard upon her to be obliged to yield to the\nnecessity of the case; first, because she loves me very much; and\nsecondly, because I have sacrificed a great deal on her account, and\nmight have done much better, you know.'\n\nIt was a very long time before Tom said 'Certainly;' so long, that he\nmight have taken a nap in the interval, but he did say it at last.\n\n'Now, there is one odd coincidence connected with this love-story,' said\nMartin, 'which brings it to an end. You remember what you told me last\nnight as we were coming here, about your pretty visitor in the church?'\n\n'Surely I do,' said Tom, rising from his stool, and seating himself in\nthe chair from which the other had lately risen, that he might see his\nface. 'Undoubtedly.'\n\n'That was she.'\n\n'I knew what you were going to say,' cried Tom, looking fixedly at him,\nand speaking very softly. 'You don't tell me so?'\n\n'That was she,' repeated the young man. 'After what I have heard\nfrom Pecksniff, I have no doubt that she came and went with my\ngrandfather.--Don't you drink too much of that sour wine, or you'll have\na fit of some sort, Pinch, I see.'\n\n'It is not very wholesome, I am afraid,' said Tom, setting down the\nempty glass he had for some time held. 'So that was she, was it?'\n\nMartin nodded assent; and adding, with a restless impatience, that if\nhe had been a few days earlier he would have seen her; and that now she\nmight be, for anything he knew, hundreds of miles away; threw himself,\nafter a few turns across the room, into a chair, and chafed like a\nspoilt child.\n\nTom Pinch's heart was very tender, and he could not bear to see the\nmost indifferent person in distress; still less one who had awakened\nan interest in him, and who regarded him (either in fact, or as he\nsupposed) with kindness, and in a spirit of lenient construction.\nWhatever his own thoughts had been a few moments before--and to judge\nfrom his face they must have been pretty serious--he dismissed them\ninstantly, and gave his young friend the best counsel and comfort that\noccurred to him.\n\n'All will be well in time,' said Tom, 'I have no doubt; and some trial\nand adversity just now will only serve to make you more attached to each\nother in better days. I have always read that the truth is so, and I\nhave a feeling within me, which tells me how natural and right it is\nthat it should be. That never ran smooth yet,' said Tom, with a smile\nwhich, despite the homeliness of his face, was pleasanter to see than\nmany a proud beauty's brightest glance; 'what never ran smooth yet, can\nhardly be expected to change its character for us; so we must take it as\nwe find it, and fashion it into the very best shape we can, by patience\nand good-humour. I have no power at all; I needn't tell you that; but I\nhave an excellent will; and if I could ever be of use to you, in any way\nwhatever, how very glad I should be!'\n\n'Thank you,' said Martin, shaking his hand. 'You're a good fellow, upon\nmy word, and speak very kindly. Of course you know,' he added, after a\nmoment's pause, as he drew his chair towards the fire again, 'I should\nnot hesitate to avail myself of your services if you could help me at\nall; but mercy on us!'--Here he rumpled his hair impatiently with his\nhand, and looked at Tom as if he took it rather ill that he was not\nsomebody else--'you might as well be a toasting-fork or a frying-pan,\nPinch, for any help you can render me.'\n\n'Except in the inclination,' said Tom, gently.\n\n'Oh! to be sure. I meant that, of course. If inclination went for\nanything, I shouldn't want help. I tell you what you may do, though, if\nyou will, and at the present moment too.'\n\n'What is that?' demanded Tom.\n\n'Read to me.'\n\n'I shall be delighted,' cried Tom, catching up the candle with\nenthusiasm. 'Excuse my leaving you in the dark a moment, and I'll fetch\na book directly. What will you like? Shakespeare?'\n\n'Aye!' replied his friend, yawning and stretching himself. 'He'll do. I\nam tired with the bustle of to-day, and the novelty of everything about\nme; and in such a case, there's no greater luxury in the world, I think,\nthan being read to sleep. You won't mind my going to sleep, if I can?'\n\n'Not at all!' cried Tom.\n\n'Then begin as soon as you like. You needn't leave off when you see\nme getting drowsy (unless you feel tired), for it's pleasant to wake\ngradually to the sounds again. Did you ever try that?'\n\n'No, I never tried that,' said Tom\n\n'Well! You can, you know, one of these days when we're both in the right\nhumour. Don't mind leaving me in the dark. Look sharp!'\n\nMr Pinch lost no time in moving away; and in a minute or two returned\nwith one of the precious volumes from the shelf beside his bed. Martin\nhad in the meantime made himself as comfortable as circumstances would\npermit, by constructing before the fire a temporary sofa of three chairs\nwith Mercy's stool for a pillow, and lying down at full-length upon it.\n\n'Don't be too loud, please,' he said to Pinch.\n\n'No, no,' said Tom.\n\n'You're sure you're not cold'\n\n'Not at all!' cried Tom.\n\n'I am quite ready, then.'\n\nMr Pinch accordingly, after turning over the leaves of his book with as\nmuch care as if they were living and highly cherished creatures, made\nhis own selection, and began to read. Before he had completed fifty\nlines his friend was snoring.\n\n'Poor fellow!' said Tom, softly, as he stretched out his head to peep\nat him over the backs of the chairs. 'He is very young to have so much\ntrouble. How trustful and generous in him to bestow all this confidence\nin me. And that was she, was it?'\n\nBut suddenly remembering their compact, he took up the poem at the place\nwhere he had left off, and went on reading; always forgetting to snuff\nthe candle, until its wick looked like a mushroom. He gradually became\nso much interested, that he quite forgot to replenish the fire; and was\nonly reminded of his neglect by Martin Chuzzlewit starting up after the\nlapse of an hour or so, and crying with a shiver.\n\n'Why, it's nearly out, I declare! No wonder I dreamed of being frozen.\nDo call for some coals. What a fellow you are, Pinch!'\n\n\n\nCHAPTER SEVEN\n\nIN WHICH MR CHEVY SLYME ASSERTS THE INDEPENDENCE OF HIS SPIRIT, AND THE\nBLUE DRAGON LOSES A LIMB\n\n\nMartin began to work at the grammar-school next morning, with so much\nvigour and expedition, that Mr Pinch had new reason to do homage to\nthe natural endowments of that young gentleman, and to acknowledge\nhis infinite superiority to himself. The new pupil received Tom's\ncompliments very graciously; and having by this time conceived a real\nregard for him, in his own peculiar way, predicted that they would\nalways be the very best of friends, and that neither of them, he was\ncertain (but particularly Tom), would ever have reason to regret the day\non which they became acquainted. Mr Pinch was delighted to hear him say\nthis, and felt so much flattered by his kind assurances of friendship\nand protection, that he was at a loss how to express the pleasure they\nafforded him. And indeed it may be observed of this friendship, such as\nit was, that it had within it more likely materials of endurance than\nmany a sworn brotherhood that has been rich in promise; for so long as\nthe one party found a pleasure in patronizing, and the other in\nbeing patronised (which was in the very essence of their respective\ncharacters), it was of all possible events among the least probable,\nthat the twin demons, Envy and Pride, would ever arise between them. So\nin very many cases of friendship, or what passes for it, the old axiom\nis reversed, and like clings to unlike more than to like.\n\nThey were both very busy on the afternoon succeeding the family's\ndeparture--Martin with the grammar-school, and Tom in balancing certain\nreceipts of rents, and deducting Mr Pecksniff's commission from the\nsame; in which abstruse employment he was much distracted by a habit his\nnew friend had of whistling aloud while he was drawing--when they were\nnot a little startled by the unexpected obtrusion into that sanctuary of\ngenius, of a human head which, although a shaggy and somewhat alarming\nhead in appearance, smiled affably upon them from the doorway, in\na manner that was at once waggish, conciliatory, and expressive of\napprobation.\n\n'I am not industrious myself, gents both,' said the head, 'but I know\nhow to appreciate that quality in others. I wish I may turn grey\nand ugly, if it isn't in my opinion, next to genius, one of the very\ncharmingest qualities of the human mind. Upon my soul, I am grateful\nto my friend Pecksniff for helping me to the contemplation of such\na delicious picture as you present. You remind me of Whittington,\nafterwards thrice Lord Mayor of London. I give you my unsullied word of\nhonour, that you very strongly remind me of that historical character.\nYou are a pair of Whittingtons, gents, without the cat; which is a most\nagreeable and blessed exception to me, for I am not attached to the\nfeline species. My name is Tigg; how do you do?'\n\nMartin looked to Mr Pinch for an explanation; and Tom, who had never in\nhis life set eyes on Mr Tigg before, looked to that gentleman himself.\n\n'Chevy Slyme?' said Mr Tigg, interrogatively, and kissing his left hand\nin token of friendship. 'You will understand me when I say that I am the\naccredited agent of Chevy Slyme; that I am the ambassador from the court\nof Chiv? Ha ha!'\n\n'Heyday!' asked Martin, starting at the mention of a name he knew.\n'Pray, what does he want with me?'\n\n'If your name is Pinch'--Mr Tigg began.\n\n'It is not' said Martin, checking himself. 'That is Mr Pinch.'\n\n'If that is Mr Pinch,' cried Tigg, kissing his hand again, and beginning\nto follow his head into the room, 'he will permit me to say that I\ngreatly esteem and respect his character, which has been most highly\ncommended to me by my friend Pecksniff; and that I deeply appreciate his\ntalent for the organ, notwithstanding that I do not, if I may use the\nexpression, grind myself. If that is Mr Pinch, I will venture to express\na hope that I see him well, and that he is suffering no inconvenience\nfrom the easterly wind?'\n\n'Thank you,' said Tom. 'I am very well.'\n\n'That is a comfort,' Mr Tigg rejoined. 'Then,' he added, shielding his\nlips with the palm of his hand, and applying them close to Mr Pinch's\near, 'I have come for the letter.'\n\n'For the letter,' said Tom, aloud. 'What letter?'\n\n'The letter,' whispered Tigg in the same cautious manner as before,\n'which my friend Pecksniff addressed to Chevy Slyme, Esquire, and left\nwith you.'\n\n'He didn't leave any letter with me,' said Tom.\n\n'Hush!' cried the other. 'It's all the same thing, though not so\ndelicately done by my friend Pecksniff as I could have wished. The\nmoney.'\n\n'The money!' cried Tom quite scared.\n\n'Exactly so,' said Mr Tigg. With which he rapped Tom twice or thrice\nupon the breast and nodded several times, as though he would say that he\nsaw they understood each other; that it was unnecessary to mention\nthe circumstance before a third person; and that he would take it as a\nparticular favour if Tom would slip the amount into his hand, as quietly\nas possible.\n\nMr Pinch, however, was so very much astounded by this (to him)\ninexplicable deportment, that he at once openly declared there must be\nsome mistake, and that he had been entrusted with no commission whatever\nhaving any reference to Mr Tigg or to his friend, either. Mr Tigg\nreceived this declaration with a grave request that Mr Pinch would have\nthe goodness to make it again; and on Tom's repeating it in a still more\nemphatic and unmistakable manner, checked it off, sentence for sentence,\nby nodding his head solemnly at the end of each. When it had come to\na close for the second time, Mr Tigg sat himself down in a chair and\naddressed the young men as follows:\n\n'Then I tell you what it is, gents both. There is at this present moment\nin this very place, a perfect constellation of talent and genius, who is\ninvolved, through what I cannot but designate as the culpable negligence\nof my friend Pecksniff, in a situation as tremendous, perhaps, as the\nsocial intercourse of the nineteenth century will readily admit\nof. There is actually at this instant, at the Blue Dragon in this\nvillage--an ale-house, observe; a common, paltry, low-minded,\nclodhopping, pipe-smoking ale-house--an individual, of whom it may be\nsaid, in the language of the Poet, that nobody but himself can in any\nway come up to him; who is detained there for his bill. Ha! ha! For his\nbill. I repeat it--for his bill. Now,' said Mr Tigg, 'we have heard\nof Fox's Book of Martyrs, I believe, and we have heard of the Court of\nRequests, and the Star Chamber; but I fear the contradiction of no man\nalive or dead, when I assert that my friend Chevy Slyme being held\nin pawn for a bill, beats any amount of cockfighting with which I am\nacquainted.'\n\nMartin and Mr Pinch looked, first at each other, and afterwards at Mr\nTigg, who with his arms folded on his breast surveyed them, half in\ndespondency and half in bitterness.\n\n'Don't mistake me, gents both,' he said, stretching forth his right\nhand. 'If it had been for anything but a bill, I could have borne it,\nand could still have looked upon mankind with some feeling of respect;\nbut when such a man as my friend Slyme is detained for a score--a thing\nin itself essentially mean; a low performance on a slate, or possibly\nchalked upon the back of a door--I do feel that there is a screw of\nsuch magnitude loose somewhere, that the whole framework of society\nis shaken, and the very first principles of things can no longer be\ntrusted. In short, gents both,' said Mr Tigg with a passionate flourish\nof his hands and head, 'when a man like Slyme is detained for such\na thing as a bill, I reject the superstitions of ages, and believe\nnothing. I don't even believe that I DON'T believe, curse me if I do!'\n\n'I am very sorry, I am sure,' said Tom after a pause, 'but Mr\nPecksniff said nothing to me about it, and I couldn't act without his\ninstructions. Wouldn't it be better, sir, if you were to go to--to\nwherever you came from--yourself, and remit the money to your friend?'\n\n'How can that be done, when I am detained also?' said Mr Tigg; 'and when\nmoreover, owing to the astounding, and I must add, guilty negligence of\nmy friend Pecksniff, I have no money for coach-hire?'\n\nTom thought of reminding the gentleman (who, no doubt, in his agitation\nhad forgotten it) that there was a post-office in the land; and that\npossibly if he wrote to some friend or agent for a remittance it might\nnot be lost upon the road; or at all events that the chance, however\ndesperate, was worth trusting to. But, as his good-nature presently\nsuggested to him certain reasons for abstaining from this hint, he\npaused again, and then asked:\n\n'Did you say, sir, that you were detained also?'\n\n'Come here,' said Mr Tigg, rising. 'You have no objection to my opening\nthis window for a moment?'\n\n'Certainly not,' said Tom.\n\n'Very good,' said Mr Tigg, lifting the sash. 'You see a fellow down\nthere in a red neckcloth and no waistcoat?'\n\n'Of course I do,' cried Tom. 'That's Mark Tapley.'\n\n'Mark Tapley is it?' said the gentleman. 'Then Mark Tapley had not only\nthe great politeness to follow me to this house, but is waiting now, to\nsee me home again. And for that attention, sir,' added Mr Tigg, stroking\nhis moustache, 'I can tell you, that Mark Tapley had better in his\ninfancy have been fed to suffocation by Mrs Tapley, than preserved to\nthis time.'\n\nMr Pinch was not so dismayed by this terrible threat, but that he had\nvoice enough to call to Mark to come in, and upstairs; a summons which\nhe so speedily obeyed, that almost as soon as Tom and Mr Tigg had drawn\nin their heads and closed the window again, he, the denounced, appeared\nbefore them.\n\n'Come here, Mark!' said Mr Pinch. 'Good gracious me! what's the matter\nbetween Mrs Lupin and this gentleman?'\n\n'What gentleman, sir?' said Mark. 'I don't see no gentleman here sir,\nexcepting you and the new gentleman,' to whom he made a rough kind of\nbow--'and there's nothing wrong between Mrs Lupin and either of you, Mr\nPinch, I am sure.'\n\n'Nonsense, Mark!' cried Tom. 'You see Mr--'\n\n'Tigg,' interposed that gentleman. 'Wait a bit. I shall crush him soon.\nAll in good time!'\n\n'Oh HIM!' rejoined Mark, with an air of careless defiance. 'Yes, I see\nHIM. I could see him a little better, if he'd shave himself, and get his\nhair cut.'\n\nMr Tigg shook his head with a ferocious look, and smote himself once\nupon the breast.\n\n'It's no use,' said Mark. 'If you knock ever so much in that quarter,\nyou'll get no answer. I know better. There's nothing there but padding;\nand a greasy sort it is.'\n\n'Nay, Mark,' urged Mr Pinch, interposing to prevent hostilities, 'tell\nme what I ask you. You're not out of temper, I hope?'\n\n'Out of temper, sir!' cried Mark, with a grin; 'why no, sir. There's\na little credit--not much--in being jolly, when such fellows as him is\na-going about like roaring lions; if there is any breed of lions, at\nleast, as is all roar and mane. What is there between him and Mrs Lupin,\nsir? Why, there's a score between him and Mrs Lupin. And I think Mrs\nLupin lets him and his friend off very easy in not charging 'em double\nprices for being a disgrace to the Dragon. That's my opinion. I wouldn't\nhave any such Peter the Wild Boy as him in my house, sir, not if I was\npaid race-week prices for it. He's enough to turn the very beer in\nthe casks sour with his looks; he is! So he would, if it had judgment\nenough.'\n\n'You're not answering my question, you know, Mark,' observed Mr Pinch.\n\n'Well, sir,' said Mark, 'I don't know as there's much to answer further\nthan that. Him and his friend goes and stops at the Moon and Stars till\nthey've run a bill there; and then comes and stops with us and does the\nsame. The running of bills is common enough Mr Pinch; it an't that as\nwe object to; it's the ways of this chap. Nothing's good enough for him;\nall the women is dying for him he thinks, and is overpaid if he winks at\n'em; and all the men was made to be ordered about by him. This not being\naggravation enough, he says this morning to me, in his usual captivating\nway, \"We're going to-night, my man.\" \"Are you, sir?\" says I. \"Perhaps\nyou'd like the bill got ready, sir?\" \"Oh no, my man,\" he says; \"you\nneedn't mind that. I'll give Pecksniff orders to see to that.\" In reply\nto which, the Dragon makes answer, \"Thankee, sir, you're very kind to\nhonour us so far, but as we don't know any particular good of you, and\nyou don't travel with luggage, and Mr Pecksniff an't at home (which\nperhaps you mayn't happen to be aware of, sir), we should prefer\nsomething more satisfactory;\" and that's where the matter stands. And I\nask,' said Mr Tapley, pointing, in conclusion, to Mr Tigg, with his hat,\n'any lady or gentleman, possessing ordinary strength of mind, to say\nwhether he's a disagreeable-looking chap or not!'\n\n'Let me inquire,' said Martin, interposing between this candid speech\nand the delivery of some blighting anathema by Mr Tigg, 'what the amount\nof this debt may be?'\n\n'In point of money, sir, very little,' answered Mark. 'Only just turned\nof three pounds. But it an't that; it's the--'\n\n'Yes, yes, you told us so before,' said Martin. 'Pinch, a word with\nyou.'\n\n'What is it?' asked Tom, retiring with him to a corner of the room.\n\n'Why, simply--I am ashamed to say--that this Mr Slyme is a relation of\nmine, of whom I never heard anything pleasant; and that I don't want him\nhere just now, and think he would be cheaply got rid of, perhaps, for\nthree or four pounds. You haven't enough money to pay this bill, I\nsuppose?'\n\nTom shook his head to an extent that left no doubt of his entire\nsincerity.\n\n'That's unfortunate, for I am poor too; and in case you had had it, I'd\nhave borrowed it of you. But if we told this landlady we would see her\npaid, I suppose that would answer the same purpose?'\n\n'Oh dear, yes!' said Tom. 'She knows me, bless you!'\n\n'Then let us go down at once and tell her so; for the sooner we are rid\nof their company the better. As you have conducted the conversation with\nthis gentleman hitherto, perhaps you'll tell him what we purpose doing;\nwill you?'\n\nMr Pinch, complying, at once imparted the intelligence to Mr Tigg, who\nshook him warmly by the hand in return, assuring him that his faith in\nanything and everything was again restored. It was not so much, he said,\nfor the temporary relief of this assistance that he prized it, as for\nits vindication of the high principle that Nature's Nobs felt with\nNature's Nobs, and that true greatness of soul sympathized with true\ngreatness of soul, all the world over. It proved to him, he said, that\nlike him they admired genius, even when it was coupled with the alloy\noccasionally visible in the metal of his friend Slyme; and on behalf\nof that friend, he thanked them; as warmly and heartily as if the\ncause were his own. Being cut short in these speeches by a general move\ntowards the stairs, he took possession at the street door of the lapel\nof Mr Pinch's coat, as a security against further interruption; and\nentertained that gentleman with some highly improving discourse until\nthey reached the Dragon, whither they were closely followed by Mark and\nthe new pupil.\n\nThe rosy hostess scarcely needed Mr Pinch's word as a preliminary to\nthe release of her two visitors, of whom she was glad to be rid on\nany terms; indeed, their brief detention had originated mainly with\nMr Tapley, who entertained a constitutional dislike to gentleman\nout-at-elbows who flourished on false pretences; and had conceived a\nparticular aversion to Mr Tigg and his friend, as choice specimens of\nthe species. The business in hand thus easily settled, Mr Pinch and\nMartin would have withdrawn immediately, but for the urgent entreaties\nof Mr Tigg that they would allow him the honour of presenting them\nto his friend Slyme, which were so very difficult of resistance that,\nyielding partly to these persuasions and partly to their own curiosity,\nthey suffered themselves to be ushered into the presence of that\ndistinguished gentleman.\n\nHe was brooding over the remains of yesterday's decanter of brandy, and\nwas engaged in the thoughtful occupation of making a chain of rings on\nthe top of the table with the wet foot of his drinking-glass. Wretched\nand forlorn as he looked, Mr Slyme had once been in his way, the\nchoicest of swaggerers; putting forth his pretensions boldly, as a\nman of infinite taste and most undoubted promise. The stock-in-trade\nrequisite to set up an amateur in this department of business is very\nslight, and easily got together; a trick of the nose and a curl of the\nlip sufficient to compound a tolerable sneer, being ample provision for\nany exigency. But, in an evil hour, this off-shoot of the Chuzzlewit\ntrunk, being lazy, and ill qualified for any regular pursuit and having\ndissipated such means as he ever possessed, had formally established\nhimself as a professor of Taste for a livelihood; and finding, too late,\nthat something more than his old amount of qualifications was necessary\nto sustain him in this calling, had quickly fallen to his present level,\nwhere he retained nothing of his old self but his boastfulness and his\nbile, and seemed to have no existence separate or apart from his friend\nTigg. And now so abject and so pitiful was he--at once so maudlin,\ninsolent, beggarly, and proud--that even his friend and parasite,\nstanding erect beside him, swelled into a Man by contrast.\n\n'Chiv,' said Mr Tigg, clapping him on the back, 'my friend Pecksniff not\nbeing at home, I have arranged our trifling piece of business with Mr\nPinch and friend. Mr Pinch and friend, Mr Chevy Slyme! Chiv, Mr Pinch\nand friend!'\n\n'These are agreeable circumstances in which to be introduced to\nstrangers,' said Chevy Slyme, turning his bloodshot eyes towards Tom\nPinch. 'I am the most miserable man in the world, I believe!'\n\nTom begged he wouldn't mention it; and finding him in this condition,\nretired, after an awkward pause, followed by Martin. But Mr Tigg so\nurgently conjured them, by coughs and signs, to remain in the shadow of\nthe door, that they stopped there.\n\n'I swear,' cried Mr Slyme, giving the table an imbecile blow with his\nfist, and then feebly leaning his head upon his hand, while some drunken\ndrops oozed from his eyes, 'that I am the wretchedest creature on\nrecord. Society is in a conspiracy against me. I'm the most literary\nman alive. I'm full of scholarship. I'm full of genius; I'm full of\ninformation; I'm full of novel views on every subject; yet look at my\ncondition! I'm at this moment obliged to two strangers for a tavern\nbill!'\n\nMr Tigg replenished his friend's glass, pressed it into his hand, and\nnodded an intimation to the visitors that they would see him in a better\naspect immediately.\n\n'Obliged to two strangers for a tavern bill, eh!' repeated Mr Slyme,\nafter a sulky application to his glass. 'Very pretty! And crowds of\nimpostors, the while, becoming famous; men who are no more on a level\nwith me than--Tigg, I take you to witness that I am the most persecuted\nhound on the face of the earth.'\n\nWith a whine, not unlike the cry of the animal he named, in its lowest\nstate of humiliation, he raised his glass to his mouth again. He found\nsome encouragement in it; for when he set it down he laughed scornfully.\nUpon that Mr Tigg gesticulated to the visitors once more, and with great\nexpression, implying that now the time was come when they would see Chiv\nin his greatness.\n\n'Ha, ha, ha,' laughed Mr Slyme. 'Obliged to two strangers for a tavern\nbill! Yet I think I've a rich uncle, Tigg, who could buy up the uncles\nof fifty strangers! Have I, or have I not? I come of a good family,\nI believe! Do I, or do I not? I'm not a man of common capacity or\naccomplishments, I think! Am I, or am I not?'\n\n'You are the American aloe of the human race, my dear Chiv,' said Mr\nTigg, 'which only blooms once in a hundred years!'\n\n'Ha, ha, ha!' laughed Mr Slyme again. 'Obliged to two strangers for\na tavern bill! I obliged to two architect's apprentices. Fellows who\nmeasure earth with iron chains, and build houses like bricklayers. Give\nme the names of those two apprentices. How dare they oblige me!'\n\nMr Tigg was quite lost in admiration of this noble trait in his friend's\ncharacter; as he made known to Mr Pinch in a neat little ballet of\naction, spontaneously invented for the purpose.\n\n'I'll let 'em know, and I'll let all men know,' cried Chevy Slyme,\n'that I'm none of the mean, grovelling, tame characters they meet with\ncommonly. I have an independent spirit. I have a heart that swells in my\nbosom. I have a soul that rises superior to base considerations.'\n\n'Oh Chiv, Chiv,' murmured Mr Tigg, 'you have a nobly independent nature,\nChiv!'\n\n'You go and do your duty, sir,' said Mr Slyme, angrily, 'and borrow\nmoney for travelling expenses; and whoever you borrow it of, let 'em\nknow that I possess a haughty spirit, and a proud spirit, and have\ninfernally finely-touched chords in my nature, which won't brook\npatronage. Do you hear? Tell 'em I hate 'em, and that that's the way\nI preserve my self-respect; and tell 'em that no man ever respected\nhimself more than I do!'\n\nHe might have added that he hated two sorts of men; all those who did\nhim favours, and all those who were better off than himself; as in\neither case their position was an insult to a man of his stupendous\nmerits. But he did not; for with the apt closing words above recited, Mr\nSlyme; of too haughty a stomach to work, to beg, to borrow, or to steal;\nyet mean enough to be worked or borrowed, begged or stolen for, by any\ncatspaw that would serve his turn; too insolent to lick the hand that\nfed him in his need, yet cur enough to bite and tear it in the dark;\nwith these apt closing words Mr Slyme fell forward with his head upon\nthe table, and so declined into a sodden sleep.\n\n'Was there ever,' cried Mr Tigg, joining the young men at the door,\nand shutting it carefully behind him, 'such an independent spirit as is\npossessed by that extraordinary creature? Was there ever such a Roman as\nour friend Chiv? Was there ever a man of such a purely classical turn of\nthought, and of such a toga-like simplicity of nature? Was there ever a\nman with such a flow of eloquence? Might he not, gents both, I ask, have\nsat upon a tripod in the ancient times, and prophesied to a perfectly\nunlimited extent, if previously supplied with gin-and-water at the\npublic cost?'\n\nMr Pinch was about to contest this latter position with his usual\nmildness, when, observing that his companion had already gone\ndownstairs, he prepared to follow him.\n\n'You are not going, Mr Pinch?' said Tigg.\n\n'Thank you,' answered Tom. 'Yes. Don't come down.'\n\n'Do you know that I should like one little word in private with you Mr\nPinch?' said Tigg, following him. 'One minute of your company in the\nskittle-ground would very much relieve my mind. Might I beseech that\nfavour?'\n\n'Oh, certainly,' replied Tom, 'if you really wish it.' So he accompanied\nMr Tigg to the retreat in question; on arriving at which place that\ngentleman took from his hat what seemed to be the fossil remains of an\nantediluvian pocket-handkerchief, and wiped his eyes therewith.\n\n'You have not beheld me this day,' said Mr Tigg, 'in a favourable\nlight.'\n\n'Don't mention that,' said Tom, 'I beg.'\n\n'But you have NOT,' cried Tigg. 'I must persist in that opinion. If you\ncould have seen me, Mr Pinch, at the head of my regiment on the coast\nof Africa, charging in the form of a hollow square, with the women and\nchildren and the regimental plate-chest in the centre, you would not\nhave known me for the same man. You would have respected me, sir.'\n\nTom had certain ideas of his own upon the subject of glory; and\nconsequently he was not quite so much excited by this picture as Mr Tigg\ncould have desired.\n\n'But no matter!' said that gentleman. 'The school-boy writing home to\nhis parents and describing the milk-and-water, said \"This is indeed\nweakness.\" I repeat that assertion in reference to myself at the present\nmoment; and I ask your pardon. Sir, you have seen my friend Slyme?'\n\n'No doubt,' said Mr Pinch.\n\n'Sir, you have been impressed by my friend Slyme?'\n\n'Not very pleasantly, I must say,' answered Tom, after a little\nhesitation.\n\n'I am grieved but not surprised,' cried Mr Tigg, detaining him with both\nhands, 'to hear that you have come to that conclusion; for it is my own.\nBut, Mr Pinch, though I am a rough and thoughtless man, I can honour\nMind. I honour Mind in following my friend. To you of all men, Mr Pinch,\nI have a right to make appeal on Mind's behalf, when it has not the art\nto push its fortune in the world. And so, sir--not for myself, who have\nno claim upon you, but for my crushed, my sensitive and independent\nfriend, who has--I ask the loan of three half-crowns. I ask you for the\nloan of three half-crowns, distinctly, and without a blush. I ask it,\nalmost as a right. And when I add that they will be returned by post,\nthis week, I feel that you will blame me for that sordid stipulation.'\n\nMr Pinch took from his pocket an old-fashioned red-leather purse with\na steel clasp, which had probably once belonged to his deceased\ngrandmother. It held one half-sovereign and no more. All Tom's worldly\nwealth until next quarter-day.\n\n'Stay!' cried Mr Tigg, who had watched this proceeding keenly. 'I was\njust about to say, that for the convenience of posting you had better\nmake it gold. Thank you. A general direction, I suppose, to Mr Pinch at\nMr Pecksniff's--will that find you?'\n\n'That'll find me,' said Tom. 'You had better put Esquire to Mr\nPecksniff's name, if you please. Direct to me, you know, at Seth\nPecksniff's, Esquire.'\n\n'At Seth Pecksniff's, Esquire,' repeated Mr Tigg, taking an exact note\nof it with a stump of pencil. 'We said this week, I believe?'\n\n'Yes; or Monday will do,' observed Tom.\n\n'No, no, I beg your pardon. Monday will NOT do,' said Mr Tigg. 'If we\nstipulated for this week, Saturday is the latest day. Did we stipulate\nfor this week?'\n\n'Since you are so particular about it,' said Tom, 'I think we did.'\n\nMr Tigg added this condition to his memorandum; read the entry over to\nhimself with a severe frown; and that the transaction might be the more\ncorrect and business-like, appended his initials to the whole. That\ndone, he assured Mr Pinch that everything was now perfectly regular;\nand, after squeezing his hand with great fervour, departed.\n\nTom entertained enough suspicion that Martin might possibly turn this\ninterview into a jest, to render him desirous to avoid the company of\nthat young gentleman for the present. With this view he took a few turns\nup and down the skittle-ground, and did not re-enter the house until\nMr Tigg and his friend had quitted it, and the new pupil and Mark were\nwatching their departure from one of the windows.\n\n'I was just a-saying, sir, that if one could live by it,' observed Mark,\npointing after their late guests, 'that would be the sort of service\nfor me. Waiting on such individuals as them would be better than\ngrave-digging, sir.'\n\n'And staying here would be better than either, Mark,' replied Tom. 'So\ntake my advice, and continue to swim easily in smooth water.'\n\n'It's too late to take it now, sir,' said Mark. 'I have broke it to her,\nsir. I am off to-morrow morning.'\n\n'Off!' cried Mr Pinch, 'where to?'\n\n'I shall go up to London, sir.'\n\n'What to be?' asked Mr Pinch.\n\n'Well! I don't know yet, sir. Nothing turned up that day I opened my\nmind to you, as was at all likely to suit me. All them trades I thought\nof was a deal too jolly; there was no credit at all to be got in any\nof 'em. I must look for a private service, I suppose, sir. I might be\nbrought out strong, perhaps, in a serious family, Mr Pinch.'\n\n'Perhaps you might come out rather too strong for a serious family's\ntaste, Mark.'\n\n'That's possible, sir. If I could get into a wicked family, I might\ndo myself justice; but the difficulty is to make sure of one's ground,\nbecause a young man can't very well advertise that he wants a place, and\nwages an't so much an object as a wicked sitivation; can he, sir?'\n\n'Why, no,' said Mr Pinch, 'I don't think he can.'\n\n'An envious family,' pursued Mark, with a thoughtful face; 'or a\nquarrelsome family, or a malicious family, or even a good out-and-out\nmean family, would open a field of action as I might do something in.\nThe man as would have suited me of all other men was that old gentleman\nas was took ill here, for he really was a trying customer. Howsever, I\nmust wait and see what turns up, sir; and hope for the worst.'\n\n'You are determined to go then?' said Mr Pinch.\n\n'My box is gone already, sir, by the waggon, and I'm going to walk on\nto-morrow morning, and get a lift by the day coach when it overtakes me.\nSo I wish you good-bye, Mr Pinch--and you too, sir--and all good luck\nand happiness!'\n\nThey both returned his greeting laughingly, and walked home arm-in-arm.\nMr Pinch imparting to his new friend, as they went, such further\nparticulars of Mark Tapley's whimsical restlessness as the reader is\nalready acquainted with.\n\nIn the meantime Mark, having a shrewd notion that his mistress was\nin very low spirits, and that he could not exactly answer for the\nconsequences of any lengthened TETE-A-TETE in the bar, kept himself\nobstinately out of her way all the afternoon and evening. In this piece\nof generalship he was very much assisted by the great influx of company\ninto the taproom; for the news of his intention having gone abroad,\nthere was a perfect throng there all the evening, and much drinking of\nhealths and clinking of mugs. At length the house was closed for the\nnight; and there being now no help for it, Mark put the best face he\ncould upon the matter, and walked doggedly to the bar-door.\n\n'If I look at her,' said Mark to himself, 'I'm done. I feel that I'm\na-going fast.'\n\n'You have come at last,' said Mrs Lupin.\n\nAye, Mark said: There he was.\n\n'And you are determined to leave us, Mark?' cried Mrs Lupin.\n\n'Why, yes; I am,' said Mark; keeping his eyes hard upon the floor.\n\n'I thought,' pursued the landlady, with a most engaging hesitation,\n'that you had been--fond--of the Dragon?'\n\n'So I am,' said Mark.\n\n'Then,' pursued the hostess--and it really was not an unnatural\ninquiry--'why do you desert it?'\n\nBut as he gave no manner of answer to this question; not even on\nits being repeated; Mrs Lupin put his money into his hand, and asked\nhim--not unkindly, quite the contrary--what he would take?\n\nIt is proverbial that there are certain things which flesh and blood\ncannot bear. Such a question as this, propounded in such a manner, at\nsuch a time, and by such a person, proved (at least, as far as, Mark's\nflesh and blood were concerned) to be one of them. He looked up in spite\nof himself directly; and having once looked up, there was no\nlooking down again; for of all the tight, plump, buxom, bright-eyed,\ndimple-faced landladies that ever shone on earth, there stood before him\nthen, bodily in that bar, the very pink and pineapple.\n\n'Why, I tell you what,' said Mark, throwing off all his constraint in an\ninstant and seizing the hostess round the waist--at which she was not at\nall alarmed, for she knew what a good young man he was--'if I took what\nI liked most, I should take you. If I only thought what was best for me,\nI should take you. If I took what nineteen young fellows in twenty would\nbe glad to take, and would take at any price, I should take you. Yes,\nI should,' cried Mr Tapley, shaking his head expressively enough, and\nlooking (in a momentary state of forgetfulness) rather hard at the\nhostess's ripe lips. 'And no man wouldn't wonder if I did!'\n\nMrs Lupin said he amazed her. She was astonished how he could say such\nthings. She had never thought it of him.\n\n'Why, I never thought if of myself till now!' said Mark, raising his\neyebrows with a look of the merriest possible surprise. 'I always\nexpected we should part, and never have no explanation; I meant to do it\nwhen I come in here just now; but there's something about you, as makes\na man sensible. Then let us have a word or two together; letting it be\nunderstood beforehand,' he added this in a grave tone, to prevent the\npossibility of any mistake, 'that I'm not a-going to make no love, you\nknow.'\n\nThere was for just one second a shade, though not by any means a dark\none, on the landlady's open brow. But it passed off instantly, in a\nlaugh that came from her very heart.\n\n'Oh, very good!' she said; 'if there is to be no love-making, you had\nbetter take your arm away.'\n\n'Lord, why should I!' cried Mark. 'It's quite innocent.'\n\n'Of course it's innocent,' returned the hostess, 'or I shouldn't allow\nit.'\n\n'Very well!' said Mark. 'Then let it be.'\n\nThere was so much reason in this that the landlady laughed again,\nsuffered it to remain, and bade him say what he had to say, and be quick\nabout it. But he was an impudent fellow, she added.\n\n'Ha ha! I almost think I am!' cried Mark, 'though I never thought so\nbefore. Why, I can say anything to-night!'\n\n'Say what you're going to say if you please, and be quick,' returned the\nlandlady, 'for I want to get to bed.'\n\n'Why, then, my dear good soul,' said Mark, 'and a kinder woman than you\nare never drawed breath--let me see the man as says she did!--what would\nbe the likely consequence of us two being--'\n\n'Oh nonsense!' cried Mrs Lupin. 'Don't talk about that any more.'\n\n'No, no, but it an't nonsense,' said Mark; 'and I wish you'd attend.\nWhat would be the likely consequence of us two being married? If I can't\nbe content and comfortable in this here lively Dragon now, is it to be\nlooked for as I should be then? By no means. Very good. Then you, even\nwith your good humour, would be always on the fret and worrit, always\nuncomfortable in your own mind, always a-thinking as you was getting too\nold for my taste, always a-picturing me to yourself as being chained\nup to the Dragon door, and wanting to break away. I don't know that it\nwould be so,' said Mark, 'but I don't know that it mightn't be. I am a\nroving sort of chap, I know. I'm fond of change. I'm always a-thinking\nthat with my good health and spirits it would be more creditable in me\nto be jolly where there's things a-going on to make one dismal. It may\nbe a mistake of mine you see, but nothing short of trying how it acts\nwill set it right. Then an't it best that I should go; particular when\nyour free way has helped me out to say all this, and we can part as\ngood friends as we have ever been since first I entered this here noble\nDragon, which,' said Mr Tapley in conclusion, 'has my good word and my\ngood wish to the day of my death!'\n\nThe hostess sat quite silent for a little time, but she very soon put\nboth her hands in Mark's and shook them heartily.\n\n'For you are a good man,' she said; looking into his face with a smile,\nwhich was rather serious for her. 'And I do believe have been a better\nfriend to me to-night than ever I have had in all my life.'\n\n'Oh! as to that, you know,' said Mark, 'that's nonsense. But love my\nheart alive!' he added, looking at her in a sort of rapture, 'if you ARE\nthat way disposed, what a lot of suitable husbands there is as you may\ndrive distracted!'\n\nShe laughed again at this compliment; and, once more shaking him by both\nhands, and bidding him, if he should ever want a friend, to remember\nher, turned gayly from the little bar and up the Dragon staircase.\n\n'Humming a tune as she goes,' said Mark, listening, 'in case I should\nthink she's at all put out, and should be made down-hearted. Come,\nhere's some credit in being jolly, at last!'\n\nWith that piece of comfort, very ruefully uttered, he went, in anything\nbut a jolly manner, to bed.\n\nHe rose early next morning, and was a-foot soon after sunrise. But it\nwas of no use; the whole place was up to see Mark Tapley off; the boys,\nthe dogs, the children, the old men, the busy people and the idlers;\nthere they were, all calling out 'Good-b'ye, Mark,' after their own\nmanner, and all sorry he was going. Somehow he had a kind of sense that\nhis old mistress was peeping from her chamber-window, but he couldn't\nmake up his mind to look back.\n\n'Good-b'ye one, good-b'ye all!' cried Mark, waving his hat on the top\nof his walking-stick, as he strode at a quick pace up the little street.\n'Hearty chaps them wheelwrights--hurrah! Here's the butcher's dog\na-coming out of the garden--down, old fellow! And Mr Pinch a-going to\nhis organ--good-b'ye, sir! And the terrier-bitch from over the way--hie,\nthen, lass! And children enough to hand down human natur to the latest\nposterity--good-b'ye, boys and girls! There's some credit in it now. I'm\na-coming out strong at last. These are the circumstances that would try\na ordinary mind; but I'm uncommon jolly. Not quite as jolly as I could\nwish to be, but very near. Good-b'ye! good-b'ye!'\n\n\n\nCHAPTER EIGHT\n\nACCOMPANIES MR PECKSNIFF AND HIS CHARMING DAUGHTERS TO THE CITY OF\nLONDON; AND RELATES WHAT FELL OUT UPON THEIR WAY THITHER\n\n\nWhen Mr Pecksniff and the two young ladies got into the heavy coach at\nthe end of the lane, they found it empty, which was a great comfort;\nparticularly as the outside was quite full and the passengers looked\nvery frosty. For as Mr Pecksniff justly observed--when he and his\ndaughters had burrowed their feet deep in the straw, wrapped themselves\nto the chin, and pulled up both windows--it is always satisfactory to\nfeel, in keen weather, that many other people are not as warm as\nyou are. And this, he said, was quite natural, and a very beautiful\narrangement; not confined to coaches, but extending itself into many\nsocial ramifications. 'For' (he observed), 'if every one were warm and\nwell-fed, we should lose the satisfaction of admiring the fortitude with\nwhich certain conditions of men bear cold and hunger. And if we were\nno better off than anybody else, what would become of our sense of\ngratitude; which,' said Mr Pecksniff with tears in his eyes, as he shook\nhis fist at a beggar who wanted to get up behind, 'is one of the holiest\nfeelings of our common nature.'\n\nHis children heard with becoming reverence these moral precepts from the\nlips of their father, and signified their acquiescence in the same, by\nsmiles. That he might the better feed and cherish that sacred flame of\ngratitude in his breast, Mr Pecksniff remarked that he would trouble\nhis eldest daughter, even in this early stage of their journey, for the\nbrandy-bottle. And from the narrow neck of that stone vessel he imbibed\na copious refreshment.\n\n'What are we?' said Mr Pecksniff, 'but coaches? Some of us are slow\ncoaches'--\n\n'Goodness, Pa!' cried Charity.\n\n'Some of us, I say,' resumed her parent with increased emphasis, 'are\nslow coaches; some of us are fast coaches. Our passions are the horses;\nand rampant animals too--!'\n\n'Really, Pa,' cried both the daughters at once. 'How very unpleasant.'\n\n'And rampant animals too' repeated Mr Pecksniff with so much\ndetermination, that he may be said to have exhibited, at the moment a\nsort of moral rampancy himself;'--and Virtue is the drag. We start from\nThe Mother's Arms, and we run to The Dust Shovel.'\n\nWhen he had said this, Mr Pecksniff, being exhausted, took some further\nrefreshment. When he had done that, he corked the bottle tight, with the\nair of a man who had effectually corked the subject also; and went to\nsleep for three stages.\n\nThe tendency of mankind when it falls asleep in coaches, is to wake up\ncross; to find its legs in its way; and its corns an aggravation.\nMr Pecksniff not being exempt from the common lot of humanity found\nhimself, at the end of his nap, so decidedly the victim of these\ninfirmities, that he had an irresistible inclination to visit them upon\nhis daughters; which he had already begun to do in the shape of divers\nrandom kicks, and other unexpected motions of his shoes, when the coach\nstopped, and after a short delay the door was opened.\n\n'Now mind,' said a thin sharp voice in the dark. 'I and my son go\ninside, because the roof is full, but you agree only to charge us\noutside prices. It's quite understood that we won't pay more. Is it?'\n\n'All right, sir,' replied the guard.\n\n'Is there anybody inside now?' inquired the voice.\n\n'Three passengers,' returned the guard.\n\n'Then I ask the three passengers to witness this bargain, if they will\nbe so good,' said the voice. 'My boy, I think we may safely get in.'\n\nIn pursuance of which opinion, two people took their seats in the\nvehicle, which was solemnly licensed by Act of Parliament to carry any\nsix persons who could be got in at the door.\n\n'That was lucky!' whispered the old man, when they moved on again. 'And\na great stroke of policy in you to observe it. He, he, he! We couldn't\nhave gone outside. I should have died of the rheumatism!'\n\nWhether it occurred to the dutiful son that he had in some degree\nover-reached himself by contributing to the prolongation of his father's\ndays; or whether the cold had effected his temper; is doubtful. But he\ngave his father such a nudge in reply, that that good old gentleman\nwas taken with a cough which lasted for full five minutes without\nintermission, and goaded Mr Pecksniff to that pitch of irritation, that\nhe said at last--and very suddenly:\n\n'There is no room! There is really no room in this coach for any\ngentleman with a cold in his head!'\n\n'Mine,' said the old man, after a moment's pause, 'is upon my chest,\nPecksniff.'\n\nThe voice and manner, together, now that he spoke out; the composure of\nthe speaker; the presence of his son; and his knowledge of Mr Pecksniff;\nafforded a clue to his identity which it was impossible to mistake.\n\n'Hem! I thought,' said Mr Pecksniff, returning to his usual mildness,\n'that I addressed a stranger. I find that I address a relative, Mr\nAnthony Chuzzlewit and his son Mr Jonas--for they, my dear children,\nare our travelling companions--will excuse me for an apparently harsh\nremark. It is not MY desire to wound the feelings of any person with\nwhom I am connected in family bonds. I may be a Hypocrite,' said Mr\nPecksniff, cuttingly; 'but I am not a Brute.'\n\n'Pooh, pooh!' said the old man. 'What signifies that word, Pecksniff?\nHypocrite! why, we are all hypocrites. We were all hypocrites t'other\nday. I am sure I felt that to be agreed upon among us, or I shouldn't\nhave called you one. We should not have been there at all, if we had not\nbeen hypocrites. The only difference between you and the rest was--shall\nI tell you the difference between you and the rest now, Pecksniff?'\n\n'If you please, my good sir; if you please.'\n\n'Why, the annoying quality in YOU, is,' said the old man, 'that you\nnever have a confederate or partner in YOUR juggling; you would deceive\neverybody, even those who practise the same art; and have a way with\nyou, as if you--he, he, he!--as if you really believed yourself. I'd\nlay a handsome wager now,' said the old man, 'if I laid wagers, which\nI don't and never did, that you keep up appearances by a tacit\nunderstanding, even before your own daughters here. Now I, when I have\na business scheme in hand, tell Jonas what it is, and we discuss it\nopenly. You're not offended, Pecksniff?'\n\n'Offended, my good sir!' cried that gentleman, as if he had received the\nhighest compliments that language could convey.\n\n'Are you travelling to London, Mr Pecksniff?' asked the son.\n\n'Yes, Mr Jonas, we are travelling to London. We shall have the pleasure\nof your company all the way, I trust?'\n\n'Oh! ecod, you had better ask father that,' said Jonas. 'I am not\na-going to commit myself.'\n\nMr Pecksniff was, as a matter of course, greatly entertained by this\nretort. His mirth having subsided, Mr Jonas gave him to understand\nthat himself and parent were in fact travelling to their home in the\nmetropolis; and that, since the memorable day of the great family\ngathering, they had been tarrying in that part of the country, watching\nthe sale of certain eligible investments, which they had had in their\ncopartnership eye when they came down; for it was their custom, Mr Jonas\nsaid, whenever such a thing was practicable, to kill two birds with one\nstone, and never to throw away sprats, but as bait for whales. When he\nhad communicated to Mr Pecksniff these pithy scraps of intelligence,\nhe said, 'That if it was all the same to him, he would turn him over\nto father, and have a chat with the gals;' and in furtherance of\nthis polite scheme, he vacated his seat adjoining that gentleman, and\nestablished himself in the opposite corner, next to the fair Miss Mercy.\n\nThe education of Mr Jonas had been conducted from his cradle on the\nstrictest principles of the main chance. The very first word he learnt\nto spell was 'gain,' and the second (when he got into two syllables),\n'money.' But for two results, which were not clearly foreseen perhaps by\nhis watchful parent in the beginning, his training may be said to have\nbeen unexceptionable. One of these flaws was, that having been long\ntaught by his father to over-reach everybody, he had imperceptibly\nacquired a love of over-reaching that venerable monitor himself.\nThe other, that from his early habits of considering everything as a\nquestion of property, he had gradually come to look, with impatience,\non his parent as a certain amount of personal estate, which had no\nright whatever to be going at large, but ought to be secured in that\nparticular description of iron safe which is commonly called a coffin,\nand banked in the grave.\n\n'Well, cousin!' said Mr Jonas--'Because we ARE cousins, you know, a few\ntimes removed--so you're going to London?'\n\nMiss Mercy replied in the affirmative, pinching her sister's arm at the\nsame time, and giggling excessively.\n\n'Lots of beaux in London, cousin!' said Mr Jonas, slightly advancing his\nelbow.\n\n'Indeed, sir!' cried the young lady. 'They won't hurt us, sir, I dare\nsay.' And having given him this answer with great demureness she was so\novercome by her own humour, that she was fain to stifle her merriment in\nher sister's shawl.\n\n'Merry,' cried that more prudent damsel, 'really I am ashamed of you.\nHow can you go on so? You wild thing!' At which Miss Merry only laughed\nthe more, of course.\n\n'I saw a wildness in her eye, t'other day,' said Mr Jonas, addressing\nCharity. 'But you're the one to sit solemn! I say--You were regularly\nprim, cousin!'\n\n'Oh! The old-fashioned fright!' cried Merry, in a whisper. 'Cherry my\ndear, upon my word you must sit next him. I shall die outright if he\ntalks to me any more; I shall, positively!' To prevent which fatal\nconsequence, the buoyant creature skipped out of her seat as she spoke,\nand squeezed her sister into the place from which she had risen.\n\n'Don't mind crowding me,' cried Mr Jonas. 'I like to be crowded by gals.\nCome a little closer, cousin.'\n\n'No, thank you, sir,' said Charity.\n\n'There's that other one a-laughing again,' said Mr Jonas; 'she's\na-laughing at my father, I shouldn't wonder. If he puts on that old\nflannel nightcap of his, I don't know what she'll do! Is that my father\na-snoring, Pecksniff?'\n\n'Yes, Mr Jonas.'\n\n'Tread upon his foot, will you be so good?' said the young gentleman.\n'The foot next you's the gouty one.'\n\nMr Pecksniff hesitating to perform this friendly office, Mr Jonas did it\nhimself; at the same time crying:\n\n'Come, wake up, father, or you'll be having the nightmare, and\nscreeching out, I know.--Do you ever have the nightmare, cousin?' he\nasked his neighbour, with characteristic gallantry, as he dropped his\nvoice again.\n\n'Sometimes,' answered Charity. 'Not often.'\n\n'The other one,' said Mr Jonas, after a pause. 'Does SHE ever have the\nnightmare?'\n\n'I don't know,' replied Charity. 'You had better ask her.'\n\n'She laughs so,' said Jonas; 'there's no talking to her. Only hark how\nshe's a-going on now! You're the sensible one, cousin!'\n\n'Tut, tut!' cried Charity.\n\n'Oh! But you are! You know you are!'\n\n'Mercy is a little giddy,' said Miss Charity. But she'll sober down in\ntime.'\n\n'It'll be a very long time, then, if she does at all,' rejoined her\ncousin. 'Take a little more room.'\n\n'I am afraid of crowding you,' said Charity. But she took it\nnotwithstanding; and after one or two remarks on the extreme heaviness\nof the coach, and the number of places it stopped at, they fell into\na silence which remained unbroken by any member of the party until\nsupper-time.\n\nAlthough Mr Jonas conducted Charity to the hotel and sat himself beside\nher at the board, it was pretty clear that he had an eye to 'the other\none' also, for he often glanced across at Mercy, and seemed to draw\ncomparisons between the personal appearance of the two, which were not\nunfavourable to the superior plumpness of the younger sister. He allowed\nhimself no great leisure for this kind of observation, however, being\nbusily engaged with the supper, which, as he whispered in his fair\ncompanion's ear, was a contract business, and therefore the more she\nate, the better the bargain was. His father and Mr Pecksniff, probably\nacting on the same wise principle, demolished everything that came\nwithin their reach, and by that means acquired a greasy expression of\ncountenance, indicating contentment, if not repletion, which it was very\npleasant to contemplate.\n\nWhen they could eat no more, Mr Pecksniff and Mr Jonas subscribed for\ntwo sixpenny-worths of hot brandy-and-water, which the latter gentleman\nconsidered a more politic order than one shillingsworth; there being\na chance of their getting more spirit out of the innkeeper under this\narrangement than if it were all in one glass. Having swallowed his share\nof the enlivening fluid, Mr Pecksniff, under pretence of going to see if\nthe coach were ready, went secretly to the bar, and had his own little\nbottle filled, in order that he might refresh himself at leisure in the\ndark coach without being observed.\n\nThese arrangements concluded, and the coach being ready, they got into\ntheir old places and jogged on again. But before he composed himself\nfor a nap, Mr Pecksniff delivered a kind of grace after meat, in these\nwords:\n\n'The process of digestion, as I have been informed by anatomical\nfriends, is one of the most wonderful works of nature. I do not know\nhow it may be with others, but it is a great satisfaction to me to know,\nwhen regaling on my humble fare, that I am putting in motion the most\nbeautiful machinery with which we have any acquaintance. I really feel\nat such times as if I was doing a public service. When I have wound\nmyself up, if I may employ such a term,' said Mr Pecksniff with\nexquisite tenderness, 'and know that I am Going, I feel that in the\nlesson afforded by the works within me, I am a Benefactor to my Kind!'\n\nAs nothing could be added to this, nothing was said; and Mr Pecksniff,\nexulting, it may be presumed, in his moral utility, went to sleep again.\n\nThe rest of the night wore away in the usual manner. Mr Pecksniff\nand Old Anthony kept tumbling against each other and waking up much\nterrified, or crushed their heads in opposite corners of the coach and\nstrangely tattooed the surface of their faces--Heaven knows how--in\ntheir sleep. The coach stopped and went on, and went on and stopped,\ntimes out of number. Passengers got up and passengers got down, and\nfresh horses came and went and came again, with scarcely any interval\nbetween each team as it seemed to those who were dozing, and with a gap\nof a whole night between every one as it seemed to those who were broad\nawake. At length they began to jolt and rumble over horribly uneven\nstones, and Mr Pecksniff looking out of window said it was to-morrow\nmorning, and they were there.\n\nVery soon afterwards the coach stopped at the office in the city; and\nthe street in which it was situated was already in a bustle, that fully\nbore out Mr Pecksniff's words about its being morning, though for any\nsigns of day yet appearing in the sky it might have been midnight. There\nwas a dense fog too; as if it were a city in the clouds, which they had\nbeen travelling to all night up a magic beanstalk; and there was a thick\ncrust upon the pavement like oilcake; which, one of the outsides (mad,\nno doubt) said to another (his keeper, of course), was Snow.\n\nTaking a confused leave of Anthony and his son, and leaving the luggage\nof himself and daughters at the office to be called for afterwards, Mr\nPecksniff, with one of the young ladies under each arm, dived across the\nstreet, and then across other streets, and so up the queerest courts,\nand down the strangest alleys and under the blindest archways, in a kind\nof frenzy; now skipping over a kennel, now running for his life from a\ncoach and horses; now thinking he had lost his way, now thinking he had\nfound it; now in a state of the highest confidence, now despondent to\nthe last degree, but always in a great perspiration and flurry; until at\nlength they stopped in a kind of paved yard near the Monument. That is\nto say, Mr Pecksniff told them so; for as to anything they could see\nof the Monument, or anything else but the buildings close at hand, they\nmight as well have been playing blindman's buff at Salisbury.\n\nMr Pecksniff looked about him for a moment, and then knocked at the\ndoor of a very dingy edifice, even among the choice collection of dingy\nedifices at hand; on the front of which was a little oval board like\na tea-tray, with this inscription--'Commercial Boarding-House: M.\nTodgers.'\n\nIt seemed that M. Todgers was not up yet, for Mr Pecksniff knocked twice\nand rang thrice, without making any impression on anything but a dog\nover the way. At last a chain and some bolts were withdrawn with a rusty\nnoise, as if the weather had made the very fastenings hoarse, and a\nsmall boy with a large red head, and no nose to speak of, and a very\ndirty Wellington boot on his left arm, appeared; who (being surprised)\nrubbed the nose just mentioned with the back of a shoe-brush, and said\nnothing.\n\n'Still a-bed my man?' asked Mr Pecksniff.\n\n'Still a-bed!' replied the boy. 'I wish they wos still a-bed. They're\nvery noisy a-bed; all calling for their boots at once. I thought you\nwas the Paper, and wondered why you didn't shove yourself through the\ngrating as usual. What do you want?'\n\nConsidering his years, which were tender, the youth may be said to have\npreferred this question sternly, and in something of a defiant manner.\nBut Mr Pecksniff, without taking umbrage at his bearing put a card\nin his hand, and bade him take that upstairs, and show them in the\nmeanwhile into a room where there was a fire.\n\n'Or if there's one in the eating parlour,' said Mr Pecksniff, 'I can\nfind it myself.' So he led his daughters, without waiting for any\nfurther introduction, into a room on the ground-floor, where a\ntable-cloth (rather a tight and scanty fit in reference to the table it\ncovered) was already spread for breakfast; displaying a mighty dish of\npink boiled beef; an instance of that particular style of loaf which\nis known to housekeepers as a slack-baked, crummy quartern; a liberal\nprovision of cups and saucers; and the usual appendages.\n\nInside the fender were some half-dozen pairs of shoes and boots, of\nvarious sizes, just cleaned and turned with the soles upwards to dry;\nand a pair of short black gaiters, on one of which was chalked--in\nsport, it would appear, by some gentleman who had slipped down for the\npurpose, pending his toilet, and gone up again--'Jinkins's Particular,'\nwhile the other exhibited a sketch in profile, claiming to be the\nportrait of Jinkins himself.\n\nM. Todgers's Commercial Boarding-House was a house of that sort which is\nlikely to be dark at any time; but that morning it was especially dark.\nThere was an odd smell in the passage, as if the concentrated essence of\nall the dinners that had been cooked in the kitchen since the house was\nbuilt, lingered at the top of the kitchen stairs to that hour, and like\nthe Black Friar in Don Juan, 'wouldn't be driven away.' In particular,\nthere was a sensation of cabbage; as if all the greens that had ever\nbeen boiled there, were evergreens, and flourished in immortal strength.\nThe parlour was wainscoted, and communicated to strangers a magnetic\nand instinctive consciousness of rats and mice. The staircase was very\ngloomy and very broad, with balustrades so thick and heavy that they\nwould have served for a bridge. In a sombre corner on the first landing,\nstood a gruff old giant of a clock, with a preposterous coronet of three\nbrass balls on his head; whom few had ever seen--none ever looked in the\nface--and who seemed to continue his heavy tick for no other reason than\nto warn heedless people from running into him accidentally. It had not\nbeen papered or painted, hadn't Todgers's, within the memory of man. It\nwas very black, begrimed, and mouldy. And, at the top of the staircase,\nwas an old, disjointed, rickety, ill-favoured skylight, patched\nand mended in all kinds of ways, which looked distrustfully down at\neverything that passed below, and covered Todgers's up as if it were a\nsort of human cucumber-frame, and only people of a peculiar growth were\nreared there.\n\nMr Pecksniff and his fair daughters had not stood warming themselves at\nthe fire ten minutes, when the sound of feet was heard upon the stairs,\nand the presiding deity of the establishment came hurrying in.\n\nM. Todgers was a lady, rather a bony and hard-featured lady, with a row\nof curls in front of her head, shaped like little barrels of beer;\nand on the top of it something made of net--you couldn't call it a cap\nexactly--which looked like a black cobweb. She had a little basket on\nher arm, and in it a bunch of keys that jingled as she came. In her\nother hand she bore a flaming tallow candle, which, after surveying Mr\nPecksniff for one instant by its light, she put down upon the table, to\nthe end that she might receive him with the greater cordiality.\n\n'Mr Pecksniff!' cried Mrs Todgers. 'Welcome to London! Who would have\nthought of such a visit as this, after so--dear, dear!--so many years!\nHow do you DO, Mr Pecksniff?'\n\n'As well as ever; and as glad to see you, as ever;' Mr Pecksniff made\nresponse. 'Why, you are younger than you used to be!'\n\n'YOU are, I am sure!' said Mrs Todgers. 'You're not a bit changed.'\n\n'What do you say to this?' cried Mr Pecksniff, stretching out his hand\ntowards the young ladies. 'Does this make me no older?'\n\n'Not your daughters!' exclaimed the lady, raising her hands and clasping\nthem. 'Oh, no, Mr Pecksniff! Your second, and her bridesmaid!'\n\nMr Pecksniff smiled complacently; shook his head; and said, 'My\ndaughters, Mrs Todgers. Merely my daughters.'\n\n'Ah!' sighed the good lady, 'I must believe you, for now I look at 'em\nI think I should have known 'em anywhere. My dear Miss Pecksniffs, how\nhappy your Pa has made me!'\n\nShe hugged them both; and being by this time overpowered by her feelings\nor the inclemency of the morning, jerked a little pocket handkerchief\nout of the little basket, and applied the same to her face.\n\n'Now, my good madam,' said Mr Pecksniff, 'I know the rules of your\nestablishment, and that you only receive gentlemen boarders. But\nit occurred to me, when I left home, that perhaps you would give my\ndaughters house room, and make an exception in their favour.'\n\n'Perhaps?' cried Mrs Todgers ecstatically. 'Perhaps?'\n\n'I may say then, that I was sure you would,' said Mr Pecksniff. 'I\nknow that you have a little room of your own, and that they can be\ncomfortable there, without appearing at the general table.'\n\n'Dear girls!' said Mrs Todgers. 'I must take that liberty once more.'\n\nMrs Todgers meant by this that she must embrace them once more, which\nshe accordingly did with great ardour. But the truth was that the house\nbeing full with the exception of one bed, which would now be occupied\nby Mr Pecksniff, she wanted time for consideration; and so much time too\n(for it was a knotty point how to dispose of them), that even when\nthis second embrace was over, she stood for some moments gazing at the\nsisters, with affection beaming in one eye, and calculation shining out\nof the other.\n\n'I think I know how to arrange it,' said Mrs Todgers, at length. 'A sofa\nbedstead in the little third room which opens from my own parlour.--Oh,\nyou dear girls!'\n\nThereupon she embraced them once more, observing that she could not\ndecide which was most like their poor mother (which was highly probable,\nseeing that she had never beheld that lady), but that she rather thought\nthe youngest was; and then she said that as the gentlemen would be down\ndirectly, and the ladies were fatigued with travelling, would they step\ninto her room at once?\n\nIt was on the same floor; being, in fact, the back parlour; and had,\nas Mrs Todgers said, the great advantage (in London) of not being\noverlooked; as they would see when the fog cleared off. Nor was this\na vainglorious boast, for it commanded at a perspective of two feet,\na brown wall with a black cistern on the top. The sleeping apartment\ndesigned for the young ladies was approached from this chamber by a\nmightily convenient little door, which would only open when fallen\nagainst by a strong person. It commanded from a similar point of sight\nanother angle of the wall, and another side of the cistern. 'Not the\ndamp side,' said Mrs Todgers. 'THAT is Mr Jinkins's.'\n\nIn the first of these sanctuaries a fire was speedily kindled by the\nyouthful porter, who, whistling at his work in the absence of Mrs\nTodgers (not to mention his sketching figures on his corduroys with\nburnt firewood), and being afterwards taken by that lady in the fact,\nwas dismissed with a box on his ears. Having prepared breakfast for the\nyoung ladies with her own hands, she withdrew to preside in the other\nroom; where the joke at Mr Jinkins's expense seemed to be proceeding\nrather noisily.\n\n'I won't ask you yet, my dears,' said Mr Pecksniff, looking in at the\ndoor, 'how you like London. Shall I?'\n\n'We haven't seen much of it, Pa!' cried Merry.\n\n'Nothing, I hope,' said Cherry. (Both very miserably.)\n\n'Indeed,' said Mr Pecksniff, 'that's true. We have our pleasure, and our\nbusiness too, before us. All in good time. All in good time!'\n\nWhether Mr Pecksniff's business in London was as strictly professional\nas he had given his new pupil to understand, we shall see, to adopt that\nworthy man's phraseology, 'all in good time.'\n\n\n\nCHAPTER NINE\n\nTOWN AND TODGER'S\n\n\nSurely there never was, in any other borough, city, or hamlet in the\nworld, such a singular sort of a place as Todgers's. And surely London,\nto judge from that part of it which hemmed Todgers's round and hustled\nit, and crushed it, and stuck its brick-and-mortar elbows into it, and\nkept the air from it, and stood perpetually between it and the\nlight, was worthy of Todgers's, and qualified to be on terms of close\nrelationship and alliance with hundreds and thousands of the odd family\nto which Todgers's belonged.\n\nYou couldn't walk about Todgers's neighbourhood, as you could in any\nother neighbourhood. You groped your way for an hour through lanes and\nbyways, and court-yards, and passages; and you never once emerged upon\nanything that might be reasonably called a street. A kind of resigned\ndistraction came over the stranger as he trod those devious mazes, and,\ngiving himself up for lost, went in and out and round about and quietly\nturned back again when he came to a dead wall or was stopped by an\niron railing, and felt that the means of escape might possibly present\nthemselves in their own good time, but that to anticipate them was\nhopeless. Instances were known of people who, being asked to dine at\nTodgers's, had travelled round and round for a weary time, with its very\nchimney-pots in view; and finding it, at last, impossible of attainment,\nhad gone home again with a gentle melancholy on their spirits,\ntranquil and uncomplaining. Nobody had ever found Todgers's on a verbal\ndirection, though given within a few minutes' walk of it. Cautious\nemigrants from Scotland or the North of England had been known to reach\nit safely, by impressing a charity-boy, town-bred, and bringing him\nalong with them; or by clinging tenaciously to the postman; but these\nwere rare exceptions, and only went to prove the rule that Todgers's was\nin a labyrinth, whereof the mystery was known but to a chosen few.\n\nSeveral fruit-brokers had their marts near Todgers's; and one of the\nfirst impressions wrought upon the stranger's senses was of oranges--of\ndamaged oranges--with blue and green bruises on them, festering in\nboxes, or mouldering away in cellars. All day long, a stream of porters\nfrom the wharves beside the river, each bearing on his back a bursting\nchest of oranges, poured slowly through the narrow passages; while\nunderneath the archway by the public-house, the knots of those who\nrested and regaled within, were piled from morning until night. Strange\nsolitary pumps were found near Todgers's hiding themselves for the most\npart in blind alleys, and keeping company with fire-ladders. There were\nchurches also by dozens, with many a ghostly little churchyard, all\novergrown with such straggling vegetation as springs up spontaneously\nfrom damp, and graves, and rubbish. In some of these dingy\nresting-places which bore much the same analogy to green churchyards,\nas the pots of earth for mignonette and wall-flower in the windows\noverlooking them did to rustic gardens, there were trees; tall trees;\nstill putting forth their leaves in each succeeding year, with such a\nlanguishing remembrance of their kind (so one might fancy, looking on\ntheir sickly boughs) as birds in cages have of theirs. Here, paralysed\nold watchmen guarded the bodies of the dead at night, year after year,\nuntil at last they joined that solemn brotherhood; and, saving that they\nslept below the ground a sounder sleep than even they had ever known\nabove it, and were shut up in another kind of box, their condition can\nhardly be said to have undergone any material change when they, in turn,\nwere watched themselves.\n\nAmong the narrow thoroughfares at hand, there lingered, here and there,\nan ancient doorway of carved oak, from which, of old, the sounds of\nrevelry and feasting often came; but now these mansions, only used\nfor storehouses, were dark and dull, and, being filled with wool, and\ncotton, and the like--such heavy merchandise as stifles sound and stops\nthe throat of echo--had an air of palpable deadness about them which,\nadded to their silence and desertion, made them very grim. In like\nmanner, there were gloomy courtyards in these parts, into which few but\nbelated wayfarers ever strayed, and where vast bags and packs of goods,\nupward or downward bound, were for ever dangling between heaven and\nearth from lofty cranes There were more trucks near Todgers's than\nyou would suppose whole city could ever need; not active trucks, but\na vagabond race, for ever lounging in the narrow lanes before\ntheir masters' doors and stopping up the pass; so that when a stray\nhackney-coach or lumbering waggon came that way, they were the cause of\nsuch an uproar as enlivened the whole neighbourhood, and made the bells\nin the next churchtower vibrate again. In the throats and maws of dark\nno-thoroughfares near Todgers's, individual wine-merchants and wholesale\ndealers in grocery-ware had perfect little towns of their own; and, deep\namong the foundations of these buildings, the ground was undermined and\nburrowed out into stables, where cart-horses, troubled by rats, might be\nheard on a quiet Sunday rattling their halters, as disturbed spirits in\ntales of haunted houses are said to clank their chains.\n\nTo tell of half the queer old taverns that had a drowsy and secret\nexistence near Todgers's, would fill a goodly book; while a second\nvolume no less capacious might be devoted to an account of the quaint\nold guests who frequented their dimly lighted parlours. These were, in\ngeneral, ancient inhabitants of that region; born, and bred there from\nboyhood, who had long since become wheezy and asthmatical, and short of\nbreath, except in the article of story-telling; in which respect they\nwere still marvellously long-winded. These gentry were much opposed to\nsteam and all new-fangled ways, and held ballooning to be sinful, and\ndeplored the degeneracy of the times; which that particular member\nof each little club who kept the keys of the nearest church,\nprofessionally, always attributed to the prevalence of dissent and\nirreligion; though the major part of the company inclined to the belief\nthat virtue went out with hair-powder, and that Old England's greatness\nhad decayed amain with barbers.\n\nAs to Todgers's itself--speaking of it only as a house in that\nneighbourhood, and making no reference to its merits as a commercial\nboarding establishment--it was worthy to stand where it did. There was\none staircase-window in it, at the side of the house, on the ground\nfloor; which tradition said had not been opened for a hundred years at\nleast, and which, abutting on an always dirty lane, was so begrimed and\ncoated with a century's mud, that no one pane of glass could possibly\nfall out, though all were cracked and broken twenty times. But the grand\nmystery of Todgers's was the cellarage, approachable only by a little\nback door and a rusty grating; which cellarage within the memory of man\nhad had no connection with the house, but had always been the freehold\nproperty of somebody else, and was reported to be full of wealth; though\nin what shape--whether in silver, brass, or gold, or butts of wine,\nor casks of gun-powder--was matter of profound uncertainty and supreme\nindifference to Todgers's and all its inmates.\n\nThe top of the house was worthy of notice. There was a sort of terrace\non the roof, with posts and fragments of rotten lines, once intended to\ndry clothes upon; and there were two or three tea-chests out there,\nfull of earth, with forgotten plants in them, like old walking-sticks.\nWhoever climbed to this observatory, was stunned at first from having\nknocked his head against the little door in coming out; and after that,\nwas for the moment choked from having looked perforce, straight down the\nkitchen chimney; but these two stages over, there were things to gaze\nat from the top of Todgers's, well worth your seeing too. For first\nand foremost, if the day were bright, you observed upon the house-tops,\nstretching far away, a long dark path; the shadow of the Monument; and\nturning round, the tall original was close beside you, with every hair\nerect upon his golden head, as if the doings of the city frightened him.\nThen there were steeples, towers, belfries, shining vanes, and masts of\nships; a very forest. Gables, housetops, garret-windows, wilderness upon\nwilderness. Smoke and noise enough for all the world at once.\n\nAfter the first glance, there were slight features in the midst of this\ncrowd of objects, which sprung out from the mass without any reason, as\nit were, and took hold of the attention whether the spectator would or\nno. Thus, the revolving chimney-pots on one great stack of buildings\nseemed to be turning gravely to each other every now and then, and\nwhispering the result of their separate observation of what was going\non below. Others, of a crook-backed shape, appeared to be maliciously\nholding themselves askew, that they might shut the prospect out and\nbaffle Todgers's. The man who was mending a pen at an upper window over\nthe way, became of paramount importance in the scene, and made a blank\nin it, ridiculously disproportionate in its extent, when he retired. The\ngambols of a piece of cloth upon the dyer's pole had far more interest\nfor the moment than all the changing motion of the crowd. Yet even while\nthe looker-on felt angry with himself for this, and wondered how it was,\nthe tumult swelled into a roar; the hosts of objects seemed to thicken\nand expand a hundredfold, and after gazing round him, quite scared, he\nturned into Todgers's again, much more rapidly than he came out; and ten\nto one he told M. Todgers afterwards that if he hadn't done so, he would\ncertainly have come into the street by the shortest cut; that is to say,\nhead-foremost.\n\nSo said the two Miss Pecksniffs, when they retired with Mrs Todgers from\nthis place of espial, leaving the youthful porter to close the door\nand follow them downstairs; who, being of a playful temperament, and\ncontemplating with a delight peculiar to his sex and time of life, any\nchance of dashing himself into small fragments, lingered behind to walk\nupon the parapet.\n\nIt being the second day of their stay in London, the Miss Pecksniffs\nand Mrs Todgers were by this time highly confidential, insomuch that the\nlast-named lady had already communicated the particulars of three early\ndisappointments of a tender nature; and had furthermore possessed her\nyoung friends with a general summary of the life, conduct, and character\nof Mr Todgers. Who, it seemed, had cut his matrimonial career rather\nshort, by unlawfully running away from his happiness, and establishing\nhimself in foreign countries as a bachelor.\n\n'Your pa was once a little particular in his attentions, my dears,' said\nMrs Todgers, 'but to be your ma was too much happiness denied me. You'd\nhardly know who this was done for, perhaps?'\n\nShe called their attention to an oval miniature, like a little blister,\nwhich was tacked up over the kettle-holder, and in which there was a\ndreamy shadowing forth of her own visage.\n\n'It's a speaking likeness!' cried the two Miss Pecksniffs.\n\n'It was considered so once,' said Mrs Todgers, warming herself in a\ngentlemanly manner at the fire; 'but I hardly thought you would have\nknown it, my loves.'\n\nThey would have known it anywhere. If they could have met with it in\nthe street, or seen it in a shop window, they would have cried 'Good\ngracious! Mrs Todgers!'\n\n'Presiding over an establishment like this, makes sad havoc with the\nfeatures, my dear Miss Pecksniffs,' said Mrs Todgers. 'The gravy alone,\nis enough to add twenty years to one's age, I do assure you.'\n\n'Lor'!' cried the two Miss Pecksniffs.\n\n'The anxiety of that one item, my dears,' said Mrs Todgers, 'keeps the\nmind continually upon the stretch. There is no such passion in human\nnature, as the passion for gravy among commercial gentlemen. It's\nnothing to say a joint won't yield--a whole animal wouldn't yield--the\namount of gravy they expect each day at dinner. And what I have\nundergone in consequence,' cried Mrs Todgers, raising her eyes and\nshaking her head, 'no one would believe!'\n\n'Just like Mr Pinch, Merry!' said Charity. 'We have always noticed it in\nhim, you remember?'\n\n'Yes, my dear,' giggled Merry, 'but we have never given it him, you\nknow.'\n\n'You, my dears, having to deal with your pa's pupils who can't help\nthemselves, are able to take your own way,' said Mrs Todgers; 'but in\na commercial establishment, where any gentleman may say any Saturday\nevening, \"Mrs Todgers, this day week we part, in consequence of the\ncheese,\" it is not so easy to preserve a pleasant understanding. Your pa\nwas kind enough,' added the good lady, 'to invite me to take a ride with\nyou to-day; and I think he mentioned that you were going to call upon\nMiss Pinch. Any relation to the gentleman you were speaking of just now,\nMiss Pecksniff?'\n\n'For goodness sake, Mrs Todgers,' interposed the lively Merry, 'don't\ncall him a gentleman. My dear Cherry, Pinch a gentleman! The idea!'\n\n'What a wicked girl you are!' cried Mrs Todgers, embracing her with\ngreat affection. 'You are quite a quiz, I do declare! My dear Miss\nPecksniff, what a happiness your sister's spirits must be to your pa and\nself!'\n\n'He's the most hideous, goggle-eyed creature, Mrs Todgers, in\nexistence,' resumed Merry: 'quite an ogre. The ugliest, awkwardest\nfrightfullest being, you can imagine. This is his sister, so I leave you\nto suppose what SHE is. I shall be obliged to laugh outright, I know\nI shall!' cried the charming girl, 'I never shall be able to keep my\ncountenance. The notion of a Miss Pinch presuming to exist at all is\nsufficient to kill one, but to see her--oh my stars!'\n\nMrs Todgers laughed immensely at the dear love's humour, and declared\nshe was quite afraid of her, that she was. She was so very severe.\n\n'Who is severe?' cried a voice at the door. 'There is no such thing as\nseverity in our family, I hope!' And then Mr Pecksniff peeped smilingly\ninto the room, and said, 'May I come in, Mrs Todgers?'\n\nMrs Todgers almost screamed, for the little door of communication\nbetween that room and the inner one being wide open, there was a full\ndisclosure of the sofa bedstead in all its monstrous impropriety. But\nshe had the presence of mind to close this portal in the twinkling of an\neye; and having done so, said, though not without confusion, 'Oh yes, Mr\nPecksniff, you can come in, if you please.'\n\n'How are we to-day,' said Mr Pecksniff, jocosely, 'and what are our\nplans? Are we ready to go and see Tom Pinch's sister? Ha, ha, ha! Poor\nThomas Pinch!'\n\n'Are we ready,' returned Mrs Todgers, nodding her head with mysterious\nintelligence, 'to send a favourable reply to Mr Jinkins's round-robin?\nThat's the first question, Mr Pecksniff.'\n\n'Why Mr Jinkins's robin, my dear madam?' asked Mr Pecksniff, putting one\narm round Mercy, and the other round Mrs Todgers, whom he seemed, in the\nabstraction of the moment, to mistake for Charity. 'Why Mr Jinkins's?'\n\n'Because he began to get it up, and indeed always takes the lead in the\nhouse,' said Mrs Todgers, playfully. 'That's why, sir.'\n\n'Jinkins is a man of superior talents,' observed Mr Pecksniff. 'I have\nconceived a great regard for Jinkins. I take Jinkins's desire to pay\npolite attention to my daughters, as an additional proof of the friendly\nfeeling of Jinkins, Mrs Todgers.'\n\n'Well now,' returned that lady, 'having said so much, you must say the\nrest, Mr Pecksniff; so tell the dear young ladies all about it.'\n\nWith these words she gently eluded Mr Pecksniff's grasp, and took Miss\nCharity into her own embrace; though whether she was impelled to this\nproceeding solely by the irrepressible affection she had conceived for\nthat young lady, or whether it had any reference to a lowering, not to\nsay distinctly spiteful expression which had been visible in her face\nfor some moments, has never been exactly ascertained. Be this as it may,\nMr Pecksniff went on to inform his daughters of the purport and history\nof the round-robin aforesaid, which was in brief, that the commercial\ngentlemen who helped to make up the sum and substance of that noun of\nmultitude signifying many, called Todgers's, desired the honour of their\npresence at the general table, so long as they remained in the house,\nand besought that they would grace the board at dinner-time next\nday, the same being Sunday. He further said, that Mrs Todgers being a\nconsenting party to this invitation, he was willing, for his part, to\naccept it; and so left them that he might write his gracious answer, the\nwhile they armed themselves with their best bonnets for the utter defeat\nand overthrow of Miss Pinch.\n\nTom Pinch's sister was governess in a family, a lofty family; perhaps\nthe wealthiest brass and copper founders' family known to mankind.\nThey lived at Camberwell; in a house so big and fierce, that its mere\noutside, like the outside of a giant's castle, struck terror into vulgar\nminds and made bold persons quail. There was a great front gate; with a\ngreat bell, whose handle was in itself a note of admiration; and a\ngreat lodge; which being close to the house, rather spoilt the look-out\ncertainly but made the look-in tremendous. At this entry, a great porter\nkept constant watch and ward; and when he gave the visitor high leave\nto pass, he rang a second great bell, responsive to whose note a great\nfootman appeared in due time at the great halldoor, with such great\ntags upon his liveried shoulder that he was perpetually entangling and\nhooking himself among the chairs and tables, and led a life of torment\nwhich could scarcely have been surpassed, if he had been a blue-bottle\nin a world of cobwebs.\n\nTo this mansion Mr Pecksniff, accompanied by his daughters and Mrs\nTodgers, drove gallantly in a one-horse fly. The foregoing ceremonies\nhaving been all performed, they were ushered into the house; and so, by\ndegrees, they got at last into a small room with books in it, where Mr\nPinch's sister was at that moment instructing her eldest pupil; to wit,\na premature little woman of thirteen years old, who had already arrived\nat such a pitch of whalebone and education that she had nothing girlish\nabout her, which was a source of great rejoicing to all her relations\nand friends.\n\n'Visitors for Miss Pinch!' said the footman. He must have been\nan ingenious young man, for he said it very cleverly; with a nice\ndiscrimination between the cold respect with which he would have\nannounced visitors to the family, and the warm personal interest with\nwhich he would have announced visitors to the cook.\n\n'Visitors for Miss Pinch!'\n\nMiss Pinch rose hastily; with such tokens of agitation as plainly\ndeclared that her list of callers was not numerous. At the same time,\nthe little pupil became alarmingly upright, and prepared herself to take\nmental notes of all that might be said and done. For the lady of the\nestablishment was curious in the natural history and habits of the\nanimal called Governess, and encouraged her daughters to report thereon\nwhenever occasion served; which was, in reference to all parties\nconcerned, very laudable, improving, and pleasant.\n\nIt is a melancholy fact; but it must be related, that Mr Pinch's sister\nwas not at all ugly. On the contrary, she had a good face; a very mild\nand prepossessing face; and a pretty little figure--slight and short,\nbut remarkable for its neatness. There was something of her brother,\nmuch of him indeed, in a certain gentleness of manner, and in her look\nof timid trustfulness; but she was so far from being a fright, or\na dowdy, or a horror, or anything else, predicted by the two Miss\nPecksniffs, that those young ladies naturally regarded her with great\nindignation, feeling that this was by no means what they had come to\nsee.\n\nMiss Mercy, as having the larger share of gaiety, bore up the best\nagainst this disappointment, and carried it off, in outward show at\nleast, with a titter; but her sister, not caring to hide her disdain,\nexpressed it pretty openly in her looks. As to Mrs Todgers, she leaned\non Mr Pecksniff's arm and preserved a kind of genteel grimness, suitable\nto any state of mind, and involving any shade of opinion.\n\n'Don't be alarmed, Miss Pinch,' said Mr Pecksniff, taking her hand\ncondescendingly in one of his, and patting it with the other. 'I have\ncalled to see you, in pursuance of a promise given to your brother,\nThomas Pinch. My name--compose yourself, Miss Pinch--is Pecksniff.'\n\nThe good man emphasised these words as though he would have said, 'You\nsee in me, young person, the benefactor of your race; the patron of your\nhouse; the preserver of your brother, who is fed with manna daily from\nmy table; and in right of whom there is a considerable balance in my\nfavour at present standing in the books beyond the sky. But I have no\npride, for I can afford to do without it!'\n\nThe poor girl felt it all as if it had been Gospel truth. Her brother\nwriting in the fullness of his simple heart, had often told her so, and\nhow much more! As Mr Pecksniff ceased to speak, she hung her head, and\ndropped a tear upon his hand.\n\n'Oh very well, Miss Pinch!' thought the sharp pupil, 'crying before\nstrangers, as if you didn't like the situation!'\n\n'Thomas is well,' said Mr Pecksniff; 'and sends his love and this\nletter. I cannot say, poor fellow, that he will ever be distinguished in\nour profession; but he has the will to do well, which is the next thing\nto having the power; and, therefore, we must bear with him. Eh?'\n\n'I know he has the will, sir,' said Tom Pinch's sister, 'and I know how\nkindly and considerately you cherish it, for which neither he nor I can\never be grateful enough, as we very often say in writing to each\nother. The young ladies too,' she added, glancing gratefully at his two\ndaughters, 'I know how much we owe to them.'\n\n'My dears,' said Mr Pecksniff, turning to them with a smile: 'Thomas's\nsister is saying something you will be glad to hear, I think.'\n\n'We can't take any merit to ourselves, papa!' cried Cherry, as they\nboth apprised Tom Pinch's sister, with a curtsey, that they would\nfeel obliged if she would keep her distance. 'Mr Pinch's being so well\nprovided for is owing to you alone, and we can only say how glad we are\nto hear that he is as grateful as he ought to be.'\n\n'Oh very well, Miss Pinch!' thought the pupil again. 'Got a grateful\nbrother, living on other people's kindness!'\n\n'It was very kind of you,' said Tom Pinch's sister, with Tom's own\nsimplicity and Tom's own smile, 'to come here; very kind indeed; though\nhow great a kindness you have done me in gratifying my wish to see you,\nand to thank you with my own lips, you, who make so light of benefits\nconferred, can scarcely think.'\n\n'Very grateful; very pleasant; very proper,' murmured Mr Pecksniff.\n\n'It makes me happy too,' said Ruth Pinch, who now that her first\nsurprise was over, had a chatty, cheerful way with her, and a\nsingle-hearted desire to look upon the best side of everything, which\nwas the very moral and image of Tom; 'very happy to think that you will\nbe able to tell him how more than comfortably I am situated here, and\nhow unnecessary it is that he should ever waste a regret on my being\ncast upon my own resources. Dear me! So long as I heard that he was\nhappy, and he heard that I was,' said Tom's sister, 'we could both bear,\nwithout one impatient or complaining thought, a great deal more than\never we have had to endure, I am very certain.' And if ever the plain\ntruth were spoken on this occasionally false earth, Tom's sister spoke\nit when she said that.\n\n'Ah!' cried Mr Pecksniff whose eyes had in the meantime wandered to the\npupil; 'certainly. And how do YOU do, my very interesting child?'\n\n'Quite well, I thank you, sir,' replied that frosty innocent.\n\n'A sweet face this, my dears,' said Mr Pecksniff, turning to his\ndaughters. 'A charming manner!'\n\nBoth young ladies had been in ecstasies with the scion of a wealthy\nhouse (through whom the nearest road and shortest cut to her parents\nmight be supposed to lie) from the first. Mrs Todgers vowed that\nanything one quarter so angelic she had never seen. 'She wanted but\na pair of wings, a dear,' said that good woman, 'to be a young\nsyrup'--meaning, possibly, young sylph, or seraph.\n\n'If you will give that to your distinguished parents, my amiable little\nfriend,' said Mr Pecksniff, producing one of his professional cards,\n'and will say that I and my daughters--'\n\n'And Mrs Todgers, pa,' said Merry.\n\n'And Mrs Todgers, of London,' added Mr Pecksniff; 'that I, and my\ndaughters, and Mrs Todgers, of London, did not intrude upon them, as our\nobject simply was to take some notice of Miss Pinch, whose brother is a\nyoung man in my employment; but that I could not leave this very chaste\nmansion, without adding my humble tribute, as an Architect, to\nthe correctness and elegance of the owner's taste, and to his just\nappreciation of that beautiful art to the cultivation of which I have\ndevoted a life, and to the promotion of whose glory and advancement I\nhave sacrified a--a fortune--I shall be very much obliged to you.'\n\n'Missis's compliments to Miss Pinch,' said the footman, suddenly\nappearing, and speaking in exactly the same key as before, 'and begs to\nknow wot my young lady is a-learning of just now.'\n\n'Oh!' said Mr Pecksniff, 'Here is the young man. HE will take the\ncard. With my compliments, if you please, young man. My dears, we are\ninterrupting the studies. Let us go.'\n\nSome confusion was occasioned for an instant by Mrs Todgers's\nunstrapping her little flat hand-basket, and hurriedly entrusting the\n'young man' with one of her own cards, which, in addition to\ncertain detailed information relative to the terms of the commercial\nestablishment, bore a foot-note to the effect that M. T. took that\nopportunity of thanking those gentlemen who had honoured her with their\nfavours, and begged they would have the goodness, if satisfied with\nthe table, to recommend her to their friends. But Mr Pecksniff, with\nadmirable presence of mind, recovered this document, and buttoned it up\nin his own pocket.\n\nThen he said to Miss Pinch--with more condescension and kindness than\never, for it was desirable the footman should expressly understand that\nthey were not friends of hers, but patrons:\n\n'Good morning. Good-bye. God bless you! You may depend upon my continued\nprotection of your brother Thomas. Keep your mind quite at ease, Miss\nPinch!'\n\n'Thank you,' said Tom's sister heartily; 'a thousand times.'\n\n'Not at all,' he retorted, patting her gently on the head. 'Don't\nmention it. You will make me angry if you do. My sweet child'--to the\npupil--'farewell! That fairy creature,' said Mr Pecksniff, looking in\nhis pensive mood hard at the footman, as if he meant him, 'has shed\na vision on my path, refulgent in its nature, and not easily to be\nobliterated. My dears, are you ready?'\n\nThey were not quite ready yet, for they were still caressing the pupil.\nBut they tore themselves away at length; and sweeping past Miss Pinch\nwith each a haughty inclination of the head and a curtsey strangled in\nits birth, flounced into the passage.\n\nThe young man had rather a long job in showing them out; for Mr\nPecksniff's delight in the tastefulness of the house was such that he\ncould not help often stopping (particularly when they were near the\nparlour door) and giving it expression, in a loud voice and very learned\nterms. Indeed, he delivered, between the study and the hall, a\nfamiliar exposition of the whole science of architecture as applied to\ndwelling-houses, and was yet in the freshness of his eloquence when they\nreached the garden.\n\n'If you look,' said Mr Pecksniff, backing from the steps, with his head\non one side and his eyes half-shut that he might the better take in\nthe proportions of the exterior: 'If you look, my dears, at the cornice\nwhich supports the roof, and observe the airiness of its construction,\nespecially where it sweeps the southern angle of the building, you will\nfeel with me--How do you do, sir? I hope you're well?'\n\nInterrupting himself with these words, he very politely bowed to a\nmiddle-aged gentleman at an upper window, to whom he spoke--not because\nthe gentleman could hear him (for he certainly could not), but as an\nappropriate accompaniment to his salutation.\n\n'I have no doubt, my dears,' said Mr Pecksniff, feigning to point out\nother beauties with his hand, 'that this is the proprietor. I should be\nglad to know him. It might lead to something. Is he looking this way,\nCharity?'\n\n'He is opening the window pa!'\n\n'Ha, ha!' cried Mr Pecksniff softly. 'All right! He has found I'm\nprofessional. He heard me inside just now, I have no doubt. Don't look!\nWith regard to the fluted pillars in the portico, my dears--'\n\n'Hallo!' cried the gentleman.\n\n'Sir, your servant!' said Mr Pecksniff, taking off his hat. 'I am proud\nto make your acquaintance.'\n\n'Come off the grass, will you!' roared the gentleman.\n\n'I beg your pardon, sir,' said Mr Pecksniff, doubtful of his having\nheard aright. 'Did you--?'\n\n'Come off the grass!' repeated the gentleman, warmly.\n\n'We are unwilling to intrude, sir,' Mr Pecksniff smilingly began.\n\n'But you ARE intruding,' returned the other, 'unwarrantably intruding.\nTrespassing. You see a gravel walk, don't you? What do you think it's\nmeant for? Open the gate there! Show that party out!'\n\nWith that he clapped down the window again, and disappeared.\n\nMr Pecksniff put on his hat, and walked with great deliberation and in\nprofound silence to the fly, gazing at the clouds as he went, with\ngreat interest. After helping his daughters and Mrs Todgers into that\nconveyance, he stood looking at it for some moments, as if he were not\nquite certain whether it was a carriage or a temple; but having settled\nthis point in his mind, he got into his place, spread his hands out on\nhis knees, and smiled upon the three beholders.\n\nBut his daughters, less tranquil-minded, burst into a torrent of\nindignation. This came, they said, of cherishing such creatures as the\nPinches. This came of lowering themselves to their level. This came of\nputting themselves in the humiliating position of seeming to know such\nbold, audacious, cunning, dreadful girls as that. They had expected\nthis. They had predicted it to Mrs Todgers, as she (Todgers) could\ndepone, that very morning. To this, they added, that the owner of the\nhouse, supposing them to be Miss Pinch's friends, had acted, in\ntheir opinion, quite correctly, and had done no more than, under such\ncircumstances, might reasonably have been expected. To that they added\n(with a trifling inconsistency), that he was a brute and a bear; and\nthen they merged into a flood of tears, which swept away all wandering\nepithets before it.\n\nPerhaps Miss Pinch was scarcely so much to blame in the matter as the\nSeraph, who, immediately on the withdrawal of the visitors, had hastened\nto report them at head-quarters, with a full account of their having\npresumptuously charged her with the delivery of a message afterwards\nconsigned to the footman; which outrage, taken in conjunction with Mr\nPecksniff's unobtrusive remarks on the establishment, might possibly\nhave had some share in their dismissal. Poor Miss Pinch, however, had to\nbear the brunt of it with both parties; being so severely taken to task\nby the Seraph's mother for having such vulgar acquaintances, that\nshe was fain to retire to her own room in tears, which her natural\ncheerfulness and submission, and the delight of having seen Mr\nPecksniff, and having received a letter from her brother, were at first\ninsufficient to repress.\n\nAs to Mr Pecksniff, he told them in the fly, that a good action was its\nown reward; and rather gave them to understand, that if he could have\nbeen kicked in such a cause, he would have liked it all the better. But\nthis was no comfort to the young ladies, who scolded violently the whole\nway back, and even exhibited, more than once, a keen desire to attack\nthe devoted Mrs Todgers; on whose personal appearance, but particularly\non whose offending card and hand-basket, they were secretly inclined to\nlay the blame of half their failure.\n\nTodgers's was in a great bustle that evening, partly owing to some\nadditional domestic preparations for the morrow, and partly to the\nexcitement always inseparable in that house from Saturday night, when\nevery gentleman's linen arrived at a different hour in its own little\nbundle, with his private account pinned on the outside. There was always\na great clinking of pattens downstairs, too, until midnight or so, on\nSaturdays; together with a frequent gleaming of mysterious lights in\nthe area; much working at the pump; and a constant jangling of the iron\nhandle of the pail. Shrill altercations from time to time arose between\nMrs Todgers and unknown females in remote back kitchens; and sounds were\noccasionally heard, indicative of small articles of iron mongery and\nhardware being thrown at the boy. It was the custom of that youth on\nSaturdays, to roll up his shirt sleeves to his shoulders, and pervade\nall parts of the house in an apron of coarse green baize; moreover, he\nwas more strongly tempted on Saturdays than on other days (it being a\nbusy time), to make excursive bolts into the neighbouring alleys when he\nanswered the door, and there to play at leap-frog and other sports with\nvagrant lads, until pursued and brought back by the hair of his head or\nthe lobe of his ear; thus he was quite a conspicuous feature among the\npeculiar incidents of the last day in the week at Todgers's.\n\nHe was especially so on this particular Saturday evening, and honoured\nthe Miss Pecksniffs with a deal of notice; seldom passing the door\nof Mrs Todgers's private room, where they sat alone before the fire,\nworking by the light of a solitary candle, without putting in his head\nand greeting them with some such compliments as, 'There you are agin!'\n'An't it nice?'--and similar humorous attentions.\n\n'I say,' he whispered, stopping in one of his journeys to and fro,\n'young ladies, there's soup to-morrow. She's a-making it now. An't she\na-putting in the water? Oh! not at all neither!'\n\nIn the course of answering another knock, he thrust in his head again.\n\n'I say! There's fowls to-morrow. Not skinny ones. Oh no!'\n\nPresently he called through the key-hole:\n\n'There's a fish to-morrow. Just come. Don't eat none of him!' And, with\nthis special warning, vanished again.\n\nBy-and-bye, he returned to lay the cloth for supper; it having been\narranged between Mrs Todgers and the young ladies, that they should\npartake of an exclusive veal-cutlet together in the privacy of that\napartment. He entertained them on this occasion by thrusting the\nlighted candle into his mouth, and exhibiting his face in a state of\ntransparency; after the performance of which feat, he went on with his\nprofessional duties; brightening every knife as he laid it on the table,\nby breathing on the blade and afterwards polishing the same on the apron\nalready mentioned. When he had completed his preparations, he grinned\nat the sisters, and expressed his belief that the approaching collation\nwould be of 'rather a spicy sort.'\n\n'Will it be long, before it's ready, Bailey?' asked Mercy.\n\n'No,' said Bailey, 'it IS cooked. When I come up, she was dodging among\nthe tender pieces with a fork, and eating of 'em.'\n\nBut he had scarcely achieved the utterance of these words, when he\nreceived a manual compliment on the head, which sent him staggering\nagainst the wall; and Mrs Todgers, dish in hand, stood indignantly\nbefore him.\n\n'Oh you little villain!' said that lady. 'Oh you bad, false boy!'\n\n'No worse than yerself,' retorted Bailey, guarding his head, on a\nprinciple invented by Mr Thomas Cribb. 'Ah! Come now! Do that again,\nwill yer?'\n\n'He's the most dreadful child,' said Mrs Todgers, setting down the dish,\n'I ever had to deal with. The gentlemen spoil him to that extent, and\nteach him such things, that I'm afraid nothing but hanging will ever do\nhim any good.'\n\n'Won't it!' cried Bailey. 'Oh! Yes! Wot do you go a-lowerin the\ntable-beer for then, and destroying my constitooshun?'\n\n'Go downstairs, you vicious boy,' said Mrs Todgers, holding the door\nopen. 'Do you hear me? Go along!'\n\nAfter two or three dexterous feints, he went, and was seen no more that\nnight, save once, when he brought up some tumblers and hot water, and\nmuch disturbed the two Miss Pecksniffs by squinting hideously behind\nthe back of the unconscious Mrs Todgers. Having done this justice to his\nwounded feelings, he retired underground; where, in company with a swarm\nof black beetles and a kitchen candle, he employed his faculties in\ncleaning boots and brushing clothes until the night was far advanced.\n\nBenjamin was supposed to be the real name of this young retainer but he\nwas known by a great variety of names. Benjamin, for instance, had been\nconverted into Uncle Ben, and that again had been corrupted into Uncle;\nwhich, by an easy transition, had again passed into Barnwell, in memory\nof the celebrated relative in that degree who was shot by his nephew\nGeorge, while meditating in his garden at Camberwell. The gentlemen at\nTodgers's had a merry habit, too, of bestowing upon him, for the time\nbeing, the name of any notorious malefactor or minister; and sometimes\nwhen current events were flat they even sought the pages of history for\nthese distinctions; as Mr Pitt, Young Brownrigg, and the like. At the\nperiod of which we write, he was generally known among the gentlemen as\nBailey junior; a name bestowed upon him in contradistinction, perhaps,\nto Old Bailey; and possibly as involving the recollection of an\nunfortunate lady of the same name, who perished by her own hand early in\nlife, and has been immortalised in a ballad.\n\nThe usual Sunday dinner-hour at Todgers's was two o'clock--a suitable\ntime, it was considered for all parties; convenient to Mrs Todgers, on\naccount of the bakers; and convenient to the gentlemen with reference\nto their afternoon engagements. But on the Sunday which was to introduce\nthe two Miss Pecksniffs to a full knowledge of Todgers's and its\nsociety, the dinner was postponed until five, in order that everything\nmight be as genteel as the occasion demanded.\n\nWhen the hour drew nigh, Bailey junior, testifying great excitement,\nappeared in a complete suit of cast-off clothes several sizes too large\nfor him, and in particular, mounted a clean shirt of such extraordinary\nmagnitude, that one of the gentlemen (remarkable for his ready wit)\ncalled him 'collars' on the spot. At about a quarter before five, a\ndeputation, consisting of Mr Jinkins, and another gentleman, whose\nname was Gander, knocked at the door of Mrs Todgers's room, and, being\nformally introduced to the two Miss Pecksniffs by their parent who was\nin waiting, besought the honour of conducting them upstairs.\n\nThe drawing-room at Todgers's was out of the common style; so much so\nindeed, that you would hardly have taken it to be a drawingroom, unless\nyou were told so by somebody who was in the secret. It was floor-clothed\nall over; and the ceiling, including a great beam in the middle,\nwas papered. Besides the three little windows, with seats in them,\ncommanding the opposite archway, there was another window looking point\nblank, without any compromise at all about it into Jinkins's bedroom;\nand high up, all along one side of the wall was a strip of panes of\nglass, two-deep, giving light to the staircase. There were the oddest\nclosets possible, with little casements in them like eight-day clocks,\nlurking in the wainscot and taking the shape of the stairs; and the very\ndoor itself (which was painted black) had two great glass eyes in its\nforehead, with an inquisitive green pupil in the middle of each.\n\nHere the gentlemen were all assembled. There was a general cry of 'Hear,\nhear!' and 'Bravo Jink!' when Mr Jinkins appeared with Charity on his\narm; which became quite rapturous as Mr Gander followed, escorting\nMercy, and Mr Pecksniff brought up the rear with Mrs Todgers.\n\nThen the presentations took place. They included a gentleman of a\nsporting turn, who propounded questions on jockey subjects to the\neditors of Sunday papers, which were regarded by his friends as rather\nstiff things to answer; and they included a gentleman of a theatrical\nturn, who had once entertained serious thoughts of 'coming out,' but\nhad been kept in by the wickedness of human nature; and they included\na gentleman of a debating turn, who was strong at speech-making; and a\ngentleman of a literary turn, who wrote squibs upon the rest, and\nknew the weak side of everybody's character but his own. There was a\ngentleman of a vocal turn, and a gentleman of a smoking turn, and a\ngentleman of a convivial turn; some of the gentlemen had a turn for\nwhist, and a large proportion of the gentlemen had a strong turn for\nbilliards and betting. They had all, it may be presumed, a turn for\nbusiness; being all commercially employed in one way or other; and\nhad, every one in his own way, a decided turn for pleasure to boot. Mr\nJinkins was of a fashionable turn; being a regular frequenter of the\nParks on Sundays, and knowing a great many carriages by sight. He spoke\nmysteriously, too, of splendid women, and was suspected of having once\ncommitted himself with a Countess. Mr Gander was of a witty turn being\nindeed the gentleman who had originated the sally about 'collars;' which\nsparkling pleasantry was now retailed from mouth to mouth, under the\ntitle of Gander's Last, and was received in all parts of the room with\ngreat applause. Mr Jinkins it may be added, was much the oldest of\nthe party; being a fish-salesman's book-keeper, aged forty. He was the\noldest boarder also; and in right of his double seniority, took the lead\nin the house, as Mrs Todgers had already said.\n\nThere was considerable delay in the production of dinner, and poor Mrs\nTodgers, being reproached in confidence by Jinkins, slipped in and out,\nat least twenty times to see about it; always coming back as though she\nhad no such thing upon her mind, and hadn't been out at all. But there\nwas no hitch in the conversation nevertheless; for one gentleman, who\ntravelled in the perfumery line, exhibited an interesting nick-nack,\nin the way of a remarkable cake of shaving soap which he had lately\nmet with in Germany; and the gentleman of a literary turn repeated (by\ndesire) some sarcastic stanzas he had recently produced on the freezing\nof the tank at the back of the house. These amusements, with the\nmiscellaneous conversation arising out of them, passed the time\nsplendidly, until dinner was announced by Bailey junior in these terms:\n\n'The wittles is up!'\n\nOn which notice they immediately descended to the banquet-hall; some of\nthe more facetious spirits in the rear taking down gentlemen as if they\nwere ladies, in imitation of the fortunate possessors of the two Miss\nPecksniffs.\n\nMr Pecksniff said grace--a short and pious grace, involving a blessing\non the appetites of those present, and committing all persons who had\nnothing to eat, to the care of Providence; whose business (so said the\ngrace, in effect) it clearly was, to look after them. This done, they\nfell to with less ceremony than appetite; the table groaning beneath the\nweight, not only of the delicacies whereof the Miss Pecksniffs had been\npreviously forewarned, but of boiled beef, roast veal, bacon, pies\nand abundance of such heavy vegetables as are favourably known to\nhousekeepers for their satisfying qualities. Besides which, there were\nbottles of stout, bottles of wine, bottles of ale, and divers other\nstrong drinks, native and foreign.\n\nAll this was highly agreeable to the two Miss Pecksniffs, who were in\nimmense request; sitting one on either hand of Mr Jinkins at the bottom\nof the table; and who were called upon to take wine with some new\nadmirer every minute. They had hardly ever felt so pleasant, and so full\nof conversation, in their lives; Mercy, in particular, was uncommonly\nbrilliant, and said so many good things in the way of lively repartee\nthat she was looked upon as a prodigy. 'In short,' as that young lady\nobserved, 'they felt now, indeed, that they were in London, and for the\nfirst time too.'\n\nTheir young friend Bailey sympathized in these feelings to the\nfullest extent, and, abating nothing of his patronage, gave them every\nencouragement in his power; favouring them, when the general attention\nwas diverted from his proceedings, with many nods and winks and other\ntokens of recognition, and occasionally touching his nose with a\ncorkscrew, as if to express the Bacchanalian character of the meeting.\nIn truth, perhaps even the spirits of the two Miss Pecksniffs, and the\nhungry watchfulness of Mrs Todgers, were less worthy of note than the\nproceedings of this remarkable boy, whom nothing disconcerted or put out\nof his way. If any piece of crockery, a dish or otherwise, chanced to\nslip through his hands (which happened once or twice), he let it go with\nperfect good breeding, and never added to the painful emotions of the\ncompany by exhibiting the least regret. Nor did he, by hurrying to and\nfro, disturb the repose of the assembly, as many well-trained servants\ndo; on the contrary, feeling the hopelessness of waiting upon so large a\nparty, he left the gentlemen to help themselves to what they wanted, and\nseldom stirred from behind Mr Jinkins's chair, where, with his hands\nin his pockets, and his legs planted pretty wide apart, he led the\nlaughter, and enjoyed the conversation.\n\nThe dessert was splendid. No waiting either. The pudding-plates had been\nwashed in a little tub outside the door while cheese was on, and though\nthey were moist and warm with friction, still there they were again,\nup to the mark, and true to time. Quarts of almonds; dozens of oranges;\npounds of raisins; stacks of biffins; soup-plates full of nuts.--Oh,\nTodgers's could do it when it chose! mind that.\n\nThen more wine came on; red wines and white wines; and a large china\nbowl of punch, brewed by the gentleman of a convivial turn, who adjured\nthe Miss Pecksniffs not to be despondent on account of its dimensions,\nas there were materials in the house for the decoction of half a dozen\nmore of the same size. Good gracious, how they laughed! How they coughed\nwhen they sipped it, because it was so strong; and how they laughed\nagain when somebody vowed that but for its colour it might have been\nmistaken, in regard of its innocuous qualities, for new milk! What a\nshout of 'No!' burst from the gentlemen when they pathetically implored\nMr Jinkins to suffer them to qualify it with hot water; and how\nblushingly, by little and little, did each of them drink her whole\nglassful, down to its very dregs!\n\nNow comes the trying time. The sun, as Mr Jinkins says (gentlemanly\ncreature, Jinkins--never at a loss!), is about to leave the firmament.\n'Miss Pecksniff!' says Mrs Todgers, softly, 'will you--?' 'Oh dear, no\nmore, Mrs Todgers.' Mrs Todgers rises; the two Miss Pecksniffs rise; all\nrise. Miss Mercy Pecksniff looks downward for her scarf. Where is it?\nDear me, where CAN it be? Sweet girl, she has it on; not on her fair\nneck, but loose upon her flowing figure. A dozen hands assist her. She\nis all confusion. The youngest gentleman in company thirsts to murder\nJinkins. She skips and joins her sister at the door. Her sister has her\narm about the waist of Mrs Todgers. She winds her arm around her sister.\nDiana, what a picture! The last things visible are a shape and a skip.\n'Gentlemen, let us drink the ladies!'\n\nThe enthusiasm is tremendous. The gentleman of a debating turn rises in\nthe midst, and suddenly lets loose a tide of eloquence which bears down\neverything before it. He is reminded of a toast--a toast to which they\nwill respond. There is an individual present; he has him in his eye; to\nwhom they owe a debt of gratitude. He repeats it--a debt of gratitude.\nTheir rugged natures have been softened and ameliorated that day, by\nthe society of lovely woman. There is a gentleman in company whom two\naccomplished and delightful females regard with veneration, as the\nfountain of their existence. Yes, when yet the two Miss Pecksniffs\nlisped in language scarce intelligible, they called that individual\n'Father!' There is great applause. He gives them 'Mr Pecksniff, and God\nbless him!' They all shake hands with Mr Pecksniff, as they drink the\ntoast. The youngest gentleman in company does so with a thrill; for he\nfeels that a mysterious influence pervades the man who claims that being\nin the pink scarf for his daughter.\n\nWhat saith Mr Pecksniff in reply? Or rather let the question be, What\nleaves he unsaid? Nothing. More punch is called for, and produced, and\ndrunk. Enthusiasm mounts still higher. Every man comes out freely in\nhis own character. The gentleman of a theatrical turn recites. The vocal\ngentleman regales them with a song. Gander leaves the Gander of all\nformer feasts whole leagues behind. HE rises to propose a toast. It is,\nThe Father of Todgers's. It is their common friend Jink--it is old\nJink, if he may call him by that familiar and endearing appellation. The\nyoungest gentleman in company utters a frantic negative. He won't\nhave it--he can't bear it--it mustn't be. But his depth of feeling is\nmisunderstood. He is supposed to be a little elevated; and nobody heeds\nhim.\n\nMr Jinkins thanks them from his heart. It is, by many degrees, the\nproudest day in his humble career. When he looks around him on the\npresent occasion, he feels that he wants words in which to express\nhis gratitude. One thing he will say. He hopes it has been shown that\nTodgers's can be true to itself; and that, an opportunity arising, it\ncan come out quite as strong as its neighbours--perhaps stronger. He\nreminds them, amidst thunders of encouragement, that they have heard of\na somewhat similar establishment in Cannon Street; and that they have\nheard it praised. He wishes to draw no invidious comparisons; he would\nbe the last man to do it; but when that Cannon Street establishment\nshall be able to produce such a combination of wit and beauty as has\ngraced that board that day, and shall be able to serve up (all things\nconsidered) such a dinner as that of which they have just partaken, he\nwill be happy to talk to it. Until then, gentlemen, he will stick to\nTodgers's.\n\nMore punch, more enthusiasm, more speeches. Everybody's health is drunk,\nsaving the youngest gentleman's in company. He sits apart, with his\nelbow on the back of a vacant chair, and glares disdainfully at Jinkins.\nGander, in a convulsing speech, gives them the health of Bailey junior;\nhiccups are heard; and a glass is broken. Mr Jinkins feels that it is\ntime to join the ladies. He proposes, as a final sentiment, Mrs Todgers.\nShe is worthy to be remembered separately. Hear, hear. So she is; no\ndoubt of it. They all find fault with her at other times; but every man\nfeels now, that he could die in her defence.\n\nThey go upstairs, where they are not expected so soon; for Mrs Todgers\nis asleep, Miss Charity is adjusting her hair, and Mercy, who has made\na sofa of one of the window-seats is in a gracefully recumbent attitude.\nShe is rising hastily, when Mr Jinkins implores her, for all their\nsakes, not to stir; she looks too graceful and too lovely, he remarks,\nto be disturbed. She laughs, and yields, and fans herself, and drops\nher fan, and there is a rush to pick it up. Being now installed, by one\nconsent, as the beauty of the party, she is cruel and capricious, and\nsends gentlemen on messages to other gentlemen, and forgets all about\nthem before they can return with the answer, and invents a thousand\ntortures, rending their hearts to pieces. Bailey brings up the tea and\ncoffee. There is a small cluster of admirers round Charity; but they\nare only those who cannot get near her sister. The youngest gentleman\nin company is pale, but collected, and still sits apart; for his spirit\nloves to hold communion with itself, and his soul recoils from noisy\nrevellers. She has a consciousness of his presence and adoration.\nHe sees it flashing sometimes in the corner of her eye. Have a care,\nJinkins, ere you provoke a desperate man to frenzy!\n\nMr Pecksniff had followed his younger friends upstairs, and taken a\nchair at the side of Mrs Todgers. He had also spilt a cup of coffee over\nhis legs without appearing to be aware of the circumstance; nor did he\nseem to know that there was muffin on his knee.\n\n'And how have they used you downstairs, sir?' asked the hostess.\n\n'Their conduct has been such, my dear madam,' said Mr Pecksniff, 'as I\ncan never think of without emotion, or remember without a tear. Oh, Mrs\nTodgers!'\n\n'My goodness!' exclaimed that lady. 'How low you are in your spirits,\nsir!'\n\n'I am a man, my dear madam,' said Mr Pecksniff, shedding tears and\nspeaking with an imperfect articulation, 'but I am also a father. I\nam also a widower. My feelings, Mrs Todgers, will not consent to be\nentirely smothered, like the young children in the Tower. They are grown\nup, and the more I press the bolster on them, the more they look round\nthe corner of it.'\n\nHe suddenly became conscious of the bit of muffin, and stared at it\nintently; shaking his head the while, in a forlorn and imbecile manner,\nas if he regarded it as his evil genius, and mildly reproached it.\n\n'She was beautiful, Mrs Todgers,' he said, turning his glazed eye\nagain upon her, without the least preliminary notice. 'She had a small\nproperty.'\n\n'So I have heard,' cried Mrs Todgers with great sympathy.\n\n'Those are her daughters,' said Mr Pecksniff, pointing out the young\nladies, with increased emotion.\n\nMrs Todgers had no doubt about it.\n\n'Mercy and Charity,' said Mr Pecksniff, 'Charity and Mercy. Not unholy\nnames, I hope?'\n\n'Mr Pecksniff!' cried Mrs Todgers. 'What a ghastly smile! Are you ill,\nsir?'\n\nHe pressed his hand upon her arm, and answered in a solemn manner, and a\nfaint voice, 'Chronic.'\n\n'Cholic?' cried the frightened Mrs Todgers.\n\n'Chron-ic,' he repeated with some difficulty. 'Chron-ic. A chronic\ndisorder. I have been its victim from childhood. It is carrying me to my\ngrave.'\n\n'Heaven forbid!' cried Mrs Todgers.\n\n'Yes, it is,' said Mr Pecksniff, reckless with despair. 'I am rather\nglad of it, upon the whole. You are like her, Mrs Todgers.'\n\n'Don't squeeze me so tight, pray, Mr Pecksniff. If any of the gentlemen\nshould notice us.'\n\n'For her sake,' said Mr Pecksniff. 'Permit me--in honour of her memory.\nFor the sake of a voice from the tomb. You are VERY like her Mrs\nTodgers! What a world this is!'\n\n'Ah! Indeed you may say that!' cried Mrs Todgers.\n\n'I'm afraid it is a vain and thoughtless world,' said Mr Pecksniff,\noverflowing with despondency. 'These young people about us. Oh! what\nsense have they of their responsibilities? None. Give me your other\nhand, Mrs Todgers.'\n\nThe lady hesitated, and said 'she didn't like.'\n\n'Has a voice from the grave no influence?' said Mr Pecksniff, with,\ndismal tenderness. 'This is irreligious! My dear creature.'\n\n'Hush!' urged Mrs Todgers. 'Really you mustn't.'\n\n'It's not me,' said Mr Pecksniff. 'Don't suppose it's me; it's the\nvoice; it's her voice.'\n\nMrs Pecksniff deceased, must have had an unusually thick and husky voice\nfor a lady, and rather a stuttering voice, and to say the truth somewhat\nof a drunken voice, if it had ever borne much resemblance to that in\nwhich Mr Pecksniff spoke just then. But perhaps this was delusion on his\npart.\n\n'It has been a day of enjoyment, Mrs Todgers, but still it has been a\nday of torture. It has reminded me of my loneliness. What am I in the\nworld?'\n\n'An excellent gentleman, Mr Pecksniff,' said Mrs Todgers.\n\n'There is consolation in that too,' cried Mr Pecksniff. 'Am I?'\n\n'There is no better man living,' said Mrs Todgers, 'I am sure.'\n\nMr Pecksniff smiled through his tears, and slightly shook his head. 'You\nare very good,' he said, 'thank you. It is a great happiness to me, Mrs\nTodgers, to make young people happy. The happiness of my pupils is my\nchief object. I dote upon 'em. They dote upon me too--sometimes.'\n\n'Always,' said Mrs Todgers.\n\n'When they say they haven't improved, ma'am,' whispered Mr Pecksniff,\nlooking at her with profound mystery, and motioning to her to advance\nher ear a little closer to his mouth. 'When they say they haven't\nimproved, ma'am, and the premium was too high, they lie! I shouldn't\nwish it to be mentioned; you will understand me; but I say to you as to\nan old friend, they lie.'\n\n'Base wretches they must be!' said Mrs Todgers.\n\n'Madam,' said Mr Pecksniff, 'you are right. I respect you for that\nobservation. A word in your ear. To Parents and Guardians. This is in\nconfidence, Mrs Todgers?'\n\n'The strictest, of course!' cried that lady.\n\n'To Parents and Guardians,' repeated Mr Pecksniff. 'An eligible\nopportunity now offers, which unites the advantages of the best\npractical architectural education with the comforts of a home, and the\nconstant association with some, who, however humble their sphere and\nlimited their capacity--observe!--are not unmindful of their moral\nresponsibilities.'\n\nMrs Todgers looked a little puzzled to know what this might mean, as\nwell she might; for it was, as the reader may perchance remember, Mr\nPecksniff's usual form of advertisement when he wanted a pupil; and\nseemed to have no particular reference, at present, to anything. But Mr\nPecksniff held up his finger as a caution to her not to interrupt him.\n\n'Do you know any parent or guardian, Mrs Todgers,' said Mr Pecksniff,\n'who desires to avail himself of such an opportunity for a young\ngentleman? An orphan would be preferred. Do you know of any orphan with\nthree or four hundred pound?'\n\nMrs Todgers reflected, and shook her head.\n\n'When you hear of an orphan with three or four hundred pound,' said Mr\nPecksniff, 'let that dear orphan's friends apply, by letter post-paid,\nto S. P., Post Office, Salisbury. I don't know who he is exactly. Don't\nbe alarmed, Mrs Todgers,' said Mr Pecksniff, falling heavily against\nher; 'Chronic--chronic! Let's have a little drop of something to drink.'\n\n'Bless my life, Miss Pecksniffs!' cried Mrs Todgers, aloud, 'your dear\npa's took very poorly!'\n\nMr Pecksniff straightened himself by a surprising effort, as every\none turned hastily towards him; and standing on his feet, regarded the\nassembly with a look of ineffable wisdom. Gradually it gave place to\na smile; a feeble, helpless, melancholy smile; bland, almost to\nsickliness. 'Do not repine, my friends,' said Mr Pecksniff, tenderly.\n'Do not weep for me. It is chronic.' And with these words, after making\na futile attempt to pull off his shoes, he fell into the fireplace.\n\nThe youngest gentleman in company had him out in a second. Yes, before a\nhair upon his head was singed, he had him on the hearth-rug--her father!\n\nShe was almost beside herself. So was her sister. Jinkins consoled them\nboth. They all consoled them. Everybody had something to say, except the\nyoungest gentleman in company, who with a noble self-devotion did the\nheavy work, and held up Mr Pecksniff's head without being taken notice\nof by anybody. At last they gathered round, and agreed to carry him\nupstairs to bed. The youngest gentleman in company was rebuked by\nJinkins for tearing Mr Pecksniff's coat! Ha, ha! But no matter.\n\nThey carried him upstairs, and crushed the youngest gentleman at every\nstep. His bedroom was at the top of the house, and it was a long way;\nbut they got him there in course of time. He asked them frequently\non the road for a little drop of something to drink. It seemed an\nidiosyncrasy. The youngest gentleman in company proposed a draught of\nwater. Mr Pecksniff called him opprobious names for the suggestion.\n\nJinkins and Gander took the rest upon themselves, and made him as\ncomfortable as they could, on the outside of his bed; and when he seemed\ndisposed to sleep, they left him. But before they had all gained the\nbottom of the staircase, a vision of Mr Pecksniff, strangely attired,\nwas seen to flutter on the top landing. He desired to collect their\nsentiments, it seemed, upon the nature of human life.\n\n'My friends,' cried Mr Pecksniff, looking over the banisters, 'let us\nimprove our minds by mutual inquiry and discussion. Let us be moral. Let\nus contemplate existence. Where is Jinkins?'\n\n'Here,' cried that gentleman. 'Go to bed again'\n\n'To bed!' said Mr Pecksniff. 'Bed! 'Tis the voice of the sluggard, I\nhear him complain, you have woke me too soon, I must slumber again. If\nany young orphan will repeat the remainder of that simple piece from\nDoctor Watts's collection, an eligible opportunity now offers.'\n\nNobody volunteered.\n\n'This is very soothing,' said Mr Pecksniff, after a pause. 'Extremely\nso. Cool and refreshing; particularly to the legs! The legs of the\nhuman subject, my friends, are a beautiful production. Compare them with\nwooden legs, and observe the difference between the anatomy of nature\nand the anatomy of art. Do you know,' said Mr Pecksniff, leaning over\nthe banisters, with an odd recollection of his familiar manner among\nnew pupils at home, 'that I should very much like to see Mrs Todgers's\nnotion of a wooden leg, if perfectly agreeable to herself!'\n\nAs it appeared impossible to entertain any reasonable hopes of him after\nthis speech, Mr Jinkins and Mr Gander went upstairs again, and once more\ngot him into bed. But they had not descended to the second floor before\nhe was out again; nor, when they had repeated the process, had they\ndescended the first flight, before he was out again. In a word, as often\nas he was shut up in his own room, he darted out afresh, charged\nwith some new moral sentiment, which he continually repeated over the\nbanisters, with extraordinary relish, and an irrepressible desire for\nthe improvement of his fellow creatures that nothing could subdue.\n\nUnder these circumstances, when they had got him into bed for the\nthirtieth time or so, Mr Jinkins held him, while his companion went\ndownstairs in search of Bailey junior, with whom he presently returned.\nThat youth having been apprised of the service required of him, was in\ngreat spirits, and brought up a stool, a candle, and his supper; to the\nend that he might keep watch outside the bedroom door with tolerable\ncomfort.\n\nWhen he had completed his arrangements, they locked Mr Pecksniff in,\nand left the key on the outside; charging the young page to listen\nattentively for symptoms of an apoplectic nature, with which the patient\nmight be troubled, and, in case of any such presenting themselves, to\nsummon them without delay. To which Mr Bailey modestly replied that\n'he hoped he knowed wot o'clock it wos in gineral, and didn't date his\nletters to his friends from Todgers's for nothing.'\n\n\n\nCHAPTER TEN\n\nCONTAINING STRANGE MATTER, ON WHICH MANY EVENTS IN THIS HISTORY MAY, FOR\nTHEIR GOOD OR EVIL INFLUENCE, CHIEFLY DEPEND\n\n\nBut Mr Pecksniff came to town on business. Had he forgotten that? Was he\nalways taking his pleasure with Todgers's jovial brood, unmindful of the\nserious demands, whatever they might be, upon his calm consideration?\nNo.\n\nTime and tide will wait for no man, saith the adage. But all men have to\nwait for time and tide. That tide which, taken at the flood, would lead\nSeth Pecksniff on to fortune, was marked down in the table, and about to\nflow. No idle Pecksniff lingered far inland, unmindful of the changes\nof the stream; but there, upon the water's edge, over his shoes already,\nstood the worthy creature, prepared to wallow in the very mud, so that\nit slid towards the quarter of his hope.\n\nThe trustfulness of his two fair daughters was beautiful indeed. They\nhad that firm reliance on their parent's nature, which taught them to\nfeel certain that in all he did he had his purpose straight and full\nbefore him. And that its noble end and object was himself, which almost\nof necessity included them, they knew. The devotion of these maids was\nperfect.\n\nTheir filial confidence was rendered the more touching, by their having\nno knowledge of their parent's real designs, in the present instance.\nAll that they knew of his proceedings was, that every morning, after\nthe early breakfast, he repaired to the post office and inquired for\nletters. That task performed, his business for the day was over; and he\nagain relaxed, until the rising of another sun proclaimed the advent of\nanother post.\n\nThis went on for four or five days. At length, one morning, Mr Pecksniff\nreturned with a breathless rapidity, strange to observe in him, at other\ntimes so calm; and, seeking immediate speech with his daughters, shut\nhimself up with them in private conference for two whole hours. Of all\nthat passed in this period, only the following words of Mr Pecksniff's\nutterance are known:\n\n'How he has come to change so very much (if it should turn out as I\nexpect, that he has), we needn't stop to inquire. My dears, I have my\nthoughts upon the subject, but I will not impart them. It is enough\nthat we will not be proud, resentful, or unforgiving. If he wants our\nfriendship he shall have it. We know our duty, I hope!'\n\nThat same day at noon, an old gentleman alighted from a hackney-coach at\nthe post-office, and, giving his name, inquired for a letter addressed\nto himself, and directed to be left till called for. It had been lying\nthere some days. The superscription was in Mr Pecksniff's hand, and it\nwas sealed with Mr Pecksniff's seal.\n\nIt was very short, containing indeed nothing more than an address\n'with Mr Pecksniff's respectful, and (not withstanding what has\npassed) sincerely affectionate regards.' The old gentleman tore off the\ndirection--scattering the rest in fragments to the winds--and giving\nit to the coachman, bade him drive as near that place as he could. In\npursuance of these instructions he was driven to the Monument; where he\nagain alighted, and dismissed the vehicle, and walked towards Todgers's.\n\nThough the face, and form, and gait of this old man, and even his\ngrip of the stout stick on which he leaned, were all expressive of a\nresolution not easily shaken, and a purpose (it matters little whether\nright or wrong, just now) such as in other days might have survived\nthe rack, and had its strongest life in weakest death; still there were\ngrains of hesitation in his mind, which made him now avoid the house he\nsought, and loiter to and fro in a gleam of sunlight, that brightened\nthe little churchyard hard by. There may have been, in the presence of\nthose idle heaps of dust among the busiest stir of life, something to\nincrease his wavering; but there he walked, awakening the echoes as he\npaced up and down, until the church clock, striking the quarters for\nthe second time since he had been there, roused him from his meditation.\nShaking off his incertitude as the air parted with the sound of the\nbells, he walked rapidly to the house, and knocked at the door.\n\nMr Pecksniff was seated in the landlady's little room, and his visitor\nfound him reading--by an accident; he apologised for it--an excellent\ntheological work. There were cake and wine upon a little table--by\nanother accident, for which he also apologised. Indeed he said, he\nhad given his visitor up, and was about to partake of that simple\nrefreshment with his children, when he knocked at the door.\n\n'Your daughters are well?' said old Martin, laying down his hat and\nstick.\n\nMr Pecksniff endeavoured to conceal his agitation as a father when he\nanswered Yes, they were. They were good girls, he said, very good. He\nwould not venture to recommend Mr Chuzzlewit to take the easy-chair,\nor to keep out of the draught from the door. If he made any such\nsuggestion, he would expose himself, he feared, to most unjust\nsuspicion. He would, therefore, content himself with remarking that\nthere was an easy-chair in the room, and that the door was far from\nbeing air-tight. This latter imperfection, he might perhaps venture to\nadd, was not uncommonly to be met with in old houses.\n\nThe old man sat down in the easy-chair, and after a few moments'\nsilence, said:\n\n'In the first place, let me thank you for coming to London so promptly,\nat my almost unexplained request; I need scarcely add, at my cost.'\n\n'At YOUR cost, my good sir!' cried Mr Pecksniff, in a tone of great\nsurprise.\n\n'It is not,' said Martin, waving his hand impatiently, 'my habit to put\nmy--well! my relatives--to any personal expense to gratify my caprices.'\n\n'Caprices, my good sir!' cried Mr Pecksniff\n\n'That is scarcely the proper word either, in this instance,' said the\nold man. 'No. You are right.'\n\nMr Pecksniff was inwardly very much relieved to hear it, though he\ndidn't at all know why.\n\n'You are right,' repeated Martin. 'It is not a caprice. It is built up\non reason, proof, and cool comparison. Caprices never are. Moreover, I\nam not a capricious man. I never was.'\n\n'Most assuredly not,' said Mr Pecksniff.\n\n'How do you know?' returned the other quickly. 'You are to begin to know\nit now. You are to test and prove it, in time to come. You and yours are\nto find that I can be constant, and am not to be diverted from my end.\nDo you hear?'\n\n'Perfectly,' said Mr Pecksniff.\n\n'I very much regret,' Martin resumed, looking steadily at him, and\nspeaking in a slow and measured tone; 'I very much regret that you and\nI held such a conversation together, as that which passed between us at\nour last meeting. I very much regret that I laid open to you what were\nthen my thoughts of you, so freely as I did. The intentions that I bear\ntowards you now are of another kind; deserted by all in whom I have ever\ntrusted; hoodwinked and beset by all who should help and sustain me;\nI fly to you for refuge. I confide in you to be my ally; to attach\nyourself to me by ties of Interest and Expectation'--he laid great\nstress upon these words, though Mr Pecksniff particularly begged him\nnot to mention it; 'and to help me to visit the consequences of the very\nworst species of meanness, dissimulation, and subtlety, on the right\nheads.'\n\n'My noble sir!' cried Mr Pecksniff, catching at his outstretched hand.\n'And YOU regret the having harboured unjust thoughts of me! YOU with\nthose grey hairs!'\n\n'Regrets,' said Martin, 'are the natural property of grey hairs; and\nI enjoy, in common with all other men, at least my share of such\ninheritance. And so enough of that. I regret having been severed from\nyou so long. If I had known you sooner, and sooner used you as you well\ndeserve, I might have been a happier man.'\n\nMr Pecksniff looked up to the ceiling, and clasped his hands in rapture.\n\n'Your daughters,' said Martin, after a short silence. 'I don't know\nthem. Are they like you?'\n\n'In the nose of my eldest and the chin of my youngest, Mr Chuzzlewit,'\nreturned the widower, 'their sainted parent (not myself, their mother)\nlives again.'\n\n'I don't mean in person,' said the old man. 'Morally, morally.'\n\n''Tis not for me to say,' retorted Mr Pecksniff with a gentle smile. 'I\nhave done my best, sir.'\n\n'I could wish to see them,' said Martin; 'are they near at hand?'\n\nThey were, very near; for they had in fact been listening at the\ndoor from the beginning of this conversation until now, when they\nprecipitately retired. Having wiped the signs of weakness from his eyes,\nand so given them time to get upstairs, Mr Pecksniff opened the door,\nand mildly cried in the passage,\n\n'My own darlings, where are you?'\n\n'Here, my dear pa!' replied the distant voice of Charity.\n\n'Come down into the back parlour, if you please, my love,' said Mr\nPecksniff, 'and bring your sister with you.'\n\n'Yes, my dear pa,' cried Merry; and down they came directly (being all\nobedience), singing as they came.\n\nNothing could exceed the astonishment of the two Miss Pecksniffs when\nthey found a stranger with their dear papa. Nothing could surpass their\nmute amazement when he said, 'My children, Mr Chuzzlewit!' But when he\ntold them that Mr Chuzzlewit and he were friends, and that Mr Chuzzlewit\nhad said such kind and tender words as pierced his very heart, the two\nMiss Pecksniffs cried with one accord, 'Thank Heaven for this!' and\nfell upon the old man's neck. And when they had embraced him with\nsuch fervour of affection that no words can describe it, they grouped\nthemselves about his chair, and hung over him, as figuring to themselves\nno earthly joy like that of ministering to his wants, and crowding into\nthe remainder of his life, the love they would have diffused over their\nwhole existence, from infancy, if he--dear obdurate!--had but consented\nto receive the precious offering.\n\nThe old man looked attentively from one to the other, and then at Mr\nPecksniff, several times.\n\n'What,' he asked of Mr Pecksniff, happening to catch his eye in its\ndescent; for until now it had been piously upraised, with something of\nthat expression which the poetry of ages has attributed to a domestic\nbird, when breathing its last amid the ravages of an electric storm:\n'What are their names?'\n\nMr Pecksniff told him, and added, rather hastily; his caluminators\nwould have said, with a view to any testamentary thoughts that might be\nflitting through old Martin's mind; 'Perhaps, my dears, you had better\nwrite them down. Your humble autographs are of no value in themselves,\nbut affection may prize them.'\n\n'Affection,' said the old man, 'will expend itself on the living\noriginals. Do not trouble yourselves, my girls, I shall not so easily\nforget you, Charity and Mercy, as to need such tokens of remembrance.\nCousin!'\n\n'Sir!' said Mr Pecksniff, with alacrity.\n\n'Do you never sit down?'\n\n'Why--yes--occasionally, sir,' said Mr Pecksniff, who had been standing\nall this time.\n\n'Will you do so now?'\n\n'Can you ask me,' returned Mr Pecksniff, slipping into a chair\nimmediately, 'whether I will do anything that you desire?'\n\n'You talk confidently,' said Martin, 'and you mean well; but I fear you\ndon't know what an old man's humours are. You don't know what it is to\nbe required to court his likings and dislikings; to adapt yourself to\nhis prejudices; to do his bidding, be it what it may; to bear with his\ndistrusts and jealousies; and always still be zealous in his service.\nWhen I remember how numerous these failings are in me, and judge of\ntheir occasional enormity by the injurious thoughts I lately entertained\nof you, I hardly dare to claim you for my friend.'\n\n'My worthy sir,' returned his relative, 'how CAN you talk in such a\npainful strain! What was more natural than that you should make one\nslight mistake, when in all other respects you were so very correct, and\nhave had such reason--such very sad and undeniable reason--to judge of\nevery one about you in the worst light!'\n\n'True,' replied the other. 'You are very lenient with me.'\n\n'We always said, my girls and I,' cried Mr Pecksniff with increasing\nobsequiousness, 'that while we mourned the heaviness of our misfortune\nin being confounded with the base and mercenary, still we could not\nwonder at it. My dears, you remember?'\n\nOh vividly! A thousand times!\n\n'We uttered no complaint,' said Mr Pecksniff. 'Occasionally we had the\npresumption to console ourselves with the remark that Truth would in\nthe end prevail, and Virtue be triumphant; but not often. My loves, you\nrecollect?'\n\nRecollect! Could he doubt it! Dearest pa, what strange unnecessary\nquestions!\n\n'And when I saw you,' resumed Mr Pecksniff, with still greater\ndeference, 'in the little, unassuming village where we take the liberty\nof dwelling, I said you were mistaken in me, my dear sir; that was all,\nI think?'\n\n'No--not all,' said Martin, who had been sitting with his hand upon his\nbrow for some time past, and now looked up again; 'you said much more,\nwhich, added to other circumstances that have come to my knowledge,\nopened my eyes. You spoke to me, disinterestedly, on behalf of--I\nneedn't name him. You know whom I mean.'\n\nTrouble was expressed in Mr Pecksniff's visage, as he pressed his hot\nhands together, and replied, with humility, 'Quite disinterestedly, sir,\nI assure you.'\n\n'I know it,' said old Martin, in his quiet way. 'I am sure of it. I said\nso. It was disinterested too, in you, to draw that herd of harpies\noff from me, and be their victim yourself; most other men would have\nsuffered them to display themselves in all their rapacity, and would\nhave striven to rise, by contrast, in my estimation. You felt for me,\nand drew them off, for which I owe you many thanks. Although I left the\nplace, I know what passed behind my back, you see!'\n\n'You amaze me, sir!' cried Mr Pecksniff; which was true enough.\n\n'My knowledge of your proceedings,' said the old man, does not stop at\nthis. You have a new inmate in your house.'\n\n'Yes, sir,' rejoined the architect, 'I have.'\n\n'He must quit it' said Martin.\n\n'For--for yours?' asked Mr Pecksniff, with a quavering mildness.\n\n'For any shelter he can find,' the old man answered. 'He has deceived\nyou.'\n\n'I hope not' said Mr Pecksniff, eagerly. 'I trust not. I have been\nextremely well disposed towards that young man. I hope it cannot be\nshown that he has forfeited all claim to my protection. Deceit--deceit,\nmy dear Mr Chuzzlewit, would be final. I should hold myself bound, on\nproof of deceit, to renounce him instantly.'\n\nThe old man glanced at both his fair supporters, but especially at\nMiss Mercy, whom, indeed, he looked full in the face, with a greater\ndemonstration of interest than had yet appeared in his features. His\ngaze again encountered Mr Pecksniff, as he said, composedly:\n\n'Of course you know that he has made his matrimonial choice?'\n\n'Oh dear!' cried Mr Pecksniff, rubbing his hair up very stiff upon\nhis head, and staring wildly at his daughters. 'This is becoming\ntremendous!'\n\n'You know the fact?' repeated Martin\n\n'Surely not without his grandfather's consent and approbation my dear\nsir!' cried Mr Pecksniff. 'Don't tell me that. For the honour of human\nnature, say you're not about to tell me that!'\n\n'I thought he had suppressed it,' said the old man.\n\nThe indignation felt by Mr Pecksniff at this terrible disclosure, was\nonly to be equalled by the kindling anger of his daughters. What! Had\nthey taken to their hearth and home a secretly contracted serpent; a\ncrocodile, who had made a furtive offer of his hand; an imposition on\nsociety; a bankrupt bachelor with no effects, trading with the spinster\nworld on false pretences! And oh, to think that he should have disobeyed\nand practised on that sweet, that venerable gentleman, whose name\nhe bore; that kind and tender guardian; his more than father--to say\nnothing at all of mother--horrible, horrible! To turn him out with\nignominy would be treatment much too good. Was there nothing else that\ncould be done to him? Had he incurred no legal pains and penalties?\nCould it be that the statutes of the land were so remiss as to have\naffixed no punishment to such delinquency? Monster; how basely had they\nbeen deceived!\n\n'I am glad to find you second me so warmly,' said the old man holding up\nhis hand to stay the torrent of their wrath. 'I will not deny that it\nis a pleasure to me to find you so full of zeal. We will consider that\ntopic as disposed of.'\n\n'No, my dear sir,' cried Mr Pecksniff, 'not as disposed of, until I have\npurged my house of this pollution.'\n\n'That will follow,' said the old man, 'in its own time. I look upon that\nas done.'\n\n'You are very good, sir,' answered Mr Pecksniff, shaking his hand. 'You\ndo me honour. You MAY look upon it as done, I assure you.'\n\n'There is another topic,' said Martin, 'on which I hope you will assist\nme. You remember Mary, cousin?'\n\n'The young lady that I mentioned to you, my dears, as having interested\nme so very much,' remarked Mr Pecksniff. 'Excuse my interrupting you,\nsir.'\n\n'I told you her history?' said the old man.\n\n'Which I also mentioned, you will recollect, my dears,' cried Mr\nPecksniff. 'Silly girls, Mr Chuzzlewit--quite moved by it, they were!'\n\n'Why, look now!' said Martin, evidently pleased; 'I feared I should have\nhad to urge her case upon you, and ask you to regard her favourably for\nmy sake. But I find you have no jealousies! Well! You have no cause\nfor any, to be sure. She has nothing to gain from me, my dears, and she\nknows it.'\n\nThe two Miss Pecksniffs murmured their approval of this wise\narrangement, and their cordial sympathy with its interesting object.\n\n'If I could have anticipated what has come to pass between us four,'\nsaid the old man thoughfully; 'but it is too late to think of that. You\nwould receive her courteously, young ladies, and be kind to her, if need\nwere?'\n\nWhere was the orphan whom the two Miss Pecksniffs would not have\ncherished in their sisterly bosom! But when that orphan was commended to\ntheir care by one on whom the dammed-up love of years was gushing forth,\nwhat exhaustless stores of pure affection yearned to expend themselves\nupon her!\n\nAn interval ensued, during which Mr Chuzzlewit, in an absent frame of\nmind, sat gazing at the ground, without uttering a word; and as it was\nplain that he had no desire to be interrupted in his meditations, Mr\nPecksniff and his daughters were profoundly silent also. During the\nwhole of the foregoing dialogue, he had borne his part with a cold,\npassionless promptitude, as though he had learned and painfully\nrehearsed it all a hundred times. Even when his expressions were warmest\nand his language most encouraging, he had retained the same manner,\nwithout the least abatement. But now there was a keener brightness in\nhis eye, and more expression in his voice, as he said, awakening from\nhis thoughtful mood:\n\n'You know what will be said of this? Have you reflected?'\n\n'Said of what, my dear sir?' Mr Pecksniff asked.\n\n'Of this new understanding between us.'\n\nMr Pecksniff looked benevolently sagacious, and at the same time far\nabove all earthly misconstruction, as he shook his head, and observed\nthat a great many things would be said of it, no doubt.\n\n'A great many,' rejoined the old man. 'Some will say that I dote in my\nold age; that illness has shaken me; that I have lost all strength of\nmind, and have grown childish. You can bear that?'\n\nMr Pecksniff answered that it would be dreadfully hard to bear, but he\nthought he could, if he made a great effort.\n\n'Others will say--I speak of disappointed, angry people only--that you\nhave lied and fawned, and wormed yourself through dirty ways into my\nfavour; by such concessions and such crooked deeds, such meannesses and\nvile endurances, as nothing could repay; no, not the legacy of half the\nworld we live in. You can bear that?'\n\nMr Pecksniff made reply that this would be also very hard to bear, as\nreflecting, in some degree, on the discernment of Mr Chuzzlewit. Still\nhe had a modest confidence that he could sustain the calumny, with the\nhelp of a good conscience, and that gentleman's friendship.\n\n'With the great mass of slanderers,' said old Martin, leaning back in\nhis chair, 'the tale, as I clearly foresee, will run thus: That to mark\nmy contempt for the rabble whom I despised, I chose from among them the\nvery worst, and made him do my will, and pampered and enriched him at\nthe cost of all the rest. That, after casting about for the means of a\npunishment which should rankle in the bosoms of these kites the most,\nand strike into their gall, I devised this scheme at a time when the\nlast link in the chain of grateful love and duty, that held me to\nmy race, was roughly snapped asunder; roughly, for I loved him well;\nroughly, for I had ever put my trust in his affection; roughly, for that\nhe broke it when I loved him most--God help me!--and he without a pang\ncould throw me off, while I clung about his heart! Now,' said the old\nman, dismissing this passionate outburst as suddenly as he had yielded\nto it, 'is your mind made up to bear this likewise? Lay your account\nwith having it to bear, and put no trust in being set right by me.'\n\n'My dear Mr Chuzzlewit,' cried Pecksniff in an ecstasy, 'for such a man\nas you have shown yourself to be this day; for a man so injured, yet so\nvery humane; for a man so--I am at a loss what precise term to use--yet\nat the same time so remarkably--I don't know how to express my meaning;\nfor such a man as I have described, I hope it is no presumption to say\nthat I, and I am sure I may add my children also (my dears, we perfectly\nagree in this, I think?), would bear anything whatever!'\n\n'Enough,' said Martin. 'You can charge no consequences on me. When do\nyou retire home?'\n\n'Whenever you please, my dear sir. To-night if you desire it.'\n\n'I desire nothing,' returned the old man, 'that is unreasonable. Such a\nrequest would be. Will you be ready to return at the end of this week?'\n\nThe very time of all others that Mr Pecksniff would have suggested if\nit had been left to him to make his own choice. As to his daughters--the\nwords, 'Let us be at home on Saturday, dear pa,' were actually upon\ntheir lips.\n\n'Your expenses, cousin,' said Martin, taking a folded slip of paper from\nhis pocketbook, 'may possibly exceed that amount. If so, let me know the\nbalance that I owe you, when we next meet. It would be useless if I told\nyou where I live just now; indeed, I have no fixed abode. When I have,\nyou shall know it. You and your daughters may expect to see me\nbefore long; in the meantime I need not tell you that we keep our own\nconfidence. What you will do when you get home is understood between us.\nGive me no account of it at any time; and never refer to it in any way.\nI ask that as a favour. I am commonly a man of few words, cousin; and\nall that need be said just now is said, I think.'\n\n'One glass of wine--one morsel of this homely cake?' cried Mr Pecksniff,\nventuring to detain him. 'My dears--!'\n\nThe sisters flew to wait upon him.\n\n'Poor girls!' said Mr Pecksniff. 'You will excuse their agitation, my\ndear sir. They are made up of feeling. A bad commodity to go through the\nworld with, Mr Chuzzlewit! My youngest daughter is almost as much of a\nwoman as my eldest, is she not, sir?'\n\n'Which IS the youngest?' asked the old man.\n\n'Mercy, by five years,' said Mr Pecksniff. 'We sometimes venture to\nconsider her rather a fine figure, sir. Speaking as an artist, I\nmay perhaps be permitted to suggest that its outline is graceful and\ncorrect. I am naturally,' said Mr Pecksniff, drying his hands upon his\nhandkerchief, and looking anxiously in his cousin's face at almost every\nword, 'proud, if I may use the expression, to have a daughter who is\nconstructed on the best models.'\n\n'She seems to have a lively disposition,' observed Martin.\n\n'Dear me!' said Mr Pecksniff. 'That is quite remarkable. You have\ndefined her character, my dear sir, as correctly as if you had known her\nfrom her birth. She HAS a lively disposition. I assure you, my dear sir,\nthat in our unpretending home her gaiety is delightful.'\n\n'No doubt,' returned the old man.\n\n'Charity, upon the other hand,' said Mr Pecksniff, 'is remarkable for\nstrong sense, and for rather a deep tone of sentiment, if the partiality\nof a father may be excused in saying so. A wonderful affection between\nthem, my dear sir! Allow me to drink your health. Bless you!'\n\n'I little thought,' retorted Martin, 'but a month ago, that I should be\nbreaking bread and pouring wine with you. I drink to you.'\n\nNot at all abashed by the extraordinary abruptness with which these\nlatter words were spoken, Mr Pecksniff thanked him devoutly.\n\n'Now let me go,' said Martin, putting down the wine when he had merely\ntouched it with his lips. 'My dears, good morning!'\n\nBut this distant form of farewell was by no means tender enough for the\nyearnings of the young ladies, who again embraced him with all their\nhearts--with all their arms at any rate--to which parting caresses their\nnew-found friend submitted with a better grace than might have been\nexpected from one who, not a moment before, had pledged their parent in\nsuch a very uncomfortable manner. These endearments terminated, he took\na hasty leave of Mr Pecksniff and withdrew, followed to the door by both\nfather and daughters, who stood there kissing their hands and beaming\nwith affection until he disappeared; though, by the way, he never once\nlooked back, after he had crossed the threshold.\n\nWhen they returned into the house, and were again alone in Mrs Todgers's\nroom, the two young ladies exhibited an unusual amount of gaiety;\ninsomuch that they clapped their hands, and laughed, and looked with\nroguish aspects and a bantering air upon their dear papa. This conduct\nwas so very unaccountable, that Mr Pecksniff (being singularly grave\nhimself) could scarcely choose but ask them what it meant; and took them\nto task, in his gentle manner, for yielding to such light emotions.\n\n'If it was possible to divine any cause for this merriment, even the\nmost remote,' he said, 'I should not reprove you. But when you can have\nnone whatever--oh, really, really!'\n\nThis admonition had so little effect on Mercy, that she was obliged to\nhold her handkerchief before her rosy lips, and to throw herself back in\nher chair, with every demonstration of extreme amusement; which want\nof duty so offended Mr Pecksniff that he reproved her in set terms,\nand gave her his parental advice to correct herself in solitude and\ncontemplation. But at that juncture they were disturbed by the sound of\nvoices in dispute; and as it proceeded from the next room, the subject\nmatter of the altercation quickly reached their ears.\n\n'I don't care that! Mrs Todgers,' said the young gentleman who had been\nthe youngest gentleman in company on the day of the festival; 'I don't\ncare THAT, ma'am,' said he, snapping his fingers, 'for Jinkins. Don't\nsuppose I do.'\n\n'I am quite certain you don't, sir,' replied Mrs Todgers. 'You have\ntoo independent a spirit, I know, to yield to anybody. And quite right.\nThere is no reason why you should give way to any gentleman. Everybody\nmust be well aware of that.'\n\n'I should think no more of admitting daylight into the fellow,' said the\nyoungest gentleman, in a desperate voice, 'than if he was a bulldog.'\n\nMrs Todgers did not stop to inquire whether, as a matter of principle,\nthere was any particular reason for admitting daylight even into a\nbulldog, otherwise than by the natural channel of his eyes, but she\nseemed to wring her hands, and she moaned.\n\n'Let him be careful,' said the youngest gentleman. 'I give him warning.\nNo man shall step between me and the current of my vengeance. I know\na Cove--' he used that familiar epithet in his agitation but corrected\nhimself by adding, 'a gentleman of property, I mean--who practices with\na pair of pistols (fellows too) of his own. If I am driven to borrow\n'em, and to send at friend to Jinkins, a tragedy will get into the\npapers. That's all.'\n\nAgain Mrs Todgers moaned.\n\n'I have borne this long enough,' said the youngest gentleman but now\nmy soul rebels against it, and I won't stand it any longer. I left home\noriginally, because I had that within me which wouldn't be domineered\nover by a sister; and do you think I'm going to be put down by HIM? No.'\n\n'It is very wrong in Mr Jinkins; I know it is perfectly inexcusable in\nMr Jinkins, if he intends it,' observed Mrs Todgers\n\n'If he intends it!' cried the youngest gentleman. 'Don't he interrupt\nand contradict me on every occasion? Does he ever fail to interpose\nhimself between me and anything or anybody that he sees I have set my\nmind upon? Does he make a point of always pretending to forget me,\nwhen he's pouring out the beer? Does he make bragging remarks about his\nrazors, and insulting allusions to people who have no necessity to shave\nmore than once a week? But let him look out! He'll find himself shaved,\npretty close, before long, and so I tell him.'\n\nThe young gentleman was mistaken in this closing sentence, inasmuch as\nhe never told it to Jinkins, but always to Mrs Todgers.\n\n'However,' he said, 'these are not proper subjects for ladies' ears.\nAll I've got to say to you, Mrs Todgers, is, a week's notice from next\nSaturday. The same house can't contain that miscreant and me any longer.\nIf we get over the intermediate time without bloodshed, you may think\nyourself pretty fortunate. I don't myself expect we shall.'\n\n'Dear, dear!' cried Mrs Todgers, 'what would I have given to have\nprevented this? To lose you, sir, would be like losing the house's\nright-hand. So popular as you are among the gentlemen; so generally\nlooked up to; and so much liked! I do hope you'll think better of it; if\non nobody else's account, on mine.'\n\n'There's Jinkins,' said the youngest gentleman, moodily. 'Your\nfavourite. He'll console you, and the gentlemen too, for the loss of\ntwenty such as me. I'm not understood in this house. I never have been.'\n\n'Don't run away with that opinion, sir!' cried Mrs Todgers, with a show\nof honest indignation. 'Don't make such a charge as that against the\nestablishment, I must beg of you. It is not so bad as that comes to,\nsir. Make any remark you please against the gentlemen, or against me;\nbut don't say you're not understood in this house.'\n\n'I'm not treated as if I was,' said the youngest gentleman.\n\n'There you make a great mistake, sir,' returned Mrs Todgers, in the same\nstrain. 'As many of the gentlemen and I have often said, you are too\nsensitive. That's where it is. You are of too susceptible a nature; it's\nin your spirit.'\n\nThe young gentleman coughed.\n\n'And as,' said Mrs Todgers, 'as to Mr Jinkins, I must beg of you, if we\nARE to part, to understand that I don't abet Mr Jinkins by any means.\nFar from it. I could wish that Mr Jinkins would take a lower tone in\nthis establishment, and would not be the means of raising differences\nbetween me and gentlemen that I can much less bear to part with than I\ncould with Mr Jinkins. Mr Jinkins is not such a boarder, sir,' added Mrs\nTodgers, 'that all considerations of private feeling and respect give\nway before him. Quite the contrary, I assure you.'\n\nThe young gentleman was so much mollified by these and similar speeches\non the part of Mrs Todgers, that he and that lady gradually changed\npositions; so that she became the injured party, and he was understood\nto be the injurer; but in a complimentary, not in an offensive sense;\nhis cruel conduct being attributable to his exalted nature, and to that\nalone. So, in the end, the young gentleman withdrew his notice, and\nassured Mrs Todgers of his unalterable regard; and having done so, went\nback to business.\n\n'Goodness me, Miss Pecksniffs!' cried that lady, as she came into the\nback room, and sat wearily down, with her basket on her knees, and her\nhands folded upon it, 'what a trial of temper it is to keep a house like\nthis! You must have heard most of what has just passed. Now did you ever\nhear the like?'\n\n'Never!' said the two Miss Pecksniffs.\n\n'Of all the ridiculous young fellows that ever I had to deal with,'\nresumed Mrs Todgers, 'that is the most ridiculous and unreasonable. Mr\nJinkins is hard upon him sometimes, but not half as hard as he deserves.\nTo mention such a gentleman as Mr Jinkins in the same breath with\nHIM--you know it's too much! And yet he's as jealous of him, bless you,\nas if he was his equal.'\n\nThe young ladies were greatly entertained by Mrs Todgers's account,\nno less than with certain anecdotes illustrative of the youngest\ngentleman's character, which she went on to tell them. But Mr Pecksniff\nlooked quite stern and angry; and when she had concluded, said in a\nsolemn voice:\n\n'Pray, Mrs Todgers, if I may inquire, what does that young gentleman\ncontribute towards the support of these premises?'\n\n'Why, sir, for what HE has, he pays about eighteen shillings a week!'\nsaid Mrs Todgers.\n\n'Eighteen shillings a week!' repeated Mr Pecksniff.\n\n'Taking one week with another; as near that as possible,' said Mrs\nTodgers.\n\nMr Pecksniff rose from his chair, folded his arms, looked at her, and\nshook his head.\n\n'And do you mean to say, ma'am--is it possible, Mrs Todgers--that for\nsuch a miserable consideration as eighteen shillings a week, a female of\nyour understanding can so far demean herself as to wear a double face,\neven for an instant?'\n\n'I am forced to keep things on the square if I can, sir,' faltered\nMrs Todgers. 'I must preserve peace among them, and keep my connection\ntogether, if possible, Mr Pecksniff. The profit is very small.'\n\n'The profit!' cried that gentleman, laying great stress upon the word.\n'The profit, Mrs Todgers! You amaze me!'\n\nHe was so severe, that Mrs Todgers shed tears.\n\n'The profit!' repeated Mr pecksniff. 'The profit of dissimulation! To\nworship the golden calf of Baal, for eighteen shillings a week!'\n\n'Don't in your own goodness be too hard upon me, Mr Pecksniff,' cried\nMrs Todgers, taking out her handkerchief.\n\n'Oh Calf, Calf!' cried Mr Pecksniff mournfully. 'Oh, Baal, Baal! oh my\nfriend, Mrs Todgers! To barter away that precious jewel, self-esteem,\nand cringe to any mortal creature--for eighteen shillings a week!'\n\nHe was so subdued and overcome by the reflection, that he immediately\ntook down his hat from its peg in the passage, and went out for a walk,\nto compose his feelings. Anybody passing him in the street might have\nknown him for a good man at first sight; for his whole figure teemed\nwith a consciousness of the moral homily he had read to Mrs Todgers.\n\nEighteen shillings a week! Just, most just, thy censure, upright\nPecksniff! Had it been for the sake of a ribbon, star, or garter;\nsleeves of lawn, a great man's smile, a seat in parliament, a tap upon\nthe shoulder from a courtly sword; a place, a party, or a thriving lie,\nor eighteen thousand pounds, or even eighteen hundred;--but to worship\nthe golden calf for eighteen shillings a week! oh pitiful, pitiful!\n\n\n\nCHAPTER ELEVEN\n\nWHEREIN A CERTAIN GENTLEMAN BECOMES PARTICULAR IN HIS ATTENTIONS TO A\nCERTAIN LADY; AND MORE COMING EVENTS THAN ONE, CAST THEIR SHADOWS BEFORE\n\n\nThe family were within two or three days of their departure from Mrs\nTodgers's, and the commercial gentlemen were to a man despondent and\nnot to be comforted, because of the approaching separation, when Bailey\njunior, at the jocund time of noon, presented himself before Miss\nCharity Pecksniff, then sitting with her sister in the banquet chamber,\nhemming six new pocket-handkerchiefs for Mr Jinkins; and having\nexpressed a hope, preliminary and pious, that he might be blest, gave\nher in his pleasant way to understand that a visitor attended to pay\nhis respects to her, and was at that moment waiting in the drawing-room.\nPerhaps this last announcement showed in a more striking point of view\nthan many lengthened speeches could have done, the trustfulness and\nfaith of Bailey's nature; since he had, in fact, last seen the visitor\non the door-mat, where, after signifying to him that he would do well to\ngo upstairs, he had left him to the guidance of his own sagacity. Hence\nit was at least an even chance that the visitor was then wandering on\nthe roof of the house, or vainly seeking to extricate himself from the\nmaze of bedrooms; Todgers's being precisely that kind of establishment\nin which an unpiloted stranger is pretty sure to find himself in some\nplace where he least expects and least desires to be.\n\n'A gentleman for me!' cried Charity, pausing in her work; 'my gracious,\nBailey!'\n\n'Ah!' said Bailey. 'It IS my gracious, an't it? Wouldn't I be gracious\nneither, not if I wos him!'\n\nThe remark was rendered somewhat obscure in itself, by reason (as the\nreader may have observed) of a redundancy of negatives; but accompanied\nby action expressive of a faithful couple walking arm-in-arm towards\na parochial church, mutually exchanging looks of love, it clearly\nsignified this youth's conviction that the caller's purpose was of an\namorous tendency. Miss Charity affected to reprove so great a liberty;\nbut she could not help smiling. He was a strange boy, to be sure. There\nwas always some ground of probability and likelihood mingled with his\nabsurd behaviour. That was the best of it!\n\n'But I don't know any gentlemen, Bailey,' said Miss Pecksniff. 'I think\nyou must have made a mistake.'\n\nMr Bailey smiled at the extreme wildness of such a supposition, and\nregarded the young ladies with unimpaired affability.\n\n'My dear Merry,' said Charity, 'who CAN it be? Isn't it odd? I have a\ngreat mind not to go to him really. So very strange, you know!'\n\nThe younger sister plainly considered that this appeal had its origin in\nthe pride of being called upon and asked for; and that it was intended\nas an assertion of superiority, and a retaliation upon her for having\ncaptured the commercial gentlemen. Therefore, she replied, with great\naffection and politeness, that it was, no doubt, very strange indeed;\nand that she was totally at a loss to conceive what the ridiculous\nperson unknown could mean by it.\n\n'Quite impossible to divine!' said Charity, with some sharpness, 'though\nstill, at the same time, you needn't be angry, my dear.'\n\n'Thank you,' retorted Merry, singing at her needle. 'I am quite aware of\nthat, my love.'\n\n'I am afraid your head is turned, you silly thing,' said Cherry.\n\n'Do you know, my dear,' said Merry, with engaging candour, 'that I have\nbeen afraid of that, myself, all along! So much incense and nonsense,\nand all the rest of it, is enough to turn a stronger head than mine.\nWhat a relief it must be to you, my dear, to be so very comfortable in\nthat respect, and not to be worried by those odious men! How do you do\nit, Cherry?'\n\nThis artless inquiry might have led to turbulent results, but for the\nstrong emotions of delight evinced by Bailey junior, whose relish in the\nturn the conversation had lately taken was so acute, that it impelled\nand forced him to the instantaneous performance of a dancing step,\nextremely difficult in its nature, and only to be achieved in a\nmoment of ecstasy, which is commonly called The Frog's Hornpipe. A\nmanifestation so lively, brought to their immediate recollection the\ngreat virtuous precept, 'Keep up appearances whatever you do,' in which\nthey had been educated. They forbore at once, and jointly signified to\nMr Bailey that if he should presume to practice that figure any more in\ntheir presence, they would instantly acquaint Mrs Todgers with the fact,\nand would demand his condign punishment, at the hands of that lady. The\nyoung gentleman having expressed the bitterness of his contrition by\naffecting to wipe away scalding tears with his apron, and afterwards\nfeigning to wring a vast amount of water from that garment, held the\ndoor open while Miss Charity passed out; and so that damsel went in\nstate upstairs to receive her mysterious adorer.\n\nBy some strange occurrence of favourable circumstances he had found out\nthe drawing-room, and was sitting there alone.\n\n'Ah, cousin!' he said. 'Here I am, you see. You thought I was lost, I'll\nbe bound. Well! how do you find yourself by this time?'\n\nMiss Charity replied that she was quite well, and gave Mr Jonas\nChuzzlewit her hand.\n\n'That's right,' said Mr Jonas, 'and you've got over the fatigues of the\njourney have you? I say. How's the other one?'\n\n'My sister is very well, I believe,' returned the young lady. 'I have\nnot heard her complain of any indisposition, sir. Perhaps you would like\nto see her, and ask her yourself?'\n\n'No, no cousin!' said Mr Jonas, sitting down beside her on the\nwindow-seat. 'Don't be in a hurry. There's no occasion for that, you\nknow. What a cruel girl you are!'\n\n'It's impossible for YOU to know,' said Cherry, 'whether I am or not.'\n\n'Well, perhaps it is,' said Mr Jonas. 'I say--Did you think I was lost?\nYou haven't told me that.'\n\n'I didn't think at all about it,' answered Cherry.\n\n'Didn't you though?' said Jonas, pondering upon this strange reply. 'Did\nthe other one?'\n\n'I am sure it's impossible for me to say what my sister may, or may not\nhave thought on such a subject,' cried Cherry. 'She never said anything\nto me about it, one way or other.'\n\n'Didn't she laugh about it?' inquired Jonas.\n\n'No. She didn't even laugh about it,' answered Charity.\n\n'She's a terrible one to laugh, an't she?' said Jonas, lowering his\nvoice.\n\n'She is very lively,' said Cherry.\n\n'Liveliness is a pleasant thing--when it don't lead to spending money.\nAn't it?' asked Mr Jonas.\n\n'Very much so, indeed,' said Cherry, with a demureness of manner that\ngave a very disinterested character to her assent.\n\n'Such liveliness as yours I mean, you know,' observed Mr Jonas, as he\nnudged her with his elbow. 'I should have come to see you before, but I\ndidn't know where you was. How quick you hurried off, that morning!'\n\n'I was amenable to my papa's directions,' said Miss Charity.\n\n'I wish he had given me his direction,' returned her cousin, 'and then\nI should have found you out before. Why, I shouldn't have found you even\nnow, if I hadn't met him in the street this morning. What a sleek, sly\nchap he is! Just like a tomcat, an't he?'\n\n'I must trouble you to have the goodness to speak more respectfully of\nmy papa, Mr Jonas,' said Charity. 'I can't allow such a tone as that,\neven in jest.'\n\n'Ecod, you may say what you like of MY father, then, and so I give you\nleave,' said Jonas. 'I think it's liquid aggravation that circulates\nthrough his veins, and not regular blood. How old should you think my\nfather was, cousin?'\n\n'Old, no doubt,' replied Miss Charity; 'but a fine old gentleman.'\n\n'A fine old gentleman!' repeated Jonas, giving the crown of his hat an\nangry knock. 'Ah! It's time he was thinking of being drawn out a little\nfiner too. Why, he's eighty!'\n\n'Is he, indeed?' said the young lady.\n\n'And ecod,' cried Jonas, 'now he's gone so far without giving in, I\ndon't see much to prevent his being ninety; no, nor even a hundred. Why,\na man with any feeling ought to be ashamed of being eighty, let alone\nmore. Where's his religion, I should like to know, when he goes flying\nin the face of the Bible like that? Threescore-and-ten's the mark, and\nno man with a conscience, and a proper sense of what's expected of him,\nhas any business to live longer.'\n\nIs any one surprised at Mr Jonas making such a reference to such a\nbook for such a purpose? Does any one doubt the old saw, that the Devil\n(being a layman) quotes Scripture for his own ends? If he will take the\ntrouble to look about him, he may find a greater number of confirmations\nof the fact in the occurrences of any single day, than the steam-gun can\ndischarge balls in a minute.\n\n'But there's enough of my father,' said Jonas; 'it's of no use to go\nputting one's self out of the way by talking about HIM. I called to ask\nyou to come and take a walk, cousin, and see some of the sights; and\nto come to our house afterwards, and have a bit of something. Pecksniff\nwill most likely look in in the evening, he says, and bring you home.\nSee, here's his writing; I made him put it down this morning when he\ntold me he shouldn't be back before I came here; in case you wouldn't\nbelieve me. There's nothing like proof, is there? Ha, ha! I say--you'll\nbring the other one, you know!'\n\nMiss Charity cast her eyes upon her father's autograph, which merely\nsaid--'Go, my children, with your cousin. Let there be union among us\nwhen it is possible;' and after enough of hesitation to impart a proper\nvalue to her consent, withdrew to prepare her sister and herself for the\nexcursion. She soon returned, accompanied by Miss Mercy, who was by\nno means pleased to leave the brilliant triumphs of Todgers's for the\nsociety of Mr Jonas and his respected father.\n\n'Aha!' cried Jonas. 'There you are, are you?'\n\n'Yes, fright,' said Mercy, 'here I am; and I would much rather be\nanywhere else, I assure you.'\n\n'You don't mean that,' cried Mr Jonas. 'You can't, you know. It isn't\npossible.'\n\n'You can have what opinion you like, fright,' retorted Mercy. 'I am\ncontent to keep mine; and mine is that you are a very unpleasant,\nodious, disagreeable person.' Here she laughed heartily, and seemed to\nenjoy herself very much.\n\n'Oh, you're a sharp gal!' said Mr Jonas. 'She's a regular teaser, an't\nshe, cousin?'\n\nMiss Charity replied in effect, that she was unable to say what the\nhabits and propensities of a regular teaser might be; and that even if\nshe possessed such information, it would ill become her to admit the\nexistence of any creature with such an unceremonious name in her family;\nfar less in the person of a beloved sister; 'whatever,' added Cherry\nwith an angry glance, 'whatever her real nature may be.'\n\n'Well, my dear,' said Merry, 'the only observation I have to make is,\nthat if we don't go out at once, I shall certainly take my bonnet off\nagain, and stay at home.'\n\nThis threat had the desired effect of preventing any farther\naltercation, for Mr Jonas immediately proposed an adjournment, and\nthe same being carried unanimously, they departed from the house\nstraightway. On the doorstep, Mr Jonas gave an arm to each cousin;\nwhich act of gallantry being observed by Bailey junior, from the garret\nwindow, was by him saluted with a loud and violent fit of coughing, to\nwhich paroxysm he was still the victim when they turned the corner.\n\nMr Jonas inquired in the first instance if they were good walkers and\nbeing answered, 'Yes,' submitted their pedestrian powers to a pretty\nsevere test; for he showed them as many sights, in the way of bridges,\nchurches, streets, outsides of theatres, and other free spectacles,\nin that one forenoon, as most people see in a twelvemonth. It was\nobservable in this gentleman, that he had an insurmountable distaste to\nthe insides of buildings, and that he was perfectly acquainted with\nthe merits of all shows, in respect of which there was any charge for\nadmission, which it seemed were every one detestable, and of the very\nlowest grade of merit. He was so thoroughly possessed with this opinion,\nthat when Miss Charity happened to mention the circumstance of their\nhaving been twice or thrice to the theatre with Mr Jinkins and party, he\ninquired, as a matter of course, 'where the orders came from?' and being\ntold that Mr Jinkins and party paid, was beyond description entertained,\nobserving that 'they must be nice flats, certainly;' and often in the\ncourse of the walk, bursting out again into a perfect convulsion of\nlaughter at the surpassing silliness of those gentlemen, and (doubtless)\nat his own superior wisdom.\n\nWhen they had been out for some hours and were thoroughly fatigued, it\nbeing by that time twilight, Mr Jonas intimated that he would show them\none of the best pieces of fun with which he was acquainted. This joke\nwas of a practical kind, and its humour lay in taking a hackney-coach\nto the extreme limits of possibility for a shilling. Happily it brought\nthem to the place where Mr Jonas dwelt, or the young ladies might have\nrather missed the point and cream of the jest.\n\nThe old-established firm of Anthony Chuzzlewit and Son, Manchester\nWarehousemen, and so forth, had its place of business in a very narrow\nstreet somewhere behind the Post Office; where every house was in the\nbrightest summer morning very gloomy; and where light porters watered\nthe pavement, each before his own employer's premises, in fantastic\npatterns, in the dog-days; and where spruce gentlemen with their hands\nin the pockets of symmetrical trousers, were always to be seen in\nwarm weather, contemplating their undeniable boots in dusty warehouse\ndoorways; which appeared to be the hardest work they did, except now and\nthen carrying pens behind their ears. A dim, dirty, smoky, tumble-down,\nrotten old house it was, as anybody would desire to see; but there the\nfirm of Anthony Chuzzlewit and Son transacted all their business and\ntheir pleasure too, such as it was; for neither the young man nor the\nold had any other residence, or any care or thought beyond its narrow\nlimits.\n\nBusiness, as may be readily supposed, was the main thing in this\nestablishment; insomuch indeed that it shouldered comfort out of\ndoors, and jostled the domestic arrangements at every turn. Thus in the\nmiserable bedrooms there were files of moth-eaten letters hanging up\nagainst the walls; and linen rollers, and fragments of old patterns,\nand odds and ends of spoiled goods, strewed upon the ground; while the\nmeagre bedsteads, washing-stands, and scraps of carpet, were huddled\naway into corners as objects of secondary consideration, not to be\nthought of but as disagreeable necessities, furnishing no profit, and\nintruding on the one affair of life. The single sitting-room was on\nthe same principle, a chaos of boxes and old papers, and had more\ncounting-house stools in it than chairs; not to mention a great monster\nof a desk straddling over the middle of the floor, and an iron safe\nsunk into the wall above the fireplace. The solitary little table for\npurposes of refection and social enjoyment, bore as fair a proportion\nto the desk and other business furniture, as the graces and harmless\nrelaxations of life had ever done, in the persons of the old man and his\nson, to their pursuit of wealth. It was meanly laid out now for dinner;\nand in a chair before the fire sat Anthony himself, who rose to greet\nhis son and his fair cousins as they entered.\n\nAn ancient proverb warns us that we should not expect to find old heads\nupon young shoulders; to which it may be added that we seldom meet with\nthat unnatural combination, but we feel a strong desire to knock them\noff; merely from an inherent love we have of seeing things in their\nright places. It is not improbable that many men, in no wise choleric\nby nature, felt this impulse rising up within them, when they first made\nthe acquaintance of Mr Jonas; but if they had known him more intimately\nin his own house, and had sat with him at his own board, it would\nassuredly have been paramount to all other considerations.\n\n'Well, ghost!' said Mr Jonas, dutifully addressing his parent by that\ntitle. 'Is dinner nearly ready?'\n\n'I should think it was,' rejoined the old man.\n\n'What's the good of that?' rejoined the son. 'I should think it was. I\nwant to know.'\n\n'Ah! I don't know for certain,' said Anthony.\n\n'You don't know for certain,' rejoined his son in a lower tone. 'No. You\ndon't know anything for certain, YOU don't. Give me your candle here. I\nwant it for the gals.'\n\nAnthony handed him a battered old office candlestick, with which Mr\nJonas preceded the young ladies to the nearest bedroom, where he left\nthem to take off their shawls and bonnets; and returning, occupied\nhimself in opening a bottle of wine, sharpening the carving-knife, and\nmuttering compliments to his father, until they and the dinner appeared\ntogether. The repast consisted of a hot leg of mutton with greens and\npotatoes; and the dishes having been set upon the table by a slipshod\nold woman, they were left to enjoy it after their own manner.\n\n'Bachelor's Hall, you know, cousin,' said Mr Jonas to Charity. 'I\nsay--the other one will be having a laugh at this when she gets home,\nwon't she? Here; you sit on the right side of me, and I'll have her upon\nthe left. Other one, will you come here?'\n\n'You're such a fright,' replied Mercy, 'that I know I shall have no\nappetite if I sit so near you; but I suppose I must.'\n\n'An't she lively?' whispered Mr Jonas to the elder sister, with his\nfavourite elbow emphasis.\n\n'Oh I really don't know!' replied Miss Pecksniff, tartly. 'I am tired of\nbeing asked such ridiculous questions.'\n\n'What's that precious old father of mine about now?' said Mr Jonas,\nseeing that his parent was travelling up and down the room instead of\ntaking his seat at table. 'What are you looking for?'\n\n'I've lost my glasses, Jonas,' said old Anthony.\n\n'Sit down without your glasses, can't you?' returned his son. 'You don't\neat or drink out of 'em, I think; and where's that sleepy-headed old\nChuffey got to! Now, stupid. Oh! you know your name, do you?'\n\nIt would seem that he didn't, for he didn't come until the father\ncalled. As he spoke, the door of a small glass office, which was\npartitioned off from the rest of the room, was slowly opened, and a\nlittle blear-eyed, weazen-faced, ancient man came creeping out. He was\nof a remote fashion, and dusty, like the rest of the furniture; he was\ndressed in a decayed suit of black; with breeches garnished at the knees\nwith rusty wisps of ribbon, the very paupers of shoestrings; on the\nlower portion of his spindle legs were dingy worsted stockings of the\nsame colour. He looked as if he had been put away and forgotten half a\ncentury before, and somebody had just found him in a lumber-closet.\n\nSuch as he was, he came slowly creeping on towards the table, until at\nlast he crept into the vacant chair, from which, as his dim faculties\nbecame conscious of the presence of strangers, and those strangers\nladies, he rose again, apparently intending to make a bow. But he sat\ndown once more without having made it, and breathing on his shrivelled\nhands to warm them, remained with his poor blue nose immovable above his\nplate, looking at nothing, with eyes that saw nothing, and a face that\nmeant nothing. Take him in that state, and he was an embodiment of\nnothing. Nothing else.\n\n'Our clerk,' said Mr Jonas, as host and master of the ceremonies: 'Old\nChuffey.'\n\n'Is he deaf?' inquired one of the young ladies.\n\n'No, I don't know that he is. He an't deaf, is he, father?'\n\n'I never heard him say he was,' replied the old man.\n\n'Blind?' inquired the young ladies.\n\n'N--no. I never understood that he was at all blind,' said Jonas,\ncarelessly. 'You don't consider him so, do you, father?'\n\n'Certainly not,' replied Anthony.\n\n'What is he, then?'\n\n'Why, I'll tell you what he is,' said Mr Jonas, apart to the young\nladies, 'he's precious old, for one thing; and I an't best pleased with\nhim for that, for I think my father must have caught it of him. He's a\nstrange old chap, for another,' he added in a louder voice, 'and don't\nunderstand any one hardly, but HIM!' He pointed to his honoured parent\nwith the carving-fork, in order that they might know whom he meant.\n\n'How very strange!' cried the sisters.\n\n'Why, you see,' said Mr Jonas, 'he's been addling his old brains with\nfigures and book-keeping all his life; and twenty years ago or so he\nwent and took a fever. All the time he was out of his head (which was\nthree weeks) he never left off casting up; and he got to so many million\nat last that I don't believe he's ever been quite right since. We don't\ndo much business now though, and he an't a bad clerk.'\n\n'A very good one,' said Anthony.\n\n'Well! He an't a dear one at all events,' observed Jonas; 'and he earns\nhis salt, which is enough for our look-out. I was telling you that he\nhardly understands any one except my father; he always understands him,\nthough, and wakes up quite wonderful. He's been used to his ways so\nlong, you see! Why, I've seen him play whist, with my father for a\npartner; and a good rubber too; when he had no more notion what sort of\npeople he was playing against, than you have.'\n\n'Has he no appetite?' asked Merry.\n\n'Oh, yes,' said Jonas, plying his own knife and fork very fast. 'He\neats--when he's helped. But he don't care whether he waits a minute or\nan hour, as long as father's here; so when I'm at all sharp set, as I am\nto-day, I come to him after I've taken the edge off my own hunger, you\nknow. Now, Chuffey, stupid, are you ready?'\n\nChuffey remained immovable.\n\n'Always a perverse old file, he was,' said Mr Jonas, coolly helping\nhimself to another slice. 'Ask him, father.'\n\n'Are you ready for your dinner, Chuffey?' asked the old man\n\n'Yes, yes,' said Chuffey, lighting up into a sentient human creature at\nthe first sound of the voice, so that it was at once a curious and quite\na moving sight to see him. 'Yes, yes. Quite ready, Mr Chuzzlewit. Quite\nready, sir. All ready, all ready, all ready.' With that he stopped,\nsmilingly, and listened for some further address; but being spoken to\nno more, the light forsook his face by little and little, until he was\nnothing again.\n\n'He'll be very disagreeable, mind,' said Jonas, addressing his cousins\nas he handed the old man's portion to his father. 'He always chokes\nhimself when it an't broth. Look at him, now! Did you ever see a horse\nwith such a wall-eyed expression as he's got? If it hadn't been for the\njoke of it I wouldn't have let him come in to-day; but I thought he'd\namuse you.'\n\nThe poor old subject of this humane speech was, happily for himself, as\nunconscious of its purport as of most other remarks that were made in\nhis presence. But the mutton being tough, and his gums weak, he quickly\nverified the statement relative to his choking propensities, and\nunderwent so much in his attempts to dine, that Mr Jonas was infinitely\namused; protesting that he had seldom seen him better company in all\nhis life, and that he was enough to make a man split his sides with\nlaughing. Indeed, he went so far as to assure the sisters, that in this\npoint of view he considered Chuffey superior to his own father; which,\nas he significantly added, was saying a great deal.\n\nIt was strange enough that Anthony Chuzzlewit, himself so old a man,\nshould take a pleasure in these gibings of his estimable son at the\nexpense of the poor shadow at their table. But he did, unquestionably;\nthough not so much--to do him justice--with reference to their ancient\nclerk, as in exultation at the sharpness of Jonas. For the same reason\nthat young man's coarse allusions, even to himself, filled him with a\nstealthy glee; causing him to rub his hands and chuckle covertly, as if\nhe said in his sleeve, 'I taught him. I trained him. This is the heir of\nmy bringing-up. Sly, cunning, and covetous, he'll not squander my money.\nI worked for this; I hoped for this; it has been the great end and aim\nof my life.'\n\nWhat a noble end and aim it was to contemplate in the attainment truly!\nBut there be some who manufacture idols after the fashion of themselves,\nand fail to worship them when they are made; charging their deformity on\noutraged nature. Anthony was better than these at any rate.\n\nChuffey boggled over his plate so long, that Mr Jonas, losing patience,\ntook it from him at last with his own hands, and requested his father\nto signify to that venerable person that he had better 'peg away at his\nbread;' which Anthony did.\n\n'Aye, aye!' cried the old man, brightening up as before, when this was\ncommunicated to him in the same voice, 'quite right, quite right. He's\nyour own son, Mr Chuzzlewit! Bless him for a sharp lad! Bless him, bless\nhim!'\n\nMr Jonas considered this so particularly childish (perhaps with some\nreason), that he only laughed the more, and told his cousins that he was\nafraid one of these fine days, Chuffey would be the death of him. The\ncloth was then removed, and the bottle of wine set upon the table, from\nwhich Mr Jonas filled the young ladies' glasses, calling on them not to\nspare it, as they might be certain there was plenty more where that came\nfrom. But he added with some haste after this sally that it was only his\njoke, and they wouldn't suppose him to be in earnest, he was sure.\n\n'I shall drink,' said Anthony, 'to Pecksniff. Your father, my dears. A\nclever man, Pecksniff. A wary man! A hypocrite, though, eh? A hypocrite,\ngirls, eh? Ha, ha, ha! Well, so he is. Now, among friends, he is. I\ndon't think the worse of him for that, unless it is that he overdoes it.\nYou may overdo anything, my darlings. You may overdo even hypocrisy. Ask\nJonas!'\n\n'You can't overdo taking care of yourself,' observed that hopeful\ngentleman with his mouth full.\n\n'Do you hear that, my dears?' cried Anthony, quite enraptured. 'Wisdom,\nwisdom! A good exception, Jonas. No. It's not easy to overdo that.'\n\n'Except,' whispered Mr Jonas to his favourite cousin, 'except when one\nlives too long. Ha, ha! Tell the other one that--I say!'\n\n'Good gracious me!' said Cherry, in a petulant manner. 'You can tell her\nyourself, if you wish, can't you?'\n\n'She seems to make such game of one,' replied Mr Jonas.\n\n'Then why need you trouble yourself about her?' said Charity. 'I am sure\nshe doesn't trouble herself much about you.'\n\n'Don't she though?' asked Jonas.\n\n'Good gracious me, need I tell you that she don't?' returned the young\nlady.\n\nMr Jonas made no verbal rejoinder, but he glanced at Mercy with an odd\nexpression in his face; and said THAT wouldn't break his heart, she\nmight depend upon it. Then he looked on Charity with even greater favour\nthan before, and besought her, as his polite manner was, to 'come a\nlittle closer.'\n\n'There's another thing that's not easily overdone, father,' remarked\nJonas, after a short silence.\n\n'What's that?' asked the father; grinning already in anticipation.\n\n'A bargain,' said the son. 'Here's the rule for bargains--\"Do other men,\nfor they would do you.\" That's the true business precept. All others are\ncounterfeits.'\n\nThe delighted father applauded this sentiment to the echo; and was so\nmuch tickled by it, that he was at the pains of imparting the same to\nhis ancient clerk, who rubbed his hands, nodded his palsied head, winked\nhis watery eyes, and cried in his whistling tones, 'Good! good! Your own\nson, Mr Chuzzlewit' with every feeble demonstration of delight that he\nwas capable of making. But this old man's enthusiasm had the redeeming\nquality of being felt in sympathy with the only creature to whom he was\nlinked by ties of long association, and by his present helplessness. And\nif there had been anybody there, who cared to think about it, some dregs\nof a better nature unawakened, might perhaps have been descried through\nthat very medium, melancholy though it was, yet lingering at the bottom\nof the worn-out cask called Chuffey.\n\nAs matters stood, nobody thought or said anything upon the subject; so\nChuffey fell back into a dark corner on one side of the fireplace, where\nhe always spent his evenings, and was neither seen nor heard again that\nnight; save once, when a cup of tea was given him, in which he was seen\nto soak his bread mechanically. There was no reason to suppose that he\nwent to sleep at these seasons, or that he heard, or saw, or felt, or\nthought. He remained, as it were, frozen up--if any term expressive of\nsuch a vigorous process can be applied to him--until he was again thawed\nfor the moment by a word or touch from Anthony.\n\nMiss Charity made tea by desire of Mr Jonas, and felt and looked so\nlike the lady of the house that she was in the prettiest confusion\nimaginable; the more so from Mr Jonas sitting close beside her, and\nwhispering a variety of admiring expressions in her ear. Miss Mercy, for\nher part, felt the entertainment of the evening to be so distinctly\nand exclusively theirs, that she silently deplored the commercial\ngentlemen--at that moment, no doubt, wearying for her return--and yawned\nover yesterday's newspaper. As to Anthony, he went to sleep outright, so\nJonas and Cherry had a clear stage to themselves as long as they chose\nto keep possession of it.\n\nWhen the tea-tray was taken away, as it was at last, Mr Jonas produced a\ndirty pack of cards, and entertained the sisters with divers small feats\nof dexterity: whereof the main purpose of every one was, that you were\nto decoy somebody into laying a wager with you that you couldn't do it;\nand were then immediately to win and pocket his money. Mr Jonas\ninformed them that these accomplishments were in high vogue in the most\nintellectual circles, and that large amounts were constantly changing\nhands on such hazards. And it may be remarked that he fully believed\nthis; for there is a simplicity of cunning no less than a simplicity\nof innocence; and in all matters where a lively faith in knavery and\nmeanness was required as the ground-work of belief, Mr Jonas was one of\nthe most credulous of men. His ignorance, which was stupendous, may be\ntaken into account, if the reader pleases, separately.\n\nThis fine young man had all the inclination to be a profligate of the\nfirst water, and only lacked the one good trait in the common catalogue\nof debauched vices--open-handedness--to be a notable vagabond. But there\nhis griping and penurious habits stepped in; and as one poison will\nsometimes neutralise another, when wholesome remedies would not avail,\nso he was restrained by a bad passion from quaffing his full measure of\nevil, when virtue might have sought to hold him back in vain.\n\nBy the time he had unfolded all the peddling schemes he knew upon the\ncards, it was growing late in the evening; and Mr Pecksniff not making\nhis appearance, the young ladies expressed a wish to return home. But\nthis, Mr Jonas, in his gallantry, would by no means allow, until they\nhad partaken of some bread and cheese and porter; and even then he was\nexcessively unwilling to allow them to depart; often beseeching Miss\nCharity to come a little closer, or to stop a little longer, and\npreferring many other complimentary petitions of that nature in his own\nhospitable and earnest way. When all his efforts to detain them were\nfruitless, he put on his hat and greatcoat preparatory to escorting them\nto Todgers's; remarking that he knew they would rather walk thither than\nride; and that for his part he was quite of their opinion.\n\n'Good night,' said Anthony. 'Good night; remember me to--ha, ha, ha!--to\nPecksniff. Take care of your cousin, my dears; beware of Jonas; he's a\ndangerous fellow. Don't quarrel for him, in any case!'\n\n'Oh, the creature!' cried Mercy. 'The idea of quarrelling for HIM! You\nmay take him, Cherry, my love, all to yourself. I make you a present of\nmy share.'\n\n'What! I'm a sour grape, am I, cousin?' said Jonas.\n\nMiss Charity was more entertained by this repartee than one would have\nsupposed likely, considering its advanced age and simple character. But\nin her sisterly affection she took Mr Jonas to task for leaning so very\nhard upon a broken reed, and said that he must not be so cruel to poor\nMerry any more, or she (Charity) would positively be obliged to hate\nhim. Mercy, who really had her share of good humour, only retorted with\na laugh; and they walked home in consequence without any angry passages\nof words upon the way. Mr Jonas being in the middle, and having a cousin\non each arm, sometimes squeezed the wrong one; so tightly too, as to\ncause her not a little inconvenience; but as he talked to Charity in\nwhispers the whole time, and paid her great attention, no doubt this was\nan accidental circumstance. When they arrived at Todgers's, and the door\nwas opened, Mercy broke hastily from them, and ran upstairs; but Charity\nand Jonas lingered on the steps talking together for more than five\nminutes; so, as Mrs Todgers observed next morning, to a third party, 'It\nwas pretty clear what was going on THERE, and she was glad of it, for it\nreally was high time that Miss Pecksniff thought of settling.'\n\nAnd now the day was coming on, when that bright vision which had burst\non Todgers's so suddenly, and made a sunshine in the shady breast of\nJinkins, was to be seen no more; when it was to be packed, like a brown\npaper parcel, or a fish-basket, or an oyster barrel or a fat gentleman,\nor any other dull reality of life, in a stagecoach and carried down into\nthe country.\n\n'Never, my dear Miss Pecksniffs,' said Mrs Todgers, when they retired\nto rest on the last night of their stay, 'never have I seen an\nestablishment so perfectly broken-hearted as mine is at this present\nmoment of time. I don't believe the gentlemen will be the gentlemen they\nwere, or anything like it--no, not for weeks to come. You have a great\ndeal to answer for, both of you.'\n\nThey modestly disclaimed any wilful agency in this disastrous state of\nthings, and regretted it very much.\n\n'Your pious pa, too,' said Mrs Todgers. 'There's a loss! My dear Miss\nPecksniffs, your pa is a perfect missionary of peace and love.'\n\nEntertaining an uncertainty as to the particular kind of love supposed\nto be comprised in Mr Pecksniff's mission, the young ladies received the\ncompliment rather coldly.\n\n'If I dared,' said Mrs Todgers, perceiving this, 'to violate a\nconfidence which has been reposed in me, and to tell you why I must beg\nof you to leave the little door between your room and mine open tonight,\nI think you would be interested. But I mustn't do it, for I promised Mr\nJinkins faithfully, that I would be as silent as the tomb.'\n\n'Dear Mrs Todgers! What can you mean?'\n\n'Why, then, my sweet Miss Pecksniffs,' said the lady of the house; 'my\nown loves, if you will allow me the privilege of taking that freedom on\nthe eve of our separation, Mr Jinkins and the gentlemen have made up\na little musical party among themselves, and DO intend, in the dead of\nthis night, to perform a serenade upon the stairs outside the door. I\ncould have wished, I own,' said Mrs Todgers, with her usual foresight,\n'that it had been fixed to take place an hour or two earlier; because\nwhen gentlemen sit up late they drink, and when they drink they're not\nso musical, perhaps, as when they don't. But this is the arrangement;\nand I know you will be gratified, my dear Miss Pecksniffs, by such a\nmark of their attention.'\n\nThe young ladies were at first so much excited by the news, that they\nvowed they couldn't think of going to bed until the serenade was over.\nBut half an hour of cool waiting so altered their opinion that they not\nonly went to bed, but fell asleep; and were, moreover, not ecstatically\ncharmed to be awakened some time afterwards by certain dulcet strains\nbreaking in upon the silent watches of the night.\n\nIt was very affecting--very. Nothing more dismal could have been desired\nby the most fastidious taste. The gentleman of a vocal turn was head\nmute, or chief mourner; Jinkins took the bass; and the rest took\nanything they could get. The youngest gentleman blew his melancholy into\na flute. He didn't blow much out of it, but that was all the better.\nIf the two Miss Pecksniffs and Mrs Todgers had perished by spontaneous\ncombustion, and the serenade had been in honour of their ashes, it would\nhave been impossible to surpass the unutterable despair expressed in\nthat one chorus, 'Go where glory waits thee!' It was a requiem, a dirge,\na moan, a howl, a wail, a lament, an abstract of everything that is\nsorrowful and hideous in sound. The flute of the youngest gentleman was\nwild and fitful. It came and went in gusts, like the wind. For a long\ntime together he seemed to have left off, and when it was quite settled\nby Mrs Todgers and the young ladies that, overcome by his feelings, he\nhad retired in tears, he unexpectedly turned up again at the very top of\nthe tune, gasping for breath. He was a tremendous performer. There was\nno knowing where to have him; and exactly when you thought he was doing\nnothing at all, then was he doing the very thing that ought to astonish\nyou most.\n\nThere were several of these concerted pieces; perhaps two or three too\nmany, though that, as Mrs Todgers said, was a fault on the right side.\nBut even then, even at that solemn moment, when the thrilling sounds may\nbe presumed to have penetrated into the very depths of his nature, if he\nhad any depths, Jinkins couldn't leave the youngest gentleman alone. He\nasked him distinctly, before the second song began--as a personal favour\ntoo, mark the villain in that--not to play. Yes; he said so; not to\nplay. The breathing of the youngest gentleman was heard through the\nkey-hole of the door. He DIDN'T play. What vent was a flute for the\npassions swelling up within his breast? A trombone would have been a\nworld too mild.\n\nThe serenade approached its close. Its crowning interest was at hand.\nThe gentleman of a literary turn had written a song on the departure of\nthe ladies, and adapted it to an old tune. They all joined, except\nthe youngest gentleman in company, who, for the reasons aforesaid,\nmaintained a fearful silence. The song (which was of a classical nature)\ninvoked the oracle of Apollo, and demanded to know what would become\nof Todgers's when CHARITY and MERCY were banished from its walls. The\noracle delivered no opinion particularly worth remembering, according\nto the not infrequent practice of oracles from the earliest ages down to\nthe present time. In the absence of enlightenment on that subject, the\nstrain deserted it, and went on to show that the Miss Pecksniffs were\nnearly related to Rule Britannia, and that if Great Britain hadn't been\nan island, there could have been no Miss Pecksniffs. And being now on a\nnautical tack, it closed with this verse:\n\n     'All hail to the vessel of Pecksniff the sire!\n            And favouring breezes to fan;\n     While Tritons flock round it, and proudly admire\n            The architect, artist, and man!'\n\nAs they presented this beautiful picture to the imagination, the\ngentlemen gradually withdrew to bed to give the music the effect of\ndistance; and so it died away, and Todgers's was left to its repose.\n\nMr Bailey reserved his vocal offering until the morning, when he put\nhis head into the room as the young ladies were kneeling before their\ntrunks, packing up, and treated them to an imitation of the voice of\na young dog in trying circumstances; when that animal is supposed by\npersons of a lively fancy, to relieve his feelings by calling for pen\nand ink.\n\n'Well, young ladies,' said the youth, 'so you're a-going home, are you,\nworse luck?'\n\n'Yes, Bailey, we're going home,' returned Mercy.\n\n'An't you a-going to leave none of 'em a lock of your hair?' inquired\nthe youth. 'It's real, an't it?'\n\nThey laughed at this, and told him of course it was.\n\n'Oh, is it of course, though?' said Bailey. 'I know better than that.\nHers an't. Why, I see it hanging up once, on that nail by the winder.\nBesides, I have gone behind her at dinner-time and pulled it; and she\nnever know'd. I say, young ladies, I'm a-going to leave. I an't a-going\nto stand being called names by her, no longer.'\n\nMiss Mercy inquired what his plans for the future might be; in reply to\nwhom Mr Bailey intimated that he thought of going either into top-boots,\nor into the army.\n\n'Into the army!' cried the young ladies, with a laugh.\n\n'Ah!' said Bailey, 'why not? There's a many drummers in the Tower. I'm\nacquainted with 'em. Don't their country set a valley on 'em, mind you!\nNot at all!'\n\n'You'll be shot, I see,' observed Mercy.\n\n'Well!' cried Mr Bailey, 'wot if I am? There's something gamey in it,\nyoung ladies, an't there? I'd sooner be hit with a cannon-ball than a\nrolling-pin, and she's always a-catching up something of that sort, and\nthrowing it at me, when the gentlemans' appetites is good. Wot,' said\nMr Bailey, stung by the recollection of his wrongs, 'wot, if they DO\nconsume the per-vishuns. It an't MY fault, is it?'\n\n'Surely no one says it is,' said Mercy.\n\n'Don't they though?' retorted the youth. 'No. Yes. Ah! oh! No one mayn't\nsay it is! but some one knows it is. But I an't a-going to have every\nrise in prices wisited on me. I an't a-going to be killed because\nthe markets is dear. I won't stop. And therefore,' added Mr Bailey,\nrelenting into a smile, 'wotever you mean to give me, you'd better give\nme all at once, becos if ever you come back agin, I shan't be here; and\nas to the other boy, HE won't deserve nothing, I know.'\n\nThe young ladies, on behalf of Mr Pecksniff and themselves, acted\non this thoughtful advice; and in consideration of their private\nfriendship, presented Mr Bailey with a gratuity so liberal that he could\nhardly do enough to show his gratitude; which found but an imperfect\nvent, during the remainder of the day, in divers secret slaps upon his\npocket, and other such facetious pantomime. Nor was it confined to these\nebullitions; for besides crushing a bandbox, with a bonnet in it, he\nseriously damaged Mr Pecksniff's luggage, by ardently hauling it down\nfrom the top of the house; and in short evinced, by every means in his\npower, a lively sense of the favours he had received from that gentleman\nand his family.\n\nMr Pecksniff and Mr Jinkins came home to dinner arm-in-arm; for the\nlatter gentleman had made half-holiday on purpose; thus gaining an\nimmense advantage over the youngest gentleman and the rest, whose time,\nas it perversely chanced, was all bespoke, until the evening. The bottle\nof wine was Mr Pecksniff's treat, and they were very sociable indeed;\nthough full of lamentations on the necessity of parting. While they were\nin the midst of their enjoyment, old Anthony and his son were announced;\nmuch to the surprise of Mr Pecksniff, and greatly to the discomfiture of\nJinkins.\n\n'Come to say good-bye, you see,' said Anthony, in a low voice, to Mr\nPecksniff, as they took their seats apart at the table, while the rest\nconversed among themselves. 'Where's the use of a division between\nyou and me? We are the two halves of a pair of scissors, when apart,\nPecksniff; but together we are something. Eh?'\n\n'Unanimity, my good sir,' rejoined Mr Pecksniff, 'is always delightful.'\n\n'I don't know about that,' said the old man, 'for there are some people\nI would rather differ from than agree with. But you know my opinion of\nyou.'\n\nMr Pecksniff, still having 'hypocrite' in his mind, only replied by a\nmotion of his head, which was something between an affirmative bow, and\na negative shake.\n\n'Complimentary,' said Anthony. 'Complimentary, upon my word. It was an\ninvoluntary tribute to your abilities, even at the time; and it was not\na time to suggest compliments either. But we agreed in the coach, you\nknow, that we quite understood each other.'\n\n'Oh, quite!' assented Mr Pecksniff, in a manner which implied that he\nhimself was misunderstood most cruelly, but would not complain.\n\nAnthony glanced at his son as he sat beside Miss Charity, and then at Mr\nPecksniff, and then at his son again, very many times. It happened that\nMr Pecksniff's glances took a similar direction; but when he became\naware of it, he first cast down his eyes, and then closed them; as if he\nwere determined that the old man should read nothing there.\n\n'Jonas is a shrewd lad,' said the old man.\n\n'He appears,' rejoined Mr Pecksniff in his most candid manner, 'to be\nvery shrewd.'\n\n'And careful,' said the old man.\n\n'And careful, I have no doubt,' returned Mr Pecksniff.\n\n'Look ye!' said Anthony in his ear. 'I think he is sweet upon you\ndaughter.'\n\n'Tut, my good sir,' said Mr Pecksniff, with his eyes still closed;\n'young people--young people--a kind of cousins, too--no more sweetness\nthan is in that, sir.'\n\n'Why, there is very little sweetness in that, according to our\nexperience,' returned Anthony. 'Isn't there a trifle more here?'\n\n'Impossible to say,' rejoined Mr Pecksniff. 'Quite impossible! You\nsurprise me.'\n\n'Yes, I know that,' said the old man, drily. 'It may last; I mean the\nsweetness, not the surprise; and it may die off. Supposing it should\nlast, perhaps (you having feathered your nest pretty well, and I having\ndone the same), we might have a mutual interest in the matter.'\n\nMr Pecksniff, smiling gently, was about to speak, but Anthony stopped\nhim.\n\n'I know what you are going to say. It's quite unnecessary. You have\nnever thought of this for a moment; and in a point so nearly affecting\nthe happiness of your dear child, you couldn't, as a tender father,\nexpress an opinion; and so forth. Yes, quite right. And like you! But it\nseems to me, my dear Pecksniff,' added Anthony, laying his hand upon\nhis sleeve, 'that if you and I kept up the joke of pretending not to see\nthis, one of us might possibly be placed in a position of disadvantage;\nand as I am very unwilling to be that party myself, you will excuse my\ntaking the liberty of putting the matter beyond a doubt thus early; and\nhaving it distinctly understood, as it is now, that we do see it, and do\nknow it. Thank you for your attention. We are now upon an equal footing;\nwhich is agreeable to us both, I am sure.'\n\nHe rose as he spoke; and giving Mr Pecksniff a nod of intelligence,\nmoved away from him to where the young people were sitting; leaving that\ngood man somewhat puzzled and discomfited by such very plain dealing,\nand not quite free from a sense of having been foiled in the exercise of\nhis familiar weapons.\n\nBut the night-coach had a punctual character, and it was time to join\nit at the office; which was so near at hand that they had already sent\ntheir luggage and arranged to walk. Thither the whole party repaired,\ntherefore, after no more delay than sufficed for the equipment of the\nMiss Pecksniffs and Mrs Todgers. They found the coach already at its\nstarting-place, and the horses in; there, too, were a large majority\nof the commercial gentlemen, including the youngest, who was visibly\nagitated, and in a state of deep mental dejection.\n\nNothing could equal the distress of Mrs Todgers in parting from the\nyoung ladies, except the strong emotions with which she bade adieu to Mr\nPecksniff. Never surely was a pocket-handkerchief taken in and out of\na flat reticule so often as Mrs Todgers's was, as she stood upon the\npavement by the coach-door supported on either side by a commercial\ngentleman; and by the sight of the coach-lamps caught such brief\nsnatches and glimpses of the good man's face, as the constant\ninterposition of Mr Jinkins allowed. For Jinkins, to the last the\nyoungest gentleman's rock a-head in life, stood upon the coachstep\ntalking to the ladies. Upon the other step was Mr Jonas, who maintained\nthat position in right of his cousinship; whereas the youngest\ngentleman, who had been first upon the ground, was deep in the\nbooking-office among the black and red placards, and the portraits of\nfast coaches, where he was ignominiously harassed by porters, and had to\ncontend and strive perpetually with heavy baggage. This false\nposition, combined with his nervous excitement, brought about the very\nconsummation and catastrophe of his miseries; for when in the moment of\nparting he aimed a flower, a hothouse flower that had cost money, at the\nfair hand of Mercy, it reached, instead, the coachman on the box, who\nthanked him kindly, and stuck it in his buttonhole.\n\nThey were off now; and Todgers's was alone again. The two young ladies,\nleaning back in their separate corners, resigned themselves to their\nown regretful thoughts. But Mr Pecksniff, dismissing all ephemeral\nconsiderations of social pleasure and enjoyment, concentrated his\nmeditations on the one great virtuous purpose before him, of casting\nout that ingrate and deceiver, whose presence yet troubled his domestic\nhearth, and was a sacrilege upon the altars of his household gods.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER TWELVE\n\nWILL BE SEEN IN THE LONG RUN, IF NOT IN THE SHORT ONE, TO CONCERN MR\nPINCH AND OTHERS, NEARLY. MR PECKSNIFF ASSERTS THE DIGNITY OF OUTRAGED\nVIRTUE. YOUNG MARTIN CHUZZLEWIT FORMS A DESPERATE RESOLUTION\n\n\nMr Pinch and Martin, little dreaming of the stormy weather that\nimpended, made themselves very comfortable in the Pecksniffian halls,\nand improved their friendship daily. Martin's facility, both of\ninvention and execution, being remarkable, the grammar-school proceeded\nwith great vigour; and Tom repeatedly declared, that if there were\nanything like certainty in human affairs, or impartiality in human\njudges, a design so new and full of merit could not fail to carry off\nthe first prize when the time of competition arrived. Without being\nquite so sanguine himself, Martin had his hopeful anticipations too; and\nthey served to make him brisk and eager at his task.\n\n'If I should turn out a great architect, Tom,' said the new pupil one\nday, as he stood at a little distance from his drawing, and eyed it with\nmuch complacency, 'I'll tell you what should be one of the things I'd\nbuild.'\n\n'Aye!' cried Tom. 'What?'\n\n'Why, your fortune.'\n\n'No!' said Tom Pinch, quite as much delighted as if the thing were done.\n'Would you though? How kind of you to say so.'\n\n'I'd build it up, Tom,' returned Martin, 'on such a strong foundation,\nthat it should last your life--aye, and your children's lives too, and\ntheir children's after them. I'd be your patron, Tom. I'd take you under\nmy protection. Let me see the man who should give the cold shoulder to\nanybody I chose to protect and patronise, if I were at the top of the\ntree, Tom!'\n\n'Now, I don't think,' said Mr Pinch, 'upon my word, that I was ever more\ngratified than by this. I really don't.'\n\n'Oh! I mean what I say,' retorted Martin, with a manner as free and easy\nin its condescension to, not to say in its compassion for, the other, as\nif he were already First Architect in ordinary to all the Crowned Heads\nin Europe. 'I'd do it. I'd provide for you.'\n\n'I am afraid,' said Tom, shaking his head, 'that I should be a mighty\nawkward person to provide for.'\n\n'Pooh, pooh!' rejoined Martin. 'Never mind that. If I took it in my head\nto say, \"Pinch is a clever fellow; I approve of Pinch;\" I should like\nto know the man who would venture to put himself in opposition to me.\nBesides, confound it, Tom, you could be useful to me in a hundred ways.'\n\n'If I were not useful in one or two, it shouldn't be for want of\ntrying,' said Tom.\n\n'For instance,' pursued Martin, after a short reflection, 'you'd be a\ncapital fellow, now, to see that my ideas were properly carried out; and\nto overlook the works in their progress before they were sufficiently\nadvanced to be very interesting to ME; and to take all that sort of\nplain sailing. Then you'd be a splendid fellow to show people over my\nstudio, and to talk about Art to 'em, when I couldn't be bored myself,\nand all that kind of thing. For it would be devilish creditable, Tom\n(I'm quite in earnest, I give you my word), to have a man of your\ninformation about one, instead of some ordinary blockhead. Oh, I'd take\ncare of you. You'd be useful, rely upon it!'\n\nTo say that Tom had no idea of playing first fiddle in any social\norchestra, but was always quite satisfied to be set down for the hundred\nand fiftieth violin in the band, or thereabouts, is to express his\nmodesty in very inadequate terms. He was much delighted, therefore, by\nthese observations.\n\n'I should be married to her then, Tom, of course,' said Martin.\n\nWhat was that which checked Tom Pinch so suddenly, in the high flow\nof his gladness; bringing the blood into his honest cheeks, and a\nremorseful feeling to his honest heart, as if he were unworthy of his\nfriend's regard?\n\n'I should be married to her then,' said Martin, looking with a smile\ntowards the light; 'and we should have, I hope, children about us.\nThey'd be very fond of you, Tom.'\n\nBut not a word said Mr Pinch. The words he would have uttered died upon\nhis lips, and found a life more spiritual in self-denying thoughts.\n\n'All the children hereabouts are fond of you, Tom, and mine would be,\nof course,' pursued Martin. 'Perhaps I might name one of 'em after\nyou. Tom, eh? Well, I don't know. Tom's not a bad name. Thomas Pinch\nChuzzlewit. T. P. C. on his pinafores--no objection to that, I should\nsay?'\n\nTom cleared his throat, and smiled.\n\n'SHE would like you, Tom, I know,' said Martin.\n\n'Aye!' cried Tom Pinch, faintly.\n\n'I can tell exactly what she would think of you,' said Martin leaning\nhis chin upon his hand, and looking through the window-glass as if he\nread there what he said; 'I know her so well. She would smile, Tom,\noften at first when you spoke to her, or when she looked at you--merrily\ntoo--but you wouldn't mind that. A brighter smile you never saw.'\n\n'No, no,' said Tom. 'I wouldn't mind that.'\n\n'She would be as tender with you, Tom,' said Martin, 'as if you were a\nchild yourself. So you are almost, in some things, an't you, Tom?'\n\nMr Pinch nodded his entire assent.\n\n'She would always be kind and good-humoured, and glad to see you,' said\nMartin; 'and when she found out exactly what sort of fellow you were\n(which she'd do very soon), she would pretend to give you little\ncommissions to execute, and to ask little services of you, which she\nknew you were burning to render; so that when she really pleased you\nmost, she would try to make you think you most pleased her. She\nwould take to you uncommonly, Tom; and would understand you far more\ndelicately than I ever shall; and would often say, I know, that you were\na harmless, gentle, well-intentioned, good fellow.'\n\nHow silent Tom Pinch was!\n\n'In honour of old time,' said Martin, 'and of her having heard you play\nthe organ in this damp little church down here--for nothing too--we will\nhave one in the house. I shall build an architectural music-room on a\nplan of my own, and it'll look rather knowing in a recess at one end.\nThere you shall play away, Tom, till you tire yourself; and, as you like\nto do so in the dark, it shall BE dark; and many's the summer evening\nshe and I will sit and listen to you, Tom; be sure of that!'\n\nIt may have required a stronger effort on Tom Pinch's part to leave the\nseat on which he sat, and shake his friend by both hands, with nothing\nbut serenity and grateful feeling painted on his face; it may have\nrequired a stronger effort to perform this simple act with a pure heart,\nthan to achieve many and many a deed to which the doubtful trumpet blown\nby Fame has lustily resounded. Doubtful, because from its long hovering\nover scenes of violence, the smoke and steam of death have clogged the\nkeys of that brave instrument; and it is not always that its notes are\neither true or tuneful.\n\n'It's a proof of the kindness of human nature,' said Tom,\ncharacteristically putting himself quite out of sight in the matter,\n'that everybody who comes here, as you have done, is more considerate\nand affectionate to me than I should have any right to hope, if I were\nthe most sanguine creature in the world; or should have any power to\nexpress, if I were the most eloquent. It really overpowers me. But trust\nme,' said Tom, 'that I am not ungrateful--that I never forget--and that\nif I can ever prove the truth of my words to you, I will.'\n\n'That's all right,' observed Martin, leaning back in his chair with a\nhand in each pocket, and yawning drearily. 'Very fine talking, Tom;\nbut I'm at Pecksniff's, I remember, and perhaps a mile or so out of the\nhigh-road to fortune just at this minute. So you've heard again this\nmorning from what's his name, eh?'\n\n'Who may that be?' asked Tom, seeming to enter a mild protest on behalf\nof the dignity of an absent person.\n\n'YOU know. What is it? Northkey.'\n\n'Westlock,' rejoined Tom, in rather a louder tone than usual.\n\n'Ah! to be sure,' said Martin, 'Westlock. I knew it was something\nconnected with a point of the compass and a door. Well! and what says\nWestlock?'\n\n'Oh! he has come into his property,' answered Tom, nodding his head, and\nsmiling.\n\n'He's a lucky dog,' said Martin. 'I wish it were mine instead. Is that\nall the mystery you were to tell me?'\n\n'No,' said Tom; 'not all.'\n\n'What's the rest?' asked Martin.\n\n'For the matter of that,' said Tom, 'it's no mystery, and you won't\nthink much of it; but it's very pleasant to me. John always used to say\nwhen he was here, \"Mark my words, Pinch. When my father's executors cash\nup\"--he used strange expressions now and then, but that was his way.'\n\n'Cash-up's a very good expression,' observed Martin, 'when other people\ndon't apply it to you. Well!--What a slow fellow you are, Pinch!'\n\n'Yes, I am I know,' said Tom; 'but you'll make me nervous if you tell me\nso. I'm afraid you have put me out a little now, for I forget what I was\ngoing to say.'\n\n'When John's father's executors cashed up,' said Martin impatiently.\n\n'Oh yes, to be sure,' cried Tom; 'yes. \"Then,\" says John, \"I'll give you\na dinner, Pinch, and come down to Salisbury on purpose.\" Now, when John\nwrote the other day--the morning Pecksniff left, you know--he said his\nbusiness was on the point of being immediately settled, and as he was to\nreceive his money directly, when could I meet him at Salisbury? I wrote\nand said, any day this week; and I told him besides, that there was a\nnew pupil here, and what a fine fellow you were, and what friends we\nhad become. Upon which John writes back this letter'--Tom produced\nit--'fixes to-morrow; sends his compliments to you; and begs that we\nthree may have the pleasure of dining together; not at the house where\nyou and I were, either; but at the very first hotel in the town. Read\nwhat he says.'\n\n'Very well,' said Martin, glancing over it with his customary coolness;\n'much obliged to him. I'm agreeable.'\n\nTom could have wished him to be a little more astonished, a little more\npleased, or in some form or other a little more interested in such a\ngreat event. But he was perfectly self-possessed; and falling into his\nfavourite solace of whistling, took another turn at the grammar-school,\nas if nothing at all had happened.\n\nMr Pecksniff's horse being regarded in the light of a sacred animal,\nonly to be driven by him, the chief priest of that temple, or by some\nperson distinctly nominated for the time being to that high office by\nhimself, the two young men agreed to walk to Salisbury; and so, when the\ntime came, they set off on foot; which was, after all, a better mode of\ntravelling than in the gig, as the weather was very cold and very dry.\n\nBetter! A rare strong, hearty, healthy walk--four statute miles an\nhour--preferable to that rumbling, tumbling, jolting, shaking, scraping,\ncreaking, villanous old gig? Why, the two things will not admit of\ncomparison. It is an insult to the walk, to set them side by side. Where\nis an instance of a gig having ever circulated a man's blood, unless\nwhen, putting him in danger of his neck, it awakened in his veins and in\nhis ears, and all along his spine, a tingling heat, much more peculiar\nthan agreeable? When did a gig ever sharpen anybody's wits and energies,\nunless it was when the horse bolted, and, crashing madly down a steep\nhill with a stone wall at the bottom, his desperate circumstances\nsuggested to the only gentleman left inside, some novel and unheard-of\nmode of dropping out behind? Better than the gig!\n\nThe air was cold, Tom; so it was, there was no denying it; but would\nit have been more genial in the gig? The blacksmith's fire burned very\nbright, and leaped up high, as though it wanted men to warm; but would\nit have been less tempting, looked at from the clammy cushions of a gig?\nThe wind blew keenly, nipping the features of the hardy wight who fought\nhis way along; blinding him with his own hair if he had enough to it,\nand wintry dust if he hadn't; stopping his breath as though he had been\nsoused in a cold bath; tearing aside his wrappings-up, and whistling in\nthe very marrow of his bones; but it would have done all this a hundred\ntimes more fiercely to a man in a gig, wouldn't it? A fig for gigs!\n\nBetter than the gig! When were travellers by wheels and hoofs seen with\nsuch red-hot cheeks as those? when were they so good-humouredly and\nmerrily bloused? when did their laughter ring upon the air, as they\nturned them round, what time the stronger gusts came sweeping up; and,\nfacing round again as they passed by, dashed on, in such a glow of\nruddy health as nothing could keep pace with, but the high spirits it\nengendered? Better than the gig! Why, here is a man in a gig coming\nthe same way now. Look at him as he passes his whip into his left hand,\nchafes his numbed right fingers on his granite leg, and beats those\nmarble toes of his upon the foot-board. Ha, ha, ha! Who would exchange\nthis rapid hurry of the blood for yonder stagnant misery, though its\npace were twenty miles for one?\n\nBetter than the gig! No man in a gig could have such interest in the\nmilestones. No man in a gig could see, or feel, or think, like merry\nusers of their legs. How, as the wind sweeps on, upon these breezy\ndowns, it tracks its flight in darkening ripples on the grass, and\nsmoothest shadows on the hills! Look round and round upon this bare\nbleak plain, and see even here, upon a winter's day, how beautiful\nthe shadows are! Alas! it is the nature of their kind to be so. The\nloveliest things in life, Tom, are but shadows; and they come and go,\nand change and fade away, as rapidly as these!\n\nAnother mile, and then begins a fall of snow, making the crow, who skims\naway so close above the ground to shirk the wind, a blot of ink upon the\nlandscape. But though it drives and drifts against them as they walk,\nstiffening on their skirts, and freezing in the lashes of their eyes,\nthey wouldn't have it fall more sparingly, no, not so much as by a\nsingle flake, although they had to go a score of miles. And, lo! the\ntowers of the Old Cathedral rise before them, even now! and by-and-bye\nthey come into the sheltered streets, made strangely silent by their\nwhite carpet; and so to the Inn for which they are bound; where they\npresent such flushed and burning faces to the cold waiter, and are so\nbrimful of vigour, that he almost feels assaulted by their presence;\nand, having nothing to oppose to the attack (being fresh, or rather\nstale, from the blazing fire in the coffee-room), is quite put out of\nhis pale countenance.\n\nA famous Inn! the hall a very grove of dead game, and dangling joints\nof mutton; and in one corner an illustrious larder, with glass doors,\ndeveloping cold fowls and noble joints, and tarts wherein the raspberry\njam coyly withdrew itself, as such a precious creature should, behind a\nlattice work of pastry. And behold, on the first floor, at the court-end\nof the house, in a room with all the window-curtains drawn, a fire piled\nhalf-way up the chimney, plates warming before it, wax candles gleaming\neverywhere, and a table spread for three, with silver and glass enough\nfor thirty--John Westlock; not the old John of Pecksniff's, but a proper\ngentleman; looking another and a grander person, with the consciousness\nof being his own master and having money in the bank; and yet in some\nrespects the old John too, for he seized Tom Pinch by both his hands the\ninstant he appeared, and fairly hugged him, in his cordial welcome.\n\n'And this,' said John, 'is Mr Chuzzlewit. I am very glad to see\nhim!'--John had an off-hand manner of his own; so they shook hands\nwarmly, and were friends in no time.\n\n'Stand off a moment, Tom,' cried the old pupil, laying one hand on each\nof Mr Pinch's shoulders, and holding him out at arm's length. 'Let me\nlook at you! Just the same! Not a bit changed!'\n\n'Why, it's not so very long ago, you know,' said Tom Pinch, 'after all.'\n\n'It seems an age to me,' cried John, 'and so it ought to seem to you,\nyou dog.' And then he pushed Tom down into the easiest chair, and\nclapped him on the back so heartily, and so like his old self in their\nold bedroom at old Pecksniff's that it was a toss-up with Tom Pinch\nwhether he should laugh or cry. Laughter won it; and they all three\nlaughed together.\n\n'I have ordered everything for dinner, that we used to say we'd have,\nTom,' observed John Westlock.\n\n'No!' said Tom Pinch. 'Have you?'\n\n'Everything. Don't laugh, if you can help it, before the waiters. I\ncouldn't when I was ordering it. It's like a dream.'\n\nJohn was wrong there, because nobody ever dreamed such soup as was put\nupon the table directly afterwards; or such fish; or such side-dishes;\nor such a top and bottom; or such a course of birds and sweets; or\nin short anything approaching the reality of that entertainment at\nten-and-sixpence a head, exclusive of wines. As to THEM, the man who can\ndream such iced champagne, such claret, port, or sherry, had better go\nto bed and stop there.\n\nBut perhaps the finest feature of the banquet was, that nobody was half\nso much amazed by everything as John himself, who in his high delight\nwas constantly bursting into fits of laughter, and then endeavouring\nto appear preternaturally solemn, lest the waiters should conceive he\nwasn't used to it. Some of the things they brought him to carve, were\nsuch outrageous practical jokes, though, that it was impossible to stand\nit; and when Tom Pinch insisted, in spite of the deferential advice of\nan attendant, not only on breaking down the outer wall of a raised pie\nwith a tablespoon, but on trying to eat it afterwards, John lost all\ndignity, and sat behind the gorgeous dish-cover at the head of the\ntable, roaring to that extent that he was audible in the kitchen. Nor\nhad he the least objection to laugh at himself, as he demonstrated when\nthey had all three gathered round the fire and the dessert was on\nthe table; at which period the head waiter inquired with respectful\nsolicitude whether that port, being a light and tawny wine, was suited\nto his taste, or whether he would wish to try a fruity port with greater\nbody. To this John gravely answered that he was well satisfied with what\nhe had, which he esteemed, as one might say, a pretty tidy vintage;\nfor which the waiter thanked him and withdrew. And then John told his\nfriends, with a broad grin, that he supposed it was all right, but he\ndidn't know; and went off into a perfect shout.\n\nThey were very merry and full of enjoyment the whole time, but not the\nleast pleasant part of the festival was when they all three sat about\nthe fire, cracking nuts, drinking wine and talking cheerfully. It\nhappened that Tom Pinch had a word to say to his friend the organist's\nassistant, and so deserted his warm corner for a few minutes at this\nseason, lest it should grow too late; leaving the other two young men\ntogether.\n\nThey drank his health in his absence, of course; and John Westlock took\nthat opportunity of saying, that he had never had even a peevish word\nwith Tom during the whole term of their residence in Mr Pecksniff's\nhouse. This naturally led him to dwell upon Tom's character, and to hint\nthat Mr Pecksniff understood it pretty well. He only hinted this, and\nvery distantly; knowing that it pained Tom Pinch to have that gentleman\ndisparaged, and thinking it would be as well to leave the new pupil to\nhis own discoveries.\n\n'Yes,' said Martin. 'It's impossible to like Pinch better than I do,\nor to do greater justice to his good qualities. He is the most willing\nfellow I ever saw.'\n\n'He's rather too willing,' observed John, who was quick in observation.\n'It's quite a fault in him.'\n\n'So it is,' said Martin. 'Very true. There was a fellow only a week or\nso ago--a Mr Tigg--who borrowed all the money he had, on a promise to\nrepay it in a few days. It was but half a sovereign, to be sure; but\nit's well it was no more, for he'll never see it again.'\n\n'Poor fellow!' said John, who had been very attentive to these few\nwords. 'Perhaps you have not had an opportunity of observing that, in\nhis own pecuniary transactions, Tom's proud.'\n\n'You don't say so! No, I haven't. What do you mean? Won't he borrow?'\n\nJohn Westlock shook his head.\n\n'That's very odd,' said Martin, setting down his empty glass. 'He's a\nstrange compound, to be sure.'\n\n'As to receiving money as a gift,' resumed John Westlock; 'I think he'd\ndie first.'\n\n'He's made up of simplicity,' said Martin. 'Help yourself.'\n\n'You, however,' pursued John, filling his own glass, and looking at his\ncompanion with some curiosity, 'who are older than the majority of Mr\nPecksniff's assistants, and have evidently had much more experience,\nunderstand him, I have no doubt, and see how liable he is to be imposed\nupon.'\n\n'Certainly,' said Martin, stretching out his legs, and holding his wine\nbetween his eye and the light. 'Mr Pecksniff knows that too. So do his\ndaughters. Eh?'\n\nJohn Westlock smiled, but made no answer.\n\n'By the bye,' said Martin, 'that reminds me. What's your opinion of\nPecksniff? How did he use you? What do you think of him now?--Coolly,\nyou know, when it's all over?'\n\n'Ask Pinch,' returned the old pupil. 'He knows what my sentiments used\nto be upon the subject. They are not changed, I assure you.'\n\n'No, no,' said Martin, 'I'd rather have them from you.'\n\n'But Pinch says they are unjust,' urged John with a smile.\n\n'Oh! well! Then I know what course they take beforehand,' said Martin;\n'and, therefore, you can have no delicacy in speaking plainly. Don't\nmind me, I beg. I don't like him I tell you frankly. I am with him\nbecause it happens from particular circumstances to suit my convenience.\nI have some ability, I believe, in that way; and the obligation, if any,\nwill most likely be on his side and not mine. At the lowest mark, the\nbalance will be even, and there'll be no obligation at all. So you may\ntalk to me, as if I had no connection with him.'\n\n'If you press me to give my opinion--' returned John Westlock.\n\n'Yes, I do,' said Martin. 'You'll oblige me.'\n\n'--I should say,' resumed the other, 'that he is the most consummate\nscoundrel on the face of the earth.'\n\n'Oh!' said Martin, as coolly as ever. 'That's rather strong.'\n\n'Not stronger than he deserves,' said John; 'and if he called upon me\nto express my opinion of him to his face, I would do so in the very same\nterms, without the least qualification. His treatment of Pinch is in\nitself enough to justify them; but when I look back upon the five years\nI passed in that house, and remember the hyprocrisy, the knavery, the\nmeannesses, the false pretences, the lip service of that fellow, and\nhis trading in saintly semblances for the very worst realities; when\nI remember how often I was the witness of all this and how often I was\nmade a kind of party to it, by the fact of being there, with him for my\nteacher; I swear to you that I almost despise myself.'\n\nMartin drained his glass, and looked at the fire.\n\n'I don't mean to say that is a right feeling,' pursued John Westlock\n'because it was no fault of mine; and I can quite understand--you for\ninstance, fully appreciating him, and yet being forced by circumstances\nto remain there. I tell you simply what my feeling is; and even now,\nwhen, as you say, it's all over; and when I have the satisfaction of\nknowing that he always hated me, and we always quarrelled, and I always\ntold him my mind; even now, I feel sorry that I didn't yield to an\nimpulse I often had, as a boy, of running away from him and going\nabroad.'\n\n'Why abroad?' asked Martin, turning his eyes upon the speaker.\n\n'In search,' replied John Westlock, shrugging his shoulders, 'of\nthe livelihood I couldn't have earned at home. There would have been\nsomething spirited in that. But, come! Fill your glass, and let us\nforget him.'\n\n'As soon as you please,' said Martin. 'In reference to myself and my\nconnection with him, I have only to repeat what I said before. I have\ntaken my own way with him so far, and shall continue to do so, even more\nthan ever; for the fact is, to tell you the truth, that I believe he\nlooks to me to supply his defects, and couldn't afford to lose me. I had\na notion of that in first going there. Your health!'\n\n'Thank you,' returned young Westlock. 'Yours. And may the new pupil turn\nout as well as you can desire!'\n\n'What new pupil?'\n\n'The fortunate youth, born under an auspicious star,' returned John\nWestlock, laughing; 'whose parents, or guardians, are destined to be\nhooked by the advertisement. What! Don't you know that he has advertised\nagain?'\n\n'No.'\n\n'Oh, yes. I read it just before dinner in the old newspaper. I know it\nto be his; having some reason to remember the style. Hush! Here's Pinch.\nStrange, is it not, that the more he likes Pecksniff (if he can like him\nbetter than he does), the greater reason one has to like HIM? Not a word\nmore, or we shall spoil his whole enjoyment.'\n\nTom entered as the words were spoken, with a radiant smile upon his\nface; and rubbing his hands, more from a sense of delight than because\nhe was cold (for he had been running fast), sat down in his warm corner\nagain, and was as happy as only Tom Pinch could be. There is no other\nsimile that will express his state of mind.\n\n'And so,' he said, when he had gazed at his friend for some time in\nsilent pleasure, 'so you really are a gentleman at last, John. Well, to\nbe sure!'\n\n'Trying to be, Tom; trying to be,' he rejoined good-humouredly. 'There\nis no saying what I may turn out, in time.'\n\n'I suppose you wouldn't carry your own box to the mail now?' said Tom\nPinch, smiling; 'although you lost it altogether by not taking it.'\n\n'Wouldn't I?' retorted John. 'That's all you know about it, Pinch.\nIt must be a very heavy box that I wouldn't carry to get away from\nPecksniff's, Tom.'\n\n'There!' cried Pinch, turning to Martin, 'I told you so. The great fault\nin his character is his injustice to Pecksniff. You mustn't mind a word\nhe says on that subject. His prejudice is most extraordinary.'\n\n'The absence of anything like prejudice on Tom's part, you know,' said\nJohn Westlock, laughing heartily, as he laid his hand on Mr Pinch's\nshoulder, 'is perfectly wonderful. If one man ever had a profound\nknowledge of another, and saw him in a true light, and in his own proper\ncolours, Tom has that knowledge of Mr Pecksniff.'\n\n'Why, of course I have,' cried Tom. 'That's exactly what I have so often\nsaid to you. If you knew him as well as I do--John, I'd give almost any\nmoney to bring that about--you'd admire, respect, and reverence him. You\ncouldn't help it. Oh, how you wounded his feelings when you went away!'\n\n'If I had known whereabout his feelings lay,' retorted young Westlock,\n'I'd have done my best, Tom, with that end in view, you may depend upon\nit. But as I couldn't wound him in what he has not, and in what he knows\nnothing of, except in his ability to probe them to the quick in other\npeople, I am afraid I can lay no claim to your compliment.'\n\nMr Pinch, being unwilling to protract a discussion which might possibly\ncorrupt Martin, forbore to say anything in reply to this speech; but\nJohn Westlock, whom nothing short of an iron gag would have\nsilenced when Mr Pecksniff's merits were once in question, continued\nnotwithstanding.\n\n'HIS feelings! Oh, he's a tender-hearted man. HIS feelings! Oh, he's a\nconsiderate, conscientious, self-examining, moral vagabond, he is! HIS\nfeelings! Oh!--what's the matter, Tom?'\n\nMr Pinch was by this time erect upon the hearth-rug, buttoning his coat\nwith great energy.\n\n'I can't bear it,' said Tom, shaking his head. 'No. I really cannot. You\nmust excuse me, John. I have a great esteem and friendship for you;\nI love you very much; and have been perfectly charmed and overjoyed\nto-day, to find you just the same as ever; but I cannot listen to this.'\n\n'Why, it's my old way, Tom; and you say yourself that you are glad to\nfind me unchanged.'\n\n'Not in this respect,' said Tom Pinch. 'You must excuse me, John. I\ncannot, really; I will not. It's very wrong; you should be more guarded\nin your expressions. It was bad enough when you and I used to be alone\ntogether, but under existing circumstances, I can't endure it, really.\nNo. I cannot, indeed.'\n\n'You are quite right!' exclaimed the other, exchanging looks with\nMartin. 'and I am quite wrong, Tom, I don't know how the deuce we fell\non this unlucky theme. I beg your pardon with all my heart.'\n\n'You have a free and manly temper, I know,' said Pinch; 'and therefore,\nyour being so ungenerous in this one solitary instance, only grieves\nme the more. It's not my pardon you have to ask, John. You have done ME\nnothing but kindnesses.'\n\n'Well! Pecksniff's pardon then,' said young Westlock. 'Anything Tom,\nor anybody. Pecksniff's pardon--will that do? Here! let us drink\nPecksniff's health!'\n\n'Thank you,' cried Tom, shaking hands with him eagerly, and filling\na bumper. 'Thank you; I'll drink it with all my heart, John. Mr\nPecksniff's health, and prosperity to him!'\n\nJohn Westlock echoed the sentiment, or nearly so; for he drank Mr\nPecksniff's health, and Something to him--but what, was not quite\naudible. The general unanimity being then completely restored, they drew\ntheir chairs closer round the fire, and conversed in perfect harmony and\nenjoyment until bed-time.\n\nNo slight circumstance, perhaps, could have better illustrated the\ndifference of character between John Westlock and Martin Chuzzlewit,\nthan the manner in which each of the young men contemplated Tom Pinch,\nafter the little rupture just described. There was a certain amount of\njocularity in the looks of both, no doubt, but there all resemblance\nceased. The old pupil could not do enough to show Tom how cordially he\nfelt towards him, and his friendly regard seemed of a graver and more\nthoughtful kind than before. The new one, on the other hand, had no\nimpulse but to laugh at the recollection of Tom's extreme absurdity;\nand mingled with his amusement there was something slighting and\ncontemptuous, indicative, as it appeared, of his opinion that Mr Pinch\nwas much too far gone in simplicity to be admitted as the friend, on\nserious and equal terms, of any rational man.\n\nJohn Westlock, who did nothing by halves, if he could help it, had\nprovided beds for his two guests in the hotel; and after a very happy\nevening, they retired. Mr Pinch was sitting on the side of his bed with\nhis cravat and shoes off, ruminating on the manifold good qualities of\nhis old friend, when he was interrupted by a knock at his chamber door,\nand the voice of John himself.\n\n'You're not asleep yet, are you, Tom?'\n\n'Bless you, no! not I. I was thinking of you,' replied Tom, opening the\ndoor. 'Come in.'\n\n'I am not going to detail you,' said John; 'but I have forgotten all the\nevening a little commission I took upon myself; and I am afraid I may\nforget it again, if I fail to discharge it at once. You know a Mr Tigg,\nTom, I believe?'\n\n'Tigg!' cried Tom. 'Tigg! The gentleman who borrowed some money of me?'\n\n'Exactly,' said John Westlock. 'He begged me to present his compliments,\nand to return it with many thanks. Here it is. I suppose it's a good\none, but he is rather a doubtful kind of customer, Tom.'\n\nMr Pinch received the little piece of gold with a face whose brightness\nmight have shamed the metal; and said he had no fear about that. He\nwas glad, he added, to find Mr Tigg so prompt and honourable in his\ndealings; very glad.\n\n'Why, to tell you the truth, Tom,' replied his friend, 'he is not always\nso. If you'll take my advice, you'll avoid him as much as you can, in\nthe event of your encountering him again. And by no means, Tom--pray\nbear this in mind, for I am very serious--by no means lend him money any\nmore.'\n\n'Aye, aye!' said Tom, with his eyes wide open.\n\n'He is very far from being a reputable acquaintance,' returned young\nWestlock; 'and the more you let him know you think so, the better for\nyou, Tom.'\n\n'I say, John,' quoth Mr Pinch, as his countenance fell, and he shook\nhis head in a dejected manner. 'I hope you are not getting into bad\ncompany.'\n\n'No, no,' he replied laughing. 'Don't be uneasy on that score.'\n\n'Oh, but I AM uneasy,' said Tom Pinch; 'I can't help it, when I hear you\ntalking in that way. If Mr Tigg is what you describe him to be, you have\nno business to know him, John. You may laugh, but I don't consider it by\nany means a laughing matter, I assure you.'\n\n'No, no,' returned his friend, composing his features. 'Quite right. It\nis not, certainly.'\n\n'You know, John,' said Mr Pinch, 'your very good nature and kindness of\nheart make you thoughtless, and you can't be too careful on such a\npoint as this. Upon my word, if I thought you were falling among bad\ncompanions, I should be quite wretched, for I know how difficult you\nwould find it to shake them off. I would much rather have lost this\nmoney, John, than I would have had it back again on such terms.'\n\n'I tell you, my dear good old fellow,' cried his friend, shaking him\nto and fro with both hands, and smiling at him with a cheerful, open\ncountenance, that would have carried conviction to a mind much more\nsuspicious than Tom's; 'I tell you there is no danger.'\n\n'Well!' cried Tom, 'I am glad to hear it; I am overjoyed to hear it. I\nam sure there is not, when you say so in that manner. You won't take it\nill, John, that I said what I did just now!'\n\n'Ill!' said the other, giving his hand a hearty squeeze; 'why what\ndo you think I am made of? Mr Tigg and I are not on such an intimate\nfooting that you need be at all uneasy, I give you my solemn assurance\nof that, Tom. You are quite comfortable now?'\n\n'Quite,' said Tom.\n\n'Then once more, good night!'\n\n'Good night!' cried Tom; 'and such pleasant dreams to you as should\nattend the sleep of the best fellow in the world!'\n\n'--Except Pecksniff,' said his friend, stopping at the door for a\nmoment, and looking gayly back.\n\n'Except Pecksniff,' answered Tom, with great gravity; 'of course.'\n\nAnd thus they parted for the night; John Westlock full of\nlight-heartedness and good humour, and poor Tom Pinch quite satisfied;\nthough still, as he turned over on his side in bed, he muttered to\nhimself, 'I really do wish, for all that, though, that he wasn't\nacquainted with Mr Tigg.'\n\nThey breakfasted together very early next morning, for the two young\nmen desired to get back again in good season; and John Westlock was to\nreturn to London by the coach that day. As he had some hours to spare,\nhe bore them company for three or four miles on their walk, and\nonly parted from them at last in sheer necessity. The parting was an\nunusually hearty one, not only as between him and Tom Pinch, but on the\nside of Martin also, who had found in the old pupil a very different\nsort of person from the milksop he had prepared himself to expect.\n\nYoung Westlock stopped upon a rising ground, when he had gone a little\ndistance, and looked back. They were walking at a brisk pace, and Tom\nappeared to be talking earnestly. Martin had taken off his greatcoat,\nthe wind being now behind them, and carried it upon his arm. As he\nlooked, he saw Tom relieve him of it, after a faint resistance, and,\nthrowing it upon his own, encumber himself with the weight of both. This\ntrivial incident impressed the old pupil mightily, for he stood there,\ngazing after them, until they were hidden from his view; when he\nshook his head, as if he were troubled by some uneasy reflection, and\nthoughtfully retraced his steps to Salisbury.\n\nIn the meantime, Martin and Tom pursued their way, until they halted,\nsafe and sound, at Mr Pecksniff's house, where a brief epistle from that\ngood gentleman to Mr Pinch announced the family's return by that night's\ncoach. As it would pass the corner of the lane at about six o'clock in\nthe morning, Mr Pecksniff requested that the gig might be in waiting at\nthe finger-post about that time, together with a cart for the luggage.\nAnd to the end that he might be received with the greater honour, the\nyoung men agreed to rise early, and be upon the spot themselves.\n\nIt was the least cheerful day they had yet passed together. Martin\nwas out of spirits and out of humour, and took every opportunity of\ncomparing his condition and prospects with those of young Westlock;\nmuch to his own disadvantage always. This mood of his depressed Tom; and\nneither that morning's parting, nor yesterday's dinner, helped to mend\nthe matter. So the hours dragged on heavily enough; and they were glad\nto go to bed early.\n\nThey were not quite so glad to get up again at half-past four o'clock,\nin all the shivering discomfort of a dark winter's morning; but they\nturned out punctually, and were at the finger-post full half-an-hour\nbefore the appointed time. It was not by any means a lively morning, for\nthe sky was black and cloudy, and it rained hard; but Martin said there\nwas some satisfaction in seeing that brute of a horse (by this, he meant\nMr Pecksniff's Arab steed) getting very wet; and that he rejoiced, on\nhis account, that it rained so fast. From this it may be inferred that\nMartin's spirits had not improved, as indeed they had not; for while he\nand Mr Pinch stood waiting under a hedge, looking at the rain, the gig,\nthe cart, and its reeking driver, he did nothing but grumble; and, but\nthat it is indispensable to any dispute that there should be two parties\nto it, he would certainly have picked a quarrel with Tom.\n\nAt length the noise of wheels was faintly audible in the distance and\npresently the coach came splashing through the mud and mire with one\nmiserable outside passenger crouching down among wet straw, under a\nsaturated umbrella; and the coachman, guard, and horses, in a fellowship\nof dripping wretchedness. Immediately on its stopping, Mr Pecksniff let\ndown the window-glass and hailed Tom Pinch.\n\n'Dear me, Mr Pinch! Is it possible that you are out upon this very\ninclement morning?'\n\n'Yes, sir,' cried Tom, advancing eagerly, 'Mr Chuzzlewit and I, sir.'\n\n'Oh!' said Mr Pecksniff, looking not so much at Martin as at the spot on\nwhich he stood. 'Oh! Indeed. Do me the favour to see to the trunks, if\nyou please, Mr Pinch.'\n\nThen Mr Pecksniff descended, and helped his daughters to alight; but\nneither he nor the young ladies took the slightest notice of Martin,\nwho had advanced to offer his assistance, but was repulsed by Mr\nPecksniff's standing immediately before his person, with his back\ntowards him. In the same manner, and in profound silence, Mr Pecksniff\nhanded his daughters into the gig; and following himself and taking the\nreins, drove off home.\n\nLost in astonishment, Martin stood staring at the coach, and when the\ncoach had driven away, at Mr Pinch, and the luggage, until the cart\nmoved off too; when he said to Tom:\n\n'Now will you have the goodness to tell me what THIS portends?'\n\n'What?' asked Tom.\n\n'This fellow's behaviour. Mr Pecksniff's, I mean. You saw it?'\n\n'No. Indeed I did not,' cried Tom. 'I was busy with the trunks.'\n\n'It is no matter,' said Martin. 'Come! Let us make haste back!' And\nwithout another word started off at such a pace, that Tom had some\ndifficulty in keeping up with him.\n\nHe had no care where he went, but walked through little heaps of mud\nand little pools of water with the utmost indifference; looking straight\nbefore him, and sometimes laughing in a strange manner within himself.\nTom felt that anything he could say would only render him the more\nobstinate, and therefore trusted to Mr Pecksniff's manner when they\nreached the house, to remove the mistaken impression under which he felt\nconvinced so great a favourite as the new pupil must unquestionably be\nlabouring. But he was not a little amazed himself, when they did reach\nit, and entered the parlour where Mr Pecksniff was sitting alone\nbefore the fire, drinking some hot tea, to find that instead of taking\nfavourable notice of his relative and keeping him, Mr Pinch, in the\nbackground, he did exactly the reverse, and was so lavish in his\nattentions to Tom, that Tom was thoroughly confounded.\n\n'Take some tea, Mr Pinch--take some tea,' said Pecksniff, stirring the\nfire. 'You must be very cold and damp. Pray take some tea, and come into\na warm place, Mr Pinch.'\n\nTom saw that Martin looked at Mr Pecksniff as though he could have\neasily found it in his heart to give HIM an invitation to a very warm\nplace; but he was quite silent, and standing opposite that gentleman at\nthe table, regarded him attentively.\n\n'Take a chair, Pinch,' said Pecksniff. 'Take a chair, if you please. How\nhave things gone on in our absence, Mr Pinch?'\n\n'You--you will be very much pleased with the grammar-school, sir,' said\nTom. 'It's nearly finished.'\n\n'If you will have the goodness, Mr Pinch,' said Pecksniff, waving his\nhand and smiling, 'we will not discuss anything connected with that\nquestion at present. What have YOU been doing, Thomas, humph?'\n\nMr Pinch looked from master to pupil, and from pupil to master, and was\nso perplexed and dismayed that he wanted presence of mind to answer\nthe question. In this awkward interval, Mr Pecksniff (who was perfectly\nconscious of Martin's gaze, though he had never once glanced towards\nhim) poked the fire very much, and when he couldn't do that any more,\ndrank tea assiduously.\n\n'Now, Mr Pecksniff,' said Martin at last, in a very quiet voice, 'if you\nhave sufficiently refreshed and recovered yourself, I shall be glad to\nhear what you mean by this treatment of me.'\n\n'And what,' said Mr Pecksniff, turning his eyes on Tom Pinch, even more\nplacidly and gently than before, 'what have YOU been doing, Thomas,\nhumph?'\n\nWhen he had repeated this inquiry, he looked round the walls of the room\nas if he were curious to see whether any nails had been left there by\naccident in former times.\n\nTom was almost at his wit's end what to say between the two, and had\nalready made a gesture as if he would call Mr Pecksniff's attention to\nthe gentleman who had last addressed him, when Martin saved him further\ntrouble, by doing so himself.\n\n'Mr Pecksniff,' he said, softly rapping the table twice or thrice, and\nmoving a step or two nearer, so that he could have touched him with his\nhand; 'you heard what I said just now. Do me the favour to reply, if you\nplease. I ask you'--he raised his voice a little here--'what you mean by\nthis?'\n\n'I will talk to you, sir,' said Mr Pecksniff in a severe voice, as he\nlooked at him for the first time, 'presently.'\n\n'You are very obliging,' returned Martin; 'presently will not do. I must\ntrouble you to talk to me at once.'\n\nMr Pecksniff made a feint of being deeply interested in his pocketbook,\nbut it shook in his hands; he trembled so.\n\n'Now,' retorted Martin, rapping the table again. 'Now. Presently will\nnot do. Now!'\n\n'Do you threaten me, sir?' cried Mr Pecksniff.\n\nMartin looked at him, and made no answer; but a curious observer\nmight have detected an ominous twitching at his mouth, and perhaps\nan involuntary attraction of his right hand in the direction of Mr\nPecksniff's cravat.\n\n'I lament to be obliged to say, sir,' resumed Mr Pecksniff, 'that it\nwould be quite in keeping with your character if you did threaten me.\nYou have deceived me. You have imposed upon a nature which you knew to\nbe confiding and unsuspicious. You have obtained admission, sir,' said\nMr Pecksniff, rising, 'to this house, on perverted statements and on\nfalse pretences.'\n\n'Go on,' said Martin, with a scornful smile. 'I understand you now. What\nmore?'\n\n'Thus much more, sir,' cried Mr Pecksniff, trembling from head to foot,\nand trying to rub his hands, as though he were only cold. 'Thus much\nmore, if you force me to publish your shame before a third party, which\nI was unwilling and indisposed to do. This lowly roof, sir, must not\nbe contaminated by the presence of one who has deceived, and cruelly\ndeceived, an honourable, beloved, venerated, and venerable gentleman;\nand who wisely suppressed that deceit from me when he sought my\nprotection and favour, knowing that, humble as I am, I am an honest\nman, seeking to do my duty in this carnal universe, and setting my face\nagainst all vice and treachery. I weep for your depravity, sir,' said\nMr Pecksniff; 'I mourn over your corruption, I pity your voluntary\nwithdrawal of yourself from the flowery paths of purity and peace;' here\nhe struck himself upon his breast, or moral garden; 'but I cannot have\na leper and a serpent for an inmate. Go forth,' said Mr Pecksniff,\nstretching out his hand: 'go forth, young man! Like all who know you, I\nrenounce you!'\n\nWith what intention Martin made a stride forward at these words, it is\nimpossible to say. It is enough to know that Tom Pinch caught him in\nhis arms, and that, at the same moment, Mr Pecksniff stepped back so\nhastily, that he missed his footing, tumbled over a chair, and fell in\na sitting posture on the ground; where he remained without an effort\nto get up again, with his head in a corner, perhaps considering it the\nsafest place.\n\n'Let me go, Pinch!' cried Martin, shaking him away. 'Why do you hold me?\nDo you think a blow could make him a more abject creature than he is? Do\nyou think that if I spat upon him, I could degrade him to a lower level\nthan his own? Look at him. Look at him, Pinch!'\n\nMr Pinch involuntarily did so. Mr Pecksniff sitting, as has been\nalready mentioned, on the carpet, with his head in an acute angle of the\nwainscot, and all the damage and detriment of an uncomfortable journey\nabout him, was not exactly a model of all that is prepossessing and\ndignified in man, certainly. Still he WAS Pecksniff; it was impossible\nto deprive him of that unique and paramount appeal to Tom. And he\nreturned Tom's glance, as if he would have said, 'Aye, Mr Pinch, look at\nme! Here I am! You know what the Poet says about an honest man; and an\nhonest man is one of the few great works that can be seen for nothing!\nLook at me!'\n\n'I tell you,' said Martin, 'that as he lies there, disgraced, bought,\nused; a cloth for dirty hands, a mat for dirty feet, a lying, fawning,\nservile hound, he is the very last and worst among the vermin of the\nworld. And mark me, Pinch! The day will come--he knows it; see it\nwritten on his face, while I speak!--when even you will find him out,\nand will know him as I do, and as he knows I do. HE renounce ME!\nCast your eyes on the Renouncer, Pinch, and be the wiser for the\nrecollection!'\n\nHe pointed at him as he spoke, with unutterable contempt, and flinging\nhis hat upon his head, walked from the room and from the house. He went\nso rapidly that he was already clear of the village, when he heard Tom\nPinch calling breathlessly after him in the distance.\n\n'Well! what now?' he said, when Tom came up.\n\n'Dear, dear!' cried Tom, 'are you going?'\n\n'Going!' he echoed. 'Going!'\n\n'I didn't so much mean that, as were you going now at once--in this bad\nweather--on foot--without your clothes--with no money?' cried Tom.\n\n'Yes,' he answered sternly, 'I am.'\n\n'And where?' cried Tom. 'Oh where will you go?'\n\n'I don't know,' he said. 'Yes, I do. I'll go to America!'\n\n'No, no,' cried Tom, in a kind of agony. 'Don't go there. Pray don't.\nThink better of it. Don't be so dreadfully regardless of yourself. Don't\ngo to America!'\n\n'My mind is made up,' he said. 'Your friend was right. I'll go to\nAmerica. God bless you, Pinch!'\n\n'Take this!' cried Tom, pressing a book upon him in great agitation.\n'I must make haste back, and can't say anything I would. Heaven be with\nyou. Look at the leaf I have turned down. Good-bye, good-bye!'\n\nThe simple fellow wrung him by the hand, with tears stealing down his\ncheeks; and they parted hurriedly upon their separate ways.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER THIRTEEN\n\nSHOWING WHAT BECAME OF MARTIN AND HIS DESPARATE RESOLVE, AFTER HE LEFT\nMR PECKSNIFF'S HOUSE; WHAT PERSONS HE ENCOUNTERED; WHAT ANXIETIES HE\nSUFFERED; AND WHAT NEWS HE HEARD\n\n\nCarrying Tom Pinch's book quite unconsciously under his arm, and not\neven buttoning his coat as a protection against the heavy rain, Martin\nwent doggedly forward at the same quick pace, until he had passed the\nfinger-post, and was on the high road to London. He slackened very\nlittle in his speed even then, but he began to think, and look about\nhim, and to disengage his senses from the coil of angry passions which\nhitherto had held them prisoner.\n\nIt must be confessed that, at that moment, he had no very agreeable\nemployment either for his moral or his physical perceptions. The day was\ndawning from a patch of watery light in the east, and sullen clouds\ncame driving up before it, from which the rain descended in a thick, wet\nmist. It streamed from every twig and bramble in the hedge; made little\ngullies in the path; ran down a hundred channels in the road; and\npunched innumerable holes into the face of every pond and gutter. It\nfell with an oozy, slushy sound among the grass; and made a muddy kennel\nof every furrow in the ploughed fields. No living creature was anywhere\nto be seen. The prospect could hardly have been more desolate if\nanimated nature had been dissolved in water, and poured down upon the\nearth again in that form.\n\nThe range of view within the solitary traveller was quite as cheerless\nas the scene without. Friendless and penniless; incensed to the last\ndegree; deeply wounded in his pride and self-love; full of independent\nschemes, and perfectly destitute of any means of realizing them; his\nmost vindictive enemy might have been satisfied with the extent of his\ntroubles. To add to his other miseries, he was by this time sensible of\nbeing wet to the skin, and cold at his very heart.\n\nIn this deplorable condition he remembered Mr Pinch's book; more\nbecause it was rather troublesome to carry, than from any hope of being\ncomforted by that parting gift. He looked at the dingy lettering on the\nback, and finding it to be an odd volume of the 'Bachelor of Salamanca,'\nin the French tongue, cursed Tom Pinch's folly twenty times. He was on\nthe point of throwing it away, in his ill-humour and vexation, when he\nbethought himself that Tom had referred him to a leaf, turned down;\nand opening it at that place, that he might have additional cause\nof complaint against him for supposing that any cold scrap of the\nBachelor's wisdom could cheer him in such circumstances, found!--\n\nWell, well! not much, but Tom's all. The half-sovereign. He had wrapped\nit hastily in a piece of paper, and pinned it to the leaf. These words\nwere scrawled in pencil on the inside: 'I don't want it indeed. I should\nnot know what to do with it if I had it.'\n\nThere are some falsehoods, Tom, on which men mount, as on bright wings,\ntowards Heaven. There are some truths, cold bitter taunting truths,\nwherein your worldly scholars are very apt and punctual, which bind men\ndown to earth with leaden chains. Who would not rather have to fan him,\nin his dying hour, the lightest feather of a falsehood such as thine,\nthan all the quills that have been plucked from the sharp porcupine,\nreproachful truth, since time began!\n\nMartin felt keenly for himself, and he felt this good deed of Tom's\nkeenly. After a few minutes it had the effect of raising his spirits,\nand reminding him that he was not altogether destitute, as he had left\na fair stock of clothes behind him, and wore a gold hunting-watch in\nhis pocket. He found a curious gratification, too, in thinking what a\nwinning fellow he must be to have made such an impression on Tom; and in\nreflecting how superior he was to Tom; and how much more likely to make\nhis way in the world. Animated by these thoughts, and strengthened in\nhis design of endeavouring to push his fortune in another country, he\nresolved to get to London as a rallying-point, in the best way he could;\nand to lose no time about it.\n\nHe was ten good miles from the village made illustrious by being the\nabiding-place of Mr Pecksniff, when he stopped to breakfast at a little\nroadside alehouse; and resting upon a high-backed settle before the\nfire, pulled off his coat, and hung it before the cheerful blaze to\ndry. It was a very different place from the last tavern in which he\nhad regaled; boasting no greater extent of accommodation than the\nbrick-floored kitchen yielded; but the mind so soon accommodates itself\nto the necessities of the body, that this poor waggoner's house-of-call,\nwhich he would have despised yesterday, became now quite a choice hotel;\nwhile his dish of eggs and bacon, and his mug of beer, were not by\nany means the coarse fare he had supposed, but fully bore out the\ninscription on the window-shutter, which proclaimed those viands to be\n'Good entertainment for Travellers.'\n\nHe pushed away his empty plate; and with a second mug upon the hearth\nbefore him, looked thoughtfully at the fire until his eyes ached. Then\nhe looked at the highly-coloured scripture pieces on the walls, in\nlittle black frames like common shaving-glasses, and saw how the Wise\nMen (with a strong family likeness among them) worshipped in a pink\nmanger; and how the Prodigal Son came home in red rags to a purple\nfather, and already feasted his imagination on a sea-green calf. Then he\nglanced through the window at the falling rain, coming down aslant upon\nthe sign-post over against the house, and overflowing the horse-trough;\nand then he looked at the fire again, and seemed to descry a double\ndistant London, retreating among the fragments of the burning wood.\n\nHe had repeated this process in just the same order, many times, as\nif it were a matter of necessity, when the sound of wheels called his\nattention to the window out of its regular turn; and there he beheld a\nkind of light van drawn by four horses, and laden, as well as he could\nsee (for it was covered in), with corn and straw. The driver, who\nwas alone, stopped at the door to water his team, and presently came\nstamping and shaking the wet off his hat and coat, into the room where\nMartin sat.\n\nHe was a red-faced burly young fellow; smart in his way, and with a\ngood-humoured countenance. As he advanced towards the fire he touched\nhis shining forehead with the forefinger of his stiff leather glove,\nby way of salutation; and said (rather unnecessarily) that it was an\nuncommon wet day.\n\n'Very wet,' said Martin.\n\n'I don't know as ever I see a wetter.'\n\n'I never felt one,' said Martin.\n\nThe driver glanced at Martin's soiled dress, and his damp shirt-sleeves,\nand his coat hung up to dry; and said, after a pause, as he warmed his\nhands:\n\n'You have been caught in it, sir?'\n\n'Yes,' was the short reply.\n\n'Out riding, maybe?' said the driver\n\n'I should have been, if I owned a horse; but I don't,' returned Martin.\n\n'That's bad,' said the driver.\n\n'And may be worse,' said Martin.\n\nNow the driver said 'That's bad,' not so much because Martin didn't own\na horse, as because he said he didn't with all the reckless desperation\nof his mood and circumstances, and so left a great deal to be inferred.\nMartin put his hands in his pockets and whistled when he had retorted on\nthe driver; thus giving him to understand that he didn't care a pin for\nFortune; that he was above pretending to be her favourite when he was\nnot; and that he snapped his fingers at her, the driver, and everybody\nelse.\n\nThe driver looked at him stealthily for a minute or so; and in the\npauses of his warming whistled too. At length he asked, as he pointed\nhis thumb towards the road.\n\n'Up or down?'\n\n'Which IS up?' said Martin.\n\n'London, of course,' said the driver.\n\n'Up then,' said Martin. He tossed his head in a careless manner\nafterwards, as if he would have added, 'Now you know all about it.'\nput his hands deeper into his pockets; changed his tune, and whistled a\nlittle louder.\n\n'I'm going up,' observed the driver; 'Hounslow, ten miles this side\nLondon.'\n\n'Are you?' cried Martin, stopping short and looking at him.\n\nThe driver sprinkled the fire with his wet hat until it hissed again and\nanswered, 'Aye, to be sure he was.'\n\n'Why, then,' said Martin, 'I'll be plain with you. You may suppose from\nmy dress that I have money to spare. I have not. All I can afford for\ncoach-hire is a crown, for I have but two. If you can take me for that,\nand my waistcoat, or this silk handkerchief, do. If you can't, leave it\nalone.'\n\n'Short and sweet,' remarked the driver.\n\n'You want more?' said Martin. 'Then I haven't got more, and I can't get\nit, so there's an end of that.' Whereupon he began to whistle again.\n\n'I didn't say I wanted more, did I?' asked the driver, with something\nlike indignation.\n\n'You didn't say my offer was enough,' rejoined Martin.\n\n'Why, how could I, when you wouldn't let me? In regard to the waistcoat,\nI wouldn't have a man's waistcoat, much less a gentleman's waistcoat,\non my mind, for no consideration; but the silk handkerchief's another\nthing; and if you was satisfied when we got to Hounslow, I shouldn't\nobject to that as a gift.'\n\n'Is it a bargain, then?' said Martin.\n\n'Yes, it is,' returned the other.\n\n'Then finish this beer,' said Martin, handing him the mug, and pulling\non his coat with great alacrity; 'and let us be off as soon as you\nlike.'\n\nIn two minutes more he had paid his bill, which amounted to a shilling;\nwas lying at full length on a truss of straw, high and dry at the top\nof the van, with the tilt a little open in front for the convenience of\ntalking to his new friend; and was moving along in the right direction\nwith a most satisfactory and encouraging briskness.\n\nThe driver's name, as he soon informed Martin, was William Simmons,\nbetter known as Bill; and his spruce appearance was sufficiently\nexplained by his connection with a large stage-coaching establishment at\nHounslow, whither he was conveying his load from a farm belonging to\nthe concern in Wiltshire. He was frequently up and down the road on such\nerrands, he said, and to look after the sick and rest horses, of which\nanimals he had much to relate that occupied a long time in the\ntelling. He aspired to the dignity of the regular box, and expected\nan appointment on the first vacancy. He was musical besides, and had\na little key-bugle in his pocket, on which, whenever the conversation\nflagged, he played the first part of a great many tunes, and regularly\nbroke down in the second.\n\n'Ah!' said Bill, with a sigh, as he drew the back of his hand across\nhis lips, and put this instrument in his pocket, after screwing off the\nmouth-piece to drain it; 'Lummy Ned of the Light Salisbury, HE was the\none for musical talents. He WAS a guard. What you may call a Guard'an\nAngel, was Ned.'\n\n'Is he dead?' asked Martin.\n\n'Dead!' replied the other, with a contemptuous emphasis. 'Not he. You\nwon't catch Ned a-dying easy. No, no. He knows better than that.'\n\n'You spoke of him in the past tense,' observed Martin, 'so I supposed he\nwas no more.\n\n'He's no more in England,' said Bill, 'if that's what you mean. He went\nto the U-nited States.'\n\n'Did he?' asked Martin, with sudden interest. 'When?'\n\n'Five year ago, or then about,' said Bill. 'He had set up in the public\nline here, and couldn't meet his engagements, so he cut off to Liverpool\none day, without saying anything about it, and went and shipped himself\nfor the U-nited States.'\n\n'Well?' said Martin.\n\n'Well! as he landed there without a penny to bless himself with, of\ncourse they wos very glad to see him in the U-nited States.'\n\n'What do you mean?' asked Martin, with some scorn.\n\n'What do I mean?' said Bill. 'Why, THAT. All men are alike in the\nU-nited States, an't they? It makes no odds whether a man has a thousand\npound, or nothing, there. Particular in New York, I'm told, where Ned\nlanded.'\n\n'New York, was it?' asked Martin, thoughtfully.\n\n'Yes,' said Bill. 'New York. I know that, because he sent word home that\nit brought Old York to his mind, quite vivid, in consequence of being so\nexactly unlike it in every respect. I don't understand what particular\nbusiness Ned turned his mind to, when he got there; but he wrote home\nthat him and his friends was always a-singing, Ale Columbia, and blowing\nup the President, so I suppose it was something in the public line; or\nfree-and-easy way again. Anyhow, he made his fortune.'\n\n'No!' cried Martin.\n\n'Yes, he did,' said Bill. 'I know that, because he lost it all the day\nafter, in six-and-twenty banks as broke. He settled a lot of the notes\non his father, when it was ascertained that they was really stopped and\nsent 'em over with a dutiful letter. I know that, because they was\nshown down our yard for the old gentleman's benefit, that he might treat\nhimself with tobacco in the workus.'\n\n'He was a foolish fellow not to take care of his money when he had it,'\nsaid Martin, indignantly.\n\n'There you're right,' said Bill, 'especially as it was all in paper, and\nhe might have took care of it so very easy, by folding it up in a small\nparcel.'\n\nMartin said nothing in reply, but soon afterwards fell asleep, and\nremained so for an hour or more. When he awoke, finding it had ceased\nto rain, he took his seat beside the driver, and asked him several\nquestions; as how long had the fortunate guard of the Light Salisbury\nbeen in crossing the Atlantic; at what time of the year had he sailed;\nwhat was the name of the ship in which he made the voyage; how much had\nhe paid for passage-money; did he suffer greatly from sea-sickness?\nand so forth. But on these points of detail his friend was possessed\nof little or no information; either answering obviously at random or\nacknowledging that he had never heard, or had forgotten; nor, although\nhe returned to the charge very often, could he obtain any useful\nintelligence on these essential particulars.\n\nThey jogged on all day, and stopped so often--now to refresh, now to\nchange their team of horses, now to exchange or bring away a set of\nharness, now on one point of business, and now upon another, connected\nwith the coaching on that line of road--that it was midnight when they\nreached Hounslow. A little short of the stables for which the van was\nbound, Martin got down, paid his crown, and forced his silk handkerchief\nupon his honest friend, notwithstanding the many protestations that he\ndidn't wish to deprive him of it, with which he tried to give the lie to\nhis longing looks. That done, they parted company; and when the van had\ndriven into its own yard and the gates were closed, Martin stood in the\ndark street, with a pretty strong sense of being shut out, alone, upon\nthe dreary world, without the key of it.\n\nBut in this moment of despondency, and often afterwards, the\nrecollection of Mr Pecksniff operated as a cordial to him; awakening\nin his breast an indignation that was very wholesome in nerving him to\nobstinate endurance. Under the influence of this fiery dram he started\noff for London without more ado. Arriving there in the middle of the\nnight, and not knowing where to find a tavern open, he was fain to\nstroll about the streets and market-places until morning.\n\nHe found himself, about an hour before dawn, in the humbler regions\nof the Adelphi; and addressing himself to a man in a fur-cap, who was\ntaking down the shutters of an obscure public-house, informed him\nthat he was a stranger, and inquired if he could have a bed there. It\nhappened by good luck that he could. Though none of the gaudiest, it was\ntolerably clean, and Martin felt very glad and grateful when he crept\ninto it, for warmth, rest, and forgetfulness.\n\nIt was quite late in the afternoon when he awoke; and by the time he had\nwashed and dressed, and broken his fast, it was growing dusk again. This\nwas all the better, for it was now a matter of absolute necessity that\nhe should part with his watch to some obliging pawn-broker. He would\nhave waited until after dark for this purpose, though it had been the\nlongest day in the year, and he had begun it without a breakfast.\n\nHe passed more Golden Balls than all the jugglers in Europe have juggled\nwith, in the course of their united performances, before he could\ndetermine in favour of any particular shop where those symbols were\ndisplayed. In the end he came back to one of the first he had seen,\nand entering by a side-door in a court, where the three balls, with the\nlegend 'Money Lent,' were repeated in a ghastly transparency, passed\ninto one of a series of little closets, or private boxes, erected for\nthe accommodation of the more bashful and uninitiated customers. He\nbolted himself in; pulled out his watch; and laid it on the counter.\n\n'Upon my life and soul!' said a low voice in the next box to the shopman\nwho was in treaty with him, 'you must make it more; you must make it a\ntrifle more, you must indeed! You must dispense with one half-quarter\nof an ounce in weighing out your pound of flesh, my best of friends, and\nmake it two-and-six.'\n\nMartin drew back involuntarily, for he knew the voice at once.\n\n'You're always full of your chaff,' said the shopman, rolling up the\narticle (which looked like a shirt) quite as a matter of course, and\nnibbing his pen upon the counter.\n\n'I shall never be full of my wheat,' said Mr Tigg, 'as long as I come\nhere. Ha, ha! Not bad! Make it two-and-six, my dear friend, positively\nfor this occasion only. Half-a-crown is a delightful coin. Two-and-six.\nGoing at two-and-six! For the last time at two-and-six!'\n\n'It'll never be the last time till it's quite worn out,' rejoined the\nshopman. 'It's grown yellow in the service as it is.'\n\n'Its master has grown yellow in the service, if you mean that, my\nfriend,' said Mr Tigg; 'in the patriotic service of an ungrateful\ncountry. You are making it two-and-six, I think?'\n\n'I'm making it,' returned the shopman, 'what it always has been--two\nshillings. Same name as usual, I suppose?'\n\n'Still the same name,' said Mr Tigg; 'my claim to the dormant peerage\nnot being yet established by the House of Lords.'\n\n'The old address?'\n\n'Not at all,' said Mr Tigg; 'I have removed my town establishment from\nthirty-eight, Mayfair, to number fifteen-hundred-and-forty-two, Park\nLane.'\n\n'Come, I'm not going to put down that, you know,' said the shopman with\na grin.\n\n'You may put down what you please, my friend,' quoth Mr Tigg. 'The fact\nis still the same. The apartments for the under-butler and the fifth\nfootman being of a most confounded low and vulgar kind at thirty-eight,\nMayfair, I have been compelled, in my regard for the feelings which do\nthem so much honour, to take on lease for seven, fourteen, or twenty-one\nyears, renewable at the option of the tenant, the elegant and commodious\nfamily mansion, number fifteen-hundred-and-forty-two Park Lane. Make it\ntwo-and-six, and come and see me!'\n\nThe shopman was so highly entertained by this piece of humour that Mr\nTigg himself could not repress some little show of exultation. It vented\nitself, in part, in a desire to see how the occupant of the next\nbox received his pleasantry; to ascertain which he glanced round the\npartition, and immediately, by the gaslight, recognized Martin.\n\n'I wish I may die,' said Mr Tigg, stretching out his body so far that\nhis head was as much in Martin's little cell as Martin's own head was,\n'but this is one of the most tremendous meetings in Ancient or Modern\nHistory! How are you? What is the news from the agricultural districts?\nHow are our friends the P.'s? Ha, ha! David, pay particular attention to\nthis gentleman immediately, as a friend of mine, I beg.'\n\n'Here! Please to give me the most you can for this,' said Martin,\nhanding the watch to the shopman. 'I want money sorely.'\n\n'He wants money, sorely!' cried Mr Tigg with excessive sympathy. 'David,\nwill you have the goodness to do your very utmost for my friend, who\nwants money sorely. You will deal with my friend as if he were myself.\nA gold hunting-watch, David, engine-turned, capped and jewelled in\nfour holes, escape movement, horizontal lever, and warranted to perform\ncorrectly, upon my personal reputation, who have observed it narrowly\nfor many years, under the most trying circumstances'--here he winked\nat Martin, that he might understand this recommendation would have an\nimmense effect upon the shopman; 'what do you say, David, to my friend?\nBe very particular to deserve my custom and recommendation, David.'\n\n'I can lend you three pounds on this, if you like' said the shopman to\nMartin, confidentially. 'It is very old-fashioned. I couldn't say more.'\n\n'And devilish handsome, too,' cried Mr Tigg. 'Two-twelve-six for the\nwatch, and seven-and-six for personal regard. I am gratified; it may\nbe weakness, but I am. Three pounds will do. We take it. The name of my\nfriend is Smivey: Chicken Smivey, of Holborn, twenty-six-and-a-half B:\nlodger.' Here he winked at Martin again, to apprise him that all the\nforms and ceremonies prescribed by law were now complied with, and\nnothing remained but the receipt for the money.\n\nIn point of fact, this proved to be the case, for Martin, who had no\nresource but to take what was offered him, signified his acquiescence by\na nod of his head, and presently came out with the cash in his pocket.\nHe was joined in the entry by Mr Tigg, who warmly congratulated him, as\nhe took his arm and accompanied him into the street, on the successful\nissue of the negotiation.\n\n'As for my part in the same,' said Mr Tigg, 'don't mention it. Don't\ncompliment me, for I can't bear it!'\n\n'I have no such intention, I assure you,' retorted Martin, releasing his\narm and stopping.\n\n'You oblige me very much' said Mr Tigg. 'Thank you.'\n\n'Now, sir,' observed Martin, biting his lip, 'this is a large town, and\nwe can easily find different ways in it. If you will show me which is\nyour way, I will take another.'\n\nMr Tigg was about to speak, but Martin interposed:\n\n'I need scarcely tell you, after what you have just seen, that I\nhave nothing to bestow upon your friend Mr Slyme. And it is quite as\nunnecessary for me to tell you that I don't desire the honour of your\ncompany.'\n\n'Stop' cried Mr Tigg, holding out his hand. 'Hold! There is a most\nremarkably long-headed, flowing-bearded, and patriarchal proverb, which\nobserves that it is the duty of a man to be just before he is generous.\nBe just now, and you can be generous presently. Do not confuse me with\nthe man Slyme. Do not distinguish the man Slyme as a friend of mine, for\nhe is no such thing. I have been compelled, sir, to abandon the party\nwhom you call Slyme. I have no knowledge of the party whom you call\nSlyme. I am, sir,' said Mr Tigg, striking himself upon the breast,\n'a premium tulip, of a very different growth and cultivation from the\ncabbage Slyme, sir.'\n\n'It matters very little to me,' said Martin coolly, 'whether you have\nset up as a vagabond on your own account, or are still trading on behalf\nof Mr Slyme. I wish to hold no correspondence with you. In the devil's\nname, man' said Martin, scarcely able, despite his vexation, to repress\na smile as Mr Tigg stood leaning his back against the shutters of a shop\nwindow, adjusting his hair with great composure, 'will you go one way or\nother?'\n\n'You will allow me to remind you, sir,' said Mr Tigg, with sudden\ndignity, 'that you--not I--that you--I say emphatically, YOU--have\nreduced the proceedings of this evening to a cold and distant matter of\nbusiness, when I was disposed to place them on a friendly footing.\nIt being made a matter of business, sir, I beg to say that I expect\na trifle (which I shall bestow in charity) as commission upon the\npecuniary advance, in which I have rendered you my humble services.\nAfter the terms in which you have addressed me, sir,' concluded Mr\nTigg, 'you will not insult me, if you please, by offering more than\nhalf-a-crown.'\n\nMartin drew that piece of money from his pocket, and tossed it towards\nhim. Mr Tigg caught it, looked at it to assure himself of its goodness,\nspun it in the air after the manner of a pieman, and buttoned it up.\nFinally, he raised his hat an inch or two from his head with a military\nair, and, after pausing a moment with deep gravity, as to decide in\nwhich direction he should go, and to what Earl or Marquis among his\nfriends he should give the preference in his next call, stuck his hands\nin his skirt-pockets and swaggered round the corner. Martin took the\ndirectly opposite course; and so, to his great content, they parted\ncompany.\n\nIt was with a bitter sense of humiliation that he cursed, again and\nagain, the mischance of having encountered this man in the pawnbroker's\nshop. The only comfort he had in the recollection was, Mr Tigg's\nvoluntary avowal of a separation between himself and Slyme, that would\nat least prevent his circumstances (so Martin argued) from being known\nto any member of his family, the bare possibility of which filled him\nwith shame and wounded pride. Abstractedly there was greater reason,\nperhaps, for supposing any declaration of Mr Tigg's to be false, than\nfor attaching the least credence to it; but remembering the terms on\nwhich the intimacy between that gentleman and his bosom friend had\nsubsisted, and the strong probability of Mr Tigg's having established\nan independent business of his own on Mr Slyme's connection, it had a\nreasonable appearance of probability; at all events, Martin hoped so;\nand that went a long way.\n\nHis first step, now that he had a supply of ready money for his present\nnecessities, was, to retain his bed at the public-house until further\nnotice, and to write a formal note to Tom Pinch (for he knew Pecksniff\nwould see it) requesting to have his clothes forwarded to London by\ncoach, with a direction to be left at the office until called for. These\nmeasures taken, he passed the interval before the box arrived--three\ndays--in making inquiries relative to American vessels, at the offices\nof various shipping-agents in the city; and in lingering about the docks\nand wharves, with the faint hope of stumbling upon some engagement\nfor the voyage, as clerk or supercargo, or custodian of something or\nsomebody, which would enable him to procure a free passage. But\nfinding, soon, that no such means of employment were likely to present\nthemselves, and dreading the consequences of delay, he drew up a short\nadvertisement, stating what he wanted, and inserted it in the leading\nnewspapers. Pending the receipt of the twenty or thirty answers which\nhe vaguely expected, he reduced his wardrobe to the narrowest limits\nconsistent with decent respectability, and carried the overplus at\ndifferent times to the pawnbroker's shop, for conversion into money.\n\nAnd it was strange, very strange, even to himself, to find how, by\nquick though almost imperceptible degrees, he lost his delicacy and\nself-respect, and gradually came to do that as a matter of course,\nwithout the least compunction, which but a few short days before had\ngalled him to the quick. The first time he visited the pawnbroker's,\nhe felt on his way there as if every person whom he passed suspected\nwhither he was going; and on his way back again, as if the whole human\ntide he stemmed, knew well where he had come from. When did he care to\nthink of their discernment now! In his first wanderings up and down the\nweary streets, he counterfeited the walk of one who had an object in\nhis view; but soon there came upon him the sauntering, slipshod gait of\nlistless idleness, and the lounging at street-corners, and plucking and\nbiting of stray bits of straw, and strolling up and down the same place,\nand looking into the same shop-windows, with a miserable indifference,\nfifty times a day. At first, he came out from his lodging with an uneasy\nsense of being observed--even by those chance passers-by, on whom he had\nnever looked before, and hundreds to one would never see again--issuing\nin the morning from a public-house; but now, in his comings-out and\ngoings-in he did not mind to lounge about the door, or to stand sunning\nhimself in careless thought beside the wooden stem, studded from head to\nheel with pegs, on which the beer-pots dangled like so many boughs upon\na pewter-tree. And yet it took but five weeks to reach the lowest round\nof this tall ladder!\n\nOh, moralists, who treat of happiness and self-respect, innate in every\nsphere of life, and shedding light on every grain of dust in God's\nhighway, so smooth below your carriage-wheels, so rough beneath the\ntread of naked feet, bethink yourselves in looking on the swift descent\nof men who HAVE lived in their own esteem, that there are scores of\nthousands breathing now, and breathing thick with painful toil, who in\nthat high respect have never lived at all, nor had a chance of life! Go\nye, who rest so placidly upon the sacred Bard who had been young,\nand when he strung his harp was old, and had never seen the righteous\nforsaken, or his seed begging their bread; go, Teachers of content and\nhonest pride, into the mine, the mill, the forge, the squalid depths of\ndeepest ignorance, and uttermost abyss of man's neglect, and say can any\nhopeful plant spring up in air so foul that it extinguishes the soul's\nbright torch as fast as it is kindled! And, oh! ye Pharisees of the\nnineteen hundredth year of Christian Knowledge, who soundingly appeal\nto human nature, see that it be human first. Take heed it has not been\ntransformed, during your slumber and the sleep of generations, into the\nnature of the Beasts!\n\nFive weeks! Of all the twenty or thirty answers, not one had come. His\nmoney--even the additional stock he had raised from the disposal of his\nspare clothes (and that was not much, for clothes, though dear to buy,\nare cheap to pawn)--was fast diminishing. Yet what could he do? At times\nan agony came over him in which he darted forth again, though he was\nbut newly home, and, returning to some place where he had been already\ntwenty times, made some new attempt to gain his end, but always\nunsuccessfully. He was years and years too old for a cabin-boy, and\nyears upon years too inexperienced to be accepted as a common seaman.\nHis dress and manner, too, militated fatally against any such proposal\nas the latter; and yet he was reduced to making it; for even if he could\nhave contemplated the being set down in America totally without money,\nhe had not enough left now for a steerage passage and the poorest\nprovisions upon the voyage.\n\nIt is an illustration of a very common tendency in the mind of man, that\nall this time he never once doubted, one may almost say the certainty\nof doing great things in the New World, if he could only get there.\nIn proportion as he became more and more dejected by his present\ncircumstances, and the means of gaining America receded from his grasp,\nthe more he fretted himself with the conviction that that was the only\nplace in which he could hope to achieve any high end, and worried his\nbrain with the thought that men going there in the meanwhile might\nanticipate him in the attainment of those objects which were dearest to\nhis heart. He often thought of John Westlock, and besides looking out\nfor him on all occasions, actually walked about London for three days\ntogether for the express purpose of meeting with him. But although he\nfailed in this; and although he would not have scrupled to borrow money\nof him; and although he believed that John would have lent it; yet still\nhe could not bring his mind to write to Pinch and inquire where he was\nto be found. For although, as we have seen, he was fond of Tom after\nhis own fashion, he could not endure the thought (feeling so superior to\nTom) of making him the stepping-stone to his fortune, or being anything\nto him but a patron; and his pride so revolted from the idea that it\nrestrained him even now.\n\nIt might have yielded, however; and no doubt must have yielded soon, but\nfor a very strange and unlooked-for occurrence.\n\nThe five weeks had quite run out, and he was in a truly desperate\nplight, when one evening, having just returned to his lodging, and\nbeing in the act of lighting his candle at the gas jet in the bar before\nstalking moodily upstairs to his own room, his landlord called him by\nhis name. Now as he had never told it to the man, but had scrupulously\nkept it to himself, he was not a little startled by this; and so plainly\nshowed his agitation that the landlord, to reassure him, said 'it was\nonly a letter.'\n\n'A letter!' cried Martin.\n\n'For Mr Martin Chuzzlewit,' said the landlord, reading the\nsuperscription of one he held in his hand. 'Noon. Chief office. Paid.'\n\nMartin took it from him, thanked him, and walked upstairs. It was not\nsealed, but pasted close; the handwriting was quite unknown to him.\nHe opened it and found enclosed, without any name, address, or other\ninscription or explanation of any kind whatever, a Bank of England note\nfor Twenty Pounds.\n\nTo say that he was perfectly stunned with astonishment and delight; that\nhe looked again and again at the note and the wrapper; that he hurried\nbelow stairs to make quite certain that the note was a good note; and\nthen hurried up again to satisfy himself for the fiftieth time that\nhe had not overlooked some scrap of writing on the wrapper; that he\nexhausted and bewildered himself with conjectures; and could make\nnothing of it but that there the note was, and he was suddenly enriched;\nwould be only to relate so many matters of course to no purpose. The\nfinal upshot of the business at that time was, that he resolved to treat\nhimself to a comfortable but frugal meal in his own chamber; and having\nordered a fire to be kindled, went out to purchase it forthwith.\n\nHe bought some cold beef, and ham, and French bread, and butter, and\ncame back with his pockets pretty heavily laden. It was somewhat of\na damping circumstance to find the room full of smoke, which was\nattributable to two causes; firstly, to the flue being naturally vicious\nand a smoker; and secondly, to their having forgotten, in lighting the\nfire, an odd sack or two and some trifles, which had been put up the\nchimney to keep the rain out. They had already remedied this oversight,\nhowever; and propped up the window-sash with a bundle of firewood to\nkeep it open; so that except in being rather inflammatory to the eyes\nand choking to the lungs, the apartment was quite comfortable.\n\nMartin was in no vein to quarrel with it, if it had been in less\ntolerable order, especially when a gleaming pint of porter was set upon\nthe table, and the servant-girl withdrew, bearing with her particular\ninstructions relative to the production of something hot when he should\nring the bell. The cold meat being wrapped in a playbill, Martin laid\nthe cloth by spreading that document on the little round table with the\nprint downwards, and arranging the collation upon it. The foot of the\nbed, which was very close to the fire, answered for a sideboard; and\nwhen he had completed these preparations, he squeezed an old arm-chair\ninto the warmest corner, and sat down to enjoy himself.\n\nHe had begun to eat with great appetite, glancing round the room\nmeanwhile with a triumphant anticipation of quitting it for ever on the\nmorrow, when his attention was arrested by a stealthy footstep on the\nstairs, and presently by a knock at his chamber door, which, although\nit was a gentle knock enough, communicated such a start to the bundle of\nfirewood, that it instantly leaped out of window, and plunged into the\nstreet.\n\n'More coals, I suppose,' said Martin. 'Come in!'\n\n'It an't a liberty, sir, though it seems so,' rejoined a man's voice.\n'Your servant, sir. Hope you're pretty well, sir.'\n\nMartin stared at the face that was bowing in the doorway, perfectly\nremembering the features and expression, but quite forgetting to whom\nthey belonged.\n\n'Tapley, sir,' said his visitor. 'Him as formerly lived at the Dragon,\nsir, and was forced to leave in consequence of a want of jollity, sir.'\n\n'To be sure!' cried Martin. 'Why, how did you come here?'\n\n'Right through the passage, and up the stairs, sir,' said Mark.\n\n'How did you find me out, I mean?' asked Martin.\n\n'Why, sir,' said Mark, 'I've passed you once or twice in the street, if\nI'm not mistaken; and when I was a-looking in at the beef-and-ham shop\njust now, along with a hungry sweep, as was very much calculated to make\na man jolly, sir--I see you a-buying that.'\n\nMartin reddened as he pointed to the table, and said, somewhat hastily:\n\n'Well! What then?'\n\n'Why, then, sir,' said Mark, 'I made bold to foller; and as I told 'em\ndownstairs that you expected me, I was let up.'\n\n'Are you charged with any message, that you told them you were\nexpected?' inquired Martin.\n\n'No, sir, I an't,' said Mark. 'That was what you may call a pious fraud,\nsir, that was.'\n\nMartin cast an angry look at him; but there was something in the\nfellow's merry face, and in his manner--which with all its cheerfulness\nwas far from being obtrusive or familiar--that quite disarmed him.\nHe had lived a solitary life too, for many weeks, and the voice was\npleasant in his ear.\n\n'Tapley,' he said, 'I'll deal openly with you. From all I can judge and\nfrom all I have heard of you through Pinch, you are not a likely kind of\nfellow to have been brought here by impertinent curiosity or any other\noffensive motive. Sit down. I'm glad to see you.'\n\n'Thankee, sir,' said Mark. 'I'd as lieve stand.'\n\n'If you don't sit down,' retorted Martin, 'I'll not talk to you.'\n\n'Very good, sir,' observed Mark. 'Your will's a law, sir. Down it is;'\nand he sat down accordingly upon the bedstead.\n\n'Help yourself,' said Martin, handing him the only knife.\n\n'Thankee, sir,' rejoined Mark. 'After you've done.'\n\n'If you don't take it now, you'll not have any,' said Martin.\n\n'Very good, sir,' rejoined Mark. 'That being your desire--now it is.'\nWith which reply he gravely helped himself and went on eating. Martin\nhaving done the like for a short time in silence, said abruptly:\n\n'What are you doing in London?'\n\n'Nothing at all, sir,' rejoined Mark.\n\n'How's that?' asked Martin.\n\n'I want a place,' said Mark.\n\n'I'm sorry for you,' said Martin.\n\n'--To attend upon a single gentleman,' resumed Mark. 'If from the\ncountry the more desirable. Makeshifts would be preferred. Wages no\nobject.'\n\nHe said this so pointedly, that Martin stopped in his eating, and said:\n\n'If you mean me--'\n\n'Yes, I do, sir,' interposed Mark.\n\n'Then you may judge from my style of living here, of my means of keeping\na man-servant. Besides, I am going to America immediately.'\n\n'Well, sir,' returned Mark, quite unmoved by this intelligence 'from all\nthat ever I heard about it, I should say America is a very likely sort\nof place for me to be jolly in!'\n\nAgain Martin looked at him angrily; and again his anger melted away in\nspite of himself.\n\n'Lord bless you, sir,' said Mark, 'what is the use of us a-going round\nand round, and hiding behind the corner, and dodging up and down, when\nwe can come straight to the point in six words? I've had my eye upon you\nany time this fortnight. I see well enough there's a screw loose in\nyour affairs. I know'd well enough the first time I see you down at the\nDragon that it must be so, sooner or later. Now, sir here am I, without\na sitiwation; without any want of wages for a year to come; for I saved\nup (I didn't mean to do it, but I couldn't help it) at the Dragon--here\nam I with a liking for what's wentersome, and a liking for you, and\na wish to come out strong under circumstances as would keep other men\ndown; and will you take me, or will you leave me?'\n\n'How can I take you?' cried Martin.\n\n'When I say take,' rejoined Mark, 'I mean will you let me go? and when I\nsay will you let me go, I mean will you let me go along with you? for go\nI will, somehow or another. Now that you've said America, I see clear at\nonce, that that's the place for me to be jolly in. Therefore, if I don't\npay my own passage in the ship you go in, sir, I'll pay my own passage\nin another. And mark my words, if I go alone it shall be, to carry out\nthe principle, in the rottenest, craziest, leakingest tub of a wessel\nthat a place can be got in for love or money. So if I'm lost upon the\nway, sir, there'll be a drowned man at your door--and always a-knocking\ndouble knocks at it, too, or never trust me!'\n\n'This is mere folly,' said Martin.\n\n'Very good, sir,' returned Mark. 'I'm glad to hear it, because if you\ndon't mean to let me go, you'll be more comfortable, perhaps, on account\nof thinking so. Therefore I contradict no gentleman. But all I say is,\nthat if I don't emigrate to America in that case, in the beastliest old\ncockle-shell as goes out of port, I'm--'\n\n'You don't mean what you say, I'm sure,' said Martin.\n\n'Yes I do,' cried Mark.\n\n'I tell you I know better,' rejoined Martin.\n\n'Very good, sir,' said Mark, with the same air of perfect satisfaction.\n'Let it stand that way at present, sir, and wait and see how it turns\nout. Why, love my heart alive! the only doubt I have is, whether there's\nany credit in going with a gentleman like you, that's as certain to make\nhis way there as a gimlet is to go through soft deal.'\n\nThis was touching Martin on his weak point, and having him at a great\nadvantage. He could not help thinking, either, what a brisk fellow this\nMark was, and how great a change he had wrought in the atmosphere of the\ndismal little room already.\n\n'Why, certainly, Mark,' he said, 'I have hopes of doing well there, or I\nshouldn't go. I may have the qualifications for doing well, perhaps.'\n\n'Of course you have, sir,' returned Mark Tapley. 'Everybody knows that.'\n\n'You see,' said Martin, leaning his chin upon his hand, and looking at\nthe fire, 'ornamental architecture applied to domestic purposes,\ncan hardly fail to be in great request in that country; for men are\nconstantly changing their residences there, and moving further off; and\nit's clear they must have houses to live in.'\n\n'I should say, sir,' observed Mark, 'that that's a state of things as\nopens one of the jolliest look-outs for domestic architecture that ever\nI heerd tell on.'\n\nMartin glanced at him hastily, not feeling quite free from a suspicion\nthat this remark implied a doubt of the successful issue of his plans.\nBut Mr Tapley was eating the boiled beef and bread with such entire good\nfaith and singleness of purpose expressed in his visage that he could\nnot but be satisfied. Another doubt arose in his mind however, as this\none disappeared. He produced the blank cover in which the note had been\nenclosed, and fixing his eyes on Mark as he put it in his hands, said:\n\n'Now tell me the truth. Do you know anything about that?'\n\nMark turned it over and over; held it near his eyes; held it away from\nhim at arm's length; held it with the superscription upwards and with\nthe superscription downwards; and shook his head with such a genuine\nexpression of astonishment at being asked the question, that Martin\nsaid, as he took it from him again:\n\n'No, I see you don't. How should you! Though, indeed, your knowing about\nit would not be more extraordinary than its being here. Come, Tapley,'\nhe added, after a moment's thought, 'I'll trust you with my history,\nsuch as it is, and then you'll see more clearly what sort of fortunes\nyou would link yourself to, if you followed me.'\n\n'I beg your pardon, sir,' said Mark; 'but afore you enter upon it\nwill you take me if I choose to go? Will you turn off me--Mark\nTapley--formerly of the Blue Dragon, as can be well recommended by Mr\nPinch, and as wants a gentleman of your strength of mind to look up to;\nor will you, in climbing the ladder as you're certain to get to the\ntop of, take me along with you at a respectful distance? Now, sir,'\nsaid Mark, 'it's of very little importance to you, I know, there's the\ndifficulty; but it's of very great importance to me, and will you be so\ngood as to consider of it?'\n\nIf this were meant as a second appeal to Martin's weak side, founded on\nhis observation of the effect of the first, Mr Tapley was a skillful and\nshrewd observer. Whether an intentional or an accidental shot, it\nhit the mark fully for Martin, relenting more and more, said with a\ncondescension which was inexpressibly delicious to him, after his recent\nhumiliation:\n\n'We'll see about it, Tapley. You shall tell me in what disposition you\nfind yourself to-morrow.'\n\n'Then, sir,' said Mark, rubbing his hands, 'the job's done. Go on, sir,\nif you please. I'm all attention.'\n\nThrowing himself back in his arm-chair, and looking at the fire, with\nnow and then a glance at Mark, who at such times nodded his head sagely,\nto express his profound interest and attention. Martin ran over the\nchief points in his history, to the same effect as he had related them,\nweeks before, to Mr Pinch. But he adapted them, according to the best of\nhis judgment, to Mr Tapley's comprehension; and with that view made as\nlight of his love affair as he could, and referred to it in very few\nwords. But here he reckoned without his host; for Mark's interest was\nkeenest in this part of the business, and prompted him to ask sundry\nquestions in relation to it; for which he apologised as one in some\nmeasure privileged to do so, from having seen (as Martin explained to\nhim) the young lady at the Blue Dragon.\n\n'And a young lady as any gentleman ought to feel more proud of being in\nlove with,' said Mark, energetically, 'don't draw breath.'\n\n'Aye! You saw her when she was not happy,' said Martin, gazing at the\nfire again. 'If you had seen her in the old times, indeed--'\n\n'Why, she certainly was a little down-hearted, sir, and something paler\nin her colour than I could have wished,' said Mark, 'but none the worse\nin her looks for that. I think she seemed better, sir, after she come to\nLondon.'\n\nMartin withdrew his eyes from the fire; stared at Mark as if he thought\nhe had suddenly gone mad; and asked him what he meant.\n\n'No offence intended, sir,' urged Mark. 'I don't mean to say she was any\nthe happier without you; but I thought she was a-looking better, sir.'\n\n'Do you mean to tell me she has been in London?' asked Martin, rising\nhurriedly, and pushing back his chair.\n\n'Of course I do,' said Mark, rising too, in great amazement from the\nbedstead.\n\n'Do you mean to tell me she is in London now?'\n\n'Most likely, sir. I mean to say she was a week ago.'\n\n'And you know where?'\n\n'Yes!' cried Mark. 'What! Don't you?'\n\n'My good fellow!' exclaimed Martin, clutching him by both arms, 'I have\nnever seen her since I left my grandfather's house.'\n\n'Why, then!' cried Mark, giving the little table such a blow with his\nclenched fist that the slices of beef and ham danced upon it, while all\nhis features seemed, with delight, to be going up into his forehead, and\nnever coming back again any more, 'if I an't your nat'ral born servant,\nhired by Fate, there an't such a thing in natur' as a Blue Dragon. What!\nwhen I was a-rambling up and down a old churchyard in the City, getting\nmyself into a jolly state, didn't I see your grandfather a-toddling to\nand fro for pretty nigh a mortal hour! Didn't I watch him into Todgers's\ncommercial boarding-house, and watch him out, and watch him home to his\nhotel, and go and tell him as his was the service for my money, and I\nhad said so, afore I left the Dragon! Wasn't the young lady a-sitting\nwith him then, and didn't she fall a-laughing in a manner as was\nbeautiful to see! Didn't your grandfather say, \"Come back again next\nweek,\" and didn't I go next week; and didn't he say that he couldn't\nmake up his mind to trust nobody no more; and therefore wouldn't engage\nme, but at the same time stood something to drink as was handsome! Why,'\ncried Mr Tapley, with a comical mixture of delight and chagrin, 'where's\nthe credit of a man's being jolly under such circumstances! Who could\nhelp it, when things come about like this!'\n\nFor some moments Martin stood gazing at him, as if he really doubted the\nevidence of his senses, and could not believe that Mark stood there, in\nthe body, before him. At length he asked him whether, if the young lady\nwere still in London, he thought he could contrive to deliver a letter\nto her secretly.\n\n'Do I think I can?' cried Mark. 'THINK I can? Here, sit down, sir. Write\nit out, sir!'\n\nWith that he cleared the table by the summary process of tilting\neverything upon it into the fireplace; snatched some writing materials\nfrom the mantel-shelf; set Martin's chair before them; forced him down\ninto it; dipped a pen into the ink; and put it in his hand.\n\n'Cut away, sir!' cried Mark. 'Make it strong, sir. Let it be wery\npinted, sir. Do I think so? I should think so. Go to work, sir!'\n\nMartin required no further adjuration, but went to work at a great rate;\nwhile Mr Tapley, installing himself without any more formalities into\nthe functions of his valet and general attendant, divested himself\nof his coat, and went on to clear the fireplace and arrange the room;\ntalking to himself in a low voice the whole time.\n\n'Jolly sort of lodgings,' said Mark, rubbing his nose with the knob at\nthe end of the fire-shovel, and looking round the poor chamber; 'that's\na comfort. The rain's come through the roof too. That an't bad. A lively\nold bedstead, I'll be bound; popilated by lots of wampires, no doubt.\nCome! my spirits is a-getting up again. An uncommon ragged nightcap\nthis. A very good sign. We shall do yet! Here, Jane, my dear,' calling\ndown the stairs, 'bring up that there hot tumbler for my master as was\na-mixing when I come in. That's right, sir,' to Martin. 'Go at it as if\nyou meant it, sir. Be very tender, sir, if you please. You can't make it\ntoo strong, sir!'\n\n\n\nCHAPTER FOURTEEN\n\nIN WHICH MARTIN BIDS ADIEU TO THE LADY OF HIS LOVE; AND HONOURS AN\nOBSCURE INDIVIDUAL WHOSE FORTUNE HE INTENDS TO MAKE BY COMMENDING HER TO\nHIS PROTECTION\n\n\nThe letter being duly signed, sealed, and delivered, was handed to Mark\nTapley, for immediate conveyance if possible. And he succeeded so well\nin his embassy as to be enabled to return that same night, just as the\nhouse was closing, with the welcome intelligence that he had sent it\nupstairs to the young lady, enclosed in a small manuscript of his\nown, purporting to contain his further petition to be engaged in Mr\nChuzzlewit's service; and that she had herself come down and told him,\nin great haste and agitation, that she would meet the gentleman at\neight o'clock to-morrow morning in St. James's Park. It was then agreed\nbetween the new master and the new man, that Mark should be in waiting\nnear the hotel in good time, to escort the young lady to the place\nof appointment; and when they had parted for the night with this\nunderstanding, Martin took up his pen again; and before he went to bed\nwrote another letter, whereof more will be seen presently.\n\nHe was up before daybreak, and came upon the Park with the morning,\nwhich was clad in the least engaging of the three hundred and sixty-five\ndresses in the wardrobe of the year. It was raw, damp, dark, and dismal;\nthe clouds were as muddy as the ground; and the short perspective\nof every street and avenue was closed up by the mist as by a filthy\ncurtain.\n\n'Fine weather indeed,' Martin bitterly soliloquised, 'to be wandering\nup and down here in, like a thief! Fine weather indeed, for a meeting of\nlovers in the open air, and in a public walk! I need be departing, with\nall speed, for another country; for I have come to a pretty pass in\nthis!'\n\nHe might perhaps have gone on to reflect that of all mornings in the\nyear, it was not the best calculated for a young lady's coming forth\non such an errand, either. But he was stopped on the road to this\nreflection, if his thoughts tended that way, by her appearance at a\nshort distance, on which he hurried forward to meet her. Her squire,\nMr Tapley, at the same time fell discreetly back, and surveyed the fog\nabove him with an appearance of attentive interest.\n\n'My dear Martin,' said Mary.\n\n'My dear Mary,' said Martin; and lovers are such a singular kind of\npeople that this is all they did say just then, though Martin took her\narm, and her hand too, and they paced up and down a short walk that was\nleast exposed to observation, half-a-dozen times.\n\n'If you have changed at all, my love, since we parted,' said Martin at\nlength, as he looked upon her with a proud delight, 'it is only to be\nmore beautiful than ever!'\n\nHad she been of the common metal of love-worn young ladies, she would\nhave denied this in her most interesting manner; and would have told him\nthat she knew she had become a perfect fright; or that she had wasted\naway with weeping and anxiety; or that she was dwindling gently into an\nearly grave; or that her mental sufferings were unspeakable; or would,\neither by tears or words, or a mixture of both, have furnished him with\nsome other information to that effect, and made him as miserable as\npossible. But she had been reared up in a sterner school than the minds\nof most young girls are formed in; she had had her nature strengthened\nby the hands of hard endurance and necessity; had come out from her\nyoung trials constant, self-denying, earnest, and devoted; had acquired\nin her maidenhood--whether happily in the end, for herself or him, is\nforeign to our present purpose to inquire--something of that nobler\nquality of gentle hearts which is developed often by the sorrows and\nstruggles of matronly years, but often by their lessons only. Unspoiled,\nunpampered in her joys or griefs; with frank and full, and deep\naffection for the object of her early love; she saw in him one who for\nher sake was an outcast from his home and fortune, and she had no\nmore idea of bestowing that love upon him in other than cheerful and\nsustaining words, full of high hope and grateful trustfulness, than she\nhad of being unworthy of it, in her lightest thought or deed, for any\nbase temptation that the world could offer.\n\n'What change is there in YOU, Martin,' she replied; 'for that concerns\nme nearest? You look more anxious and more thoughtful than you used.'\n\n'Why, as to that, my love,' said Martin as he drew her waist within his\narm, first looking round to see that there were no observers near,\nand beholding Mr Tapley more intent than ever on the fog; 'it would be\nstrange if I did not; for my life--especially of late--has been a hard\none.'\n\n'I know it must have been,' she answered. 'When have I forgotten to\nthink of it and you?'\n\n'Not often, I hope,' said Martin. 'Not often, I am sure. Not often, I\nhave some right to expect, Mary; for I have undergone a great deal of\nvexation and privation, and I naturally look for that return, you know.'\n\n'A very, very poor return,' she answered with a fainter smile. 'But you\nhave it, and will have it always. You have paid a dear price for a poor\nheart, Martin; but it is at least your own, and a true one.'\n\n'Of course I feel quite certain of that,' said Martin, 'or I shouldn't\nhave put myself in my present position. And don't say a poor heart,\nMary, for I say a rich one. Now, I am about to break a design to you,\ndearest, which will startle you at first, but which is undertaken for\nyour sake. I am going,' he added slowly, looking far into the deep\nwonder of her bright dark eyes, 'abroad.'\n\n'Abroad, Martin!'\n\n'Only to America. See now. How you droop directly!'\n\n'If I do, or, I hope I may say, if I did,' she answered, raising her\nhead after a short silence, and looking once more into his face, 'it was\nfor grief to think of what you are resolved to undergo for me. I would\nnot venture to dissuade you, Martin; but it is a long, long distance;\nthere is a wide ocean to be crossed; illness and want are sad calamities\nin any place, but in a foreign country dreadful to endure. Have you\nthought of all this?'\n\n'Thought of it!' cried Martin, abating, in his fondness--and he WAS very\nfond of her--hardly an iota of his usual impetuosity. 'What am I to do?\nIt's very well to say, \"Have I thought of it?\" my love; but you should\nask me in the same breath, have I thought of starving at home; have I\nthought of doing porter's work for a living; have I thought of holding\nhorses in the streets to earn my roll of bread from day to day? Come,\ncome,' he added, in a gentler tone, 'do not hang down your head, my\ndear, for I need the encouragement that your sweet face alone can give\nme. Why, that's well! Now you are brave again.'\n\n'I am endeavouring to be,' she answered, smiling through her tears.\n\n'Endeavouring to be anything that's good, and being it, is, with you,\nall one. Don't I know that of old?' cried Martin, gayly. 'So! That's\nfamous! Now I can tell you all my plans as cheerfully as if you were my\nlittle wife already, Mary.'\n\nShe hung more closely on his arm, and looking upwards in his face, bade\nhim speak on.\n\n'You see,' said Martin, playing with the little hand upon his wrist,\n'that my attempts to advance myself at home have been baffled and\nrendered abortive. I will not say by whom, Mary, for that would give\npain to us both. But so it is. Have you heard him speak of late of any\nrelative of mine or his, called Pecksniff? Only tell me what I ask you,\nno more.'\n\n'I have heard, to my surprise, that he is a better man than was\nsupposed.'\n\n'I thought so,' interrupted Martin.\n\n'And that it is likely we may come to know him, if not to visit and\nreside with him and--I think--his daughters. He HAS daughters, has he,\nlove?'\n\n'A pair of them,' Martin answered. 'A precious pair! Gems of the first\nwater!'\n\n'Ah! You are jesting!'\n\n'There is a sort of jesting which is very much in earnest, and includes\nsome pretty serious disgust,' said Martin. 'I jest in reference to Mr\nPecksniff (at whose house I have been living as his assistant, and at\nwhose hands I have received insult and injury), in that vein. Whatever\nbetides, or however closely you may be brought into communication with\nthis family, never forget that, Mary; and never for an instant,\nwhatever appearances may seem to contradict me, lose sight of this\nassurance--Pecksniff is a scoundrel.'\n\n'Indeed!'\n\n'In thought, and in deed, and in everything else. A scoundrel from the\ntopmost hair of his head, to the nethermost atom of his heel. Of his\ndaughters I will only say that, to the best of my knowledge and belief,\nthey are dutiful young ladies, and take after their father closely. This\nis a digression from the main point, and yet it brings me to what I was\ngoing to say.'\n\nHe stopped to look into her eyes again, and seeing, in a hasty glance\nover his shoulder, that there was no one near, and that Mark was still\nintent upon the fog, not only looked at her lips, too, but kissed them\ninto the bargain.\n\n'Now I am going to America, with great prospects of doing well, and of\nreturning home myself very soon; it may be to take you there for a few\nyears, but, at all events, to claim you for my wife; which, after such\ntrials, I should do with no fear of your still thinking it a duty to\ncleave to him who will not suffer me to live (for this is true), if he\ncan help it, in my own land. How long I may be absent is, of course,\nuncertain; but it shall not be very long. Trust me for that.'\n\n'In the meantime, dear Martin--'\n\n'That's the very thing I am coming to. In the meantime you shall hear,\nconstantly, of all my goings-on. Thus.'\n\nHe paused to take from his pocket the letter he had written overnight,\nand then resumed:\n\n'In this fellow's employment, and living in this fellow's house (by\nfellow, I mean Mr Pecksniff, of course), there is a certain person of\nthe name of Pinch. Don't forget; a poor, strange, simple oddity, Mary;\nbut thoroughly honest and sincere; full of zeal; and with a cordial\nregard for me. Which I mean to return one of these days, by setting him\nup in life in some way or other.'\n\n'Your old kind nature, Martin!'\n\n'Oh!' said Martin, 'that's not worth speaking of, my love. He's very\ngrateful and desirous to serve me; and I am more than repaid. Now one\nnight I told this Pinch my history, and all about myself and you; in\nwhich he was not a little interested, I can tell you, for he knows you!\nAye, you may look surprised--and the longer the better for it becomes\nyou--but you have heard him play the organ in the church of that village\nbefore now; and he has seen you listening to his music; and has caught\nhis inspiration from you, too!'\n\n'Was HE the organist?' cried Mary. 'I thank him from my heart!'\n\n'Yes, he was,' said Martin, 'and is, and gets nothing for it either.\nThere never was such a simple fellow! Quite an infant! But a very good\nsort of creature, I assure you.'\n\n'I am sure of that,' she said with great earnestness. 'He must be!'\n\n'Oh, yes, no doubt at all about it,' rejoined Martin, in his usual\ncareless way. 'He is. Well! It has occurred to me--but stay. If I read\nyou what I have written and intend sending to him by post to-night\nit will explain itself. \"My dear Tom Pinch.\" That's rather familiar\nperhaps,' said Martin, suddenly remembering that he was proud when they\nhad last met, 'but I call him my dear Tom Pinch because he likes it, and\nit pleases him.'\n\n'Very right, and very kind,' said Mary.\n\n'Exactly so!' cried Martin. 'It's as well to be kind whenever one can;\nand, as I said before, he really is an excellent fellow. \"My dear Tom\nPinch--I address this under cover to Mrs Lupin, at the Blue Dragon,\nand have begged her in a short note to deliver it to you without saying\nanything about it elsewhere; and to do the same with all future letters\nshe may receive from me. My reason for so doing will be at once apparent\nto you\"--I don't know that it will be, by the bye,' said Martin,\nbreaking off, 'for he's slow of comprehension, poor fellow; but he'll\nfind it out in time. My reason simply is, that I don't want my letters\nto be read by other people; and particularly by the scoundrel whom he\nthinks an angel.'\n\n'Mr Pecksniff again?' asked Mary.\n\n'The same,' said Martin '--will be at once apparent to you. I have\ncompleted my arrangements for going to America; and you will be\nsurprised to hear that I am to be accompanied by Mark Tapley, upon whom\nI have stumbled strangely in London, and who insists on putting himself\nunder my protection'--meaning, my love,' said Martin, breaking off\nagain, 'our friend in the rear, of course.'\n\nShe was delighted to hear this, and bestowed a kind glance upon Mark,\nwhich he brought his eyes down from the fog to encounter and received\nwith immense satisfaction. She said in his hearing, too, that he was a\ngood soul and a merry creature, and would be faithful, she was certain;\ncommendations which Mr Tapley inwardly resolved to deserve, from such\nlips, if he died for it.\n\n'\"Now, my dear Pinch,\"' resumed Martin, proceeding with his letter; '\"I\nam going to repose great trust in you, knowing that I may do so with\nperfect reliance on your honour and secrecy, and having nobody else just\nnow to trust in.\"'\n\n'I don't think I would say that, Martin.'\n\n'Wouldn't you? Well! I'll take that out. It's perfectly true, though.'\n\n'But it might seem ungracious, perhaps.'\n\n'Oh, I don't mind Pinch,' said Martin. 'There's no occasion to stand on\nany ceremony with HIM. However, I'll take it out, as you wish it, and\nmake the full stop at \"secrecy.\" Very well! \"I shall not only\"--this is\nthe letter again, you know.'\n\n'I understand.'\n\n'\"I shall not only enclose my letters to the young lady of whom I have\ntold you, to your charge, to be forwarded as she may request; but I most\nearnestly commit her, the young lady herself, to your care and regard,\nin the event of your meeting in my absence. I have reason to think\nthat the probabilities of your encountering each other--perhaps very\nfrequently--are now neither remote nor few; and although in our position\nyou can do very little to lessen the uneasiness of hers, I trust to you\nimplicitly to do that much, and so deserve the confidence I have reposed\nin you.\" You see, my dear Mary,' said Martin, 'it will be a great\nconsolation to you to have anybody, no matter how simple, with whom you\ncan speak about ME; and the very first time you talk to Pinch, you'll\nfeel at once that there is no more occasion for any embarrassment or\nhesitation in talking to him, than if he were an old woman.'\n\n'However that may be,' she returned, smiling, 'he is your friend, and\nthat is enough.'\n\n'Oh, yes, he's my friend,' said Martin, 'certainly. In fact, I have told\nhim in so many words that we'll always take notice of him, and protect\nhim; and it's a good trait in his character that he's grateful--very\ngrateful indeed. You'll like him of all things, my love, I know. You'll\nobserve very much that's comical and old-fashioned about Pinch, but you\nneedn't mind laughing at him; for he'll not care about it. He'll rather\nlike it indeed!'\n\n'I don't think I shall put that to the test, Martin.'\n\n'You won't if you can help it, of course,' he said, 'but I think you'll\nfind him a little too much for your gravity. However, that's neither\nhere nor there, and it certainly is not the letter; which ends\nthus: \"Knowing that I need not impress the nature and extent of that\nconfidence upon you at any greater length, as it is already sufficiently\nestablished in your mind, I will only say, in bidding you farewell and\nlooking forward to our next meeting, that I shall charge myself from\nthis time, through all changes for the better, with your advancement and\nhappiness, as if they were my own. You may rely upon that. And\nalways believe me, my dear Tom Pinch, faithfully your friend, Martin\nChuzzlewit. P.S.--I enclose the amount which you so kindly\"--Oh,' said\nMartin, checking himself, and folding up the letter, 'that's nothing!'\n\nAt this crisis Mark Tapley interposed, with an apology for remarking\nthat the clock at the Horse Guards was striking.\n\n'Which I shouldn't have said nothing about, sir,' added Mark, 'if the\nyoung lady hadn't begged me to be particular in mentioning it.'\n\n'I did,' said Mary. 'Thank you. You are quite right. In another minute\nI shall be ready to return. We have time for a very few words more, dear\nMartin, and although I had much to say, it must remain unsaid until the\nhappy time of our next meeting. Heaven send it may come speedily and\nprosperously! But I have no fear of that.'\n\n'Fear!' cried Martin. 'Why, who has? What are a few months? What is a\nwhole year? When I come gayly back, with a road through life hewn out\nbefore me, then indeed, looking back upon this parting, it may seem\na dismal one. But now! I swear I wouldn't have it happen under more\nfavourable auspices, if I could; for then I should be less inclined to\ngo, and less impressed with the necessity.'\n\n'Yes, yes. I feel that too. When do you go?'\n\n'To-night. We leave for Liverpool to-night. A vessel sails from that\nport, as I hear, in three days. In a month, or less, we shall be there.\nWhy, what's a month! How many months have flown by, since our last\nparting!'\n\n'Long to look back upon,' said Mary, echoing his cheerful tone, 'but\nnothing in their course!'\n\n'Nothing at all!' cried Martin. 'I shall have change of scene and change\nof place; change of people, change of manners, change of cares and\nhopes! Time will wear wings indeed! I can bear anything, so that I have\nswift action, Mary.'\n\nWas he thinking solely of her care for him, when he took so little heed\nof her share in the separation; of her quiet monotonous endurance,\nand her slow anxiety from day to day? Was there nothing jarring and\ndiscordant even in his tone of courage, with this one note 'self' for\never audible, however high the strain? Not in her ears. It had been\nbetter otherwise, perhaps, but so it was. She heard the same bold spirit\nwhich had flung away as dross all gain and profit for her sake, making\nlight of peril and privation that she might be calm and happy; and she\nheard no more. That heart where self has found no place and raised no\nthrone, is slow to recognize its ugly presence when it looks upon it.\nAs one possessed of an evil spirit was held in old time to be alone\nconscious of the lurking demon in the breasts of other men, so kindred\nvices know each other in their hiding-places every day, when Virtue is\nincredulous and blind.\n\n'The quarter's gone!' cried Mr Tapley, in a voice of admonition.\n\n'I shall be ready to return immediately,' she said. 'One thing, dear\nMartin, I am bound to tell you. You entreated me a few minutes since\nonly to answer what you asked me in reference to one theme, but you\nshould and must know (otherwise I could not be at ease) that since\nthat separation of which I was the unhappy occasion, he has never once\nuttered your name; has never coupled it, or any faint allusion to it,\nwith passion or reproach; and has never abated in his kindness to me.'\n\n'I thank him for that last act,' said Martin, 'and for nothing else.\nThough on consideration I may thank him for his other forbearance also,\ninasmuch as I neither expect nor desire that he will mention my name\nagain. He may once, perhaps--to couple it with reproach--in his will.\nLet him, if he please! By the time it reaches me, he will be in his\ngrave; a satire on his own anger, God help him!'\n\n'Martin! If you would but sometimes, in some quiet hour; beside the\nwinter fire; in the summer air; when you hear gentle music, or think of\nDeath, or Home, or Childhood; if you would at such a season resolve to\nthink, but once a month, or even once a year, of him, or any one who\never wronged you, you would forgive him in your heart, I know!'\n\n'If I believed that to be true, Mary,' he replied, 'I would resolve at\nno such time to bear him in my mind; wishing to spare myself the shame\nof such a weakness. I was not born to be the toy and puppet of any man,\nfar less his; to whose pleasure and caprice, in return for any good he\ndid me, my whole youth was sacrificed. It became between us two a fair\nexchange--a barter--and no more; and there is no such balance against\nme that I need throw in a mawkish forgiveness to poise the scale. He has\nforbidden all mention of me to you, I know,' he added hastily. 'Come!\nHas he not?'\n\n'That was long ago,' she returned; 'immediately after your parting;\nbefore you had left the house. He has never done so since.'\n\n'He has never done so since because he has seen no occasion,' said\nMartin; 'but that is of little consequence, one way or other. Let all\nallusion to him between you and me be interdicted from this time forth.\nAnd therefore, love'--he drew her quickly to him, for the time of\nparting had now come--'in the first letter that you write to me through\nthe Post Office, addressed to New York; and in all the others that you\nsend through Pinch; remember he has no existence, but has become to us\nas one who is dead. Now, God bless you! This is a strange place for such\na meeting and such a parting; but our next meeting shall be in a better,\nand our next and last parting in a worse.'\n\n'One other question, Martin, I must ask. Have you provided money for\nthis journey?'\n\n'Have I?' cried Martin; it might have been in his pride; it might have\nbeen in his desire to set her mind at ease: 'Have I provided money? Why,\nthere's a question for an emigrant's wife! How could I move on land or\nsea without it, love?'\n\n'I mean, enough.'\n\n'Enough! More than enough. Twenty times more than enough. A pocket-full.\nMark and I, for all essential ends, are quite as rich as if we had the\npurse of Fortunatus in our baggage.'\n\n'The half-hour's a-going!' cried Mr Tapley.\n\n'Good-bye a hundred times!' cried Mary, in a trembling voice.\n\nBut how cold the comfort in Good-bye! Mark Tapley knew it perfectly.\nPerhaps he knew it from his reading, perhaps from his experience,\nperhaps from intuition. It is impossible to say; but however he knew\nit, his knowledge instinctively suggested to him the wisest course of\nproceeding that any man could have adopted under the circumstances. He\nwas taken with a violent fit of sneezing, and was obliged to turn his\nhead another way. In doing which, he, in a manner fenced and screened\nthe lovers into a corner by themselves.\n\nThere was a short pause, but Mark had an undefined sensation that it was\na satisfactory one in its way. Then Mary, with her veil lowered, passed\nhim with a quick step, and beckoned him to follow. She stopped once more\nbefore they lost that corner; looked back; and waved her hand to Martin.\nHe made a start towards them at the moment as if he had some other\nfarewell words to say; but she only hurried off the faster, and Mr\nTapley followed as in duty bound.\n\nWhen he rejoined Martin again in his own chamber, he found that\ngentleman seated moodily before the dusty grate, with his two feet on\nthe fender, his two elbows on his knees, and his chin supported, in a\nnot very ornamental manner, on the palms of his hands.\n\n'Well, Mark!'\n\n'Well, sir,' said Mark, taking a long breath, 'I see the young lady safe\nhome, and I feel pretty comfortable after it. She sent a lot of kind\nwords, sir, and this,' handing him a ring, 'for a parting keepsake.'\n\n'Diamonds!' said Martin, kissing it--let us do him justice, it was for\nher sake; not for theirs--and putting it on his little finger. 'Splendid\ndiamonds! My grandfather is a singular character, Mark. He must have\ngiven her this now.'\n\nMark Tapley knew as well that she had bought it, to the end that that\nunconscious speaker might carry some article of sterling value with him\nin his necessity; as he knew that it was day, and not night. Though he\nhad no more acquaintance of his own knowledge with the history of the\nglittering trinket on Martin's outspread finger, than Martin himself\nhad, he was as certain that in its purchase she had expended her whole\nstock of hoarded money, as if he had seen it paid down coin by coin. Her\nlover's strange obtuseness in relation to this little incident, promptly\nsuggested to Mark's mind its real cause and root; and from that moment\nhe had a clear and perfect insight into the one absorbing principle of\nMartin's character.\n\n'She is worthy of the sacrifices I have made,' said Martin, folding his\narms, and looking at the ashes in the stove, as if in resumption of some\nformer thoughts. 'Well worthy of them. No riches'--here he stroked his\nchin and mused--'could have compensated for the loss of such a nature.\nNot to mention that in gaining her affection I have followed the bent\nof my own wishes, and baulked the selfish schemes of others who had\nno right to form them. She is quite worthy--more than worthy--of the\nsacrifices I have made. Yes, she is. No doubt of it.'\n\nThese ruminations might or might not have reached Mark Tapley; for\nthough they were by no means addressed to him, yet they were softly\nuttered. In any case, he stood there, watching Martin with an\nindescribable and most involved expression on his visage, until that\nyoung man roused himself and looked towards him; when he turned away,\nas being suddenly intent upon certain preparations for the journey,\nand, without giving vent to any articulate sound, smiled with surpassing\nghastliness, and seemed by a twist of his features and a motion of his\nlips, to release himself of this word:\n\n'Jolly!'\n\n\n\nCHAPTER FIFTEEN\n\nTHE BURDEN WHEREOF, IS HAIL COLUMBIA!\n\n\nA dark and dreary night; people nestling in their beds or circling\nlate about the fire; Want, colder than Charity, shivering at the street\ncorners; church-towers humming with the faint vibration of their own\ntongues, but newly resting from the ghostly preachment 'One!' The earth\ncovered with a sable pall as for the burial of yesterday; the clumps of\ndark trees, its giant plumes of funeral feathers, waving sadly to and\nfro: all hushed, all noiseless, and in deep repose, save the swift\nclouds that skim across the moon, and the cautious wind, as, creeping\nafter them upon the ground, it stops to listen, and goes rustling on,\nand stops again, and follows, like a savage on the trail.\n\nWhither go the clouds and wind so eagerly? If, like guilty spirits, they\nrepair to some dread conference with powers like themselves, in what\nwild regions do the elements hold council, or where unbend in terrible\ndisport?\n\nHere! Free from that cramped prison called the earth, and out upon the\nwaste of waters. Here, roaring, raging, shrieking, howling, all night\nlong. Hither come the sounding voices from the caverns on the coast of\nthat small island, sleeping, a thousand miles away, so quietly in the\nmidst of angry waves; and hither, to meet them, rush the blasts from\nunknown desert places of the world. Here, in the fury of their unchecked\nliberty, they storm and buffet with each other, until the sea, lashed\ninto passion like their own, leaps up, in ravings mightier than theirs,\nand the whole scene is madness.\n\nOn, on, on, over the countless miles of angry space roll the long\nheaving billows. Mountains and caves are here, and yet are not; for\nwhat is now the one, is now the other; then all is but a boiling heap of\nrushing water. Pursuit, and flight, and mad return of wave on wave, and\nsavage struggle, ending in a spouting-up of foam that whitens the\nblack night; incessant change of place, and form, and hue; constancy in\nnothing, but eternal strife; on, on, on, they roll, and darker grows the\nnight, and louder howls the wind, and more clamorous and fierce become\nthe million voices in the sea, when the wild cry goes forth upon the\nstorm 'A ship!'\n\nOnward she comes, in gallant combat with the elements, her tall masts\ntrembling, and her timbers starting on the strain; onward she comes, now\nhigh upon the curling billows, now low down in the hollows of the sea,\nas hiding for the moment from its fury; and every storm-voice in the air\nand water cries more loudly yet, 'A ship!'\n\nStill she comes striving on; and at her boldness and the spreading cry,\nthe angry waves rise up above each other's hoary heads to look; and\nround about the vessel, far as the mariners on the decks can pierce into\nthe gloom, they press upon her, forcing each other down and starting up,\nand rushing forward from afar, in dreadful curiosity. High over her\nthey break; and round her surge and roar; and giving place to others,\nmoaningly depart, and dash themselves to fragments in their baffled\nanger. Still she comes onward bravely. And though the eager multitude\ncrowd thick and fast upon her all the night, and dawn of day discovers\nthe untiring train yet bearing down upon the ship in an eternity of\ntroubled water, onward she comes, with dim lights burning in her hull,\nand people there, asleep; as if no deadly element were peering in at\nevery seam and chink, and no drowned seaman's grave, with but a plank to\ncover it, were yawning in the unfathomable depths below.\n\nAmong these sleeping voyagers were Martin and Mark Tapley, who, rocked\ninto a heavy drowsiness by the unaccustomed motion, were as insensible\nto the foul air in which they lay, as to the uproar without. It was\nbroad day when the latter awoke with a dim idea that he was dreaming\nof having gone to sleep in a four-post bedstead which had turned bottom\nupwards in the course of the night. There was more reason in this too,\nthan in the roasting of eggs; for the first objects Mr Tapley recognized\nwhen he opened his eyes were his own heels--looking down to him, as he\nafterwards observed, from a nearly perpendicular elevation.\n\n'Well!' said Mark, getting himself into a sitting posture, after various\nineffectual struggles with the rolling of the ship. 'This is the first\ntime as ever I stood on my head all night.'\n\n'You shouldn't go to sleep upon the ground with your head to leeward\nthen,' growled a man in one of the berths.\n\n'With my head to WHERE?' asked Mark.\n\nThe man repeated his previous sentiment.\n\n'No, I won't another time,' said Mark, 'when I know whereabouts on the\nmap that country is. In the meanwhile I can give you a better piece of\nadvice. Don't you nor any other friend of mine never go to sleep with\nhis head in a ship any more.'\n\nThe man gave a grunt of discontented acquiescence, turned over in his\nberth, and drew his blanket over his head.\n\n'--For,' said Mr Tapley, pursuing the theme by way of soliloquy in a low\ntone of voice; 'the sea is as nonsensical a thing as any going. It never\nknows what to do with itself. It hasn't got no employment for its\nmind, and is always in a state of vacancy. Like them Polar bears in the\nwild-beast shows as is constantly a-nodding their heads from side to\nside, it never CAN be quiet. Which is entirely owing to its uncommon\nstupidity.'\n\n'Is that you, Mark?' asked a faint voice from another berth.\n\n'It's as much of me as is left, sir, after a fortnight of this work,'\nMr Tapley replied, 'What with leading the life of a fly, ever since I've\nbeen aboard--for I've been perpetually holding-on to something or other\nin a upside-down position--what with that, sir, and putting a very\nlittle into myself, and taking a good deal out of myself, there an't too\nmuch of me to swear by. How do you find yourself this morning, sir?'\n\n'Very miserable,' said Martin, with a peevish groan. 'Ugh. This is\nwretched, indeed!'\n\n'Creditable,' muttered Mark, pressing one hand upon his aching head and\nlooking round him with a rueful grin. 'That's the great comfort. It IS\ncreditable to keep up one's spirits here. Virtue's its own reward. So's\njollity.'\n\nMark was so far right that unquestionably any man who retained his\ncheerfulness among the steerage accommodations of that noble and\nfast-sailing line-of-packet ship, 'THE SCREW,' was solely indebted to\nhis own resources, and shipped his good humour, like his provisions,\nwithout any contribution or assistance from the owners. A dark, low,\nstifling cabin, surrounded by berths all filled to overflowing with men,\nwomen, and children, in various stages of sickness and misery, is not\nthe liveliest place of assembly at any time; but when it is so crowded\n(as the steerage cabin of the Screw was, every passage out), that\nmattresses and beds are heaped upon the floor, to the extinction of\neverything like comfort, cleanliness, and decency, it is liable to\noperate not only as a pretty strong banner against amiability of temper,\nbut as a positive encourager of selfish and rough humours. Mark felt\nthis, as he sat looking about him; and his spirits rose proportionately.\n\nThere were English people, Irish people, Welsh people, and Scotch people\nthere; all with their little store of coarse food and shabby clothes;\nand nearly all with their families of children. There were children of\nall ages; from the baby at the breast, to the slattern-girl who was as\nmuch a grown woman as her mother. Every kind of domestic suffering that\nis bred in poverty, illness, banishment, sorrow, and long travel in bad\nweather, was crammed into the little space; and yet was there infinitely\nless of complaint and querulousness, and infinitely more of mutual\nassistance and general kindness to be found in that unwholesome ark,\nthan in many brilliant ballrooms.\n\nMark looked about him wistfully, and his face brightened as he looked.\nHere an old grandmother was crooning over a sick child, and rocking it\nto and fro, in arms hardly more wasted than its own young limbs; here a\npoor woman with an infant in her lap, mended another little creature's\nclothes, and quieted another who was creeping up about her from their\nscanty bed upon the floor. Here were old men awkwardly engaged in little\nhousehold offices, wherein they would have been ridiculous but for their\ngood-will and kind purpose; and here were swarthy fellows--giants in\ntheir way--doing such little acts of tenderness for those about them,\nas might have belonged to gentlest-hearted dwarfs. The very idiot in\nthe corner who sat mowing there, all day, had his faculty of imitation\nroused by what he saw about him; and snapped his fingers to amuse a\ncrying child.\n\n'Now, then,' said Mark, nodding to a woman who was dressing her three\nchildren at no great distance from him--and the grin upon his face had\nby this time spread from ear to ear--'Hand over one of them young 'uns\naccording to custom.'\n\n'I wish you'd get breakfast, Mark, instead of worrying with people who\ndon't belong to you,' observed Martin, petulantly.\n\n'All right,' said Mark. 'SHE'll do that. It's a fair division of labour,\nsir. I wash her boys, and she makes our tea. I never COULD make tea, but\nany one can wash a boy.'\n\nThe woman, who was delicate and ill, felt and understood his kindness,\nas well she might, for she had been covered every night with his\ngreatcoat, while he had for his own bed the bare boards and a rug. But\nMartin, who seldom got up or looked about him, was quite incensed by the\nfolly of this speech, and expressed his dissatisfaction by an impatient\ngroan.\n\n'So it is, certainly,' said Mark, brushing the child's hair as coolly as\nif he had been born and bred a barber.\n\n'What are you talking about, now?' asked Martin.\n\n'What you said,' replied Mark; 'or what you meant, when you gave that\nthere dismal vent to your feelings. I quite go along with it, sir. It IS\nvery hard upon her.'\n\n'What is?'\n\n'Making the voyage by herself along with these young impediments here,\nand going such a way at such a time of the year to join her husband.\nIf you don't want to be driven mad with yellow soap in your eye, young\nman,' said Mr Tapley to the second urchin, who was by this time under\nhis hands at the basin, 'you'd better shut it.'\n\n'Where does she join her husband?' asked Martin, yawning.\n\n'Why, I'm very much afraid,' said Mr Tapley, in a low voice, 'that she\ndon't know. I hope she mayn't miss him. But she sent her last letter by\nhand, and it don't seem to have been very clearly understood between 'em\nwithout it, and if she don't see him a-waving his pocket-handkerchief on\nthe shore, like a pictur out of a song-book, my opinion is, she'll break\nher heart.'\n\n'Why, how, in Folly's name, does the woman come to be on board ship on\nsuch a wild-goose venture!' cried Martin.\n\nMr Tapley glanced at him for a moment as he lay prostrate in his berth,\nand then said, very quietly:\n\n'Ah! How indeed! I can't think! He's been away from her for two year;\nshe's been very poor and lonely in her own country; and has always been\na-looking forward to meeting him. It's very strange she should be here.\nQuite amazing! A little mad perhaps! There can't be no other way of\naccounting for it.'\n\nMartin was too far gone in the lassitude of sea-sickness to make any\nreply to these words, or even to attend to them as they were spoken. And\nthe subject of their discourse returning at this crisis with some hot\ntea, effectually put a stop to any resumption of the theme by Mr Tapley;\nwho, when the meal was over and he had adjusted Martin's bed, went up on\ndeck to wash the breakfast service, which consisted of two half-pint tin\nmugs, and a shaving-pot of the same metal.\n\nIt is due to Mark Tapley to state that he suffered at least as much from\nsea-sickness as any man, woman, or child, on board; and that he had a\npeculiar faculty of knocking himself about on the smallest provocation,\nand losing his legs at every lurch of the ship. But resolved, in his\nusual phrase, to 'come out strong' under disadvantageous circumstances,\nhe was the life and soul of the steerage, and made no more of stopping\nin the middle of a facetious conversation to go away and be excessively\nill by himself, and afterwards come back in the very best and gayest of\ntempers to resume it, than if such a course of proceeding had been the\ncommonest in the world.\n\nIt cannot be said that as his illness wore off, his cheerfulness and\ngood nature increased, because they would hardly admit of augmentation;\nbut his usefulness among the weaker members of the party was much\nenlarged; and at all times and seasons there he was exerting it. If\na gleam of sun shone out of the dark sky, down Mark tumbled into the\ncabin, and presently up he came again with a woman in his arms, or\nhalf-a-dozen children, or a man, or a bed, or a saucepan, or a basket,\nor something animate or inanimate, that he thought would be the better\nfor the air. If an hour or two of fine weather in the middle of the day\ntempted those who seldom or never came on deck at other times to crawl\ninto the long-boat, or lie down upon the spare spars, and try to eat,\nthere, in the centre of the group, was Mr Tapley, handing about salt\nbeef and biscuit, or dispensing tastes of grog, or cutting up the\nchildren's provisions with his pocketknife, for their greater ease and\ncomfort, or reading aloud from a venerable newspaper, or singing some\nroaring old song to a select party, or writing the beginnings of letters\nto their friends at home for people who couldn't write, or cracking\njokes with the crew, or nearly getting blown over the side, or emerging,\nhalf-drowned, from a shower of spray, or lending a hand somewhere or\nother; but always doing something for the general entertainment. At\nnight, when the cooking-fire was lighted on the deck, and the driving\nsparks that flew among the rigging, and the clouds of sails, seemed to\nmenace the ship with certain annihilation by fire, in case the elements\nof air and water failed to compass her destruction; there, again, was Mr\nTapley, with his coat off and his shirt-sleeves turned up to his elbows,\ndoing all kinds of culinary offices; compounding the strangest dishes;\nrecognized by every one as an established authority; and helping all\nparties to achieve something which, left to themselves, they never could\nhave done, and never would have dreamed of. In short, there never was a\nmore popular character than Mark Tapley became, on board that noble and\nfast-sailing line-of-packet ship, the Screw; and he attained at last to\nsuch a pitch of universal admiration, that he began to have grave doubts\nwithin himself whether a man might reasonably claim any credit for being\njolly under such exciting circumstances.\n\n'If this was going to last,' said Tapley, 'there'd be no great\ndifference as I can perceive, between the Screw and the Dragon. I\nnever am to get credit, I think. I begin to be afraid that the Fates is\ndetermined to make the world easy to me.'\n\n'Well, Mark,' said Martin, near whose berth he had ruminated to this\neffect. 'When will this be over?'\n\n'Another week, they say, sir,' returned Mark, 'will most likely bring\nus into port. The ship's a-going along at present, as sensible as a ship\ncan, sir; though I don't mean to say as that's any very high praise.'\n\n'I don't think it is, indeed,' groaned Martin.\n\n'You'd feel all the better for it, sir, if you was to turn out,'\nobserved Mark.\n\n'And be seen by the ladies and gentlemen on the after-deck,' returned\nMartin, with a scronful emphasis upon the words, 'mingling with the\nbeggarly crowd that are stowed away in this vile hole. I should be\ngreatly the better for that, no doubt.'\n\n'I'm thankful that I can't say from my own experience what the feelings\nof a gentleman may be,' said Mark, 'but I should have thought, sir, as a\ngentleman would feel a deal more uncomfortable down here than up in the\nfresh air, especially when the ladies and gentlemen in the after-cabin\nknow just as much about him as he does about them, and are likely to\ntrouble their heads about him in the same proportion. I should have\nthought that, certainly.'\n\n'I tell you, then,' rejoined Martin, 'you would have thought wrong, and\ndo think wrong.'\n\n'Very likely, sir,' said Mark, with imperturbable good temper. 'I often\ndo.'\n\n'As to lying here,' cried Martin, raising himself on his elbow, and\nlooking angrily at his follower. 'Do you suppose it's a pleasure to lie\nhere?'\n\n'All the madhouses in the world,' said Mr Tapley, 'couldn't produce such\na maniac as the man must be who could think that.'\n\n'Then why are you forever goading and urging me to get up?' asked\nMartin, 'I lie here because I don't wish to be recognized, in the better\ndays to which I aspire, by any purse-proud citizen, as the man who came\nover with him among the steerage passengers. I lie here because I wish\nto conceal my circumstances and myself, and not to arrive in a new world\nbadged and ticketed as an utterly poverty-stricken man. If I could have\nafforded a passage in the after-cabin I should have held up my head with\nthe rest. As I couldn't I hide it. Do you understand that?'\n\n'I am very sorry, sir,' said Mark. 'I didn't know you took it so much to\nheart as this comes to.'\n\n'Of course you didn't know,' returned his master. 'How should you\nknow, unless I told you? It's no trial to you, Mark, to make yourself\ncomfortable and to bustle about. It's as natural for you to do so under\nthe circumstances as it is for me not to do so. Why, you don't suppose\nthere is a living creature in this ship who can by possibility have half\nso much to undergo on board of her as I have? Do you?' he asked, sitting\nupright in his berth and looking at Mark, with an expression of great\nearnestness not unmixed with wonder.\n\nMark twisted his face into a tight knot, and with his head very much\non one side, pondered upon this question as if he felt it an extremely\ndifficult one to answer. He was relieved from his embarrassment by\nMartin himself, who said, as he stretched himself upon his back again\nand resumed the book he had been reading:\n\n'But what is the use of my putting such a case to you, when the very\nessence of what I have been saying is, that you cannot by possibility\nunderstand it! Make me a little brandy-and-water--cold and very\nweak--and give me a biscuit, and tell your friend, who is a nearer\nneighbour of ours than I could wish, to try and keep her children a\nlittle quieter to-night than she did last night; that's a good fellow.'\n\nMr Tapley set himself to obey these orders with great alacrity, and\npending their execution, it may be presumed his flagging spirits\nrevived; inasmuch as he several times observed, below his breath, that\nin respect of its power of imparting a credit to jollity, the Screw\nunquestionably had some decided advantages over the Dragon. He also\nremarked that it was a high gratification to him to reflect that he\nwould carry its main excellence ashore with him, and have it constantly\nbeside him wherever he went; but what he meant by these consolatory\nthoughts he did not explain.\n\nAnd now a general excitement began to prevail on board; and various\npredictions relative to the precise day, and even the precise hour\nat which they would reach New York, were freely broached. There was\ninfinitely more crowding on deck and looking over the ship's side than\nthere had been before; and an epidemic broke out for packing up things\nevery morning, which required unpacking again every night. Those who had\nany letters to deliver, or any friends to meet, or any settled plans of\ngoing anywhere or doing anything, discussed their prospects a hundred\ntimes a day; and as this class of passengers was very small, and the\nnumber of those who had no prospects whatever was very large, there were\nplenty of listeners and few talkers. Those who had been ill all along,\ngot well now, and those who had been well, got better. An American\ngentleman in the after-cabin, who had been wrapped up in fur and oilskin\nthe whole passage, unexpectedly appeared in a very shiny, tall, black\nhat, and constantly overhauled a very little valise of pale leather,\nwhich contained his clothes, linen, brushes, shaving apparatus, books,\ntrinkets, and other baggage. He likewise stuck his hands deep into\nhis pockets, and walked the deck with his nostrils dilated, as already\ninhaling the air of Freedom which carries death to all tyrants, and can\nnever (under any circumstances worth mentioning) be breathed by slaves.\nAn English gentleman who was strongly suspected of having run away from\na bank, with something in his possession belonging to its strong box\nbesides the key, grew eloquent upon the subject of the rights of man,\nand hummed the Marseillaise Hymn constantly. In a word, one great\nsensation pervaded the whole ship, and the soil of America lay close\nbefore them; so close at last, that, upon a certain starlight night they\ntook a pilot on board, and within a few hours afterwards lay to until\nthe morning, awaiting the arrival of a steamboat in which the passengers\nwere to be conveyed ashore.\n\nOff she came, soon after it was light next morning, and lying alongside\nan hour or more--during which period her very firemen were objects of\nhardly less interest and curiosity than if they had been so many angels,\ngood or bad--took all her living freight aboard. Among them Mark, who\nstill had his friend and her three children under his close protection;\nand Martin, who had once more dressed himself in his usual attire, but\nwore a soiled, old cloak above his ordinary clothes, until such time as\nhe should separate for ever from his late companions.\n\nThe steamer--which, with its machinery on deck, looked, as it worked its\nlong slim legs, like some enormously magnified insect or antediluvian\nmonster--dashed at great speed up a beautiful bay; and presently they\nsaw some heights, and islands, and a long, flat, straggling city.\n\n'And this,' said Mr Tapley, looking far ahead, 'is the Land of Liberty,\nis it? Very well. I'm agreeable. Any land will do for me, after so much\nwater!'\n\n\n\nCHAPTER SIXTEEN\n\nMARTIN DISEMBARKS FROM THAT NOBLE AND FAST-SAILING LINE-OF-PACKET SHIP,\n'THE SCREW', AT THE PORT OF NEW YORK, IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA.\nHE MAKES SOME ACQUAINTANCES, AND DINES AT A BOARDING-HOUSE. THE\nPARTICULARS OF THOSE TRANSACTIONS\n\n\nSome trifling excitement prevailed upon the very brink and margin of the\nland of liberty; for an alderman had been elected the day before;\nand Party Feeling naturally running rather high on such an exciting\noccasion, the friends of the disappointed candidate had found it\nnecessary to assert the great principles of Purity of Election and\nFreedom of opinion by breaking a few legs and arms, and furthermore\npursuing one obnoxious gentleman through the streets with the design of\nhitting his nose. These good-humoured little outbursts of the popular\nfancy were not in themselves sufficiently remarkable to create any great\nstir, after the lapse of a whole night; but they found fresh life and\nnotoriety in the breath of the newsboys, who not only proclaimed them\nwith shrill yells in all the highways and byways of the town, upon the\nwharves and among the shipping, but on the deck and down in the cabins\nof the steamboat; which, before she touched the shore, was boarded and\noverrun by a legion of those young citizens.\n\n'Here's this morning's New York Sewer!' cried one. 'Here's this\nmorning's New York Stabber! Here's the New York Family Spy! Here's the\nNew York Private Listener! Here's the New York Peeper! Here's the New\nYork Plunderer! Here's the New York Keyhole Reporter! Here's the\nNew York Rowdy Journal! Here's all the New York papers! Here's full\nparticulars of the patriotic locofoco movement yesterday, in which\nthe whigs was so chawed up; and the last Alabama gouging case; and the\ninteresting Arkansas dooel with Bowie knives; and all the Political,\nCommercial, and Fashionable News. Here they are! Here they are! Here's\nthe papers, here's the papers!'\n\n'Here's the Sewer!' cried another. 'Here's the New York Sewer! Here's\nsome of the twelfth thousand of to-day's Sewer, with the best accounts\nof the markets, and all the shipping news, and four whole columns of\ncountry correspondence, and a full account of the Ball at Mrs White's\nlast night, where all the beauty and fashion of New York was assembled;\nwith the Sewer's own particulars of the private lives of all the ladies\nthat was there! Here's the Sewer! Here's some of the twelfth thousand of\nthe New York Sewer! Here's the Sewer's exposure of the Wall Street\nGang, and the Sewer's exposure of the Washington Gang, and the Sewer's\nexclusive account of a flagrant act of dishonesty committed by the\nSecretary of State when he was eight years old; now communicated, at a\ngreat expense, by his own nurse. Here's the Sewer! Here's the New York\nSewer, in its twelfth thousand, with a whole column of New Yorkers to be\nshown up, and all their names printed! Here's the Sewer's article\nupon the Judge that tried him, day afore yesterday, for libel, and the\nSewer's tribute to the independent Jury that didn't convict him, and the\nSewer's account of what they might have expected if they had! Here's\nthe Sewer, here's the Sewer! Here's the wide-awake Sewer; always on the\nlookout; the leading Journal of the United States, now in its twelfth\nthousand, and still a-printing off:--Here's the New York Sewer!'\n\n'It is in such enlightened means,' said a voice almost in Martin's ear,\n'that the bubbling passions of my country find a vent.'\n\nMartin turned involuntarily, and saw, standing close at his side, a\nsallow gentleman, with sunken cheeks, black hair, small twinkling eyes,\nand a singular expression hovering about that region of his face, which\nwas not a frown, nor a leer, and yet might have been mistaken at the\nfirst glance for either. Indeed it would have been difficult, on a much\ncloser acquaintance, to describe it in any more satisfactory terms than\nas a mixed expression of vulgar cunning and conceit. This gentleman wore\na rather broad-brimmed hat for the greater wisdom of his appearance; and\nhad his arms folded for the greater impressiveness of his attitude. He\nwas somewhat shabbily dressed in a blue surtout reaching nearly to\nhis ankles, short loose trousers of the same colour, and a faded buff\nwaistcoat, through which a discoloured shirt-frill struggled to force\nitself into notice, as asserting an equality of civil rights with\nthe other portions of his dress, and maintaining a declaration of\nIndependence on its own account. His feet, which were of unusually\nlarge proportions, were leisurely crossed before him as he half leaned\nagainst, half sat upon, the steamboat's bulwark; and his thick cane,\nshod with a mighty ferule at one end and armed with a great metal\nknob at the other, depended from a line-and-tassel on his wrist. Thus\nattired, and thus composed into an aspect of great profundity, the\ngentleman twitched up the right-hand corner of his mouth and his right\neye simultaneously, and said, once more:\n\n'It is in such enlightened means that the bubbling passions of my\ncountry find a vent.'\n\nAs he looked at Martin, and nobody else was by, Martin inclined his\nhead, and said:\n\n'You allude to--?'\n\n'To the Palladium of rational Liberty at home, sir, and the dread of\nForeign oppression abroad,' returned the gentleman, as he pointed with\nhis cane to an uncommonly dirty newsboy with one eye. 'To the Envy of\nthe world, sir, and the leaders of Human Civilization. Let me ask you\nsir,' he added, bringing the ferule of his stick heavily upon the deck\nwith the air of a man who must not be equivocated with, 'how do you like\nmy Country?'\n\n'I am hardly prepared to answer that question yet,' said Martin 'seeing\nthat I have not been ashore.'\n\n'Well, I should expect you were not prepared, sir,' said the gentleman,\n'to behold such signs of National Prosperity as those?'\n\nHe pointed to the vessels lying at the wharves; and then gave a vague\nflourish with his stick, as if he would include the air and water,\ngenerally, in this remark.\n\n'Really,' said Martin, 'I don't know. Yes. I think I was.'\n\nThe gentleman glanced at him with a knowing look, and said he liked his\npolicy. It was natural, he said, and it pleased him as a philosopher to\nobserve the prejudices of human nature.\n\n'You have brought, I see, sir,' he said, turning round towards Martin,\nand resting his chin on the top of his stick, 'the usual amount of\nmisery and poverty and ignorance and crime, to be located in the bosom\nof the great Republic. Well, sir! let 'em come on in shiploads from the\nold country. When vessels are about to founder, the rats are said to\nleave 'em. There is considerable of truth, I find, in that remark.'\n\n'The old ship will keep afloat a year or two longer yet, perhaps,' said\nMartin with a smile, partly occasioned by what the gentleman said,\nand partly by his manner of saying it, which was odd enough for he\nemphasised all the small words and syllables in his discourse, and left\nthe others to take care of themselves; as if he thought the larger parts\nof speech could be trusted alone, but the little ones required to be\nconstantly looked after.\n\n'Hope is said by the poet, sir,' observed the gentleman, 'to be the\nnurse of young Desire.'\n\nMartin signified that he had heard of the cardinal virtue in question\nserving occasionally in that domestic capacity.\n\n'She will not rear her infant in the present instance, sir, you'll\nfind,' observed the gentleman.\n\n'Time will show,' said Martin.\n\nThe gentleman nodded his head gravely; and said, 'What is your name,\nsir?'\n\nMartin told him.\n\n'How old are you, sir?'\n\nMartin told him.\n\n'What is your profession, sir?'\n\nMartin told him that also.\n\n'What is your destination, sir?' inquired the gentleman.\n\n'Really,' said Martin laughing, 'I can't satisfy you in that particular,\nfor I don't know it myself.'\n\n'Yes?' said the gentleman.\n\n'No,' said Martin.\n\nThe gentleman adjusted his cane under his left arm, and took a more\ndeliberate and complete survey of Martin than he had yet had leisure to\nmake. When he had completed his inspection, he put out his right hand,\nshook Martin's hand, and said:\n\n'My name is Colonel Diver, sir. I am the Editor of the New York Rowdy\nJournal.'\n\nMartin received the communication with that degree of respect which an\nannouncement so distinguished appeared to demand.\n\n'The New York Rowdy Journal, sir,' resumed the colonel, 'is, as I expect\nyou know, the organ of our aristocracy in this city.'\n\n'Oh! there IS an aristocracy here, then?' said Martin. 'Of what is it\ncomposed?'\n\n'Of intelligence, sir,' replied the colonel; 'of intelligence and\nvirtue. And of their necessary consequence in this republic--dollars,\nsir.'\n\nMartin was very glad to hear this, feeling well assured that if\nintelligence and virtue led, as a matter of course, to the acquisition\nof dollars, he would speedily become a great capitalist. He was about\nto express the gratification such news afforded him, when he was\ninterrupted by the captain of the ship, who came up at the moment to\nshake hands with the colonel; and who, seeing a well-dressed stranger on\nthe deck (for Martin had thrown aside his cloak), shook hands with him\nalso. This was an unspeakable relief to Martin, who, in spite of the\nacknowledged supremacy of Intelligence and virtue in that happy country,\nwould have been deeply mortified to appear before Colonel Diver in the\npoor character of a steerage passenger.\n\n'Well cap'en!' said the colonel.\n\n'Well colonel,' cried the captain. 'You're looking most uncommon bright,\nsir. I can hardly realise its being you, and that's a fact.'\n\n'A good passage, cap'en?' inquired the colonel, taking him aside,\n\n'Well now! It was a pretty spanking run, sir,' said, or rather sung, the\ncaptain, who was a genuine New Englander; 'considerin' the weather.'\n\n'Yes?' said the colonel.\n\n'Well! It was, sir,' said the captain. 'I've just now sent a boy up to\nyour office with the passenger-list, colonel.'\n\n'You haven't got another boy to spare, p'raps, cap'en?' said the\ncolonel, in a tone almost amounting to severity.\n\n'I guess there air a dozen if you want 'em, colonel,' said the captain.\n\n'One moderate big 'un could convey a dozen champagne, perhaps,' observed\nthe colonel, musing, 'to my office. You said a spanking run, I think?'\n\n'Well, so I did,' was the reply.\n\n'It's very nigh, you know,' observed the colonel. 'I'm glad it was a\nspanking run, cap'en. Don't mind about quarts if you're short of 'em.\nThe boy can as well bring four-and-twenty pints, and travel twice as\nonce.--A first-rate spanker, cap'en, was it? Yes?'\n\n'A most e--tarnal spanker,' said the skipper.\n\n'I admire at your good fortun, cap'en. You might loan me a corkscrew at\nthe same time, and half-a-dozen glasses if you liked. However bad the\nelements combine against my country's noble packet-ship, the Screw,\nsir,' said the colonel, turning to Martin, and drawing a flourish on\nthe surface of the deck with his cane, 'her passage either way is almost\ncertain to eventuate a spanker!'\n\nThe captain, who had the Sewer below at that moment, lunching\nexpensively in one cabin, while the amiable Stabber was drinking himself\ninto a state of blind madness in another, took a cordial leave of his\nfriend the colonel, and hurried away to dispatch the champagne; well\nknowing (as it afterwards appeared) that if he failed to conciliate the\neditor of the Rowdy Journal, that potentate would denounce him and his\nship in large capitals before he was a day older; and would probably\nassault the memory of his mother also, who had not been dead more than\ntwenty years. The colonel being again left alone with Martin, checked\nhim as he was moving away, and offered in consideration of his being an\nEnglishman, to show him the town and to introduce him, if such were his\ndesire, to a genteel boarding-house. But before they entered on these\nproceedings (he said), he would beseech the honour of his company at the\noffice of the Rowdy Journal, to partake of a bottle of champagne of his\nown importation.\n\nAll this was so extremely kind and hospitable, that Martin, though it\nwas quite early in the morning, readily acquiesced. So, instructing\nMark, who was deeply engaged with his friend and her three children,\nthat when he had done assisting them, and had cleared the baggage,\nhe was to wait for further orders at the Rowdy Journal Office, Martin\naccompanied his new friend on shore.\n\nThey made their way as they best could through the melancholy crowd of\nemigrants upon the wharf, who, grouped about their beds and boxes, with\nthe bare ground below them and the bare sky above, might have fallen\nfrom another planet, for anything they knew of the country; and walked\nfor some short distance along a busy street, bounded on one side by the\nquays and shipping; and on the other by a long row of staring red-brick\nstorehouses and offices, ornamented with more black boards and white\nletters, and more white boards and black letters, than Martin had ever\nseen before, in fifty times the space. Presently they turned up a narrow\nstreet, and presently into other narrow streets, until at last they\nstopped before a house whereon was painted in great characters, 'ROWDY\nJOURNAL.'\n\nThe colonel, who had walked the whole way with one hand in his breast,\nhis head occasionally wagging from side to side, and his hat thrown back\nupon his ears, like a man who was oppressed to inconvenience by a sense\nof his own greatness, led the way up a dark and dirty flight of stairs\ninto a room of similar character, all littered and bestrewn with odds\nand ends of newspapers and other crumpled fragments, both in proof and\nmanuscript. Behind a mangy old writing-table in this apartment sat a\nfigure with a stump of a pen in its mouth and a great pair of scissors\nin its right hand, clipping and slicing at a file of Rowdy Journals;\nand it was such a laughable figure that Martin had some difficulty in\npreserving his gravity, though conscious of the close observation of\nColonel Diver.\n\nThe individual who sat clipping and slicing as aforesaid at the Rowdy\nJournals, was a small young gentleman of very juvenile appearance, and\nunwholesomely pale in the face; partly, perhaps, from intense thought,\nbut partly, there is no doubt, from the excessive use of tobacco, which\nhe was at that moment chewing vigorously. He wore his shirt-collar\nturned down over a black ribbon; and his lank hair, a fragile crop, was\nnot only smoothed and parted back from his brow, that none of the Poetry\nof his aspect might be lost, but had, here and there, been grubbed up by\nthe roots; which accounted for his loftiest developments being somewhat\npimply. He had that order of nose on which the envy of mankind has\nbestowed the appellation 'snub,' and it was very much turned up at the\nend, as with a lofty scorn. Upon the upper lip of this young gentleman\nwere tokens of a sandy down; so very, very smooth and scant, that,\nthough encouraged to the utmost, it looked more like a recent trace of\ngingerbread than the fair promise of a moustache; and this conjecture,\nhis apparently tender age went far to strengthen. He was intent upon\nhis work. Every time he snapped the great pair of scissors, he made\na corresponding motion with his jaws, which gave him a very terrible\nappearance.\n\nMartin was not long in determining within himself that this must be\nColonel Diver's son; the hope of the family, and future mainspring of\nthe Rowdy Journal. Indeed he had begun to say that he presumed this\nwas the colonel's little boy, and that it was very pleasant to see\nhim playing at Editor in all the guilelessness of childhood, when the\ncolonel proudly interposed and said:\n\n'My War Correspondent, sir--Mr Jefferson Brick!'\n\nMartin could not help starting at this unexpected announcement, and the\nconsciousness of the irretrievable mistake he had nearly made.\n\nMr Brick seemed pleased with the sensation he produced upon the\nstranger, and shook hands with him, with an air of patronage designed\nto reassure him, and to let him blow that there was no occasion to be\nfrightened, for he (Brick) wouldn't hurt him.\n\n'You have heard of Jefferson Brick, I see, sir,' quoth the colonel,\nwith a smile. 'England has heard of Jefferson Brick. Europe has heard of\nJefferson Brick. Let me see. When did you leave England, sir?'\n\n'Five weeks ago,' said Martin.\n\n'Five weeks ago,' repeated the colonel, thoughtfully; as he took his\nseat upon the table, and swung his legs. 'Now let me ask you, sir which\nof Mr Brick's articles had become at that time the most obnoxious to the\nBritish Parliament and the Court of Saint James's?'\n\n'Upon my word,' said Martin, 'I--'\n\n'I have reason to know, sir,' interrupted the colonel, 'that the\naristocratic circles of your country quail before the name of Jefferson\nBrick. I should like to be informed, sir, from your lips, which of his\nsentiments has struck the deadliest blow--'\n\n'At the hundred heads of the Hydra of Corruption now grovelling in the\ndust beneath the lance of Reason, and spouting up to the universal arch\nabove us, its sanguinary gore,' said Mr Brick, putting on a little blue\ncloth cap with a glazed front, and quoting his last article.\n\n'The libation of freedom, Brick'--hinted the colonel.\n\n'--Must sometimes be quaffed in blood, colonel,' cried Brick. And when\nhe said 'blood,' he gave the great pair of scissors a sharp snap, as if\nTHEY said blood too, and were quite of his opinion.\n\nThis done, they both looked at Martin, pausing for a reply.\n\n'Upon my life,' said Martin, who had by this time quite recovered his\nusual coolness, 'I can't give you any satisfactory information about it;\nfor the truth is that I--'\n\n'Stop!' cried the colonel, glancing sternly at his war correspondent and\ngiving his head one shake after every sentence. 'That you never heard of\nJefferson Brick, sir. That you never read Jefferson Brick, sir. That\nyou never saw the Rowdy Journal, sir. That you never knew, sir, of its\nmighty influence upon the cabinets of Europe. Yes?'\n\n'That's what I was about to observe, certainly,' said Martin.\n\n'Keep cool, Jefferson,' said the colonel gravely. 'Don't bust! oh you\nEuropeans! After that, let's have a glass of wine!' So saying, he got\ndown from the table, and produced, from a basket outside the door, a\nbottle of champagne, and three glasses.\n\n'Mr Jefferson Brick, sir,' said the colonel, filling Martin's glass\nand his own, and pushing the bottle to that gentleman, 'will give us a\nsentiment.'\n\n'Well, sir!' cried the war correspondent, 'Since you have concluded to\ncall upon me, I will respond. I will give you, sir, The Rowdy Journal\nand its brethren; the well of Truth, whose waters are black from being\ncomposed of printers' ink, but are quite clear enough for my country to\nbehold the shadow of her Destiny reflected in.'\n\n'Hear, hear!' cried the colonel, with great complacency. 'There are\nflowery components, sir, in the language of my friend?'\n\n'Very much so, indeed,' said Martin.\n\n'There is to-day's Rowdy, sir,' observed the colonel, handing him a\npaper. 'You'll find Jefferson Brick at his usual post in the van of\nhuman civilization and moral purity.'\n\nThe colonel was by this time seated on the table again. Mr Brick also\ntook up a position on that same piece of furniture; and they fell to\ndrinking pretty hard. They often looked at Martin as he read the paper,\nand then at each other. When he laid it down, which was not until they\nhad finished a second bottle, the colonel asked him what he thought of\nit.\n\n'Why, it's horribly personal,' said Martin.\n\nThe colonel seemed much flattered by this remark; and said he hoped it\nwas.\n\n'We are independent here, sir,' said Mr Jefferson Brick. 'We do as we\nlike.'\n\n'If I may judge from this specimen,' returned Martin, 'there must be a\nfew thousands here, rather the reverse of independent, who do as they\ndon't like.'\n\n'Well! They yield to the popular mind of the Popular Instructor, sir,'\nsaid the colonel. 'They rile up, sometimes; but in general we have a\nhold upon our citizens, both in public and in private life, which is as\nmuch one of the ennobling institutions of our happy country as--'\n\n'As nigger slavery itself,' suggested Mr Brick.\n\n'En--tirely so,' remarked the colonel.\n\n'Pray,' said Martin, after some hesitation, 'may I venture to ask,\nwith reference to a case I observe in this paper of yours, whether the\nPopular Instructor often deals in--I am at a loss to express it without\ngiving you offence--in forgery? In forged letters, for instance,' he\npursued, for the colonel was perfectly calm and quite at his ease,\n'solemnly purporting to have been written at recent periods by living\nmen?'\n\n'Well, sir!' replied the colonel. 'It does, now and then.'\n\n'And the popular instructed--what do they do?' asked Martin.\n\n'Buy 'em:' said the colonel.\n\nMr Jefferson Brick expectorated and laughed; the former copiously, the\nlatter approvingly.\n\n'Buy 'em by hundreds of thousands,' resumed the colonel. 'We are a smart\npeople here, and can appreciate smartness.'\n\n'Is smartness American for forgery?' asked Martin.\n\n'Well!' said the colonel, 'I expect it's American for a good many things\nthat you call by other names. But you can't help yourself in Europe. We\ncan.'\n\n'And do, sometimes,' thought Martin. 'You help yourselves with very\nlittle ceremony, too!'\n\n'At all events, whatever name we choose to employ,' said the colonel,\nstooping down to roll the third empty bottle into a corner after the\nother two, 'I suppose the art of forgery was not invented here sir?'\n\n'I suppose not,' replied Martin.\n\n'Nor any other kind of smartness I reckon?'\n\n'Invented! No, I presume not.'\n\n'Well!' said the colonel; 'then we got it all from the old country, and\nthe old country's to blame for it, and not the new 'un. There's an end\nof THAT. Now, if Mr Jefferson Brick and you will be so good as to clear,\nI'll come out last, and lock the door.'\n\nRightly interpreting this as the signal for their departure, Martin\nwalked downstairs after the war correspondent, who preceded him with\ngreat majesty. The colonel following, they left the Rowdy Journal Office\nand walked forth into the streets; Martin feeling doubtful whether\nhe ought to kick the colonel for having presumed to speak to him,\nor whether it came within the bounds of possibility that he and his\nestablishment could be among the boasted usages of that regenerated\nland.\n\nIt was clear that Colonel Diver, in the security of his strong position,\nand in his perfect understanding of the public sentiment, cared very\nlittle what Martin or anybody else thought about him. His high-spiced\nwares were made to sell, and they sold; and his thousands of readers\ncould as rationally charge their delight in filth upon him, as a glutton\ncan shift upon his cook the responsibility of his beastly excess.\nNothing would have delighted the colonel more than to be told that\nno such man as he could walk in high success the streets of any other\ncountry in the world; for that would only have been a logical assurance\nto him of the correct adaptation of his labours to the prevailing taste,\nand of his being strictly and peculiarly a national feature of America.\n\nThey walked a mile or more along a handsome street which the colonel\nsaid was called Broadway, and which Mr Jefferson Brick said 'whipped the\nuniverse.' Turning, at length, into one of the numerous streets which\nbranched from this main thoroughfare, they stopped before a rather\nmean-looking house with jalousie blinds to every window; a flight of\nsteps before the green street-door; a shining white ornament on the\nrails on either side like a petrified pineapple, polished; a little\noblong plate of the same material over the knocker whereon the name of\n'Pawkins' was engraved; and four accidental pigs looking down the area.\n\nThe colonel knocked at this house with the air of a man who lived there;\nand an Irish girl popped her head out of one of the top windows to see\nwho it was. Pending her journey downstairs, the pigs were joined by two\nor three friends from the next street, in company with whom they lay\ndown sociably in the gutter.\n\n'Is the major indoors?' inquired the colonel, as he entered.\n\n'Is it the master, sir?' returned the girl, with a hesitation\nwhich seemed to imply that they were rather flush of majors in that\nestablishment.\n\n'The master!' said Colonel Diver, stopping short and looking round at\nhis war correspondent.\n\n'Oh! The depressing institutions of that British empire, colonel!' said\nJefferson Brick. 'Master!'\n\n'What's the matter with the word?' asked Martin.\n\n'I should hope it was never heard in our country, sir; that's all,' said\nJefferson Brick; 'except when it is used by some degraded Help, as new\nto the blessings of our form of government, as this Help is. There are\nno masters here.'\n\n'All \"owners,\" are they?' said Martin.\n\nMr Jefferson Brick followed in the Rowdy Journal's footsteps without\nreturning any answer. Martin took the same course, thinking as he went,\nthat perhaps the free and independent citizens, who in their moral\nelevation, owned the colonel for their master, might render better\nhomage to the goddess, Liberty, in nightly dreams upon the oven of a\nRussian Serf.\n\nThe colonel led the way into a room at the back of the house upon\nthe ground-floor, light, and of fair dimensions, but exquisitely\nuncomfortable; having nothing in it but the four cold white walls and\nceiling, a mean carpet, a dreary waste of dining-table reaching from\nend to end, and a bewildering collection of cane-bottomed chairs. In the\nfurther region of this banqueting-hall was a stove, garnished on either\nside with a great brass spittoon, and shaped in itself like three little\niron barrels set up on end in a fender, and joined together on the\nprinciple of the Siamese Twins. Before it, swinging himself in a\nrocking-chair, lounged a large gentleman with his hat on, who amused\nhimself by spitting alternately into the spittoon on the right hand of\nthe stove, and the spittoon on the left, and then working his way back\nagain in the same order. A negro lad in a soiled white jacket was busily\nengaged in placing on the table two long rows of knives and forks,\nrelieved at intervals by jugs of water; and as he travelled down one\nside of this festive board, he straightened with his dirty hands the\ndirtier cloth, which was all askew, and had not been removed since\nbreakfast. The atmosphere of this room was rendered intensely hot and\nstifling by the stove; but being further flavoured by a sickly gush\nof soup from the kitchen, and by such remote suggestions of tobacco as\nlingered within the brazen receptacles already mentioned, it became, to\na stranger's senses, almost insupportable.\n\nThe gentleman in the rocking-chair having his back towards them, and\nbeing much engaged in his intellectual pastime, was not aware of their\napproach until the colonel, walking up to the stove, contributed\nhis mite towards the support of the left-hand spittoon, just as the\nmajor--for it was the major--bore down upon it. Major Pawkins then\nreserved his fire, and looking upward, said, with a peculiar air of\nquiet weariness, like a man who had been up all night--an air which\nMartin had already observed both in the colonel and Mr Jefferson Brick--\n\n'Well, colonel!'\n\n'Here is a gentleman from England, major,' the colonel replied, 'who\nhas concluded to locate himself here if the amount of compensation suits\nhim.'\n\n'I am glad to see you, sir,' observed the major, shaking hands with\nMartin, and not moving a muscle of his face. 'You are pretty bright, I\nhope?'\n\n'Never better,' said Martin.\n\n'You are never likely to be,' returned the major. 'You will see the sun\nshine HERE.'\n\n'I think I remember to have seen it shine at home sometimes,' said\nMartin, smiling.\n\n'I think not,' replied the major. He said so with a stoical indifference\ncertainly, but still in a tone of firmness which admitted of no further\ndispute on that point. When he had thus settled the question, he put his\nhat a little on one side for the greater convenience of scratching his\nhead, and saluted Mr Jefferson Brick with a lazy nod.\n\nMajor Pawkins (a gentleman of Pennsylvanian origin) was distinguished by\na very large skull, and a great mass of yellow forehead; in deference\nto which commodities it was currently held in bar-rooms and other such\nplaces of resort that the major was a man of huge sagacity. He was\nfurther to be known by a heavy eye and a dull slow manner; and for being\na man of that kind who--mentally speaking--requires a deal of room to\nturn himself in. But, in trading on his stock of wisdom, he invariably\nproceeded on the principle of putting all the goods he had (and more)\ninto his window; and that went a great way with his constituency of\nadmirers. It went a great way, perhaps, with Mr Jefferson Brick, who\ntook occasion to whisper in Martin's ear:\n\n'One of the most remarkable men in our country, sir!'\n\nIt must not be supposed, however, that the perpetual exhibition in the\nmarket-place of all his stock-in-trade for sale or hire, was the major's\nsole claim to a very large share of sympathy and support. He was a great\npolitician; and the one article of his creed, in reference to all public\nobligations involving the good faith and integrity of his country, was,\n'run a moist pen slick through everything, and start fresh.' This\nmade him a patriot. In commercial affairs he was a bold speculator.\nIn plainer words he had a most distinguished genius for swindling, and\ncould start a bank, or negotiate a loan, or form a land-jobbing company\n(entailing ruin, pestilence, and death, on hundreds of families), with\nany gifted creature in the Union. This made him an admirable man of\nbusiness. He could hang about a bar-room, discussing the affairs of the\nnation, for twelve hours together; and in that time could hold forth\nwith more intolerable dulness, chew more tobacco, smoke more tobacco,\ndrink more rum-toddy, mint-julep, gin-sling, and cocktail, than any\nprivate gentleman of his acquaintance. This made him an orator and a\nman of the people. In a word, the major was a rising character, and a\npopular character, and was in a fair way to be sent by the popular party\nto the State House of New York, if not in the end to Washington itself.\nBut as a man's private prosperity does not always keep pace with his\npatriotic devotion to public affairs; and as fraudulent transactions\nhave their downs as well as ups, the major was occasionally under a\ncloud. Hence, just now Mrs Pawkins kept a boarding-house, and Major\nPawkins rather 'loafed' his time away than otherwise.\n\n'You have come to visit our country, sir, at a season of great\ncommercial depression,' said the major.\n\n'At an alarming crisis,' said the colonel.\n\n'At a period of unprecedented stagnation,' said Mr Jefferson Brick.\n\n'I am sorry to hear that,' returned Martin. 'It's not likely to last, I\nhope?'\n\nMartin knew nothing about America, or he would have known perfectly well\nthat if its individual citizens, to a man, are to be believed, it always\nIS depressed, and always IS stagnated, and always IS at an alarming\ncrisis, and never was otherwise; though as a body they are ready to make\noath upon the Evangelists at any hour of the day or night, that it\nis the most thriving and prosperous of all countries on the habitable\nglobe.\n\n'It's not likely to last, I hope?' said Martin.\n\n'Well!' returned the major, 'I expect we shall get along somehow, and\ncome right in the end.'\n\n'We are an elastic country,' said the Rowdy Journal.\n\n'We are a young lion,' said Mr Jefferson Brick.\n\n'We have revivifying and vigorous principles within ourselves,' observed\nthe major. 'Shall we drink a bitter afore dinner, colonel?'\n\nThe colonel assenting to this proposal with great alacrity, Major\nPawkins proposed an adjournment to a neighbouring bar-room, which, as he\nobserved, was 'only in the next block.' He then referred Martin to\nMrs Pawkins for all particulars connected with the rate of board and\nlodging, and informed him that he would have the pleasure of seeing that\nlady at dinner, which would soon be ready, as the dinner hour was two\no'clock, and it only wanted a quarter now. This reminded him that if the\nbitter were to be taken at all, there was no time to lose; so he walked\noff without more ado, and left them to follow if they thought proper.\n\nWhen the major rose from his rocking-chair before the stove, and so\ndisturbed the hot air and balmy whiff of soup which fanned their brows,\nthe odour of stale tobacco became so decidedly prevalent as to leave no\ndoubt of its proceeding mainly from that gentleman's attire. Indeed,\nas Martin walked behind him to the bar-room, he could not help thinking\nthat the great square major, in his listlessness and langour, looked\nvery much like a stale weed himself; such as might be hoed out of\nthe public garden, with great advantage to the decent growth of that\npreserve, and tossed on some congenial dunghill.\n\nThey encountered more weeds in the bar-room, some of whom (being thirsty\nsouls as well as dirty) were pretty stale in one sense, and pretty fresh\nin another. Among them was a gentleman who, as Martin gathered from the\nconversation that took place over the bitter, started that afternoon for\nthe Far West on a six months' business tour, and who, as his outfit and\nequipment for this journey, had just such another shiny hat and just\nsuch another little pale valise as had composed the luggage of the\ngentleman who came from England in the Screw.\n\nThey were walking back very leisurely; Martin arm-in-arm with Mr\nJefferson Brick, and the major and the colonel side-by-side before them;\nwhen, as they came within a house or two of the major's residence, they\nheard a bell ringing violently. The instant this sound struck upon their\nears, the colonel and the major darted off, dashed up the steps and in\nat the street-door (which stood ajar) like lunatics; while Mr Jefferson\nBrick, detaching his arm from Martin's, made a precipitate dive in the\nsame direction, and vanished also.\n\n'Good Heaven!' thought Martin. 'The premises are on fire! It was an\nalarm bell!'\n\nBut there was no smoke to be seen, nor any flame, nor was there any\nsmell of fire. As Martin faltered on the pavement, three more gentlemen,\nwith horror and agitation depicted in their faces, came plunging wildly\nround the street corner; jostled each other on the steps; struggled for\nan instant; and rushed into the house, a confused heap of arms and\nlegs. Unable to bear it any longer, Martin followed. Even in his\nrapid progress he was run down, thrust aside, and passed, by two more\ngentlemen, stark mad, as it appeared, with fierce excitement.\n\n'Where is it?' cried Martin, breathlessly, to a negro whom he\nencountered in the passage.\n\n'In a eatin room, sa. Kernell, sa, him kep a seat 'side himself, sa.'\n\n'A seat!' cried Martin.\n\n'For a dinnar, sa.'\n\nMartin started at him for a moment, and burst into a hearty laugh; to\nwhich the negro, out of his natural good humour and desire to please, so\nheartily responded, that his teeth shone like a gleam of light. 'You're\nthe pleasantest fellow I have seen yet,' said Martin clapping him on the\nback, 'and give me a better appetite than bitters.'\n\nWith this sentiment he walked into the dining-room and slipped into\na chair next the colonel, which that gentleman (by this time nearly\nthrough his dinner) had turned down in reserve for him, with its back\nagainst the table.\n\nIt was a numerous company--eighteen or twenty perhaps. Of these some\nfive or six were ladies, who sat wedged together in a little phalanx by\nthemselves. All the knives and forks were working away at a rate that\nwas quite alarming; very few words were spoken; and everybody seemed to\neat his utmost in self-defence, as if a famine were expected to set in\nbefore breakfast time to-morrow morning, and it had become high time\nto assert the first law of nature. The poultry, which may perhaps be\nconsidered to have formed the staple of the entertainment--for there was\na turkey at the top, a pair of ducks at the bottom, and two fowls in the\nmiddle--disappeared as rapidly as if every bird had had the use of its\nwings, and had flown in desperation down a human throat. The oysters,\nstewed and pickled, leaped from their capacious reservoirs, and slid by\nscores into the mouths of the assembly. The sharpest pickles vanished,\nwhole cucumbers at once, like sugar-plums, and no man winked his eye.\nGreat heaps of indigestible matter melted away as ice before the sun.\nIt was a solemn and an awful thing to see. Dyspeptic individuals bolted\ntheir food in wedges; feeding, not themselves, but broods of nightmares,\nwho were continually standing at livery within them. Spare men, with\nlank and rigid cheeks, came out unsatisfied from the destruction of\nheavy dishes, and glared with watchful eyes upon the pastry. What Mrs\nPawkins felt each day at dinner-time is hidden from all human knowledge.\nBut she had one comfort. It was very soon over.\n\nWhen the colonel had finished his dinner, which event took place while\nMartin, who had sent his plate for some turkey, was waiting to begin,\nhe asked him what he thought of the boarders, who were from all parts of\nthe Union, and whether he would like to know any particulars concerning\nthem.\n\n'Pray,' said Martin, 'who is that sickly little girl opposite, with the\ntight round eyes? I don't see anybody here, who looks like her mother,\nor who seems to have charge of her.'\n\n'Do you mean the matron in blue, sir?' asked the colonel, with emphasis.\n'That is Mrs Jefferson Brick, sir.'\n\n'No, no,' said Martin, 'I mean the little girl, like a doll; directly\nopposite.'\n\n'Well, sir!' cried the colonel. 'THAT is Mrs Jefferson Brick.'\n\nMartin glanced at the colonel's face, but he was quite serious.\n\n'Bless my soul! I suppose there will be a young Brick then, one of these\ndays?' said Martin.\n\n'There are two young Bricks already, sir,' returned the colonel.\n\nThe matron looked so uncommonly like a child herself, that Martin could\nnot help saying as much. 'Yes, sir,' returned the colonel, 'but some\ninstitutions develop human natur; others re--tard it.'\n\n'Jefferson Brick,' he observed after a short silence, in commendation\nof his correspondent, 'is one of the most remarkable men in our country,\nsir!'\n\nThis had passed almost in a whisper, for the distinguished gentleman\nalluded to sat on Martin's other hand.\n\n'Pray, Mr Brick,' said Martin, turning to him, and asking a question\nmore for conversation's sake than from any feeling of interest in its\nsubject, 'who is that;' he was going to say 'young' but thought it\nprudent to eschew the word--'that very short gentleman yonder, with the\nred nose?'\n\n'That is Pro--fessor Mullit, sir,' replied Jefferson.\n\n'May I ask what he is professor of?' asked Martin.\n\n'Of education, sir,' said Jefferson Brick.\n\n'A sort of schoolmaster, possibly?' Martin ventured to observe.\n\n'He is a man of fine moral elements, sir, and not commonly endowed,'\nsaid the war correspondent. 'He felt it necessary, at the last election\nfor President, to repudiate and denounce his father, who voted on the\nwrong interest. He has since written some powerful pamphlets, under\nthe signature of \"Suturb,\" or Brutus reversed. He is one of the most\nremarkable men in our country, sir.'\n\n'There seem to be plenty of 'em,' thought Martin, 'at any rate.'\n\nPursuing his inquiries Martin found that there were no fewer than four\nmajors present, two colonels, one general, and a captain, so that he\ncould not help thinking how strongly officered the American militia must\nbe; and wondering very much whether the officers commanded each other;\nor if they did not, where on earth the privates came from. There seemed\nto be no man there without a title; for those who had not attained to\nmilitary honours were either doctors, professors, or reverends. Three\nvery hard and disagreeable gentlemen were on missions from neighbouring\nStates; one on monetary affairs, one on political, one on sectarian.\nAmong the ladies, there were Mrs Pawkins, who was very straight, bony,\nand silent; and a wiry-faced old damsel, who held strong sentiments\ntouching the rights of women, and had diffused the same in lectures;\nbut the rest were strangely devoid of individual traits of character,\ninsomuch that any one of them might have changed minds with the other,\nand nobody would have found it out. These, by the way, were the only\nmembers of the party who did not appear to be among the most remarkable\npeople in the country.\n\nSeveral of the gentlemen got up, one by one, and walked off as they\nswallowed their last morsel; pausing generally by the stove for a minute\nor so to refresh themselves at the brass spittoons. A few sedentary\ncharacters, however, remained at table full a quarter of an hour, and\ndid not rise until the ladies rose, when all stood up.\n\n'Where are they going?' asked Martin, in the ear of Mr Jefferson Brick.\n\n'To their bedrooms, sir.'\n\n'Is there no dessert, or other interval of conversation?' asked Martin,\nwho was disposed to enjoy himself after his long voyage.\n\n'We are a busy people here, sir, and have no time for that,' was the\nreply.\n\nSo the ladies passed out in single file; Mr Jefferson Brick and such\nother married gentlemen as were left, acknowledging the departure\nof their other halves by a nod; and there was an end of THEM. Martin\nthought this an uncomfortable custom, but he kept his opinion to himself\nfor the present, being anxious to hear, and inform himself by, the\nconversation of the busy gentlemen, who now lounged about the stove as\nif a great weight had been taken off their minds by the withdrawal of\nthe other sex; and who made a plentiful use of the spittoons and their\ntoothpicks.\n\nIt was rather barren of interest, to say the truth; and the greater part\nof it may be summed up in one word. Dollars. All their cares, hopes,\njoys, affections, virtues, and associations, seemed to be melted down\ninto dollars. Whatever the chance contributions that fell into the slow\ncauldron of their talk, they made the gruel thick and slab with dollars.\nMen were weighed by their dollars, measures gauged by their dollars;\nlife was auctioneered, appraised, put up, and knocked down for its\ndollars. The next respectable thing to dollars was any venture having\ntheir attainment for its end. The more of that worthless ballast, honour\nand fair-dealing, which any man cast overboard from the ship of his Good\nName and Good Intent, the more ample stowage-room he had for dollars.\nMake commerce one huge lie and mighty theft. Deface the banner of the\nnation for an idle rag; pollute it star by star; and cut out stripe by\nstripe as from the arm of a degraded soldier. Do anything for dollars!\nWhat is a flag to THEM!\n\nOne who rides at all hazards of limb and life in the chase of a fox,\nwill prefer to ride recklessly at most times. So it was with these\ngentlemen. He was the greatest patriot, in their eyes, who brawled the\nloudest, and who cared the least for decency. He was their champion who,\nin the brutal fury of his own pursuit, could cast no stigma upon them\nfor the hot knavery of theirs. Thus, Martin learned in the five minutes'\nstraggling talk about the stove, that to carry pistols into legislative\nassemblies, and swords in sticks, and other such peaceful toys; to seize\nopponents by the throat, as dogs or rats might do; to bluster, bully,\nand overbear by personal assailment; were glowing deeds. Not thrusts and\nstabs at Freedom, striking far deeper into her House of Life than any\nsultan's scimitar could reach; but rare incense on her altars, having a\ngrateful scent in patriotic nostrils, and curling upward to the seventh\nheaven of Fame.\n\nOnce or twice, when there was a pause, Martin asked such questions as\nnaturally occurred to him, being a stranger, about the national poets,\nthe theatre, literature, and the arts. But the information which these\ngentlemen were in a condition to give him on such topics, did not extend\nbeyond the effusions of such master-spirits of the time as Colonel\nDiver, Mr Jefferson Brick, and others; renowned, as it appeared, for\nexcellence in the achievement of a peculiar style of broadside essay\ncalled 'a screamer.'\n\n'We are a busy people, sir,' said one of the captains, who was from the\nWest, 'and have no time for reading mere notions. We don't mind 'em\nif they come to us in newspapers along with almighty strong stuff of\nanother sort, but darn your books.'\n\nHere the general, who appeared to grow quite faint at the bare thought\nof reading anything which was neither mercantile nor political, and was\nnot in a newspaper, inquired 'if any gentleman would drink some?' Most\nof the company, considering this a very choice and seasonable idea,\nlounged out, one by one, to the bar-room in the next block. Thence\nthey probably went to their stores and counting-houses; thence to the\nbar-room again, to talk once more of dollars, and enlarge their minds\nwith the perusal and discussion of screamers; and thence each man to\nsnore in the bosom of his own family.\n\n'Which would seem,' said Martin, pursuing the current of his own\nthoughts, 'to be the principal recreation they enjoy in common.' With\nthat, he fell a-musing again on dollars, demagogues, and bar-rooms;\ndebating within himself whether busy people of this class were really\nas busy as they claimed to be, or only had an inaptitude for social and\ndomestic pleasure.\n\nIt was a difficult question to solve; and the mere fact of its being\nstrongly presented to his mind by all that he had seen and heard, was\nnot encouraging. He sat down at the deserted board, and becoming\nmore and more despondent, as he thought of all the uncertainties and\ndifficulties of his precarious situation, sighed heavily.\n\nNow, there had been at the dinner-table a middle-aged man with a dark\neye and a sunburnt face, who had attracted Martin's attention by having\nsomething very engaging and honest in the expression of his features;\nbut of whom he could learn nothing from either of his neighbours, who\nseemed to consider him quite beneath their notice. He had taken no part\nin the conversation round the stove, nor had he gone forth with the\nrest; and now, when he heard Martin sigh for the third or fourth\ntime, he interposed with some casual remark, as if he desired, without\nobtruding himself upon a stranger's notice, to engage him in cheerful\nconversation if he could. His motive was so obvious, and yet so\ndelicately expressed, that Martin felt really grateful to him, and\nshowed him so in the manner of his reply.\n\n'I will not ask you,' said this gentleman with a smile, as he rose and\nmoved towards him, 'how you like my country, for I can quite anticipate\nyour feeling on that point. But, as I am an American, and consequently\nbound to begin with a question, I'll ask you how you like the colonel?'\n\n'You are so very frank,' returned Martin, 'that I have no hesitation in\nsaying I don't like him at all. Though I must add that I am beholden to\nhim for his civility in bringing me here--and arranging for my stay,\non pretty reasonable terms, by the way,' he added, remembering that the\ncolonel had whispered him to that effect, before going out.\n\n'Not much beholden,' said the stranger drily. 'The colonel occasionally\nboards packet-ships, I have heard, to glean the latest information\nfor his journal; and he occasionally brings strangers to board here, I\nbelieve, with a view to the little percentage which attaches to those\ngood offices; and which the hostess deducts from his weekly bill. I\ndon't offend you, I hope?' he added, seeing that Martin reddened.\n\n'My dear sir,' returned Martin, as they shook hands, 'how is that\npossible! to tell you the truth, I--am--'\n\n'Yes?' said the gentleman, sitting down beside him.\n\n'I am rather at a loss, since I must speak plainly,' said Martin,\ngetting the better of his hesitation, 'to know how this colonel escapes\nbeing beaten.'\n\n'Well! He has been beaten once or twice,' remarked the gentleman\nquietly. 'He is one of a class of men, in whom our own Franklin, so\nlong ago as ten years before the close of the last century, foresaw\nour danger and disgrace. Perhaps you don't know that Franklin, in very\nsevere terms, published his opinion that those who were slandered\nby such fellows as this colonel, having no sufficient remedy in the\nadministration of this country's laws or in the decent and right-minded\nfeeling of its people, were justified in retorting on such public\nnuisances by means of a stout cudgel?'\n\n'I was not aware of that,' said Martin, 'but I am very glad to know\nit, and I think it worthy of his memory; especially'--here he hesitated\nagain.\n\n'Go on,' said the other, smiling as if he knew what stuck in Martin's\nthroat.\n\n'Especially,' pursued Martin, 'as I can already understand that it may\nhave required great courage, even in his time, to write freely on any\nquestion which was not a party one in this very free country.'\n\n'Some courage, no doubt,' returned his new friend. 'Do you think it\nwould require any to do so, now?'\n\n'Indeed I think it would; and not a little,' said Martin.\n\n'You are right. So very right, that I believe no satirist could breathe\nthis air. If another Juvenal or Swift could rise up among us to-morrow,\nhe would be hunted down. If you have any knowledge of our literature,\nand can give me the name of any man, American born and bred, who has\nanatomized our follies as a people, and not as this or that party; and\nwho has escaped the foulest and most brutal slander, the most inveterate\nhatred and intolerant pursuit; it will be a strange name in my ears,\nbelieve me. In some cases I could name to you, where a native writer\nhas ventured on the most harmless and good-humoured illustrations of\nour vices or defects, it has been found necessary to announce, that in\na second edition the passage has been expunged, or altered, or explained\naway, or patched into praise.'\n\n'And how has this been brought about?' asked Martin, in dismay.\n\n'Think of what you have seen and heard to-day, beginning with the\ncolonel,' said his friend, 'and ask yourself. How THEY came about,\nis another question. Heaven forbid that they should be samples of the\nintelligence and virtue of America, but they come uppermost, and in\ngreat numbers, and too often represent it. Will you walk?'\n\nThere was a cordial candour in his manner, and an engaging confidence\nthat it would not be abused; a manly bearing on his own part, and a\nsimple reliance on the manly faith of a stranger; which Martin had\nnever seen before. He linked his arm readily in that of the American\ngentleman, and they walked out together.\n\nIt was perhaps to men like this, his new companion, that a traveller\nof honoured name, who trod those shores now nearly forty years ago, and\nwoke upon that soil, as many have done since, to blots and stains upon\nits high pretensions, which in the brightness of his distant dreams were\nlost to view, appealed in these words--\n\n     'Oh, but for such, Columbia's days were done;\n     Rank without ripeness, quickened without sun,\n     Crude at the surface, rotten at the core,\n     Her fruits would fall before her spring were o'er!'\n\n\n\nCHAPTER SEVENTEEN\n\nMARTIN ENLARGES HIS CIRCLE OF AQUAINTANCE; INCREASES HIS STOCK\nOF WISDOM; AND HAS AN EXCELLENT OPPORTUNITY OF COMPARING HIS OWN\nEXPERIENCES WITH THOSE OF LUMMY NED OF THE LIGHT SALISBURY, AS RELATED\nBY HIS FRIEND MR WILLIAM SIMMONS\n\n\nIt was characteristic of Martin, that all this while he had either\nforgotten Mark Tapley as completely as if there had been no such person\nin existence, or, if for a moment the figure of that gentleman rose\nbefore his mental vision, had dismissed it as something by no means of\na pressing nature, which might be attended to by-and-bye, and could wait\nhis perfect leisure. But, being now in the streets again, it occurred to\nhim as just coming within the bare limits of possibility that Mr Tapley\nmight, in course of time, grow tired of waiting on the threshold of the\nRowdy Journal Office, so he intimated to his new friend, that if they\ncould conveniently walk in that direction, he would be glad to get this\npiece of business off his mind.\n\n'And speaking of business,' said Martin, 'may I ask, in order that I may\nnot be behind-hand with questions either, whether your occupation holds\nyou to this city, or like myself, you are a visitor here?'\n\n'A visitor,' replied his friend. 'I was \"raised\" in the State of\nMassachusetts, and reside there still. My home is in a quiet country\ntown. I am not often in these busy places; and my inclination to visit\nthem does not increase with our better acquaintance, I assure you.'\n\n'You have been abroad?' asked Martin.\n\n'Oh yes.'\n\n'And, like most people who travel, have become more than ever attached\nto your home and native country,' said Martin, eyeing him curiously.\n\n'To my home--yes,' rejoined his friend. 'To my native country AS my\nhome--yes, also.'\n\n'You imply some reservation,' said Martin.\n\n'Well,' returned his new friend, 'if you ask me whether I came back here\nwith a greater relish for my country's faults; with a greater fondness\nfor those who claim (at the rate of so many dollars a day) to be her\nfriends; with a cooler indifference to the growth of principles among\nus in respect of public matters and of private dealings between man and\nman, the advocacy of which, beyond the foul atmosphere of a criminal\ntrial, would disgrace your own old Bailey lawyers; why, then I answer\nplainly, No.'\n\n'Oh!' said Martin; in so exactly the same key as his friend's No, that\nit sounded like an echo.\n\n'If you ask me,' his companion pursued, 'whether I came back here better\nsatisfied with a state of things which broadly divides society into two\nclasses--whereof one, the great mass, asserts a spurious independence,\nmost miserably dependent for its mean existence on the disregard of\nhumanizing conventionalities of manner and social custom, so that the\ncoarser a man is, the more distinctly it shall appeal to his taste;\nwhile the other, disgusted with the low standard thus set up and made\nadaptable to everything, takes refuge among the graces and refinements\nit can bring to bear on private life, and leaves the public weal to\nsuch fortune as may betide it in the press and uproar of a general\nscramble--then again I answer, No.'\n\nAnd again Martin said 'Oh!' in the same odd way as before, being anxious\nand disconcerted; not so much, to say the truth, on public grounds, as\nwith reference to the fading prospects of domestic architecture.\n\n'In a word,' resumed the other, 'I do not find and cannot believe and\ntherefore will not allow, that we are a model of wisdom, and an example\nto the world, and the perfection of human reason, and a great deal more\nto the same purpose, which you may hear any hour in the day; simply\nbecause we began our political life with two inestimable advantages.'\n\n'What were they?' asked Martin.\n\n'One, that our history commenced at so late a period as to escape the\nages of bloodshed and cruelty through which other nations have passed;\nand so had all the light of their probation, and none of its darkness.\nThe other, that we have a vast territory, and not--as yet--too many\npeople on it. These facts considered, we have done little enough, I\nthink.'\n\n'Education?' suggested Martin, faintly.\n\n'Pretty well on that head,' said the other, shrugging his shoulders,\n'still no mighty matter to boast of; for old countries, and despotic\ncountries too, have done as much, if not more, and made less noise about\nit. We shine out brightly in comparison with England, certainly; but\nhers is a very extreme case. You complimented me on my frankness, you\nknow,' he added, laughing.\n\n'Oh! I am not at all astonished at your speaking thus openly when my\ncountry is in question,' returned Martin. 'It is your plain-speaking in\nreference to your own that surprises me.'\n\n'You will not find it a scarce quality here, I assure you, saving among\nthe Colonel Divers, and Jefferson Bricks, and Major Pawkinses; though\nthe best of us are something like the man in Goldsmith's comedy, who\nwouldn't suffer anybody but himself to abuse his master. Come!' he\nadded. 'Let us talk of something else. You have come here on some design\nof improving your fortune, I dare say; and I should grieve to put you\nout of heart. I am some years older than you, besides; and may, on a few\ntrivial points, advise you, perhaps.'\n\nThere was not the least curiosity or impertinence in the manner of this\noffer, which was open-hearted, unaffected, and good-natured. As it was\nnext to impossible that he should not have his confidence awakened by\na deportment so prepossessing and kind, Martin plainly stated what had\nbrought him into those parts, and even made the very difficult avowal\nthat he was poor. He did not say how poor, it must be admitted, rather\nthrowing off the declaration with an air which might have implied that\nhe had money enough for six months, instead of as many weeks; but poor\nhe said he was, and grateful he said he would be, for any counsel that\nhis friend would give him.\n\nIt would not have been very difficult for any one to see; but it was\nparticularly easy for Martin, whose perceptions were sharpened by his\ncircumstances, to discern; that the stranger's face grew infinitely\nlonger as the domestic-architecture project was developed. Nor, although\nhe made a great effort to be as encouraging as possible, could he\nprevent his head from shaking once involuntarily, as if it said in the\nvulgar tongue, upon its own account, 'No go!' But he spoke in a cheerful\ntone, and said, that although there was no such opening as Martin\nwished, in that city, he would make it matter of immediate consideration\nand inquiry where one was most likely to exist; and then he made Martin\nacquainted with his name, which was Bevan; and with his profession,\nwhich was physic, though he seldom or never practiced; and with other\ncircumstances connected with himself and family, which fully occupied\nthe time, until they reached the Rowdy Journal Office.\n\nMr Tapley appeared to be taking his ease on the landing of the first\nfloor; for sounds as of some gentleman established in that region\nwhistling 'Rule Britannia' with all his might and main, greeted their\nears before they reached the house. On ascending to the spot from\nwhence this music proceeded, they found him recumbent in the midst of a\nfortification of luggage, apparently performing his national anthem\nfor the gratification of a grey-haired black man, who sat on one of the\noutworks (a portmanteau), staring intently at Mark, while Mark, with\nhis head reclining on his hand, returned the compliment in a thoughtful\nmanner, and whistled all the time. He seemed to have recently dined, for\nhis knife, a casebottle, and certain broken meats in a handkerchief, lay\nnear at hand. He had employed a portion of his leisure in the decoration\nof the Rowdy Journal door, whereon his own initials now appeared in\nletters nearly half a foot long, together with the day of the month in\nsmaller type; the whole surrounded by an ornamental border, and looking\nvery fresh and bold.\n\n'I was a'most afraid you was lost, sir!' cried Mark, rising, and\nstopping the tune at that point where Britons generally are supposed to\ndeclare (when it is whistled) that they never, never, never--\n\n'Nothing gone wrong, I hope, sir?'\n\n'No, Mark. Where's your friend?'\n\n'The mad woman, sir?' said Mr Tapley. 'Oh! she's all right, sir.'\n\n'Did she find her husband?'\n\n'Yes, sir. Leastways she's found his remains,' said Mark, correcting\nhimself.\n\n'The man's not dead, I hope?'\n\n'Not altogether dead, sir,' returned Mark; 'but he's had more fevers and\nagues than is quite reconcilable with being alive. When she didn't see\nhim a-waiting for her, I thought she'd have died herself, I did!'\n\n'Was he not here, then?'\n\n'HE wasn't here. There was a feeble old shadow come a-creeping down at\nlast, as much like his substance when she know'd him, as your shadow\nwhen it's drawn out to its very finest and longest by the sun, is like\nyou. But it was his remains, there's no doubt about that. She took on\nwith joy, poor thing, as much as if it had been all of him!'\n\n'Had he bought land?' asked Mr Bevan.\n\n'Ah! He'd bought land,' said Mark, shaking his head, 'and paid for it\ntoo. Every sort of nateral advantage was connected with it, the agents\nsaid; and there certainly was ONE, quite unlimited. No end to the\nwater!'\n\n'It's a thing he couldn't have done without, I suppose,' observed\nMartin, peevishly.\n\n'Certainly not, sir. There it was, any way; always turned on, and no\nwater-rate. Independent of three or four slimy old rivers close by,\nit varied on the farm from four to six foot deep in the dry season.\nHe couldn't say how deep it was in the rainy time, for he never had\nanything long enough to sound it with.'\n\n'Is this true?' asked Martin of his companion.\n\n'Extremely probable,' he answered. 'Some Mississippi or Missouri lot, I\ndare say.'\n\n'However,' pursued Mark, 'he came from I-don't-know-where-and-all, down\nto New York here, to meet his wife and children; and they started off\nagain in a steamboat this blessed afternoon, as happy to be along with\neach other as if they were going to Heaven. I should think they was,\npretty straight, if I may judge from the poor man's looks.'\n\n'And may I ask,' said Martin, glancing, but not with any displeasure,\nfrom Mark to the negro, 'who this gentleman is? Another friend of\nyours?'\n\n'Why sir,' returned Mark, taking him aside, and speaking confidentially\nin his ear, 'he's a man of colour, sir!'\n\n'Do you take me for a blind man,' asked Martin, somewhat impatiently,\n'that you think it necessary to tell me that, when his face is the\nblackest that ever was seen?'\n\n'No, no; when I say a man of colour,' returned Mark, 'I mean that\nhe's been one of them as there's picters of in the shops. A man and a\nbrother, you know, sir,' said Mr Tapley, favouring his master with a\nsignificant indication of the figure so often represented in tracts and\ncheap prints.\n\n'A slave!' cried Martin, in a whisper.\n\n'Ah!' said Mark in the same tone. 'Nothing else. A slave. Why, when that\nthere man was young--don't look at him while I'm a-telling it--he was\nshot in the leg; gashed in the arm; scored in his live limbs, like\ncrimped fish; beaten out of shape; had his neck galled with an iron\ncollar, and wore iron rings upon his wrists and ankles. The marks are on\nhim to this day. When I was having my dinner just now, he stripped off\nhis coat, and took away my appetite.'\n\n'Is THIS true?' asked Martin of his friend, who stood beside them.\n\n'I have no reason to doubt it,' he answered, shaking his head 'It very\noften is.'\n\n'Bless you,' said Mark, 'I know it is, from hearing his whole story.\nThat master died; so did his second master from having his head cut\nopen with a hatchet by another slave, who, when he'd done it, went and\ndrowned himself; then he got a better one; in years and years he saved\nup a little money, and bought his freedom, which he got pretty cheap at\nlast, on account of his strength being nearly gone, and he being ill.\nThen he come here. And now he's a-saving up to treat himself, afore\nhe dies, to one small purchase--it's nothing to speak of. Only his own\ndaughter; that's all!' cried Mr Tapley, becoming excited. 'Liberty for\never! Hurrah! Hail, Columbia!'\n\n'Hush!' cried Martin, clapping his hand upon his mouth; 'and don't be an\nidiot. What is he doing here?'\n\n'Waiting to take our luggage off upon a truck,' said Mark. 'He'd have\ncome for it by-and-bye, but I engaged him for a very reasonable charge\n(out of my own pocket) to sit along with me and make me jolly; and I\nam jolly; and if I was rich enough to contract with him to wait upon me\nonce a day, to be looked at, I'd never be anything else.'\n\nThe fact may cause a solemn impeachment of Mark's veracity, but it must\nbe admitted nevertheless, that there was that in his face and manner at\nthe moment, which militated strongly against this emphatic declaration\nof his state of mind.\n\n'Lord love you, sir,' he added, 'they're so fond of Liberty in this part\nof the globe, that they buy her and sell her and carry her to market\nwith 'em. They've such a passion for Liberty, that they can't help\ntaking liberties with her. That's what it's owing to.'\n\n'Very well,' said Martin, wishing to change the theme. 'Having come to\nthat conclusion, Mark, perhaps you'll attend to me. The place to which\nthe luggage is to go is printed on this card. Mrs Pawkins's Boarding\nHouse.'\n\n'Mrs Pawkins's boarding-house,' repeated Mark. 'Now, Cicero.'\n\n'Is that his name?' asked Martin\n\n'That's his name, sir,' rejoined Mark. And the negro grinning assent\nfrom under a leathern portmanteau, than which his own face was many\nshades deeper, hobbled downstairs with his portion of their worldly\ngoods; Mark Tapley having already gone before with his share.\n\nMartin and his friend followed them to the door below, and were about\nto pursue their walk, when the latter stopped, and asked, with some\nhesitation, whether that young man was to be trusted?\n\n'Mark! oh certainly! with anything.'\n\n'You don't understand me--I think he had better go with us. He is an\nhonest fellow, and speaks his mind so very plainly.'\n\n'Why, the fact is,' said Martin, smiling, 'that being unaccustomed to a\nfree republic, he is used to do so.'\n\n'I think he had better go with us,' returned the other. 'He may get into\nsome trouble otherwise. This is not a slave State; but I am ashamed\nto say that a spirit of Tolerance is not so common anywhere in\nthese latitudes as the form. We are not remarkable for behaving very\ntemperately to each other when we differ; but to strangers! no, I really\nthink he had better go with us.'\n\nMartin called to him immediately to be of their party; so Cicero and the\ntruck went one way, and they three went another.\n\nThey walked about the city for two or three hours; seeing it from the\nbest points of view, and pausing in the principal streets, and before\nsuch public buildings as Mr Bevan pointed out. Night then coming\non apace, Martin proposed that they should adjourn to Mrs Pawkins's\nestablishment for coffee; but in this he was overruled by his new\nacquaintance, who seemed to have set his heart on carrying him, though\nit were only for an hour, to the house of a friend of his who lived hard\nby. Feeling (however disinclined he was, being weary) that it would be\nin bad taste, and not very gracious, to object that he was unintroduced,\nwhen this open-hearted gentleman was so ready to be his sponsor,\nMartin--for once in his life, at all events--sacrificed his own will and\npleasure to the wishes of another, and consented with a fair grace. So\ntravelling had done him that much good, already.\n\nMr Bevan knocked at the door of a very neat house of moderate size, from\nthe parlour windows of which, lights were shining brightly into the now\ndark street. It was quickly opened by a man with such a thoroughly Irish\nface, that it seemed as if he ought, as a matter of right and principle,\nto be in rags, and could have no sort of business to be looking\ncheerfully at anybody out of a whole suit of clothes.\n\nCommending Mark to the care of this phenomenon--for such he may be said\nto have been in Martin's eyes--Mr Bevan led the way into the room\nwhich had shed its cheerfulness upon the street, to whose occupants he\nintroduced Mr Chuzzlewit as a gentleman from England, whose acquaintance\nhe had recently had the pleasure to make. They gave him welcome in all\ncourtesy and politeness; and in less than five minutes' time he found\nhimself sitting very much at his ease by the fireside, and becoming\nvastly well acquainted with the whole family.\n\nThere were two young ladies--one eighteen; the other twenty--both very\nslender, but very pretty; their mother, who looked, as Martin thought\nmuch older and more faded than she ought to have looked; and their\ngrandmother, a little sharp-eyed, quick old woman, who seemed to have\ngot past that stage, and to have come all right again. Besides these,\nthere were the young ladies' father, and the young ladies' brother; the\nfirst engaged in mercantile affairs; the second, a student at college;\nboth, in a certain cordiality of manner, like his own friend, and not\nunlike him in face. Which was no great wonder, for it soon appeared that\nhe was their near relation. Martin could not help tracing the family\npedigree from the two young ladies, because they were foremost in his\nthoughts; not only from being, as aforesaid, very pretty, but by reason\nof their wearing miraculously small shoes, and the thinnest possible\nsilk stockings; the which their rocking-chairs developed to a\ndistracting extent.\n\nThere is no doubt that it was a monstrous comfortable circumstance to be\nsitting in a snug, well-furnished room, warmed by a cheerful fire, and\nfull of various pleasant decorations, including four small shoes, and\nthe like amount of silk stockings, and--yes, why not?--the feet and\nlegs therein enshrined. And there is no doubt that Martin was monstrous\nwell-disposed to regard his position in that light, after his recent\nexperience of the Screw, and of Mrs Pawkins's boarding-house. The\nconsequence was that he made himself very agreeable indeed; and by\nthe time the tea and coffee arrived (with sweet preserves, and cunning\ntea-cakes in its train), was in a highly genial state, and much esteemed\nby the whole family.\n\nAnother delightful circumstance turned up before the first cup of tea\nwas drunk. The whole family had been in England. There was a pleasant\nthing! But Martin was not quite so glad of this, when he found that\nthey knew all the great dukes, lords, viscounts, marquesses, duchesses,\nknights, and baronets, quite affectionately, and were beyond everything\ninterested in the least particular concerning them. However, when they\nasked, after the wearer of this or that coronet, and said, 'Was he quite\nwell?' Martin answered, 'Yes, oh yes. Never better;' and when they said,\n'his lordship's mother, the duchess, was she much changed?' Martin said,\n'Oh dear no, they would know her anywhere, if they saw her to-morrow;'\nand so got on pretty well. In like manner when the young ladies\nquestioned him touching the Gold Fish in that Grecian fountain in such\nand such a nobleman's conservatory, and whether there were as many as\nthere used to be, he gravely reported, after mature consideration, that\nthere must be at least twice as many; and as to the exotics, 'Oh! well!\nit was of no use talking about THEM; they must be seen to be believed;'\nwhich improved state of circumstances reminded the family of the\nsplendour of that brilliant festival (comprehending the whole British\nPeerage and Court Calendar) to which they were specially invited, and\nwhich indeed had been partly given in their honour; and recollections\nof what Mr Norris the father had said to the marquess, and of what Mrs\nNorris the mother had said to the marchioness, and of what the marquess\nand marchioness had both said, when they said that upon their words and\nhonours they wished Mr Norris the father and Mrs Norris the mother, and\nthe Misses Norris the daughters, and Mr Norris Junior, the son, would\nonly take up their permanent residence in England, and give them the\npleasure of their everlasting friendship, occupied a very considerable\ntime.\n\nMartin thought it rather stange, and in some sort inconsistent, that\nduring the whole of these narrations, and in the very meridian of their\nenjoyment thereof, both Mr Norris the father, and Mr Norris Junior,\nthe son (who corresponded, every post, with four members of the English\nPeerage), enlarged upon the inestimable advantage of having no such\narbitrary distinctions in that enlightened land, where there were no\nnoblemen but nature's noblemen, and where all society was based on one\nbroad level of brotherly love and natural equality. Indeed, Mr Norris\nthe father gradually expanding into an oration on this swelling theme,\nwas becoming tedious, when Mr Bevan diverted his thoughts by happening\nto make some causal inquiry relative to the occupier of the next house;\nin reply to which, this same Mr Norris the father observed, that 'that\nperson entertained religious opinions of which he couldn't approve; and\ntherefore he hadn't the honour of knowing the gentleman.' Mrs Norris the\nmother added another reason of her own, the same in effect, but varying\nin words; to wit, that she believed the people were well enough in their\nway, but they were not genteel.\n\nAnother little trait came out, which impressed itself on Martin\nforcibly. Mr Bevan told them about Mark and the negro, and then it\nappeared that all the Norrises were abolitionists. It was a great relief\nto hear this, and Martin was so much encouraged on finding himself in\nsuch company, that he expressed his sympathy with the oppressed and\nwretched blacks. Now, one of the young ladies--the prettiest and most\ndelicate--was mightily amused at the earnestness with which he spoke;\nand on his craving leave to ask her why, was quite unable for a time to\nspeak for laughing. As soon however as she could, she told him that\nthe negroes were such a funny people, so excessively ludicrous in their\nmanners and appearance, that it was wholly impossible for those who knew\nthem well, to associate any serious ideas with such a very absurd part\nof the creation. Mr Norris the father, and Mrs Norris the mother, and\nMiss Norris the sister, and Mr Norris Junior the brother, and even Mrs\nNorris Senior the grandmother, were all of this opinion, and laid\nit down as an absolute matter of fact--as if there were nothing in\nsuffering and slavery, grim enough to cast a solemn air on any human\nanimal; though it were as ridiculous, physically, as the most\ngrotesque of apes, or morally, as the mildest Nimrod among tuft-hunting\nrepublicans!\n\n'In short,' said Mr Norris the father, settling the question\ncomfortably, 'there is a natural antipathy between the races.'\n\n'Extending,' said Martin's friend, in a low voice, 'to the cruellest of\ntortures, and the bargain and sale of unborn generations.'\n\nMr Norris the son said nothing, but he made a wry face, and dusted his\nfingers as Hamlet might after getting rid of Yorick's skull; just as\nthough he had that moment touched a negro, and some of the black had\ncome off upon his hands.\n\nIn order that their talk might fall again into its former pleasant\nchannel, Martin dropped the subject, with a shrewd suspicion that it\nwould be a dangerous theme to revive under the best of circumstances;\nand again addressed himself to the young ladies, who were very\ngorgeously attired in very beautiful colours, and had every article of\ndress on the same extensive scale as the little shoes and the thin silk\nstockings. This suggested to him that they were great proficients in the\nFrench fashions, which soon turned out to be the case, for though their\ninformation appeared to be none of the newest, it was very extensive;\nand the eldest sister in particular, who was distinguished by a talent\nfor metaphysics, the laws of hydraulic pressure, and the rights of human\nkind, had a novel way of combining these acquirements and bringing them\nto bear on any subject from Millinery to the Millennium, both inclusive,\nwhich was at once improving and remarkable; so much so, in short, that\nit was usually observed to reduce foreigners to a state of temporary\ninsanity in five minutes.\n\nMartin felt his reason going; and as a means of saving himself, besought\nthe other sister (seeing a piano in the room) to sing. With this request\nshe willingly complied; and a bravura concert, solely sustained by the\nMisses Noriss, presently began. They sang in all languages--except their\nown. German, French, Italian, Spanish, Portuguese, Swiss; but nothing\nnative; nothing so low as native. For, in this respect, languages are\nlike many other travellers--ordinary and commonplace enough at home, but\n'specially genteel abroad.\n\nThere is little doubt that in course of time the Misses Norris would\nhave come to Hebrew, if they had not been interrupted by an announcement\nfrom the Irishman, who, flinging open the door, cried in a loud voice--\n\n'Jiniral Fladdock!'\n\n'My!' cried the sisters, desisting suddenly. 'The general come back!'\n\nAs they made the exclamation, the general, attired in full uniform for a\nball, came darting in with such precipitancy that, hitching his boot\nin the carpet, and getting his sword between his legs, he came down\nheadlong, and presented a curious little bald place on the crown of his\nhead to the eyes of the astonished company. Nor was this the worst of\nit; for being rather corpulent and very tight, the general being down,\ncould not get up again, but lay there writhing and doing such things with\nhis boots, as there is no other instance of in military history.\n\nOf course there was an immediate rush to his assistance; and the general\nwas promptly raised. But his uniform was so fearfully and wonderfully\nmade, that he came up stiff and without a bend in him like a dead Clown,\nand had no command whatever of himself until he was put quite flat upon\nthe soles of his feet, when he became animated as by a miracle, and\nmoving edgewise that he might go in a narrower compass and be in less\ndanger of fraying the gold lace on his epaulettes by brushing them\nagainst anything, advanced with a smiling visage to salute the lady of\nthe house.\n\nTo be sure, it would have been impossible for the family to testify\npurer delight and joy than at this unlooked-for appearance of General\nFladdock! The general was as warmly received as if New York had been in\na state of siege and no other general was to be got for love or money.\nHe shook hands with the Norrises three times all round, and then\nreviewed them from a little distance as a brave commander might, with\nhis ample cloak drawn forward over the right shoulder and thrown back\nupon the left side to reveal his manly breast.\n\n'And do I then,' cried the general, 'once again behold the choicest\nspirits of my country!'\n\n'Yes,' said Mr Norris the father. 'Here we are, general.'\n\nThen all the Norrises pressed round the general, inquiring how and where\nhe had been since the date of his letter, and how he had enjoyed himself\nin foreign parts, and particularly and above all, to what extent he had\nbecome acquainted with the great dukes, lords, viscounts, marquesses,\nduchesses, knights, and baronets, in whom the people of those benighted\ncountries had delight.\n\n'Well, then, don't ask me,' said the general, holding up his hand. 'I\nwas among 'em all the time, and have got public journals in my trunk\nwith my name printed'--he lowered his voice and was very impressive\nhere--'among the fashionable news. But, oh, the conventionalities of\nthat a-mazing Europe!'\n\n'Ah!' cried Mr Norris the father, giving his head a melancholy shake,\nand looking towards Martin as though he would say, 'I can't deny it,\nsir. I would if I could.'\n\n'The limited diffusion of a moral sense in that country!' exclaimed the\ngeneral. 'The absence of a moral dignity in man!'\n\n'Ah!' sighed all the Norrises, quite overwhelmed with despondency.\n\n'I couldn't have realised it,' pursued the general, 'without being\nlocated on the spot. Norris, your imagination is the imagination of a\nstrong man, but YOU couldn't have realised it, without being located on\nthe spot!'\n\n'Never,' said Mr Norris.\n\n'The ex-clusiveness, the pride, the form, the ceremony,' exclaimed the\ngeneral, emphasizing the article more vigorously at every repetition.\n'The artificial barriers set up between man and man; the division of the\nhuman race into court cards and plain cards, of every denomination--into\nclubs, diamonds, spades--anything but heart!'\n\n'Ah!' cried the whole family. 'Too true, general!'\n\n'But stay!' cried Mr Norris the father, taking him by the arm. 'Surely\nyou crossed in the Screw, general?'\n\n'Well! so I did,' was the reply.\n\n'Possible!' cried the young ladies. 'Only think!'\n\nThe general seemed at a loss to understand why his having come home\nin the Screw should occasion such a sensation, nor did he seem at all\nclearer on the subject when Mr Norris, introducing him to Martin, said:\n\n'A fellow-passenger of yours, I think?'\n\n'Of mine?' exclaimed the general; 'No!'\n\nHe had never seen Martin, but Martin had seen him, and recognized him,\nnow that they stood face to face, as the gentleman who had stuck his\nhands in his pockets towards the end of the voyage, and walked the deck\nwith his nostrils dilated.\n\nEverybody looked at Martin. There was no help for it. The truth must\nout.\n\n'I came over in the same ship as the general,' said Martin, 'but not in\nthe same cabin. It being necessary for me to observe strict economy, I\ntook my passage in the steerage.'\n\nIf the general had been carried up bodily to a loaded cannon, and\nrequired to let it off that moment, he could not have been in a state\nof greater consternation than when he heard these words. He,\nFladdock--Fladdock in full militia uniform, Fladdock the General,\nFladdock, the caressed of foreign noblemen--expected to know a fellow\nwho had come over in the steerage of line-of-packet ship, at the cost\nof four pound ten! And meeting that fellow in the very sanctuary of New\nYork fashion, and nestling in the bosom of the New York aristocracy! He\nalmost laid his hand upon his sword.\n\nA death-like stillness fell upon the Norisses. If this story should get\nwind, their country relation had, by his imprudence, for ever disgraced\nthem. They were the bright particular stars of an exalted New York\nsphere. There were other fashionable spheres above them, and other\nfashionable spheres below, and none of the stars in any one of these\nspheres had anything to say to the stars in any other of these spheres.\nBut, through all the spheres it would go forth that the Norrises,\ndeceived by gentlemanly manners and appearances, had, falling from their\nhigh estate, 'received' a dollarless and unknown man. O guardian eagle\nof the pure Republic, had they lived for this!\n\n'You will allow me,' said Martin, after a terrible silence, 'to take\nmy leave. I feel that I am the cause of at least as much embarrassment\nhere, as I have brought upon myself. But I am bound, before I go, to\nexonerate this gentleman, who, in introducing me to such society, was\nquite ignorant of my unworthiness, I assure you.'\n\nWith that he made his bow to the Norrises, and walked out like a man of\nsnow; very cool externally, but pretty hot within.\n\n'Come, come,' said Mr Norris the father, looking with a pale face on\nthe assembled circle as Martin closed the door, 'the young man has this\nnight beheld a refinement of social manner, and an easy magnificence of\nsocial decoration, to which he is a stranger in his own country. Let us\nhope it may awake a moral sense within him.'\n\nIf that peculiarly transatlantic article, a moral sense--for, if native\nstatesmen, orators, and pamphleteers, are to be believed, America quite\nmonopolises the commodity--if that peculiarly transatlantic article be\nsupposed to include a benevolent love of all mankind, certainly Martin's\nwould have borne, just then, a deal of waking. As he strode along\nthe street, with Mark at his heels, his immoral sense was in active\noperation; prompting him to the utterance of some rather sanguinary\nremarks, which it was well for his own credit that nobody overheard.\nHe had so far cooled down, however, that he had begun to laugh at the\nrecollection of these incidents, when he heard another step behind him,\nand turning round encountered his friend Bevan, quite out of breath.\n\nHe drew his arm through Martin's, and entreating him to walk slowly, was\nsilent for some minutes. At length he said:\n\n'I hope you exonerate me in another sense?'\n\n'How do you mean?' asked Martin.\n\n'I hope you acquit me of intending or foreseeing the termination of our\nvisit. But I scarcely need ask you that.'\n\n'Scarcely indeed,' said Martin. 'I am the more beholden to you for your\nkindness, when I find what kind of stuff the good citizens here are made\nof.'\n\n'I reckon,' his friend returned, 'that they are made of pretty much the\nsame stuff as other folks, if they would but own it, and not set up on\nfalse pretences.'\n\n'In good faith, that's true,' said Martin.\n\n'I dare say,' resumed his friend, 'you might have such a scene as that\nin an English comedy, and not detect any gross improbability or anomaly\nin the matter of it?'\n\n'Yes, indeed!'\n\n'Doubtless it is more ridiculous here than anywhere else,' said his\ncompanion; 'but our professions are to blame for that. So far as I\nmyself am concerned, I may add that I was perfectly aware from the\nfirst that you came over in the steerage, for I had seen the list of\npassengers, and knew it did not comprise your name.'\n\n'I feel more obliged to you than before,' said Martin.\n\n'Norris is a very good fellow in his way,' observed Mr Bevan.\n\n'Is he?' said Martin drily.\n\n'Oh yes! there are a hundred good points about him. If you or anybody\nelse addressed him as another order of being, and sued to him IN FORMA\nPAUPERIS, he would be all kindness and consideration.'\n\n'I needn't have travelled three thousand miles from home to find such a\ncharacter as THAT,' said Martin. Neither he nor his friend said anything\nmore on the way back; each appearing to find sufficient occupation in\nhis own thoughts.\n\nThe tea, or the supper, or whatever else they called the evening meal,\nwas over when they reached the Major's; but the cloth, ornamented with\na few additional smears and stains, was still upon the table. At one end\nof the board Mrs Jefferson Brick and two other ladies were drinking\ntea; out of the ordinary course, evidently, for they were bonneted\nand shawled, and seemed to have just come home. By the light of three\nflaring candles of different lengths, in as many candlesticks of\ndifferent patterns, the room showed to almost as little advantage as in\nbroad day.\n\nThese ladies were all three talking together in a very loud tone when\nMartin and his friend entered; but seeing those gentlemen, they stopped\ndirectly, and became excessively genteel, not to say frosty. As they\nwent on to exchange some few remarks in whispers, the very water in the\nteapot might have fallen twenty degrees in temperature beneath their\nchilling coldness.\n\n'Have you been to meeting, Mrs Brick?' asked Martin's friend, with\nsomething of a roguish twinkle in his eye.\n\n'To lecture, sir.'\n\n'I beg your pardon. I forgot. You don't go to meeting, I think?'\n\nHere the lady on the right of Mrs Brick gave a pious cough as much as to\nsay 'I do!'--as, indeed, she did nearly every night in the week.\n\n'A good discourse, ma'am?' asked Mr Bevan, addressing this lady.\n\nThe lady raised her eyes in a pious manner, and answered 'Yes.' She\nhad been much comforted by some good, strong, peppery doctrine, which\nsatisfactorily disposed of all her friends and acquaintances, and quite\nsettled their business. Her bonnet, too, had far outshone every bonnet\nin the congregation; so she was tranquil on all accounts.\n\n'What course of lectures are you attending now, ma'am?' said Martin's\nfriend, turning again to Mrs Brick.\n\n'The Philosophy of the Soul, on Wednesdays.'\n\n'On Mondays?'\n\n'The Philosophy of Crime.'\n\n'On Fridays?'\n\n'The Philosophy of Vegetables.'\n\n'You have forgotten Thursdays; the Philosophy of Government, my dear,'\nobserved the third lady.\n\n'No,' said Mrs Brick. 'That's Tuesdays.'\n\n'So it is!' cried the lady. 'The Philosophy of Matter on Thursdays, of\ncourse.'\n\n'You see, Mr Chuzzlewit, our ladies are fully employed,' said Bevan.\n\n'Indeed you have reason to say so,' answered Martin. 'Between these very\ngrave pursuits abroad, and family duties at home, their time must be\npretty well engrossed.'\n\nMartin stopped here, for he saw that the ladies regarded him with no\nvery great favour, though what he had done to deserve the disdainful\nexpression which appeared in their faces he was at a loss to divine. But\non their going upstairs to their bedrooms--which they very soon did--Mr\nBevan informed him that domestic drudgery was far beneath the exalted\nrange of these Philosophers, and that the chances were a hundred to one\nthat not one of the three could perform the easiest woman's work for\nherself, or make the simplest article of dress for any of her children.\n\n'Though whether they might not be better employed with such blunt\ninstruments as knitting-needles than with these edge-tools,' he said,\n'is another question; but I can answer for one thing--they don't often\ncut themselves. Devotions and lectures are our balls and concerts. They\ngo to these places of resort, as an escape from monotony; look at each\nother's clothes; and come home again.'\n\n'When you say \"home,\" do you mean a house like this?'\n\n'Very often. But I see you are tired to death, and will wish you good\nnight. We will discuss your projects in the morning. You cannot but\nfeel already that it is useless staying here, with any hope of advancing\nthem. You will have to go further.'\n\n'And to fare worse?' said Martin, pursuing the old adage.\n\n'Well, I hope not. But sufficient for the day, you know--good night'\n\nThey shook hands heartily and separated. As soon as Martin was left\nalone, the excitement of novelty and change which had sustained him\nthrough all the fatigues of the day, departed; and he felt so thoroughly\ndejected and worn out, that he even lacked the energy to crawl upstairs\nto bed.\n\nIn twelve or fifteen hours, how great a change had fallen on his hopes\nand sanguine plans! New and strange as he was to the ground on which he\nstood, and to the air he breathed, he could not--recalling all that he\nhad crowded into that one day--but entertain a strong misgiving that his\nenterprise was doomed. Rash and ill-considered as it had often looked on\nshipboard, but had never seemed on shore, it wore a dismal aspect, now,\nthat frightened him. Whatever thoughts he called up to his aid, they\ncame upon him in depressing and discouraging shapes, and gave him no\nrelief. Even the diamonds on his finger sparkled with the brightness of\ntears, and had no ray of hope in all their brilliant lustre.\n\nHe continued to sit in gloomy rumination by the stove, unmindful of\nthe boarders who dropped in one by one from their stores and\ncounting-houses, or the neighbouring bar-rooms, and, after taking long\npulls from a great white waterjug upon the sideboard, and lingering with\na kind of hideous fascination near the brass spittoons, lounged heavily\nto bed; until at length Mark Tapley came and shook him by the arm,\nsupposing him asleep.\n\n'Mark!' he cried, starting.\n\n'All right, sir,' said that cheerful follower, snuffing with his fingers\nthe candle he bore. 'It ain't a very large bed, your'n, sir; and a man\nas wasn't thirsty might drink, afore breakfast, all the water you've\ngot to wash in, and afterwards eat the towel. But you'll sleep without\nrocking to-night, sir.'\n\n'I feel as if the house were on the sea' said Martin, staggering when he\nrose; 'and am utterly wretched.'\n\n'I'm as jolly as a sandboy, myself, sir,' said Mark. 'But, Lord, I have\nreason to be! I ought to have been born here; that's my opinion. Take\ncare how you go'--for they were now ascending the stairs. 'You recollect\nthe gentleman aboard the Screw as had the very small trunk, sir?'\n\n'The valise? Yes.'\n\n'Well, sir, there's been a delivery of clean clothes from the wash\nto-night, and they're put outside the bedroom doors here. If you take\nnotice as we go up, what a very few shirts there are, and what a many\nfronts, you'll penetrate the mystery of his packing.'\n\nBut Martin was too weary and despondent to take heed of anything, so\nhad no interest in this discovery. Mr Tapley, nothing dashed by his\nindifference, conducted him to the top of the house, and into the\nbed-chamber prepared for his reception; which was a very little narrow\nroom, with half a window in it; a bedstead like a chest without a lid;\ntwo chairs; a piece of carpet, such as shoes are commonly tried upon\nat a ready-made establishment in England; a little looking-glass nailed\nagainst the wall; and a washing-table, with a jug and ewer, that might\nhave been mistaken for a milk-pot and slop-basin.\n\n'I suppose they polish themselves with a dry cloth in this country,'\nsaid Mark. 'They've certainly got a touch of the 'phoby, sir.'\n\n'I wish you would pull off my boots for me,' said Martin, dropping into\none of the chairs 'I am quite knocked up--dead beat, Mark.'\n\n'You won't say that to-morrow morning, sir,' returned Mr Tapley; 'nor\neven to-night, sir, when you've made a trial of this.' With which he\nproduced a very large tumbler, piled up to the brim with little blocks\nof clear transparent ice, through which one or two thin slices of lemon,\nand a golden liquid of delicious appearance, appealed from the still\ndepths below, to the loving eye of the spectator.\n\n'What do you call this?' said Martin.\n\nBut Mr Tapley made no answer; merely plunging a reed into the\nmixture--which caused a pleasant commotion among the pieces of ice--and\nsignifying by an expressive gesture that it was to be pumped up through\nthat agency by the enraptured drinker.\n\nMartin took the glass with an astonished look; applied his lips to the\nreed; and cast up his eyes once in ecstasy. He paused no more until the\ngoblet was drained to the last drop.\n\n'There, sir!' said Mark, taking it from him with a triumphant face; 'if\never you should happen to be dead beat again, when I ain't in the\nway, all you've got to do is to ask the nearest man to go and fetch a\ncobbler.'\n\n'To go and fetch a cobbler?' repeated Martin.\n\n'This wonderful invention, sir,' said Mark, tenderly patting the empty\nglass, 'is called a cobbler. Sherry cobbler when you name it long;\ncobbler, when you name it short. Now you're equal to having your boots\ntook off, and are, in every particular worth mentioning, another man.'\n\nHaving delivered himself of this solemn preface, he brought the\nbootjack.\n\n'Mind! I am not going to relapse, Mark,' said Martin; 'but, good Heaven,\nif we should be left in some wild part of this country without goods or\nmoney!'\n\n'Well, sir!' replied the imperturbable Tapley; 'from what we've seen\nalready, I don't know whether, under those circumstances, we shouldn't\ndo better in the wild parts than in the tame ones.'\n\n'Oh, Tom Pinch, Tom Pinch!' said Martin, in a thoughtful tone; 'what\nwould I give to be again beside you, and able to hear your voice, though\nit were even in the old bedroom at Pecksniff's!'\n\n'Oh, Dragon, Dragon!' echoed Mark, cheerfully, 'if there warn't any\nwater between you and me, and nothing faint-hearted-like in going back,\nI don't know that I mightn't say the same. But here am I, Dragon, in\nNew York, America; and there are you in Wiltshire, Europe; and there's a\nfortune to make, Dragon, and a beautiful young lady to make it for; and\nwhenever you go to see the Monument, Dragon, you mustn't give in on the\ndoorsteps, or you'll never get up to the top!'\n\n'Wisely said, Mark,' cried Martin. 'We must look forward.'\n\n'In all the story-books as ever I read, sir, the people as looked\nbackward was turned into stones,' replied Mark; 'and my opinion always\nwas, that they brought it on themselves, and it served 'em right. I wish\nyou good night, sir, and pleasant dreams!'\n\n'They must be of home, then,' said Martin, as he lay down in bed.\n\n'So I say, too,' whispered Mark Tapley, when he was out of hearing and\nin his own room; 'for if there don't come a time afore we're well out of\nthis, when there'll be a little more credit in keeping up one's jollity,\nI'm a United Statesman!'\n\nLeaving them to blend and mingle in their sleep the shadows of objects\nafar off, as they take fantastic shapes upon the wall in the dim light\nof thought without control, be it the part of this slight chronicle--a\ndream within a dream--as rapidly to change the scene, and cross the\nocean to the English shore.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER EIGHTEEN\n\nDOES BUSINESS WITH THE HOUSE OF ANTHONY CHUZZLEWIT AND SON, FROM WHICH\nONE OF THE PARTNERS RETIRES UNEXPECTEDLY\n\n\nChange begets change. Nothing propagates so fast. If a man habituated to\na narrow circle of cares and pleasures, out of which he seldom travels,\nstep beyond it, though for never so brief a space, his departure from\nthe monotonous scene on which he has been an actor of importance, would\nseem to be the signal for instant confusion. As if, in the gap he had\nleft, the wedge of change were driven to the head, rending what was a\nsolid mass to fragments, things cemented and held together by the usages\nof years, burst asunder in as many weeks. The mine which Time has slowly\ndug beneath familiar objects is sprung in an instant; and what was rock\nbefore, becomes but sand and dust.\n\nMost men, at one time or other, have proved this in some degree. The\nextent to which the natural laws of change asserted their supremacy\nin that limited sphere of action which Martin had deserted, shall be\nfaithfully set down in these pages.\n\n'What a cold spring it is!' whimpered old Anthony, drawing near the\nevening fire, 'It was a warmer season, sure, when I was young!'\n\n'You needn't go scorching your clothes into holes, whether it was or\nnot,' observed the amiable Jonas, raising his eyes from yesterday's\nnewspaper, 'Broadcloth ain't so cheap as that comes to.'\n\n'A good lad!' cried the father, breathing on his cold hands, and feebly\nchafing them against each other. 'A prudent lad! He never delivered\nhimself up to the vanities of dress. No, no!'\n\n'I don't know but I would, though, mind you, if I could do it for\nnothing,' said his son, as he resumed the paper.\n\n'Ah!' chuckled the old man. 'IF, indeed!--But it's very cold.'\n\n'Let the fire be!' cried Mr Jonas, stopping his honoured parent's hand\nin the use of the poker. 'Do you mean to come to want in your old age,\nthat you take to wasting now?'\n\n'There's not time for that, Jonas,' said the old man.\n\n'Not time for what?' bawled his heir.\n\n'For me to come to want. I wish there was!'\n\n'You always were as selfish an old blade as need be,' said Jonas in a\nvoice too low for him to hear, and looking at him with an angry frown.\n'You act up to your character. You wouldn't mind coming to want,\nwouldn't you! I dare say you wouldn't. And your own flesh and blood\nmight come to want too, might they, for anything you cared? Oh you\nprecious old flint!'\n\nAfter this dutiful address he took his tea-cup in his hand--for that\nmeal was in progress, and the father and son and Chuffey were partakers\nof it. Then, looking steadfastly at his father, and stopping now and\nthen to carry a spoonful of tea to his lips, he proceeded in the same\ntone, thus:\n\n'Want, indeed! You're a nice old man to be talking of want at this time\nof day. Beginning to talk of want, are you? Well, I declare! There isn't\ntime? No, I should hope not. But you'd live to be a couple of hundred if\nyou could; and after all be discontented. I know you!'\n\nThe old man sighed, and still sat cowering before the fire. Mr Jonas\nshook his Britannia-metal teaspoon at him, and taking a loftier\nposition, went on to argue the point on high moral grounds.\n\n'If you're in such a state of mind as that,' he grumbled, but in the\nsame subdued key, 'why don't you make over your property? Buy an annuity\ncheap, and make your life interesting to yourself and everybody else\nthat watches the speculation. But no, that wouldn't suit YOU. That would\nbe natural conduct to your own son, and you like to be unnatural, and to\nkeep him out of his rights. Why, I should be ashamed of myself if I was\nyou, and glad to hide my head in the what you may call it.'\n\nPossibly this general phrase supplied the place of grave, or tomb,\nor sepulchre, or cemetery, or mausoleum, or other such word which the\nfilial tenderness of Mr Jonas made him delicate of pronouncing. He\npursued the theme no further; for Chuffey, somehow discovering, from\nhis old corner by the fireside, that Anthony was in the attitude of a\nlistener, and that Jonas appeared to be speaking, suddenly cried out,\nlike one inspired:\n\n'He is your own son, Mr Chuzzlewit. Your own son, sir!'\n\nOld Chuffey little suspected what depth of application these words had,\nor that, in the bitter satire which they bore, they might have sunk into\nthe old man's very soul, could he have known what words here hanging on\nhis own son's lips, or what was passing in his thoughts. But the voice\ndiverted the current of Anthony's reflections, and roused him.\n\n'Yes, yes, Chuffey, Jonas is a chip of the old block. It is a very\nold block, now, Chuffey,' said the old man, with a strange look of\ndiscomposure.\n\n'Precious old,' assented Jonas\n\n'No, no, no,' said Chuffey. 'No, Mr Chuzzlewit. Not old at all, sir.'\n\n'Oh! He's worse than ever, you know!' cried Jonas, quite disgusted.\n'Upon my soul, father, he's getting too bad. Hold your tongue, will\nyou?'\n\n'He says you're wrong!' cried Anthony to the old clerk.\n\n'Tut, tut!' was Chuffey's answer. 'I know better. I say HE'S wrong.\nI say HE'S wrong. He's a boy. That's what he is. So are you, Mr\nChuzzlewit--a kind of boy. Ha! ha! ha! You're quite a boy to many I have\nknown; you're a boy to me; you're a boy to hundreds of us. Don't mind\nhim!'\n\nWith which extraordinary speech--for in the case of Chuffey this was a\nburst of eloquence without a parallel--the poor old shadow drew through\nhis palsied arm his master's hand, and held it there, with his own\nfolded upon it, as if he would defend him.\n\n'I grow deafer every day, Chuff,' said Anthony, with as much softness of\nmanner, or, to describe it more correctly, with as little hardness as he\nwas capable of expressing.\n\n'No, no,' cried Chuffey. 'No, you don't. What if you did? I've been deaf\nthis twenty year.'\n\n'I grow blinder, too,' said the old man, shaking his head.\n\n'That's a good sign!' cried Chuffey. 'Ha! ha! The best sign in the\nworld! You saw too well before.'\n\nHe patted Anthony upon the hand as one might comfort a child, and\ndrawing the old man's arm still further through his own, shook his\ntrembling fingers towards the spot where Jonas sat, as though he would\nwave him off. But, Anthony remaining quite still and silent, he relaxed\nhis hold by slow degrees and lapsed into his usual niche in the corner;\nmerely putting forth his hand at intervals and touching his old employer\ngently on the coat, as with the design of assuring himself that he was\nyet beside him.\n\nMr Jonas was so very much amazed by these proceedings that he could do\nnothing but stare at the two old men, until Chuffey had fallen into his\nusual state, and Anthony had sunk into a doze; when he gave some vent\nto his emotions by going close up to the former personage, and making as\nthough he would, in vulgar parlance, 'punch his head.'\n\n'They've been carrying on this game,' thought Jonas in a brown study,\n'for the last two or three weeks. I never saw my father take so much\nnotice of him as he has in that time. What! You're legacy hunting, are\nyou, Mister Chuff? Eh?'\n\nBut Chuffey was as little conscious of the thought as of the bodily\nadvance of Mr Jonas's clenched fist, which hovered fondly about his ear.\nWhen he had scowled at him to his heart's content, Jonas took the candle\nfrom the table, and walking into the glass office, produced a bunch of\nkeys from his pocket. With one of these he opened a secret drawer in the\ndesk; peeping stealthily out, as he did so, to be certain that the two\nold men were still before the fire.\n\n'All as right as ever,' said Jonas, propping the lid of the desk open\nwith his forehead, and unfolding a paper. 'Here's the will, Mister\nChuff. Thirty pound a year for your maintenance, old boy, and all the\nrest to his only son, Jonas. You needn't trouble yourself to be too\naffectionate. You won't get anything by it. What's that?'\n\nIt WAS startling, certainly. A face on the other side of the glass\npartition looking curiously in; and not at him but at the paper in his\nhand. For the eyes were attentively cast down upon the writing, and were\nswiftly raised when he cried out. Then they met his own, and were as the\neyes of Mr Pecksniff.\n\nSuffering the lid of the desk to fall with a loud noise, but not\nforgetting even then to lock it, Jonas, pale and breathless, gazed upon\nthis phantom. It moved, opened the door, and walked in.\n\n'What's the matter?' cried Jonas, falling back. 'Who is it? Where do you\ncome from? What do you want?'\n\n'Matter!' cried the voice of Mr Pecksniff, as Pecksniff in the flesh\nsmiled amiably upon him. 'The matter, Mr Jonas!'\n\n'What are you prying and peering about here for?' said Jonas, angrily.\n'What do you mean by coming up to town in this way, and taking one\nunawares? It's precious odd a man can't read the--the newspaper--in his\nown office without being startled out of his wits by people coming in\nwithout notice. Why didn't you knock at the door?'\n\n'So I did, Mr Jonas,' answered Pecksniff, 'but no one heard me. I was\ncurious,' he added in his gentle way as he laid his hand upon the young\nman's shoulder, 'to find out what part of the newspaper interested you\nso much; but the glass was too dim and dirty.'\n\nJonas glanced in haste at the partition. Well. It wasn't very clean. So\nfar he spoke the truth.\n\n'Was it poetry now?' said Mr Pecksniff, shaking the forefinger of his\nright hand with an air of cheerful banter. 'Or was it politics? Or was\nit the price of stock? The main chance, Mr Jonas, the main chance, I\nsuspect.'\n\n'You ain't far from the truth,' answered Jonas, recovering himself and\nsnuffing the candle; 'but how the deuce do you come to be in London\nagain? Ecod! it's enough to make a man stare, to see a fellow looking at\nhim all of a sudden, who he thought was sixty or seventy mile away.'\n\n'So it is,' said Mr Pecksniff. 'No doubt of it, my dear Mr Jonas. For\nwhile the human mind is constituted as it is--'\n\n'Oh, bother the human mind,' interrupted Jonas with impatience 'what\nhave you come up for?'\n\n'A little matter of business,' said Mr Pecksniff, 'which has arisen\nquite unexpectedly.'\n\n'Oh!' cried Jonas, 'is that all? Well. Here's father in the next room.\nHallo father, here's Pecksniff! He gets more addle-pated every day\nhe lives, I do believe,' muttered Jonas, shaking his honoured parent\nroundly. 'Don't I tell you Pecksniff's here, stupid-head?'\n\nThe combined effects of the shaking and this loving remonstrance soon\nawoke the old man, who gave Mr Pecksniff a chuckling welcome which was\nattributable in part to his being glad to see that gentleman, and in\npart to his unfading delight in the recollection of having called him a\nhypocrite. As Mr Pecksniff had not yet taken tea (indeed he had, but an\nhour before, arrived in London) the remains of the late collation, with\na rasher of bacon, were served up for his entertainment; and as Mr Jonas\nhad a business appointment in the next street, he stepped out to keep\nit; promising to return before Mr Pecksniff could finish his repast.\n\n'And now, my good sir,' said Mr Pecksniff to Anthony; 'now that we\nare alone, pray tell me what I can do for you. I say alone, because I\nbelieve that our dear friend Mr Chuffey is, metaphysically speaking,\na--shall I say a dummy?' asked Mr Pecksniff with his sweetest smile, and\nhis head very much on one side.\n\n'He neither hears us,' replied Anthony, 'nor sees us.'\n\n'Why, then,' said Mr Pecksniff, 'I will be bold to say, with the utmost\nsympathy for his afflictions, and the greatest admiration of those\nexcellent qualities which do equal honour to his head and to his heart,\nthat he is what is playfully termed a dummy. You were going to observe,\nmy dear sir--?'\n\n'I was not going to make any observation that I know of,' replied the\nold man.\n\n'I was,' said Mr Pecksniff, mildly.\n\n'Oh! YOU were? What was it?'\n\n'That I never,' said Mr Pecksniff, previously rising to see that the\ndoor was shut, and arranging his chair when he came back, so that it\ncould not be opened in the least without his immediately becoming aware\nof the circumstance; 'that I never in my life was so astonished as by\nthe receipt of your letter yesterday. That you should do me the honour\nto wish to take counsel with me on any matter, amazed me; but that you\nshould desire to do so, to the exclusion even of Mr Jonas, showed an\namount of confidence in one to whom you had done a verbal injury--merely\na verbal injury, you were anxious to repair--which gratified, which\nmoved, which overcame me.'\n\nHe was always a glib speaker, but he delivered this short address very\nglibly; having been at some pains to compose it outside the coach.\n\nAlthough he paused for a reply, and truly said that he was there at\nAnthony's request, the old man sat gazing at him in profound silence and\nwith a perfectly blank face. Nor did he seem to have the least desire or\nimpulse to pursue the conversation, though Mr Pecksniff looked towards\nthe door, and pulled out his watch, and gave him many other hints that\ntheir time was short, and Jonas, if he kept his word, would soon return.\nBut the strangest incident in all this strange behaviour was, that of a\nsudden, in a moment, so swiftly that it was impossible to trace how,\nor to observe any process of change, his features fell into their old\nexpression, and he cried, striking his hand passionately upon the table\nas if no interval at all had taken place:\n\n'Will you hold your tongue, sir, and let me speak?'\n\nMr Pecksniff deferred to him with a submissive bow; and said within\nhimself, 'I knew his hand was changed, and that his writing staggered. I\nsaid so yesterday. Ahem! Dear me!'\n\n'Jonas is sweet upon your daughter, Pecksniff,' said the old man, in his\nusual tone.\n\n'We spoke of that, if you remember, sir, at Mrs Todgers's,' replied the\ncourteous architect.\n\n'You needn't speak so loud,' retorted Anthony. 'I'm not so deaf as\nthat.'\n\nMr Pecksniff had certainly raised his voice pretty high; not so much\nbecause he thought Anthony was deaf, as because he felt convinced that\nhis perceptive faculties were waxing dim; but this quick resentment of\nhis considerate behaviour greatly disconcerted him, and, not knowing\nwhat tack to shape his course upon, he made another inclination of the\nhead, yet more submissive that the last.\n\n'I have said,' repeated the old man, 'that Jonas is sweet upon your\ndaughter.'\n\n'A charming girl, sir,' murmured Mr Pecksniff, seeing that he waited\nfor an answer. 'A dear girl, Mr Chuzzlewit, though I say it, who should\nnot.'\n\n'You know better,' cried the old man, advancing his weazen face at least\na yard, and starting forward in his chair to do it. 'You lie! What, you\nWILL be a hypocrite, will you?'\n\n'My good sir,' Mr Pecksniff began.\n\n'Don't call me a good sir,' retorted Anthony, 'and don't claim to be\none yourself. If your daughter was what you would have me believe, she\nwouldn't do for Jonas. Being what she is, I think she will. He might be\ndeceived in a wife. She might run riot, contract debts, and waste his\nsubstance. Now when I am dead--'\n\nHis face altered so horribly as he said the word, that Mr Pecksniff\nreally was fain to look another way.\n\n'--It will be worse for me to know of such doings, than if I was alive;\nfor to be tormented for getting that together, which even while I suffer\nfor its acquisition, is flung into the very kennels of the streets,\nwould be insupportable torture. No,' said the old man, hoarsely, 'let\nthat be saved at least; let there be something gained, and kept fast\nhold of, when so much is lost.'\n\n'My dear Mr Chuzzlewit,' said Pecksniff, 'these are unwholesome fancies;\nquite unnecessary, sir, quite uncalled for, I am sure. The truth is, my\ndear sir, that you are not well!'\n\n'Not dying though!' cried Anthony, with something like the snarl of a\nwild animal. 'Not yet! There are years of life in me. Why, look at him,'\npointing to his feeble clerk. 'Death has no right to leave him standing,\nand to mow me down!'\n\nMr Pecksniff was so much afraid of the old man, and so completely taken\naback by the state in which he found him, that he had not even presence\nof mind enough to call up a scrap of morality from the great storehouse\nwithin his own breast. Therefore he stammered out that no doubt it was,\nin fairness and decency, Mr Chuffey's turn to expire; and that from\nall he had heard of Mr Chuffey, and the little he had the pleasure of\nknowing of that gentleman, personally, he felt convinced in his own\nmind that he would see the propriety of expiring with as little delay as\npossible.\n\n'Come here!' said the old man, beckoning him to draw nearer. 'Jonas\nwill be my heir, Jonas will be rich, and a great catch for you. You know\nthat. Jonas is sweet upon your daughter.'\n\n'I know that too,' thought Mr Pecksniff, 'for you have said it often\nenough.'\n\n'He might get more money than with her,' said the old man, 'but she\nwill help him to take care of what they have. She is not too young or\nheedless, and comes of a good hard griping stock. But don't you play\ntoo fine a game. She only holds him by a thread; and if you draw it too\ntight (I know his temper) it'll snap. Bind him when he's in the mood,\nPecksniff; bind him. You're too deep. In your way of leading him on,\nyou'll leave him miles behind. Bah, you man of oil, have I no eyes to\nsee how you have angled with him from the first?'\n\n'Now I wonder,' thought Mr Pecksniff, looking at him with a wistful\nface, 'whether this is all he has to say?'\n\nOld Anthony rubbed his hands and muttered to himself; complained again\nthat he was cold; drew his chair before the fire; and, sitting with his\nback to Mr Pecksniff, and his chin sunk down upon his breast, was, in\nanother minute, quite regardless or forgetful of his presence.\n\nUncouth and unsatisfactory as this short interview had been, it had\nfurnished Mr Pecksniff with a hint which, supposing nothing further\nwere imparted to him, repaid the journey up and home again. For the good\ngentleman had never (for want of an opportunity) dived into the depths\nof Mr Jonas's nature; and any recipe for catching such a son-in-law\n(much more one written on a leaf out of his own father's book) was worth\nthe having. In order that he might lose no chance of improving so fair\nan opportunity by allowing Anthony to fall asleep before he had finished\nall he had to say, Mr Pecksniff, in the disposal of the refreshments on\nthe table, a work to which he now applied himself in earnest, resorted\nto many ingenious contrivances for attracting his attention; such as\ncoughing, sneezing, clattering the teacups, sharpening the knives,\ndropping the loaf, and so forth. But all in vain, for Mr Jonas returned,\nand Anthony had said no more.\n\n'What! My father asleep again?' he cried, as he hung up his hat, and\ncast a look at him. 'Ah! and snoring. Only hear!'\n\n'He snores very deep,' said Mr Pecksniff.\n\n'Snores deep?' repeated Jonas. 'Yes; let him alone for that. He'll snore\nfor six, at any time.'\n\n'Do you know, Mr Jonas,' said Pecksniff, 'that I think your father\nis--don't let me alarm you--breaking?'\n\n'Oh, is he though?' replied Jonas, with a shake of the head which\nexpressed the closeness of his dutiful observation. 'Ecod, you don't\nknow how tough he is. He ain't upon the move yet.'\n\n'It struck me that he was changed, both in his appearance and manner,'\nsaid Mr Pecksniff.\n\n'That's all you know about it,' returned Jonas, seating himself with a\nmelancholy air. 'He never was better than he is now. How are they all at\nhome? How's Charity?'\n\n'Blooming, Mr Jonas, blooming.'\n\n'And the other one; how's she?'\n\n'Volatile trifler!' said Mr Pecksniff, fondly musing. 'She is well, she\nis well. Roving from parlour to bedroom, Mr Jonas, like a bee, skimming\nfrom post to pillar, like the butterfly; dipping her young beak into our\ncurrant wine, like the humming-bird! Ah! were she a little less giddy\nthan she is; and had she but the sterling qualities of Cherry, my young\nfriend!'\n\n'Is she so very giddy, then?' asked Jonas.\n\n'Well, well!' said Mr Pecksniff, with great feeling; 'let me not be hard\nupon my child. Beside her sister Cherry she appears so. A strange noise\nthat, Mr Jonas!'\n\n'Something wrong in the clock, I suppose,' said Jonas, glancing towards\nit. 'So the other one ain't your favourite, ain't she?'\n\nThe fond father was about to reply, and had already summoned into his\nface a look of most intense sensibility, when the sound he had already\nnoticed was repeated.\n\n'Upon my word, Mr Jonas, that is a very extraordinary clock,' said\nPecksniff.\n\nIt would have been, if it had made the noise which startled them; but\nanother kind of time-piece was fast running down, and from that the\nsound proceeded. A scream from Chuffey, rendered a hundred times more\nloud and formidable by his silent habits, made the house ring from roof\nto cellar; and, looking round, they saw Anthony Chuzzlewit extended on\nthe floor, with the old clerk upon his knees beside him.\n\nHe had fallen from his chair in a fit, and lay there, battling for each\ngasp of breath, with every shrivelled vein and sinew starting in its\nplace, as if it were bent on bearing witness to his age, and sternly\npleading with Nature against his recovery. It was frightful to see how\nthe principle of life, shut up within his withered frame, fought like a\nstrong devil, mad to be released, and rent its ancient prison-house.\nA young man in the fullness of his vigour, struggling with so much\nstrength of desperation, would have been a dismal sight; but an old,\nold, shrunken body, endowed with preternatural might, and giving the lie\nin every motion of its every limb and joint to its enfeebled aspect, was\na hideous spectacle indeed.\n\nThey raised him up, and fetched a surgeon with all haste, who bled the\npatient and applied some remedies; but the fits held him so long that\nit was past midnight when they got him--quiet now, but quite unconscious\nand exhausted--into bed.\n\n'Don't go,' said Jonas, putting his ashy lips to Mr Pecksniff's ear and\nwhispered across the bed. 'It was a mercy you were present when he was\ntaken ill. Some one might have said it was my doing.'\n\n'YOUR doing!' cried Mr Pecksniff.\n\n'I don't know but they might,' he replied, wiping the moisture from his\nwhite face. 'People say such things. How does he look now?'\n\nMr Pecksniff shook his head.\n\n'I used to joke, you know,' said. Jonas: 'but I--I never wished him\ndead. Do you think he's very bad?'\n\n'The doctor said he was. You heard,' was Mr Pecksniff's answer.\n\n'Ah! but he might say that to charge us more, in case of his getting\nwell' said Jonas. 'You mustn't go away, Pecksniff. Now it's come to\nthis, I wouldn't be without a witness for a thousand pound.'\n\nChuffey said not a word, and heard not a word. He had sat himself down\nin a chair at the bedside, and there he remained, motionless; except\nthat he sometimes bent his head over the pillow, and seemed to listen.\nHe never changed in this. Though once in the dreary night Mr Pecksniff,\nhaving dozed, awoke with a confused impression that he had heard\nhim praying, and strangely mingling figures--not of speech, but\narithmetic--with his broken prayers.\n\nJonas sat there, too, all night; not where his father could have seen\nhim, had his consciousness returned, but hiding, as it were, behind him,\nand only reading how he looked, in Mr Pecksniff's eyes. HE, the coarse\nupstart, who had ruled the house so long--that craven cur, who was\nafraid to move, and shook so, that his very shadow fluttered on the\nwall!\n\nIt was broad, bright, stirring day when, leaving the old clerk to watch\nhim, they went down to breakfast. People hurried up and down the street;\nwindows and doors were opened; thieves and beggars took their usual\nposts; workmen bestirred themselves; tradesmen set forth their shops;\nbailiffs and constables were on the watch; all kinds of human creatures\nstrove, in their several ways, as hard to live, as the one sick old\nman who combated for every grain of sand in his fast-emptying glass, as\neagerly as if it were an empire.\n\n'If anything happens Pecksniff,' said Jonas, 'you must promise me to\nstop here till it's all over. You shall see that I do what's right.'\n\n'I know that you will do what's right, Mr Jonas,' said Pecksniff.\n\n'Yes, yes, but I won't be doubted. No one shall have it in his power to\nsay a syllable against me,' he returned. 'I know how people will talk.\nJust as if he wasn't old, or I had the secret of keeping him alive!'\n\nMr Pecksniff promised that he would remain, if circumstances should\nrender it, in his esteemed friend's opinion, desirable; they were\nfinishing their meal in silence, when suddenly an apparition stood\nbefore them, so ghastly to the view that Jonas shrieked aloud, and both\nrecoiled in horror.\n\nOld Anthony, dressed in his usual clothes, was in the room--beside the\ntable. He leaned upon the shoulder of his solitary friend; and on his\nlivid face, and on his horny hands, and in his glassy eyes, and traced\nby an eternal finger in the very drops of sweat upon his brow, was one\nword--Death.\n\nHe spoke to them--in something of his own voice too, but sharpened and\nmade hollow, like a dead man's face. What he would have said, God knows.\nHe seemed to utter words, but they were such as man had never heard.\nAnd this was the most fearful circumstance of all, to see him standing\nthere, gabbling in an unearthly tongue.\n\n'He's better now,' said Chuffey. 'Better now. Let him sit in his old\nchair, and he'll be well again. I told him not to mind. I said so,\nyesterday.'\n\nThey put him in his easy-chair, and wheeled it near the window; then,\nswinging open the door, exposed him to the free current of morning air.\nBut not all the air that is, nor all the winds that ever blew 'twixt\nHeaven and Earth, could have brought new life to him.\n\nPlunge him to the throat in golden pieces now, and his heavy fingers\nshall not close on one!\n\n\n\nCHAPTER NINETEEN\n\nTHE READER IS BROUGHT INTO COMMUNICATION WITH SOME PROFESSIONAL PERSONS,\nAND SHEDS A TEAR OVER THE FILIAL PIETY OF GOOD MR JONAS\n\n\nMr Pecksniff was in a hackney cabriolet, for Jonas Chuzzlewit had said\n'Spare no expense.' Mankind is evil in its thoughts and in its base\nconstructions, and Jonas was resolved it should not have an inch to\nstretch into an ell against him. It never should be charged upon his\nfather's son that he had grudged the money for his father's funeral.\nHence, until the obsequies should be concluded, Jonas had taken for his\nmotto 'Spend, and spare not!'\n\nMr Pecksniff had been to the undertaker, and was now upon his way to\nanother officer in the train of mourning--a female functionary, a nurse,\nand watcher, and performer of nameless offices about the persons of the\ndead--whom he had recommended. Her name, as Mr Pecksniff gathered from\na scrap of writing in his hand, was Gamp; her residence in Kingsgate\nStreet, High Holborn. So Mr Pecksniff, in a hackney cab, was rattling\nover Holborn stones, in quest of Mrs Gamp.\n\nThis lady lodged at a bird-fancier's, next door but one to the\ncelebrated mutton-pie shop, and directly opposite to the original\ncat's-meat warehouse; the renown of which establishments was duly\nheralded on their respective fronts. It was a little house, and this was\nthe more convenient; for Mrs Gamp being, in her highest walk of art,\na monthly nurse, or, as her sign-board boldly had it, 'Midwife,' and\nlodging in the first-floor front, was easily assailable at night by\npebbles, walking-sticks, and fragments of tobacco-pipe; all much more\nefficacious than the street-door knocker, which was so constructed as\nto wake the street with ease, and even spread alarms of fire in Holborn,\nwithout making the smallest impression on the premises to which it was\naddressed.\n\nIt chanced on this particular occasion, that Mrs Gamp had been up all\nthe previous night, in attendance upon a ceremony to which the usage of\ngossips has given that name which expresses, in two syllables, the curse\npronounced on Adam. It chanced that Mrs Gamp had not been regularly\nengaged, but had been called in at a crisis, in consequence of her great\nrepute, to assist another professional lady with her advice; and thus it\nhappened that, all points of interest in the case being over, Mrs Gamp\nhad come home again to the bird-fancier's and gone to bed. So when Mr\nPecksniff drove up in the hackney cab, Mrs Gamp's curtains were drawn\nclose, and Mrs Gamp was fast asleep behind them.\n\nIf the bird-fancier had been at home, as he ought to have been, there\nwould have been no great harm in this; but he was out, and his shop was\nclosed. The shutters were down certainly; and in every pane of glass\nthere was at least one tiny bird in a tiny bird-cage, twittering and\nhopping his little ballet of despair, and knocking his head against the\nroof; while one unhappy goldfinch who lived outside a red villa with\nhis name on the door, drew the water for his own drinking, and mutely\nappealed to some good man to drop a farthing's-worth of poison in it.\nStill, the door was shut. Mr Pecksniff tried the latch, and shook it,\ncausing a cracked bell inside to ring most mournfully; but no one came.\nThe bird-fancier was an easy shaver also, and a fashionable hair-dresser\nalso, and perhaps he had been sent for, express, from the court end of\nthe town, to trim a lord, or cut and curl a lady; but however that\nmight be, there, upon his own ground, he was not; nor was there any more\ndistinct trace of him to assist the imagination of an inquirer, than\na professional print or emblem of his calling (much favoured in the\ntrade), representing a hair-dresser of easy manners curling a lady\nof distinguished fashion, in the presence of a patent upright grand\npianoforte.\n\nNoting these circumstances, Mr Pecksniff, in the innocence of his heart,\napplied himself to the knocker; but at the first double knock every\nwindow in the street became alive with female heads; and before he could\nrepeat the performance whole troops of married ladies (some about to\ntrouble Mrs Gamp themselves very shortly) came flocking round the steps,\nall crying out with one accord, and with uncommon interest, 'Knock at\nthe winder, sir, knock at the winder. Lord bless you, don't lose no more\ntime than you can help--knock at the winder!'\n\nActing upon this suggestion, and borrowing the driver's whip for the\npurpose, Mr Pecksniff soon made a commotion among the first floor\nflower-pots, and roused Mrs Gamp, whose voice--to the great satisfaction\nof the matrons--was heard to say, 'I'm coming.'\n\n'He's as pale as a muffin,' said one lady, in allusion to Mr Pecksniff.\n\n'So he ought to be, if he's the feelings of a man,' observed another.\n\nA third lady (with her arms folded) said she wished he had chosen any\nother time for fetching Mrs Gamp, but it always happened so with HER.\n\nIt gave Mr Pecksniff much uneasiness to find, from these remarks, that\nhe was supposed to have come to Mrs Gamp upon an errand touching--not\nthe close of life, but the other end. Mrs Gamp herself was under the\nsame impression, for, throwing open the window, she cried behind the\ncurtains, as she hastily attired herself--\n\n'Is it Mrs Perkins?'\n\n'No!' returned Mr Pecksniff, sharply. 'Nothing of the sort.'\n\n'What, Mr Whilks!' cried Mrs Gamp. 'Don't say it's you, Mr Whilks, and\nthat poor creetur Mrs Whilks with not even a pincushion ready. Don't say\nit's you, Mr Whilks!'\n\n'It isn't Mr Whilks,' said Pecksniff. 'I don't know the man. Nothing\nof the kind. A gentleman is dead; and some person being wanted in the\nhouse, you have been recommended by Mr Mould the undertaker.'\n\nAs she was by this time in a condition to appear, Mrs Gamp, who had\na face for all occasions, looked out of the window with her mourning\ncountenance, and said she would be down directly. But the matrons took\nit very ill that Mr Pecksniff's mission was of so unimportant a kind;\nand the lady with her arms folded rated him in good round terms,\nsignifying that she would be glad to know what he meant by terrifying\ndelicate females 'with his corpses;' and giving it as her opinion that\nhe was quite ugly enough to know better. The other ladies were not at\nall behind-hand in expressing similar sentiments; and the children, of\nwhom some scores had now collected, hooted and defied Mr Pecksniff quite\nsavagely. So when Mrs Gamp appeared, the unoffending gentleman was glad\nto hustle her with very little ceremony into the cabriolet, and drive\noff, overwhelmed with popular execration.\n\nMrs Gamp had a large bundle with her, a pair of pattens, and a species\nof gig umbrella; the latter article in colour like a faded leaf, except\nwhere a circular patch of a lively blue had been dexterously let in at\nthe top. She was much flurried by the haste she had made, and laboured\nunder the most erroneous views of cabriolets, which she appeared\nto confound with mail-coaches or stage-wagons, inasmuch as she was\nconstantly endeavouring for the first half mile to force her luggage\nthrough the little front window, and clamouring to the driver to 'put\nit in the boot.' When she was disabused of this idea, her whole being\nresolved itself into an absorbing anxiety about her pattens, with which\nshe played innumerable games at quoits on Mr Pecksniff's legs. It was\nnot until they were close upon the house of mourning that she had enough\ncomposure to observe--\n\n'And so the gentleman's dead, sir! Ah! The more's the pity.' She didn't\neven know his name. 'But it's what we must all come to. It's as certain\nas being born, except that we can't make our calculations as exact. Ah!\nPoor dear!'\n\nShe was a fat old woman, this Mrs Gamp, with a husky voice and a moist\neye, which she had a remarkable power of turning up, and only showing\nthe white of it. Having very little neck, it cost her some trouble to\nlook over herself, if one may say so, at those to whom she talked. She\nwore a very rusty black gown, rather the worse for snuff, and a shawl\nand bonnet to correspond. In these dilapidated articles of dress she\nhad, on principle, arrayed herself, time out of mind, on such occasions\nas the present; for this at once expressed a decent amount of veneration\nfor the deceased, and invited the next of kin to present her with a\nfresher suit of weeds; an appeal so frequently successful, that the very\nfetch and ghost of Mrs Gamp, bonnet and all, might be seen hanging up,\nany hour in the day, in at least a dozen of the second-hand clothes\nshops about Holborn. The face of Mrs Gamp--the nose in particular--was\nsomewhat red and swollen, and it was difficult to enjoy her society\nwithout becoming conscious of a smell of spirits. Like most persons who\nhave attained to great eminence in their profession, she took to hers\nvery kindly; insomuch that, setting aside her natural predilections as\na woman, she went to a lying-in or a laying-out with equal zest and\nrelish.\n\n'Ah!' repeated Mrs Gamp; for it was always a safe sentiment in cases of\nmourning. 'Ah dear! When Gamp was summoned to his long home, and I see\nhim a-lying in Guy's Hospital with a penny-piece on each eye, and his\nwooden leg under his left arm, I thought I should have fainted away. But\nI bore up.'\n\nIf certain whispers current in the Kingsgate Street circles had any\ntruth in them, she had indeed borne up surprisingly; and had exerted\nsuch uncommon fortitude as to dispose of Mr Gamp's remains for the\nbenefit of science. But it should be added, in fairness, that this had\nhappened twenty years before; and that Mr and Mrs Gamp had long been\nseparated on the ground of incompatibility of temper in their drink.\n\n'You have become indifferent since then, I suppose?' said Mr Pecksniff.\n'Use is second nature, Mrs Gamp.'\n\n'You may well say second nater, sir,' returned that lady. 'One's first\nways is to find sich things a trial to the feelings, and so is one's\nlasting custom. If it wasn't for the nerve a little sip of liquor gives\nme (I never was able to do more than taste it), I never could go through\nwith what I sometimes has to do. \"Mrs Harris,\" I says, at the very last\ncase as ever I acted in, which it was but a young person, \"Mrs Harris,\"\nI says, \"leave the bottle on the chimley-piece, and don't ask me to take\nnone, but let me put my lips to it when I am so dispoged, and then I\nwill do what I'm engaged to do, according to the best of my ability.\"\n\"Mrs Gamp,\" she says, in answer, \"if ever there was a sober creetur to\nbe got at eighteen pence a day for working people, and three and six for\ngentlefolks--night watching,\"' said Mrs Gamp with emphasis, '\"being a\nextra charge--you are that inwallable person.\" \"Mrs Harris,\" I says to\nher, \"don't name the charge, for if I could afford to lay all my feller\ncreeturs out for nothink, I would gladly do it, sich is the love I bears\n'em. But what I always says to them as has the management of matters,\nMrs Harris\"'--here she kept her eye on Mr Pecksniff--'\"be they gents or\nbe they ladies, is, don't ask me whether I won't take none, or whether I\nwill, but leave the bottle on the chimley-piece, and let me put my lips\nto it when I am so dispoged.\"'\n\nThe conclusion of this affecting narrative brought them to the house. In\nthe passage they encountered Mr Mould the undertaker; a little elderly\ngentleman, bald, and in a suit of black; with a notebook in his hand,\na massive gold watch-chain dangling from his fob, and a face in which a\nqueer attempt at melancholy was at odds with a smirk of satisfaction; so\nthat he looked as a man might, who, in the very act of smacking his lips\nover choice old wine, tried to make believe it was physic.\n\n'Well, Mrs Gamp, and how are YOU, Mrs Gamp?' said this gentleman, in a\nvoice as soft as his step.\n\n'Pretty well, I thank you, sir,' dropping a curtsey.\n\n'You'll be very particular here, Mrs Gamp. This is not a common case,\nMrs Gamp. Let everything be very nice and comfortable, Mrs Gamp, if you\nplease,' said the undertaker, shaking his head with a solemn air.\n\n'It shall be, sir,' she replied, curtseying again. 'You knows me of old,\nsir, I hope.'\n\n'I hope so, too, Mrs Gamp,' said the undertaker, 'and I think so also.'\nMrs Gamp curtseyed again. 'This is one of the most impressive cases,\nsir,' he continued, addressing Mr Pecksniff, 'that I have seen in the\nwhole course of my professional experience.'\n\n'Indeed, Mr Mould!' cried that gentleman.\n\n'Such affectionate regret, sir, I never saw. There is no limitation,\nthere is positively NO limitation'--opening his eyes wide, and standing\non tiptoe--'in point of expense! I have orders, sir, to put on my whole\nestablishment of mutes; and mutes come very dear, Mr Pecksniff; not to\nmention their drink. To provide silver-plated handles of the very best\ndescription, ornamented with angels' heads from the most expensive\ndies. To be perfectly profuse in feathers. In short, sir, to turn out\nsomething absolutely gorgeous.'\n\n'My friend Mr Jonas is an excellent man,' said Mr Pecksniff.\n\n'I have seen a good deal of what is filial in my time, sir,' retorted\nMould, 'and what is unfilial too. It is our lot. We come into the\nknowledge of those secrets. But anything so filial as this; anything so\nhonourable to human nature; so calculated to reconcile all of us to the\nworld we live in; never yet came under my observation. It only\nproves, sir, what was so forcibly observed by the lamented theatrical\npoet--buried at Stratford--that there is good in everything.'\n\n'It is very pleasant to hear you say so, Mr Mould,' observed Pecksniff.\n\n'You are very kind, sir. And what a man Mr Chuzzlewit was, sir! Ah! what\na man he was. You may talk of your lord mayors,' said Mould, waving his\nhand at the public in general, 'your sheriffs, your common councilmen,\nyour trumpery; but show me a man in this city who is worthy to walk\nin the shoes of the departed Mr Chuzzlewit. No, no,' cried Mould, with\nbitter sarcasm. 'Hang 'em up, hang 'em up; sole 'em and heel 'em, and\nhave 'em ready for his son against he's old enough to wear 'em; but\ndon't try 'em on yourselves, for they won't fit you. We knew him,' said\nMould, in the same biting vein, as he pocketed his note-book; 'we\nknew him, and are not to be caught with chaff. Mr Pecksniff, sir, good\nmorning.'\n\nMr Pecksniff returned the compliment; and Mould, sensible of having\ndistinguished himself, was going away with a brisk smile, when he\nfortunately remembered the occasion. Quickly becoming depressed again,\nhe sighed; looked into the crown of his hat, as if for comfort; put it\non without finding any; and slowly departed.\n\nMrs Gamp and Mr Pecksniff then ascended the staircase; and the former,\nhaving been shown to the chamber in which all that remained of Anthony\nChuzzlewit lay covered up, with but one loving heart, and that a halting\none, to mourn it, left the latter free to enter the darkened room below,\nand rejoin Mr Jonas, from whom he had now been absent nearly two hours.\n\nHe found that example to bereaved sons, and pattern in the eyes of all\nperformers of funerals, musing over a fragment of writing-paper on the\ndesk, and scratching figures on it with a pen. The old man's chair, and\nhat, and walking-stick, were removed from their accustomed places, and\nput out of sight; the window-blinds as yellow as November fogs, were\ndrawn down close; Jonas himself was so subdued, that he could scarcely\nbe heard to speak, and only seen to walk across the room.\n\n'Pecksniff,' he said, in a whisper, 'you shall have the regulation of\nit all, mind! You shall be able to tell anybody who talks about it that\neverything was correctly and nicely done. There isn't any one you'd like\nto ask to the funeral, is there?'\n\n'No, Mr Jonas, I think not.'\n\n'Because if there is, you know,' said Jonas, 'ask him. We don't want to\nmake a secret of it.'\n\n'No,' repeated Mr Pecksniff, after a little reflection. 'I am not\nthe less obliged to you on that account, Mr Jonas, for your liberal\nhospitality; but there really is no one.'\n\n'Very well,' said Jonas; 'then you, and I, and Chuffey, and the doctor,\nwill be just a coachful. We'll have the doctor, Pecksniff, because he\nknows what was the matter with him, and that it couldn't be helped.'\n\n'Where is our dear friend, Mr Chuffey?' asked Pecksniff, looking round\nthe chamber, and winking both his eyes at once--for he was overcome by\nhis feelings.\n\nBut here he was interrupted by Mrs Gamp, who, divested of her bonnet and\nshawl, came sidling and bridling into the room; and with some sharpness\ndemanded a conference outside the door with Mr Pecksniff.\n\n'You may say whatever you wish to say here, Mrs Gamp,' said that\ngentleman, shaking his head with a melancholy expression.\n\n'It is not much as I have to say when people is a-mourning for the dead\nand gone,' said Mrs Gamp; 'but what I have to say is TO the pint and\npurpose, and no offence intended, must be so considered. I have been at\na many places in my time, gentlemen, and I hope I knows what my duties\nis, and how the same should be performed; in course, if I did not, it\nwould be very strange, and very wrong in sich a gentleman as Mr Mould,\nwhich has undertook the highest families in this land, and given every\nsatisfaction, so to recommend me as he does. I have seen a deal of\ntrouble my own self,' said Mrs Gamp, laying greater and greater stress\nupon her words, 'and I can feel for them as has their feelings tried,\nbut I am not a Rooshan or a Prooshan, and consequently cannot suffer\nSpies to be set over me.'\n\nBefore it was possible that an answer could be returned, Mrs Gamp,\ngrowing redder in the face, went on to say:\n\n'It is not a easy matter, gentlemen, to live when you are left a widder\nwoman; particular when your feelings works upon you to that extent that\nyou often find yourself a-going out on terms which is a certain loss,\nand never can repay. But in whatever way you earns your bread, you may\nhave rules and regulations of your own which cannot be broke through.\nSome people,' said Mrs Gamp, again entrenching herself behind her\nstrong point, as if it were not assailable by human ingenuity, 'may be\nRooshans, and others may be Prooshans; they are born so, and will please\nthemselves. Them which is of other naturs thinks different.'\n\n'If I understand this good lady,' said Mr Pecksniff, turning to Jonas,\n'Mr Chuffey is troublesome to her. Shall I fetch him down?'\n\n'Do,' said Jonas. 'I was going to tell you he was up there, when she\ncame in. I'd go myself and bring him down, only--only I'd rather you\nwent, if you don't mind.'\n\nMr Pecksniff promptly departed, followed by Mrs Gamp, who, seeing that\nhe took a bottle and glass from the cupboard, and carried it in his\nhand, was much softened.\n\n'I am sure,' she said, 'that if it wasn't for his own happiness, I\nshould no more mind him being there, poor dear, than if he was a\nfly. But them as isn't used to these things, thinks so much of 'em\nafterwards, that it's a kindness to 'em not to let 'em have their wish.\nAnd even,' said Mrs Gamp, probably in reference to some flowers of\nspeech she had already strewn on Mr Chuffey, 'even if one calls 'em\nnames, it's only done to rouse 'em.'\n\nWhatever epithets she had bestowed on the old clerk, they had not\nroused HIM. He sat beside the bed, in the chair he had occupied all the\nprevious night, with his hands folded before him, and his head bowed\ndown; and neither looked up, on their entrance, nor gave any sign of\nconsciousness, until Mr Pecksniff took him by the arm, when he meekly\nrose.\n\n'Three score and ten,' said Chuffey, 'ought and carry seven. Some men\nare so strong that they live to four score--four times ought's an ought,\nfour times two's an eight--eighty. Oh! why--why--why didn't he live to\nfour times ought's an ought, and four times two's an eight, eighty?'\n\n'Ah! what a wale of grief!' cried Mrs Gamp, possessing herself of the\nbottle and glass.\n\n'Why did he die before his poor old crazy servant?' said Chuffey,\nclasping his hands and looking up in anguish. 'Take him from me, and\nwhat remains?'\n\n'Mr Jonas,' returned Pecksniff, 'Mr Jonas, my good friend.'\n\n'I loved him,' cried the old man, weeping. 'He was good to me. We learnt\nTare and Tret together at school. I took him down once, six boys in the\narithmetic class. God forgive me! Had I the heart to take him down!'\n\n'Come, Mr Chuffey,' said Pecksniff. 'Come with me. Summon up your\nfortitude, Mr Chuffey.'\n\n'Yes, I will,' returned the old clerk. 'Yes. I'll sum up my forty--How\nmany times forty--Oh, Chuzzlewit and Son--Your own son Mr Chuzzlewit;\nyour own son, sir!'\n\nHe yielded to the hand that guided him, as he lapsed into this familiar\nexpression, and submitted to be led away. Mrs Gamp, with the bottle on\none knee, and the glass on the other, sat upon a stool, shaking her head\nfor a long time, until, in a moment of abstraction, she poured out\na dram of spirits, and raised it to her lips. It was succeeded by a\nsecond, and by a third, and then her eyes--either in the sadness of\nher reflections upon life and death, or in her admiration of the\nliquor--were so turned up, as to be quite invisible. But she shook her\nhead still.\n\nPoor Chuffey was conducted to his accustomed corner, and there he\nremained, silent and quiet, save at long intervals, when he would rise,\nand walk about the room, and wring his hands, or raise some strange and\nsudden cry. For a whole week they all three sat about the hearth and\nnever stirred abroad. Mr Pecksniff would have walked out in the evening\ntime, but Mr Jonas was so averse to his being absent for a minute, that\nhe abandoned the idea, and so, from morning until night, they brooded\ntogether in the dark room, without relief or occupation.\n\nThe weight of that which was stretched out, stiff and stark, in the\nawful chamber above-stairs, so crushed and bore down Jonas, that he bent\nbeneath the load. During the whole long seven days and nights, he was\nalways oppressed and haunted by a dreadful sense of its presence in the\nhouse. Did the door move, he looked towards it with a livid face and\nstarting eye, as if he fully believed that ghostly fingers clutched the\nhandle. Did the fire flicker in a draught of air, he glanced over his\nshoulder, as almost dreading to behold some shrouded figure fanning and\nflapping at it with its fearful dress. The lightest noise disturbed him;\nand once, in the night, at the sound of a footstep overhead, he cried\nout that the dead man was walking--tramp, tramp, tramp--about his\ncoffin.\n\nHe lay at night upon a mattress on the floor of the sitting-room; his\nown chamber having been assigned to Mrs Gamp; and Mr Pecksniff was\nsimilarly accommodated. The howling of a dog before the house, filled\nhim with a terror he could not disguise. He avoided the reflection in\nthe opposite windows of the light that burned above, as though it had\nbeen an angry eye. He often, in every night, rose up from his fitful\nsleep, and looked and longed for dawn; all directions and arrangements,\neven to the ordering of their daily meals, he abandoned to Mr Pecksniff.\nThat excellent gentleman, deeming that the mourner wanted comfort, and\nthat high feeding was likely to do him infinite service, availed himself\nof these opportunities to such good purpose, that they kept quite a\ndainty table during this melancholy season; with sweetbreads, stewed\nkidneys, oysters, and other such light viands for supper every night;\nover which, and sundry jorums of hot punch, Mr Pecksniff delivered such\nmoral reflections and spiritual consolation as might have converted a\nHeathen--especially if he had had but an imperfect acquaintance with the\nEnglish tongue.\n\nNor did Mr Pecksniff alone indulge in the creature comforts during\nthis sad time. Mrs Gamp proved to be very choice in her eating, and\nrepudiated hashed mutton with scorn. In her drinking too, she was very\npunctual and particular, requiring a pint of mild porter at lunch, a\npint at dinner, half-a-pint as a species of stay or holdfast between\ndinner and tea, and a pint of the celebrated staggering ale, or Real Old\nBrighton Tipper, at supper; besides the bottle on the chimney-piece,\nand such casual invitations to refresh herself with wine as the good\nbreeding of her employers might prompt them to offer. In like manner, Mr\nMould's men found it necessary to drown their grief, like a young kitten\nin the morning of its existence, for which reason they generally fuddled\nthemselves before they began to do anything, lest it should make head\nand get the better of them. In short, the whole of that strange week was\na round of dismal joviality and grim enjoyment; and every one, except\npoor Chuffey, who came within the shadow of Anthony Chuzzlewit's grave,\nfeasted like a Ghoul.\n\nAt length the day of the funeral, pious and truthful ceremony that it\nwas, arrived. Mr Mould, with a glass of generous port between his eye\nand the light, leaned against the desk in the little glass office with\nhis gold watch in his unoccupied hand, and conversed with Mrs Gamp; two\nmutes were at the house-door, looking as mournful as could be reasonably\nexpected of men with such a thriving job in hand; the whole of Mr\nMould's establishment were on duty within the house or without; feathers\nwaved, horses snorted, silk and velvets fluttered; in a word, as Mr\nMould emphatically said, 'Everything that money could do was done.'\n\n'And what can do more, Mrs Gamp?' exclaimed the undertaker as he emptied\nhis glass and smacked his lips.\n\n'Nothing in the world, sir.'\n\n'Nothing in the world,' repeated Mr Mould. 'You are right, Mrs Gamp.\nWhy do people spend more money'--here he filled his glass again--'upon a\ndeath, Mrs Gamp, than upon a birth? Come, that's in your way; you ought\nto know. How do you account for that now?'\n\n'Perhaps it is because an undertaker's charges comes dearer than a\nnurse's charges, sir,' said Mrs Gamp, tittering, and smoothing down her\nnew black dress with her hands.\n\n'Ha, ha!' laughed Mr Mould. 'You have been breakfasting at somebody's\nexpense this morning, Mrs Gamp.' But seeing, by the aid of a little\nshaving-glass which hung opposite, that he looked merry, he composed his\nfeatures and became sorrowful.\n\n'Many's the time that I've not breakfasted at my own expense along of\nyour recommending, sir; and many's the time I hope to do the same in\ntime to come,' said Mrs Gamp, with an apologetic curtsey.\n\n'So be it,' replied Mr Mould, 'please Providence. No, Mrs Gamp;\nI'll tell you why it is. It's because the laying out of money with a\nwell-conducted establishment, where the thing is performed upon the\nvery best scale, binds the broken heart, and sheds balm upon the wounded\nspirit. Hearts want binding, and spirits want balming when people die;\nnot when people are born. Look at this gentleman to-day; look at him.'\n\n'An open-handed gentleman?' cried Mrs Gamp, with enthusiasm.\n\n'No, no,' said the undertaker; 'not an open-handed gentleman in general,\nby any means. There you mistake him; but an afflicted gentleman, an\naffectionate gentleman, who knows what it is in the power of money to\ndo, in giving him relief, and in testifying his love and veneration for\nthe departed. It can give him,' said Mr Mould, waving his watch-chain\nslowly round and round, so that he described one circle after every\nitem; 'it can give him four horses to each vehicle; it can give him\nvelvet trappings; it can give him drivers in cloth cloaks and top-boots;\nit can give him the plumage of the ostrich, dyed black; it can give him\nany number of walking attendants, dressed in the first style of funeral\nfashion, and carrying batons tipped with brass; it can give him a\nhandsome tomb; it can give him a place in Westminster Abbey itself, if\nhe choose to invest it in such a purchase. Oh! do not let us say that\ngold is dross, when it can buy such things as these, Mrs Gamp.'\n\n'But what a blessing, sir,' said Mrs Gamp, 'that there are such as you,\nto sell or let 'em out on hire!'\n\n'Aye, Mrs Gamp, you are right,' rejoined the undertaker. 'We should\nbe an honoured calling. We do good by stealth, and blush to have it\nmentioned in our little bills. How much consolation may I--even I,'\ncried Mr Mould, 'have diffused among my fellow-creatures by means of my\nfour long-tailed prancers, never harnessed under ten pund ten!'\n\nMrs Gamp had begun to make a suitable reply, when she was interrupted\nby the appearance of one of Mr Mould's assistants--his chief mourner in\nfact--an obese person, with his waistcoat in closer connection with his\nlegs than is quite reconcilable with the established ideas of grace;\nwith that cast of feature which is figuratively called a bottle nose;\nand with a face covered all over with pimples. He had been a tender\nplant once upon a time, but from constant blowing in the fat atmosphere\nof funerals, had run to seed.\n\n'Well, Tacker,' said Mr Mould, 'is all ready below?'\n\n'A beautiful show, sir,' rejoined Tacker. 'The horses are prouder and\nfresher than ever I see 'em; and toss their heads, they do, as if they\nknowed how much their plumes cost. One, two, three, four,' said Mr\nTacker, heaping that number of black cloaks upon his left arm.\n\n'Is Tom there, with the cake and wine?' asked Mr Mould.\n\n'Ready to come in at a moment's notice, sir,' said Tacker.\n\n'Then,' rejoined Mr Mould, putting up his watch, and glancing at himself\nin the little shaving-glass, that he might be sure his face had the\nright expression on it; 'then I think we may proceed to business. Give\nme the paper of gloves, Tacker. Ah, what a man he was! Ah, Tacker,\nTacker, what a man he was!'\n\nMr Tacker, who from his great experience in the performance of funerals,\nwould have made an excellent pantomime actor, winked at Mrs Gamp without\nat all disturbing the gravity of his countenance, and followed his\nmaster into the next room.\n\nIt was a great point with Mr Mould, and a part of his professional\ntact, not to seem to know the doctor; though in reality they were near\nneighbours, and very often, as in the present instance, worked together.\nSo he advanced to fit on his black kid gloves as if he had never seen\nhim in all his life; while the doctor, on his part, looked as distant\nand unconscious as if he had heard and read of undertakers, and had\npassed their shops, but had never before been brought into communication\nwith one.\n\n'Gloves, eh?' said the doctor. 'Mr Pecksniff after you.'\n\n'I couldn't think of it,' returned Mr Pecksniff.\n\n'You are very good,' said the doctor, taking a pair. 'Well, sir, as I\nwas saying--I was called up to attend that case at about half-past one\no'clock. Cake and wine, eh? Which is port? Thank you.'\n\nMr Pecksniff took some also.\n\n'At about half-past one o'clock in the morning, sir,' resumed the\ndoctor, 'I was called up to attend that case. At the first pull of\nthe night-bell I turned out, threw up the window, and put out my head.\nCloak, eh? Don't tie it too tight. That'll do.'\n\nMr Pecksniff having been likewise inducted into a similar garment, the\ndoctor resumed.\n\n'And put out my head--hat, eh? My good friend, that is not mine. Mr\nPecksniff, I beg your pardon, but I think we have unintentionally made\nan exchange. Thank you. Well, sir, I was going to tell you--'\n\n'We are quite ready,' interrupted Mould in a low voice.\n\n'Ready, eh?' said the doctor. 'Very good, Mr Pecksniff, I'll take an\nopportunity of relating the rest in the coach. It's rather curious.\nReady, eh? No rain, I hope?'\n\n'Quite fair, sir,' returned Mould.\n\n'I was afraid the ground would have been wet,' said the doctor, 'for\nmy glass fell yesterday. We may congratulate ourselves upon our good\nfortune.' But seeing by this time that Mr Jonas and Chuffey were going\nout at the door, he put a white pocket-handkerchief to his face as if a\nviolent burst of grief had suddenly come upon him, and walked down side\nby side with Mr Pecksniff.\n\nMr Mould and his men had not exaggerated the grandeur of the\narrangements. They were splendid. The four hearse-horses, especially,\nreared and pranced, and showed their highest action, as if they knew a\nman was dead, and triumphed in it. 'They break us, drive us, ride us;\nill-treat, abuse, and maim us for their pleasure--But they die; Hurrah,\nthey die!'\n\nSo through the narrow streets and winding city ways, went Anthony\nChuzzlewit's funeral; Mr Jonas glancing stealthily out of the\ncoach-window now and then, to observe its effect upon the crowd;\nMr Mould as he walked along, listening with a sober pride to the\nexclamations of the bystanders; the doctor whispering his story to Mr\nPecksniff, without appearing to come any nearer the end of it; and\npoor old Chuffey sobbing unregarded in a corner. But he had greatly\nscandalized Mr Mould at an early stage of the ceremony by carrying his\nhandkerchief in his hat in a perfectly informal manner, and wiping his\neyes with his knuckles. And as Mr Mould himself had said already, his\nbehaviour was indecent, and quite unworthy of such an occasion; and he\nnever ought to have been there.\n\nThere he was, however; and in the churchyard there he was, also,\nconducting himself in a no less unbecoming manner, and leaning for\nsupport on Tacker, who plainly told him that he was fit for nothing\nbetter than a walking funeral. But Chuffey, Heaven help him! heard no\nsound but the echoes, lingering in his own heart, of a voice for ever\nsilent.\n\n'I loved him,' cried the old man, sinking down upon the grave when all\nwas done. 'He was very good to me. Oh, my dear old friend and master!'\n\n'Come, come, Mr Chuffey,' said the doctor, 'this won't do; it's a clayey\nsoil, Mr Chuffey. You mustn't, really.'\n\n'If it had been the commonest thing we do, and Mr Chuffey had been a\nBearer, gentlemen,' said Mould, casting an imploring glance upon them,\nas he helped to raise him, 'he couldn't have gone on worse than this.'\n\n'Be a man, Mr Chuffey,' said Pecksniff.\n\n'Be a gentleman, Mr Chuffey,' said Mould.\n\n'Upon my word, my good friend,' murmured the doctor, in a tone of\nstately reproof, as he stepped up to the old man's side, 'this is worse\nthan weakness. This is bad, selfish, very wrong, Mr Chuffey. You should\ntake example from others, my good sir. You forget that you were not\nconnected by ties of blood with our deceased friend; and that he had a\nvery near and very dear relation, Mr Chuffey.'\n\n'Aye, his own son!' cried the old man, clasping his hands with\nremarkable passion. 'His own, own, only son!'\n\n'He's not right in his head, you know,' said Jonas, turning pale.\n'You're not to mind anything he says. I shouldn't wonder if he was\nto talk some precious nonsense. But don't you mind him, any of you. I\ndon't. My father left him to my charge; and whatever he says or does,\nthat's enough. I'll take care of him.'\n\nA hum of admiration rose from the mourners (including Mr Mould and his\nmerry men) at this new instance of magnanimity and kind feeling on the\npart of Jonas. But Chuffey put it to the test no farther. He said not\na word more, and being left to himself for a little while, crept back\nagain to the coach.\n\nIt has been said that Mr Jonas turned pale when the behaviour of the old\nclerk attracted general attention; his discomposure, however, was but\nmomentary, and he soon recovered. But these were not the only changes\nhe had exhibited that day. The curious eyes of Mr Pecksniff had observed\nthat as soon as they left the house upon their mournful errand, he began\nto mend; that as the ceremonies proceeded he gradually, by little and\nlittle, recovered his old condition, his old looks, his old bearing, his\nold agreeable characteristics of speech and manner, and became, in all\nrespects, his old pleasant self. And now that they were seated in the\ncoach on their return home; and more when they got there, and found the\nwindows open, the light and air admitted, and all traces of the late\nevent removed; he felt so well convinced that Jonas was again the Jonas\nhe had known a week ago, and not the Jonas of the intervening time, that\nhe voluntarily gave up his recently-acquired power without one faint\nattempt to exercise it, and at once fell back into his former position\nof mild and deferential guest.\n\nMrs Gamp went home to the bird-fancier's, and was knocked up again that\nvery night for a birth of twins; Mr Mould dined gayly in the bosom of\nhis family, and passed the evening facetiously at his club; the hearse,\nafter standing for a long time at the door of a roistering public-house,\nrepaired to its stables with the feathers inside and twelve red-nosed\nundertakers on the roof, each holding on by a dingy peg, to which, in\ntimes of state, a waving plume was fitted; the various trappings of\nsorrow were carefully laid by in presses for the next hirer; the fiery\nsteeds were quenched and quiet in their stalls; the doctor got merry\nwith wine at a wedding-dinner, and forgot the middle of the story which\nhad no end to it; the pageant of a few short hours ago was written\nnowhere half so legibly as in the undertaker's books.\n\nNot in the churchyard? Not even there. The gates were closed; the night\nwas dark and wet; the rain fell silently, among the stagnant weeds and\nnettles. One new mound was there which had not been there last night.\nTime, burrowing like a mole below the ground, had marked his track by\nthrowing up another heap of earth. And that was all.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER TWENTY\n\nIS A CHAPTER OF LOVE\n\n\n'Pecksniff,' said Jonas, taking off his hat, to see that the black\ncrape band was all right; and finding that it was, putting it on again,\ncomplacently; 'what do you mean to give your daughters when they marry?'\n\n'My dear Mr Jonas,' cried the affectionate parent, with an ingenuous\nsmile, 'what a very singular inquiry!'\n\n'Now, don't you mind whether it's a singular inquiry or a plural one,'\nretorted Jonas, eyeing Mr Pecksniff with no great favour, 'but answer\nit, or let it alone. One or the other.'\n\n'Hum! The question, my dear friend,' said Mr Pecksniff, laying his hand\ntenderly upon his kinsman's knee, 'is involved with many considerations.\nWhat would I give them? Eh?'\n\n'Ah! what would you give 'em?' repeated Jonas.\n\n'Why, that, 'said Mr Pecksniff, 'would naturally depend in a great\nmeasure upon the kind of husbands they might choose, my dear young\nfriend.'\n\nMr Jonas was evidently disconcerted, and at a loss how to proceed.\nIt was a good answer. It seemed a deep one, but such is the wisdom of\nsimplicity!'\n\n'My standard for the merits I would require in a son-in-law,' said Mr\nPecksniff, after a short silence, 'is a high one. Forgive me, my dear Mr\nJonas,' he added, greatly moved, 'if I say that you have spoiled me, and\nmade it a fanciful one; an imaginative one; a prismatically tinged one,\nif I may be permitted to call it so.'\n\n'What do you mean by that?' growled Jonas, looking at him with increased\ndisfavour.\n\n'Indeed, my dear friend,' said Mr Pecksniff, 'you may well inquire.\nThe heart is not always a royal mint, with patent machinery to work its\nmetal into current coin. Sometimes it throws it out in strange forms,\nnot easily recognized as coin at all. But it is sterling gold. It has at\nleast that merit. It is sterling gold.'\n\n'Is it?' grumbled Jonas, with a doubtful shake of the head.\n\n'Aye!' said Mr Pecksniff, warming with his subject 'it is. To be plain\nwith you, Mr Jonas, if I could find two such sons-in-law as you will one\nday make to some deserving man, capable of appreciating a nature such as\nyours, I would--forgetful of myself--bestow upon my daughters portions\nreaching to the very utmost limit of my means.'\n\nThis was strong language, and it was earnestly delivered. But who can\nwonder that such a man as Mr Pecksniff, after all he had seen and heard\nof Mr Jonas, should be strong and earnest upon such a theme; a theme\nthat touched even the worldly lips of undertakers with the honey of\neloquence!\n\nMr Jonas was silent, and looked thoughtfully at the landscape. For\nthey were seated on the outside of the coach, at the back, and were\ntravelling down into the country. He accompanied Mr Pecksniff home for a\nfew days' change of air and scene after his recent trials.\n\n'Well,' he said, at last, with captivating bluntness, 'suppose you got\none such son-in-law as me, what then?'\n\nMr Pecksniff regarded him at first with inexpressible surprise; then\ngradually breaking into a sort of dejected vivacity, said:\n\n'Then well I know whose husband he would be!'\n\n'Whose?' asked Jonas, drily.\n\n'My eldest girl's, Mr Jonas,' replied Pecksniff, with moistening eyes.\n'My dear Cherry's; my staff, my scrip, my treasure, Mr Jonas. A hard\nstruggle, but it is in the nature of things! I must one day part with\nher to a husband. I know it, my dear friend. I am prepared for it.'\n\n'Ecod! you've been prepared for that a pretty long time, I should\nthink,' said Jonas.\n\n'Many have sought to bear her from me,' said Mr Pecksniff. 'All have\nfailed. \"I never will give my hand, papa\"--those were her words--\"unless\nmy heart is won.\" She has not been quite so happy as she used to be, of\nlate. I don't know why.'\n\nAgain Mr Jonas looked at the landscape; then at the coachman; then at\nthe luggage on the roof; finally at Mr Pecksniff.\n\n'I suppose you'll have to part with the other one, some of these days?'\nhe observed, as he caught that gentleman's eye.\n\n'Probably,' said the parent. 'Years will tame down the wildness of my\nfoolish bird, and then it will be caged. But Cherry, Mr Jonas, Cherry--'\n\n'Oh, ah!' interrupted Jonas. 'Years have made her all right enough.\nNobody doubts that. But you haven't answered what I asked you. Of\ncourse, you're not obliged to do it, you know, if you don't like. You're\nthe best judge.'\n\nThere was a warning sulkiness in the manner of this speech, which\nadmonished Mr Pecksniff that his dear friend was not to be trifled with\nor fenced off, and that he must either return a straight-forward reply\nto his question, or plainly give him to understand that he declined to\nenlighten him upon the subject to which it referred. Mindful in this\ndilemma of the caution old Anthony had given him almost with his\nlatest breath, he resolved to speak to the point, and so told Mr Jonas\n(enlarging upon the communication as a proof of his great attachment and\nconfidence), that in the case he had put; to wit, in the event of such\na man as he proposing for his daughter's hand, he would endow her with a\nfortune of four thousand pounds.\n\n'I should sadly pinch and cramp myself to do so,' was his fatherly\nremark; 'but that would be my duty, and my conscience would reward me.\nFor myself, my conscience is my bank. I have a trifle invested there--a\nmere trifle, Mr Jonas--but I prize it as a store of value, I assure\nyou.'\n\nThe good man's enemies would have divided upon this question into two\nparties. One would have asserted without scruple that if Mr Pecksniff's\nconscience were his bank, and he kept a running account there, he must\nhave overdrawn it beyond all mortal means of computation. The other\nwould have contended that it was a mere fictitious form; a perfectly\nblank book; or one in which entries were only made with a peculiar kind\nof invisible ink to become legible at some indefinite time; and that he\nnever troubled it at all.\n\n'It would sadly pinch and cramp me, my dear friend,' repeated Mr\nPecksniff, 'but Providence--perhaps I may be permitted to say a special\nProvidence--has blessed my endeavours, and I could guarantee to make the\nsacrifice.'\n\nA question of philosophy arises here, whether Mr Pecksniff had or had\nnot good reason to say that he was specially patronized and encouraged\nin his undertakings. All his life long he had been walking up and down\nthe narrow ways and by-places, with a hook in one hand and a crook in\nthe other, scraping all sorts of valuable odds and ends into his pouch.\nNow, there being a special Providence in the fall of a sparrow, it\nfollows (so Mr Pecksniff, and only such admirable men, would have\nreasoned), that there must also be a special Providence in the alighting\nof the stone or stick, or other substance which is aimed at the sparrow.\nAnd Mr Pecksniff's hook, or crook, having invariably knocked the sparrow\non the head and brought him down, that gentleman may have been led to\nconsider himself as specially licensed to bag sparrows, and as being\nspecially seized and possessed of all the birds he had got together.\nThat many undertakings, national as well as individual--but especially\nthe former--are held to be specially brought to a glorious and\nsuccessful issue, which never could be so regarded on any other process\nof reasoning, must be clear to all men. Therefore the precedents would\nseem to show that Mr Pecksniff had (as things go) good argument for\nwhat he said and might be permitted to say it, and did not say it\npresumptuously, vainly, or arrogantly, but in a spirit of high faith and\ngreat wisdom.\n\nMr Jonas, not being much accustomed to perplex his mind with theories of\nthis nature, expressed no opinion on the subject. Nor did he receive\nhis companion's announcement with one solitary syllable, good, bad, or\nindifferent. He preserved this taciturnity for a quarter of an hour at\nleast, and during the whole of that time appeared to be steadily engaged\nin subjecting some given amount to the operation of every known rule in\nfigures; adding to it, taking from it, multiplying it, reducing it by\nlong and short division; working it by the rule-of-three direct and\ninversed; exchange or barter; practice; simple interest; compound\ninterest; and other means of arithmetical calculation. The result\nof these labours appeared to be satisfactory, for when he did break\nsilence, it was as one who had arrived at some specific result, and\nfreed himself from a state of distressing uncertainty.\n\n'Come, old Pecksniff!'--Such was his jocose address, as he slapped that\ngentleman on the back, at the end of the stage--'let's have something!'\n\n'With all my heart,' said Mr Pecksniff.\n\n'Let's treat the driver,' cried Jonas.\n\n'If you think it won't hurt the man, or render him discontented with his\nstation--certainly,' faltered Mr Pecksniff.\n\nJonas only laughed at this, and getting down from the coach-top with\ngreat alacrity, cut a cumbersome kind of caper in the road. After which,\nhe went into the public-house, and there ordered spirituous drink to\nsuch an extent, that Mr Pecksniff had some doubts of his perfect sanity,\nuntil Jonas set them quite at rest by saying, when the coach could wait\nno longer:\n\n'I've been standing treat for a whole week and more, and letting\nyou have all the delicacies of the season. YOU shall pay for this\nPecksniff.' It was not a joke either, as Mr Pecksniff at first supposed;\nfor he went off to the coach without further ceremony, and left his\nrespected victim to settle the bill.\n\nBut Mr Pecksniff was a man of meek endurance, and Mr Jonas was his\nfriend. Moreover, his regard for that gentleman was founded, as we know,\non pure esteem, and a knowledge of the excellence of his character. He\ncame out from the tavern with a smiling face, and even went so far as\nto repeat the performance, on a less expensive scale, at the next\nale-house. There was a certain wildness in the spirits of Mr Jonas (not\nusually a part of his character) which was far from being subdued\nby these means, and, for the rest of the journey, he was so very\nbuoyant--it may be said, boisterous--that Mr Pecksniff had some\ndifficulty in keeping pace with him.\n\nThey were not expected--oh dear, no! Mr Pecksniff had proposed in London\nto give the girls a surprise, and had said he wouldn't write a word to\nprepare them on any account, in order that he and Mr Jonas might take\nthem unawares, and just see what they were doing, when they thought\ntheir dear papa was miles and miles away. As a consequence of this\nplayful device, there was nobody to meet them at the finger-post, but\nthat was of small consequence, for they had come down by the day\ncoach, and Mr Pecksniff had only a carpetbag, while Mr Jonas had only\na portmanteau. They took the portmanteau between them, put the bag upon\nit, and walked off up the lane without delay; Mr Pecksniff already going\non tiptoe as if, without this precaution, his fond children, being then\nat a distance of a couple of miles or so, would have some filial sense\nof his approach.\n\nIt was a lovely evening in the spring-time of the year; and in the soft\nstillness of the twilight, all nature was very calm and beautiful. The\nday had been fine and warm; but at the coming on of night, the air grew\ncool, and in the mellowing distance smoke was rising gently from the\ncottage chimneys. There were a thousand pleasant scents diffused around,\nfrom young leaves and fresh buds; the cuckoo had been singing all day\nlong, and was but just now hushed; the smell of earth newly-upturned,\nfirst breath of hope to the first labourer after his garden withered,\nwas fragrant in the evening breeze. It was a time when most men cherish\ngood resolves, and sorrow for the wasted past; when most men, looking\non the shadows as they gather, think of that evening which must close on\nall, and that to-morrow which has none beyond.\n\n'Precious dull,' said Mr Jonas, looking about. 'It's enough to make a\nman go melancholy mad.'\n\n'We shall have lights and a fire soon,' observed Mr Pecksniff.\n\n'We shall need 'em by the time we get there,' said Jonas. 'Why the devil\ndon't you talk? What are you thinking of?'\n\n'To tell you the truth, Mr Jonas,' said Pecksniff with great solemnity,\n'my mind was running at that moment on our late dear friend, your\ndeparted father.'\n\nMr Jonas immediately let his burden fall, and said, threatening him with\nhis hand:\n\n'Drop that, Pecksniff!'\n\nMr Pecksniff not exactly knowing whether allusion was made to the\nsubject or the portmanteau, stared at his friend in unaffected surprise.\n\n'Drop it, I say!' cried Jonas, fiercely. 'Do you hear? Drop it, now and\nfor ever. You had better, I give you notice!'\n\n'It was quite a mistake,' urged Mr Pecksniff, very much dismayed;\n'though I admit it was foolish. I might have known it was a tender\nstring.'\n\n'Don't talk to me about tender strings,' said Jonas, wiping his forehead\nwith the cuff of his coat. 'I'm not going to be crowed over by you,\nbecause I don't like dead company.'\n\nMr Pecksniff had got out the words 'Crowed over, Mr Jonas!' when that\nyoung man, with a dark expression in his countenance, cut him short once\nmore:\n\n'Mind!' he said. 'I won't have it. I advise you not to revive the\nsubject, neither to me nor anybody else. You can take a hint, if you\nchoose as well as another man. There's enough said about it. Come\nalong!'\n\nTaking up his part of the load again, when he had said these words,\nhe hurried on so fast that Mr Pecksniff, at the other end of the\nportmanteau, found himself dragged forward, in a very inconvenient and\nungraceful manner, to the great detriment of what is called by fancy\ngentlemen 'the bark' upon his shins, which were most unmercifully bumped\nagainst the hard leather and the iron buckles. In the course of a few\nminutes, however, Mr Jonas relaxed his speed, and suffered his companion\nto come up with him, and to bring the portmanteau into a tolerably\nstraight position.\n\nIt was pretty clear that he regretted his late outbreak, and that he\nmistrusted its effect on Mr Pecksniff; for as often as that gentleman\nglanced towards Mr Jonas, he found Mr Jonas glancing at him, which was\na new source of embarrassment. It was but a short-lived one, though, for\nMr Jonas soon began to whistle, whereupon Mr Pecksniff, taking his cue\nfrom his friend, began to hum a tune melodiously.\n\n'Pretty nearly there, ain't we?' said Jonas, when this had lasted some\ntime.\n\n'Close, my dear friend,' said Mr Pecksniff.\n\n'What'll they be doing, do you suppose?' asked Jonas.\n\n'Impossible to say,' cried Mr Pecksniff. 'Giddy truants! They may be\naway from home, perhaps. I was going to--he! he! he!--I was going to\npropose,' said Mr Pecksniff, 'that we should enter by the back way, and\ncome upon them like a clap of thunder, Mr Jonas.'\n\nIt might not have been easy to decide in respect of which of their\nmanifold properties, Jonas, Mr Pecksniff, the carpet-bag, and the\nportmanteau, could be likened to a clap of thunder. But Mr Jonas giving\nhis assent to this proposal, they stole round into the back yard, and\nsoftly advanced towards the kitchen window, through which the mingled\nlight of fire and candle shone upon the darkening night.\n\nTruly Mr Pecksniff is blessed in his children--in one of them, at any\nrate. The prudent Cherry--staff and scrip, and treasure of her doting\nfather--there she sits, at a little table white as driven snow, before\nthe kitchen fire, making up accounts! See the neat maiden, as with pen\nin hand, and calculating look addressed towards the ceiling and bunch\nof keys within a little basket at her side, she checks the housekeeping\nexpenditure! From flat-iron, dish-cover, and warming-pan; from pot and\nkettle, face of brass footman, and black-leaded stove; bright glances\nof approbation wink and glow upon her. The very onions dangling from the\nbeam, mantle and shine like cherubs' cheeks. Something of the influence\nof those vegetables sinks into Mr Pecksniff's nature. He weeps.\n\nIt is but for a moment, and he hides it from the observation of\nhis friend--very carefully--by a somewhat elaborate use of his\npocket-handkerchief, in fact; for he would not have his weakness known.\n\n'Pleasant,' he murmured, 'pleasant to a father's feelings! My dear girl!\nShall we let her know we are here, Mr Jonas?'\n\n'Why, I suppose you don't mean to spend the evening in the stable, or\nthe coach-house,' he returned.\n\n'That, indeed, is not such hospitality as I would show to YOU, my\nfriend,' cried Mr Pecksniff, pressing his hand. And then he took a long\nbreath, and tapping at the window, shouted with stentorian blandness:\n\n'Boh!'\n\nCherry dropped her pen and screamed. But innocence is ever bold, or\nshould be. As they opened the door, the valiant girl exclaimed in a firm\nvoice, and with a presence of mind which even in that trying moment did\nnot desert her, 'Who are you? What do you want? Speak! or I will call my\nPa.'\n\nMr Pecksniff held out his arms. She knew him instantly, and rushed into\nhis fond embrace.\n\n'It was thoughtless of us, Mr Jonas, it was very thoughtless,' said\nPecksniff, smoothing his daugther's hair. 'My darling, do you see that I\nam not alone!'\n\nNot she. She had seen nothing but her father until now. She saw Mr\nJonas now, though; and blushed, and hung her head down, as she gave him\nwelcome.\n\nBut where was Merry? Mr Pecksniff didn't ask the question in reproach,\nbut in a vein of mildness touched with a gentle sorrow. She was\nupstairs, reading on the parlour couch. Ah! Domestic details had no\ncharms for HER. 'But call her down,' said Mr Pecksniff, with a placid\nresignation. 'Call her down, my love.'\n\nShe was called and came, all flushed and tumbled from reposing on the\nsofa; but none the worse for that. No, not at all. Rather the better, if\nanything.\n\n'Oh my goodness me!' cried the arch girl, turning to her cousin when she\nhad kissed her father on both cheeks, and in her frolicsome nature had\nbestowed a supernumerary salute upon the tip of his nose, 'YOU here,\nfright! Well, I'm very thankful that you won't trouble ME much!'\n\n'What! you're as lively as ever, are you?' said Jonas. 'Oh! You're a\nwicked one!'\n\n'There, go along!' retorted Merry, pushing him away. 'I'm sure I don't\nknow what I shall ever do, if I have to see much of you. Go along, for\ngracious' sake!'\n\nMr Pecksniff striking in here, with a request that Mr Jonas would\nimmediately walk upstairs, he so far complied with the young lady's\nadjuration as to go at once. But though he had the fair Cherry on his\narm, he could not help looking back at her sister, and exchanging some\nfurther dialogue of the same bantering description, as they all four\nascended to the parlour; where--for the young ladies happened, by good\nfortune, to be a little later than usual that night--the tea-board was\nat that moment being set out.\n\nMr Pinch was not at home, so they had it all to themselves, and were\nvery snug and talkative, Jonas sitting between the two sisters, and\ndisplaying his gallantry in that engaging manner which was peculiar\nto him. It was a hard thing, Mr Pecksniff said, when tea was done,\nand cleared away, to leave so pleasant a little party, but having some\nimportant papers to examine in his own apartment, he must beg them to\nexcuse him for half an hour. With this apology he withdrew, singing\na careless strain as he went. He had not been gone five minutes, when\nMerry, who had been sitting in the window, apart from Jonas and her\nsister, burst into a half-smothered laugh, and skipped towards the door.\n\n'Hallo!' cried Jonas. 'Don't go.'\n\n'Oh, I dare say!' rejoined Merry, looking back. 'You're very anxious I\nshould stay, fright, ain't you?'\n\n'Yes, I am,' said Jonas. 'Upon my word I am. I want to speak to you.'\nBut as she left the room notwithstanding, he ran out after her,\nand brought her back, after a short struggle in the passage which\nscandalized Miss Cherry very much.\n\n'Upon my word, Merry,' urged that young lady, 'I wonder at you! There\nare bounds even to absurdity, my dear.'\n\n'Thank you, my sweet,' said Merry, pursing up her rosy Lips. 'Much\nobliged to it for its advice. Oh! do leave me alone, you monster, do!'\nThis entreaty was wrung from her by a new proceeding on the part of\nMr Jonas, who pulled her down, all breathless as she was, into a seat\nbeside him on the sofa, having at the same time Miss Cherry upon the\nother side.\n\n'Now,' said Jonas, clasping the waist of each; 'I have got both arms\nfull, haven't I?'\n\n'One of them will be black and blue to-morrow, if you don't let me go,'\ncried the playful Merry.\n\n'Ah! I don't mind YOUR pinching,' grinned Jonas, 'a bit.'\n\n'Pinch him for me, Cherry, pray,' said Mercy. 'I never did hate anybody\nso much as I hate this creature, I declare!'\n\n'No, no, don't say that,' urged Jonas, 'and don't pinch either, because\nI want to be serious. I say--Cousin Charity--'\n\n'Well! what?' she answered sharply.\n\n'I want to have some sober talk,' said Jonas; 'I want to prevent any\nmistakes, you know, and to put everything upon a pleasant understanding.\nThat's desirable and proper, ain't it?'\n\nNeither of the sisters spoke a word. Mr Jonas paused and cleared his\nthroat, which was very dry.\n\n'She'll not believe what I am going to say, will she, cousin?' said\nJonas, timidly squeezing Miss Charity.\n\n'Really, Mr Jonas, I don't know, until I hear what it is. It's quite\nimpossible!'\n\n'Why, you see,' said Jonas, 'her way always being to make game of\npeople, I know she'll laugh, or pretend to--I know that, beforehand. But\nyou can tell her I'm in earnest, cousin; can't you? You'll confess you\nknow, won't you? You'll be honourable, I'm sure,' he added persuasively.\n\nNo answer. His throat seemed to grow hotter and hotter, and to be more\nand more difficult of control.\n\n'You see, Cousin Charity,' said Jonas, 'nobody but you can tell her\nwhat pains I took to get into her company when you were both at the\nboarding-house in the city, because nobody's so well aware of it, you\nknow. Nobody else can tell her how hard I tried to get to know you\nbetter, in order that I might get to know her without seeming to wish\nit; can they? I always asked you about her, and said where had she gone,\nand when would she come, and how lively she was, and all that; didn't I,\ncousin? I know you'll tell her so, if you haven't told her so already,\nand--and--I dare say you have, because I'm sure you're honourable, ain't\nyou?'\n\nStill not a word. The right arm of Mr Jonas--the elder sister sat upon\nhis right--may have been sensible of some tumultuous throbbing which was\nnot within itself; but nothing else apprised him that his words had had\nthe least effect.\n\n'Even if you kept it to yourself, and haven't told her,' resumed Jonas,\n'it don't much matter, because you'll bear honest witness now; won't\nyou? We've been very good friends from the first; haven't we? and of\ncourse we shall be quite friends in future, and so I don't mind speaking\nbefore you a bit. Cousin Mercy, you've heard what I've been saying.\nShe'll confirm it, every word; she must. Will you have me for your\nhusband? Eh?'\n\nAs he released his hold of Charity, to put this question with better\neffect, she started up and hurried away to her own room, marking her\nprogress as she went by such a train of passionate and incoherent sound,\nas nothing but a slighted woman in her anger could produce.\n\n'Let me go away. Let me go after her,' said Merry, pushing him off,\nand giving him--to tell the truth--more than one sounding slap upon his\noutstretched face.\n\n'Not till you say yes. You haven't told me. Will you have me for your\nhusband?'\n\n'No, I won't. I can't bear the sight of you. I have told you so a\nhundred times. You are a fright. Besides, I always thought you liked my\nsister best. We all thought so.'\n\n'But that wasn't my fault,' said Jonas.\n\n'Yes it was; you know it was.'\n\n'Any trick is fair in love,' said Jonas. 'She may have thought I liked\nher best, but you didn't.'\n\n'I did!'\n\n'No, you didn't. You never could have thought I liked her best, when you\nwere by.'\n\n'There's no accounting for tastes,' said Merry; 'at least I didn't mean\nto say that. I don't know what I mean. Let me go to her.'\n\n'Say \"Yes,\" and then I will.'\n\n'If I ever brought myself to say so, it should only be that I might hate\nand tease you all my life.'\n\n'That's as good,' cried Jonas, 'as saying it right out. It's a bargain,\ncousin. We're a pair, if ever there was one.'\n\nThis gallant speech was succeeded by a confused noise of kissing and\nslapping; and then the fair but much dishevelled Merry broke away, and\nfollowed in the footsteps of her sister.\n\nNow whether Mr Pecksniff had been listening--which in one of his\ncharacter appears impossible; or divined almost by inspiration what the\nmatter was--which, in a man of his sagacity is far more probable; or\nhappened by sheer good fortune to find himself in exactly the\nright place, at precisely the right time--which, under the special\nguardianship in which he lived might very reasonably happen; it is quite\ncertain that at the moment when the sisters came together in their own\nroom, he appeared at the chamber door. And a marvellous contrast it\nwas--they so heated, noisy, and vehement; he so calm, so self-possessed,\nso cool and full of peace, that not a hair upon his head was stirred.\n\n'Children!' said Mr Pecksniff, spreading out his hands in wonder, but\nnot before he had shut the door, and set his back against it. 'Girls!\nDaughters! What is this?'\n\n'The wretch; the apostate; the false, mean, odious villain; has before\nmy very face proposed to Mercy!' was his eldest daughter's answer.\n\n'Who has proposed to Mercy!' asked Mr Pecksniff.\n\n'HE has. That thing, Jonas, downstairs.'\n\n'Jonas proposed to Mercy?' said Mr Pecksniff. 'Aye, aye! Indeed!'\n\n'Have you nothing else to say?' cried Charity. 'Am I to be driven mad,\npapa? He has proposed to Mercy, not to me.'\n\n'Oh, fie! For shame!' said Mr Pecksniff, gravely. 'Oh, for shame! Can\nthe triumph of a sister move you to this terrible display, my child? Oh,\nreally this is very sad! I am sorry; I am surprised and hurt to see\nyou so. Mercy, my girl, bless you! See to her. Ah, envy, envy, what a\npassion you are!'\n\nUttering this apostrophe in a tone full of grief and lamentation, Mr\nPecksniff left the room (taking care to shut the door behind him),\nand walked downstairs into the parlour. There he found his intended\nson-in-law, whom he seized by both hands.\n\n'Jonas!' cried Mr Pecksniff. 'Jonas! the dearest wish of my heart is now\nfulfilled!'\n\n'Very well; I'm glad to hear it,' said Jonas. 'That'll do. I say! As\nit ain't the one you're so fond of, you must come down with another\nthousand, Pecksniff. You must make it up five. It's worth that, to keep\nyour treasure to yourself, you know. You get off very cheap that way,\nand haven't a sacrifice to make.'\n\nThe grin with which he accompanied this, set off his other attractions\nto such unspeakable advantage, that even Mr Pecksniff lost his presence\nof mind for a moment, and looked at the young man as if he were quite\nstupefied with wonder and admiration. But he quickly regained his\ncomposure, and was in the very act of changing the subject, when a hasty\nstep was heard without, and Tom Pinch, in a state of great excitement,\ncame darting into the room.\n\nOn seeing a stranger there, apparently engaged with Mr Pecksniff in\nprivate conversation, Tom was very much abashed, though he still looked\nas if he had something of great importance to communicate, which would\nbe a sufficient apology for his intrusion.\n\n'Mr Pinch,' said Pecksniff, 'this is hardly decent. You will excuse my\nsaying that I think your conduct scarcely decent, Mr Pinch.'\n\n'I beg your pardon, sir,' replied Tom, 'for not knocking at the door.'\n\n'Rather beg this gentleman's pardon, Mr Pinch,' said Pecksniff. 'I know\nyou; he does not.--My young man, Mr Jonas.'\n\nThe son-in-law that was to be gave him a slight nod--not actively\ndisdainful or contemptuous, only passively; for he was in a good humour.\n\n'Could I speak a word with you, sir, if you please?' said Tom. 'It's\nrather pressing.'\n\n'It should be very pressing to justify this strange behaviour, Mr\nPinch,' returned his master. 'Excuse me for one moment, my dear friend.\nNow, sir, what is the reason of this rough intrusion?'\n\n'I am very sorry, sir, I am sure,' said Tom, standing, cap in hand,\nbefore his patron in the passage; 'and I know it must have a very rude\nappearance--'\n\n'It HAS a very rude appearance, Mr Pinch.'\n\n'Yes, I feel that, sir; but the truth is, I was so surprised to see\nthem, and knew you would be too, that I ran home very fast indeed, and\nreally hadn't enough command over myself to know what I was doing very\nwell. I was in the church just now, sir, touching the organ for my own\namusement, when I happened to look round, and saw a gentleman and lady\nstanding in the aisle listening. They seemed to be strangers, sir, as\nwell as I could make out in the dusk; and I thought I didn't know\nthem; so presently I left off, and said, would they walk up into the\norgan-loft, or take a seat? No, they said, they wouldn't do that; but\nthey thanked me for the music they had heard. In fact,' observed Tom,\nblushing, 'they said, \"Delicious music!\" at least, SHE did; and I am\nsure that was a greater pleasure and honour to me than any compliment I\ncould have had. I--I--beg your pardon sir;' he was all in a tremble, and\ndropped his hat for the second time 'but I--I'm rather flurried, and I\nfear I've wandered from the point.'\n\n'If you will come back to it, Thomas,' said Mr Pecksniff, with an icy\nlook, 'I shall feel obliged.'\n\n'Yes, sir,' returned Tom, 'certainly. They had a posting carriage at the\nporch, sir, and had stopped to hear the organ, they said. And then they\nsaid--SHE said, I mean, \"I believe you live with Mr Pecksniff, sir?\" I\nsaid I had that honour, and I took the liberty, sir,' added Tom, raising\nhis eyes to his benefactor's face, 'of saying, as I always will and\nmust, with your permission, that I was under great obligations to you,\nand never could express my sense of them sufficiently.'\n\n'That,' said Mr Pecksniff, 'was very, very wrong. Take your time, Mr\nPinch.'\n\n'Thank you, sir,' cried Tom. 'On that they asked me--she asked, I\nmean--\"Wasn't there a bridle road to Mr Pecksniff's house?\"'\n\nMr Pecksniff suddenly became full of interest.\n\n'\"Without going by the Dragon?\" When I said there was, and said how\nhappy I should be to show it 'em, they sent the carriage on by the road,\nand came with me across the meadows. I left 'em at the turnstile to run\nforward and tell you they were coming, and they'll be here, sir, in--in\nless than a minute's time, I should say,' added Tom, fetching his breath\nwith difficulty.\n\n'Now, who,' said Mr Pecksniff, pondering, 'who may these people be?'\n\n'Bless my soul, sir!' cried Tom, 'I meant to mention that at first, I\nthought I had. I knew them--her, I mean--directly. The gentleman who\nwas ill at the Dragon, sir, last winter; and the young lady who attended\nhim.'\n\nTom's teeth chattered in his head, and he positively staggered with\namazement, at witnessing the extraordinary effect produced on Mr\nPecksniff by these simple words. The dread of losing the old man's\nfavour almost as soon as they were reconciled, through the mere fact\nof having Jonas in the house; the impossibility of dismissing Jonas,\nor shutting him up, or tying him hand and foot and putting him in\nthe coal-cellar, without offending him beyond recall; the horrible\ndiscordance prevailing in the establishment, and the impossibility of\nreducing it to decent harmony with Charity in loud hysterics, Mercy in\nthe utmost disorder, Jonas in the parlour, and Martin Chuzzlewit and his\nyoung charge upon the very doorsteps; the total hopelessness of being\nable to disguise or feasibly explain this state of rampant confusion;\nthe sudden accumulation over his devoted head of every complicated\nperplexity and entanglement for his extrication from which he had\ntrusted to time, good fortune, chance, and his own plotting, so filled\nthe entrapped architect with dismay, that if Tom could have been a\nGorgon staring at Mr Pecksniff, and Mr Pecksniff could have been a\nGorgon staring at Tom, they could not have horrified each other half so\nmuch as in their own bewildered persons.\n\n'Dear, dear!' cried Tom, 'what have I done? I hoped it would be a\npleasant surprise, sir. I thought you would like to know.'\n\nBut at that moment a loud knocking was heard at the hall door.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER TWENTY-ONE\n\nMORE AMERICAN EXPERIENCES, MARTIN TAKES A PARTNER, AND MAKES A PURCHASE.\nSOME ACCOUNT OF EDEN, AS IT APPEARED ON PAPER. ALSO OF THE BRITISH LION.\nALSO OF THE KIND OF SYMPATHY PROFESSED AND ENTERTAINED BY THE WATERTOAST\nASSOCIATION OF UNITED SYMPATHISERS\n\n\nThe knocking at Mr Pecksniff's door, though loud enough, bore no\nresemblance whatever to the noise of an American railway train at full\nspeed. It may be well to begin the present chapter with this frank\nadmission, lest the reader should imagine that the sounds now deafening\nthis history's ears have any connection with the knocker on Mr\nPecksniff's door, or with the great amount of agitation pretty equally\ndivided between that worthy man and Mr Pinch, of which its strong\nperformance was the cause.\n\nMr Pecksniff's house is more than a thousand leagues away; and again\nthis happy chronicle has Liberty and Moral Sensibility for its high\ncompanions. Again it breathes the blessed air of Independence; again it\ncontemplates with pious awe that moral sense which renders unto Ceasar\nnothing that is his; again inhales that sacred atmosphere which was\nthe life of him--oh noble patriot, with many followers!--who dreamed of\nFreedom in a slave's embrace, and waking sold her offspring and his own\nin public markets.\n\nHow the wheels clank and rattle, and the tram-road shakes, as the train\nrushes on! And now the engine yells, as it were lashed and tortured like\na living labourer, and writhed in agony. A poor fancy; for steel and\niron are of infinitely greater account, in this commonwealth, than\nflesh and blood. If the cunning work of man be urged beyond its power of\nendurance, it has within it the elements of its own revenge; whereas\nthe wretched mechanism of the Divine Hand is dangerous with no such\nproperty, but may be tampered with, and crushed, and broken, at the\ndriver's pleasure. Look at that engine! It shall cost a man more dollars\nin the way of penalty and fine, and satisfaction of the outraged law,\nto deface in wantonness that senseless mass of metal, than to take the\nlives of twenty human creatures! Thus the stars wink upon the bloody\nstripes; and Liberty pulls down her cap upon her eyes, and owns\nOppression in its vilest aspect, for her sister.\n\nThe engine-driver of the train whose noise awoke us to the present\nchapter was certainly troubled with no such reflections as these; nor is\nit very probable that his mind was disturbed by any reflections at all.\nHe leaned with folded arms and crossed legs against the side of the\ncarriage, smoking; and, except when he expressed, by a grunt as short as\nhis pipe, his approval of some particularly dexterous aim on the part of\nhis colleague, the fireman, who beguiled his leisure by throwing logs\nof wood from the tender at the numerous stray cattle on the line, he\npreserved a composure so immovable, and an indifference so complete,\nthat if the locomotive had been a sucking-pig, he could not have been\nmore perfectly indifferent to its doings. Notwithstanding the tranquil\nstate of this officer, and his unbroken peace of mind, the train was\nproceeding with tolerable rapidity; and the rails being but poorly laid,\nthe jolts and bumps it met with in its progress were neither slight nor\nfew.\n\nThere were three great caravans or cars attached. The ladies' car, the\ngentlemen's car, and the car for negroes; the latter painted black, as\nan appropriate compliment to its company. Martin and Mark Tapley were\nin the first, as it was the most comfortable; and, being far from full,\nreceived other gentlemen who, like them, were unblessed by the society\nof ladies of their own. They were seated side by side, and were engaged\nin earnest conversation.\n\n'And so, Mark,' said Martin, looking at him with an anxious expression,\n'and so you are glad we have left New York far behind us, are you?'\n\n'Yes, sir,' said Mark. 'I am. Precious glad.'\n\n'Were you not \"jolly\" there?' asked Martin.\n\n'On the contrairy, sir,' returned Mark. 'The jolliest week as ever I\nspent in my life, was that there week at Pawkins's.'\n\n'What do you think of our prospects?' inquired Martin, with an air that\nplainly said he had avoided the question for some time.\n\n'Uncommon bright, sir,' returned Mark. 'Impossible for a place to have\na better name, sir, than the Walley of Eden. No man couldn't think of\nsettling in a better place than the Walley of Eden. And I'm told,' added\nMark, after a pause, 'as there's lots of serpents there, so we shall\ncome out, quite complete and reg'lar.'\n\nSo far from dwelling upon this agreeable piece of information with the\nleast dismay, Mark's face grew radiant as he called it to mind; so very\nradiant, that a stranger might have supposed he had all his life been\nyearning for the society of serpents, and now hailed with delight the\napproaching consummation of his fondest wishes.\n\n'Who told you that?' asked Martin, sternly.\n\n'A military officer,' said Mark.\n\n'Confound you for a ridiculous fellow!' cried Martin, laughing heartily\nin spite of himself. 'What military officer? You know they spring up in\nevery field.'\n\n'As thick as scarecrows in England, sir,' interposed Mark, 'which is a\nsort of milita themselves, being entirely coat and wescoat, with a stick\ninside. Ha, ha!--Don't mind me, sir; it's my way sometimes. I can't help\nbeing jolly. Why it was one of them inwading conquerors at Pawkins's, as\ntold me. \"Am I rightly informed,\" he says--not exactly through his nose,\nbut as if he'd got a stoppage in it, very high up--\"that you're a-going\nto the Walley of Eden?\" \"I heard some talk on it,\" I told him. \"Oh!\"\nsays he, \"if you should ever happen to go to bed there--you MAY, you\nknow,\" he says, \"in course of time as civilisation progresses--don't\nforget to take a axe with you.\" I looks at him tolerable hard. \"Fleas?\"\nsays I. \"And more,\" says he. \"Wampires?\" says I. \"And more,\" says he.\n\"Musquitoes, perhaps?\" says I. \"And more,\" says he. \"What more?\" says\nI. \"Snakes more,\" says he; \"rattle-snakes. You're right to a certain\nextent, stranger. There air some catawampous chawers in the small way\ntoo, as graze upon a human pretty strong; but don't mind THEM--they're\ncompany. It's snakes,\" he says, \"as you'll object to; and whenever you\nwake and see one in a upright poster on your bed,\" he says, \"like a\ncorkscrew with the handle off a-sittin' on its bottom ring, cut him\ndown, for he means wenom.\"'\n\n'Why didn't you tell me this before!' cried Martin, with an expression\nof face which set off the cheerfulness of Mark's visage to great\nadvantage.\n\n'I never thought on it, sir,' said Mark. 'It come in at one ear, and\nwent out at the other. But Lord love us, he was one of another Company,\nI dare say, and only made up the story that we might go to his Eden, and\nnot the opposition one.'\n\n'There's some probability in that,' observed Martin. 'I can honestly say\nthat I hope so, with all my heart.'\n\n'I've not a doubt about it, sir,' returned Mark, who, full of the\ninspiriting influence of the anecodote upon himself, had for the moment\nforgotten its probable effect upon his master; 'anyhow, we must live,\nyou know, sir.'\n\n'Live!' cried Martin. 'Yes, it's easy to say live; but if we should\nhappen not to wake when rattlesnakes are making corkscrews of themselves\nupon our beds, it may be not so easy to do it.'\n\n'And that's a fact,' said a voice so close in his ear that it tickled\nhim. 'That's dreadful true.'\n\nMartin looked round, and found that a gentleman, on the seat behind, had\nthrust his head between himself and Mark, and sat with his chin resting\non the back rail of their little bench, entertaining himself with their\nconversation. He was as languid and listless in his looks as most of the\ngentlemen they had seen; his cheeks were so hollow that he seemed to be\nalways sucking them in; and the sun had burnt him, not a wholesome red\nor brown, but dirty yellow. He had bright dark eyes, which he kept half\nclosed; only peeping out of the corners, and even then with a glance\nthat seemed to say, 'Now you won't overreach me; you want to, but you\nwon't.' His arms rested carelessly on his knees as he leant forward;\nin the palm of his left hand, as English rustics have their slice of\ncheese, he had a cake of tobacco; in his right a penknife. He struck\ninto the dialogue with as little reserve as if he had been specially\ncalled in, days before, to hear the arguments on both sides, and favour\nthem with his opinion; and he no more contemplated or cared for the\npossibility of their not desiring the honour of his acquaintance or\ninterference in their private affairs than if he had been a bear or a\nbuffalo.\n\n'That,' he repeated, nodding condescendingly to Martin, as to an outer\nbarbarian and foreigner, 'is dreadful true. Darn all manner of vermin.'\n\nMartin could not help frowning for a moment, as if he were disposed to\ninsinuate that the gentleman had unconsciously 'darned' himself. But\nremembering the wisdom of doing at Rome as Romans do, he smiled with the\npleasantest expression he could assume upon so short a notice.\n\nTheir new friend said no more just then, being busily employed in\ncutting a quid or plug from his cake of tobacco, and whistling softly to\nhimself the while. When he had shaped it to his liking, he took out his\nold plug, and deposited the same on the back of the seat between Mark\nand Martin, while he thrust the new one into the hollow of his cheek,\nwhere it looked like a large walnut, or tolerable pippin. Finding it\nquite satisfactory, he stuck the point of his knife into the old plug,\nand holding it out for their inspection, remarked with the air of a man\nwho had not lived in vain, that it was 'used up considerable.' Then\nhe tossed it away; put his knife into one pocket and his tobacco into\nanother; rested his chin upon the rail as before; and approving of the\npattern on Martin's waistcoat, reached out his hand to feel the texture\nof that garment.\n\n'What do you call this now?' he asked.\n\n'Upon my word' said Martin, 'I don't know what it's called.'\n\n'It'll cost a dollar or more a yard, I reckon?'\n\n'I really don't know.'\n\n'In my country,' said the gentleman, 'we know the cost of our own\npro-duce.'\n\nMartin not discussing the question, there was a pause.\n\n'Well!' resumed their new friend, after staring at them intently during\nthe whole interval of silence; 'how's the unnat'ral old parent by this\ntime?'\n\nMr Tapley regarding this inquiry as only another version of the\nimpertinent English question, 'How's your mother?' would have resented\nit instantly, but for Martin's prompt interposition.\n\n'You mean the old country?' he said.\n\n'Ah!' was the reply. 'How's she? Progressing back'ards, I expect, as\nusual? Well! How's Queen Victoria?'\n\n'In good health, I believe,' said Martin.\n\n'Queen Victoria won't shake in her royal shoes at all, when she hears\nto-morrow named,' observed the stranger, 'No.'\n\n'Not that I am aware of. Why should she?'\n\n'She won't be taken with a cold chill, when she realises what is being\ndone in these diggings,' said the stranger. 'No.'\n\n'No,' said Martin. 'I think I could take my oath of that.'\n\nThe strange gentleman looked at him as if in pity for his ignorance or\nprejudice, and said:\n\n'Well, sir, I tell you this--there ain't a engine with its biler\nbust, in God A'mighty's free U-nited States, so fixed, and nipped,\nand frizzled to a most e-tarnal smash, as that young critter, in her\nluxurious location in the Tower of London will be, when she reads the\nnext double-extra Watertoast Gazette.'\n\nSeveral other gentlemen had left their seats and gathered round during\nthe foregoing dialogue. They were highly delighted with this speech. One\nvery lank gentleman, in a loose limp white cravat, long white waistcoat,\nand a black great-coat, who seemed to be in authority among them, felt\ncalled upon to acknowledge it.\n\n'Hem! Mr La Fayette Kettle,' he said, taking off his hat.\n\nThere was a grave murmur of 'Hush!'\n\n'Mr La Fayette Kettle! Sir!'\n\nMr Kettle bowed.\n\n'In the name of this company, sir, and in the name of our common\ncountry, and in the name of that righteous cause of holy sympathy in\nwhich we are engaged, I thank you. I thank you, sir, in the name of\nthe Watertoast Sympathisers; and I thank you, sir, in the name of\nthe Watertoast Gazette; and I thank you, sir, in the name of the\nstar-spangled banner of the Great United States, for your eloquent and\ncategorical exposition. And if, sir,' said the speaker, poking Martin\nwith the handle of his umbrella to bespeak his attention, for he was\nlistening to a whisper from Mark; 'if, sir, in such a place, and at such\na time, I might venture to con-clude with a sentiment, glancing--however\nslantin'dicularly--at the subject in hand, I would say, sir, may\nthe British Lion have his talons eradicated by the noble bill of the\nAmerican Eagle, and be taught to play upon the Irish Harp and the Scotch\nFiddle that music which is breathed in every empty shell that lies upon\nthe shores of green Co-lumbia!'\n\nHere the lank gentleman sat down again, amidst a great sensation; and\nevery one looked very grave.\n\n'General Choke,' said Mr La Fayette Kettle, 'you warm my heart; sir, you\nwarm my heart. But the British Lion is not unrepresented here, sir; and\nI should be glad to hear his answer to those remarks.'\n\n'Upon my word,' cried Martin, laughing, 'since you do me the honour to\nconsider me his representative, I have only to say that I never heard\nof Queen Victoria reading the What's-his-name Gazette and that I should\nscarcely think it probable.'\n\nGeneral Choke smiled upon the rest, and said, in patient and benignant\nexplanation:\n\n'It is sent to her, sir. It is sent to her. Her mail.'\n\n'But if it is addressed to the Tower of London, it would hardly come to\nhand, I fear,' returned Martin; 'for she don't live there.'\n\n'The Queen of England, gentlemen,' observed Mr Tapley, affecting the\ngreatest politeness, and regarding them with an immovable face, 'usually\nlives in the Mint to take care of the money. She HAS lodgings, in virtue\nof her office, with the Lord Mayor at the Mansion House; but don't often\noccupy them, in consequence of the parlour chimney smoking.'\n\n'Mark,' said Martin, 'I shall be very much obliged to you if you'll\nhave the goodness not to interfere with preposterous statements, however\njocose they may appear to you. I was merely remarking gentlemen--though\nit's a point of very little import--that the Queen of England does not\nhappen to live in the Tower of London.'\n\n'General!' cried Mr La Fayette Kettle. 'You hear?'\n\n'General!' echoed several others. 'General!'\n\n'Hush! Pray, silence!' said General Choke, holding up his hand, and\nspeaking with a patient and complacent benevolence that was quite\ntouching. 'I have always remarked it as a very extraordinary\ncircumstance, which I impute to the natur' of British Institutions and\ntheir tendency to suppress that popular inquiry and information which\nair so widely diffused even in the trackless forests of this vast\nContinent of the Western Ocean; that the knowledge of Britishers\nthemselves on such points is not to be compared with that possessed\nby our intelligent and locomotive citizens. This is interesting, and\nconfirms my observation. When you say, sir,' he continued, addressing\nMartin, 'that your Queen does not reside in the Tower of London, you\nfall into an error, not uncommon to your countrymen, even when their\nabilities and moral elements air such as to command respect. But, sir,\nyou air wrong. She DOES live there--'\n\n'When she is at the Court of Saint James's,' interposed Kettle.\n\n'When she is at the Court of Saint James's, of course,' returned the\nGeneral, in the same benignant way; 'for if her location was in Windsor\nPavilion it couldn't be in London at the same time. Your Tower of\nLondon, sir,' pursued the General, smiling with a mild consciousness of\nhis knowledge, 'is nat'rally your royal residence. Being located in\nthe immediate neighbourhood of your Parks, your Drives, your Triumphant\nArches, your Opera, and your Royal Almacks, it nat'rally suggests\nitself as the place for holding a luxurious and thoughtless court.\nAnd, consequently,' said the General, 'consequently, the court is held\nthere.'\n\n'Have you been in England?' asked Martin.\n\n'In print I have, sir,' said the General, 'not otherwise. We air a\nreading people here, sir. You will meet with much information among us\nthat will surprise you, sir.'\n\n'I have not the least doubt of it,' returned Martin. But here he was\ninterrupted by Mr La Fayette Kettle, who whispered in his ear:\n\n'You know General Choke?'\n\n'No,' returned Martin, in the same tone.\n\n'You know what he is considered?'\n\n'One of the most remarkable men in the country?' said Martin, at a\nventure.\n\n'That's a fact,' rejoined Kettle. 'I was sure you must have heard of\nhim!'\n\n'I think,' said Martin, addressing himself to the General again, 'that\nI have the pleasure of being the bearer of a letter of introduction to\nyou, sir. From Mr Bevan, of Massachusetts,' he added, giving it to him.\n\nThe General took it and read it attentively; now and then stopping to\nglance at the two strangers. When he had finished the note, he came over\nto Martin, sat down by him, and shook hands.\n\n'Well!' he said, 'and you think of settling in Eden?'\n\n'Subject to your opinion, and the agent's advice,' replied Martin. 'I am\ntold there is nothing to be done in the old towns.'\n\n'I can introduce you to the agent, sir,' said the General. 'I know him.\nIn fact, I am a member of the Eden Land Corporation myself.'\n\nThis was serious news to Martin, for his friend had laid great stress\nupon the General's having no connection, as he thought, with any land\ncompany, and therefore being likely to give him disinterested advice.\nThe General explained that he had joined the Corporation only a few\nweeks ago, and that no communication had passed between himself and Mr\nBevan since.\n\n'We have very little to venture,' said Martin anxiously--'only a\nfew pounds--but it is our all. Now, do you think that for one of my\nprofession, this would be a speculation with any hope or chance in it?'\n\n'Well,' observed the General, gravely, 'if there wasn't any hope or\nchance in the speculation, it wouldn't have engaged my dollars, I\nopinionate.'\n\n'I don't mean for the sellers,' said Martin. 'For the buyers--for the\nbuyers!'\n\n'For the buyers, sir?' observed the General, in a most impressive\nmanner. 'Well! you come from an old country; from a country, sir, that\nhas piled up golden calves as high as Babel, and worshipped 'em for\nages. We are a new country, sir; man is in a more primeval state here,\nsir; we have not the excuse of having lapsed in the slow course of time\ninto degenerate practices; we have no false gods; man, sir, here, is man\nin all his dignity. We fought for that or nothing. Here am I, sir,'\nsaid the General, setting up his umbrella to represent himself, and a\nvillanous-looking umbrella it was; a very bad counter to stand for the\nsterling coin of his benevolence, 'here am I with grey hairs sir, and\na moral sense. Would I, with my principles, invest capital in this\nspeculation if I didn't think it full of hopes and chances for my\nbrother man?'\n\nMartin tried to look convinced, but he thought of New York, and found it\ndifficult.\n\n'What are the Great United States for, sir,' pursued the General 'if not\nfor the regeneration of man? But it is nat'ral in you to make such an\nenquerry, for you come from England, and you do not know my country.'\n\n'Then you think,' said Martin, 'that allowing for the hardships we are\nprepared to undergo, there is a reasonable--Heaven knows we don't expect\nmuch--a reasonable opening in this place?'\n\n'A reasonable opening in Eden, sir! But see the agent, see the agent;\nsee the maps and plans, sir; and conclude to go or stay, according to\nthe natur' of the settlement. Eden hadn't need to go a-begging yet,\nsir,' remarked the General.\n\n'It is an awful lovely place, sure-ly. And frightful wholesome,\nlikewise!' said Mr Kettle, who had made himself a party to this\nconversation as a matter of course.\n\nMartin felt that to dispute such testimony, for no better reason\nthan because he had his secret misgivings on the subject, would be\nungentlemanly and indecent. So he thanked the General for his promise to\nput him in personal communication with the agent; and 'concluded' to see\nthat officer next morning. He then begged the General to inform him who\nthe Watertoast Sympathisers were, of whom he had spoken in addressing Mr\nLa Fayette Kettle, and on what grievances they bestowed their Sympathy.\nTo which the General, looking very serious, made answer, that he might\nfully enlighten himself on those points to-morrow by attending a Great\nMeeting of the Body, which would then be held at the town to which\nthey were travelling; 'over which, sir,' said the General, 'my\nfellow-citizens have called on me to preside.'\n\nThey came to their journey's end late in the evening. Close to the\nrailway was an immense white edifice, like an ugly hospital, on which\nwas painted 'NATIONAL HOTEL.' There was a wooden gallery or verandah\nin front, in which it was rather startling, when the train stopped, to\nbehold a great many pairs of boots and shoes, and the smoke of a\ngreat many cigars, but no other evidences of human habitation. By slow\ndegrees, however, some heads and shoulders appeared, and connecting\nthemselves with the boots and shoes, led to the discovery that certain\ngentlemen boarders, who had a fancy for putting their heels where the\ngentlemen boarders in other countries usually put their heads, were\nenjoying themselves after their own manner in the cool of the evening.\n\nThere was a great bar-room in this hotel, and a great public room\nin which the general table was being set out for supper. There were\ninterminable whitewashed staircases, long whitewashed galleries upstairs\nand downstairs, scores of little whitewashed bedrooms, and a four-sided\nverandah to every story in the house, which formed a large brick square\nwith an uncomfortable courtyard in the centre, where some clothes were\ndrying. Here and there, some yawning gentlemen lounged up and down with\ntheir hands in their pockets; but within the house and without, wherever\nhalf a dozen people were collected together, there, in their looks,\ndress, morals, manners, habits, intellect, and conversation, were Mr\nJefferson Brick, Colonel Diver, Major Pawkins, General Choke, and Mr\nLa Fayette Kettle, over, and over, and over again. They did the same\nthings; said the same things; judged all subjects by, and reduced all\nsubjects to, the same standard. Observing how they lived, and how they\nwere always in the enchanting company of each other, Martin even began\nto comprehend their being the social, cheerful, winning, airy men they\nwere.\n\nAt the sounding of a dismal gong, this pleasant company went trooping\ndown from all parts of the house to the public room; while from the\nneighbouring stores other guests came flocking in, in shoals; for half\nthe town, married folks as well as single, resided at the National\nHotel. Tea, coffee, dried meats, tongue, ham, pickles, cake, toast,\npreserves, and bread and butter, were swallowed with the usual ravaging\nspeed; and then, as before, the company dropped off by degrees, and\nlounged away to the desk, the counter, or the bar-room. The ladies had a\nsmaller ordinary of their own, to which their husbands and brothers\nwere admitted if they chose; and in all other respects they enjoyed\nthemselves as at Pawkins's.\n\n'Now, Mark, my good fellow, said Martin, closing the door of his\nlittle chamber, 'we must hold a solemn council, for our fate is decided\nto-morrow morning. You are determined to invest these savings of yours\nin the common stock, are you?'\n\n'If I hadn't been determined to make that wentur, sir,' answered Mr\nTapley, 'I shouldn't have come.'\n\n'How much is there here, did you say' asked Martin, holding up a little\nbag.\n\n'Thirty-seven pound ten and sixpence. The Savings' Bank said so at\nleast. I never counted it. But THEY know, bless you!' said Mark, with a\nshake of the head expressive of his unbounded confidence in the wisdom\nand arithmetic of those Institutions.\n\n'The money we brought with us,' said Martin, 'is reduced to a few\nshillings less than eight pounds.'\n\nMr Tapley smiled, and looked all manner of ways, that he might not be\nsupposed to attach any importance to this fact.\n\n'Upon the ring--HER ring, Mark,' said Martin, looking ruefully at his\nempty finger--\n\n'Ah!' sighed Mr Tapley. 'Beg your pardon, sir.'\n\n'--We raised, in English money, fourteen pounds. So, even with that,\nyour share of the stock is still very much the larger of the two you\nsee. Now, Mark,' said Martin, in his old way, just as he might have\nspoken to Tom Pinch, 'I have thought of a means of making this up\nto you--more than making it up to you, I hope--and very materially\nelevating your prospects in life.'\n\n'Oh! don't talk of that, you know, sir,' returned Mark. 'I don't want no\nelevating, sir. I'm all right enough, sir, I am.'\n\n'No, but hear me,' said Martin, 'because this is very important to you,\nand a great satisfaction to me. Mark, you shall be a partner in the\nbusiness; an equal partner with myself. I will put in, as my additional\ncapital, my professional knowledge and ability; and half the annual\nprofits, as long as it is carried on, shall be yours.'\n\nPoor Martin! For ever building castles in the air. For ever, in his very\nselfishness, forgetful of all but his own teeming hopes and sanguine\nplans. Swelling, at that instant, with the consciousness of patronizing\nand most munificently rewarding Mark!\n\n'I don't know, sir,' Mark rejoined, much more sadly than his custom was,\nthough from a very different cause than Martin supposed, 'what I can say\nto this, in the way of thanking you. I'll stand by you, sir, to the best\nof my ability, and to the last. That's all.'\n\n'We quite understand each other, my good fellow,' said Martin rising in\nself-approval and condescension. 'We are no longer master and servant,\nbut friends and partners; and are mutually gratified. If we determine on\nEden, the business shall be commenced as soon as we get there. Under the\nname,' said Martin, who never hammered upon an idea that wasn't red hot,\n'under the name of Chuzzlewit and Tapley.'\n\n'Lord love you, sir,' cried Mark, 'don't have my name in it. I ain't\nacquainted with the business, sir. I must be Co., I must. I've often\nthought,' he added, in a low voice, 'as I should like to know a Co.; but\nI little thought as ever I should live to be one.'\n\n'You shall have your own way, Mark.'\n\n'Thank'ee, sir. If any country gentleman thereabouts, in the public way,\nor otherwise, wanted such a thing as a skittle-ground made, I could take\nthat part of the bis'ness, sir.'\n\n'Against any architect in the States,' said Martin. 'Get a couple of\nsherry-cobblers, Mark, and we'll drink success to the firm.'\n\nEither he forgot already (and often afterwards), that they were no\nlonger master and servant, or considered this kind of duty to be among\nthe legitimate functions of the Co. But Mark obeyed with his usual\nalacrity; and before they parted for the night, it was agreed between\nthem that they should go together to the agent's in the morning, but\nthat Martin should decide the Eden question, on his own sound judgment.\nAnd Mark made no merit, even to himself in his jollity, of this\nconcession; perfectly well knowing that the matter would come to that in\nthe end, any way.\n\nThe General was one of the party at the public table next day, and after\nbreakfast suggested that they should wait upon the agent without loss of\ntime. They, desiring nothing more, agreed; so off they all four\nstarted for the office of the Eden Settlement, which was almost within\nrifle-shot of the National Hotel.\n\nIt was a small place--something like a turnpike. But a great deal of\nland may be got into a dice-box, and why may not a whole territory be\nbargained for in a shed? It was but a temporary office too; for the\nEdeners were 'going' to build a superb establishment for the transaction\nof their business, and had already got so far as to mark out the site.\nWhich is a great way in America. The office-door was wide open, and in\nthe doorway was the agent; no doubt a tremendous fellow to get through\nhis work, for he seemed to have no arrears, but was swinging backwards\nand forwards in a rocking-chair, with one of his legs planted high up\nagainst the door-post, and the other doubled up under him, as if he were\nhatching his foot.\n\nHe was a gaunt man in a huge straw hat, and a coat of green stuff. The\nweather being hot, he had no cravat, and wore his shirt collar wide\nopen; so that every time he spoke something was seen to twitch and jerk\nup in his throat, like the little hammers in a harpsichord when the\nnotes are struck. Perhaps it was the Truth feebly endeavouring to leap\nto his lips. If so, it never reached them.\n\nTwo grey eyes lurked deep within this agent's head, but one of them had\nno sight in it, and stood stock still. With that side of his face he\nseemed to listen to what the other side was doing. Thus each profile had\na distinct expression; and when the movable side was most in action, the\nrigid one was in its coldest state of watchfulness. It was like\nturning the man inside out, to pass to that view of his features in his\nliveliest mood, and see how calculating and intent they were.\n\nEach long black hair upon his head hung down as straight as any plummet\nline; but rumpled tufts were on the arches of his eyes, as if the crow\nwhose foot was deeply printed in the corners had pecked and torn them in\na savage recognition of his kindred nature as a bird of prey.\n\nSuch was the man whom they now approached, and whom the General saluted\nby the name of Scadder.\n\n'Well, Gen'ral,' he returned, 'and how are you?'\n\n'Ac-tive and spry, sir, in my country's service and the sympathetic\ncause. Two gentlemen on business, Mr Scadder.'\n\nHe shook hands with each of them--nothing is done in America without\nshaking hands--then went on rocking.\n\n'I think I know what bis'ness you have brought these strangers here\nupon, then, Gen'ral?'\n\n'Well, sir. I expect you may.'\n\n'You air a tongue-y person, Gen'ral. For you talk too much, and that's\nfact,' said Scadder. 'You speak a-larming well in public, but you didn't\nought to go ahead so fast in private. Now!'\n\n'If I can realise your meaning, ride me on a rail!' returned the\nGeneral, after pausing for consideration.\n\n'You know we didn't wish to sell the lots off right away to any loafer\nas might bid,' said Scadder; 'but had con-cluded to reserve 'em for\nAristocrats of Natur'. Yes!'\n\n'And they are here, sir!' cried the General with warmth. 'They are here,\nsir!'\n\n'If they air here,' returned the agent, in reproachful accents, 'that's\nenough. But you didn't ought to have your dander ris with ME, Gen'ral.'\n\nThe General whispered Martin that Scadder was the honestest fellow in\nthe world, and that he wouldn't have given him offence designedly, for\nten thousand dollars.\n\n'I do my duty; and I raise the dander of my feller critters, as I\nwish to serve,' said Scadder in a low voice, looking down the road\nand rocking still. 'They rile up rough, along of my objecting to their\nselling Eden off too cheap. That's human natur'! Well!'\n\n'Mr Scadder,' said the General, assuming his oratorical deportment.\n'Sir! Here is my hand, and here my heart. I esteem you, sir, and ask\nyour pardon. These gentlemen air friends of mine, or I would not have\nbrought 'em here, sir, being well aware, sir, that the lots at present\ngo entirely too cheap. But these air friends, sir; these air partick'ler\nfriends.'\n\nMr Scadder was so satisfied by this explanation, that he shook the\nGeneral warmly by the hand, and got out of the rocking-chair to do it.\nHe then invited the General's particular friends to accompany him into\nthe office. As to the General, he observed, with his usual benevolence,\nthat being one of the company, he wouldn't interfere in the transaction\non any account; so he appropriated the rocking-chair to himself, and\nlooked at the prospect, like a good Samaritan waiting for a traveller.\n\n'Heyday!' cried Martin, as his eye rested on a great plan which occupied\none whole side of the office. Indeed, the office had little else in it,\nbut some geological and botanical specimens, one or two rusty ledgers, a\nhomely desk, and a stool. 'Heyday! what's that?'\n\n'That's Eden,' said Scadder, picking his teeth with a sort of young\nbayonet that flew out of his knife when he touched a spring.\n\n'Why, I had no idea it was a city.'\n\n'Hadn't you? Oh, it's a city.'\n\nA flourishing city, too! An architectural city! There were banks,\nchurches, cathedrals, market-places, factories, hotels, stores,\nmansions, wharves; an exchange, a theatre; public buildings of all\nkinds, down to the office of the Eden Stinger, a daily journal; all\nfaithfully depicted in the view before them.\n\n'Dear me! It's really a most important place!' cried Martin turning\nround.\n\n'Oh! it's very important,' observed the agent.\n\n'But, I am afraid,' said Martin, glancing again at the Public Buildings,\n'that there's nothing left for me to do.'\n\n'Well! it ain't all built,' replied the agent. 'Not quite.'\n\nThis was a great relief.\n\n'The market-place, now,' said Martin. 'Is that built?'\n\n'That?' said the agent, sticking his toothpick into the weathercock on\nthe top. 'Let me see. No; that ain't built.'\n\n'Rather a good job to begin with--eh, Mark?' whispered Martin nudging\nhim with his elbow.\n\nMark, who, with a very stolid countenance had been eyeing the plan and\nthe agent by turns, merely rejoined 'Uncommon!'\n\nA dead silence ensued, Mr Scadder in some short recesses or vacations of\nhis toothpick, whistled a few bars of Yankee Doodle, and blew the dust\noff the roof of the Theatre.\n\n'I suppose,' said Martin, feigning to look more narrowly at the plan,\nbut showing by his tremulous voice how much depended, in his mind, upon\nthe answer; 'I suppose there are--several architects there?'\n\n'There ain't a single one,' said Scadder.\n\n'Mark,' whispered Martin, pulling him by the sleeve, 'do you hear that?\nBut whose work is all this before us, then?' he asked aloud.\n\n'The soil being very fruitful, public buildings grows spontaneous,\nperhaps,' said Mark.\n\nHe was on the agent's dark side as he said it; but Scadder instantly\nchanged his place, and brought his active eye to bear upon him.\n\n'Feel of my hands, young man,' he said.\n\n'What for?' asked Mark, declining.\n\n'Air they dirty, or air they clean, sir?' said Scadder, holding them\nout.\n\nIn a physical point of view they were decidedly dirty. But it being\nobvious that Mr Scadder offered them for examination in a figurative\nsense, as emblems of his moral character, Martin hastened to pronounce\nthem pure as the driven snow.\n\n'I entreat, Mark,' he said, with some irritation, 'that you will\nnot obtrude remarks of that nature, which, however harmless and\nwell-intentioned, are quite out of place, and cannot be expected to be\nvery agreeable to strangers. I am quite surprised.'\n\n'The Co.'s a-putting his foot in it already,' thought Mark. 'He must be\na sleeping partner--fast asleep and snoring--Co. must; I see.'\n\nMr Scadder said nothing, but he set his back against the plan, and\nthrust his toothpick into the desk some twenty times; looking at Mark\nall the while as if he were stabbing him in effigy.\n\n'You haven't said whose work it is,' Martin ventured to observe at\nlength, in a tone of mild propitiation.\n\n'Well, never mind whose work it is, or isn't,' said the agent sulkily.\n'No matter how it did eventuate. P'raps he cleared off, handsome, with a\nheap of dollars; p'raps he wasn't worth a cent. P'raps he was a loafin'\nrowdy; p'raps a ring-tailed roarer. Now!'\n\n'All your doing, Mark!' said Martin.\n\n'P'raps,' pursued the agent, 'them ain't plants of Eden's raising. No!\nP'raps that desk and stool ain't made from Eden lumber. No! P'raps no\nend of squatters ain't gone out there. No! P'raps there ain't no such\nlocation in the territoary of the Great U-nited States. Oh, no!'\n\n'I hope you're satisfied with the success of your joke, Mark,' said\nMartin.\n\nBut here, at a most opportune and happy time, the General interposed,\nand called out to Scadder from the doorway to give his friends the\nparticulars of that little lot of fifty acres with the house upon it;\nwhich, having belonged to the company formerly, had lately lapsed again\ninto their hands.\n\n'You air a deal too open-handed, Gen'ral,' was the answer. 'It is a lot\nas should be rose in price. It is.'\n\nHe grumblingly opened his books notwithstanding, and always keeping his\nbright side towards Mark, no matter at what amount of inconvenience\nto himself, displayed a certain leaf for their perusal. Martin read it\ngreedily, and then inquired:\n\n'Now where upon the plan may this place be?'\n\n'Upon the plan?' said Scadder.\n\n'Yes.'\n\nHe turned towards it, and reflected for a short time, as if, having\nbeen put upon his mettle, he was resolved to be particular to the\nvery minutest hair's breadth of a shade. At length, after wheeling his\ntoothpick slowly round and round in the air, as if it were a carrier\npigeon just thrown up, he suddenly made a dart at the drawing, and\npierced the very centre of the main wharf, through and through.\n\n'There!' he said, leaving his knife quivering in the wall; 'that's where\nit is!'\n\nMartin glanced with sparkling eyes upon his Co., and his Co. saw that\nthe thing was done.\n\nThe bargain was not concluded as easily as might have been expected\nthough, for Scadder was caustic and ill-humoured, and cast much\nunnecessary opposition in the way; at one time requesting them to think\nof it, and call again in a week or a fortnight; at another, predicting\nthat they wouldn't like it; at another, offering to retract and let them\noff, and muttering strong imprecations upon the folly of the General.\nBut the whole of the astoundingly small sum total of purchase-money--it\nwas only one hundred and fifty dollars, or something more than thirty\npounds of the capital brought by Co. into the architectural concern--was\nultimately paid down; and Martin's head was two inches nearer the roof\nof the little wooden office, with the consciousness of being a landed\nproprietor in the thriving city of Eden.\n\n'If it shouldn't happen to fit,' said Scadder, as he gave Martin the\nnecessary credentials on recepit of his money, 'don't blame me.'\n\n'No, no,' he replied merrily. 'We'll not blame you. General, are you\ngoing?'\n\n'I am at your service, sir; and I wish you,' said the General, giving\nhim his hand with grave cordiality, 'joy of your po-ssession. You air\nnow, sir, a denizen of the most powerful and highly-civilised dominion\nthat has ever graced the world; a do-minion, sir, where man is bound to\nman in one vast bond of equal love and truth. May you, sir, be worthy of\nyour a-dopted country!'\n\nMartin thanked him, and took leave of Mr Scadder; who had resumed his\npost in the rocking-chair, immediately on the General's rising from it,\nand was once more swinging away as if he had never been disturbed.\nMark looked back several times as they went down the road towards the\nNational Hotel, but now his blighted profile was towards them, and\nnothing but attentive thoughtfulness was written on it. Strangely\ndifferent to the other side! He was not a man much given to laughing,\nand never laughed outright; but every line in the print of the crow's\nfoot, and every little wiry vein in that division of his head, was\nwrinkled up into a grin! The compound figure of Death and the Lady at\nthe top of the old ballad was not divided with a greater nicety, and\nhadn't halves more monstrously unlike each other, than the two profiles\nof Zephaniah Scadder.\n\nThe General posted along at a great rate, for the clock was on the\nstroke of twelve; and at that hour precisely, the Great Meeting of\nthe Watertoast Sympathisers was to be holden in the public room of the\nNational Hotel. Being very curious to witness the demonstration, and\nknow what it was all about, Martin kept close to the General; and,\nkeeping closer than ever when they entered the Hall, got by that means\nupon a little platform of tables at the upper end; where an armchair was\nset for the General, and Mr La Fayette Kettle, as secretary, was making\na great display of some foolscap documents. Screamers, no doubt.\n\n'Well, sir!' he said, as he shook hands with Martin, 'here is a\nspectacle calc'lated to make the British Lion put his tail between his\nlegs, and howl with anguish, I expect!'\n\nMartin certainly thought it possible that the British Lion might have\nbeen rather out of his element in that Ark; but he kept the idea to\nhimself. The General was then voted to the chair, on the motion of a\npallid lad of the Jefferson Brick school; who forthwith set in for a\nhigh-spiced speech, with a good deal about hearths and homes in it, and\nunriveting the chains of Tyranny.\n\nOh but it was a clincher for the British Lion, it was! The indignation\nof the glowing young Columbian knew no bounds. If he could only have\nbeen one of his own forefathers, he said, wouldn't he have peppered\nthat same Lion, and been to him as another Brute Tamer with a wire whip,\nteaching him lessons not easily forgotten. 'Lion! (cried that young\nColumbian) where is he? Who is he? What is he? Show him to me. Let me\nhave him here. Here!' said the young Columbian, in a wrestling attitude,\n'upon this sacred altar. Here!' cried the young Columbian, idealising\nthe dining-table, 'upon ancestral ashes, cemented with the glorious\nblood poured out like water on our native plains of Chickabiddy Lick!\nBring forth that Lion!' said the young Columbian. 'Alone, I dare him! I\ntaunt that Lion. I tell that Lion, that Freedom's hand once twisted\nin his mane, he rolls a corse before me, and the Eagles of the Great\nRepublic laugh ha, ha!'\n\nWhen it was found that the Lion didn't come, but kept out of the way;\nthat the young Columbian stood there, with folded arms, alone in his\nglory; and consequently that the Eagles were no doubt laughing wildly on\nthe mountain tops; such cheers arose as might have shaken the hands upon\nthe Horse-Guards' clock, and changed the very mean time of the day in\nEngland's capital.\n\n'Who is this?' Martin telegraphed to La Fayette.\n\nThe Secretary wrote something, very gravely, on a piece of paper,\ntwisted it up, and had it passed to him from hand to hand. It was an\nimprovement on the old sentiment: 'Perhaps as remarkable a man as any in\nour country.'\n\nThis young Columbian was succeeded by another, to the full as eloquent\nas he, who drew down storms of cheers. But both remarkable youths,\nin their great excitement (for your true poetry can never stoop to\ndetails), forgot to say with whom or what the Watertoasters sympathized,\nand likewise why or wherefore they were sympathetic. Thus Martin\nremained for a long time as completely in the dark as ever; until\nat length a ray of light broke in upon him through the medium of the\nSecretary, who, by reading the minutes of their past proceedings,\nmade the matter somewhat clearer. He then learned that the Watertoast\nAssociation sympathized with a certain Public Man in Ireland, who held a\ncontest upon certain points with England; and that they did so, because\nthey didn't love England at all--not by any means because they loved\nIreland much; being indeed horribly jealous and distrustful of its\npeople always, and only tolerating them because of their working hard,\nwhich made them very useful; labour being held in greater indignity in\nthe simple republic than in any other country upon earth. This\nrendered Martin curious to see what grounds of sympathy the Watertoast\nAssociation put forth; nor was he long in suspense, for the General\nrose to read a letter to the Public Man, which with his own hands he had\nwritten.\n\n'Thus,' said the General, 'thus, my friends and fellow-citizens, it\nruns:\n\n\n'\"SIR--I address you on behalf of the Watertoast Association of United\nSympathisers. It is founded, sir, in the great republic of America! and\nnow holds its breath, and swells the blue veins in its forehead nigh to\nbursting, as it watches, sir, with feverish intensity and sympathetic\nardour, your noble efforts in the cause of Freedom.\"'\n\n\nAt the name of Freedom, and at every repetition of that name, all the\nSympathisers roared aloud; cheering with nine times nine, and nine times\nover.\n\n\n'\"In Freedom's name, sir--holy Freedom--I address you. In Freedom's\nname, I send herewith a contribution to the funds of your society.\nIn Freedom's name, sir, I advert with indignation and disgust to that\naccursed animal, with gore-stained whiskers, whose rampant cruelty and\nfiery lust have ever been a scourge, a torment to the world. The naked\nvisitors to Crusoe's Island, sir; the flying wives of Peter Wilkins; the\nfruit-smeared children of the tangled bush; nay, even the men of large\nstature, anciently bred in the mining districts of Cornwall; alike\nbear witness to its savage nature. Where, sir, are the Cormorans,\nthe Blunderbores, the Great Feefofums, named in History? All, all,\nexterminated by its destroying hand.\n\n'\"I allude, sir, to the British Lion.\n\n'\"Devoted, mind and body, heart and soul, to Freedom, sir--to Freedom,\nblessed solace to the snail upon the cellar-door, the oyster in his\npearly bed, the still mite in his home of cheese, the very winkle of\nyour country in his shelly lair--in her unsullied name, we offer you our\nsympathy. Oh, sir, in this our cherished and our happy land, her fires\nburn bright and clear and smokeless; once lighted up in yours, the lion\nshall be roasted whole.\n\n'\"I am, sir, in Freedom's name,\n\n'\"Your affectionate friend and faithful Sympathiser,\n\n'\"CYRUS CHOKE,\n\n'\"General, U.S.M.\"'\n\n\nIt happened that just as the General began to read this letter, the\nrailroad train arrived, bringing a new mail from England; and a packet\nhad been handed in to the Secretary, which during its perusal and\nthe frequent cheerings in homage to freedom, he had opened. Now, its\ncontents disturbed him very much, and the moment the General sat down,\nhe hurried to his side, and placed in his hand a letter and several\nprinted extracts from English newspapers; to which, in a state of\ninfinite excitement, he called his immediate attention.\n\nThe General, being greatly heated by his own composition, was in a\nfit state to receive any inflammable influence; but he had no sooner\npossessed himself of the contents of these documents, than a change came\nover his face, involving such a huge amount of choler and passion, that\nthe noisy concourse were silent in a moment, in very wonder at the sight\nof him.\n\n'My friends!' cried the General, rising; 'my friends and fellow\ncitizens, we have been mistaken in this man.'\n\n'In what man?' was the cry.\n\n'In this,' panted the General, holding up the letter he had read aloud\na few minutes before. 'I find that he has been, and is, the\nadvocate--consistent in it always too--of Nigger emancipation!'\n\nIf anything beneath the sky be real, those Sons of Freedom would have\npistolled, stabbed--in some way slain--that man by coward hands and\nmurderous violence, if he had stood among them at that time. The most\nconfiding of their own countrymen would not have wagered then--no, nor\nwould they ever peril--one dunghill straw, upon the life of any man in\nsuch a strait. They tore the letter, cast the fragments in the air, trod\ndown the pieces as they fell; and yelled, and groaned, and hissed, till\nthey could cry no longer.\n\n'I shall move,' said the General, when he could make himself heard,\n'that the Watertoast Association of United Sympathisers be immediately\ndissolved!'\n\nDown with it! Away with it! Don't hear of it! Burn its records! Pull the\nroom down! Blot it out of human memory!\n\n'But, my fellow-countrymen!' said the General, 'the contributions. We\nhave funds. What is to be done with the funds?'\n\nIt was hastily resolved that a piece of plate should be presented to a\ncertain constitutional Judge, who had laid down from the Bench the noble\nprinciple that it was lawful for any white mob to murder any black man;\nand that another piece of plate, of similar value should be presented\nto a certain Patriot, who had declared from his high place in the\nLegislature, that he and his friends would hang without trial, any\nAbolitionist who might pay them a visit. For the surplus, it was agreed\nthat it should be devoted to aiding the enforcement of those free and\nequal laws, which render it incalculably more criminal and dangerous\nto teach a negro to read and write than to roast him alive in a public\ncity. These points adjusted, the meeting broke up in great disorder, and\nthere was an end of the Watertoast Sympathy.\n\nAs Martin ascended to his bedroom, his eye was attracted by the\nRepublican banner, which had been hoisted from the house-top in honour\nof the occasion, and was fluttering before a window which he passed.\n\n'Tut!' said Martin. 'You're a gay flag in the distance. But let a man\nbe near enough to get the light upon the other side and see through you;\nand you are but sorry fustian!'\n\n\n\nCHAPTER TWENTY-TWO\n\nFROM WHICH IT WILL BE SEEN THAT MARTIN BECAME A LION OF HIS OWN ACCOUNT.\nTOGETHER WITH THE REASON WHY\n\n\nAs soon as it was generally known in the National Hotel, that the young\nEnglishman, Mr Chuzzlewit, had purchased a 'lo-cation' in the Valley\nof Eden, and intended to betake himself to that earthly Paradise by the\nnext steamboat, he became a popular character. Why this should be, or\nhow it had come to pass, Martin no more knew than Mrs Gamp, of Kingsgate\nStreet, High Holborn, did; but that he was for the time being the lion,\nby popular election, of the Watertoast community, and that his society\nwas in rather inconvenient request there could be no kind of doubt.\n\nThe first notification he received of this change in his position, was\nthe following epistle, written in a thin running hand--with here and\nthere a fat letter or two, to make the general effect more striking--on\na sheet of paper, ruled with blue lines.\n\n\n'NATIONAL HOTEL,\n\n'MONDAY MORNING.\n\n'Dear Sir--'When I had the privillidge of being your fellow-traveller\nin the cars, the day before yesterday, you offered some remarks upon the\nsubject of the tower of London, which (in common with my fellow-citizens\ngenerally) I could wish to hear repeated to a public audience.\n\n'As secretary to the Young Men's Watertoast Association of this town,\nI am requested to inform you that the Society will be proud to hear\nyou deliver a lecture upon the Tower of London, at their Hall to-morrow\nevening, at seven o'clock; and as a large issue of quarter-dollar\ntickets may be expected, your answer and consent by bearer will be\nconsidered obliging.\n\n'Dear Sir,\n\n'Yours truly,\n\n'LA FAYETTE KETTLE.\n\n'The Honourable M. Chuzzlewit.\n\n'P.S.--The Society would not be particular in limiting you to the Tower\nof London. Permit me to suggest that any remarks upon the Elements of\nGeology, or (if more convenient) upon the Writings of your talented and\nwitty countryman, the honourable Mr Miller, would be well received.'\n\n\nVery much aghast at this invitation, Martin wrote back, civilly\ndeclining it; and had scarcely done so, when he received another letter.\n\n\n'No. 47, Bunker Hill Street,\n\n'Monday Morning.\n\n'(Private).\n\n'Sir--I was raised in those interminable solitudes where our mighty\nMississippi (or Father of Waters) rolls his turbid flood.\n\n'I am young, and ardent. For there is a poetry in wildness, and every\nalligator basking in the slime is in himself an Epic, self-contained. I\naspirate for fame. It is my yearning and my thirst.\n\n'Are you, sir, aware of any member of Congress in England, who would\nundertake to pay my expenses to that country, and for six months after\nmy arrival?\n\n'There is something within me which gives me the assurance that this\nenlightened patronage would not be thrown away. In literature or art;\nthe bar, the pulpit, or the stage; in one or other, if not all, I feel\nthat I am certain to succeed.\n\n'If too much engaged to write to any such yourself, please let me have\na list of three or four of those most likely to respond, and I will\naddress them through the Post Office. May I also ask you to favour me\nwith any critical observations that have ever presented themselves to\nyour reflective faculties, on \"Cain, a Mystery,\" by the Right Honourable\nLord Byron?\n\n'I am, Sir,\n\n'Yours (forgive me if I add, soaringly),\n\n'PUTNAM SMIF\n\n'P.S.--Address your answer to America Junior, Messrs. Hancock & Floby,\nDry Goods Store, as above.'\n\n\nBoth of which letters, together with Martin's reply to each, were,\naccording to a laudable custom, much tending to the promotion of\ngentlemanly feeling and social confidence, published in the next number\nof the Watertoast Gazette.\n\nHe had scarcely got through this correspondence when Captain Kedgick,\nthe landlord, kindly came upstairs to see how he was getting on. The\nCaptain sat down upon the bed before he spoke; and finding it rather\nhard, moved to the pillow.\n\n'Well, sir!' said the Captain, putting his hat a little more on one\nside, for it was rather tight in the crown: 'You're quite a public man I\ncalc'late.'\n\n'So it seems,' retorted Martin, who was very tired.\n\n'Our citizens, sir,' pursued the Captain, 'intend to pay their respects\nto you. You will have to hold a sort of le-vee, sir, while you're here.'\n\n'Powers above!' cried Martin, 'I couldn't do that, my good fellow!'\n\n'I reckon you MUST then,' said the Captain.\n\n'Must is not a pleasant word, Captain,' urged Martin.\n\n'Well! I didn't fix the mother language, and I can't unfix it,' said the\nCaptain coolly; 'else I'd make it pleasant. You must re-ceive. That's\nall.'\n\n'But why should I receive people who care as much for me as I care for\nthem?' asked Martin.\n\n'Well! because I have had a muniment put up in the bar,' returned the\nCaptain.\n\n'A what?' cried Martin.\n\n'A muniment,' rejoined the Captain.\n\nMartin looked despairingly at Mark, who informed him that the\nCaptain meant a written notice that Mr Chuzzlewit would receive the\nWatertoasters that day, at and after two o'clock which was in effect\nthen hanging in the bar, as Mark, from ocular inspection of the same,\ncould testify.\n\n'You wouldn't be unpop'lar, I know,' said the Captain, paring his nails.\n'Our citizens an't long of riling up, I tell you; and our Gazette could\nflay you like a wild cat.'\n\nMartin was going to be very wroth, but he thought better of it, and\nsaid:\n\n'In Heaven's name let them come, then.'\n\n'Oh, THEY'll come,' returned the Captain. 'I have seen the big room\nfixed a'purpose, with my eyes.'\n\n'But will you,' said Martin, seeing that the Captain was about to go;\n'will you at least tell me this? What do they want to see me for? what\nhave I done? and how do they happen to have such a sudden interest in\nme?'\n\nCaptain Kedgick put a thumb and three fingers to each side of the\nbrim of his hat; lifted it a little way off his head; put it on again\ncarefully; passed one hand all down his face, beginning at the forehead\nand ending at the chin; looked at Martin; then at Mark; then at Martin\nagain; winked, and walked out.\n\n'Upon my life, now!' said Martin, bringing his hand heavily upon the\ntable; 'such a perfectly unaccountable fellow as that, I never saw.\nMark, what do you say to this?'\n\n'Why, sir,' returned his partner, 'my opinion is that we must have got\nto the MOST remarkable man in the country at last. So I hope there's an\nend to the breed, sir.'\n\nAlthough this made Martin laugh, it couldn't keep off two o'clock.\nPunctually, as the hour struck, Captain Kedgick returned to hand him\nto the room of state; and he had no sooner got him safe there, than\nhe bawled down the staircase to his fellow-citizens below, that Mr\nChuzzlewit was 'receiving.'\n\nUp they came with a rush. Up they came until the room was full, and,\nthrough the open door, a dismal perspective of more to come, was shown\nupon the stairs. One after another, one after another, dozen after\ndozen, score after score, more, more, more, up they came; all shaking\nhands with Martin. Such varieties of hands, the thick, the thin,\nthe short, the long, the fat, the lean, the coarse, the fine; such\ndifferences of temperature, the hot, the cold, the dry, the moist,\nthe flabby; such diversities of grasp, the tight, the loose, the\nshort-lived, and the lingering! Still up, up, up, more, more, more; and\never and anon the Captain's voice was heard above the crowd--'There's\nmore below! there's more below. Now, gentlemen you that have been\nintroduced to Mr Chuzzlewit, will you clear gentlemen? Will you clear?\nWill you be so good as clear, gentlemen, and make a little room for\nmore?'\n\nRegardless of the Captain's cries, they didn't clear at all, but stood\nthere, bolt upright and staring. Two gentlemen connected with the\nWatertoast Gazette had come express to get the matter for an article on\nMartin. They had agreed to divide the labour. One of them took him below\nthe waistcoat. One above. Each stood directly in front of his subject\nwith his head a little on one side, intent on his department. If Martin\nput one boot before the other, the lower gentleman was down upon him;\nhe rubbed a pimple on his nose, and the upper gentleman booked it. He\nopened his mouth to speak, and the same gentleman was on one knee before\nhim, looking in at his teeth, with the nice scrutiny of a dentist.\nAmateurs in the physiognomical and phrenological sciences roved about\nhim with watchful eyes and itching fingers, and sometimes one, more\ndaring than the rest, made a mad grasp at the back of his head, and\nvanished in the crowd. They had him in all points of view: in front, in\nprofile, three-quarter face, and behind. Those who were not professional\nor scientific, audibly exchanged opinions on his looks. New lights shone\nin upon him, in respect of his nose. Contradictory rumours were abroad\non the subject of his hair. And still the Captain's voice was heard--so\nstifled by the concourse, that he seemed to speak from underneath a\nfeather-bed--exclaiming--'Gentlemen, you that have been introduced to Mr\nChuzzlewit, WILL you clear?'\n\nEven when they began to clear it was no better; for then a stream of\ngentlemen, every one with a lady on each arm (exactly like the chorus\nto the National Anthem when Royalty goes in state to the play), came\ngliding in--every new group fresher than the last, and bent on staying\nto the latest moment. If they spoke to him, which was not often, they\ninvariably asked the same questions, in the same tone; with no more\nremorse, or delicacy, or consideration, than if he had been a figure of\nstone, purchased, and paid for, and set up there for their delight. Even\nwhen, in the slow course of time, these died off, it was as bad as ever,\nif not worse; for then the boys grew bold, and came in as a class\nof themselves, and did everything that the grown-up people had done.\nUncouth stragglers, too, appeared; men of a ghostly kind, who being in,\ndidn't know how to get out again; insomuch that one silent gentleman\nwith glazed and fishy eyes and only one button on his waistcoat (which\nwas a very large metal one, and shone prodigiously), got behind the\ndoor, and stood there, like a clock, long after everybody else was gone.\n\nMartin felt, from pure fatigue, and heat, and worry, as if he could have\nfallen on the ground and willingly remained there, if they would but\nhave had the mercy to leave him alone. But as letters and messages,\nthreatening his public denouncement if he didn't see the senders, poured\nin like hail; and as more visitors came while he took his coffee by\nhimself; and as Mark, with all his vigilance, was unable to keep them\nfrom the door; he resolved to go to bed--not that he felt at all sure\nof bed being any protection, but that he might not leave a forlorn hope\nuntried.\n\nHe had communicated this design to Mark, and was on the eve of escaping,\nwhen the door was thrown open in a great hurry, and an elderly gentleman\nentered; bringing with him a lady who certainly could not be considered\nyoung--that was matter of fact; and probably could not be considered\nhandsome--but that was matter of opinion. She was very straight, very\ntall, and not at all flexible in face or figure. On her head she wore a\ngreat straw bonnet, with trimmings of the same, in which she looked as\nif she had been thatched by an unskillful labourer; and in her hand she\nheld a most enormous fan.\n\n'Mr Chuzzlewit, I believe?' said the gentleman.\n\n'That is my name.'\n\n'Sir,' said the gentleman, 'I am pressed for time.'\n\n'Thank God!' thought Martin.\n\n'I go back Toe my home, sir,' pursued the gentleman, 'by the return\ntrain, which starts immediate. Start is not a word you use in your\ncountry, sir.'\n\n'Oh yes, it is,' said Martin.\n\n'You air mistaken, sir,' returned the gentleman, with great decision:\n'but we will not pursue the subject, lest it should awake your\npreju--dice. Sir, Mrs Hominy.'\n\nMartin bowed.\n\n'Mrs Hominy, sir, is the lady of Major Hominy, one of our chicest\nspirits; and belongs Toe one of our most aristocratic families. You air,\np'raps, acquainted, sir, with Mrs Hominy's writings.'\n\nMartin couldn't say he was.\n\n'You have much Toe learn, and Toe enjoy, sir,' said the gentleman.\n'Mrs Hominy is going Toe stay until the end of the Fall, sir, with her\nmarried daughter at the settlement of New Thermopylae, three days this\nside of Eden. Any attention, sir, that you can show Toe Mrs Hominy\nupon the journey, will be very grateful Toe the Major and our\nfellow-citizens. Mrs Hominy, I wish you good night, ma'am, and a\npleasant pro-gress on your route!'\n\nMartin could scarcely believe it; but he had gone, and Mrs Hominy was\ndrinking the milk.\n\n'A'most used-up I am, I do declare!' she observed. 'The jolting in\nthe cars is pretty nigh as bad as if the rail was full of snags and\nsawyers.'\n\n'Snags and sawyers, ma'am?' said Martin.\n\n'Well, then, I do suppose you'll hardly realise my meaning, sir,' said\nMrs Hominy. 'My! Only think! DO tell!'\n\nIt did not appear that these expressions, although they seemed to\nconclude with an urgent entreaty, stood in need of any answer; for Mrs\nHominy, untying her bonnet-strings, observed that she would withdraw to\nlay that article of dress aside, and would return immediately.\n\n'Mark!' said Martin. 'Touch me, will you. Am I awake?'\n\n'Hominy is, sir,' returned his partner--'Broad awake! Just the sort of\nwoman, sir, as would be discovered with her eyes wide open, and her mind\na-working for her country's good, at any hour of the day or night.'\n\nThey had no opportunity of saying more, for Mrs Hominy stalked in\nagain--very erect, in proof of her aristocratic blood; and holding in\nher clasped hands a red cotton pocket-handkerchief, perhaps a parting\ngift from that choice spirit, the Major. She had laid aside her bonnet,\nand now appeared in a highly aristocratic and classical cap, meeting\nbeneath her chin: a style of headdress so admirably adapted to her\ncountenance, that if the late Mr Grimaldi had appeared in the lappets of\nMrs Siddons, a more complete effect could not have been produced.\n\nMartin handed her to a chair. Her first words arrested him before he\ncould get back to his own seat.\n\n'Pray, sir!' said Mrs Hominy, 'where do you hail from?'\n\n'I am afraid I am dull of comprehension,' answered Martin, 'being\nextremely tired; but upon my word I don't understand you.'\n\nMrs Hominy shook her head with a melancholy smile that said, not\ninexpressively, 'They corrupt even the language in that old country!'\nand added then, as coming down a step or two to meet his low capacity,\n'Where was you rose?'\n\n'Oh!' said Martin 'I was born in Kent.'\n\n'And how do you like our country, sir?' asked Mrs Hominy.\n\n'Very much indeed,' said Martin, half asleep. 'At least--that is--pretty\nwell, ma'am.'\n\n'Most strangers--and partick'larly Britishers--are much surprised by\nwhat they see in the U-nited States,' remarked Mrs Hominy.\n\n'They have excellent reason to be so, ma'am,' said Martin. 'I never was\nso much surprised in all my life.'\n\n'Our institutions make our people smart much, sir,' Mrs Hominy remarked.\n\n'The most short-sighted man could see that at a glance, with his naked\neye,' said Martin.\n\nMrs Hominy was a philosopher and an authoress, and consequently had a\npretty strong digestion; but this coarse, this indecorous phrase,\nwas almost too much for her. For a gentleman sitting alone with a\nlady--although the door WAS open--to talk about a naked eye!\n\nA long interval elapsed before even she--woman of masculine and towering\nintellect though she was--could call up fortitude enough to resume the\nconversation. But Mrs Hominy was a traveller. Mrs Hominy was a writer\nof reviews and analytical disquisitions. Mrs Hominy had had her letters\nfrom abroad, beginning 'My ever dearest blank,' and signed 'The Mother\nof the Modern Gracchi' (meaning the married Miss Hominy), regularly\nprinted in a public journal, with all the indignation in capitals, and\nall the sarcasm in italics. Mrs Hominy had looked on foreign countries\nwith the eye of a perfect republican hot from the model oven; and Mrs\nHominy could talk (or write) about them by the hour together. So Mrs\nHominy at last came down on Martin heavily, and as he was fast asleep,\nshe had it all her own way, and bruised him to her heart's content.\n\nIt is no great matter what Mrs Hominy said, save that she had learnt it\nfrom the cant of a class, and a large class, of her fellow countrymen,\nwho in their every word, avow themselves to be as senseless to the high\nprinciples on which America sprang, a nation, into life, as any Orson in\nher legislative halls. Who are no more capable of feeling, or of caring\nif they did feel, that by reducing their own country to the ebb of\nhonest men's contempt, they put in hazard the rights of nations yet\nunborn, and very progress of the human race, than are the swine who\nwallow in their streets. Who think that crying out to other nations,\nold in their iniquity, 'We are no worse than you!' (No worse!) is high\ndefence and 'vantage-ground enough for that Republic, but yesterday let\nloose upon her noble course, and but to-day so maimed and lame, so full\nof sores and ulcers, foul to the eye and almost hopeless to the sense,\nthat her best friends turn from the loathsome creature with disgust.\nWho, having by their ancestors declared and won their Independence,\nbecause they would not bend the knee to certain Public vices and\ncorruptions, and would not abrogate the truth, run riot in the Bad,\nand turn their backs upon the Good; and lying down contented with the\nwretched boast that other Temples also are of glass, and stones which\nbatter theirs may be flung back; show themselves, in that alone, as\nimmeasurably behind the import of the trust they hold, and as unworthy\nto possess it as if the sordid hucksterings of all their little\ngovernments--each one a kingdom in its small depravity--were brought\ninto a heap for evidence against them.\n\nMartin by degrees became so far awake, that he had a sense of a terrible\noppression on his mind; an imperfect dream that he had murdered a\nparticular friend, and couldn't get rid of the body. When his eyes\nopened it was staring him full in the face. There was the horrible\nHominy talking deep truths in a melodious snuffle, and pouring forth her\nmental endowments to such an extent that the Major's bitterest enemy,\nhearing her, would have forgiven him from the bottom of his heart.\nMartin might have done something desperate if the gong had not sounded\nfor supper; but sound it did most opportunely; and having stationed Mrs\nHominy at the upper end of the table he took refuge at the lower end\nhimself; whence, after a hasty meal he stole away, while the lady was\nyet busied with dried beef and a saucer-full of pickled fixings.\n\nIt would be difficult to give an adequate idea of Mrs Hominy's freshness\nnext day, or of the avidity with which she went headlong into moral\nphilosophy at breakfast. Some little additional degree of asperity,\nperhaps, was visible in her features, but not more than the pickles\nwould have naturally produced. All that day she clung to Martin. She\nsat beside him while he received his friends (for there was another\nReception, yet more numerous than the former), propounded theories, and\nanswered imaginary objections, so that Martin really began to think he\nmust be dreaming, and speaking for two; she quoted interminable passages\nfrom certain essays on government, written by herself; used the Major's\npocket-handkerchief as if the snuffle were a temporary malady, of which\nshe was determined to rid herself by some means or other; and, in short,\nwas such a remarkable companion, that Martin quite settled it between\nhimself and his conscience, that in any new settlement it would be\nabsolutely necessary to have such a person knocked on the head for the\ngeneral peace of society.\n\nIn the meantime Mark was busy, from early in the morning until late\nat night, in getting on board the steamboat such provisions, tools and\nother necessaries, as they had been forewarned it would be wise to take.\nThe purchase of these things, and the settlement of their bill at the\nNational, reduced their finances to so low an ebb, that if the captain\nhad delayed his departure any longer, they would have been in almost as\nbad a plight as the unfortunate poorer emigrants, who (seduced on board\nby solemn advertisement) had been living on the lower deck a whole week,\nand exhausting their miserable stock of provisions before the voyage\ncommenced. There they were, all huddled together with the engine and the\nfires. Farmers who had never seen a plough; woodmen who had never used\nan axe; builders who couldn't make a box; cast out of their own land,\nwith not a hand to aid them: newly come into an unknown world, children\nin helplessness, but men in wants--with younger children at their backs,\nto live or die as it might happen!\n\nThe morning came, and they would start at noon. Noon came, and they\nwould start at night. But nothing is eternal in this world; not even the\nprocrastination of an American skipper; and at night all was ready.\n\nDispirited and weary to the last degree, but a greater lion than\never (he had done nothing all the afternoon but answer letters from\nstrangers; half of them about nothing; half about borrowing money, and\nall requiring an instantaneous reply), Martin walked down to the wharf,\nthrough a concourse of people, with Mrs Hominy upon his arm; and went on\nboard. But Mark was bent on solving the riddle of this lionship, if he\ncould; and so, not without the risk of being left behind, ran back to\nthe hotel.\n\nCaptain Kedgick was sitting in the colonnade, with a julep on his knee,\nand a cigar in his mouth. He caught Mark's eye, and said:\n\n'Why, what the 'Tarnal brings you here?'\n\n'I'll tell you plainly what it is, Captain,' said Mark. 'I want to ask\nyou a question.'\n\n'A man may ASK a question, so he may,' returned Kedgick; strongly\nimplying that another man might not answer a question, so he mightn't.\n\n'What have they been making so much of him for, now?' said Mark, slyly.\n'Come!'\n\n'Our people like ex-citement,' answered Kedgick, sucking his cigar.\n\n'But how has he excited 'em?' asked Mark.\n\nThe Captain looked at him as if he were half inclined to unburden his\nmind of a capital joke.\n\n'You air a-going?' he said.\n\n'Going!' cried Mark. 'Ain't every moment precious?'\n\n'Our people like ex-citement,' said the Captain, whispering. 'He ain't\nlike emigrants in gin'ral; and he excited 'em along of this;' he winked\nand burst into a smothered laugh; 'along of this. Scadder is a smart\nman, and--and--nobody as goes to Eden ever comes back alive!'\n\nThe wharf was close at hand, and at that instant Mark could hear them\nshouting out his name; could even hear Martin calling to him to make\nhaste, or they would be separated. It was too late to mend the matter,\nor put any face upon it but the best. He gave the Captain a parting\nbenediction, and ran off like a race-horse.\n\n'Mark! Mark!' cried Martin.\n\n'Here am I, sir!' shouted Mark, suddenly replying from the edge of the\nquay, and leaping at a bound on board. 'Never was half so jolly, sir.\nAll right. Haul in! Go ahead!'\n\nThe sparks from the wood fire streamed upward from the two chimneys, as\nif the vessel were a great firework just lighted; and they roared away\nupon the dark water.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER TWENTY-THREE\n\nMARTIN AND HIS PARTNER TAKE POSSESSION OF THEIR ESTATE. THE JOYFUL\nOCCASION INVOLVES SOME FURTHER ACCOUNT OF EDEN\n\n\nThere happened to be on board the steamboat several gentlemen\npassengers, of the same stamp as Martin's New York friend Mr Bevan; and\nin their society he was cheerful and happy. They released him as well\nas they could from the intellectual entanglements of Mrs Hominy;\nand exhibited, in all they said and did, so much good sense and high\nfeeling, that he could not like them too well. 'If this were a republic\nof Intellect and Worth,' he said, 'instead of vapouring and jobbing,\nthey would not want the levers to keep it in motion.'\n\n'Having good tools, and using bad ones,' returned Mr Tapley, 'would look\nas if they was rather a poor sort of carpenters, sir, wouldn't it?'\n\nMartin nodded. 'As if their work were infinitely above their powers and\npurpose, Mark; and they botched it in consequence.'\n\n'The best on it is,' said Mark, 'that when they do happen to make a\ndecent stroke; such as better workmen, with no such opportunities, make\nevery day of their lives and think nothing of--they begin to sing out\nso surprising loud. Take notice of my words, sir. If ever the defaulting\npart of this here country pays its debts--along of finding that not\npaying 'em won't do in a commercial point of view, you see, and is\ninconvenient in its consequences--they'll take such a shine out of it,\nand make such bragging speeches, that a man might suppose no borrowed\nmoney had ever been paid afore, since the world was first begun. That's\nthe way they gammon each other, sir. Bless you, I know 'em. Take notice\nof my words, now!'\n\n'You seem to be growing profoundly sagacious!' cried Martin, laughing.\n\n'Whether that is,' thought Mark, 'because I'm a day's journey nearer\nEden, and am brightening up afore I die, I can't say. P'rhaps by the\ntime I get there I shall have growed into a prophet.'\n\nHe gave no utterance to these sentiments; but the excessive joviality\nthey inspired within him, and the merriment they brought upon his\nshining face, were quite enough for Martin. Although he might sometimes\nprofess to make light of his partner's inexhaustible cheerfulness,\nand might sometimes, as in the case of Zephaniah Scadder, find him\ntoo jocose a commentator, he was always sensible of the effect of his\nexample in rousing him to hopefulness and courage. Whether he were in\nthe humour to profit by it, mattered not a jot. It was contagious, and\nhe could not choose but be affected.\n\nAt first they parted with some of their passengers once or twice a day,\nand took in others to replace them. But by degrees, the towns upon their\nroute became more thinly scattered; and for many hours together they\nwould see no other habitations than the huts of the wood-cutters, where\nthe vessel stopped for fuel. Sky, wood, and water all the livelong day;\nand heat that blistered everything it touched.\n\nOn they toiled through great solitudes, where the trees upon the banks\ngrew thick and close; and floated in the stream; and held up shrivelled\narms from out the river's depths; and slid down from the margin of the\nland, half growing, half decaying, in the miry water. On through the\nweary day and melancholy night; beneath the burning sun, and in the mist\nand vapour of the evening; on, until return appeared impossible, and\nrestoration to their home a miserable dream.\n\nThey had now but few people on board, and these few were as flat, as\ndull, and stagnant, as the vegetation that oppressed their eyes. No\nsound of cheerfulness or hope was heard; no pleasant talk beguiled\nthe tardy time; no little group made common cause against the full\ndepression of the scene. But that, at certain periods, they swallowed\nfood together from a common trough, it might have been old Charon's\nboat, conveying melancholy shades to judgment.\n\nAt length they drew near New Thermopylae; where, that same evening, Mrs\nHominy would disembark. A gleam of comfort sunk into Martin's bosom when\nshe told him this. Mark needed none; but he was not displeased.\n\nIt was almost night when they came alongside the landing-place. A steep\nbank with an hotel like a barn on the top of it; a wooden store or two;\nand a few scattered sheds.\n\n'You sleep here to-night, and go on in the morning, I suppose, ma'am?'\nsaid Martin.\n\n'Where should I go on to?' cried the mother of the modern Gracchi.\n\n'To New Thermopylae.'\n\n'My! ain't I there?' said Mrs Hominy.\n\nMartin looked for it all round the darkening panorama; but he couldn't\nsee it, and was obliged to say so.\n\n'Why that's it!' cried Mrs Hominy, pointing to the sheds just mentioned.\n\n'THAT!' exclaimed Martin.\n\n'Ah! that; and work it which way you will, it whips Eden,' said Mrs\nHominy, nodding her head with great expression.\n\nThe married Miss Hominy, who had come on board with her husband, gave to\nthis statement her most unqualified support, as did that gentleman also.\nMartin gratefully declined their invitation to regale himself at their\nhouse during the half hour of the vessel's stay; and having escorted\nMrs Hominy and the red pocket-handkerchief (which was still on active\nservice) safely across the gangway, returned in a thoughtful mood to\nwatch the emigrants as they removed their goods ashore.\n\nMark, as he stood beside him, glanced in his face from time to time;\nanxious to discover what effect this dialogue had had upon him, and\nnot unwilling that his hopes should be dashed before they reached their\ndestination, so that the blow he feared might be broken in its fall. But\nsaving that he sometimes looked up quickly at the poor erections on the\nhill, he gave him no clue to what was passing in his mind, until they\nwere again upon their way.\n\n'Mark,' he said then, 'are there really none but ourselves on board this\nboat who are bound for Eden?'\n\n'None at all, sir. Most of 'em, as you know, have stopped short; and\nthe few that are left are going further on. What matters that! More room\nthere for us, sir.'\n\n'Oh, to be sure!' said Martin. 'But I was thinking--' and there he\npaused.\n\n'Yes, sir?' observed Mark.\n\n'How odd it was that the people should have arranged to try their\nfortune at a wretched hole like that, for instance, when there is such\na much better, and such a very different kind of place, near at hand, as\none may say.'\n\nHe spoke in a tone so very different from his usual confidence, and with\nsuch an obvious dread of Mark's reply, that the good-natured fellow was\nfull of pity.\n\n'Why, you know, sir,' said Mark, as gently as he could by any means\ninsinuate the observation, 'we must guard against being too sanguine.\nThere's no occasion for it, either, because we're determined to make the\nbest of everything, after we know the worst of it. Ain't we, sir?'\n\nMartin looked at him, but answered not a word.\n\n'Even Eden, you know, ain't all built,' said Mark.\n\n'In the name of Heaven, man,' cried Martin angrily, 'don't talk of Eden\nin the same breath with that place. Are you mad? There--God forgive\nme!--don't think harshly of me for my temper!'\n\nAfter that, he turned away, and walked to and fro upon the deck full two\nhours. Nor did he speak again, except to say 'Good night,' until next\nday; nor even then upon this subject, but on other topics quite foreign\nto the purpose.\n\nAs they proceeded further on their track, and came more and more towards\ntheir journey's end, the monotonous desolation of the scene increased to\nthat degree, that for any redeeming feature it presented to their eyes,\nthey might have entered, in the body, on the grim domains of Giant\nDespair. A flat morass, bestrewn with fallen timber; a marsh on which\nthe good growth of the earth seemed to have been wrecked and cast away,\nthat from its decomposing ashes vile and ugly things might rise; where\nthe very trees took the aspect of huge weeds, begotten of the slime\nfrom which they sprung, by the hot sun that burnt them up; where fatal\nmaladies, seeking whom they might infect, came forth at night in misty\nshapes, and creeping out upon the water, hunted them like spectres until\nday; where even the blessed sun, shining down on festering elements\nof corruption and disease, became a horror; this was the realm of Hope\nthrough which they moved.\n\nAt last they stopped. At Eden too. The waters of the Deluge might have\nleft it but a week before; so choked with slime and matted growth was\nthe hideous swamp which bore that name.\n\nThere being no depth of water close in shore, they landed from the\nvessel's boat, with all their goods beside them. There were a few\nlog-houses visible among the dark trees; the best, a cow-shed or a rude\nstable; but for the wharves, the market-place, the public buildings--\n\n'Here comes an Edener,' said Mark. 'He'll get us help to carry these\nthings up. Keep a good heart, sir. Hallo there!'\n\nThe man advanced toward them through the thickening gloom, very slowly;\nleaning on a stick. As he drew nearer, they observed that he was pale\nand worn, and that his anxious eyes were deeply sunken in his head. His\ndress of homespun blue hung about him in rags; his feet and head were\nbare. He sat down on a stump half-way, and beckoned them to come to him.\nWhen they complied, he put his hand upon his side as if in pain, and\nwhile he fetched his breath stared at them, wondering.\n\n'Strangers!' he exclaimed, as soon as he could speak.\n\n'The very same,' said Mark. 'How are you, sir?'\n\n'I've had the fever very bad,' he answered faintly. 'I haven't stood\nupright these many weeks. Those are your notions I see,' pointing to\ntheir property.\n\n'Yes, sir,' said Mark, 'they are. You couldn't recommend us some one as\nwould lend a hand to help carry 'em up to the--to the town, could you,\nsir?'\n\n'My eldest son would do it if he could,' replied the man; 'but today\nhe has his chill upon him, and is lying wrapped up in the blankets. My\nyoungest died last week.'\n\n'I'm sorry for it, governor, with all my heart,' said Mark, shaking him\nby the hand. 'Don't mind us. Come along with me, and I'll give you an\narm back. The goods is safe enough, sir'--to Martin--'there ain't many\npeople about, to make away with 'em. What a comfort that is!'\n\n'No,' cried the man. 'You must look for such folk here,' knocking his\nstick upon the ground, 'or yonder in the bush, towards the north. We've\nburied most of 'em. The rest have gone away. Them that we have here,\ndon't come out at night.'\n\n'The night air ain't quite wholesome, I suppose?' said Mark.\n\n'It's deadly poison,' was the settler's answer.\n\nMark showed no more uneasiness than if it had been commended to him as\nambrosia; but he gave the man his arm, and as they went along explained\nto him the nature of their purchase, and inquired where it lay. Close to\nhis own log-house, he said; so close that he had used their dwelling\nas a store-house for some corn; they must excuse it that night, but he\nwould endeavour to get it taken out upon the morrow. He then gave them\nto understand, as an additional scrap of local chit-chat, that he had\nburied the last proprietor with his own hands; a piece of information\nwhich Mark also received without the least abatement of his equanimity.\n\nIn a word, he conducted them to a miserable cabin, rudely constructed\nof the trunks of trees; the door of which had either fallen down or\nbeen carried away long ago; and which was consequently open to the\nwild landscape and the dark night. Saving for the little store he had\nmentioned, it was perfectly bare of all furniture; but they had left a\nchest upon the landing-place, and he gave them a rude torch in lieu\nof candle. This latter acquisition Mark planted in the earth, and then\ndeclaring that the mansion 'looked quite comfortable,' hurried\nMartin off again to help bring up the chest. And all the way to the\nlanding-place and back, Mark talked incessantly; as if he would infuse\ninto his partner's breast some faint belief that they had arrived under\nthe most auspicious and cheerful of all imaginable circumstances.\n\nBut many a man who would have stood within a home dismantled, strong in\nhis passion and design of vengeance, has had the firmness of his\nnature conquered by the razing of an air-built castle. When the log-hut\nreceived them for the second time, Martin laid down upon the ground, and\nwept aloud.\n\n'Lord love you, sir!' cried Mr Tapley, in great terror; 'Don't do that!\nDon't do that, sir! Anything but that! It never helped man, woman, or\nchild, over the lowest fence yet, sir, and it never will. Besides its\nbeing of no use to you, it's worse than of no use to me, for the least\nsound of it will knock me flat down. I can't stand up agin it, sir.\nAnything but that!'\n\nThere is no doubt he spoke the truth, for the extraordinary alarm with\nwhich he looked at Martin as he paused upon his knees before the chest,\nin the act of unlocking it, to say these words, sufficiently confirmed\nhim.\n\n'I ask your forgiveness a thousand times, my dear fellow,' said Martin.\n'I couldn't have helped it, if death had been the penalty.'\n\n'Ask my forgiveness!' said Mark, with his accustomed cheerfulness, as he\nproceeded to unpack the chest. 'The head partner a-asking forgiveness of\nCo., eh? There must be something wrong in the firm when that happens. I\nmust have the books inspected and the accounts gone over immediate. Here\nwe are. Everything in its proper place. Here's the salt pork. Here's the\nbiscuit. Here's the whiskey. Uncommon good it smells too. Here's the\ntin pot. This tin pot's a small fortun' in itself! Here's the blankets.\nHere's the axe. Who says we ain't got a first-rate fit out? I feel as if\nI was a cadet gone out to Indy, and my noble father was chairman of the\nBoard of Directors. Now, when I've got some water from the stream afore\nthe door and mixed the grog,' cried Mark, running out to suit the action\nto the word, 'there's a supper ready, comprising every delicacy of\nthe season. Here we are, sir, all complete. For what we are going to\nreceive, et cetrer. Lord bless you, sir, it's very like a gipsy party!'\n\nIt was impossible not to take heart, in the company of such a man as\nthis. Martin sat upon the ground beside the box; took out his knife; and\nate and drank sturdily.\n\n'Now you see,' said Mark, when they had made a hearty meal; 'with your\nknife and mine, I sticks this blanket right afore the door. Or where, in\na state of high civilization, the door would be. And very neat it looks.\nThen I stops the aperture below, by putting the chest agin it. And very\nneat THAT looks. Then there's your blanket, sir. Then here's mine. And\nwhat's to hinder our passing a good night?'\n\nFor all his light-hearted speaking, it was long before he slept himself.\nHe wrapped his blanket round him, put the axe ready to his hand, and lay\nacross the threshold of the door; too anxious and too watchful to close\nhis eyes. The novelty of their dreary situation, the dread of some\nrapacious animal or human enemy, the terrible uncertainty of their means\nof subsistence, the apprehension of death, the immense distance and the\nhosts of obstacles between themselves and England, were fruitful sources\nof disquiet in the deep silence of the night. Though Martin would have\nhad him think otherwise, Mark felt that he was waking also, and a prey\nto the same reflections. This was almost worse than all, for if he began\nto brood over their miseries instead of trying to make head against them\nthere could be little doubt that such a state of mind would powerfully\nassist the influence of the pestilent climate. Never had the light of\nday been half so welcome to his eyes, as when awaking from a fitful\ndoze, Mark saw it shining through the blanket in the doorway.\n\nHe stole out gently, for his companion was sleeping now; and having\nrefreshed himself by washing in the river, where it snowed before the\ndoor, took a rough survey of the settlement. There were not above a\nscore of cabins in the whole; half of these appeared untenanted; all\nwere rotten and decayed. The most tottering, abject, and forlorn among\nthem was called, with great propriety, the Bank, and National Credit\nOffice. It had some feeble props about it, but was settling deep down in\nthe mud, past all recovery.\n\nHere and there an effort had been made to clear the land, and something\nlike a field had been marked out, where, among the stumps and ashes of\nburnt trees, a scanty crop of Indian corn was growing. In some quarters,\na snake or zigzag fence had been begun, but in no instance had it been\ncompleted; and the felled logs, half hidden in the soil, lay mouldering\naway. Three or four meagre dogs, wasted and vexed with hunger; some\nlong-legged pigs, wandering away into the woods in search of food; some\nchildren, nearly naked, gazing at him from the huts; were all the living\nthings he saw. A fetid vapour, hot and sickening as the breath of an\noven, rose up from the earth, and hung on everything around; and as his\nfoot-prints sunk into the marshy ground, a black ooze started forth to\nblot them out.\n\nTheir own land was mere forest. The trees had grown so think and close\nthat they shouldered one another out of their places, and the weakest,\nforced into shapes of strange distortion, languished like cripples.\nThe best were stunted, from the pressure and the want of room; and high\nabout the stems of all grew long rank grass, dank weeds, and frowsy\nunderwood; not divisible into their separate kinds, but tangled all\ntogether in a heap; a jungle deep and dark, with neither earth nor water\nat its roots, but putrid matter, formed of the pulpy offal of the two,\nand of their own corruption.\n\nHe went down to the landing-place where they had left their goods last\nnight; and there he found some half-dozen men--wan and forlorn to look\nat, but ready enough to assist--who helped him to carry them to the\nlog-house. They shook their heads in speaking of the settlement, and had\nno comfort to give him. Those who had the means of going away had all\ndeserted it. They who were left had lost their wives, their children,\nfriends, or brothers there, and suffered much themselves. Most of\nthem were ill then; none were the men they had been once. They frankly\noffered their assistance and advice, and, leaving him for that time,\nwent sadly off upon their several tasks.\n\nMartin was by this time stirring; but he had greatly changed, even in\none night. He was very pale and languid; he spoke of pains and weakness\nin his limbs, and complained that his sight was dim, and his voice\nfeeble. Increasing in his own briskness as the prospect grew more and\nmore dismal, Mark brought away a door from one of the deserted houses,\nand fitted it to their own habitation; then went back again for a rude\nbench he had observed, with which he presently returned in triumph;\nand having put this piece of furniture outside the house, arranged the\nnotable tin pot and other such movables upon it, that it might represent\na dresser or a sideboard. Greatly satisfied with this arrangement, he\nnext rolled their cask of flour into the house and set it up on end in\none corner, where it served for a side-table. No better dining-table\ncould be required than the chest, which he solemnly devoted to that\nuseful service thenceforth. Their blankets, clothes, and the like, he\nhung on pegs and nails. And lastly, he brought forth a great placard\n(which Martin in the exultation of his heart had prepared with his own\nhands at the National Hotel) bearing the inscription, CHUZZLEWIT & CO.,\nARCHITECTS AND SURVEYORS, which he displayed upon the most conspicuous\npart of the premises, with as much gravity as if the thriving city of\nEden had a real existence, and they expected to be overwhelmed with\nbusiness.\n\n'These here tools,' said Mark, bringing forward Martin's case of\ninstruments and sticking the compasses upright in a stump before the\ndoor, 'shall be set out in the open air to show that we come provided.\nAnd now, if any gentleman wants a house built, he'd better give his\norders, afore we're other ways bespoke.'\n\nConsidering the intense heat of the weather, this was not a bad\nmorning's work; but without pausing for a moment, though he was\nstreaming at every pore, Mark vanished into the house again, and\npresently reappeared with a hatchet; intent on performing some\nimpossibilities with that implement.\n\n'Here's ugly old tree in the way, sir,' he observed, 'which'll be all\nthe better down. We can build the oven in the afternoon. There never was\nsuch a handy spot for clay as Eden is. That's convenient, anyhow.'\n\nBut Martin gave him no answer. He had sat the whole time with his head\nupon his hands, gazing at the current as it rolled swiftly by; thinking,\nperhaps, how fast it moved towards the open sea, the high road to the\nhome he never would behold again.\n\nNot even the vigorous strokes which Mark dealt at the tree awoke him\nfrom his mournful meditation. Finding all his endeavours to rouse him of\nno use, Mark stopped in his work and came towards him.\n\n'Don't give in, sir,' said Mr Tapley.\n\n'Oh, Mark,' returned his friend, 'what have I done in all my life that\nhas deserved this heavy fate?'\n\n'Why, sir,' returned Mark, 'for the matter of that, everybody as is here\nmight say the same thing; many of 'em with better reason p'raps than\nyou or me. Hold up, sir. Do something. Couldn't you ease your mind, now,\ndon't you think, by making some personal obserwations in a letter to\nScadder?'\n\n'No,' said Martin, shaking his head sorrowfully: 'I am past that.'\n\n'But if you're past that already,' returned Mark, 'you must be ill, and\nought to be attended to.'\n\n'Don't mind me,' said Martin. 'Do the best you can for yourself. You'll\nsoon have only yourself to consider. And then God speed you home, and\nforgive me for bringing you here! I am destined to die in this place. I\nfelt it the instant I set foot upon the shore. Sleeping or waking, Mark,\nI dreamed it all last night.'\n\n'I said you must be ill,' returned Mark, tenderly, 'and now I'm sure of\nit. A touch of fever and ague caught on these rivers, I dare say; but\nbless you, THAT'S nothing. It's only a seasoning, and we must all be\nseasoned, one way or another. That's religion that is, you know,' said\nMark.\n\nHe only sighed and shook his head.\n\n'Wait half a minute,' said Mark cheerily, 'till I run up to one of our\nneighbours and ask what's best to be took, and borrow a little of it to\ngive you; and to-morrow you'll find yourself as strong as ever again. I\nwon't be gone a minute. Don't give in while I'm away, whatever you do!'\n\nThrowing down his hatchet, he sped away immediately, but stopped when he\nhad got a little distance, and looked back; then hurried on again.\n\n'Now, Mr Tapley,' said Mark, giving himself a tremendous blow in the\nchest by way of reviver, 'just you attend to what I've got to say.\nThings is looking about as bad as they CAN look, young man. You'll not\nhave such another opportunity for showing your jolly disposition, my\nfine fellow, as long as you live. And therefore, Tapley, Now's your time\nto come out strong; or Never!'\n\n\n\nCHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR\n\nREPORTS PROGRESS IN CERTAIN HOMELY MATTERS OF LOVE, HATRED, JEALOUSY,\nAND REVENGE\n\n\n'Hallo, Pecksniff!' cried Mr Jonas from the parlour. 'Isn't somebody\na-going to open that precious old door of yours?'\n\n'Immediately, Mr Jonas. Immediately.'\n\n'Ecod,' muttered the orphan, 'not before it's time neither. Whoever it\nis, has knocked three times, and each one loud enough to wake the--' he\nhad such a repugnance to the idea of waking the Dead, that he stopped\neven then with the words upon his tongue, and said, instead, 'the Seven\nSleepers.'\n\n'Immediately, Mr Jonas; immediately,' repeated Pecksniff. 'Thomas\nPinch'--he couldn't make up his mind, in his great agitation, whether to\ncall Tom his dear friend or a villain, so he shook his fist at him\nPRO TEM--'go up to my daughters' room, and tell them who is here. Say,\nSilence. Silence! Do you hear me, sir?\n\n'Directly, sir!' cried Tom, departing, in a state of much amazement, on\nhis errand.\n\n'You'll--ha, ha, ha!--you'll excuse me, Mr Jonas, if I close this door\na moment, will you?' said Pecksniff. 'This may be a professional call.\nIndeed I am pretty sure it is. Thank you.' Then Mr Pecksniff, gently\nwarbling a rustic stave, put on his garden hat, seized a spade, and\nopened the street door; calmly appearing on the threshold, as if he\nthought he had, from his vineyard, heard a modest rap, but was not quite\ncertain.\n\nSeeing a gentleman and lady before him, he started back in as much\nconfusion as a good man with a crystal conscience might betray in mere\nsurprise. Recognition came upon him the next moment, and he cried:\n\n'Mr Chuzzlewit! Can I believe my eyes! My dear sir; my good sir! A\njoyful hour, a happy hour indeed. Pray, my dear sir, walk in. You find\nme in my garden-dress. You will excuse it, I know. It is an ancient\npursuit, gardening. Primitive, my dear sir. Or, if I am not mistaken,\nAdam was the first of our calling. MY Eve, I grieve to say is no more,\nsir; but'--here he pointed to his spade, and shook his head as if he\nwere not cheerful without an effort--'but I do a little bit of Adam\nstill.'\n\nHe had by this time got them into the best parlour, where the portrait\nby Spiller, and the bust by Spoker, were.\n\n'My daughters,' said Mr Pecksniff, 'will be overjoyed. If I could feel\nweary upon such a theme, I should have been worn out long ago, my dear\nsir, by their constant anticipation of this happiness and their repeated\nallusions to our meeting at Mrs Todgers's. Their fair young friend,\ntoo,' said Mr Pecksniff, 'whom they so desire to know and love--indeed\nto know her, is to love--I hope I see her well. I hope in saying,\n\"Welcome to my humble roof!\" I find some echo in her own sentiments.\nIf features are an index to the heart, I have no fears of that. An\nextremely engaging expression of countenance, Mr Chuzzlewit, my dear\nsir--very much so!'\n\n'Mary,' said the old man, 'Mr Pecksniff flatters you. But flattery from\nhim is worth the having. He is not a dealer in it, and it comes from his\nheart. We thought Mr--'\n\n'Pinch,' said Mary.\n\n'Mr Pinch would have arrived before us, Pecksniff.'\n\n'He did arrive before you, my dear sir,' retorted Pecksniff, raising his\nvoice for the edification of Tom upon the stairs, 'and was about, I dare\nsay, to tell me of your coming, when I begged him first to knock at my\ndaughters' chamber, and inquire after Charity, my dear child, who is not\nso well as I could wish. No,' said Mr Pecksniff, answering their looks,\n'I am sorry to say, she is not. It is merely an hysterical affection;\nnothing more, I am not uneasy. Mr Pinch! Thomas!' exclaimed Pecksniff,\nin his kindest accents. 'Pray come in. I shall make no stranger of you.\nThomas is a friend of mine, of rather long-standing, Mr Chuzzlewit, you\nmust know.'\n\n'Thank you, sir,' said Tom. 'You introduce me very kindly, and speak of\nme in terms of which I am very proud.'\n\n'Old Thomas!' cried his master, pleasantly 'God bless you!'\n\nTom reported that the young ladies would appear directly, and that\nthe best refreshments which the house afforded were even then in\npreparation, under their joint superintendence. While he was speaking,\nthe old man looked at him intently, though with less harshness than was\ncommon to him; nor did the mutual embarrassment of Tom and the\nyoung lady, to whatever cause he attributed it, seem to escape his\nobservation.\n\n'Pecksniff,' he said after a pause, rising and taking him aside towards\nthe window, 'I was much shocked on hearing of my brother's death. We\nhad been strangers for many years. My only comfort is that he must\nhave lived the happier and better man for having associated no hopes or\nschemes with me. Peace to his memory! We were play-fellows once; and it\nwould have been better for us both if we had died then.'\n\nFinding him in this gentle mood, Mr Pecksniff began to see another way\nout of his difficulties, besides the casting overboard of Jonas.\n\n'That any man, my dear sir, could possibly be the happier for not\nknowing you,' he returned, 'you will excuse my doubting. But that Mr\nAnthony, in the evening of his life, was happier in the affection of his\nexcellent son--a pattern, my dear sir, a pattern to all sons--and in the\ncare of a distant relation who, however lowly in his means of serving\nhim, had no bounds to his inclination; I can inform you.'\n\n'How's this?' said the old man. 'You are not a legatee?'\n\n'You don't,' said Mr Pecksniff, with a melancholy pressure of his hand,\n'quite understand my nature yet, I find. No, sir, I am not a legatee. I\nam proud to say I am not a legatee. I am proud to say that neither of my\nchildren is a legatee. And yet, sir, I was with him at his own request.\nHE understood me somewhat better, sir. He wrote and said, \"I am sick. I\nam sinking. Come to me!\" I went to him. I sat beside his bed, sir, and\nI stood beside his grave. Yes, at the risk of offending even you, I did\nit, sir. Though the avowal should lead to our instant separation, and\nto the severing of those tender ties between us which have recently been\nformed, I make it. But I am not a legatee,' said Mr Pecksniff, smiling\ndispassionately; 'and I never expected to be a legatee. I knew better!'\n\n'His son a pattern!' cried old Martin. 'How can you tell me that? My\nbrother had in his wealth the usual doom of wealth, and root of misery.\nHe carried his corrupting influence with him, go where he would; and\nshed it round him, even on his hearth. It made of his own child a\ngreedy expectant, who measured every day and hour the lessening distance\nbetween his father and the grave, and cursed his tardy progress on that\ndismal road.'\n\n'No!' cried Mr Pecksniff, boldly. 'Not at all, sir!'\n\n'But I saw that shadow in his house,' said Martin Chuzzlewit, 'the last\ntime we met, and warned him of its presence. I know it when I see it, do\nI not? I, who have lived within it all these years!'\n\n'I deny it,' Mr Pecksniff answered, warmly. 'I deny it altogether. That\nbereaved young man is now in this house, sir, seeking in change of scene\nthe peace of mind he has lost. Shall I be backward in doing justice to\nthat young man, when even undertakers and coffin-makers have been moved\nby the conduct he has exhibited; when even mutes have spoken in his\npraise, and the medical man hasn't known what to do with himself in\nthe excitement of his feelings! There is a person of the name of Gamp,\nsir--Mrs Gamp--ask her. She saw Mr Jonas in a trying time. Ask HER, sir.\nShe is respectable, but not sentimental, and will state the fact. A line\naddressed to Mrs Gamp, at the Bird Shop, Kingsgate Street, High Holborn,\nLondon, will meet with every attention, I have no doubt. Let her be\nexamined, my good sir. Strike, but hear! Leap, Mr Chuzzlewit, but look!\nForgive me, my dear sir,' said Mr Pecksniff, taking both his hands, 'if\nI am warm; but I am honest, and must state the truth.'\n\nIn proof of the character he gave himself, Mr Pecksniff suffered tears\nof honesty to ooze out of his eyes.\n\nThe old man gazed at him for a moment with a look of wonder, repeating\nto himself, 'Here now! In this house!' But he mastered his surprise, and\nsaid, after a pause:\n\n'Let me see him.'\n\n'In a friendly spirit, I hope?' said Mr Pecksniff. 'Forgive me, sir but\nhe is in the receipt of my humble hospitality.'\n\n'I said,' replied the old man, 'let me see him. If I were disposed to\nregard him in any other than a friendly spirit, I should have said keep\nus apart.'\n\n'Certainly, my dear sir. So you would. You are frankness itself, I know.\nI will break this happiness to him,' said Mr Pecksniff, as he left the\nroom, 'if you will excuse me for a minute--gently.'\n\nHe paved the way to the disclosure so very gently, that a quarter of an\nhour elapsed before he returned with Mr Jonas. In the meantime the young\nladies had made their appearance, and the table had been set out for the\nrefreshment of the travellers.\n\nNow, however well Mr Pecksniff, in his morality, had taught Jonas the\nlesson of dutiful behaviour to his uncle, and however perfectly Jonas,\nin the cunning of his nature, had learnt it, that young man's bearing,\nwhen presented to his father's brother, was anything but manly or\nengaging. Perhaps, indeed, so singular a mixture of defiance and\nobsequiousness, of fear and hardihood, of dogged sullenness and an\nattempt at enraging and propitiation, never was expressed in any one\nhuman figure as in that of Jonas, when, having raised his downcast\neyes to Martin's face, he let them fall again, and uneasily closing\nand unclosing his hands without a moment's intermission, stood swinging\nhimself from side to side, waiting to be addressed.\n\n'Nephew,' said the old man. 'You have been a dutiful son, I hear.'\n\n'As dutiful as sons in general, I suppose,' returned Jonas, looking up\nand down once more. 'I don't brag to have been any better than other\nsons; but I haven't been any worse, I dare say.'\n\n'A pattern to all sons, I am told,' said the old man, glancing towards\nMr Pecksniff.\n\n'Ecod!' said Jonas, looking up again for a moment, and shaking his head,\n'I've been as good a son as ever you were a brother. It's the pot and\nthe kettle, if you come to that.'\n\n'You speak bitterly, in the violence of your regret,' said Martin, after\na pause. 'Give me your hand.'\n\nJonas did so, and was almost at his ease. 'Pecksniff,' he whispered,\nas they drew their chairs about the table; 'I gave him as good as he\nbrought, eh? He had better look at home, before he looks out of window,\nI think?'\n\nMr Pecksniff only answered by a nudge of the elbow, which might either\nbe construed into an indignant remonstrance or a cordial assent; but\nwhich, in any case, was an emphatic admonition to his chosen son-in-law\nto be silent. He then proceeded to do the honours of the house with his\naccustomed ease and amiability.\n\nBut not even Mr Pecksniff's guileless merriment could set such a\nparty at their ease, or reconcile materials so utterly discordant\nand conflicting as those with which he had to deal. The unspeakable\njealously and hatred which that night's explanation had sown in\nCharity's breast, was not to be so easily kept down; and more than\nonce it showed itself in such intensity, as seemed to render a full\ndisclosure of all the circumstances then and there, impossible to be\navoided. The beauteous Merry, too, with all the glory of her conquest\nfresh upon her, so probed and lanced the rankling disappointment of her\nsister by her capricious airs and thousand little trials of Mr Jonas's\nobedience, that she almost goaded her into a fit of madness, and obliged\nher to retire from table in a burst of passion, hardly less vehement\nthan that to which she had abandoned herself in the first tumult of her\nwrath. The constraint imposed upon the family by the presence among\nthem for the first time of Mary Graham (for by that name old Martin\nChuzzlewit had introduced her) did not at all improve this state of\nthings; gentle and quiet though her manner was. Mr Pecksniff's situation\nwas peculiarly trying; for, what with having constantly to keep the\npeace between his daughters; to maintain a reasonable show of affection\nand unity in his household; to curb the growing ease and gaiety of\nJonas, which vented itself in sundry insolences towards Mr Pinch, and\nan indefinable coarseness of manner in reference to Mary (they being the\ntwo dependants); to make no mention at all of his having perpetually to\nconciliate his rich old relative, and to smooth down, or explain\naway, some of the ten thousand bad appearances and combinations of bad\nappearances, by which they were surrounded on that unlucky evening--what\nwith having to do this, and it would be difficult to sum up how much\nmore, without the least relief or assistance from anybody, it may be\neasily imagined that Mr Pecksniff had in his enjoyment something more\nthan that usual portion of alloy which is mixed up with the best of\nmen's delights. Perhaps he had never in his life felt such relief as\nwhen old Martin, looking at his watch, announced that it was time to go.\n\n'We have rooms,' he said, 'at the Dragon, for the present. I have a\nfancy for the evening walk. The nights are dark just now; perhaps Mr\nPinch would not object to light us home?'\n\n'My dear sir!' cried Pecksniff, 'I shall be delighted. Merry, my child,\nthe lantern.'\n\n'The lantern, if you please, my dear,' said Martin; 'but I couldn't\nthink of taking your father out of doors to-night; and, to be brief, I\nwon't.'\n\nMr Pecksniff already had his hat in his hand, but it was so emphatically\nsaid that he paused.\n\n'I take Mr Pinch, or go alone,' said Martin. 'Which shall it be?'\n\n'It shall be Thomas, sir,' cried Pecksniff, 'since you are so resolute\nupon it. Thomas, my friend, be very careful, if you please.'\n\nTom was in some need of this injunction, for he felt so nervous, and\ntrembled to such a degree, that he found it difficult to hold the\nlantern. How much more difficult when, at the old man's bidding she drew\nher hand through his--Tom Pinch's--arm!\n\n'And so, Mr Pinch,' said Martin, on the way, 'you are very comfortably\nsituated here; are you?'\n\nTom answered, with even more than his usual enthusiasm, that he was\nunder obligations to Mr Pecksniff which the devotion of a lifetime would\nbut imperfectly repay.\n\n'How long have you known my nephew?' asked Martin.\n\n'Your nephew, sir?' faltered Tom.\n\n'Mr Jonas Chuzzlewit,' said Mary.\n\n'Oh dear, yes,' cried Tom, greatly relieved, for his mind was running\nupon Martin. 'Certainly. I never spoke to him before to-night, sir!'\n\n'Perhaps half a lifetime will suffice for the acknowledgment of HIS\nkindness,' observed the old man.\n\nTom felt that this was a rebuff for him, and could not but understand it\nas a left-handed hit at his employer. So he was silent. Mary felt that\nMr Pinch was not remarkable for presence of mind, and that he could not\nsay too little under existing circumstances. So SHE was silent. The\nold man, disgusted by what in his suspicious nature he considered a\nshameless and fulsome puff of Mr Pecksniff, which was a part of Tom's\nhired service and in which he was determined to persevere, set him down\nat once for a deceitful, servile, miserable fawner. So HE was silent.\nAnd though they were all sufficiently uncomfortable, it is fair to say\nthat Martin was perhaps the most so; for he had felt kindly towards Tom\nat first, and had been interested by his seeming simplicity.\n\n'You're like the rest,' he thought, glancing at the face of the\nunconscious Tom. 'You had nearly imposed upon me, but you have lost\nyour labour. You are too zealous a toad-eater, and betray yourself, Mr\nPinch.'\n\nDuring the whole remainder of the walk, not another word was spoken.\nFirst among the meetings to which Tom had long looked forward with\na beating heart, it was memorable for nothing but embarrassment\nand confusion. They parted at the Dragon door; and sighing as he\nextinguished the candle in the lantern, Tom turned back again over the\ngloomy fields.\n\nAs he approached the first stile, which was in a lonely part, made very\ndark by a plantation of young firs, a man slipped past him and went on\nbefore. Coming to the stile he stopped, and took his seat upon it.\nTom was rather startled, and for a moment stood still, but he stepped\nforward again immediately, and went close up to him.\n\nIt was Jonas; swinging his legs to and fro, sucking the head of a stick,\nand looking with a sneer at Tom.\n\n'Good gracious me!' cried Tom, 'who would have thought of its being you!\nYou followed us, then?'\n\n'What's that to you?' said Jonas. 'Go to the devil!'\n\n'You are not very civil, I think,' remarked Tom.\n\n'Civil enough for YOU,' retorted Jonas. 'Who are you?'\n\n'One who has as good a right to common consideration as another,' said\nTom mildly.\n\n'You're a liar,' said Jonas. 'You haven't a right to any consideration.\nYou haven't a right to anything. You're a pretty sort of fellow to talk\nabout your rights, upon my soul! Ha, ha!--Rights, too!'\n\n'If you proceed in this way,' returned Tom, reddening, 'you will oblige\nme to talk about my wrongs. But I hope your joke is over.'\n\n'It's the way with you curs,' said Mr Jonas, 'that when you know a man's\nin real earnest, you pretend to think he's joking, so that you may turn\nit off. But that won't do with me. It's too stale. Now just attend to me\nfor a bit, Mr Pitch, or Witch, or Stitch, or whatever your name is.'\n\n'My name is Pinch,' observed Tom. 'Have the goodness to call me by it.'\n\n'What! You mustn't even be called out of your name, mustn't you!' cried\nJonas. 'Pauper' prentices are looking up, I think. Ecod, we manage 'em a\nlittle better in the city!'\n\n'Never mind what you do in the city,' said Tom. 'What have you got to\nsay to me?'\n\n'Just this, Mister Pinch,' retorted Jonas, thrusting his face so close\nto Tom's that Tom was obliged to retreat a step. 'I advise you to keep\nyour own counsel, and to avoid title-tattle, and not to cut in where\nyou're not wanted. I've heard something of you, my friend, and your\nmeek ways; and I recommend you to forget 'em till I am married to one\nof Pecksniff's gals, and not to curry favour among my relations, but\nto leave the course clear. You know, when curs won't leave the course\nclear, they're whipped off; so this is kind advice. Do you understand?\nEh? Damme, who are you,' cried Jonas, with increased contempt, 'that\nyou should walk home with THEM, unless it was behind 'em, like any other\nservant out of livery?'\n\n'Come!' cried Tom, 'I see that you had better get off the stile, and let\nme pursue my way home. Make room for me, if you please.'\n\n'Don't think it!' said Jonas, spreading out his legs. 'Not till I\nchoose. And I don't choose now. What! You're afraid of my making you\nsplit upon some of your babbling just now, are you, Sneak?'\n\n'I am not afraid of many things, I hope,' said Tom; 'and certainly not\nof anything that you will do. I am not a tale-bearer, and I despise all\nmeanness. You quite mistake me. Ah!' cried Tom, indignantly. 'Is this\nmanly from one in your position to one in mine? Please to make room for\nme to pass. The less I say, the better.'\n\n'The less you say!' retorted Jonas, dangling his legs the more, and\ntaking no heed of this request. 'You say very little, don't you? Ecod, I\nshould like to know what goes on between you and a vagabond member of my\nfamily. There's very little in that too, I dare say!'\n\n'I know no vagabond member of your family,' cried Tom, stoutly.\n\n'You do!' said Jonas.\n\n'I don't,' said Tom. 'Your uncle's namesake, if you mean him, is no\nvagabond. Any comparison between you and him'--Tom snapped his fingers\nat him, for he was rising fast in wrath--'is immeasurably to your\ndisadvantage.'\n\n'Oh indeed!' sneered Jonas. 'And what do you think of his deary--his\nbeggarly leavings, eh, Mister Pinch?'\n\n'I don't mean to say another word, or stay here another instant,'\nreplied Tom.\n\n'As I told you before, you're a liar,' said Jonas, coolly. 'You'll stay\nhere till I give you leave to go. Now, keep where you are, will you?'\n\nHe flourished his stick over Tom's head; but in a moment it was spinning\nharmlessly in the air, and Jonas himself lay sprawling in the ditch. In\nthe momentary struggle for the stick, Tom had brought it into violent\ncontact with his opponent's forehead; and the blood welled out profusely\nfrom a deep cut on the temple. Tom was first apprised of this by seeing\nthat he pressed his handkerchief to the wounded part, and staggered as\nhe rose, being stunned.\n\n'Are you hurt?' said Tom. 'I am very sorry. Lean on me for a moment.\nYou can do that without forgiving me, if you still bear me malice. But I\ndon't know why; for I never offended you before we met on this spot.'\n\nHe made him no answer; not appearing at first to understand him, or even\nto know that he was hurt, though he several times took his handkerchief\nfrom the cut to look vacantly at the blood upon it. After one of these\nexaminations, he looked at Tom, and then there was an expression in\nhis features, which showed that he understood what had taken place, and\nwould remember it.\n\nNothing more passed between them as they went home. Jonas kept a little\nin advance, and Tom Pinch sadly followed, thinking of the grief which\nthe knowledge of this quarrel must occasion his excellent benefactor.\nWhen Jonas knocked at the door, Tom's heart beat high; higher when Miss\nMercy answered it, and seeing her wounded lover, shireked aloud; higher,\nwhen he followed them into the family parlour; higher than at any other\ntime, when Jonas spoke.\n\n'Don't make a noise about it,' he said. 'It's nothing worth mentioning.\nI didn't know the road; the night's very dark; and just as I came up\nwith Mr Pinch'--he turned his face towards Tom, but not his eyes--'I ran\nagainst a tree. It's only skin deep.'\n\n'Cold water, Merry, my child!' cried Mr Pecksniff. 'Brown paper!\nScissors! A piece of old linen! Charity, my dear, make a bandage. Bless\nme, Mr Jonas!'\n\n'Oh, bother YOUR nonsense,' returned the gracious son-in-law elect. 'Be\nof some use if you can. If you can't, get out!'\n\nMiss Charity, though called upon to lend her aid, sat upright in one\ncorner, with a smile upon her face, and didn't move a finger. Though\nMercy laved the wound herself; and Mr Pecksniff held the patient's head\nbetween his two hands, as if without that assistance it must inevitably\ncome in half; and Tom Pinch, in his guilty agitation, shook a bottle of\nDutch Drops until they were nothing but English Froth, and in his other\nhand sustained a formidable carving-knife, really intended to reduce the\nswelling, but apparently designed for the ruthless infliction of another\nwound as soon as that was dressed; Charity rendered not the least\nassistance, nor uttered a word. But when Mr Jonas's head was bound up,\nand he had gone to bed, and everybody else had retired, and the house\nwas quiet, Mr Pinch, as he sat mournfully on his bedstead, ruminating,\nheard a gentle tap at his door; and opening it, saw her, to his great\nastonishment, standing before him with her finger on her lip.\n\n'Mr Pinch,' she whispered. 'Dear Mr Pinch! Tell me the truth! You did\nthat? There was some quarrel between you, and you struck him? I am sure\nof it!'\n\nIt was the first time she had ever spoken kindly to Tom, in all the many\nyears they had passed together. He was stupefied with amazement.\n\n'Was it so, or not?' she eagerly demanded.\n\n'I was very much provoked,' said Tom.\n\n'Then it was?' cried Charity, with sparkling eyes.\n\n'Ye-yes. We had a struggle for the path,' said Tom. 'But I didn't mean\nto hurt him so much.'\n\n'Not so much!' she repeated, clenching her hand and stamping her foot,\nto Tom's great wonder. 'Don't say that. It was brave of you. I honour\nyou for it. If you should ever quarrel again, don't spare him for the\nworld, but beat him down and set your shoe upon him. Not a word of this\nto anybody. Dear Mr Pinch, I am your friend from tonight. I am always\nyour friend from this time.'\n\nShe turned her flushed face upon Tom to confirm her words by its\nkindling expression; and seizing his right hand, pressed it to her\nbreast, and kissed it. And there was nothing personal in this to render\nit at all embarrassing, for even Tom, whose power of observation was by\nno means remarkable, knew from the energy with which she did it that she\nwould have fondled any hand, no matter how bedaubed or dyed, that had\nbroken the head of Jonas Chuzzlewit.\n\nTom went into his room, and went to bed, full of uncomfortable thoughts.\nThat there should be any such tremendous division in the family as he\nknew must have taken place to convert Charity Pecksniff into his friend,\nfor any reason, but, above all, for that which was clearly the real one;\nthat Jonas, who had assailed him with such exceeding coarseness, should\nhave been sufficiently magnanimous to keep the secret of their quarrel;\nand that any train of circumstances should have led to the commission of\nan assault and battery by Thomas Pinch upon any man calling himself\nthe friend of Seth Pecksniff; were matters of such deep and painful\ncogitation that he could not close his eyes. His own violence, in\nparticular, so preyed upon the generous mind of Tom, that coupling it\nwith the many former occasions on which he had given Mr Pecksniff pain\nand anxiety (occasions of which that gentleman often reminded him), he\nreally began to regard himself as destined by a mysterious fate to be\nthe evil genius and bad angel of his patron. But he fell asleep at last,\nand dreamed--new source of waking uneasiness--that he had betrayed his\ntrust, and run away with Mary Graham.\n\nIt must be acknowledged that, asleep or awake, Tom's position in\nreference to this young lady was full of uneasiness. The more he saw\nof her, the more he admired her beauty, her intelligence, the amiable\nqualities that even won on the divided house of Pecksniff, and in a\nfew days restored, at all events, the semblance of harmony and kindness\nbetween the angry sisters. When she spoke, Tom held his breath, so\neagerly he listened; when she sang, he sat like one entranced. She\ntouched his organ, and from that bright epoch even it, the old companion\nof his happiest hours, incapable as he had thought of elevation, began a\nnew and deified existence.\n\nGod's love upon thy patience, Tom! Who, that had beheld thee, for three\nsummer weeks, poring through half the deadlong night over the jingling\nanatomy of that inscrutable old harpsichord in the back parlour, could\nhave missed the entrance to thy secret heart: albeit it was dimly known\nto thee? Who that had seen the glow upon thy cheek when leaning down to\nlisten, after hours of labour, for the sound of one incorrigible note,\nthou foundest that it had a voice at last, and wheezed out a flat\nsomething, distantly akin to what it ought to be, would not have known\nthat it was destined for no common touch, but one that smote, though\ngently as an angel's hand, upon the deepest chord within thee! And if\na friendly glance--aye, even though it were as guileless as thine own,\nDear Tom--could have but pierced the twilight of that evening, when, in\na voice well tempered to the time, sad, sweet, and low, yet hopeful, she\nfirst sang to the altered instrument, and wondered at the change;\nand thou, sitting apart at the open window, kept a glad silence and a\nswelling heart--must not that glance have read perforce the dawning of a\nstory, Tom, that it were well for thee had never been begun!\n\nTom Pinch's situation was not made the less dangerous or difficult by\nthe fact of no one word passing between them in reference to Martin.\nHonourably mindful of his promise, Tom gave her opportunities of all\nkinds. Early and late he was in the church; in her favourite walks; in\nthe village, in the garden, in the meadows; and in any or all of these\nplaces he might have spoken freely. But no; at all such times she\ncarefully avoided him, or never came in his way unaccompanied. It could\nnot be that she disliked or distrusted him, for by a thousand little\ndelicate means, too slight for any notice but his own, she singled\nhim out when others were present, and showed herself the very soul of\nkindness. Could it be that she had broken with Martin, or had never\nreturned his affection, save in his own bold and heightened fancy? Tom's\ncheek grew red with self-reproach as he dismissed the thought.\n\nAll this time old Martin came and went in his own strange manner, or sat\namong the rest absorbed within himself, and holding little intercourse\nwith any one. Although he was unsocial, he was not willful in other\nthings, or troublesome, or morose; being never better pleased than\nwhen they left him quite unnoticed at his book, and pursued their own\namusements in his presence, unreserved. It was impossible to discern in\nwhom he took an interest, or whether he had an interest in any of them.\nUnless they spoke to him directly, he never showed that he had ears or\neyes for anything that passed.\n\nOne day the lively Merry, sitting with downcast eyes under a shady tree\nin the churchyard, whither she had retired after fatiguing herself by\nthe imposition of sundry trials on the temper of Mr Jonas, felt that\na new shadow came between her and the sun. Raising her eyes in the\nexpectation of seeing her betrothed, she was not a little surprised to\nsee old Martin instead. Her surprise was not diminished when he took his\nseat upon the turf beside her, and opened a conversation thus:\n\n'When are you to be married?'\n\n'Oh! dear Mr Chuzzlewit, my goodness me! I'm sure I don't know. Not yet\nawhile, I hope.'\n\n'You hope?' said the old man.\n\nIt was very gravely said, but she took it for banter, and giggled\nexcessively.\n\n'Come!' said the old man, with unusual kindness, 'you are young,\ngood-looking, and I think good-natured! Frivolous you are, and love to\nbe, undoubtedly; but you must have some heart.'\n\n'I have not given it all away, I can tell you,' said Merry, nodding her\nhead shrewdly, and plucking up the grass.\n\n'Have you parted with any of it?'\n\nShe threw the grass about, and looked another way, but said nothing.\n\nMartin repeated his question.\n\n'Lor, my dear Mr Chuzzlewit! really you must excuse me! How very odd you\nare.'\n\n'If it be odd in me to desire to know whether you love the young man\nwhom I understand you are to marry, I AM very odd,' said Martin. 'For\nthat is certainly my wish.'\n\n'He's such a monster, you know,' said Merry, pouting.\n\n'Then you don't love him?' returned the old man. 'Is that your meaning?'\n\n'Why, my dear Mr Chuzzlewit, I'm sure I tell him a hundred times a day\nthat I hate him. You must have heard me tell him that.'\n\n'Often,' said Martin.\n\n'And so I do,' cried Merry. 'I do positively.'\n\n'Being at the same time engaged to marry him,' observed the old man.\n\n'Oh yes,' said Merry. 'But I told the wretch--my dear Mr Chuzzlewit, I\ntold him when he asked me--that if I ever did marry him, it should only\nbe that I might hate and tease him all my life.'\n\nShe had a suspicion that the old man regarded Jonas with anything but\nfavour, and intended these remarks to be extremely captivating. He did\nnot appear, however, to regard them in that light by any means; for when\nhe spoke again, it was in a tone of severity.\n\n'Look about you,' he said, pointing to the graves; 'and remember that\nfrom your bridal hour to the day which sees you brought as low as these,\nand laid in such a bed, there will be no appeal against him. Think, and\nspeak, and act, for once, like an accountable creature. Is any control\nput upon your inclinations? Are you forced into this match? Are you\ninsidiously advised or tempted to contract it, by any one? I will not\nask by whom; by any one?'\n\n'No,' said Merry, shrugging her shoulders. 'I don't know that I am.'\n\n'Don't know that you are! Are you?'\n\n'No,' replied Merry. 'Nobody ever said anything to me about it. If any\none had tried to make me have him, I wouldn't have had him at all.'\n\n'I am told that he was at first supposed to be your sister's admirer,'\nsaid Martin.\n\n'Oh, good gracious! My dear Mr Chuzzlewit, it would be very hard to make\nhim, though he IS a monster, accountable for other people's vanity,'\nsaid Merry. 'And poor dear Cherry is the vainest darling!'\n\n'It was her mistake, then?'\n\n'I hope it was,' cried Merry; 'but, all along, the dear child has been\nso dreadfully jealous, and SO cross, that, upon my word and honour, it's\nimpossible to please her, and it's of no use trying.'\n\n'Not forced, persuaded, or controlled,' said Martin, thoughtfully. 'And\nthat's true, I see. There is one chance yet. You may have lapsed into\nthis engagement in very giddiness. It may have been the wanton act of a\nlight head. Is that so?'\n\n'My dear Mr Chuzzlewit,' simpered Merry, 'as to light-headedness, there\nnever was such a feather of a head as mine. It's perfect balloon, I\ndeclare! You never DID, you know!'\n\nHe waited quietly till she had finished, and then said, steadily\nand slowly, and in a softened voice, as if he would still invite her\nconfidence:\n\n'Have you any wish--or is there anything within your breast that\nwhispers you may form the wish, if you have time to think--to be\nreleased from this engagement?'\n\nAgain Miss Merry pouted, and looked down, and plucked the grass, and\nshrugged her shoulders. No. She didn't know that she had. She was pretty\nsure she hadn't. Quite sure, she might say. She 'didn't mind it.'\n\n'Has it ever occurred to you,' said Martin, 'that your married life may\nperhaps be miserable, full of bitterness, and most unhappy?'\n\nMerry looked down again; and now she tore the grass up by the roots.\n\n'My dear Mr Chuzzlewit, what shocking words! Of course, I shall quarrel\nwith him. I should quarrel with any husband. Married people always\nquarrel, I believe. But as to being miserable, and bitter, and all those\ndreadful things, you know, why I couldn't be absolutely that, unless he\nalways had the best of it; and I mean to have the best of it myself. I\nalways do now,' cried Merry, nodding her head and giggling very much;\n'for I make a perfect slave of the creature.'\n\n'Let it go on,' said Martin, rising. 'Let it go on! I sought to know\nyour mind, my dear, and you have shown it me. I wish you joy. Joy!' he\nrepeated, looking full upon her, and pointing to the wicket-gate where\nJonas entered at the moment. And then, without waiting for his nephew,\nhe passed out at another gate, and went away.\n\n'Oh, you terrible old man!' cried the facetious Merry to herself. 'What\na perfectly hideous monster to be wandering about churchyards in the\nbroad daylight, frightening people out of their wits! Don't come here,\nGriffin, or I'll go away directly.'\n\nMr Jonas was the Griffin. He sat down upon the grass at her side, in\nspite of this warning, and sulkily inquired:\n\n'What's my uncle been a-talking about?'\n\n'About you,' rejoined Merry. 'He says you're not half good enough for\nme.'\n\n'Oh, yes, I dare say! We all know that. He means to give you some\npresent worth having, I hope. Did he say anything that looked like it?'\n\n'THAT he didn't!' cried Merry, most decisively.\n\n'A stingy old dog he is,' said Jonas. 'Well?'\n\n'Griffin!' cried Miss Mercy, in counterfeit amazement; 'what are you\ndoing, Griffin?'\n\n'Only giving you a squeeze,' said the discomfited Jonas. 'There's no\nharm in that, I suppose?'\n\n'But there is great deal of harm in it, if I don't consider it\nagreeable,' returned his cousin. 'Do go along, will you? You make me so\nhot!'\n\nMr Jonas withdrew his arm, and for a moment looked at her more like a\nmurderer than a lover. But he cleared his brow by degrees, and broke\nsilence with:\n\n'I say, Mel!'\n\n'What do you say, you vulgar thing--you low savage?' cried his fair\nbetrothed.\n\n'When is it to be? I can't afford to go on dawdling about here half\nmy life, I needn't tell you, and Pecksniff says that father's being so\nlately dead makes very little odds; for we can be married as quiet as we\nplease down here, and my being lonely is a good reason to the neighbours\nfor taking a wife home so soon, especially one that he knew. As to\ncrossbones (my uncle, I mean), he's sure not to put a spoke in the\nwheel, whatever we settle on, for he told Pecksniff only this morning,\nthat if YOU liked it he'd nothing at all to say. So, Mel,' said Jonas,\nventuring on another squeeze; 'when shall it be?'\n\n'Upon my word!' cried Merry.\n\n'Upon my soul, if you like,' said Jonas. 'What do you say to next week,\nnow?'\n\n'To next week! If you had said next quarter, I should have wondered at\nyour impudence.'\n\n'But I didn't say next quarter,' retorted Jonas. 'I said next week.'\n\n'Then, Griffin,' cried Miss Merry, pushing him off, and rising. 'I say\nno! not next week. It shan't be till I choose, and I may not choose it\nto be for months. There!'\n\nHe glanced up at her from the ground, almost as darkly as he had looked\nat Tom Pinch; but held his peace.\n\n'No fright of a Griffin with a patch over his eye shall dictate to me or\nhave a voice in the matter,' said Merry. 'There!'\n\nStill Mr Jonas held his peace.\n\n'If it's next month, that shall be the very earliest; but I won't say\nwhen it shall be till to-morrow; and if you don't like that, it shall\nnever be at all,' said Merry; 'and if you follow me about and won't\nleave me alone, it shall never be at all. There! And if you don't do\neverything I order you to do, it shall never be at all. So don't follow\nme. There, Griffin!'\n\nAnd with that, she skipped away, among the trees.\n\n'Ecod, my lady!' said Jonas, looking after her, and biting a piece\nof straw, almost to powder; 'you'll catch it for this, when you ARE\nmarried. It's all very well now--it keeps one on, somehow, and you know\nit--but I'll pay you off scot and lot by-and-bye. This is a plaguey dull\nsort of a place for a man to be sitting by himself in. I never could\nabide a mouldy old churchyard.'\n\nAs he turned into the avenue himself, Miss Merry, who was far ahead,\nhappened to look back.\n\n'Ah!' said Jonas, with a sullen smile, and a nod that was not addressed\nto her. 'Make the most of it while it lasts. Get in your hay while the\nsun shines. Take your own way as long as it's in your power, my lady!'\n\n\n\nCHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE\n\nIS IN PART PROFESSIONAL, AND FURNISHES THE READER WITH SOME VALUABLE\nHINTS IN RELATION TO THE MANAGEMENT OF A SICK CHAMBER\n\n\nMr Mould was surrounded by his household gods. He was enjoying the\nsweets of domestic repose, and gazing on them with a calm delight. The\nday being sultry, and the window open, the legs of Mr Mould were on the\nwindow-seat, and his back reclined against the shutter. Over his shining\nhead a handkerchief was drawn, to guard his baldness from the flies. The\nroom was fragrant with the smell of punch, a tumbler of which grateful\ncompound stood upon a small round table, convenient to the hand of\nMr Mould; so deftly mixed that as his eye looked down into the cool\ntransparent drink, another eye, peering brightly from behind the crisp\nlemon-peel, looked up at him, and twinkled like a star.\n\nDeep in the City, and within the ward of Cheap, stood Mr Mould's\nestablishment. His Harem, or, in other words, the common sitting room\nof Mrs Mould and family, was at the back, over the little counting-house\nbehind the shop; abutting on a churchyard small and shady. In this\ndomestic chamber Mr Mould now sat; gazing, a placid man, upon his punch\nand home. If, for a moment at a time, he sought a wider prospect, whence\nhe might return with freshened zest to these enjoyments, his moist\nglance wandered like a sunbeam through a rural screen of scarlet\nrunners, trained on strings before the window, and he looked down, with\nan artist's eye, upon the graves.\n\nThe partner of his life, and daughters twain, were Mr Mould's\ncompanions. Plump as any partridge was each Miss Mould, and Mrs M.\nwas plumper than the two together. So round and chubby were their fair\nproportions, that they might have been the bodies once belonging to the\nangels' faces in the shop below, grown up, with other heads attached\nto make them mortal. Even their peachy cheeks were puffed out and\ndistended, as though they ought of right to be performing on celestial\ntrumpets. The bodiless cherubs in the shop, who were depicted as\nconstantly blowing those instruments for ever and ever without any\nlungs, played, it is to be presumed, entirely by ear.\n\nMr Mould looked lovingly at Mrs Mould, who sat hard by, and was a\nhelpmate to him in his punch as in all other things. Each seraph\ndaughter, too, enjoyed her share of his regards, and smiled upon him in\nreturn. So bountiful were Mr Mould's possessions, and so large his\nstock in trade, that even there, within his household sanctuary, stood\na cumbrous press, whose mahogany maw was filled with shrouds, and\nwinding-sheets, and other furniture of funerals. But, though the Misses\nMould had been brought up, as one may say, beneath his eye, it had cast\nno shadow on their timid infancy or blooming youth. Sporting behind\nthe scenes of death and burial from cradlehood, the Misses Mould knew\nbetter. Hat-bands, to them, were but so many yards of silk or crape; the\nfinal robe but such a quantity of linen. The Misses Mould could idealise\na player's habit, or a court-lady's petticoat, or even an act of\nparliament. But they were not to be taken in by palls. They made them\nsometimes.\n\nThe premises of Mr Mould were hard of hearing to the boisterous noises\nin the great main streets, and nestled in a quiet corner, where the City\nstrife became a drowsy hum, that sometimes rose and sometimes fell and\nsometimes altogether ceased; suggesting to a thoughtful mind a stoppage\nin Cheapside. The light came sparkling in among the scarlet runners,\nas if the churchyard winked at Mr Mould, and said, 'We understand\neach other;' and from the distant shop a pleasant sound arose of\ncoffin-making with a low melodious hammer, rat, tat, tat, tat, alike\npromoting slumber and digestion.\n\n'Quite the buzz of insects,' said Mr Mould, closing his eyes in a\nperfect luxury. 'It puts one in mind of the sound of animated nature in\nthe agricultural districts. It's exactly like the woodpecker tapping.'\n\n'The woodpecker tapping the hollow ELM tree,' observed Mrs Mould,\nadapting the words of the popular melody to the description of wood\ncommonly used in the trade.\n\n'Ha, ha!' laughed Mr Mould. 'Not at all bad, my dear. We shall be glad\nto hear from you again, Mrs M. Hollow elm tree, eh! Ha, ha! Very good\nindeed. I've seen worse than that in the Sunday papers, my love.'\n\nMrs Mould, thus encouraged, took a little more of the punch, and handed\nit to her daughters, who dutifully followed the example of their mother.\n\n'Hollow ELM tree, eh?' said Mr Mould, making a slight motion with his\nlegs in his enjoyment of the joke. 'It's beech in the song. Elm, eh?\nYes, to be sure. Ha, ha, ha! Upon my soul, that's one of the best things\nI know?' He was so excessively tickled by the jest that he couldn't\nforget it, but repeated twenty times, 'Elm, eh? Yes, to be sure. Elm,\nof course. Ha, ha, ha! Upon my life, you know, that ought to be sent to\nsomebody who could make use of it. It's one of the smartest things that\never was said. Hollow ELM tree, eh? of course. Very hollow. Ha, ha, ha!'\n\nHere a knock was heard at the room door.\n\n'That's Tacker, I know,' said Mrs Mould, 'by the wheezing he makes. Who\nthat hears him now, would suppose he'd ever had wind enough to carry the\nfeathers on his head! Come in, Tacker.'\n\n'Beg your pardon, ma'am,' said Tacker, looking in a little way. 'I\nthought our Governor was here.'\n\n'Well! so he is,' cried Mould.\n\n'Oh! I didn't see you, I'm sure,' said Tacker, looking in a little\nfarther. 'You wouldn't be inclined to take a walking one of two, with\nthe plain wood and a tin plate, I suppose?'\n\n'Certainly not,' replied Mr Mould, 'much too common. Nothing to say to\nit.'\n\n'I told 'em it was precious low,' observed Mr Tacker.\n\n'Tell 'em to go somewhere else. We don't do that style of business\nhere,' said Mr Mould. 'Like their impudence to propose it. Who is it?'\n\n'Why,' returned Tacker, pausing, 'that's where it is, you see. It's the\nbeadle's son-in-law.'\n\n'The beadle's son-in-law, eh?' said Mould. 'Well! I'll do it if the\nbeadle follows in his cocked hat; not else. We carry it off that way, by\nlooking official, but it'll be low enough, then. His cocked hat, mind!'\n\n'I'll take care, sir,' rejoined Tacker. 'Oh! Mrs Gamp's below, and wants\nto speak to you.'\n\n'Tell Mrs Gamp to come upstairs,' said Mould. 'Now Mrs Gamp, what's YOUR\nnews?'\n\nThe lady in question was by this time in the doorway, curtseying to\nMrs Mould. At the same moment a peculiar fragrance was borne upon the\nbreeze, as if a passing fairy had hiccoughed, and had previously been to\na wine-vaults.\n\nMrs Gamp made no response to Mr Mould, but curtseyed to Mrs Mould again,\nand held up her hands and eyes, as in a devout thanksgiving that she\nlooked so well. She was neatly, but not gaudily attired, in the\nweeds she had worn when Mr Pecksniff had the pleasure of making her\nacquaintance; and was perhaps the turning of a scale more snuffy.\n\n'There are some happy creeturs,' Mrs Gamp observed, 'as time runs\nback'ards with, and you are one, Mrs Mould; not that he need do nothing\nexcept use you in his most owldacious way for years to come, I'm\nsure; for young you are and will be. I says to Mrs Harris,' Mrs Gamp\ncontinued, 'only t'other day; the last Monday evening fortnight as\never dawned upon this Piljian's Projiss of a mortal wale; I says to Mrs\nHarris when she says to me, \"Years and our trials, Mrs Gamp, sets marks\nupon us all.\"--\"Say not the words, Mrs Harris, if you and me is to be\ncontinual friends, for sech is not the case. Mrs Mould,\" I says, making\nso free, I will confess, as use the name,' (she curtseyed here), '\"is\none of them that goes agen the obserwation straight; and never, Mrs\nHarris, whilst I've a drop of breath to draw, will I set by, and not\nstand up, don't think it.\"--\"I ast your pardon, ma'am,\" says Mrs Harris,\n\"and I humbly grant your grace; for if ever a woman lived as would see\nher feller creeturs into fits to serve her friends, well do I know that\nwoman's name is Sairey Gamp.\"'\n\nAt this point she was fain to stop for breath; and advantage may be\ntaken of the circumstance, to state that a fearful mystery surrounded\nthis lady of the name of Harris, whom no one in the circle of Mrs Gamp's\nacquaintance had ever seen; neither did any human being know her place\nof residence, though Mrs Gamp appeared on her own showing to be in\nconstant communication with her. There were conflicting rumours on the\nsubject; but the prevalent opinion was that she was a phantom of Mrs\nGamp's brain--as Messrs. Doe and Roe are fictions of the law--created\nfor the express purpose of holding visionary dialogues with her on all\nmanner of subjects, and invariably winding up with a compliment to the\nexcellence of her nature.\n\n'And likeways what a pleasure,' said Mrs Gamp, turning with a tearful\nsmile towards the daughters, 'to see them two young ladies as I know'd\nafore a tooth in their pretty heads was cut, and have many a day\nseen--ah, the sweet creeturs!--playing at berryins down in the shop, and\nfollerin' the order-book to its long home in the iron safe! But that's\nall past and over, Mr Mould;' as she thus got in a carefully regulated\nroutine to that gentleman, she shook her head waggishly; 'That's all\npast and over now, sir, an't it?'\n\n'Changes, Mrs Gamp, changes!' returned the undertaker.\n\n'More changes too, to come, afore we've done with changes, sir,' said\nMrs Gamp, nodding yet more waggishly than before. 'Young ladies with\nsuch faces thinks of something else besides berryins, don't they, sir?'\n\n'I am sure I don't know, Mrs Gamp,' said Mould, with a chuckle--'Not bad\nin Mrs Gamp, my dear?'\n\n'Oh yes, you do know, sir!' said Mrs Gamp, 'and so does Mrs Mould,\nyour 'ansome pardner too, sir; and so do I, although the blessing of a\ndaughter was deniged me; which, if we had had one, Gamp would certainly\nhave drunk its little shoes right off its feet, as with our precious boy\nhe did, and arterward send the child a errand to sell his wooden leg for\nany money it would fetch as matches in the rough, and bring it home\nin liquor; which was truly done beyond his years, for ev'ry individgle\npenny that child lost at toss or buy for kidney ones; and come home\narterwards quite bold, to break the news, and offering to drown himself\nif sech would be a satisfaction to his parents.--Oh yes, you do know,\nsir,' said Mrs Gamp, wiping her eye with her shawl, and resuming the\nthread of her discourse. 'There's something besides births and berryins\nin the newspapers, an't there, Mr Mould?'\n\nMr Mould winked at Mrs Mould, whom he had by this time taken on his\nknee, and said: 'No doubt. A good deal more, Mrs Gamp. Upon my life, Mrs\nGamp is very far from bad, my dear!'\n\n'There's marryings, an't there, sir?' said Mrs Gamp, while both the\ndaughters blushed and tittered. 'Bless their precious hearts, and well\nthey knows it! Well you know'd it too, and well did Mrs Mould, when you\nwas at their time of life! But my opinion is, you're all of one age now.\nFor as to you and Mrs Mould, sir, ever having grandchildren--'\n\n'Oh! Fie, fie! Nonsense, Mrs Gamp,' replied the undertaker. 'Devilish\nsmart, though. Ca-pi-tal!'--this was in a whisper. 'My dear'--aloud\nagain--'Mrs Gamp can drink a glass of rum, I dare say. Sit down, Mrs\nGamp, sit down.'\n\nMrs Gamp took the chair that was nearest the door, and casting up her\neyes towards the ceiling, feigned to be wholly insensible to the fact of\na glass of rum being in preparation, until it was placed in her hand by\none of the young ladies, when she exhibited the greatest surprise.\n\n'A thing,' she said, 'as hardly ever, Mrs Mould, occurs with me unless\nit is when I am indispoged, and find my half a pint of porter settling\nheavy on the chest. Mrs Harris often and often says to me, \"Sairey\nGamp,\" she says, \"you raly do amaze me!\" \"Mrs Harris,\" I says to her,\n\"why so? Give it a name, I beg.\" \"Telling the truth then, ma'am,\" says\nMrs Harris, \"and shaming him as shall be nameless betwixt you and me,\nnever did I think till I know'd you, as any woman could sick-nurse and\nmonthly likeways, on the little that you takes to drink.\" \"Mrs Harris,\"\nI says to her, \"none on us knows what we can do till we tries; and\nwunst, when me and Gamp kept 'ouse, I thought so too. But now,\" I says,\n\"my half a pint of porter fully satisfies; perwisin', Mrs Harris, that\nit is brought reg'lar, and draw'd mild. Whether I sicks or monthlies,\nma'am, I hope I does my duty, but I am but a poor woman, and I earns my\nliving hard; therefore I DO require it, which I makes confession, to be\nbrought reg'lar and draw'd mild.\"'\n\nThe precise connection between these observations and the glass of rum,\ndid not appear; for Mrs Gamp proposing as a toast 'The best of lucks\nto all!' took off the dram in quite a scientific manner, without any\nfurther remarks.\n\n'And what's your news, Mrs Gamp?' asked Mould again, as that lady wiped\nher lips upon her shawl, and nibbled a corner off a soft biscuit, which\nshe appeared to carry in her pocket as a provision against contingent\ndrams. 'How's Mr Chuffey?'\n\n'Mr Chuffey, sir,' she replied, 'is jest as usual; he an't no better and\nhe an't no worse. I take it very kind in the gentleman to have wrote up\nto you and said, \"let Mrs Gamp take care of him till I come home;\" but\nev'rythink he does is kind. There an't a many like him. If there was, we\nshouldn't want no churches.'\n\n'What do you want to speak to me about, Mrs Gamp?' said Mould, coming to\nthe point.\n\n'Jest this, sir,' Mrs Gamp returned, 'with thanks to you for asking.\nThere IS a gent, sir, at the Bull in Holborn, as has been took ill\nthere, and is bad abed. They have a day nurse as was recommended from\nBartholomew's; and well I knows her, Mr Mould, her name bein' Mrs Prig,\nthe best of creeturs. But she is otherways engaged at night, and they\nare in wants of night-watching; consequent she says to them, having\nreposed the greatest friendliness in me for twenty year, \"The soberest\nperson going, and the best of blessings in a sick room, is Mrs Gamp.\nSend a boy to Kingsgate Street,\" she says, \"and snap her up at any\nprice, for Mrs Gamp is worth her weight and more in goldian guineas.\"\nMy landlord brings the message down to me, and says, \"bein' in a light\nplace where you are, and this job promising so well, why not unite the\ntwo?\" \"No, sir,\" I says, \"not unbeknown to Mr Mould, and therefore do\nnot think it. But I will go to Mr Mould,\" I says, \"and ast him, if you\nlike.\"' Here she looked sideways at the undertaker, and came to a stop.\n\n'Night-watching, eh?' said Mould, rubbing his chin.\n\n'From eight o'clock till eight, sir. I will not deceive you,' Mrs Gamp\nrejoined.\n\n'And then go back, eh?' said would.\n\n'Quite free, then, sir, to attend to Mr Chuffey. His ways bein' quiet,\nand his hours early, he'd be abed, sir, nearly all the time. I will not\ndeny,' said Mrs Gamp with meekness, 'that I am but a poor woman, and\nthat the money is a object; but do not let that act upon you, Mr Mould.\nRich folks may ride on camels, but it an't so easy for 'em to see out of\na needle's eye. That is my comfort, and I hope I knows it.'\n\n'Well, Mrs Gamp,' observed Mould, 'I don't see any particular objection\nto your earning an honest penny under such circumstances. I should keep\nit quiet, I think, Mrs Gamp. I wouldn't mention it to Mr Chuzzlewit\non his return, for instance, unless it were necessary, or he asked you\npointblank.'\n\n'The very words was on my lips, sir,' Mrs Gamp rejoined. 'Suppoging\nthat the gent should die, I hope I might take the liberty of saying as I\nknow'd some one in the undertaking line, and yet give no offence to you,\nsir?'\n\n'Certainly, Mrs Gamp,' said Mould, with much condescension. 'You may\ncasually remark, in such a case, that we do the thing pleasantly and in\na great variety of styles, and are generally considered to make it\nas agreeable as possible to the feelings of the survivors. But don't\nobtrude it, don't obtrude it. Easy, easy! My dear, you may as well give\nMrs Gamp a card or two, if you please.'\n\nMrs Gamp received them, and scenting no more rum in the wind (for the\nbottle was locked up again) rose to take her departure.\n\n'Wishing ev'ry happiness to this happy family,' said Mrs Gamp 'with\nall my heart. Good arternoon, Mrs Mould! If I was Mr would I should be\njealous of you, ma'am; and I'm sure, if I was you, I should be jealous\nof Mr Mould.'\n\n'Tut, tut! Bah, bah! Go along, Mrs Gamp!' cried the delighted\nundertaker.\n\n'As to the young ladies,' said Mrs Gamp, dropping a curtsey, 'bless\ntheir sweet looks--how they can ever reconsize it with their duties to\nbe so grown up with such young parents, it an't for sech as me to give a\nguess at.'\n\n'Nonsense, nonsense. Be off, Mrs Gamp!' cried Mould. But in the height\nof his gratification he actually pinched Mrs Mould as he said it.\n\n'I'll tell you what, my dear,' he observed, when Mrs Gamp had at last\nwithdrawn and shut the door, 'that's a ve-ry shrewd woman. That's a\nwoman whose intellect is immensely superior to her station in life.\nThat's a woman who observes and reflects in an uncommon manner. She's\nthe sort of woman now,' said Mould, drawing his silk handkerchief over\nhis head again, and composing himself for a nap 'one would almost feel\ndisposed to bury for nothing; and do it neatly, too!'\n\nMrs Mould and her daughters fully concurred in these remarks; the\nsubject of which had by this time reached the street, where she\nexperienced so much inconvenience from the air, that she was obliged to\nstand under an archway for a short time, to recover herself. Even\nafter this precaution, she walked so unsteadily as to attract the\ncompassionate regards of divers kind-hearted boys, who took the\nliveliest interest in her disorder; and in their simple language bade\nher be of good cheer, for she was 'only a little screwed.'\n\nWhatever she was, or whatever name the vocabulary of medical science\nwould have bestowed upon her malady, Mrs Gamp was perfectly acquainted\nwith the way home again; and arriving at the house of Anthony Chuzzlewit\n& Son, lay down to rest. Remaining there until seven o'clock in the\nevening, and then persuading poor old Chuffey to betake himself to\nbed, she sallied forth upon her new engagement. First, she went to\nher private lodgings in Kingsgate Street, for a bundle of robes and\nwrappings comfortable in the night season; and then repaired to the Bull\nin Holborn, which she reached as the clocks were striking eight.\n\nAs she turned into the yard, she stopped; for the landlord, landlady,\nand head chambermaid, were all on the threshold together talking\nearnestly with a young gentleman who seemed to have just come or to\nbe just going away. The first words that struck upon Mrs Gamp's ear\nobviously bore reference to the patient; and it being expedient that all\ngood attendants should know as much as possible about the case on which\ntheir skill is brought to bear, Mrs Gamp listened as a matter of duty.\n\n'No better, then?' observed the gentleman.\n\n'Worse!' said the landlord.\n\n'Much worse,' added the landlady.\n\n'Oh! a deal badder,' cried the chambermaid from the background, opening\nher eyes very wide, and shaking her head.\n\n'Poor fellow!' said the gentleman, 'I am sorry to hear it. The worst of\nit is, that I have no idea what friends or relations he has, or where\nthey live, except that it certainly is not in London.'\n\nThe landlord looked at the landlady; the landlady looked at the\nlandlord; and the chambermaid remarked, hysterically, 'that of all the\nmany wague directions she had ever seen or heerd of (and they wasn't few\nin an hotel), THAT was the waguest.'\n\n'The fact is, you see,' pursued the gentleman, 'as I told you yesterday\nwhen you sent to me, I really know very little about him. We were\nschool-fellows together; but since that time I have only met him twice.\nOn both occasions I was in London for a boy's holiday (having come up\nfor a week or so from Wiltshire), and lost sight of him again directly.\nThe letter bearing my name and address which you found upon his table,\nand which led to your applying to me, is in answer, you will observe,\nto one he wrote from this house the very day he was taken ill, making an\nappointment with him at his own request. Here is his letter, if you wish\nto see it.'\n\nThe landlord read it; the landlady looked over him. The chambermaid, in\nthe background, made out as much of it as she could, and invented the\nrest; believing it all from that time forth as a positive piece of\nevidence.\n\n'He has very little luggage, you say?' observed the gentleman, who was\nno other than our old friend, John Westlock.\n\n'Nothing but a portmanteau,' said the landlord; 'and very little in it.'\n\n'A few pounds in his purse, though?'\n\n'Yes. It's sealed up, and in the cash-box. I made a memorandum of the\namount, which you're welcome to see.'\n\n'Well!' said John, 'as the medical gentleman says the fever must take\nits course, and nothing can be done just now beyond giving him his\ndrinks regularly and having him carefully attended to, nothing more\ncan be said that I know of, until he is in a condition to give us some\ninformation. Can you suggest anything else?'\n\n'N-no,' replied the landlord, 'except--'\n\n'Except, who's to pay, I suppose?' said John.\n\n'Why,' hesitated the landlord, 'it would be as well.'\n\n'Quite as well,' said the landlady.\n\n'Not forgetting to remember the servants,' said the chambermaid in a\nbland whisper.\n\n'It is but reasonable, I fully admit,' said John Westlock. 'At all\nevents, you have the stock in hand to go upon for the present; and I\nwill readily undertake to pay the doctor and the nurses.'\n\n'Ah!' cried Mrs Gamp. 'A rayal gentleman!'\n\nShe groaned her admiration so audibly, that they all turned round. Mrs\nGamp felt the necessity of advancing, bundle in hand, and introducing\nherself.\n\n'The night-nurse,' she observed, 'from Kingsgate Street, well beknown to\nMrs Prig the day-nurse, and the best of creeturs. How is the poor dear\ngentleman to-night? If he an't no better yet, still that is what must\nbe expected and prepared for. It an't the fust time by a many score,\nma'am,' dropping a curtsey to the landlady, 'that Mrs Prig and me has\nnussed together, turn and turn about, one off, one on. We knows each\nother's ways, and often gives relief when others fail. Our charges\nis but low, sir'--Mrs Gamp addressed herself to John on this\nhead--'considerin' the nater of our painful dooty. If they wos made\naccordin' to our wishes, they would be easy paid.'\n\nRegarding herself as having now delivered her inauguration address, Mrs\nGamp curtseyed all round, and signified her wish to be conducted to the\nscene of her official duties. The chambermaid led her, through a variety\nof intricate passages, to the top of the house; and pointing at length\nto a solitary door at the end of a gallery, informed her that yonder was\nthe chamber where the patient lay. That done, she hurried off with all\nthe speed she could make.\n\nMrs Gamp traversed the gallery in a great heat from having carried\nher large bundle up so many stairs, and tapped at the door which was\nimmediately opened by Mrs Prig, bonneted and shawled and all impatience\nto be gone. Mrs Prig was of the Gamp build, but not so fat; and her\nvoice was deeper and more like a man's. She had also a beard.\n\n'I began to think you warn't a-coming!' Mrs Prig observed, in some\ndispleasure.\n\n'It shall be made good to-morrow night,' said Mrs Gamp 'Honorable. I had\nto go and fetch my things.' She had begun to make signs of inquiry in\nreference to the position of the patient and his overhearing them--for\nthere was a screen before the door--when Mrs Prig settled that point\neasily.\n\n'Oh!' she said aloud, 'he's quiet, but his wits is gone. It an't no\nmatter wot you say.'\n\n'Anythin' to tell afore you goes, my dear?' asked Mrs Gamp, setting her\nbundle down inside the door, and looking affectionately at her partner.\n\n'The pickled salmon,' Mrs Prig replied, 'is quite delicious. I can\npartlck'ler recommend it. Don't have nothink to say to the cold meat,\nfor it tastes of the stable. The drinks is all good.'\n\nMrs Gamp expressed herself much gratified.\n\n'The physic and them things is on the drawers and mankleshelf,' said\nMrs Prig, cursorily. 'He took his last slime draught at seven. The\neasy-chair an't soft enough. You'll want his piller.'\n\nMrs Gamp thanked her for these hints, and giving her a friendly good\nnight, held the door open until she had disappeared at the other end\nof the gallery. Having thus performed the hospitable duty of seeing her\nsafely off, she shut it, locked it on the inside, took up her bundle,\nwalked round the screen, and entered on her occupation of the sick\nchamber.\n\n'A little dull, but not so bad as might be,' Mrs Gamp remarked.\n'I'm glad to see a parapidge, in case of fire, and lots of roofs and\nchimley-pots to walk upon.'\n\nIt will be seen from these remarks that Mrs Gamp was looking out of\nwindow. When she had exhausted the prospect, she tried the easy-chair,\nwhich she indignantly declared was 'harder than a brickbadge.' Next\nshe pursued her researches among the physic-bottles, glasses, jugs, and\ntea-cups; and when she had entirely satisfied her curiosity on all these\nsubjects of investigation, she untied her bonnet-strings and strolled up\nto the bedside to take a look at the patient.\n\nA young man--dark and not ill-looking--with long black hair, that seemed\nthe blacker for the whiteness of the bed-clothes. His eyes were partly\nopen, and he never ceased to roll his head from side to side upon the\npillow, keeping his body almost quiet. He did not utter words; but\nevery now and then gave vent to an expression of impatience or fatigue,\nsometimes of surprise; and still his restless head--oh, weary, weary\nhour!--went to and fro without a moment's intermission.\n\nMrs Gamp solaced herself with a pinch of snuff, and stood looking at him\nwith her head inclined a little sideways, as a connoisseur might gaze\nupon a doubtful work of art. By degrees, a horrible remembrance of one\nbranch of her calling took possession of the woman; and stooping down,\nshe pinned his wandering arms against his sides, to see how he would\nlook if laid out as a dead man. Her fingers itched to compose his limbs\nin that last marble attitude.\n\n'Ah!' said Mrs Gamp, walking away from the bed, 'he'd make a lovely\ncorpse.'\n\nShe now proceeded to unpack her bundle; lighted a candle with the aid\nof a fire-box on the drawers; filled a small kettle, as a preliminary\nto refreshing herself with a cup of tea in the course of the night;\nlaid what she called 'a little bit of fire,' for the same philanthropic\npurpose; and also set forth a small tea-board, that nothing might be\nwanting for her comfortable enjoyment. These preparations occupied so\nlong, that when they were brought to a conclusion it was high time to\nthink about supper; so she rang the bell and ordered it.\n\n'I think, young woman,' said Mrs Gamp to the assistant chambermaid, in a\ntone expressive of weakness, 'that I could pick a little bit of pickled\nsalmon, with a nice little sprig of fennel, and a sprinkling of white\npepper. I takes new bread, my dear, with just a little pat of fresh\nbutter, and a mossel of cheese. In case there should be such a thing\nas a cowcumber in the 'ouse, will you be so kind as bring it, for I'm\nrather partial to 'em, and they does a world of good in a sick room. If\nthey draws the Brighton Old Tipper here, I takes THAT ale at night, my\nlove, it bein' considered wakeful by the doctors. And whatever you\ndo, young woman, don't bring more than a shilling's-worth of gin and\nwater-warm when I rings the bell a second time; for that is always my\nallowance, and I never takes a drop beyond!'\n\nHaving preferred these moderate requests, Mrs Gamp observed that she\nwould stand at the door until the order was executed, to the end that\nthe patient might not be disturbed by her opening it a second time; and\ntherefore she would thank the young woman to 'look sharp.'\n\nA tray was brought with everything upon it, even to the cucumber and\nMrs Gamp accordingly sat down to eat and drink in high good humour. The\nextent to which she availed herself of the vinegar, and supped up that\nrefreshing fluid with the blade of her knife, can scarcely be expressed\nin narrative.\n\n'Ah!' sighed Mrs Gamp, as she meditated over the warm shilling's-worth,\n'what a blessed thing it is--living in a wale--to be contented! What a\nblessed thing it is to make sick people happy in their beds, and never\nmind one's self as long as one can do a service! I don't believe a finer\ncowcumber was ever grow'd. I'm sure I never see one!'\n\nShe moralised in the same vein until her glass was empty, and then\nadministered the patient's medicine, by the simple process of clutching\nhis windpipe to make him gasp, and immediately pouring it down his\nthroat.\n\n'I a'most forgot the piller, I declare!' said Mrs Gamp, drawing it away.\n'There! Now he's comfortable as he can be, I'm sure! I must try to make\nmyself as much so as I can.'\n\nWith this view, she went about the construction of an extemporaneous bed\nin the easy-chair, with the addition of the next easy one for her feet.\nHaving formed the best couch that the circumstances admitted of, she\ntook out of her bundle a yellow night-cap, of prodigious size, in shape\nresembling a cabbage; which article of dress she fixed and tied on with\nthe utmost care, previously divesting herself of a row of bald old\ncurls that could scarcely be called false, they were so very innocent of\nanything approaching to deception. From the same repository she brought\nforth a night-jacket, in which she also attired herself. Finally, she\nproduced a watchman's coat which she tied round her neck by the sleeves,\nso that she become two people; and looked, behind, as if she were in the\nact of being embraced by one of the old patrol.\n\nAll these arrangements made, she lighted the rush-light, coiled herself\nup on her couch, and went to sleep. Ghostly and dark the room became,\nand full of lowering shadows. The distant noises in the streets were\ngradually hushed; the house was quiet as a sepulchre; the dead of night\nwas coffined in the silent city.\n\nOh, weary, weary hour! Oh, haggard mind, groping darkly through the\npast; incapable of detaching itself from the miserable present; dragging\nits heavy chain of care through imaginary feasts and revels, and scenes\nof awful pomp; seeking but a moment's rest among the long-forgotten\nhaunts of childhood, and the resorts of yesterday; and dimly finding\nfear and horror everywhere! Oh, weary, weary hour! What were the\nwanderings of Cain, to these!\n\nStill, without a moment's interval, the burning head tossed to and fro.\nStill, from time to time, fatigue, impatience, suffering, and surprise,\nfound utterance upon that rack, and plainly too, though never once in\nwords. At length, in the solemn hour of midnight, he began to talk;\nwaiting awfully for answers sometimes; as though invisible companions\nwere about his bed; and so replying to their speech and questioning\nagain.\n\nMrs Gamp awoke, and sat up in her bed; presenting on the wall the shadow\nof a gigantic night constable, struggling with a prisoner.\n\n'Come! Hold your tongue!' she cried, in sharp reproof. 'Don't make none\nof that noise here.'\n\nThere was no alteration in the face, or in the incessant motion of the\nhead, but he talked on wildly.\n\n'Ah!' said Mrs Gamp, coming out of the chair with an impatient shiver;\n'I thought I was a-sleepin' too pleasant to last! The devil's in the\nnight, I think, it's turned so chilly!'\n\n'Don't drink so much!' cried the sick man. 'You'll ruin us all. Don't\nyou see how the fountain sinks? Look at the mark where the sparkling\nwater was just now!'\n\n'Sparkling water, indeed!' said Mrs Gamp. 'I'll have a sparkling cup o'\ntea, I think. I wish you'd hold your noise!'\n\nHe burst into a laugh, which, being prolonged, fell off into a dismal\nwail. Checking himself, with fierce inconstancy he began to count--fast.\n\n'One--two--three--four--five--six.'\n\n\"One, two, buckle my shoe,\"' said Mrs Gamp, who was now on her knees,\nlighting the fire, \"three, four, shut the door,\"--I wish you'd shut\nyour mouth, young man--\"five, six, picking up sticks.\" If I'd got a few\nhandy, I should have the kettle boiling all the sooner.'\n\nAwaiting this desirable consummation, she sat down so close to the\nfender (which was a high one) that her nose rested upon it; and for some\ntime she drowsily amused herself by sliding that feature backwards and\nforwards along the brass top, as far as she could, without changing her\nposition to do it. She maintained, all the while, a running commentary\nupon the wanderings of the man in bed.\n\n'That makes five hundred and twenty-one men, all dressed alike, and with\nthe same distortion on their faces, that have passed in at the window,\nand out at the door,' he cried, anxiously. 'Look there! Five hundred and\ntwenty-two--twenty-three--twenty-four. Do you see them?'\n\n'Ah! I see 'em,' said Mrs Gamp; 'all the whole kit of 'em numbered like\nhackney-coaches, an't they?'\n\n'Touch me! Let me be sure of this. Touch me!'\n\n'You'll take your next draught when I've made the kettle bile,' retorted\nMrs Gamp, composedly, 'and you'll be touched then. You'll be touched up,\ntoo, if you don't take it quiet.'\n\n'Five hundred and twenty-eight, five hundred and twenty-nine, five\nhundred and thirty.--Look here!'\n\n'What's the matter now?' said Mrs Gamp.\n\n'They're coming four abreast, each man with his arm entwined in the next\nman's, and his hand upon his shoulder. What's that upon the arm of every\nman, and on the flag?'\n\n'Spiders, p'raps,' said Mrs Gamp.\n\n'Crape! Black crape! Good God! why do they wear it outside?'\n\n'Would you have 'em carry black crape in their insides?' Mrs Gamp\nretorted. 'Hold your noise, hold your noise.'\n\nThe fire beginning by this time to impart a grateful warmth, Mrs Gamp\nbecame silent; gradually rubbed her nose more and more slowly along the\ntop of the fender; and fell into a heavy doze. She was awakened by the\nroom ringing (as she fancied) with a name she knew:\n\n'Chuzzlewit!'\n\nThe sound was so distinct and real, and so full of agonised entreaty,\nthat Mrs Gamp jumped up in terror, and ran to the door. She expected to\nfind the passage filled with people, come to tell her that the house in\nthe city had taken fire. But the place was empty; not a soul was there.\nShe opened the window, and looked out. Dark, dull, dingy, and desolate\nhouse-tops. As she passed to her seat again, she glanced at the patient.\nJust the same; but silent. Mrs Gamp was so warm now, that she threw off\nthe watchman's coat, and fanned herself.\n\n'It seemed to make the wery bottles ring,' she said. 'What could I have\nbeen a-dreaming of? That dratted Chuffey, I'll be bound.'\n\nThe supposition was probable enough. At any rate, a pinch of snuff, and\nthe song of the steaming kettle, quite restored the tone of Mrs Gamp's\nnerves, which were none of the weakest. She brewed her tea; made some\nbuttered toast; and sat down at the tea-board, with her face to the\nfire.\n\nWhen once again, in a tone more terrible than that which had vibrated in\nher slumbering ear, these words were shrieked out:\n\n'Chuzzlewit! Jonas! No!'\n\nMrs Gamp dropped the cup she was in the act of raising to her lips, and\nturned round with a start that made the little tea-board leap. The cry\nhad come from the bed.\n\n\nIt was bright morning the next time Mrs Gamp looked out of the window,\nand the sun was rising cheerfully. Lighter and lighter grew the sky, and\nnoisier the streets; and high into the summer air uprose the smoke of\nnewly kindled fires, until the busy day was broad awake.\n\nMrs Prig relieved punctually, having passed a good night at her other\npatient's. Mr Westlock came at the same time, but he was not admitted,\nthe disorder being infectious. The doctor came too. The doctor shook\nhis head. It was all he could do, under the circumstances, and he did it\nwell.\n\n'What sort of a night, nurse?'\n\n'Restless, sir,' said Mrs Gamp.\n\n'Talk much?'\n\n'Middling, sir,' said Mrs Gamp.\n\n'Nothing to the purpose, I suppose?'\n\n'Oh bless you, no, sir. Only jargon.'\n\n'Well!' said the doctor, 'we must keep him quiet; keep the room cool;\ngive him his draughts regularly; and see that he's carefully looked to.\nThat's all!'\n\n'And as long as Mrs Prig and me waits upon him, sir, no fear of that,'\nsaid Mrs Gamp.\n\n'I suppose,' observed Mrs Prig, when they had curtseyed the doctor out;\n'there's nothin' new?'\n\n'Nothin' at all, my dear,' said Mrs Gamp. 'He's rather wearin' in his\ntalk from making up a lot of names; elseways you needn't mind him.'\n\n'Oh, I shan't mind him,' Mrs Prig returned. 'I have somethin' else to\nthink of.'\n\n'I pays my debts to-night, you know, my dear, and comes afore my time,'\nsaid Mrs Gamp. 'But, Betsy Prig'--speaking with great feeling, and\nlaying her hand upon her arm--'try the cowcumbers, God bless you!'\n\n\n\nCHAPTER TWENTY-SIX\n\nAN UNEXPECTED MEETING, AND A PROMISING PROSPECT\n\n\nThe laws of sympathy between beards and birds, and the secret source\nof that attraction which frequently impels a shaver of the one to be\na dealer in the other, are questions for the subtle reasoning of\nscientific bodies; not the less so, because their investigation would\nseem calculated to lead to no particular result. It is enough to know\nthat the artist who had the honour of entertaining Mrs Gamp as\nhis first-floor lodger, united the two pursuits of barbering and\nbird-fancying; and that it was not an original idea of his, but one in\nwhich he had, dispersed about the by-streets and suburbs of the town, a\nhost of rivals.\n\nThe name of the householder was Paul Sweedlepipe. But he was commonly\ncalled Poll Sweedlepipe; and was not uncommonly believed to have been so\nchristened, among his friends and neighbours.\n\nWith the exception of the staircase, and his lodger's private apartment,\nPoll Sweedlepipe's house was one great bird's nest. Gamecocks resided in\nthe kitchen; pheasants wasted the brightness of their golden plumage on\nthe garret; bantams roosted in the cellar; owls had possession of the\nbedroom; and specimens of all the smaller fry of birds chirrupped and\ntwittered in the shop. The staircase was sacred to rabbits. There in\nhutches of all shapes and kinds, made from old packing-cases, boxes,\ndrawers, and tea-chests, they increased in a prodigious degree, and\ncontributed their share towards that complicated whiff which, quite\nimpartially, and without distinction of persons, saluted every nose that\nwas put into Sweedlepipe's easy shaving-shop.\n\nMany noses found their way there, for all that, especially on Sunday\nmorning, before church-time. Even archbishops shave, or must be shaved,\non a Sunday, and beards WILL grow after twelve o'clock on Saturday\nnight, though it be upon the chins of base mechanics; who, not being\nable to engage their valets by the quarter, hire them by the job, and\npay them--oh, the wickedness of copper coin!--in dirty pence. Poll\nSweedlepipe, the sinner, shaved all comers at a penny each, and cut the\nhair of any customer for twopence; and being a lone unmarried man, and\nhaving some connection in the bird line, Poll got on tolerably well.\n\nHe was a little elderly man, with a clammy cold right hand, from which\neven rabbits and birds could not remove the smell of shaving-soap. Poll\nhad something of the bird in his nature; not of the hawk or eagle, but\nof the sparrow, that builds in chimney-stacks and inclines to human\ncompany. He was not quarrelsome, though, like the sparrow; but peaceful,\nlike the dove. In his walk he strutted; and, in this respect, he bore\na faint resemblance to the pigeon, as well as in a certain prosiness of\nspeech, which might, in its monotony, be likened to the cooing of that\nbird. He was very inquisitive; and when he stood at his shop-door in the\nevening-tide, watching the neighbours, with his head on one side, and\nhis eye cocked knowingly, there was a dash of the raven in him. Yet\nthere was no more wickedness in Poll than in a robin. Happily, too, when\nany of his ornithological properties were on the verge of going too\nfar, they were quenched, dissolved, melted down, and neutralised in\nthe barber; just as his bald head--otherwise, as the head of a shaved\nmagpie--lost itself in a wig of curly black ringlets, parted on one\nside, and cut away almost to the crown, to indicate immense capacity of\nintellect.\n\nPoll had a very small, shrill treble voice, which might have led\nthe wags of Kingsgate Street to insist the more upon his feminine\ndesignation. He had a tender heart, too; for, when he had a good\ncommission to provide three or four score sparrows for a shooting-match,\nhe would observe, in a compassionate tone, how singular it was that\nsparrows should have been made expressly for such purposes. The\nquestion, whether men were made to shoot them, never entered into Poll's\nphilosophy.\n\nPoll wore, in his sporting character, a velveteen coat, a great deal of\nblue stocking, ankle boots, a neckerchief of some bright colour, and\na very tall hat. Pursuing his more quiet occupation of barber, he\ngenerally subsided into an apron not over-clean, a flannel jacket, and\ncorduroy knee-shorts. It was in this latter costume, but with his apron\ngirded round his waist, as a token of his having shut up shop for\nthe night, that he closed the door one evening, some weeks after the\noccurrences detailed in the last chapter, and stood upon the steps in\nKingsgate Street, listening until the little cracked bell within\nshould leave off ringing. For until it did--this was Mr Sweedlepipe's\nreflection--the place never seemed quiet enough to be left to itself.\n\n'It's the greediest little bell to ring,' said Poll, 'that ever was. But\nit's quiet at last.'\n\nHe rolled his apron up a little tighter as he said these words, and\nhastened down the street. Just as he was turning into Holborn, he ran\nagainst a young gentleman in a livery. This youth was bold, though\nsmall, and with several lively expressions of displeasure, turned upon\nhim instantly.\n\n'Now, STOO-PID!' cried the young gentleman. 'Can't you look where you're\na-going to--eh? Can't you mind where you're a-coming to--eh? What do you\nthink your eyes was made for--eh? Ah! Yes. Oh! Now then!'\n\nThe young gentleman pronounced the two last words in a very loud tone\nand with frightful emphasis, as though they contained within themselves\nthe essence of the direst aggravation. But he had scarcely done so, when\nhis anger yielded to surprise, and he cried, in a milder tone:\n\n'What! Polly!'\n\n'Why, it an't you, sure!' cried Poll. 'It can't be you!'\n\n'No. It an't me,' returned the youth. 'It's my son, my oldest one. He's\na credit to his father, an't he, Polly?' With this delicate little\npiece of banter, he halted on the pavement, and went round and round\nin circles, for the better exhibition of his figure; rather to the\ninconvenience of the passengers generally, who were not in an equal\nstate of spirits with himself.\n\n'I wouldn't have believed it,' said Poll. 'What! You've left your old\nplace, then? Have you?'\n\n'Have I!' returned his young friend, who had by this time stuck his\nhands into the pockets of his white cord breeches, and was swaggering\nalong at the barber's side. 'D'ye know a pair of top-boots when you see\n'em, Polly?--look here!'\n\n'Beau-ti-ful' cried Mr Sweedlepipe.\n\n'D'ye know a slap-up sort of button, when you see it?' said the youth.\n'Don't look at mine, if you ain't a judge, because these lions' heads\nwas made for men of taste; not snobs.'\n\n'Beau-ti-ful!' cried the barber again. 'A grass-green frock-coat, too,\nbound with gold; and a cockade in your hat!'\n\n'I should hope so,' replied the youth. 'Blow the cockade, though; for,\nexcept that it don't turn round, it's like the wentilator that used to\nbe in the kitchen winder at Todgers's. You ain't seen the old lady's\nname in the Gazette, have you?'\n\n'No,' returned the barber. 'Is she a bankrupt?'\n\n'If she ain't, she will be,' retorted Bailey. 'That bis'ness never can\nbe carried on without ME. Well! How are you?'\n\n'Oh! I'm pretty well,' said Poll. 'Are you living at this end of the\ntown, or were you coming to see me? Was that the bis'ness that brought\nyou to Holborn?'\n\n'I haven't got no bis'ness in Holborn,' returned Bailey, with some\ndispleasure. 'All my bis'ness lays at the West End. I've got the right\nsort of governor now. You can't see his face for his whiskers, and can't\nsee his whiskers for the dye upon 'em. That's a gentleman ain't it? You\nwouldn't like a ride in a cab, would you? Why, it wouldn't be safe to\noffer it. You'd faint away, only to see me a-comin' at a mild trot round\nthe corner.'\n\nTo convey a slight idea of the effect of this approach, Mr Bailey\ncounterfeited in his own person the action of a high-trotting horse and\nthrew up his head so high, in backing against a pump, that he shook his\nhat off.\n\n'Why, he's own uncle to Capricorn,' said Bailey, 'and brother to\nCauliflower. He's been through the winders of two chaney shops since\nwe've had him, and was sold for killin' his missis. That's a horse, I\nhope?'\n\n'Ah! you'll never want to buy any more red polls, now,' observed Poll,\nlooking on his young friend with an air of melancholy. 'You'll never\nwant to buy any more red polls now, to hang up over the sink, will you?'\n\n'I should think not,' replied Bailey. 'Reether so. I wouldn't have\nnothin' to say to any bird below a Peacock; and HE'd be wulgar. Well,\nhow are you?'\n\n'Oh! I'm pretty well,' said Poll. He answered the question again because\nMr Bailey asked it again; Mr Bailey asked it again, because--accompanied\nwith a straddling action of the white cords, a bend of the knees, and a\nstriking forth of the top-boots--it was an easy horse-fleshy, turfy sort\nof thing to do.\n\n'Wot are you up to, old feller?' added Mr Bailey, with the same graceful\nrakishness. He was quite the man-about-town of the conversation, while\nthe easy-shaver was the child.\n\n'Why, I am going to fetch my lodger home,' said Paul.\n\n'A woman!' cried Mr Bailey, 'for a twenty-pun' note!'\n\nThe little barber hastened to explain that she was neither a young\nwoman, nor a handsome woman, but a nurse, who had been acting as a kind\nof house-keeper to a gentleman for some weeks past, and left her place\nthat night, in consequence of being superseded by another and a more\nlegitimate house-keeper--to wit, the gentleman's bride.\n\n'He's newly married, and he brings his young wife home to-night,' said\nthe barber. 'So I'm going to fetch my lodger away--Mr Chuzzlewit's,\nclose behind the Post Office--and carry her box for her.'\n\n'Jonas Chuzzlewit's?' said Bailey.\n\n'Ah!' returned Paul: 'that's the name sure enough. Do you know him?'\n\n'Oh, no!' cried Mr Bailey; 'not at all. And I don't know her! Not\nneither! Why, they first kept company through me, a'most.'\n\n'Ah?' said Paul.\n\n'Ah!' said Mr Bailey, with a wink; 'and she ain't bad looking mind you.\nBut her sister was the best. SHE was the merry one. I often used to have\na bit of fun with her, in the hold times!'\n\nMr Bailey spoke as if he already had a leg and three-quarters in\nthe grave, and this had happened twenty or thirty years ago. Paul\nSweedlepipe, the meek, was so perfectly confounded by his precocious\nself-possession, and his patronizing manner, as well as by his boots,\ncockade, and livery, that a mist swam before his eyes, and he saw--not\nthe Bailey of acknowledged juvenility from Todgers's Commercial\nBoarding House, who had made his acquaintance within a twelvemonth,\nby purchasing, at sundry times, small birds at twopence each--but a\nhighly-condensed embodiment of all the sporting grooms in London; an\nabstract of all the stable-knowledge of the time; a something at a\nhigh-pressure that must have had existence many years, and was fraught\nwith terrible experiences. And truly, though in the cloudy atmosphere\nof Todgers's, Mr Bailey's genius had ever shone out brightly in this\nparticular respect, it now eclipsed both time and space, cheated\nbeholders of their senses, and worked on their belief in defiance of all\nnatural laws. He walked along the tangible and real stones of Holborn\nHill, an undersized boy; and yet he winked the winks, and thought the\nthoughts, and did the deeds, and said the sayings of an ancient man.\nThere was an old principle within him, and a young surface without. He\nbecame an inexplicable creature; a breeched and booted Sphinx. There was\nno course open to the barber, but to go distracted himself, or to take\nBailey for granted; and he wisely chose the latter.\n\nMr Bailey was good enough to continue to bear him company, and to\nentertain him, as they went, with easy conversation on various sporting\ntopics; especially on the comparative merits, as a general principle, of\nhorses with white stockings, and horses without. In regard to the style\nof tail to be preferred, Mr Bailey had opinions of his own, which he\nexplained, but begged they might by no means influence his friend's,\nas here he knew he had the misfortune to differ from some excellent\nauthorities. He treated Mr Sweedlepipe to a dram, compounded agreeably\nto his own directions, which he informed him had been invented by a\nmember of the Jockey Club; and, as they were by this time near the\nbarber's destination, he observed that, as he had an hour to spare, and\nknew the parties, he would, if quite agreeable, be introduced to Mrs\nGamp.\n\nPaul knocked at Jonas Chuzzlewit's; and, on the door being opened by\nthat lady, made the two distinguished persons known to one another. It\nwas a happy feature in Mrs Gamp's twofold profession, that it gave her\nan interest in everything that was young as well as in everything that\nwas old. She received Mr Bailey with much kindness.\n\n'It's very good, I'm sure, of you to come,' she said to her landlord,\n'as well as bring so nice a friend. But I'm afraid that I must trouble\nyou so far as to step in, for the young couple has not yet made\nappearance.'\n\n'They're late, ain't they?' inquired her landlord, when she had\nconducted them downstairs into the kitchen.\n\n'Well, sir, considern' the Wings of Love, they are,' said Mrs Gamp.\n\nMr Bailey inquired whether the Wings of Love had ever won a plate, or\ncould be backed to do anything remarkable; and being informed that it\nwas not a horse, but merely a poetical or figurative expression, evinced\nconsiderable disgust. Mrs Gamp was so very much astonished by his\naffable manners and great ease, that she was about to propound to her\nlandlord in a whisper the staggering inquiry, whether he was a man or\na boy, when Mr Sweedlepipe, anticipating her design, made a timely\ndiversion.\n\n'He knows Mrs Chuzzlewit,' said Paul aloud.\n\n'There's nothin' he don't know; that's my opinion,' observed Mrs Gamp.\n'All the wickedness of the world is Print to him.'\n\nMr Bailey received this as a compliment, and said, adjusting his cravat,\n'reether so.'\n\n'As you knows Mrs Chuzzlewit, you knows, p'raps, what her chris'en name\nis?' Mrs Gamp observed.\n\n'Charity,' said Bailey.\n\n'That it ain't!' cried Mrs Gamp.\n\n'Cherry, then,' said Bailey. 'Cherry's short for it. It's all the same.'\n\n'It don't begin with a C at all,' retorted Mrs Gamp, shaking her head.\n'It begins with a M.'\n\n'Whew!' cried Mr Bailey, slapping a little cloud of pipe-clay out of his\nleft leg, 'then he's been and married the merry one!'\n\nAs these words were mysterious, Mrs Gamp called upon him to explain,\nwhich Mr Bailey proceeded to do; that lady listening greedily to\neverything he said. He was yet in the fullness of his narrative when the\nsound of wheels, and a double knock at the street door, announced the\narrival of the newly married couple. Begging him to reserve what more he\nhad to say for her hearing on the way home, Mrs Gamp took up the candle,\nand hurried away to receive and welcome the young mistress of the house.\n\n'Wishing you appiness and joy with all my art,' said Mrs Gamp, dropping\na curtsey as they entered the hall; 'and you, too, sir. Your lady looks\na little tired with the journey, Mr Chuzzlewit, a pretty dear!'\n\n'She has bothered enough about it,' grumbled Mr Jonas. 'Now, show a\nlight, will you?'\n\n'This way, ma'am, if you please,' said Mrs Gamp, going upstairs before\nthem. 'Things has been made as comfortable as they could be, but there's\nmany things you'll have to alter your own self when you gets time\nto look about you! Ah! sweet thing! But you don't,' added Mrs Gamp,\ninternally, 'you don't look much like a merry one, I must say!'\n\nIt was true; she did not. The death that had gone before the bridal\nseemed to have left its shade upon the house. The air was heavy and\noppressive; the rooms were dark; a deep gloom filled up every chink and\ncorner. Upon the hearthstone, like a creature of ill omen, sat the aged\nclerk, with his eyes fixed on some withered branches in the stove. He\nrose and looked at her.\n\n'So there you are, Mr Chuff,' said Jonas carelessly, as he dusted his\nboots; 'still in the land of the living, eh?'\n\n'Still in the land of the living, sir,' retorted Mrs Gamp. 'And Mr\nChuffey may thank you for it, as many and many a time I've told him.'\n\nMr Jonas was not in the best of humours, for he merely said, as he\nlooked round, 'We don't want you any more, you know, Mrs Gamp.'\n\n'I'm a-going immediate, sir,' returned the nurse; 'unless there's\nnothink I can do for you, ma'am. Ain't there,' said Mrs Gamp, with\na look of great sweetness, and rummaging all the time in her pocket;\n'ain't there nothink I can do for you, my little bird?'\n\n'No,' said Merry, almost crying. 'You had better go away, please!'\n\nWith a leer of mingled sweetness and slyness; with one eye on the\nfuture, one on the bride, and an arch expression in her face, partly\nspiritual, partly spirituous, and wholly professional and peculiar\nto her art; Mrs Gamp rummaged in her pocket again, and took from it a\nprinted card, whereon was an inscription copied from her signboard.\n\n'Would you be so good, my darling dovey of a dear young married lady,'\nMrs Gamp observed, in a low voice, 'as put that somewheres where you can\nkeep it in your mind? I'm well beknown to many ladies, and it's my card.\nGamp is my name, and Gamp my nater. Livin' quite handy, I will make\nso bold as call in now and then, and make inquiry how your health and\nspirits is, my precious chick!'\n\nAnd with innumerable leers, winks, coughs, nods, smiles, and curtseys,\nall leading to the establishment of a mysterious and confidential\nunderstanding between herself and the bride, Mrs Gamp, invoking a\nblessing upon the house, leered, winked, coughed, nodded, smiled, and\ncurtseyed herself out of the room.\n\n'But I will say, and I would if I was led a Martha to the Stakes for\nit,' Mrs Gamp remarked below stairs, in a whisper, 'that she don't look\nmuch like a merry one at this present moment of time.'\n\n'Ah! wait till you hear her laugh!' said Bailey.\n\n'Hem!' cried Mrs Gamp, in a kind of groan. 'I will, child.'\n\nThey said no more in the house, for Mrs Gamp put on her bonnet, Mr\nSweedlepipe took up her box; and Mr Bailey accompanied them towards\nKingsgate Street; recounting to Mrs Gamp as they went along, the origin\nand progress of his acquaintance with Mrs Chuzzlewit and her sister. It\nwas a pleasant instance of this youth's precocity, that he fancied Mrs\nGamp had conceived a tenderness for him, and was much tickled by her\nmisplaced attachment.\n\nAs the door closed heavily behind them, Mrs Jonas sat down in a chair,\nand felt a strange chill creep upon her, whilst she looked about the\nroom. It was pretty much as she had known it, but appeared more dreary.\nShe had thought to see it brightened to receive her.\n\n'It ain't good enough for you, I suppose?' said Jonas, watching her\nlooks.\n\n'Why, it IS dull,' said Merry, trying to be more herself.\n\n'It'll be duller before you're done with it,' retorted Jonas, 'if you\ngive me any of your airs. You're a nice article, to turn sulky on first\ncoming home! Ecod, you used to have life enough, when you could plague\nme with it. The gal's downstairs. Ring the bell for supper, while I take\nmy boots off!'\n\nShe roused herself from looking after him as he left the room, to do\nwhat he had desired; when the old man Chuffey laid his hand softly on\nher arm.\n\n'You are not married?' he said eagerly. 'Not married?'\n\n'Yes. A month ago. Good Heaven, what is the matter?'\n\nHe answered nothing was the matter; and turned from her. But in her fear\nand wonder, turning also, she saw him raise his trembling hands above\nhis head, and heard him say:\n\n'Oh! woe, woe, woe, upon this wicked house!'\n\nIt was her welcome--HOME.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN\n\nSHOWING THAT OLD FRIENDS MAY NOT ONLY APPEAR WITH NEW FACES, BUT IN\nFALSE COLOURS. THAT PEOPLE ARE PRONE TO BITE, AND THAT BITERS MAY\nSOMETIMES BE BITTEN.\n\n\nMr Bailey, Junior--for the sporting character, whilom of general utility\nat Todgers's, had now regularly set up in life under that name, without\ntroubling himself to obtain from the legislature a direct licence in\nthe form of a Private Bill, which of all kinds and classes of bills\nis without exception the most unreasonable in its charges--Mr Bailey,\nJunior, just tall enough to be seen by an inquiring eye, gazing\nindolently at society from beneath the apron of his master's cab, drove\nslowly up and down Pall Mall, about the hour of noon, in waiting for his\n'Governor.' The horse of distinguished family, who had Capricorn for his\nnephew, and Cauliflower for his brother, showed himself worthy of his\nhigh relations by champing at the bit until his chest was white with\nfoam, and rearing like a horse in heraldry; the plated harness and the\npatent leather glittered in the sun; pedestrians admired; Mr Bailey was\ncomplacent, but unmoved. He seemed to say, 'A barrow, good people, a\nmere barrow; nothing to what we could do, if we chose!' and on he went,\nsquaring his short green arms outside the apron, as if he were hooked on\nto it by his armpits.\n\nMr Bailey had a great opinion of Brother to Cauliflower, and estimated\nhis powers highly. But he never told him so. On the contrary, it was his\npractice, in driving that animal, to assail him with disrespectful,\nif not injurious, expressions, as, 'Ah! would you!' 'Did you think\nit, then?' 'Where are you going to now?' 'No, you won't, my lad!' and\nsimilar fragmentary remarks. These being usually accompanied by a jerk\nof the rein, or a crack of the whip, led to many trials of strength\nbetween them, and to many contentions for the upper-hand, terminating,\nnow and then, in china-shops, and other unusual goals, as Mr Bailey had\nalready hinted to his friend Poll Sweedlepipe.\n\nOn the present occasion Mr Bailey, being in spirits, was more than\ncommonly hard upon his charge; in consequence of which that fiery animal\nconfined himself almost entirely to his hind legs in displaying his\npaces, and constantly got himself into positions with reference to the\ncabriolet that very much amazed the passengers in the street. But Mr\nBailey, not at all disturbed, had still a shower of pleasantries to\nbestow on any one who crossed his path; as, calling to a full-grown\ncoal-heaver in a wagon, who for a moment blocked the way, 'Now, young\n'un, who trusted YOU with a cart?' inquiring of elderly ladies who\nwanted to cross, and ran back again, 'Why they didn't go to the\nworkhouse and get an order to be buried?' tempting boys, with friendly\nwords, to get up behind, and immediately afterwards cutting them down;\nand the like flashes of a cheerful humour, which he would occasionally\nrelieve by going round St. James's Square at a hand gallop, and coming\nslowly into Pall Mall by another entry, as if, in the interval, his pace\nhad been a perfect crawl.\n\nIt was not until these amusements had been very often repeated, and the\napple-stall at the corner had sustained so many miraculous escapes as to\nappear impregnable, that Mr Bailey was summoned to the door of a certain\nhouse in Pall Mall, and turning short, obeyed the call and jumped out.\nIt was not until he had held the bridle for some minutes longer, every\njerk of Cauliflower's brother's head, and every twitch of Cauliflower's\nbrother's nostril, taking him off his legs in the meanwhile, that\ntwo persons entered the vehicle, one of whom took the reins and drove\nrapidly off. Nor was it until Mr Bailey had run after it some hundreds\nof yards in vain, that he managed to lift his short leg into the iron\nstep, and finally to get his boots upon the little footboard behind.\nThen, indeed, he became a sight to see; and--standing now on one foot\nand now upon the other, now trying to look round the cab on this side,\nnow on that, and now endeavouring to peep over the top of it, as it went\ndashing in among the carts and coaches--was from head to heel Newmarket.\n\nThe appearance of Mr Bailey's governor as he drove along fully justified\nthat enthusiastic youth's description of him to the wondering Poll. He\nhad a world of jet-black shining hair upon his head, upon his cheeks,\nupon his chin, upon his upper lip. His clothes, symmetrically made, were\nof the newest fashion and the costliest kind. Flowers of gold and blue,\nand green and blushing red, were on his waistcoat; precious chains\nand jewels sparkled on his breast; his fingers, clogged with brilliant\nrings, were as unwieldly as summer flies but newly rescued from a\nhoney-pot. The daylight mantled in his gleaming hat and boots as in\na polished glass. And yet, though changed his name, and changed his\noutward surface, it was Tigg. Though turned and twisted upside down,\nand inside out, as great men have been sometimes known to be; though\nno longer Montague Tigg, but Tigg Montague; still it was Tigg; the same\nSatanic, gallant, military Tigg. The brass was burnished, lacquered,\nnewly stamped; yet it was the true Tigg metal notwithstanding.\n\nBeside him sat a smiling gentleman, of less pretensions and of business\nlooks, whom he addressed as David. Surely not the David of the--how\nshall it be phrased?--the triumvirate of golden balls? Not David,\ntapster at the Lombards' Arms? Yes. The very man.\n\n'The secretary's salary, David,' said Mr Montague, 'the office being\nnow established, is eight hundred pounds per annum, with his house-rent,\ncoals, and candles free. His five-and-twenty shares he holds, of course.\nIs that enough?'\n\nDavid smiled and nodded, and coughed behind a little locked portfolio\nwhich he carried; with an air that proclaimed him to be the secretary in\nquestion.\n\n'If that's enough,' said Montague, 'I will propose it at the Board\nto-day, in my capacity as chairman.'\n\nThe secretary smiled again; laughed, indeed, this time; and said,\nrubbing his nose slily with one end of the portfolio:\n\n'It was a capital thought, wasn't it?'\n\n'What was a capital thought, David?' Mr Montague inquired.\n\n'The Anglo-Bengalee,' tittered the secretary.\n\n'The Anglo-Bengalee Disinterested Loan and Life Assurance Company is\nrather a capital concern, I hope, David,' said Montague.\n\n'Capital indeed!' cried the secretary, with another laugh--' in one\nsense.'\n\n'In the only important one,' observed the chairman; 'which is number\none, David.'\n\n'What,' asked the secretary, bursting into another laugh, 'what will be\nthe paid up capital, according to the next prospectus?'\n\n'A figure of two, and as many oughts after it as the printer can get\ninto the same line,' replied his friend. 'Ha, ha!'\n\nAt this they both laughed; the secretary so vehemently, that in kicking\nup his feet, he kicked the apron open, and nearly started Cauliflower's\nbrother into an oyster shop; not to mention Mr Bailey's receiving such\na sudden swing, that he held on for a moment quite a young Fame, by one\nstrap and no legs.\n\n'What a chap you are!' exclaimed David admiringly, when this little\nalarm had subsided.\n\n'Say, genius, David, genius.'\n\n'Well, upon my soul, you ARE a genius then,' said David. 'I always knew\nyou had the gift of the gab, of course; but I never believed you were\nhalf the man you are. How could I?'\n\n'I rise with circumstances, David. That's a point of genius in itself,'\nsaid Tigg. 'If you were to lose a hundred pound wager to me at\nthis minute David, and were to pay it (which is most confoundedly\nimprobable), I should rise, in a mental point of view, directly.'\n\nIt is due to Mr Tigg to say that he had really risen with his\nopportunities; and, peculating on a grander scale, he had become a\ngrander man altogether.\n\n'Ha, ha,' cried the secretary, laying his hand, with growing\nfamiliarity, upon the chairman's arm. 'When I look at you, and think of\nyour property in Bengal being--ha, ha, ha!--'\n\nThe half-expressed idea seemed no less ludicrous to Mr Tigg than to his\nfriend, for he laughed too, heartily.\n\n'--Being,' resumed David, 'being amenable--your property in Bengal being\namenable--to all claims upon the company; when I look at you and think\nof that, you might tickle me into fits by waving the feather of a pen at\nme. Upon my soul you might!'\n\n'It a devilish fine property,' said Tigg Montague, 'to be amenable\nto any claims. The preserve of tigers alone is worth a mint of money,\nDavid.'\n\nDavid could only reply in the intervals of his laughter, 'Oh, what a\nchap you are!' and so continued to laugh, and hold his sides, and wipe\nhis eyes, for some time, without offering any other observation.\n\n'A capital idea?' said Tigg, returning after a time to his companion's\nfirst remark; 'no doubt it was a capital idea. It was my idea.'\n\n'No, no. It was my idea,' said David. 'Hang it, let a man have some\ncredit. Didn't I say to you that I'd saved a few pounds?--'\n\n'You said! Didn't I say to you,' interposed Tigg, 'that I had come into\na few pounds?'\n\n'Certainly you did,' returned David, warmly, 'but that's not the idea.\nWho said, that if we put the money together we could furnish an office,\nand make a show?'\n\n'And who said,' retorted Mr Tigg, 'that, provided we did it on a\nsufficiently large scale, we could furnish an office and make a show,\nwithout any money at all? Be rational, and just, and calm, and tell me\nwhose idea was that.'\n\n'Why, there,' David was obliged to confess, 'you had the advantage of\nme, I admit. But I don't put myself on a level with you. I only want a\nlittle credit in the business.'\n\n'All the credit you deserve to have,' said Tigg.\n\n'The plain work of the company, David--figures, books, circulars,\nadvertisements, pen, ink, and paper, sealing-wax and wafers--is\nadmirably done by you. You are a first-rate groveller. I don't dispute\nit. But the ornamental department, David; the inventive and poetical\ndepartment--'\n\n'Is entirely yours,' said his friend. 'No question of it. But with such\na swell turnout as this, and all the handsome things you've got about\nyou, and the life you lead, I mean to say it's a precious comfortable\ndepartment too.'\n\n'Does it gain the purpose? Is it Anglo-Bengalee?' asked Tigg.\n\n'Yes,' said David.\n\n'Could you undertake it yourself?' demanded Tigg.\n\n'No,' said David.\n\n'Ha, ha!' laughed Tigg. 'Then be contented with your station and\nyour profits, David, my fine fellow, and bless the day that made us\nacquainted across the counter of our common uncle, for it was a golden\nday to you.'\n\nIt will have been already gathered from the conversation of these\nworthies, that they were embarked in an enterprise of some magnitude, in\nwhich they addressed the public in general from the strong position of\nhaving everything to gain and nothing at all to lose; and which, based\nupon this great principle, was thriving pretty comfortably.\n\nThe Anglo-Bengalee Disinterested Loan and Life Assurance Company started\ninto existence one morning, not an Infant Institution, but a Grown-up\nCompany running alone at a great pace, and doing business right and\nleft: with a 'branch' in a first floor over a tailor's at the west-end\nof the town, and main offices in a new street in the City, comprising\nthe upper part of a spacious house resplendent in stucco and\nplate-glass, with wire-blinds in all the windows, and 'Anglo-Bengalee'\nworked into the pattern of every one of them. On the doorpost was\npainted again in large letters, 'offices of the Anglo-Bengalee\nDisinterested Loan and Life Assurance Company,' and on the door was a\nlarge brass plate with the same inscription; always kept very bright, as\ncourting inquiry; staring the City out of countenance after office hours\non working days, and all day long on Sundays; and looking bolder than\nthe Bank. Within, the offices were newly plastered, newly painted,\nnewly papered, newly countered, newly floor-clothed, newly tabled, newly\nchaired, newly fitted up in every way, with goods that were substantial\nand expensive, and designed (like the company) to last. Business! Look\nat the green ledgers with red backs, like strong cricket-balls beaten\nflat; the court-guides directories, day-books, almanacks, letter-boxes,\nweighing-machines for letters, rows of fire-buckets for dashing out a\nconflagration in its first spark, and saving the immense wealth in notes\nand bonds belonging to the company; look at the iron safes, the clock,\nthe office seal--in its capacious self, security for anything. Solidity!\nLook at the massive blocks of marble in the chimney-pieces, and the\ngorgeous parapet on the top of the house! Publicity! Why, Anglo-Bengalee\nDisinterested Loan and Life Assurance company is painted on the very\ncoal-scuttles. It is repeated at every turn until the eyes are dazzled\nwith it, and the head is giddy. It is engraved upon the top of all the\nletter paper, and it makes a scroll-work round the seal, and it shines\nout of the porter's buttons, and it is repeated twenty times in every\ncircular and public notice wherein one David Crimple, Esquire, Secretary\nand resident Director, takes the liberty of inviting your attention\nto the accompanying statement of the advantages offered by the\nAnglo-Bengalee Disinterested Loan and Life Assurance Company; and fully\nproves to you that any connection on your part with that establishment\nmust result in a perpetual Christmas Box and constantly increasing Bonus\nto yourself, and that nobody can run any risk by the transaction except\nthe office, which, in its great liberality is pretty sure to lose. And\nthis, David Crimple, Esquire, submits to you (and the odds are heavy you\nbelieve him), is the best guarantee that can reasonably be suggested by\nthe Board of Management for its permanence and stability.\n\nThis gentleman's name, by the way, had been originally Crimp; but as\nthe word was susceptible of an awkward construction and might be\nmisrepresented, he had altered it to Crimple.\n\nLest with all these proofs and confirmations, any man should be\nsuspicious of the Anglo-Bengalee Disinterested Loan and Life Assurance\ncompany; should doubt in tiger, cab, or person, Tigg Montague, Esquire,\n(of Pall Mall and Bengal), or any other name in the imaginative List of\nDirectors; there was a porter on the premises--a wonderful creature,\nin a vast red waistcoat and a short-tailed pepper-and-salt coat--who\ncarried more conviction to the minds of sceptics than the whole\nestablishment without him. No confidences existed between him and the\nDirectorship; nobody knew where he had served last; no character or\nexplanation had been given or required. No questions had been asked on\neither side. This mysterious being, relying solely on his figure, had\napplied for the situation, and had been instantly engaged on his own\nterms. They were high; but he knew, doubtless, that no man could carry\nsuch an extent of waistcoat as himself, and felt the full value of his\ncapacity to such an institution. When he sat upon a seat erected for him\nin a corner of the office, with his glazed hat hanging on a peg over his\nhead, it was impossible to doubt the respectability of the concern.\nIt went on doubling itself with every square inch of his red waistcoat\nuntil, like the problem of the nails in the horse's shoes, the total\nbecame enormous. People had been known to apply to effect an insurance\non their lives for a thousand pounds, and looking at him, to beg, before\nthe form of proposal was filled up, that it might be made two. And yet\nhe was not a giant. His coat was rather small than otherwise. The whole\ncharm was in his waistcoat. Respectability, competence, property in\nBengal or anywhere else, responsibility to any amount on the part of the\ncompany that employed him, were all expressed in that one garment.\n\nRival offices had endeavoured to lure him away; Lombard Street itself\nhad beckoned to him; rich companies had whispered 'Be a Beadle!' but he\nstill continued faithful to the Anglo-Bengalee. Whether he was a deep\nrogue, or a stately simpleton, it was impossible to make out, but he\nappeared to believe in the Anglo-Bengalee. He was grave with imaginary\ncares of office; and having nothing whatever to do, and something less\nto take care of, would look as if the pressure of his numerous duties,\nand a sense of the treasure in the company's strong-room, made him a\nsolemn and a thoughtful man.\n\nAs the cabriolet drove up to the door, this officer appeared bare-headed\non the pavement, crying aloud 'Room for the chairman, room for the\nchairman, if you please!' much to the admiration of the bystanders,\nwho, it is needless to say, had their attention directed to the\nAnglo-Bengalee Company thenceforth, by that means. Mr Tigg leaped\ngracefully out, followed by the Managing Director (who was by this time\nvery distant and respectful), and ascended the stairs, still preceded by\nthe porter, who cried as he went, 'By your leave there! by your leave!\nThe Chairman of the Board, Gentle--MEN! In like manner, but in a still\nmore stentorian voice, he ushered the chairman through the public\noffice, where some humble clients were transacting business, into\nan awful chamber, labelled Board-room; the door of which sanctuary\nimmediately closed, and screened the great capitalist from vulgar eyes.\n\nThe board-room had a Turkey carpet in it, a sideboard, a portrait of\nTigg Montague, Esquire, as chairman; a very imposing chair of office,\ngarnished with an ivory hammer and a little hand-bell; and a long table,\nset out at intervals with sheets of blotting-paper, foolscap, clean\npens, and inkstands. The chairman having taken his seat with great\nsolemnity, the secretary supported him on his right hand, and the porter\nstood bolt upright behind them, forming a warm background of waistcoat.\nThis was the board: everything else being a light-hearted little\nfiction.\n\n'Bullamy!' said Mr Tigg.\n\n'Sir!' replied the porter.\n\n'Let the Medical Officer know, with my compliments, that I wish to see\nhim.'\n\nBullamy cleared his throat, and bustled out into the office, crying 'The\nChairman of the Board wishes to see the Medical Officer. By your leave\nthere! By your leave!' He soon returned with the gentleman in question;\nand at both openings of the board-room door--at his coming in and at\nhis going out--simple clients were seen to stretch their necks and\nstand upon their toes, thirsting to catch the slightest glimpse of that\nmysterious chamber.\n\n'Jobling, my dear friend!' said Mr Tigg, 'how are you? Bullamy, wait\noutside. Crimple, don't leave us. Jobling, my good fellow, I am glad to\nsee you.'\n\n'And how are you, Mr Montague, eh?' said the Medical Officer, throwing\nhimself luxuriously into an easy-chair (they were all easy-chairs in the\nboard-room), and taking a handsome gold snuff-box from the pocket of his\nblack satin waistcoat. 'How are you? A little worn with business, eh? If\nso, rest. A little feverish from wine, humph? If so, water. Nothing\nat all the matter, and quite comfortable? Then take some lunch. A very\nwholesome thing at this time of day to strengthen the gastric juices\nwith lunch, Mr Montague.'\n\nThe Medical Officer (he was the same medical officer who had followed\npoor old Anthony Chuzzlewit to the grave, and who had attended Mrs\nGamp's patient at the Bull) smiled in saying these words; and casually\nadded, as he brushed some grains of snuff from his shirt-frill, 'I\nalways take it myself about this time of day, do you know!'\n\n'Bullamy!' said the Chairman, ringing the little bell.\n\n'Sir!'\n\n'Lunch.'\n\n'Not on my account, I hope?' said the doctor. 'You are very good. Thank\nyou. I'm quite ashamed. Ha, ha! if I had been a sharp practitioner,\nMr Montague, I shouldn't have mentioned it without a fee; for you may\ndepend upon it, my dear sir, that if you don't make a point of taking\nlunch, you'll very soon come under my hands. Allow me to illustrate\nthis. In Mr Crimple's leg--'\n\nThe resident Director gave an involuntary start, for the doctor, in the\nheat of his demonstration, caught it up and laid it across his own, as\nif he were going to take it off, then and there.\n\n'In Mr Crimple's leg, you'll observe,' pursued the doctor, turning back\nhis cuffs and spanning the limb with both hands, 'where Mr Crimple's\nknee fits into the socket, here, there is--that is to say, between the\nbone and the socket--a certain quantity of animal oil.'\n\n'What do you pick MY leg out for?' said Mr Crimple, looking with\nsomething of an anxious expression at his limb. 'It's the same with\nother legs, ain't it?'\n\n'Never you mind, my good sir,' returned the doctor, shaking his head,\n'whether it is the same with other legs, or not the same.'\n\n'But I do mind,' said David.\n\n'I take a particular case, Mr Montague,' returned the doctor, 'as\nillustrating my remark, you observe. In this portion of Mr Crimple's\nleg, sir, there is a certain amount of animal oil. In every one of Mr\nCrimple's joints, sir, there is more or less of the same deposit. Very\ngood. If Mr Crimple neglects his meals, or fails to take his proper\nquantity of rest, that oil wanes, and becomes exhausted. What is the\nconsequence? Mr Crimple's bones sink down into their sockets, sir, and\nMr Crimple becomes a weazen, puny, stunted, miserable man!'\n\nThe doctor let Mr Crimple's leg fall suddenly, as if he were already in\nthat agreeable condition; turned down his wristbands again, and looked\ntriumphantly at the chairman.\n\n'We know a few secrets of nature in our profession, sir,' said the\ndoctor. 'Of course we do. We study for that; we pass the Hall and the\nCollege for that; and we take our station in society BY that. It's\nextraordinary how little is known on these subjects generally. Where\ndo you suppose, now'--the doctor closed one eye, as he leaned back\nsmilingly in his chair, and formed a triangle with his hands, of which\nhis two thumbs composed the base--'where do you suppose Mr Crimple's\nstomach is?'\n\nMr Crimple, more agitated than before, clapped his hand immediately\nbelow his waistcoat.\n\n'Not at all,' cried the doctor; 'not at all. Quite a popular mistake! My\ngood sir, you're altogether deceived.'\n\n'I feel it there, when it's out of order; that's all I know,' said\nCrimple.\n\n'You think you do,' replied the doctor; 'but science knows better. There\nwas a patient of mine once,' touching one of the many mourning rings\nupon his fingers, and slightly bowing his head, 'a gentleman who did\nme the honour to make a very handsome mention of me in his will--\"in\ntestimony,\" as he was pleased to say, \"of the unremitting zeal, talent,\nand attention of my friend and medical attendant, John Jobling, Esquire,\nM.R.C.S.,\"--who was so overcome by the idea of having all his life\nlaboured under an erroneous view of the locality of this important\norgan, that when I assured him on my professional reputation, he was\nmistaken, he burst into tears, put out his hand, and said, \"Jobling,\nGod bless you!\" Immediately afterwards he became speechless, and was\nultimately buried at Brixton.'\n\n'By your leave there!' cried Bullamy, without. 'By your leave!\nRefreshment for the Board-room!'\n\n'Ha!' said the doctor, jocularly, as he rubbed his hands, and drew his\nchair nearer to the table. 'The true Life Assurance, Mr Montague. The\nbest Policy in the world, my dear sir. We should be provident, and eat\nand drink whenever we can. Eh, Mr Crimple?'\n\nThe resident Director acquiesced rather sulkily, as if the gratification\nof replenishing his stomach had been impaired by the unsettlement of his\npreconceived opinions in reference to its situation. But the appearance\nof the porter and under-porter with a tray covered with a snow-white\ncloth, which, being thrown back, displayed a pair of cold roast fowls,\nflanked by some potted meats and a cool salad, quickly restored his\ngood humour. It was enhanced still further by the arrival of a bottle\nof excellent madeira, and another of champagne; and he soon attacked\nthe repast with an appetite scarcely inferior to that of the medical\nofficer.\n\nThe lunch was handsomely served, with a profusion of rich glass plate,\nand china; which seemed to denote that eating and drinking on a showy\nscale formed no unimportant item in the business of the Anglo-Bengalee\nDirectorship. As it proceeded, the Medical Officer grew more and more\njoyous and red-faced, insomuch that every mouthful he ate, and every\ndrop of wine he swallowed, seemed to impart new lustre to his eyes, and\nto light up new sparks in his nose and forehead.\n\nIn certain quarters of the City and its neighbourhood, Mr Jobling was,\nas we have already seen in some measure, a very popular character. He\nhad a portentously sagacious chin, and a pompous voice, with a rich\nhuskiness in some of its tones that went directly to the heart, like a\nray of light shining through the ruddy medium of choice old burgundy.\nHis neckerchief and shirt-frill were ever of the whitest, his clothes of\nthe blackest and sleekest, his gold watch-chain of the heaviest, and\nhis seals of the largest. His boots, which were always of the brightest,\ncreaked as he walked. Perhaps he could shake his head, rub his hands,\nor warm himself before a fire, better than any man alive; and he had a\npeculiar way of smacking his lips and saying, 'Ah!' at intervals while\npatients detailed their symptoms, which inspired great confidence. It\nseemed to express, 'I know what you're going to say better than you do;\nbut go on, go on.' As he talked on all occasions whether he had anything\nto say or not, it was unanimously observed of him that he was 'full of\nanecdote;' and his experience and profit from it were considered, for\nthe same reason, to be something much too extensive for description. His\nfemale patients could never praise him too highly; and the coldest of\nhis male admirers would always say this for him to their friends, 'that\nwhatever Jobling's professional skill might be (and it could not be\ndenied that he had a very high reputation), he was one of the most\ncomfortable fellows you ever saw in your life!'\n\nJobling was for many reasons, and not last in the list because his\nconnection lay principally among tradesmen and their families, exactly\nthe sort of person whom the Anglo-Bengalee Company wanted for a medical\nofficer. But Jobling was far too knowing to connect himself with the\ncompany in any closer ties than as a paid (and well paid) functionary,\nor to allow his connection to be misunderstood abroad, if he could help\nit. Hence he always stated the case to an inquiring patient, after this\nmanner:\n\n'Why, my dear sir, with regard to the Anglo-Bengalee, my information,\nyou see, is limited; very limited. I am the medical officer, in\nconsideration of a certain monthly payment. The labourer is worthy of\nhis hire; BIS DAT QUI CITO DAT'--('classical scholar, Jobling!' thinks\nthe patient, 'well-read man!')--'and I receive it regularly. Therefore\nI am bound, so far as my own knowledge goes, to speak well of the\nestablishment.' ('Nothing can be fairer than Jobling's conduct,' thinks\nthe patient, who has just paid Jobling's bill himself.) 'If you put\nany question to me, my dear friend,' says the doctor, 'touching the\nresponsibility or capital of the company, there I am at fault; for I\nhave no head for figures, and not being a shareholder, am delicate of\nshowing any curiosity whatever on the subject. Delicacy--your\namiable lady will agree with me I am sure--should be one of the first\ncharacteristics of a medical man.' ('Nothing can be finer or more\ngentlemanly than Jobling's feeling,' thinks the patient.) 'Very good,\nmy dear sir, so the matter stands. You don't know Mr Montague? I'm sorry\nfor it. A remarkably handsome man, and quite the gentleman in every\nrespect. Property, I am told, in India. House and everything belonging\nto him, beautiful. Costly furniture on the most elegant and lavish\nscale. And pictures, which, even in an anatomical point of view, are\nperfection. In case you should ever think of doing anything with the\ncompany, I'll pass you, you may depend upon it. I can conscientiously\nreport you a healthy subject. If I understand any man's constitution, it\nis yours; and this little indisposition has done him more good,\nma'am,' says the doctor, turning to the patient's wife, 'than if he had\nswallowed the contents of half the nonsensical bottles in my surgery.\nFor they ARE nonsense--to tell the honest truth, one half of them are\nnonsense--compared with such a constitution as his!' ('Jobling is the\nmost friendly creature I ever met with in my life,' thinks the patient;\n'and upon my word and honour, I'll consider of it!')\n\n'Commission to you, doctor, on four new policies, and a loan this\nmorning, eh?' said Crimple, looking, when they had finished lunch, over\nsome papers brought in by the porter. 'Well done!'\n\n'Jobling, my dear friend,' said Tigg, 'long life to you.'\n\n'No, no. Nonsense. Upon my word I've no right to draw the commission,'\nsaid the doctor, 'I haven't really. It's picking your pocket. I don't\nrecommend anybody here. I only say what I know. My patients ask me what\nI know, and I tell 'em what I know. Nothing else. Caution is my weak\nside, that's the truth; and always was from a boy. That is,' said the\ndoctor, filling his glass, 'caution in behalf of other people. Whether I\nwould repose confidence in this company myself, if I had not been paying\nmoney elsewhere for many years--that's quite another question.'\n\nHe tried to look as if there were no doubt about it; but feeling that he\ndid it but indifferently, changed the theme and praised the wine.\n\n'Talking of wine,' said the doctor, 'reminds me of one of the finest\nglasses of light old port I ever drank in my life; and that was at a\nfuneral. You have not seen anything of--of THAT party, Mr Montague, have\nyou?' handing him a card.\n\n'He is not buried, I hope?' said Tigg, as he took it. 'The honour of his\ncompany is not requested if he is.'\n\n'Ha, ha!' laughed the doctor. 'No; not quite. He was honourably\nconnected with that very occasion though.'\n\n'Oh!' said Tigg, smoothing his moustache, as he cast his eyes upon the\nname. 'I recollect. No. He has not been here.'\n\nThe words were on his lips, when Bullamy entered, and presented a card\nto the Medical Officer.\n\n'Talk of the what's his name--' observed the doctor rising.\n\n'And he's sure to appear, eh?' said Tigg.\n\n'Why, no, Mr Montague, no,' returned the doctor. 'We will not say that\nin the present case, for this gentleman is very far from it.'\n\n'So much the better,' retorted Tigg. 'So much the more adaptable to the\nAnglo-Bengalee. Bullamy, clear the table and take the things out by the\nother door. Mr Crimple, business.'\n\n'Shall I introduce him?' asked Jobling.\n\n'I shall be eternally delighted,' answered Tigg, kissing his hand and\nsmiling sweetly.\n\nThe doctor disappeared into the outer office, and immediately returned\nwith Jonas Chuzzlewit.\n\n'Mr Montague,' said Jobling. 'Allow me. My friend Mr Chuzzlewit. My dear\nfriend--our chairman. Now do you know,' he added checking himself with\ninfinite policy, and looking round with a smile; 'that's a very singular\ninstance of the force of example. It really is a very remarkable\ninstance of the force of example. I say OUR chairman. Why do I say our\nchairman? Because he is not MY chairman, you know. I have no connection\nwith the company, farther than giving them, for a certain fee and\nreward, my poor opinion as a medical man, precisely as I may give it any\nday to Jack Noakes or Tom Styles. Then why do I say our chairman? Simply\nbecause I hear the phrase constantly repeated about me. Such is the\ninvoluntary operation of the mental faculty in the imitative biped man.\nMr Crimple, I believe you never take snuff? Injudicious. You should.'\n\nPending these remarks on the part of the doctor, and the lengthened and\nsonorous pinch with which he followed them up, Jonas took a seat at\nthe board; as ungainly a man as ever he has been within the reader's\nknowledge. It is too common with all of us, but it is especially in\nthe nature of a mean mind, to be overawed by fine clothes and fine\nfurniture. They had a very decided influence on Jonas.\n\n'Now you two gentlemen have business to discuss, I know,' said the\ndoctor, 'and your time is precious. So is mine; for several lives are\nwaiting for me in the next room, and I have a round of visits to make\nafter--after I have taken 'em. Having had the happiness to introduce you\nto each other, I may go about my business. Good-bye. But allow me, Mr\nMontague, before I go, to say this of my friend who sits beside you:\nThat gentleman has done more, sir,' rapping his snuff-box solemnly, 'to\nreconcile me to human nature, than any man alive or dead. Good-bye!'\n\nWith these words Jobling bolted abruptly out of the room, and proceeded\nin his own official department, to impress the lives in waiting with a\nsense of his keen conscientiousness in the discharge of his duty, and\nthe great difficulty of getting into the Anglo-Bengalee; by feeling\ntheir pulses, looking at their tongues, listening at their ribs,\npoking them in the chest, and so forth; though, if he didn't well know\nbeforehand that whatever kind of lives they were, the Anglo-Bengalee\nwould accept them readily, he was far from being the Jobling that his\nfriend considered him; and was not the original Jobling, but a spurious\nimitation.\n\nMr Crimple also departed on the business of the morning; and Jonas\nChuzzlewit and Tigg were left alone.\n\n'I learn from our friend,' said Tigg, drawing his chair towards Jonas\nwith a winning ease of manner, 'that you have been thinking--'\n\n'Oh! Ecod then he'd no right to say so,' cried Jonas, interrupting.\n'I didn't tell HIM my thoughts. If he took it into his head that I was\ncoming here for such or such a purpose, why, that's his lookout. I don't\nstand committed by that.'\n\nJonas said this offensively enough; for over and above the habitual\ndistrust of his character, it was in his nature to seek to revenge\nhimself on the fine clothes and the fine furniture, in exact proportion\nas he had been unable to withstand their influence.\n\n'If I come here to ask a question or two, and get a document or two to\nconsider of, I don't bind myself to anything. Let's understand that, you\nknow,' said Jonas.\n\n'My dear fellow!' cried Tigg, clapping him on the shoulder, 'I applaud\nyour frankness. If men like you and I speak openly at first, all\npossible misunderstanding is avoided. Why should I disguise what you\nknow so well, but what the crowd never dream of? We companies are all\nbirds of prey; mere birds of prey. The only question is, whether in\nserving our own turn, we can serve yours too; whether in double-lining\nour own nest, we can put a single living into yours. Oh, you're in our\nsecret. You're behind the scenes. We'll make a merit of dealing plainly\nwith you, when we know we can't help it.'\n\nIt was remarked, on the first introduction of Mr Jonas into these pages,\nthat there is a simplicity of cunning no less than a simplicity of\ninnocence, and that in all matters involving a faith in knavery, he was\nthe most credulous of men. If Mr Tigg had preferred any claim to high\nand honourable dealing, Jonas would have suspected him though he had\nbeen a very model of probity; but when he gave utterance to Jonas's own\nthoughts of everything and everybody, Jonas began to feel that he was a\npleasant fellow, and one to be talked to freely.\n\nHe changed his position in the chair, not for a less awkward, but for a\nmore boastful attitude; and smiling in his miserable conceit rejoined:\n\n'You an't a bad man of business, Mr Montague. You know how to set about\nit, I WILL say.'\n\n'Tut, tut,' said Tigg, nodding confidentially, and showing his white\nteeth; 'we are not children, Mr Chuzzlewit; we are grown men, I hope.'\n\nJonas assented, and said after a short silence, first spreading out his\nlegs, and sticking one arm akimbo to show how perfectly at home he was,\n\n'The truth is--'\n\n'Don't say, the truth,' interposed Tigg, with another grin. 'It's so\nlike humbug.'\n\nGreatly charmed by this, Jonas began again.\n\n'The long and the short of it is--'\n\n'Better,' muttered Tigg. 'Much better!'\n\n'--That I didn't consider myself very well used by one or two of the old\ncompanies in some negotiations I have had with 'em--once had, I mean.\nThey started objections they had no right to start, and put questions\nthey had no right to put, and carried things much too high for my\ntaste.'\n\nAs he made these observations he cast down his eyes, and looked\ncuriously at the carpet. Mr Tigg looked curiously at him.\n\nHe made so long a pause, that Tigg came to the rescue, and said, in his\npleasantest manner:\n\n'Take a glass of wine.'\n\n'No, no,' returned Jonas, with a cunning shake of the head; 'none of\nthat, thankee. No wine over business. All very well for you, but it\nwouldn't do for me.'\n\n'What an old hand you are, Mr Chuzzlewit!' said Tigg, leaning back in\nhis chair, and leering at him through his half-shut eyes.\n\nJonas shook his head again, as much as to say, 'You're right there;' And\nthen resumed, jocosely:\n\n'Not such an old hand, either, but that I've been and got married.\nThat's rather green, you'll say. Perhaps it is, especially as she's\nyoung. But one never knows what may happen to these women, so I'm\nthinking of insuring her life. It is but fair, you know, that a man\nshould secure some consolation in case of meeting with such a loss.'\n\n'If anything can console him under such heart-breaking circumstances,'\nmurmured Tigg, with his eyes shut up as before.\n\n'Exactly,' returned Jonas; 'if anything can. Now, supposing I did it\nhere, I should do it cheap, I know, and easy, without bothering her\nabout it; which I'd much rather not do, for it's just in a woman's way\nto take it into her head, if you talk to her about such things, that\nshe's going to die directly.'\n\n'So it is,' cried Tigg, kissing his hand in honour of the sex. 'You're\nquite right. Sweet, silly, fluttering little simpletons!'\n\n'Well,' said Jonas, 'on that account, you know, and because offence\nhas been given me in other quarters, I wouldn't mind patronizing this\nCompany. But I want to know what sort of security there is for the\nCompany's going on. That's the--'\n\n'Not the truth?' cried Tigg, holding up his jewelled hand. 'Don't use\nthat Sunday School expression, please!'\n\n'The long and the short of it,' said Jonas. 'The long and the short of\nit is, what's the security?'\n\n'The paid-up capital, my dear sir,' said Tigg, referring to some papers\non the table, 'is, at this present moment--'\n\n'Oh! I understand all about paid-up capitals, you know,' said Jonas.\n\n'You do?' cried Tigg, stopping short.\n\n'I should hope so.'\n\nHe turned the papers down again, and moving nearer to him, said in his\near:\n\n'I know you do. I know you do. Look at me!'\n\nIt was not much in Jonas's way to look straight at anybody; but thus\nrequested, he made shift to take a tolerable survey of the chairman's\nfeatures. The chairman fell back a little, to give him the better\nopportunity.\n\n'You know me?' he inquired, elevating his eyebrows. 'You recollect?\nYou've seen me before?'\n\n'Why, I thought I remembered your face when I first came in,' said\nJonas, gazing at it; 'but I couldn't call to mind where I had seen it.\nNo. I don't remember, even now. Was it in the street?'\n\n'Was it in Pecksniff's parlour?' said Tigg\n\n'In Pecksniff's parlour!' echoed Jonas, fetching a long breath. 'You\ndon't mean when--'\n\n'Yes,' cried Tigg, 'when there was a very charming and delightful little\nfamily party, at which yourself and your respected father assisted.'\n\n'Well, never mind HIM,' said Jonas. 'He's dead, and there's no help for\nit.'\n\n'Dead, is he!' cried Tigg, 'Venerable old gentleman, is he dead! You're\nvery like him.'\n\nJonas received this compliment with anything but a good grace, perhaps\nbecause of his own private sentiments in reference to the personal\nappearance of his deceased parent; perhaps because he was not best\npleased to find that Montague and Tigg were one. That gentleman\nperceived it, and tapping him familiarly on the sleeve, beckoned him\nto the window. From this moment, Mr Montague's jocularity and flow of\nspirits were remarkable.\n\n'Do you find me at all changed since that time?' he asked. 'Speak\nplainly.'\n\nJonas looked hard at his waistcoat and jewels; and said 'Rather, ecod!'\n\n'Was I at all seedy in those days?' asked Montague.\n\n'Precious seedy,' said Jonas.\n\nMr Montague pointed down into the street, where Bailey and the cab were\nin attendance.\n\n'Neat; perhaps dashing. Do you know whose it is?'\n\n'No.'\n\n'Mine. Do you like this room?'\n\n'It must have cost a lot of money,' said Jonas.\n\n'You're right. Mine too. Why don't you'--he whispered this, and nudged\nhim in the side with his elbow--'why don't you take premiums, instead of\npaying 'em? That's what a man like you should do. Join us!'\n\nJonas stared at him in amazement.\n\n'Is that a crowded street?' asked Montague, calling his attention to the\nmultitude without.\n\n'Very,' said Jonas, only glancing at it, and immediately afterwards\nlooking at him again.\n\n'There are printed calculations,' said his companion, 'which will\ntell you pretty nearly how many people will pass up and down that\nthoroughfare in the course of a day. I can tell you how many of 'em will\ncome in here, merely because they find this office here; knowing no more\nabout it than they do of the Pyramids. Ha, ha! Join us. You shall come\nin cheap.'\n\nJonas looked at him harder and harder.\n\n'I can tell you,' said Tigg in his ear, 'how many of 'em will buy\nannuities, effect insurances, bring us their money in a hundred shapes\nand ways, force it upon us, trust us as if we were the Mint; yet know no\nmore about us than you do of that crossing-sweeper at the corner. Not so\nmuch. Ha, ha!'\n\nJonas gradually broke into a smile.\n\n'Yah!' said Montague, giving him a pleasant thrust in the breast;\n'you're too deep for us, you dog, or I wouldn't have told you. Dine with\nme to-morrow, in Pall Mall!'\n\n'I will' said Jonas.\n\n'Done!' cried Montague. 'Wait a bit. Take these papers with you and look\n'em over. See,' he said, snatching some printed forms from the table. 'B\nis a little tradesman, clerk, parson, artist, author, any common thing\nyou like.'\n\n'Yes,' said Jonas, looking greedily over his shoulder. 'Well!'\n\n'B wants a loan. Say fifty or a hundred pound; perhaps more; no matter.\nB proposes self and two securities. B is accepted. Two securities give\na bond. B assures his own life for double the amount, and brings two\nfriends' lives also--just to patronize the office. Ha ha, ha! Is that a\ngood notion?'\n\n'Ecod, that's a capital notion!' cried Jonas. 'But does he really do\nit?'\n\n'Do it!' repeated the chairman. 'B's hard up, my good fellow, and will\ndo anything. Don't you see? It's my idea.'\n\n'It does you honour. I'm blest if it don't,' said Jonas.\n\n'I think it does,' replied the chairman, 'and I'm proud to hear you say\nso. B pays the highest lawful interest--'\n\n'That an't much,' interrupted Jonas.\n\n'Right! quite right!' retorted Tigg. 'And hard it is upon the part\nof the law that it should be so confoundedly down upon us unfortunate\nvictims; when it takes such amazing good interest for itself from all\nits clients. But charity begins at home, and justice begins next door.\nWell! The law being hard upon us, we're not exactly soft upon B; for\nbesides charging B the regular interest, we get B's premium, and B's\nfriends' premiums, and we charge B for the bond, and, whether we accept\nhim or not, we charge B for \"inquiries\" (we keep a man, at a pound a\nweek, to make 'em), and we charge B a trifle for the secretary; and in\nshort, my good fellow, we stick it into B, up hill and down dale, and\nmake a devilish comfortable little property out of him. Ha, ha, ha! I\ndrive B, in point of fact,' said Tigg, pointing to the cabriolet, 'and a\nthoroughbred horse he is. Ha, ha, ha!'\n\nJonas enjoyed this joke very much indeed. It was quite in his peculiar\nvein of humour.\n\n'Then,' said Tigg Montague, 'we grant annuities on the very lowest and\nmost advantageous terms known in the money market; and the old ladies\nand gentlemen down in the country buy 'em. Ha, ha, ha! And we pay 'em\ntoo--perhaps. Ha, ha, ha!'\n\n'But there's responsibility in that,' said Jonas, looking doubtful.\n\n'I take it all myself,' said Tigg Montague. 'Here I am responsible for\neverything. The only responsible person in the establishment! Ha,\nha, ha! Then there are the Life Assurances without loans; the common\npolicies. Very profitable, very comfortable. Money down, you know;\nrepeated every year; capital fun!'\n\n'But when they begin to fall in,' observed Jonas. 'It's all very well,\nwhile the office is young, but when the policies begin to die--that's\nwhat I am thinking of.'\n\n'At the first start, my dear fellow,' said Montague, 'to show you how\ncorrect your judgment is, we had a couple of unlucky deaths that brought\nus down to a grand piano.'\n\n'Brought you down where?' cried Jonas.\n\n'I give you my sacred word of honour,' said Tigg Montague, 'that I\nraised money on every other individual piece of property, and was left\nalone in the world with a grand piano. And it was an upright-grand too,\nso that I couldn't even sit upon it. But, my dear fellow, we got over\nit. We granted a great many new policies that week (liberal allowance\nto solicitors, by the bye), and got over it in no time. Whenever they\nshould chance to fall in heavily, as you very justly observe they may,\none of these days; then--' he finished the sentence in so low a whisper,\nthat only one disconnected word was audible, and that imperfectly. But\nit sounded like 'Bolt.'\n\n'Why, you're as bold as brass!' said Jonas, in the utmost admiration.\n\n'A man can well afford to be as bold as brass, my good fellow, when he\ngets gold in exchange!' cried the chairman, with a laugh that shook him\nfrom head to foot. 'You'll dine with me to-morrow?'\n\n'At what time?' asked Jonas.\n\n'Seven. Here's my card. Take the documents. I see you'll join us!'\n\n'I don't know about that,' said Jonas. 'There's a good deal to be looked\ninto first.'\n\n'You shall look,' said Montague, slapping him on the back, 'into\nanything and everything you please. But you'll join us, I am convinced.\nYou were made for it. Bullamy!'\n\nObedient to the summons and the little bell, the waistcoat appeared.\nBeing charged to show Jonas out, it went before; and the voice within it\ncried, as usual, 'By your leave there, by your leave! Gentleman from the\nboard-room, by your leave!'\n\nMr Montague being left alone, pondered for some moments, and then said,\nraising his voice:\n\n'Is Nadgett in the office there?'\n\n'Here he is, sir.' And he promptly entered; shutting the board-room door\nafter him, as carefully as if he were about to plot a murder.\n\nHe was the man at a pound a week who made the inquiries. It was no\nvirtue or merit in Nadgett that he transacted all his Anglo-Bengalee\nbusiness secretly and in the closest confidence; for he was born to be\na secret. He was a short, dried-up, withered old man, who seemed to have\nsecreted his very blood; for nobody would have given him credit for the\npossession of six ounces of it in his whole body. How he lived was a\nsecret; where he lived was a secret; and even what he was, was a secret.\nIn his musty old pocket-book he carried contradictory cards, in some of\nwhich he called himself a coal-merchant, in others a wine-merchant,\nin others a commission-agent, in others a collector, in others an\naccountant; as if he really didn't know the secret himself. He was\nalways keeping appointments in the City, and the other man never seemed\nto come. He would sit on 'Change for hours, looking at everybody who\nwalked in and out, and would do the like at Garraway's, and in other\nbusiness coffee-rooms, in some of which he would be occasionally seen\ndrying a very damp pocket-handkerchief before the fire, and still\nlooking over his shoulder for the man who never appeared. He was\nmildewed, threadbare, shabby; always had flue upon his legs and back;\nand kept his linen so secretly buttoning up and wrapping over, that he\nmight have had none--perhaps he hadn't. He carried one stained beaver\nglove, which he dangled before him by the forefinger as he walked or\nsat; but even its fellow was a secret. Some people said he had been a\nbankrupt, others that he had gone an infant into an ancient Chancery\nsuit which was still depending, but it was all a secret. He carried bits\nof sealing-wax and a hieroglyphical old copper seal in his pocket, and\noften secretly indited letters in corner boxes of the trysting-places\nbefore mentioned; but they never appeared to go to anybody, for he would\nput them into a secret place in his coat, and deliver them to himself\nweeks afterwards, very much to his own surprise, quite yellow. He was\nthat sort of man that if he had died worth a million of money, or had\ndied worth twopence halfpenny, everybody would have been perfectly\nsatisfied, and would have said it was just as they expected. And yet\nhe belonged to a class; a race peculiar to the City; who are secrets as\nprofound to one another, as they are to the rest of mankind.\n\n'Mr Nadgett,' said Montague, copying Jonas Chuzzlewit's address upon a\npiece of paper, from the card which was still lying on the table, 'any\ninformation about this name, I shall be glad to have myself. Don't you\nmind what it is. Any you can scrape together, bring me. Bring it to me,\nMr Nadgett.'\n\nNadgett put on his spectacles, and read the name attentively; then\nlooked at the chairman over his glasses, and bowed; then took them off,\nand put them in their case; and then put the case in his pocket. When he\nhad done so, he looked, without his spectacles, at the paper as it lay\nbefore him, and at the same time produced his pocket-book from somewhere\nabout the middle of his spine. Large as it was, it was very full of\ndocuments, but he found a place for this one; and having clasped it\ncarefully, passed it by a kind of solemn legerdemain into the same\nregion as before.\n\nHe withdrew with another bow and without a word; opening the door\nno wider than was sufficient for his passage out; and shutting it as\ncarefully as before. The chairman of the board employed the rest of the\nmorning in affixing his sign-manual of gracious acceptance to various\nnew proposals of annuity-purchase and assurance. The Company was looking\nup, for they flowed in gayly.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT\n\nMR MONTAGUE AT HOME. AND MR JONAS CHUZZLEWIT AT HOME\n\n\nThere were many powerful reasons for Jonas Chuzzlewit being strongly\nprepossessed in favour of the scheme which its great originator had so\nboldly laid open to him; but three among them stood prominently forward.\nFirstly, there was money to be made by it. Secondly, the money had the\npeculiar charm of being sagaciously obtained at other people's cost.\nThirdly, it involved much outward show of homage and distinction: a\nboard being an awful institution in its own sphere, and a director a\nmighty man. 'To make a swingeing profit, have a lot of chaps to order\nabout, and get into regular good society by one and the same means, and\nthem so easy to one's hand, ain't such a bad look-out,' thought\nJonas. The latter considerations were only second to his avarice; for,\nconscious that there was nothing in his person, conduct, character, or\naccomplishments, to command respect, he was greedy of power, and was, in\nhis heart, as much a tyrant as any laureled conqueror on record.\n\nBut he determined to proceed with cunning and caution, and to be very\nkeen on his observation of the gentility of Mr Montague's private\nestablishment. For it no more occurred to this shallow knave that\nMontague wanted him to be so, or he wouldn't have invited him while his\ndecision was yet in abeyance, than the possibility of that genius being\nable to overreach him in any way, pierced through his self-deceit by the\ninlet of a needle's point. He had said, in the outset, that Jonas\nwas too sharp for him; and Jonas, who would have been sharp enough to\nbelieve him in nothing else, though he had solemnly sworn it, believed\nhim in that, instantly.\n\nIt was with a faltering hand, and yet with an imbecile attempt at a\nswagger, that he knocked at his new friend's door in Pall Mall when the\nappointed hour arrived. Mr Bailey quickly answered to the summons. He\nwas not proud and was kindly disposed to take notice of Jonas; but Jonas\nhad forgotten him.\n\n'Mr Montague at home?'\n\n'I should hope he wos at home, and waiting dinner, too,' said Bailey,\nwith the ease of an old acquaintance. 'Will you take your hat up along\nwith you, or leave it here?'\n\nMr Jonas preferred leaving it there.\n\n'The hold name, I suppose?' said Bailey, with a grin.\n\nMr Jonas stared at him in mute indignation.\n\n'What, don't you remember hold mother Todgers's?' said Mr Bailey, with\nhis favourite action of the knees and boots. 'Don't you remember my\ntaking your name up to the young ladies, when you came a-courting there?\nA reg'lar scaly old shop, warn't it? Times is changed ain't they. I say\nhow you've growed!'\n\nWithout pausing for any acknowledgement of this compliment, he ushered\nthe visitor upstairs, and having announced him, retired with a private\nwink.\n\nThe lower story of the house was occupied by a wealthy tradesman, but\nMr Montague had all the upper portion, and splendid lodging it was. The\nroom in which he received Jonas was a spacious and elegant apartment,\nfurnished with extreme magnificence; decorated with pictures, copies\nfrom the antique in alabaster and marble, china vases, lofty mirrors,\ncrimson hangings of the richest silk, gilded carvings, luxurious\ncouches, glistening cabinets inlaid with precious woods; costly toys of\nevery sort in negligent abundance. The only guests besides Jonas\nwere the doctor, the resident Director, and two other gentlemen, whom\nMontague presented in due form.\n\n'My dear friend, I am delighted to see you. Jobling you know, I\nbelieve?'\n\n'I think so,' said the doctor pleasantly, as he stepped out of the\ncircle to shake hands. 'I trust I have the honour. I hope so. My dear\nsir, I see you well. Quite well? THAT'S well!'\n\n'Mr Wolf,' said Montague, as soon as the doctor would allow him to\nintroduce the two others, 'Mr Chuzzlewit. Mr Pip, Mr Chuzzlewit.'\n\nBoth gentlemen were exceedingly happy to have the honour of making Mr\nChuzzlewit's acquaintance. The doctor drew Jonas a little apart, and\nwhispered behind his hand:\n\n'Men of the world, my dear sir--men of the world. Hem! Mr Wolf--literary\ncharacter--you needn't mention it--remarkably clever weekly paper--oh,\nremarkably clever! Mr Pip--theatrical man--capital man to know--oh,\ncapital man!'\n\n'Well!' said Wolf, folding his arms and resuming a conversation which\nthe arrival of Jonas had interrupted. 'And what did Lord Nobley say to\nthat?'\n\n'Why,' returned Pip, with an oath. 'He didn't know what to say. Same,\nsir, if he wasn't as mute as a poker. But you know what a good fellow\nNobley is!'\n\n'The best fellow in the world!' cried Wolf. 'It as only last week that\nNobley said to me, \"By Gad, Wolf, I've got a living to bestow, and if\nyou had but been brought up at the University, strike me blind if I\nwouldn't have made a parson of you!\"'\n\n'Just like him,' said Pip with another oath. 'And he'd have done it!'\n\n'Not a doubt of it,' said Wolf. 'But you were going to tell us--'\n\n'Oh, yes!' cried Pip. 'To be sure. So I was. At first he was dumb--sewn\nup, dead, sir--but after a minute he said to the Duke, \"Here's Pip.\nAsk Pip. Pip's our mutual friend. Ask Pip. He knows.\" \"Damme!\" said the\nDuke, \"I appeal to Pip then. Come, Pip. Bandy or not bandy? Speak out!\"\n\"Bandy, your Grace, by the Lord Harry!\" said I. \"Ha, ha!\" laughed the\nDuke. \"To be sure she is. Bravo, Pip. Well sai