"THE PICKWICK PAPERS\n\n\nBy Charles Dickens\n\n\n\n\nCONTENTS\n\n\n1. The Pickwickians\n\n2. The first Day's Journey, and the first Evening's Adventures; with\ntheir Consequences\n\n3. A new Acquaintance--The Stroller's Tale--A disagreeable Interruption,\nand an unpleasant Encounter\n\n4. A Field Day and Bivouac--More new Friends--An Invitation to the\nCountry\n\n5. A short one--Showing, among other Matters, how Mr. Pickwick undertook\nto drive, and Mr. Winkle to ride, and how they both did it\n\n6. An old-fashioned Card-party--The Clergyman's verses--The Story of the\nConvict's Return\n\n7. How Mr. Winkle, instead of shooting at the Pigeon and killing the\nCrow, shot at the Crow and wounded the Pigeon; how the Dingley Dell\nCricket Club played All-Muggleton, and how All-Muggleton dined at the\nDingley Dell Expense; with other interesting and instructive Matters\n\n8. Strongly illustrative of the Position, that the Course of True Love\nis not a Railway\n\n9. A Discovery and a Chase\n\n10. Clearing up all Doubts (if any existed) of the Disinterestedness of\nMr. A. Jingle's Character\n\n11. Involving another Journey, and an Antiquarian Discovery; Recording\nMr. Pickwick's Determination to be present at an Election; and\ncontaining a Manuscript of the old Clergyman's\n\n12. Descriptive of a very important Proceeding on the Part of Mr.\nPickwick; no less an Epoch in his Life, than in this History\n\n13. Some Account of Eatanswill; of the State of Parties therein; and of\nthe Election of a Member to serve in Parliament for that ancient, loyal,\nand patriotic Borough\n\n14. Comprising a brief Description of the Company at the Peacock\nassembled; and a Tale told by a Bagman\n\n15. In which is given a faithful Portraiture of two distinguished\nPersons; and an accurate Description of a public Breakfast in their\nHouse and Grounds: which public Breakfast leads to the Recognition of an\nold Acquaintance, and the Commencement of another Chapter\n\n16. Too full of Adventure to be briefly described\n\n17. Showing that an Attack of Rheumatism, in some Cases, acts as a\nQuickener to inventive Genius\n\n18. Briefly illustrative of two Points; first, the Power of Hysterics,\nand, secondly, the Force of Circumstances\n\n19. A pleasant Day with an unpleasant Termination\n\n20. Showing how Dodson and Fogg were Men of Business, and their Clerks\nMen of pleasure; and how an affecting Interview took place between\nMr. Weller and his long-lost Parent; showing also what Choice Spirits\nassembled at the Magpie and Stump, and what a Capital Chapter the next\none will be\n\n21. In which the old Man launches forth into his favourite Theme, and\nrelates a Story about a queer Client\n\n22. Mr. Pickwick journeys to Ipswich and meets with a romantic Adventure\nwith a middle-aged Lady in yellow Curl-papers\n\n23. In which Mr. Samuel Weller begins to devote his Energies to the\nReturn Match between himself and Mr. Trotter\n\n24. Wherein Mr. Peter Magnus grows jealous, and the middle-aged Lady\napprehensive, which brings the Pickwickians within the Grasp of the Law\n\n25. Showing, among a Variety of pleasant Matters, how majestic and\nimpartial Mr. Nupkins was; and how Mr. Weller returned Mr. Job Trotter's\nShuttlecock as heavily as it came--With another Matter, which will be\nfound in its Place\n\n26. Which contains a brief Account of the Progress of the Action of\nBardell against Pickwick\n\n27. Samuel Weller makes a Pilgrimage to Dorking, and beholds his\nMother-in-law\n\n28. A good-humoured Christmas Chapter, containing an Account of a\nWedding, and some other Sports beside: which although in their Way even\nas good Customs as Marriage itself, are not quite so religiously kept\nup, in these degenerate Times\n\n29. The Story of the Goblins who stole a Sexton\n\n30. How the Pickwickians made and cultivated the Acquaintance of a\nCouple of nice young Men belonging to one of the liberal Professions;\nhow they disported themselves on the Ice; and how their Visit came to a\nConclusion\n\n31. Which is all about the Law, and sundry Great Authorities learned\ntherein\n\n32. Describes, far more fully than the Court Newsman ever did, a\nBachelor's Party, given by Mr. Bob Sawyer at his Lodgings in the Borough\n\n33. Mr. Weller the elder delivers some Critical Sentiments respecting\nLiterary Composition; and, assisted by his Son Samuel, pays a small\nInstalment of Retaliation to the Account of the Reverend Gentleman with\nthe Red Nose\n\n34. Is wholly devoted to a full and faithful Report of the memorable\nTrial of Bardell against Pickwick\n\n35. In which Mr. Pickwick thinks he had better go to Bath; and goes\naccordingly\n\n36. The chief Features of which will be found to be an authentic Version\nof the Legend of Prince Bladud, and a most extraordinary Calamity that\nbefell Mr. Winkle\n\n37. Honourably accounts for Mr. Weller's Absence, by describing a Soiree\nto which he was invited and went; also relates how he was intrusted by\nMr. Pickwick with a Private Mission of Delicacy and Importance\n\n38. How Mr. Winkle, when he stepped out of the Frying-pan, walked gently\nand comfortably into the Fire\n\n39. Mr. Samuel Weller, being intrusted with a Mission of Love, proceeds\nto execute it; with what Success will hereinafter appear\n\n40. Introduces Mr. Pickwick to a new and not uninteresting Scene in the\ngreat Drama of Life\n\n41. Whatt befell Mr. Pickwick when he got into the Fleet; what Prisoners\nhe saw there; and how he passed the Night\n\n42. Illustrative, like the preceding one, of the old Proverb, that\nAdversity brings a Man acquainted with strange Bedfellows--Likewise\ncontaining Mr. Pickwick's extraordinary and startling Announcement to\nMr. Samuel Weller\n\n43. Showing how Mr. Samuel Weller got into Difficulties\n\n44. Treats of divers little Matters which occurred in the Fleet, and\nof Mr. Winkle's mysterious Behaviour; and shows how the poor Chancery\nPrisoner obtained his Release at last\n\n45. Descriptive of an affecting Interview between Mr. Samuel Weller and\na Family Party. Mr. Pickwick makes a Tour of the diminutive World he\ninhabits, and resolves to mix with it, in Future, as little as possible\n\n46. Records a touching Act of delicate Feeling not unmixed with\nPleasantry, achieved and performed by Messrs. Dodson and Fogg\n\n47. Is chiefly devoted to Matters of Business, and the temporal\nAdvantage of Dodson and Fogg--Mr. Winkle reappears under extraordinary\nCircumstances--Mr. Pickwick's Benevolence proves stronger than his\nObstinacy\n\n48. Relates how Mr. Pickwick, with the Assistance of Samuel Weller,\nessayed to soften the Heart of Mr. Benjamin Allen, and to mollify the\nWrath of Mr. Robert Sawyer\n\n49. Containing the Story of the Bagman's Uncle\n\n50. How Mr. Pickwick sped upon his Mission, and how he was reinforced in\nthe Outset by a most unexpected Auxiliary\n\n51. In which Mr. Pickwick encounters an old Acquaintance--To which\nfortunate Circumstance the Reader is mainly indebted for Matter of\nthrilling Interest herein set down, concerning two great Public Men of\nMight and Power\n\n52. Involving a serious Change in the Weller Family, and the untimely\nDownfall of Mr. Stiggins\n\n53. Comprising the final Exit of Mr. Jingle and Job Trotter, with a\ngreat Morning of business in Gray's Inn Square--Concluding with a Double\nKnock at Mr. Perker's Door\n\n54. Containing some Particulars relative to the Double Knock, and other\nMatters: among which certain interesting Disclosures relative to Mr.\nSnodgrass and a Young Lady are by no Means irrelevant to this History\n\n55. Mr. Solomon Pell, assisted by a Select Committee of Coachmen,\narranges the affairs of the elder Mr. Weller\n\n56. An important Conference takes place between Mr. Pickwick and\nSamuel Weller, at which his Parent assists--An old Gentleman in a\nsnuff-coloured Suit arrives unexpectedly\n\n57. In which the Pickwick Club is finally dissolved, and everything\nconcluded to the Satisfaction of Everybody\n\n\n\n\n\nTHE POSTHUMOUS PAPERS OF THE PICKWICK CLUB\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER I. THE PICKWICKIANS\n\n\nThe first ray of light which illumines the gloom, and converts into a\ndazzling brilliancy that obscurity in which the earlier history of the\npublic career of the immortal Pickwick would appear to be involved, is\nderived from the perusal of the following entry in the Transactions of\nthe Pickwick Club, which the editor of these papers feels the highest\npleasure in laying before his readers, as a proof of the careful\nattention, indefatigable assiduity, and nice discrimination, with which\nhis search among the multifarious documents confided to him has been\nconducted.\n\n'May 12, 1827. Joseph Smiggers, Esq., P.V.P.M.P.C. [Perpetual\nVice-President--Member Pickwick Club], presiding. The following\nresolutions unanimously agreed to:--\n\n'That this Association has heard read, with feelings of unmingled\nsatisfaction, and unqualified approval, the paper communicated by Samuel\nPickwick, Esq., G.C.M.P.C. [General Chairman--Member Pickwick Club],\nentitled \"Speculations on the Source of the Hampstead Ponds, with some\nObservations on the Theory of Tittlebats;\" and that this Association\ndoes hereby return its warmest thanks to the said Samuel Pickwick, Esq.,\nG.C.M.P.C., for the same.\n\n'That while this Association is deeply sensible of the advantages which\nmust accrue to the cause of science, from the production to which they\nhave just adverted--no less than from the unwearied researches of\nSamuel Pickwick, Esq., G.C.M.P.C., in Hornsey, Highgate, Brixton, and\nCamberwell--they cannot but entertain a lively sense of the inestimable\nbenefits which must inevitably result from carrying the speculations of\nthat learned man into a wider field, from extending his travels, and,\nconsequently, enlarging his sphere of observation, to the advancement of\nknowledge, and the diffusion of learning.\n\n'That, with the view just mentioned, this Association has taken into its\nserious consideration a proposal, emanating from the aforesaid, Samuel\nPickwick, Esq., G.C.M.P.C., and three other Pickwickians hereinafter\nnamed, for forming a new branch of United Pickwickians, under the title\nof The Corresponding Society of the Pickwick Club.\n\n'That the said proposal has received the sanction and approval of this\nAssociation. 'That the Corresponding Society of the Pickwick Club\nis therefore hereby constituted; and that Samuel Pickwick, Esq.,\nG.C.M.P.C., Tracy Tupman, Esq., M.P.C., Augustus Snodgrass, Esq.,\nM.P.C., and Nathaniel Winkle, Esq., M.P.C., are hereby nominated and\nappointed members of the same; and that they be requested to forward,\nfrom time to time, authenticated accounts of their journeys and\ninvestigations, of their observations of character and manners, and of\nthe whole of their adventures, together with all tales and papers to\nwhich local scenery or associations may give rise, to the Pickwick Club,\nstationed in London.\n\n'That this Association cordially recognises the principle of every\nmember of the Corresponding Society defraying his own travelling\nexpenses; and that it sees no objection whatever to the members of\nthe said society pursuing their inquiries for any length of time they\nplease, upon the same terms.\n\n'That the members of the aforesaid Corresponding Society be, and\nare hereby informed, that their proposal to pay the postage of their\nletters, and the carriage of their parcels, has been deliberated upon by\nthis Association: that this Association considers such proposal worthy\nof the great minds from which it emanated, and that it hereby signifies\nits perfect acquiescence therein.'\n\nA casual observer, adds the secretary, to whose notes we are indebted\nfor the following account--a casual observer might possibly have\nremarked nothing extraordinary in the bald head, and circular\nspectacles, which were intently turned towards his (the secretary's)\nface, during the reading of the above resolutions: to those who knew\nthat the gigantic brain of Pickwick was working beneath that forehead,\nand that the beaming eyes of Pickwick were twinkling behind those\nglasses, the sight was indeed an interesting one. There sat the man who\nhad traced to their source the mighty ponds of Hampstead, and agitated\nthe scientific world with his Theory of Tittlebats, as calm and unmoved\nas the deep waters of the one on a frosty day, or as a solitary specimen\nof the other in the inmost recesses of an earthen jar. And how much more\ninteresting did the spectacle become, when, starting into full life\nand animation, as a simultaneous call for 'Pickwick' burst from his\nfollowers, that illustrious man slowly mounted into the Windsor chair,\non which he had been previously seated, and addressed the club himself\nhad founded. What a study for an artist did that exciting scene present!\nThe eloquent Pickwick, with one hand gracefully concealed behind\nhis coat tails, and the other waving in air to assist his glowing\ndeclamation; his elevated position revealing those tights and gaiters,\nwhich, had they clothed an ordinary man, might have passed without\nobservation, but which, when Pickwick clothed them--if we may use the\nexpression--inspired involuntary awe and respect; surrounded by the men\nwho had volunteered to share the perils of his travels, and who were\ndestined to participate in the glories of his discoveries. On his right\nsat Mr. Tracy Tupman--the too susceptible Tupman, who to the wisdom and\nexperience of maturer years superadded the enthusiasm and ardour of a\nboy in the most interesting and pardonable of human weaknesses--love.\nTime and feeding had expanded that once romantic form; the black silk\nwaistcoat had become more and more developed; inch by inch had the gold\nwatch-chain beneath it disappeared from within the range of Tupman's\nvision; and gradually had the capacious chin encroached upon the\nborders of the white cravat: but the soul of Tupman had known no\nchange--admiration of the fair sex was still its ruling passion. On the\nleft of his great leader sat the poetic Snodgrass, and near him again\nthe sporting Winkle; the former poetically enveloped in a mysterious\nblue cloak with a canine-skin collar, and the latter communicating\nadditional lustre to a new green shooting-coat, plaid neckerchief, and\nclosely-fitted drabs.\n\nMr. Pickwick's oration upon this occasion, together with the debate\nthereon, is entered on the Transactions of the Club. Both bear a strong\naffinity to the discussions of other celebrated bodies; and, as it is\nalways interesting to trace a resemblance between the proceedings of\ngreat men, we transfer the entry to these pages.\n\n'Mr. Pickwick observed (says the secretary) that fame was dear to the\nheart of every man. Poetic fame was dear to the heart of his friend\nSnodgrass; the fame of conquest was equally dear to his friend Tupman;\nand the desire of earning fame in the sports of the field, the air,\nand the water was uppermost in the breast of his friend Winkle. He (Mr.\nPickwick) would not deny that he was influenced by human passions and\nhuman feelings (cheers)--possibly by human weaknesses (loud cries of\n\"No\"); but this he would say, that if ever the fire of self-importance\nbroke out in his bosom, the desire to benefit the human race in\npreference effectually quenched it. The praise of mankind was his swing;\nphilanthropy was his insurance office. (Vehement cheering.) He had felt\nsome pride--he acknowledged it freely, and let his enemies make the most\nof it--he had felt some pride when he presented his Tittlebatian Theory\nto the world; it might be celebrated or it might not. (A cry of \"It\nis,\" and great cheering.) He would take the assertion of that honourable\nPickwickian whose voice he had just heard--it was celebrated; but if\nthe fame of that treatise were to extend to the farthest confines of the\nknown world, the pride with which he should reflect on the authorship of\nthat production would be as nothing compared with the pride with which\nhe looked around him, on this, the proudest moment of his existence.\n(Cheers.) He was a humble individual. (\"No, no.\") Still he could not but\nfeel that they had selected him for a service of great honour, and\nof some danger. Travelling was in a troubled state, and the minds of\ncoachmen were unsettled. Let them look abroad and contemplate the scenes\nwhich were enacting around them. Stage-coaches were upsetting in all\ndirections, horses were bolting, boats were overturning, and boilers\nwere bursting. (Cheers--a voice \"No.\") No! (Cheers.) Let that honourable\nPickwickian who cried \"No\" so loudly come forward and deny it, if he\ncould. (Cheers.) Who was it that cried \"No\"? (Enthusiastic cheering.)\nWas it some vain and disappointed man--he would not say haberdasher\n(loud cheers)--who, jealous of the praise which had been--perhaps\nundeservedly--bestowed on his (Mr. Pickwick's) researches, and smarting\nunder the censure which had been heaped upon his own feeble attempts at\nrivalry, now took this vile and calumnious mode of---\n\n'Mr. BLOTTON (of Aldgate) rose to order. Did the honourable Pickwickian\nallude to him? (Cries of \"Order,\" \"Chair,\" \"Yes,\" \"No,\" \"Go on,\" \"Leave\noff,\" etc.)\n\n'Mr. PICKWICK would not put up to be put down by clamour. He had alluded\nto the honourable gentleman. (Great excitement.)\n\n'Mr. BLOTTON would only say then, that he repelled the hon. gent.'s\nfalse and scurrilous accusation, with profound contempt. (Great\ncheering.) The hon. gent. was a humbug. (Immense confusion, and loud\ncries of \"Chair,\" and \"Order.\")\n\n'Mr. A. SNODGRASS rose to order. He threw himself upon the chair.\n(Hear.) He wished to know whether this disgraceful contest between two\nmembers of that club should be allowed to continue. (Hear, hear.)\n\n'The CHAIRMAN was quite sure the hon. Pickwickian would withdraw the\nexpression he had just made use of.\n\n'Mr. BLOTTON, with all possible respect for the chair, was quite sure he\nwould not.\n\n'The CHAIRMAN felt it his imperative duty to demand of the honourable\ngentleman, whether he had used the expression which had just escaped him\nin a common sense.\n\n'Mr. BLOTTON had no hesitation in saying that he had not--he had\nused the word in its Pickwickian sense. (Hear, hear.) He was bound to\nacknowledge that, personally, he entertained the highest regard and\nesteem for the honourable gentleman; he had merely considered him a\nhumbug in a Pickwickian point of view. (Hear, hear.)\n\n'Mr. PICKWICK felt much gratified by the fair, candid, and full\nexplanation of his honourable friend. He begged it to be at once\nunderstood, that his own observations had been merely intended to bear a\nPickwickian construction. (Cheers.)'\n\nHere the entry terminates, as we have no doubt the debate did also,\nafter arriving at such a highly satisfactory and intelligible point.\nWe have no official statement of the facts which the reader will find\nrecorded in the next chapter, but they have been carefully collated\nfrom letters and other MS. authorities, so unquestionably genuine as to\njustify their narration in a connected form.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER II. THE FIRST DAY'S JOURNEY, AND THE FIRST EVENING'S ADVENTURES;\nWITH THEIR CONSEQUENCES\n\n\nThat punctual servant of all work, the sun, had just risen, and begun\nto strike a light on the morning of the thirteenth of May, one thousand\neight hundred and twenty-seven, when Mr. Samuel Pickwick burst like\nanother sun from his slumbers, threw open his chamber window, and looked\nout upon the world beneath. Goswell Street was at his feet, Goswell\nStreet was on his right hand--as far as the eye could reach, Goswell\nStreet extended on his left; and the opposite side of Goswell Street\nwas over the way. 'Such,' thought Mr. Pickwick, 'are the narrow views\nof those philosophers who, content with examining the things that lie\nbefore them, look not to the truths which are hidden beyond. As well\nmight I be content to gaze on Goswell Street for ever, without one\neffort to penetrate to the hidden countries which on every side surround\nit.' And having given vent to this beautiful reflection, Mr. Pickwick\nproceeded to put himself into his clothes, and his clothes into his\nportmanteau. Great men are seldom over scrupulous in the arrangement of\ntheir attire; the operation of shaving, dressing, and coffee-imbibing\nwas soon performed; and, in another hour, Mr. Pickwick, with his\nportmanteau in his hand, his telescope in his greatcoat pocket, and his\nnote-book in his waistcoat, ready for the reception of any discoveries\nworthy of being noted down, had arrived at the coach-stand in St.\nMartin's-le-Grand. 'Cab!' said Mr. Pickwick.\n\n'Here you are, sir,' shouted a strange specimen of the human race, in\na sackcloth coat, and apron of the same, who, with a brass label\nand number round his neck, looked as if he were catalogued in some\ncollection of rarities. This was the waterman. 'Here you are, sir.\nNow, then, fust cab!' And the first cab having been fetched from the\npublic-house, where he had been smoking his first pipe, Mr. Pickwick and\nhis portmanteau were thrown into the vehicle.\n\n'Golden Cross,' said Mr. Pickwick.\n\n'Only a bob's vorth, Tommy,' cried the driver sulkily, for the\ninformation of his friend the waterman, as the cab drove off.\n\n'How old is that horse, my friend?' inquired Mr. Pickwick, rubbing his\nnose with the shilling he had reserved for the fare.\n\n'Forty-two,' replied the driver, eyeing him askant.\n\n'What!' ejaculated Mr. Pickwick, laying his hand upon his note-book. The\ndriver reiterated his former statement. Mr. Pickwick looked very hard\nat the man's face, but his features were immovable, so he noted down the\nfact forthwith. 'And how long do you keep him out at a time?'inquired\nMr. Pickwick, searching for further information.\n\n'Two or three veeks,' replied the man.\n\n'Weeks!' said Mr. Pickwick in astonishment, and out came the note-book\nagain.\n\n'He lives at Pentonwil when he's at home,' observed the driver coolly,\n'but we seldom takes him home, on account of his weakness.'\n\n'On account of his weakness!' reiterated the perplexed Mr. Pickwick.\n\n'He always falls down when he's took out o' the cab,' continued the\ndriver, 'but when he's in it, we bears him up werry tight, and takes\nhim in werry short, so as he can't werry well fall down; and we've got\na pair o' precious large wheels on, so ven he does move, they run after\nhim, and he must go on--he can't help it.'\n\nMr. Pickwick entered every word of this statement in his note-book, with\nthe view of communicating it to the club, as a singular instance of the\ntenacity of life in horses under trying circumstances. The entry was\nscarcely completed when they reached the Golden Cross. Down jumped the\ndriver, and out got Mr. Pickwick. Mr. Tupman, Mr. Snodgrass, and Mr.\nWinkle, who had been anxiously waiting the arrival of their illustrious\nleader, crowded to welcome him.\n\n'Here's your fare,' said Mr. Pickwick, holding out the shilling to the\ndriver.\n\nWhat was the learned man's astonishment, when that unaccountable person\nflung the money on the pavement, and requested in figurative terms to be\nallowed the pleasure of fighting him (Mr. Pickwick) for the amount!\n\n'You are mad,' said Mr. Snodgrass.\n\n'Or drunk,' said Mr. Winkle.\n\n'Or both,' said Mr. Tupman.\n\n'Come on!' said the cab-driver, sparring away like clockwork. 'Come\non--all four on you.'\n\n'Here's a lark!' shouted half a dozen hackney coachmen. 'Go to vork,\nSam!--and they crowded with great glee round the party.\n\n'What's the row, Sam?' inquired one gentleman in black calico sleeves.\n\n'Row!' replied the cabman, 'what did he want my number for?' 'I didn't\nwant your number,' said the astonished Mr. Pickwick.\n\n'What did you take it for, then?' inquired the cabman.\n\n'I didn't take it,' said Mr. Pickwick indignantly.\n\n'Would anybody believe,' continued the cab-driver, appealing to the\ncrowd, 'would anybody believe as an informer'ud go about in a man's\ncab, not only takin' down his number, but ev'ry word he says into the\nbargain' (a light flashed upon Mr. Pickwick--it was the note-book).\n\n'Did he though?' inquired another cabman.\n\n'Yes, did he,' replied the first; 'and then arter aggerawatin' me to\nassault him, gets three witnesses here to prove it. But I'll give it\nhim, if I've six months for it. Come on!' and the cabman dashed his hat\nupon the ground, with a reckless disregard of his own private property,\nand knocked Mr. Pickwick's spectacles off, and followed up the attack\nwith a blow on Mr. Pickwick's nose, and another on Mr. Pickwick's chest,\nand a third in Mr. Snodgrass's eye, and a fourth, by way of variety,\nin Mr. Tupman's waistcoat, and then danced into the road, and then back\nagain to the pavement, and finally dashed the whole temporary supply of\nbreath out of Mr. Winkle's body; and all in half a dozen seconds.\n\n'Where's an officer?' said Mr. Snodgrass.\n\n'Put 'em under the pump,' suggested a hot-pieman.\n\n'You shall smart for this,' gasped Mr. Pickwick.\n\n'Informers!' shouted the crowd.\n\n'Come on,' cried the cabman, who had been sparring without cessation the\nwhole time.\n\nThe mob hitherto had been passive spectators of the scene, but as the\nintelligence of the Pickwickians being informers was spread among\nthem, they began to canvass with considerable vivacity the propriety of\nenforcing the heated pastry-vendor's proposition: and there is no saying\nwhat acts of personal aggression they might have committed, had not the\naffray been unexpectedly terminated by the interposition of a new-comer.\n\n'What's the fun?' said a rather tall, thin, young man, in a green coat,\nemerging suddenly from the coach-yard.\n\n'informers!' shouted the crowd again.\n\n'We are not,' roared Mr. Pickwick, in a tone which, to any dispassionate\nlistener, carried conviction with it. 'Ain't you, though--ain't you?'\nsaid the young man, appealing to Mr. Pickwick, and making his way\nthrough the crowd by the infallible process of elbowing the countenances\nof its component members.\n\nThat learned man in a few hurried words explained the real state of the\ncase.\n\n'Come along, then,' said he of the green coat, lugging Mr. Pickwick\nafter him by main force, and talking the whole way. Here, No. 924,\ntake your fare, and take yourself off--respectable gentleman--know him\nwell--none of your nonsense--this way, sir--where's your friends?--all\na mistake, I see--never mind--accidents will happen--best regulated\nfamilies--never say die--down upon your luck--Pull him UP--Put that\nin his pipe--like the flavour--damned rascals.' And with a lengthened\nstring of similar broken sentences, delivered with extraordinary\nvolubility, the stranger led the way to the traveller's waiting-room,\nwhither he was closely followed by Mr. Pickwick and his disciples.\n\n'Here, waiter!' shouted the stranger, ringing the bell with tremendous\nviolence, 'glasses round--brandy-and-water, hot and strong, and\nsweet, and plenty,--eye damaged, Sir? Waiter! raw beef-steak for the\ngentleman's eye--nothing like raw beef-steak for a bruise, sir; cold\nlamp-post very good, but lamp-post inconvenient--damned odd standing\nin the open street half an hour, with your eye against a\nlamp-post--eh,--very good--ha! ha!' And the stranger, without stopping\nto take breath, swallowed at a draught full half a pint of the reeking\nbrandy-and-water, and flung himself into a chair with as much ease as if\nnothing uncommon had occurred.\n\nWhile his three companions were busily engaged in proffering their\nthanks to their new acquaintance, Mr. Pickwick had leisure to examine\nhis costume and appearance.\n\nHe was about the middle height, but the thinness of his body, and the\nlength of his legs, gave him the appearance of being much taller. The\ngreen coat had been a smart dress garment in the days of swallow-tails,\nbut had evidently in those times adorned a much shorter man than the\nstranger, for the soiled and faded sleeves scarcely reached to his\nwrists. It was buttoned closely up to his chin, at the imminent hazard\nof splitting the back; and an old stock, without a vestige of shirt\ncollar, ornamented his neck. His scanty black trousers displayed here\nand there those shiny patches which bespeak long service, and were\nstrapped very tightly over a pair of patched and mended shoes, as if to\nconceal the dirty white stockings, which were nevertheless distinctly\nvisible. His long, black hair escaped in negligent waves from beneath\neach side of his old pinched-up hat; and glimpses of his bare wrists\nmight be observed between the tops of his gloves and the cuffs of his\ncoat sleeves. His face was thin and haggard; but an indescribable air of\njaunty impudence and perfect self-possession pervaded the whole man.\n\nSuch was the individual on whom Mr. Pickwick gazed through his\nspectacles (which he had fortunately recovered), and to whom he\nproceeded, when his friends had exhausted themselves, to return in\nchosen terms his warmest thanks for his recent assistance.\n\n'Never mind,' said the stranger, cutting the address very short, 'said\nenough--no more; smart chap that cabman--handled his fives well; but if\nI'd been your friend in the green jemmy--damn me--punch his head,--'cod\nI would,--pig's whisper--pieman too,--no gammon.'\n\n\nThis coherent speech was interrupted by the entrance of the Rochester\ncoachman, to announce that 'the Commodore' was on the point of starting.\n\n'Commodore!' said the stranger, starting up, 'my coach--place\nbooked,--one outside--leave you to pay for the brandy-and-water,--want\nchange for a five,--bad silver--Brummagem buttons--won't do--no go--eh?'\nand he shook his head most knowingly.\n\nNow it so happened that Mr. Pickwick and his three companions had\nresolved to make Rochester their first halting-place too; and having\nintimated to their new-found acquaintance that they were journeying to\nthe same city, they agreed to occupy the seat at the back of the coach,\nwhere they could all sit together.\n\n'Up with you,' said the stranger, assisting Mr. Pickwick on to the roof\nwith so much precipitation as to impair the gravity of that gentleman's\ndeportment very materially.\n\n'Any luggage, Sir?' inquired the coachman. 'Who--I? Brown paper parcel\nhere, that's all--other luggage gone by water--packing-cases, nailed\nup--big as houses--heavy, heavy, damned heavy,' replied the stranger, as\nhe forced into his pocket as much as he could of the brown paper parcel,\nwhich presented most suspicious indications of containing one shirt and\na handkerchief.\n\n'Heads, heads--take care of your heads!' cried the loquacious stranger,\nas they came out under the low archway, which in those days formed\nthe entrance to the coach-yard. 'Terrible place--dangerous work--other\nday--five children--mother--tall lady, eating sandwiches--forgot the\narch--crash--knock--children look round--mother's head off--sandwich\nin her hand--no mouth to put it in--head of a family off--shocking,\nshocking! Looking at Whitehall, sir?--fine place--little\nwindow--somebody else's head off there, eh, sir?--he didn't keep a sharp\nlook-out enough either--eh, Sir, eh?'\n\n'I am ruminating,' said Mr. Pickwick, 'on the strange mutability of\nhuman affairs.'\n\n'Ah! I see--in at the palace door one day, out at the window the\nnext. Philosopher, Sir?' 'An observer of human nature, Sir,' said Mr.\nPickwick.\n\n'Ah, so am I. Most people are when they've little to do and less to get.\nPoet, Sir?'\n\n'My friend Mr. Snodgrass has a strong poetic turn,' said Mr. Pickwick.\n\n'So have I,' said the stranger. 'Epic poem--ten thousand\nlines--revolution of July--composed it on the spot--Mars by day, Apollo\nby night--bang the field-piece, twang the lyre.'\n\n'You were present at that glorious scene, sir?' said Mr. Snodgrass.\n\n'Present! think I was;* fired a musket--fired with an idea--rushed into\nwine shop--wrote it down--back again--whiz, bang--another idea--wine\nshop again--pen and ink--back again--cut and slash--noble time, Sir.\nSportsman, sir?'abruptly turning to Mr. Winkle.\n\n * A remarkable instance of the prophetic force of Mr.\n Jingle's imagination; this dialogue occurring in the year\n 1827, and the Revolution in 1830.\n\n'A little, Sir,' replied that gentleman.\n\n'Fine pursuit, sir--fine pursuit.--Dogs, Sir?'\n\n'Not just now,' said Mr. Winkle.\n\n'Ah! you should keep dogs--fine animals--sagacious creatures--dog of my\nown once--pointer--surprising instinct--out shooting one day--entering\ninclosure--whistled--dog stopped--whistled again--Ponto--no go; stock\nstill--called him--Ponto, Ponto--wouldn't move--dog transfixed--staring\nat a board--looked up, saw an inscription--\"Gamekeeper has orders to\nshoot all dogs found in this inclosure\"--wouldn't pass it--wonderful\ndog--valuable dog that--very.'\n\n'Singular circumstance that,' said Mr. Pickwick. 'Will you allow me to\nmake a note of it?'\n\n'Certainly, Sir, certainly--hundred more anecdotes of the same\nanimal.--Fine girl, Sir' (to Mr. Tracy Tupman, who had been bestowing\nsundry anti-Pickwickian glances on a young lady by the roadside).\n\n'Very!' said Mr. Tupman.\n\n'English girls not so fine as Spanish--noble creatures--jet hair--black\neyes--lovely forms--sweet creatures--beautiful.'\n\n'You have been in Spain, sir?' said Mr. Tracy Tupman.\n\n'Lived there--ages.' 'Many conquests, sir?' inquired Mr. Tupman.\n\n'Conquests! Thousands. Don Bolaro Fizzgig--grandee--only daughter--Donna\nChristina--splendid creature--loved me to distraction--jealous\nfather--high-souled daughter--handsome Englishman--Donna Christina\nin despair--prussic acid--stomach pump in my portmanteau--operation\nperformed--old Bolaro in ecstasies--consent to our union--join hands and\nfloods of tears--romantic story--very.'\n\n'Is the lady in England now, sir?' inquired Mr. Tupman, on whom the\ndescription of her charms had produced a powerful impression.\n\n'Dead, sir--dead,' said the stranger, applying to his right eye the\nbrief remnant of a very old cambric handkerchief. 'Never recovered the\nstomach pump--undermined constitution--fell a victim.'\n\n'And her father?' inquired the poetic Snodgrass.\n\n'Remorse and misery,' replied the stranger. 'Sudden disappearance--talk\nof the whole city--search made everywhere without success--public\nfountain in the great square suddenly ceased playing--weeks\nelapsed--still a stoppage--workmen employed to clean it--water drawn\noff--father-in-law discovered sticking head first in the main pipe,\nwith a full confession in his right boot--took him out, and the fountain\nplayed away again, as well as ever.'\n\n'Will you allow me to note that little romance down, Sir?' said Mr.\nSnodgrass, deeply affected.\n\n'Certainly, Sir, certainly--fifty more if you like to hear 'em--strange\nlife mine--rather curious history--not extraordinary, but singular.'\n\nIn this strain, with an occasional glass of ale, by way of parenthesis,\nwhen the coach changed horses, did the stranger proceed, until they\nreached Rochester bridge, by which time the note-books, both of Mr.\nPickwick and Mr. Snodgrass, were completely filled with selections from\nhis adventures.\n\n'Magnificent ruin!' said Mr. Augustus Snodgrass, with all the poetic\nfervour that distinguished him, when they came in sight of the fine old\ncastle.\n\n'What a sight for an antiquarian!' were the very words which fell from\nMr. Pickwick's mouth, as he applied his telescope to his eye.\n\n'Ah! fine place,' said the stranger, 'glorious pile--frowning\nwalls--tottering arches--dark nooks--crumbling staircases--old cathedral\ntoo--earthy smell--pilgrims' feet wore away the old steps--little\nSaxon doors--confessionals like money-takers' boxes at theatres--queer\ncustomers those monks--popes, and lord treasurers, and all sorts of\nold fellows, with great red faces, and broken noses, turning up every\nday--buff jerkins too--match-locks--sarcophagus--fine place--old\nlegends too--strange stories: capital;' and the stranger continued to\nsoliloquise until they reached the Bull Inn, in the High Street, where\nthe coach stopped.\n\n'Do you remain here, Sir?' inquired Mr. Nathaniel Winkle.\n\n'Here--not I--but you'd better--good house--nice beds--Wright's next\nhouse, dear--very dear--half-a-crown in the bill if you look at the\nwaiter--charge you more if you dine at a friend's than they would if you\ndined in the coffee-room--rum fellows--very.'\n\nMr. Winkle turned to Mr. Pickwick, and murmured a few words; a whisper\npassed from Mr. Pickwick to Mr. Snodgrass, from Mr. Snodgrass to Mr.\nTupman, and nods of assent were exchanged. Mr. Pickwick addressed the\nstranger.\n\n'You rendered us a very important service this morning, sir,' said he,\n'will you allow us to offer a slight mark of our gratitude by begging\nthe favour of your company at dinner?'\n\n'Great pleasure--not presume to dictate, but broiled fowl and\nmushrooms--capital thing! What time?'\n\n'Let me see,' replied Mr. Pickwick, referring to his watch, 'it is now\nnearly three. Shall we say five?'\n\n'Suit me excellently,' said the stranger, 'five precisely--till\nthen--care of yourselves;' and lifting the pinched-up hat a few inches\nfrom his head, and carelessly replacing it very much on one side, the\nstranger, with half the brown paper parcel sticking out of his pocket,\nwalked briskly up the yard, and turned into the High Street.\n\n'Evidently a traveller in many countries, and a close observer of men\nand things,' said Mr. Pickwick.\n\n'I should like to see his poem,' said Mr. Snodgrass.\n\n'I should like to have seen that dog,' said Mr. Winkle.\n\nMr. Tupman said nothing; but he thought of Donna Christina, the stomach\npump, and the fountain; and his eyes filled with tears.\n\nA private sitting-room having been engaged, bedrooms inspected, and\ndinner ordered, the party walked out to view the city and adjoining\nneighbourhood.\n\nWe do not find, from a careful perusal of Mr. Pickwick's notes of\nthe four towns, Stroud, Rochester, Chatham, and Brompton, that his\nimpressions of their appearance differ in any material point from those\nof other travellers who have gone over the same ground. His general\ndescription is easily abridged.\n\n'The principal productions of these towns,' says Mr. Pickwick, 'appear\nto be soldiers, sailors, Jews, chalk, shrimps, officers, and dockyard\nmen. The commodities chiefly exposed for sale in the public streets are\nmarine stores, hard-bake, apples, flat-fish, and oysters. The streets\npresent a lively and animated appearance, occasioned chiefly by the\nconviviality of the military. It is truly delightful to a philanthropic\nmind to see these gallant men staggering along under the influence of\nan overflow both of animal and ardent spirits; more especially when we\nremember that the following them about, and jesting with them, affords a\ncheap and innocent amusement for the boy population. Nothing,' adds Mr.\nPickwick, 'can exceed their good-humour. It was but the day before my\narrival that one of them had been most grossly insulted in the house\nof a publican. The barmaid had positively refused to draw him any more\nliquor; in return for which he had (merely in playfulness) drawn his\nbayonet, and wounded the girl in the shoulder. And yet this fine fellow\nwas the very first to go down to the house next morning and express his\nreadiness to overlook the matter, and forget what had occurred!\n\n'The consumption of tobacco in these towns,' continues Mr. Pickwick,\n'must be very great, and the smell which pervades the streets must be\nexceedingly delicious to those who are extremely fond of smoking. A\nsuperficial traveller might object to the dirt, which is their leading\ncharacteristic; but to those who view it as an indication of traffic and\ncommercial prosperity, it is truly gratifying.'\n\nPunctual to five o'clock came the stranger, and shortly afterwards the\ndinner. He had divested himself of his brown paper parcel, but had made\nno alteration in his attire, and was, if possible, more loquacious than\never.\n\n'What's that?' he inquired, as the waiter removed one of the covers.\n\n'Soles, Sir.'\n\n'Soles--ah!--capital fish--all come from London-stage-coach proprietors\nget up political dinners--carriage of soles--dozens of baskets--cunning\nfellows. Glass of wine, Sir.'\n\n'With pleasure,' said Mr. Pickwick; and the stranger took wine, first\nwith him, and then with Mr. Snodgrass, and then with Mr. Tupman, and\nthen with Mr. Winkle, and then with the whole party together, almost as\nrapidly as he talked.\n\n'Devil of a mess on the staircase, waiter,' said the stranger. 'Forms\ngoing up--carpenters coming down--lamps, glasses, harps. What's going\nforward?'\n\n'Ball, Sir,' said the waiter.\n\n'Assembly, eh?'\n\n'No, Sir, not assembly, Sir. Ball for the benefit of a charity, Sir.'\n\n'Many fine women in this town, do you know, Sir?' inquired Mr. Tupman,\nwith great interest.\n\n'Splendid--capital. Kent, sir--everybody knows Kent--apples, cherries,\nhops, and women. Glass of wine, Sir!'\n\n'With great pleasure,' replied Mr. Tupman. The stranger filled, and\nemptied.\n\n'I should very much like to go,' said Mr. Tupman, resuming the subject\nof the ball, 'very much.'\n\n'Tickets at the bar, Sir,' interposed the waiter; 'half-a-guinea each,\nSir.'\n\nMr. Tupman again expressed an earnest wish to be present at the\nfestivity; but meeting with no response in the darkened eye of Mr.\nSnodgrass, or the abstracted gaze of Mr. Pickwick, he applied himself\nwith great interest to the port wine and dessert, which had just been\nplaced on the table. The waiter withdrew, and the party were left to\nenjoy the cosy couple of hours succeeding dinner.\n\n'Beg your pardon, sir,' said the stranger, 'bottle stands--pass it\nround--way of the sun--through the button-hole--no heeltaps,' and he\nemptied his glass, which he had filled about two minutes before, and\npoured out another, with the air of a man who was used to it.\n\nThe wine was passed, and a fresh supply ordered. The visitor talked, the\nPickwickians listened. Mr. Tupman felt every moment more disposed\nfor the ball. Mr. Pickwick's countenance glowed with an expression\nof universal philanthropy, and Mr. Winkle and Mr. Snodgrass fell fast\nasleep.\n\n'They're beginning upstairs,' said the stranger--'hear the\ncompany--fiddles tuning--now the harp--there they go.' The various\nsounds which found their way downstairs announced the commencement of\nthe first quadrille.\n\n'How I should like to go,' said Mr. Tupman again.\n\n'So should I,' said the stranger--'confounded luggage,--heavy\nsmacks--nothing to go in--odd, ain't it?'\n\nNow general benevolence was one of the leading features of the\nPickwickian theory, and no one was more remarkable for the zealous\nmanner in which he observed so noble a principle than Mr. Tracy Tupman.\nThe number of instances recorded on the Transactions of the Society, in\nwhich that excellent man referred objects of charity to the houses\nof other members for left-off garments or pecuniary relief is almost\nincredible. 'I should be very happy to lend you a change of apparel for\nthe purpose,' said Mr. Tracy Tupman, 'but you are rather slim, and I\nam--'\n\n'Rather fat--grown-up Bacchus--cut the leaves--dismounted from the tub,\nand adopted kersey, eh?--not double distilled, but double milled--ha!\nha! pass the wine.'\n\nWhether Mr. Tupman was somewhat indignant at the peremptory tone in\nwhich he was desired to pass the wine which the stranger passed so\nquickly away, or whether he felt very properly scandalised at an\ninfluential member of the Pickwick Club being ignominiously compared\nto a dismounted Bacchus, is a fact not yet completely ascertained. He\npassed the wine, coughed twice, and looked at the stranger for several\nseconds with a stern intensity; as that individual, however, appeared\nperfectly collected, and quite calm under his searching glance, he\ngradually relaxed, and reverted to the subject of the ball.\n\n'I was about to observe, Sir,' he said, 'that though my apparel would\nbe too large, a suit of my friend Mr. Winkle's would, perhaps, fit you\nbetter.'\n\nThe stranger took Mr. Winkle's measure with his eye, and that feature\nglistened with satisfaction as he said, 'Just the thing.'\n\nMr. Tupman looked round him. The wine, which had exerted its somniferous\ninfluence over Mr. Snodgrass and Mr. Winkle, had stolen upon the senses\nof Mr. Pickwick. That gentleman had gradually passed through the\nvarious stages which precede the lethargy produced by dinner, and its\nconsequences. He had undergone the ordinary transitions from the height\nof conviviality to the depth of misery, and from the depth of misery to\nthe height of conviviality. Like a gas-lamp in the street, with the wind\nin the pipe, he had exhibited for a moment an unnatural brilliancy, then\nsank so low as to be scarcely discernible; after a short interval, he\nhad burst out again, to enlighten for a moment; then flickered with an\nuncertain, staggering sort of light, and then gone out altogether. His\nhead was sunk upon his bosom, and perpetual snoring, with a partial\nchoke occasionally, were the only audible indications of the great man's\npresence.\n\nThe temptation to be present at the ball, and to form his first\nimpressions of the beauty of the Kentish ladies, was strong upon Mr.\nTupman. The temptation to take the stranger with him was equally great.\nHe was wholly unacquainted with the place and its inhabitants, and the\nstranger seemed to possess as great a knowledge of both as if he had\nlived there from his infancy. Mr. Winkle was asleep, and Mr. Tupman had\nhad sufficient experience in such matters to know that the moment he\nawoke he would, in the ordinary course of nature, roll heavily to\nbed. He was undecided. 'Fill your glass, and pass the wine,' said the\nindefatigable visitor.\n\nMr. Tupman did as he was requested; and the additional stimulus of the\nlast glass settled his determination.\n\n'Winkle's bedroom is inside mine,' said Mr. Tupman; 'I couldn't make\nhim understand what I wanted, if I woke him now, but I know he has a\ndress-suit in a carpet bag; and supposing you wore it to the ball, and\ntook it off when we returned, I could replace it without troubling him\nat all about the matter.'\n\n'Capital,' said the stranger, 'famous plan--damned odd\nsituation--fourteen coats in the packing-cases, and obliged to wear\nanother man's--very good notion, that--very.'\n\n'We must purchase our tickets,' said Mr. Tupman.\n\n'Not worth while splitting a guinea,' said the stranger, 'toss who shall\npay for both--I call; you spin--first time--woman--woman--bewitching\nwoman,' and down came the sovereign with the dragon (called by courtesy\na woman) uppermost.\n\nMr. Tupman rang the bell, purchased the tickets, and ordered chamber\ncandlesticks. In another quarter of an hour the stranger was completely\narrayed in a full suit of Mr. Nathaniel Winkle's.\n\n'It's a new coat,' said Mr. Tupman, as the stranger surveyed himself\nwith great complacency in a cheval glass; 'the first that's been made\nwith our club button,' and he called his companions' attention to the\nlarge gilt button which displayed a bust of Mr. Pickwick in the centre,\nand the letters 'P. C.' on either side.\n\n'\"P. C.\"' said the stranger--'queer set out--old fellow's likeness, and\n\"P. C.\"--What does \"P. C.\" stand for--Peculiar Coat, eh?'\n\nMr. Tupman, with rising indignation and great importance, explained the\nmystic device.\n\n'Rather short in the waist, ain't it?' said the stranger, screwing\nhimself round to catch a glimpse in the glass of the waist buttons,\nwhich were half-way up his back. 'Like a general postman's coat--queer\ncoats those--made by contract--no measuring--mysterious dispensations\nof Providence--all the short men get long coats--all the long men short\nones.' Running on in this way, Mr. Tupman's new companion adjusted\nhis dress, or rather the dress of Mr. Winkle; and, accompanied by Mr.\nTupman, ascended the staircase leading to the ballroom.\n\n'What names, sir?' said the man at the door. Mr. Tracy Tupman was\nstepping forward to announce his own titles, when the stranger prevented\nhim.\n\n'No names at all;' and then he whispered Mr. Tupman, 'names won't\ndo--not known--very good names in their way, but not great ones--capital\nnames for a small party, but won't make an impression in public\nassemblies--incog. the thing--gentlemen from London--distinguished\nforeigners--anything.' The door was thrown open, and Mr. Tracy Tupman\nand the stranger entered the ballroom.\n\nIt was a long room, with crimson-covered benches, and wax candles in\nglass chandeliers. The musicians were securely confined in an elevated\nden, and quadrilles were being systematically got through by two or\nthree sets of dancers. Two card-tables were made up in the adjoining\ncard-room, and two pair of old ladies, and a corresponding number of\nstout gentlemen, were executing whist therein.\n\nThe finale concluded, the dancers promenaded the room, and Mr. Tupman\nand his companion stationed themselves in a corner to observe the\ncompany.\n\n'Charming women,' said Mr. Tupman.\n\n'Wait a minute,' said the stranger, 'fun presently--nobs not come\nyet--queer place--dockyard people of upper rank don't know dockyard\npeople of lower rank--dockyard people of lower rank don't know small\ngentry--small gentry don't know tradespeople--commissioner don't know\nanybody.'\n\n'Who's that little boy with the light hair and pink eyes, in a fancy\ndress?'inquired Mr. Tupman.\n\n'Hush, pray--pink eyes--fancy dress--little boy--nonsense--ensign\n97th--Honourable Wilmot Snipe--great family--Snipes--very.'\n\n'Sir Thomas Clubber, Lady Clubber, and the Misses Clubber!' shouted the\nman at the door in a stentorian voice. A great sensation was created\nthroughout the room by the entrance of a tall gentleman in a blue coat\nand bright buttons, a large lady in blue satin, and two young ladies, on\na similar scale, in fashionably-made dresses of the same hue.\n\n'Commissioner--head of the yard--great man--remarkably great man,'\nwhispered the stranger in Mr. Tupman's ear, as the charitable committee\nushered Sir Thomas Clubber and family to the top of the room. The\nHonourable Wilmot Snipe, and other distinguished gentlemen crowded to\nrender homage to the Misses Clubber; and Sir Thomas Clubber stood\nbolt upright, and looked majestically over his black kerchief at the\nassembled company.\n\n'Mr. Smithie, Mrs. Smithie, and the Misses Smithie,' was the next\nannouncement.\n\n'What's Mr. Smithie?' inquired Mr. Tracy Tupman.\n\n'Something in the yard,' replied the stranger. Mr. Smithie bowed\ndeferentially to Sir Thomas Clubber; and Sir Thomas Clubber acknowledged\nthe salute with conscious condescension. Lady Clubber took a telescopic\nview of Mrs. Smithie and family through her eye-glass and Mrs. Smithie\nstared in her turn at Mrs. Somebody-else, whose husband was not in the\ndockyard at all.\n\n'Colonel Bulder, Mrs. Colonel Bulder, and Miss Bulder,' were the next\narrivals.\n\n'Head of the garrison,' said the stranger, in reply to Mr. Tupman's\ninquiring look.\n\nMiss Bulder was warmly welcomed by the Misses Clubber; the greeting\nbetween Mrs. Colonel Bulder and Lady Clubber was of the most\naffectionate description; Colonel Bulder and Sir Thomas Clubber\nexchanged snuff-boxes, and looked very much like a pair of Alexander\nSelkirks--'Monarchs of all they surveyed.'\n\nWhile the aristocracy of the place--the Bulders, and Clubbers, and\nSnipes--were thus preserving their dignity at the upper end of the room,\nthe other classes of society were imitating their example in other parts\nof it. The less aristocratic officers of the 97th devoted themselves to\nthe families of the less important functionaries from the dockyard. The\nsolicitors' wives, and the wine-merchant's wife, headed another grade\n(the brewer's wife visited the Bulders); and Mrs. Tomlinson, the\npost-office keeper, seemed by mutual consent to have been chosen the\nleader of the trade party.\n\nOne of the most popular personages, in his own circle, present, was a\nlittle fat man, with a ring of upright black hair round his head, and\nan extensive bald plain on the top of it--Doctor Slammer, surgeon to\nthe 97th. The doctor took snuff with everybody, chatted with everybody,\nlaughed, danced, made jokes, played whist, did everything, and was\neverywhere. To these pursuits, multifarious as they were, the little\ndoctor added a more important one than any--he was indefatigable in\npaying the most unremitting and devoted attention to a little old widow,\nwhose rich dress and profusion of ornament bespoke her a most desirable\naddition to a limited income.\n\nUpon the doctor, and the widow, the eyes of both Mr. Tupman and his\ncompanion had been fixed for some time, when the stranger broke silence.\n\n'Lots of money--old girl--pompous doctor--not a bad idea--good fun,'\nwere the intelligible sentences which issued from his lips. Mr. Tupman\nlooked inquisitively in his face. 'I'll dance with the widow,' said the\nstranger.\n\n'Who is she?' inquired Mr. Tupman.\n\n'Don't know--never saw her in all my life--cut out the doctor--here\ngoes.' And the stranger forthwith crossed the room; and, leaning\nagainst a mantel-piece, commenced gazing with an air of respectful and\nmelancholy admiration on the fat countenance of the little old lady. Mr.\nTupman looked on, in mute astonishment. The stranger progressed rapidly;\nthe little doctor danced with another lady; the widow dropped her\nfan; the stranger picked it up, and presented it--a smile--a bow--a\ncurtsey--a few words of conversation. The stranger walked boldly up to,\nand returned with, the master of the ceremonies; a little introductory\npantomime; and the stranger and Mrs. Budger took their places in a\nquadrille.\n\nThe surprise of Mr. Tupman at this summary proceeding, great as it\nwas, was immeasurably exceeded by the astonishment of the doctor. The\nstranger was young, and the widow was flattered. The doctor's attentions\nwere unheeded by the widow; and the doctor's indignation was wholly lost\non his imperturbable rival. Doctor Slammer was paralysed. He, Doctor\nSlammer, of the 97th, to be extinguished in a moment, by a man whom\nnobody had ever seen before, and whom nobody knew even now! Doctor\nSlammer--Doctor Slammer of the 97th rejected! Impossible! It could not\nbe! Yes, it was; there they were. What! introducing his friend! Could he\nbelieve his eyes! He looked again, and was under the painful necessity\nof admitting the veracity of his optics; Mrs. Budger was dancing with\nMr. Tracy Tupman; there was no mistaking the fact. There was the widow\nbefore him, bouncing bodily here and there, with unwonted vigour; and\nMr. Tracy Tupman hopping about, with a face expressive of the most\nintense solemnity, dancing (as a good many people do) as if a quadrille\nwere not a thing to be laughed at, but a severe trial to the feelings,\nwhich it requires inflexible resolution to encounter.\n\nSilently and patiently did the doctor bear all this, and all the\nhandings of negus, and watching for glasses, and darting for biscuits,\nand coquetting, that ensued; but, a few seconds after the stranger had\ndisappeared to lead Mrs. Budger to her carriage, he darted swiftly from\nthe room with every particle of his hitherto-bottled-up indignation\neffervescing, from all parts of his countenance, in a perspiration of\npassion.\n\nThe stranger was returning, and Mr. Tupman was beside him. He spoke in\na low tone, and laughed. The little doctor thirsted for his life. He was\nexulting. He had triumphed.\n\n'Sir!' said the doctor, in an awful voice, producing a card, and\nretiring into an angle of the passage, 'my name is Slammer, Doctor\nSlammer, sir--97th Regiment--Chatham Barracks--my card, Sir, my card.'\nHe would have added more, but his indignation choked him.\n\n'Ah!' replied the stranger coolly, 'Slammer--much obliged--polite\nattention--not ill now, Slammer--but when I am--knock you up.'\n\n'You--you're a shuffler, sir,' gasped the furious doctor, 'a poltroon--a\ncoward--a liar--a--a--will nothing induce you to give me your card,\nsir!' 'Oh! I see,' said the stranger, half aside, 'negus too strong\nhere--liberal landlord--very foolish--very--lemonade much better--hot\nrooms--elderly gentlemen--suffer for it in the morning--cruel--cruel;'\nand he moved on a step or two.\n\n'You are stopping in this house, Sir,' said the indignant little man;\n'you are intoxicated now, Sir; you shall hear from me in the morning,\nsir. I shall find you out, sir; I shall find you out.'\n\n'Rather you found me out than found me at home,' replied the unmoved\nstranger.\n\nDoctor Slammer looked unutterable ferocity, as he fixed his hat on his\nhead with an indignant knock; and the stranger and Mr. Tupman ascended\nto the bedroom of the latter to restore the borrowed plumage to the\nunconscious Winkle.\n\nThat gentleman was fast asleep; the restoration was soon made. The\nstranger was extremely jocose; and Mr. Tracy Tupman, being quite\nbewildered with wine, negus, lights, and ladies, thought the whole\naffair was an exquisite joke. His new friend departed; and, after\nexperiencing some slight difficulty in finding the orifice in his\nnightcap, originally intended for the reception of his head, and finally\noverturning his candlestick in his struggles to put it on, Mr. Tracy\nTupman managed to get into bed by a series of complicated evolutions,\nand shortly afterwards sank into repose.\n\nSeven o'clock had hardly ceased striking on the following morning,\nwhen Mr. Pickwick's comprehensive mind was aroused from the state of\nunconsciousness, in which slumber had plunged it, by a loud knocking at\nhis chamber door. 'Who's there?' said Mr. Pickwick, starting up in bed.\n\n'Boots, sir.'\n\n'What do you want?'\n\n'Please, sir, can you tell me which gentleman of your party wears a\nbright blue dress-coat, with a gilt button with \"P. C.\" on it?'\n\n'It's been given out to brush,' thought Mr. Pickwick, 'and the man has\nforgotten whom it belongs to.' 'Mr. Winkle,'he called out, 'next room\nbut two, on the right hand.' 'Thank'ee, sir,' said the Boots, and away\nhe went.\n\n'What's the matter?' cried Mr. Tupman, as a loud knocking at his door\nroused him from his oblivious repose.\n\n'Can I speak to Mr. Winkle, sir?' replied Boots from the outside.\n\n'Winkle--Winkle!' shouted Mr. Tupman, calling into the inner room.\n'Hollo!' replied a faint voice from within the bed-clothes.\n\n'You're wanted--some one at the door;' and, having exerted himself to\narticulate thus much, Mr. Tracy Tupman turned round and fell fast asleep\nagain.\n\n'Wanted!' said Mr. Winkle, hastily jumping out of bed, and putting on\na few articles of clothing; 'wanted! at this distance from town--who on\nearth can want me?'\n\n'Gentleman in the coffee-room, sir,' replied the Boots, as Mr. Winkle\nopened the door and confronted him; 'gentleman says he'll not detain you\na moment, Sir, but he can take no denial.'\n\n'Very odd!' said Mr. Winkle; 'I'll be down directly.'\n\nHe hurriedly wrapped himself in a travelling-shawl and dressing-gown,\nand proceeded downstairs. An old woman and a couple of waiters were\ncleaning the coffee-room, and an officer in undress uniform was looking\nout of the window. He turned round as Mr. Winkle entered, and made a\nstiff inclination of the head. Having ordered the attendants to retire,\nand closed the door very carefully, he said, 'Mr. Winkle, I presume?'\n\n'My name is Winkle, sir.'\n\n'You will not be surprised, sir, when I inform you that I have called\nhere this morning on behalf of my friend, Doctor Slammer, of the 97th.'\n\n'Doctor Slammer!' said Mr. Winkle.\n\n'Doctor Slammer. He begged me to express his opinion that your conduct\nof last evening was of a description which no gentleman could endure;\nand' (he added) 'which no one gentleman would pursue towards another.'\n\nMr. Winkle's astonishment was too real, and too evident, to escape the\nobservation of Doctor Slammer's friend; he therefore proceeded--'My\nfriend, Doctor Slammer, requested me to add, that he was firmly\npersuaded you were intoxicated during a portion of the evening, and\npossibly unconscious of the extent of the insult you were guilty of.\nHe commissioned me to say, that should this be pleaded as an excuse\nfor your behaviour, he will consent to accept a written apology, to be\npenned by you, from my dictation.'\n\n'A written apology!' repeated Mr. Winkle, in the most emphatic tone of\namazement possible.\n\n'Of course you know the alternative,' replied the visitor coolly.\n\n'Were you intrusted with this message to me by name?' inquired Mr.\nWinkle, whose intellects were hopelessly confused by this extraordinary\nconversation.\n\n'I was not present myself,' replied the visitor, 'and in consequence of\nyour firm refusal to give your card to Doctor Slammer, I was desired by\nthat gentleman to identify the wearer of a very uncommon coat--a bright\nblue dress-coat, with a gilt button displaying a bust, and the letters\n\"P. C.\"'\n\nMr. Winkle actually staggered with astonishment as he heard his\nown costume thus minutely described. Doctor Slammer's friend\nproceeded:--'From the inquiries I made at the bar, just now, I was\nconvinced that the owner of the coat in question arrived here, with\nthree gentlemen, yesterday afternoon. I immediately sent up to the\ngentleman who was described as appearing the head of the party, and he\nat once referred me to you.'\n\nIf the principal tower of Rochester Castle had suddenly walked from its\nfoundation, and stationed itself opposite the coffee-room window, Mr.\nWinkle's surprise would have been as nothing compared with the profound\nastonishment with which he had heard this address. His first impression\nwas that his coat had been stolen. 'Will you allow me to detain you one\nmoment?' said he.\n\n'Certainly,' replied the unwelcome visitor.\n\nMr. Winkle ran hastily upstairs, and with a trembling hand opened the\nbag. There was the coat in its usual place, but exhibiting, on a close\ninspection, evident tokens of having been worn on the preceding night.\n\n'It must be so,' said Mr. Winkle, letting the coat fall from his hands.\n'I took too much wine after dinner, and have a very vague recollection\nof walking about the streets, and smoking a cigar afterwards. The fact\nis, I was very drunk;--I must have changed my coat--gone somewhere--and\ninsulted somebody--I have no doubt of it; and this message is the\nterrible consequence.' Saying which, Mr. Winkle retraced his steps in\nthe direction of the coffee-room, with the gloomy and dreadful resolve\nof accepting the challenge of the warlike Doctor Slammer, and abiding by\nthe worst consequences that might ensue.\n\nTo this determination Mr. Winkle was urged by a variety of\nconsiderations, the first of which was his reputation with the club.\nHe had always been looked up to as a high authority on all matters of\namusement and dexterity, whether offensive, defensive, or inoffensive;\nand if, on this very first occasion of being put to the test, he shrunk\nback from the trial, beneath his leader's eye, his name and standing\nwere lost for ever. Besides, he remembered to have heard it frequently\nsurmised by the uninitiated in such matters that by an understood\narrangement between the seconds, the pistols were seldom loaded with\nball; and, furthermore, he reflected that if he applied to Mr. Snodgrass\nto act as his second, and depicted the danger in glowing terms, that\ngentleman might possibly communicate the intelligence to Mr. Pickwick,\nwho would certainly lose no time in transmitting it to the local\nauthorities, and thus prevent the killing or maiming of his follower.\n\nSuch were his thoughts when he returned to the coffee-room, and\nintimated his intention of accepting the doctor's challenge.\n\n'Will you refer me to a friend, to arrange the time and place of\nmeeting?' said the officer.\n\n'Quite unnecessary,' replied Mr. Winkle; 'name them to me, and I can\nprocure the attendance of a friend afterwards.'\n\n'Shall we say--sunset this evening?' inquired the officer, in a careless\ntone.\n\n'Very good,' replied Mr. Winkle, thinking in his heart it was very bad.\n\n'You know Fort Pitt?'\n\n'Yes; I saw it yesterday.'\n\n'If you will take the trouble to turn into the field which borders the\ntrench, take the foot-path to the left when you arrive at an angle of\nthe fortification, and keep straight on, till you see me, I will precede\nyou to a secluded place, where the affair can be conducted without fear\nof interruption.'\n\n'Fear of interruption!' thought Mr. Winkle.\n\n'Nothing more to arrange, I think,' said the officer.\n\n'I am not aware of anything more,' replied Mr. Winkle. 'Good-morning.'\n\n'Good-morning;' and the officer whistled a lively air as he strode away.\n\nThat morning's breakfast passed heavily off. Mr. Tupman was not in a\ncondition to rise, after the unwonted dissipation of the previous night;\nMr. Snodgrass appeared to labour under a poetical depression of spirits;\nand even Mr. Pickwick evinced an unusual attachment to silence and\nsoda-water. Mr. Winkle eagerly watched his opportunity: it was not long\nwanting. Mr. Snodgrass proposed a visit to the castle, and as Mr. Winkle\nwas the only other member of the party disposed to walk, they went out\ntogether. 'Snodgrass,' said Mr. Winkle, when they had turned out of\nthe public street. 'Snodgrass, my dear fellow, can I rely upon your\nsecrecy?' As he said this, he most devoutly and earnestly hoped he could\nnot.\n\n'You can,' replied Mr. Snodgrass. 'Hear me swear--'\n\n'No, no,' interrupted Winkle, terrified at the idea of his companion's\nunconsciously pledging himself not to give information; 'don't swear,\ndon't swear; it's quite unnecessary.'\n\nMr. Snodgrass dropped the hand which he had, in the spirit of poesy,\nraised towards the clouds as he made the above appeal, and assumed an\nattitude of attention.\n\n'I want your assistance, my dear fellow, in an affair of honour,' said\nMr. Winkle.\n\n'You shall have it,' replied Mr. Snodgrass, clasping his friend's hand.\n\n'With a doctor--Doctor Slammer, of the 97th,' said Mr. Winkle, wishing\nto make the matter appear as solemn as possible; 'an affair with an\nofficer, seconded by another officer, at sunset this evening, in a\nlonely field beyond Fort Pitt.'\n\n'I will attend you,' said Mr. Snodgrass.\n\nHe was astonished, but by no means dismayed. It is extraordinary how\ncool any party but the principal can be in such cases. Mr. Winkle had\nforgotten this. He had judged of his friend's feelings by his own.\n\n'The consequences may be dreadful,' said Mr. Winkle.\n\n'I hope not,' said Mr. Snodgrass.\n\n'The doctor, I believe, is a very good shot,' said Mr. Winkle.\n\n'Most of these military men are,' observed Mr. Snodgrass calmly; 'but\nso are you, ain't you?' Mr. Winkle replied in the affirmative; and\nperceiving that he had not alarmed his companion sufficiently, changed\nhis ground.\n\n'Snodgrass,' he said, in a voice tremulous with emotion, 'if I fall,\nyou will find in a packet which I shall place in your hands a note for\nmy--for my father.'\n\nThis attack was a failure also. Mr. Snodgrass was affected, but he\nundertook the delivery of the note as readily as if he had been a\ntwopenny postman.\n\n'If I fall,' said Mr. Winkle, 'or if the doctor falls, you, my dear\nfriend, will be tried as an accessory before the fact. Shall I involve\nmy friend in transportation--possibly for life!' Mr. Snodgrass winced\na little at this, but his heroism was invincible. 'In the cause of\nfriendship,' he fervently exclaimed, 'I would brave all dangers.'\n\nHow Mr. Winkle cursed his companion's devoted friendship internally,\nas they walked silently along, side by side, for some minutes, each\nimmersed in his own meditations! The morning was wearing away; he grew\ndesperate.\n\n'Snodgrass,' he said, stopping suddenly, 'do not let me be balked in\nthis matter--do not give information to the local authorities--do not\nobtain the assistance of several peace officers, to take either me or\nDoctor Slammer, of the 97th Regiment, at present quartered in Chatham\nBarracks, into custody, and thus prevent this duel!--I say, do not.'\n\nMr. Snodgrass seized his friend's hand warmly, as he enthusiastically\nreplied, 'Not for worlds!'\n\nA thrill passed over Mr. Winkle's frame as the conviction that he had\nnothing to hope from his friend's fears, and that he was destined to\nbecome an animated target, rushed forcibly upon him.\n\nThe state of the case having been formally explained to Mr. Snodgrass,\nand a case of satisfactory pistols, with the satisfactory accompaniments\nof powder, ball, and caps, having been hired from a manufacturer in\nRochester, the two friends returned to their inn; Mr. Winkle to ruminate\non the approaching struggle, and Mr. Snodgrass to arrange the weapons of\nwar, and put them into proper order for immediate use.\n\nit was a dull and heavy evening when they again sallied forth on their\nawkward errand. Mr. Winkle was muffled up in a huge cloak to escape\nobservation, and Mr. Snodgrass bore under his the instruments of\ndestruction.\n\n'Have you got everything?' said Mr. Winkle, in an agitated tone.\n\n'Everything,' replied Mr. Snodgrass; 'plenty of ammunition, in case the\nshots don't take effect. There's a quarter of a pound of powder in the\ncase, and I have got two newspapers in my pocket for the loadings.'\n\nThese were instances of friendship for which any man might reasonably\nfeel most grateful. The presumption is, that the gratitude of Mr. Winkle\nwas too powerful for utterance, as he said nothing, but continued to\nwalk on--rather slowly.\n\n'We are in excellent time,' said Mr. Snodgrass, as they climbed the\nfence of the first field;'the sun is just going down.' Mr. Winkle looked\nup at the declining orb and painfully thought of the probability of his\n'going down' himself, before long.\n\n'There's the officer,' exclaimed Mr. Winkle, after a few minutes\nwalking. 'Where?' said Mr. Snodgrass.\n\n'There--the gentleman in the blue cloak.' Mr. Snodgrass looked in the\ndirection indicated by the forefinger of his friend, and observed\na figure, muffled up, as he had described. The officer evinced his\nconsciousness of their presence by slightly beckoning with his hand; and\nthe two friends followed him at a little distance, as he walked away.\n\nThe evening grew more dull every moment, and a melancholy wind sounded\nthrough the deserted fields, like a distant giant whistling for his\nhouse-dog. The sadness of the scene imparted a sombre tinge to the\nfeelings of Mr. Winkle. He started as they passed the angle of the\ntrench--it looked like a colossal grave.\n\nThe officer turned suddenly from the path, and after climbing a paling,\nand scaling a hedge, entered a secluded field. Two gentlemen were\nwaiting in it; one was a little, fat man, with black hair; and the\nother--a portly personage in a braided surtout--was sitting with perfect\nequanimity on a camp-stool.\n\n'The other party, and a surgeon, I suppose,' said Mr. Snodgrass; 'take\na drop of brandy.' Mr. Winkle seized the wicker bottle which his friend\nproffered, and took a lengthened pull at the exhilarating liquid.\n\n'My friend, Sir, Mr. Snodgrass,' said Mr. Winkle, as the officer\napproached. Doctor Slammer's friend bowed, and produced a case similar\nto that which Mr. Snodgrass carried.\n\n'We have nothing further to say, Sir, I think,' he coldly remarked, as\nhe opened the case; 'an apology has been resolutely declined.'\n\n'Nothing, Sir,' said Mr. Snodgrass, who began to feel rather\nuncomfortable himself.\n\n'Will you step forward?' said the officer.\n\n'Certainly,' replied Mr. Snodgrass. The ground was measured, and\npreliminaries arranged. 'You will find these better than your own,' said\nthe opposite second, producing his pistols. 'You saw me load them. Do\nyou object to use them?'\n\n'Certainly not,' replied Mr. Snodgrass. The offer relieved him from\nconsiderable embarrassment, for his previous notions of loading a pistol\nwere rather vague and undefined.\n\n'We may place our men, then, I think,' observed the officer, with as\nmuch indifference as if the principals were chess-men, and the seconds\nplayers.\n\n'I think we may,' replied Mr. Snodgrass; who would have assented to\nany proposition, because he knew nothing about the matter. The officer\ncrossed to Doctor Slammer, and Mr. Snodgrass went up to Mr. Winkle.\n\n'It's all ready,' said he, offering the pistol. 'Give me your cloak.'\n\n'You have got the packet, my dear fellow,' said poor Winkle. 'All\nright,' said Mr. Snodgrass. 'Be steady, and wing him.'\n\nIt occurred to Mr. Winkle that this advice was very like that which\nbystanders invariably give to the smallest boy in a street fight,\nnamely, 'Go in, and win'--an admirable thing to recommend, if you only\nknow how to do it. He took off his cloak, however, in silence--it\nalways took a long time to undo that cloak--and accepted the pistol. The\nseconds retired, the gentleman on the camp-stool did the same, and the\nbelligerents approached each other.\n\nMr. Winkle was always remarkable for extreme humanity. It is conjectured\nthat his unwillingness to hurt a fellow-creature intentionally was the\ncause of his shutting his eyes when he arrived at the fatal spot; and\nthat the circumstance of his eyes being closed, prevented his observing\nthe very extraordinary and unaccountable demeanour of Doctor Slammer.\nThat gentleman started, stared, retreated, rubbed his eyes, stared\nagain, and, finally, shouted, 'Stop, stop!'\n\n'What's all this?' said Doctor Slammer, as his friend and Mr. Snodgrass\ncame running up; 'that's not the man.'\n\n'Not the man!' said Doctor Slammer's second.\n\n'Not the man!' said Mr. Snodgrass.\n\n'Not the man!' said the gentleman with the camp-stool in his hand.\n\n'Certainly not,' replied the little doctor. 'That's not the person who\ninsulted me last night.'\n\n'Very extraordinary!' exclaimed the officer.\n\n'Very,' said the gentleman with the camp-stool. 'The only question is,\nwhether the gentleman, being on the ground, must not be considered, as\na matter of form, to be the individual who insulted our friend, Doctor\nSlammer, yesterday evening, whether he is really that individual\nor not;' and having delivered this suggestion, with a very sage and\nmysterious air, the man with the camp-stool took a large pinch of\nsnuff, and looked profoundly round, with the air of an authority in such\nmatters.\n\nNow Mr. Winkle had opened his eyes, and his ears too, when he heard his\nadversary call out for a cessation of hostilities; and perceiving by\nwhat he had afterwards said that there was, beyond all question, some\nmistake in the matter, he at once foresaw the increase of reputation he\nshould inevitably acquire by concealing the real motive of his coming\nout; he therefore stepped boldly forward, and said--\n\n'I am not the person. I know it.'\n\n'Then, that,' said the man with the camp-stool, 'is an affront to Doctor\nSlammer, and a sufficient reason for proceeding immediately.'\n\n'Pray be quiet, Payne,' said the doctor's second. 'Why did you not\ncommunicate this fact to me this morning, Sir?'\n\n'To be sure--to be sure,' said the man with the camp-stool indignantly.\n\n'I entreat you to be quiet, Payne,' said the other. 'May I repeat my\nquestion, Sir?'\n\n'Because, Sir,' replied Mr. Winkle, who had had time to deliberate\nupon his answer, 'because, Sir, you described an intoxicated and\nungentlemanly person as wearing a coat which I have the honour, not only\nto wear but to have invented--the proposed uniform, Sir, of the Pickwick\nClub in London. The honour of that uniform I feel bound to maintain, and\nI therefore, without inquiry, accepted the challenge which you offered\nme.'\n\n'My dear Sir,' said the good-humoured little doctor advancing with\nextended hand, 'I honour your gallantry. Permit me to say, Sir, that I\nhighly admire your conduct, and extremely regret having caused you the\ninconvenience of this meeting, to no purpose.'\n\n'I beg you won't mention it, Sir,' said Mr. Winkle.\n\n'I shall feel proud of your acquaintance, Sir,' said the little doctor.\n\n'It will afford me the greatest pleasure to know you, sir,' replied Mr.\nWinkle. Thereupon the doctor and Mr. Winkle shook hands, and then Mr.\nWinkle and Lieutenant Tappleton (the doctor's second), and then Mr.\nWinkle and the man with the camp-stool, and, finally, Mr. Winkle and Mr.\nSnodgrass--the last-named gentleman in an excess of admiration at the\nnoble conduct of his heroic friend.\n\n'I think we may adjourn,' said Lieutenant Tappleton.\n\n'Certainly,' added the doctor.\n\n'Unless,' interposed the man with the camp-stool, 'unless Mr. Winkle\nfeels himself aggrieved by the challenge; in which case, I submit, he\nhas a right to satisfaction.'\n\nMr. Winkle, with great self-denial, expressed himself quite satisfied\nalready. 'Or possibly,' said the man with the camp-stool, 'the\ngentleman's second may feel himself affronted with some observations\nwhich fell from me at an early period of this meeting; if so, I shall be\nhappy to give him satisfaction immediately.'\n\nMr. Snodgrass hastily professed himself very much obliged with the\nhandsome offer of the gentleman who had spoken last, which he was only\ninduced to decline by his entire contentment with the whole proceedings.\nThe two seconds adjusted the cases, and the whole party left the ground\nin a much more lively manner than they had proceeded to it.\n\n'Do you remain long here?' inquired Doctor Slammer of Mr. Winkle, as\nthey walked on most amicably together.\n\n'I think we shall leave here the day after to-morrow,' was the reply.\n\n'I trust I shall have the pleasure of seeing you and your friend at my\nrooms, and of spending a pleasant evening with you, after this awkward\nmistake,' said the little doctor; 'are you disengaged this evening?'\n\n'We have some friends here,' replied Mr. Winkle, 'and I should not like\nto leave them to-night. Perhaps you and your friend will join us at the\nBull.'\n\n'With great pleasure,' said the little doctor; 'will ten o'clock be too\nlate to look in for half an hour?'\n\n'Oh dear, no,' said Mr. Winkle. 'I shall be most happy to introduce you\nto my friends, Mr. Pickwick and Mr. Tupman.'\n\n'It will give me great pleasure, I am sure,' replied Doctor Slammer,\nlittle suspecting who Mr. Tupman was.\n\n'You will be sure to come?' said Mr. Snodgrass.\n\n'Oh, certainly.'\n\nBy this time they had reached the road. Cordial farewells were\nexchanged, and the party separated. Doctor Slammer and his friends\nrepaired to the barracks, and Mr. Winkle, accompanied by Mr. Snodgrass,\nreturned to their inn.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER III. A NEW ACQUAINTANCE--THE STROLLER'S TALE--A DISAGREEABLE\nINTERRUPTION, AND AN UNPLEASANT ENCOUNTER\n\n\nMr. Pickwick had felt some apprehensions in consequence of the unusual\nabsence of his two friends, which their mysterious behaviour during the\nwhole morning had by no means tended to diminish. It was, therefore,\nwith more than ordinary pleasure that he rose to greet them when they\nagain entered; and with more than ordinary interest that he inquired\nwhat had occurred to detain them from his society. In reply to his\nquestions on this point, Mr. Snodgrass was about to offer an historical\naccount of the circumstances just now detailed, when he was suddenly\nchecked by observing that there were present, not only Mr. Tupman and\ntheir stage-coach companion of the preceding day, but another stranger\nof equally singular appearance. It was a careworn-looking man, whose\nsallow face, and deeply-sunken eyes, were rendered still more striking\nthan Nature had made them, by the straight black hair which hung in\nmatted disorder half-way down his face. His eyes were almost unnaturally\nbright and piercing; his cheek-bones were high and prominent; and his\njaws were so long and lank, that an observer would have supposed that he\nwas drawing the flesh of his face in, for a moment, by some contraction\nof the muscles, if his half-opened mouth and immovable expression had\nnot announced that it was his ordinary appearance. Round his neck he\nwore a green shawl, with the large ends straggling over his chest, and\nmaking their appearance occasionally beneath the worn button-holes of\nhis old waistcoat. His upper garment was a long black surtout; and below\nit he wore wide drab trousers, and large boots, running rapidly to seed.\n\nIt was on this uncouth-looking person that Mr. Winkle's eye rested, and\nit was towards him that Mr. Pickwick extended his hand when he said, 'A\nfriend of our friend's here. We discovered this morning that our friend\nwas connected with the theatre in this place, though he is not desirous\nto have it generally known, and this gentleman is a member of the same\nprofession. He was about to favour us with a little anecdote connected\nwith it, when you entered.'\n\n'Lots of anecdote,' said the green-coated stranger of the day before,\nadvancing to Mr. Winkle and speaking in a low and confidential tone.\n'Rum fellow--does the heavy business--no actor--strange man--all sorts\nof miseries--Dismal Jemmy, we call him on the circuit.' Mr. Winkle and\nMr. Snodgrass politely welcomed the gentleman, elegantly designated as\n'Dismal Jemmy'; and calling for brandy-and-water, in imitation of the\nremainder of the company, seated themselves at the table. 'Now sir,'\nsaid Mr. Pickwick, 'will you oblige us by proceeding with what you were\ngoing to relate?'\n\nThe dismal individual took a dirty roll of paper from his pocket, and\nturning to Mr. Snodgrass, who had just taken out his note-book, said in\na hollow voice, perfectly in keeping with his outward man--'Are you the\npoet?'\n\n'I--I do a little in that way,' replied Mr. Snodgrass, rather taken\naback by the abruptness of the question. 'Ah! poetry makes life what\nlight and music do the stage--strip the one of the false embellishments,\nand the other of its illusions, and what is there real in either to live\nor care for?'\n\n'Very true, Sir,' replied Mr. Snodgrass.\n\n'To be before the footlights,' continued the dismal man, 'is like\nsitting at a grand court show, and admiring the silken dresses of\nthe gaudy throng; to be behind them is to be the people who make that\nfinery, uncared for and unknown, and left to sink or swim, to starve or\nlive, as fortune wills it.'\n\n'Certainly,' said Mr. Snodgrass: for the sunken eye of the dismal man\nrested on him, and he felt it necessary to say something.\n\n'Go on, Jemmy,' said the Spanish traveller, 'like black-eyed Susan--all\nin the Downs--no croaking--speak out--look lively.' 'Will you make\nanother glass before you begin, Sir?' said Mr. Pickwick.\n\nThe dismal man took the hint, and having mixed a glass of\nbrandy-and-water, and slowly swallowed half of it, opened the roll of\npaper and proceeded, partly to read, and partly to relate, the following\nincident, which we find recorded on the Transactions of the Club as 'The\nStroller's Tale.'\n\n\n THE STROLLER'S TALE\n\n'There is nothing of the marvellous in what I am going to relate,' said\nthe dismal man; 'there is nothing even uncommon in it. Want and sickness\nare too common in many stations of life to deserve more notice than is\nusually bestowed on the most ordinary vicissitudes of human nature. I\nhave thrown these few notes together, because the subject of them was\nwell known to me for many years. I traced his progress downwards, step\nby step, until at last he reached that excess of destitution from which\nhe never rose again.\n\n'The man of whom I speak was a low pantomime actor; and, like many\npeople of his class, an habitual drunkard. In his better days, before\nhe had become enfeebled by dissipation and emaciated by disease, he had\nbeen in the receipt of a good salary, which, if he had been careful and\nprudent, he might have continued to receive for some years--not many;\nbecause these men either die early, or by unnaturally taxing their\nbodily energies, lose, prematurely, those physical powers on which alone\nthey can depend for subsistence. His besetting sin gained so fast\nupon him, however, that it was found impossible to employ him in\nthe situations in which he really was useful to the theatre. The\npublic-house had a fascination for him which he could not resist.\nNeglected disease and hopeless poverty were as certain to be his\nportion as death itself, if he persevered in the same course; yet he did\npersevere, and the result may be guessed. He could obtain no engagement,\nand he wanted bread. 'Everybody who is at all acquainted with theatrical\nmatters knows what a host of shabby, poverty-stricken men hang about the\nstage of a large establishment--not regularly engaged actors, but ballet\npeople, procession men, tumblers, and so forth, who are taken on during\nthe run of a pantomime, or an Easter piece, and are then discharged,\nuntil the production of some heavy spectacle occasions a new demand for\ntheir services. To this mode of life the man was compelled to resort;\nand taking the chair every night, at some low theatrical house, at once\nput him in possession of a few more shillings weekly, and enabled him to\ngratify his old propensity. Even this resource shortly failed him;\nhis irregularities were too great to admit of his earning the wretched\npittance he might thus have procured, and he was actually reduced to a\nstate bordering on starvation, only procuring a trifle occasionally by\nborrowing it of some old companion, or by obtaining an appearance at one\nor other of the commonest of the minor theatres; and when he did earn\nanything it was spent in the old way.\n\n'About this time, and when he had been existing for upwards of a year\nno one knew how, I had a short engagement at one of the theatres on the\nSurrey side of the water, and here I saw this man, whom I had lost sight\nof for some time; for I had been travelling in the provinces, and he had\nbeen skulking in the lanes and alleys of London. I was dressed to leave\nthe house, and was crossing the stage on my way out, when he tapped me\non the shoulder. Never shall I forget the repulsive sight that met my\neye when I turned round. He was dressed for the pantomimes in all the\nabsurdity of a clown's costume. The spectral figures in the Dance of\nDeath, the most frightful shapes that the ablest painter ever portrayed\non canvas, never presented an appearance half so ghastly. His bloated\nbody and shrunken legs--their deformity enhanced a hundredfold by the\nfantastic dress--the glassy eyes, contrasting fearfully with the\nthick white paint with which the face was besmeared; the\ngrotesquely-ornamented head, trembling with paralysis, and the long\nskinny hands, rubbed with white chalk--all gave him a hideous and\nunnatural appearance, of which no description could convey an adequate\nidea, and which, to this day, I shudder to think of. His voice was\nhollow and tremulous as he took me aside, and in broken words recounted\na long catalogue of sickness and privations, terminating as usual with\nan urgent request for the loan of a trifling sum of money. I put a few\nshillings in his hand, and as I turned away I heard the roar of laughter\nwhich followed his first tumble on the stage. 'A few nights afterwards,\na boy put a dirty scrap of paper in my hand, on which were scrawled a\nfew words in pencil, intimating that the man was dangerously ill, and\nbegging me, after the performance, to see him at his lodgings in some\nstreet--I forget the name of it now--at no great distance from the\ntheatre. I promised to comply, as soon as I could get away; and after\nthe curtain fell, sallied forth on my melancholy errand.\n\n'It was late, for I had been playing in the last piece; and, as it was\na benefit night, the performances had been protracted to an unusual\nlength. It was a dark, cold night, with a chill, damp wind, which blew\nthe rain heavily against the windows and house-fronts. Pools of water\nhad collected in the narrow and little-frequented streets, and as many\nof the thinly-scattered oil-lamps had been blown out by the violence of\nthe wind, the walk was not only a comfortless, but most uncertain one. I\nhad fortunately taken the right course, however, and succeeded, after a\nlittle difficulty, in finding the house to which I had been directed--a\ncoal-shed, with one Storey above it, in the back room of which lay the\nobject of my search.\n\n'A wretched-looking woman, the man's wife, met me on the stairs, and,\ntelling me that he had just fallen into a kind of doze, led me softly\nin, and placed a chair for me at the bedside. The sick man was lying\nwith his face turned towards the wall; and as he took no heed of my\npresence, I had leisure to observe the place in which I found myself.\n\n'He was lying on an old bedstead, which turned up during the day. The\ntattered remains of a checked curtain were drawn round the bed's head,\nto exclude the wind, which, however, made its way into the comfortless\nroom through the numerous chinks in the door, and blew it to and fro\nevery instant. There was a low cinder fire in a rusty, unfixed grate;\nand an old three-cornered stained table, with some medicine bottles, a\nbroken glass, and a few other domestic articles, was drawn out before\nit. A little child was sleeping on a temporary bed which had been made\nfor it on the floor, and the woman sat on a chair by its side. There\nwere a couple of shelves, with a few plates and cups and saucers; and\na pair of stage shoes and a couple of foils hung beneath them. With the\nexception of little heaps of rags and bundles which had been carelessly\nthrown into the corners of the room, these were the only things in the\napartment.\n\n'I had had time to note these little particulars, and to mark the heavy\nbreathing and feverish startings of the sick man, before he was aware of\nmy presence. In the restless attempts to procure some easy resting-place\nfor his head, he tossed his hand out of the bed, and it fell on mine. He\nstarted up, and stared eagerly in my face.\n\n'\"Mr. Hutley, John,\" said his wife; \"Mr. Hutley, that you sent for\nto-night, you know.\"\n\n'\"Ah!\" said the invalid, passing his hand across his forehead;\n\"Hutley--Hutley--let me see.\" He seemed endeavouring to collect his\nthoughts for a few seconds, and then grasping me tightly by the wrist\nsaid, \"Don't leave me--don't leave me, old fellow. She'll murder me; I\nknow she will.\"\n\n'\"Has he been long so?\" said I, addressing his weeping wife.\n\n'\"Since yesterday night,\" she replied. \"John, John, don't you know me?\"\n'\"Don't let her come near me,\" said the man, with a shudder, as she\nstooped over him. \"Drive her away; I can't bear her near me.\" He stared\nwildly at her, with a look of deadly apprehension, and then whispered in\nmy ear, \"I beat her, Jem; I beat her yesterday, and many times before.\nI have starved her and the boy too; and now I am weak and helpless, Jem,\nshe'll murder me for it; I know she will. If you'd seen her cry, as I\nhave, you'd know it too. Keep her off.\" He relaxed his grasp, and sank\nback exhausted on the pillow. 'I knew but too well what all this meant.\nIf I could have entertained any doubt of it, for an instant, one\nglance at the woman's pale face and wasted form would have sufficiently\nexplained the real state of the case. \"You had better stand aside,\"\nsaid I to the poor creature. \"You can do him no good. Perhaps he will be\ncalmer, if he does not see you.\" She retired out of the man's sight. He\nopened his eyes after a few seconds, and looked anxiously round.\n\n'\"Is she gone?\" he eagerly inquired.\n\n'\"Yes--yes,\" said I; \"she shall not hurt you.\"\n\n'\"I'll tell you what, Jem,\" said the man, in a low voice, \"she does\nhurt me. There's something in her eyes wakes such a dreadful fear in my\nheart, that it drives me mad. All last night, her large, staring eyes\nand pale face were close to mine; wherever I turned, they turned; and\nwhenever I started up from my sleep, she was at the bedside looking at\nme.\" He drew me closer to him, as he said in a deep alarmed whisper,\n\"Jem, she must be an evil spirit--a devil! Hush! I know she is. If she\nhad been a woman she would have died long ago. No woman could have borne\nwhat she has.\"\n\n'I sickened at the thought of the long course of cruelty and neglect\nwhich must have occurred to produce such an impression on such a man. I\ncould say nothing in reply; for who could offer hope, or consolation, to\nthe abject being before me?\n\n'I sat there for upwards of two hours, during which time he tossed\nabout, murmuring exclamations of pain or impatience, restlessly throwing\nhis arms here and there, and turning constantly from side to side. At\nlength he fell into that state of partial unconsciousness, in which\nthe mind wanders uneasily from scene to scene, and from place to place,\nwithout the control of reason, but still without being able to divest\nitself of an indescribable sense of present suffering. Finding from his\nincoherent wanderings that this was the case, and knowing that in all\nprobability the fever would not grow immediately worse, I left him,\npromising his miserable wife that I would repeat my visit next evening,\nand, if necessary, sit up with the patient during the night.\n\n'I kept my promise. The last four-and-twenty hours had produced a\nfrightful alteration. The eyes, though deeply sunk and heavy, shone with\na lustre frightful to behold. The lips were parched, and cracked in many\nplaces; the hard, dry skin glowed with a burning heat; and there was an\nalmost unearthly air of wild anxiety in the man's face, indicating even\nmore strongly the ravages of the disease. The fever was at its height.\n\n'I took the seat I had occupied the night before, and there I sat for\nhours, listening to sounds which must strike deep to the heart of the\nmost callous among human beings--the awful ravings of a dying man. From\nwhat I had heard of the medical attendant's opinion, I knew there was\nno hope for him: I was sitting by his death-bed. I saw the wasted\nlimbs--which a few hours before had been distorted for the amusement of\na boisterous gallery, writhing under the tortures of a burning fever--I\nheard the clown's shrill laugh, blending with the low murmurings of the\ndying man.\n\n'It is a touching thing to hear the mind reverting to the ordinary\noccupations and pursuits of health, when the body lies before you weak\nand helpless; but when those occupations are of a character the most\nstrongly opposed to anything we associate with grave and solemn ideas,\nthe impression produced is infinitely more powerful. The theatre and the\npublic-house were the chief themes of the wretched man's wanderings. It\nwas evening, he fancied; he had a part to play that night; it was late,\nand he must leave home instantly. Why did they hold him, and prevent\nhis going?--he should lose the money--he must go. No! they would not let\nhim. He hid his face in his burning hands, and feebly bemoaned his own\nweakness, and the cruelty of his persecutors. A short pause, and he\nshouted out a few doggerel rhymes--the last he had ever learned. He\nrose in bed, drew up his withered limbs, and rolled about in uncouth\npositions; he was acting--he was at the theatre. A minute's silence,\nand he murmured the burden of some roaring song. He had reached the old\nhouse at last--how hot the room was. He had been ill, very ill, but he\nwas well now, and happy. Fill up his glass. Who was that, that dashed it\nfrom his lips? It was the same persecutor that had followed him before.\nHe fell back upon his pillow and moaned aloud. A short period of\noblivion, and he was wandering through a tedious maze of low-arched\nrooms--so low, sometimes, that he must creep upon his hands and knees to\nmake his way along; it was close and dark, and every way he turned, some\nobstacle impeded his progress. There were insects, too, hideous crawling\nthings, with eyes that stared upon him, and filled the very air around,\nglistening horribly amidst the thick darkness of the place. The walls\nand ceiling were alive with reptiles--the vault expanded to an enormous\nsize--frightful figures flitted to and fro--and the faces of men he\nknew, rendered hideous by gibing and mouthing, peered out from among\nthem; they were searing him with heated irons, and binding his head with\ncords till the blood started; and he struggled madly for life.\n\n'At the close of one of these paroxysms, when I had with great\ndifficulty held him down in his bed, he sank into what appeared to be\na slumber. Overpowered with watching and exertion, I had closed my eyes\nfor a few minutes, when I felt a violent clutch on my shoulder. I awoke\ninstantly. He had raised himself up, so as to seat himself in bed--a\ndreadful change had come over his face, but consciousness had returned,\nfor he evidently knew me. The child, who had been long since disturbed\nby his ravings, rose from its little bed, and ran towards its father,\nscreaming with fright--the mother hastily caught it in her arms, lest he\nshould injure it in the violence of his insanity; but, terrified by the\nalteration of his features, stood transfixed by the bedside. He grasped\nmy shoulder convulsively, and, striking his breast with the other hand,\nmade a desperate attempt to articulate. It was unavailing; he extended\nhis arm towards them, and made another violent effort. There was a\nrattling noise in the throat--a glare of the eye--a short stifled\ngroan--and he fell back--dead!'\n\n\nIt would afford us the highest gratification to be enabled to record Mr.\nPickwick's opinion of the foregoing anecdote. We have little doubt that\nwe should have been enabled to present it to our readers, but for a most\nunfortunate occurrence.\n\nMr. Pickwick had replaced on the table the glass which, during the last\nfew sentences of the tale, he had retained in his hand; and had\njust made up his mind to speak--indeed, we have the authority of Mr.\nSnodgrass's note-book for stating, that he had actually opened his\nmouth--when the waiter entered the room, and said--\n\n'Some gentlemen, Sir.'\n\nIt has been conjectured that Mr. Pickwick was on the point of delivering\nsome remarks which would have enlightened the world, if not the Thames,\nwhen he was thus interrupted; for he gazed sternly on the waiter's\ncountenance, and then looked round on the company generally, as if\nseeking for information relative to the new-comers.\n\n'Oh!' said Mr. Winkle, rising, 'some friends of mine--show them in.\nVery pleasant fellows,' added Mr. Winkle, after the waiter had\nretired--'officers of the 97th, whose acquaintance I made rather oddly\nthis morning. You will like them very much.'\n\nMr. Pickwick's equanimity was at once restored. The waiter returned, and\nushered three gentlemen into the room.\n\n'Lieutenant Tappleton,' said Mr. Winkle, 'Lieutenant Tappleton, Mr.\nPickwick--Doctor Payne, Mr. Pickwick--Mr. Snodgrass you have seen\nbefore, my friend Mr. Tupman, Doctor Payne--Doctor Slammer, Mr.\nPickwick--Mr. Tupman, Doctor Slam--'\n\nHere Mr. Winkle suddenly paused; for strong emotion was visible on the\ncountenance both of Mr. Tupman and the doctor.\n\n'I have met THIS gentleman before,' said the Doctor, with marked\nemphasis.\n\n'Indeed!' said Mr. Winkle.\n\n'And--and that person, too, if I am not mistaken,' said the doctor,\nbestowing a scrutinising glance on the green-coated stranger. 'I think I\ngave that person a very pressing invitation last night, which he thought\nproper to decline.' Saying which the doctor scowled magnanimously on the\nstranger, and whispered his friend Lieutenant Tappleton.\n\n'You don't say so,' said that gentleman, at the conclusion of the\nwhisper.\n\n'I do, indeed,' replied Doctor Slammer.\n\n'You are bound to kick him on the spot,' murmured the owner of the\ncamp-stool, with great importance.\n\n'Do be quiet, Payne,' interposed the lieutenant. 'Will you allow me to\nask you, sir,' he said, addressing Mr. Pickwick, who was considerably\nmystified by this very unpolite by-play--'will you allow me to ask you,\nSir, whether that person belongs to your party?'\n\n'No, Sir,' replied Mr. Pickwick, 'he is a guest of ours.'\n\n'He is a member of your club, or I am mistaken?' said the lieutenant\ninquiringly.\n\n'Certainly not,' responded Mr. Pickwick.\n\n'And never wears your club-button?' said the lieutenant.\n\n'No--never!' replied the astonished Mr. Pickwick.\n\nLieutenant Tappleton turned round to his friend Doctor Slammer, with a\nscarcely perceptible shrug of the shoulder, as if implying some doubt of\nthe accuracy of his recollection. The little doctor looked wrathful, but\nconfounded; and Mr. Payne gazed with a ferocious aspect on the beaming\ncountenance of the unconscious Pickwick.\n\n'Sir,' said the doctor, suddenly addressing Mr. Tupman, in a tone which\nmade that gentleman start as perceptibly as if a pin had been cunningly\ninserted in the calf of his leg, 'you were at the ball here last night!'\n\nMr. Tupman gasped a faint affirmative, looking very hard at Mr. Pickwick\nall the while.\n\n'That person was your companion,' said the doctor, pointing to the still\nunmoved stranger.\n\nMr. Tupman admitted the fact.\n\n'Now, sir,' said the doctor to the stranger, 'I ask you once again,\nin the presence of these gentlemen, whether you choose to give me your\ncard, and to receive the treatment of a gentleman; or whether you impose\nupon me the necessity of personally chastising you on the spot?'\n\n'Stay, sir,' said Mr. Pickwick, 'I really cannot allow this matter to\ngo any further without some explanation. Tupman, recount the\ncircumstances.'\n\nMr. Tupman, thus solemnly adjured, stated the case in a few words;\ntouched slightly on the borrowing of the coat; expatiated largely on its\nhaving been done 'after dinner'; wound up with a little penitence on his\nown account; and left the stranger to clear himself as best he could.\n\nHe was apparently about to proceed to do so, when Lieutenant Tappleton,\nwho had been eyeing him with great curiosity, said with considerable\nscorn, 'Haven't I seen you at the theatre, Sir?'\n\n'Certainly,' replied the unabashed stranger.\n\n'He is a strolling actor!' said the lieutenant contemptuously, turning\nto Doctor Slammer.--'He acts in the piece that the officers of the 52nd\nget up at the Rochester Theatre to-morrow night. You cannot proceed in\nthis affair, Slammer--impossible!'\n\n'Quite!' said the dignified Payne.\n\n'Sorry to have placed you in this disagreeable situation,' said\nLieutenant Tappleton, addressing Mr. Pickwick; 'allow me to suggest,\nthat the best way of avoiding a recurrence of such scenes in future will\nbe to be more select in the choice of your companions. Good-evening,\nSir!' and the lieutenant bounced out of the room.\n\n'And allow me to say, Sir,' said the irascible Doctor Payne, 'that if I\nhad been Tappleton, or if I had been Slammer, I would have pulled\nyour nose, Sir, and the nose of every man in this company. I would,\nsir--every man. Payne is my name, sir--Doctor Payne of the 43rd.\nGood-evening, Sir.' Having concluded this speech, and uttered the last\nthree words in a loud key, he stalked majestically after his friend,\nclosely followed by Doctor Slammer, who said nothing, but contented\nhimself by withering the company with a look. Rising rage and extreme\nbewilderment had swelled the noble breast of Mr. Pickwick, almost to the\nbursting of his waistcoat, during the delivery of the above defiance. He\nstood transfixed to the spot, gazing on vacancy. The closing of the door\nrecalled him to himself. He rushed forward with fury in his looks, and\nfire in his eye. His hand was upon the lock of the door; in another\ninstant it would have been on the throat of Doctor Payne of the 43rd,\nhad not Mr. Snodgrass seized his revered leader by the coat tail, and\ndragged him backwards.\n\n'Restrain him,' cried Mr. Snodgrass; 'Winkle, Tupman--he must not peril\nhis distinguished life in such a cause as this.'\n\n'Let me go,' said Mr. Pickwick.\n\n'Hold him tight,' shouted Mr. Snodgrass; and by the united efforts of\nthe whole company, Mr. Pickwick was forced into an arm-chair. 'Leave\nhim alone,' said the green-coated stranger; 'brandy-and-water--jolly\nold gentleman--lots of pluck--swallow this--ah!--capital stuff.' Having\npreviously tested the virtues of a bumper, which had been mixed by the\ndismal man, the stranger applied the glass to Mr. Pickwick's mouth; and\nthe remainder of its contents rapidly disappeared.\n\nThere was a short pause; the brandy-and-water had done its work; the\namiable countenance of Mr. Pickwick was fast recovering its customary\nexpression.\n\n'They are not worth your notice,' said the dismal man.\n\n'You are right, sir,' replied Mr. Pickwick, 'they are not. I am ashamed\nto have been betrayed into this warmth of feeling. Draw your chair up to\nthe table, Sir.'\n\nThe dismal man readily complied; a circle was again formed round the\ntable, and harmony once more prevailed. Some lingering irritability\nappeared to find a resting-place in Mr. Winkle's bosom, occasioned\npossibly by the temporary abstraction of his coat--though it is scarcely\nreasonable to suppose that so slight a circumstance can have excited\neven a passing feeling of anger in a Pickwickian's breast. With this\nexception, their good-humour was completely restored; and the evening\nconcluded with the conviviality with which it had begun.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER IV. A FIELD DAY AND BIVOUAC--MORE NEW FRIENDS--AN INVITATION TO\nTHE COUNTRY\n\n\nMany authors entertain, not only a foolish, but a really dishonest\nobjection to acknowledge the sources whence they derive much valuable\ninformation. We have no such feeling. We are merely endeavouring to\ndischarge, in an upright manner, the responsible duties of our editorial\nfunctions; and whatever ambition we might have felt under other\ncircumstances to lay claim to the authorship of these adventures, a\nregard for truth forbids us to do more than claim the merit of their\njudicious arrangement and impartial narration. The Pickwick papers are\nour New River Head; and we may be compared to the New River Company. The\nlabours of others have raised for us an immense reservoir of important\nfacts. We merely lay them on, and communicate them, in a clear and\ngentle stream, through the medium of these pages, to a world thirsting\nfor Pickwickian knowledge.\n\nActing in this spirit, and resolutely proceeding on our determination\nto avow our obligations to the authorities we have consulted, we frankly\nsay, that to the note-book of Mr. Snodgrass are we indebted for the\nparticulars recorded in this and the succeeding chapter--particulars\nwhich, now that we have disburdened our consciences, we shall proceed to\ndetail without further comment.\n\nThe whole population of Rochester and the adjoining towns rose from\ntheir beds at an early hour of the following morning, in a state of the\nutmost bustle and excitement. A grand review was to take place upon the\nlines. The manoeuvres of half a dozen regiments were to be inspected by\nthe eagle eye of the commander-in-chief; temporary fortifications had\nbeen erected, the citadel was to be attacked and taken, and a mine was\nto be sprung.\n\nMr. Pickwick was, as our readers may have gathered from the slight\nextract we gave from his description of Chatham, an enthusiastic admirer\nof the army. Nothing could have been more delightful to him--nothing\ncould have harmonised so well with the peculiar feeling of each of his\ncompanions--as this sight. Accordingly they were soon afoot, and walking\nin the direction of the scene of action, towards which crowds of people\nwere already pouring from a variety of quarters.\n\nThe appearance of everything on the lines denoted that the approaching\nceremony was one of the utmost grandeur and importance. There were\nsentries posted to keep the ground for the troops, and servants on the\nbatteries keeping places for the ladies, and sergeants running to and\nfro, with vellum-covered books under their arms, and Colonel Bulder, in\nfull military uniform, on horseback, galloping first to one place and\nthen to another, and backing his horse among the people, and prancing,\nand curvetting, and shouting in a most alarming manner, and making\nhimself very hoarse in the voice, and very red in the face, without any\nassignable cause or reason whatever. Officers were running backwards and\nforwards, first communicating with Colonel Bulder, and then ordering the\nsergeants, and then running away altogether; and even the very privates\nthemselves looked from behind their glazed stocks with an air of\nmysterious solemnity, which sufficiently bespoke the special nature of\nthe occasion.\n\nMr. Pickwick and his three companions stationed themselves in the front\nof the crowd, and patiently awaited the commencement of the proceedings.\nThe throng was increasing every moment; and the efforts they were\ncompelled to make, to retain the position they had gained, sufficiently\noccupied their attention during the two hours that ensued. At one time\nthere was a sudden pressure from behind, and then Mr. Pickwick was\njerked forward for several yards, with a degree of speed and elasticity\nhighly inconsistent with the general gravity of his demeanour; at\nanother moment there was a request to 'keep back' from the front, and\nthen the butt-end of a musket was either dropped upon Mr. Pickwick's\ntoe, to remind him of the demand, or thrust into his chest, to insure\nits being complied with. Then some facetious gentlemen on the left,\nafter pressing sideways in a body, and squeezing Mr. Snodgrass into the\nvery last extreme of human torture, would request to know 'vere he vos\na shovin' to'; and when Mr. Winkle had done expressing his excessive\nindignation at witnessing this unprovoked assault, some person behind\nwould knock his hat over his eyes, and beg the favour of his putting his\nhead in his pocket. These, and other practical witticisms, coupled with\nthe unaccountable absence of Mr. Tupman (who had suddenly disappeared,\nand was nowhere to be found), rendered their situation upon the whole\nrather more uncomfortable than pleasing or desirable.\n\nAt length that low roar of many voices ran through the crowd which\nusually announces the arrival of whatever they have been waiting for.\nAll eyes were turned in the direction of the sally-port. A few moments\nof eager expectation, and colours were seen fluttering gaily in the air,\narms glistened brightly in the sun, column after column poured on to the\nplain. The troops halted and formed; the word of command rang through\nthe line; there was a general clash of muskets as arms were presented;\nand the commander-in-chief, attended by Colonel Bulder and numerous\nofficers, cantered to the front. The military bands struck up\naltogether; the horses stood upon two legs each, cantered backwards, and\nwhisked their tails about in all directions; the dogs barked, the mob\nscreamed, the troops recovered, and nothing was to be seen on either\nside, as far as the eye could reach, but a long perspective of red coats\nand white trousers, fixed and motionless.\n\nMr. Pickwick had been so fully occupied in falling about, and\ndisentangling himself, miraculously, from between the legs of horses,\nthat he had not enjoyed sufficient leisure to observe the scene before\nhim, until it assumed the appearance we have just described. When he\nwas at last enabled to stand firmly on his legs, his gratification and\ndelight were unbounded.\n\n'Can anything be finer or more delightful?' he inquired of Mr. Winkle.\n\n'Nothing,' replied that gentleman, who had had a short man standing on\neach of his feet for the quarter of an hour immediately preceding. 'It\nis indeed a noble and a brilliant sight,' said Mr. Snodgrass, in whose\nbosom a blaze of poetry was rapidly bursting forth, 'to see the gallant\ndefenders of their country drawn up in brilliant array before its\npeaceful citizens; their faces beaming--not with warlike ferocity, but\nwith civilised gentleness; their eyes flashing--not with the rude\nfire of rapine or revenge, but with the soft light of humanity and\nintelligence.'\n\nMr. Pickwick fully entered into the spirit of this eulogium, but he\ncould not exactly re-echo its terms; for the soft light of intelligence\nburned rather feebly in the eyes of the warriors, inasmuch as the\ncommand 'eyes front' had been given, and all the spectator saw before\nhim was several thousand pair of optics, staring straight forward,\nwholly divested of any expression whatever.\n\n'We are in a capital situation now,' said Mr. Pickwick, looking round\nhim. The crowd had gradually dispersed in their immediate vicinity, and\nthey were nearly alone.\n\n'Capital!' echoed both Mr. Snodgrass and Mr. Winkle.\n\n'What are they doing now?' inquired Mr. Pickwick, adjusting his\nspectacles.\n\n'I--I--rather think,' said Mr. Winkle, changing colour--'I rather think\nthey're going to fire.'\n\n'Nonsense,' said Mr. Pickwick hastily.\n\n'I--I--really think they are,' urged Mr. Snodgrass, somewhat alarmed.\n\n'Impossible,' replied Mr. Pickwick. He had hardly uttered the word, when\nthe whole half-dozen regiments levelled their muskets as if they had\nbut one common object, and that object the Pickwickians, and burst forth\nwith the most awful and tremendous discharge that ever shook the earth\nto its centres, or an elderly gentleman off his.\n\nIt was in this trying situation, exposed to a galling fire of blank\ncartridges, and harassed by the operations of the military, a fresh body\nof whom had begun to fall in on the opposite side, that Mr. Pickwick\ndisplayed that perfect coolness and self-possession, which are the\nindispensable accompaniments of a great mind. He seized Mr. Winkle by\nthe arm, and placing himself between that gentleman and Mr. Snodgrass,\nearnestly besought them to remember that beyond the possibility of\nbeing rendered deaf by the noise, there was no immediate danger to be\napprehended from the firing.\n\n'But--but--suppose some of the men should happen to have ball cartridges\nby mistake,' remonstrated Mr. Winkle, pallid at the supposition he was\nhimself conjuring up. 'I heard something whistle through the air now--so\nsharp; close to my ear.' 'We had better throw ourselves on our faces,\nhadn't we?' said Mr. Snodgrass.\n\n'No, no--it's over now,' said Mr. Pickwick. His lip might quiver, and\nhis cheek might blanch, but no expression of fear or concern escaped the\nlips of that immortal man.\n\nMr. Pickwick was right--the firing ceased; but he had scarcely time\nto congratulate himself on the accuracy of his opinion, when a quick\nmovement was visible in the line; the hoarse shout of the word of\ncommand ran along it, and before either of the party could form a\nguess at the meaning of this new manoeuvre, the whole of the half-dozen\nregiments, with fixed bayonets, charged at double-quick time down upon\nthe very spot on which Mr. Pickwick and his friends were stationed. Man\nis but mortal; and there is a point beyond which human courage cannot\nextend. Mr. Pickwick gazed through his spectacles for an instant on the\nadvancing mass, and then fairly turned his back and--we will not say\nfled; firstly, because it is an ignoble term, and, secondly, because Mr.\nPickwick's figure was by no means adapted for that mode of retreat--he\ntrotted away, at as quick a rate as his legs would convey him; so\nquickly, indeed, that he did not perceive the awkwardness of his\nsituation, to the full extent, until too late.\n\nThe opposite troops, whose falling-in had perplexed Mr. Pickwick a few\nseconds before, were drawn up to repel the mimic attack of the sham\nbesiegers of the citadel; and the consequence was that Mr. Pickwick and\nhis two companions found themselves suddenly inclosed between two lines\nof great length, the one advancing at a rapid pace, and the other firmly\nwaiting the collision in hostile array.\n\n'Hoi!' shouted the officers of the advancing line.\n\n'Get out of the way!' cried the officers of the stationary one.\n\n'Where are we to go to?' screamed the agitated Pickwickians.\n\n'Hoi--hoi--hoi!' was the only reply. There was a moment of intense\nbewilderment, a heavy tramp of footsteps, a violent concussion, a\nsmothered laugh; the half-dozen regiments were half a thousand yards\noff, and the soles of Mr. Pickwick's boots were elevated in air.\n\nMr. Snodgrass and Mr. Winkle had each performed a compulsory somerset\nwith remarkable agility, when the first object that met the eyes of\nthe latter as he sat on the ground, staunching with a yellow silk\nhandkerchief the stream of life which issued from his nose, was his\nvenerated leader at some distance off, running after his own hat, which\nwas gambolling playfully away in perspective.\n\nThere are very few moments in a man's existence when he experiences\nso much ludicrous distress, or meets with so little charitable\ncommiseration, as when he is in pursuit of his own hat. A vast deal of\ncoolness, and a peculiar degree of judgment, are requisite in catching a\nhat. A man must not be precipitate, or he runs over it; he must not rush\ninto the opposite extreme, or he loses it altogether. The best way is to\nkeep gently up with the object of pursuit, to be wary and cautious, to\nwatch your opportunity well, get gradually before it, then make a rapid\ndive, seize it by the crown, and stick it firmly on your head; smiling\npleasantly all the time, as if you thought it as good a joke as anybody\nelse.\n\nThere was a fine gentle wind, and Mr. Pickwick's hat rolled sportively\nbefore it. The wind puffed, and Mr. Pickwick puffed, and the hat rolled\nover and over as merrily as a lively porpoise in a strong tide: and\non it might have rolled, far beyond Mr. Pickwick's reach, had not its\ncourse been providentially stopped, just as that gentleman was on the\npoint of resigning it to its fate.\n\nMr. Pickwick, we say, was completely exhausted, and about to give up the\nchase, when the hat was blown with some violence against the wheel of a\ncarriage, which was drawn up in a line with half a dozen other vehicles\non the spot to which his steps had been directed. Mr. Pickwick,\nperceiving his advantage, darted briskly forward, secured his property,\nplanted it on his head, and paused to take breath. He had not been\nstationary half a minute, when he heard his own name eagerly pronounced\nby a voice, which he at once recognised as Mr. Tupman's, and, looking\nupwards, he beheld a sight which filled him with surprise and pleasure.\n\nIn an open barouche, the horses of which had been taken out, the better\nto accommodate it to the crowded place, stood a stout old gentleman,\nin a blue coat and bright buttons, corduroy breeches and top-boots,\ntwo young ladies in scarfs and feathers, a young gentleman apparently\nenamoured of one of the young ladies in scarfs and feathers, a lady of\ndoubtful age, probably the aunt of the aforesaid, and Mr. Tupman, as\neasy and unconcerned as if he had belonged to the family from the first\nmoments of his infancy. Fastened up behind the barouche was a hamper\nof spacious dimensions--one of those hampers which always awakens in a\ncontemplative mind associations connected with cold fowls, tongues, and\nbottles of wine--and on the box sat a fat and red-faced boy, in a state\nof somnolency, whom no speculative observer could have regarded for an\ninstant without setting down as the official dispenser of the contents\nof the before-mentioned hamper, when the proper time for their\nconsumption should arrive.\n\nMr. Pickwick had bestowed a hasty glance on these interesting objects,\nwhen he was again greeted by his faithful disciple.\n\n'Pickwick--Pickwick,' said Mr. Tupman; 'come up here. Make haste.'\n\n'Come along, Sir. Pray, come up,' said the stout gentleman. 'Joe!--damn\nthat boy, he's gone to sleep again.--Joe, let down the steps.' The fat\nboy rolled slowly off the box, let down the steps, and held the carriage\ndoor invitingly open. Mr. Snodgrass and Mr. Winkle came up at the\nmoment.\n\n'Room for you all, gentlemen,' said the stout man. 'Two inside, and one\nout. Joe, make room for one of these gentlemen on the box. Now, Sir,\ncome along;' and the stout gentleman extended his arm, and pulled first\nMr. Pickwick, and then Mr. Snodgrass, into the barouche by main force.\nMr. Winkle mounted to the box, the fat boy waddled to the same perch,\nand fell fast asleep instantly.\n\n'Well, gentlemen,' said the stout man, 'very glad to see you. Know\nyou very well, gentlemen, though you mayn't remember me. I spent some\nev'nin's at your club last winter--picked up my friend Mr. Tupman here\nthis morning, and very glad I was to see him. Well, Sir, and how are\nyou? You do look uncommon well, to be sure.'\n\nMr. Pickwick acknowledged the compliment, and cordially shook hands with\nthe stout gentleman in the top-boots.\n\n'Well, and how are you, sir?' said the stout gentleman, addressing\nMr. Snodgrass with paternal anxiety. 'Charming, eh? Well, that's\nright--that's right. And how are you, sir (to Mr. Winkle)? Well, I\nam glad to hear you say you are well; very glad I am, to be sure. My\ndaughters, gentlemen--my gals these are; and that's my sister, Miss\nRachael Wardle. She's a Miss, she is; and yet she ain't a Miss--eh, Sir,\neh?' And the stout gentleman playfully inserted his elbow between the\nribs of Mr. Pickwick, and laughed very heartily.\n\n'Lor, brother!' said Miss Wardle, with a deprecating smile.\n\n'True, true,' said the stout gentleman; 'no one can deny it. Gentlemen,\nI beg your pardon; this is my friend Mr. Trundle. And now you all\nknow each other, let's be comfortable and happy, and see what's\ngoing forward; that's what I say.' So the stout gentleman put on his\nspectacles, and Mr. Pickwick pulled out his glass, and everybody stood\nup in the carriage, and looked over somebody else's shoulder at the\nevolutions of the military.\n\nAstounding evolutions they were, one rank firing over the heads of\nanother rank, and then running away; and then the other rank firing\nover the heads of another rank, and running away in their turn; and then\nforming squares, with officers in the centre; and then descending the\ntrench on one side with scaling-ladders, and ascending it on the other\nagain by the same means; and knocking down barricades of baskets, and\nbehaving in the most gallant manner possible. Then there was such a\nramming down of the contents of enormous guns on the battery, with\ninstruments like magnified mops; such a preparation before they were let\noff, and such an awful noise when they did go, that the air resounded\nwith the screams of ladies. The young Misses Wardle were so frightened,\nthat Mr. Trundle was actually obliged to hold one of them up in the\ncarriage, while Mr. Snodgrass supported the other; and Mr. Wardle's\nsister suffered under such a dreadful state of nervous alarm, that Mr.\nTupman found it indispensably necessary to put his arm round her waist,\nto keep her up at all. Everybody was excited, except the fat boy, and he\nslept as soundly as if the roaring of cannon were his ordinary lullaby.\n\n'Joe, Joe!' said the stout gentleman, when the citadel was taken, and\nthe besiegers and besieged sat down to dinner. 'Damn that boy, he's gone\nto sleep again. Be good enough to pinch him, sir--in the leg, if you\nplease; nothing else wakes him--thank you. Undo the hamper, Joe.'\n\nThe fat boy, who had been effectually roused by the compression of a\nportion of his leg between the finger and thumb of Mr. Winkle, rolled\noff the box once again, and proceeded to unpack the hamper with more\nexpedition than could have been expected from his previous inactivity.\n\n'Now we must sit close,' said the stout gentleman. After a great many\njokes about squeezing the ladies' sleeves, and a vast quantity of\nblushing at sundry jocose proposals, that the ladies should sit in the\ngentlemen's laps, the whole party were stowed down in the barouche; and\nthe stout gentleman proceeded to hand the things from the fat boy (who\nhad mounted up behind for the purpose) into the carriage.\n\n'Now, Joe, knives and forks.' The knives and forks were handed in, and\nthe ladies and gentlemen inside, and Mr. Winkle on the box, were each\nfurnished with those useful instruments.\n\n'Plates, Joe, plates.' A similar process employed in the distribution of\nthe crockery.\n\n'Now, Joe, the fowls. Damn that boy; he's gone to sleep again. Joe!\nJoe!' (Sundry taps on the head with a stick, and the fat boy, with some\ndifficulty, roused from his lethargy.) 'Come, hand in the eatables.'\n\nThere was something in the sound of the last word which roused the\nunctuous boy. He jumped up, and the leaden eyes which twinkled behind\nhis mountainous cheeks leered horribly upon the food as he unpacked it\nfrom the basket.\n\n'Now make haste,' said Mr. Wardle; for the fat boy was hanging fondly\nover a capon, which he seemed wholly unable to part with. The boy sighed\ndeeply, and, bestowing an ardent gaze upon its plumpness, unwillingly\nconsigned it to his master.\n\n'That's right--look sharp. Now the tongue--now the pigeon pie. Take\ncare of that veal and ham--mind the lobsters--take the salad out of the\ncloth--give me the dressing.' Such were the hurried orders which issued\nfrom the lips of Mr. Wardle, as he handed in the different articles\ndescribed, and placed dishes in everybody's hands, and on everybody's\nknees, in endless number. 'Now ain't this capital?' inquired that jolly\npersonage, when the work of destruction had commenced.\n\n'Capital!' said Mr. Winkle, who was carving a fowl on the box.\n\n'Glass of wine?'\n\n'With the greatest pleasure.' 'You'd better have a bottle to yourself up\nthere, hadn't you?'\n\n'You're very good.'\n\n'Joe!'\n\n'Yes, Sir.' (He wasn't asleep this time, having just succeeded in\nabstracting a veal patty.)\n\n'Bottle of wine to the gentleman on the box. Glad to see you, Sir.'\n\n'Thank'ee.' Mr. Winkle emptied his glass, and placed the bottle on the\ncoach-box, by his side.\n\n'Will you permit me to have the pleasure, Sir?' said Mr. Trundle to Mr.\nWinkle.\n\n'With great pleasure,' replied Mr. Winkle to Mr. Trundle, and then the\ntwo gentlemen took wine, after which they took a glass of wine round,\nladies and all.\n\n'How dear Emily is flirting with the strange gentleman,' whispered the\nspinster aunt, with true spinster-aunt-like envy, to her brother, Mr.\nWardle.\n\n'Oh! I don't know,' said the jolly old gentleman; 'all very natural, I\ndare say--nothing unusual. Mr. Pickwick, some wine, Sir?' Mr. Pickwick,\nwho had been deeply investigating the interior of the pigeon-pie,\nreadily assented.\n\n'Emily, my dear,' said the spinster aunt, with a patronising air, 'don't\ntalk so loud, love.'\n\n'Lor, aunt!'\n\n'Aunt and the little old gentleman want to have it all to themselves,\nI think,' whispered Miss Isabella Wardle to her sister Emily. The young\nladies laughed very heartily, and the old one tried to look amiable, but\ncouldn't manage it.\n\n'Young girls have such spirits,' said Miss Wardle to Mr. Tupman, with an\nair of gentle commiseration, as if animal spirits were contraband, and\ntheir possession without a permit a high crime and misdemeanour.\n\n'Oh, they have,' replied Mr. Tupman, not exactly making the sort of\nreply that was expected from him. 'It's quite delightful.'\n\n'Hem!' said Miss Wardle, rather dubiously.\n\n'Will you permit me?' said Mr. Tupman, in his blandest manner, touching\nthe enchanting Rachael's wrist with one hand, and gently elevating the\nbottle with the other. 'Will you permit me?'\n\n'Oh, sir!' Mr. Tupman looked most impressive; and Rachael expressed her\nfear that more guns were going off, in which case, of course, she should\nhave required support again.\n\n'Do you think my dear nieces pretty?' whispered their affectionate aunt\nto Mr. Tupman.\n\n'I should, if their aunt wasn't here,' replied the ready Pickwickian,\nwith a passionate glance.\n\n'Oh, you naughty man--but really, if their complexions were a\nlittle better, don't you think they would be nice-looking girls--by\ncandlelight?'\n\n'Yes; I think they would,' said Mr. Tupman, with an air of indifference.\n\n'Oh, you quiz--I know what you were going to say.'\n\n'What?' inquired Mr. Tupman, who had not precisely made up his mind to\nsay anything at all.\n\n'You were going to say that Isabel stoops--I know you were--you men are\nsuch observers. Well, so she does; it can't be denied; and, certainly,\nif there is one thing more than another that makes a girl look ugly it\nis stooping. I often tell her that when she gets a little older she'll\nbe quite frightful. Well, you are a quiz!'\n\nMr. Tupman had no objection to earning the reputation at so cheap a\nrate: so he looked very knowing, and smiled mysteriously.\n\n'What a sarcastic smile,' said the admiring Rachael; 'I declare I'm\nquite afraid of you.'\n\n'Afraid of me!'\n\n'Oh, you can't disguise anything from me--I know what that smile means\nvery well.'\n\n'What?' said Mr. Tupman, who had not the slightest notion himself.\n\n'You mean,' said the amiable aunt, sinking her voice still lower--'you\nmean, that you don't think Isabella's stooping is as bad as Emily's\nboldness. Well, she is bold! You cannot think how wretched it makes me\nsometimes--I'm sure I cry about it for hours together--my dear brother\nis SO good, and so unsuspicious, that he never sees it; if he did, I'm\nquite certain it would break his heart. I wish I could think it was only\nmanner--I hope it may be--' (Here the affectionate relative heaved a\ndeep sigh, and shook her head despondingly).\n\n'I'm sure aunt's talking about us,' whispered Miss Emily Wardle to her\nsister--'I'm quite certain of it--she looks so malicious.'\n\n'Is she?' replied Isabella.--'Hem! aunt, dear!'\n\n'Yes, my dear love!'\n\n'I'm SO afraid you'll catch cold, aunt--have a silk handkerchief to\ntie round your dear old head--you really should take care of\nyourself--consider your age!'\n\nHowever well deserved this piece of retaliation might have been, it was\nas vindictive a one as could well have been resorted to. There is no\nguessing in what form of reply the aunt's indignation would have vented\nitself, had not Mr. Wardle unconsciously changed the subject, by calling\nemphatically for Joe.\n\n'Damn that boy,' said the old gentleman, 'he's gone to sleep again.'\n\n'Very extraordinary boy, that,' said Mr. Pickwick; 'does he always sleep\nin this way?'\n\n'Sleep!' said the old gentleman, 'he's always asleep. Goes on errands\nfast asleep, and snores as he waits at table.'\n\n'How very odd!' said Mr. Pickwick.\n\n'Ah! odd indeed,' returned the old gentleman; 'I'm proud of that\nboy--wouldn't part with him on any account--he's a natural curiosity!\nHere, Joe--Joe--take these things away, and open another bottle--d'ye\nhear?'\n\nThe fat boy rose, opened his eyes, swallowed the huge piece of pie he\nhad been in the act of masticating when he last fell asleep, and slowly\nobeyed his master's orders--gloating languidly over the remains of the\nfeast, as he removed the plates, and deposited them in the hamper. The\nfresh bottle was produced, and speedily emptied: the hamper was made\nfast in its old place--the fat boy once more mounted the box--the\nspectacles and pocket-glass were again adjusted--and the evolutions of\nthe military recommenced. There was a great fizzing and banging of guns,\nand starting of ladies--and then a Mine was sprung, to the gratification\nof everybody--and when the mine had gone off, the military and the\ncompany followed its example, and went off too.\n\n'Now, mind,' said the old gentleman, as he shook hands with Mr. Pickwick\nat the conclusion of a conversation which had been carried on at\nintervals, during the conclusion of the proceedings, 'we shall see you\nall to-morrow.'\n\n'Most certainly,' replied Mr. Pickwick.\n\n'You have got the address?'\n\n'Manor Farm, Dingley Dell,' said Mr. Pickwick, consulting his\npocket-book. 'That's it,' said the old gentleman. 'I don't let you off,\nmind, under a week; and undertake that you shall see everything worth\nseeing. If you've come down for a country life, come to me, and\nI'll give you plenty of it. Joe--damn that boy, he's gone to sleep\nagain--Joe, help Tom put in the horses.'\n\nThe horses were put in--the driver mounted--the fat boy clambered up by\nhis side--farewells were exchanged--and the carriage rattled off. As the\nPickwickians turned round to take a last glimpse of it, the setting sun\ncast a rich glow on the faces of their entertainers, and fell upon the\nform of the fat boy. His head was sunk upon his bosom; and he slumbered\nagain.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER V. A SHORT ONE--SHOWING, AMONG OTHER MATTERS, HOW Mr. PICKWICK\nUNDERTOOK TO DRIVE, AND Mr. WINKLE TO RIDE, AND HOW THEY BOTH DID IT\n\n\nBright and pleasant was the sky, balmy the air, and beautiful the\nappearance of every object around, as Mr. Pickwick leaned over the\nbalustrades of Rochester Bridge, contemplating nature, and waiting for\nbreakfast. The scene was indeed one which might well have charmed a far\nless reflective mind, than that to which it was presented.\n\nOn the left of the spectator lay the ruined wall, broken in many places,\nand in some, overhanging the narrow beach below in rude and heavy\nmasses. Huge knots of seaweed hung upon the jagged and pointed stones,\ntrembling in every breath of wind; and the green ivy clung mournfully\nround the dark and ruined battlements. Behind it rose the ancient\ncastle, its towers roofless, and its massive walls crumbling away, but\ntelling us proudly of its old might and strength, as when, seven hundred\nyears ago, it rang with the clash of arms, or resounded with the noise\nof feasting and revelry. On either side, the banks of the Medway,\ncovered with cornfields and pastures, with here and there a windmill, or\na distant church, stretched away as far as the eye could see, presenting\na rich and varied landscape, rendered more beautiful by the changing\nshadows which passed swiftly across it as the thin and half-formed\nclouds skimmed away in the light of the morning sun. The river,\nreflecting the clear blue of the sky, glistened and sparkled as it\nflowed noiselessly on; and the oars of the fishermen dipped into the\nwater with a clear and liquid sound, as their heavy but picturesque\nboats glided slowly down the stream.\n\nMr. Pickwick was roused from the agreeable reverie into which he had\nbeen led by the objects before him, by a deep sigh, and a touch on his\nshoulder. He turned round: and the dismal man was at his side.\n\n'Contemplating the scene?' inquired the dismal man. 'I was,' said Mr.\nPickwick.\n\n'And congratulating yourself on being up so soon?'\n\nMr. Pickwick nodded assent.\n\n'Ah! people need to rise early, to see the sun in all his splendour, for\nhis brightness seldom lasts the day through. The morning of day and the\nmorning of life are but too much alike.'\n\n'You speak truly, sir,' said Mr. Pickwick.\n\n'How common the saying,' continued the dismal man, '\"The morning's too\nfine to last.\" How well might it be applied to our everyday existence.\nGod! what would I forfeit to have the days of my childhood restored, or\nto be able to forget them for ever!'\n\n'You have seen much trouble, sir,' said Mr. Pickwick compassionately.\n\n'I have,' said the dismal man hurriedly; 'I have. More than those who\nsee me now would believe possible.' He paused for an instant, and then\nsaid abruptly--\n\n'Did it ever strike you, on such a morning as this, that drowning would\nbe happiness and peace?'\n\n'God bless me, no!' replied Mr. Pickwick, edging a little from the\nbalustrade, as the possibility of the dismal man's tipping him over, by\nway of experiment, occurred to him rather forcibly.\n\n'I have thought so, often,' said the dismal man, without noticing the\naction. 'The calm, cool water seems to me to murmur an invitation to\nrepose and rest. A bound, a splash, a brief struggle; there is an eddy\nfor an instant, it gradually subsides into a gentle ripple; the waters\nhave closed above your head, and the world has closed upon your miseries\nand misfortunes for ever.' The sunken eye of the dismal man flashed\nbrightly as he spoke, but the momentary excitement quickly subsided; and\nhe turned calmly away, as he said--\n\n'There--enough of that. I wish to see you on another subject. You\ninvited me to read that paper, the night before last, and listened\nattentively while I did so.' 'I did,' replied Mr. Pickwick; 'and I\ncertainly thought--'\n\n'I asked for no opinion,' said the dismal man, interrupting him, 'and I\nwant none. You are travelling for amusement and instruction. Suppose I\nforward you a curious manuscript--observe, not curious because wild or\nimprobable, but curious as a leaf from the romance of real life--would\nyou communicate it to the club, of which you have spoken so frequently?'\n\n'Certainly,' replied Mr. Pickwick, 'if you wished it; and it would be\nentered on their transactions.' 'You shall have it,' replied the\ndismal man. 'Your address;' and, Mr. Pickwick having communicated their\nprobable route, the dismal man carefully noted it down in a greasy\npocket-book, and, resisting Mr. Pickwick's pressing invitation to\nbreakfast, left that gentleman at his inn, and walked slowly away.\n\nMr. Pickwick found that his three companions had risen, and were waiting\nhis arrival to commence breakfast, which was ready laid in tempting\ndisplay. They sat down to the meal; and broiled ham, eggs, tea, coffee\nand sundries, began to disappear with a rapidity which at once bore\ntestimony to the excellence of the fare, and the appetites of its\nconsumers.\n\n'Now, about Manor Farm,' said Mr. Pickwick. 'How shall we go?'\n\n'We had better consult the waiter, perhaps,' said Mr. Tupman; and the\nwaiter was summoned accordingly.\n\n'Dingley Dell, gentlemen--fifteen miles, gentlemen--cross\nroad--post-chaise, sir?'\n\n'Post-chaise won't hold more than two,' said Mr. Pickwick.\n\n'True, sir--beg your pardon, sir.--Very nice four-wheel chaise,\nsir--seat for two behind--one in front for the gentleman that\ndrives--oh! beg your pardon, sir--that'll only hold three.'\n\n'What's to be done?' said Mr. Snodgrass.\n\n'Perhaps one of the gentlemen would like to ride, sir?' suggested the\nwaiter, looking towards Mr. Winkle; 'very good saddle-horses, sir--any\nof Mr. Wardle's men coming to Rochester, bring 'em back, Sir.'\n\n'The very thing,' said Mr. Pickwick. 'Winkle, will you go on horseback?'\n\nNow Mr. Winkle did entertain considerable misgivings in the very lowest\nrecesses of his own heart, relative to his equestrian skill; but, as he\nwould not have them even suspected, on any account, he at once replied\nwith great hardihood, 'Certainly. I should enjoy it of all things.' Mr.\nWinkle had rushed upon his fate; there was no resource. 'Let them be at\nthe door by eleven,' said Mr. Pickwick.\n\n'Very well, sir,' replied the waiter.\n\nThe waiter retired; the breakfast concluded; and the travellers ascended\nto their respective bedrooms, to prepare a change of clothing, to take\nwith them on their approaching expedition.\n\nMr. Pickwick had made his preliminary arrangements, and was looking over\nthe coffee-room blinds at the passengers in the street, when the waiter\nentered, and announced that the chaise was ready--an announcement\nwhich the vehicle itself confirmed, by forthwith appearing before the\ncoffee-room blinds aforesaid.\n\nIt was a curious little green box on four wheels, with a low place like\na wine-bin for two behind, and an elevated perch for one in front, drawn\nby an immense brown horse, displaying great symmetry of bone. An hostler\nstood near, holding by the bridle another immense horse--apparently a\nnear relative of the animal in the chaise--ready saddled for Mr. Winkle.\n\n'Bless my soul!' said Mr. Pickwick, as they stood upon the pavement\nwhile the coats were being put in. 'Bless my soul! who's to drive? I\nnever thought of that.'\n\n'Oh! you, of course,' said Mr. Tupman.\n\n'Of course,' said Mr. Snodgrass.\n\n'I!' exclaimed Mr. Pickwick.\n\n'Not the slightest fear, Sir,' interposed the hostler. 'Warrant him\nquiet, Sir; a hinfant in arms might drive him.'\n\n'He don't shy, does he?' inquired Mr. Pickwick.\n\n'Shy, sir?-he wouldn't shy if he was to meet a vagin-load of monkeys\nwith their tails burned off.'\n\nThe last recommendation was indisputable. Mr. Tupman and Mr. Snodgrass\ngot into the bin; Mr. Pickwick ascended to his perch, and deposited his\nfeet on a floor-clothed shelf, erected beneath it for that purpose.\n\n'Now, shiny Villiam,' said the hostler to the deputy hostler, 'give the\ngen'lm'n the ribbons.' 'Shiny Villiam'--so called, probably, from his\nsleek hair and oily countenance--placed the reins in Mr. Pickwick's left\nhand; and the upper hostler thrust a whip into his right.\n\n'Wo-o!' cried Mr. Pickwick, as the tall quadruped evinced a decided\ninclination to back into the coffee-room window. 'Wo-o!' echoed\nMr. Tupman and Mr. Snodgrass, from the bin. 'Only his playfulness,\ngen'lm'n,' said the head hostler encouragingly; 'jist kitch hold on\nhim, Villiam.' The deputy restrained the animal's impetuosity, and the\nprincipal ran to assist Mr. Winkle in mounting.\n\n'T'other side, sir, if you please.'\n\n'Blowed if the gen'lm'n worn't a-gettin' up on the wrong side,'\nwhispered a grinning post-boy to the inexpressibly gratified waiter.\n\nMr. Winkle, thus instructed, climbed into his saddle, with about as\nmuch difficulty as he would have experienced in getting up the side of a\nfirst-rate man-of-war.\n\n'All right?' inquired Mr. Pickwick, with an inward presentiment that it\nwas all wrong.\n\n'All right,' replied Mr. Winkle faintly.\n\n'Let 'em go,' cried the hostler.--'Hold him in, sir;' and away went the\nchaise, and the saddle-horse, with Mr. Pickwick on the box of the\none, and Mr. Winkle on the back of the other, to the delight and\ngratification of the whole inn-yard.\n\n'What makes him go sideways?' said Mr. Snodgrass in the bin, to Mr.\nWinkle in the saddle.\n\n'I can't imagine,' replied Mr. Winkle. His horse was drifting up the\nstreet in the most mysterious manner--side first, with his head towards\none side of the way, and his tail towards the other.\n\nMr. Pickwick had no leisure to observe either this or any other\nparticular, the whole of his faculties being concentrated in the\nmanagement of the animal attached to the chaise, who displayed various\npeculiarities, highly interesting to a bystander, but by no means\nequally amusing to any one seated behind him. Besides constantly jerking\nhis head up, in a very unpleasant and uncomfortable manner, and tugging\nat the reins to an extent which rendered it a matter of great difficulty\nfor Mr. Pickwick to hold them, he had a singular propensity for darting\nsuddenly every now and then to the side of the road, then stopping\nshort, and then rushing forward for some minutes, at a speed which it\nwas wholly impossible to control.\n\n'What CAN he mean by this?' said Mr. Snodgrass, when the horse had\nexecuted this manoeuvre for the twentieth time.\n\n'I don't know,' replied Mr. Tupman; 'it looks very like shying, don't\nit?' Mr. Snodgrass was about to reply, when he was interrupted by a\nshout from Mr. Pickwick.\n\n'Woo!' said that gentleman; 'I have dropped my whip.' 'Winkle,' said Mr.\nSnodgrass, as the equestrian came trotting up on the tall horse, with\nhis hat over his ears, and shaking all over, as if he would shake to\npieces, with the violence of the exercise, 'pick up the whip, there's a\ngood fellow.' Mr. Winkle pulled at the bridle of the tall horse till he\nwas black in the face; and having at length succeeded in stopping him,\ndismounted, handed the whip to Mr. Pickwick, and grasping the reins,\nprepared to remount.\n\nNow whether the tall horse, in the natural playfulness of his\ndisposition, was desirous of having a little innocent recreation with\nMr. Winkle, or whether it occurred to him that he could perform the\njourney as much to his own satisfaction without a rider as with one, are\npoints upon which, of course, we can arrive at no definite and distinct\nconclusion. By whatever motives the animal was actuated, certain it is\nthat Mr. Winkle had no sooner touched the reins, than he slipped them\nover his head, and darted backwards to their full length.\n\n'Poor fellow,' said Mr. Winkle soothingly--'poor fellow--good old\nhorse.' The 'poor fellow' was proof against flattery; the more\nMr. Winkle tried to get nearer him, the more he sidled away; and,\nnotwithstanding all kinds of coaxing and wheedling, there were Mr.\nWinkle and the horse going round and round each other for ten minutes,\nat the end of which time each was at precisely the same distance from\nthe other as when they first commenced--an unsatisfactory sort of thing\nunder any circumstances, but particularly so in a lonely road, where no\nassistance can be procured.\n\n'What am I to do?' shouted Mr. Winkle, after the dodging had been\nprolonged for a considerable time. 'What am I to do? I can't get on\nhim.'\n\n'You had better lead him till we come to a turnpike,' replied Mr.\nPickwick from the chaise.\n\n'But he won't come!' roared Mr. Winkle. 'Do come and hold him.'\n\nMr. Pickwick was the very personation of kindness and humanity: he\nthrew the reins on the horse's back, and having descended from his seat,\ncarefully drew the chaise into the hedge, lest anything should come\nalong the road, and stepped back to the assistance of his distressed\ncompanion, leaving Mr. Tupman and Mr. Snodgrass in the vehicle.\n\nThe horse no sooner beheld Mr. Pickwick advancing towards him with the\nchaise whip in his hand, than he exchanged the rotary motion in which he\nhad previously indulged, for a retrograde movement of so very determined\na character, that it at once drew Mr. Winkle, who was still at the\nend of the bridle, at a rather quicker rate than fast walking, in\nthe direction from which they had just come. Mr. Pickwick ran to his\nassistance, but the faster Mr. Pickwick ran forward, the faster the\nhorse ran backward. There was a great scraping of feet, and kicking up\nof the dust; and at last Mr. Winkle, his arms being nearly pulled out of\ntheir sockets, fairly let go his hold. The horse paused, stared, shook\nhis head, turned round, and quietly trotted home to Rochester, leaving\nMr. Winkle and Mr. Pickwick gazing on each other with countenances of\nblank dismay. A rattling noise at a little distance attracted their\nattention. They looked up.\n\n'Bless my soul!' exclaimed the agonised Mr. Pickwick; 'there's the other\nhorse running away!'\n\nIt was but too true. The animal was startled by the noise, and the\nreins were on his back. The results may be guessed. He tore off with the\nfour-wheeled chaise behind him, and Mr. Tupman and Mr. Snodgrass in the\nfour-wheeled chaise. The heat was a short one. Mr. Tupman threw himself\ninto the hedge, Mr. Snodgrass followed his example, the horse dashed the\nfour--wheeled chaise against a wooden bridge, separated the wheels from\nthe body, and the bin from the perch; and finally stood stock still to\ngaze upon the ruin he had made.\n\nThe first care of the two unspilt friends was to extricate their\nunfortunate companions from their bed of quickset--a process which gave\nthem the unspeakable satisfaction of discovering that they had\nsustained no injury, beyond sundry rents in their garments, and\nvarious lacerations from the brambles. The next thing to be done was to\nunharness the horse. This complicated process having been effected,\nthe party walked slowly forward, leading the horse among them, and\nabandoning the chaise to its fate.\n\nAn hour's walk brought the travellers to a little road-side\npublic-house, with two elm-trees, a horse trough, and a signpost, in\nfront; one or two deformed hay-ricks behind, a kitchen garden at the\nside, and rotten sheds and mouldering outhouses jumbled in strange\nconfusion all about it. A red-headed man was working in the garden; and\nto him Mr. Pickwick called lustily, 'Hollo there!'\n\nThe red-headed man raised his body, shaded his eyes with his hand, and\nstared, long and coolly, at Mr. Pickwick and his companions.\n\n'Hollo there!' repeated Mr. Pickwick.\n\n'Hollo!' was the red-headed man's reply.\n\n'How far is it to Dingley Dell?'\n\n'Better er seven mile.'\n\n'Is it a good road?'\n\n'No, 'tain't.' Having uttered this brief reply, and apparently satisfied\nhimself with another scrutiny, the red-headed man resumed his work. 'We\nwant to put this horse up here,' said Mr. Pickwick; 'I suppose we\ncan, can't we?' 'Want to put that ere horse up, do ee?' repeated the\nred-headed man, leaning on his spade.\n\n'Of course,' replied Mr. Pickwick, who had by this time advanced, horse\nin hand, to the garden rails.\n\n'Missus'--roared the man with the red head, emerging from the garden,\nand looking very hard at the horse--'missus!'\n\nA tall, bony woman--straight all the way down--in a coarse, blue\npelisse, with the waist an inch or two below her arm-pits, responded to\nthe call.\n\n'Can we put this horse up here, my good woman?' said Mr. Tupman,\nadvancing, and speaking in his most seductive tones. The woman looked\nvery hard at the whole party; and the red-headed man whispered something\nin her ear.\n\n'No,' replied the woman, after a little consideration, 'I'm afeerd on\nit.'\n\n'Afraid!' exclaimed Mr. Pickwick, 'what's the woman afraid of?'\n\n'It got us in trouble last time,' said the woman, turning into the\nhouse; 'I woan't have nothin' to say to 'un.'\n\n'Most extraordinary thing I have ever met with in my life,' said the\nastonished Mr. Pickwick.\n\n'I--I--really believe,' whispered Mr. Winkle, as his friends gathered\nround him, 'that they think we have come by this horse in some dishonest\nmanner.'\n\n'What!' exclaimed Mr. Pickwick, in a storm of indignation. Mr. Winkle\nmodestly repeated his suggestion.\n\n'Hollo, you fellow,' said the angry Mr. Pickwick,'do you think we stole\nthe horse?'\n\n'I'm sure ye did,' replied the red-headed man, with a grin which\nagitated his countenance from one auricular organ to the other. Saying\nwhich he turned into the house and banged the door after him.\n\n'It's like a dream,' ejaculated Mr. Pickwick, 'a hideous dream. The idea\nof a man's walking about all day with a dreadful horse that he can't get\nrid of!' The depressed Pickwickians turned moodily away, with the\ntall quadruped, for which they all felt the most unmitigated disgust,\nfollowing slowly at their heels.\n\nIt was late in the afternoon when the four friends and their four-footed\ncompanion turned into the lane leading to Manor Farm; and even when\nthey were so near their place of destination, the pleasure they would\notherwise have experienced was materially damped as they reflected\non the singularity of their appearance, and the absurdity of their\nsituation. Torn clothes, lacerated faces, dusty shoes, exhausted looks,\nand, above all, the horse. Oh, how Mr. Pickwick cursed that horse: he\nhad eyed the noble animal from time to time with looks expressive of\nhatred and revenge; more than once he had calculated the probable\namount of the expense he would incur by cutting his throat; and now the\ntemptation to destroy him, or to cast him loose upon the world, rushed\nupon his mind with tenfold force. He was roused from a meditation on\nthese dire imaginings by the sudden appearance of two figures at a turn\nof the lane. It was Mr. Wardle, and his faithful attendant, the fat boy.\n\n'Why, where have you been?' said the hospitable old gentleman; 'I've\nbeen waiting for you all day. Well, you DO look tired. What! Scratches!\nNot hurt, I hope--eh? Well, I AM glad to hear that--very. So you've been\nspilt, eh? Never mind. Common accident in these parts. Joe--he's asleep\nagain!--Joe, take that horse from the gentlemen, and lead it into the\nstable.'\n\nThe fat boy sauntered heavily behind them with the animal; and the old\ngentleman, condoling with his guests in homely phrase on so much of the\nday's adventures as they thought proper to communicate, led the way to\nthe kitchen.\n\n'We'll have you put to rights here,' said the old gentleman, 'and then\nI'll introduce you to the people in the parlour. Emma, bring out the\ncherry brandy; now, Jane, a needle and thread here; towels and water,\nMary. Come, girls, bustle about.'\n\nThree or four buxom girls speedily dispersed in search of the\ndifferent articles in requisition, while a couple of large-headed,\ncircular-visaged males rose from their seats in the chimney-corner (for\nalthough it was a May evening their attachment to the wood fire appeared\nas cordial as if it were Christmas), and dived into some obscure\nrecesses, from which they speedily produced a bottle of blacking, and\nsome half-dozen brushes.\n\n'Bustle!' said the old gentleman again, but the admonition was quite\nunnecessary, for one of the girls poured out the cherry brandy, and\nanother brought in the towels, and one of the men suddenly seizing Mr.\nPickwick by the leg, at imminent hazard of throwing him off his balance,\nbrushed away at his boot till his corns were red-hot; while the other\nshampooed Mr. Winkle with a heavy clothes-brush, indulging, during the\noperation, in that hissing sound which hostlers are wont to produce when\nengaged in rubbing down a horse.\n\nMr. Snodgrass, having concluded his ablutions, took a survey of the\nroom, while standing with his back to the fire, sipping his cherry\nbrandy with heartfelt satisfaction. He describes it as a large\napartment, with a red brick floor and a capacious chimney; the ceiling\ngarnished with hams, sides of bacon, and ropes of onions. The walls were\ndecorated with several hunting-whips, two or three bridles, a saddle,\nand an old rusty blunderbuss, with an inscription below it, intimating\nthat it was 'Loaded'--as it had been, on the same authority, for half\na century at least. An old eight-day clock, of solemn and sedate\ndemeanour, ticked gravely in one corner; and a silver watch, of equal\nantiquity, dangled from one of the many hooks which ornamented the\ndresser.\n\n'Ready?' said the old gentleman inquiringly, when his guests had been\nwashed, mended, brushed, and brandied.\n\n'Quite,' replied Mr. Pickwick.\n\n'Come along, then;' and the party having traversed several dark\npassages, and being joined by Mr. Tupman, who had lingered behind to\nsnatch a kiss from Emma, for which he had been duly rewarded with sundry\npushings and scratchings, arrived at the parlour door.\n\n'Welcome,' said their hospitable host, throwing it open and stepping\nforward to announce them, 'welcome, gentlemen, to Manor Farm.'\n\n\n\nCHAPTER VI. AN OLD-FASHIONED CARD-PARTY--THE CLERGYMAN'S VERSES--THE\nSTORY OF THE CONVICT'S RETURN\n\n\nSeveral guests who were assembled in the old parlour rose to greet Mr.\nPickwick and his friends upon their entrance; and during the performance\nof the ceremony of introduction, with all due formalities, Mr. Pickwick\nhad leisure to observe the appearance, and speculate upon the characters\nand pursuits, of the persons by whom he was surrounded--a habit in which\nhe, in common with many other great men, delighted to indulge.\n\nA very old lady, in a lofty cap and faded silk gown--no less a personage\nthan Mr. Wardle's mother--occupied the post of honour on the right-hand\ncorner of the chimney-piece; and various certificates of her having been\nbrought up in the way she should go when young, and of her not having\ndeparted from it when old, ornamented the walls, in the form of samplers\nof ancient date, worsted landscapes of equal antiquity, and crimson\nsilk tea-kettle holders of a more modern period. The aunt, the two young\nladies, and Mr. Wardle, each vying with the other in paying zealous and\nunremitting attentions to the old lady, crowded round her easy-chair,\none holding her ear-trumpet, another an orange, and a third a\nsmelling-bottle, while a fourth was busily engaged in patting and\npunching the pillows which were arranged for her support. On the\nopposite side sat a bald-headed old gentleman, with a good-humoured,\nbenevolent face--the clergyman of Dingley Dell; and next him sat\nhis wife, a stout, blooming old lady, who looked as if she were well\nskilled, not only in the art and mystery of manufacturing home-made\ncordials greatly to other people's satisfaction, but of tasting them\noccasionally very much to her own. A little hard-headed, Ripstone\npippin-faced man, was conversing with a fat old gentleman in one corner;\nand two or three more old gentlemen, and two or three more old ladies,\nsat bolt upright and motionless on their chairs, staring very hard at\nMr. Pickwick and his fellow-voyagers.\n\n'Mr. Pickwick, mother,' said Mr. Wardle, at the very top of his voice.\n\n'Ah!' said the old lady, shaking her head; 'I can't hear you.'\n\n'Mr. Pickwick, grandma!' screamed both the young ladies together.\n\n'Ah!' exclaimed the old lady. 'Well, it don't much matter. He don't care\nfor an old 'ooman like me, I dare say.'\n\n'I assure you, ma'am,' said Mr. Pickwick, grasping the old lady's hand,\nand speaking so loud that the exertion imparted a crimson hue to his\nbenevolent countenance--'I assure you, ma'am, that nothing delights me\nmore than to see a lady of your time of life heading so fine a family,\nand looking so young and well.'\n\n'Ah!' said the old lady, after a short pause: 'it's all very fine, I\ndare say; but I can't hear him.'\n\n'Grandma's rather put out now,' said Miss Isabella Wardle, in a low\ntone; 'but she'll talk to you presently.'\n\nMr. Pickwick nodded his readiness to humour the infirmities of age,\nand entered into a general conversation with the other members of the\ncircle.\n\n'Delightful situation this,' said Mr. Pickwick.\n\n'Delightful!' echoed Messrs. Snodgrass, Tupman, and Winkle.\n\n'Well, I think it is,' said Mr. Wardle.\n\n'There ain't a better spot o' ground in all Kent, sir,' said the\nhard-headed man with the pippin--face; 'there ain't indeed, sir--I'm\nsure there ain't, Sir.' The hard-headed man looked triumphantly round,\nas if he had been very much contradicted by somebody, but had got the\nbetter of him at last.\n\n'There ain't a better spot o' ground in all Kent,' said the hard-headed\nman again, after a pause.\n\n''Cept Mullins's Meadows,' observed the fat man solemnly. 'Mullins's\nMeadows!' ejaculated the other, with profound contempt.\n\n'Ah, Mullins's Meadows,' repeated the fat man.\n\n'Reg'lar good land that,' interposed another fat man.\n\n'And so it is, sure-ly,' said a third fat man.\n\n'Everybody knows that,' said the corpulent host.\n\nThe hard-headed man looked dubiously round, but finding himself in a\nminority, assumed a compassionate air and said no more. 'What are they\ntalking about?' inquired the old lady of one of her granddaughters, in\na very audible voice; for, like many deaf people, she never seemed to\ncalculate on the possibility of other persons hearing what she said\nherself.\n\n'About the land, grandma.'\n\n'What about the land?--Nothing the matter, is there?'\n\n'No, no. Mr. Miller was saying our land was better than Mullins's\nMeadows.'\n\n'How should he know anything about it?'inquired the old lady\nindignantly. 'Miller's a conceited coxcomb, and you may tell him I said\nso.' Saying which, the old lady, quite unconscious that she had spoken\nabove a whisper, drew herself up, and looked carving-knives at the\nhard-headed delinquent.\n\n'Come, come,' said the bustling host, with a natural anxiety to change\nthe conversation, 'what say you to a rubber, Mr. Pickwick?'\n\n'I should like it of all things,' replied that gentleman; 'but pray\ndon't make up one on my account.'\n\n'Oh, I assure you, mother's very fond of a rubber,' said Mr. Wardle;\n'ain't you, mother?'\n\nThe old lady, who was much less deaf on this subject than on any other,\nreplied in the affirmative.\n\n'Joe, Joe!' said the gentleman; 'Joe--damn that--oh, here he is; put out\nthe card--tables.'\n\nThe lethargic youth contrived without any additional rousing to set out\ntwo card-tables; the one for Pope Joan, and the other for whist. The\nwhist-players were Mr. Pickwick and the old lady, Mr. Miller and the fat\ngentleman. The round game comprised the rest of the company.\n\nThe rubber was conducted with all that gravity of deportment and\nsedateness of demeanour which befit the pursuit entitled 'whist'--a\nsolemn observance, to which, as it appears to us, the title of 'game'\nhas been very irreverently and ignominiously applied. The round-game\ntable, on the other hand, was so boisterously merry as materially to\ninterrupt the contemplations of Mr. Miller, who, not being quite so\nmuch absorbed as he ought to have been, contrived to commit various high\ncrimes and misdemeanours, which excited the wrath of the fat gentleman\nto a very great extent, and called forth the good-humour of the old lady\nin a proportionate degree.\n\n'There!' said the criminal Miller triumphantly, as he took up the odd\ntrick at the conclusion of a hand; 'that could not have been played\nbetter, I flatter myself; impossible to have made another trick!'\n\n'Miller ought to have trumped the diamond, oughtn't he, Sir?' said the\nold lady.\n\nMr. Pickwick nodded assent.\n\n'Ought I, though?' said the unfortunate, with a doubtful appeal to his\npartner.\n\n'You ought, Sir,' said the fat gentleman, in an awful voice.\n\n'Very sorry,' said the crestfallen Miller.\n\n'Much use that,' growled the fat gentleman.\n\n'Two by honours--makes us eight,' said Mr. Pickwick.\n\n'Another hand. 'Can you one?' inquired the old lady.\n\n'I can,' replied Mr. Pickwick. 'Double, single, and the rub.'\n\n'Never was such luck,' said Mr. Miller.\n\n'Never was such cards,' said the fat gentleman.\n\nA solemn silence; Mr. Pickwick humorous, the old lady serious, the fat\ngentleman captious, and Mr. Miller timorous.\n\n'Another double,' said the old lady, triumphantly making a memorandum of\nthe circumstance, by placing one sixpence and a battered halfpenny under\nthe candlestick.\n\n'A double, sir,' said Mr. Pickwick.\n\n'Quite aware of the fact, Sir,' replied the fat gentleman sharply.\n\nAnother game, with a similar result, was followed by a revoke from the\nunlucky Miller; on which the fat gentleman burst into a state of high\npersonal excitement which lasted until the conclusion of the game, when\nhe retired into a corner, and remained perfectly mute for one hour\nand twenty-seven minutes; at the end of which time he emerged from his\nretirement, and offered Mr. Pickwick a pinch of snuff with the air of\na man who had made up his mind to a Christian forgiveness of injuries\nsustained. The old lady's hearing decidedly improved and the unlucky\nMiller felt as much out of his element as a dolphin in a sentry-box.\n\nMeanwhile the round game proceeded right merrily. Isabella Wardle and\nMr. Trundle 'went partners,' and Emily Wardle and Mr. Snodgrass did\nthe same; and even Mr. Tupman and the spinster aunt established a\njoint-stock company of fish and flattery. Old Mr. Wardle was in the\nvery height of his jollity; and he was so funny in his management of the\nboard, and the old ladies were so sharp after their winnings, that the\nwhole table was in a perpetual roar of merriment and laughter. There\nwas one old lady who always had about half a dozen cards to pay for, at\nwhich everybody laughed, regularly every round; and when the old lady\nlooked cross at having to pay, they laughed louder than ever; on which\nthe old lady's face gradually brightened up, till at last she laughed\nlouder than any of them, Then, when the spinster aunt got 'matrimony,'\nthe young ladies laughed afresh, and the Spinster aunt seemed disposed\nto be pettish; till, feeling Mr. Tupman squeezing her hand under the\ntable, she brightened up too, and looked rather knowing, as if matrimony\nin reality were not quite so far off as some people thought for;\nwhereupon everybody laughed again, and especially old Mr. Wardle, who\nenjoyed a joke as much as the youngest. As to Mr. Snodgrass, he did\nnothing but whisper poetical sentiments into his partner's ear, which\nmade one old gentleman facetiously sly, about partnerships at cards and\npartnerships for life, and caused the aforesaid old gentleman to make\nsome remarks thereupon, accompanied with divers winks and chuckles,\nwhich made the company very merry and the old gentleman's wife\nespecially so. And Mr. Winkle came out with jokes which are very well\nknown in town, but are not all known in the country; and as everybody\nlaughed at them very heartily, and said they were very capital, Mr.\nWinkle was in a state of great honour and glory. And the benevolent\nclergyman looked pleasantly on; for the happy faces which surrounded the\ntable made the good old man feel happy too; and though the merriment was\nrather boisterous, still it came from the heart and not from the lips;\nand this is the right sort of merriment, after all.\n\nThe evening glided swiftly away, in these cheerful recreations; and when\nthe substantial though homely supper had been despatched, and the little\nparty formed a social circle round the fire, Mr. Pickwick thought he\nhad never felt so happy in his life, and at no time so much disposed to\nenjoy, and make the most of, the passing moment.\n\n'Now this,' said the hospitable host, who was sitting in great state\nnext the old lady's arm-chair, with her hand fast clasped in his--'this\nis just what I like--the happiest moments of my life have been passed at\nthis old fireside; and I am so attached to it, that I keep up a blazing\nfire here every evening, until it actually grows too hot to bear it.\nWhy, my poor old mother, here, used to sit before this fireplace upon\nthat little stool when she was a girl; didn't you, mother?'\n\nThe tear which starts unbidden to the eye when the recollection of old\ntimes and the happiness of many years ago is suddenly recalled, stole\ndown the old lady's face as she shook her head with a melancholy smile.\n\n'You must excuse my talking about this old place, Mr. Pickwick,' resumed\nthe host, after a short pause, 'for I love it dearly, and know no\nother--the old houses and fields seem like living friends to me; and\nso does our little church with the ivy, about which, by the bye, our\nexcellent friend there made a song when he first came amongst us. Mr.\nSnodgrass, have you anything in your glass?'\n\n'Plenty, thank you,' replied that gentleman, whose poetic curiosity had\nbeen greatly excited by the last observation of his entertainer. 'I beg\nyour pardon, but you were talking about the song of the Ivy.'\n\n'You must ask our friend opposite about that,' said the host knowingly,\nindicating the clergyman by a nod of his head.\n\n'May I say that I should like to hear you repeat it, sir?' said Mr.\nSnodgrass.\n\n'Why, really,' replied the clergyman, 'it's a very slight affair; and\nthe only excuse I have for having ever perpetrated it is, that I was a\nyoung man at the time. Such as it is, however, you shall hear it, if you\nwish.'\n\nA murmur of curiosity was of course the reply; and the old gentleman\nproceeded to recite, with the aid of sundry promptings from his wife,\nthe lines in question. 'I call them,' said he,\n\n\n THE IVY GREEN\n\n Oh, a dainty plant is the Ivy green,\n That creepeth o'er ruins old!\n Of right choice food are his meals, I ween,\n In his cell so lone and cold.\n The wall must be crumbled, the stone decayed,\n To pleasure his dainty whim;\n And the mouldering dust that years have made,\n Is a merry meal for him.\n Creeping where no life is seen,\n A rare old plant is the Ivy green.\n\n Fast he stealeth on, though he wears no wings,\n And a staunch old heart has he.\n How closely he twineth, how tight he clings\n To his friend the huge Oak Tree!\n And slily he traileth along the ground,\n And his leaves he gently waves,\n As he joyously hugs and crawleth round\n The rich mould of dead men's graves.\n Creeping where grim death has been,\n A rare old plant is the Ivy green.\n\n Whole ages have fled and their works decayed,\n And nations have scattered been;\n But the stout old Ivy shall never fade,\n From its hale and hearty green.\n The brave old plant in its lonely days,\n Shall fatten upon the past;\n For the stateliest building man can raise,\n Is the Ivy's food at last.\n Creeping on where time has been,\n A rare old plant is the Ivy green.\n\n\nWhile the old gentleman repeated these lines a second time, to enable\nMr. Snodgrass to note them down, Mr. Pickwick perused the lineaments of\nhis face with an expression of great interest. The old gentleman having\nconcluded his dictation, and Mr. Snodgrass having returned his note-book\nto his pocket, Mr. Pickwick said--\n\n'Excuse me, sir, for making the remark on so short an acquaintance; but\na gentleman like yourself cannot fail, I should think, to have observed\nmany scenes and incidents worth recording, in the course of your\nexperience as a minister of the Gospel.'\n\n'I have witnessed some certainly,' replied the old gentleman, 'but the\nincidents and characters have been of a homely and ordinary nature, my\nsphere of action being so very limited.'\n\n'You did make some notes, I think, about John Edmunds, did you not?'\ninquired Mr. Wardle, who appeared very desirous to draw his friend out,\nfor the edification of his new visitors.\n\nThe old gentleman slightly nodded his head in token of assent, and was\nproceeding to change the subject, when Mr. Pickwick said--\n\n'I beg your pardon, sir, but pray, if I may venture to inquire, who was\nJohn Edmunds?'\n\n'The very thing I was about to ask,' said Mr. Snodgrass eagerly.\n\n'You are fairly in for it,' said the jolly host. 'You must satisfy the\ncuriosity of these gentlemen, sooner or later; so you had better take\nadvantage of this favourable opportunity, and do so at once.'\n\nThe old gentleman smiled good-humouredly as he drew his chair\nforward--the remainder of the party drew their chairs closer together,\nespecially Mr. Tupman and the spinster aunt, who were possibly rather\nhard of hearing; and the old lady's ear-trumpet having been duly\nadjusted, and Mr. Miller (who had fallen asleep during the recital\nof the verses) roused from his slumbers by an admonitory pinch,\nadministered beneath the table by his ex-partner the solemn fat man, the\nold gentleman, without further preface, commenced the following tale, to\nwhich we have taken the liberty of prefixing the title of\n\n\n THE CONVICT'S RETURN\n\n'When I first settled in this village,' said the old gentleman, 'which\nis now just five-and-twenty years ago, the most notorious person among\nmy parishioners was a man of the name of Edmunds, who leased a small\nfarm near this spot. He was a morose, savage-hearted, bad man; idle and\ndissolute in his habits; cruel and ferocious in his disposition. Beyond\nthe few lazy and reckless vagabonds with whom he sauntered away his time\nin the fields, or sotted in the ale-house, he had not a single friend\nor acquaintance; no one cared to speak to the man whom many feared, and\nevery one detested--and Edmunds was shunned by all.\n\n'This man had a wife and one son, who, when I first came here, was about\ntwelve years old. Of the acuteness of that woman's sufferings, of the\ngentle and enduring manner in which she bore them, of the agony of\nsolicitude with which she reared that boy, no one can form an adequate\nconception. Heaven forgive me the supposition, if it be an uncharitable\none, but I do firmly and in my soul believe, that the man systematically\ntried for many years to break her heart; but she bore it all for her\nchild's sake, and, however strange it may seem to many, for his father's\ntoo; for brute as he was, and cruelly as he had treated her, she\nhad loved him once; and the recollection of what he had been to her,\nawakened feelings of forbearance and meekness under suffering in her\nbosom, to which all God's creatures, but women, are strangers.\n\n'They were poor--they could not be otherwise when the man pursued such\ncourses; but the woman's unceasing and unwearied exertions, early and\nlate, morning, noon, and night, kept them above actual want. These\nexertions were but ill repaid. People who passed the spot in the\nevening--sometimes at a late hour of the night--reported that they had\nheard the moans and sobs of a woman in distress, and the sound of blows;\nand more than once, when it was past midnight, the boy knocked softly at\nthe door of a neighbour's house, whither he had been sent, to escape the\ndrunken fury of his unnatural father.\n\n'During the whole of this time, and when the poor creature often bore\nabout her marks of ill-usage and violence which she could not wholly\nconceal, she was a constant attendant at our little church. Regularly\nevery Sunday, morning and afternoon, she occupied the same seat with the\nboy at her side; and though they were both poorly dressed--much more\nso than many of their neighbours who were in a lower station--they were\nalways neat and clean. Every one had a friendly nod and a kind word for\n\"poor Mrs. Edmunds\"; and sometimes, when she stopped to exchange a few\nwords with a neighbour at the conclusion of the service in the little\nrow of elm-trees which leads to the church porch, or lingered behind\nto gaze with a mother's pride and fondness upon her healthy boy, as he\nsported before her with some little companions, her careworn face would\nlighten up with an expression of heartfelt gratitude; and she would\nlook, if not cheerful and happy, at least tranquil and contented.\n\n'Five or six years passed away; the boy had become a robust and\nwell-grown youth. The time that had strengthened the child's slight\nframe and knit his weak limbs into the strength of manhood had bowed\nhis mother's form, and enfeebled her steps; but the arm that should have\nsupported her was no longer locked in hers; the face that should have\ncheered her, no more looked upon her own. She occupied her old seat, but\nthere was a vacant one beside her. The Bible was kept as carefully as\never, the places were found and folded down as they used to be: but\nthere was no one to read it with her; and the tears fell thick and fast\nupon the book, and blotted the words from her eyes. Neighbours were as\nkind as they were wont to be of old, but she shunned their greetings\nwith averted head. There was no lingering among the old elm-trees now-no\ncheering anticipations of happiness yet in store. The desolate woman\ndrew her bonnet closer over her face, and walked hurriedly away.\n\n'Shall I tell you that the young man, who, looking back to the earliest\nof his childhood's days to which memory and consciousness extended, and\ncarrying his recollection down to that moment, could remember nothing\nwhich was not in some way connected with a long series of voluntary\nprivations suffered by his mother for his sake, with ill-usage, and\ninsult, and violence, and all endured for him--shall I tell you, that\nhe, with a reckless disregard for her breaking heart, and a sullen,\nwilful forgetfulness of all she had done and borne for him, had linked\nhimself with depraved and abandoned men, and was madly pursuing a\nheadlong career, which must bring death to him, and shame to her? Alas\nfor human nature! You have anticipated it long since.\n\n'The measure of the unhappy woman's misery and misfortune was about to\nbe completed. Numerous offences had been committed in the neighbourhood;\nthe perpetrators remained undiscovered, and their boldness increased.\nA robbery of a daring and aggravated nature occasioned a vigilance of\npursuit, and a strictness of search, they had not calculated on.\nYoung Edmunds was suspected, with three companions. He was\napprehended--committed--tried--condemned--to die. 'The wild and piercing\nshriek from a woman's voice, which resounded through the court when the\nsolemn sentence was pronounced, rings in my ears at this moment.\nThat cry struck a terror to the culprit's heart, which trial,\ncondemnation--the approach of death itself, had failed to awaken. The\nlips which had been compressed in dogged sullenness throughout,\nquivered and parted involuntarily; the face turned ashy pale as the cold\nperspiration broke forth from every pore; the sturdy limbs of the felon\ntrembled, and he staggered in the dock.\n\n'In the first transports of her mental anguish, the suffering mother\nthrew herself on her knees at my feet, and fervently sought the Almighty\nBeing who had hitherto supported her in all her troubles to release her\nfrom a world of woe and misery, and to spare the life of her only child.\nA burst of grief, and a violent struggle, such as I hope I may never\nhave to witness again, succeeded. I knew that her heart was breaking\nfrom that hour; but I never once heard complaint or murmur escape her\nlips. 'It was a piteous spectacle to see that woman in the prison-yard\nfrom day to day, eagerly and fervently attempting, by affection and\nentreaty, to soften the hard heart of her obdurate son. It was in vain.\nHe remained moody, obstinate, and unmoved. Not even the unlooked-for\ncommutation of his sentence to transportation for fourteen years,\nsoftened for an instant the sullen hardihood of his demeanour.\n\n'But the spirit of resignation and endurance that had so long upheld\nher, was unable to contend against bodily weakness and infirmity. She\nfell sick. She dragged her tottering limbs from the bed to visit her son\nonce more, but her strength failed her, and she sank powerless on the\nground.\n\n'And now the boasted coldness and indifference of the young man were\ntested indeed; and the retribution that fell heavily upon him nearly\ndrove him mad. A day passed away and his mother was not there; another\nflew by, and she came not near him; a third evening arrived, and yet he\nhad not seen her--, and in four-and-twenty hours he was to be separated\nfrom her, perhaps for ever. Oh! how the long-forgotten thoughts of\nformer days rushed upon his mind, as he almost ran up and down the\nnarrow yard--as if intelligence would arrive the sooner for his\nhurrying--and how bitterly a sense of his helplessness and desolation\nrushed upon him, when he heard the truth! His mother, the only parent\nhe had ever known, lay ill--it might be, dying--within one mile of the\nground he stood on; were he free and unfettered, a few minutes would\nplace him by her side. He rushed to the gate, and grasping the iron\nrails with the energy of desperation, shook it till it rang again, and\nthrew himself against the thick wall as if to force a passage through\nthe stone; but the strong building mocked his feeble efforts, and he\nbeat his hands together and wept like a child.\n\n'I bore the mother's forgiveness and blessing to her son in prison;\nand I carried the solemn assurance of repentance, and his fervent\nsupplication for pardon, to her sick-bed. I heard, with pity and\ncompassion, the repentant man devise a thousand little plans for her\ncomfort and support when he returned; but I knew that many months before\nhe could reach his place of destination, his mother would be no longer\nof this world. 'He was removed by night. A few weeks afterwards the poor\nwoman's soul took its flight, I confidently hope, and solemnly believe,\nto a place of eternal happiness and rest. I performed the burial service\nover her remains. She lies in our little churchyard. There is no stone\nat her grave's head. Her sorrows were known to man; her virtues to God.\n'it had been arranged previously to the convict's departure, that he\nshould write to his mother as soon as he could obtain permission, and\nthat the letter should be addressed to me. The father had positively\nrefused to see his son from the moment of his apprehension; and it was\na matter of indifference to him whether he lived or died. Many years\npassed over without any intelligence of him; and when more than half\nhis term of transportation had expired, and I had received no letter, I\nconcluded him to be dead, as, indeed, I almost hoped he might be.\n\n'Edmunds, however, had been sent a considerable distance up the country\non his arrival at the settlement; and to this circumstance, perhaps,\nmay be attributed the fact, that though several letters were despatched,\nnone of them ever reached my hands. He remained in the same place\nduring the whole fourteen years. At the expiration of the term, steadily\nadhering to his old resolution and the pledge he gave his mother,\nhe made his way back to England amidst innumerable difficulties, and\nreturned, on foot, to his native place.\n\n'On a fine Sunday evening, in the month of August, John Edmunds set\nfoot in the village he had left with shame and disgrace seventeen years\nbefore. His nearest way lay through the churchyard. The man's heart\nswelled as he crossed the stile. The tall old elms, through whose\nbranches the declining sun cast here and there a rich ray of light\nupon the shady part, awakened the associations of his earliest days.\nHe pictured himself as he was then, clinging to his mother's hand, and\nwalking peacefully to church. He remembered how he used to look up into\nher pale face; and how her eyes would sometimes fill with tears as she\ngazed upon his features--tears which fell hot upon his forehead as she\nstooped to kiss him, and made him weep too, although he little knew then\nwhat bitter tears hers were. He thought how often he had run merrily\ndown that path with some childish playfellow, looking back, ever and\nagain, to catch his mother's smile, or hear her gentle voice; and then\na veil seemed lifted from his memory, and words of kindness unrequited,\nand warnings despised, and promises broken, thronged upon his\nrecollection till his heart failed him, and he could bear it no longer.\n'He entered the church. The evening service was concluded and the\ncongregation had dispersed, but it was not yet closed. His steps echoed\nthrough the low building with a hollow sound, and he almost feared to\nbe alone, it was so still and quiet. He looked round him. Nothing was\nchanged. The place seemed smaller than it used to be; but there were the\nold monuments on which he had gazed with childish awe a thousand times;\nthe little pulpit with its faded cushion; the Communion table before\nwhich he had so often repeated the Commandments he had reverenced as\na child, and forgotten as a man. He approached the old seat; it looked\ncold and desolate. The cushion had been removed, and the Bible was not\nthere. Perhaps his mother now occupied a poorer seat, or possibly she\nhad grown infirm and could not reach the church alone. He dared not\nthink of what he feared. A cold feeling crept over him, and he trembled\nviolently as he turned away. 'An old man entered the porch just as he\nreached it. Edmunds started back, for he knew him well; many a time he\nhad watched him digging graves in the churchyard. What would he say to\nthe returned convict?\n\n'The old man raised his eyes to the stranger's face, bade him\n\"good-evening,\" and walked slowly on. He had forgotten him.\n\n'He walked down the hill, and through the village. The weather was warm,\nand the people were sitting at their doors, or strolling in their little\ngardens as he passed, enjoying the serenity of the evening, and their\nrest from labour. Many a look was turned towards him, and many a\ndoubtful glance he cast on either side to see whether any knew and\nshunned him. There were strange faces in almost every house; in some he\nrecognised the burly form of some old schoolfellow--a boy when he last\nsaw him--surrounded by a troop of merry children; in others he saw,\nseated in an easy-chair at a cottage door, a feeble and infirm old man,\nwhom he only remembered as a hale and hearty labourer; but they had all\nforgotten him, and he passed on unknown.\n\n'The last soft light of the setting sun had fallen on the earth, casting\na rich glow on the yellow corn sheaves, and lengthening the shadows of\nthe orchard trees, as he stood before the old house--the home of his\ninfancy--to which his heart had yearned with an intensity of affection\nnot to be described, through long and weary years of captivity and\nsorrow. The paling was low, though he well remembered the time that it\nhad seemed a high wall to him; and he looked over into the old garden.\nThere were more seeds and gayer flowers than there used to be, but\nthere were the old trees still--the very tree under which he had lain a\nthousand times when tired of playing in the sun, and felt the soft, mild\nsleep of happy boyhood steal gently upon him. There were voices within\nthe house. He listened, but they fell strangely upon his ear; he knew\nthem not. They were merry too; and he well knew that his poor old mother\ncould not be cheerful, and he away. The door opened, and a group of\nlittle children bounded out, shouting and romping. The father, with a\nlittle boy in his arms, appeared at the door, and they crowded round\nhim, clapping their tiny hands, and dragging him out, to join their\njoyous sports. The convict thought on the many times he had shrunk from\nhis father's sight in that very place. He remembered how often he had\nburied his trembling head beneath the bedclothes, and heard the harsh\nword, and the hard stripe, and his mother's wailing; and though the\nman sobbed aloud with agony of mind as he left the spot, his fist was\nclenched, and his teeth were set, in a fierce and deadly passion.\n\n'And such was the return to which he had looked through the weary\nperspective of many years, and for which he had undergone so much\nsuffering! No face of welcome, no look of forgiveness, no house to\nreceive, no hand to help him--and this too in the old village. What was\nhis loneliness in the wild, thick woods, where man was never seen, to\nthis!\n\n'He felt that in the distant land of his bondage and infamy, he had\nthought of his native place as it was when he left it; and not as it\nwould be when he returned. The sad reality struck coldly at his heart,\nand his spirit sank within him. He had not courage to make inquiries, or\nto present himself to the only person who was likely to receive him with\nkindness and compassion. He walked slowly on; and shunning the roadside\nlike a guilty man, turned into a meadow he well remembered; and covering\nhis face with his hands, threw himself upon the grass.\n\n'He had not observed that a man was lying on the bank beside him; his\ngarments rustled as he turned round to steal a look at the new-comer;\nand Edmunds raised his head.\n\n'The man had moved into a sitting posture. His body was much bent, and\nhis face was wrinkled and yellow. His dress denoted him an inmate of the\nworkhouse: he had the appearance of being very old, but it looked more\nthe effect of dissipation or disease, than the length of years. He was\nstaring hard at the stranger, and though his eyes were lustreless and\nheavy at first, they appeared to glow with an unnatural and alarmed\nexpression after they had been fixed upon him for a short time, until\nthey seemed to be starting from their sockets. Edmunds gradually raised\nhimself to his knees, and looked more and more earnestly on the old\nman's face. They gazed upon each other in silence.\n\n'The old man was ghastly pale. He shuddered and tottered to his feet.\nEdmunds sprang to his. He stepped back a pace or two. Edmunds advanced.\n\n'\"Let me hear you speak,\" said the convict, in a thick, broken voice.\n\n'\"Stand off!\" cried the old man, with a dreadful oath. The convict drew\ncloser to him.\n\n'\"Stand off!\" shrieked the old man. Furious with terror, he raised his\nstick, and struck Edmunds a heavy blow across the face.\n\n'\"Father--devil!\" murmured the convict between his set teeth. He rushed\nwildly forward, and clenched the old man by the throat--but he was his\nfather; and his arm fell powerless by his side.\n\n'The old man uttered a loud yell which rang through the lonely fields\nlike the howl of an evil spirit. His face turned black, the gore rushed\nfrom his mouth and nose, and dyed the grass a deep, dark red, as he\nstaggered and fell. He had ruptured a blood-vessel, and he was a dead\nman before his son could raise him. 'In that corner of the churchyard,'\nsaid the old gentleman, after a silence of a few moments, 'in that\ncorner of the churchyard of which I have before spoken, there lies\nburied a man who was in my employment for three years after this event,\nand who was truly contrite, penitent, and humbled, if ever man was. No\none save myself knew in that man's lifetime who he was, or whence he\ncame--it was John Edmunds, the returned convict.'\n\n\n\nCHAPTER VII. HOW Mr. WINKLE, INSTEAD OF SHOOTING AT THE PIGEON AND\nKILLING THE CROW, SHOT AT THE CROW AND WOUNDED THE PIGEON; HOW THE\nDINGLEY DELL CRICKET CLUB PLAYED ALL-MUGGLETON, AND HOW ALL-MUGGLETON\nDINED AT THE DINGLEY DELL EXPENSE; WITH OTHER INTERESTING AND\nINSTRUCTIVE MATTERS\n\n\nThe fatiguing adventures of the day or the somniferous influence of the\nclergyman's tale operated so strongly on the drowsy tendencies of Mr.\nPickwick, that in less than five minutes after he had been shown to his\ncomfortable bedroom he fell into a sound and dreamless sleep, from\nwhich he was only awakened by the morning sun darting his bright beams\nreproachfully into the apartment. Mr. Pickwick was no sluggard, and he\nsprang like an ardent warrior from his tent-bedstead.\n\n'Pleasant, pleasant country,' sighed the enthusiastic gentleman, as he\nopened his lattice window. 'Who could live to gaze from day to day on\nbricks and slates who had once felt the influence of a scene like this?\nWho could continue to exist where there are no cows but the cows on the\nchimney-pots; nothing redolent of Pan but pan-tiles; no crop but stone\ncrop? Who could bear to drag out a life in such a spot? Who, I ask,\ncould endure it?' and, having cross-examined solitude after the most\napproved precedents, at considerable length, Mr. Pickwick thrust his\nhead out of the lattice and looked around him.\n\nThe rich, sweet smell of the hay-ricks rose to his chamber window; the\nhundred perfumes of the little flower-garden beneath scented the air\naround; the deep-green meadows shone in the morning dew that glistened\non every leaf as it trembled in the gentle air; and the birds sang as\nif every sparkling drop were to them a fountain of inspiration. Mr.\nPickwick fell into an enchanting and delicious reverie.\n\n'Hollo!' was the sound that roused him.\n\nHe looked to the right, but he saw nobody; his eyes wandered to the\nleft, and pierced the prospect; he stared into the sky, but he wasn't\nwanted there; and then he did what a common mind would have done at\nonce--looked into the garden, and there saw Mr. Wardle. 'How are\nyou?' said the good-humoured individual, out of breath with his own\nanticipations of pleasure.'Beautiful morning, ain't it? Glad to see you\nup so early. Make haste down, and come out. I'll wait for you here.'\nMr. Pickwick needed no second invitation. Ten minutes sufficed for the\ncompletion of his toilet, and at the expiration of that time he was by\nthe old gentleman's side.\n\n'Hollo!' said Mr. Pickwick in his turn, seeing that his companion was\narmed with a gun, and that another lay ready on the grass; 'what's going\nforward?'\n\n'Why, your friend and I,' replied the host, 'are going out rook-shooting\nbefore breakfast. He's a very good shot, ain't he?'\n\n'I've heard him say he's a capital one,' replied Mr. Pickwick, 'but I\nnever saw him aim at anything.'\n\n'Well,' said the host, 'I wish he'd come. Joe--Joe!'\n\nThe fat boy, who under the exciting influence of the morning did not\nappear to be more than three parts and a fraction asleep, emerged from\nthe house.\n\n'Go up, and call the gentleman, and tell him he'll find me and Mr.\nPickwick in the rookery. Show the gentleman the way there; d'ye hear?'\n\nThe boy departed to execute his commission; and the host, carrying both\nguns like a second Robinson Crusoe, led the way from the garden.\n\n'This is the place,' said the old gentleman, pausing after a few minutes\nwalking, in an avenue of trees. The information was unnecessary; for the\nincessant cawing of the unconscious rooks sufficiently indicated their\nwhereabouts.\n\nThe old gentleman laid one gun on the ground, and loaded the other.\n\n'Here they are,' said Mr. Pickwick; and, as he spoke, the forms of Mr.\nTupman, Mr. Snodgrass, and Mr. Winkle appeared in the distance. The fat\nboy, not being quite certain which gentleman he was directed to call,\nhad with peculiar sagacity, and to prevent the possibility of any\nmistake, called them all.\n\n'Come along,' shouted the old gentleman, addressing Mr. Winkle; 'a keen\nhand like you ought to have been up long ago, even to such poor work as\nthis.'\n\nMr. Winkle responded with a forced smile, and took up the spare gun with\nan expression of countenance which a metaphysical rook, impressed with\na foreboding of his approaching death by violence, may be supposed\nto assume. It might have been keenness, but it looked remarkably like\nmisery. The old gentleman nodded; and two ragged boys who had been\nmarshalled to the spot under the direction of the infant Lambert,\nforthwith commenced climbing up two of the trees. 'What are these lads\nfor?' inquired Mr. Pickwick abruptly. He was rather alarmed; for he was\nnot quite certain but that the distress of the agricultural interest,\nabout which he had often heard a great deal, might have compelled the\nsmall boys attached to the soil to earn a precarious and hazardous\nsubsistence by making marks of themselves for inexperienced sportsmen.\n'Only to start the game,' replied Mr. Wardle, laughing.\n\n'To what?' inquired Mr. Pickwick.\n\n'Why, in plain English, to frighten the rooks.'\n\n'Oh, is that all?'\n\n'You are satisfied?'\n\n'Quite.'\n\n'Very well. Shall I begin?'\n\n'If you please,' said Mr. Winkle, glad of any respite.\n\n'Stand aside, then. Now for it.'\n\nThe boy shouted, and shook a branch with a nest on it. Half a dozen\nyoung rooks in violent conversation, flew out to ask what the matter\nwas. The old gentleman fired by way of reply. Down fell one bird, and\noff flew the others.\n\n'Take him up, Joe,' said the old gentleman.\n\nThere was a smile upon the youth's face as he advanced. Indistinct\nvisions of rook-pie floated through his imagination. He laughed as he\nretired with the bird--it was a plump one.\n\n'Now, Mr. Winkle,' said the host, reloading his own gun. 'Fire away.'\n\nMr. Winkle advanced, and levelled his gun. Mr. Pickwick and his friends\ncowered involuntarily to escape damage from the heavy fall of rooks,\nwhich they felt quite certain would be occasioned by the devastating\nbarrel of their friend. There was a solemn pause--a shout--a flapping of\nwings--a faint click.\n\n'Hollo!' said the old gentleman.\n\n'Won't it go?' inquired Mr. Pickwick.\n\n'Missed fire,' said Mr. Winkle, who was very pale--probably from\ndisappointment.\n\n'Odd,' said the old gentleman, taking the gun. 'Never knew one of them\nmiss fire before. Why, I don't see anything of the cap.' 'Bless my\nsoul!' said Mr. Winkle, 'I declare I forgot the cap!'\n\nThe slight omission was rectified. Mr. Pickwick crouched again. Mr.\nWinkle stepped forward with an air of determination and resolution; and\nMr. Tupman looked out from behind a tree. The boy shouted; four birds\nflew out. Mr. Winkle fired. There was a scream as of an individual--not\na rook--in corporal anguish. Mr. Tupman had saved the lives of\ninnumerable unoffending birds by receiving a portion of the charge in\nhis left arm.\n\nTo describe the confusion that ensued would be impossible. To tell\nhow Mr. Pickwick in the first transports of emotion called Mr. Winkle\n'Wretch!' how Mr. Tupman lay prostrate on the ground; and how Mr. Winkle\nknelt horror-stricken beside him; how Mr. Tupman called distractedly\nupon some feminine Christian name, and then opened first one eye, and\nthen the other, and then fell back and shut them both--all this would be\nas difficult to describe in detail, as it would be to depict the gradual\nrecovering of the unfortunate individual, the binding up of his arm\nwith pocket-handkerchiefs, and the conveying him back by slow degrees\nsupported by the arms of his anxious friends.\n\nThey drew near the house. The ladies were at the garden gate, waiting\nfor their arrival and their breakfast. The spinster aunt appeared; she\nsmiled, and beckoned them to walk quicker. 'Twas evident she knew not\nof the disaster. Poor thing! there are times when ignorance is bliss\nindeed.\n\nThey approached nearer.\n\n'Why, what is the matter with the little old gentleman?' said Isabella\nWardle. The spinster aunt heeded not the remark; she thought it applied\nto Mr. Pickwick. In her eyes Tracy Tupman was a youth; she viewed his\nyears through a diminishing glass.\n\n'Don't be frightened,' called out the old host, fearful of alarming his\ndaughters. The little party had crowded so completely round Mr. Tupman,\nthat they could not yet clearly discern the nature of the accident.\n\n'Don't be frightened,' said the host.\n\n'What's the matter?' screamed the ladies.\n\n'Mr. Tupman has met with a little accident; that's all.'\n\nThe spinster aunt uttered a piercing scream, burst into an hysteric\nlaugh, and fell backwards in the arms of her nieces.\n\n'Throw some cold water over her,' said the old gentleman.\n\n'No, no,' murmured the spinster aunt; 'I am better now. Bella, Emily--a\nsurgeon! Is he wounded?--Is he dead?--Is he--Ha, ha, ha!' Here\nthe spinster aunt burst into fit number two, of hysteric laughter\ninterspersed with screams.\n\n'Calm yourself,' said Mr. Tupman, affected almost to tears by this\nexpression of sympathy with his sufferings. 'Dear, dear madam, calm\nyourself.'\n\n'It is his voice!' exclaimed the spinster aunt; and strong symptoms of\nfit number three developed themselves forthwith.\n\n'Do not agitate yourself, I entreat you, dearest madam,' said Mr. Tupman\nsoothingly. 'I am very little hurt, I assure you.'\n\n'Then you are not dead!' ejaculated the hysterical lady. 'Oh, say you\nare not dead!'\n\n'Don't be a fool, Rachael,' interposed Mr. Wardle, rather more roughly\nthan was consistent with the poetic nature of the scene. 'What the\ndevil's the use of his saying he isn't dead?'\n\n'No, no, I am not,' said Mr. Tupman. 'I require no assistance but yours.\nLet me lean on your arm.' He added, in a whisper, 'Oh, Miss Rachael!'\nThe agitated female advanced, and offered her arm. They turned into the\nbreakfast parlour. Mr. Tracy Tupman gently pressed her hand to his lips,\nand sank upon the sofa.\n\n'Are you faint?' inquired the anxious Rachael.\n\n'No,' said Mr. Tupman. 'It is nothing. I shall be better presently.' He\nclosed his eyes.\n\n'He sleeps,' murmured the spinster aunt. (His organs of vision had been\nclosed nearly twenty seconds.) 'Dear--dear--Mr. Tupman!'\n\nMr. Tupman jumped up--'Oh, say those words again!' he exclaimed.\n\nThe lady started. 'Surely you did not hear them!' she said bashfully.\n\n'Oh, yes, I did!' replied Mr. Tupman; 'repeat them. If you would have\nme recover, repeat them.' 'Hush!' said the lady. 'My brother.' Mr. Tracy\nTupman resumed his former position; and Mr. Wardle, accompanied by a\nsurgeon, entered the room.\n\nThe arm was examined, the wound dressed, and pronounced to be a very\nslight one; and the minds of the company having been thus satisfied,\nthey proceeded to satisfy their appetites with countenances to which an\nexpression of cheerfulness was again restored. Mr. Pickwick alone\nwas silent and reserved. Doubt and distrust were exhibited in his\ncountenance. His confidence in Mr. Winkle had been shaken--greatly\nshaken--by the proceedings of the morning. 'Are you a cricketer?'\ninquired Mr. Wardle of the marksman.\n\nAt any other time, Mr. Winkle would have replied in the affirmative. He\nfelt the delicacy of his situation, and modestly replied, 'No.'\n\n'Are you, sir?' inquired Mr. Snodgrass.\n\n'I was once upon a time,' replied the host; 'but I have given it up now.\nI subscribe to the club here, but I don't play.'\n\n'The grand match is played to-day, I believe,' said Mr. Pickwick.\n\n'It is,' replied the host. 'Of course you would like to see it.'\n\n'I, sir,' replied Mr. Pickwick, 'am delighted to view any sports\nwhich may be safely indulged in, and in which the impotent effects of\nunskilful people do not endanger human life.' Mr. Pickwick paused,\nand looked steadily on Mr. Winkle, who quailed beneath his leader's\nsearching glance. The great man withdrew his eyes after a few minutes,\nand added: 'Shall we be justified in leaving our wounded friend to the\ncare of the ladies?'\n\n'You cannot leave me in better hands,' said Mr. Tupman.\n\n'Quite impossible,' said Mr. Snodgrass.\n\nIt was therefore settled that Mr. Tupman should be left at home in\ncharge of the females; and that the remainder of the guests, under the\nguidance of Mr. Wardle, should proceed to the spot where was to be held\nthat trial of skill, which had roused all Muggleton from its torpor, and\ninoculated Dingley Dell with a fever of excitement.\n\nAs their walk, which was not above two miles long, lay through shady\nlanes and sequestered footpaths, and as their conversation turned upon\nthe delightful scenery by which they were on every side surrounded, Mr.\nPickwick was almost inclined to regret the expedition they had used,\nwhen he found himself in the main street of the town of Muggleton.\nEverybody whose genius has a topographical bent knows perfectly well\nthat Muggleton is a corporate town, with a mayor, burgesses, and\nfreemen; and anybody who has consulted the addresses of the mayor to the\nfreemen, or the freemen to the mayor, or both to the corporation, or\nall three to Parliament, will learn from thence what they ought to have\nknown before, that Muggleton is an ancient and loyal borough, mingling\na zealous advocacy of Christian principles with a devoted attachment to\ncommercial rights; in demonstration whereof, the mayor, corporation,\nand other inhabitants, have presented at divers times, no fewer than one\nthousand four hundred and twenty petitions against the continuance of\nnegro slavery abroad, and an equal number against any interference with\nthe factory system at home; sixty-eight in favour of the sale of livings\nin the Church, and eighty-six for abolishing Sunday trading in the\nstreet.\n\nMr. Pickwick stood in the principal street of this illustrious town,\nand gazed with an air of curiosity, not unmixed with interest, on the\nobjects around him. There was an open square for the market-place; and\nin the centre of it, a large inn with a sign-post in front, displaying\nan object very common in art, but rarely met with in nature--to wit,\na blue lion, with three bow legs in the air, balancing himself on the\nextreme point of the centre claw of his fourth foot. There were, within\nsight, an auctioneer's and fire-agency office, a corn-factor's,\na linen-draper's, a saddler's, a distiller's, a grocer's, and a\nshoe-shop--the last-mentioned warehouse being also appropriated to\nthe diffusion of hats, bonnets, wearing apparel, cotton umbrellas,\nand useful knowledge. There was a red brick house with a small paved\ncourtyard in front, which anybody might have known belonged to the\nattorney; and there was, moreover, another red brick house with Venetian\nblinds, and a large brass door-plate with a very legible announcement\nthat it belonged to the surgeon. A few boys were making their way to the\ncricket-field; and two or three shopkeepers who were standing at their\ndoors looked as if they should like to be making their way to the same\nspot, as indeed to all appearance they might have done, without losing\nany great amount of custom thereby. Mr. Pickwick having paused to\nmake these observations, to be noted down at a more convenient period,\nhastened to rejoin his friends, who had turned out of the main street,\nand were already within sight of the field of battle.\n\nThe wickets were pitched, and so were a couple of marquees for the\nrest and refreshment of the contending parties. The game had not yet\ncommenced. Two or three Dingley Dellers, and All-Muggletonians, were\namusing themselves with a majestic air by throwing the ball carelessly\nfrom hand to hand; and several other gentlemen dressed like them, in\nstraw hats, flannel jackets, and white trousers--a costume in which they\nlooked very much like amateur stone-masons--were sprinkled about the\ntents, towards one of which Mr. Wardle conducted the party.\n\nSeveral dozen of 'How-are-you's?' hailed the old gentleman's arrival;\nand a general raising of the straw hats, and bending forward of the\nflannel jackets, followed his introduction of his guests as gentlemen\nfrom London, who were extremely anxious to witness the proceedings of\nthe day, with which, he had no doubt, they would be greatly delighted.\n\n'You had better step into the marquee, I think, Sir,' said one very\nstout gentleman, whose body and legs looked like half a gigantic roll of\nflannel, elevated on a couple of inflated pillow-cases.\n\n'You'll find it much pleasanter, Sir,' urged another stout gentleman,\nwho strongly resembled the other half of the roll of flannel aforesaid.\n\n'You're very good,' said Mr. Pickwick.\n\n'This way,' said the first speaker; 'they notch in here--it's the\nbest place in the whole field;' and the cricketer, panting on before,\npreceded them to the tent.\n\n'Capital game--smart sport--fine exercise--very,' were the words which\nfell upon Mr. Pickwick's ear as he entered the tent; and the first\nobject that met his eyes was his green-coated friend of the Rochester\ncoach, holding forth, to the no small delight and edification of a\nselect circle of the chosen of All-Muggleton. His dress was slightly\nimproved, and he wore boots; but there was no mistaking him.\n\nThe stranger recognised his friends immediately; and, darting forward\nand seizing Mr. Pickwick by the hand, dragged him to a seat with\nhis usual impetuosity, talking all the while as if the whole of the\narrangements were under his especial patronage and direction.\n\n'This way--this way--capital fun--lots of beer--hogsheads; rounds of\nbeef--bullocks; mustard--cart-loads; glorious day--down with you--make\nyourself at home--glad to see you--very.'\n\nMr. Pickwick sat down as he was bid, and Mr. Winkle and Mr. Snodgrass\nalso complied with the directions of their mysterious friend. Mr. Wardle\nlooked on in silent wonder.\n\n'Mr. Wardle--a friend of mine,' said Mr. Pickwick.\n\n'Friend of yours!--My dear sir, how are you?--Friend of my\nfriend's--give me your hand, sir'--and the stranger grasped Mr. Wardle's\nhand with all the fervour of a close intimacy of many years, and then\nstepped back a pace or two as if to take a full survey of his face and\nfigure, and then shook hands with him again, if possible, more warmly\nthan before.\n\n'Well; and how came you here?' said Mr. Pickwick, with a smile in\nwhich benevolence struggled with surprise. 'Come,' replied the\nstranger--'stopping at Crown--Crown at Muggleton--met a party--flannel\njackets--white trousers--anchovy sandwiches--devilled kidney--splendid\nfellows--glorious.'\n\nMr. Pickwick was sufficiently versed in the stranger's system of\nstenography to infer from this rapid and disjointed communication\nthat he had, somehow or other, contracted an acquaintance with the\nAll-Muggletons, which he had converted, by a process peculiar to\nhimself, into that extent of good-fellowship on which a general\ninvitation may be easily founded. His curiosity was therefore satisfied,\nand putting on his spectacles he prepared himself to watch the play\nwhich was just commencing.\n\nAll-Muggleton had the first innings; and the interest became intense\nwhen Mr. Dumkins and Mr. Podder, two of the most renowned members of\nthat most distinguished club, walked, bat in hand, to their respective\nwickets. Mr. Luffey, the highest ornament of Dingley Dell, was pitched\nto bowl against the redoubtable Dumkins, and Mr. Struggles was selected\nto do the same kind office for the hitherto unconquered Podder. Several\nplayers were stationed, to 'look out,' in different parts of the field,\nand each fixed himself into the proper attitude by placing one hand on\neach knee, and stooping very much as if he were 'making a back' for\nsome beginner at leap-frog. All the regular players do this sort of\nthing;--indeed it is generally supposed that it is quite impossible to\nlook out properly in any other position.\n\nThe umpires were stationed behind the wickets; the scorers were prepared\nto notch the runs; a breathless silence ensued. Mr. Luffey retired a few\npaces behind the wicket of the passive Podder, and applied the ball\nto his right eye for several seconds. Dumkins confidently awaited its\ncoming with his eyes fixed on the motions of Luffey.\n\n'Play!' suddenly cried the bowler. The ball flew from his hand straight\nand swift towards the centre stump of the wicket. The wary Dumkins was\non the alert: it fell upon the tip of the bat, and bounded far away over\nthe heads of the scouts, who had just stooped low enough to let it fly\nover them.\n\n'Run--run--another.--Now, then throw her up--up with her--stop\nthere--another--no--yes--no--throw her up, throw her up!'--Such were\nthe shouts which followed the stroke; and at the conclusion of which\nAll-Muggleton had scored two. Nor was Podder behindhand in earning\nlaurels wherewith to garnish himself and Muggleton. He blocked the\ndoubtful balls, missed the bad ones, took the good ones, and sent them\nflying to all parts of the field. The scouts were hot and tired; the\nbowlers were changed and bowled till their arms ached; but Dumkins and\nPodder remained unconquered. Did an elderly gentleman essay to stop the\nprogress of the ball, it rolled between his legs or slipped between\nhis fingers. Did a slim gentleman try to catch it, it struck him on the\nnose, and bounded pleasantly off with redoubled violence, while the slim\ngentleman's eyes filled with water, and his form writhed with anguish.\nWas it thrown straight up to the wicket, Dumkins had reached it before\nthe ball. In short, when Dumkins was caught out, and Podder stumped\nout, All-Muggleton had notched some fifty-four, while the score of the\nDingley Dellers was as blank as their faces. The advantage was too great\nto be recovered. In vain did the eager Luffey, and the enthusiastic\nStruggles, do all that skill and experience could suggest, to regain the\nground Dingley Dell had lost in the contest--it was of no avail; and in\nan early period of the winning game Dingley Dell gave in, and allowed\nthe superior prowess of All-Muggleton.\n\nThe stranger, meanwhile, had been eating, drinking, and talking, without\ncessation. At every good stroke he expressed his satisfaction and\napproval of the player in a most condescending and patronising manner,\nwhich could not fail to have been highly gratifying to the party\nconcerned; while at every bad attempt at a catch, and every failure to\nstop the ball, he launched his personal displeasure at the head of the\ndevoted individual in such denunciations as--'Ah, ah!--stupid'--'Now,\nbutter-fingers'--'Muff'--'Humbug'--and so forth--ejaculations which\nseemed to establish him in the opinion of all around, as a most\nexcellent and undeniable judge of the whole art and mystery of the noble\ngame of cricket.\n\n'Capital game--well played--some strokes admirable,' said the stranger,\nas both sides crowded into the tent, at the conclusion of the game.\n\n'You have played it, sir?' inquired Mr. Wardle, who had been much amused\nby his loquacity. 'Played it! Think I have--thousands of times--not\nhere--West Indies--exciting thing--hot work--very.' 'It must be rather a\nwarm pursuit in such a climate,' observed Mr. Pickwick.\n\n'Warm!--red hot--scorching--glowing. Played a match once--single\nwicket--friend the colonel--Sir Thomas Blazo--who should get the\ngreatest number of runs.--Won the toss--first innings--seven o'clock\nA.m.--six natives to look out--went in; kept in--heat intense--natives\nall fainted--taken away--fresh half-dozen ordered--fainted also--Blazo\nbowling--supported by two natives--couldn't bowl me out--fainted\ntoo--cleared away the colonel--wouldn't give in--faithful\nattendant--Quanko Samba--last man left--sun so hot, bat in\nblisters, ball scorched brown--five hundred and seventy runs--rather\nexhausted--Quanko mustered up last remaining strength--bowled me\nout--had a bath, and went out to dinner.'\n\n'And what became of what's-his-name, Sir?' inquired an old gentleman.\n\n'Blazo?'\n\n'No--the other gentleman.' 'Quanko Samba?'\n\n'Yes, sir.'\n\n'Poor Quanko--never recovered it--bowled on, on my account--bowled off,\non his own--died, sir.' Here the stranger buried his countenance in a\nbrown jug, but whether to hide his emotion or imbibe its contents, we\ncannot distinctly affirm. We only know that he paused suddenly, drew a\nlong and deep breath, and looked anxiously on, as two of the principal\nmembers of the Dingley Dell club approached Mr. Pickwick, and said--\n\n'We are about to partake of a plain dinner at the Blue Lion, Sir; we\nhope you and your friends will join us.' 'Of course,' said Mr. Wardle,\n'among our friends we include Mr.--;' and he looked towards the\nstranger.\n\n'Jingle,' said that versatile gentleman, taking the hint at once.\n'Jingle--Alfred Jingle, Esq., of No Hall, Nowhere.'\n\n'I shall be very happy, I am sure,' said Mr. Pickwick. 'So shall I,'\nsaid Mr. Alfred Jingle, drawing one arm through Mr. Pickwick's, and\nanother through Mr. Wardle's, as he whispered confidentially in the ear\nof the former gentleman:--\n\n'Devilish good dinner--cold, but capital--peeped into the room this\nmorning--fowls and pies, and all that sort of thing--pleasant fellows\nthese--well behaved, too--very.'\n\nThere being no further preliminaries to arrange, the company straggled\ninto the town in little knots of twos and threes; and within a quarter\nof an hour were all seated in the great room of the Blue Lion Inn,\nMuggleton--Mr. Dumkins acting as chairman, and Mr. Luffey officiating as\nvice.\n\nThere was a vast deal of talking and rattling of knives and forks, and\nplates; a great running about of three ponderous-headed waiters, and a\nrapid disappearance of the substantial viands on the table; to each and\nevery of which item of confusion, the facetious Mr. Jingle lent the aid\nof half-a-dozen ordinary men at least. When everybody had eaten as much\nas possible, the cloth was removed, bottles, glasses, and dessert were\nplaced on the table; and the waiters withdrew to 'clear away,'or in\nother words, to appropriate to their own private use and emolument\nwhatever remnants of the eatables and drinkables they could contrive to\nlay their hands on.\n\nAmidst the general hum of mirth and conversation that ensued, there was\na little man with a puffy Say-nothing-to-me,-or-I'll-contradict-you sort\nof countenance, who remained very quiet; occasionally looking round\nhim when the conversation slackened, as if he contemplated putting in\nsomething very weighty; and now and then bursting into a short cough\nof inexpressible grandeur. At length, during a moment of comparative\nsilence, the little man called out in a very loud, solemn voice,--\n\n'Mr. Luffey!'\n\nEverybody was hushed into a profound stillness as the individual\naddressed, replied--\n\n'Sir!'\n\n'I wish to address a few words to you, Sir, if you will entreat the\ngentlemen to fill their glasses.'\n\nMr. Jingle uttered a patronising 'Hear, hear,' which was responded to\nby the remainder of the company; and the glasses having been filled,\nthe vice-president assumed an air of wisdom in a state of profound\nattention; and said--\n\n'Mr. Staple.'\n\n'Sir,' said the little man, rising, 'I wish to address what I have to\nsay to you and not to our worthy chairman, because our worthy chairman\nis in some measure--I may say in a great degree--the subject of what I\nhave to say, or I may say to--to--' 'State,' suggested Mr. Jingle.\n\n'Yes, to state,' said the little man, 'I thank my honourable friend, if\nhe will allow me to call him so (four hears and one certainly from\nMr. Jingle), for the suggestion. Sir, I am a Deller--a Dingley Deller\n(cheers). I cannot lay claim to the honour of forming an item in the\npopulation of Muggleton; nor, Sir, I will frankly admit, do I covet that\nhonour: and I will tell you why, Sir (hear); to Muggleton I will readily\nconcede all these honours and distinctions to which it can fairly\nlay claim--they are too numerous and too well known to require aid or\nrecapitulation from me. But, sir, while we remember that Muggleton has\ngiven birth to a Dumkins and a Podder, let us never forget that Dingley\nDell can boast a Luffey and a Struggles. (Vociferous cheering.) Let me\nnot be considered as wishing to detract from the merits of the former\ngentlemen. Sir, I envy them the luxury of their own feelings on this\noccasion. (Cheers.) Every gentleman who hears me, is probably acquainted\nwith the reply made by an individual, who--to use an ordinary figure of\nspeech--\"hung out\" in a tub, to the emperor Alexander:--\"if I were not\nDiogenes,\" said he, \"I would be Alexander.\" I can well imagine these\ngentlemen to say, \"If I were not Dumkins I would be Luffey; if I were\nnot Podder I would be Struggles.\" (Enthusiasm.) But, gentlemen of\nMuggleton, is it in cricket alone that your fellow-townsmen stand\npre-eminent? Have you never heard of Dumkins and determination? Have you\nnever been taught to associate Podder with property? (Great applause.)\nHave you never, when struggling for your rights, your liberties, and\nyour privileges, been reduced, if only for an instant, to misgiving\nand despair? And when you have been thus depressed, has not the name of\nDumkins laid afresh within your breast the fire which had just gone out;\nand has not a word from that man lighted it again as brightly as if it\nhad never expired? (Great cheering.) Gentlemen, I beg to surround with\na rich halo of enthusiastic cheering the united names of \"Dumkins and\nPodder.\"'\n\nHere the little man ceased, and here the company commenced a raising of\nvoices, and thumping of tables, which lasted with little intermission\nduring the remainder of the evening. Other toasts were drunk. Mr. Luffey\nand Mr. Struggles, Mr. Pickwick and Mr. Jingle, were, each in his turn,\nthe subject of unqualified eulogium; and each in due course returned\nthanks for the honour.\n\nEnthusiastic as we are in the noble cause to which we have devoted\nourselves, we should have felt a sensation of pride which we cannot\nexpress, and a consciousness of having done something to merit\nimmortality of which we are now deprived, could we have laid the\nfaintest outline on these addresses before our ardent readers. Mr.\nSnodgrass, as usual, took a great mass of notes, which would no doubt\nhave afforded most useful and valuable information, had not the burning\neloquence of the words or the feverish influence of the wine made that\ngentleman's hand so extremely unsteady, as to render his writing\nnearly unintelligible, and his style wholly so. By dint of patient\ninvestigation, we have been enabled to trace some characters bearing a\nfaint resemblance to the names of the speakers; and we can only discern\nan entry of a song (supposed to have been sung by Mr. Jingle), in which\nthe words 'bowl' 'sparkling' 'ruby' 'bright' and 'wine' are frequently\nrepeated at short intervals. We fancy, too, that we can discern at the\nvery end of the notes, some indistinct reference to 'broiled bones'; and\nthen the words 'cold' 'without' occur: but as any hypothesis we could\nfound upon them must necessarily rest upon mere conjecture, we are not\ndisposed to indulge in any of the speculations to which they may give\nrise.\n\nWe will therefore return to Mr. Tupman; merely adding that within\nsome few minutes before twelve o'clock that night, the convocation of\nworthies of Dingley Dell and Muggleton were heard to sing, with great\nfeeling and emphasis, the beautiful and pathetic national air of\n\n 'We won't go home till morning,\n We won't go home till morning,\n We won't go home till morning,\n Till daylight doth appear.'\n\n\n\nCHAPTER VIII. STRONGLY ILLUSTRATIVE OF THE POSITION, THAT THE COURSE OF\nTRUE LOVE IS NOT A RAILWAY\n\n\nThe quiet seclusion of Dingley Dell, the presence of so many of the\ngentler sex, and the solicitude and anxiety they evinced in his behalf,\nwere all favourable to the growth and development of those softer\nfeelings which nature had implanted deep in the bosom of Mr. Tracy\nTupman, and which now appeared destined to centre in one lovely object.\nThe young ladies were pretty, their manners winning, their\ndispositions unexceptionable; but there was a dignity in the air, a\ntouch-me-not-ishness in the walk, a majesty in the eye, of the spinster\naunt, to which, at their time of life, they could lay no claim, which\ndistinguished her from any female on whom Mr. Tupman had ever gazed.\nThat there was something kindred in their nature, something congenial\nin their souls, something mysteriously sympathetic in their bosoms, was\nevident. Her name was the first that rose to Mr. Tupman's lips as he lay\nwounded on the grass; and her hysteric laughter was the first sound\nthat fell upon his ear when he was supported to the house. But had her\nagitation arisen from an amiable and feminine sensibility which would\nhave been equally irrepressible in any case; or had it been called forth\nby a more ardent and passionate feeling, which he, of all men living,\ncould alone awaken? These were the doubts which racked his brain as\nhe lay extended on the sofa; these were the doubts which he determined\nshould be at once and for ever resolved.\n\nIt was evening. Isabella and Emily had strolled out with Mr. Trundle;\nthe deaf old lady had fallen asleep in her chair; the snoring of the fat\nboy, penetrated in a low and monotonous sound from the distant kitchen;\nthe buxom servants were lounging at the side door, enjoying the\npleasantness of the hour, and the delights of a flirtation, on first\nprinciples, with certain unwieldy animals attached to the farm; and\nthere sat the interesting pair, uncared for by all, caring for none, and\ndreaming only of themselves; there they sat, in short, like a pair of\ncarefully-folded kid gloves--bound up in each other.\n\n'I have forgotten my flowers,' said the spinster aunt.\n\n'Water them now,' said Mr. Tupman, in accents of persuasion.\n\n'You will take cold in the evening air,' urged the spinster aunt\naffectionately.\n\n'No, no,' said Mr. Tupman, rising; 'it will do me good. Let me accompany\nyou.'\n\nThe lady paused to adjust the sling in which the left arm of the youth\nwas placed, and taking his right arm led him to the garden.\n\nThere was a bower at the farther end, with honeysuckle, jessamine, and\ncreeping plants--one of those sweet retreats which humane men erect for\nthe accommodation of spiders.\n\nThe spinster aunt took up a large watering-pot which lay in one corner,\nand was about to leave the arbour. Mr. Tupman detained her, and drew her\nto a seat beside him.\n\n'Miss Wardle!' said he. The spinster aunt trembled, till some pebbles\nwhich had accidentally found their way into the large watering-pot shook\nlike an infant's rattle.\n\n'Miss Wardle,' said Mr. Tupman, 'you are an angel.'\n\n'Mr. Tupman!' exclaimed Rachael, blushing as red as the watering-pot\nitself.\n\n'Nay,' said the eloquent Pickwickian--'I know it but too well.'\n\n'All women are angels, they say,' murmured the lady playfully.\n\n'Then what can you be; or to what, without presumption, can I compare\nyou?' replied Mr. Tupman. 'Where was the woman ever seen who resembled\nyou? Where else could I hope to find so rare a combination of excellence\nand beauty? Where else could I seek to--Oh!' Here Mr. Tupman paused, and\npressed the hand which clasped the handle of the happy watering-pot.\n\nThe lady turned aside her head. 'Men are such deceivers,' she softly\nwhispered.\n\n'They are, they are,' ejaculated Mr. Tupman; 'but not all men. There\nlives at least one being who can never change--one being who would be\ncontent to devote his whole existence to your happiness--who lives\nbut in your eyes--who breathes but in your smiles--who bears the heavy\nburden of life itself only for you.'\n\n'Could such an individual be found--' said the lady.\n\n'But he CAN be found,' said the ardent Mr. Tupman, interposing. 'He\nIS found. He is here, Miss Wardle.' And ere the lady was aware of his\nintention, Mr. Tupman had sunk upon his knees at her feet.\n\n'Mr. Tupman, rise,' said Rachael.\n\n'Never!' was the valorous reply. 'Oh, Rachael!' He seized her passive\nhand, and the watering-pot fell to the ground as he pressed it to his\nlips.--'Oh, Rachael! say you love me.'\n\n'Mr. Tupman,' said the spinster aunt, with averted head, 'I can hardly\nspeak the words; but--but--you are not wholly indifferent to me.'\n\nMr. Tupman no sooner heard this avowal, than he proceeded to do what his\nenthusiastic emotions prompted, and what, for aught we know (for we are\nbut little acquainted with such matters), people so circumstanced always\ndo. He jumped up, and, throwing his arm round the neck of the spinster\naunt, imprinted upon her lips numerous kisses, which after a due show of\nstruggling and resistance, she received so passively, that there is no\ntelling how many more Mr. Tupman might have bestowed, if the lady had\nnot given a very unaffected start, and exclaimed in an affrighted tone--\n\n'Mr. Tupman, we are observed!--we are discovered!'\n\nMr. Tupman looked round. There was the fat boy, perfectly motionless,\nwith his large circular eyes staring into the arbour, but without the\nslightest expression on his face that the most expert physiognomist\ncould have referred to astonishment, curiosity, or any other known\npassion that agitates the human breast. Mr. Tupman gazed on the fat boy,\nand the fat boy stared at him; and the longer Mr. Tupman observed the\nutter vacancy of the fat boy's countenance, the more convinced he became\nthat he either did not know, or did not understand, anything that had\nbeen going forward. Under this impression, he said with great firmness--\n\n'What do you want here, Sir?'\n\n'Supper's ready, sir,' was the prompt reply.\n\n'Have you just come here, sir?' inquired Mr. Tupman, with a piercing\nlook.\n\n'Just,' replied the fat boy.\n\nMr. Tupman looked at him very hard again; but there was not a wink in\nhis eye, or a curve in his face.\n\nMr. Tupman took the arm of the spinster aunt, and walked towards the\nhouse; the fat boy followed behind.\n\n'He knows nothing of what has happened,'he whispered.\n\n'Nothing,' said the spinster aunt.\n\nThere was a sound behind them, as of an imperfectly suppressed chuckle.\nMr. Tupman turned sharply round. No; it could not have been the fat boy;\nthere was not a gleam of mirth, or anything but feeding in his whole\nvisage.\n\n'He must have been fast asleep,' whispered Mr. Tupman.\n\n'I have not the least doubt of it,' replied the spinster aunt.\n\nThey both laughed heartily.\n\nMr. Tupman was wrong. The fat boy, for once, had not been fast asleep.\nHe was awake--wide awake--to what had been going forward.\n\nThe supper passed off without any attempt at a general conversation. The\nold lady had gone to bed; Isabella Wardle devoted herself exclusively to\nMr. Trundle; the spinster's attentions were reserved for Mr. Tupman;\nand Emily's thoughts appeared to be engrossed by some distant\nobject--possibly they were with the absent Snodgrass.\n\nEleven--twelve--one o'clock had struck, and the gentlemen had not\narrived. Consternation sat on every face. Could they have been waylaid\nand robbed? Should they send men and lanterns in every direction by\nwhich they could be supposed likely to have travelled home? or should\nthey--Hark! there they were. What could have made them so late? A\nstrange voice, too! To whom could it belong? They rushed into the\nkitchen, whither the truants had repaired, and at once obtained rather\nmore than a glimmering of the real state of the case.\n\nMr. Pickwick, with his hands in his pockets and his hat cocked\ncompletely over his left eye, was leaning against the dresser, shaking\nhis head from side to side, and producing a constant succession of the\nblandest and most benevolent smiles without being moved thereunto by\nany discernible cause or pretence whatsoever; old Mr. Wardle, with\na highly-inflamed countenance, was grasping the hand of a strange\ngentleman muttering protestations of eternal friendship; Mr. Winkle,\nsupporting himself by the eight-day clock, was feebly invoking\ndestruction upon the head of any member of the family who should suggest\nthe propriety of his retiring for the night; and Mr. Snodgrass had sunk\ninto a chair, with an expression of the most abject and hopeless misery\nthat the human mind can imagine, portrayed in every lineament of his\nexpressive face.\n\n'Is anything the matter?' inquired the three ladies.\n\n'Nothing the matter,' replied Mr. Pickwick. 'We--we're--all right.--I\nsay, Wardle, we're all right, ain't we?'\n\n'I should think so,' replied the jolly host.--'My dears, here's my\nfriend Mr. Jingle--Mr. Pickwick's friend, Mr. Jingle, come 'pon--little\nvisit.'\n\n'Is anything the matter with Mr. Snodgrass, Sir?' inquired Emily, with\ngreat anxiety.\n\n'Nothing the matter, ma'am,' replied the stranger. 'Cricket\ndinner--glorious party--capital songs--old port--claret--good--very\ngood--wine, ma'am--wine.'\n\n'It wasn't the wine,' murmured Mr. Snodgrass, in a broken voice. 'It was\nthe salmon.' (Somehow or other, it never is the wine, in these cases.)\n\n'Hadn't they better go to bed, ma'am?' inquired Emma. 'Two of the boys\nwill carry the gentlemen upstairs.'\n\n'I won't go to bed,' said Mr. Winkle firmly.\n\n'No living boy shall carry me,' said Mr. Pickwick stoutly; and he went\non smiling as before. 'Hurrah!' gasped Mr. Winkle faintly.\n\n'Hurrah!' echoed Mr. Pickwick, taking off his hat and dashing it on\nthe floor, and insanely casting his spectacles into the middle of the\nkitchen. At this humorous feat he laughed outright.\n\n'Let's--have--'nother--bottle,'cried Mr. Winkle, commencing in a very\nloud key, and ending in a very faint one. His head dropped upon his\nbreast; and, muttering his invincible determination not to go to his\nbed, and a sanguinary regret that he had not 'done for old Tupman' in\nthe morning, he fell fast asleep; in which condition he was borne to his\napartment by two young giants under the personal superintendence of\nthe fat boy, to whose protecting care Mr. Snodgrass shortly afterwards\nconfided his own person, Mr. Pickwick accepted the proffered arm of Mr.\nTupman and quietly disappeared, smiling more than ever; and Mr. Wardle,\nafter taking as affectionate a leave of the whole family as if he were\nordered for immediate execution, consigned to Mr. Trundle the honour of\nconveying him upstairs, and retired, with a very futile attempt to look\nimpressively solemn and dignified. 'What a shocking scene!' said the\nspinster aunt.\n\n'Dis-gusting!' ejaculated both the young ladies.\n\n'Dreadful--dreadful!' said Jingle, looking very grave: he was about\na bottle and a half ahead of any of his companions. 'Horrid\nspectacle--very!'\n\n'What a nice man!' whispered the spinster aunt to Mr. Tupman.\n\n'Good-looking, too!' whispered Emily Wardle.\n\n'Oh, decidedly,' observed the spinster aunt.\n\nMr. Tupman thought of the widow at Rochester, and his mind was troubled.\nThe succeeding half-hour's conversation was not of a nature to calm his\nperturbed spirit. The new visitor was very talkative, and the number of\nhis anecdotes was only to be exceeded by the extent of his politeness.\nMr. Tupman felt that as Jingle's popularity increased, he (Tupman)\nretired further into the shade. His laughter was forced--his merriment\nfeigned; and when at last he laid his aching temples between the sheets,\nhe thought, with horrid delight, on the satisfaction it would afford\nhim to have Jingle's head at that moment between the feather bed and the\nmattress.\n\nThe indefatigable stranger rose betimes next morning, and, although\nhis companions remained in bed overpowered with the dissipation of\nthe previous night, exerted himself most successfully to promote the\nhilarity of the breakfast-table. So successful were his efforts, that\neven the deaf old lady insisted on having one or two of his best jokes\nretailed through the trumpet; and even she condescended to observe to\nthe spinster aunt, that 'He' (meaning Jingle) 'was an impudent young\nfellow:' a sentiment in which all her relations then and there present\nthoroughly coincided.\n\nIt was the old lady's habit on the fine summer mornings to repair to the\narbour in which Mr. Tupman had already signalised himself, in form and\nmanner following: first, the fat boy fetched from a peg behind the old\nlady's bedroom door, a close black satin bonnet, a warm cotton shawl,\nand a thick stick with a capacious handle; and the old lady, having put\non the bonnet and shawl at her leisure, would lean one hand on the\nstick and the other on the fat boy's shoulder, and walk leisurely to the\narbour, where the fat boy would leave her to enjoy the fresh air for the\nspace of half an hour; at the expiration of which time he would return\nand reconduct her to the house.\n\nThe old lady was very precise and very particular; and as this ceremony\nhad been observed for three successive summers without the slightest\ndeviation from the accustomed form, she was not a little surprised\non this particular morning to see the fat boy, instead of leaving the\narbour, walk a few paces out of it, look carefully round him in every\ndirection, and return towards her with great stealth and an air of the\nmost profound mystery.\n\nThe old lady was timorous--most old ladies are--and her first impression\nwas that the bloated lad was about to do her some grievous bodily harm\nwith the view of possessing himself of her loose coin. She would have\ncried for assistance, but age and infirmity had long ago deprived her\nof the power of screaming; she, therefore, watched his motions with\nfeelings of intense horror which were in no degree diminished by his\ncoming close up to her, and shouting in her ear in an agitated, and as\nit seemed to her, a threatening tone--\n\n'Missus!'\n\nNow it so happened that Mr. Jingle was walking in the garden close to\nthe arbour at that moment. He too heard the shouts of 'Missus,' and\nstopped to hear more. There were three reasons for his doing so. In\nthe first place, he was idle and curious; secondly, he was by no means\nscrupulous; thirdly, and lastly, he was concealed from view by some\nflowering shrubs. So there he stood, and there he listened.\n\n'Missus!' shouted the fat boy.\n\n'Well, Joe,' said the trembling old lady. 'I'm sure I have been a good\nmistress to you, Joe. You have invariably been treated very kindly. You\nhave never had too much to do; and you have always had enough to eat.'\n\nThis last was an appeal to the fat boy's most sensitive feelings. He\nseemed touched, as he replied emphatically--'I knows I has.'\n\n'Then what can you want to do now?' said the old lady, gaining courage.\n\n'I wants to make your flesh creep,' replied the boy.\n\nThis sounded like a very bloodthirsty mode of showing one's gratitude;\nand as the old lady did not precisely understand the process by which\nsuch a result was to be attained, all her former horrors returned.\n\n'What do you think I see in this very arbour last night?' inquired the\nboy.\n\n'Bless us! What?' exclaimed the old lady, alarmed at the solemn manner\nof the corpulent youth.\n\n'The strange gentleman--him as had his arm hurt--a-kissin' and\nhuggin'--'\n\n'Who, Joe? None of the servants, I hope.' 'Worser than that,' roared the\nfat boy, in the old lady's ear.\n\n'Not one of my grandda'aters?'\n\n'Worser than that.'\n\n'Worse than that, Joe!' said the old lady, who had thought this the\nextreme limit of human atrocity. 'Who was it, Joe? I insist upon\nknowing.'\n\nThe fat boy looked cautiously round, and having concluded his survey,\nshouted in the old lady's ear--\n\n'Miss Rachael.'\n\n'What!' said the old lady, in a shrill tone. 'Speak louder.'\n\n'Miss Rachael,' roared the fat boy.\n\n'My da'ater!'\n\nThe train of nods which the fat boy gave by way of assent, communicated\na blanc-mange like motion to his fat cheeks.\n\n'And she suffered him!' exclaimed the old lady. A grin stole over the\nfat boy's features as he said--\n\n'I see her a-kissin' of him agin.'\n\nIf Mr. Jingle, from his place of concealment, could have beheld the\nexpression which the old lady's face assumed at this communication, the\nprobability is that a sudden burst of laughter would have betrayed his\nclose vicinity to the summer-house. He listened attentively. Fragments\nof angry sentences such as, 'Without my permission!'--'At her time of\nlife'--'Miserable old 'ooman like me'--'Might have waited till I was\ndead,' and so forth, reached his ears; and then he heard the heels of\nthe fat boy's boots crunching the gravel, as he retired and left the old\nlady alone.\n\nIt was a remarkable coincidence perhaps, but it was nevertheless a fact,\nthat Mr. Jingle within five minutes of his arrival at Manor Farm on the\npreceding night, had inwardly resolved to lay siege to the heart of the\nspinster aunt, without delay. He had observation enough to see, that his\noff-hand manner was by no means disagreeable to the fair object of his\nattack; and he had more than a strong suspicion that she possessed that\nmost desirable of all requisites, a small independence. The imperative\nnecessity of ousting his rival by some means or other, flashed quickly\nupon him, and he immediately resolved to adopt certain proceedings\ntending to that end and object, without a moment's delay. Fielding tells\nus that man is fire, and woman tow, and the Prince of Darkness sets a\nlight to 'em. Mr. Jingle knew that young men, to spinster aunts, are as\nlighted gas to gunpowder, and he determined to essay the effect of an\nexplosion without loss of time.\n\nFull of reflections upon this important decision, he crept from his\nplace of concealment, and, under cover of the shrubs before mentioned,\napproached the house. Fortune seemed determined to favour his design.\nMr. Tupman and the rest of the gentlemen left the garden by the side\ngate just as he obtained a view of it; and the young ladies, he knew,\nhad walked out alone, soon after breakfast. The coast was clear.\n\nThe breakfast-parlour door was partially open. He peeped in. The\nspinster aunt was knitting. He coughed; she looked up and smiled.\nHesitation formed no part of Mr. Alfred Jingle's character. He laid his\nfinger on his lips mysteriously, walked in, and closed the door.\n\n'Miss Wardle,' said Mr. Jingle, with affected earnestness, 'forgive\nintrusion--short acquaintance--no time for ceremony--all discovered.'\n\n'Sir!' said the spinster aunt, rather astonished by the unexpected\napparition and somewhat doubtful of Mr. Jingle's sanity.\n\n'Hush!' said Mr. Jingle, in a stage-whisper--'Large boy--dumpling\nface--round eyes--rascal!' Here he shook his head expressively, and the\nspinster aunt trembled with agitation.\n\n'I presume you allude to Joseph, Sir?' said the lady, making an effort\nto appear composed.\n\n'Yes, ma'am--damn that Joe!--treacherous dog, Joe--told the old\nlady--old lady furious--wild--raving--arbour--Tupman--kissing and\nhugging--all that sort of thing--eh, ma'am--eh?'\n\n'Mr. Jingle,' said the spinster aunt, 'if you come here, Sir, to insult\nme--'\n\n'Not at all--by no means,' replied the unabashed Mr. Jingle--'overheard\nthe tale--came to warn you of your danger--tender my services--prevent\nthe hubbub. Never mind--think it an insult--leave the room'--and he\nturned, as if to carry the threat into execution.\n\n'What SHALL I do!' said the poor spinster, bursting into tears. 'My\nbrother will be furious.'\n\n'Of course he will,' said Mr. Jingle pausing--'outrageous.' 'Oh, Mr.\nJingle, what CAN I say!' exclaimed the spinster aunt, in another flood\nof despair.\n\n'Say he dreamt it,' replied Mr. Jingle coolly.\n\nA ray of comfort darted across the mind of the spinster aunt at this\nsuggestion. Mr. Jingle perceived it, and followed up his advantage.\n\n'Pooh, pooh!--nothing more easy--blackguard boy--lovely woman--fat boy\nhorsewhipped--you believed--end of the matter--all comfortable.'\n\nWhether the probability of escaping from the consequences of this\nill-timed discovery was delightful to the spinster's feelings, or\nwhether the hearing herself described as a 'lovely woman' softened the\nasperity of her grief, we know not. She blushed slightly, and cast a\ngrateful look on Mr. Jingle.\n\nThat insinuating gentleman sighed deeply, fixed his eyes on the spinster\naunt's face for a couple of minutes, started melodramatically, and\nsuddenly withdrew them.\n\n'You seem unhappy, Mr. Jingle,' said the lady, in a plaintive voice.\n'May I show my gratitude for your kind interference, by inquiring into\nthe cause, with a view, if possible, to its removal?'\n\n'Ha!' exclaimed Mr. Jingle, with another start--'removal! remove my\nunhappiness, and your love bestowed upon a man who is insensible to the\nblessing--who even now contemplates a design upon the affections of the\nniece of the creature who--but no; he is my friend; I will not expose\nhis vices. Miss Wardle--farewell!' At the conclusion of this address,\nthe most consecutive he was ever known to utter, Mr. Jingle applied\nto his eyes the remnant of a handkerchief before noticed, and turned\ntowards the door.\n\n'Stay, Mr. Jingle!' said the spinster aunt emphatically. 'You have made\nan allusion to Mr. Tupman--explain it.'\n\n'Never!' exclaimed Jingle, with a professional (i.e., theatrical) air.\n'Never!' and, by way of showing that he had no desire to be questioned\nfurther, he drew a chair close to that of the spinster aunt and sat\ndown.\n\n'Mr. Jingle,' said the aunt, 'I entreat--I implore you, if there is any\ndreadful mystery connected with Mr. Tupman, reveal it.'\n\n'Can I,' said Mr. Jingle, fixing his eyes on the aunt's face--'can I\nsee--lovely creature--sacrificed at the shrine--heartless avarice!' He\nappeared to be struggling with various conflicting emotions for a few\nseconds, and then said in a low voice--\n\n'Tupman only wants your money.'\n\n'The wretch!' exclaimed the spinster, with energetic indignation. (Mr.\nJingle's doubts were resolved. She HAD money.)\n\n'More than that,' said Jingle--'loves another.'\n\n'Another!' ejaculated the spinster. 'Who?' 'Short girl--black\neyes--niece Emily.'\n\nThere was a pause.\n\nNow, if there was one individual in the whole world, of whom the\nspinster aunt entertained a mortal and deep-rooted jealousy, it was\nthis identical niece. The colour rushed over her face and neck, and she\ntossed her head in silence with an air of ineffable contempt. At last,\nbiting her thin lips, and bridling up, she said--\n\n'It can't be. I won't believe it.'\n\n'Watch 'em,' said Jingle.\n\n'I will,' said the aunt.\n\n'Watch his looks.'\n\n'I will.'\n\n'His whispers.'\n\n'I will.'\n\n'He'll sit next her at table.'\n\n'Let him.'\n\n'He'll flatter her.'\n\n'Let him.'\n\n'He'll pay her every possible attention.'\n\n'Let him.'\n\n'And he'll cut you.'\n\n'Cut ME!' screamed the spinster aunt. 'HE cut ME; will he!' and she\ntrembled with rage and disappointment.\n\n'You will convince yourself?' said Jingle.\n\n'I will.'\n\n'You'll show your spirit?'\n\n'I will.' 'You'll not have him afterwards?'\n\n'Never.'\n\n'You'll take somebody else?' 'Yes.'\n\n'You shall.'\n\nMr. Jingle fell on his knees, remained thereupon for five\nminutes thereafter; and rose the accepted lover of the spinster\naunt--conditionally upon Mr. Tupman's perjury being made clear and\nmanifest.\n\nThe burden of proof lay with Mr. Alfred Jingle; and he produced his\nevidence that very day at dinner. The spinster aunt could hardly believe\nher eyes. Mr. Tracy Tupman was established at Emily's side, ogling,\nwhispering, and smiling, in opposition to Mr. Snodgrass. Not a word,\nnot a look, not a glance, did he bestow upon his heart's pride of the\nevening before.\n\n'Damn that boy!' thought old Mr. Wardle to himself.--He had heard the\nstory from his mother. 'Damn that boy! He must have been asleep. It's\nall imagination.'\n\n'Traitor!' thought the spinster aunt. 'Dear Mr. Jingle was not deceiving\nme. Ugh! how I hate the wretch!'\n\nThe following conversation may serve to explain to our readers this\napparently unaccountable alteration of deportment on the part of Mr.\nTracy Tupman.\n\nThe time was evening; the scene the garden. There were two figures\nwalking in a side path; one was rather short and stout; the other\ntall and slim. They were Mr. Tupman and Mr. Jingle. The stout figure\ncommenced the dialogue.\n\n'How did I do it?' he inquired.\n\n'Splendid--capital--couldn't act better myself--you must repeat the part\nto-morrow--every evening till further notice.'\n\n'Does Rachael still wish it?'\n\n'Of course--she don't like it--but must be done--avert suspicion--afraid\nof her brother--says there's no help for it--only a few days more--when\nold folks blinded--crown your happiness.'\n\n'Any message?'\n\n'Love--best love--kindest regards--unalterable affection. Can I say\nanything for you?'\n\n'My dear fellow,' replied the unsuspicious Mr. Tupman, fervently\ngrasping his 'friend's' hand--'carry my best love--say how hard I find\nit to dissemble--say anything that's kind: but add how sensible I am\nof the necessity of the suggestion she made to me, through you, this\nmorning. Say I applaud her wisdom and admire her discretion.' 'I will.\nAnything more?'\n\n'Nothing, only add how ardently I long for the time when I may call her\nmine, and all dissimulation may be unnecessary.'\n\n'Certainly, certainly. Anything more?'\n\n'Oh, my friend!' said poor Mr. Tupman, again grasping the hand of his\ncompanion, 'receive my warmest thanks for your disinterested kindness;\nand forgive me if I have ever, even in thought, done you the injustice\nof supposing that you could stand in my way. My dear friend, can I ever\nrepay you?'\n\n'Don't talk of it,' replied Mr. Jingle. He stopped short, as if suddenly\nrecollecting something, and said--'By the bye--can't spare ten pounds,\ncan you?--very particular purpose--pay you in three days.'\n\n'I dare say I can,' replied Mr. Tupman, in the fulness of his heart.\n'Three days, you say?'\n\n'Only three days--all over then--no more difficulties.' Mr. Tupman\ncounted the money into his companion's hand, and he dropped it piece by\npiece into his pocket, as they walked towards the house.\n\n'Be careful,' said Mr. Jingle--'not a look.'\n\n'Not a wink,' said Mr. Tupman.\n\n'Not a syllable.'\n\n'Not a whisper.'\n\n'All your attentions to the niece--rather rude, than otherwise, to the\naunt--only way of deceiving the old ones.'\n\n'I'll take care,' said Mr. Tupman aloud.\n\n'And I'LL take care,' said Mr. Jingle internally; and they entered the\nhouse.\n\nThe scene of that afternoon was repeated that evening, and on the three\nafternoons and evenings next ensuing. On the fourth, the host was in\nhigh spirits, for he had satisfied himself that there was no ground for\nthe charge against Mr. Tupman. So was Mr. Tupman, for Mr. Jingle had\ntold him that his affair would soon be brought to a crisis. So was Mr.\nPickwick, for he was seldom otherwise. So was not Mr. Snodgrass, for he\nhad grown jealous of Mr. Tupman. So was the old lady, for she had been\nwinning at whist. So were Mr. Jingle and Miss Wardle, for reasons of\nsufficient importance in this eventful history to be narrated in another\nchapter.\n\n\nCHAPTER IX. A DISCOVERY AND A CHASE\n\n\nThe supper was ready laid, the chairs were drawn round the table,\nbottles, jugs, and glasses were arranged upon the sideboard, and\neverything betokened the approach of the most convivial period in the\nwhole four-and-twenty hours.\n\n'Where's Rachael?' said Mr. Wardle.\n\n'Ay, and Jingle?' added Mr. Pickwick.\n\n'Dear me,' said the host, 'I wonder I haven't missed him before. Why, I\ndon't think I've heard his voice for two hours at least. Emily, my dear,\nring the bell.'\n\nThe bell was rung, and the fat boy appeared.\n\n'Where's Miss Rachael?' He couldn't say. 'Where's Mr. Jingle, then?'\nHe didn't know. Everybody looked surprised. It was late--past eleven\no'clock. Mr. Tupman laughed in his sleeve. They were loitering\nsomewhere, talking about him. Ha, ha! capital notion that--funny.\n\n'Never mind,' said Wardle, after a short pause. 'They'll turn up\npresently, I dare say. I never wait supper for anybody.'\n\n'Excellent rule, that,' said Mr. Pickwick--'admirable.'\n\n'Pray, sit down,' said the host.\n\n'Certainly' said Mr. Pickwick; and down they sat.\n\nThere was a gigantic round of cold beef on the table, and Mr. Pickwick\nwas supplied with a plentiful portion of it. He had raised his fork\nto his lips, and was on the very point of opening his mouth for the\nreception of a piece of beef, when the hum of many voices suddenly arose\nin the kitchen. He paused, and laid down his fork. Mr. Wardle paused\ntoo, and insensibly released his hold of the carving-knife, which\nremained inserted in the beef. He looked at Mr. Pickwick. Mr. Pickwick\nlooked at him.\n\nHeavy footsteps were heard in the passage; the parlour door was suddenly\nburst open; and the man who had cleaned Mr. Pickwick's boots on his\nfirst arrival, rushed into the room, followed by the fat boy and all the\ndomestics. 'What the devil's the meaning of this?' exclaimed the host.\n\n'The kitchen chimney ain't a-fire, is it, Emma?' inquired the old lady.\n'Lor, grandma! No,' screamed both the young ladies.\n\n'What's the matter?' roared the master of the house.\n\nThe man gasped for breath, and faintly ejaculated--\n\n'They ha' gone, mas'r!--gone right clean off, Sir!' (At this juncture\nMr. Tupman was observed to lay down his knife and fork, and to turn very\npale.)\n\n'Who's gone?' said Mr. Wardle fiercely.\n\n'Mus'r Jingle and Miss Rachael, in a po'-chay, from Blue Lion,\nMuggleton. I was there; but I couldn't stop 'em; so I run off to tell\n'ee.'\n\n'I paid his expenses!' said Mr. Tupman, jumping up frantically. 'He's\ngot ten pounds of mine!--stop him!--he's swindled me!--I won't bear\nit!--I'll have justice, Pickwick!--I won't stand it!' and with sundry\nincoherent exclamations of the like nature, the unhappy gentleman spun\nround and round the apartment, in a transport of frenzy.\n\n'Lord preserve us!' ejaculated Mr. Pickwick, eyeing the extraordinary\ngestures of his friend with terrified surprise. 'He's gone mad! What\nshall we do?' 'Do!' said the stout old host, who regarded only the last\nwords of the sentence. 'Put the horse in the gig! I'll get a chaise at\nthe Lion, and follow 'em instantly. Where?'--he exclaimed, as the man\nran out to execute the commission--'where's that villain, Joe?'\n\n'Here I am! but I hain't a willin,' replied a voice. It was the fat\nboy's.\n\n'Let me get at him, Pickwick,' cried Wardle, as he rushed at the\nill-starred youth. 'He was bribed by that scoundrel, Jingle, to put me\non a wrong scent, by telling a cock-and-bull story of my sister and\nyour friend Tupman!' (Here Mr. Tupman sank into a chair.) 'Let me get at\nhim!'\n\n'Don't let him!' screamed all the women, above whose exclamations the\nblubbering of the fat boy was distinctly audible.\n\n'I won't be held!' cried the old man. 'Mr. Winkle, take your hands off.\nMr. Pickwick, let me go, sir!'\n\nIt was a beautiful sight, in that moment of turmoil and confusion, to\nbehold the placid and philosophical expression of Mr. Pickwick's face,\nalbeit somewhat flushed with exertion, as he stood with his arms\nfirmly clasped round the extensive waist of their corpulent host,\nthus restraining the impetuosity of his passion, while the fat boy\nwas scratched, and pulled, and pushed from the room by all the females\ncongregated therein. He had no sooner released his hold, than the man\nentered to announce that the gig was ready.\n\n'Don't let him go alone!' screamed the females. 'He'll kill somebody!'\n\n'I'll go with him,' said Mr. Pickwick.\n\n'You're a good fellow, Pickwick,' said the host, grasping his hand.\n'Emma, give Mr. Pickwick a shawl to tie round his neck--make haste. Look\nafter your grandmother, girls; she has fainted away. Now then, are you\nready?'\n\nMr. Pickwick's mouth and chin having been hastily enveloped in a large\nshawl, his hat having been put on his head, and his greatcoat thrown\nover his arm, he replied in the affirmative.\n\nThey jumped into the gig. 'Give her her head, Tom,' cried the host;\nand away they went, down the narrow lanes; jolting in and out of the\ncart-ruts, and bumping up against the hedges on either side, as if they\nwould go to pieces every moment.\n\n'How much are they ahead?' shouted Wardle, as they drove up to the door\nof the Blue Lion, round which a little crowd had collected, late as it\nwas.\n\n'Not above three-quarters of an hour,' was everybody's reply.\n'Chaise-and-four directly!--out with 'em! Put up the gig afterwards.'\n\n'Now, boys!' cried the landlord--'chaise-and-four out--make haste--look\nalive there!'\n\nAway ran the hostlers and the boys. The lanterns glimmered, as the men\nran to and fro; the horses' hoofs clattered on the uneven paving of the\nyard; the chaise rumbled as it was drawn out of the coach-house; and all\nwas noise and bustle.\n\n'Now then!--is that chaise coming out to-night?' cried Wardle.\n\n'Coming down the yard now, Sir,' replied the hostler.\n\nOut came the chaise--in went the horses--on sprang the boys--in got the\ntravellers.\n\n'Mind--the seven-mile stage in less than half an hour!' shouted Wardle.\n\n'Off with you!'\n\nThe boys applied whip and spur, the waiters shouted, the hostlers\ncheered, and away they went, fast and furiously.\n\n'Pretty situation,' thought Mr. Pickwick, when he had had a moment's\ntime for reflection. 'Pretty situation for the general chairman of the\nPickwick Club. Damp chaise--strange horses--fifteen miles an hour--and\ntwelve o'clock at night!'\n\nFor the first three or four miles, not a word was spoken by either of\nthe gentlemen, each being too much immersed in his own reflections to\naddress any observations to his companion. When they had gone over that\nmuch ground, however, and the horses getting thoroughly warmed began\nto do their work in really good style, Mr. Pickwick became too much\nexhilarated with the rapidity of the motion, to remain any longer\nperfectly mute.\n\n'We're sure to catch them, I think,' said he.\n\n'Hope so,' replied his companion.\n\n'Fine night,' said Mr. Pickwick, looking up at the moon, which was\nshining brightly.\n\n'So much the worse,' returned Wardle; 'for they'll have had all the\nadvantage of the moonlight to get the start of us, and we shall lose it.\nIt will have gone down in another hour.'\n\n\n'It will be rather unpleasant going at this rate in the dark, won't it?'\ninquired Mr. Pickwick.\n\n'I dare say it will,' replied his friend dryly.\n\nMr. Pickwick's temporary excitement began to sober down a little, as he\nreflected upon the inconveniences and dangers of the expedition in which\nhe had so thoughtlessly embarked. He was roused by a loud shouting of\nthe post-boy on the leader.\n\n'Yo-yo-yo-yo-yoe!' went the first boy.\n\n'Yo-yo-yo-yoe!' went the second.\n\n'Yo-yo-yo-yoe!' chimed in old Wardle himself, most lustily, with his\nhead and half his body out of the coach window.\n\n'Yo-yo-yo-yoe!' shouted Mr. Pickwick, taking up the burden of the cry,\nthough he had not the slightest notion of its meaning or object. And\namidst the yo-yoing of the whole four, the chaise stopped.\n\n'What's the matter?' inquired Mr. Pickwick.\n\n'There's a gate here,' replied old Wardle. 'We shall hear something of\nthe fugitives.'\n\nAfter a lapse of five minutes, consumed in incessant knocking and\nshouting, an old man in his shirt and trousers emerged from the\nturnpike-house, and opened the gate.\n\n'How long is it since a post-chaise went through here?' inquired Mr.\nWardle.\n\n'How long?'\n\n'Ah!'\n\n'Why, I don't rightly know. It worn't a long time ago, nor it worn't a\nshort time ago--just between the two, perhaps.'\n\n'Has any chaise been by at all?'\n\n'Oh, yes, there's been a Shay by.'\n\n'How long ago, my friend,' interposed Mr. Pickwick; 'an hour?'\n\n'Ah, I dare say it might be,' replied the man.\n\n'Or two hours?' inquired the post--boy on the wheeler.\n\n'Well, I shouldn't wonder if it was,' returned the old man doubtfully.\n\n'Drive on, boys,' cried the testy old gentleman; 'don't waste any more\ntime with that old idiot!'\n\n'Idiot!' exclaimed the old man with a grin, as he stood in the middle\nof the road with the gate half-closed, watching the chaise which rapidly\ndiminished in the increasing distance. 'No--not much o' that either;\nyou've lost ten minutes here, and gone away as wise as you came, arter\nall. If every man on the line as has a guinea give him, earns it half\nas well, you won't catch t'other shay this side Mich'lmas, old\nshort-and-fat.' And with another prolonged grin, the old man closed the\ngate, re-entered his house, and bolted the door after him.\n\nMeanwhile the chaise proceeded, without any slackening of pace, towards\nthe conclusion of the stage. The moon, as Wardle had foretold, was\nrapidly on the wane; large tiers of dark, heavy clouds, which had been\ngradually overspreading the sky for some time past, now formed one black\nmass overhead; and large drops of rain which pattered every now and then\nagainst the windows of the chaise, seemed to warn the travellers of\nthe rapid approach of a stormy night. The wind, too, which was directly\nagainst them, swept in furious gusts down the narrow road, and howled\ndismally through the trees which skirted the pathway. Mr. Pickwick drew\nhis coat closer about him, coiled himself more snugly up into the corner\nof the chaise, and fell into a sound sleep, from which he was only\nawakened by the stopping of the vehicle, the sound of the hostler's\nbell, and a loud cry of 'Horses on directly!'\n\nBut here another delay occurred. The boys were sleeping with such\nmysterious soundness, that it took five minutes a-piece to wake them.\nThe hostler had somehow or other mislaid the key of the stable, and even\nwhen that was found, two sleepy helpers put the wrong harness on the\nwrong horses, and the whole process of harnessing had to be gone through\nafresh. Had Mr. Pickwick been alone, these multiplied obstacles would\nhave completely put an end to the pursuit at once, but old Wardle was\nnot to be so easily daunted; and he laid about him with such hearty\ngood-will, cuffing this man, and pushing that; strapping a buckle here,\nand taking in a link there, that the chaise was ready in a much\nshorter time than could reasonably have been expected, under so many\ndifficulties.\n\nThey resumed their journey; and certainly the prospect before them was\nby no means encouraging. The stage was fifteen miles long, the night was\ndark, the wind high, and the rain pouring in torrents. It was impossible\nto make any great way against such obstacles united; it was hard upon\none o'clock already; and nearly two hours were consumed in getting to\nthe end of the stage. Here, however, an object presented itself, which\nrekindled their hopes, and reanimated their drooping spirits.\n\n'When did this chaise come in?' cried old Wardle, leaping out of his own\nvehicle, and pointing to one covered with wet mud, which was standing in\nthe yard.\n\n'Not a quarter of an hour ago, sir,' replied the hostler, to whom the\nquestion was addressed. 'Lady and gentleman?' inquired Wardle, almost\nbreathless with impatience.\n\n'Yes, sir.'\n\n'Tall gentleman--dress-coat--long legs--thin body?'\n\n'Yes, sir.'\n\n'Elderly lady--thin face--rather skinny--eh?'\n\n'Yes, sir.'\n\n'By heavens, it's the couple, Pickwick,' exclaimed the old gentleman.\n\n'Would have been here before,' said the hostler, 'but they broke a\ntrace.'\n\n''Tis them!' said Wardle, 'it is, by Jove! Chaise-and-four instantly! We\nshall catch them yet before they reach the next stage. A guinea a-piece,\nboys-be alive there--bustle about--there's good fellows.'\n\nAnd with such admonitions as these, the old gentleman ran up and\ndown the yard, and bustled to and fro, in a state of excitement which\ncommunicated itself to Mr. Pickwick also; and under the influence of\nwhich, that gentleman got himself into complicated entanglements with\nharness, and mixed up with horses and wheels of chaises, in the most\nsurprising manner, firmly believing that by so doing he was materially\nforwarding the preparations for their resuming their journey.\n\n'Jump in--jump in!' cried old Wardle, climbing into the chaise, pulling\nup the steps, and slamming the door after him. 'Come along! Make haste!'\nAnd before Mr. Pickwick knew precisely what he was about, he felt\nhimself forced in at the other door, by one pull from the old gentleman\nand one push from the hostler; and off they were again.\n\n'Ah! we are moving now,' said the old gentleman exultingly. They were\nindeed, as was sufficiently testified to Mr. Pickwick, by his constant\ncollision either with the hard wood-work of the chaise, or the body of\nhis companion.\n\n'Hold up!' said the stout old Mr. Wardle, as Mr. Pickwick dived head\nforemost into his capacious waistcoat.\n\n'I never did feel such a jolting in my life,' said Mr. Pickwick.\n\n'Never mind,' replied his companion, 'it will soon be over. Steady,\nsteady.'\n\nMr. Pickwick planted himself into his own corner, as firmly as he could;\nand on whirled the chaise faster than ever.\n\nThey had travelled in this way about three miles, when Mr. Wardle, who\nhad been looking out of the Window for two or three minutes, suddenly\ndrew in his face, covered with splashes, and exclaimed in breathless\neagerness--\n\n'Here they are!'\n\nMr. Pickwick thrust his head out of his window. Yes: there was a\nchaise-and-four, a short distance before them, dashing along at full\ngallop.\n\n'Go on, go on,' almost shrieked the old gentleman. 'Two guineas a-piece,\nboys--don't let 'em gain on us--keep it up--keep it up.'\n\nThe horses in the first chaise started on at their utmost speed; and\nthose in Mr. Wardle's galloped furiously behind them.\n\n'I see his head,' exclaimed the choleric old man; 'damme, I see his\nhead.'\n\n'So do I' said Mr. Pickwick; 'that's he.' Mr. Pickwick was not mistaken.\nThe countenance of Mr. Jingle, completely coated with mud thrown up by\nthe wheels, was plainly discernible at the window of his chaise; and the\nmotion of his arm, which was waving violently towards the postillions,\ndenoted that he was encouraging them to increased exertion.\n\nThe interest was intense. Fields, trees, and hedges, seemed to rush past\nthem with the velocity of a whirlwind, so rapid was the pace at which\nthey tore along. They were close by the side of the first chaise.\nJingle's voice could be plainly heard, even above the din of the wheels,\nurging on the boys. Old Mr. Wardle foamed with rage and excitement. He\nroared out scoundrels and villains by the dozen, clenched his fist and\nshook it expressively at the object of his indignation; but Mr. Jingle\nonly answered with a contemptuous smile, and replied to his menaces by a\nshout of triumph, as his horses, answering the increased application of\nwhip and spur, broke into a faster gallop, and left the pursuers behind.\n\nMr. Pickwick had just drawn in his head, and Mr. Wardle, exhausted with\nshouting, had done the same, when a tremendous jolt threw them forward\nagainst the front of the vehicle. There was a sudden bump--a loud\ncrash--away rolled a wheel, and over went the chaise.\n\nAfter a very few seconds of bewilderment and confusion, in which nothing\nbut the plunging of horses, and breaking of glass could be made out, Mr.\nPickwick felt himself violently pulled out from among the ruins of the\nchaise; and as soon as he had gained his feet, extricated his head from\nthe skirts of his greatcoat, which materially impeded the usefulness of\nhis spectacles, the full disaster of the case met his view.\n\nOld Mr. Wardle without a hat, and his clothes torn in several places,\nstood by his side, and the fragments of the chaise lay scattered at\ntheir feet. The post-boys, who had succeeded in cutting the traces,\nwere standing, disfigured with mud and disordered by hard riding, by the\nhorses' heads. About a hundred yards in advance was the other chaise,\nwhich had pulled up on hearing the crash. The postillions, each with a\nbroad grin convulsing his countenance, were viewing the adverse party\nfrom their saddles, and Mr. Jingle was contemplating the wreck from the\ncoach window, with evident satisfaction. The day was just breaking, and\nthe whole scene was rendered perfectly visible by the grey light of the\nmorning.\n\n'Hollo!' shouted the shameless Jingle, 'anybody damaged?--elderly\ngentlemen--no light weights--dangerous work--very.'\n\n'You're a rascal,' roared Wardle.\n\n'Ha! ha!' replied Jingle; and then he added, with a knowing wink, and a\njerk of the thumb towards the interior of the chaise--'I say--she's very\nwell--desires her compliments--begs you won't trouble yourself--love to\nTUPPY--won't you get up behind?--drive on, boys.'\n\nThe postillions resumed their proper attitudes, and away rattled the\nchaise, Mr. Jingle fluttering in derision a white handkerchief from the\ncoach window.\n\nNothing in the whole adventure, not even the upset, had disturbed\nthe calm and equable current of Mr. Pickwick's temper. The villainy,\nhowever, which could first borrow money of his faithful follower, and\nthen abbreviate his name to 'Tuppy,' was more than he could patiently\nbear. He drew his breath hard, and coloured up to the very tips of his\nspectacles, as he said, slowly and emphatically--\n\n'If ever I meet that man again, I'll--'\n\n'Yes, yes,' interrupted Wardle, 'that's all very well; but while\nwe stand talking here, they'll get their licence, and be married in\nLondon.'\n\nMr. Pickwick paused, bottled up his vengeance, and corked it down. 'How\nfar is it to the next stage?' inquired Mr. Wardle, of one of the boys.\n\n'Six mile, ain't it, Tom?'\n\n'Rayther better.'\n\n'Rayther better nor six mile, Sir.'\n\n'Can't be helped,' said Wardle, 'we must walk it, Pickwick.'\n\n'No help for it,' replied that truly great man.\n\nSo sending forward one of the boys on horseback, to procure a fresh\nchaise and horses, and leaving the other behind to take care of the\nbroken one, Mr. Pickwick and Mr. Wardle set manfully forward on the\nwalk, first tying their shawls round their necks, and slouching down\ntheir hats to escape as much as possible from the deluge of rain, which\nafter a slight cessation had again begun to pour heavily down.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER X. CLEARING UP ALL DOUBTS (IF ANY EXISTED) OF THE\nDISINTERESTEDNESS OF Mr. A. JINGLE'S CHARACTER\n\n\nThere are in London several old inns, once the headquarters of\ncelebrated coaches in the days when coaches performed their journeys in\na graver and more solemn manner than they do in these times; but\nwhich have now degenerated into little more than the abiding and\nbooking-places of country wagons. The reader would look in vain for\nany of these ancient hostelries, among the Golden Crosses and Bull\nand Mouths, which rear their stately fronts in the improved streets of\nLondon. If he would light upon any of these old places, he must direct\nhis steps to the obscurer quarters of the town, and there in some\nsecluded nooks he will find several, still standing with a kind of\ngloomy sturdiness, amidst the modern innovations which surround them.\n\nIn the Borough especially, there still remain some half-dozen old inns,\nwhich have preserved their external features unchanged, and which have\nescaped alike the rage for public improvement and the encroachments of\nprivate speculation. Great, rambling queer old places they are, with\ngalleries, and passages, and staircases, wide enough and antiquated\nenough to furnish materials for a hundred ghost stories, supposing we\nshould ever be reduced to the lamentable necessity of inventing any,\nand that the world should exist long enough to exhaust the innumerable\nveracious legends connected with old London Bridge, and its adjacent\nneighbourhood on the Surrey side.\n\nIt was in the yard of one of these inns--of no less celebrated a one\nthan the White Hart--that a man was busily employed in brushing the dirt\noff a pair of boots, early on the morning succeeding the events narrated\nin the last chapter. He was habited in a coarse, striped waistcoat,\nwith black calico sleeves, and blue glass buttons; drab breeches and\nleggings. A bright red handkerchief was wound in a very loose and\nunstudied style round his neck, and an old white hat was carelessly\nthrown on one side of his head. There were two rows of boots before him,\none cleaned and the other dirty, and at every addition he made to the\nclean row, he paused from his work, and contemplated its results with\nevident satisfaction.\n\nThe yard presented none of that bustle and activity which are the usual\ncharacteristics of a large coach inn. Three or four lumbering wagons,\neach with a pile of goods beneath its ample canopy, about the height of\nthe second-floor window of an ordinary house, were stowed away beneath\na lofty roof which extended over one end of the yard; and another, which\nwas probably to commence its journey that morning, was drawn out into\nthe open space. A double tier of bedroom galleries, with old clumsy\nbalustrades, ran round two sides of the straggling area, and a double\nrow of bells to correspond, sheltered from the weather by a little\nsloping roof, hung over the door leading to the bar and coffee-room. Two\nor three gigs and chaise-carts were wheeled up under different little\nsheds and pent-houses; and the occasional heavy tread of a cart-horse,\nor rattling of a chain at the farther end of the yard, announced\nto anybody who cared about the matter, that the stable lay in that\ndirection. When we add that a few boys in smock-frocks were lying asleep\non heavy packages, wool-packs, and other articles that were scattered\nabout on heaps of straw, we have described as fully as need be the\ngeneral appearance of the yard of the White Hart Inn, High Street,\nBorough, on the particular morning in question.\n\nA loud ringing of one of the bells was followed by the appearance of a\nsmart chambermaid in the upper sleeping gallery, who, after tapping at\none of the doors, and receiving a request from within, called over the\nbalustrades--'Sam!'\n\n'Hollo,' replied the man with the white hat.\n\n'Number twenty-two wants his boots.'\n\n'Ask number twenty-two, vether he'll have 'em now, or vait till he gets\n'em,' was the reply.\n\n'Come, don't be a fool, Sam,' said the girl coaxingly, 'the gentleman\nwants his boots directly.'\n\n'Well, you ARE a nice young 'ooman for a musical party, you are,' said\nthe boot-cleaner. 'Look at these here boots--eleven pair o' boots; and\none shoe as belongs to number six, with the wooden leg. The eleven boots\nis to be called at half-past eight and the shoe at nine. Who's number\ntwenty-two, that's to put all the others out? No, no; reg'lar rotation,\nas Jack Ketch said, ven he tied the men up. Sorry to keep you a-waitin',\nSir, but I'll attend to you directly.'\n\nSaying which, the man in the white hat set to work upon a top-boot with\nincreased assiduity.\n\nThere was another loud ring; and the bustling old landlady of the White\nHart made her appearance in the opposite gallery.\n\n'Sam,' cried the landlady, 'where's that lazy, idle--why, Sam--oh, there\nyou are; why don't you answer?'\n\n'Vouldn't be gen-teel to answer, till you'd done talking,' replied Sam\ngruffly.\n\n'Here, clean these shoes for number seventeen directly, and take 'em to\nprivate sitting-room, number five, first floor.'\n\nThe landlady flung a pair of lady's shoes into the yard, and bustled\naway.\n\n'Number five,' said Sam, as he picked up the shoes, and taking a piece\nof chalk from his pocket, made a memorandum of their destination on the\nsoles--'Lady's shoes and private sittin'-room! I suppose she didn't come\nin the vagin.'\n\n'She came in early this morning,' cried the girl, who was still leaning\nover the railing of the gallery, 'with a gentleman in a hackney-coach,\nand it's him as wants his boots, and you'd better do 'em, that's all\nabout it.'\n\n'Vy didn't you say so before,' said Sam, with great indignation,\nsingling out the boots in question from the heap before him. 'For all I\nknow'd he was one o' the regular threepennies. Private room! and a lady\ntoo! If he's anything of a gen'l'm'n, he's vurth a shillin' a day, let\nalone the arrands.' Stimulated by this inspiring reflection, Mr. Samuel\nbrushed away with such hearty good-will, that in a few minutes the boots\nand shoes, with a polish which would have struck envy to the soul of the\namiable Mr. Warren (for they used Day & Martin at the White Hart), had\narrived at the door of number five.\n\n'Come in,' said a man's voice, in reply to Sam's rap at the door. Sam\nmade his best bow, and stepped into the presence of a lady and gentleman\nseated at breakfast. Having officiously deposited the gentleman's boots\nright and left at his feet, and the lady's shoes right and left at hers,\nhe backed towards the door.\n\n'Boots,' said the gentleman.\n\n'Sir,' said Sam, closing the door, and keeping his hand on the knob of\nthe lock. 'Do you know--what's a-name--Doctors' Commons?'\n\n'Yes, Sir.'\n\n'Where is it?'\n\n'Paul's Churchyard, Sir; low archway on the carriage side, bookseller's\nat one corner, hotel on the other, and two porters in the middle as\ntouts for licences.'\n\n'Touts for licences!' said the gentleman.\n\n'Touts for licences,' replied Sam. 'Two coves in vhite aprons--touches\ntheir hats ven you walk in--\"Licence, Sir, licence?\" Queer sort, them,\nand their mas'rs, too, sir--Old Bailey Proctors--and no mistake.'\n\n'What do they do?' inquired the gentleman.\n\n'Do! You, Sir! That ain't the worst on it, neither. They puts things\ninto old gen'l'm'n's heads as they never dreamed of. My father, Sir, wos\na coachman. A widower he wos, and fat enough for anything--uncommon fat,\nto be sure. His missus dies, and leaves him four hundred pound. Down\nhe goes to the Commons, to see the lawyer and draw the blunt--very\nsmart--top boots on--nosegay in his button-hole--broad-brimmed\ntile--green shawl--quite the gen'l'm'n. Goes through the archvay,\nthinking how he should inwest the money--up comes the touter,\ntouches his hat--\"Licence, Sir, licence?\"--\"What's that?\" says\nmy father.--\"Licence, Sir,\" says he.--\"What licence?\" says my\nfather.--\"Marriage licence,\" says the touter.--\"Dash my veskit,\" says my\nfather, \"I never thought o' that.\"--\"I think you wants one, Sir,\" says\nthe touter. My father pulls up, and thinks a bit--\"No,\" says he, \"damme,\nI'm too old, b'sides, I'm a many sizes too large,\" says he.--\"Not a bit\non it, Sir,\" says the touter.--\"Think not?\" says my father.--\"I'm\nsure not,\" says he; \"we married a gen'l'm'n twice your size, last\nMonday.\"--\"Did you, though?\" said my father.--\"To be sure, we did,\" says\nthe touter, \"you're a babby to him--this way, sir--this way!\"--and sure\nenough my father walks arter him, like a tame monkey behind a horgan,\ninto a little back office, vere a teller sat among dirty papers, and tin\nboxes, making believe he was busy. \"Pray take a seat, vile I makes out\nthe affidavit, Sir,\" says the lawyer.--\"Thank'ee, Sir,\" says my father,\nand down he sat, and stared with all his eyes, and his mouth vide\nopen, at the names on the boxes. \"What's your name, Sir,\" says the\nlawyer.--\"Tony Weller,\" says my father.--\"Parish?\" says the lawyer.\n\"Belle Savage,\" says my father; for he stopped there wen he drove up,\nand he know'd nothing about parishes, he didn't.--\"And what's the lady's\nname?\" says the lawyer. My father was struck all of a heap. \"Blessed if\nI know,\" says he.--\"Not know!\" says the lawyer.--\"No more nor you do,\"\nsays my father; \"can't I put that in arterwards?\"--\"Impossible!\" says\nthe lawyer.--\"Wery well,\" says my father, after he'd thought a moment,\n\"put down Mrs. Clarke.\"--\"What Clarke?\" says the lawyer, dipping his pen\nin the ink.--\"Susan Clarke, Markis o' Granby, Dorking,\" says my father;\n\"she'll have me, if I ask. I des-say--I never said nothing to her, but\nshe'll have me, I know.\" The licence was made out, and she DID have\nhim, and what's more she's got him now; and I never had any of the four\nhundred pound, worse luck. Beg your pardon, sir,' said Sam, when he had\nconcluded, 'but wen I gets on this here grievance, I runs on like a new\nbarrow with the wheel greased.' Having said which, and having paused for\nan instant to see whether he was wanted for anything more, Sam left the\nroom.\n\n'Half-past nine--just the time--off at once;' said the gentleman, whom\nwe need hardly introduce as Mr. Jingle.\n\n'Time--for what?' said the spinster aunt coquettishly.\n\n'Licence, dearest of angels--give notice at the church--call you mine,\nto-morrow'--said Mr. Jingle, and he squeezed the spinster aunt's hand.\n\n'The licence!' said Rachael, blushing.\n\n\n'The licence,' repeated Mr. Jingle--\n\n 'In hurry, post-haste for a licence,\n In hurry, ding dong I come back.'\n\n'How you run on,' said Rachael.\n\n'Run on--nothing to the hours, days, weeks, months, years, when\nwe're united--run on--they'll fly\non--bolt--mizzle--steam-engine--thousand-horse power--nothing to it.'\n\n'Can't--can't we be married before to-morrow morning?' inquired\nRachael. 'Impossible--can't be--notice at the church--leave the licence\nto-day--ceremony come off to-morrow.' 'I am so terrified, lest my\nbrother should discover us!' said Rachael.\n\n'Discover--nonsense--too much shaken by the break-down--besides--extreme\ncaution--gave up the post-chaise--walked on--took a hackney-coach--came\nto the Borough--last place in the world that he'd look in--ha!\nha!--capital notion that--very.'\n\n'Don't be long,' said the spinster affectionately, as Mr. Jingle stuck\nthe pinched-up hat on his head.\n\n'Long away from you?--Cruel charmer;' and Mr. Jingle skipped playfully\nup to the spinster aunt, imprinted a chaste kiss upon her lips, and\ndanced out of the room.\n\n'Dear man!' said the spinster, as the door closed after him.\n\n'Rum old girl,' said Mr. Jingle, as he walked down the passage.\n\nIt is painful to reflect upon the perfidy of our species; and we will\nnot, therefore, pursue the thread of Mr. Jingle's meditations, as\nhe wended his way to Doctors' Commons. It will be sufficient for our\npurpose to relate, that escaping the snares of the dragons in white\naprons, who guard the entrance to that enchanted region, he reached the\nvicar-general's office in safety and having procured a highly flattering\naddress on parchment, from the Archbishop of Canterbury, to his 'trusty\nand well-beloved Alfred Jingle and Rachael Wardle, greeting,' he\ncarefully deposited the mystic document in his pocket, and retraced his\nsteps in triumph to the Borough.\n\nHe was yet on his way to the White Hart, when two plump gentleman\nand one thin one entered the yard, and looked round in search of some\nauthorised person of whom they could make a few inquiries. Mr. Samuel\nWeller happened to be at that moment engaged in burnishing a pair of\npainted tops, the personal property of a farmer who was refreshing\nhimself with a slight lunch of two or three pounds of cold beef and a\npot or two of porter, after the fatigues of the Borough market; and to\nhim the thin gentleman straightway advanced.\n\n'My friend,' said the thin gentleman.\n\n'You're one o' the adwice gratis order,' thought Sam, 'or you wouldn't\nbe so wery fond o' me all at once.' But he only said--'Well, Sir.'\n\n'My friend,' said the thin gentleman, with a conciliatory hem--'have you\ngot many people stopping here now? Pretty busy. Eh?'\n\nSam stole a look at the inquirer. He was a little high-dried man, with\na dark squeezed-up face, and small, restless, black eyes, that kept\nwinking and twinkling on each side of his little inquisitive nose, as if\nthey were playing a perpetual game of peep-bo with that feature. He\nwas dressed all in black, with boots as shiny as his eyes, a low white\nneckcloth, and a clean shirt with a frill to it. A gold watch-chain,\nand seals, depended from his fob. He carried his black kid gloves IN his\nhands, and not ON them; and as he spoke, thrust his wrists beneath his\ncoat tails, with the air of a man who was in the habit of propounding\nsome regular posers.\n\n'Pretty busy, eh?' said the little man.\n\n'Oh, wery well, Sir,' replied Sam, 'we shan't be bankrupts, and we\nshan't make our fort'ns. We eats our biled mutton without capers, and\ndon't care for horse-radish ven ve can get beef.'\n\n'Ah,' said the little man, 'you're a wag, ain't you?'\n\n'My eldest brother was troubled with that complaint,' said Sam; 'it may\nbe catching--I used to sleep with him.'\n\n'This is a curious old house of yours,' said the little man, looking\nround him.\n\n'If you'd sent word you was a-coming, we'd ha' had it repaired;' replied\nthe imperturbable Sam.\n\nThe little man seemed rather baffled by these several repulses, and a\nshort consultation took place between him and the two plump gentlemen.\nAt its conclusion, the little man took a pinch of snuff from an\noblong silver box, and was apparently on the point of renewing the\nconversation, when one of the plump gentlemen, who in addition to a\nbenevolent countenance, possessed a pair of spectacles, and a pair of\nblack gaiters, interfered--\n\n'The fact of the matter is,' said the benevolent gentleman, 'that my\nfriend here (pointing to the other plump gentleman) will give you half a\nguinea, if you'll answer one or two--'\n\n'Now, my dear sir--my dear Sir,' said the little man, 'pray, allow\nme--my dear Sir, the very first principle to be observed in these cases,\nis this: if you place the matter in the hands of a professional man,\nyou must in no way interfere in the progress of the business; you must\nrepose implicit confidence in him. Really, Mr.--' He turned to the other\nplump gentleman, and said, 'I forget your friend's name.'\n\n'Pickwick,' said Mr. Wardle, for it was no other than that jolly\npersonage.\n\n'Ah, Pickwick--really Mr. Pickwick, my dear Sir, excuse me--I shall be\nhappy to receive any private suggestions of yours, as AMICUS CURIAE, but\nyou must see the impropriety of your interfering with my conduct in this\ncase, with such an AD CAPTANDUM argument as the offer of half a guinea.\nReally, my dear Sir, really;' and the little man took an argumentative\npinch of snuff, and looked very profound.\n\n'My only wish, Sir,' said Mr. Pickwick, 'was to bring this very\nunpleasant matter to as speedy a close as possible.'\n\n'Quite right--quite right,' said the little man.\n\n'With which view,' continued Mr. Pickwick, 'I made use of the argument\nwhich my experience of men has taught me is the most likely to succeed\nin any case.'\n\n'Ay, ay,' said the little man, 'very good, very good, indeed; but you\nshould have suggested it to me. My dear sir, I'm quite certain you\ncannot be ignorant of the extent of confidence which must be placed in\nprofessional men. If any authority can be necessary on such a point, my\ndear sir, let me refer you to the well-known case in Barnwell and--'\n\n'Never mind George Barnwell,' interrupted Sam, who had remained a\nwondering listener during this short colloquy; 'everybody knows what\nsort of a case his was, tho' it's always been my opinion, mind you, that\nthe young 'ooman deserved scragging a precious sight more than he did.\nHows'ever, that's neither here nor there. You want me to accept of half\na guinea. Wery well, I'm agreeable: I can't say no fairer than that,\ncan I, sir?' (Mr. Pickwick smiled.) Then the next question is, what the\ndevil do you want with me, as the man said, wen he see the ghost?'\n\n'We want to know--' said Mr. Wardle.\n\n'Now, my dear sir--my dear sir,' interposed the busy little man.\n\nMr. Wardle shrugged his shoulders, and was silent.\n\n'We want to know,' said the little man solemnly; 'and we ask the\nquestion of you, in order that we may not awaken apprehensions\ninside--we want to know who you've got in this house at present?'\n\n'Who there is in the house!' said Sam, in whose mind the inmates were\nalways represented by that particular article of their costume, which\ncame under his immediate superintendence. 'There's a vooden leg in\nnumber six; there's a pair of Hessians in thirteen; there's two pair\nof halves in the commercial; there's these here painted tops in the\nsnuggery inside the bar; and five more tops in the coffee-room.'\n\n'Nothing more?' said the little man.\n\n'Stop a bit,' replied Sam, suddenly recollecting himself. 'Yes; there's\na pair of Vellingtons a good deal worn, and a pair o' lady's shoes, in\nnumber five.'\n\n'What sort of shoes?' hastily inquired Wardle, who, together with Mr.\nPickwick, had been lost in bewilderment at the singular catalogue of\nvisitors.\n\n'Country make,' replied Sam.\n\n'Any maker's name?'\n\n'Brown.'\n\n'Where of?'\n\n'Muggleton.\n\n'It is them,' exclaimed Wardle. 'By heavens, we've found them.'\n\n'Hush!' said Sam. 'The Vellingtons has gone to Doctors' Commons.'\n\n'No,' said the little man.\n\n'Yes, for a licence.'\n\n'We're in time,' exclaimed Wardle. 'Show us the room; not a moment is to\nbe lost.'\n\n'Pray, my dear sir--pray,' said the little man; 'caution, caution.' He\ndrew from his pocket a red silk purse, and looked very hard at Sam as he\ndrew out a sovereign.\n\nSam grinned expressively.\n\n'Show us into the room at once, without announcing us,' said the little\nman, 'and it's yours.'\n\nSam threw the painted tops into a corner, and led the way through a\ndark passage, and up a wide staircase. He paused at the end of a second\npassage, and held out his hand.\n\n'Here it is,' whispered the attorney, as he deposited the money on the\nhand of their guide.\n\nThe man stepped forward for a few paces, followed by the two friends and\ntheir legal adviser. He stopped at a door.\n\n'Is this the room?' murmured the little gentleman.\n\nSam nodded assent.\n\nOld Wardle opened the door; and the whole three walked into the room\njust as Mr. Jingle, who had that moment returned, had produced the\nlicence to the spinster aunt.\n\nThe spinster uttered a loud shriek, and throwing herself into a chair,\ncovered her face with her hands. Mr. Jingle crumpled up the licence, and\nthrust it into his coat pocket. The unwelcome visitors advanced into the\nmiddle of the room. 'You--you are a nice rascal, arn't you?' exclaimed\nWardle, breathless with passion.\n\n'My dear Sir, my dear sir,' said the little man, laying his hat on\nthe table, 'pray, consider--pray. Defamation of character: action for\ndamages. Calm yourself, my dear sir, pray--'\n\n'How dare you drag my sister from my house?' said the old man.\n\nAy--ay--very good,' said the little gentleman, 'you may ask that. How\ndare you, sir?--eh, sir?'\n\n'Who the devil are you?' inquired Mr. Jingle, in so fierce a tone, that\nthe little gentleman involuntarily fell back a step or two.\n\n'Who is he, you scoundrel,' interposed Wardle. 'He's my lawyer,\nMr. Perker, of Gray's Inn. Perker, I'll have this fellow\nprosecuted--indicted--I'll--I'll--I'll ruin him. And you,' continued Mr.\nWardle, turning abruptly round to his sister--'you, Rachael, at a time\nof life when you ought to know better, what do you mean by running away\nwith a vagabond, disgracing your family, and making yourself miserable?\nGet on your bonnet and come back. Call a hackney-coach there, directly,\nand bring this lady's bill, d'ye hear--d'ye hear?' 'Cert'nly, Sir,'\nreplied Sam, who had answered Wardle's violent ringing of the bell with\na degree of celerity which must have appeared marvellous to anybody who\ndidn't know that his eye had been applied to the outside of the keyhole\nduring the whole interview.\n\n'Get on your bonnet,' repeated Wardle.\n\n'Do nothing of the kind,' said Jingle. 'Leave the room, Sir--no business\nhere--lady's free to act as she pleases--more than one-and-twenty.'\n\n'More than one-and-twenty!' ejaculated Wardle contemptuously. 'More than\none-and-forty!'\n\n'I ain't,' said the spinster aunt, her indignation getting the better of\nher determination to faint.\n\n'You are,' replied Wardle; 'you're fifty if you're an hour.'\n\nHere the spinster aunt uttered a loud shriek, and became senseless.\n\n'A glass of water,' said the humane Mr. Pickwick, summoning the\nlandlady.\n\n'A glass of water!' said the passionate Wardle. 'Bring a bucket, and\nthrow it all over her; it'll do her good, and she richly deserves it.'\n\n'Ugh, you brute!' ejaculated the kind-hearted landlady. 'Poor dear.' And\nwith sundry ejaculations of 'Come now, there's a dear--drink a little of\nthis--it'll do you good--don't give way so--there's a love,' etc.\netc., the landlady, assisted by a chambermaid, proceeded to vinegar the\nforehead, beat the hands, titillate the nose, and unlace the stays of\nthe spinster aunt, and to administer such other restoratives as are\nusually applied by compassionate females to ladies who are endeavouring\nto ferment themselves into hysterics.\n\n'Coach is ready, Sir,' said Sam, appearing at the door.\n\n'Come along,' cried Wardle. 'I'll carry her downstairs.'\n\nAt this proposition, the hysterics came on with redoubled violence.\nThe landlady was about to enter a very violent protest against this\nproceeding, and had already given vent to an indignant inquiry whether\nMr. Wardle considered himself a lord of the creation, when Mr. Jingle\ninterposed--\n\n'Boots,' said he, 'get me an officer.'\n\n'Stay, stay,' said little Mr. Perker. 'Consider, Sir, consider.'\n\n'I'll not consider,' replied Jingle. 'She's her own mistress--see who\ndares to take her away--unless she wishes it.'\n\n'I WON'T be taken away,' murmured the spinster aunt. 'I DON'T wish it.'\n(Here there was a frightful relapse.)\n\n'My dear Sir,' said the little man, in a low tone, taking Mr. Wardle\nand Mr. Pickwick apart--'my dear Sir, we're in a very awkward situation.\nIt's a distressing case--very; I never knew one more so; but really,\nmy dear sir, really we have no power to control this lady's actions. I\nwarned you before we came, my dear sir, that there was nothing to look\nto but a compromise.'\n\nThere was a short pause.\n\n'What kind of compromise would you recommend?' inquired Mr. Pickwick.\n\n'Why, my dear Sir, our friend's in an unpleasant position--very much so.\nWe must be content to suffer some pecuniary loss.'\n\n'I'll suffer any, rather than submit to this disgrace, and let her, fool\nas she is, be made miserable for life,' said Wardle.\n\n'I rather think it can be done,' said the bustling little man. 'Mr.\nJingle, will you step with us into the next room for a moment?'\n\nMr. Jingle assented, and the quartette walked into an empty apartment.\n\n'Now, sir,' said the little man, as he carefully closed the door, 'is\nthere no way of accommodating this matter--step this way, sir, for a\nmoment--into this window, Sir, where we can be alone--there, sir, there,\npray sit down, sir. Now, my dear Sir, between you and I, we know very\nwell, my dear Sir, that you have run off with this lady for the sake of\nher money. Don't frown, Sir, don't frown; I say, between you and I, WE\nknow it. We are both men of the world, and WE know very well that our\nfriends here, are not--eh?'\n\nMr. Jingle's face gradually relaxed; and something distantly resembling\na wink quivered for an instant in his left eye.\n\n'Very good, very good,' said the little man, observing the impression\nhe had made. 'Now, the fact is, that beyond a few hundreds, the lady has\nlittle or nothing till the death of her mother--fine old lady, my dear\nSir.'\n\n'OLD,' said Mr. Jingle briefly but emphatically.\n\n'Why, yes,' said the attorney, with a slight cough. 'You are right, my\ndear Sir, she is rather old. She comes of an old family though, my dear\nSir; old in every sense of the word. The founder of that family came\ninto Kent when Julius Caesar invaded Britain;--only one member of it,\nsince, who hasn't lived to eighty-five, and he was beheaded by one of\nthe Henrys. The old lady is not seventy-three now, my dear Sir.' The\nlittle man paused, and took a pinch of snuff.\n\n'Well,' cried Mr. Jingle.\n\n'Well, my dear sir--you don't take snuff!--ah! so much the\nbetter--expensive habit--well, my dear Sir, you're a fine young man, man\nof the world--able to push your fortune, if you had capital, eh?'\n\n'Well,' said Mr. Jingle again.\n\n'Do you comprehend me?'\n\n'Not quite.'\n\n'Don't you think--now, my dear Sir, I put it to you don't you\nthink--that fifty pounds and liberty would be better than Miss Wardle\nand expectation?'\n\n'Won't do--not half enough!' said Mr. Jingle, rising.\n\n'Nay, nay, my dear Sir,' remonstrated the little attorney, seizing him\nby the button. 'Good round sum--a man like you could treble it in no\ntime--great deal to be done with fifty pounds, my dear Sir.'\n\n'More to be done with a hundred and fifty,' replied Mr. Jingle coolly.\n\n'Well, my dear Sir, we won't waste time in splitting straws,' resumed\nthe little man, 'say--say--seventy.' 'Won't do,' said Mr. Jingle.\n\n'Don't go away, my dear sir--pray don't hurry,' said the little man.\n'Eighty; come: I'll write you a cheque at once.'\n\n'Won't do,' said Mr. Jingle.\n\n'Well, my dear Sir, well,' said the little man, still detaining him;\n'just tell me what WILL do.'\n\n'Expensive affair,' said Mr. Jingle. 'Money out of pocket--posting, nine\npounds; licence, three--that's twelve--compensation, a hundred--hundred\nand twelve--breach of honour--and loss of the lady--'\n\n'Yes, my dear Sir, yes,' said the little man, with a knowing look,\n'never mind the last two items. That's a hundred and twelve--say a\nhundred--come.'\n\n'And twenty,' said Mr. Jingle.\n\n'Come, come, I'll write you a cheque,' said the little man; and down he\nsat at the table for that purpose.\n\n'I'll make it payable the day after to-morrow,' said the little\nman, with a look towards Mr. Wardle; 'and we can get the lady away,\nmeanwhile.' Mr. Wardle sullenly nodded assent.\n\n'A hundred,' said the little man.\n\n'And twenty,' said Mr. Jingle.\n\n'My dear Sir,' remonstrated the little man.\n\n'Give it him,' interposed Mr. Wardle, 'and let him go.'\n\nThe cheque was written by the little gentleman, and pocketed by Mr.\nJingle.\n\n'Now, leave this house instantly!' said Wardle, starting up.\n\n'My dear Sir,' urged the little man.\n\n'And mind,' said Mr. Wardle, 'that nothing should have induced me to\nmake this compromise--not even a regard for my family--if I had not\nknown that the moment you got any money in that pocket of yours, you'd\ngo to the devil faster, if possible, than you would without it--'\n\n'My dear sir,' urged the little man again.\n\n'Be quiet, Perker,' resumed Wardle. 'Leave the room, Sir.'\n\n'Off directly,' said the unabashed Jingle. 'Bye bye, Pickwick.' If\nany dispassionate spectator could have beheld the countenance of the\nillustrious man, whose name forms the leading feature of the title of\nthis work, during the latter part of this conversation, he would have\nbeen almost induced to wonder that the indignant fire which flashed from\nhis eyes did not melt the glasses of his spectacles--so majestic was his\nwrath. His nostrils dilated, and his fists clenched involuntarily, as\nhe heard himself addressed by the villain. But he restrained himself\nagain--he did not pulverise him.\n\n'Here,' continued the hardened traitor, tossing the licence at Mr.\nPickwick's feet; 'get the name altered--take home the lady--do for\nTuppy.'\n\nMr. Pickwick was a philosopher, but philosophers are only men in\narmour, after all. The shaft had reached him, penetrated through his\nphilosophical harness, to his very heart. In the frenzy of his rage, he\nhurled the inkstand madly forward, and followed it up himself. But Mr.\nJingle had disappeared, and he found himself caught in the arms of Sam.\n\n'Hollo,' said that eccentric functionary, 'furniter's cheap where you\ncome from, Sir. Self-acting ink, that 'ere; it's wrote your mark upon\nthe wall, old gen'l'm'n. Hold still, Sir; wot's the use o' runnin' arter\na man as has made his lucky, and got to t'other end of the Borough by\nthis time?'\n\nMr. Pickwick's mind, like those of all truly great men, was open\nto conviction. He was a quick and powerful reasoner; and a moment's\nreflection sufficed to remind him of the impotency of his rage. It\nsubsided as quickly as it had been roused. He panted for breath, and\nlooked benignantly round upon his friends.\n\nShall we tell the lamentations that ensued when Miss Wardle found\nherself deserted by the faithless Jingle? Shall we extract Mr.\nPickwick's masterly description of that heartrending scene? His\nnote-book, blotted with the tears of sympathising humanity, lies open\nbefore us; one word, and it is in the printer's hands. But, no! we will\nbe resolute! We will not wring the public bosom, with the delineation of\nsuch suffering!\n\nSlowly and sadly did the two friends and the deserted lady return\nnext day in the Muggleton heavy coach. Dimly and darkly had the sombre\nshadows of a summer's night fallen upon all around, when they again\nreached Dingley Dell, and stood within the entrance to Manor Farm.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XI. INVOLVING ANOTHER JOURNEY, AND AN ANTIQUARIAN DISCOVERY;\nRECORDING Mr. PICKWICK'S DETERMINATION TO BE PRESENT AT AN ELECTION; AND\nCONTAINING A MANUSCRIPT OF THE OLD CLERGYMAN'S\n\n\nA night of quiet and repose in the profound silence of Dingley Dell,\nand an hour's breathing of its fresh and fragrant air on the ensuing\nmorning, completely recovered Mr. Pickwick from the effects of his\nlate fatigue of body and anxiety of mind. That illustrious man had been\nseparated from his friends and followers for two whole days; and it was\nwith a degree of pleasure and delight, which no common imagination can\nadequately conceive, that he stepped forward to greet Mr. Winkle and\nMr. Snodgrass, as he encountered those gentlemen on his return from\nhis early walk. The pleasure was mutual; for who could ever gaze on Mr.\nPickwick's beaming face without experiencing the sensation? But still a\ncloud seemed to hang over his companions which that great man could not\nbut be sensible of, and was wholly at a loss to account for. There was a\nmysterious air about them both, as unusual as it was alarming.\n\n'And how,' said Mr. Pickwick, when he had grasped his followers by the\nhand, and exchanged warm salutations of welcome--'how is Tupman?'\n\nMr. Winkle, to whom the question was more peculiarly addressed, made\nno reply. He turned away his head, and appeared absorbed in melancholy\nreflection.\n\n'Snodgrass,' said Mr. Pickwick earnestly, 'how is our friend--he is not\nill?'\n\n'No,' replied Mr. Snodgrass; and a tear trembled on his sentimental\neyelid, like a rain-drop on a window-frame--'no; he is not ill.'\n\nMr. Pickwick stopped, and gazed on each of his friends in turn.\n\n'Winkle--Snodgrass,' said Mr. Pickwick; 'what does this mean? Where\nis our friend? What has happened? Speak--I conjure, I entreat--nay, I\ncommand you, speak.'\n\nThere was a solemnity--a dignity--in Mr. Pickwick's manner, not to be\nwithstood.\n\n'He is gone,' said Mr. Snodgrass.\n\n'Gone!' exclaimed Mr. Pickwick. 'Gone!'\n\n'Gone,' repeated Mr. Snodgrass.\n\n'Where!' ejaculated Mr. Pickwick.\n\n'We can only guess, from that communication,' replied Mr. Snodgrass,\ntaking a letter from his pocket, and placing it in his friend's hand.\n'Yesterday morning, when a letter was received from Mr. Wardle, stating\nthat you would be home with his sister at night, the melancholy which\nhad hung over our friend during the whole of the previous day, was\nobserved to increase. He shortly afterwards disappeared: he was missing\nduring the whole day, and in the evening this letter was brought by the\nhostler from the Crown, at Muggleton. It had been left in his charge in\nthe morning, with a strict injunction that it should not be delivered\nuntil night.'\n\nMr. Pickwick opened the epistle. It was in his friend's hand-writing,\nand these were its contents:--\n\n'MY DEAR PICKWICK,--YOU, my dear friend, are placed far beyond the reach\nof many mortal frailties and weaknesses which ordinary people cannot\novercome. You do not know what it is, at one blow, to be deserted by a\nlovely and fascinating creature, and to fall a victim to the artifices\nof a villain, who had the grin of cunning beneath the mask of\nfriendship. I hope you never may.\n\n'Any letter addressed to me at the Leather Bottle, Cobham, Kent, will\nbe forwarded--supposing I still exist. I hasten from the sight of\nthat world, which has become odious to me. Should I hasten from it\naltogether, pity--forgive me. Life, my dear Pickwick, has become\ninsupportable to me. The spirit which burns within us, is a porter's\nknot, on which to rest the heavy load of worldly cares and troubles; and\nwhen that spirit fails us, the burden is too heavy to be borne. We sink\nbeneath it. You may tell Rachael--Ah, that name!--\n\n 'TRACY TUPMAN.'\n\n\n'We must leave this place directly,' said Mr. Pickwick, as he refolded\nthe note. 'It would not have been decent for us to remain here, under\nany circumstances, after what has happened; and now we are bound to\nfollow in search of our friend.' And so saying, he led the way to the\nhouse.\n\nHis intention was rapidly communicated. The entreaties to remain were\npressing, but Mr. Pickwick was inflexible. Business, he said, required\nhis immediate attendance.\n\nThe old clergyman was present.\n\n'You are not really going?' said he, taking Mr. Pickwick aside.\n\nMr. Pickwick reiterated his former determination.\n\n'Then here,' said the old gentleman, 'is a little manuscript, which I\nhad hoped to have the pleasure of reading to you myself. I found it\non the death of a friend of mine--a medical man, engaged in our county\nlunatic asylum--among a variety of papers, which I had the option of\ndestroying or preserving, as I thought proper. I can hardly believe that\nthe manuscript is genuine, though it certainly is not in my friend's\nhand. However, whether it be the genuine production of a maniac, or\nfounded upon the ravings of some unhappy being (which I think more\nprobable), read it, and judge for yourself.'\n\nMr. Pickwick received the manuscript, and parted from the benevolent old\ngentleman with many expressions of good-will and esteem.\n\nIt was a more difficult task to take leave of the inmates of Manor\nFarm, from whom they had received so much hospitality and kindness. Mr.\nPickwick kissed the young ladies--we were going to say, as if they were\nhis own daughters, only, as he might possibly have infused a little\nmore warmth into the salutation, the comparison would not be quite\nappropriate--hugged the old lady with filial cordiality; and patted the\nrosy cheeks of the female servants in a most patriarchal manner, as he\nslipped into the hands of each some more substantial expression of his\napproval. The exchange of cordialities with their fine old host and Mr.\nTrundle was even more hearty and prolonged; and it was not until Mr.\nSnodgrass had been several times called for, and at last emerged from\na dark passage followed soon after by Emily (whose bright eyes looked\nunusually dim), that the three friends were enabled to tear themselves\nfrom their friendly entertainers. Many a backward look they gave at the\nfarm, as they walked slowly away; and many a kiss did Mr. Snodgrass\nwaft in the air, in acknowledgment of something very like a lady's\nhandkerchief, which was waved from one of the upper windows, until a\nturn of the lane hid the old house from their sight.\n\nAt Muggleton they procured a conveyance to Rochester. By the time\nthey reached the last-named place, the violence of their grief had\nsufficiently abated to admit of their making a very excellent early\ndinner; and having procured the necessary information relative to the\nroad, the three friends set forward again in the afternoon to walk to\nCobham.\n\nA delightful walk it was; for it was a pleasant afternoon in June, and\ntheir way lay through a deep and shady wood, cooled by the light wind\nwhich gently rustled the thick foliage, and enlivened by the songs of\nthe birds that perched upon the boughs. The ivy and the moss crept in\nthick clusters over the old trees, and the soft green turf overspread\nthe ground like a silken mat. They emerged upon an open park, with an\nancient hall, displaying the quaint and picturesque architecture of\nElizabeth's time. Long vistas of stately oaks and elm trees appeared\non every side; large herds of deer were cropping the fresh grass; and\noccasionally a startled hare scoured along the ground, with the speed\nof the shadows thrown by the light clouds which swept across a sunny\nlandscape like a passing breath of summer.\n\n'If this,' said Mr. Pickwick, looking about him--'if this were the place\nto which all who are troubled with our friend's complaint came, I fancy\ntheir old attachment to this world would very soon return.'\n\n'I think so too,' said Mr. Winkle.\n\n'And really,' added Mr. Pickwick, after half an hour's walking had\nbrought them to the village, 'really, for a misanthrope's choice, this\nis one of the prettiest and most desirable places of residence I ever\nmet with.'\n\nIn this opinion also, both Mr. Winkle and Mr. Snodgrass expressed their\nconcurrence; and having been directed to the Leather Bottle, a clean and\ncommodious village ale-house, the three travellers entered, and at once\ninquired for a gentleman of the name of Tupman.\n\n'Show the gentlemen into the parlour, Tom,' said the landlady.\n\nA stout country lad opened a door at the end of the passage, and the\nthree friends entered a long, low-roofed room, furnished with a large\nnumber of high-backed leather-cushioned chairs, of fantastic shapes, and\nembellished with a great variety of old portraits and roughly-coloured\nprints of some antiquity. At the upper end of the room was a table, with\na white cloth upon it, well covered with a roast fowl, bacon, ale, and\net ceteras; and at the table sat Mr. Tupman, looking as unlike a man who\nhad taken his leave of the world, as possible.\n\nOn the entrance of his friends, that gentleman laid down his knife and\nfork, and with a mournful air advanced to meet them.\n\n'I did not expect to see you here,' he said, as he grasped Mr.\nPickwick's hand. 'It's very kind.'\n\n'Ah!' said Mr. Pickwick, sitting down, and wiping from his forehead the\nperspiration which the walk had engendered. 'Finish your dinner, and\nwalk out with me. I wish to speak to you alone.'\n\nMr. Tupman did as he was desired; and Mr. Pickwick having refreshed\nhimself with a copious draught of ale, waited his friend's leisure. The\ndinner was quickly despatched, and they walked out together.\n\nFor half an hour, their forms might have been seen pacing the churchyard\nto and fro, while Mr. Pickwick was engaged in combating his companion's\nresolution. Any repetition of his arguments would be useless; for what\nlanguage could convey to them that energy and force which their great\noriginator's manner communicated? Whether Mr. Tupman was already tired\nof retirement, or whether he was wholly unable to resist the eloquent\nappeal which was made to him, matters not, he did NOT resist it at last.\n\n'It mattered little to him,' he said, 'where he dragged out the\nmiserable remainder of his days; and since his friend laid so much\nstress upon his humble companionship, he was willing to share his\nadventures.'\n\nMr. Pickwick smiled; they shook hands, and walked back to rejoin their\ncompanions.\n\nIt was at this moment that Mr. Pickwick made that immortal discovery,\nwhich has been the pride and boast of his friends, and the envy of every\nantiquarian in this or any other country. They had passed the door\nof their inn, and walked a little way down the village, before they\nrecollected the precise spot in which it stood. As they turned back, Mr.\nPickwick's eye fell upon a small broken stone, partially buried in the\nground, in front of a cottage door. He paused.\n\n'This is very strange,' said Mr. Pickwick.\n\n'What is strange?' inquired Mr. Tupman, staring eagerly at every object\nnear him, but the right one. 'God bless me, what's the matter?'\n\nThis last was an ejaculation of irrepressible astonishment, occasioned\nby seeing Mr. Pickwick, in his enthusiasm for discovery, fall on his\nknees before the little stone, and commence wiping the dust off it with\nhis pocket-handkerchief.\n\n'There is an inscription here,' said Mr. Pickwick.\n\n'Is it possible?' said Mr. Tupman.\n\n'I can discern,'continued Mr. Pickwick, rubbing away with all his might,\nand gazing intently through his spectacles--'I can discern a cross, and\na 13, and then a T. This is important,' continued Mr. Pickwick, starting\nup. 'This is some very old inscription, existing perhaps long before the\nancient alms-houses in this place. It must not be lost.'\n\nHe tapped at the cottage door. A labouring man opened it.\n\n'Do you know how this stone came here, my friend?' inquired the\nbenevolent Mr. Pickwick.\n\n'No, I doan't, Sir,' replied the man civilly. 'It was here long afore I\nwas born, or any on us.'\n\nMr. Pickwick glanced triumphantly at his companion.\n\n'You--you--are not particularly attached to it, I dare say,' said Mr.\nPickwick, trembling with anxiety. 'You wouldn't mind selling it, now?'\n\n'Ah! but who'd buy it?' inquired the man, with an expression of face\nwhich he probably meant to be very cunning.\n\n'I'll give you ten shillings for it, at once,' said Mr. Pickwick, 'if\nyou would take it up for me.'\n\nThe astonishment of the village may be easily imagined, when (the little\nstone having been raised with one wrench of a spade) Mr. Pickwick, by\ndint of great personal exertion, bore it with his own hands to the inn,\nand after having carefully washed it, deposited it on the table.\n\nThe exultation and joy of the Pickwickians knew no bounds, when their\npatience and assiduity, their washing and scraping, were crowned\nwith success. The stone was uneven and broken, and the letters were\nstraggling and irregular, but the following fragment of an inscription\nwas clearly to be deciphered:--\n\n\n [cross] B I L S T\n u m\n P S H I\n S. M.\n ARK\n\nMr. Pickwick's eyes sparkled with delight, as he sat and gloated over\nthe treasure he had discovered. He had attained one of the greatest\nobjects of his ambition. In a county known to abound in the remains of\nthe early ages; in a village in which there still existed some memorials\nof the olden time, he--he, the chairman of the Pickwick Club--had\ndiscovered a strange and curious inscription of unquestionable\nantiquity, which had wholly escaped the observation of the many learned\nmen who had preceded him. He could hardly trust the evidence of his\nsenses.\n\n'This--this,' said he, 'determines me. We return to town to-morrow.'\n\n'To-morrow!' exclaimed his admiring followers.\n\n'To-morrow,' said Mr. Pickwick. 'This treasure must be at once deposited\nwhere it can be thoroughly investigated and properly understood. I have\nanother reason for this step. In a few days, an election is to take\nplace for the borough of Eatanswill, at which Mr. Perker, a gentleman\nwhom I lately met, is the agent of one of the candidates. We will\nbehold, and minutely examine, a scene so interesting to every\nEnglishman.'\n\n'We will,' was the animated cry of three voices.\n\nMr. Pickwick looked round him. The attachment and fervour of his\nfollowers lighted up a glow of enthusiasm within him. He was their\nleader, and he felt it.\n\n'Let us celebrate this happy meeting with a convivial glass,' said he.\nThis proposition, like the other, was received with unanimous applause.\nHaving himself deposited the important stone in a small deal box,\npurchased from the landlady for the purpose, he placed himself in an\narm-chair, at the head of the table; and the evening was devoted to\nfestivity and conversation.\n\nIt was past eleven o'clock--a late hour for the little village of\nCobham--when Mr. Pickwick retired to the bedroom which had been prepared\nfor his reception. He threw open the lattice window, and setting his\nlight upon the table, fell into a train of meditation on the hurried\nevents of the two preceding days.\n\nThe hour and the place were both favourable to contemplation; Mr.\nPickwick was roused by the church clock striking twelve. The first\nstroke of the hour sounded solemnly in his ear, but when the bell ceased\nthe stillness seemed insupportable--he almost felt as if he had lost a\ncompanion. He was nervous and excited; and hastily undressing himself\nand placing his light in the chimney, got into bed.\n\nEvery one has experienced that disagreeable state of mind, in which a\nsensation of bodily weariness in vain contends against an inability to\nsleep. It was Mr. Pickwick's condition at this moment: he tossed first\non one side and then on the other; and perseveringly closed his eyes\nas if to coax himself to slumber. It was of no use. Whether it was\nthe unwonted exertion he had undergone, or the heat, or the\nbrandy-and-water, or the strange bed--whatever it was, his thoughts kept\nreverting very uncomfortably to the grim pictures downstairs, and the\nold stories to which they had given rise in the course of the evening.\nAfter half an hour's tumbling about, he came to the unsatisfactory\nconclusion, that it was of no use trying to sleep; so he got up and\npartially dressed himself. Anything, he thought, was better than lying\nthere fancying all kinds of horrors. He looked out of the window--it was\nvery dark. He walked about the room--it was very lonely.\n\nHe had taken a few turns from the door to the window, and from the\nwindow to the door, when the clergyman's manuscript for the first time\nentered his head. It was a good thought. If it failed to interest him,\nit might send him to sleep. He took it from his coat pocket, and\ndrawing a small table towards his bedside, trimmed the light, put on his\nspectacles, and composed himself to read. It was a strange handwriting,\nand the paper was much soiled and blotted. The title gave him a sudden\nstart, too; and he could not avoid casting a wistful glance round\nthe room. Reflecting on the absurdity of giving way to such feelings,\nhowever, he trimmed the light again, and read as follows:--\n\n\n A MADMAN'S MANUSCRIPT\n\n'Yes!--a madman's! How that word would have struck to my heart, many\nyears ago! How it would have roused the terror that used to come upon me\nsometimes, sending the blood hissing and tingling through my veins, till\nthe cold dew of fear stood in large drops upon my skin, and my knees\nknocked together with fright! I like it now though. It's a fine name.\nShow me the monarch whose angry frown was ever feared like the glare of\na madman's eye--whose cord and axe were ever half so sure as a madman's\ngripe. Ho! ho! It's a grand thing to be mad! to be peeped at like a wild\nlion through the iron bars--to gnash one's teeth and howl, through the\nlong still night, to the merry ring of a heavy chain and to roll and\ntwine among the straw, transported with such brave music. Hurrah for the\nmadhouse! Oh, it's a rare place!\n\n'I remember days when I was afraid of being mad; when I used to start\nfrom my sleep, and fall upon my knees, and pray to be spared from\nthe curse of my race; when I rushed from the sight of merriment or\nhappiness, to hide myself in some lonely place, and spend the weary\nhours in watching the progress of the fever that was to consume my\nbrain. I knew that madness was mixed up with my very blood, and the\nmarrow of my bones! that one generation had passed away without the\npestilence appearing among them, and that I was the first in whom it\nwould revive. I knew it must be so: that so it always had been, and so\nit ever would be: and when I cowered in some obscure corner of a crowded\nroom, and saw men whisper, and point, and turn their eyes towards me, I\nknew they were telling each other of the doomed madman; and I slunk away\nagain to mope in solitude.\n\n'I did this for years; long, long years they were. The nights here are\nlong sometimes--very long; but they are nothing to the restless nights,\nand dreadful dreams I had at that time. It makes me cold to remember\nthem. Large dusky forms with sly and jeering faces crouched in the\ncorners of the room, and bent over my bed at night, tempting me to\nmadness. They told me in low whispers, that the floor of the old house\nin which my father died, was stained with his own blood, shed by his\nown hand in raging madness. I drove my fingers into my ears, but they\nscreamed into my head till the room rang with it, that in one generation\nbefore him the madness slumbered, but that his grandfather had lived\nfor years with his hands fettered to the ground, to prevent his tearing\nhimself to pieces. I knew they told the truth--I knew it well. I had\nfound it out years before, though they had tried to keep it from me. Ha!\nha! I was too cunning for them, madman as they thought me.\n\n'At last it came upon me, and I wondered how I could ever have feared\nit. I could go into the world now, and laugh and shout with the best\namong them. I knew I was mad, but they did not even suspect it. How I\nused to hug myself with delight, when I thought of the fine trick I was\nplaying them after their old pointing and leering, when I was not mad,\nbut only dreading that I might one day become so! And how I used to\nlaugh for joy, when I was alone, and thought how well I kept my secret,\nand how quickly my kind friends would have fallen from me, if they had\nknown the truth. I could have screamed with ecstasy when I dined alone\nwith some fine roaring fellow, to think how pale he would have turned,\nand how fast he would have run, if he had known that the dear friend who\nsat close to him, sharpening a bright, glittering knife, was a madman\nwith all the power, and half the will, to plunge it in his heart. Oh, it\nwas a merry life!\n\n'Riches became mine, wealth poured in upon me, and I rioted in pleasures\nenhanced a thousandfold to me by the consciousness of my well-kept\nsecret. I inherited an estate. The law--the eagle-eyed law itself--had\nbeen deceived, and had handed over disputed thousands to a madman's\nhands. Where was the wit of the sharp-sighted men of sound mind? Where\nthe dexterity of the lawyers, eager to discover a flaw? The madman's\ncunning had overreached them all.\n\n'I had money. How I was courted! I spent it profusely. How I was\npraised! How those three proud, overbearing brothers humbled themselves\nbefore me! The old, white-headed father, too--such deference--such\nrespect--such devoted friendship--he worshipped me! The old man had a\ndaughter, and the young men a sister; and all the five were poor. I was\nrich; and when I married the girl, I saw a smile of triumph play upon\nthe faces of her needy relatives, as they thought of their well-planned\nscheme, and their fine prize. It was for me to smile. To smile! To laugh\noutright, and tear my hair, and roll upon the ground with shrieks of\nmerriment. They little thought they had married her to a madman.\n\n'Stay. If they had known it, would they have saved her? A sister's\nhappiness against her husband's gold. The lightest feather I blow into\nthe air, against the gay chain that ornaments my body!\n\n'In one thing I was deceived with all my cunning. If I had not been\nmad--for though we madmen are sharp-witted enough, we get bewildered\nsometimes--I should have known that the girl would rather have been\nplaced, stiff and cold in a dull leaden coffin, than borne an envied\nbride to my rich, glittering house. I should have known that her heart\nwas with the dark-eyed boy whose name I once heard her breathe in her\ntroubled sleep; and that she had been sacrificed to me, to relieve the\npoverty of the old, white-headed man and the haughty brothers.\n\n'I don't remember forms or faces now, but I know the girl was beautiful.\nI know she was; for in the bright moonlight nights, when I start up\nfrom my sleep, and all is quiet about me, I see, standing still and\nmotionless in one corner of this cell, a slight and wasted figure with\nlong black hair, which, streaming down her back, stirs with no earthly\nwind, and eyes that fix their gaze on me, and never wink or close. Hush!\nthe blood chills at my heart as I write it down--that form is HERS; the\nface is very pale, and the eyes are glassy bright; but I know them well.\nThat figure never moves; it never frowns and mouths as others do, that\nfill this place sometimes; but it is much more dreadful to me, even\nthan the spirits that tempted me many years ago--it comes fresh from the\ngrave; and is so very death-like.\n\n'For nearly a year I saw that face grow paler; for nearly a year I saw\nthe tears steal down the mournful cheeks, and never knew the cause. I\nfound it out at last though. They could not keep it from me long. She\nhad never liked me; I had never thought she did: she despised my wealth,\nand hated the splendour in which she lived; but I had not expected that.\nShe loved another. This I had never thought of. Strange feelings came\nover me, and thoughts, forced upon me by some secret power, whirled\nround and round my brain. I did not hate her, though I hated the boy she\nstill wept for. I pitied--yes, I pitied--the wretched life to which her\ncold and selfish relations had doomed her. I knew that she could not\nlive long; but the thought that before her death she might give birth\nto some ill-fated being, destined to hand down madness to its offspring,\ndetermined me. I resolved to kill her.\n\n'For many weeks I thought of poison, and then of drowning, and then of\nfire. A fine sight, the grand house in flames, and the madman's wife\nsmouldering away to cinders. Think of the jest of a large reward, too,\nand of some sane man swinging in the wind for a deed he never did, and\nall through a madman's cunning! I thought often of this, but I gave\nit up at last. Oh! the pleasure of stropping the razor day after day,\nfeeling the sharp edge, and thinking of the gash one stroke of its thin,\nbright edge would make! 'At last the old spirits who had been with me so\noften before whispered in my ear that the time was come, and thrust the\nopen razor into my hand. I grasped it firmly, rose softly from the bed,\nand leaned over my sleeping wife. Her face was buried in her hands. I\nwithdrew them softly, and they fell listlessly on her bosom. She had\nbeen weeping; for the traces of the tears were still wet upon her cheek.\nHer face was calm and placid; and even as I looked upon it, a tranquil\nsmile lighted up her pale features. I laid my hand softly on her\nshoulder. She started--it was only a passing dream. I leaned forward\nagain. She screamed, and woke.\n\n'One motion of my hand, and she would never again have uttered cry or\nsound. But I was startled, and drew back. Her eyes were fixed on mine.\nI knew not how it was, but they cowed and frightened me; and I quailed\nbeneath them. She rose from the bed, still gazing fixedly and steadily\non me. I trembled; the razor was in my hand, but I could not move. She\nmade towards the door. As she neared it, she turned, and withdrew her\neyes from my face. The spell was broken. I bounded forward, and clutched\nher by the arm. Uttering shriek upon shriek, she sank upon the ground.\n\n'Now I could have killed her without a struggle; but the house was\nalarmed. I heard the tread of footsteps on the stairs. I replaced the\nrazor in its usual drawer, unfastened the door, and called loudly for\nassistance.\n\n'They came, and raised her, and placed her on the bed. She lay bereft\nof animation for hours; and when life, look, and speech returned, her\nsenses had deserted her, and she raved wildly and furiously.\n\n'Doctors were called in--great men who rolled up to my door in easy\ncarriages, with fine horses and gaudy servants. They were at her bedside\nfor weeks. They had a great meeting and consulted together in low and\nsolemn voices in another room. One, the cleverest and most celebrated\namong them, took me aside, and bidding me prepare for the worst, told\nme--me, the madman!--that my wife was mad. He stood close beside me at\nan open window, his eyes looking in my face, and his hand laid upon my\narm. With one effort, I could have hurled him into the street beneath.\nIt would have been rare sport to have done it; but my secret was at\nstake, and I let him go. A few days after, they told me I must place her\nunder some restraint: I must provide a keeper for her. I! I went into\nthe open fields where none could hear me, and laughed till the air\nresounded with my shouts!\n\n'She died next day. The white-headed old man followed her to the grave,\nand the proud brothers dropped a tear over the insensible corpse of her\nwhose sufferings they had regarded in her lifetime with muscles of iron.\nAll this was food for my secret mirth, and I laughed behind the white\nhandkerchief which I held up to my face, as we rode home, till the tears\ncame into my eyes.\n\n'But though I had carried my object and killed her, I was restless and\ndisturbed, and I felt that before long my secret must be known. I could\nnot hide the wild mirth and joy which boiled within me, and made me\nwhen I was alone, at home, jump up and beat my hands together, and\ndance round and round, and roar aloud. When I went out, and saw the\nbusy crowds hurrying about the streets; or to the theatre, and heard the\nsound of music, and beheld the people dancing, I felt such glee, that\nI could have rushed among them, and torn them to pieces limb from limb,\nand howled in transport. But I ground my teeth, and struck my feet upon\nthe floor, and drove my sharp nails into my hands. I kept it down; and\nno one knew I was a madman yet.\n\n'I remember--though it's one of the last things I can remember: for now\nI mix up realities with my dreams, and having so much to do, and being\nalways hurried here, have no time to separate the two, from some strange\nconfusion in which they get involved--I remember how I let it out at\nlast. Ha! ha! I think I see their frightened looks now, and feel the\nease with which I flung them from me, and dashed my clenched fist into\ntheir white faces, and then flew like the wind, and left them screaming\nand shouting far behind. The strength of a giant comes upon me when\nI think of it. There--see how this iron bar bends beneath my furious\nwrench. I could snap it like a twig, only there are long galleries here\nwith many doors--I don't think I could find my way along them; and even\nif I could, I know there are iron gates below which they keep locked and\nbarred. They know what a clever madman I have been, and they are proud\nto have me here, to show.\n\n'Let me see: yes, I had been out. It was late at night when I reached\nhome, and found the proudest of the three proud brothers waiting to see\nme--urgent business he said: I recollect it well. I hated that man with\nall a madman's hate. Many and many a time had my fingers longed to tear\nhim. They told me he was there. I ran swiftly upstairs. He had a word\nto say to me. I dismissed the servants. It was late, and we were alone\ntogether--for the first time.\n\n'I kept my eyes carefully from him at first, for I knew what he little\nthought--and I gloried in the knowledge--that the light of madness\ngleamed from them like fire. We sat in silence for a few minutes. He\nspoke at last. My recent dissipation, and strange remarks, made so\nsoon after his sister's death, were an insult to her memory. Coupling\ntogether many circumstances which had at first escaped his observation,\nhe thought I had not treated her well. He wished to know whether he was\nright in inferring that I meant to cast a reproach upon her memory,\nand a disrespect upon her family. It was due to the uniform he wore, to\ndemand this explanation.\n\n'This man had a commission in the army--a commission, purchased with my\nmoney, and his sister's misery! This was the man who had been foremost\nin the plot to ensnare me, and grasp my wealth. This was the man who had\nbeen the main instrument in forcing his sister to wed me; well knowing\nthat her heart was given to that puling boy. Due to his uniform! The\nlivery of his degradation! I turned my eyes upon him--I could not help\nit--but I spoke not a word.\n\n'I saw the sudden change that came upon him beneath my gaze. He was\na bold man, but the colour faded from his face, and he drew back his\nchair. I dragged mine nearer to him; and I laughed--I was very merry\nthen--I saw him shudder. I felt the madness rising within me. He was\nafraid of me.\n\n'\"You were very fond of your sister when she was alive,\" I\nsaid.--\"Very.\"\n\n'He looked uneasily round him, and I saw his hand grasp the back of his\nchair; but he said nothing.\n\n'\"You villain,\" said I, \"I found you out: I discovered your hellish\nplots against me; I know her heart was fixed on some one else before you\ncompelled her to marry me. I know it--I know it.\"\n\n'He jumped suddenly from his chair, brandished it aloft, and bid me\nstand back--for I took care to be getting closer to him all the time I\nspoke.\n\n'I screamed rather than talked, for I felt tumultuous passions eddying\nthrough my veins, and the old spirits whispering and taunting me to tear\nhis heart out.\n\n'\"Damn you,\" said I, starting up, and rushing upon him; \"I killed her. I\nam a madman. Down with you. Blood, blood! I will have it!\"\n\n'I turned aside with one blow the chair he hurled at me in his terror,\nand closed with him; and with a heavy crash we rolled upon the floor\ntogether. 'It was a fine struggle that; for he was a tall, strong man,\nfighting for his life; and I, a powerful madman, thirsting to destroy\nhim. I knew no strength could equal mine, and I was right. Right again,\nthough a madman! His struggles grew fainter. I knelt upon his chest, and\nclasped his brawny throat firmly with both hands. His face grew purple;\nhis eyes were starting from his head, and with protruded tongue, he\nseemed to mock me. I squeezed the tighter. 'The door was suddenly burst\nopen with a loud noise, and a crowd of people rushed forward, crying\naloud to each other to secure the madman.\n\n'My secret was out; and my only struggle now was for liberty and\nfreedom. I gained my feet before a hand was on me, threw myself among\nmy assailants, and cleared my way with my strong arm, as if I bore a\nhatchet in my hand, and hewed them down before me. I gained the door,\ndropped over the banisters, and in an instant was in the street.\n\n'Straight and swift I ran, and no one dared to stop me. I heard the\nnoise of the feet behind, and redoubled my speed. It grew fainter and\nfainter in the distance, and at length died away altogether; but on I\nbounded, through marsh and rivulet, over fence and wall, with a wild\nshout which was taken up by the strange beings that flocked around me on\nevery side, and swelled the sound, till it pierced the air. I was borne\nupon the arms of demons who swept along upon the wind, and bore down\nbank and hedge before them, and spun me round and round with a rustle\nand a speed that made my head swim, until at last they threw me from\nthem with a violent shock, and I fell heavily upon the earth. When I\nwoke I found myself here--here in this gray cell, where the sunlight\nseldom comes, and the moon steals in, in rays which only serve to show\nthe dark shadows about me, and that silent figure in its old corner.\nWhen I lie awake, I can sometimes hear strange shrieks and cries from\ndistant parts of this large place. What they are, I know not; but they\nneither come from that pale form, nor does it regard them. For from the\nfirst shades of dusk till the earliest light of morning, it still stands\nmotionless in the same place, listening to the music of my iron chain,\nand watching my gambols on my straw bed.'\n\nAt the end of the manuscript was written, in another hand, this note:--\n\n\n[The unhappy man whose ravings are recorded above, was a melancholy\ninstance of the baneful results of energies misdirected in early life,\nand excesses prolonged until their consequences could never be repaired.\nThe thoughtless riot, dissipation, and debauchery of his younger days\nproduced fever and delirium. The first effects of the latter was the\nstrange delusion, founded upon a well-known medical theory, strongly\ncontended for by some, and as strongly contested by others, that an\nhereditary madness existed in his family. This produced a settled gloom,\nwhich in time developed a morbid insanity, and finally terminated in\nraving madness. There is every reason to believe that the events\nhe detailed, though distorted in the description by his diseased\nimagination, really happened. It is only matter of wonder to those who\nwere acquainted with the vices of his early career, that his passions,\nwhen no longer controlled by reason, did not lead him to the commission\nof still more frightful deeds.]\n\nMr. Pickwick's candle was just expiring in the socket, as he concluded\nthe perusal of the old clergyman's manuscript; and when the light\nwent suddenly out, without any previous flicker by way of warning, it\ncommunicated a very considerable start to his excited frame. Hastily\nthrowing off such articles of clothing as he had put on when he rose\nfrom his uneasy bed, and casting a fearful glance around, he once more\nscrambled hastily between the sheets, and soon fell fast asleep.\n\nThe sun was shining brilliantly into his chamber, when he awoke, and\nthe morning was far advanced. The gloom which had oppressed him on the\nprevious night had disappeared with the dark shadows which shrouded the\nlandscape, and his thoughts and feelings were as light and gay as the\nmorning itself. After a hearty breakfast, the four gentlemen sallied\nforth to walk to Gravesend, followed by a man bearing the stone in its\ndeal box. They reached the town about one o'clock (their luggage they\nhad directed to be forwarded to the city, from Rochester), and being\nfortunate enough to secure places on the outside of a coach, arrived in\nLondon in sound health and spirits, on that same afternoon.\n\nThe next three or four days were occupied with the preparations which\nwere necessary for their journey to the borough of Eatanswill. As\nany references to that most important undertaking demands a separate\nchapter, we may devote the few lines which remain at the close of\nthis, to narrate, with great brevity, the history of the antiquarian\ndiscovery.\n\nIt appears from the Transactions of the Club, then, that Mr. Pickwick\nlectured upon the discovery at a General Club Meeting, convened on the\nnight succeeding their return, and entered into a variety of ingenious\nand erudite speculations on the meaning of the inscription. It also\nappears that a skilful artist executed a faithful delineation of the\ncuriosity, which was engraven on stone, and presented to the Royal\nAntiquarian Society, and other learned bodies: that heart-burnings and\njealousies without number were created by rival controversies which were\npenned upon the subject; and that Mr. Pickwick himself wrote a pamphlet,\ncontaining ninety-six pages of very small print, and twenty-seven\ndifferent readings of the inscription: that three old gentlemen cut off\ntheir eldest sons with a shilling a-piece for presuming to doubt the\nantiquity of the fragment; and that one enthusiastic individual cut\nhimself off prematurely, in despair at being unable to fathom its\nmeaning: that Mr. Pickwick was elected an honorary member of seventeen\nnative and foreign societies, for making the discovery: that none of the\nseventeen could make anything of it; but that all the seventeen agreed\nit was very extraordinary.\n\nMr. Blotton, indeed--and the name will be doomed to the undying contempt\nof those who cultivate the mysterious and the sublime--Mr. Blotton, we\nsay, with the doubt and cavilling peculiar to vulgar minds, presumed to\nstate a view of the case, as degrading as ridiculous. Mr. Blotton, with\na mean desire to tarnish the lustre of the immortal name of Pickwick,\nactually undertook a journey to Cobham in person, and on his return,\nsarcastically observed in an oration at the club, that he had seen the\nman from whom the stone was purchased; that the man presumed the\nstone to be ancient, but solemnly denied the antiquity of the\ninscription--inasmuch as he represented it to have been rudely carved by\nhimself in an idle mood, and to display letters intended to bear neither\nmore or less than the simple construction of--'BILL STUMPS, HIS MARK';\nand that Mr. Stumps, being little in the habit of original composition,\nand more accustomed to be guided by the sound of words than by the\nstrict rules of orthography, had omitted the concluding 'L' of his\nChristian name.\n\nThe Pickwick Club (as might have been expected from so enlightened an\ninstitution) received this statement with the contempt it deserved,\nexpelled the presumptuous and ill-conditioned Blotton from the society,\nand voted Mr. Pickwick a pair of gold spectacles, in token of their\nconfidence and approbation: in return for which, Mr. Pickwick caused a\nportrait of himself to be painted, and hung up in the club room.\n\nMr. Blotton was ejected but not conquered. He also wrote a pamphlet,\naddressed to the seventeen learned societies, native and foreign,\ncontaining a repetition of the statement he had already made, and\nrather more than half intimating his opinion that the seventeen learned\nsocieties were so many 'humbugs.' Hereupon, the virtuous indignation of\nthe seventeen learned societies being roused, several fresh pamphlets\nappeared; the foreign learned societies corresponded with the native\nlearned societies; the native learned societies translated the pamphlets\nof the foreign learned societies into English; the foreign learned\nsocieties translated the pamphlets of the native learned societies into\nall sorts of languages; and thus commenced that celebrated scientific\ndiscussion so well known to all men, as the Pickwick controversy.\n\nBut this base attempt to injure Mr. Pickwick recoiled upon the head of\nits calumnious author. The seventeen learned societies unanimously voted\nthe presumptuous Blotton an ignorant meddler, and forthwith set to work\nupon more treatises than ever. And to this day the stone remains, an\nillegible monument of Mr. Pickwick's greatness, and a lasting trophy to\nthe littleness of his enemies.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XII. DESCRIPTIVE OF A VERY IMPORTANT PROCEEDING ON THE PART OF\nMr. PICKWICK; NO LESS AN EPOCH IN HIS LIFE, THAN IN THIS HISTORY\n\n\nMr. Pickwick's apartments in Goswell Street, although on a limited\nscale, were not only of a very neat and comfortable description,\nbut peculiarly adapted for the residence of a man of his genius and\nobservation. His sitting-room was the first-floor front, his bedroom the\nsecond-floor front; and thus, whether he were sitting at his desk in his\nparlour, or standing before the dressing-glass in his dormitory, he had\nan equal opportunity of contemplating human nature in all the numerous\nphases it exhibits, in that not more populous than popular thoroughfare.\nHis landlady, Mrs. Bardell--the relict and sole executrix of a deceased\ncustom-house officer--was a comely woman of bustling manners and\nagreeable appearance, with a natural genius for cooking, improved\nby study and long practice, into an exquisite talent. There were no\nchildren, no servants, no fowls. The only other inmates of the house\nwere a large man and a small boy; the first a lodger, the second a\nproduction of Mrs. Bardell's. The large man was always home precisely at\nten o'clock at night, at which hour he regularly condensed himself into\nthe limits of a dwarfish French bedstead in the back parlour; and\nthe infantine sports and gymnastic exercises of Master Bardell were\nexclusively confined to the neighbouring pavements and gutters.\nCleanliness and quiet reigned throughout the house; and in it Mr.\nPickwick's will was law.\n\nTo any one acquainted with these points of the domestic economy of\nthe establishment, and conversant with the admirable regulation of Mr.\nPickwick's mind, his appearance and behaviour on the morning previous to\nthat which had been fixed upon for the journey to Eatanswill would have\nbeen most mysterious and unaccountable. He paced the room to and fro\nwith hurried steps, popped his head out of the window at intervals\nof about three minutes each, constantly referred to his watch, and\nexhibited many other manifestations of impatience very unusual with him.\nIt was evident that something of great importance was in contemplation,\nbut what that something was, not even Mrs. Bardell had been enabled to\ndiscover.\n\n'Mrs. Bardell,' said Mr. Pickwick, at last, as that amiable female\napproached the termination of a prolonged dusting of the apartment.\n\n'Sir,' said Mrs. Bardell.\n\n'Your little boy is a very long time gone.'\n\n'Why it's a good long way to the Borough, sir,' remonstrated Mrs.\nBardell.\n\n'Ah,' said Mr. Pickwick, 'very true; so it is.' Mr. Pickwick relapsed\ninto silence, and Mrs. Bardell resumed her dusting.\n\n'Mrs. Bardell,' said Mr. Pickwick, at the expiration of a few minutes.\n\n'Sir,' said Mrs. Bardell again. 'Do you think it a much greater expense\nto keep two people, than to keep one?'\n\n'La, Mr. Pickwick,' said Mrs. Bardell, colouring up to the very border\nof her cap, as she fancied she observed a species of matrimonial twinkle\nin the eyes of her lodger; 'La, Mr. Pickwick, what a question!'\n\n'Well, but do you?' inquired Mr. Pickwick.\n\n'That depends,' said Mrs. Bardell, approaching the duster very near to\nMr. Pickwick's elbow which was planted on the table. 'That depends a\ngood deal upon the person, you know, Mr. Pickwick; and whether it's a\nsaving and careful person, sir.'\n\n'That's very true,' said Mr. Pickwick, 'but the person I have in my\neye (here he looked very hard at Mrs. Bardell) I think possesses these\nqualities; and has, moreover, a considerable knowledge of the world, and\na great deal of sharpness, Mrs. Bardell, which may be of material use to\nme.'\n\n'La, Mr. Pickwick,' said Mrs. Bardell, the crimson rising to her\ncap-border again.\n\n'I do,' said Mr. Pickwick, growing energetic, as was his wont in\nspeaking of a subject which interested him--'I do, indeed; and to tell\nyou the truth, Mrs. Bardell, I have made up my mind.'\n\n'Dear me, sir,'exclaimed Mrs. Bardell.\n\n'You'll think it very strange now,' said the amiable Mr. Pickwick, with\na good-humoured glance at his companion, 'that I never consulted you\nabout this matter, and never even mentioned it, till I sent your little\nboy out this morning--eh?'\n\nMrs. Bardell could only reply by a look. She had long worshipped Mr.\nPickwick at a distance, but here she was, all at once, raised to a\npinnacle to which her wildest and most extravagant hopes had never\ndared to aspire. Mr. Pickwick was going to propose--a deliberate plan,\ntoo--sent her little boy to the Borough, to get him out of the way--how\nthoughtful--how considerate!\n\n'Well,' said Mr. Pickwick, 'what do you think?'\n\n'Oh, Mr. Pickwick,' said Mrs. Bardell, trembling with agitation, 'you're\nvery kind, sir.'\n\n'It'll save you a good deal of trouble, won't it?' said Mr. Pickwick.\n'Oh, I never thought anything of the trouble, sir,' replied Mrs.\nBardell; 'and, of course, I should take more trouble to please you\nthen, than ever; but it is so kind of you, Mr. Pickwick, to have so much\nconsideration for my loneliness.'\n\n'Ah, to be sure,' said Mr. Pickwick; 'I never thought of that. When I am\nin town, you'll always have somebody to sit with you. To be sure, so you\nwill.'\n\n'I am sure I ought to be a very happy woman,' said Mrs. Bardell.\n\n'And your little boy--' said Mr. Pickwick.\n\n'Bless his heart!' interposed Mrs. Bardell, with a maternal sob.\n\n'He, too, will have a companion,' resumed Mr. Pickwick, 'a lively one,\nwho'll teach him, I'll be bound, more tricks in a week than he would\never learn in a year.' And Mr. Pickwick smiled placidly.\n\n'Oh, you dear--' said Mrs. Bardell.\n\nMr. Pickwick started.\n\n'Oh, you kind, good, playful dear,' said Mrs. Bardell; and without more\nado, she rose from her chair, and flung her arms round Mr. Pickwick's\nneck, with a cataract of tears and a chorus of sobs.\n\n'Bless my soul,' cried the astonished Mr. Pickwick; 'Mrs. Bardell, my\ngood woman--dear me, what a situation--pray consider.--Mrs. Bardell,\ndon't--if anybody should come--'\n\n'Oh, let them come,' exclaimed Mrs. Bardell frantically; 'I'll never\nleave you--dear, kind, good soul;' and, with these words, Mrs. Bardell\nclung the tighter.\n\n'Mercy upon me,' said Mr. Pickwick, struggling violently, 'I hear\nsomebody coming up the stairs. Don't, don't, there's a good creature,\ndon't.' But entreaty and remonstrance were alike unavailing; for Mrs.\nBardell had fainted in Mr. Pickwick's arms; and before he could gain\ntime to deposit her on a chair, Master Bardell entered the room,\nushering in Mr. Tupman, Mr. Winkle, and Mr. Snodgrass.\n\nMr. Pickwick was struck motionless and speechless. He stood with his\nlovely burden in his arms, gazing vacantly on the countenances of his\nfriends, without the slightest attempt at recognition or explanation.\nThey, in their turn, stared at him; and Master Bardell, in his turn,\nstared at everybody.\n\nThe astonishment of the Pickwickians was so absorbing, and the\nperplexity of Mr. Pickwick was so extreme, that they might have remained\nin exactly the same relative situations until the suspended animation of\nthe lady was restored, had it not been for a most beautiful and touching\nexpression of filial affection on the part of her youthful son. Clad\nin a tight suit of corduroy, spangled with brass buttons of a very\nconsiderable size, he at first stood at the door astounded and\nuncertain; but by degrees, the impression that his mother must have\nsuffered some personal damage pervaded his partially developed mind, and\nconsidering Mr. Pickwick as the aggressor, he set up an appalling\nand semi-earthly kind of howling, and butting forward with his head,\ncommenced assailing that immortal gentleman about the back and legs,\nwith such blows and pinches as the strength of his arm, and the violence\nof his excitement, allowed.\n\n'Take this little villain away,' said the agonised Mr. Pickwick, 'he's\nmad.'\n\n'What is the matter?' said the three tongue-tied Pickwickians.\n\n'I don't know,' replied Mr. Pickwick pettishly. 'Take away the boy.'\n(Here Mr. Winkle carried the interesting boy, screaming and struggling,\nto the farther end of the apartment.) 'Now help me, lead this woman\ndownstairs.'\n\n'Oh, I am better now,' said Mrs. Bardell faintly.\n\n'Let me lead you downstairs,' said the ever-gallant Mr. Tupman.\n\n'Thank you, sir--thank you;' exclaimed Mrs. Bardell hysterically. And\ndownstairs she was led accordingly, accompanied by her affectionate son.\n\n'I cannot conceive,' said Mr. Pickwick when his friend returned--'I\ncannot conceive what has been the matter with that woman. I had merely\nannounced to her my intention of keeping a man-servant, when she\nfell into the extraordinary paroxysm in which you found her. Very\nextraordinary thing.'\n\n'Very,' said his three friends.\n\n'Placed me in such an extremely awkward situation,' continued Mr.\nPickwick.\n\n'Very,' was the reply of his followers, as they coughed slightly, and\nlooked dubiously at each other.\n\nThis behaviour was not lost upon Mr. Pickwick. He remarked their\nincredulity. They evidently suspected him.\n\n'There is a man in the passage now,' said Mr. Tupman.\n\n'It's the man I spoke to you about,' said Mr. Pickwick; 'I sent for\nhim to the Borough this morning. Have the goodness to call him up,\nSnodgrass.'\n\nMr. Snodgrass did as he was desired; and Mr. Samuel Weller forthwith\npresented himself.\n\n'Oh--you remember me, I suppose?' said Mr. Pickwick.\n\n'I should think so,' replied Sam, with a patronising wink. 'Queer start\nthat 'ere, but he was one too many for you, warn't he? Up to snuff and a\npinch or two over--eh?'\n\n'Never mind that matter now,' said Mr. Pickwick hastily; 'I want to\nspeak to you about something else. Sit down.'\n\n'Thank'ee, sir,' said Sam. And down he sat without further bidding,\nhaving previously deposited his old white hat on the landing outside\nthe door. ''Tain't a wery good 'un to look at,' said Sam, 'but it's an\nastonishin' 'un to wear; and afore the brim went, it was a wery handsome\ntile. Hows'ever it's lighter without it, that's one thing, and every\nhole lets in some air, that's another--wentilation gossamer I calls it.'\nOn the delivery of this sentiment, Mr. Weller smiled agreeably upon the\nassembled Pickwickians.\n\n'Now with regard to the matter on which I, with the concurrence of these\ngentlemen, sent for you,' said Mr. Pickwick.\n\n'That's the pint, sir,' interposed Sam; 'out vith it, as the father said\nto his child, when he swallowed a farden.'\n\n'We want to know, in the first place,' said Mr. Pickwick, 'whether you\nhave any reason to be discontented with your present situation.'\n\n'Afore I answers that 'ere question, gen'l'm'n,' replied Mr. Weller,\n'I should like to know, in the first place, whether you're a-goin' to\npurwide me with a better?'\n\nA sunbeam of placid benevolence played on Mr. Pickwick's features as he\nsaid, 'I have half made up my mind to engage you myself.'\n\n'Have you, though?' said Sam.\n\nMr. Pickwick nodded in the affirmative.\n\n'Wages?' inquired Sam.\n\n'Twelve pounds a year,' replied Mr. Pickwick.\n\n'Clothes?'\n\n'Two suits.'\n\n'Work?'\n\n'To attend upon me; and travel about with me and these gentlemen here.'\n'Take the bill down,' said Sam emphatically. 'I'm let to a single\ngentleman, and the terms is agreed upon.'\n\n'You accept the situation?' inquired Mr. Pickwick. 'Cert'nly,' replied\nSam. 'If the clothes fits me half as well as the place, they'll do.'\n\n'You can get a character of course?' said Mr. Pickwick.\n\n'Ask the landlady o' the White Hart about that, Sir,' replied Sam.\n\n'Can you come this evening?'\n\n'I'll get into the clothes this minute, if they're here,' said Sam, with\ngreat alacrity.\n\n'Call at eight this evening,' said Mr. Pickwick; 'and if the inquiries\nare satisfactory, they shall be provided.'\n\nWith the single exception of one amiable indiscretion, in which an\nassistant housemaid had equally participated, the history of Mr.\nWeller's conduct was so very blameless, that Mr. Pickwick felt fully\njustified in closing the engagement that very evening. With the\npromptness and energy which characterised not only the public\nproceedings, but all the private actions of this extraordinary man, he\nat once led his new attendant to one of those convenient emporiums\nwhere gentlemen's new and second-hand clothes are provided, and the\ntroublesome and inconvenient formality of measurement dispensed with;\nand before night had closed in, Mr. Weller was furnished with a grey\ncoat with the P. C. button, a black hat with a cockade to it, a pink\nstriped waistcoat, light breeches and gaiters, and a variety of other\nnecessaries, too numerous to recapitulate.\n\n'Well,' said that suddenly-transformed individual, as he took his seat\non the outside of the Eatanswill coach next morning; 'I wonder whether\nI'm meant to be a footman, or a groom, or a gamekeeper, or a seedsman.\nI looks like a sort of compo of every one on 'em. Never mind; there's\na change of air, plenty to see, and little to do; and all this suits my\ncomplaint uncommon; so long life to the Pickvicks, says I!'\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XIII. SOME ACCOUNT OF EATANSWILL; OF THE STATE OF PARTIES\nTHEREIN; AND OF THE ELECTION OF A MEMBER TO SERVE IN PARLIAMENT FOR THAT\nANCIENT, LOYAL, AND PATRIOTIC BOROUGH\n\n\nWe will frankly acknowledge that, up to the period of our being first\nimmersed in the voluminous papers of the Pickwick Club, we had never\nheard of Eatanswill; we will with equal candour admit that we have in\nvain searched for proof of the actual existence of such a place at the\npresent day. Knowing the deep reliance to be placed on every note\nand statement of Mr. Pickwick's, and not presuming to set up our\nrecollection against the recorded declarations of that great man, we\nhave consulted every authority, bearing upon the subject, to which we\ncould possibly refer. We have traced every name in schedules A and B,\nwithout meeting with that of Eatanswill; we have minutely examined every\ncorner of the pocket county maps issued for the benefit of society\nby our distinguished publishers, and the same result has attended our\ninvestigation. We are therefore led to believe that Mr. Pickwick, with\nthat anxious desire to abstain from giving offence to any, and with\nthose delicate feelings for which all who knew him well know he was so\neminently remarkable, purposely substituted a fictitious designation,\nfor the real name of the place in which his observations were made. We\nare confirmed in this belief by a little circumstance, apparently slight\nand trivial in itself, but when considered in this point of view, not\nundeserving of notice. In Mr. Pickwick's note-book, we can just trace an\nentry of the fact, that the places of himself and followers were booked\nby the Norwich coach; but this entry was afterwards lined through, as if\nfor the purpose of concealing even the direction in which the borough is\nsituated. We will not, therefore, hazard a guess upon the subject, but\nwill at once proceed with this history, content with the materials which\nits characters have provided for us.\n\nIt appears, then, that the Eatanswill people, like the people of many\nother small towns, considered themselves of the utmost and most mighty\nimportance, and that every man in Eatanswill, conscious of the weight\nthat attached to his example, felt himself bound to unite, heart and\nsoul, with one of the two great parties that divided the town--the Blues\nand the Buffs. Now the Blues lost no opportunity of opposing the\nBuffs, and the Buffs lost no opportunity of opposing the Blues; and\nthe consequence was, that whenever the Buffs and Blues met together\nat public meeting, town-hall, fair, or market, disputes and high words\narose between them. With these dissensions it is almost superfluous\nto say that everything in Eatanswill was made a party question. If the\nBuffs proposed to new skylight the market-place, the Blues got up\npublic meetings, and denounced the proceeding; if the Blues proposed the\nerection of an additional pump in the High Street, the Buffs rose as\none man and stood aghast at the enormity. There were Blue shops and Buff\nshops, Blue inns and Buff inns--there was a Blue aisle and a Buff aisle\nin the very church itself.\n\nOf course it was essentially and indispensably necessary that each of\nthese powerful parties should have its chosen organ and representative:\nand, accordingly, there were two newspapers in the town--the Eatanswill\nGAZETTE and the Eatanswill INDEPENDENT; the former advocating Blue\nprinciples, and the latter conducted on grounds decidedly Buff.\nFine newspapers they were. Such leading articles, and such spirited\nattacks!--'Our worthless contemporary, the GAZETTE'--'That disgraceful\nand dastardly journal, the INDEPENDENT'--'That false and scurrilous\nprint, the INDEPENDENT'--'That vile and slanderous calumniator, the\nGAZETTE;' these, and other spirit-stirring denunciations, were strewn\nplentifully over the columns of each, in every number, and excited\nfeelings of the most intense delight and indignation in the bosoms of\nthe townspeople.\n\nMr. Pickwick, with his usual foresight and sagacity, had chosen a\npeculiarly desirable moment for his visit to the borough. Never was such\na contest known. The Honourable Samuel Slumkey, of Slumkey Hall, was\nthe Blue candidate; and Horatio Fizkin, Esq., of Fizkin Lodge, near\nEatanswill, had been prevailed upon by his friends to stand forward on\nthe Buff interest. The GAZETTE warned the electors of Eatanswill that\nthe eyes not only of England, but of the whole civilised world, were\nupon them; and the INDEPENDENT imperatively demanded to know, whether\nthe constituency of Eatanswill were the grand fellows they had always\ntaken them for, or base and servile tools, undeserving alike of the name\nof Englishmen and the blessings of freedom. Never had such a commotion\nagitated the town before.\n\nIt was late in the evening when Mr. Pickwick and his companions,\nassisted by Sam, dismounted from the roof of the Eatanswill coach. Large\nblue silk flags were flying from the windows of the Town Arms Inn, and\nbills were posted in every sash, intimating, in gigantic letters, that\nthe Honourable Samuel Slumkey's committee sat there daily. A crowd\nof idlers were assembled in the road, looking at a hoarse man in the\nbalcony, who was apparently talking himself very red in the face in\nMr. Slumkey's behalf; but the force and point of whose arguments were\nsomewhat impaired by the perpetual beating of four large drums which Mr.\nFizkin's committee had stationed at the street corner. There was a busy\nlittle man beside him, though, who took off his hat at intervals\nand motioned to the people to cheer, which they regularly did, most\nenthusiastically; and as the red-faced gentleman went on talking till he\nwas redder in the face than ever, it seemed to answer his purpose quite\nas well as if anybody had heard him.\n\nThe Pickwickians had no sooner dismounted than they were surrounded by\na branch mob of the honest and independent, who forthwith set up three\ndeafening cheers, which being responded to by the main body (for it's\nnot at all necessary for a crowd to know what they are cheering about),\nswelled into a tremendous roar of triumph, which stopped even the\nred-faced man in the balcony.\n\n'Hurrah!' shouted the mob, in conclusion.\n\n'One cheer more,' screamed the little fugleman in the balcony, and out\nshouted the mob again, as if lungs were cast-iron, with steel works.\n\n'Slumkey for ever!' roared the honest and independent.\n\n'Slumkey for ever!' echoed Mr. Pickwick, taking off his hat. 'No\nFizkin!' roared the crowd.\n\n'Certainly not!' shouted Mr. Pickwick. 'Hurrah!' And then there was\nanother roaring, like that of a whole menagerie when the elephant has\nrung the bell for the cold meat.\n\n'Who is Slumkey?'whispered Mr. Tupman.\n\n'I don't know,' replied Mr. Pickwick, in the same tone. 'Hush. Don't ask\nany questions. It's always best on these occasions to do what the mob\ndo.'\n\n'But suppose there are two mobs?' suggested Mr. Snodgrass.\n\n'Shout with the largest,' replied Mr. Pickwick.\n\nVolumes could not have said more.\n\nThey entered the house, the crowd opening right and left to let them\npass, and cheering vociferously. The first object of consideration was\nto secure quarters for the night.\n\n'Can we have beds here?' inquired Mr. Pickwick, summoning the waiter.\n\n'Don't know, Sir,' replied the man; 'afraid we're full, sir--I'll\ninquire, Sir.' Away he went for that purpose, and presently returned, to\nask whether the gentleman were 'Blue.'\n\nAs neither Mr. Pickwick nor his companions took any vital interest in\nthe cause of either candidate, the question was rather a difficult one\nto answer. In this dilemma Mr. Pickwick bethought himself of his new\nfriend, Mr. Perker.\n\n'Do you know a gentleman of the name of Perker?' inquired Mr. Pickwick.\n\n'Certainly, Sir; Honourable Mr. Samuel Slumkey's agent.'\n\n'He is Blue, I think?'\n\n'Oh, yes, Sir.'\n\n'Then WE are Blue,' said Mr. Pickwick; but observing that the man looked\nrather doubtful at this accommodating announcement, he gave him his\ncard, and desired him to present it to Mr. Perker forthwith, if he\nshould happen to be in the house. The waiter retired; and reappearing\nalmost immediately with a request that Mr. Pickwick would follow him,\nled the way to a large room on the first floor, where, seated at a long\ntable covered with books and papers, was Mr. Perker.\n\n'Ah--ah, my dear Sir,' said the little man, advancing to meet him; 'very\nhappy to see you, my dear Sir, very. Pray sit down. So you have\ncarried your intention into effect. You have come down here to see an\nelection--eh?' Mr. Pickwick replied in the affirmative.\n\n'Spirited contest, my dear sir,' said the little man.\n\n'I'm delighted to hear it,' said Mr. Pickwick, rubbing his hands. 'I\nlike to see sturdy patriotism, on whatever side it is called forth--and\nso it's a spirited contest?'\n\n'Oh, yes,' said the little man, 'very much so indeed. We have opened all\nthe public-houses in the place, and left our adversary nothing but the\nbeer-shops-masterly stroke of policy that, my dear Sir, eh?' The little\nman smiled complacently, and took a large pinch of snuff.\n\n'And what are the probabilities as to the result of the contest?'\ninquired Mr. Pickwick.\n\n'Why, doubtful, my dear Sir; rather doubtful as yet,' replied the little\nman. 'Fizkin's people have got three-and-thirty voters in the lock-up\ncoach-house at the White Hart.'\n\n'In the coach-house!' said Mr. Pickwick, considerably astonished by this\nsecond stroke of policy.\n\n'They keep 'em locked up there till they want 'em,' resumed the little\nman. 'The effect of that is, you see, to prevent our getting at them;\nand even if we could, it would be of no use, for they keep them very\ndrunk on purpose. Smart fellow Fizkin's agent--very smart fellow\nindeed.'\n\nMr. Pickwick stared, but said nothing.\n\n'We are pretty confident, though,' said Mr. Perker, sinking his\nvoice almost to a whisper. 'We had a little tea-party here, last\nnight--five-and-forty women, my dear sir--and gave every one of 'em a\ngreen parasol when she went away.'\n\n'A parasol!' said Mr. Pickwick.\n\n'Fact, my dear Sir, fact. Five-and-forty green parasols, at seven and\nsixpence a-piece. All women like finery--extraordinary the effect\nof those parasols. Secured all their husbands, and half their\nbrothers--beats stockings, and flannel, and all that sort of thing\nhollow. My idea, my dear Sir, entirely. Hail, rain, or sunshine, you\ncan't walk half a dozen yards up the street, without encountering half a\ndozen green parasols.'\n\nHere the little man indulged in a convulsion of mirth, which was only\nchecked by the entrance of a third party.\n\nThis was a tall, thin man, with a sandy-coloured head inclined to\nbaldness, and a face in which solemn importance was blended with a look\nof unfathomable profundity. He was dressed in a long brown surtout, with\na black cloth waistcoat, and drab trousers. A double eyeglass dangled\nat his waistcoat; and on his head he wore a very low-crowned hat with\na broad brim. The new-comer was introduced to Mr. Pickwick as Mr. Pott,\nthe editor of the Eatanswill GAZETTE. After a few preliminary remarks,\nMr. Pott turned round to Mr. Pickwick, and said with solemnity--\n\n'This contest excites great interest in the metropolis, sir?'\n\n'I believe it does,' said Mr. Pickwick.\n\n'To which I have reason to know,' said Pott, looking towards Mr. Perker\nfor corroboration--'to which I have reason to know that my article of\nlast Saturday in some degree contributed.'\n\n'Not the least doubt of it,' said the little man.\n\n'The press is a mighty engine, sir,' said Pott.\n\nMr. Pickwick yielded his fullest assent to the proposition.\n\n'But I trust, sir,' said Pott, 'that I have never abused the enormous\npower I wield. I trust, sir, that I have never pointed the noble\ninstrument which is placed in my hands, against the sacred bosom of\nprivate life, or the tender breast of individual reputation; I trust,\nsir, that I have devoted my energies to--to endeavours--humble they may\nbe, humble I know they are--to instil those principles of--which--are--'\n\nHere the editor of the Eatanswill GAZETTE, appearing to ramble, Mr.\nPickwick came to his relief, and said--\n\n'Certainly.'\n\n'And what, Sir,' said Pott--'what, Sir, let me ask you as an impartial\nman, is the state of the public mind in London, with reference to my\ncontest with the INDEPENDENT?'\n\n'Greatly excited, no doubt,' interposed Mr. Perker, with a look of\nslyness which was very likely accidental.\n\n'The contest,' said Pott, 'shall be prolonged so long as I have health\nand strength, and that portion of talent with which I am gifted. From\nthat contest, Sir, although it may unsettle men's minds and excite their\nfeelings, and render them incapable for the discharge of the everyday\nduties of ordinary life; from that contest, sir, I will never shrink,\ntill I have set my heel upon the Eatanswill INDEPENDENT. I wish the\npeople of London, and the people of this country to know, sir, that they\nmay rely upon me--that I will not desert them, that I am resolved to\nstand by them, Sir, to the last.' 'Your conduct is most noble, Sir,'\nsaid Mr. Pickwick; and he grasped the hand of the magnanimous Pott. 'You\nare, sir, I perceive, a man of sense and talent,' said Mr. Pott, almost\nbreathless with the vehemence of his patriotic declaration. 'I am most\nhappy, sir, to make the acquaintance of such a man.'\n\n'And I,' said Mr. Pickwick, 'feel deeply honoured by this expression of\nyour opinion. Allow me, sir, to introduce you to my fellow-travellers,\nthe other corresponding members of the club I am proud to have founded.'\n\n'I shall be delighted,' said Mr. Pott.\n\nMr. Pickwick withdrew, and returning with his friends, presented them in\ndue form to the editor of the Eatanswill GAZETTE.\n\n'Now, my dear Pott,' said little Mr. Perker, 'the question is, what are\nwe to do with our friends here?'\n\n'We can stop in this house, I suppose,' said Mr. Pickwick.\n\n'Not a spare bed in the house, my dear sir--not a single bed.'\n\n'Extremely awkward,' said Mr. Pickwick.\n\n'Very,' said his fellow-voyagers.\n\n'I have an idea upon this subject,' said Mr. Pott, 'which I think may be\nvery successfully adopted. They have two beds at the Peacock, and I\ncan boldly say, on behalf of Mrs. Pott, that she will be delighted to\naccommodate Mr. Pickwick and any one of his friends, if the other two\ngentlemen and their servant do not object to shifting, as they best can,\nat the Peacock.'\n\nAfter repeated pressings on the part of Mr. Pott, and repeated\nprotestations on that of Mr. Pickwick that he could not think of\nincommoding or troubling his amiable wife, it was decided that it was\nthe only feasible arrangement that could be made. So it WAS made; and\nafter dinner together at the Town Arms, the friends separated, Mr.\nTupman and Mr. Snodgrass repairing to the Peacock, and Mr. Pickwick\nand Mr. Winkle proceeding to the mansion of Mr. Pott; it having been\npreviously arranged that they should all reassemble at the Town Arms in\nthe morning, and accompany the Honourable Samuel Slumkey's procession to\nthe place of nomination.\n\nMr. Pott's domestic circle was limited to himself and his wife. All men\nwhom mighty genius has raised to a proud eminence in the world, have\nusually some little weakness which appears the more conspicuous from\nthe contrast it presents to their general character. If Mr. Pott had\na weakness, it was, perhaps, that he was rather too submissive to the\nsomewhat contemptuous control and sway of his wife. We do not feel\njustified in laying any particular stress upon the fact, because on the\npresent occasion all Mrs. Pott's most winning ways were brought into\nrequisition to receive the two gentlemen.\n\n'My dear,' said Mr. Pott, 'Mr. Pickwick--Mr. Pickwick of London.'\n\nMrs. Pott received Mr. Pickwick's paternal grasp of the hand with\nenchanting sweetness; and Mr. Winkle, who had not been announced at all,\nsidled and bowed, unnoticed, in an obscure corner.\n\n'P. my dear'--said Mrs. Pott.\n\n'My life,' said Mr. Pott.\n\n'Pray introduce the other gentleman.'\n\n'I beg a thousand pardons,' said Mr. Pott. 'Permit me, Mrs. Pott, Mr.--'\n\n'Winkle,' said Mr. Pickwick.\n\n'Winkle,' echoed Mr. Pott; and the ceremony of introduction was\ncomplete.\n\n'We owe you many apologies, ma'am,' said Mr. Pickwick, 'for disturbing\nyour domestic arrangements at so short a notice.'\n\n'I beg you won't mention it, sir,' replied the feminine Pott, with\nvivacity. 'It is a high treat to me, I assure you, to see any new faces;\nliving as I do, from day to day, and week to week, in this dull place,\nand seeing nobody.'\n\n'Nobody, my dear!' exclaimed Mr. Pott archly.\n\n'Nobody but you,' retorted Mrs. Pott, with asperity.\n\n'You see, Mr. Pickwick,' said the host in explanation of his wife's\nlament, 'that we are in some measure cut off from many enjoyments and\npleasures of which we might otherwise partake. My public station, as\neditor of the Eatanswill GAZETTE, the position which that paper holds in\nthe country, my constant immersion in the vortex of politics--'\n\n'P. my dear--' interposed Mrs. Pott.\n\n'My life--' said the editor.\n\n'I wish, my dear, you would endeavour to find some topic of conversation\nin which these gentlemen might take some rational interest.'\n\n'But, my love,' said Mr. Pott, with great humility, 'Mr. Pickwick does\ntake an interest in it.'\n\n'It's well for him if he can,' said Mrs. Pott emphatically; 'I am\nwearied out of my life with your politics, and quarrels with the\nINDEPENDENT, and nonsense. I am quite astonished, P., at your making\nsuch an exhibition of your absurdity.'\n\n'But, my dear--' said Mr. Pott.\n\n'Oh, nonsense, don't talk to me,' said Mrs. Pott. 'Do you play ecarte,\nSir?'\n\n'I shall be very happy to learn under your tuition,' replied Mr. Winkle.\n\n'Well, then, draw that little table into this window, and let me get out\nof hearing of those prosy politics.'\n\n'Jane,' said Mr. Pott, to the servant who brought in candles, 'go down\ninto the office, and bring me up the file of the GAZETTE for eighteen\nhundred and twenty-six. I'll read you,' added the editor, turning to Mr.\nPickwick--'I'll just read you a few of the leaders I wrote at that time\nupon the Buff job of appointing a new tollman to the turnpike here; I\nrather think they'll amuse you.'\n\n'I should like to hear them very much indeed,' said Mr. Pickwick.\n\nUp came the file, and down sat the editor, with Mr. Pickwick at his\nside.\n\nWe have in vain pored over the leaves of Mr. Pickwick's note-book,\nin the hope of meeting with a general summary of these beautiful\ncompositions. We have every reason to believe that he was perfectly\nenraptured with the vigour and freshness of the style; indeed Mr. Winkle\nhas recorded the fact that his eyes were closed, as if with excess of\npleasure, during the whole time of their perusal.\n\nThe announcement of supper put a stop both to the game of ecarte, and\nthe recapitulation of the beauties of the Eatanswill GAZETTE. Mrs. Pott\nwas in the highest spirits and the most agreeable humour. Mr. Winkle had\nalready made considerable progress in her good opinion, and she did\nnot hesitate to inform him, confidentially, that Mr. Pickwick was 'a\ndelightful old dear.' These terms convey a familiarity of expression,\nin which few of those who were intimately acquainted with that\ncolossal-minded man, would have presumed to indulge. We have preserved\nthem, nevertheless, as affording at once a touching and a convincing\nproof of the estimation in which he was held by every class of society,\nand the case with which he made his way to their hearts and feelings.\n\nIt was a late hour of the night--long after Mr. Tupman and Mr. Snodgrass\nhad fallen asleep in the inmost recesses of the Peacock--when the\ntwo friends retired to rest. Slumber soon fell upon the senses of Mr.\nWinkle, but his feelings had been excited, and his admiration roused;\nand for many hours after sleep had rendered him insensible to earthly\nobjects, the face and figure of the agreeable Mrs. Pott presented\nthemselves again and again to his wandering imagination.\n\nThe noise and bustle which ushered in the morning were sufficient to\ndispel from the mind of the most romantic visionary in existence,\nany associations but those which were immediately connected with the\nrapidly-approaching election. The beating of drums, the blowing of horns\nand trumpets, the shouting of men, and tramping of horses, echoed and\nre-echoed through the streets from the earliest dawn of day; and an\noccasional fight between the light skirmishers of either party at once\nenlivened the preparations, and agreeably diversified their character.\n'Well, Sam,' said Mr. Pickwick, as his valet appeared at his bedroom\ndoor, just as he was concluding his toilet; 'all alive to-day, I\nsuppose?'\n\n'Reg'lar game, sir,' replied Mr. Weller; 'our people's a-collecting down\nat the Town Arms, and they're a-hollering themselves hoarse already.'\n\n'Ah,' said Mr. Pickwick, 'do they seem devoted to their party, Sam?'\n\n'Never see such dewotion in my life, Sir.'\n\n'Energetic, eh?' said Mr. Pickwick.\n\n'Uncommon,' replied Sam; 'I never see men eat and drink so much afore. I\nwonder they ain't afeer'd o' bustin'.'\n\n'That's the mistaken kindness of the gentry here,' said Mr. Pickwick.\n\n'Wery likely,' replied Sam briefly.\n\n'Fine, fresh, hearty fellows they seem,' said Mr. Pickwick, glancing\nfrom the window.\n\n'Wery fresh,' replied Sam; 'me and the two waiters at the Peacock has\nbeen a-pumpin' over the independent woters as supped there last night.'\n\n'Pumping over independent voters!' exclaimed Mr. Pickwick.\n\n'Yes,' said his attendant, 'every man slept vere he fell down; we\ndragged 'em out, one by one, this mornin', and put 'em under the pump,\nand they're in reg'lar fine order now. Shillin' a head the committee\npaid for that 'ere job.'\n\n'Can such things be!' exclaimed the astonished Mr. Pickwick.\n\n'Lord bless your heart, sir,' said Sam, 'why where was you half\nbaptised?--that's nothin', that ain't.'\n\n'Nothing?'said Mr. Pickwick. 'Nothin' at all, Sir,' replied his\nattendant. 'The night afore the last day o' the last election here,\nthe opposite party bribed the barmaid at the Town Arms, to hocus the\nbrandy-and-water of fourteen unpolled electors as was a-stoppin' in the\nhouse.'\n\n'What do you mean by \"hocussing\" brandy-and-water?' inquired Mr.\nPickwick.\n\n'Puttin' laud'num in it,' replied Sam. 'Blessed if she didn't send 'em\nall to sleep till twelve hours arter the election was over. They took\none man up to the booth, in a truck, fast asleep, by way of experiment,\nbut it was no go--they wouldn't poll him; so they brought him back, and\nput him to bed again.' 'Strange practices, these,' said Mr. Pickwick;\nhalf speaking to himself and half addressing Sam.\n\n'Not half so strange as a miraculous circumstance as happened to my own\nfather, at an election time, in this wery place, Sir,' replied Sam.\n\n'What was that?' inquired Mr. Pickwick.\n\n'Why, he drove a coach down here once,' said Sam; ''lection time came\non, and he was engaged by vun party to bring down woters from London.\nNight afore he was going to drive up, committee on t' other side sends\nfor him quietly, and away he goes vith the messenger, who shows him\nin;--large room--lots of gen'l'm'n--heaps of papers, pens and ink, and\nall that 'ere. \"Ah, Mr. Weller,\" says the gen'l'm'n in the chair, \"glad\nto see you, sir; how are you?\"--\"Wery well, thank 'ee, Sir,\" says\nmy father; \"I hope you're pretty middlin,\" says he.--\"Pretty well,\nthank'ee, Sir,\" says the gen'l'm'n; \"sit down, Mr. Weller--pray sit\ndown, sir.\" So my father sits down, and he and the gen'l'm'n looks wery\nhard at each other. \"You don't remember me?\" said the gen'l'm'n.--\"Can't\nsay I do,\" says my father.--\"Oh, I know you,\" says the gen'l'm'n:\n\"know'd you when you was a boy,\" says he.--\"Well, I don't remember you,\"\nsays my father.--\"That's wery odd,\" says the gen'l'm'n.\"--\"Wery,\"\nsays my father.--\"You must have a bad mem'ry, Mr. Weller,\" says the\ngen'l'm'n.--\"Well, it is a wery bad 'un,\" says my father.--\"I thought\nso,\" says the gen'l'm'n. So then they pours him out a glass of wine, and\ngammons him about his driving, and gets him into a reg'lar good humour,\nand at last shoves a twenty-pound note into his hand. \"It's a wery bad\nroad between this and London,\" says the gen'l'm'n.--\"Here and there\nit is a heavy road,\" says my father.--\" 'Specially near the canal,\nI think,\" says the gen'l'm'n.--\"Nasty bit that 'ere,\" says my\nfather.--\"Well, Mr. Weller,\" says the gen'l'm'n, \"you're a wery good\nwhip, and can do what you like with your horses, we know. We're all wery\nfond o' you, Mr. Weller, so in case you should have an accident when\nyou're bringing these here woters down, and should tip 'em over into\nthe canal vithout hurtin' of 'em, this is for yourself,\" says\nhe.--\"Gen'l'm'n, you're wery kind,\" says my father, \"and I'll drink your\nhealth in another glass of wine,\" says he; vich he did, and then\nbuttons up the money, and bows himself out. You wouldn't believe, sir,'\ncontinued Sam, with a look of inexpressible impudence at his master,\n'that on the wery day as he came down with them woters, his coach WAS\nupset on that 'ere wery spot, and ev'ry man on 'em was turned into the\ncanal.'\n\n'And got out again?' inquired Mr. Pickwick hastily.\n\n'Why,' replied Sam very slowly, 'I rather think one old gen'l'm'n was\nmissin'; I know his hat was found, but I ain't quite certain whether\nhis head was in it or not. But what I look at is the hex-traordinary and\nwonderful coincidence, that arter what that gen'l'm'n said, my father's\ncoach should be upset in that wery place, and on that wery day!'\n\n'it is, no doubt, a very extraordinary circumstance indeed,' said Mr.\nPickwick. 'But brush my hat, Sam, for I hear Mr. Winkle calling me to\nbreakfast.'\n\nWith these words Mr. Pickwick descended to the parlour, where he found\nbreakfast laid, and the family already assembled. The meal was hastily\ndespatched; each of the gentlemen's hats was decorated with an enormous\nblue favour, made up by the fair hands of Mrs. Pott herself; and as\nMr. Winkle had undertaken to escort that lady to a house-top, in the\nimmediate vicinity of the hustings, Mr. Pickwick and Mr. Pott repaired\nalone to the Town Arms, from the back window of which, one of Mr.\nSlumkey's committee was addressing six small boys and one girl, whom he\ndignified, at every second sentence, with the imposing title of 'Men of\nEatanswill,' whereat the six small boys aforesaid cheered prodigiously.\n\nThe stable-yard exhibited unequivocal symptoms of the glory and strength\nof the Eatanswill Blues. There was a regular army of blue flags, some\nwith one handle, and some with two, exhibiting appropriate devices, in\ngolden characters four feet high, and stout in proportion. There was a\ngrand band of trumpets, bassoons, and drums, marshalled four abreast,\nand earning their money, if ever men did, especially the drum-beaters,\nwho were very muscular. There were bodies of constables with blue\nstaves, twenty committee-men with blue scarfs, and a mob of voters with\nblue cockades. There were electors on horseback and electors afoot.\nThere was an open carriage-and-four, for the Honourable Samuel Slumkey;\nand there were four carriage-and-pair, for his friends and supporters;\nand the flags were rustling, and the band was playing, and the\nconstables were swearing, and the twenty committee-men were squabbling,\nand the mob were shouting, and the horses were backing, and the\npost-boys perspiring; and everybody, and everything, then and there\nassembled, was for the special use, behoof, honour, and renown, of the\nHonourable Samuel Slumkey, of Slumkey Hall, one of the candidates for\nthe representation of the borough of Eatanswill, in the Commons House\nof Parliament of the United Kingdom. Loud and long were the cheers, and\nmighty was the rustling of one of the blue flags, with 'Liberty of the\nPress' inscribed thereon, when the sandy head of Mr. Pott was discerned\nin one of the windows, by the mob beneath; and tremendous was the\nenthusiasm when the Honourable Samuel Slumkey himself, in top-boots, and\na blue neckerchief, advanced and seized the hand of the said Pott, and\nmelodramatically testified by gestures to the crowd, his ineffaceable\nobligations to the Eatanswill GAZETTE.\n\n'Is everything ready?' said the Honourable Samuel Slumkey to Mr. Perker.\n\n'Everything, my dear Sir,' was the little man's reply.\n\n'Nothing has been omitted, I hope?' said the Honourable Samuel Slumkey.\n\n'Nothing has been left undone, my dear sir--nothing whatever. There are\ntwenty washed men at the street door for you to shake hands with; and\nsix children in arms that you're to pat on the head, and inquire the age\nof; be particular about the children, my dear sir--it has always a great\neffect, that sort of thing.'\n\n'I'll take care,' said the Honourable Samuel Slumkey.\n\n'And, perhaps, my dear Sir,' said the cautious little man, 'perhaps\nif you could--I don't mean to say it's indispensable--but if you could\nmanage to kiss one of 'em, it would produce a very great impression on\nthe crowd.'\n\n'Wouldn't it have as good an effect if the proposer or seconder did\nthat?' said the Honourable Samuel Slumkey.\n\n'Why, I am afraid it wouldn't,' replied the agent; 'if it were done by\nyourself, my dear Sir, I think it would make you very popular.'\n\n'Very well,' said the Honourable Samuel Slumkey, with a resigned air,\n'then it must be done. That's all.'\n\n'Arrange the procession,' cried the twenty committee-men.\n\nAmidst the cheers of the assembled throng, the band, and the constables,\nand the committee-men, and the voters, and the horsemen, and the\ncarriages, took their places--each of the two-horse vehicles being\nclosely packed with as many gentlemen as could manage to stand upright\nin it; and that assigned to Mr. Perker, containing Mr. Pickwick, Mr.\nTupman, Mr. Snodgrass, and about half a dozen of the committee besides.\n\nThere was a moment of awful suspense as the procession waited for the\nHonourable Samuel Slumkey to step into his carriage. Suddenly the crowd\nset up a great cheering.\n\n'He has come out,' said little Mr. Perker, greatly excited; the more so\nas their position did not enable them to see what was going forward.\n\nAnother cheer, much louder.\n\n'He has shaken hands with the men,' cried the little agent.\n\nAnother cheer, far more vehement.\n\n'He has patted the babies on the head,' said Mr. Perker, trembling with\nanxiety.\n\nA roar of applause that rent the air.\n\n'He has kissed one of 'em!' exclaimed the delighted little man.\n\nA second roar.\n\n'He has kissed another,' gasped the excited manager.\n\nA third roar.\n\n'He's kissing 'em all!' screamed the enthusiastic little gentleman, and\nhailed by the deafening shouts of the multitude, the procession moved\non.\n\nHow or by what means it became mixed up with the other procession, and\nhow it was ever extricated from the confusion consequent thereupon, is\nmore than we can undertake to describe, inasmuch as Mr. Pickwick's\nhat was knocked over his eyes, nose, and mouth, by one poke of a Buff\nflag-staff, very early in the proceedings. He describes himself as being\nsurrounded on every side, when he could catch a glimpse of the scene,\nby angry and ferocious countenances, by a vast cloud of dust, and by a\ndense crowd of combatants. He represents himself as being forced from\nthe carriage by some unseen power, and being personally engaged in a\npugilistic encounter; but with whom, or how, or why, he is wholly\nunable to state. He then felt himself forced up some wooden steps by the\npersons from behind; and on removing his hat, found himself surrounded\nby his friends, in the very front of the left hand side of the hustings.\nThe right was reserved for the Buff party, and the centre for the mayor\nand his officers; one of whom--the fat crier of Eatanswill--was ringing\nan enormous bell, by way of commanding silence, while Mr. Horatio\nFizkin, and the Honourable Samuel Slumkey, with their hands upon their\nhearts, were bowing with the utmost affability to the troubled sea of\nheads that inundated the open space in front; and from whence arose a\nstorm of groans, and shouts, and yells, and hootings, that would have\ndone honour to an earthquake.\n\n'There's Winkle,' said Mr. Tupman, pulling his friend by the sleeve.\n\n'Where!' said Mr. Pickwick, putting on his spectacles, which he had\nfortunately kept in his pocket hitherto. 'There,' said Mr. Tupman, 'on\nthe top of that house.' And there, sure enough, in the leaden gutter\nof a tiled roof, were Mr. Winkle and Mrs. Pott, comfortably seated in a\ncouple of chairs, waving their handkerchiefs in token of recognition--a\ncompliment which Mr. Pickwick returned by kissing his hand to the lady.\n\nThe proceedings had not yet commenced; and as an inactive crowd\nis generally disposed to be jocose, this very innocent action was\nsufficient to awaken their facetiousness.\n\n'Oh, you wicked old rascal,' cried one voice, 'looking arter the girls,\nare you?'\n\n'Oh, you wenerable sinner,' cried another.\n\n'Putting on his spectacles to look at a married 'ooman!' said a third.\n\n'I see him a-winkin' at her, with his wicked old eye,' shouted a fourth.\n\n'Look arter your wife, Pott,' bellowed a fifth--and then there was a\nroar of laughter.\n\nAs these taunts were accompanied with invidious comparisons between Mr.\nPickwick and an aged ram, and several witticisms of the like nature; and\nas they moreover rather tended to convey reflections upon the honour\nof an innocent lady, Mr. Pickwick's indignation was excessive; but as\nsilence was proclaimed at the moment, he contented himself by scorching\nthe mob with a look of pity for their misguided minds, at which they\nlaughed more boisterously than ever.\n\n'Silence!' roared the mayor's attendants.\n\n'Whiffin, proclaim silence,' said the mayor, with an air of pomp\nbefitting his lofty station. In obedience to this command the crier\nperformed another concerto on the bell, whereupon a gentleman in the\ncrowd called out 'Muffins'; which occasioned another laugh.\n\n'Gentlemen,' said the mayor, at as loud a pitch as he could possibly\nforce his voice to--'gentlemen. Brother electors of the borough of\nEatanswill. We are met here to-day for the purpose of choosing a\nrepresentative in the room of our late--'\n\nHere the mayor was interrupted by a voice in the crowd.\n\n'Suc-cess to the mayor!' cried the voice, 'and may he never desert the\nnail and sarspan business, as he got his money by.'\n\nThis allusion to the professional pursuits of the orator was received\nwith a storm of delight, which, with a bell-accompaniment, rendered the\nremainder of his speech inaudible, with the exception of the concluding\nsentence, in which he thanked the meeting for the patient attention\nwith which they heard him throughout--an expression of gratitude\nwhich elicited another burst of mirth, of about a quarter of an hour's\nduration.\n\nNext, a tall, thin gentleman, in a very stiff white neckerchief, after\nbeing repeatedly desired by the crowd to 'send a boy home, to ask\nwhether he hadn't left his voice under the pillow,' begged to nominate a\nfit and proper person to represent them in Parliament. And when he said\nit was Horatio Fizkin, Esquire, of Fizkin Lodge, near Eatanswill, the\nFizkinites applauded, and the Slumkeyites groaned, so long, and so\nloudly, that both he and the seconder might have sung comic songs in\nlieu of speaking, without anybody's being a bit the wiser.\n\nThe friends of Horatio Fizkin, Esquire, having had their innings, a\nlittle choleric, pink-faced man stood forward to propose another fit and\nproper person to represent the electors of Eatanswill in Parliament; and\nvery swimmingly the pink-faced gentleman would have got on, if he had\nnot been rather too choleric to entertain a sufficient perception of\nthe fun of the crowd. But after a very few sentences of figurative\neloquence, the pink-faced gentleman got from denouncing those who\ninterrupted him in the mob, to exchanging defiances with the gentlemen\non the hustings; whereupon arose an uproar which reduced him to the\nnecessity of expressing his feelings by serious pantomime, which he did,\nand then left the stage to his seconder, who delivered a written speech\nof half an hour's length, and wouldn't be stopped, because he had sent\nit all to the Eatanswill GAZETTE, and the Eatanswill GAZETTE had already\nprinted it, every word.\n\nThen Horatio Fizkin, Esquire, of Fizkin Lodge, near Eatanswill,\npresented himself for the purpose of addressing the electors; which he\nno sooner did, than the band employed by the Honourable Samuel Slumkey,\ncommenced performing with a power to which their strength in the morning\nwas a trifle; in return for which, the Buff crowd belaboured the heads\nand shoulders of the Blue crowd; on which the Blue crowd endeavoured\nto dispossess themselves of their very unpleasant neighbours the Buff\ncrowd; and a scene of struggling, and pushing, and fighting, succeeded,\nto which we can no more do justice than the mayor could, although he\nissued imperative orders to twelve constables to seize the ringleaders,\nwho might amount in number to two hundred and fifty, or thereabouts. At\nall these encounters, Horatio Fizkin, Esquire, of Fizkin Lodge, and\nhis friends, waxed fierce and furious; until at last Horatio Fizkin,\nEsquire, of Fizkin Lodge, begged to ask his opponent, the Honourable\nSamuel Slumkey, of Slumkey Hall, whether that band played by his\nconsent; which question the Honourable Samuel Slumkey declining to\nanswer, Horatio Fizkin, Esquire, of Fizkin Lodge, shook his fist in\nthe countenance of the Honourable Samuel Slumkey, of Slumkey Hall; upon\nwhich the Honourable Samuel Slumkey, his blood being up, defied Horatio\nFizkin, Esquire, to mortal combat. At this violation of all known rules\nand precedents of order, the mayor commanded another fantasia on the\nbell, and declared that he would bring before himself, both Horatio\nFizkin, Esquire, of Fizkin Lodge, and the Honourable Samuel Slumkey, of\nSlumkey Hall, and bind them over to keep the peace. Upon this terrific\ndenunciation, the supporters of the two candidates interfered, and after\nthe friends of each party had quarrelled in pairs, for three-quarters\nof an hour, Horatio Fizkin, Esquire, touched his hat to the Honourable\nSamuel Slumkey; the Honourable Samuel Slumkey touched his to Horatio\nFizkin, Esquire; the band was stopped; the crowd were partially quieted;\nand Horatio Fizkin, Esquire, was permitted to proceed.\n\nThe speeches of the two candidates, though differing in every other\nrespect, afforded a beautiful tribute to the merit and high worth of\nthe electors of Eatanswill. Both expressed their opinion that a\nmore independent, a more enlightened, a more public-spirited, a more\nnoble-minded, a more disinterested set of men than those who had\npromised to vote for him, never existed on earth; each darkly hinted\nhis suspicions that the electors in the opposite interest had certain\nswinish and besotted infirmities which rendered them unfit for the\nexercise of the important duties they were called upon to discharge.\nFizkin expressed his readiness to do anything he was wanted: Slumkey,\nhis determination to do nothing that was asked of him. Both said that\nthe trade, the manufactures, the commerce, the prosperity of Eatanswill,\nwould ever be dearer to their hearts than any earthly object; and each\nhad it in his power to state, with the utmost confidence, that he was\nthe man who would eventually be returned.\n\nThere was a show of hands; the mayor decided in favour of the Honourable\nSamuel Slumkey, of Slumkey Hall. Horatio Fizkin, Esquire, of Fizkin\nLodge, demanded a poll, and a poll was fixed accordingly. Then a vote of\nthanks was moved to the mayor for his able conduct in the chair; and\nthe mayor, devoutly wishing that he had had a chair to display his able\nconduct in (for he had been standing during the whole proceedings),\nreturned thanks. The processions reformed, the carriages rolled slowly\nthrough the crowd, and its members screeched and shouted after them as\ntheir feelings or caprice dictated.\n\nDuring the whole time of the polling, the town was in a perpetual\nfever of excitement. Everything was conducted on the most liberal and\ndelightful scale. Excisable articles were remarkably cheap at all the\npublic-houses; and spring vans paraded the streets for the accommodation\nof voters who were seized with any temporary dizziness in the head--an\nepidemic which prevailed among the electors, during the contest, to\na most alarming extent, and under the influence of which they\nmight frequently be seen lying on the pavements in a state of utter\ninsensibility. A small body of electors remained unpolled on the very\nlast day. They were calculating and reflecting persons, who had not\nyet been convinced by the arguments of either party, although they had\nfrequent conferences with each. One hour before the close of the poll,\nMr. Perker solicited the honour of a private interview with these\nintelligent, these noble, these patriotic men. It was granted. His\narguments were brief but satisfactory. They went in a body to the poll;\nand when they returned, the Honourable Samuel Slumkey, of Slumkey Hall,\nwas returned also.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XIV. COMPRISING A BRIEF DESCRIPTION OF THE COMPANY AT THE\nPEACOCK ASSEMBLED; AND A TALE TOLD BY A BAGMAN\n\n\nIt is pleasant to turn from contemplating the strife and turmoil of\npolitical existence, to the peaceful repose of private life. Although in\nreality no great partisan of either side, Mr. Pickwick was sufficiently\nfired with Mr. Pott's enthusiasm, to apply his whole time and attention\nto the proceedings, of which the last chapter affords a description\ncompiled from his own memoranda. Nor while he was thus occupied was Mr.\nWinkle idle, his whole time being devoted to pleasant walks and short\ncountry excursions with Mrs. Pott, who never failed, when such an\nopportunity presented itself, to seek some relief from the tedious\nmonotony she so constantly complained of. The two gentlemen being\nthus completely domesticated in the editor's house, Mr. Tupman and Mr.\nSnodgrass were in a great measure cast upon their own resources. Taking\nbut little interest in public affairs, they beguiled their time chiefly\nwith such amusements as the Peacock afforded, which were limited to a\nbagatelle-board in the first floor, and a sequestered skittle-ground\nin the back yard. In the science and nicety of both these recreations,\nwhich are far more abstruse than ordinary men suppose, they were\ngradually initiated by Mr. Weller, who possessed a perfect knowledge of\nsuch pastimes. Thus, notwithstanding that they were in a great measure\ndeprived of the comfort and advantage of Mr. Pickwick's society, they\nwere still enabled to beguile the time, and to prevent its hanging\nheavily on their hands.\n\nIt was in the evening, however, that the Peacock presented attractions\nwhich enabled the two friends to resist even the invitations of the\ngifted, though prosy, Pott. It was in the evening that the 'commercial\nroom' was filled with a social circle, whose characters and manners it\nwas the delight of Mr. Tupman to observe; whose sayings and doings it\nwas the habit of Mr. Snodgrass to note down.\n\nMost people know what sort of places commercial rooms usually are. That\nof the Peacock differed in no material respect from the generality of\nsuch apartments; that is to say, it was a large, bare-looking room, the\nfurniture of which had no doubt been better when it was newer, with a\nspacious table in the centre, and a variety of smaller dittos in the\ncorners; an extensive assortment of variously shaped chairs, and an old\nTurkey carpet, bearing about the same relative proportion to the size\nof the room, as a lady's pocket-handkerchief might to the floor of a\nwatch-box. The walls were garnished with one or two large maps; and\nseveral weather-beaten rough greatcoats, with complicated capes, dangled\nfrom a long row of pegs in one corner. The mantel-shelf was ornamented\nwith a wooden inkstand, containing one stump of a pen and half a wafer;\na road-book and directory; a county history minus the cover; and the\nmortal remains of a trout in a glass coffin. The atmosphere was redolent\nof tobacco-smoke, the fumes of which had communicated a rather dingy hue\nto the whole room, and more especially to the dusty red curtains which\nshaded the windows. On the sideboard a variety of miscellaneous articles\nwere huddled together, the most conspicuous of which were some very\ncloudy fish-sauce cruets, a couple of driving-boxes, two or three whips,\nand as many travelling shawls, a tray of knives and forks, and the\nmustard.\n\nHere it was that Mr. Tupman and Mr. Snodgrass were seated on the evening\nafter the conclusion of the election, with several other temporary\ninmates of the house, smoking and drinking.\n\n'Well, gents,' said a stout, hale personage of about forty, with\nonly one eye--a very bright black eye, which twinkled with a roguish\nexpression of fun and good-humour, 'our noble selves, gents. I always\npropose that toast to the company, and drink Mary to myself. Eh, Mary!'\n\n'Get along with you, you wretch,' said the hand-maiden, obviously not\nill-pleased with the compliment, however.\n\n'Don't go away, Mary,' said the black-eyed man.\n\n'Let me alone, imperence,' said the young lady.\n\n'Never mind,' said the one-eyed man, calling after the girl as she left\nthe room. 'I'll step out by and by, Mary. Keep your spirits up, dear.'\nHere he went through the not very difficult process of winking upon the\ncompany with his solitary eye, to the enthusiastic delight of an elderly\npersonage with a dirty face and a clay pipe.\n\n'Rum creeters is women,' said the dirty-faced man, after a pause.\n\n'Ah! no mistake about that,' said a very red-faced man, behind a cigar.\n\nAfter this little bit of philosophy there was another pause.\n\n'There's rummer things than women in this world though, mind you,' said\nthe man with the black eye, slowly filling a large Dutch pipe, with a\nmost capacious bowl.\n\n'Are you married?' inquired the dirty-faced man.\n\n'Can't say I am.'\n\n'I thought not.' Here the dirty-faced man fell into ecstasies of mirth\nat his own retort, in which he was joined by a man of bland voice and\nplacid countenance, who always made it a point to agree with everybody.\n\n'Women, after all, gentlemen,' said the enthusiastic Mr. Snodgrass, 'are\nthe great props and comforts of our existence.'\n\n'So they are,' said the placid gentleman.\n\n'When they're in a good humour,' interposed the dirty-faced man.\n\n'And that's very true,' said the placid one.\n\n'I repudiate that qualification,' said Mr. Snodgrass, whose thoughts\nwere fast reverting to Emily Wardle. 'I repudiate it with disdain--with\nindignation. Show me the man who says anything against women, as women,\nand I boldly declare he is not a man.' And Mr. Snodgrass took his cigar\nfrom his mouth, and struck the table violently with his clenched fist.\n\n'That's good sound argument,' said the placid man.\n\n'Containing a position which I deny,' interrupted he of the dirty\ncountenance.\n\n'And there's certainly a very great deal of truth in what you observe\ntoo, Sir,' said the placid gentleman.\n\n'Your health, Sir,' said the bagman with the lonely eye, bestowing an\napproving nod on Mr. Snodgrass.\n\nMr. Snodgrass acknowledged the compliment.\n\n'I always like to hear a good argument,'continued the bagman, 'a sharp\none, like this: it's very improving; but this little argument about\nwomen brought to my mind a story I have heard an old uncle of mine\ntell, the recollection of which, just now, made me say there were rummer\nthings than women to be met with, sometimes.'\n\n'I should like to hear that same story,' said the red-faced man with the\ncigar.\n\n'Should you?' was the only reply of the bagman, who continued to smoke\nwith great vehemence.\n\n'So should I,' said Mr. Tupman, speaking for the first time. He was\nalways anxious to increase his stock of experience.\n\n'Should YOU? Well then, I'll tell it. No, I won't. I know you won't\nbelieve it,' said the man with the roguish eye, making that organ look\nmore roguish than ever. 'If you say it's true, of course I shall,' said\nMr. Tupman.\n\n'Well, upon that understanding I'll tell you,' replied the traveller.\n'Did you ever hear of the great commercial house of Bilson & Slum? But\nit doesn't matter though, whether you did or not, because they retired\nfrom business long since. It's eighty years ago, since the circumstance\nhappened to a traveller for that house, but he was a particular friend\nof my uncle's; and my uncle told the story to me. It's a queer name; but\nhe used to call it\n\n\n THE BAGMAN'S STORY\n\nand he used to tell it, something in this way.\n\n\n'One winter's evening, about five o'clock, just as it began to grow\ndusk, a man in a gig might have been seen urging his tired horse along\nthe road which leads across Marlborough Downs, in the direction of\nBristol. I say he might have been seen, and I have no doubt he would\nhave been, if anybody but a blind man had happened to pass that way; but\nthe weather was so bad, and the night so cold and wet, that nothing was\nout but the water, and so the traveller jogged along in the middle of\nthe road, lonesome and dreary enough. If any bagman of that day could\nhave caught sight of the little neck-or-nothing sort of gig, with a\nclay-coloured body and red wheels, and the vixenish, ill tempered,\nfast-going bay mare, that looked like a cross between a butcher's horse\nand a twopenny post-office pony, he would have known at once, that this\ntraveller could have been no other than Tom Smart, of the great house of\nBilson and Slum, Cateaton Street, City. However, as there was no bagman\nto look on, nobody knew anything at all about the matter; and so Tom\nSmart and his clay-coloured gig with the red wheels, and the vixenish\nmare with the fast pace, went on together, keeping the secret among\nthem, and nobody was a bit the wiser.\n\n'There are many pleasanter places even in this dreary world, than\nMarlborough Downs when it blows hard; and if you throw in beside, a\ngloomy winter's evening, a miry and sloppy road, and a pelting fall of\nheavy rain, and try the effect, by way of experiment, in your own proper\nperson, you will experience the full force of this observation.\n\n'The wind blew--not up the road or down it, though that's bad enough,\nbut sheer across it, sending the rain slanting down like the lines they\nused to rule in the copy-books at school, to make the boys slope well.\nFor a moment it would die away, and the traveller would begin to delude\nhimself into the belief that, exhausted with its previous fury, it had\nquietly laid itself down to rest, when, whoo! he could hear it growling\nand whistling in the distance, and on it would come rushing over the\nhill-tops, and sweeping along the plain, gathering sound and strength as\nit drew nearer, until it dashed with a heavy gust against horse and man,\ndriving the sharp rain into their ears, and its cold damp breath into\ntheir very bones; and past them it would scour, far, far away, with a\nstunning roar, as if in ridicule of their weakness, and triumphant in\nthe consciousness of its own strength and power.\n\n'The bay mare splashed away, through the mud and water, with drooping\nears; now and then tossing her head as if to express her disgust at this\nvery ungentlemanly behaviour of the elements, but keeping a good pace\nnotwithstanding, until a gust of wind, more furious than any that had\nyet assailed them, caused her to stop suddenly and plant her four feet\nfirmly against the ground, to prevent her being blown over. It's a\nspecial mercy that she did this, for if she HAD been blown over, the\nvixenish mare was so light, and the gig was so light, and Tom Smart such\na light weight into the bargain, that they must infallibly have all\ngone rolling over and over together, until they reached the confines of\nearth, or until the wind fell; and in either case the probability is,\nthat neither the vixenish mare, nor the clay-coloured gig with the red\nwheels, nor Tom Smart, would ever have been fit for service again.\n\n'\"Well, damn my straps and whiskers,\" says Tom Smart (Tom sometimes had\nan unpleasant knack of swearing)--\"damn my straps and whiskers,\" says\nTom, \"if this ain't pleasant, blow me!\"\n\n'You'll very likely ask me why, as Tom Smart had been pretty well blown\nalready, he expressed this wish to be submitted to the same process\nagain. I can't say--all I know is, that Tom Smart said so--or at least\nhe always told my uncle he said so, and it's just the same thing.\n\n\"'Blow me,\" says Tom Smart; and the mare neighed as if she were\nprecisely of the same opinion.\n\n\"'Cheer up, old girl,\" said Tom, patting the bay mare on the neck with\nthe end of his whip. \"It won't do pushing on, such a night as this; the\nfirst house we come to we'll put up at, so the faster you go the sooner\nit's over. Soho, old girl--gently--gently.\"\n\n'Whether the vixenish mare was sufficiently well acquainted with the\ntones of Tom's voice to comprehend his meaning, or whether she found it\ncolder standing still than moving on, of course I can't say. But I can\nsay that Tom had no sooner finished speaking, than she pricked up her\nears, and started forward at a speed which made the clay-coloured gig\nrattle until you would have supposed every one of the red spokes were\ngoing to fly out on the turf of Marlborough Downs; and even Tom, whip\nas he was, couldn't stop or check her pace, until she drew up of her own\naccord, before a roadside inn on the right-hand side of the way, about\nhalf a quarter of a mile from the end of the Downs. 'Tom cast a hasty\nglance at the upper part of the house as he threw the reins to the\nhostler, and stuck the whip in the box. It was a strange old place,\nbuilt of a kind of shingle, inlaid, as it were, with cross-beams, with\ngabled-topped windows projecting completely over the pathway, and a low\ndoor with a dark porch, and a couple of steep steps leading down into\nthe house, instead of the modern fashion of half a dozen shallow ones\nleading up to it. It was a comfortable-looking place though, for there\nwas a strong, cheerful light in the bar window, which shed a bright ray\nacross the road, and even lighted up the hedge on the other side; and\nthere was a red flickering light in the opposite window, one moment but\nfaintly discernible, and the next gleaming strongly through the drawn\ncurtains, which intimated that a rousing fire was blazing within.\nMarking these little evidences with the eye of an experienced traveller,\nTom dismounted with as much agility as his half-frozen limbs would\npermit, and entered the house.\n\n'In less than five minutes' time, Tom was ensconced in the room opposite\nthe bar--the very room where he had imagined the fire blazing--before a\nsubstantial, matter-of-fact, roaring fire, composed of something short\nof a bushel of coals, and wood enough to make half a dozen decent\ngooseberry bushes, piled half-way up the chimney, and roaring and\ncrackling with a sound that of itself would have warmed the heart of\nany reasonable man. This was comfortable, but this was not all; for a\nsmartly-dressed girl, with a bright eye and a neat ankle, was laying a\nvery clean white cloth on the table; and as Tom sat with his slippered\nfeet on the fender, and his back to the open door, he saw a charming\nprospect of the bar reflected in the glass over the chimney-piece, with\ndelightful rows of green bottles and gold labels, together with jars of\npickles and preserves, and cheeses and boiled hams, and rounds of beef,\narranged on shelves in the most tempting and delicious array. Well, this\nwas comfortable too; but even this was not all--for in the bar, seated\nat tea at the nicest possible little table, drawn close up before the\nbrightest possible little fire, was a buxom widow of somewhere about\neight-and-forty or thereabouts, with a face as comfortable as the bar,\nwho was evidently the landlady of the house, and the supreme ruler over\nall these agreeable possessions. There was only one drawback to the\nbeauty of the whole picture, and that was a tall man--a very tall\nman--in a brown coat and bright basket buttons, and black whiskers\nand wavy black hair, who was seated at tea with the widow, and who\nit required no great penetration to discover was in a fair way of\npersuading her to be a widow no longer, but to confer upon him the\nprivilege of sitting down in that bar, for and during the whole\nremainder of the term of his natural life.\n\n'Tom Smart was by no means of an irritable or envious disposition, but\nsomehow or other the tall man with the brown coat and the bright basket\nbuttons did rouse what little gall he had in his composition, and did\nmake him feel extremely indignant, the more especially as he could\nnow and then observe, from his seat before the glass, certain little\naffectionate familiarities passing between the tall man and the widow,\nwhich sufficiently denoted that the tall man was as high in favour as he\nwas in size. Tom was fond of hot punch--I may venture to say he was VERY\nfond of hot punch--and after he had seen the vixenish mare well fed\nand well littered down, and had eaten every bit of the nice little hot\ndinner which the widow tossed up for him with her own hands, he just\nordered a tumbler of it by way of experiment. Now, if there was\none thing in the whole range of domestic art, which the widow could\nmanufacture better than another, it was this identical article; and\nthe first tumbler was adapted to Tom Smart's taste with such peculiar\nnicety, that he ordered a second with the least possible delay. Hot\npunch is a pleasant thing, gentlemen--an extremely pleasant thing under\nany circumstances--but in that snug old parlour, before the roaring\nfire, with the wind blowing outside till every timber in the old house\ncreaked again, Tom Smart found it perfectly delightful. He ordered\nanother tumbler, and then another--I am not quite certain whether he\ndidn't order another after that--but the more he drank of the hot punch,\nthe more he thought of the tall man.\n\n'\"Confound his impudence!\" said Tom to himself, \"what business has he\nin that snug bar? Such an ugly villain too!\" said Tom. \"If the widow had\nany taste, she might surely pick up some better fellow than that.\" Here\nTom's eye wandered from the glass on the chimney-piece to the glass on\nthe table; and as he felt himself becoming gradually sentimental, he\nemptied the fourth tumbler of punch and ordered a fifth.\n\n'Tom Smart, gentlemen, had always been very much attached to the public\nline. It had been long his ambition to stand in a bar of his own, in a\ngreen coat, knee-cords, and tops. He had a great notion of taking the\nchair at convivial dinners, and he had often thought how well he could\npreside in a room of his own in the talking way, and what a capital\nexample he could set to his customers in the drinking department. All\nthese things passed rapidly through Tom's mind as he sat drinking the\nhot punch by the roaring fire, and he felt very justly and properly\nindignant that the tall man should be in a fair way of keeping such an\nexcellent house, while he, Tom Smart, was as far off from it as ever.\nSo, after deliberating over the two last tumblers, whether he hadn't a\nperfect right to pick a quarrel with the tall man for having contrived\nto get into the good graces of the buxom widow, Tom Smart at last\narrived at the satisfactory conclusion that he was a very ill-used and\npersecuted individual, and had better go to bed.\n\n'Up a wide and ancient staircase the smart girl preceded Tom, shading\nthe chamber candle with her hand, to protect it from the currents of air\nwhich in such a rambling old place might have found plenty of room to\ndisport themselves in, without blowing the candle out, but which did\nblow it out nevertheless--thus affording Tom's enemies an opportunity of\nasserting that it was he, and not the wind, who extinguished the candle,\nand that while he pretended to be blowing it alight again, he was in\nfact kissing the girl. Be this as it may, another light was obtained,\nand Tom was conducted through a maze of rooms, and a labyrinth of\npassages, to the apartment which had been prepared for his reception,\nwhere the girl bade him good-night and left him alone.\n\n'It was a good large room with big closets, and a bed which might have\nserved for a whole boarding-school, to say nothing of a couple of oaken\npresses that would have held the baggage of a small army; but what\nstruck Tom's fancy most was a strange, grim-looking, high backed chair,\ncarved in the most fantastic manner, with a flowered damask cushion,\nand the round knobs at the bottom of the legs carefully tied up in red\ncloth, as if it had got the gout in its toes. Of any other queer chair,\nTom would only have thought it was a queer chair, and there would have\nbeen an end of the matter; but there was something about this particular\nchair, and yet he couldn't tell what it was, so odd and so unlike any\nother piece of furniture he had ever seen, that it seemed to fascinate\nhim. He sat down before the fire, and stared at the old chair for half\nan hour.--Damn the chair, it was such a strange old thing, he couldn't\ntake his eyes off it.\n\n'\"Well,\" said Tom, slowly undressing himself, and staring at the\nold chair all the while, which stood with a mysterious aspect by the\nbedside, \"I never saw such a rum concern as that in my days. Very odd,\"\nsaid Tom, who had got rather sage with the hot punch--\"very odd.\" Tom\nshook his head with an air of profound wisdom, and looked at the chair\nagain. He couldn't make anything of it though, so he got into bed,\ncovered himself up warm, and fell asleep.\n\n'In about half an hour, Tom woke up with a start, from a confused dream\nof tall men and tumblers of punch; and the first object that presented\nitself to his waking imagination was the queer chair.\n\n'\"I won't look at it any more,\" said Tom to himself, and he squeezed his\neyelids together, and tried to persuade himself he was going to sleep\nagain. No use; nothing but queer chairs danced before his eyes, kicking\nup their legs, jumping over each other's backs, and playing all kinds of\nantics.\n\n\"'I may as well see one real chair, as two or three complete sets of\nfalse ones,\" said Tom, bringing out his head from under the bedclothes.\nThere it was, plainly discernible by the light of the fire, looking as\nprovoking as ever.\n\n'Tom gazed at the chair; and, suddenly as he looked at it, a most\nextraordinary change seemed to come over it. The carving of the back\ngradually assumed the lineaments and expression of an old, shrivelled\nhuman face; the damask cushion became an antique, flapped waistcoat; the\nround knobs grew into a couple of feet, encased in red cloth slippers;\nand the whole chair looked like a very ugly old man, of the previous\ncentury, with his arms akimbo. Tom sat up in bed, and rubbed his eyes to\ndispel the illusion. No. The chair was an ugly old gentleman; and what\nwas more, he was winking at Tom Smart.\n\n'Tom was naturally a headlong, careless sort of dog, and he had had five\ntumblers of hot punch into the bargain; so, although he was a little\nstartled at first, he began to grow rather indignant when he saw the\nold gentleman winking and leering at him with such an impudent air. At\nlength he resolved that he wouldn't stand it; and as the old face still\nkept winking away as fast as ever, Tom said, in a very angry tone--\n\n'\"What the devil are you winking at me for?\"\n\n'\"Because I like it, Tom Smart,\" said the chair; or the old gentleman,\nwhichever you like to call him. He stopped winking though, when Tom\nspoke, and began grinning like a superannuated monkey.\n\n'\"How do you know my name, old nut-cracker face?\" inquired Tom Smart,\nrather staggered; though he pretended to carry it off so well.\n\n'\"Come, come, Tom,\" said the old gentleman, \"that's not the way to\naddress solid Spanish mahogany. Damme, you couldn't treat me with less\nrespect if I was veneered.\" When the old gentleman said this, he looked\nso fierce that Tom began to grow frightened.\n\n'\"I didn't mean to treat you with any disrespect, Sir,\" said Tom, in a\nmuch humbler tone than he had spoken in at first.\n\n'\"Well, well,\" said the old fellow, \"perhaps not--perhaps not. Tom--\"\n\n'\"Sir--\"\n\n'\"I know everything about you, Tom; everything. You're very poor, Tom.\"\n\n'\"I certainly am,\" said Tom Smart. \"But how came you to know that?\"\n\n'\"Never mind that,\" said the old gentleman; \"you're much too fond of\npunch, Tom.\"\n\n'Tom Smart was just on the point of protesting that he hadn't tasted a\ndrop since his last birthday, but when his eye encountered that of the\nold gentleman he looked so knowing that Tom blushed, and was silent.\n\n'\"Tom,\" said the old gentleman, \"the widow's a fine woman--remarkably\nfine woman--eh, Tom?\" Here the old fellow screwed up his eyes, cocked\nup one of his wasted little legs, and looked altogether so unpleasantly\namorous, that Tom was quite disgusted with the levity of his\nbehaviour--at his time of life, too! '\"I am her guardian, Tom,\" said the\nold gentleman.\n\n'\"Are you?\" inquired Tom Smart.\n\n'\"I knew her mother, Tom,\" said the old fellow: \"and her grandmother.\nShe was very fond of me--made me this waistcoat, Tom.\"\n\n'\"Did she?\" said Tom Smart.\n\n'\"And these shoes,\" said the old fellow, lifting up one of the red cloth\nmufflers; \"but don't mention it, Tom. I shouldn't like to have it\nknown that she was so much attached to me. It might occasion some\nunpleasantness in the family.\" When the old rascal said this, he looked\nso extremely impertinent, that, as Tom Smart afterwards declared, he\ncould have sat upon him without remorse.\n\n'\"I have been a great favourite among the women in my time, Tom,\" said\nthe profligate old debauchee; \"hundreds of fine women have sat in my\nlap for hours together. What do you think of that, you dog, eh!\" The old\ngentleman was proceeding to recount some other exploits of his youth,\nwhen he was seized with such a violent fit of creaking that he was\nunable to proceed.\n\n'\"Just serves you right, old boy,\" thought Tom Smart; but he didn't say\nanything.\n\n'\"Ah!\" said the old fellow, \"I am a good deal troubled with this now.\nI am getting old, Tom, and have lost nearly all my nails. I have had an\noperation performed, too--a small piece let into my back--and I found it\na severe trial, Tom.\"\n\n'\"I dare say you did, Sir,\" said Tom Smart.\n\n'\"However,\" said the old gentleman, \"that's not the point. Tom! I want\nyou to marry the widow.\"\n\n'\"Me, Sir!\" said Tom.\n\n'\"You,\" said the old gentleman.\n\n'\"Bless your reverend locks,\" said Tom (he had a few scattered\nhorse-hairs left)--\"bless your reverend locks, she wouldn't have me.\"\nAnd Tom sighed involuntarily, as he thought of the bar.\n\n'\"Wouldn't she?\" said the old gentleman firmly.\n\n'\"No, no,\" said Tom; \"there's somebody else in the wind. A tall man--a\nconfoundedly tall man--with black whiskers.\"\n\n'\"Tom,\" said the old gentleman; \"she will never have him.\"\n\n'\"Won't she?\" said Tom. \"If you stood in the bar, old gentleman, you'd\ntell another story.\" '\"Pooh, pooh,\" said the old gentleman. \"I know all\nabout that.\"\n\n'\"About what?\" said Tom.\n\n'\"The kissing behind the door, and all that sort of thing, Tom,\" said\nthe old gentleman. And here he gave another impudent look, which made\nTom very wroth, because as you all know, gentlemen, to hear an old\nfellow, who ought to know better, talking about these things, is very\nunpleasant--nothing more so.\n\n'\"I know all about that, Tom,\" said the old gentleman. \"I have seen it\ndone very often in my time, Tom, between more people than I should like\nto mention to you; but it never came to anything after all.\"\n\n'\"You must have seen some queer things,\" said Tom, with an inquisitive\nlook.\n\n'\"You may say that, Tom,\" replied the old fellow, with a very\ncomplicated wink. \"I am the last of my family, Tom,\" said the old\ngentleman, with a melancholy sigh.\n\n'\"Was it a large one?\" inquired Tom Smart.\n\n'\"There were twelve of us, Tom,\" said the old gentleman; \"fine,\nstraight-backed, handsome fellows as you'd wish to see. None of your\nmodern abortions--all with arms, and with a degree of polish, though\nI say it that should not, which it would have done your heart good to\nbehold.\"\n\n'\"And what's become of the others, Sir?\" asked Tom Smart--\n\n'The old gentleman applied his elbow to his eye as he replied,\n\"Gone, Tom, gone. We had hard service, Tom, and they hadn't all my\nconstitution. They got rheumatic about the legs and arms, and went into\nkitchens and other hospitals; and one of 'em, with long service and hard\nusage, positively lost his senses--he got so crazy that he was obliged\nto be burnt. Shocking thing that, Tom.\"\n\n'\"Dreadful!\" said Tom Smart.\n\n'The old fellow paused for a few minutes, apparently struggling with his\nfeelings of emotion, and then said--\n\n'\"However, Tom, I am wandering from the point. This tall man, Tom, is a\nrascally adventurer. The moment he married the widow, he would sell\noff all the furniture, and run away. What would be the consequence? She\nwould be deserted and reduced to ruin, and I should catch my death of\ncold in some broker's shop.\"\n\n'\"Yes, but--\"\n\n'\"Don't interrupt me,\" said the old gentleman. \"Of you, Tom, I entertain\na very different opinion; for I well know that if you once settled\nyourself in a public-house, you would never leave it, as long as there\nwas anything to drink within its walls.\"\n\n'\"I am very much obliged to you for your good opinion, Sir,\" said Tom\nSmart.\n\n'\"Therefore,\" resumed the old gentleman, in a dictatorial tone, \"you\nshall have her, and he shall not.\"\n\n'\"What is to prevent it?\" said Tom Smart eagerly.\n\n'\"This disclosure,\" replied the old gentleman; \"he is already married.\"\n\n'\"How can I prove it?\" said Tom, starting half out of bed.\n\n'The old gentleman untucked his arm from his side, and having pointed to\none of the oaken presses, immediately replaced it, in its old position.\n\n'\"He little thinks,\" said the old gentleman, \"that in the right-hand\npocket of a pair of trousers in that press, he has left a letter,\nentreating him to return to his disconsolate wife, with six--mark me,\nTom--six babes, and all of them small ones.\"\n\n'As the old gentleman solemnly uttered these words, his features grew\nless and less distinct, and his figure more shadowy. A film came over\nTom Smart's eyes. The old man seemed gradually blending into the chair,\nthe damask waistcoat to resolve into a cushion, the red slippers to\nshrink into little red cloth bags. The light faded gently away, and Tom\nSmart fell back on his pillow, and dropped asleep.\n\n'Morning aroused Tom from the lethargic slumber, into which he had\nfallen on the disappearance of the old man. He sat up in bed, and for\nsome minutes vainly endeavoured to recall the events of the preceding\nnight. Suddenly they rushed upon him. He looked at the chair; it was a\nfantastic and grim-looking piece of furniture, certainly, but it must\nhave been a remarkably ingenious and lively imagination, that could have\ndiscovered any resemblance between it and an old man.\n\n'\"How are you, old boy?\" said Tom. He was bolder in the daylight--most\nmen are.\n\n'The chair remained motionless, and spoke not a word.\n\n'\"Miserable morning,\" said Tom. No. The chair would not be drawn into\nconversation.\n\n'\"Which press did you point to?--you can tell me that,\" said Tom. Devil\na word, gentlemen, the chair would say.\n\n'\"It's not much trouble to open it, anyhow,\" said Tom, getting out of\nbed very deliberately. He walked up to one of the presses. The key was\nin the lock; he turned it, and opened the door. There was a pair of\ntrousers there. He put his hand into the pocket, and drew forth the\nidentical letter the old gentleman had described!\n\n'\"Queer sort of thing, this,\" said Tom Smart, looking first at the chair\nand then at the press, and then at the letter, and then at the chair\nagain. \"Very queer,\" said Tom. But, as there was nothing in either, to\nlessen the queerness, he thought he might as well dress himself, and\nsettle the tall man's business at once--just to put him out of his\nmisery.\n\n'Tom surveyed the rooms he passed through, on his way downstairs, with\nthe scrutinising eye of a landlord; thinking it not impossible, that\nbefore long, they and their contents would be his property. The tall man\nwas standing in the snug little bar, with his hands behind him, quite at\nhome. He grinned vacantly at Tom. A casual observer might have supposed\nhe did it, only to show his white teeth; but Tom Smart thought that a\nconsciousness of triumph was passing through the place where the tall\nman's mind would have been, if he had had any. Tom laughed in his face;\nand summoned the landlady.\n\n'\"Good-morning ma'am,\" said Tom Smart, closing the door of the little\nparlour as the widow entered.\n\n'\"Good-morning, Sir,\" said the widow. \"What will you take for breakfast,\nsir?\"\n\n'Tom was thinking how he should open the case, so he made no answer.\n\n'\"There's a very nice ham,\" said the widow, \"and a beautiful cold larded\nfowl. Shall I send 'em in, Sir?\"\n\n'These words roused Tom from his reflections. His admiration of the\nwidow increased as she spoke. Thoughtful creature! Comfortable provider!\n\n'\"Who is that gentleman in the bar, ma'am?\" inquired Tom.\n\n'\"His name is Jinkins, Sir,\" said the widow, slightly blushing.\n\n'\"He's a tall man,\" said Tom.\n\n'\"He is a very fine man, Sir,\" replied the widow, \"and a very nice\ngentleman.\"\n\n'\"Ah!\" said Tom.\n\n'\"Is there anything more you want, Sir?\" inquired the widow, rather\npuzzled by Tom's manner. '\"Why, yes,\" said Tom. \"My dear ma'am, will you\nhave the kindness to sit down for one moment?\"\n\n'The widow looked much amazed, but she sat down, and Tom sat down too,\nclose beside her. I don't know how it happened, gentlemen--indeed my\nuncle used to tell me that Tom Smart said he didn't know how it happened\neither--but somehow or other the palm of Tom's hand fell upon the back\nof the widow's hand, and remained there while he spoke.\n\n'\"My dear ma'am,\" said Tom Smart--he had always a great notion of\ncommitting the amiable--\"my dear ma'am, you deserve a very excellent\nhusband--you do indeed.\"\n\n'\"Lor, Sir!\" said the widow--as well she might; Tom's mode of commencing\nthe conversation being rather unusual, not to say startling; the fact of\nhis never having set eyes upon her before the previous night being taken\ninto consideration. \"Lor, Sir!\"\n\n'\"I scorn to flatter, my dear ma'am,\" said Tom Smart. \"You deserve a\nvery admirable husband, and whoever he is, he'll be a very lucky man.\"\nAs Tom said this, his eye involuntarily wandered from the widow's face\nto the comfort around him.\n\n'The widow looked more puzzled than ever, and made an effort to rise.\nTom gently pressed her hand, as if to detain her, and she kept her seat.\nWidows, gentlemen, are not usually timorous, as my uncle used to say.\n\n'\"I am sure I am very much obliged to you, Sir, for your good opinion,\"\nsaid the buxom landlady, half laughing; \"and if ever I marry again--\"\n\n'\"IF,\" said Tom Smart, looking very shrewdly out of the right-hand\ncorner of his left eye. \"IF--\" \"Well,\" said the widow, laughing\noutright this time, \"WHEN I do, I hope I shall have as good a husband as\nyou describe.\"\n\n'\"Jinkins, to wit,\" said Tom.\n\n'\"Lor, sir!\" exclaimed the widow.\n\n'\"Oh, don't tell me,\" said Tom, \"I know him.\"\n\n'\"I am sure nobody who knows him, knows anything bad of him,\" said the\nwidow, bridling up at the mysterious air with which Tom had spoken.\n\n'\"Hem!\" said Tom Smart.\n\n'The widow began to think it was high time to cry, so she took out her\nhandkerchief, and inquired whether Tom wished to insult her, whether\nhe thought it like a gentleman to take away the character of another\ngentleman behind his back, why, if he had got anything to say, he didn't\nsay it to the man, like a man, instead of terrifying a poor weak woman\nin that way; and so forth.\n\n'\"I'll say it to him fast enough,\" said Tom, \"only I want you to hear it\nfirst.\"\n\n'\"What is it?\" inquired the widow, looking intently in Tom's\ncountenance.\n\n'\"I'll astonish you,\" said Tom, putting his hand in his pocket.\n\n'\"If it is, that he wants money,\" said the widow, \"I know that already,\nand you needn't trouble yourself.\" '\"Pooh, nonsense, that's nothing,\"\nsaid Tom Smart, \"I want money. 'Tain't that.\"\n\n'\"Oh, dear, what can it be?\" exclaimed the poor widow.\n\n'\"Don't be frightened,\" said Tom Smart. He slowly drew forth the letter,\nand unfolded it. \"You won't scream?\" said Tom doubtfully.\n\n'\"No, no,\" replied the widow; \"let me see it.\"\n\n'\"You won't go fainting away, or any of that nonsense?\" said Tom.\n\n'\"No, no,\" returned the widow hastily.\n\n'\"And don't run out, and blow him up,\" said Tom; \"because I'll do all\nthat for you. You had better not exert yourself.\"\n\n'\"Well, well,\" said the widow, \"let me see it.\"\n\n'\"I will,\" replied Tom Smart; and, with these words, he placed the\nletter in the widow's hand.\n\n'Gentlemen, I have heard my uncle say, that Tom Smart said the widow's\nlamentations when she heard the disclosure would have pierced a heart of\nstone. Tom was certainly very tender-hearted, but they pierced his, to\nthe very core. The widow rocked herself to and fro, and wrung her hands.\n\n'\"Oh, the deception and villainy of the man!\" said the widow.\n\n'\"Frightful, my dear ma'am; but compose yourself,\" said Tom Smart.\n\n'\"Oh, I can't compose myself,\" shrieked the widow. \"I shall never find\nanyone else I can love so much!\"\n\n'\"Oh, yes you will, my dear soul,\" said Tom Smart, letting fall a shower\nof the largest-sized tears, in pity for the widow's misfortunes. Tom\nSmart, in the energy of his compassion, had put his arm round the\nwidow's waist; and the widow, in a passion of grief, had clasped Tom's\nhand. She looked up in Tom's face, and smiled through her tears. Tom\nlooked down in hers, and smiled through his.\n\n'I never could find out, gentlemen, whether Tom did or did not kiss the\nwidow at that particular moment. He used to tell my uncle he didn't, but\nI have my doubts about it. Between ourselves, gentlemen, I rather think\nhe did.\n\n'At all events, Tom kicked the very tall man out at the front door half\nan hour later, and married the widow a month after. And he used to drive\nabout the country, with the clay-coloured gig with the red wheels, and\nthe vixenish mare with the fast pace, till he gave up business many\nyears afterwards, and went to France with his wife; and then the old\nhouse was pulled down.'\n\n\n'Will you allow me to ask you,' said the inquisitive old gentleman,\n'what became of the chair?'\n\n'Why,' replied the one-eyed bagman, 'it was observed to creak very\nmuch on the day of the wedding; but Tom Smart couldn't say for certain\nwhether it was with pleasure or bodily infirmity. He rather thought it\nwas the latter, though, for it never spoke afterwards.'\n\n'Everybody believed the story, didn't they?' said the dirty-faced man,\nrefilling his pipe.\n\n'Except Tom's enemies,' replied the bagman. 'Some of 'em said Tom\ninvented it altogether; and others said he was drunk and fancied it,\nand got hold of the wrong trousers by mistake before he went to bed. But\nnobody ever minded what THEY said.'\n\n'Tom Smart said it was all true?'\n\n'Every word.'\n\n'And your uncle?'\n\n'Every letter.'\n\n'They must have been very nice men, both of 'em,' said the dirty-faced\nman.\n\n'Yes, they were,' replied the bagman; 'very nice men indeed!'\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XV. IN WHICH IS GIVEN A FAITHFUL PORTRAITURE OF TWO\nDISTINGUISHED PERSONS; AND AN ACCURATE DESCRIPTION OF A PUBLIC BREAKFAST\nIN THEIR HOUSE AND GROUNDS: WHICH PUBLIC BREAKFAST LEADS TO THE\nRECOGNITION OF AN OLD ACQUAINTANCE, AND THE COMMENCEMENT OF ANOTHER\nCHAPTER\n\n\nMr. Pickwick's conscience had been somewhat reproaching him for his\nrecent neglect of his friends at the Peacock; and he was just on the\npoint of walking forth in quest of them, on the third morning after the\nelection had terminated, when his faithful valet put into his hand a\ncard, on which was engraved the following inscription:--\n\n Mrs. Leo Hunter\n THE DEN. EATANSWILL.\n\n'Person's a-waitin',' said Sam, epigrammatically.\n\n'Does the person want me, Sam?' inquired Mr. Pickwick.\n\n'He wants you partickler; and no one else 'll do, as the devil's private\nsecretary said ven he fetched avay Doctor Faustus,' replied Mr. Weller.\n\n'HE. Is it a gentleman?' said Mr. Pickwick.\n\n'A wery good imitation o' one, if it ain't,' replied Mr. Weller.\n\n'But this is a lady's card,' said Mr. Pickwick.\n\n'Given me by a gen'l'm'n, howsoever,' replied Sam, 'and he's a-waitin'\nin the drawing-room--said he'd rather wait all day, than not see you.'\n\nMr. Pickwick, on hearing this determination, descended to the\ndrawing-room, where sat a grave man, who started up on his entrance, and\nsaid, with an air of profound respect:--\n\n'Mr. Pickwick, I presume?'\n\n'The same.'\n\n'Allow me, Sir, the honour of grasping your hand. Permit me, Sir, to\nshake it,' said the grave man.\n\n'Certainly,' said Mr. Pickwick. The stranger shook the extended hand,\nand then continued--\n\n'We have heard of your fame, sir. The noise of your antiquarian\ndiscussion has reached the ears of Mrs. Leo Hunter--my wife, sir; I\nam Mr. Leo Hunter'--the stranger paused, as if he expected that Mr.\nPickwick would be overcome by the disclosure; but seeing that he\nremained perfectly calm, proceeded--\n\n'My wife, sir--Mrs. Leo Hunter--is proud to number among her\nacquaintance all those who have rendered themselves celebrated by their\nworks and talents. Permit me, sir, to place in a conspicuous part of the\nlist the name of Mr. Pickwick, and his brother-members of the club that\nderives its name from him.'\n\n'I shall be extremely happy to make the acquaintance of such a lady,\nsir,' replied Mr. Pickwick.\n\n'You SHALL make it, sir,' said the grave man. 'To-morrow morning, sir,\nwe give a public breakfast--a FETE CHAMPETRE--to a great number of those\nwho have rendered themselves celebrated by their works and talents.\nPermit Mrs. Leo Hunter, Sir, to have the gratification of seeing you at\nthe Den.'\n\n'With great pleasure,' replied Mr. Pickwick.\n\n'Mrs. Leo Hunter has many of these breakfasts, Sir,' resumed the new\nacquaintance--'\"feasts of reason,\" sir, \"and flows of soul,\" as somebody\nwho wrote a sonnet to Mrs. Leo Hunter on her breakfasts, feelingly and\noriginally observed.'\n\n'Was HE celebrated for his works and talents?' inquired Mr. Pickwick.\n\n'He was Sir,' replied the grave man, 'all Mrs. Leo Hunter's\nacquaintances are; it is her ambition, sir, to have no other\nacquaintance.'\n\n'It is a very noble ambition,' said Mr. Pickwick.\n\n'When I inform Mrs. Leo Hunter, that that remark fell from your\nlips, sir, she will indeed be proud,' said the grave man. 'You have a\ngentleman in your train, who has produced some beautiful little poems, I\nthink, sir.'\n\n'My friend Mr. Snodgrass has a great taste for poetry,' replied Mr.\nPickwick.\n\n'So has Mrs. Leo Hunter, Sir. She dotes on poetry, sir. She adores it; I\nmay say that her whole soul and mind are wound up, and entwined with it.\nShe has produced some delightful pieces, herself, sir. You may have met\nwith her \"Ode to an Expiring Frog,\" sir.'\n\n'I don't think I have,' said Mr. Pickwick.\n\n'You astonish me, Sir,' said Mr. Leo Hunter. 'It created an immense\nsensation. It was signed with an \"L\" and eight stars, and appeared\noriginally in a lady's magazine. It commenced--\n\n '\"Can I view thee panting, lying\n On thy stomach, without sighing;\n Can I unmoved see thee dying\n On a log\n Expiring frog!\"'\n\n'Beautiful!' said Mr. Pickwick.\n\n'Fine,' said Mr. Leo Hunter; 'so simple.'\n\n'Very,' said Mr. Pickwick.\n\n'The next verse is still more touching. Shall I repeat it?'\n\n'If you please,' said Mr. Pickwick.\n\n'It runs thus,' said the grave man, still more gravely.\n\n '\"Say, have fiends in shape of boys,\n With wild halloo, and brutal noise,\n Hunted thee from marshy joys,\n With a dog,\n Expiring frog!\"'\n\n'Finely expressed,' said Mr. Pickwick. 'All point, Sir,' said Mr.\nLeo Hunter; 'but you shall hear Mrs. Leo Hunter repeat it. She can do\njustice to it, Sir. She will repeat it, in character, Sir, to-morrow\nmorning.'\n\n'In character!'\n\n'As Minerva. But I forgot--it's a fancy-dress DEJEUNE.'\n\n'Dear me,' said Mr. Pickwick, glancing at his own figure--'I can't\npossibly--'\n\n'Can't, sir; can't!' exclaimed Mr. Leo Hunter. 'Solomon Lucas, the Jew\nin the High Street, has thousands of fancy-dresses. Consider, Sir, how\nmany appropriate characters are open for your selection. Plato, Zeno,\nEpicurus, Pythagoras--all founders of clubs.'\n\n'I know that,' said Mr. Pickwick; 'but as I cannot put myself in\ncompetition with those great men, I cannot presume to wear their\ndresses.'\n\nThe grave man considered deeply, for a few seconds, and then said--\n\n'On reflection, Sir, I don't know whether it would not afford Mrs. Leo\nHunter greater pleasure, if her guests saw a gentleman of your celebrity\nin his own costume, rather than in an assumed one. I may venture to\npromise an exception in your case, sir--yes, I am quite certain that, on\nbehalf of Mrs. Leo Hunter, I may venture to do so.'\n\n'In that case,' said Mr. Pickwick, 'I shall have great pleasure in\ncoming.'\n\n'But I waste your time, Sir,' said the grave man, as if suddenly\nrecollecting himself. 'I know its value, sir. I will not detain you. I\nmay tell Mrs. Leo Hunter, then, that she may confidently expect you and\nyour distinguished friends? Good-morning, Sir, I am proud to have beheld\nso eminent a personage--not a step sir; not a word.' And without giving\nMr. Pickwick time to offer remonstrance or denial, Mr. Leo Hunter\nstalked gravely away.\n\nMr. Pickwick took up his hat, and repaired to the Peacock, but Mr.\nWinkle had conveyed the intelligence of the fancy-ball there, before\nhim.\n\n'Mrs. Pott's going,' were the first words with which he saluted his\nleader.\n\n'Is she?' said Mr. Pickwick.\n\n'As Apollo,' replied Winkle. 'Only Pott objects to the tunic.'\n\n'He is right. He is quite right,' said Mr. Pickwick emphatically.\n\n'Yes; so she's going to wear a white satin gown with gold spangles.'\n\n'They'll hardly know what she's meant for; will they?' inquired Mr.\nSnodgrass.\n\n'Of course they will,' replied Mr. Winkle indignantly. 'They'll see her\nlyre, won't they?'\n\n'True; I forgot that,' said Mr. Snodgrass.\n\n'I shall go as a bandit,'interposed Mr. Tupman.\n\n'What!' said Mr. Pickwick, with a sudden start.\n\n'As a bandit,' repeated Mr. Tupman, mildly.\n\n'You don't mean to say,' said Mr. Pickwick, gazing with solemn sternness\nat his friend--'you don't mean to say, Mr. Tupman, that it is your\nintention to put yourself into a green velvet jacket, with a two-inch\ntail?'\n\n'Such IS my intention, Sir,' replied Mr. Tupman warmly. 'And why not,\nsir?'\n\n'Because, Sir,' said Mr. Pickwick, considerably excited--'because you\nare too old, Sir.'\n\n'Too old!' exclaimed Mr. Tupman.\n\n'And if any further ground of objection be wanting,' continued Mr.\nPickwick, 'you are too fat, sir.'\n\n'Sir,' said Mr. Tupman, his face suffused with a crimson glow, 'this is\nan insult.'\n\n'Sir,' replied Mr. Pickwick, in the same tone, 'it is not half the\ninsult to you, that your appearance in my presence in a green velvet\njacket, with a two-inch tail, would be to me.'\n\n'Sir,' said Mr. Tupman, 'you're a fellow.'\n\n'Sir,' said Mr. Pickwick, 'you're another!'\n\nMr. Tupman advanced a step or two, and glared at Mr. Pickwick. Mr.\nPickwick returned the glare, concentrated into a focus by means of his\nspectacles, and breathed a bold defiance. Mr. Snodgrass and Mr. Winkle\nlooked on, petrified at beholding such a scene between two such men.\n\n'Sir,' said Mr. Tupman, after a short pause, speaking in a low, deep\nvoice, 'you have called me old.'\n\n'I have,' said Mr. Pickwick.\n\n'And fat.'\n\n'I reiterate the charge.'\n\n'And a fellow.'\n\n'So you are!'\n\nThere was a fearful pause.\n\n'My attachment to your person, sir,' said Mr. Tupman, speaking in a\nvoice tremulous with emotion, and tucking up his wristbands meanwhile,\n'is great--very great--but upon that person, I must take summary\nvengeance.'\n\n'Come on, Sir!' replied Mr. Pickwick. Stimulated by the exciting nature\nof the dialogue, the heroic man actually threw himself into a paralytic\nattitude, confidently supposed by the two bystanders to have been\nintended as a posture of defence.\n\n'What!' exclaimed Mr. Snodgrass, suddenly recovering the power of\nspeech, of which intense astonishment had previously bereft him,\nand rushing between the two, at the imminent hazard of receiving an\napplication on the temple from each--'what! Mr. Pickwick, with the eyes\nof the world upon you! Mr. Tupman! who, in common with us all, derives a\nlustre from his undying name! For shame, gentlemen; for shame.'\n\nThe unwonted lines which momentary passion had ruled in Mr. Pickwick's\nclear and open brow, gradually melted away, as his young friend spoke,\nlike the marks of a black-lead pencil beneath the softening influence of\nindia-rubber. His countenance had resumed its usual benign expression,\nere he concluded.\n\n'I have been hasty,' said Mr. Pickwick, 'very hasty. Tupman; your hand.'\n\nThe dark shadow passed from Mr. Tupman's face, as he warmly grasped the\nhand of his friend.\n\n'I have been hasty, too,' said he.\n\n'No, no,' interrupted Mr. Pickwick, 'the fault was mine. You will wear\nthe green velvet jacket?'\n\n'No, no,' replied Mr. Tupman.\n\n'To oblige me, you will,' resumed Mr. Pickwick.\n\n'Well, well, I will,' said Mr. Tupman.\n\nIt was accordingly settled that Mr. Tupman, Mr. Winkle, and Mr.\nSnodgrass, should all wear fancy-dresses. Thus Mr. Pickwick was led\nby the very warmth of his own good feelings to give his consent to a\nproceeding from which his better judgment would have recoiled--a more\nstriking illustration of his amiable character could hardly have been\nconceived, even if the events recorded in these pages had been wholly\nimaginary.\n\nMr. Leo Hunter had not exaggerated the resources of Mr. Solomon Lucas.\nHis wardrobe was extensive--very extensive--not strictly classical\nperhaps, not quite new, nor did it contain any one garment made\nprecisely after the fashion of any age or time, but everything was more\nor less spangled; and what can be prettier than spangles! It may be\nobjected that they are not adapted to the daylight, but everybody knows\nthat they would glitter if there were lamps; and nothing can be clearer\nthan that if people give fancy-balls in the day-time, and the dresses\ndo not show quite as well as they would by night, the fault lies solely\nwith the people who give the fancy-balls, and is in no wise chargeable\non the spangles. Such was the convincing reasoning of Mr. Solomon Lucas;\nand influenced by such arguments did Mr. Tupman, Mr. Winkle, and Mr.\nSnodgrass engage to array themselves in costumes which his taste and\nexperience induced him to recommend as admirably suited to the occasion.\n\nA carriage was hired from the Town Arms, for the accommodation of the\nPickwickians, and a chariot was ordered from the same repository, for\nthe purpose of conveying Mr. and Mrs. Pott to Mrs. Leo Hunter's grounds,\nwhich Mr. Pott, as a delicate acknowledgment of having received an\ninvitation, had already confidently predicted in the Eatanswill\nGAZETTE 'would present a scene of varied and delicious enchantment--a\nbewildering coruscation of beauty and talent--a lavish and prodigal\ndisplay of hospitality--above all, a degree of splendour softened by the\nmost exquisite taste; and adornment refined with perfect harmony and the\nchastest good keeping--compared with which, the fabled gorgeousness of\nEastern fairyland itself would appear to be clothed in as many dark and\nmurky colours, as must be the mind of the splenetic and unmanly being\nwho could presume to taint with the venom of his envy, the preparations\nmade by the virtuous and highly distinguished lady at whose shrine this\nhumble tribute of admiration was offered.' This last was a piece of\nbiting sarcasm against the INDEPENDENT, who, in consequence of not\nhaving been invited at all, had been, through four numbers, affecting\nto sneer at the whole affair, in his very largest type, with all the\nadjectives in capital letters.\n\nThe morning came: it was a pleasant sight to behold Mr. Tupman in full\nbrigand's costume, with a very tight jacket, sitting like a pincushion\nover his back and shoulders, the upper portion of his legs incased in\nthe velvet shorts, and the lower part thereof swathed in the complicated\nbandages to which all brigands are peculiarly attached. It was pleasing\nto see his open and ingenuous countenance, well mustachioed and corked,\nlooking out from an open shirt collar; and to contemplate the sugar-loaf\nhat, decorated with ribbons of all colours, which he was compelled to\ncarry on his knee, inasmuch as no known conveyance with a top to it,\nwould admit of any man's carrying it between his head and the roof.\nEqually humorous and agreeable was the appearance of Mr. Snodgrass in\nblue satin trunks and cloak, white silk tights and shoes, and Grecian\nhelmet, which everybody knows (and if they do not, Mr. Solomon Lucas\ndid) to have been the regular, authentic, everyday costume of a\ntroubadour, from the earliest ages down to the time of their final\ndisappearance from the face of the earth. All this was pleasant, but\nthis was as nothing compared with the shouting of the populace when the\ncarriage drew up, behind Mr. Pott's chariot, which chariot itself drew\nup at Mr. Pott's door, which door itself opened, and displayed the great\nPott accoutred as a Russian officer of justice, with a tremendous knout\nin his hand--tastefully typical of the stern and mighty power of the\nEatanswill GAZETTE, and the fearful lashings it bestowed on public\noffenders.\n\n'Bravo!' shouted Mr. Tupman and Mr. Snodgrass from the passage, when\nthey beheld the walking allegory.\n\n'Bravo!' Mr. Pickwick was heard to exclaim, from the passage.\n\n'Hoo-roar Pott!' shouted the populace. Amid these salutations, Mr. Pott,\nsmiling with that kind of bland dignity which sufficiently testified\nthat he felt his power, and knew how to exert it, got into the chariot.\n\nThen there emerged from the house, Mrs. Pott, who would have looked very\nlike Apollo if she hadn't had a gown on, conducted by Mr. Winkle, who,\nin his light-red coat could not possibly have been mistaken for anything\nbut a sportsman, if he had not borne an equal resemblance to a general\npostman. Last of all came Mr. Pickwick, whom the boys applauded as loud\nas anybody, probably under the impression that his tights and gaiters\nwere some remnants of the dark ages; and then the two vehicles proceeded\ntowards Mrs. Leo Hunter's; Mr. Weller (who was to assist in waiting)\nbeing stationed on the box of that in which his master was seated.\n\nEvery one of the men, women, boys, girls, and babies, who were assembled\nto see the visitors in their fancy-dresses, screamed with delight\nand ecstasy, when Mr. Pickwick, with the brigand on one arm, and the\ntroubadour on the other, walked solemnly up the entrance. Never were\nsuch shouts heard as those which greeted Mr. Tupman's efforts to fix the\nsugar-loaf hat on his head, by way of entering the garden in style.\n\nThe preparations were on the most delightful scale; fully realising\nthe prophetic Pott's anticipations about the gorgeousness of Eastern\nfairyland, and at once affording a sufficient contradiction to the\nmalignant statements of the reptile INDEPENDENT. The grounds were more\nthan an acre and a quarter in extent, and they were filled with people!\nNever was such a blaze of beauty, and fashion, and literature. There was\nthe young lady who 'did' the poetry in the Eatanswill GAZETTE, in the\ngarb of a sultana, leaning upon the arm of the young gentleman who\n'did' the review department, and who was appropriately habited in a\nfield-marshal's uniform--the boots excepted. There were hosts of these\ngeniuses, and any reasonable person would have thought it honour enough\nto meet them. But more than these, there were half a dozen lions from\nLondon--authors, real authors, who had written whole books, and printed\nthem afterwards--and here you might see 'em, walking about, like\nordinary men, smiling, and talking--aye, and talking pretty considerable\nnonsense too, no doubt with the benign intention of rendering themselves\nintelligible to the common people about them. Moreover, there was a band\nof music in pasteboard caps; four something-ean singers in the costume\nof their country, and a dozen hired waiters in the costume of THEIR\ncountry--and very dirty costume too. And above all, there was Mrs.\nLeo Hunter in the character of Minerva, receiving the company, and\noverflowing with pride and gratification at the notion of having called\nsuch distinguished individuals together.\n\n'Mr. Pickwick, ma'am,' said a servant, as that gentleman approached\nthe presiding goddess, with his hat in his hand, and the brigand and\ntroubadour on either arm.\n\n'What! Where!' exclaimed Mrs. Leo Hunter, starting up, in an affected\nrapture of surprise.\n\n'Here,' said Mr. Pickwick.\n\n'Is it possible that I have really the gratification of beholding Mr.\nPickwick himself!' ejaculated Mrs. Leo Hunter.\n\n'No other, ma'am,' replied Mr. Pickwick, bowing very low. 'Permit me\nto introduce my friends--Mr. Tupman--Mr. Winkle--Mr. Snodgrass--to the\nauthoress of \"The Expiring Frog.\"' Very few people but those who have\ntried it, know what a difficult process it is to bow in green velvet\nsmalls, and a tight jacket, and high-crowned hat; or in blue satin\ntrunks and white silks, or knee-cords and top-boots that were never\nmade for the wearer, and have been fixed upon him without the remotest\nreference to the comparative dimensions of himself and the suit. Never\nwere such distortions as Mr. Tupman's frame underwent in his efforts\nto appear easy and graceful--never was such ingenious posturing, as his\nfancy-dressed friends exhibited.\n\n'Mr. Pickwick,' said Mrs. Leo Hunter, 'I must make you promise not to\nstir from my side the whole day. There are hundreds of people here, that\nI must positively introduce you to.'\n\n'You are very kind, ma'am,' said Mr. Pickwick.\n\n'In the first place, here are my little girls; I had almost forgotten\nthem,' said Minerva, carelessly pointing towards a couple of full-grown\nyoung ladies, of whom one might be about twenty, and the other a year\nor two older, and who were dressed in very juvenile costumes--whether\nto make them look young, or their mamma younger, Mr. Pickwick does not\ndistinctly inform us.\n\n'They are very beautiful,' said Mr. Pickwick, as the juveniles turned\naway, after being presented.\n\n'They are very like their mamma, Sir,' said Mr. Pott, majestically.\n\n'Oh, you naughty man,' exclaimed Mrs. Leo Hunter, playfully tapping the\neditor's arm with her fan (Minerva with a fan!).\n\n'Why now, my dear Mrs. Hunter,' said Mr. Pott, who was trumpeter\nin ordinary at the Den, 'you know that when your picture was in the\nexhibition of the Royal Academy, last year, everybody inquired whether\nit was intended for you, or your youngest daughter; for you were so much\nalike that there was no telling the difference between you.'\n\n'Well, and if they did, why need you repeat it, before strangers?' said\nMrs. Leo Hunter, bestowing another tap on the slumbering lion of the\nEatanswill GAZETTE.\n\n'Count, count,' screamed Mrs. Leo Hunter to a well-whiskered individual\nin a foreign uniform, who was passing by.\n\n'Ah! you want me?' said the count, turning back.\n\n'I want to introduce two very clever people to each other,' said Mrs.\nLeo Hunter. 'Mr. Pickwick, I have great pleasure in introducing you to\nCount Smorltork.' She added in a hurried whisper to Mr. Pickwick--'The\nfamous foreigner--gathering materials for his great work on\nEngland--hem!--Count Smorltork, Mr. Pickwick.' Mr. Pickwick saluted the\ncount with all the reverence due to so great a man, and the count drew\nforth a set of tablets.\n\n'What you say, Mrs. Hunt?' inquired the count, smiling graciously on\nthe gratified Mrs. Leo Hunter, 'Pig Vig or Big Vig--what you\ncall--lawyer--eh? I see--that is it. Big Vig'--and the count was\nproceeding to enter Mr. Pickwick in his tablets, as a gentleman of\nthe long robe, who derived his name from the profession to which he\nbelonged, when Mrs. Leo Hunter interposed.\n\n'No, no, count,' said the lady, 'Pick-wick.'\n\n'Ah, ah, I see,' replied the count. 'Peek--christian name;\nWeeks--surname; good, ver good. Peek Weeks. How you do, Weeks?'\n\n'Quite well, I thank you,' replied Mr. Pickwick, with all his usual\naffability. 'Have you been long in England?'\n\n'Long--ver long time--fortnight--more.'\n\n'Do you stay here long?'\n\n'One week.'\n\n'You will have enough to do,' said Mr. Pickwick smiling, 'to gather all\nthe materials you want in that time.'\n\n'Eh, they are gathered,' said the count.\n\n'Indeed!' said Mr. Pickwick.\n\n'They are here,' added the count, tapping his forehead significantly.\n'Large book at home--full of notes--music, picture, science, potry,\npoltic; all tings.'\n\n'The word politics, sir,' said Mr. Pickwick, 'comprises in itself, a\ndifficult study of no inconsiderable magnitude.'\n\n'Ah!' said the count, drawing out the tablets again, 'ver good--fine\nwords to begin a chapter. Chapter forty-seven. Poltics. The word poltic\nsurprises by himself--' And down went Mr. Pickwick's remark, in Count\nSmorltork's tablets, with such variations and additions as the count's\nexuberant fancy suggested, or his imperfect knowledge of the language\noccasioned.\n\n'Count,' said Mrs. Leo Hunter. 'Mrs. Hunt,' replied the count.\n\n'This is Mr. Snodgrass, a friend of Mr. Pickwick's, and a poet.'\n\n'Stop,' exclaimed the count, bringing out the tablets once more. 'Head,\npotry--chapter, literary friends--name, Snowgrass; ver good. Introduced\nto Snowgrass--great poet, friend of Peek Weeks--by Mrs. Hunt, which\nwrote other sweet poem--what is that name?--Fog--Perspiring Fog--ver\ngood--ver good indeed.' And the count put up his tablets, and with\nsundry bows and acknowledgments walked away, thoroughly satisfied that\nhe had made the most important and valuable additions to his stock of\ninformation.\n\n'Wonderful man, Count Smorltork,' said Mrs. Leo Hunter.\n\n'Sound philosopher,' said Mr. Pott.\n\n'Clear-headed, strong-minded person,' added Mr. Snodgrass.\n\nA chorus of bystanders took up the shout of Count Smorltork's praise,\nshook their heads sagely, and unanimously cried, 'Very!'\n\nAs the enthusiasm in Count Smorltork's favour ran very high, his praises\nmight have been sung until the end of the festivities, if the four\nsomething-ean singers had not ranged themselves in front of a small\napple-tree, to look picturesque, and commenced singing their national\nsongs, which appeared by no means difficult of execution, inasmuch as\nthe grand secret seemed to be, that three of the something-ean singers\nshould grunt, while the fourth howled. This interesting performance\nhaving concluded amidst the loud plaudits of the whole company, a boy\nforthwith proceeded to entangle himself with the rails of a chair,\nand to jump over it, and crawl under it, and fall down with it, and do\neverything but sit upon it, and then to make a cravat of his legs, and\ntie them round his neck, and then to illustrate the ease with which a\nhuman being can be made to look like a magnified toad--all which feats\nyielded high delight and satisfaction to the assembled spectators.\nAfter which, the voice of Mrs. Pott was heard to chirp faintly forth,\nsomething which courtesy interpreted into a song, which was all very\nclassical, and strictly in character, because Apollo was himself a\ncomposer, and composers can very seldom sing their own music or anybody\nelse's, either. This was succeeded by Mrs. Leo Hunter's recitation of\nher far-famed 'Ode to an Expiring Frog,' which was encored once, and\nwould have been encored twice, if the major part of the guests, who\nthought it was high time to get something to eat, had not said that it\nwas perfectly shameful to take advantage of Mrs. Hunter's good nature.\nSo although Mrs. Leo Hunter professed her perfect willingness to recite\nthe ode again, her kind and considerate friends wouldn't hear of it on\nany account; and the refreshment room being thrown open, all the\npeople who had ever been there before, scrambled in with all possible\ndespatch--Mrs. Leo Hunter's usual course of proceedings being, to issue\ncards for a hundred, and breakfast for fifty, or in other words to feed\nonly the very particular lions, and let the smaller animals take care of\nthemselves.\n\n'Where is Mr. Pott?' said Mrs. Leo Hunter, as she placed the aforesaid\nlions around her.\n\n'Here I am,' said the editor, from the remotest end of the room; far\nbeyond all hope of food, unless something was done for him by the\nhostess.\n\n'Won't you come up here?'\n\n'Oh, pray don't mind him,' said Mrs. Pott, in the most obliging\nvoice--'you give yourself a great deal of unnecessary trouble, Mrs.\nHunter. You'll do very well there, won't you--dear?'\n\n'Certainly--love,' replied the unhappy Pott, with a grim smile. Alas for\nthe knout! The nervous arm that wielded it, with such a gigantic force\non public characters, was paralysed beneath the glance of the imperious\nMrs. Pott.\n\nMrs. Leo Hunter looked round her in triumph. Count Smorltork was busily\nengaged in taking notes of the contents of the dishes; Mr. Tupman was\ndoing the honours of the lobster salad to several lionesses, with a\ndegree of grace which no brigand ever exhibited before; Mr. Snodgrass\nhaving cut out the young gentleman who cut up the books for the\nEatanswill GAZETTE, was engaged in an impassioned argument with the\nyoung lady who did the poetry; and Mr. Pickwick was making himself\nuniversally agreeable. Nothing seemed wanting to render the select\ncircle complete, when Mr. Leo Hunter--whose department on these\noccasions, was to stand about in doorways, and talk to the less\nimportant people--suddenly called out--'My dear; here's Mr. Charles\nFitz-Marshall.'\n\n'Oh dear,' said Mrs. Leo Hunter, 'how anxiously I have been expecting\nhim. Pray make room, to let Mr. Fitz-Marshall pass. Tell Mr.\nFitz-Marshall, my dear, to come up to me directly, to be scolded for\ncoming so late.'\n\n'Coming, my dear ma'am,' cried a voice, 'as quick as I can--crowds of\npeople--full room--hard work--very.'\n\nMr. Pickwick's knife and fork fell from his hand. He stared across the\ntable at Mr. Tupman, who had dropped his knife and fork, and was looking\nas if he were about to sink into the ground without further notice.\n\n'Ah!' cried the voice, as its owner pushed his way among the last\nfive-and-twenty Turks, officers, cavaliers, and Charles the Seconds,\nthat remained between him and the table, 'regular mangle--Baker's\npatent--not a crease in my coat, after all this squeezing--might have\n\"got up my linen\" as I came along--ha! ha! not a bad idea, that--queer\nthing to have it mangled when it's upon one, though--trying\nprocess--very.'\n\nWith these broken words, a young man dressed as a naval officer made his\nway up to the table, and presented to the astonished Pickwickians the\nidentical form and features of Mr. Alfred Jingle. The offender had\nbarely time to take Mrs. Leo Hunter's proffered hand, when his eyes\nencountered the indignant orbs of Mr. Pickwick.\n\n'Hollo!' said Jingle. 'Quite forgot--no directions to postillion--give\n'em at once--back in a minute.'\n\n'The servant, or Mr. Hunter will do it in a moment, Mr. Fitz-Marshall,'\nsaid Mrs. Leo Hunter.\n\n'No, no--I'll do it--shan't be long--back in no time,' replied Jingle.\nWith these words he disappeared among the crowd.\n\n'Will you allow me to ask you, ma'am,' said the excited Mr. Pickwick,\nrising from his seat, 'who that young man is, and where he resides?'\n\n'He is a gentleman of fortune, Mr. Pickwick,' said Mrs. Leo Hunter, 'to\nwhom I very much want to introduce you. The count will be delighted with\nhim.'\n\n'Yes, yes,' said Mr. Pickwick hastily. 'His residence--'\n\n'Is at present at the Angel at Bury.'\n\n'At Bury?'\n\n'At Bury St. Edmunds, not many miles from here. But dear me, Mr.\nPickwick, you are not going to leave us; surely Mr. Pickwick you cannot\nthink of going so soon?'\n\nBut long before Mrs. Leo Hunter had finished speaking, Mr. Pickwick\nhad plunged through the throng, and reached the garden, whither he was\nshortly afterwards joined by Mr. Tupman, who had followed his friend\nclosely.\n\n'It's of no use,' said Mr. Tupman. 'He has gone.'\n\n'I know it,' said Mr. Pickwick, 'and I will follow him.'\n\n'Follow him! Where?' inquired Mr. Tupman.\n\n'To the Angel at Bury,' replied Mr. Pickwick, speaking very quickly.\n'How do we know whom he is deceiving there? He deceived a worthy man\nonce, and we were the innocent cause. He shall not do it again, if I can\nhelp it; I'll expose him! Sam! Where's my servant?'\n\n'Here you are, Sir,' said Mr. Weller, emerging from a sequestered spot,\nwhere he had been engaged in discussing a bottle of Madeira, which he\nhad abstracted from the breakfast-table an hour or two before. 'Here's\nyour servant, Sir. Proud o' the title, as the living skellinton said,\nven they show'd him.'\n\n'Follow me instantly,' said Mr. Pickwick. 'Tupman, if I stay at Bury,\nyou can join me there, when I write. Till then, good-bye!'\n\nRemonstrances were useless. Mr. Pickwick was roused, and his mind was\nmade up. Mr. Tupman returned to his companions; and in another hour had\ndrowned all present recollection of Mr. Alfred Jingle, or Mr. Charles\nFitz-Marshall, in an exhilarating quadrille and a bottle of champagne.\nBy that time, Mr. Pickwick and Sam Weller, perched on the outside of\na stage-coach, were every succeeding minute placing a less and less\ndistance between themselves and the good old town of Bury St. Edmunds.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XVI. TOO FULL OF ADVENTURE TO BE BRIEFLY DESCRIBED\n\n\nThere is no month in the whole year in which nature wears a more\nbeautiful appearance than in the month of August. Spring has many\nbeauties, and May is a fresh and blooming month, but the charms of this\ntime of year are enhanced by their contrast with the winter season.\nAugust has no such advantage. It comes when we remember nothing\nbut clear skies, green fields, and sweet-smelling flowers--when the\nrecollection of snow, and ice, and bleak winds, has faded from our minds\nas completely as they have disappeared from the earth--and yet what\na pleasant time it is! Orchards and cornfields ring with the hum of\nlabour; trees bend beneath the thick clusters of rich fruit which bow\ntheir branches to the ground; and the corn, piled in graceful sheaves,\nor waving in every light breath that sweeps above it, as if it wooed\nthe sickle, tinges the landscape with a golden hue. A mellow softness\nappears to hang over the whole earth; the influence of the season\nseems to extend itself to the very wagon, whose slow motion across the\nwell-reaped field is perceptible only to the eye, but strikes with no\nharsh sound upon the ear.\n\nAs the coach rolls swiftly past the fields and orchards which skirt\nthe road, groups of women and children, piling the fruit in sieves, or\ngathering the scattered ears of corn, pause for an instant from their\nlabour, and shading the sun-burned face with a still browner hand, gaze\nupon the passengers with curious eyes, while some stout urchin, too\nsmall to work, but too mischievous to be left at home, scrambles over\nthe side of the basket in which he has been deposited for security, and\nkicks and screams with delight. The reaper stops in his work, and stands\nwith folded arms, looking at the vehicle as it whirls past; and the\nrough cart-horses bestow a sleepy glance upon the smart coach team,\nwhich says as plainly as a horse's glance can, 'It's all very fine to\nlook at, but slow going, over a heavy field, is better than warm work\nlike that, upon a dusty road, after all.' You cast a look behind you, as\nyou turn a corner of the road. The women and children have resumed their\nlabour; the reaper once more stoops to his work; the cart-horses have\nmoved on; and all are again in motion. The influence of a scene like\nthis, was not lost upon the well-regulated mind of Mr. Pickwick. Intent\nupon the resolution he had formed, of exposing the real character of\nthe nefarious Jingle, in any quarter in which he might be pursuing his\nfraudulent designs, he sat at first taciturn and contemplative, brooding\nover the means by which his purpose could be best attained. By degrees\nhis attention grew more and more attracted by the objects around him;\nand at last he derived as much enjoyment from the ride, as if it had\nbeen undertaken for the pleasantest reason in the world.\n\n'Delightful prospect, Sam,' said Mr. Pickwick.\n\n'Beats the chimbley-pots, Sir,' replied Mr. Weller, touching his hat.\n\n'I suppose you have hardly seen anything but chimney-pots and bricks and\nmortar all your life, Sam,' said Mr. Pickwick, smiling.\n\n'I worn't always a boots, sir,' said Mr. Weller, with a shake of the\nhead. 'I wos a vaginer's boy, once.'\n\n'When was that?' inquired Mr. Pickwick.\n\n'When I wos first pitched neck and crop into the world, to play at\nleap-frog with its troubles,' replied Sam. 'I wos a carrier's boy at\nstartin'; then a vaginer's, then a helper, then a boots. Now I'm a\ngen'l'm'n's servant. I shall be a gen'l'm'n myself one of these days,\nperhaps, with a pipe in my mouth, and a summer-house in the back-garden.\nWho knows? I shouldn't be surprised for one.'\n\n'You are quite a philosopher, Sam,' said Mr. Pickwick.\n\n'It runs in the family, I b'lieve, sir,' replied Mr. Weller. 'My\nfather's wery much in that line now. If my mother-in-law blows him up,\nhe whistles. She flies in a passion, and breaks his pipe; he steps out,\nand gets another. Then she screams wery loud, and falls into 'sterics;\nand he smokes wery comfortably till she comes to agin. That's\nphilosophy, Sir, ain't it?'\n\n'A very good substitute for it, at all events,' replied Mr. Pickwick,\nlaughing. 'It must have been of great service to you, in the course of\nyour rambling life, Sam.'\n\n'Service, sir,' exclaimed Sam. 'You may say that. Arter I run away from\nthe carrier, and afore I took up with the vaginer, I had unfurnished\nlodgin's for a fortnight.'\n\n'Unfurnished lodgings?' said Mr. Pickwick.\n\n'Yes--the dry arches of Waterloo Bridge. Fine sleeping-place--vithin ten\nminutes' walk of all the public offices--only if there is any objection\nto it, it is that the sitivation's rayther too airy. I see some queer\nsights there.' 'Ah, I suppose you did,' said Mr. Pickwick, with an air\nof considerable interest.\n\n'Sights, sir,' resumed Mr. Weller, 'as 'ud penetrate your benevolent\nheart, and come out on the other side. You don't see the reg'lar\nwagrants there; trust 'em, they knows better than that. Young beggars,\nmale and female, as hasn't made a rise in their profession, takes\nup their quarters there sometimes; but it's generally the worn-out,\nstarving, houseless creeturs as roll themselves in the dark corners o'\nthem lonesome places--poor creeturs as ain't up to the twopenny rope.'\n\n'And pray, Sam, what is the twopenny rope?' inquired Mr. Pickwick.\n\n'The twopenny rope, sir,' replied Mr. Weller, 'is just a cheap lodgin'\nhouse, where the beds is twopence a night.'\n\n'What do they call a bed a rope for?' said Mr. Pickwick.\n\n'Bless your innocence, sir, that ain't it,' replied Sam. 'Ven the lady\nand gen'l'm'n as keeps the hot-el first begun business, they used to\nmake the beds on the floor; but this wouldn't do at no price, 'cos\ninstead o' taking a moderate twopenn'orth o' sleep, the lodgers used to\nlie there half the day. So now they has two ropes, 'bout six foot apart,\nand three from the floor, which goes right down the room; and the beds\nare made of slips of coarse sacking, stretched across 'em.'\n\n'Well,' said Mr. Pickwick.\n\n'Well,' said Mr. Weller, 'the adwantage o' the plan's hobvious. At six\no'clock every mornin' they let's go the ropes at one end, and down falls\nthe lodgers. Consequence is, that being thoroughly waked, they get up\nwery quietly, and walk away! Beg your pardon, sir,' said Sam, suddenly\nbreaking off in his loquacious discourse. 'Is this Bury St. Edmunds?'\n\n'It is,' replied Mr. Pickwick.\n\nThe coach rattled through the well-paved streets of a handsome little\ntown, of thriving and cleanly appearance, and stopped before a large inn\nsituated in a wide open street, nearly facing the old abbey.\n\n'And this,' said Mr. Pickwick, looking up. 'Is the Angel! We alight\nhere, Sam. But some caution is necessary. Order a private room, and do\nnot mention my name. You understand.'\n\n'Right as a trivet, sir,' replied Mr. Weller, with a wink of\nintelligence; and having dragged Mr. Pickwick's portmanteau from the\nhind boot, into which it had been hastily thrown when they joined the\ncoach at Eatanswill, Mr. Weller disappeared on his errand. A private\nroom was speedily engaged; and into it Mr. Pickwick was ushered without\ndelay. 'Now, Sam,' said Mr. Pickwick, 'the first thing to be done is\nto--' 'Order dinner, Sir,' interposed Mr. Weller. 'It's wery late, sir.'\n\n'Ah, so it is,' said Mr. Pickwick, looking at his watch. 'You are right,\nSam.'\n\n'And if I might adwise, Sir,' added Mr. Weller, 'I'd just have a good\nnight's rest arterwards, and not begin inquiring arter this here deep\n'un till the mornin'. There's nothin' so refreshen' as sleep, sir, as\nthe servant girl said afore she drank the egg-cupful of laudanum.'\n\n'I think you are right, Sam,' said Mr. Pickwick. 'But I must first\nascertain that he is in the house, and not likely to go away.'\n\n'Leave that to me, Sir,' said Sam. 'Let me order you a snug little\ndinner, and make my inquiries below while it's a-getting ready; I could\nworm ev'ry secret out O' the boots's heart, in five minutes, Sir.' 'Do\nso,' said Mr. Pickwick; and Mr. Weller at once retired.\n\nIn half an hour, Mr. Pickwick was seated at a very satisfactory dinner;\nand in three-quarters Mr. Weller returned with the intelligence that Mr.\nCharles Fitz-Marshall had ordered his private room to be retained for\nhim, until further notice. He was going to spend the evening at some\nprivate house in the neighbourhood, had ordered the boots to sit up\nuntil his return, and had taken his servant with him.\n\n'Now, sir,' argued Mr. Weller, when he had concluded his report, 'if I\ncan get a talk with this here servant in the mornin', he'll tell me all\nhis master's concerns.'\n\n'How do you know that?' interposed Mr. Pickwick.\n\n'Bless your heart, sir, servants always do,' replied Mr. Weller.\n\n'Oh, ah, I forgot that,' said Mr. Pickwick. 'Well.'\n\n'Then you can arrange what's best to be done, sir, and we can act\naccordingly.'\n\nAs it appeared that this was the best arrangement that could be made, it\nwas finally agreed upon. Mr. Weller, by his master's permission, retired\nto spend the evening in his own way; and was shortly afterwards elected,\nby the unanimous voice of the assembled company, into the taproom\nchair, in which honourable post he acquitted himself so much to the\nsatisfaction of the gentlemen-frequenters, that their roars of laughter\nand approbation penetrated to Mr. Pickwick's bedroom, and shortened the\nterm of his natural rest by at least three hours.\n\nEarly on the ensuing morning, Mr. Weller was dispelling all the\nfeverish remains of the previous evening's conviviality, through the\ninstrumentality of a halfpenny shower-bath (having induced a young\ngentleman attached to the stable department, by the offer of that coin,\nto pump over his head and face, until he was perfectly restored),\nwhen he was attracted by the appearance of a young fellow in\nmulberry-coloured livery, who was sitting on a bench in the yard,\nreading what appeared to be a hymn-book, with an air of deep\nabstraction, but who occasionally stole a glance at the individual under\nthe pump, as if he took some interest in his proceedings, nevertheless.\n\n'You're a rum 'un to look at, you are!' thought Mr. Weller, the first\ntime his eyes encountered the glance of the stranger in the mulberry\nsuit, who had a large, sallow, ugly face, very sunken eyes, and a\ngigantic head, from which depended a quantity of lank black hair.\n'You're a rum 'un!' thought Mr. Weller; and thinking this, he went on\nwashing himself, and thought no more about him.\n\nStill the man kept glancing from his hymn-book to Sam, and from Sam to\nhis hymn-book, as if he wanted to open a conversation. So at last, Sam,\nby way of giving him an opportunity, said with a familiar nod--\n\n'How are you, governor?'\n\n'I am happy to say, I am pretty well, Sir,' said the man, speaking with\ngreat deliberation, and closing the book. 'I hope you are the same,\nSir?'\n\n'Why, if I felt less like a walking brandy-bottle I shouldn't be quite\nso staggery this mornin',' replied Sam. 'Are you stoppin' in this house,\nold 'un?'\n\nThe mulberry man replied in the affirmative.\n\n'How was it you worn't one of us, last night?' inquired Sam, scrubbing\nhis face with the towel. 'You seem one of the jolly sort--looks as\nconwivial as a live trout in a lime basket,' added Mr. Weller, in an\nundertone.\n\n'I was out last night with my master,' replied the stranger.\n\n'What's his name?' inquired Mr. Weller, colouring up very red with\nsudden excitement, and the friction of the towel combined.\n\n'Fitz-Marshall,' said the mulberry man.\n\n'Give us your hand,' said Mr. Weller, advancing; 'I should like to know\nyou. I like your appearance, old fellow.'\n\n'Well, that is very strange,' said the mulberry man, with great\nsimplicity of manner. 'I like yours so much, that I wanted to speak\nto you, from the very first moment I saw you under the pump.' 'Did you\nthough?'\n\n'Upon my word. Now, isn't that curious?'\n\n'Wery sing'ler,' said Sam, inwardly congratulating himself upon the\nsoftness of the stranger. 'What's your name, my patriarch?'\n\n'Job.'\n\n'And a wery good name it is; only one I know that ain't got a nickname\nto it. What's the other name?'\n\n'Trotter,' said the stranger. 'What is yours?'\n\nSam bore in mind his master's caution, and replied--\n\n'My name's Walker; my master's name's Wilkins. Will you take a drop o'\nsomethin' this mornin', Mr. Trotter?'\n\nMr. Trotter acquiesced in this agreeable proposal; and having deposited\nhis book in his coat pocket, accompanied Mr. Weller to the tap, where\nthey were soon occupied in discussing an exhilarating compound, formed\nby mixing together, in a pewter vessel, certain quantities of British\nHollands and the fragrant essence of the clove.\n\n'And what sort of a place have you got?' inquired Sam, as he filled his\ncompanion's glass, for the second time.\n\n'Bad,' said Job, smacking his lips, 'very bad.'\n\n'You don't mean that?' said Sam.\n\n'I do, indeed. Worse than that, my master's going to be married.'\n\n'No.'\n\n'Yes; and worse than that, too, he's going to run away with an immense\nrich heiress, from boarding-school.'\n\n'What a dragon!' said Sam, refilling his companion's glass. 'It's some\nboarding-school in this town, I suppose, ain't it?' Now, although this\nquestion was put in the most careless tone imaginable, Mr. Job Trotter\nplainly showed by gestures that he perceived his new friend's anxiety to\ndraw forth an answer to it. He emptied his glass, looked mysteriously at\nhis companion, winked both of his small eyes, one after the other, and\nfinally made a motion with his arm, as if he were working an imaginary\npump-handle; thereby intimating that he (Mr. Trotter) considered himself\nas undergoing the process of being pumped by Mr. Samuel Weller.\n\n'No, no,' said Mr. Trotter, in conclusion, 'that's not to be told\nto everybody. That is a secret--a great secret, Mr. Walker.' As the\nmulberry man said this, he turned his glass upside down, by way of\nreminding his companion that he had nothing left wherewith to slake his\nthirst. Sam observed the hint; and feeling the delicate manner in which\nit was conveyed, ordered the pewter vessel to be refilled, whereat the\nsmall eyes of the mulberry man glistened.\n\n'And so it's a secret?' said Sam.\n\n'I should rather suspect it was,' said the mulberry man, sipping his\nliquor, with a complacent face.\n\n'I suppose your mas'r's wery rich?' said Sam.\n\nMr. Trotter smiled, and holding his glass in his left hand, gave four\ndistinct slaps on the pockets of his mulberry indescribables with\nhis right, as if to intimate that his master might have done the same\nwithout alarming anybody much by the chinking of coin.\n\n'Ah,' said Sam, 'that's the game, is it?'\n\nThe mulberry man nodded significantly.\n\n'Well, and don't you think, old feller,' remonstrated Mr. Weller, 'that\nif you let your master take in this here young lady, you're a precious\nrascal?'\n\n'I know that,' said Job Trotter, turning upon his companion a\ncountenance of deep contrition, and groaning slightly, 'I know that, and\nthat's what it is that preys upon my mind. But what am I to do?'\n\n'Do!' said Sam; 'di-wulge to the missis, and give up your master.'\n\n'Who'd believe me?' replied Job Trotter. 'The young lady's considered\nthe very picture of innocence and discretion. She'd deny it, and so\nwould my master. Who'd believe me? I should lose my place, and get\nindicted for a conspiracy, or some such thing; that's all I should take\nby my motion.'\n\n'There's somethin' in that,' said Sam, ruminating; 'there's somethin' in\nthat.'\n\n'If I knew any respectable gentleman who would take the matter up,'\ncontinued Mr. Trotter. 'I might have some hope of preventing the\nelopement; but there's the same difficulty, Mr. Walker, just the same.\nI know no gentleman in this strange place; and ten to one if I did,\nwhether he would believe my story.'\n\n'Come this way,' said Sam, suddenly jumping up, and grasping the\nmulberry man by the arm. 'My mas'r's the man you want, I see.' And after\na slight resistance on the part of Job Trotter, Sam led his newly-found\nfriend to the apartment of Mr. Pickwick, to whom he presented him,\ntogether with a brief summary of the dialogue we have just repeated.\n\n'I am very sorry to betray my master, sir,' said Job Trotter, applying\nto his eyes a pink checked pocket-handkerchief about six inches square.\n\n'The feeling does you a great deal of honour,' replied Mr. Pickwick;\n'but it is your duty, nevertheless.'\n\n'I know it is my duty, Sir,' replied Job, with great emotion. 'We should\nall try to discharge our duty, Sir, and I humbly endeavour to discharge\nmine, Sir; but it is a hard trial to betray a master, Sir, whose clothes\nyou wear, and whose bread you eat, even though he is a scoundrel, Sir.'\n\n'You are a very good fellow,' said Mr. Pickwick, much affected; 'an\nhonest fellow.'\n\n'Come, come,' interposed Sam, who had witnessed Mr. Trotter's tears with\nconsiderable impatience, 'blow this 'ere water-cart bis'ness. It won't\ndo no good, this won't.'\n\n'Sam,' said Mr. Pickwick reproachfully. 'I am sorry to find that you\nhave so little respect for this young man's feelings.'\n\n'His feelin's is all wery well, Sir,' replied Mr. Weller; 'and as\nthey're so wery fine, and it's a pity he should lose 'em, I think he'd\nbetter keep 'em in his own buzzum, than let 'em ewaporate in hot water,\n'specially as they do no good. Tears never yet wound up a clock, or\nworked a steam ingin'. The next time you go out to a smoking party,\nyoung fellow, fill your pipe with that 'ere reflection; and for the\npresent just put that bit of pink gingham into your pocket. 'Tain't so\nhandsome that you need keep waving it about, as if you was a tight-rope\ndancer.'\n\n'My man is in the right,' said Mr. Pickwick, accosting Job, 'although\nhis mode of expressing his opinion is somewhat homely, and occasionally\nincomprehensible.'\n\n'He is, sir, very right,' said Mr. Trotter, 'and I will give way\nno longer.' 'Very well,' said Mr. Pickwick. 'Now, where is this\nboarding-school?'\n\n'It is a large, old, red brick house, just outside the town, Sir,'\nreplied Job Trotter.\n\n'And when,' said Mr. Pickwick--'when is this villainous design to be\ncarried into execution--when is this elopement to take place?'\n\n'To-night, Sir,' replied Job.\n\n'To-night!' exclaimed Mr. Pickwick. 'This very night, sir,' replied Job\nTrotter. 'That is what alarms me so much.'\n\n'Instant measures must be taken,' said Mr. Pickwick. 'I will see the\nlady who keeps the establishment immediately.'\n\n'I beg your pardon, Sir,' said Job, 'but that course of proceeding will\nnever do.'\n\n'Why not?' inquired Mr. Pickwick.\n\n'My master, sir, is a very artful man.'\n\n'I know he is,' said Mr. Pickwick.\n\n'And he has so wound himself round the old lady's heart, Sir,' resumed\nJob, 'that she would believe nothing to his prejudice, if you went down\non your bare knees, and swore it; especially as you have no proof but\nthe word of a servant, who, for anything she knows (and my master would\nbe sure to say so), was discharged for some fault, and does this in\nrevenge.'\n\n'What had better be done, then?' said Mr. Pickwick.\n\n'Nothing but taking him in the very act of eloping, will convince the\nold lady, sir,' replied Job.\n\n'All them old cats WILL run their heads agin milestones,' observed Mr.\nWeller, in a parenthesis.\n\n'But this taking him in the very act of elopement, would be a very\ndifficult thing to accomplish, I fear,' said Mr. Pickwick.\n\n'I don't know, sir,' said Mr. Trotter, after a few moments' reflection.\n'I think it might be very easily done.'\n\n'How?' was Mr. Pickwick's inquiry.\n\n'Why,' replied Mr. Trotter, 'my master and I, being in the confidence of\nthe two servants, will be secreted in the kitchen at ten o'clock. When\nthe family have retired to rest, we shall come out of the kitchen, and\nthe young lady out of her bedroom. A post-chaise will be waiting, and\naway we go.'\n\n'Well?' said Mr. Pickwick.\n\n'Well, sir, I have been thinking that if you were in waiting in the\ngarden behind, alone--'\n\n'Alone,' said Mr. Pickwick. 'Why alone?'\n\n'I thought it very natural,' replied Job, 'that the old lady wouldn't\nlike such an unpleasant discovery to be made before more persons\nthan can possibly be helped. The young lady, too, sir--consider her\nfeelings.'\n\n'You are very right,' said Mr. Pickwick. 'The consideration evinces your\ndelicacy of feeling. Go on; you are very right.'\n\n'Well, sir, I have been thinking that if you were waiting in the back\ngarden alone, and I was to let you in, at the door which opens into it,\nfrom the end of the passage, at exactly half-past eleven o'clock, you\nwould be just in the very moment of time to assist me in frustrating the\ndesigns of this bad man, by whom I have been unfortunately ensnared.'\nHere Mr. Trotter sighed deeply.\n\n'Don't distress yourself on that account,' said Mr. Pickwick; 'if he had\none grain of the delicacy of feeling which distinguishes you, humble as\nyour station is, I should have some hopes of him.'\n\nJob Trotter bowed low; and in spite of Mr. Weller's previous\nremonstrance, the tears again rose to his eyes.\n\n'I never see such a feller,' said Sam, 'Blessed if I don't think he's\ngot a main in his head as is always turned on.'\n\n'Sam,' said Mr. Pickwick, with great severity, 'hold your tongue.'\n\n'Wery well, sir,' replied Mr. Weller.\n\n'I don't like this plan,' said Mr. Pickwick, after deep meditation. 'Why\ncannot I communicate with the young lady's friends?'\n\n'Because they live one hundred miles from here, sir,' responded Job\nTrotter.\n\n'That's a clincher,' said Mr. Weller, aside.\n\n'Then this garden,' resumed Mr. Pickwick. 'How am I to get into it?'\n\n'The wall is very low, sir, and your servant will give you a leg up.'\n'My servant will give me a leg up,' repeated Mr. Pickwick mechanically.\n'You will be sure to be near this door that you speak of?'\n\n'You cannot mistake it, Sir; it's the only one that opens into the\ngarden. Tap at it when you hear the clock strike, and I will open it\ninstantly.'\n\n'I don't like the plan,' said Mr. Pickwick; 'but as I see no other, and\nas the happiness of this young lady's whole life is at stake, I adopt\nit. I shall be sure to be there.'\n\nThus, for the second time, did Mr. Pickwick's innate good-feeling\ninvolve him in an enterprise from which he would most willingly have\nstood aloof.\n\n'What is the name of the house?' inquired Mr. Pickwick.\n\n'Westgate House, Sir. You turn a little to the right when you get to the\nend of the town; it stands by itself, some little distance off the high\nroad, with the name on a brass plate on the gate.'\n\n'I know it,' said Mr. Pickwick. 'I observed it once before, when I was\nin this town. You may depend upon me.'\n\nMr. Trotter made another bow, and turned to depart, when Mr. Pickwick\nthrust a guinea into his hand.\n\n'You're a fine fellow,' said Mr. Pickwick, 'and I admire your goodness\nof heart. No thanks. Remember--eleven o'clock.'\n\n'There is no fear of my forgetting it, sir,' replied Job Trotter. With\nthese words he left the room, followed by Sam.\n\n'I say,' said the latter, 'not a bad notion that 'ere crying. I'd cry\nlike a rain-water spout in a shower on such good terms. How do you do\nit?'\n\n'It comes from the heart, Mr. Walker,' replied Job solemnly.\n'Good-morning, sir.'\n\n'You're a soft customer, you are; we've got it all out o' you, anyhow,'\nthought Mr. Weller, as Job walked away.\n\nWe cannot state the precise nature of the thoughts which passed through\nMr. Trotter's mind, because we don't know what they were.\n\nThe day wore on, evening came, and at a little before ten o'clock Sam\nWeller reported that Mr. Jingle and Job had gone out together, that\ntheir luggage was packed up, and that they had ordered a chaise. The\nplot was evidently in execution, as Mr. Trotter had foretold.\n\nHalf-past ten o'clock arrived, and it was time for Mr. Pickwick to issue\nforth on his delicate errand. Resisting Sam's tender of his greatcoat,\nin order that he might have no encumbrance in scaling the wall, he set\nforth, followed by his attendant.\n\nThere was a bright moon, but it was behind the clouds. It was a fine dry\nnight, but it was most uncommonly dark. Paths, hedges, fields, houses,\nand trees, were enveloped in one deep shade. The atmosphere was hot\nand sultry, the summer lightning quivered faintly on the verge of the\nhorizon, and was the only sight that varied the dull gloom in which\neverything was wrapped--sound there was none, except the distant barking\nof some restless house-dog.\n\nThey found the house, read the brass plate, walked round the wall, and\nstopped at that portion of it which divided them from the bottom of the\ngarden.\n\n'You will return to the inn, Sam, when you have assisted me over,' said\nMr. Pickwick.\n\n'Wery well, Sir.'\n\n'And you will sit up, till I return.'\n\n'Cert'nly, Sir.'\n\n'Take hold of my leg; and, when I say \"Over,\" raise me gently.'\n\n'All right, sir.'\n\nHaving settled these preliminaries, Mr. Pickwick grasped the top of the\nwall, and gave the word 'Over,' which was literally obeyed. Whether his\nbody partook in some degree of the elasticity of his mind, or whether\nMr. Weller's notions of a gentle push were of a somewhat rougher\ndescription than Mr. Pickwick's, the immediate effect of his assistance\nwas to jerk that immortal gentleman completely over the wall on to\nthe bed beneath, where, after crushing three gooseberry-bushes and a\nrose-tree, he finally alighted at full length.\n\n'You ha'n't hurt yourself, I hope, Sir?' said Sam, in a loud whisper,\nas soon as he had recovered from the surprise consequent upon the\nmysterious disappearance of his master.\n\n'I have not hurt MYSELF, Sam, certainly,' replied Mr. Pickwick, from the\nother side of the wall, 'but I rather think that YOU have hurt me.'\n\n'I hope not, Sir,' said Sam.\n\n'Never mind,' said Mr. Pickwick, rising, 'it's nothing but a few\nscratches. Go away, or we shall be overheard.'\n\n'Good-bye, Sir.'\n\n'Good-bye.'\n\nWith stealthy steps Sam Weller departed, leaving Mr. Pickwick alone in\nthe garden.\n\nLights occasionally appeared in the different windows of the house, or\nglanced from the staircases, as if the inmates were retiring to rest.\nNot caring to go too near the door, until the appointed time, Mr.\nPickwick crouched into an angle of the wall, and awaited its arrival.\n\nIt was a situation which might well have depressed the spirits of many\na man. Mr. Pickwick, however, felt neither depression nor misgiving. He\nknew that his purpose was in the main a good one, and he placed implicit\nreliance on the high-minded Job. It was dull, certainly; not to say\ndreary; but a contemplative man can always employ himself in meditation.\nMr. Pickwick had meditated himself into a doze, when he was roused by\nthe chimes of the neighbouring church ringing out the hour--half-past\neleven.\n\n'That's the time,' thought Mr. Pickwick, getting cautiously on his feet.\nHe looked up at the house. The lights had disappeared, and the shutters\nwere closed--all in bed, no doubt. He walked on tiptoe to the door, and\ngave a gentle tap. Two or three minutes passing without any reply, he\ngave another tap rather louder, and then another rather louder than\nthat.\n\nAt length the sound of feet was audible upon the stairs, and then the\nlight of a candle shone through the keyhole of the door. There was a\ngood deal of unchaining and unbolting, and the door was slowly opened.\n\nNow the door opened outwards; and as the door opened wider and wider,\nMr. Pickwick receded behind it, more and more. What was his astonishment\nwhen he just peeped out, by way of caution, to see that the person who\nhad opened it was--not Job Trotter, but a servant-girl with a candle\nin her hand! Mr. Pickwick drew in his head again, with the swiftness\ndisplayed by that admirable melodramatic performer, Punch, when he lies\nin wait for the flat-headed comedian with the tin box of music.\n\n'It must have been the cat, Sarah,' said the girl, addressing herself to\nsome one in the house. 'Puss, puss, puss,--tit, tit, tit.'\n\nBut no animal being decoyed by these blandishments, the girl slowly\nclosed the door, and re-fastened it; leaving Mr. Pickwick drawn up\nstraight against the wall.\n\n'This is very curious,' thought Mr. Pickwick. 'They are sitting up\nbeyond their usual hour, I suppose. Extremely unfortunate, that\nthey should have chosen this night, of all others, for such a\npurpose--exceedingly.' And with these thoughts, Mr. Pickwick cautiously\nretired to the angle of the wall in which he had been before ensconced;\nwaiting until such time as he might deem it safe to repeat the signal.\n\nHe had not been here five minutes, when a vivid flash of lightning was\nfollowed by a loud peal of thunder that crashed and rolled away in the\ndistance with a terrific noise--then came another flash of lightning,\nbrighter than the other, and a second peal of thunder louder than the\nfirst; and then down came the rain, with a force and fury that swept\neverything before it.\n\nMr. Pickwick was perfectly aware that a tree is a very dangerous\nneighbour in a thunderstorm. He had a tree on his right, a tree on his\nleft, a third before him, and a fourth behind. If he remained where he\nwas, he might fall the victim of an accident; if he showed himself in\nthe centre of the garden, he might be consigned to a constable. Once or\ntwice he tried to scale the wall, but having no other legs this time,\nthan those with which Nature had furnished him, the only effect of his\nstruggles was to inflict a variety of very unpleasant gratings on his\nknees and shins, and to throw him into a state of the most profuse\nperspiration.\n\n'What a dreadful situation,' said Mr. Pickwick, pausing to wipe his brow\nafter this exercise. He looked up at the house--all was dark. They must\nbe gone to bed now. He would try the signal again.\n\nHe walked on tiptoe across the moist gravel, and tapped at the door.\nHe held his breath, and listened at the key-hole. No reply: very odd.\nAnother knock. He listened again. There was a low whispering inside, and\nthen a voice cried--\n\n'Who's there?'\n\n'That's not Job,' thought Mr. Pickwick, hastily drawing himself straight\nup against the wall again. 'It's a woman.'\n\nHe had scarcely had time to form this conclusion, when a window above\nstairs was thrown up, and three or four female voices repeated the\nquery--'Who's there?'\n\nMr. Pickwick dared not move hand or foot. It was clear that the whole\nestablishment was roused. He made up his mind to remain where he was,\nuntil the alarm had subsided; and then by a supernatural effort, to get\nover the wall, or perish in the attempt.\n\nLike all Mr. Pickwick's determinations, this was the best that could be\nmade under the circumstances; but, unfortunately, it was founded upon\nthe assumption that they would not venture to open the door again. What\nwas his discomfiture, when he heard the chain and bolts withdrawn, and\nsaw the door slowly opening, wider and wider! He retreated into the\ncorner, step by step; but do what he would, the interposition of his own\nperson, prevented its being opened to its utmost width.\n\n'Who's there?' screamed a numerous chorus of treble voices from the\nstaircase inside, consisting of the spinster lady of the establishment,\nthree teachers, five female servants, and thirty boarders, all\nhalf-dressed and in a forest of curl-papers.\n\nOf course Mr. Pickwick didn't say who was there: and then the burden of\nthe chorus changed into--'Lor! I am so frightened.'\n\n'Cook,' said the lady abbess, who took care to be on the top stair, the\nvery last of the group--'cook, why don't you go a little way into the\ngarden?' 'Please, ma'am, I don't like,' responded the cook.\n\n'Lor, what a stupid thing that cook is!' said the thirty boarders.\n\n'Cook,' said the lady abbess, with great dignity; 'don't answer me, if\nyou please. I insist upon your looking into the garden immediately.'\n\nHere the cook began to cry, and the housemaid said it was 'a shame!' for\nwhich partisanship she received a month's warning on the spot.\n\n'Do you hear, cook?' said the lady abbess, stamping her foot\nimpatiently.\n\n'Don't you hear your missis, cook?' said the three teachers.\n\n'What an impudent thing that cook is!' said the thirty boarders.\n\nThe unfortunate cook, thus strongly urged, advanced a step or two,\nand holding her candle just where it prevented her from seeing at all,\ndeclared there was nothing there, and it must have been the wind. The\ndoor was just going to be closed in consequence, when an inquisitive\nboarder, who had been peeping between the hinges, set up a fearful\nscreaming, which called back the cook and housemaid, and all the more\nadventurous, in no time.\n\n'What is the matter with Miss Smithers?' said the lady abbess, as the\naforesaid Miss Smithers proceeded to go into hysterics of four young\nlady power.\n\n'Lor, Miss Smithers, dear,' said the other nine-and-twenty boarders.\n\n'Oh, the man--the man--behind the door!' screamed Miss Smithers.\n\nThe lady abbess no sooner heard this appalling cry, than she\nretreated to her own bedroom, double-locked the door, and fainted away\ncomfortably. The boarders, and the teachers, and the servants, fell back\nupon the stairs, and upon each other; and never was such a screaming,\nand fainting, and struggling beheld. In the midst of the tumult, Mr.\nPickwick emerged from his concealment, and presented himself amongst\nthem.\n\n'Ladies--dear ladies,' said Mr. Pickwick.\n\n'Oh. he says we're dear,' cried the oldest and ugliest teacher. 'Oh, the\nwretch!'\n\n'Ladies,' roared Mr. Pickwick, rendered desperate by the danger of his\nsituation. 'Hear me. I am no robber. I want the lady of the house.'\n\n'Oh, what a ferocious monster!' screamed another teacher. 'He wants Miss\nTomkins.'\n\nHere there was a general scream.\n\n'Ring the alarm bell, somebody!' cried a dozen voices.\n\n'Don't--don't,' shouted Mr. Pickwick. 'Look at me. Do I look like a\nrobber! My dear ladies--you may bind me hand and leg, or lock me up in a\ncloset, if you like. Only hear what I have got to say--only hear me.'\n\n'How did you come in our garden?' faltered the housemaid.\n\n'Call the lady of the house, and I'll tell her everything,' said Mr.\nPickwick, exerting his lungs to the utmost pitch. 'Call her--only be\nquiet, and call her, and you shall hear everything.'\n\nIt might have been Mr. Pickwick's appearance, or it might have been his\nmanner, or it might have been the temptation--irresistible to a female\nmind--of hearing something at present enveloped in mystery, that reduced\nthe more reasonable portion of the establishment (some four individuals)\nto a state of comparative quiet. By them it was proposed, as a test of\nMr. Pickwick's sincerity, that he should immediately submit to personal\nrestraint; and that gentleman having consented to hold a conference with\nMiss Tomkins, from the interior of a closet in which the day boarders\nhung their bonnets and sandwich-bags, he at once stepped into it, of\nhis own accord, and was securely locked in. This revived the others; and\nMiss Tomkins having been brought to, and brought down, the conference\nbegan.\n\n'What did you do in my garden, man?' said Miss Tomkins, in a faint\nvoice.\n\n'I came to warn you that one of your young ladies was going to elope\nto-night,' replied Mr. Pickwick, from the interior of the closet.\n\n'Elope!' exclaimed Miss Tomkins, the three teachers, the thirty\nboarders, and the five servants. 'Who with?' 'Your friend, Mr. Charles\nFitz-Marshall.'\n\n'MY friend! I don't know any such person.'\n\n'Well, Mr. Jingle, then.'\n\n'I never heard the name in my life.'\n\n'Then, I have been deceived, and deluded,' said Mr. Pickwick. 'I have\nbeen the victim of a conspiracy--a foul and base conspiracy. Send to the\nAngel, my dear ma'am, if you don't believe me. Send to the Angel for Mr.\nPickwick's manservant, I implore you, ma'am.'\n\n'He must be respectable--he keeps a manservant,' said Miss Tomkins to\nthe writing and ciphering governess.\n\n'It's my opinion, Miss Tomkins,' said the writing and ciphering\ngoverness, 'that his manservant keeps him, I think he's a madman, Miss\nTomkins, and the other's his keeper.'\n\n'I think you are very right, Miss Gwynn,' responded Miss Tomkins. 'Let\ntwo of the servants repair to the Angel, and let the others remain here,\nto protect us.'\n\nSo two of the servants were despatched to the Angel in search of Mr.\nSamuel Weller; and the remaining three stopped behind to protect Miss\nTomkins, and the three teachers, and the thirty boarders. And Mr.\nPickwick sat down in the closet, beneath a grove of sandwich-bags,\nand awaited the return of the messengers, with all the philosophy and\nfortitude he could summon to his aid.\n\nAn hour and a half elapsed before they came back, and when they did\ncome, Mr. Pickwick recognised, in addition to the voice of Mr. Samuel\nWeller, two other voices, the tones of which struck familiarly on his\near; but whose they were, he could not for the life of him call to mind.\n\nA very brief conversation ensued. The door was unlocked. Mr. Pickwick\nstepped out of the closet, and found himself in the presence of the\nwhole establishment of Westgate House, Mr Samuel Weller, and--old\nWardle, and his destined son-in-law, Mr. Trundle!\n\n'My dear friend,' said Mr. Pickwick, running forward and grasping\nWardle's hand, 'my dear friend, pray, for Heaven's sake, explain to this\nlady the unfortunate and dreadful situation in which I am placed. You\nmust have heard it from my servant; say, at all events, my dear fellow,\nthat I am neither a robber nor a madman.'\n\n'I have said so, my dear friend. I have said so already,' replied Mr.\nWardle, shaking the right hand of his friend, while Mr. Trundle shook\nthe left. 'And whoever says, or has said, he is,' interposed Mr. Weller,\nstepping forward, 'says that which is not the truth, but so far from it,\non the contrary, quite the rewerse. And if there's any number o' men on\nthese here premises as has said so, I shall be wery happy to give 'em\nall a wery convincing proof o' their being mistaken, in this here wery\nroom, if these wery respectable ladies 'll have the goodness to retire,\nand order 'em up, one at a time.' Having delivered this defiance with\ngreat volubility, Mr. Weller struck his open palm emphatically with his\nclenched fist, and winked pleasantly on Miss Tomkins, the intensity of\nwhose horror at his supposing it within the bounds of possibility that\nthere could be any men on the premises of Westgate House Establishment\nfor Young Ladies, it is impossible to describe.\n\nMr. Pickwick's explanation having already been partially made, was soon\nconcluded. But neither in the course of his walk home with his friends,\nnor afterwards when seated before a blazing fire at the supper he so\nmuch needed, could a single observation be drawn from him. He seemed\nbewildered and amazed. Once, and only once, he turned round to Mr.\nWardle, and said--\n\n'How did you come here?'\n\n'Trundle and I came down here, for some good shooting on the first,'\nreplied Wardle. 'We arrived to-night, and were astonished to hear from\nyour servant that you were here too. But I am glad you are,' said the\nold fellow, slapping him on the back--'I am glad you are. We shall have\na jovial party on the first, and we'll give Winkle another chance--eh,\nold boy?'\n\nMr. Pickwick made no reply, he did not even ask after his friends at\nDingley Dell, and shortly afterwards retired for the night, desiring Sam\nto fetch his candle when he rung. The bell did ring in due course, and\nMr. Weller presented himself.\n\n'Sam,' said Mr. Pickwick, looking out from under the bed-clothes.\n\n'Sir,' said Mr. Weller.\n\nMr. Pickwick paused, and Mr. Weller snuffed the candle.\n\n'Sam,' said Mr. Pickwick again, as if with a desperate effort.\n\n'Sir,' said Mr. Weller, once more.\n\n'Where is that Trotter?'\n\n'Job, sir?'\n\n'Yes.\n\n'Gone, sir.'\n\n'With his master, I suppose?'\n\n'Friend or master, or whatever he is, he's gone with him,' replied Mr.\nWeller. 'There's a pair on 'em, sir.'\n\n'Jingle suspected my design, and set that fellow on you, with this\nstory, I suppose?' said Mr. Pickwick, half choking.\n\n'Just that, sir,' replied Mr. Weller.\n\n'It was all false, of course?'\n\n'All, sir,' replied Mr. Weller. 'Reg'lar do, sir; artful dodge.'\n\n'I don't think he'll escape us quite so easily the next time, Sam!' said\nMr. Pickwick.\n\n'I don't think he will, Sir.'\n\n'Whenever I meet that Jingle again, wherever it is,' said Mr. Pickwick,\nraising himself in bed, and indenting his pillow with a tremendous blow,\n'I'll inflict personal chastisement on him, in addition to the exposure\nhe so richly merits. I will, or my name is not Pickwick.'\n\n'And venever I catches hold o' that there melan-cholly chap with the\nblack hair,' said Sam, 'if I don't bring some real water into his eyes,\nfor once in a way, my name ain't Weller. Good-night, Sir!'\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XVII. SHOWING THAT AN ATTACK OF RHEUMATISM, IN SOME CASES, ACTS\nAS A QUICKENER TO INVENTIVE GENIUS\n\n\nThe constitution of Mr. Pickwick, though able to sustain a very\nconsiderable amount of exertion and fatigue, was not proof against such\na combination of attacks as he had undergone on the memorable night,\nrecorded in the last chapter. The process of being washed in the night\nair, and rough-dried in a closet, is as dangerous as it is peculiar. Mr.\nPickwick was laid up with an attack of rheumatism.\n\nBut although the bodily powers of the great man were thus impaired,\nhis mental energies retained their pristine vigour. His spirits were\nelastic; his good-humour was restored. Even the vexation consequent upon\nhis recent adventure had vanished from his mind; and he could join in\nthe hearty laughter, which any allusion to it excited in Mr. Wardle,\nwithout anger and without embarrassment. Nay, more. During the two days\nMr. Pickwick was confined to bed, Sam was his constant attendant. On the\nfirst, he endeavoured to amuse his master by anecdote and conversation;\non the second, Mr. Pickwick demanded his writing-desk, and pen and ink,\nand was deeply engaged during the whole day. On the third, being able to\nsit up in his bedchamber, he despatched his valet with a message to Mr.\nWardle and Mr. Trundle, intimating that if they would take their wine\nthere, that evening, they would greatly oblige him. The invitation was\nmost willingly accepted; and when they were seated over their wine, Mr.\nPickwick, with sundry blushes, produced the following little tale, as\nhaving been 'edited' by himself, during his recent indisposition, from\nhis notes of Mr. Weller's unsophisticated recital.\n\n\n THE PARISH CLERK\n A TALE OF TRUE LOVE\n\n'Once upon a time, in a very small country town, at a considerable\ndistance from London, there lived a little man named Nathaniel Pipkin,\nwho was the parish clerk of the little town, and lived in a little house\nin the little High Street, within ten minutes' walk from the little\nchurch; and who was to be found every day, from nine till four, teaching\na little learning to the little boys. Nathaniel Pipkin was a harmless,\ninoffensive, good-natured being, with a turned-up nose, and rather\nturned-in legs, a cast in his eye, and a halt in his gait; and he\ndivided his time between the church and his school, verily believing\nthat there existed not, on the face of the earth, so clever a man as the\ncurate, so imposing an apartment as the vestry-room, or so well-ordered\na seminary as his own. Once, and only once, in his life, Nathaniel\nPipkin had seen a bishop--a real bishop, with his arms in lawn sleeves,\nand his head in a wig. He had seen him walk, and heard him talk, at\na confirmation, on which momentous occasion Nathaniel Pipkin was so\novercome with reverence and awe, when the aforesaid bishop laid his\nhand on his head, that he fainted right clean away, and was borne out of\nchurch in the arms of the beadle.\n\n'This was a great event, a tremendous era, in Nathaniel Pipkin's life,\nand it was the only one that had ever occurred to ruffle the smooth\ncurrent of his quiet existence, when happening one fine afternoon, in a\nfit of mental abstraction, to raise his eyes from the slate on which\nhe was devising some tremendous problem in compound addition for\nan offending urchin to solve, they suddenly rested on the blooming\ncountenance of Maria Lobbs, the only daughter of old Lobbs, the great\nsaddler over the way. Now, the eyes of Mr. Pipkin had rested on the\npretty face of Maria Lobbs many a time and oft before, at church and\nelsewhere; but the eyes of Maria Lobbs had never looked so bright, the\ncheeks of Maria Lobbs had never looked so ruddy, as upon this particular\noccasion. No wonder then, that Nathaniel Pipkin was unable to take his\neyes from the countenance of Miss Lobbs; no wonder that Miss Lobbs,\nfinding herself stared at by a young man, withdrew her head from the\nwindow out of which she had been peeping, and shut the casement and\npulled down the blind; no wonder that Nathaniel Pipkin, immediately\nthereafter, fell upon the young urchin who had previously offended, and\ncuffed and knocked him about to his heart's content. All this was very\nnatural, and there's nothing at all to wonder at about it.\n\n'It IS matter of wonder, though, that anyone of Mr. Nathaniel Pipkin's\nretiring disposition, nervous temperament, and most particularly\ndiminutive income, should from this day forth, have dared to aspire to\nthe hand and heart of the only daughter of the fiery old Lobbs--of old\nLobbs, the great saddler, who could have bought up the whole village\nat one stroke of his pen, and never felt the outlay--old Lobbs, who was\nwell known to have heaps of money, invested in the bank at the nearest\nmarket town--who was reported to have countless and inexhaustible\ntreasures hoarded up in the little iron safe with the big keyhole, over\nthe chimney-piece in the back parlour--and who, it was well known,\non festive occasions garnished his board with a real silver teapot,\ncream-ewer, and sugar-basin, which he was wont, in the pride of his\nheart, to boast should be his daughter's property when she found a man\nto her mind. I repeat it, to be matter of profound astonishment and\nintense wonder, that Nathaniel Pipkin should have had the temerity to\ncast his eyes in this direction. But love is blind; and Nathaniel had\na cast in his eye; and perhaps these two circumstances, taken together,\nprevented his seeing the matter in its proper light.\n\n'Now, if old Lobbs had entertained the most remote or distant idea of\nthe state of the affections of Nathaniel Pipkin, he would just have\nrazed the school-room to the ground, or exterminated its master from the\nsurface of the earth, or committed some other outrage and atrocity of\nan equally ferocious and violent description; for he was a terrible\nold fellow, was Lobbs, when his pride was injured, or his blood was up.\nSwear! Such trains of oaths would come rolling and pealing over the way,\nsometimes, when he was denouncing the idleness of the bony apprentice\nwith the thin legs, that Nathaniel Pipkin would shake in his shoes\nwith horror, and the hair of the pupils' heads would stand on end with\nfright.\n\n'Well! Day after day, when school was over, and the pupils gone, did\nNathaniel Pipkin sit himself down at the front window, and, while he\nfeigned to be reading a book, throw sidelong glances over the way in\nsearch of the bright eyes of Maria Lobbs; and he hadn't sat there many\ndays, before the bright eyes appeared at an upper window, apparently\ndeeply engaged in reading too. This was delightful, and gladdening to\nthe heart of Nathaniel Pipkin. It was something to sit there for hours\ntogether, and look upon that pretty face when the eyes were cast down;\nbut when Maria Lobbs began to raise her eyes from her book, and dart\ntheir rays in the direction of Nathaniel Pipkin, his delight and\nadmiration were perfectly boundless. At last, one day when he knew old\nLobbs was out, Nathaniel Pipkin had the temerity to kiss his hand\nto Maria Lobbs; and Maria Lobbs, instead of shutting the window, and\npulling down the blind, kissed HERS to him, and smiled. Upon which\nNathaniel Pipkin determined, that, come what might, he would develop the\nstate of his feelings, without further delay.\n\n'A prettier foot, a gayer heart, a more dimpled face, or a smarter form,\nnever bounded so lightly over the earth they graced, as did those of\nMaria Lobbs, the old saddler's daughter. There was a roguish twinkle in\nher sparkling eyes, that would have made its way to far less susceptible\nbosoms than that of Nathaniel Pipkin; and there was such a joyous sound\nin her merry laugh, that the sternest misanthrope must have smiled to\nhear it. Even old Lobbs himself, in the very height of his ferocity,\ncouldn't resist the coaxing of his pretty daughter; and when she,\nand her cousin Kate--an arch, impudent-looking, bewitching little\nperson--made a dead set upon the old man together, as, to say the truth,\nthey very often did, he could have refused them nothing, even had they\nasked for a portion of the countless and inexhaustible treasures, which\nwere hidden from the light, in the iron safe.\n\n'Nathaniel Pipkin's heart beat high within him, when he saw this\nenticing little couple some hundred yards before him one summer's\nevening, in the very field in which he had many a time strolled about\ntill night-time, and pondered on the beauty of Maria Lobbs. But though\nhe had often thought then, how briskly he would walk up to Maria Lobbs\nand tell her of his passion if he could only meet her, he felt, now that\nshe was unexpectedly before him, all the blood in his body mounting to\nhis face, manifestly to the great detriment of his legs, which, deprived\nof their usual portion, trembled beneath him. When they stopped to\ngather a hedge flower, or listen to a bird, Nathaniel Pipkin stopped\ntoo, and pretended to be absorbed in meditation, as indeed he really\nwas; for he was thinking what on earth he should ever do, when they\nturned back, as they inevitably must in time, and meet him face to face.\nBut though he was afraid to make up to them, he couldn't bear to lose\nsight of them; so when they walked faster he walked faster, when they\nlingered he lingered, and when they stopped he stopped; and so they\nmight have gone on, until the darkness prevented them, if Kate had not\nlooked slyly back, and encouragingly beckoned Nathaniel to advance.\nThere was something in Kate's manner that was not to be resisted, and so\nNathaniel Pipkin complied with the invitation; and after a great deal\nof blushing on his part, and immoderate laughter on that of the wicked\nlittle cousin, Nathaniel Pipkin went down on his knees on the dewy\ngrass, and declared his resolution to remain there for ever, unless he\nwere permitted to rise the accepted lover of Maria Lobbs. Upon this, the\nmerry laughter of Miss Lobbs rang through the calm evening air--without\nseeming to disturb it, though; it had such a pleasant sound--and\nthe wicked little cousin laughed more immoderately than before, and\nNathaniel Pipkin blushed deeper than ever. At length, Maria Lobbs being\nmore strenuously urged by the love-worn little man, turned away her\nhead, and whispered her cousin to say, or at all events Kate did say,\nthat she felt much honoured by Mr. Pipkin's addresses; that her hand and\nheart were at her father's disposal; but that nobody could be insensible\nto Mr. Pipkin's merits. As all this was said with much gravity, and as\nNathaniel Pipkin walked home with Maria Lobbs, and struggled for a kiss\nat parting, he went to bed a happy man, and dreamed all night long, of\nsoftening old Lobbs, opening the strong box, and marrying Maria.\n\nThe next day, Nathaniel Pipkin saw old Lobbs go out upon his old gray\npony, and after a great many signs at the window from the wicked little\ncousin, the object and meaning of which he could by no means understand,\nthe bony apprentice with the thin legs came over to say that his master\nwasn't coming home all night, and that the ladies expected Mr. Pipkin\nto tea, at six o'clock precisely. How the lessons were got through that\nday, neither Nathaniel Pipkin nor his pupils knew any more than you\ndo; but they were got through somehow, and, after the boys had gone,\nNathaniel Pipkin took till full six o'clock to dress himself to his\nsatisfaction. Not that it took long to select the garments he should\nwear, inasmuch as he had no choice about the matter; but the putting of\nthem on to the best advantage, and the touching of them up previously,\nwas a task of no inconsiderable difficulty or importance.\n\n'There was a very snug little party, consisting of Maria Lobbs and her\ncousin Kate, and three or four romping, good-humoured, rosy-cheeked\ngirls. Nathaniel Pipkin had ocular demonstration of the fact, that the\nrumours of old Lobbs's treasures were not exaggerated. There were the\nreal solid silver teapot, cream-ewer, and sugar-basin, on the table, and\nreal silver spoons to stir the tea with, and real china cups to drink it\nout of, and plates of the same, to hold the cakes and toast in. The only\neye-sore in the whole place was another cousin of Maria Lobbs's, and a\nbrother of Kate, whom Maria Lobbs called \"Henry,\" and who seemed to\nkeep Maria Lobbs all to himself, up in one corner of the table. It's\na delightful thing to see affection in families, but it may be carried\nrather too far, and Nathaniel Pipkin could not help thinking that Maria\nLobbs must be very particularly fond of her relations, if she paid as\nmuch attention to all of them as to this individual cousin. After tea,\ntoo, when the wicked little cousin proposed a game at blind man's buff,\nit somehow or other happened that Nathaniel Pipkin was nearly always\nblind, and whenever he laid his hand upon the male cousin, he was sure\nto find that Maria Lobbs was not far off. And though the wicked little\ncousin and the other girls pinched him, and pulled his hair, and pushed\nchairs in his way, and all sorts of things, Maria Lobbs never seemed to\ncome near him at all; and once--once--Nathaniel Pipkin could have sworn\nhe heard the sound of a kiss, followed by a faint remonstrance from\nMaria Lobbs, and a half-suppressed laugh from her female friends. All\nthis was odd--very odd--and there is no saying what Nathaniel Pipkin\nmight or might not have done, in consequence, if his thoughts had not\nbeen suddenly directed into a new channel.\n\n'The circumstance which directed his thoughts into a new channel was\na loud knocking at the street door, and the person who made this loud\nknocking at the street door was no other than old Lobbs himself, who had\nunexpectedly returned, and was hammering away, like a coffin-maker;\nfor he wanted his supper. The alarming intelligence was no sooner\ncommunicated by the bony apprentice with the thin legs, than the girls\ntripped upstairs to Maria Lobbs's bedroom, and the male cousin\nand Nathaniel Pipkin were thrust into a couple of closets in the\nsitting-room, for want of any better places of concealment; and when\nMaria Lobbs and the wicked little cousin had stowed them away, and put\nthe room to rights, they opened the street door to old Lobbs, who had\nnever left off knocking since he first began.\n\n'Now it did unfortunately happen that old Lobbs being very hungry was\nmonstrous cross. Nathaniel Pipkin could hear him growling away like an\nold mastiff with a sore throat; and whenever the unfortunate apprentice\nwith the thin legs came into the room, so surely did old Lobbs commence\nswearing at him in a most Saracenic and ferocious manner, though\napparently with no other end or object than that of easing his bosom by\nthe discharge of a few superfluous oaths. At length some supper, which\nhad been warming up, was placed on the table, and then old Lobbs fell\nto, in regular style; and having made clear work of it in no time,\nkissed his daughter, and demanded his pipe.\n\n'Nature had placed Nathaniel Pipkin's knees in very close juxtaposition,\nbut when he heard old Lobbs demand his pipe, they knocked together, as\nif they were going to reduce each other to powder; for, depending from\na couple of hooks, in the very closet in which he stood, was a large,\nbrown-stemmed, silver-bowled pipe, which pipe he himself had seen in the\nmouth of old Lobbs, regularly every afternoon and evening, for the last\nfive years. The two girls went downstairs for the pipe, and upstairs for\nthe pipe, and everywhere but where they knew the pipe was, and old Lobbs\nstormed away meanwhile, in the most wonderful manner. At last he thought\nof the closet, and walked up to it. It was of no use a little man like\nNathaniel Pipkin pulling the door inwards, when a great strong fellow\nlike old Lobbs was pulling it outwards. Old Lobbs gave it one tug, and\nopen it flew, disclosing Nathaniel Pipkin standing bolt upright inside,\nand shaking with apprehension from head to foot. Bless us! what an\nappalling look old Lobbs gave him, as he dragged him out by the collar,\nand held him at arm's length.\n\n'\"Why, what the devil do you want here?\" said old Lobbs, in a fearful\nvoice.\n\n'Nathaniel Pipkin could make no reply, so old Lobbs shook him backwards\nand forwards, for two or three minutes, by way of arranging his ideas\nfor him.\n\n'\"What do you want here?\" roared Lobbs; \"I suppose you have come after\nmy daughter, now!\"\n\n'Old Lobbs merely said this as a sneer: for he did not believe that\nmortal presumption could have carried Nathaniel Pipkin so far. What was\nhis indignation, when that poor man replied--'\"Yes, I did, Mr. Lobbs, I\ndid come after your daughter. I love her, Mr. Lobbs.\"\n\n'\"Why, you snivelling, wry-faced, puny villain,\" gasped old Lobbs,\nparalysed by the atrocious confession; \"what do you mean by that? Say\nthis to my face! Damme, I'll throttle you!\"\n\n'It is by no means improbable that old Lobbs would have carried his\nthreat into execution, in the excess of his rage, if his arm had not\nbeen stayed by a very unexpected apparition: to wit, the male cousin,\nwho, stepping out of his closet, and walking up to old Lobbs, said--\n\n'\"I cannot allow this harmless person, Sir, who has been asked here, in\nsome girlish frolic, to take upon himself, in a very noble manner, the\nfault (if fault it is) which I am guilty of, and am ready to avow. I\nlove your daughter, sir; and I came here for the purpose of meeting\nher.\"\n\n'Old Lobbs opened his eyes very wide at this, but not wider than\nNathaniel Pipkin.\n\n'\"You did?\" said Lobbs, at last finding breath to speak.\n\n'\"I did.\"\n\n'\"And I forbade you this house, long ago.\"\n\n'\"You did, or I should not have been here, clandestinely, to-night.\"\n\n'I am sorry to record it of old Lobbs, but I think he would have struck\nthe cousin, if his pretty daughter, with her bright eyes swimming in\ntears, had not clung to his arm.\n\n'\"Don't stop him, Maria,\" said the young man; \"if he has the will to\nstrike me, let him. I would not hurt a hair of his gray head, for the\nriches of the world.\"\n\n'The old man cast down his eyes at this reproof, and they met those of\nhis daughter. I have hinted once or twice before, that they were very\nbright eyes, and, though they were tearful now, their influence was by\nno means lessened. Old Lobbs turned his head away, as if to avoid being\npersuaded by them, when, as fortune would have it, he encountered the\nface of the wicked little cousin, who, half afraid for her brother, and\nhalf laughing at Nathaniel Pipkin, presented as bewitching an expression\nof countenance, with a touch of slyness in it, too, as any man, old or\nyoung, need look upon. She drew her arm coaxingly through the old man's,\nand whispered something in his ear; and do what he would, old Lobbs\ncouldn't help breaking out into a smile, while a tear stole down his\ncheek at the same time. 'Five minutes after this, the girls were brought\ndown from the bedroom with a great deal of giggling and modesty; and\nwhile the young people were making themselves perfectly happy, old Lobbs\ngot down the pipe, and smoked it; and it was a remarkable circumstance\nabout that particular pipe of tobacco, that it was the most soothing and\ndelightful one he ever smoked.\n\n'Nathaniel Pipkin thought it best to keep his own counsel, and by so\ndoing gradually rose into high favour with old Lobbs, who taught him\nto smoke in time; and they used to sit out in the garden on the fine\nevenings, for many years afterwards, smoking and drinking in great\nstate. He soon recovered the effects of his attachment, for we find his\nname in the parish register, as a witness to the marriage of Maria Lobbs\nto her cousin; and it also appears, by reference to other documents,\nthat on the night of the wedding he was incarcerated in the village\ncage, for having, in a state of extreme intoxication, committed sundry\nexcesses in the streets, in all of which he was aided and abetted by the\nbony apprentice with the thin legs.'\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XVIII. BRIEFLY ILLUSTRATIVE OF TWO POINTS; FIRST, THE POWER OF\nHYSTERICS, AND, SECONDLY, THE FORCE OF CIRCUMSTANCES\n\n\nFor two days after the DEJEUNE at Mrs. Hunter's, the Pickwickians\nremained at Eatanswill, anxiously awaiting the arrival of some\nintelligence from their revered leader. Mr. Tupman and Mr. Snodgrass\nwere once again left to their own means of amusement; for Mr. Winkle, in\ncompliance with a most pressing invitation, continued to reside at Mr.\nPott's house, and to devote his time to the companionship of his amiable\nlady. Nor was the occasional society of Mr. Pott himself wanting\nto complete their felicity. Deeply immersed in the intensity of his\nspeculations for the public weal and the destruction of the INDEPENDENT,\nit was not the habit of that great man to descend from his mental\npinnacle to the humble level of ordinary minds. On this occasion,\nhowever, and as if expressly in compliment to any follower of Mr.\nPickwick's, he unbent, relaxed, stepped down from his pedestal,\nand walked upon the ground, benignly adapting his remarks to the\ncomprehension of the herd, and seeming in outward form, if not in\nspirit, to be one of them.\n\nSuch having been the demeanour of this celebrated public character\ntowards Mr. Winkle, it will be readily imagined that considerable\nsurprise was depicted on the countenance of the latter gentleman, when,\nas he was sitting alone in the breakfast-room, the door was hastily\nthrown open, and as hastily closed, on the entrance of Mr. Pott, who,\nstalking majestically towards him, and thrusting aside his proffered\nhand, ground his teeth, as if to put a sharper edge on what he was about\nto utter, and exclaimed, in a saw-like voice--\n\n'Serpent!'\n\n'Sir!' exclaimed Mr. Winkle, starting from his chair.\n\n'Serpent, Sir,' repeated Mr. Pott, raising his voice, and then suddenly\ndepressing it: 'I said, serpent, sir--make the most of it.'\n\nWhen you have parted with a man at two o'clock in the morning, on terms\nof the utmost good-fellowship, and he meets you again, at half-past\nnine, and greets you as a serpent, it is not unreasonable to conclude\nthat something of an unpleasant nature has occurred meanwhile. So Mr.\nWinkle thought. He returned Mr. Pott's gaze of stone, and in compliance\nwith that gentleman's request, proceeded to make the most he could\nof the 'serpent.' The most, however, was nothing at all; so, after a\nprofound silence of some minutes' duration, he said,--\n\n'Serpent, Sir! Serpent, Mr. Pott! What can you mean, Sir?--this is\npleasantry.'\n\n'Pleasantry, sir!' exclaimed Pott, with a motion of the hand, indicative\nof a strong desire to hurl the Britannia metal teapot at the head of\nthe visitor. 'Pleasantry, sir!--But--no, I will be calm; I will be calm,\nSir;' in proof of his calmness, Mr. Pott flung himself into a chair, and\nfoamed at the mouth.\n\n'My dear sir,' interposed Mr. Winkle.\n\n'DEAR Sir!' replied Pott. 'How dare you address me, as dear Sir, Sir?\nHow dare you look me in the face and do it, sir?'\n\n'Well, Sir, if you come to that,' responded Mr. Winkle, 'how dare you\nlook me in the face, and call me a serpent, sir?'\n\n'Because you are one,' replied Mr. Pott.\n\n'Prove it, Sir,' said Mr. Winkle warmly. 'Prove it.'\n\nA malignant scowl passed over the profound face of the editor, as he\ndrew from his pocket the INDEPENDENT of that morning; and laying his\nfinger on a particular paragraph, threw the journal across the table to\nMr. Winkle.\n\nThat gentleman took it up, and read as follows:--\n\n\n'Our obscure and filthy contemporary, in some disgusting observations\non the recent election for this borough, has presumed to violate the\nhallowed sanctity of private life, and to refer in a manner not to be\nmisunderstood, to the personal affairs of our late candidate--aye, and\nnotwithstanding his base defeat, we will add, our future member, Mr.\nFizkin. What does our dastardly contemporary mean? What would the\nruffian say, if we, setting at naught, like him, the decencies of\nsocial intercourse, were to raise the curtain which happily conceals His\nprivate life from general ridicule, not to say from general execration?\nWhat, if we were even to point out, and comment on, facts and\ncircumstances, which are publicly notorious, and beheld by every one\nbut our mole-eyed contemporary--what if we were to print the following\neffusion, which we received while we were writing the commencement of\nthis article, from a talented fellow-townsman and correspondent?\n\n '\"LINES TO A BRASS POT\n\n '\"Oh Pott! if you'd known\n How false she'd have grown,\n When you heard the marriage bells tinkle;\n You'd have done then, I vow,\n What you cannot help now,\n And handed her over to W*****\"'\n\n\n'What,' said Mr. Pott solemnly--'what rhymes to \"tinkle,\" villain?'\n\n'What rhymes to tinkle?' said Mrs. Pott, whose entrance at the moment\nforestalled the reply. 'What rhymes to tinkle? Why, Winkle, I should\nconceive.' Saying this, Mrs. Pott smiled sweetly on the disturbed\nPickwickian, and extended her hand towards him. The agitated young\nman would have accepted it, in his confusion, had not Pott indignantly\ninterposed.\n\n'Back, ma'am--back!' said the editor. 'Take his hand before my very\nface!'\n\n'Mr. P.!' said his astonished lady.\n\n'Wretched woman, look here,' exclaimed the husband. 'Look here,\nma'am--\"Lines to a Brass Pot.\" \"Brass Pot\"; that's me, ma'am. \"False\nSHE'D have grown\"; that's you, ma'am--you.' With this ebullition of\nrage, which was not unaccompanied with something like a tremble, at the\nexpression of his wife's face, Mr. Pott dashed the current number of the\nEatanswill INDEPENDENT at her feet.\n\n'Upon my word, Sir,' said the astonished Mrs. Pott, stooping to pick up\nthe paper. 'Upon my word, Sir!'\n\nMr. Pott winced beneath the contemptuous gaze of his wife. He had made\na desperate struggle to screw up his courage, but it was fast coming\nunscrewed again.\n\nThere appears nothing very tremendous in this little sentence, 'Upon my\nword, sir,' when it comes to be read; but the tone of voice in which it\nwas delivered, and the look that accompanied it, both seeming to bear\nreference to some revenge to be thereafter visited upon the head of\nPott, produced their effect upon him. The most unskilful observer could\nhave detected in his troubled countenance, a readiness to resign his\nWellington boots to any efficient substitute who would have consented to\nstand in them at that moment.\n\nMrs. Pott read the paragraph, uttered a loud shriek, and threw herself\nat full length on the hearth-rug, screaming, and tapping it with the\nheels of her shoes, in a manner which could leave no doubt of the\npropriety of her feelings on the occasion.\n\n'My dear,' said the terrified Pott, 'I didn't say I believed it;--I--'\nbut the unfortunate man's voice was drowned in the screaming of his\npartner.\n\n'Mrs. Pott, let me entreat you, my dear ma'am, to compose yourself,'\nsaid Mr. Winkle; but the shrieks and tappings were louder, and more\nfrequent than ever.\n\n'My dear,' said Mr. Pott, 'I'm very sorry. If you won't consider your\nown health, consider me, my dear. We shall have a crowd round the\nhouse.' But the more strenuously Mr. Pott entreated, the more vehemently\nthe screams poured forth.\n\nVery fortunately, however, attached to Mrs. Pott's person was a\nbodyguard of one, a young lady whose ostensible employment was to\npreside over her toilet, but who rendered herself useful in a variety\nof ways, and in none more so than in the particular department\nof constantly aiding and abetting her mistress in every wish and\ninclination opposed to the desires of the unhappy Pott. The screams\nreached this young lady's ears in due course, and brought her into the\nroom with a speed which threatened to derange, materially, the very\nexquisite arrangement of her cap and ringlets.\n\n'Oh, my dear, dear mistress!' exclaimed the bodyguard, kneeling\nfrantically by the side of the prostrate Mrs. Pott. 'Oh, my dear\nmistress, what is the matter?'\n\n'Your master--your brutal master,' murmured the patient.\n\nPott was evidently giving way.\n\n'It's a shame,' said the bodyguard reproachfully. 'I know he'll be the\ndeath on you, ma'am. Poor dear thing!'\n\nHe gave way more. The opposite party followed up the attack.\n\n'Oh, don't leave me--don't leave me, Goodwin,' murmured Mrs. Pott,\nclutching at the wrist of the said Goodwin with an hysteric jerk.\n'You're the only person that's kind to me, Goodwin.'\n\nAt this affecting appeal, Goodwin got up a little domestic tragedy of\nher own, and shed tears copiously.\n\n'Never, ma'am--never,' said Goodwin.'Oh, sir, you should be careful--you\nshould indeed; you don't know what harm you may do missis; you'll be\nsorry for it one day, I know--I've always said so.'\n\nThe unlucky Pott looked timidly on, but said nothing.\n\n'Goodwin,' said Mrs. Pott, in a soft voice.\n\n'Ma'am,' said Goodwin.\n\n'If you only knew how I have loved that man--' 'Don't distress yourself\nby recollecting it, ma'am,' said the bodyguard.\n\nPott looked very frightened. It was time to finish him.\n\n'And now,' sobbed Mrs. Pott, 'now, after all, to be treated in this way;\nto be reproached and insulted in the presence of a third party, and\nthat party almost a stranger. But I will not submit to it! Goodwin,'\ncontinued Mrs. Pott, raising herself in the arms of her attendant, 'my\nbrother, the lieutenant, shall interfere. I'll be separated, Goodwin!'\n\n'It would certainly serve him right, ma'am,' said Goodwin.\n\nWhatever thoughts the threat of a separation might have awakened in Mr.\nPott's mind, he forbore to give utterance to them, and contented himself\nby saying, with great humility:--\n\n'My dear, will you hear me?'\n\nA fresh train of sobs was the only reply, as Mrs. Pott grew more\nhysterical, requested to be informed why she was ever born, and required\nsundry other pieces of information of a similar description.\n\n'My dear,' remonstrated Mr. Pott, 'do not give way to these sensitive\nfeelings. I never believed that the paragraph had any foundation, my\ndear--impossible. I was only angry, my dear--I may say outrageous--with\nthe INDEPENDENT people for daring to insert it; that's all.' Mr. Pott\ncast an imploring look at the innocent cause of the mischief, as if to\nentreat him to say nothing about the serpent.\n\n'And what steps, sir, do you mean to take to obtain redress?' inquired\nMr. Winkle, gaining courage as he saw Pott losing it.\n\n'Oh, Goodwin,' observed Mrs. Pott, 'does he mean to horsewhip the editor\nof the INDEPENDENT--does he, Goodwin?'\n\n'Hush, hush, ma'am; pray keep yourself quiet,' replied the bodyguard. 'I\ndare say he will, if you wish it, ma'am.'\n\n'Certainly,' said Pott, as his wife evinced decided symptoms of going\noff again. 'Of course I shall.'\n\n'When, Goodwin--when?' said Mrs. Pott, still undecided about the going\noff.\n\n'Immediately, of course,' said Mr. Pott; 'before the day is out.'\n\n'Oh, Goodwin,' resumed Mrs. Pott, 'it's the only way of meeting the\nslander, and setting me right with the world.'\n\n'Certainly, ma'am,' replied Goodwin. 'No man as is a man, ma'am, could\nrefuse to do it.'\n\nSo, as the hysterics were still hovering about, Mr. Pott said once more\nthat he would do it; but Mrs. Pott was so overcome at the bare idea of\nhaving ever been suspected, that she was half a dozen times on the very\nverge of a relapse, and most unquestionably would have gone off, had\nit not been for the indefatigable efforts of the assiduous Goodwin, and\nrepeated entreaties for pardon from the conquered Pott; and finally,\nwhen that unhappy individual had been frightened and snubbed down to his\nproper level, Mrs. Pott recovered, and they went to breakfast.\n\n'You will not allow this base newspaper slander to shorten your stay\nhere, Mr. Winkle?' said Mrs. Pott, smiling through the traces of her\ntears.\n\n'I hope not,' said Mr. Pott, actuated, as he spoke, by a wish that his\nvisitor would choke himself with the morsel of dry toast which he\nwas raising to his lips at the moment, and so terminate his stay\neffectually.\n\n'I hope not.'\n\n'You are very good,' said Mr. Winkle; 'but a letter has been received\nfrom Mr. Pickwick--so I learn by a note from Mr. Tupman, which was\nbrought up to my bedroom door, this morning--in which he requests us to\njoin him at Bury to-day; and we are to leave by the coach at noon.'\n\n'But you will come back?' said Mrs. Pott.\n\n'Oh, certainly,' replied Mr. Winkle.\n\n'You are quite sure?' said Mrs. Pott, stealing a tender look at her\nvisitor.\n\n'Quite,' responded Mr. Winkle.\n\nThe breakfast passed off in silence, for each of the party was brooding\nover his, or her, own personal grievances. Mrs. Pott was regretting the\nloss of a beau; Mr. Pott his rash pledge to horsewhip the INDEPENDENT;\nMr. Winkle his having innocently placed himself in so awkward a\nsituation. Noon approached, and after many adieux and promises to\nreturn, he tore himself away.\n\n'If he ever comes back, I'll poison him,' thought Mr. Pott, as he turned\ninto the little back office where he prepared his thunderbolts.\n\n'If I ever do come back, and mix myself up with these people\nagain,'thought Mr. Winkle, as he wended his way to the Peacock, 'I shall\ndeserve to be horsewhipped myself--that's all.'\n\nHis friends were ready, the coach was nearly so, and in half an hour\nthey were proceeding on their journey, along the road over which Mr.\nPickwick and Sam had so recently travelled, and of which, as we have\nalready said something, we do not feel called upon to extract Mr.\nSnodgrass's poetical and beautiful description.\n\nMr. Weller was standing at the door of the Angel, ready to receive\nthem, and by that gentleman they were ushered to the apartment of\nMr. Pickwick, where, to the no small surprise of Mr. Winkle and Mr.\nSnodgrass, and the no small embarrassment of Mr. Tupman, they found old\nWardle and Trundle.\n\n'How are you?' said the old man, grasping Mr. Tupman's hand. 'Don't hang\nback, or look sentimental about it; it can't be helped, old fellow. For\nher sake, I wish you'd had her; for your own, I'm very glad you have\nnot. A young fellow like you will do better one of these days, eh?'\nWith this conclusion, Wardle slapped Mr. Tupman on the back, and laughed\nheartily.\n\n'Well, and how are you, my fine fellows?' said the old gentleman,\nshaking hands with Mr. Winkle and Mr. Snodgrass at the same time.\n'I have just been telling Pickwick that we must have you all down at\nChristmas. We're going to have a wedding--a real wedding this time.'\n\n'A wedding!' exclaimed Mr. Snodgrass, turning very pale.\n\n'Yes, a wedding. But don't be frightened,' said the good-humoured old\nman; 'it's only Trundle there, and Bella.'\n\n'Oh, is that all?' said Mr. Snodgrass, relieved from a painful doubt\nwhich had fallen heavily on his breast. 'Give you joy, Sir. How is Joe?'\n\n'Very well,' replied the old gentleman. 'Sleepy as ever.'\n\n'And your mother, and the clergyman, and all of 'em?'\n\n'Quite well.'\n\n'Where,' said Mr. Tupman, with an effort--'where is--SHE, Sir?' and he\nturned away his head, and covered his eyes with his hand. 'SHE!' said\nthe old gentleman, with a knowing shake of the head. 'Do you mean my\nsingle relative--eh?'\n\nMr. Tupman, by a nod, intimated that his question applied to the\ndisappointed Rachael.\n\n'Oh, she's gone away,' said the old gentleman. 'She's living at a\nrelation's, far enough off. She couldn't bear to see the girls, so I let\nher go. But come! Here's the dinner. You must be hungry after your ride.\nI am, without any ride at all; so let us fall to.'\n\nAmple justice was done to the meal; and when they were seated round\nthe table, after it had been disposed of, Mr. Pickwick, to the intense\nhorror and indignation of his followers, related the adventure he had\nundergone, and the success which had attended the base artifices of the\ndiabolical Jingle. 'And the attack of rheumatism which I caught in that\ngarden,' said Mr. Pickwick, in conclusion, 'renders me lame at this\nmoment.'\n\n'I, too, have had something of an adventure,' said Mr. Winkle, with a\nsmile; and, at the request of Mr. Pickwick, he detailed the malicious\nlibel of the Eatanswill INDEPENDENT, and the consequent excitement of\ntheir friend, the editor.\n\nMr. Pickwick's brow darkened during the recital. His friends observed\nit, and, when Mr. Winkle had concluded, maintained a profound silence.\nMr. Pickwick struck the table emphatically with his clenched fist, and\nspoke as follows:--\n\n'Is it not a wonderful circumstance,' said Mr. Pickwick, 'that we seem\ndestined to enter no man's house without involving him in some degree\nof trouble? Does it not, I ask, bespeak the indiscretion, or, worse than\nthat, the blackness of heart--that I should say so!--of my followers,\nthat, beneath whatever roof they locate, they disturb the peace of mind\nand happiness of some confiding female? Is it not, I say--'\n\nMr. Pickwick would in all probability have gone on for some time, had\nnot the entrance of Sam, with a letter, caused him to break off in his\neloquent discourse. He passed his handkerchief across his forehead, took\noff his spectacles, wiped them, and put them on again; and his voice had\nrecovered its wonted softness of tone when he said--\n\n'What have you there, Sam?'\n\n'Called at the post-office just now, and found this here letter, as has\nlaid there for two days,' replied Mr. Weller. 'It's sealed vith a vafer,\nand directed in round hand.'\n\n'I don't know this hand,' said Mr. Pickwick, opening the letter. 'Mercy\non us! what's this? It must be a jest; it--it--can't be true.'\n\n'What's the matter?' was the general inquiry.\n\n'Nobody dead, is there?' said Wardle, alarmed at the horror in Mr.\nPickwick's countenance.\n\nMr. Pickwick made no reply, but, pushing the letter across the table,\nand desiring Mr. Tupman to read it aloud, fell back in his chair with a\nlook of vacant astonishment quite alarming to behold.\n\nMr. Tupman, with a trembling voice, read the letter, of which the\nfollowing is a copy:--\n\n\nFreeman's Court, Cornhill, August 28th, 1827.\n\nBardell against Pickwick.\n\nSir,\n\nHaving been instructed by Mrs. Martha Bardell to commence an action\nagainst you for a breach of promise of marriage, for which the plaintiff\nlays her damages at fifteen hundred pounds, we beg to inform you that\na writ has been issued against you in this suit in the Court of Common\nPleas; and request to know, by return of post, the name of your attorney\nin London, who will accept service thereof.\n\nWe are, Sir, Your obedient servants, Dodson & Fogg.\n\nMr. Samuel Pickwick.\n\n\nThere was something so impressive in the mute astonishment with which\neach man regarded his neighbour, and every man regarded Mr. Pickwick,\nthat all seemed afraid to speak. The silence was at length broken by Mr.\nTupman.\n\n'Dodson and Fogg,' he repeated mechanically.\n\n'Bardell and Pickwick,' said Mr. Snodgrass, musing.\n\n'Peace of mind and happiness of confiding females,' murmured Mr. Winkle,\nwith an air of abstraction.\n\n'It's a conspiracy,' said Mr. Pickwick, at length recovering the power\nof speech; 'a base conspiracy between these two grasping attorneys,\nDodson and Fogg. Mrs. Bardell would never do it;--she hasn't the heart\nto do it;--she hasn't the case to do it. Ridiculous--ridiculous.' 'Of\nher heart,' said Wardle, with a smile, 'you should certainly be the best\njudge. I don't wish to discourage you, but I should certainly say that,\nof her case, Dodson and Fogg are far better judges than any of us can\nbe.'\n\n'It's a vile attempt to extort money,' said Mr. Pickwick.\n\n'I hope it is,' said Wardle, with a short, dry cough.\n\n'Who ever heard me address her in any way but that in which a lodger\nwould address his landlady?' continued Mr. Pickwick, with great\nvehemence. 'Who ever saw me with her? Not even my friends here--'\n\n'Except on one occasion,' said Mr. Tupman.\n\nMr. Pickwick changed colour. 'Ah,' said Mr. Wardle. 'Well, that's\nimportant. There was nothing suspicious then, I suppose?'\n\nMr. Tupman glanced timidly at his leader. 'Why,' said he, 'there\nwas nothing suspicious; but--I don't know how it happened, mind--she\ncertainly was reclining in his arms.'\n\n'Gracious powers!' ejaculated Mr. Pickwick, as the recollection of the\nscene in question struck forcibly upon him; 'what a dreadful instance of\nthe force of circumstances! So she was--so she was.'\n\n'And our friend was soothing her anguish,' said Mr. Winkle, rather\nmaliciously.\n\n'So I was,' said Mr. Pickwick. 'I don't deny it. So I was.'\n\n'Hollo!' said Wardle; 'for a case in which there's nothing suspicious,\nthis looks rather queer--eh, Pickwick? Ah, sly dog--sly dog!' and he\nlaughed till the glasses on the sideboard rang again.\n\n'What a dreadful conjunction of appearances!' exclaimed Mr. Pickwick,\nresting his chin upon his hands. 'Winkle--Tupman--I beg your pardon\nfor the observations I made just now. We are all the victims of\ncircumstances, and I the greatest.' With this apology Mr. Pickwick\nburied his head in his hands, and ruminated; while Wardle measured out a\nregular circle of nods and winks, addressed to the other members of the\ncompany.\n\n'I'll have it explained, though,' said Mr. Pickwick, raising his head\nand hammering the table. 'I'll see this Dodson and Fogg! I'll go to\nLondon to-morrow.'\n\n'Not to-morrow,' said Wardle; 'you're too lame.'\n\n'Well, then, next day.'\n\n'Next day is the first of September, and you're pledged to ride out with\nus, as far as Sir Geoffrey Manning's grounds at all events, and to meet\nus at lunch, if you don't take the field.'\n\n'Well, then, the day after,' said Mr. Pickwick; 'Thursday.--Sam!'\n\n'Sir,' replied Mr. Weller.\n\n'Take two places outside to London, on Thursday morning, for yourself\nand me.'\n\n'Wery well, Sir.'\n\nMr. Weller left the room, and departed slowly on his errand, with his\nhands in his pocket and his eyes fixed on the ground.\n\n'Rum feller, the hemperor,' said Mr. Weller, as he walked slowly up the\nstreet. 'Think o' his makin' up to that 'ere Mrs. Bardell--vith a little\nboy, too! Always the vay vith these here old 'uns howsoever, as is such\nsteady goers to look at. I didn't think he'd ha' done it, though--I\ndidn't think he'd ha' done it!' Moralising in this strain, Mr. Samuel\nWeller bent his steps towards the booking-office.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XIX. A PLEASANT DAY WITH AN UNPLEASANT TERMINATION\n\n\nThe birds, who, happily for their own peace of mind and personal\ncomfort, were in blissful ignorance of the preparations which had been\nmaking to astonish them, on the first of September, hailed it, no doubt,\nas one of the pleasantest mornings they had seen that season. Many a\nyoung partridge who strutted complacently among the stubble, with all\nthe finicking coxcombry of youth, and many an older one who watched his\nlevity out of his little round eye, with the contemptuous air of a bird\nof wisdom and experience, alike unconscious of their approaching doom,\nbasked in the fresh morning air with lively and blithesome feelings,\nand a few hours afterwards were laid low upon the earth. But we grow\naffecting: let us proceed.\n\nIn plain commonplace matter-of-fact, then, it was a fine morning--so\nfine that you would scarcely have believed that the few months of an\nEnglish summer had yet flown by. Hedges, fields, and trees, hill and\nmoorland, presented to the eye their ever-varying shades of deep rich\ngreen; scarce a leaf had fallen, scarce a sprinkle of yellow mingled\nwith the hues of summer, warned you that autumn had begun. The sky was\ncloudless; the sun shone out bright and warm; the songs of birds,\nthe hum of myriads of summer insects, filled the air; and the cottage\ngardens, crowded with flowers of every rich and beautiful tint,\nsparkled, in the heavy dew, like beds of glittering jewels. Everything\nbore the stamp of summer, and none of its beautiful colour had yet faded\nfrom the die.\n\nSuch was the morning, when an open carriage, in which were three\nPickwickians (Mr. Snodgrass having preferred to remain at home), Mr.\nWardle, and Mr. Trundle, with Sam Weller on the box beside the driver,\npulled up by a gate at the roadside, before which stood a tall,\nraw-boned gamekeeper, and a half-booted, leather-legginged boy, each\nbearing a bag of capacious dimensions, and accompanied by a brace of\npointers.\n\n'I say,' whispered Mr. Winkle to Wardle, as the man let down the steps,\n'they don't suppose we're going to kill game enough to fill those bags,\ndo they?'\n\n'Fill them!' exclaimed old Wardle. 'Bless you, yes! You shall fill\none, and I the other; and when we've done with them, the pockets of our\nshooting-jackets will hold as much more.'\n\nMr. Winkle dismounted without saying anything in reply to this\nobservation; but he thought within himself, that if the party remained\nin the open air, till he had filled one of the bags, they stood a\nconsiderable chance of catching colds in their heads.\n\n'Hi, Juno, lass-hi, old girl; down, Daph, down,' said Wardle, caressing\nthe dogs. 'Sir Geoffrey still in Scotland, of course, Martin?'\n\nThe tall gamekeeper replied in the affirmative, and looked with some\nsurprise from Mr. Winkle, who was holding his gun as if he wished his\ncoat pocket to save him the trouble of pulling the trigger, to Mr.\nTupman, who was holding his as if he was afraid of it--as there is no\nearthly reason to doubt he really was.\n\n'My friends are not much in the way of this sort of thing yet, Martin,'\nsaid Wardle, noticing the look. 'Live and learn, you know. They'll be\ngood shots one of these days. I beg my friend Winkle's pardon, though;\nhe has had some practice.'\n\nMr. Winkle smiled feebly over his blue neckerchief in acknowledgment of\nthe compliment, and got himself so mysteriously entangled with his gun,\nin his modest confusion, that if the piece had been loaded, he must\ninevitably have shot himself dead upon the spot.\n\n'You mustn't handle your piece in that 'ere way, when you come to have\nthe charge in it, Sir,' said the tall gamekeeper gruffly; 'or I'm damned\nif you won't make cold meat of some on us.'\n\nMr. Winkle, thus admonished, abruptly altered his position, and in so\ndoing, contrived to bring the barrel into pretty smart contact with Mr.\nWeller's head.\n\n'Hollo!' said Sam, picking up his hat, which had been knocked off, and\nrubbing his temple. 'Hollo, sir! if you comes it this vay, you'll fill\none o' them bags, and something to spare, at one fire.'\n\nHere the leather-legginged boy laughed very heartily, and then tried\nto look as if it was somebody else, whereat Mr. Winkle frowned\nmajestically.\n\n'Where did you tell the boy to meet us with the snack, Martin?' inquired\nWardle.\n\n'Side of One-tree Hill, at twelve o'clock, Sir.'\n\n'That's not Sir Geoffrey's land, is it?'\n\n'No, Sir; but it's close by it. It's Captain Boldwig's land; but\nthere'll be nobody to interrupt us, and there's a fine bit of turf\nthere.'\n\n'Very well,' said old Wardle. 'Now the sooner we're off the better. Will\nyou join us at twelve, then, Pickwick?'\n\nMr. Pickwick was particularly desirous to view the sport, the more\nespecially as he was rather anxious in respect of Mr. Winkle's life and\nlimbs. On so inviting a morning, too, it was very tantalising to turn\nback, and leave his friends to enjoy themselves. It was, therefore, with\na very rueful air that he replied--\n\n'Why, I suppose I must.'\n\n'Ain't the gentleman a shot, Sir?' inquired the long gamekeeper.\n\n'No,' replied Wardle; 'and he's lame besides.'\n\n'I should very much like to go,' said Mr. Pickwick--'very much.'\n\nThere was a short pause of commiseration.\n\n'There's a barrow t'other side the hedge,' said the boy. 'If the\ngentleman's servant would wheel along the paths, he could keep nigh us,\nand we could lift it over the stiles, and that.'\n\n'The wery thing,' said Mr. Weller, who was a party interested, inasmuch\nas he ardently longed to see the sport. 'The wery thing. Well said,\nSmallcheek; I'll have it out in a minute.'\n\nBut here a difficulty arose. The long gamekeeper resolutely protested\nagainst the introduction into a shooting party, of a gentleman in a\nbarrow, as a gross violation of all established rules and precedents.\nIt was a great objection, but not an insurmountable one. The gamekeeper\nhaving been coaxed and feed, and having, moreover, eased his mind by\n'punching' the head of the inventive youth who had first suggested the\nuse of the machine, Mr. Pickwick was placed in it, and off the party\nset; Wardle and the long gamekeeper leading the way, and Mr. Pickwick in\nthe barrow, propelled by Sam, bringing up the rear.\n\n'Stop, Sam,' said Mr. Pickwick, when they had got half across the first\nfield.\n\n'What's the matter now?' said Wardle.\n\n'I won't suffer this barrow to be moved another step,' said Mr.\nPickwick, resolutely, 'unless Winkle carries that gun of his in a\ndifferent manner.'\n\n'How AM I to carry it?' said the wretched Winkle. 'Carry it with the\nmuzzle to the ground,' replied Mr. Pickwick.\n\n'It's so unsportsmanlike,' reasoned Winkle.\n\n'I don't care whether it's unsportsmanlike or not,' replied Mr.\nPickwick; 'I am not going to be shot in a wheel-barrow, for the sake of\nappearances, to please anybody.'\n\n'I know the gentleman'll put that 'ere charge into somebody afore he's\ndone,' growled the long man.\n\n'Well, well--I don't mind,' said poor Winkle, turning his gun-stock\nuppermost--'there.'\n\n'Anythin' for a quiet life,' said Mr. Weller; and on they went again.\n\n'Stop!' said Mr. Pickwick, after they had gone a few yards farther.\n\n'What now?' said Wardle.\n\n'That gun of Tupman's is not safe: I know it isn't,' said Mr. Pickwick.\n\n'Eh? What! not safe?' said Mr. Tupman, in a tone of great alarm.\n\n'Not as you are carrying it,' said Mr. Pickwick. 'I am very sorry to\nmake any further objection, but I cannot consent to go on, unless you\ncarry it as Winkle does his.'\n\n'I think you had better, sir,' said the long gamekeeper, 'or you're\nquite as likely to lodge the charge in yourself as in anything else.'\n\nMr. Tupman, with the most obliging haste, placed his piece in the\nposition required, and the party moved on again; the two amateurs\nmarching with reversed arms, like a couple of privates at a royal\nfuneral.\n\nThe dogs suddenly came to a dead stop, and the party advancing\nstealthily a single pace, stopped too.\n\n'What's the matter with the dogs' legs?' whispered Mr. Winkle. 'How\nqueer they're standing.'\n\n'Hush, can't you?' replied Wardle softly. 'Don't you see, they're making\na point?'\n\n'Making a point!' said Mr. Winkle, staring about him, as if he expected\nto discover some particular beauty in the landscape, which the sagacious\nanimals were calling special attention to. 'Making a point! What are\nthey pointing at?'\n\n'Keep your eyes open,' said Wardle, not heeding the question in the\nexcitement of the moment. 'Now then.'\n\nThere was a sharp whirring noise, that made Mr. Winkle start back as if\nhe had been shot himself. Bang, bang, went a couple of guns--the smoke\nswept quickly away over the field, and curled into the air.\n\n'Where are they!' said Mr. Winkle, in a state of the highest excitement,\nturning round and round in all directions. 'Where are they? Tell me when\nto fire. Where are they--where are they?'\n\n'Where are they!' said Wardle, taking up a brace of birds which the dogs\nhad deposited at his feet. 'Why, here they are.'\n\n'No, no; I mean the others,' said the bewildered Winkle.\n\n'Far enough off, by this time,' replied Wardle, coolly reloading his\ngun.\n\n'We shall very likely be up with another covey in five minutes,' said\nthe long gamekeeper. 'If the gentleman begins to fire now, perhaps he'll\njust get the shot out of the barrel by the time they rise.'\n\n'Ha! ha! ha!' roared Mr. Weller.\n\n'Sam,' said Mr. Pickwick, compassionating his follower's confusion and\nembarrassment.\n\n'Sir.'\n\n'Don't laugh.'\n\n'Certainly not, Sir.' So, by way of indemnification, Mr. Weller\ncontorted his features from behind the wheel-barrow, for the exclusive\namusement of the boy with the leggings, who thereupon burst into a\nboisterous laugh, and was summarily cuffed by the long gamekeeper, who\nwanted a pretext for turning round, to hide his own merriment.\n\n'Bravo, old fellow!' said Wardle to Mr. Tupman; 'you fired that time, at\nall events.'\n\n'Oh, yes,' replied Mr. Tupman, with conscious pride. 'I let it off.'\n\n'Well done. You'll hit something next time, if you look sharp. Very\neasy, ain't it?'\n\n'Yes, it's very easy,' said Mr. Tupman. 'How it hurts one's shoulder,\nthough. It nearly knocked me backwards. I had no idea these small\nfirearms kicked so.'\n\n'Ah,' said the old gentleman, smiling, 'you'll get used to it in time.\nNow then--all ready--all right with the barrow there?'\n\n'All right, Sir,' replied Mr. Weller.\n\n'Come along, then.'\n\n'Hold hard, Sir,' said Sam, raising the barrow.\n\n'Aye, aye,' replied Mr. Pickwick; and on they went, as briskly as need\nbe.\n\n'Keep that barrow back now,' cried Wardle, when it had been hoisted over\na stile into another field, and Mr. Pickwick had been deposited in it\nonce more.\n\n'All right, sir,' replied Mr. Weller, pausing.\n\n'Now, Winkle,' said the old gentleman, 'follow me softly, and don't be\ntoo late this time.'\n\n'Never fear,' said Mr. Winkle. 'Are they pointing?'\n\n'No, no; not now. Quietly now, quietly.' On they crept, and very quietly\nthey would have advanced, if Mr. Winkle, in the performance of some very\nintricate evolutions with his gun, had not accidentally fired, at the\nmost critical moment, over the boy's head, exactly in the very spot\nwhere the tall man's brain would have been, had he been there instead.\n\n'Why, what on earth did you do that for?' said old Wardle, as the birds\nflew unharmed away.\n\n'I never saw such a gun in my life,' replied poor Mr. Winkle, looking at\nthe lock, as if that would do any good. 'It goes off of its own accord.\nIt WILL do it.'\n\n'Will do it!' echoed Wardle, with something of irritation in his manner.\n'I wish it would kill something of its own accord.'\n\n'It'll do that afore long, Sir,' observed the tall man, in a low,\nprophetic voice.\n\n'What do you mean by that observation, Sir?' inquired Mr. Winkle,\nangrily.\n\n'Never mind, Sir, never mind,' replied the long gamekeeper; 'I've\nno family myself, sir; and this here boy's mother will get something\nhandsome from Sir Geoffrey, if he's killed on his land. Load again, Sir,\nload again.'\n\n'Take away his gun,' cried Mr. Pickwick from the barrow, horror-stricken\nat the long man's dark insinuations. 'Take away his gun, do you hear,\nsomebody?'\n\nNobody, however, volunteered to obey the command; and Mr. Winkle, after\ndarting a rebellious glance at Mr. Pickwick, reloaded his gun, and\nproceeded onwards with the rest.\n\nWe are bound, on the authority of Mr. Pickwick, to state, that\nMr. Tupman's mode of proceeding evinced far more of prudence and\ndeliberation, than that adopted by Mr. Winkle. Still, this by no means\ndetracts from the great authority of the latter gentleman, on all\nmatters connected with the field; because, as Mr. Pickwick beautifully\nobserves, it has somehow or other happened, from time immemorial, that\nmany of the best and ablest philosophers, who have been perfect lights\nof science in matters of theory, have been wholly unable to reduce them\nto practice.\n\nMr. Tupman's process, like many of our most sublime discoveries, was\nextremely simple. With the quickness and penetration of a man of\ngenius, he had at once observed that the two great points to be attained\nwere--first, to discharge his piece without injury to himself, and,\nsecondly, to do so, without danger to the bystanders--obviously, the\nbest thing to do, after surmounting the difficulty of firing at all, was\nto shut his eyes firmly, and fire into the air.\n\nOn one occasion, after performing this feat, Mr. Tupman, on opening his\neyes, beheld a plump partridge in the act of falling, wounded, to\nthe ground. He was on the point of congratulating Mr. Wardle on his\ninvariable success, when that gentleman advanced towards him, and\ngrasped him warmly by the hand.\n\n'Tupman,' said the old gentleman, 'you singled out that particular\nbird?'\n\n'No,' said Mr. Tupman--'no.'\n\n'You did,' said Wardle. 'I saw you do it--I observed you pick him out--I\nnoticed you, as you raised your piece to take aim; and I will say this,\nthat the best shot in existence could not have done it more beautifully.\nYou are an older hand at this than I thought you, Tupman; you have been\nout before.' It was in vain for Mr. Tupman to protest, with a smile of\nself-denial, that he never had. The very smile was taken as evidence to\nthe contrary; and from that time forth his reputation was established.\nIt is not the only reputation that has been acquired as easily, nor are\nsuch fortunate circumstances confined to partridge-shooting.\n\nMeanwhile, Mr. Winkle flashed, and blazed, and smoked away, without\nproducing any material results worthy of being noted down; sometimes\nexpending his charge in mid-air, and at others sending it skimming along\nso near the surface of the ground as to place the lives of the two\ndogs on a rather uncertain and precarious tenure. As a display of\nfancy-shooting, it was extremely varied and curious; as an exhibition\nof firing with any precise object, it was, upon the whole, perhaps a\nfailure. It is an established axiom, that 'every bullet has its billet.'\nIf it apply in an equal degree to shot, those of Mr. Winkle were\nunfortunate foundlings, deprived of their natural rights, cast loose\nupon the world, and billeted nowhere. 'Well,' said Wardle, walking up to\nthe side of the barrow, and wiping the streams of perspiration from his\njolly red face; 'smoking day, isn't it?'\n\n'It is, indeed,' replied Mr. Pickwick. The sun is tremendously hot, even\nto me. I don't know how you must feel it.'\n\n'Why,' said the old gentleman, 'pretty hot. It's past twelve, though.\nYou see that green hill there?'\n\n'Certainly.'\n\n'That's the place where we are to lunch; and, by Jove, there's the boy\nwith the basket, punctual as clockwork!'\n\n'So he is,' said Mr. Pickwick, brightening up. 'Good boy, that. I'll\ngive him a shilling, presently. Now, then, Sam, wheel away.'\n\n'Hold on, sir,' said Mr. Weller, invigorated with the prospect of\nrefreshments. 'Out of the vay, young leathers. If you walley my precious\nlife don't upset me, as the gen'l'm'n said to the driver when they was\na-carryin' him to Tyburn.' And quickening his pace to a sharp run, Mr.\nWeller wheeled his master nimbly to the green hill, shot him dexterously\nout by the very side of the basket, and proceeded to unpack it with the\nutmost despatch.\n\n'Weal pie,' said Mr. Weller, soliloquising, as he arranged the eatables\non the grass. 'Wery good thing is weal pie, when you know the lady\nas made it, and is quite sure it ain't kittens; and arter all though,\nwhere's the odds, when they're so like weal that the wery piemen\nthemselves don't know the difference?'\n\n'Don't they, Sam?' said Mr. Pickwick.\n\n'Not they, sir,' replied Mr. Weller, touching his hat. 'I lodged in the\nsame house vith a pieman once, sir, and a wery nice man he was--reg'lar\nclever chap, too--make pies out o' anything, he could. \"What a number\no' cats you keep, Mr. Brooks,\" says I, when I'd got intimate with him.\n\"Ah,\" says he, \"I do--a good many,\" says he, \"You must be wery fond o'\ncats,\" says I. \"Other people is,\" says he, a-winkin' at me; \"they ain't\nin season till the winter though,\" says he. \"Not in season!\" says I.\n\"No,\" says he, \"fruits is in, cats is out.\" \"Why, what do you mean?\"\nsays I. \"Mean!\" says he. \"That I'll never be a party to the combination\no' the butchers, to keep up the price o' meat,\" says he. \"Mr. Weller,\"\nsays he, a-squeezing my hand wery hard, and vispering in my ear--\"don't\nmention this here agin--but it's the seasonin' as does it. They're all\nmade o' them noble animals,\" says he, a-pointin' to a wery nice little\ntabby kitten, \"and I seasons 'em for beefsteak, weal or kidney, 'cording\nto the demand. And more than that,\" says he, \"I can make a weal a\nbeef-steak, or a beef-steak a kidney, or any one on 'em a mutton, at a\nminute's notice, just as the market changes, and appetites wary!\"'\n\n'He must have been a very ingenious young man, that, Sam,' said Mr.\nPickwick, with a slight shudder.\n\n'Just was, sir,' replied Mr. Weller, continuing his occupation of\nemptying the basket, 'and the pies was beautiful. Tongue--, well that's\na wery good thing when it ain't a woman's. Bread--knuckle o' ham,\nreg'lar picter--cold beef in slices, wery good. What's in them stone\njars, young touch-and-go?'\n\n'Beer in this one,' replied the boy, taking from his shoulder a couple\nof large stone bottles, fastened together by a leathern strap--'cold\npunch in t'other.'\n\n'And a wery good notion of a lunch it is, take it altogether,' said Mr.\nWeller, surveying his arrangement of the repast with great satisfaction.\n'Now, gen'l'm'n, \"fall on,\" as the English said to the French when they\nfixed bagginets.'\n\nIt needed no second invitation to induce the party to yield full justice\nto the meal; and as little pressing did it require to induce Mr. Weller,\nthe long gamekeeper, and the two boys, to station themselves on the\ngrass, at a little distance, and do good execution upon a decent\nproportion of the viands. An old oak afforded a pleasant shelter to the\ngroup, and a rich prospect of arable and meadow land, intersected with\nluxuriant hedges, and richly ornamented with wood, lay spread out before\nthem.\n\n'This is delightful--thoroughly delightful!' said Mr. Pickwick; the skin\nof whose expressive countenance was rapidly peeling off, with exposure\nto the sun.\n\n'So it is--so it is, old fellow,' replied Wardle. 'Come; a glass of\npunch!'\n\n'With great pleasure,' said Mr. Pickwick; the satisfaction of whose\ncountenance, after drinking it, bore testimony to the sincerity of the\nreply.\n\n'Good,' said Mr. Pickwick, smacking his lips. 'Very good. I'll take\nanother. Cool; very cool. Come, gentlemen,' continued Mr. Pickwick,\nstill retaining his hold upon the jar, 'a toast. Our friends at Dingley\nDell.'\n\nThe toast was drunk with loud acclamations.\n\n'I'll tell you what I shall do, to get up my shooting again,' said Mr.\nWinkle, who was eating bread and ham with a pocket-knife. 'I'll put a\nstuffed partridge on the top of a post, and practise at it, beginning\nat a short distance, and lengthening it by degrees. I understand it's\ncapital practice.'\n\n'I know a gen'l'man, Sir,' said Mr. Weller, 'as did that, and begun at\ntwo yards; but he never tried it on agin; for he blowed the bird right\nclean away at the first fire, and nobody ever seed a feather on him\narterwards.'\n\n'Sam,' said Mr. Pickwick.\n\n'Sir,' replied Mr. Weller.\n\n'Have the goodness to reserve your anecdotes till they are called for.'\n\n'Cert'nly, sir.'\n\nHere Mr. Weller winked the eye which was not concealed by the beer-can\nhe was raising to his lips, with such exquisite facetiousness, that\nthe two boys went into spontaneous convulsions, and even the long man\ncondescended to smile.\n\n'Well, that certainly is most capital cold punch,' said Mr. Pickwick,\nlooking earnestly at the stone bottle; 'and the day is extremely warm,\nand--Tupman, my dear friend, a glass of punch?'\n\n'With the greatest delight,' replied Mr. Tupman; and having drank that\nglass, Mr. Pickwick took another, just to see whether there was any\norange peel in the punch, because orange peel always disagreed with him;\nand finding that there was not, Mr. Pickwick took another glass to the\nhealth of their absent friend, and then felt himself imperatively called\nupon to propose another in honour of the punch-compounder, unknown.\n\nThis constant succession of glasses produced considerable effect\nupon Mr. Pickwick; his countenance beamed with the most sunny smiles,\nlaughter played around his lips, and good-humoured merriment twinkled\nin his eye. Yielding by degrees to the influence of the exciting liquid,\nrendered more so by the heat, Mr. Pickwick expressed a strong desire\nto recollect a song which he had heard in his infancy, and the attempt\nproving abortive, sought to stimulate his memory with more glasses\nof punch, which appeared to have quite a contrary effect; for, from\nforgetting the words of the song, he began to forget how to articulate\nany words at all; and finally, after rising to his legs to address the\ncompany in an eloquent speech, he fell into the barrow, and fast asleep,\nsimultaneously.\n\nThe basket having been repacked, and it being found perfectly impossible\nto awaken Mr. Pickwick from his torpor, some discussion took place\nwhether it would be better for Mr. Weller to wheel his master back\nagain, or to leave him where he was, until they should all be ready to\nreturn. The latter course was at length decided on; and as the further\nexpedition was not to exceed an hour's duration, and as Mr. Weller\nbegged very hard to be one of the party, it was determined to leave Mr.\nPickwick asleep in the barrow, and to call for him on their return. So\naway they went, leaving Mr. Pickwick snoring most comfortably in the\nshade.\n\nThat Mr. Pickwick would have continued to snore in the shade until his\nfriends came back, or, in default thereof, until the shades of evening\nhad fallen on the landscape, there appears no reasonable cause to doubt;\nalways supposing that he had been suffered to remain there in peace.\nBut he was NOT suffered to remain there in peace. And this was what\nprevented him.\n\nCaptain Boldwig was a little fierce man in a stiff black neckerchief and\nblue surtout, who, when he did condescend to walk about his property,\ndid it in company with a thick rattan stick with a brass ferrule, and a\ngardener and sub-gardener with meek faces, to whom (the gardeners, not\nthe stick) Captain Boldwig gave his orders with all due grandeur and\nferocity; for Captain Boldwig's wife's sister had married a marquis, and\nthe captain's house was a villa, and his land 'grounds,' and it was all\nvery high, and mighty, and great.\n\nMr. Pickwick had not been asleep half an hour when little Captain\nBoldwig, followed by the two gardeners, came striding along as fast as\nhis size and importance would let him; and when he came near the oak\ntree, Captain Boldwig paused and drew a long breath, and looked at the\nprospect as if he thought the prospect ought to be highly gratified\nat having him to take notice of it; and then he struck the ground\nemphatically with his stick, and summoned the head-gardener.\n\n'Hunt,' said Captain Boldwig.\n\n'Yes, Sir,' said the gardener.\n\n'Roll this place to-morrow morning--do you hear, Hunt?'\n\n'Yes, Sir.'\n\n'And take care that you keep this place in good order--do you hear,\nHunt?'\n\n'Yes, Sir.'\n\n'And remind me to have a board done about trespassers, and spring guns,\nand all that sort of thing, to keep the common people out. Do you hear,\nHunt; do you hear?'\n\n'I'll not forget it, Sir.'\n\n'I beg your pardon, Sir,' said the other man, advancing, with his hand\nto his hat.\n\n'Well, Wilkins, what's the matter with you?' said Captain Boldwig.\n\n'I beg your pardon, sir--but I think there have been trespassers here\nto-day.'\n\n'Ha!' said the captain, scowling around him.\n\n'Yes, sir--they have been dining here, I think, sir.'\n\n'Why, damn their audacity, so they have,' said Captain Boldwig, as the\ncrumbs and fragments that were strewn upon the grass met his eye. 'They\nhave actually been devouring their food here. I wish I had the vagabonds\nhere!' said the captain, clenching the thick stick.\n\n'I wish I had the vagabonds here,' said the captain wrathfully.\n\n'Beg your pardon, sir,' said Wilkins, 'but--'\n\n'But what? Eh?' roared the captain; and following the timid glance of\nWilkins, his eyes encountered the wheel-barrow and Mr. Pickwick.\n\n'Who are you, you rascal?' said the captain, administering several pokes\nto Mr. Pickwick's body with the thick stick. 'What's your name?'\n\n'Cold punch,' murmured Mr. Pickwick, as he sank to sleep again.\n\n'What?' demanded Captain Boldwig.\n\nNo reply.\n\n'What did he say his name was?' asked the captain.\n\n'Punch, I think, sir,' replied Wilkins.\n\n'That's his impudence--that's his confounded impudence,' said Captain\nBoldwig. 'He's only feigning to be asleep now,' said the captain, in\na high passion. 'He's drunk; he's a drunken plebeian. Wheel him away,\nWilkins, wheel him away directly.' 'Where shall I wheel him to, sir?'\ninquired Wilkins, with great timidity.\n\n'Wheel him to the devil,' replied Captain Boldwig.\n\n'Very well, sir,' said Wilkins.\n\n'Stay,' said the captain.\n\nWilkins stopped accordingly.\n\n'Wheel him,' said the captain--'wheel him to the pound; and let us see\nwhether he calls himself Punch when he comes to himself. He shall not\nbully me--he shall not bully me. Wheel him away.'\n\nAway Mr. Pickwick was wheeled in compliance with this imperious mandate;\nand the great Captain Boldwig, swelling with indignation, proceeded on\nhis walk.\n\nInexpressible was the astonishment of the little party when they\nreturned, to find that Mr. Pickwick had disappeared, and taken the\nwheel-barrow with him. It was the most mysterious and unaccountable\nthing that was ever heard of For a lame man to have got upon his legs\nwithout any previous notice, and walked off, would have been most\nextraordinary; but when it came to his wheeling a heavy barrow before\nhim, by way of amusement, it grew positively miraculous. They searched\nevery nook and corner round, together and separately; they shouted,\nwhistled, laughed, called--and all with the same result. Mr. Pickwick\nwas not to be found. After some hours of fruitless search, they arrived\nat the unwelcome conclusion that they must go home without him.\n\nMeanwhile Mr. Pickwick had been wheeled to the pound, and safely\ndeposited therein, fast asleep in the wheel-barrow, to the immeasurable\ndelight and satisfaction not only of all the boys in the village,\nbut three-fourths of the whole population, who had gathered round, in\nexpectation of his waking. If their most intense gratification had been\nawakened by seeing him wheeled in, how many hundredfold was their joy\nincreased when, after a few indistinct cries of 'Sam!' he sat up in the\nbarrow, and gazed with indescribable astonishment on the faces before\nhim.\n\nA general shout was of course the signal of his having woke up; and his\ninvoluntary inquiry of 'What's the matter?' occasioned another, louder\nthan the first, if possible.\n\n'Here's a game!' roared the populace.\n\n'Where am I?' exclaimed Mr. Pickwick.\n\n'In the pound,' replied the mob.\n\n'How came I here? What was I doing? Where was I brought from?' 'Boldwig!\nCaptain Boldwig!' was the only reply.\n\n'Let me out,' cried Mr. Pickwick. 'Where's my servant? Where are my\nfriends?'\n\n'You ain't got no friends. Hurrah!' Then there came a turnip, then a\npotato, and then an egg; with a few other little tokens of the playful\ndisposition of the many-headed.\n\nHow long this scene might have lasted, or how much Mr. Pickwick might\nhave suffered, no one can tell, had not a carriage, which was driving\nswiftly by, suddenly pulled up, from whence there descended old Wardle\nand Sam Weller, the former of whom, in far less time than it takes to\nwrite it, if not to read it, had made his way to Mr. Pickwick's side,\nand placed him in the vehicle, just as the latter had concluded the\nthird and last round of a single combat with the town-beadle.\n\n'Run to the justice's!' cried a dozen voices.\n\n'Ah, run avay,' said Mr. Weller, jumping up on the box. 'Give my\ncompliments--Mr. Veller's compliments--to the justice, and tell him I've\nspiled his beadle, and that, if he'll swear in a new 'un, I'll come back\nagain to-morrow and spile him. Drive on, old feller.'\n\n'I'll give directions for the commencement of an action for false\nimprisonment against this Captain Boldwig, directly I get to London,'\nsaid Mr. Pickwick, as soon as the carriage turned out of the town.\n\n'We were trespassing, it seems,' said Wardle.\n\n'I don't care,' said Mr. Pickwick, 'I'll bring the action.'\n\n'No, you won't,' said Wardle.\n\n'I will, by--' But as there was a humorous expression in Wardle's face,\nMr. Pickwick checked himself, and said, 'Why not?'\n\n'Because,' said old Wardle, half-bursting with laughter, 'because they\nmight turn on some of us, and say we had taken too much cold punch.'\n\nDo what he would, a smile would come into Mr. Pickwick's face; the smile\nextended into a laugh; the laugh into a roar; the roar became general.\nSo, to keep up their good-humour, they stopped at the first roadside\ntavern they came to, and ordered a glass of brandy-and-water all round,\nwith a magnum of extra strength for Mr. Samuel Weller.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XX. SHOWING HOW DODSON AND FOGG WERE MEN OF BUSINESS, AND\nTHEIR CLERKS MEN OF PLEASURE; AND HOW AN AFFECTING INTERVIEW TOOK PLACE\nBETWEEN Mr. WELLER AND HIS LONG-LOST PARENT; SHOWING ALSO WHAT CHOICE\nSPIRITS ASSEMBLED AT THE MAGPIE AND STUMP, AND WHAT A CAPITAL CHAPTER\nTHE NEXT ONE WILL BE\n\n\nIn the ground-floor front of a dingy house, at the very farthest end of\nFreeman's Court, Cornhill, sat the four clerks of Messrs. Dodson & Fogg,\ntwo of his Majesty's attorneys of the courts of King's Bench and Common\nPleas at Westminster, and solicitors of the High Court of Chancery--the\naforesaid clerks catching as favourable glimpses of heaven's light and\nheaven's sun, in the course of their daily labours, as a man might\nhope to do, were he placed at the bottom of a reasonably deep well; and\nwithout the opportunity of perceiving the stars in the day-time, which\nthe latter secluded situation affords.\n\nThe clerks' office of Messrs. Dodson & Fogg was a dark, mouldy,\nearthy-smelling room, with a high wainscotted partition to screen the\nclerks from the vulgar gaze, a couple of old wooden chairs, a very\nloud-ticking clock, an almanac, an umbrella-stand, a row of hat-pegs,\nand a few shelves, on which were deposited several ticketed bundles of\ndirty papers, some old deal boxes with paper labels, and sundry decayed\nstone ink bottles of various shapes and sizes. There was a glass door\nleading into the passage which formed the entrance to the court, and on\nthe outer side of this glass door, Mr. Pickwick, closely followed by\nSam Weller, presented himself on the Friday morning succeeding the\noccurrence of which a faithful narration is given in the last chapter.\n\n'Come in, can't you!' cried a voice from behind the partition, in reply\nto Mr. Pickwick's gentle tap at the door. And Mr. Pickwick and Sam\nentered accordingly.\n\n'Mr. Dodson or Mr. Fogg at home, sir?' inquired Mr. Pickwick, gently,\nadvancing, hat in hand, towards the partition.\n\n'Mr. Dodson ain't at home, and Mr. Fogg's particularly engaged,' replied\nthe voice; and at the same time the head to which the voice belonged,\nwith a pen behind its ear, looked over the partition, and at Mr.\nPickwick.\n\nIt was a ragged head, the sandy hair of which, scrupulously parted\non one side, and flattened down with pomatum, was twisted into little\nsemi-circular tails round a flat face ornamented with a pair of small\neyes, and garnished with a very dirty shirt collar, and a rusty black\nstock.\n\n'Mr. Dodson ain't at home, and Mr. Fogg's particularly engaged,' said\nthe man to whom the head belonged.\n\n'When will Mr. Dodson be back, sir?' inquired Mr. Pickwick.\n\n'Can't say.'\n\n'Will it be long before Mr. Fogg is disengaged, Sir?'\n\n'Don't know.'\n\nHere the man proceeded to mend his pen with great deliberation, while\nanother clerk, who was mixing a Seidlitz powder, under cover of the lid\nof his desk, laughed approvingly.\n\n'I think I'll wait,' said Mr. Pickwick. There was no reply; so Mr.\nPickwick sat down unbidden, and listened to the loud ticking of the\nclock and the murmured conversation of the clerks.\n\n'That was a game, wasn't it?' said one of the gentlemen, in a brown coat\nand brass buttons, inky drabs, and bluchers, at the conclusion of some\ninaudible relation of his previous evening's adventures.\n\n'Devilish good--devilish good,' said the Seidlitz-powder man. 'Tom\nCummins was in the chair,' said the man with the brown coat. 'It was\nhalf-past four when I got to Somers Town, and then I was so uncommon\nlushy, that I couldn't find the place where the latch-key went in, and\nwas obliged to knock up the old 'ooman. I say, I wonder what old Fogg\n'ud say, if he knew it. I should get the sack, I s'pose--eh?'\n\nAt this humorous notion, all the clerks laughed in concert.\n\n'There was such a game with Fogg here, this mornin',' said the man in\nthe brown coat, 'while Jack was upstairs sorting the papers, and you two\nwere gone to the stamp-office. Fogg was down here, opening the letters\nwhen that chap as we issued the writ against at Camberwell, you know,\ncame in--what's his name again?'\n\n'Ramsey,' said the clerk who had spoken to Mr. Pickwick.\n\n'Ah, Ramsey--a precious seedy-looking customer. \"Well, sir,\" says old\nFogg, looking at him very fierce--you know his way--\"well, Sir, have you\ncome to settle?\" \"Yes, I have, sir,\" said Ramsey, putting his hand in\nhis pocket, and bringing out the money, \"the debt's two pound ten, and\nthe costs three pound five, and here it is, Sir;\" and he sighed like\nbricks, as he lugged out the money, done up in a bit of blotting-paper.\nOld Fogg looked first at the money, and then at him, and then he coughed\nin his rum way, so that I knew something was coming. \"You don't know\nthere's a declaration filed, which increases the costs materially, I\nsuppose,\" said Fogg. \"You don't say that, sir,\" said Ramsey, starting\nback; \"the time was only out last night, Sir.\" \"I do say it, though,\"\nsaid Fogg, \"my clerk's just gone to file it. Hasn't Mr. Jackson gone\nto file that declaration in Bullman and Ramsey, Mr. Wicks?\" Of course I\nsaid yes, and then Fogg coughed again, and looked at Ramsey. \"My God!\"\nsaid Ramsey; \"and here have I nearly driven myself mad, scraping this\nmoney together, and all to no purpose.\" \"None at all,\" said Fogg coolly;\n\"so you had better go back and scrape some more together, and bring it\nhere in time.\" \"I can't get it, by God!\" said Ramsey, striking the desk\nwith his fist. \"Don't bully me, sir,\" said Fogg, getting into a passion\non purpose. \"I am not bullying you, sir,\" said Ramsey. \"You are,\" said\nFogg; \"get out, sir; get out of this office, Sir, and come back, Sir,\nwhen you know how to behave yourself.\" Well, Ramsey tried to speak, but\nFogg wouldn't let him, so he put the money in his pocket, and sneaked\nout. The door was scarcely shut, when old Fogg turned round to me, with\na sweet smile on his face, and drew the declaration out of his coat\npocket. \"Here, Wicks,\" says Fogg, \"take a cab, and go down to the Temple\nas quick as you can, and file that. The costs are quite safe, for he's a\nsteady man with a large family, at a salary of five-and-twenty shillings\na week, and if he gives us a warrant of attorney, as he must in the end,\nI know his employers will see it paid; so we may as well get all we can\nget out of him, Mr. Wicks; it's a Christian act to do it, Mr. Wicks, for\nwith his large family and small income, he'll be all the better for\na good lesson against getting into debt--won't he, Mr. Wicks, won't\nhe?\"--and he smiled so good-naturedly as he went away, that it was\ndelightful to see him. He is a capital man of business,' said Wicks, in\na tone of the deepest admiration, 'capital, isn't he?'\n\nThe other three cordially subscribed to this opinion, and the anecdote\nafforded the most unlimited satisfaction.\n\n'Nice men these here, Sir,' whispered Mr. Weller to his master; 'wery\nnice notion of fun they has, Sir.'\n\nMr. Pickwick nodded assent, and coughed to attract the attention of\nthe young gentlemen behind the partition, who, having now relaxed their\nminds by a little conversation among themselves, condescended to take\nsome notice of the stranger.\n\n'I wonder whether Fogg's disengaged now?' said Jackson.\n\n'I'll see,' said Wicks, dismounting leisurely from his stool. 'What name\nshall I tell Mr. Fogg?'\n\n'Pickwick,' replied the illustrious subject of these memoirs.\n\nMr. Jackson departed upstairs on his errand, and immediately returned\nwith a message that Mr. Fogg would see Mr. Pickwick in five minutes; and\nhaving delivered it, returned again to his desk.\n\n'What did he say his name was?' whispered Wicks.\n\n'Pickwick,' replied Jackson; 'it's the defendant in Bardell and\nPickwick.'\n\nA sudden scraping of feet, mingled with the sound of suppressed\nlaughter, was heard from behind the partition.\n\n'They're a-twiggin' of you, Sir,' whispered Mr. Weller.\n\n'Twigging of me, Sam!' replied Mr. Pickwick; 'what do you mean by\ntwigging me?'\n\nMr. Weller replied by pointing with his thumb over his shoulder, and Mr.\nPickwick, on looking up, became sensible of the pleasing fact, that all\nthe four clerks, with countenances expressive of the utmost amusement,\nand with their heads thrust over the wooden screen, were minutely\ninspecting the figure and general appearance of the supposed trifler\nwith female hearts, and disturber of female happiness. On his looking\nup, the row of heads suddenly disappeared, and the sound of pens\ntravelling at a furious rate over paper, immediately succeeded.\n\nA sudden ring at the bell which hung in the office, summoned Mr. Jackson\nto the apartment of Fogg, from whence he came back to say that he (Fogg)\nwas ready to see Mr. Pickwick if he would step upstairs. Upstairs Mr.\nPickwick did step accordingly, leaving Sam Weller below. The room door\nof the one-pair back, bore inscribed in legible characters the imposing\nwords, 'Mr. Fogg'; and, having tapped thereat, and been desired to come\nin, Jackson ushered Mr. Pickwick into the presence.\n\n'Is Mr. Dodson in?' inquired Mr. Fogg.\n\n'Just come in, Sir,' replied Jackson.\n\n'Ask him to step here.'\n\n'Yes, sir.' Exit Jackson.\n\n'Take a seat, sir,' said Fogg; 'there is the paper, sir; my partner will\nbe here directly, and we can converse about this matter, sir.'\n\nMr. Pickwick took a seat and the paper, but, instead of reading the\nlatter, peeped over the top of it, and took a survey of the man of\nbusiness, who was an elderly, pimply-faced, vegetable-diet sort of man,\nin a black coat, dark mixture trousers, and small black gaiters; a kind\nof being who seemed to be an essential part of the desk at which he was\nwriting, and to have as much thought or feeling.\n\nAfter a few minutes' silence, Mr. Dodson, a plump, portly, stern-looking\nman, with a loud voice, appeared; and the conversation commenced.\n\n'This is Mr. Pickwick,' said Fogg.\n\n'Ah! You are the defendant, Sir, in Bardell and Pickwick?' said Dodson.\n\n'I am, sir,' replied Mr. Pickwick.\n\n'Well, sir,' said Dodson, 'and what do you propose?'\n\n'Ah!' said Fogg, thrusting his hands into his trousers' pockets, and\nthrowing himself back in his chair, 'what do you propose, Mr Pickwick?'\n\n'Hush, Fogg,' said Dodson, 'let me hear what Mr. Pickwick has to say.'\n\n'I came, gentlemen,' said Mr. Pickwick, gazing placidly on the two\npartners, 'I came here, gentlemen, to express the surprise with which\nI received your letter of the other day, and to inquire what grounds of\naction you can have against me.'\n\n'Grounds of--' Fogg had ejaculated this much, when he was stopped by\nDodson.\n\n'Mr. Fogg,' said Dodson, 'I am going to speak.' 'I beg your pardon, Mr.\nDodson,' said Fogg.\n\n'For the grounds of action, sir,' continued Dodson, with moral elevation\nin his air, 'you will consult your own conscience and your own feelings.\nWe, Sir, we, are guided entirely by the statement of our client. That\nstatement, Sir, may be true, or it may be false; it may be credible, or\nit may be incredible; but, if it be true, and if it be credible, I do\nnot hesitate to say, Sir, that our grounds of action, Sir, are strong,\nand not to be shaken. You may be an unfortunate man, Sir, or you may be\na designing one; but if I were called upon, as a juryman upon my oath,\nSir, to express an opinion of your conduct, Sir, I do not hesitate to\nassert that I should have but one opinion about it.' Here Dodson drew\nhimself up, with an air of offended virtue, and looked at Fogg, who\nthrust his hands farther in his pockets, and nodding his head sagely,\nsaid, in a tone of the fullest concurrence, 'Most certainly.'\n\n'Well, Sir,' said Mr. Pickwick, with considerable pain depicted in\nhis countenance, 'you will permit me to assure you that I am a most\nunfortunate man, so far as this case is concerned.'\n\n'I hope you are, Sir,' replied Dodson; 'I trust you may be, Sir. If\nyou are really innocent of what is laid to your charge, you are more\nunfortunate than I had believed any man could possibly be. What do you\nsay, Mr. Fogg?'\n\n'I say precisely what you say,' replied Fogg, with a smile of\nincredulity.\n\n'The writ, Sir, which commences the action,' continued Dodson, 'was\nissued regularly. Mr. Fogg, where is the PRAECIPE book?'\n\n'Here it is,' said Fogg, handing over a square book, with a parchment\ncover.\n\n'Here is the entry,' resumed Dodson. '\"Middlesex, Capias MARTHA\nBARDELL, WIDOW, v. SAMUEL PICKWICK. Damages #1500. Dodson & Fogg for the\nplaintiff, Aug. 28, 1827.\" All regular, Sir; perfectly.' Dodson coughed\nand looked at Fogg, who said 'Perfectly,' also. And then they both\nlooked at Mr. Pickwick.\n\n'I am to understand, then,' said Mr. Pickwick, 'that it really is your\nintention to proceed with this action?'\n\n'Understand, sir!--that you certainly may,' replied Dodson, with\nsomething as near a smile as his importance would allow.\n\n'And that the damages are actually laid at fifteen hundred pounds?' said\nMr. Pickwick.\n\n'To which understanding you may add my assurance, that if we could\nhave prevailed upon our client, they would have been laid at treble the\namount, sir,' replied Dodson. 'I believe Mrs. Bardell specially said,\nhowever,' observed Fogg, glancing at Dodson, 'that she would not\ncompromise for a farthing less.'\n\n'Unquestionably,' replied Dodson sternly. For the action was only just\nbegun; and it wouldn't have done to let Mr. Pickwick compromise it then,\neven if he had been so disposed.\n\n'As you offer no terms, sir,' said Dodson, displaying a slip of\nparchment in his right hand, and affectionately pressing a paper copy of\nit, on Mr. Pickwick with his left, 'I had better serve you with a copy\nof this writ, sir. Here is the original, sir.'\n\n'Very well, gentlemen, very well,' said Mr. Pickwick, rising in\nperson and wrath at the same time; 'you shall hear from my solicitor,\ngentlemen.'\n\n'We shall be very happy to do so,' said Fogg, rubbing his hands.\n\n'Very,' said Dodson, opening the door.\n\n'And before I go, gentlemen,' said the excited Mr. Pickwick, turning\nround on the landing, 'permit me to say, that of all the disgraceful and\nrascally proceedings--'\n\n'Stay, sir, stay,' interposed Dodson, with great politeness. 'Mr.\nJackson! Mr. Wicks!'\n\n'Sir,' said the two clerks, appearing at the bottom of the stairs.\n\n'I merely want you to hear what this gentleman says,' replied Dodson.\n'Pray, go on, sir--disgraceful and rascally proceedings, I think you\nsaid?'\n\n'I did,' said Mr. Pickwick, thoroughly roused. 'I said, Sir, that of all\nthe disgraceful and rascally proceedings that ever were attempted, this\nis the most so. I repeat it, sir.'\n\n'You hear that, Mr. Wicks,' said Dodson.\n\n'You won't forget these expressions, Mr. Jackson?' said Fogg.\n\n'Perhaps you would like to call us swindlers, sir,' said Dodson. 'Pray\ndo, Sir, if you feel disposed; now pray do, Sir.'\n\n'I do,' said Mr. Pickwick. 'You ARE swindlers.'\n\n'Very good,' said Dodson. 'You can hear down there, I hope, Mr. Wicks?'\n\n'Oh, yes, Sir,' said Wicks.\n\n'You had better come up a step or two higher, if you can't,' added Mr.\nFogg. 'Go on, Sir; do go on. You had better call us thieves, Sir; or\nperhaps You would like to assault one Of US. Pray do it, Sir, if you\nwould; we will not make the smallest resistance. Pray do it, Sir.'\n\nAs Fogg put himself very temptingly within the reach of Mr. Pickwick's\nclenched fist, there is little doubt that that gentleman would have\ncomplied with his earnest entreaty, but for the interposition of Sam,\nwho, hearing the dispute, emerged from the office, mounted the stairs,\nand seized his master by the arm.\n\n'You just come away,' said Mr. Weller. 'Battledore and shuttlecock's\na wery good game, vhen you ain't the shuttlecock and two lawyers the\nbattledores, in which case it gets too excitin' to be pleasant. Come\navay, Sir. If you want to ease your mind by blowing up somebody, come\nout into the court and blow up me; but it's rayther too expensive work\nto be carried on here.'\n\nAnd without the slightest ceremony, Mr. Weller hauled his master down\nthe stairs, and down the court, and having safely deposited him in\nCornhill, fell behind, prepared to follow whithersoever he should lead.\n\nMr. Pickwick walked on abstractedly, crossed opposite the Mansion House,\nand bent his steps up Cheapside. Sam began to wonder where they were\ngoing, when his master turned round, and said--\n\n'Sam, I will go immediately to Mr. Perker's.'\n\n'That's just exactly the wery place vere you ought to have gone last\nnight, Sir,' replied Mr. Weller.\n\n'I think it is, Sam,' said Mr. Pickwick. 'I KNOW it is,' said Mr.\nWeller.\n\n'Well, well, Sam,' replied Mr. Pickwick, 'we will go there at once;\nbut first, as I have been rather ruffled, I should like a glass of\nbrandy-and-water warm, Sam. Where can I have it, Sam?'\n\nMr. Weller's knowledge of London was extensive and peculiar. He replied,\nwithout the slightest consideration--\n\n'Second court on the right hand side--last house but vun on the same\nside the vay--take the box as stands in the first fireplace, 'cos there\nain't no leg in the middle o' the table, which all the others has, and\nit's wery inconvenient.'\n\nMr. Pickwick observed his valet's directions implicitly, and bidding\nSam follow him, entered the tavern he had pointed out, where the hot\nbrandy-and-water was speedily placed before him; while Mr. Weller,\nseated at a respectful distance, though at the same table with his\nmaster, was accommodated with a pint of porter.\n\nThe room was one of a very homely description, and was apparently under\nthe especial patronage of stage-coachmen; for several gentleman, who\nhad all the appearance of belonging to that learned profession, were\ndrinking and smoking in the different boxes. Among the number was one\nstout, red-faced, elderly man, in particular, seated in an opposite box,\nwho attracted Mr. Pickwick's attention. The stout man was smoking with\ngreat vehemence, but between every half-dozen puffs, he took his pipe\nfrom his mouth, and looked first at Mr. Weller and then at Mr. Pickwick.\nThen, he would bury in a quart pot, as much of his countenance as the\ndimensions of the quart pot admitted of its receiving, and take another\nlook at Sam and Mr. Pickwick. Then he would take another half-dozen\npuffs with an air of profound meditation and look at them again. At last\nthe stout man, putting up his legs on the seat, and leaning his back\nagainst the wall, began to puff at his pipe without leaving off at all,\nand to stare through the smoke at the new-comers, as if he had made up\nhis mind to see the most he could of them.\n\nAt first the evolutions of the stout man had escaped Mr. Weller's\nobservation, but by degrees, as he saw Mr. Pickwick's eyes every now and\nthen turning towards him, he began to gaze in the same direction, at the\nsame time shading his eyes with his hand, as if he partially recognised\nthe object before him, and wished to make quite sure of its identity.\nHis doubts were speedily dispelled, however; for the stout man having\nblown a thick cloud from his pipe, a hoarse voice, like some strange\neffort of ventriloquism, emerged from beneath the capacious shawls which\nmuffled his throat and chest, and slowly uttered these sounds--'Wy,\nSammy!'\n\n'Who's that, Sam?' inquired Mr. Pickwick.\n\n'Why, I wouldn't ha' believed it, Sir,' replied Mr. Weller, with\nastonished eyes. 'It's the old 'un.'\n\n'Old one,' said Mr. Pickwick. 'What old one?'\n\n'My father, sir,' replied Mr. Weller. 'How are you, my ancient?' And\nwith this beautiful ebullition of filial affection, Mr. Weller made room\non the seat beside him, for the stout man, who advanced pipe in mouth\nand pot in hand, to greet him.\n\n'Wy, Sammy,' said the father, 'I ha'n't seen you, for two year and\nbetter.'\n\n'Nor more you have, old codger,' replied the son. 'How's mother-in-law?'\n\n'Wy, I'll tell you what, Sammy,' said Mr. Weller, senior, with much\nsolemnity in his manner; 'there never was a nicer woman as a widder,\nthan that 'ere second wentur o' mine--a sweet creetur she was, Sammy;\nall I can say on her now, is, that as she was such an uncommon pleasant\nwidder, it's a great pity she ever changed her condition. She don't act\nas a vife, Sammy.' 'Don't she, though?' inquired Mr. Weller, junior.\n\nThe elder Mr. Weller shook his head, as he replied with a sigh, 'I've\ndone it once too often, Sammy; I've done it once too often. Take example\nby your father, my boy, and be wery careful o' widders all your life,\n'specially if they've kept a public-house, Sammy.' Having delivered this\nparental advice with great pathos, Mr. Weller, senior, refilled his pipe\nfrom a tin box he carried in his pocket; and, lighting his fresh pipe\nfrom the ashes of the old One, commenced smoking at a great rate.\n\n'Beg your pardon, sir,' he said, renewing the subject, and addressing\nMr. Pickwick, after a considerable pause, 'nothin' personal, I hope,\nsir; I hope you ha'n't got a widder, sir.'\n\n'Not I,' replied Mr. Pickwick, laughing; and while Mr. Pickwick laughed,\nSam Weller informed his parent in a whisper, of the relation in which he\nstood towards that gentleman.\n\n'Beg your pardon, sir,' said Mr. Weller, senior, taking off his hat, 'I\nhope you've no fault to find with Sammy, Sir?'\n\n'None whatever,' said Mr. Pickwick.\n\n'Wery glad to hear it, sir,' replied the old man; 'I took a good deal o'\npains with his eddication, sir; let him run in the streets when he\nwas wery young, and shift for hisself. It's the only way to make a boy\nsharp, sir.'\n\n'Rather a dangerous process, I should imagine,' said Mr. Pickwick, with\na smile.\n\n'And not a wery sure one, neither,' added Mr. Weller; 'I got reg'larly\ndone the other day.'\n\n'No!' said his father.\n\n'I did,' said the son; and he proceeded to relate, in as few words\nas possible, how he had fallen a ready dupe to the stratagems of Job\nTrotter.\n\nMr. Weller, senior, listened to the tale with the most profound\nattention, and, at its termination, said--\n\n'Worn't one o' these chaps slim and tall, with long hair, and the gift\no' the gab wery gallopin'?'\n\nMr. Pickwick did not quite understand the last item of description, but,\ncomprehending the first, said 'Yes,' at a venture.\n\n'T' other's a black-haired chap in mulberry livery, with a wery large\nhead?'\n\n'Yes, yes, he is,' said Mr. Pickwick and Sam, with great earnestness.\n'Then I know where they are, and that's all about it,' said Mr. Weller;\n'they're at Ipswich, safe enough, them two.'\n\n'No!' said Mr. Pickwick.\n\n'Fact,' said Mr. Weller, 'and I'll tell you how I know it. I work an\nIpswich coach now and then for a friend o' mine. I worked down the wery\nday arter the night as you caught the rheumatic, and at the Black Boy at\nChelmsford--the wery place they'd come to--I took 'em up, right through\nto Ipswich, where the man-servant--him in the mulberries--told me they\nwas a-goin' to put up for a long time.'\n\n'I'll follow him,' said Mr. Pickwick; 'we may as well see Ipswich as any\nother place. I'll follow him.'\n\n'You're quite certain it was them, governor?' inquired Mr. Weller,\njunior.\n\n'Quite, Sammy, quite,' replied his father, 'for their appearance is\nwery sing'ler; besides that 'ere, I wondered to see the gen'l'm'n so\nformiliar with his servant; and, more than that, as they sat in the\nfront, right behind the box, I heerd 'em laughing and saying how they'd\ndone old Fireworks.'\n\n'Old who?' said Mr. Pickwick.\n\n'Old Fireworks, Sir; by which, I've no doubt, they meant you, Sir.'\nThere is nothing positively vile or atrocious in the appellation of\n'old Fireworks,' but still it is by no means a respectful or flattering\ndesignation. The recollection of all the wrongs he had sustained at\nJingle's hands, had crowded on Mr. Pickwick's mind, the moment Mr.\nWeller began to speak; it wanted but a feather to turn the scale, and\n'old Fireworks' did it.\n\n'I'll follow him,' said Mr. Pickwick, with an emphatic blow on the\ntable.\n\n'I shall work down to Ipswich the day arter to-morrow, Sir,' said Mr.\nWeller the elder, 'from the Bull in Whitechapel; and if you really mean\nto go, you'd better go with me.'\n\n'So we had,' said Mr. Pickwick; 'very true; I can write to Bury, and\ntell them to meet me at Ipswich. We will go with you. But don't hurry\naway, Mr. Weller; won't you take anything?'\n\n'You're wery good, Sir,' replied Mr. W., stopping short;--'perhaps a\nsmall glass of brandy to drink your health, and success to Sammy, Sir,\nwouldn't be amiss.'\n\n'Certainly not,' replied Mr. Pickwick. 'A glass of brandy here!' The\nbrandy was brought; and Mr. Weller, after pulling his hair to Mr.\nPickwick, and nodding to Sam, jerked it down his capacious throat as\nif it had been a small thimbleful. 'Well done, father,' said Sam, 'take\ncare, old fellow, or you'll have a touch of your old complaint, the\ngout.'\n\n'I've found a sov'rin' cure for that, Sammy,' said Mr. Weller, setting\ndown the glass.\n\n'A sovereign cure for the gout,' said Mr. Pickwick, hastily producing\nhis note-book--'what is it?'\n\n'The gout, Sir,' replied Mr. Weller, 'the gout is a complaint as arises\nfrom too much ease and comfort. If ever you're attacked with the gout,\nsir, jist you marry a widder as has got a good loud woice, with a decent\nnotion of usin' it, and you'll never have the gout agin. It's a capital\nprescription, sir. I takes it reg'lar, and I can warrant it to drive\naway any illness as is caused by too much jollity.' Having imparted\nthis valuable secret, Mr. Weller drained his glass once more, produced a\nlaboured wink, sighed deeply, and slowly retired.\n\n'Well, what do you think of what your father says, Sam?' inquired Mr.\nPickwick, with a smile.\n\n'Think, Sir!' replied Mr. Weller; 'why, I think he's the wictim o'\nconnubiality, as Blue Beard's domestic chaplain said, vith a tear of\npity, ven he buried him.'\n\nThere was no replying to this very apposite conclusion, and, therefore,\nMr. Pickwick, after settling the reckoning, resumed his walk to Gray's\nInn. By the time he reached its secluded groves, however, eight o'clock\nhad struck, and the unbroken stream of gentlemen in muddy high-lows,\nsoiled white hats, and rusty apparel, who were pouring towards the\ndifferent avenues of egress, warned him that the majority of the offices\nhad closed for that day.\n\nAfter climbing two pairs of steep and dirty stairs, he found his\nanticipations were realised. Mr. Perker's 'outer door' was closed; and\nthe dead silence which followed Mr. Weller's repeated kicks thereat,\nannounced that the officials had retired from business for the night.\n\n'This is pleasant, Sam,' said Mr. Pickwick; 'I shouldn't lose an hour\nin seeing him; I shall not be able to get one wink of sleep to-night, I\nknow, unless I have the satisfaction of reflecting that I have confided\nthis matter to a professional man.'\n\n'Here's an old 'ooman comin' upstairs, sir,' replied Mr. Weller; 'p'raps\nshe knows where we can find somebody. Hollo, old lady, vere's Mr.\nPerker's people?'\n\n'Mr. Perker's people,' said a thin, miserable-looking old woman,\nstopping to recover breath after the ascent of the staircase--'Mr.\nPerker's people's gone, and I'm a-goin' to do the office out.' 'Are you\nMr. Perker's servant?' inquired Mr. Pickwick.\n\n'I am Mr. Perker's laundress,' replied the woman.\n\n'Ah,' said Mr. Pickwick, half aside to Sam, 'it's a curious\ncircumstance, Sam, that they call the old women in these inns,\nlaundresses. I wonder what's that for?'\n\n''Cos they has a mortal awersion to washing anythin', I suppose, Sir,'\nreplied Mr. Weller.\n\n'I shouldn't wonder,' said Mr. Pickwick, looking at the old woman, whose\nappearance, as well as the condition of the office, which she had by\nthis time opened, indicated a rooted antipathy to the application\nof soap and water; 'do you know where I can find Mr. Perker, my good\nwoman?'\n\n'No, I don't,' replied the old woman gruffly; 'he's out o' town now.'\n\n'That's unfortunate,' said Mr. Pickwick; 'where's his clerk? Do you\nknow?'\n\n'Yes, I know where he is, but he won't thank me for telling you,'\nreplied the laundress.\n\n'I have very particular business with him,' said Mr. Pickwick. 'Won't it\ndo in the morning?' said the woman.\n\n'Not so well,' replied Mr. Pickwick.\n\n'Well,' said the old woman, 'if it was anything very particular, I was\nto say where he was, so I suppose there's no harm in telling. If you\njust go to the Magpie and Stump, and ask at the bar for Mr. Lowten,\nthey'll show you in to him, and he's Mr. Perker's clerk.'\n\nWith this direction, and having been furthermore informed that the\nhostelry in question was situated in a court, happy in the double\nadvantage of being in the vicinity of Clare Market, and closely\napproximating to the back of New Inn, Mr. Pickwick and Sam descended the\nrickety staircase in safety, and issued forth in quest of the Magpie and\nStump.\n\nThis favoured tavern, sacred to the evening orgies of Mr. Lowten and\nhis companions, was what ordinary people would designate a public-house.\nThat the landlord was a man of money-making turn was sufficiently\ntestified by the fact of a small bulkhead beneath the tap-room window,\nin size and shape not unlike a sedan-chair, being underlet to a mender\nof shoes: and that he was a being of a philanthropic mind was evident\nfrom the protection he afforded to a pieman, who vended his delicacies\nwithout fear of interruption, on the very door-step. In the lower\nwindows, which were decorated with curtains of a saffron hue, dangled\ntwo or three printed cards, bearing reference to Devonshire cider and\nDantzic spruce, while a large blackboard, announcing in white letters to\nan enlightened public, that there were 500,000 barrels of double stout\nin the cellars of the establishment, left the mind in a state of not\nunpleasing doubt and uncertainty as to the precise direction in the\nbowels of the earth, in which this mighty cavern might be supposed\nto extend. When we add that the weather-beaten signboard bore the\nhalf-obliterated semblance of a magpie intently eyeing a crooked streak\nof brown paint, which the neighbours had been taught from infancy to\nconsider as the 'stump,' we have said all that need be said of the\nexterior of the edifice.\n\nOn Mr. Pickwick's presenting himself at the bar, an elderly female\nemerged from behind the screen therein, and presented herself before\nhim.\n\n'Is Mr. Lowten here, ma'am?' inquired Mr. Pickwick.\n\n'Yes, he is, Sir,' replied the landlady. 'Here, Charley, show the\ngentleman in to Mr. Lowten.'\n\n'The gen'l'm'n can't go in just now,' said a shambling pot-boy, with a\nred head, 'cos' Mr. Lowten's a-singin' a comic song, and he'll put him\nout. He'll be done directly, Sir.'\n\nThe red-headed pot-boy had scarcely finished speaking, when a most\nunanimous hammering of tables, and jingling of glasses, announced that\nthe song had that instant terminated; and Mr. Pickwick, after desiring\nSam to solace himself in the tap, suffered himself to be conducted into\nthe presence of Mr. Lowten.\n\nAt the announcement of 'A gentleman to speak to you, Sir,' a puffy-faced\nyoung man, who filled the chair at the head of the table, looked with\nsome surprise in the direction from whence the voice proceeded; and the\nsurprise seemed to be by no means diminished, when his eyes rested on an\nindividual whom he had never seen before.\n\n'I beg your pardon, Sir,' said Mr. Pickwick, 'and I am very sorry\nto disturb the other gentlemen, too, but I come on very particular\nbusiness; and if you will suffer me to detain you at this end of the\nroom for five minutes, I shall be very much obliged to you.'\n\nThe puffy-faced young man rose, and drawing a chair close to Mr.\nPickwick in an obscure corner of the room, listened attentively to his\ntale of woe.\n\n'Ah,'he said, when Mr. Pickwick had concluded, 'Dodson and Fogg--sharp\npractice theirs--capital men of business, Dodson and Fogg, sir.'\n\nMr. Pickwick admitted the sharp practice of Dodson and Fogg, and Lowten\nresumed. 'Perker ain't in town, and he won't be, neither, before the end\nof next week; but if you want the action defended, and will leave the\ncopy with me, I can do all that's needful till he comes back.'\n\n'That's exactly what I came here for,' said Mr. Pickwick, handing over\nthe document. 'If anything particular occurs, you can write to me at the\npost-office, Ipswich.'\n\n'That's all right,' replied Mr. Perker's clerk; and then seeing Mr.\nPickwick's eye wandering curiously towards the table, he added, 'will\nyou join us, for half an hour or so? We are capital company here\nto-night. There's Samkin and Green's managing-clerk, and Smithers and\nPrice's chancery, and Pimkin and Thomas's out o' doors--sings a capital\nsong, he does--and Jack Bamber, and ever so many more. You're come out\nof the country, I suppose. Would you like to join us?'\n\nMr. Pickwick could not resist so tempting an opportunity of studying\nhuman nature. He suffered himself to be led to the table, where, after\nhaving been introduced to the company in due form, he was accommodated\nwith a seat near the chairman and called for a glass of his favourite\nbeverage.\n\nA profound silence, quite contrary to Mr. Pickwick's expectation,\nsucceeded. 'You don't find this sort of thing disagreeable, I hope,\nsir?' said his right hand neighbour, a gentleman in a checked shirt and\nMosaic studs, with a cigar in his mouth.\n\n'Not in the least,' replied Mr. Pickwick; 'I like it very much, although\nI am no smoker myself.'\n\n'I should be very sorry to say I wasn't,' interposed another gentleman\non the opposite side of the table. 'It's board and lodgings to me, is\nsmoke.'\n\nMr. Pickwick glanced at the speaker, and thought that if it were washing\ntoo, it would be all the better.\n\nHere there was another pause. Mr. Pickwick was a stranger, and his\ncoming had evidently cast a damp upon the party.\n\n'Mr. Grundy's going to oblige the company with a song,' said the\nchairman.\n\n'No, he ain't,' said Mr. Grundy.\n\n'Why not?' said the chairman.\n\n'Because he can't,' said Mr. Grundy. 'You had better say he won't,'\nreplied the chairman.\n\n'Well, then, he won't,' retorted Mr. Grundy. Mr. Grundy's positive\nrefusal to gratify the company occasioned another silence. 'Won't\nanybody enliven us?' said the chairman, despondingly.\n\n'Why don't you enliven us yourself, Mr. Chairman?' said a young man with\na whisker, a squint, and an open shirt collar (dirty), from the bottom\nof the table.\n\n'Hear! hear!' said the smoking gentleman, in the Mosaic jewellery.\n\n'Because I only know one song, and I have sung it already, and it's a\nfine of \"glasses round\" to sing the same song twice in a night,' replied\nthe chairman.\n\nThis was an unanswerable reply, and silence prevailed again.\n\n'I have been to-night, gentlemen,' said Mr. Pickwick, hoping to start a\nsubject which all the company could take a part in discussing, 'I have\nbeen to-night, in a place which you all know very well, doubtless, but\nwhich I have not been in for some years, and know very little of; I\nmean Gray's Inn, gentlemen. Curious little nooks in a great place, like\nLondon, these old inns are.'\n\n'By Jove!' said the chairman, whispering across the table to Mr.\nPickwick, 'you have hit upon something that one of us, at least, would\ntalk upon for ever. You'll draw old Jack Bamber out; he was never heard\nto talk about anything else but the inns, and he has lived alone in them\ntill he's half crazy.'\n\nThe individual to whom Lowten alluded, was a little, yellow,\nhigh-shouldered man, whose countenance, from his habit of stooping\nforward when silent, Mr. Pickwick had not observed before. He wondered,\nthough, when the old man raised his shrivelled face, and bent his gray\neye upon him, with a keen inquiring look, that such remarkable features\ncould have escaped his attention for a moment. There was a fixed grim\nsmile perpetually on his countenance; he leaned his chin on a long,\nskinny hand, with nails of extraordinary length; and as he inclined his\nhead to one side, and looked keenly out from beneath his ragged gray\neyebrows, there was a strange, wild slyness in his leer, quite repulsive\nto behold.\n\nThis was the figure that now started forward, and burst into an animated\ntorrent of words. As this chapter has been a long one, however, and as\nthe old man was a remarkable personage, it will be more respectful to\nhim, and more convenient to us, to let him speak for himself in a fresh\none.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXI. IN WHICH THE OLD MAN LAUNCHES FORTH INTO HIS FAVOURITE\nTHEME, AND RELATES A STORY ABOUT A QUEER CLIENT\n\n\nAha!' said the old man, a brief description of whose manner and\nappearance concluded the last chapter, 'aha! who was talking about the\ninns?'\n\n'I was, Sir,' replied Mr. Pickwick--'I was observing what singular old\nplaces they are.'\n\n'YOU!' said the old man contemptuously. 'What do YOU know of the time\nwhen young men shut themselves up in those lonely rooms, and read and\nread, hour after hour, and night after night, till their reason wandered\nbeneath their midnight studies; till their mental powers were exhausted;\ntill morning's light brought no freshness or health to them; and they\nsank beneath the unnatural devotion of their youthful energies to their\ndry old books? Coming down to a later time, and a very different day,\nwhat do YOU know of the gradual sinking beneath consumption, or\nthe quick wasting of fever--the grand results of \"life\" and\ndissipation--which men have undergone in these same rooms? How many vain\npleaders for mercy, do you think, have turned away heart-sick from the\nlawyer's office, to find a resting-place in the Thames, or a refuge in\nthe jail? They are no ordinary houses, those. There is not a panel in\nthe old wainscotting, but what, if it were endowed with the powers\nof speech and memory, could start from the wall, and tell its tale of\nhorror--the romance of life, Sir, the romance of life! Common-place as\nthey may seem now, I tell you they are strange old places, and I would\nrather hear many a legend with a terrific-sounding name, than the true\nhistory of one old set of chambers.'\n\nThere was something so odd in the old man's sudden energy, and the\nsubject which had called it forth, that Mr. Pickwick was prepared with\nno observation in reply; and the old man checking his impetuosity, and\nresuming the leer, which had disappeared during his previous excitement,\nsaid--\n\n'Look at them in another light--their most common-place and least\nromantic. What fine places of slow torture they are! Think of the needy\nman who has spent his all, beggared himself, and pinched his friends, to\nenter the profession, which is destined never to yield him a morsel\nof bread. The waiting--the hope--the disappointment--the fear--the\nmisery--the poverty--the blight on his hopes, and end to his career--the\nsuicide perhaps, or the shabby, slipshod drunkard. Am I not right about\nthem?' And the old man rubbed his hands, and leered as if in delight\nat having found another point of view in which to place his favourite\nsubject.\n\nMr. Pickwick eyed the old man with great curiosity, and the remainder of\nthe company smiled, and looked on in silence.\n\n'Talk of your German universities,' said the little old man. 'Pooh,\npooh! there's romance enough at home without going half a mile for it;\nonly people never think of it.'\n\n'I never thought of the romance of this particular subject before,\ncertainly,' said Mr. Pickwick, laughing. 'To be sure you didn't,' said\nthe little old man; 'of course not. As a friend of mine used to say to\nme, \"What is there in chambers in particular?\" \"Queer old places,\" said\nI. \"Not at all,\" said he. \"Lonely,\" said I. \"Not a bit of it,\" said he.\nHe died one morning of apoplexy, as he was going to open his outer door.\nFell with his head in his own letter-box, and there he lay for eighteen\nmonths. Everybody thought he'd gone out of town.'\n\n'And how was he found out at last?' inquired Mr. Pickwick.\n\n'The benchers determined to have his door broken open, as he hadn't paid\nany rent for two years. So they did. Forced the lock; and a very dusty\nskeleton in a blue coat, black knee-shorts, and silks, fell forward\nin the arms of the porter who opened the door. Queer, that. Rather,\nperhaps; rather, eh?'The little old man put his head more on one side,\nand rubbed his hands with unspeakable glee.\n\n'I know another case,' said the little old man, when his chuckles had\nin some degree subsided. 'It occurred in Clifford's Inn. Tenant of a top\nset--bad character--shut himself up in his bedroom closet, and took a\ndose of arsenic. The steward thought he had run away: opened the door,\nand put a bill up. Another man came, took the chambers, furnished them,\nand went to live there. Somehow or other he couldn't sleep--always\nrestless and uncomfortable. \"Odd,\" says he. \"I'll make the other room\nmy bedchamber, and this my sitting-room.\" He made the change, and slept\nvery well at night, but suddenly found that, somehow, he couldn't read\nin the evening: he got nervous and uncomfortable, and used to be always\nsnuffing his candles and staring about him. \"I can't make this out,\"\nsaid he, when he came home from the play one night, and was drinking a\nglass of cold grog, with his back to the wall, in order that he mightn't\nbe able to fancy there was any one behind him--\"I can't make it out,\"\nsaid he; and just then his eyes rested on the little closet that had\nbeen always locked up, and a shudder ran through his whole frame from\ntop to toe. \"I have felt this strange feeling before,\" said he, \"I\ncannot help thinking there's something wrong about that closet.\" He made\na strong effort, plucked up his courage, shivered the lock with a blow\nor two of the poker, opened the door, and there, sure enough, standing\nbolt upright in the corner, was the last tenant, with a little bottle\nclasped firmly in his hand, and his face--well!' As the little old\nman concluded, he looked round on the attentive faces of his wondering\nauditory with a smile of grim delight.\n\n'What strange things these are you tell us of, Sir,' said Mr. Pickwick,\nminutely scanning the old man's countenance, by the aid of his glasses.\n\n'Strange!' said the little old man. 'Nonsense; you think them strange,\nbecause you know nothing about it. They are funny, but not uncommon.'\n\n'Funny!' exclaimed Mr. Pickwick involuntarily. 'Yes, funny, are they\nnot?' replied the little old man, with a diabolical leer; and then,\nwithout pausing for an answer, he continued--\n\n'I knew another man--let me see--forty years ago now--who took an old,\ndamp, rotten set of chambers, in one of the most ancient inns, that had\nbeen shut up and empty for years and years before. There were lots of\nold women's stories about the place, and it certainly was very far from\nbeing a cheerful one; but he was poor, and the rooms were cheap, and\nthat would have been quite a sufficient reason for him, if they had\nbeen ten times worse than they really were. He was obliged to take some\nmouldering fixtures that were on the place, and, among the rest, was a\ngreat lumbering wooden press for papers, with large glass doors, and\na green curtain inside; a pretty useless thing for him, for he had no\npapers to put in it; and as to his clothes, he carried them about with\nhim, and that wasn't very hard work, either. Well, he had moved in all\nhis furniture--it wasn't quite a truck-full--and had sprinkled it about\nthe room, so as to make the four chairs look as much like a dozen as\npossible, and was sitting down before the fire at night, drinking the\nfirst glass of two gallons of whisky he had ordered on credit, wondering\nwhether it would ever be paid for, and if so, in how many years' time,\nwhen his eyes encountered the glass doors of the wooden press. \"Ah,\"\nsays he, \"if I hadn't been obliged to take that ugly article at the\nold broker's valuation, I might have got something comfortable for the\nmoney. I'll tell you what it is, old fellow,\" he said, speaking aloud to\nthe press, having nothing else to speak to, \"if it wouldn't cost more\nto break up your old carcass, than it would ever be worth afterward, I'd\nhave a fire out of you in less than no time.\" He had hardly spoken the\nwords, when a sound resembling a faint groan, appeared to issue from\nthe interior of the case. It startled him at first, but thinking, on\na moment's reflection, that it must be some young fellow in the next\nchamber, who had been dining out, he put his feet on the fender,\nand raised the poker to stir the fire. At that moment, the sound was\nrepeated; and one of the glass doors slowly opening, disclosed a pale\nand emaciated figure in soiled and worn apparel, standing erect in the\npress. The figure was tall and thin, and the countenance expressive of\ncare and anxiety; but there was something in the hue of the skin, and\ngaunt and unearthly appearance of the whole form, which no being of this\nworld was ever seen to wear. \"Who are you?\" said the new tenant, turning\nvery pale; poising the poker in his hand, however, and taking a very\ndecent aim at the countenance of the figure. \"Who are you?\" \"Don't throw\nthat poker at me,\" replied the form; \"if you hurled it with ever so sure\nan aim, it would pass through me, without resistance, and expend its\nforce on the wood behind. I am a spirit.\" \"And pray, what do you want\nhere?\" faltered the tenant. \"In this room,\" replied the apparition, \"my\nworldly ruin was worked, and I and my children beggared. In this press,\nthe papers in a long, long suit, which accumulated for years, were\ndeposited. In this room, when I had died of grief, and long-deferred\nhope, two wily harpies divided the wealth for which I had contested\nduring a wretched existence, and of which, at last, not one farthing\nwas left for my unhappy descendants. I terrified them from the spot,\nand since that day have prowled by night--the only period at which I can\nrevisit the earth--about the scenes of my long-protracted misery. This\napartment is mine: leave it to me.\" \"If you insist upon making your\nappearance here,\" said the tenant, who had had time to collect his\npresence of mind during this prosy statement of the ghost's, \"I shall\ngive up possession with the greatest pleasure; but I should like to ask\nyou one question, if you will allow me.\" \"Say on,\" said the apparition\nsternly. \"Well,\" said the tenant, \"I don't apply the observation\npersonally to you, because it is equally applicable to most of the\nghosts I ever heard of; but it does appear to me somewhat inconsistent,\nthat when you have an opportunity of visiting the fairest spots of\nearth--for I suppose space is nothing to you--you should always return\nexactly to the very places where you have been most miserable.\" \"Egad,\nthat's very true; I never thought of that before,\" said the ghost. \"You\nsee, Sir,\" pursued the tenant, \"this is a very uncomfortable room. From\nthe appearance of that press, I should be disposed to say that it is\nnot wholly free from bugs; and I really think you might find much more\ncomfortable quarters: to say nothing of the climate of London, which\nis extremely disagreeable.\" \"You are very right, Sir,\" said the\nghost politely, \"it never struck me till now; I'll try change of air\ndirectly\"--and, in fact, he began to vanish as he spoke; his legs,\nindeed, had quite disappeared. \"And if, Sir,\" said the tenant, calling\nafter him, \"if you WOULD have the goodness to suggest to the other\nladies and gentlemen who are now engaged in haunting old empty houses,\nthat they might be much more comfortable elsewhere, you will confer a\nvery great benefit on society.\" \"I will,\" replied the ghost; \"we must be\ndull fellows--very dull fellows, indeed; I can't imagine how we can have\nbeen so stupid.\" With these words, the spirit disappeared; and what\nis rather remarkable,' added the old man, with a shrewd look round the\ntable, 'he never came back again.'\n\n'That ain't bad, if it's true,' said the man in the Mosaic studs,\nlighting a fresh cigar.\n\n'IF!' exclaimed the old man, with a look of excessive contempt. 'I\nsuppose,' he added, turning to Lowten, 'he'll say next, that my story\nabout the queer client we had, when I was in an attorney's office, is\nnot true either--I shouldn't wonder.'\n\n'I shan't venture to say anything at all about it, seeing that I never\nheard the story,' observed the owner of the Mosaic decorations.\n\n'I wish you would repeat it, Sir,' said Mr. Pickwick.\n\n'Ah, do,' said Lowten, 'nobody has heard it but me, and I have nearly\nforgotten it.'\n\nThe old man looked round the table, and leered more horribly than ever,\nas if in triumph, at the attention which was depicted in every face.\nThen rubbing his chin with his hand, and looking up to the ceiling as if\nto recall the circumstances to his memory, he began as follows:--\n\n\n THE OLD MAN'S TALE ABOUT THE QUEER CLIENT\n\n'It matters little,' said the old man, 'where, or how, I picked up this\nbrief history. If I were to relate it in the order in which it reached\nme, I should commence in the middle, and when I had arrived at the\nconclusion, go back for a beginning. It is enough for me to say that\nsome of its circumstances passed before my own eyes; for the remainder\nI know them to have happened, and there are some persons yet living, who\nwill remember them but too well.\n\n'In the Borough High Street, near St. George's Church, and on the\nsame side of the way, stands, as most people know, the smallest of our\ndebtors' prisons, the Marshalsea. Although in later times it has been a\nvery different place from the sink of filth and dirt it once was,\neven its improved condition holds out but little temptation to the\nextravagant, or consolation to the improvident. The condemned felon has\nas good a yard for air and exercise in Newgate, as the insolvent debtor\nin the Marshalsea Prison. [Better. But this is past, in a better age,\nand the prison exists no longer.]\n\n'It may be my fancy, or it may be that I cannot separate the place from\nthe old recollections associated with it, but this part of London I\ncannot bear. The street is broad, the shops are spacious, the noise of\npassing vehicles, the footsteps of a perpetual stream of people--all\nthe busy sounds of traffic, resound in it from morn to midnight; but the\nstreets around are mean and close; poverty and debauchery lie festering\nin the crowded alleys; want and misfortune are pent up in the narrow\nprison; an air of gloom and dreariness seems, in my eyes at least, to\nhang about the scene, and to impart to it a squalid and sickly hue.\n\n'Many eyes, that have long since been closed in the grave, have looked\nround upon that scene lightly enough, when entering the gate of the old\nMarshalsea Prison for the first time; for despair seldom comes with\nthe first severe shock of misfortune. A man has confidence in untried\nfriends, he remembers the many offers of service so freely made by his\nboon companions when he wanted them not; he has hope--the hope of\nhappy inexperience--and however he may bend beneath the first shock, it\nsprings up in his bosom, and flourishes there for a brief space, until\nit droops beneath the blight of disappointment and neglect. How soon\nhave those same eyes, deeply sunken in the head, glared from faces\nwasted with famine, and sallow from confinement, in days when it was no\nfigure of speech to say that debtors rotted in prison, with no hope of\nrelease, and no prospect of liberty! The atrocity in its full extent\nno longer exists, but there is enough of it left to give rise to\noccurrences that make the heart bleed.\n\n'Twenty years ago, that pavement was worn with the footsteps of a mother\nand child, who, day by day, so surely as the morning came, presented\nthemselves at the prison gate; often after a night of restless misery\nand anxious thoughts, were they there, a full hour too soon, and then\nthe young mother turning meekly away, would lead the child to the old\nbridge, and raising him in her arms to show him the glistening water,\ntinted with the light of the morning's sun, and stirring with all the\nbustling preparations for business and pleasure that the river presented\nat that early hour, endeavour to interest his thoughts in the objects\nbefore him. But she would quickly set him down, and hiding her face in\nher shawl, give vent to the tears that blinded her; for no expression\nof interest or amusement lighted up his thin and sickly face. His\nrecollections were few enough, but they were all of one kind--all\nconnected with the poverty and misery of his parents. Hour after hour\nhad he sat on his mother's knee, and with childish sympathy watched the\ntears that stole down her face, and then crept quietly away into some\ndark corner, and sobbed himself to sleep. The hard realities of the\nworld, with many of its worst privations--hunger and thirst, and cold\nand want--had all come home to him, from the first dawnings of reason;\nand though the form of childhood was there, its light heart, its merry\nlaugh, and sparkling eyes were wanting. 'The father and mother looked\non upon this, and upon each other, with thoughts of agony they dared\nnot breathe in words. The healthy, strong-made man, who could have borne\nalmost any fatigue of active exertion, was wasting beneath the close\nconfinement and unhealthy atmosphere of a crowded prison. The slight and\ndelicate woman was sinking beneath the combined effects of bodily and\nmental illness. The child's young heart was breaking.\n\n'Winter came, and with it weeks of cold and heavy rain. The poor girl\nhad removed to a wretched apartment close to the spot of her husband's\nimprisonment; and though the change had been rendered necessary by their\nincreasing poverty, she was happier now, for she was nearer him. For two\nmonths, she and her little companion watched the opening of the gate as\nusual. One day she failed to come, for the first time. Another morning\narrived, and she came alone. The child was dead.\n\n'They little know, who coldly talk of the poor man's bereavements, as\na happy release from pain to the departed, and a merciful relief from\nexpense to the survivor--they little know, I say, what the agony of\nthose bereavements is. A silent look of affection and regard when all\nother eyes are turned coldly away--the consciousness that we possess the\nsympathy and affection of one being when all others have deserted us--is\na hold, a stay, a comfort, in the deepest affliction, which no wealth\ncould purchase, or power bestow. The child had sat at his parents'\nfeet for hours together, with his little hands patiently folded in each\nother, and his thin wan face raised towards them. They had seen him pine\naway, from day to day; and though his brief existence had been a joyless\none, and he was now removed to that peace and rest which, child as he\nwas, he had never known in this world, they were his parents, and his\nloss sank deep into their souls.\n\n'It was plain to those who looked upon the mother's altered face,\nthat death must soon close the scene of her adversity and trial. Her\nhusband's fellow-prisoners shrank from obtruding on his grief and\nmisery, and left to himself alone, the small room he had previously\noccupied in common with two companions. She shared it with him; and\nlingering on without pain, but without hope, her life ebbed slowly away.\n\n'She had fainted one evening in her husband's arms, and he had borne her\nto the open window, to revive her with the air, when the light of the\nmoon falling full upon her face, showed him a change upon her features,\nwhich made him stagger beneath her weight, like a helpless infant.\n\n'\"Set me down, George,\" she said faintly. He did so, and seating himself\nbeside her, covered his face with his hands, and burst into tears.\n\n'\"It is very hard to leave you, George,\" she said; \"but it is God's\nwill, and you must bear it for my sake. Oh! how I thank Him for having\ntaken our boy! He is happy, and in heaven now. What would he have done\nhere, without his mother!\"\n\n'\"You shall not die, Mary, you shall not die;\" said the husband,\nstarting up. He paced hurriedly to and fro, striking his head with his\nclenched fists; then reseating himself beside her, and supporting her in\nhis arms, added more calmly, \"Rouse yourself, my dear girl. Pray, pray\ndo. You will revive yet.\"\n\n'\"Never again, George; never again,\" said the dying woman. \"Let them\nlay me by my poor boy now, but promise me, that if ever you leave this\ndreadful place, and should grow rich, you will have us removed to\nsome quiet country churchyard, a long, long way off--very far from\nhere--where we can rest in peace. Dear George, promise me you will.\"\n\n'\"I do, I do,\" said the man, throwing himself passionately on his knees\nbefore her. \"Speak to me, Mary, another word; one look--but one!\"\n\n'He ceased to speak: for the arm that clasped his neck grew stiff and\nheavy. A deep sigh escaped from the wasted form before him; the lips\nmoved, and a smile played upon the face; but the lips were pallid, and\nthe smile faded into a rigid and ghastly stare. He was alone in the\nworld.\n\n'That night, in the silence and desolation of his miserable room, the\nwretched man knelt down by the dead body of his wife, and called on God\nto witness a terrible oath, that from that hour, he devoted himself to\nrevenge her death and that of his child; that thenceforth to the last\nmoment of his life, his whole energies should be directed to this one\nobject; that his revenge should be protracted and terrible; that his\nhatred should be undying and inextinguishable; and should hunt its\nobject through the world.\n\n'The deepest despair, and passion scarcely human, had made such fierce\nravages on his face and form, in that one night, that his companions\nin misfortune shrank affrighted from him as he passed by. His eyes were\nbloodshot and heavy, his face a deadly white, and his body bent as if\nwith age. He had bitten his under lip nearly through in the violence of\nhis mental suffering, and the blood which had flowed from the wound had\ntrickled down his chin, and stained his shirt and neckerchief. No\ntear, or sound of complaint escaped him; but the unsettled look, and\ndisordered haste with which he paced up and down the yard, denoted the\nfever which was burning within.\n\n'It was necessary that his wife's body should be removed from the\nprison, without delay. He received the communication with perfect\ncalmness, and acquiesced in its propriety. Nearly all the inmates of the\nprison had assembled to witness its removal; they fell back on either\nside when the widower appeared; he walked hurriedly forward, and\nstationed himself, alone, in a little railed area close to the lodge\ngate, from whence the crowd, with an instinctive feeling of delicacy,\nhad retired. The rude coffin was borne slowly forward on men's\nshoulders. A dead silence pervaded the throng, broken only by the\naudible lamentations of the women, and the shuffling steps of the\nbearers on the stone pavement. They reached the spot where the bereaved\nhusband stood: and stopped. He laid his hand upon the coffin, and\nmechanically adjusting the pall with which it was covered, motioned\nthem onward. The turnkeys in the prison lobby took off their hats as it\npassed through, and in another moment the heavy gate closed behind it.\nHe looked vacantly upon the crowd, and fell heavily to the ground.\n\n'Although for many weeks after this, he was watched, night and day, in\nthe wildest ravings of fever, neither the consciousness of his loss,\nnor the recollection of the vow he had made, ever left him for a\nmoment. Scenes changed before his eyes, place succeeded place, and\nevent followed event, in all the hurry of delirium; but they were all\nconnected in some way with the great object of his mind. He was sailing\nover a boundless expanse of sea, with a blood-red sky above, and the\nangry waters, lashed into fury beneath, boiling and eddying up, on every\nside. There was another vessel before them, toiling and labouring in the\nhowling storm; her canvas fluttering in ribbons from the mast, and her\ndeck thronged with figures who were lashed to the sides, over which huge\nwaves every instant burst, sweeping away some devoted creatures into the\nfoaming sea. Onward they bore, amidst the roaring mass of water, with a\nspeed and force which nothing could resist; and striking the stem of the\nforemost vessel, crushed her beneath their keel. From the huge\nwhirlpool which the sinking wreck occasioned, arose a shriek so loud and\nshrill--the death-cry of a hundred drowning creatures, blended into one\nfierce yell--that it rung far above the war-cry of the elements, and\nechoed, and re-echoed till it seemed to pierce air, sky, and ocean. But\nwhat was that--that old gray head that rose above the water's surface,\nand with looks of agony, and screams for aid, buffeted with the waves!\nOne look, and he had sprung from the vessel's side, and with vigorous\nstrokes was swimming towards it. He reached it; he was close upon it.\nThey were HIS features. The old man saw him coming, and vainly strove to\nelude his grasp. But he clasped him tight, and dragged him beneath\nthe water. Down, down with him, fifty fathoms down; his struggles grew\nfainter and fainter, until they wholly ceased. He was dead; he had\nkilled him, and had kept his oath.\n\n'He was traversing the scorching sands of a mighty desert, barefoot and\nalone. The sand choked and blinded him; its fine thin grains entered the\nvery pores of his skin, and irritated him almost to madness. Gigantic\nmasses of the same material, carried forward by the wind, and shone\nthrough by the burning sun, stalked in the distance like pillars of\nliving fire. The bones of men, who had perished in the dreary waste, lay\nscattered at his feet; a fearful light fell on everything around; so\nfar as the eye could reach, nothing but objects of dread and horror\npresented themselves. Vainly striving to utter a cry of terror, with\nhis tongue cleaving to his mouth, he rushed madly forward. Armed with\nsupernatural strength, he waded through the sand, until, exhausted\nwith fatigue and thirst, he fell senseless on the earth. What fragrant\ncoolness revived him; what gushing sound was that? Water! It was indeed\na well; and the clear fresh stream was running at his feet. He drank\ndeeply of it, and throwing his aching limbs upon the bank, sank into a\ndelicious trance. The sound of approaching footsteps roused him. An old\ngray-headed man tottered forward to slake his burning thirst. It was HE\nagain! He wound his arms round the old man's body, and held him back. He\nstruggled, and shrieked for water--for but one drop of water to save\nhis life! But he held the old man firmly, and watched his agonies with\ngreedy eyes; and when his lifeless head fell forward on his bosom, he\nrolled the corpse from him with his feet.\n\n'When the fever left him, and consciousness returned, he awoke to find\nhimself rich and free, to hear that the parent who would have let him\ndie in jail--WOULD! who HAD let those who were far dearer to him than\nhis own existence die of want, and sickness of heart that medicine\ncannot cure--had been found dead in his bed of down. He had had all\nthe heart to leave his son a beggar, but proud even of his health and\nstrength, had put off the act till it was too late, and now might\ngnash his teeth in the other world, at the thought of the wealth his\nremissness had left him. He awoke to this, and he awoke to more. To\nrecollect the purpose for which he lived, and to remember that his enemy\nwas his wife's own father--the man who had cast him into prison, and\nwho, when his daughter and her child sued at his feet for mercy,\nhad spurned them from his door. Oh, how he cursed the weakness that\nprevented him from being up, and active, in his scheme of vengeance! 'He\ncaused himself to be carried from the scene of his loss and misery,\nand conveyed to a quiet residence on the sea-coast; not in the hope of\nrecovering his peace of mind or happiness, for both were fled for ever;\nbut to restore his prostrate energies, and meditate on his darling\nobject. And here, some evil spirit cast in his way the opportunity for\nhis first, most horrible revenge.\n\n'It was summer-time; and wrapped in his gloomy thoughts, he would issue\nfrom his solitary lodgings early in the evening, and wandering along\na narrow path beneath the cliffs, to a wild and lonely spot that had\nstruck his fancy in his ramblings, seat himself on some fallen fragment\nof the rock, and burying his face in his hands, remain there for\nhours--sometimes until night had completely closed in, and the long\nshadows of the frowning cliffs above his head cast a thick, black\ndarkness on every object near him.\n\n'He was seated here, one calm evening, in his old position, now and then\nraising his head to watch the flight of a sea-gull, or carry his eye\nalong the glorious crimson path, which, commencing in the middle of the\nocean, seemed to lead to its very verge where the sun was setting, when\nthe profound stillness of the spot was broken by a loud cry for help; he\nlistened, doubtful of his having heard aright, when the cry was repeated\nwith even greater vehemence than before, and, starting to his feet, he\nhastened in the direction whence it proceeded.\n\n'The tale told itself at once: some scattered garments lay on the beach;\na human head was just visible above the waves at a little distance from\nthe shore; and an old man, wringing his hands in agony, was running to\nand fro, shrieking for assistance. The invalid, whose strength was now\nsufficiently restored, threw off his coat, and rushed towards the sea,\nwith the intention of plunging in, and dragging the drowning man ashore.\n\n'\"Hasten here, Sir, in God's name; help, help, sir, for the love of\nHeaven. He is my son, Sir, my only son!\" said the old man frantically,\nas he advanced to meet him. \"My only son, Sir, and he is dying before\nhis father's eyes!\"\n\n'At the first word the old man uttered, the stranger checked himself in\nhis career, and, folding his arms, stood perfectly motionless.\n\n'\"Great God!\" exclaimed the old man, recoiling, \"Heyling!\"\n\n'The stranger smiled, and was silent.\n\n'\"Heyling!\" said the old man wildly; \"my boy, Heyling, my dear boy,\nlook, look!\" Gasping for breath, the miserable father pointed to the\nspot where the young man was struggling for life.\n\n'\"Hark!\" said the old man. \"He cries once more. He is alive yet.\nHeyling, save him, save him!\"\n\n'The stranger smiled again, and remained immovable as a statue. '\"I have\nwronged you,\" shrieked the old man, falling on his knees, and clasping\nhis hands together. \"Be revenged; take my all, my life; cast me into the\nwater at your feet, and, if human nature can repress a struggle, I will\ndie, without stirring hand or foot. Do it, Heyling, do it, but save my\nboy; he is so young, Heyling, so young to die!\"\n\n'\"Listen,\" said the stranger, grasping the old man fiercely by the\nwrist; \"I will have life for life, and here is ONE. MY child died,\nbefore his father's eyes, a far more agonising and painful death than\nthat young slanderer of his sister's worth is meeting while I speak. You\nlaughed--laughed in your daughter's face, where death had already set\nhis hand--at our sufferings, then. What think you of them now! See\nthere, see there!\"\n\n'As the stranger spoke, he pointed to the sea. A faint cry died away\nupon its surface; the last powerful struggle of the dying man agitated\nthe rippling waves for a few seconds; and the spot where he had gone\ndown into his early grave, was undistinguishable from the surrounding\nwater.\n\n'Three years had elapsed, when a gentleman alighted from a private\ncarriage at the door of a London attorney, then well known as a man of\nno great nicety in his professional dealings, and requested a private\ninterview on business of importance. Although evidently not past the\nprime of life, his face was pale, haggard, and dejected; and it did not\nrequire the acute perception of the man of business, to discern at a\nglance, that disease or suffering had done more to work a change in his\nappearance, than the mere hand of time could have accomplished in twice\nthe period of his whole life.\n\n'\"I wish you to undertake some legal business for me,\" said the\nstranger.\n\n'The attorney bowed obsequiously, and glanced at a large packet which\nthe gentleman carried in his hand. His visitor observed the look, and\nproceeded.\n\n'\"It is no common business,\" said he; \"nor have these papers reached my\nhands without long trouble and great expense.\"\n\n'The attorney cast a still more anxious look at the packet; and his\nvisitor, untying the string that bound it, disclosed a quantity of\npromissory notes, with copies of deeds, and other documents.\n\n'\"Upon these papers,\" said the client, \"the man whose name they bear,\nhas raised, as you will see, large sums of money, for years past. There\nwas a tacit understanding between him and the men into whose hands they\noriginally went--and from whom I have by degrees purchased the whole,\nfor treble and quadruple their nominal value--that these loans should\nbe from time to time renewed, until a given period had elapsed. Such\nan understanding is nowhere expressed. He has sustained many losses of\nlate; and these obligations accumulating upon him at once, would crush\nhim to the earth.\"\n\n'\"The whole amount is many thousands of pounds,\" said the attorney,\nlooking over the papers.\n\n'\"It is,\" said the client.\n\n'\"What are we to do?\" inquired the man of business.\n\n'\"Do!\" replied the client, with sudden vehemence. \"Put every engine of\nthe law in force, every trick that ingenuity can devise and rascality\nexecute; fair means and foul; the open oppression of the law, aided by\nall the craft of its most ingenious practitioners. I would have him die\na harassing and lingering death. Ruin him, seize and sell his lands and\ngoods, drive him from house and home, and drag him forth a beggar in his\nold age, to die in a common jail.\"\n\n'\"But the costs, my dear Sir, the costs of all this,\" reasoned the\nattorney, when he had recovered from his momentary surprise. \"If the\ndefendant be a man of straw, who is to pay the costs, Sir?\"\n\n'\"Name any sum,\" said the stranger, his hand trembling so violently\nwith excitement, that he could scarcely hold the pen he seized as he\nspoke--\"any sum, and it is yours. Don't be afraid to name it, man. I\nshall not think it dear, if you gain my object.\"\n\n'The attorney named a large sum, at hazard, as the advance he should\nrequire to secure himself against the possibility of loss; but more with\nthe view of ascertaining how far his client was really disposed to go,\nthan with any idea that he would comply with the demand. The stranger\nwrote a cheque upon his banker, for the whole amount, and left him.\n\n'The draft was duly honoured, and the attorney, finding that his strange\nclient might be safely relied upon, commenced his work in earnest.\nFor more than two years afterwards, Mr. Heyling would sit whole days\ntogether, in the office, poring over the papers as they accumulated,\nand reading again and again, his eyes gleaming with joy, the letters of\nremonstrance, the prayers for a little delay, the representations of the\ncertain ruin in which the opposite party must be involved, which poured\nin, as suit after suit, and process after process, was commenced. To all\napplications for a brief indulgence, there was but one reply--the money\nmust be paid. Land, house, furniture, each in its turn, was taken under\nsome one of the numerous executions which were issued; and the old\nman himself would have been immured in prison had he not escaped the\nvigilance of the officers, and fled.\n\n'The implacable animosity of Heyling, so far from being satiated by the\nsuccess of his persecution, increased a hundredfold with the ruin he\ninflicted. On being informed of the old man's flight, his fury was\nunbounded. He gnashed his teeth with rage, tore the hair from his head,\nand assailed with horrid imprecations the men who had been intrusted\nwith the writ. He was only restored to comparative calmness by repeated\nassurances of the certainty of discovering the fugitive. Agents were\nsent in quest of him, in all directions; every stratagem that could be\ninvented was resorted to, for the purpose of discovering his place of\nretreat; but it was all in vain. Half a year had passed over, and he was\nstill undiscovered.\n\n'At length late one night, Heyling, of whom nothing had been seen for\nmany weeks before, appeared at his attorney's private residence, and\nsent up word that a gentleman wished to see him instantly. Before the\nattorney, who had recognised his voice from above stairs, could order\nthe servant to admit him, he had rushed up the staircase, and entered\nthe drawing-room pale and breathless. Having closed the door, to prevent\nbeing overheard, he sank into a chair, and said, in a low voice--\n\n'\"Hush! I have found him at last.\"\n\n'\"No!\" said the attorney. \"Well done, my dear sir, well done.\"\n\n'\"He lies concealed in a wretched lodging in Camden Town,\" said Heyling.\n\"Perhaps it is as well we DID lose sight of him, for he has been\nliving alone there, in the most abject misery, all the time, and he is\npoor--very poor.\"\n\n'\"Very good,\" said the attorney. \"You will have the caption made\nto-morrow, of course?\"\n\n'\"Yes,\" replied Heyling. \"Stay! No! The next day. You are surprised at\nmy wishing to postpone it,\" he added, with a ghastly smile; \"but I had\nforgotten. The next day is an anniversary in his life: let it be done\nthen.\"\n\n'\"Very good,\" said the attorney. \"Will you write down instructions for\nthe officer?\"\n\n'\"No; let him meet me here, at eight in the evening, and I will\naccompany him myself.\"\n\n'They met on the appointed night, and, hiring a hackney-coach, directed\nthe driver to stop at that corner of the old Pancras Road, at which\nstands the parish workhouse. By the time they alighted there, it was\nquite dark; and, proceeding by the dead wall in front of the Veterinary\nHospital, they entered a small by-street, which is, or was at that time,\ncalled Little College Street, and which, whatever it may be now, was\nin those days a desolate place enough, surrounded by little else than\nfields and ditches.\n\n'Having drawn the travelling-cap he had on half over his face, and\nmuffled himself in his cloak, Heyling stopped before the meanest-looking\nhouse in the street, and knocked gently at the door. It was at once\nopened by a woman, who dropped a curtsey of recognition, and Heyling,\nwhispering the officer to remain below, crept gently upstairs, and,\nopening the door of the front room, entered at once.\n\n'The object of his search and his unrelenting animosity, now a decrepit\nold man, was seated at a bare deal table, on which stood a miserable\ncandle. He started on the entrance of the stranger, and rose feebly to\nhis feet.\n\n'\"What now, what now?\" said the old man. \"What fresh misery is this?\nWhat do you want here?\"\n\n'\"A word with YOU,\" replied Heyling. As he spoke, he seated himself\nat the other end of the table, and, throwing off his cloak and cap,\ndisclosed his features.\n\n'The old man seemed instantly deprived of speech. He fell backward in\nhis chair, and, clasping his hands together, gazed on the apparition\nwith a mingled look of abhorrence and fear.\n\n'\"This day six years,\" said Heyling, \"I claimed the life you owed me for\nmy child's. Beside the lifeless form of your daughter, old man, I swore\nto live a life of revenge. I have never swerved from my purpose for\na moment's space; but if I had, one thought of her uncomplaining,\nsuffering look, as she drooped away, or of the starving face of our\ninnocent child, would have nerved me to my task. My first act of\nrequital you well remember: this is my last.\"\n\n'The old man shivered, and his hands dropped powerless by his side.\n\n'\"I leave England to-morrow,\" said Heyling, after a moment's pause.\n\"To-night I consign you to the living death to which you devoted her--a\nhopeless prison--\"\n\n'He raised his eyes to the old man's countenance, and paused. He lifted\nthe light to his face, set it gently down, and left the apartment.\n\n'\"You had better see to the old man,\" he said to the woman, as he opened\nthe door, and motioned the officer to follow him into the street. \"I\nthink he is ill.\" The woman closed the door, ran hastily upstairs, and\nfound him lifeless.\n\n\n'Beneath a plain gravestone, in one of the most peaceful and secluded\nchurchyards in Kent, where wild flowers mingle with the grass, and the\nsoft landscape around forms the fairest spot in the garden of England,\nlie the bones of the young mother and her gentle child. But the ashes of\nthe father do not mingle with theirs; nor, from that night forward, did\nthe attorney ever gain the remotest clue to the subsequent history of\nhis queer client.' As the old man concluded his tale, he advanced to a\npeg in one corner, and taking down his hat and coat, put them on with\ngreat deliberation; and, without saying another word, walked slowly\naway. As the gentleman with the Mosaic studs had fallen asleep, and the\nmajor part of the company were deeply occupied in the humorous process\nof dropping melted tallow-grease into his brandy-and-water, Mr. Pickwick\ndeparted unnoticed, and having settled his own score, and that of Mr.\nWeller, issued forth, in company with that gentleman, from beneath the\nportal of the Magpie and Stump.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXII. Mr. PICKWICK JOURNEYS TO IPSWICH AND MEETS WITH A ROMANTIC\nADVENTURE WITH A MIDDLE-AGED LADY IN YELLOW CURL-PAPERS\n\n\n'That 'ere your governor's luggage, Sammy?' inquired Mr. Weller of his\naffectionate son, as he entered the yard of the Bull Inn, Whitechapel,\nwith a travelling-bag and a small portmanteau.\n\n'You might ha' made a worser guess than that, old feller,' replied Mr.\nWeller the younger, setting down his burden in the yard, and sitting\nhimself down upon it afterwards. 'The governor hisself'll be down here\npresently.'\n\n'He's a-cabbin' it, I suppose?' said the father.\n\n'Yes, he's a havin' two mile o' danger at eight-pence,' responded the\nson. 'How's mother-in-law this mornin'?'\n\n'Queer, Sammy, queer,' replied the elder Mr. Weller, with impressive\ngravity. 'She's been gettin' rayther in the Methodistical order lately,\nSammy; and she is uncommon pious, to be sure. She's too good a creetur\nfor me, Sammy. I feel I don't deserve her.'\n\n'Ah,' said Mr. Samuel. 'that's wery self-denyin' o' you.'\n\n'Wery,' replied his parent, with a sigh. 'She's got hold o' some\ninwention for grown-up people being born again, Sammy--the new birth,\nI think they calls it. I should wery much like to see that system in\nhaction, Sammy. I should wery much like to see your mother-in-law born\nagain. Wouldn't I put her out to nurse!'\n\n'What do you think them women does t'other day,' continued Mr. Weller,\nafter a short pause, during which he had significantly struck the side\nof his nose with his forefinger some half-dozen times. 'What do you\nthink they does, t'other day, Sammy?'\n\n'Don't know,' replied Sam, 'what?'\n\n'Goes and gets up a grand tea drinkin' for a feller they calls their\nshepherd,' said Mr. Weller. 'I was a-standing starin' in at the pictur\nshop down at our place, when I sees a little bill about it; \"tickets\nhalf-a-crown. All applications to be made to the committee. Secretary,\nMrs. Weller\"; and when I got home there was the committee a-sittin' in\nour back parlour. Fourteen women; I wish you could ha' heard 'em, Sammy.\nThere they was, a-passin' resolutions, and wotin' supplies, and all\nsorts o' games. Well, what with your mother-in-law a-worrying me to go,\nand what with my looking for'ard to seein' some queer starts if I did,\nI put my name down for a ticket; at six o'clock on the Friday evenin' I\ndresses myself out wery smart, and off I goes with the old 'ooman, and\nup we walks into a fust-floor where there was tea-things for thirty, and\na whole lot o' women as begins whisperin' to one another, and lookin' at\nme, as if they'd never seen a rayther stout gen'l'm'n of eight-and-fifty\nafore. By and by, there comes a great bustle downstairs, and a lanky\nchap with a red nose and a white neckcloth rushes up, and sings out,\n\"Here's the shepherd a-coming to wisit his faithful flock;\" and in\ncomes a fat chap in black, vith a great white face, a-smilin' avay\nlike clockwork. Such goin's on, Sammy! \"The kiss of peace,\" says the\nshepherd; and then he kissed the women all round, and ven he'd done,\nthe man vith the red nose began. I was just a-thinkin' whether I hadn't\nbetter begin too--'specially as there was a wery nice lady a-sittin'\nnext me--ven in comes the tea, and your mother-in-law, as had been\nmakin' the kettle bile downstairs. At it they went, tooth and nail. Such\na precious loud hymn, Sammy, while the tea was a brewing; such a grace,\nsuch eatin' and drinkin'! I wish you could ha' seen the shepherd\nwalkin' into the ham and muffins. I never see such a chap to eat and\ndrink--never. The red-nosed man warn't by no means the sort of person\nyou'd like to grub by contract, but he was nothin' to the shepherd.\nWell; arter the tea was over, they sang another hymn, and then the\nshepherd began to preach: and wery well he did it, considerin' how heavy\nthem muffins must have lied on his chest. Presently he pulls up, all of\na sudden, and hollers out, \"Where is the sinner; where is the mis'rable\nsinner?\" Upon which, all the women looked at me, and began to groan as\nif they was a-dying. I thought it was rather sing'ler, but howsoever, I\nsays nothing. Presently he pulls up again, and lookin' wery hard at me,\nsays, \"Where is the sinner; where is the mis'rable sinner?\" and all the\nwomen groans again, ten times louder than afore. I got rather savage at\nthis, so I takes a step or two for'ard and says, \"My friend,\" says I,\n\"did you apply that 'ere obserwation to me?\" 'Stead of beggin' my pardon\nas any gen'l'm'n would ha' done, he got more abusive than ever:--called\nme a wessel, Sammy--a wessel of wrath--and all sorts o' names. So my\nblood being reg'larly up, I first gave him two or three for himself, and\nthen two or three more to hand over to the man with the red nose, and\nwalked off. I wish you could ha' heard how the women screamed, Sammy,\nven they picked up the shepherd from underneath the table--Hollo! here's\nthe governor, the size of life.'\n\nAs Mr. Weller spoke, Mr. Pickwick dismounted from a cab, and entered the\nyard. 'Fine mornin', Sir,' said Mr. Weller, senior.\n\n'Beautiful indeed,' replied Mr. Pickwick.\n\n'Beautiful indeed,' echoes a red-haired man with an inquisitive nose and\ngreen spectacles, who had unpacked himself from a cab at the same moment\nas Mr. Pickwick. 'Going to Ipswich, Sir?'\n\n'I am,' replied Mr. Pickwick.\n\n'Extraordinary coincidence. So am I.'\n\nMr. Pickwick bowed.\n\n'Going outside?' said the red-haired man. Mr. Pickwick bowed again.\n\n'Bless my soul, how remarkable--I am going outside, too,' said the\nred-haired man; 'we are positively going together.' And the red-haired\nman, who was an important-looking, sharp-nosed, mysterious-spoken\npersonage, with a bird-like habit of giving his head a jerk every\ntime he said anything, smiled as if he had made one of the strangest\ndiscoveries that ever fell to the lot of human wisdom.\n\n'I am happy in the prospect of your company, Sir,' said Mr. Pickwick.\n\n'Ah,' said the new-comer, 'it's a good thing for both of us, isn't it?\nCompany, you see--company--is--is--it's a very different thing from\nsolitude--ain't it?'\n\n'There's no denying that 'ere,' said Mr. Weller, joining in the\nconversation, with an affable smile. 'That's what I call a self-evident\nproposition, as the dog's-meat man said, when the housemaid told him he\nwarn't a gentleman.'\n\n'Ah,' said the red-haired man, surveying Mr. Weller from head to foot\nwith a supercilious look. 'Friend of yours, sir?'\n\n'Not exactly a friend,' replied Mr. Pickwick, in a low tone. 'The fact\nis, he is my servant, but I allow him to take a good many liberties;\nfor, between ourselves, I flatter myself he is an original, and I am\nrather proud of him.'\n\n'Ah,' said the red-haired man, 'that, you see, is a matter of taste.\nI am not fond of anything original; I don't like it; don't see the\nnecessity for it. What's your name, sir?'\n\n'Here is my card, sir,' replied Mr. Pickwick, much amused by the\nabruptness of the question, and the singular manner of the stranger.\n\n'Ah,' said the red-haired man, placing the card in his pocket-book,\n'Pickwick; very good. I like to know a man's name, it saves so much\ntrouble. That's my card, sir. Magnus, you will perceive, sir--Magnus is\nmy name. It's rather a good name, I think, sir.'\n\n'A very good name, indeed,' said Mr. Pickwick, wholly unable to repress\na smile.\n\n'Yes, I think it is,' resumed Mr. Magnus. 'There's a good name before\nit, too, you will observe. Permit me, sir--if you hold the card a little\nslanting, this way, you catch the light upon the up-stroke. There--Peter\nMagnus--sounds well, I think, sir.'\n\n'Very,' said Mr. Pickwick.\n\n'Curious circumstance about those initials, sir,' said Mr. Magnus.\n'You will observe--P.M.--post meridian. In hasty notes to intimate\nacquaintance, I sometimes sign myself \"Afternoon.\" It amuses my friends\nvery much, Mr. Pickwick.'\n\n'It is calculated to afford them the highest gratification, I should\nconceive,' said Mr. Pickwick, rather envying the ease with which Mr.\nMagnus's friends were entertained.\n\n'Now, gen'l'm'n,' said the hostler, 'coach is ready, if you please.'\n\n'Is all my luggage in?' inquired Mr. Magnus.\n\n'All right, sir.'\n\n'Is the red bag in?'\n\n'All right, Sir.'\n\n'And the striped bag?'\n\n'Fore boot, Sir.'\n\n'And the brown-paper parcel?'\n\n'Under the seat, Sir.'\n\n'And the leather hat-box?'\n\n'They're all in, Sir.'\n\n'Now, will you get up?' said Mr. Pickwick.\n\n'Excuse me,' replied Magnus, standing on the wheel. 'Excuse me, Mr.\nPickwick. I cannot consent to get up, in this state of uncertainty. I am\nquite satisfied from that man's manner, that the leather hat-box is not\nin.'\n\nThe solemn protestations of the hostler being wholly unavailing, the\nleather hat-box was obliged to be raked up from the lowest depth of the\nboot, to satisfy him that it had been safely packed; and after he had\nbeen assured on this head, he felt a solemn presentiment, first, that\nthe red bag was mislaid, and next that the striped bag had been stolen,\nand then that the brown-paper parcel 'had come untied.' At length when\nhe had received ocular demonstration of the groundless nature of each\nand every of these suspicions, he consented to climb up to the roof of\nthe coach, observing that now he had taken everything off his mind, he\nfelt quite comfortable and happy.\n\n'You're given to nervousness, ain't you, Sir?' inquired Mr. Weller,\nsenior, eyeing the stranger askance, as he mounted to his place.\n\n'Yes; I always am rather about these little matters,' said the stranger,\n'but I am all right now--quite right.'\n\n'Well, that's a blessin', said Mr. Weller. 'Sammy, help your master up\nto the box; t'other leg, Sir, that's it; give us your hand, Sir. Up with\nyou. You was a lighter weight when you was a boy, sir.' 'True enough,\nthat, Mr. Weller,' said the breathless Mr. Pickwick good-humouredly, as\nhe took his seat on the box beside him.\n\n'Jump up in front, Sammy,' said Mr. Weller. 'Now Villam, run 'em out.\nTake care o' the archvay, gen'l'm'n. \"Heads,\" as the pieman says.\nThat'll do, Villam. Let 'em alone.' And away went the coach up\nWhitechapel, to the admiration of the whole population of that pretty\ndensely populated quarter.\n\n'Not a wery nice neighbourhood, this, Sir,' said Sam, with a touch of\nthe hat, which always preceded his entering into conversation with his\nmaster.\n\n'It is not indeed, Sam,' replied Mr. Pickwick, surveying the crowded and\nfilthy street through which they were passing.\n\n'It's a wery remarkable circumstance, Sir,' said Sam, 'that poverty and\noysters always seem to go together.'\n\n'I don't understand you, Sam,' said Mr. Pickwick.\n\n'What I mean, sir,' said Sam, 'is, that the poorer a place is, the\ngreater call there seems to be for oysters. Look here, sir; here's a\noyster-stall to every half-dozen houses. The street's lined vith 'em.\nBlessed if I don't think that ven a man's wery poor, he rushes out of\nhis lodgings, and eats oysters in reg'lar desperation.'\n\n'To be sure he does,' said Mr. Weller, senior; 'and it's just the same\nvith pickled salmon!'\n\n'Those are two very remarkable facts, which never occurred to me\nbefore,' said Mr. Pickwick. 'The very first place we stop at, I'll make\na note of them.'\n\nBy this time they had reached the turnpike at Mile End; a profound\nsilence prevailed until they had got two or three miles farther on, when\nMr. Weller, senior, turning suddenly to Mr. Pickwick, said--\n\n'Wery queer life is a pike-keeper's, sir.'\n\n'A what?' said Mr. Pickwick.\n\n'A pike-keeper.'\n\n'What do you mean by a pike-keeper?' inquired Mr. Peter Magnus.\n\n'The old 'un means a turnpike-keeper, gen'l'm'n,' observed Mr. Samuel\nWeller, in explanation.\n\n'Oh,' said Mr. Pickwick, 'I see. Yes; very curious life. Very\nuncomfortable.'\n\n'They're all on 'em men as has met vith some disappointment in life,'\nsaid Mr. Weller, senior.\n\n'Ay, ay,' said Mr. Pickwick.\n\n'Yes. Consequence of vich, they retires from the world, and shuts\nthemselves up in pikes; partly with the view of being solitary, and\npartly to rewenge themselves on mankind by takin' tolls.'\n\n'Dear me,' said Mr. Pickwick, 'I never knew that before.'\n\n'Fact, Sir,' said Mr. Weller; 'if they was gen'l'm'n, you'd call 'em\nmisanthropes, but as it is, they only takes to pike-keepin'.'\n\nWith such conversation, possessing the inestimable charm of blending\namusement with instruction, did Mr. Weller beguile the tediousness of\nthe journey, during the greater part of the day. Topics of conversation\nwere never wanting, for even when any pause occurred in Mr. Weller's\nloquacity, it was abundantly supplied by the desire evinced by Mr.\nMagnus to make himself acquainted with the whole of the personal history\nof his fellow-travellers, and his loudly-expressed anxiety at every\nstage, respecting the safety and well-being of the two bags, the leather\nhat-box, and the brown-paper parcel.\n\nIn the main street of Ipswich, on the left-hand side of the way, a short\ndistance after you have passed through the open space fronting the Town\nHall, stands an inn known far and wide by the appellation of the Great\nWhite Horse, rendered the more conspicuous by a stone statue of some\nrampacious animal with flowing mane and tail, distantly resembling an\ninsane cart-horse, which is elevated above the principal door. The Great\nWhite Horse is famous in the neighbourhood, in the same degree as a\nprize ox, or a county-paper-chronicled turnip, or unwieldy pig--for its\nenormous size. Never was such labyrinths of uncarpeted passages, such\nclusters of mouldy, ill-lighted rooms, such huge numbers of small\ndens for eating or sleeping in, beneath any one roof, as are collected\ntogether between the four walls of the Great White Horse at Ipswich.\n\nIt was at the door of this overgrown tavern that the London coach\nstopped, at the same hour every evening; and it was from this same\nLondon coach that Mr. Pickwick, Sam Weller, and Mr. Peter Magnus\ndismounted, on the particular evening to which this chapter of our\nhistory bears reference.\n\n'Do you stop here, sir?' inquired Mr. Peter Magnus, when the striped\nbag, and the red bag, and the brown-paper parcel, and the leather\nhat-box, had all been deposited in the passage. 'Do you stop here, sir?'\n\n'I do,' said Mr. Pickwick.\n\n'Dear me,' said Mr. Magnus, 'I never knew anything like these\nextraordinary coincidences. Why, I stop here too. I hope we dine\ntogether?'\n\n'With pleasure,' replied Mr. Pickwick. 'I am not quite certain whether I\nhave any friends here or not, though. Is there any gentleman of the name\nof Tupman here, waiter?'\n\nA corpulent man, with a fortnight's napkin under his arm, and coeval\nstockings on his legs, slowly desisted from his occupation of staring\ndown the street, on this question being put to him by Mr. Pickwick; and,\nafter minutely inspecting that gentleman's appearance, from the crown of\nhis hat to the lowest button of his gaiters, replied emphatically--\n\n'No!'\n\n'Nor any gentleman of the name of Snodgrass?' inquired Mr. Pickwick.\n\n'No!'\n\n'Nor Winkle?'\n\n'No!'\n\n'My friends have not arrived to-day, Sir,' said Mr. Pickwick. 'We will\ndine alone, then. Show us a private room, waiter.'\n\nOn this request being preferred, the corpulent man condescended to order\nthe boots to bring in the gentlemen's luggage; and preceding them down\na long, dark passage, ushered them into a large, badly-furnished\napartment, with a dirty grate, in which a small fire was making a\nwretched attempt to be cheerful, but was fast sinking beneath the\ndispiriting influence of the place. After the lapse of an hour, a bit\nof fish and a steak was served up to the travellers, and when the dinner\nwas cleared away, Mr. Pickwick and Mr. Peter Magnus drew their chairs\nup to the fire, and having ordered a bottle of the worst possible port\nwine, at the highest possible price, for the good of the house, drank\nbrandy-and-water for their own.\n\nMr. Peter Magnus was naturally of a very communicative disposition, and\nthe brandy-and-water operated with wonderful effect in warming into\nlife the deepest hidden secrets of his bosom. After sundry accounts\nof himself, his family, his connections, his friends, his jokes, his\nbusiness, and his brothers (most talkative men have a great deal to\nsay about their brothers), Mr. Peter Magnus took a view of Mr. Pickwick\nthrough his coloured spectacles for several minutes, and then said, with\nan air of modesty--\n\n'And what do you think--what DO you think, Mr. Pickwick--I have come\ndown here for?'\n\n'Upon my word,' said Mr. Pickwick, 'it is wholly impossible for me to\nguess; on business, perhaps.'\n\n'Partly right, Sir,' replied Mr. Peter Magnus, 'but partly wrong at the\nsame time; try again, Mr. Pickwick.'\n\n'Really,' said Mr. Pickwick, 'I must throw myself on your mercy, to tell\nme or not, as you may think best; for I should never guess, if I were to\ntry all night.'\n\n'Why, then, he-he-he!' said Mr. Peter Magnus, with a bashful titter,\n'what should you think, Mr. Pickwick, if I had come down here to make a\nproposal, Sir, eh? He, he, he!'\n\n'Think! That you are very likely to succeed,' replied Mr. Pickwick, with\none of his beaming smiles. 'Ah!' said Mr. Magnus. 'But do you really\nthink so, Mr. Pickwick? Do you, though?'\n\n'Certainly,' said Mr. Pickwick.\n\n'No; but you're joking, though.'\n\n'I am not, indeed.'\n\n'Why, then,' said Mr. Magnus, 'to let you into a little secret, I think\nso too. I don't mind telling you, Mr. Pickwick, although I'm dreadful\njealous by nature--horrid--that the lady is in this house.' Here Mr.\nMagnus took off his spectacles, on purpose to wink, and then put them on\nagain.\n\n'That's what you were running out of the room for, before dinner, then,\nso often,' said Mr. Pickwick archly.\n\n'Hush! Yes, you're right, that was it; not such a fool as to see her,\nthough.'\n\n'No!'\n\n'No; wouldn't do, you know, after having just come off a journey. Wait\ntill to-morrow, sir; double the chance then. Mr. Pickwick, Sir, there is\na suit of clothes in that bag, and a hat in that box, which, I expect,\nin the effect they will produce, will be invaluable to me, sir.'\n\n'Indeed!' said Mr. Pickwick.\n\n'Yes; you must have observed my anxiety about them to-day. I do not\nbelieve that such another suit of clothes, and such a hat, could be\nbought for money, Mr. Pickwick.'\n\nMr. Pickwick congratulated the fortunate owner of the irresistible\ngarments on their acquisition; and Mr. Peter Magnus remained a few\nmoments apparently absorbed in contemplation. 'She's a fine creature,'\nsaid Mr. Magnus.\n\n'Is she?' said Mr. Pickwick.\n\n'Very,' said Mr. Magnus. 'Very. She lives about twenty miles from here,\nMr. Pickwick. I heard she would be here to-night and all to-morrow\nforenoon, and came down to seize the opportunity. I think an inn is a\ngood sort of a place to propose to a single woman in, Mr. Pickwick. She\nis more likely to feel the loneliness of her situation in travelling,\nperhaps, than she would be at home. What do you think, Mr. Pickwick?'\n\n'I think it is very probable,' replied that gentleman.\n\n'I beg your pardon, Mr. Pickwick,' said Mr. Peter Magnus, 'but I am\nnaturally rather curious; what may you have come down here for?'\n\n'On a far less pleasant errand, Sir,' replied Mr. Pickwick, the colour\nmounting to his face at the recollection. 'I have come down here, Sir,\nto expose the treachery and falsehood of an individual, upon whose truth\nand honour I placed implicit reliance.'\n\n'Dear me,' said Mr. Peter Magnus, 'that's very unpleasant. It is a lady,\nI presume? Eh? ah! Sly, Mr. Pickwick, sly. Well, Mr. Pickwick, sir, I\nwouldn't probe your feelings for the world. Painful subjects, these,\nsir, very painful. Don't mind me, Mr. Pickwick, if you wish to give vent\nto your feelings. I know what it is to be jilted, Sir; I have endured\nthat sort of thing three or four times.'\n\n'I am much obliged to you, for your condolence on what you presume to be\nmy melancholy case,' said Mr. Pickwick, winding up his watch, and laying\nit on the table, 'but--'\n\n'No, no,' said Mr. Peter Magnus, 'not a word more; it's a painful\nsubject. I see, I see. What's the time, Mr. Pickwick?' 'Past twelve.'\n\n'Dear me, it's time to go to bed. It will never do, sitting here. I\nshall be pale to-morrow, Mr. Pickwick.'\n\nAt the bare notion of such a calamity, Mr. Peter Magnus rang the bell\nfor the chambermaid; and the striped bag, the red bag, the leathern\nhat-box, and the brown-paper parcel, having been conveyed to his\nbedroom, he retired in company with a japanned candlestick, to one side\nof the house, while Mr. Pickwick, and another japanned candlestick, were\nconducted through a multitude of tortuous windings, to another.\n\n'This is your room, sir,' said the chambermaid.\n\n'Very well,' replied Mr. Pickwick, looking round him. It was a\ntolerably large double-bedded room, with a fire; upon the whole, a more\ncomfortable-looking apartment than Mr. Pickwick's short experience of\nthe accommodations of the Great White Horse had led him to expect.\n\n'Nobody sleeps in the other bed, of course,' said Mr. Pickwick.\n\n'Oh, no, Sir.'\n\n'Very good. Tell my servant to bring me up some hot water at half-past\neight in the morning, and that I shall not want him any more to-night.'\n\n'Yes, Sir,' and bidding Mr. Pickwick good-night, the chambermaid\nretired, and left him alone.\n\nMr. Pickwick sat himself down in a chair before the fire, and fell into\na train of rambling meditations. First he thought of his friends, and\nwondered when they would join him; then his mind reverted to Mrs. Martha\nBardell; and from that lady it wandered, by a natural process, to the\ndingy counting-house of Dodson & Fogg. From Dodson & Fogg's it flew off\nat a tangent, to the very centre of the history of the queer client; and\nthen it came back to the Great White Horse at Ipswich, with sufficient\nclearness to convince Mr. Pickwick that he was falling asleep. So he\nroused himself, and began to undress, when he recollected he had left\nhis watch on the table downstairs.\n\nNow this watch was a special favourite with Mr. Pickwick, having been\ncarried about, beneath the shadow of his waistcoat, for a greater number\nof years than we feel called upon to state at present. The possibility\nof going to sleep, unless it were ticking gently beneath his pillow,\nor in the watch-pocket over his head, had never entered Mr. Pickwick's\nbrain. So as it was pretty late now, and he was unwilling to ring his\nbell at that hour of the night, he slipped on his coat, of which he had\njust divested himself, and taking the japanned candlestick in his hand,\nwalked quietly downstairs. The more stairs Mr. Pickwick went down, the\nmore stairs there seemed to be to descend, and again and again, when Mr.\nPickwick got into some narrow passage, and began to congratulate himself\non having gained the ground-floor, did another flight of stairs appear\nbefore his astonished eyes. At last he reached a stone hall, which he\nremembered to have seen when he entered the house. Passage after passage\ndid he explore; room after room did he peep into; at length, as he was\non the point of giving up the search in despair, he opened the door of\nthe identical room in which he had spent the evening, and beheld his\nmissing property on the table.\n\nMr. Pickwick seized the watch in triumph, and proceeded to retrace his\nsteps to his bedchamber. If his progress downward had been attended\nwith difficulties and uncertainty, his journey back was infinitely more\nperplexing. Rows of doors, garnished with boots of every shape, make,\nand size, branched off in every possible direction. A dozen times did\nhe softly turn the handle of some bedroom door which resembled his own,\nwhen a gruff cry from within of 'Who the devil's that?' or 'What do\nyou want here?' caused him to steal away, on tiptoe, with a perfectly\nmarvellous celerity. He was reduced to the verge of despair, when an\nopen door attracted his attention. He peeped in. Right at last! There\nwere the two beds, whose situation he perfectly remembered, and the fire\nstill burning. His candle, not a long one when he first received it, had\nflickered away in the drafts of air through which he had passed and sank\ninto the socket as he closed the door after him. 'No matter,' said Mr.\nPickwick, 'I can undress myself just as well by the light of the fire.'\n\nThe bedsteads stood one on each side of the door; and on the inner side\nof each was a little path, terminating in a rush-bottomed chair, just\nwide enough to admit of a person's getting into or out of bed, on that\nside, if he or she thought proper. Having carefully drawn the curtains\nof his bed on the outside, Mr. Pickwick sat down on the rush-bottomed\nchair, and leisurely divested himself of his shoes and gaiters. He then\ntook off and folded up his coat, waistcoat, and neckcloth, and slowly\ndrawing on his tasselled nightcap, secured it firmly on his head, by\ntying beneath his chin the strings which he always had attached to that\narticle of dress. It was at this moment that the absurdity of his\nrecent bewilderment struck upon his mind. Throwing himself back in the\nrush-bottomed chair, Mr. Pickwick laughed to himself so heartily, that\nit would have been quite delightful to any man of well-constituted mind\nto have watched the smiles that expanded his amiable features as they\nshone forth from beneath the nightcap.\n\n'It is the best idea,' said Mr. Pickwick to himself, smiling till he\nalmost cracked the nightcap strings--'it is the best idea, my losing\nmyself in this place, and wandering about these staircases, that I ever\nheard of. Droll, droll, very droll.' Here Mr. Pickwick smiled again,\na broader smile than before, and was about to continue the process of\nundressing, in the best possible humour, when he was suddenly stopped\nby a most unexpected interruption: to wit, the entrance into the room of\nsome person with a candle, who, after locking the door, advanced to the\ndressing-table, and set down the light upon it.\n\nThe smile that played on Mr. Pickwick's features was instantaneously\nlost in a look of the most unbounded and wonder-stricken surprise.\nThe person, whoever it was, had come in so suddenly and with so little\nnoise, that Mr. Pickwick had had no time to call out, or oppose their\nentrance. Who could it be? A robber? Some evil-minded person who had\nseen him come upstairs with a handsome watch in his hand, perhaps. What\nwas he to do?\n\nThe only way in which Mr. Pickwick could catch a glimpse of his\nmysterious visitor with the least danger of being seen himself, was by\ncreeping on to the bed, and peeping out from between the curtains on the\nopposite side. To this manoeuvre he accordingly resorted. Keeping the\ncurtains carefully closed with his hand, so that nothing more of him\ncould be seen than his face and nightcap, and putting on his spectacles,\nhe mustered up courage and looked out.\n\nMr. Pickwick almost fainted with horror and dismay. Standing before the\ndressing-glass was a middle-aged lady, in yellow curl-papers, busily\nengaged in brushing what ladies call their 'back-hair.' However the\nunconscious middle-aged lady came into that room, it was quite clear\nthat she contemplated remaining there for the night; for she had brought\na rushlight and shade with her, which, with praiseworthy precaution\nagainst fire, she had stationed in a basin on the floor, where it was\nglimmering away, like a gigantic lighthouse in a particularly small\npiece of water.\n\n'Bless my soul!' thought Mr. Pickwick, 'what a dreadful thing!'\n\n'Hem!' said the lady; and in went Mr. Pickwick's head with\nautomaton-like rapidity.\n\n'I never met with anything so awful as this,' thought poor Mr. Pickwick,\nthe cold perspiration starting in drops upon his nightcap. 'Never. This\nis fearful.'\n\nIt was quite impossible to resist the urgent desire to see what was\ngoing forward. So out went Mr. Pickwick's head again. The prospect was\nworse than before. The middle-aged lady had finished arranging her hair;\nhad carefully enveloped it in a muslin nightcap with a small plaited\nborder; and was gazing pensively on the fire.\n\n'This matter is growing alarming,' reasoned Mr. Pickwick with himself.\n'I can't allow things to go on in this way. By the self-possession of\nthat lady, it is clear to me that I must have come into the wrong\nroom. If I call out she'll alarm the house; but if I remain here the\nconsequences will be still more frightful.' Mr. Pickwick, it is quite\nunnecessary to say, was one of the most modest and delicate-minded of\nmortals. The very idea of exhibiting his nightcap to a lady overpowered\nhim, but he had tied those confounded strings in a knot, and, do what\nhe would, he couldn't get it off. The disclosure must be made. There\nwas only one other way of doing it. He shrunk behind the curtains, and\ncalled out very loudly--\n\n'Ha-hum!'\n\nThat the lady started at this unexpected sound was evident, by her\nfalling up against the rushlight shade; that she persuaded herself it\nmust have been the effect of imagination was equally clear, for when Mr.\nPickwick, under the impression that she had fainted away stone-dead with\nfright, ventured to peep out again, she was gazing pensively on the fire\nas before.\n\n'Most extraordinary female this,' thought Mr. Pickwick, popping in\nagain. 'Ha-hum!'\n\nThese last sounds, so like those in which, as legends inform us, the\nferocious giant Blunderbore was in the habit of expressing his opinion\nthat it was time to lay the cloth, were too distinctly audible to be\nagain mistaken for the workings of fancy.\n\n'Gracious Heaven!' said the middle-aged lady, 'what's that?'\n\n'It's--it's--only a gentleman, ma'am,' said Mr. Pickwick, from behind\nthe curtains.\n\n'A gentleman!' said the lady, with a terrific scream.\n\n'It's all over!' thought Mr. Pickwick.\n\n'A strange man!' shrieked the lady. Another instant and the house would\nbe alarmed. Her garments rustled as she rushed towards the door.\n\n'Ma'am,' said Mr. Pickwick, thrusting out his head in the extremity of\nhis desperation, 'ma'am!'\n\nNow, although Mr. Pickwick was not actuated by any definite object\nin putting out his head, it was instantaneously productive of a good\neffect. The lady, as we have already stated, was near the door. She must\npass it, to reach the staircase, and she would most undoubtedly have\ndone so by this time, had not the sudden apparition of Mr. Pickwick's\nnightcap driven her back into the remotest corner of the apartment,\nwhere she stood staring wildly at Mr. Pickwick, while Mr. Pickwick in\nhis turn stared wildly at her.\n\n'Wretch,' said the lady, covering her eyes with her hands, 'what do you\nwant here?'\n\n'Nothing, ma'am; nothing whatever, ma'am,' said Mr. Pickwick earnestly.\n\n'Nothing!' said the lady, looking up.\n\n'Nothing, ma'am, upon my honour,' said Mr. Pickwick, nodding his head\nso energetically, that the tassel of his nightcap danced again. 'I am\nalmost ready to sink, ma'am, beneath the confusion of addressing a lady\nin my nightcap (here the lady hastily snatched off hers), but I can't\nget it off, ma'am (here Mr. Pickwick gave it a tremendous tug, in proof\nof the statement). It is evident to me, ma'am, now, that I have mistaken\nthis bedroom for my own. I had not been here five minutes, ma'am, when\nyou suddenly entered it.'\n\n'If this improbable story be really true, Sir,' said the lady, sobbing\nviolently, 'you will leave it instantly.'\n\n'I will, ma'am, with the greatest pleasure,' replied Mr. Pickwick.\n\n'Instantly, sir,' said the lady.\n\n'Certainly, ma'am,' interposed Mr. Pickwick, very quickly. 'Certainly,\nma'am. I--I--am very sorry, ma'am,' said Mr. Pickwick, making his\nappearance at the bottom of the bed, 'to have been the innocent occasion\nof this alarm and emotion; deeply sorry, ma'am.'\n\nThe lady pointed to the door. One excellent quality of Mr. Pickwick's\ncharacter was beautifully displayed at this moment, under the most\ntrying circumstances. Although he had hastily put on his hat over his\nnightcap, after the manner of the old patrol; although he carried his\nshoes and gaiters in his hand, and his coat and waistcoat over his arm;\nnothing could subdue his native politeness.\n\n'I am exceedingly sorry, ma'am,' said Mr. Pickwick, bowing very low.\n\n'If you are, Sir, you will at once leave the room,' said the lady.\n\n'Immediately, ma'am; this instant, ma'am,' said Mr. Pickwick, opening\nthe door, and dropping both his shoes with a crash in so doing.\n\n'I trust, ma'am,' resumed Mr. Pickwick, gathering up his shoes, and\nturning round to bow again--'I trust, ma'am, that my unblemished\ncharacter, and the devoted respect I entertain for your sex, will plead\nas some slight excuse for this--' But before Mr. Pickwick could conclude\nthe sentence, the lady had thrust him into the passage, and locked and\nbolted the door behind him.\n\nWhatever grounds of self-congratulation Mr. Pickwick might have for\nhaving escaped so quietly from his late awkward situation, his present\nposition was by no means enviable. He was alone, in an open passage, in\na strange house in the middle of the night, half dressed; it was not\nto be supposed that he could find his way in perfect darkness to a room\nwhich he had been wholly unable to discover with a light, and if he made\nthe slightest noise in his fruitless attempts to do so, he stood every\nchance of being shot at, and perhaps killed, by some wakeful traveller.\nHe had no resource but to remain where he was until daylight appeared.\nSo after groping his way a few paces down the passage, and, to his\ninfinite alarm, stumbling over several pairs of boots in so doing, Mr.\nPickwick crouched into a little recess in the wall, to wait for morning,\nas philosophically as he might.\n\nHe was not destined, however, to undergo this additional trial of\npatience; for he had not been long ensconced in his present concealment\nwhen, to his unspeakable horror, a man, bearing a light, appeared at the\nend of the passage. His horror was suddenly converted into joy, however,\nwhen he recognised the form of his faithful attendant. It was indeed Mr.\nSamuel Weller, who after sitting up thus late, in conversation with the\nboots, who was sitting up for the mail, was now about to retire to rest.\n\n'Sam,' said Mr. Pickwick, suddenly appearing before him, 'where's my\nbedroom?'\n\nMr. Weller stared at his master with the most emphatic surprise; and it\nwas not until the question had been repeated three several times, that\nhe turned round, and led the way to the long-sought apartment.\n\n'Sam,' said Mr. Pickwick, as he got into bed, 'I have made one of the\nmost extraordinary mistakes to-night, that ever were heard of.'\n\n'Wery likely, Sir,' replied Mr. Weller drily.\n\n'But of this I am determined, Sam,' said Mr. Pickwick; 'that if I were\nto stop in this house for six months, I would never trust myself about\nit, alone, again.'\n\n'That's the wery prudentest resolution as you could come to, Sir,'\nreplied Mr. Weller. 'You rayther want somebody to look arter you, Sir,\nwhen your judgment goes out a wisitin'.'\n\n'What do you mean by that, Sam?' said Mr. Pickwick. He raised himself in\nbed, and extended his hand, as if he were about to say something\nmore; but suddenly checking himself, turned round, and bade his valet\n'Good-night.'\n\n'Good-night, Sir,' replied Mr. Weller. He paused when he got outside the\ndoor--shook his head--walked on--stopped--snuffed the candle--shook\nhis head again--and finally proceeded slowly to his chamber, apparently\nburied in the profoundest meditation.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXIII. IN WHICH Mr. SAMUEL WELLER BEGINS TO DEVOTE HIS ENERGIES\nTO THE RETURN MATCH BETWEEN HIMSELF AND Mr. TROTTER\n\n\nIn a small room in the vicinity of the stableyard, betimes in the\nmorning, which was ushered in by Mr. Pickwick's adventure with the\nmiddle--aged lady in the yellow curl-papers, sat Mr. Weller, senior,\npreparing himself for his journey to London. He was sitting in an\nexcellent attitude for having his portrait taken; and here it is.\n\nIt is very possible that at some earlier period of his career, Mr.\nWeller's profile might have presented a bold and determined outline. His\nface, however, had expanded under the influence of good living, and a\ndisposition remarkable for resignation; and its bold, fleshy curves had\nso far extended beyond the limits originally assigned them, that unless\nyou took a full view of his countenance in front, it was difficult to\ndistinguish more than the extreme tip of a very rubicund nose. His chin,\nfrom the same cause, had acquired the grave and imposing form which is\ngenerally described by prefixing the word 'double' to that expressive\nfeature; and his complexion exhibited that peculiarly mottled\ncombination of colours which is only to be seen in gentlemen of his\nprofession, and in underdone roast beef. Round his neck he wore\na crimson travelling-shawl, which merged into his chin by such\nimperceptible gradations, that it was difficult to distinguish the folds\nof the one, from the folds of the other. Over this, he mounted a long\nwaistcoat of a broad pink-striped pattern, and over that again, a\nwide-skirted green coat, ornamented with large brass buttons, whereof\nthe two which garnished the waist, were so far apart, that no man had\never beheld them both at the same time. His hair, which was short,\nsleek, and black, was just visible beneath the capacious brim of a\nlow-crowned brown hat. His legs were encased in knee-cord breeches, and\npainted top-boots; and a copper watch-chain, terminating in one seal,\nand a key of the same material, dangled loosely from his capacious\nwaistband.\n\nWe have said that Mr. Weller was engaged in preparing for his journey\nto London--he was taking sustenance, in fact. On the table before him,\nstood a pot of ale, a cold round of beef, and a very respectable-looking\nloaf, to each of which he distributed his favours in turn, with the most\nrigid impartiality. He had just cut a mighty slice from the latter, when\nthe footsteps of somebody entering the room, caused him to raise his\nhead; and he beheld his son.\n\n'Mornin', Sammy!' said the father.\n\nThe son walked up to the pot of ale, and nodding significantly to his\nparent, took a long draught by way of reply.\n\n'Wery good power o' suction, Sammy,' said Mr. Weller the elder, looking\ninto the pot, when his first-born had set it down half empty. 'You'd ha'\nmade an uncommon fine oyster, Sammy, if you'd been born in that station\no' life.'\n\n'Yes, I des-say, I should ha' managed to pick up a respectable livin','\nreplied Sam applying himself to the cold beef, with considerable vigour.\n\n'I'm wery sorry, Sammy,' said the elder Mr. Weller, shaking up the ale,\nby describing small circles with the pot, preparatory to drinking.\n'I'm wery sorry, Sammy, to hear from your lips, as you let yourself be\ngammoned by that 'ere mulberry man. I always thought, up to three days\nago, that the names of Veller and gammon could never come into contract,\nSammy, never.'\n\n'Always exceptin' the case of a widder, of course,' said Sam.\n\n'Widders, Sammy,' replied Mr. Weller, slightly changing colour. 'Widders\nare 'ceptions to ev'ry rule. I have heerd how many ordinary women\none widder's equal to in pint o' comin' over you. I think it's\nfive-and-twenty, but I don't rightly know vether it ain't more.'\n\n'Well; that's pretty well,' said Sam.\n\n'Besides,' continued Mr. Weller, not noticing the interruption, 'that's\na wery different thing. You know what the counsel said, Sammy, as\ndefended the gen'l'm'n as beat his wife with the poker, venever he got\njolly. \"And arter all, my Lord,\" says he, \"it's a amiable weakness.\" So\nI says respectin' widders, Sammy, and so you'll say, ven you gets as old\nas me.'\n\n'I ought to ha' know'd better, I know,' said Sam.\n\n'Ought to ha' know'd better!' repeated Mr. Weller, striking the table\nwith his fist. 'Ought to ha' know'd better! why, I know a young 'un as\nhasn't had half nor quarter your eddication--as hasn't slept about the\nmarkets, no, not six months--who'd ha' scorned to be let in, in such a\nvay; scorned it, Sammy.' In the excitement of feeling produced by\nthis agonising reflection, Mr. Weller rang the bell, and ordered an\nadditional pint of ale.\n\n'Well, it's no use talking about it now,' said Sam. 'It's over, and\ncan't be helped, and that's one consolation, as they always says in\nTurkey, ven they cuts the wrong man's head off. It's my innings now,\ngov'nor, and as soon as I catches hold o' this 'ere Trotter, I'll have a\ngood 'un.'\n\n'I hope you will, Sammy. I hope you will,' returned Mr. Weller. 'Here's\nyour health, Sammy, and may you speedily vipe off the disgrace as\nyou've inflicted on the family name.' In honour of this toast Mr. Weller\nimbibed at a draught, at least two-thirds of a newly-arrived pint,\nand handed it over to his son, to dispose of the remainder, which he\ninstantaneously did.\n\n'And now, Sammy,' said Mr. Weller, consulting a large double-faced\nsilver watch that hung at the end of the copper chain. 'Now it's time\nI was up at the office to get my vay-bill and see the coach loaded; for\ncoaches, Sammy, is like guns--they requires to be loaded with wery great\ncare, afore they go off.'\n\nAt this parental and professional joke, Mr. Weller, junior, smiled a\nfilial smile. His revered parent continued in a solemn tone--\n\n'I'm a-goin' to leave you, Samivel, my boy, and there's no telling ven I\nshall see you again. Your mother-in-law may ha' been too much for me, or\na thousand things may have happened by the time you next hears any news\no' the celebrated Mr. Veller o' the Bell Savage. The family name depends\nwery much upon you, Samivel, and I hope you'll do wot's right by it.\nUpon all little pints o' breedin', I know I may trust you as vell as if\nit was my own self. So I've only this here one little bit of adwice to\ngive you. If ever you gets to up'ards o' fifty, and feels disposed to go\na-marryin' anybody--no matter who--jist you shut yourself up in your own\nroom, if you've got one, and pison yourself off hand. Hangin's wulgar,\nso don't you have nothin' to say to that. Pison yourself, Samivel, my\nboy, pison yourself, and you'll be glad on it arterwards.' With these\naffecting words, Mr. Weller looked steadfastly on his son, and turning\nslowly upon his heel, disappeared from his sight.\n\nIn the contemplative mood which these words had awakened, Mr. Samuel\nWeller walked forth from the Great White Horse when his father had left\nhim; and bending his steps towards St. Clement's Church, endeavoured to\ndissipate his melancholy, by strolling among its ancient precincts. He\nhad loitered about, for some time, when he found himself in a retired\nspot--a kind of courtyard of venerable appearance--which he discovered\nhad no other outlet than the turning by which he had entered. He was\nabout retracing his steps, when he was suddenly transfixed to the spot\nby a sudden appearance; and the mode and manner of this appearance, we\nnow proceed to relate.\n\nMr. Samuel Weller had been staring up at the old brick houses now\nand then, in his deep abstraction, bestowing a wink upon some\nhealthy-looking servant girl as she drew up a blind, or threw open a\nbedroom window, when the green gate of a garden at the bottom of the\nyard opened, and a man having emerged therefrom, closed the green gate\nvery carefully after him, and walked briskly towards the very spot where\nMr. Weller was standing.\n\nNow, taking this, as an isolated fact, unaccompanied by any attendant\ncircumstances, there was nothing very extraordinary in it; because in\nmany parts of the world men do come out of gardens, close green\ngates after them, and even walk briskly away, without attracting any\nparticular share of public observation. It is clear, therefore, that\nthere must have been something in the man, or in his manner, or both,\nto attract Mr. Weller's particular notice. Whether there was, or not, we\nmust leave the reader to determine, when we have faithfully recorded the\nbehaviour of the individual in question.\n\nWhen the man had shut the green gate after him, he walked, as we have\nsaid twice already, with a brisk pace up the courtyard; but he no\nsooner caught sight of Mr. Weller than he faltered, and stopped, as if\nuncertain, for the moment, what course to adopt. As the green gate was\nclosed behind him, and there was no other outlet but the one in front,\nhowever, he was not long in perceiving that he must pass Mr. Samuel\nWeller to get away. He therefore resumed his brisk pace, and advanced,\nstaring straight before him. The most extraordinary thing about the\nman was, that he was contorting his face into the most fearful and\nastonishing grimaces that ever were beheld. Nature's handiwork never\nwas disguised with such extraordinary artificial carving, as the man had\noverlaid his countenance with in one moment.\n\n'Well!' said Mr. Weller to himself, as the man approached. 'This is wery\nodd. I could ha' swore it was him.'\n\nUp came the man, and his face became more frightfully distorted than\never, as he drew nearer.\n\n'I could take my oath to that 'ere black hair and mulberry suit,' said\nMr. Weller; 'only I never see such a face as that afore.'\n\nAs Mr. Weller said this, the man's features assumed an unearthly twinge,\nperfectly hideous. He was obliged to pass very near Sam, however, and\nthe scrutinising glance of that gentleman enabled him to detect, under\nall these appalling twists of feature, something too like the small eyes\nof Mr. Job Trotter to be easily mistaken.\n\n'Hollo, you Sir!' shouted Sam fiercely.\n\nThe stranger stopped.\n\n'Hollo!' repeated Sam, still more gruffly.\n\nThe man with the horrible face looked, with the greatest surprise,\nup the court, and down the court, and in at the windows of the\nhouses--everywhere but at Sam Weller--and took another step forward,\nwhen he was brought to again by another shout.\n\n'Hollo, you sir!' said Sam, for the third time.\n\nThere was no pretending to mistake where the voice came from now, so the\nstranger, having no other resource, at last looked Sam Weller full in\nthe face.\n\n'It won't do, Job Trotter,' said Sam. 'Come! None o' that 'ere nonsense.\nYou ain't so wery 'andsome that you can afford to throw avay many o'\nyour good looks. Bring them 'ere eyes o' yourn back into their proper\nplaces, or I'll knock 'em out of your head. D'ye hear?'\n\nAs Mr. Weller appeared fully disposed to act up to the spirit of this\naddress, Mr. Trotter gradually allowed his face to resume its natural\nexpression; and then giving a start of joy, exclaimed, 'What do I see?\nMr. Walker!'\n\n'Ah,' replied Sam. 'You're wery glad to see me, ain't you?'\n\n'Glad!' exclaimed Job Trotter; 'oh, Mr. Walker, if you had but known\nhow I have looked forward to this meeting! It is too much, Mr. Walker;\nI cannot bear it, indeed I cannot.' And with these words, Mr. Trotter\nburst into a regular inundation of tears, and, flinging his arms around\nthose of Mr. Weller, embraced him closely, in an ecstasy of joy.\n\n'Get off!' cried Sam, indignant at this process, and vainly endeavouring\nto extricate himself from the grasp of his enthusiastic acquaintance.\n'Get off, I tell you. What are you crying over me for, you portable\nengine?'\n\n'Because I am so glad to see you,' replied Job Trotter, gradually\nreleasing Mr. Weller, as the first symptoms of his pugnacity\ndisappeared. 'Oh, Mr. Walker, this is too much.'\n\n'Too much!' echoed Sam, 'I think it is too much--rayther! Now, what have\nyou got to say to me, eh?'\n\nMr. Trotter made no reply; for the little pink pocket-handkerchief was\nin full force.\n\n'What have you got to say to me, afore I knock your head off?' repeated\nMr. Weller, in a threatening manner.\n\n'Eh!' said Mr. Trotter, with a look of virtuous surprise.\n\n'What have you got to say to me?'\n\n'I, Mr. Walker!'\n\n'Don't call me Valker; my name's Veller; you know that vell enough. What\nhave you got to say to me?'\n\n'Bless you, Mr. Walker--Weller, I mean--a great many things, if you will\ncome away somewhere, where we can talk comfortably. If you knew how I\nhave looked for you, Mr. Weller--'\n\n'Wery hard, indeed, I s'pose?' said Sam drily.\n\n'Very, very, Sir,' replied Mr. Trotter, without moving a muscle of his\nface. 'But shake hands, Mr. Weller.'\n\nSam eyed his companion for a few seconds, and then, as if actuated by a\nsudden impulse, complied with his request. 'How,' said Job Trotter, as\nthey walked away, 'how is your dear, good master? Oh, he is a worthy\ngentleman, Mr. Weller! I hope he didn't catch cold, that dreadful night,\nSir.'\n\nThere was a momentary look of deep slyness in Job Trotter's eye, as he\nsaid this, which ran a thrill through Mr. Weller's clenched fist, as\nhe burned with a desire to make a demonstration on his ribs. Sam\nconstrained himself, however, and replied that his master was extremely\nwell.\n\n'Oh, I am so glad,' replied Mr. Trotter; 'is he here?'\n\n'Is yourn?' asked Sam, by way of reply.\n\n'Oh, yes, he is here, and I grieve to say, Mr. Weller, he is going on\nworse than ever.'\n\n'Ah, ah!' said Sam.\n\n'Oh, shocking--terrible!'\n\n'At a boarding-school?' said Sam.\n\n'No, not at a boarding-school,' replied Job Trotter, with the same sly\nlook which Sam had noticed before; 'not at a boarding-school.'\n\n'At the house with the green gate?' said Sam, eyeing his companion\nclosely.\n\n'No, no--oh, not there,' replied Job, with a quickness very unusual to\nhim, 'not there.'\n\n'What was you a-doin' there?' asked Sam, with a sharp glance. 'Got\ninside the gate by accident, perhaps?'\n\n'Why, Mr. Weller,' replied Job, 'I don't mind telling you my little\nsecrets, because, you know, we took such a fancy for each other when we\nfirst met. You recollect how pleasant we were that morning?'\n\n'Oh, yes,' said Sam, impatiently. 'I remember. Well?'\n\n'Well,' replied Job, speaking with great precision, and in the low tone\nof a man who communicates an important secret; 'in that house with the\ngreen gate, Mr. Weller, they keep a good many servants.'\n\n'So I should think, from the look on it,' interposed Sam.\n\n'Yes,' continued Mr. Trotter, 'and one of them is a cook, who has saved\nup a little money, Mr. Weller, and is desirous, if she can establish\nherself in life, to open a little shop in the chandlery way, you see.'\n'Yes.'\n\n'Yes, Mr. Weller. Well, Sir, I met her at a chapel that I go to; a very\nneat little chapel in this town, Mr. Weller, where they sing the number\nfour collection of hymns, which I generally carry about with me, in a\nlittle book, which you may perhaps have seen in my hand--and I got a\nlittle intimate with her, Mr. Weller, and from that, an acquaintance\nsprung up between us, and I may venture to say, Mr. Weller, that I am to\nbe the chandler.'\n\n'Ah, and a wery amiable chandler you'll make,' replied Sam, eyeing Job\nwith a side look of intense dislike.\n\n'The great advantage of this, Mr. Weller,' continued Job, his eyes\nfilling with tears as he spoke, 'will be, that I shall be able to leave\nmy present disgraceful service with that bad man, and to devote myself\nto a better and more virtuous life; more like the way in which I was\nbrought up, Mr. Weller.'\n\n'You must ha' been wery nicely brought up,' said Sam.\n\n'Oh, very, Mr. Weller, very,' replied Job. At the recollection of\nthe purity of his youthful days, Mr. Trotter pulled forth the pink\nhandkerchief, and wept copiously.\n\n'You must ha' been an uncommon nice boy, to go to school vith,' said\nSam.\n\n'I was, sir,' replied Job, heaving a deep sigh; 'I was the idol of the\nplace.'\n\n'Ah,' said Sam, 'I don't wonder at it. What a comfort you must ha' been\nto your blessed mother.'\n\nAt these words, Mr. Job Trotter inserted an end of the pink handkerchief\ninto the corner of each eye, one after the other, and began to weep\ncopiously.\n\n'Wot's the matter with the man,' said Sam, indignantly. 'Chelsea\nwater-works is nothin' to you. What are you melting vith now? The\nconsciousness o' willainy?'\n\n'I cannot keep my feelings down, Mr. Weller,' said Job, after a short\npause. 'To think that my master should have suspected the conversation\nI had with yours, and so dragged me away in a post-chaise, and after\npersuading the sweet young lady to say she knew nothing of him, and\nbribing the school-mistress to do the same, deserted her for a better\nspeculation! Oh! Mr. Weller, it makes me shudder.'\n\n'Oh, that was the vay, was it?' said Mr. Weller.\n\n'To be sure it was,' replied Job.\n\n'Vell,' said Sam, as they had now arrived near the hotel, 'I vant to\nhave a little bit o' talk with you, Job; so if you're not partickler\nengaged, I should like to see you at the Great White Horse to-night,\nsomewheres about eight o'clock.'\n\n'I shall be sure to come,' said Job.\n\n'Yes, you'd better,' replied Sam, with a very meaning look, 'or else I\nshall perhaps be askin' arter you, at the other side of the green gate,\nand then I might cut you out, you know.'\n\n'I shall be sure to be with you, sir,' said Mr. Trotter; and wringing\nSam's hand with the utmost fervour, he walked away.\n\n'Take care, Job Trotter, take care,' said Sam, looking after him, 'or\nI shall be one too many for you this time. I shall, indeed.' Having\nuttered this soliloquy, and looked after Job till he was to be seen no\nmore, Mr. Weller made the best of his way to his master's bedroom.\n\n'It's all in training, Sir,' said Sam.\n\n'What's in training, Sam?' inquired Mr. Pickwick.\n\n'I've found 'em out, Sir,' said Sam.\n\n'Found out who?'\n\n'That 'ere queer customer, and the melan-cholly chap with the black\nhair.'\n\n'Impossible, Sam!' said Mr. Pickwick, with the greatest energy. 'Where\nare they, Sam: where are they?'\n\n'Hush, hush!' replied Mr. Weller; and as he assisted Mr. Pickwick to\ndress, he detailed the plan of action on which he proposed to enter.\n\n'But when is this to be done, Sam?' inquired Mr. Pickwick.\n\n'All in good time, Sir,' replied Sam.\n\nWhether it was done in good time, or not, will be seen hereafter.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXIV. WHEREIN Mr. PETER MAGNUS GROWS JEALOUS, AND THE\nMIDDLE-AGED LADY APPREHENSIVE, WHICH BRINGS THE PICKWICKIANS WITHIN THE\nGRASP OF THE LAW\n\n\nWhen Mr. Pickwick descended to the room in which he and Mr. Peter Magnus\nhad spent the preceding evening, he found that gentleman with the major\npart of the contents of the two bags, the leathern hat-box, and the\nbrown-paper parcel, displaying to all possible advantage on his person,\nwhile he himself was pacing up and down the room in a state of the\nutmost excitement and agitation.\n\n'Good-morning, Sir,' said Mr. Peter Magnus. 'What do you think of this,\nSir?'\n\n'Very effective indeed,' replied Mr. Pickwick, surveying the garments of\nMr. Peter Magnus with a good-natured smile.\n\n'Yes, I think it'll do,' said Mr. Magnus. 'Mr. Pickwick, Sir, I have\nsent up my card.'\n\n'Have you?' said Mr. Pickwick.\n\n'And the waiter brought back word, that she would see me at eleven--at\neleven, Sir; it only wants a quarter now.'\n\n'Very near the time,' said Mr. Pickwick.\n\n'Yes, it is rather near,' replied Mr. Magnus, 'rather too near to be\npleasant--eh! Mr. Pickwick, sir?'\n\n'Confidence is a great thing in these cases,' observed Mr. Pickwick.\n\n'I believe it is, Sir,' said Mr. Peter Magnus. 'I am very confident,\nSir. Really, Mr. Pickwick, I do not see why a man should feel any fear\nin such a case as this, sir. What is it, Sir? There's nothing to be\nashamed of; it's a matter of mutual accommodation, nothing more. Husband\non one side, wife on the other. That's my view of the matter, Mr.\nPickwick.'\n\n'It is a very philosophical one,' replied Mr. Pickwick. 'But breakfast\nis waiting, Mr. Magnus. Come.'\n\nDown they sat to breakfast, but it was evident, notwithstanding the\nboasting of Mr. Peter Magnus, that he laboured under a very considerable\ndegree of nervousness, of which loss of appetite, a propensity to upset\nthe tea-things, a spectral attempt at drollery, and an irresistible\ninclination to look at the clock, every other second, were among the\nprincipal symptoms.\n\n'He-he-he,'tittered Mr. Magnus, affecting cheerfulness, and gasping with\nagitation. 'It only wants two minutes, Mr. Pickwick. Am I pale, Sir?'\n'Not very,' replied Mr. Pickwick.\n\nThere was a brief pause.\n\n'I beg your pardon, Mr. Pickwick; but have you ever done this sort of\nthing in your time?' said Mr. Magnus.\n\n'You mean proposing?' said Mr. Pickwick.\n\n'Yes.'\n\n'Never,' said Mr. Pickwick, with great energy, 'never.'\n\n'You have no idea, then, how it's best to begin?' said Mr. Magnus.\n\n'Why,' said Mr. Pickwick, 'I may have formed some ideas upon the\nsubject, but, as I have never submitted them to the test of experience,\nI should be sorry if you were induced to regulate your proceedings by\nthem.'\n\n'I should feel very much obliged to you, for any advice, Sir,' said Mr.\nMagnus, taking another look at the clock, the hand of which was verging\non the five minutes past.\n\n'Well, sir,' said Mr. Pickwick, with the profound solemnity with which\nthat great man could, when he pleased, render his remarks so deeply\nimpressive. 'I should commence, sir, with a tribute to the lady's beauty\nand excellent qualities; from them, Sir, I should diverge to my own\nunworthiness.'\n\n'Very good,' said Mr. Magnus.\n\n'Unworthiness for HER only, mind, sir,' resumed Mr. Pickwick; 'for to\nshow that I was not wholly unworthy, sir, I should take a brief review\nof my past life, and present condition. I should argue, by analogy,\nthat to anybody else, I must be a very desirable object. I should\nthen expatiate on the warmth of my love, and the depth of my devotion.\nPerhaps I might then be tempted to seize her hand.'\n\n'Yes, I see,' said Mr. Magnus; 'that would be a very great point.'\n\n'I should then, Sir,' continued Mr. Pickwick, growing warmer as the\nsubject presented itself in more glowing colours before him--'I should\nthen, Sir, come to the plain and simple question, \"Will you have me?\" I\nthink I am justified in assuming that upon this, she would turn away her\nhead.'\n\n'You think that may be taken for granted?' said Mr. Magnus; 'because, if\nshe did not do that at the right place, it would be embarrassing.'\n\n'I think she would,' said Mr. Pickwick. 'Upon this, sir, I should\nsqueeze her hand, and I think--I think, Mr. Magnus--that after I had\ndone that, supposing there was no refusal, I should gently draw away\nthe handkerchief, which my slight knowledge of human nature leads me to\nsuppose the lady would be applying to her eyes at the moment, and steal\na respectful kiss. I think I should kiss her, Mr. Magnus; and at this\nparticular point, I am decidedly of opinion that if the lady were going\nto take me at all, she would murmur into my ears a bashful acceptance.'\n\nMr. Magnus started; gazed on Mr. Pickwick's intelligent face, for a\nshort time in silence; and then (the dial pointing to the ten minutes\npast) shook him warmly by the hand, and rushed desperately from the\nroom.\n\nMr. Pickwick had taken a few strides to and fro; and the small hand of\nthe clock following the latter part of his example, had arrived at the\nfigure which indicates the half-hour, when the door suddenly opened. He\nturned round to meet Mr. Peter Magnus, and encountered, in his stead,\nthe joyous face of Mr. Tupman, the serene countenance of Mr. Winkle, and\nthe intellectual lineaments of Mr. Snodgrass. As Mr. Pickwick greeted\nthem, Mr. Peter Magnus tripped into the room.\n\n'My friends, the gentleman I was speaking of--Mr. Magnus,' said Mr.\nPickwick.\n\n'Your servant, gentlemen,' said Mr. Magnus, evidently in a high state of\nexcitement; 'Mr. Pickwick, allow me to speak to you one moment, sir.'\n\nAs he said this, Mr. Magnus harnessed his forefinger to Mr. Pickwick's\nbuttonhole, and, drawing him to a window recess, said--\n\n'Congratulate me, Mr. Pickwick; I followed your advice to the very\nletter.'\n\n'And it was all correct, was it?' inquired Mr. Pickwick.\n\n'It was, Sir. Could not possibly have been better,' replied Mr. Magnus.\n'Mr. Pickwick, she is mine.'\n\n'I congratulate you, with all my heart,' replied Mr. Pickwick, warmly\nshaking his new friend by the hand.\n\n'You must see her. Sir,' said Mr. Magnus; 'this way, if you please.\nExcuse us for one instant, gentlemen.' Hurrying on in this way, Mr.\nPeter Magnus drew Mr. Pickwick from the room. He paused at the next door\nin the passage, and tapped gently thereat.\n\n'Come in,' said a female voice. And in they went.\n\n'Miss Witherfield,' said Mr. Magnus, 'allow me to introduce my very\nparticular friend, Mr. Pickwick. Mr. Pickwick, I beg to make you known\nto Miss Witherfield.'\n\nThe lady was at the upper end of the room. As Mr. Pickwick bowed,\nhe took his spectacles from his waistcoat pocket, and put them on;\na process which he had no sooner gone through, than, uttering an\nexclamation of surprise, Mr. Pickwick retreated several paces, and the\nlady, with a half-suppressed scream, hid her face in her hands, and\ndropped into a chair; whereupon Mr. Peter Magnus was stricken motionless\non the spot, and gazed from one to the other, with a countenance\nexpressive of the extremities of horror and surprise. This certainly\nwas, to all appearance, very unaccountable behaviour; but the fact\nis, that Mr. Pickwick no sooner put on his spectacles, than he at once\nrecognised in the future Mrs. Magnus the lady into whose room he had so\nunwarrantably intruded on the previous night; and the spectacles had no\nsooner crossed Mr. Pickwick's nose, than the lady at once identified\nthe countenance which she had seen surrounded by all the horrors of a\nnightcap. So the lady screamed, and Mr. Pickwick started.\n\n'Mr. Pickwick!' exclaimed Mr. Magnus, lost in astonishment, 'what is the\nmeaning of this, Sir? What is the meaning of it, Sir?' added Mr. Magnus,\nin a threatening, and a louder tone.\n\n'Sir,' said Mr. Pickwick, somewhat indignant at the very sudden manner\nin which Mr. Peter Magnus had conjugated himself into the imperative\nmood, 'I decline answering that question.'\n\n'You decline it, Sir?' said Mr. Magnus.\n\n'I do, Sir,' replied Mr. Pickwick; 'I object to say anything which may\ncompromise that lady, or awaken unpleasant recollections in her breast,\nwithout her consent and permission.'\n\n'Miss Witherfield,' said Mr. Peter Magnus, 'do you know this person?'\n\n'Know him!' repeated the middle-aged lady, hesitating.\n\n'Yes, know him, ma'am; I said know him,' replied Mr. Magnus, with\nferocity.\n\n'I have seen him,' replied the middle-aged lady.\n\n'Where?' inquired Mr. Magnus, 'where?'\n\n'That,' said the middle-aged lady, rising from her seat, and averting\nher head--'that I would not reveal for worlds.'\n\n'I understand you, ma'am,' said Mr. Pickwick, 'and respect your\ndelicacy; it shall never be revealed by ME depend upon it.'\n\n'Upon my word, ma'am,' said Mr. Magnus, 'considering the situation in\nwhich I am placed with regard to yourself, you carry this matter off\nwith tolerable coolness--tolerable coolness, ma'am.'\n\n'Cruel Mr. Magnus!' said the middle-aged lady; here she wept very\ncopiously indeed.\n\n'Address your observations to me, sir,' interposed Mr. Pickwick; 'I\nalone am to blame, if anybody be.'\n\n'Oh! you alone are to blame, are you, sir?' said Mr. Magnus; 'I--I--see\nthrough this, sir. You repent of your determination now, do you?'\n\n'My determination!' said Mr. Pickwick.\n\n'Your determination, Sir. Oh! don't stare at me, Sir,' said Mr. Magnus;\n'I recollect your words last night, Sir. You came down here, sir, to\nexpose the treachery and falsehood of an individual on whose truth and\nhonour you had placed implicit reliance--eh?' Here Mr. Peter\nMagnus indulged in a prolonged sneer; and taking off his green\nspectacles--which he probably found superfluous in his fit of\njealousy--rolled his little eyes about, in a manner frightful to behold.\n\n'Eh?' said Mr. Magnus; and then he repeated the sneer with increased\neffect. 'But you shall answer it, Sir.'\n\n'Answer what?' said Mr. Pickwick.\n\n'Never mind, sir,' replied Mr. Magnus, striding up and down the room.\n'Never mind.'\n\nThere must be something very comprehensive in this phrase of 'Never\nmind,' for we do not recollect to have ever witnessed a quarrel in the\nstreet, at a theatre, public room, or elsewhere, in which it has not\nbeen the standard reply to all belligerent inquiries. 'Do you call\nyourself a gentleman, sir?'--'Never mind, sir.' 'Did I offer to say\nanything to the young woman, sir?'--'Never mind, sir.' 'Do you want\nyour head knocked up against that wall, sir?'--'Never mind, sir.' It is\nobservable, too, that there would appear to be some hidden taunt in this\nuniversal 'Never mind,' which rouses more indignation in the bosom of\nthe individual addressed, than the most lavish abuse could possibly\nawaken.\n\nWe do not mean to assert that the application of this brevity to\nhimself, struck exactly that indignation to Mr. Pickwick's soul, which\nit would infallibly have roused in a vulgar breast. We merely record the\nfact that Mr. Pickwick opened the room door, and abruptly called out,\n'Tupman, come here!'\n\nMr. Tupman immediately presented himself, with a look of very\nconsiderable surprise.\n\n'Tupman,' said Mr. Pickwick, 'a secret of some delicacy, in which that\nlady is concerned, is the cause of a difference which has just arisen\nbetween this gentleman and myself. When I assure him, in your presence,\nthat it has no relation to himself, and is not in any way connected with\nhis affairs, I need hardly beg you to take notice that if he continue to\ndispute it, he expresses a doubt of my veracity, which I shall consider\nextremely insulting.' As Mr. Pickwick said this, he looked encyclopedias\nat Mr. Peter Magnus.\n\nMr. Pickwick's upright and honourable bearing, coupled with that force\nand energy of speech which so eminently distinguished him, would have\ncarried conviction to any reasonable mind; but, unfortunately, at that\nparticular moment, the mind of Mr. Peter Magnus was in anything but\nreasonable order. Consequently, instead of receiving Mr. Pickwick's\nexplanation as he ought to have done, he forthwith proceeded to work\nhimself into a red-hot, scorching, consuming passion, and to talk about\nwhat was due to his own feelings, and all that sort of thing; adding\nforce to his declamation by striding to and fro, and pulling his\nhair--amusements which he would vary occasionally, by shaking his fist\nin Mr. Pickwick's philanthropic countenance.\n\nMr. Pickwick, in his turn, conscious of his own innocence and rectitude,\nand irritated by having unfortunately involved the middle-aged lady in\nsuch an unpleasant affair, was not so quietly disposed as was his wont.\nThe consequence was, that words ran high, and voices higher; and at\nlength Mr. Magnus told Mr. Pickwick he should hear from him; to which\nMr. Pickwick replied, with laudable politeness, that the sooner he heard\nfrom him the better; whereupon the middle-aged lady rushed in terror\nfrom the room, out of which Mr. Tupman dragged Mr. Pickwick, leaving Mr.\nPeter Magnus to himself and meditation.\n\nIf the middle-aged lady had mingled much with the busy world, or had\nprofited at all by the manners and customs of those who make the laws\nand set the fashions, she would have known that this sort of ferocity\nis the most harmless thing in nature; but as she had lived for the most\npart in the country, and never read the parliamentary debates, she\nwas little versed in these particular refinements of civilised life.\nAccordingly, when she had gained her bedchamber, bolted herself in, and\nbegan to meditate on the scene she had just witnessed, the most terrific\npictures of slaughter and destruction presented themselves to her\nimagination; among which, a full-length portrait of Mr. Peter Magnus\nborne home by four men, with the embellishment of a whole barrelful\nof bullets in his left side, was among the very least. The more the\nmiddle-aged lady meditated, the more terrified she became; and at length\nshe determined to repair to the house of the principal magistrate of\nthe town, and request him to secure the persons of Mr. Pickwick and Mr.\nTupman without delay.\n\nTo this decision the middle-aged lady was impelled by a variety of\nconsiderations, the chief of which was the incontestable proof it would\nafford of her devotion to Mr. Peter Magnus, and her anxiety for his\nsafety. She was too well acquainted with his jealous temperament to\nventure the slightest allusion to the real cause of her agitation on\nbeholding Mr. Pickwick; and she trusted to her own influence and power\nof persuasion with the little man, to quell his boisterous jealousy,\nsupposing that Mr. Pickwick were removed, and no fresh quarrel could\narise. Filled with these reflections, the middle-aged lady arrayed\nherself in her bonnet and shawl, and repaired to the mayor's dwelling\nstraightway.\n\nNow George Nupkins, Esquire, the principal magistrate aforesaid, was as\ngrand a personage as the fastest walker would find out, between sunrise\nand sunset, on the twenty-first of June, which being, according to the\nalmanacs, the longest day in the whole year, would naturally afford\nhim the longest period for his search. On this particular morning, Mr.\nNupkins was in a state of the utmost excitement and irritation, for\nthere had been a rebellion in the town; all the day-scholars at the\nlargest day-school had conspired to break the windows of an obnoxious\napple-seller, and had hooted the beadle and pelted the constabulary--an\nelderly gentleman in top-boots, who had been called out to repress\nthe tumult, and who had been a peace-officer, man and boy, for half\na century at least. And Mr. Nupkins was sitting in his easy-chair,\nfrowning with majesty, and boiling with rage, when a lady was announced\non pressing, private, and particular business. Mr. Nupkins looked calmly\nterrible, and commanded that the lady should be shown in; which command,\nlike all the mandates of emperors, and magistrates, and other great\npotentates of the earth, was forthwith obeyed; and Miss Witherfield,\ninterestingly agitated, was ushered in accordingly.\n\n'Muzzle!' said the magistrate.\n\nMuzzle was an undersized footman, with a long body and short legs.\n\n'Muzzle!' 'Yes, your Worship.'\n\n'Place a chair, and leave the room.'\n\n'Yes, your Worship.'\n\n'Now, ma'am, will you state your business?' said the magistrate.\n\n'It is of a very painful kind, Sir,' said Miss Witherfield.\n\n'Very likely, ma'am,' said the magistrate. 'Compose your feelings,\nma'am.' Here Mr. Nupkins looked benignant. 'And then tell me what legal\nbusiness brings you here, ma'am.' Here the magistrate triumphed over the\nman; and he looked stern again.\n\n'It is very distressing to me, Sir, to give this information,' said Miss\nWitherfield, 'but I fear a duel is going to be fought here.'\n\n'Here, ma'am?' said the magistrate. 'Where, ma'am?'\n\n'In Ipswich.' 'In Ipswich, ma'am! A duel in Ipswich!' said the\nmagistrate, perfectly aghast at the notion. 'Impossible, ma'am; nothing\nof the kind can be contemplated in this town, I am persuaded. Bless my\nsoul, ma'am, are you aware of the activity of our local magistracy? Do\nyou happen to have heard, ma'am, that I rushed into a prize-ring on the\nfourth of May last, attended by only sixty special constables; and, at\nthe hazard of falling a sacrifice to the angry passions of an infuriated\nmultitude, prohibited a pugilistic contest between the Middlesex\nDumpling and the Suffolk Bantam? A duel in Ipswich, ma'am? I don't\nthink--I do not think,' said the magistrate, reasoning with himself,\n'that any two men can have had the hardihood to plan such a breach of\nthe peace, in this town.'\n\n'My information is, unfortunately, but too correct,' said the\nmiddle-aged lady; 'I was present at the quarrel.'\n\n'It's a most extraordinary thing,' said the astounded magistrate.\n'Muzzle!'\n\n'Yes, your Worship.'\n\n'Send Mr. Jinks here, directly! Instantly.'\n\n'Yes, your Worship.'\n\nMuzzle retired; and a pale, sharp-nosed, half-fed, shabbily-clad clerk,\nof middle age, entered the room.\n\n'Mr. Jinks,' said the magistrate. 'Mr. Jinks.'\n\n'Sir,' said Mr. Jinks. 'This lady, Mr. Jinks, has come here, to give\ninformation of an intended duel in this town.'\n\nMr. Jinks, not knowing exactly what to do, smiled a dependent's smile.\n\n'What are you laughing at, Mr. Jinks?' said the magistrate.\n\nMr. Jinks looked serious instantly.\n\n'Mr. Jinks,' said the magistrate, 'you're a fool.'\n\nMr. Jinks looked humbly at the great man, and bit the top of his pen.\n\n'You may see something very comical in this information, Sir--but I can\ntell you this, Mr. Jinks, that you have very little to laugh at,' said\nthe magistrate.\n\nThe hungry-looking Jinks sighed, as if he were quite aware of the fact\nof his having very little indeed to be merry about; and, being ordered\nto take the lady's information, shambled to a seat, and proceeded to\nwrite it down.\n\n'This man, Pickwick, is the principal, I understand?' said the\nmagistrate, when the statement was finished.\n\n'He is,' said the middle-aged lady.\n\n'And the other rioter--what's his name, Mr. Jinks?'\n\n'Tupman, Sir.' 'Tupman is the second?'\n\n'Yes.'\n\n'The other principal, you say, has absconded, ma'am?'\n\n'Yes,' replied Miss Witherfield, with a short cough.\n\n'Very well,' said the magistrate. 'These are two cut-throats from\nLondon, who have come down here to destroy his Majesty's population,\nthinking that at this distance from the capital, the arm of the law\nis weak and paralysed. They shall be made an example of. Draw up the\nwarrants, Mr. Jinks. Muzzle!'\n\n'Yes, your Worship.'\n\n'Is Grummer downstairs?'\n\n'Yes, your Worship.'\n\n'Send him up.' The obsequious Muzzle retired, and presently returned,\nintroducing the elderly gentleman in the top-boots, who was chiefly\nremarkable for a bottle-nose, a hoarse voice, a snuff-coloured surtout,\nand a wandering eye.\n\n'Grummer,' said the magistrate.\n\n'Your Wash-up.'\n\n'Is the town quiet now?'\n\n'Pretty well, your Wash-up,' replied Grummer. 'Pop'lar feeling has in a\nmeasure subsided, consekens o' the boys having dispersed to cricket.'\n\n'Nothing but vigorous measures will do in these times, Grummer,' said\nthe magistrate, in a determined manner. 'If the authority of the king's\nofficers is set at naught, we must have the riot act read. If the civil\npower cannot protect these windows, Grummer, the military must protect\nthe civil power, and the windows too. I believe that is a maxim of the\nconstitution, Mr. Jinks?' 'Certainly, sir,' said Jinks.\n\n'Very good,' said the magistrate, signing the warrants. 'Grummer, you\nwill bring these persons before me, this afternoon. You will find\nthem at the Great White Horse. You recollect the case of the Middlesex\nDumpling and the Suffolk Bantam, Grummer?'\n\nMr. Grummer intimated, by a retrospective shake of the head, that he\nshould never forget it--as indeed it was not likely he would, so long as\nit continued to be cited daily.\n\n'This is even more unconstitutional,' said the magistrate; 'this is\neven a greater breach of the peace, and a grosser infringement of his\nMajesty's prerogative. I believe duelling is one of his Majesty's most\nundoubted prerogatives, Mr. Jinks?'\n\n'Expressly stipulated in Magna Charta, sir,' said Mr. Jinks.\n\n'One of the brightest jewels in the British crown, wrung from his\nMajesty by the barons, I believe, Mr. Jinks?' said the magistrate.\n\n'Just so, Sir,' replied Mr. Jinks.\n\n'Very well,' said the magistrate, drawing himself up proudly, 'it shall\nnot be violated in this portion of his dominions. Grummer, procure\nassistance, and execute these warrants with as little delay as possible.\nMuzzle!'\n\n'Yes, your Worship.'\n\n'Show the lady out.'\n\nMiss Witherfield retired, deeply impressed with the magistrate's\nlearning and research; Mr. Nupkins retired to lunch; Mr. Jinks retired\nwithin himself--that being the only retirement he had, except the\nsofa-bedstead in the small parlour which was occupied by his landlady's\nfamily in the daytime--and Mr. Grummer retired, to wipe out, by his\nmode of discharging his present commission, the insult which had been\nfastened upon himself, and the other representative of his Majesty--the\nbeadle--in the course of the morning.\n\nWhile these resolute and determined preparations for the conservation\nof the king's peace were pending, Mr. Pickwick and his friends, wholly\nunconscious of the mighty events in progress, had sat quietly down to\ndinner; and very talkative and companionable they all were. Mr. Pickwick\nwas in the very act of relating his adventure of the preceding night,\nto the great amusement of his followers, Mr. Tupman especially, when the\ndoor opened, and a somewhat forbidding countenance peeped into the room.\nThe eyes in the forbidding countenance looked very earnestly at Mr.\nPickwick, for several seconds, and were to all appearance satisfied with\ntheir investigation; for the body to which the forbidding countenance\nbelonged, slowly brought itself into the apartment, and presented the\nform of an elderly individual in top-boots--not to keep the reader any\nlonger in suspense, in short, the eyes were the wandering eyes of Mr.\nGrummer, and the body was the body of the same gentleman.\n\nMr. Grummer's mode of proceeding was professional, but peculiar. His\nfirst act was to bolt the door on the inside; his second, to polish\nhis head and countenance very carefully with a cotton handkerchief;\nhis third, to place his hat, with the cotton handkerchief in it, on the\nnearest chair; and his fourth, to produce from the breast-pocket of\nhis coat a short truncheon, surmounted by a brazen crown, with which he\nbeckoned to Mr. Pickwick with a grave and ghost-like air.\n\nMr. Snodgrass was the first to break the astonished silence. He looked\nsteadily at Mr. Grummer for a brief space, and then said emphatically,\n'This is a private room, Sir. A private room.'\n\nMr. Grummer shook his head, and replied, 'No room's private to his\nMajesty when the street door's once passed. That's law. Some people\nmaintains that an Englishman's house is his castle. That's gammon.'\n\nThe Pickwickians gazed on each other with wondering eyes.\n\n'Which is Mr. Tupman?' inquired Mr. Grummer. He had an intuitive\nperception of Mr. Pickwick; he knew him at once.\n\n'My name's Tupman,' said that gentleman.\n\n'My name's Law,' said Mr. Grummer.\n\n'What?' said Mr. Tupman.\n\n'Law,' replied Mr. Grummer--'Law, civil power, and exekative; them's my\ntitles; here's my authority. Blank Tupman, blank Pickwick--against\nthe peace of our sufferin' lord the king--stattit in the case made\nand purwided--and all regular. I apprehend you Pickwick! Tupman--the\naforesaid.'\n\n'What do you mean by this insolence?' said Mr. Tupman, starting up;\n'leave the room!'\n\n'Hollo,' said Mr. Grummer, retreating very expeditiously to the door,\nand opening it an inch or two, 'Dubbley.'\n\n'Well,' said a deep voice from the passage.\n\n'Come for'ard, Dubbley.'\n\nAt the word of command, a dirty-faced man, something over six feet high,\nand stout in proportion, squeezed himself through the half-open door\n(making his face very red in the process), and entered the room.\n\n'Is the other specials outside, Dubbley?' inquired Mr. Grummer.\n\nMr. Dubbley, who was a man of few words, nodded assent.\n\n'Order in the diwision under your charge, Dubbley,' said Mr. Grummer.\n\nMr. Dubbley did as he was desired; and half a dozen men, each with a\nshort truncheon and a brass crown, flocked into the room. Mr. Grummer\npocketed his staff, and looked at Mr. Dubbley; Mr. Dubbley pocketed his\nstaff and looked at the division; the division pocketed their staves and\nlooked at Messrs. Tupman and Pickwick.\n\nMr. Pickwick and his followers rose as one man.\n\n'What is the meaning of this atrocious intrusion upon my privacy?' said\nMr. Pickwick.\n\n'Who dares apprehend me?' said Mr. Tupman.\n\n'What do you want here, scoundrels?' said Mr. Snodgrass.\n\nMr. Winkle said nothing, but he fixed his eyes on Grummer, and bestowed\na look upon him, which, if he had had any feeling, must have pierced his\nbrain. As it was, however, it had no visible effect on him whatever.\n\nWhen the executive perceived that Mr. Pickwick and his friends were\ndisposed to resist the authority of the law, they very significantly\nturned up their coat sleeves, as if knocking them down in the first\ninstance, and taking them up afterwards, were a mere professional act\nwhich had only to be thought of to be done, as a matter of course. This\ndemonstration was not lost upon Mr. Pickwick. He conferred a few moments\nwith Mr. Tupman apart, and then signified his readiness to proceed\nto the mayor's residence, merely begging the parties then and there\nassembled, to take notice, that it was his firm intention to resent this\nmonstrous invasion of his privileges as an Englishman, the instant he\nwas at liberty; whereat the parties then and there assembled laughed\nvery heartily, with the single exception of Mr. Grummer, who seemed to\nconsider that any slight cast upon the divine right of magistrates was a\nspecies of blasphemy not to be tolerated.\n\nBut when Mr. Pickwick had signified his readiness to bow to the laws of\nhis country, and just when the waiters, and hostlers, and chambermaids,\nand post-boys, who had anticipated a delightful commotion from his\nthreatened obstinacy, began to turn away, disappointed and disgusted,\na difficulty arose which had not been foreseen. With every sentiment\nof veneration for the constituted authorities, Mr. Pickwick resolutely\nprotested against making his appearance in the public streets,\nsurrounded and guarded by the officers of justice, like a common\ncriminal. Mr. Grummer, in the then disturbed state of public feeling\n(for it was half-holiday, and the boys had not yet gone home), as\nresolutely protested against walking on the opposite side of the way,\nand taking Mr. Pickwick's parole that he would go straight to the\nmagistrate's; and both Mr. Pickwick and Mr. Tupman as strenuously\nobjected to the expense of a post-coach, which was the only respectable\nconveyance that could be obtained. The dispute ran high, and the dilemma\nlasted long; and just as the executive were on the point of overcoming\nMr. Pickwick's objection to walking to the magistrate's, by the trite\nexpedient of carrying him thither, it was recollected that there stood\nin the inn yard, an old sedan-chair, which, having been originally built\nfor a gouty gentleman with funded property, would hold Mr. Pickwick and\nMr. Tupman, at least as conveniently as a modern post-chaise. The\nchair was hired, and brought into the hall; Mr. Pickwick and Mr. Tupman\nsqueezed themselves inside, and pulled down the blinds; a couple of\nchairmen were speedily found; and the procession started in grand order.\nThe specials surrounded the body of the vehicle; Mr. Grummer and Mr.\nDubbley marched triumphantly in front; Mr. Snodgrass and Mr. Winkle\nwalked arm-in-arm behind; and the unsoaped of Ipswich brought up the\nrear.\n\nThe shopkeepers of the town, although they had a very indistinct\nnotion of the nature of the offence, could not but be much edified and\ngratified by this spectacle. Here was the strong arm of the law,\ncoming down with twenty gold-beater force, upon two offenders from\nthe metropolis itself; the mighty engine was directed by their own\nmagistrate, and worked by their own officers; and both the criminals,\nby their united efforts, were securely shut up, in the narrow compass\nof one sedan-chair. Many were the expressions of approval and admiration\nwhich greeted Mr. Grummer, as he headed the cavalcade, staff in hand;\nloud and long were the shouts raised by the unsoaped; and amidst these\nunited testimonials of public approbation, the procession moved slowly\nand majestically along.\n\nMr. Weller, habited in his morning jacket, with the black calico\nsleeves, was returning in a rather desponding state from an unsuccessful\nsurvey of the mysterious house with the green gate, when, raising his\neyes, he beheld a crowd pouring down the street, surrounding an object\nwhich had very much the appearance of a sedan-chair. Willing to divert\nhis thoughts from the failure of his enterprise, he stepped aside to see\nthe crowd pass; and finding that they were cheering away, very much to\ntheir own satisfaction, forthwith began (by way of raising his spirits)\nto cheer too, with all his might and main.\n\nMr. Grummer passed, and Mr. Dubbley passed, and the sedan passed, and\nthe bodyguard of specials passed, and Sam was still responding to the\nenthusiastic cheers of the mob, and waving his hat about as if he were\nin the very last extreme of the wildest joy (though, of course, he\nhad not the faintest idea of the matter in hand), when he was suddenly\nstopped by the unexpected appearance of Mr. Winkle and Mr. Snodgrass.\n\n'What's the row, gen'l'm'n?'cried Sam. 'Who have they got in this here\nwatch-box in mournin'?'\n\nBoth gentlemen replied together, but their words were lost in the\ntumult.\n\n'Who is it?' cried Sam again.\n\nOnce more was a joint reply returned; and, though the words were\ninaudible, Sam saw by the motion of the two pairs of lips that they had\nuttered the magic word 'Pickwick.'\n\nThis was enough. In another minute Mr. Weller had made his way through\nthe crowd, stopped the chairmen, and confronted the portly Grummer.\n\n'Hollo, old gen'l'm'n!' said Sam. 'Who have you got in this here\nconweyance?'\n\n'Stand back,' said Mr. Grummer, whose dignity, like the dignity of\na great many other men, had been wondrously augmented by a little\npopularity.\n\n'Knock him down, if he don't,' said Mr. Dubbley.\n\n'I'm wery much obliged to you, old gen'l'm'n,' replied Sam, 'for\nconsulting my conwenience, and I'm still more obliged to the other\ngen'l'm'n, who looks as if he'd just escaped from a giant's carrywan,\nfor his wery 'andsome suggestion; but I should prefer your givin' me a\nanswer to my question, if it's all the same to you.--How are you,\nSir?' This last observation was addressed with a patronising air to Mr.\nPickwick, who was peeping through the front window.\n\nMr. Grummer, perfectly speechless with indignation, dragged the\ntruncheon with the brass crown from its particular pocket, and\nflourished it before Sam's eyes.\n\n'Ah,' said Sam, 'it's wery pretty, 'specially the crown, which is\nuncommon like the real one.'\n\n'Stand back!' said the outraged Mr. Grummer. By way of adding force to\nthe command, he thrust the brass emblem of royalty into Sam's neckcloth\nwith one hand, and seized Sam's collar with the other--a compliment\nwhich Mr. Weller returned by knocking him down out of hand, having\npreviously with the utmost consideration, knocked down a chairman for\nhim to lie upon.\n\nWhether Mr. Winkle was seized with a temporary attack of that species\nof insanity which originates in a sense of injury, or animated by this\ndisplay of Mr. Weller's valour, is uncertain; but certain it is, that\nhe no sooner saw Mr. Grummer fall than he made a terrific onslaught on\na small boy who stood next him; whereupon Mr. Snodgrass, in a truly\nChristian spirit, and in order that he might take no one unawares,\nannounced in a very loud tone that he was going to begin, and proceeded\nto take off his coat with the utmost deliberation. He was immediately\nsurrounded and secured; and it is but common justice both to him and Mr.\nWinkle to say, that they did not make the slightest attempt to rescue\neither themselves or Mr. Weller; who, after a most vigorous resistance,\nwas overpowered by numbers and taken prisoner. The procession then\nreformed; the chairmen resumed their stations; and the march was\nre-commenced.\n\nMr. Pickwick's indignation during the whole of this proceeding was\nbeyond all bounds. He could just see Sam upsetting the specials, and\nflying about in every direction; and that was all he could see, for the\nsedan doors wouldn't open, and the blinds wouldn't pull up. At length,\nwith the assistance of Mr. Tupman, he managed to push open the roof;\nand mounting on the seat, and steadying himself as well as he could, by\nplacing his hand on that gentleman's shoulder, Mr. Pickwick proceeded to\naddress the multitude; to dwell upon the unjustifiable manner in which\nhe had been treated; and to call upon them to take notice that his\nservant had been first assaulted. In this order they reached the\nmagistrate's house; the chairmen trotting, the prisoners following, Mr.\nPickwick oratorising, and the crowd shouting.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXV. SHOWING, AMONG A VARIETY OF PLEASANT MATTERS, HOW MAJESTIC\nAND IMPARTIAL Mr. NUPKINS WAS; AND HOW Mr. WELLER RETURNED Mr. JOB\nTROTTER'S SHUTTLECOCK AS HEAVILY AS IT CAME--WITH ANOTHER MATTER, WHICH\nWILL BE FOUND IN ITS PLACE\n\n\nViolent was Mr. Weller's indignation as he was borne along; numerous\nwere the allusions to the personal appearance and demeanour of Mr.\nGrummer and his companion; and valorous were the defiances to any six\nof the gentlemen present, in which he vented his dissatisfaction. Mr.\nSnodgrass and Mr. Winkle listened with gloomy respect to the torrent of\neloquence which their leader poured forth from the sedan-chair, and the\nrapid course of which not all Mr. Tupman's earnest entreaties to have\nthe lid of the vehicle closed, were able to check for an instant. But\nMr. Weller's anger quickly gave way to curiosity when the procession\nturned down the identical courtyard in which he had met with the runaway\nJob Trotter; and curiosity was exchanged for a feeling of the most\ngleeful astonishment, when the all-important Mr. Grummer, commanding the\nsedan-bearers to halt, advanced with dignified and portentous steps\nto the very green gate from which Job Trotter had emerged, and gave a\nmighty pull at the bell-handle which hung at the side thereof. The ring\nwas answered by a very smart and pretty-faced servant-girl, who, after\nholding up her hands in astonishment at the rebellious appearance of the\nprisoners, and the impassioned language of Mr. Pickwick, summoned Mr.\nMuzzle. Mr. Muzzle opened one half of the carriage gate, to admit the\nsedan, the captured ones, and the specials; and immediately slammed it\nin the faces of the mob, who, indignant at being excluded, and anxious\nto see what followed, relieved their feelings by kicking at the gate and\nringing the bell, for an hour or two afterwards. In this amusement they\nall took part by turns, except three or four fortunate individuals,\nwho, having discovered a grating in the gate, which commanded a view\nof nothing, stared through it with the indefatigable perseverance with\nwhich people will flatten their noses against the front windows of a\nchemist's shop, when a drunken man, who has been run over by a dog-cart\nin the street, is undergoing a surgical inspection in the back-parlour.\n\nAt the foot of a flight of steps, leading to the house door, which\nwas guarded on either side by an American aloe in a green tub, the\nsedan-chair stopped. Mr. Pickwick and his friends were conducted into\nthe hall, whence, having been previously announced by Muzzle, and\nordered in by Mr. Nupkins, they were ushered into the worshipful\npresence of that public-spirited officer.\n\nThe scene was an impressive one, well calculated to strike terror to\nthe hearts of culprits, and to impress them with an adequate idea of the\nstern majesty of the law. In front of a big book-case, in a big chair,\nbehind a big table, and before a big volume, sat Mr. Nupkins, looking a\nfull size larger than any one of them, big as they were. The table was\nadorned with piles of papers; and above the farther end of it, appeared\nthe head and shoulders of Mr. Jinks, who was busily engaged in looking\nas busy as possible. The party having all entered, Muzzle carefully\nclosed the door, and placed himself behind his master's chair to await\nhis orders. Mr. Nupkins threw himself back with thrilling solemnity, and\nscrutinised the faces of his unwilling visitors.\n\n'Now, Grummer, who is that person?' said Mr. Nupkins, pointing to Mr.\nPickwick, who, as the spokesman of his friends, stood hat in hand,\nbowing with the utmost politeness and respect.\n\n'This here's Pickvick, your Wash-up,' said Grummer.\n\n'Come, none o' that 'ere, old Strike-a-light,' interposed Mr. Weller,\nelbowing himself into the front rank. 'Beg your pardon, sir, but this\nhere officer o' yourn in the gambooge tops, 'ull never earn a decent\nlivin' as a master o' the ceremonies any vere. This here, sir' continued\nMr. Weller, thrusting Grummer aside, and addressing the magistrate with\npleasant familiarity, 'this here is S. Pickvick, Esquire; this here's\nMr. Tupman; that 'ere's Mr. Snodgrass; and farder on, next him on the\nt'other side, Mr. Winkle--all wery nice gen'l'm'n, Sir, as you'll be\nwery happy to have the acquaintance on; so the sooner you commits these\nhere officers o' yourn to the tread--mill for a month or two, the\nsooner we shall begin to be on a pleasant understanding. Business first,\npleasure arterwards, as King Richard the Third said when he stabbed the\nt'other king in the Tower, afore he smothered the babbies.'\n\nAt the conclusion of this address, Mr. Weller brushed his hat with his\nright elbow, and nodded benignly to Jinks, who had heard him throughout\nwith unspeakable awe.\n\n'Who is this man, Grummer?' said the magistrate.\n\n'Wery desp'rate ch'racter, your Wash-up,' replied Grummer. 'He attempted\nto rescue the prisoners, and assaulted the officers; so we took him into\ncustody, and brought him here.'\n\n'You did quite right,' replied the magistrate. 'He is evidently a\ndesperate ruffian.'\n\n'He is my servant, Sir,' said Mr. Pickwick angrily.\n\n'Oh! he is your servant, is he?' said Mr. Nupkins. 'A conspiracy to\ndefeat the ends of justice, and murder its officers. Pickwick's servant.\nPut that down, Mr. Jinks.'\n\nMr. Jinks did so.\n\n'What's your name, fellow?' thundered Mr. Nupkins.\n\n'Veller,' replied Sam.\n\n'A very good name for the Newgate Calendar,' said Mr. Nupkins.\n\nThis was a joke; so Jinks, Grummer, Dubbley, all the specials, and\nMuzzle, went into fits of laughter of five minutes' duration.\n\n'Put down his name, Mr. Jinks,' said the magistrate.\n\n'Two L's, old feller,' said Sam.\n\nHere an unfortunate special laughed again, whereupon the magistrate\nthreatened to commit him instantly. It is a dangerous thing to laugh at\nthe wrong man, in these cases.\n\n'Where do you live?' said the magistrate.\n\n'Vere ever I can,' replied Sam.\n\n'Put down that, Mr. Jinks,' said the magistrate, who was fast rising\ninto a rage.\n\n'Score it under,' said Sam.\n\n'He is a vagabond, Mr. Jinks,' said the magistrate. 'He is a vagabond on\nhis own statement,--is he not, Mr. Jinks?'\n\n'Certainly, Sir.'\n\n'Then I'll commit him--I'll commit him as such,' said Mr. Nupkins.\n\n'This is a wery impartial country for justice, 'said Sam.'There ain't\na magistrate goin' as don't commit himself twice as he commits other\npeople.'\n\nAt this sally another special laughed, and then tried to look so\nsupernaturally solemn, that the magistrate detected him immediately.\n\n'Grummer,' said Mr. Nupkins, reddening with passion, 'how dare you\nselect such an inefficient and disreputable person for a special\nconstable, as that man? How dare you do it, Sir?'\n\n'I am very sorry, your Wash-up,' stammered Grummer.\n\n'Very sorry!' said the furious magistrate. 'You shall repent of this\nneglect of duty, Mr. Grummer; you shall be made an example of. Take that\nfellow's staff away. He's drunk. You're drunk, fellow.'\n\n'I am not drunk, your Worship,' said the man.\n\n'You ARE drunk,' returned the magistrate. 'How dare you say you are not\ndrunk, Sir, when I say you are? Doesn't he smell of spirits, Grummer?'\n\n'Horrid, your Wash-up,' replied Grummer, who had a vague impression that\nthere was a smell of rum somewhere.\n\n'I knew he did,' said Mr. Nupkins. 'I saw he was drunk when he first\ncame into the room, by his excited eye. Did you observe his excited eye,\nMr. Jinks?'\n\n'Certainly, Sir.'\n\n'I haven't touched a drop of spirits this morning,' said the man, who\nwas as sober a fellow as need be.\n\n'How dare you tell me a falsehood?' said Mr. Nupkins. 'Isn't he drunk at\nthis moment, Mr. Jinks?'\n\n'Certainly, Sir,' replied Jinks.\n\n'Mr. Jinks,' said the magistrate, 'I shall commit that man for contempt.\nMake out his committal, Mr. Jinks.'\n\nAnd committed the special would have been, only Jinks, who was the\nmagistrate's adviser (having had a legal education of three years in a\ncountry attorney's office), whispered the magistrate that he thought\nit wouldn't do; so the magistrate made a speech, and said, that in\nconsideration of the special's family, he would merely reprimand and\ndischarge him. Accordingly, the special was abused, vehemently, for a\nquarter of an hour, and sent about his business; and Grummer, Dubbley,\nMuzzle, and all the other specials, murmured their admiration of the\nmagnanimity of Mr. Nupkins.\n\n'Now, Mr. Jinks,' said the magistrate, 'swear Grummer.'\n\nGrummer was sworn directly; but as Grummer wandered, and Mr. Nupkins's\ndinner was nearly ready, Mr. Nupkins cut the matter short, by putting\nleading questions to Grummer, which Grummer answered as nearly in the\naffirmative as he could. So the examination went off, all very smooth\nand comfortable, and two assaults were proved against Mr. Weller, and\na threat against Mr. Winkle, and a push against Mr. Snodgrass. When all\nthis was done to the magistrate's satisfaction, the magistrate and Mr.\nJinks consulted in whispers.\n\nThe consultation having lasted about ten minutes, Mr. Jinks retired to\nhis end of the table; and the magistrate, with a preparatory cough, drew\nhimself up in his chair, and was proceeding to commence his address,\nwhen Mr. Pickwick interposed.\n\n'I beg your pardon, sir, for interrupting you,' said Mr. Pickwick; 'but\nbefore you proceed to express, and act upon, any opinion you may have\nformed on the statements which have been made here, I must claim my\nright to be heard so far as I am personally concerned.'\n\n'Hold your tongue, Sir,' said the magistrate peremptorily.\n\n'I must submit to you, Sir--' said Mr. Pickwick.\n\n'Hold your tongue, sir,' interposed the magistrate, 'or I shall order an\nofficer to remove you.'\n\n'You may order your officers to do whatever you please, Sir,' said Mr.\nPickwick; 'and I have no doubt, from the specimen I have had of the\nsubordination preserved amongst them, that whatever you order, they will\nexecute, Sir; but I shall take the liberty, Sir, of claiming my right to\nbe heard, until I am removed by force.'\n\n'Pickvick and principle!' exclaimed Mr. Weller, in a very audible voice.\n\n'Sam, be quiet,' said Mr. Pickwick.\n\n'Dumb as a drum vith a hole in it, Sir,' replied Sam.\n\nMr. Nupkins looked at Mr. Pickwick with a gaze of intense astonishment,\nat his displaying such unwonted temerity; and was apparently about to\nreturn a very angry reply, when Mr. Jinks pulled him by the sleeve,\nand whispered something in his ear. To this, the magistrate returned\na half-audible answer, and then the whispering was renewed. Jinks was\nevidently remonstrating. At length the magistrate, gulping down, with a\nvery bad grace, his disinclination to hear anything more, turned to Mr.\nPickwick, and said sharply, 'What do you want to say?'\n\n'First,' said Mr. Pickwick, sending a look through his spectacles, under\nwhich even Nupkins quailed, 'first, I wish to know what I and my friend\nhave been brought here for?'\n\n'Must I tell him?' whispered the magistrate to Jinks.\n\n'I think you had better, sir,' whispered Jinks to the magistrate. 'An\ninformation has been sworn before me,' said the magistrate, 'that it\nis apprehended you are going to fight a duel, and that the other man,\nTupman, is your aider and abettor in it. Therefore--eh, Mr. Jinks?'\n\n'Certainly, sir.'\n\n'Therefore, I call upon you both, to--I think that's the course, Mr.\nJinks?'\n\n'Certainly, Sir.'\n\n'To--to--what, Mr. Jinks?' said the magistrate pettishly.\n\n'To find bail, sir.'\n\n'Yes. Therefore, I call upon you both--as I was about to say when I\nwas interrupted by my clerk--to find bail.' 'Good bail,' whispered Mr.\nJinks.\n\n'I shall require good bail,' said the magistrate.\n\n'Town's-people,' whispered Jinks.\n\n'They must be townspeople,' said the magistrate.\n\n'Fifty pounds each,' whispered Jinks, 'and householders, of course.'\n\n'I shall require two sureties of fifty pounds each,' said the magistrate\naloud, with great dignity, 'and they must be householders, of course.'\n\n'But bless my heart, Sir,' said Mr. Pickwick, who, together with Mr.\nTupman, was all amazement and indignation; 'we are perfect strangers\nin this town. I have as little knowledge of any householders here, as I\nhave intention of fighting a duel with anybody.'\n\n'I dare say,' replied the magistrate, 'I dare say--don't you, Mr.\nJinks?'\n\n'Certainly, Sir.'\n\n'Have you anything more to say?' inquired the magistrate.\n\nMr. Pickwick had a great deal more to say, which he would no doubt\nhave said, very little to his own advantage, or the magistrate's\nsatisfaction, if he had not, the moment he ceased speaking, been pulled\nby the sleeve by Mr. Weller, with whom he was immediately engaged in\nso earnest a conversation, that he suffered the magistrate's inquiry to\npass wholly unnoticed. Mr. Nupkins was not the man to ask a question\nof the kind twice over; and so, with another preparatory cough,\nhe proceeded, amidst the reverential and admiring silence of the\nconstables, to pronounce his decision. He should fine Weller two pounds\nfor the first assault, and three pounds for the second. He should fine\nWinkle two pounds, and Snodgrass one pound, besides requiring them to\nenter into their own recognisances to keep the peace towards all his\nMajesty's subjects, and especially towards his liege servant, Daniel\nGrummer. Pickwick and Tupman he had already held to bail.\n\nImmediately on the magistrate ceasing to speak, Mr. Pickwick, with a\nsmile mantling on his again good-humoured countenance, stepped forward,\nand said--\n\n'I beg the magistrate's pardon, but may I request a few minutes' private\nconversation with him, on a matter of deep importance to himself?'\n\n'What?' said the magistrate. Mr. Pickwick repeated his request.\n\n'This is a most extraordinary request,' said the magistrate. 'A private\ninterview?'\n\n'A private interview,' replied Mr. Pickwick firmly; 'only, as a part of\nthe information which I wish to communicate is derived from my servant,\nI should wish him to be present.'\n\nThe magistrate looked at Mr. Jinks; Mr. Jinks looked at the magistrate;\nthe officers looked at each other in amazement. Mr. Nupkins turned\nsuddenly pale. Could the man Weller, in a moment of remorse, have\ndivulged some secret conspiracy for his assassination? It was a dreadful\nthought. He was a public man; and he turned paler, as he thought of\nJulius Caesar and Mr. Perceval.\n\nThe magistrate looked at Mr. Pickwick again, and beckoned Mr. Jinks.\n\n'What do you think of this request, Mr. Jinks?' murmured Mr. Nupkins.\n\nMr. Jinks, who didn't exactly know what to think of it, and was afraid\nhe might offend, smiled feebly, after a dubious fashion, and, screwing\nup the corners of his mouth, shook his head slowly from side to side.\n\n'Mr. Jinks,' said the magistrate gravely, 'you are an ass.'\n\nAt this little expression of opinion, Mr. Jinks smiled again--rather\nmore feebly than before--and edged himself, by degrees, back into his\nown corner.\n\nMr. Nupkins debated the matter within himself for a few seconds, and\nthen, rising from his chair, and requesting Mr. Pickwick and Sam\nto follow him, led the way into a small room which opened into the\njustice-parlour. Desiring Mr. Pickwick to walk to the upper end of the\nlittle apartment, and holding his hand upon the half-closed door, that\nhe might be able to effect an immediate escape, in case there was the\nleast tendency to a display of hostilities, Mr. Nupkins expressed his\nreadiness to hear the communication, whatever it might be.\n\n'I will come to the point at once, sir,' said Mr. Pickwick; 'it affects\nyourself and your credit materially. I have every reason to believe,\nSir, that you are harbouring in your house a gross impostor!'\n\n'Two,' interrupted Sam. 'Mulberry agin all natur, for tears and\nwillainny!'\n\n'Sam,' said Mr. Pickwick, 'if I am to render myself intelligible to this\ngentleman, I must beg you to control your feelings.'\n\n'Wery sorry, Sir,' replied Mr. Weller; 'but when I think o' that 'ere\nJob, I can't help opening the walve a inch or two.'\n\n'In one word, Sir,' said Mr. Pickwick, 'is my servant right in\nsuspecting that a certain Captain Fitz-Marshall is in the habit of\nvisiting here? Because,' added Mr. Pickwick, as he saw that Mr. Nupkins\nwas about to offer a very indignant interruption, 'because if he be, I\nknow that person to be a--'\n\n'Hush, hush,' said Mr. Nupkins, closing the door. 'Know him to be what,\nSir?'\n\n'An unprincipled adventurer--a dishonourable character--a man who preys\nupon society, and makes easily-deceived people his dupes, Sir; his\nabsurd, his foolish, his wretched dupes, Sir,' said the excited Mr.\nPickwick.\n\n'Dear me,' said Mr. Nupkins, turning very red, and altering his whole\nmanner directly. 'Dear me, Mr.--'\n\n'Pickvick,' said Sam.\n\n'Pickwick,' said the magistrate, 'dear me, Mr. Pickwick--pray take a\nseat--you cannot mean this? Captain Fitz-Marshall!'\n\n'Don't call him a cap'en,' said Sam, 'nor Fitz-Marshall neither; he\nain't neither one nor t'other. He's a strolling actor, he is, and his\nname's Jingle; and if ever there was a wolf in a mulberry suit, that\n'ere Job Trotter's him.'\n\n'It is very true, Sir,' said Mr. Pickwick, replying to the magistrate's\nlook of amazement; 'my only business in this town, is to expose the\nperson of whom we now speak.'\n\nMr. Pickwick proceeded to pour into the horror-stricken ear of Mr.\nNupkins, an abridged account of all Mr. Jingle's atrocities. He related\nhow he had first met him; how he had eloped with Miss Wardle; how he had\ncheerfully resigned the lady for a pecuniary consideration; how he had\nentrapped himself into a lady's boarding-school at midnight; and how\nhe (Mr. Pickwick) now felt it his duty to expose his assumption of his\npresent name and rank.\n\nAs the narrative proceeded, all the warm blood in the body of Mr.\nNupkins tingled up into the very tips of his ears. He had picked up the\ncaptain at a neighbouring race-course. Charmed with his long list of\naristocratic acquaintance, his extensive travel, and his fashionable\ndemeanour, Mrs. Nupkins and Miss Nupkins had exhibited Captain\nFitz-Marshall, and quoted Captain Fitz-Marshall, and hurled Captain\nFitz-Marshall at the devoted heads of their select circle of\nacquaintance, until their bosom friends, Mrs. Porkenham and the Misses\nPorkenhams, and Mr. Sidney Porkenham, were ready to burst with\njealousy and despair. And now, to hear, after all, that he was a needy\nadventurer, a strolling player, and if not a swindler, something so very\nlike it, that it was hard to tell the difference! Heavens! what would\nthe Porkenhams say! What would be the triumph of Mr. Sidney Porkenham\nwhen he found that his addresses had been slighted for such a rival!\nHow should he, Nupkins, meet the eye of old Porkenham at the next\nquarter-sessions! And what a handle would it be for the opposition\nmagisterial party if the story got abroad!\n\n'But after all,' said Mr. Nupkins, brightening for a moment, after a\nlong pause; 'after all, this is a mere statement. Captain Fitz-Marshall\nis a man of very engaging manners, and, I dare say, has many enemies.\nWhat proof have you of the truth of these representations?'\n\n'Confront me with him,' said Mr. Pickwick, 'that is all I ask, and all\nI require. Confront him with me and my friends here; you will want no\nfurther proof.'\n\n'Why,' said Mr. Nupkins, 'that might be very easily done, for he will\nbe here to-night, and then there would be no occasion to make the matter\npublic, just--just--for the young man's own sake, you know. I--I--should\nlike to consult Mrs. Nupkins on the propriety of the step, in the first\ninstance, though. At all events, Mr. Pickwick, we must despatch this\nlegal business before we can do anything else. Pray step back into the\nnext room.'\n\nInto the next room they went.\n\n'Grummer,' said the magistrate, in an awful voice.\n\n'Your Wash-up,' replied Grummer, with the smile of a favourite.\n\n'Come, come, Sir,' said the magistrate sternly, 'don't let me see any of\nthis levity here. It is very unbecoming, and I can assure you that\nyou have very little to smile at. Was the account you gave me just now\nstrictly true? Now be careful, sir!' 'Your Wash-up,' stammered Grummer,\n'I-'\n\n'Oh, you are confused, are you?' said the magistrate. 'Mr. Jinks, you\nobserve this confusion?'\n\n'Certainly, Sir,' replied Jinks.\n\n'Now,' said the magistrate, 'repeat your statement, Grummer, and again I\nwarn you to be careful. Mr. Jinks, take his words down.'\n\nThe unfortunate Grummer proceeded to re-state his complaint, but, what\nbetween Mr. Jinks's taking down his words, and the magistrate's taking\nthem up, his natural tendency to rambling, and his extreme confusion,\nhe managed to get involved, in something under three minutes, in such\na mass of entanglement and contradiction, that Mr. Nupkins at once\ndeclared he didn't believe him. So the fines were remitted, and\nMr. Jinks found a couple of bail in no time. And all these solemn\nproceedings having been satisfactorily concluded, Mr. Grummer was\nignominiously ordered out--an awful instance of the instability of human\ngreatness, and the uncertain tenure of great men's favour.\n\nMrs. Nupkins was a majestic female in a pink gauze turban and a light\nbrown wig. Miss Nupkins possessed all her mamma's haughtiness without\nthe turban, and all her ill-nature without the wig; and whenever the\nexercise of these two amiable qualities involved mother and daughter\nin some unpleasant dilemma, as they not infrequently did, they\nboth concurred in laying the blame on the shoulders of Mr. Nupkins.\nAccordingly, when Mr. Nupkins sought Mrs. Nupkins, and detailed the\ncommunication which had been made by Mr. Pickwick, Mrs. Nupkins suddenly\nrecollected that she had always expected something of the kind; that she\nhad always said it would be so; that her advice was never taken; that\nshe really did not know what Mr. Nupkins supposed she was; and so forth.\n\n'The idea!' said Miss Nupkins, forcing a tear of very scanty proportions\ninto the corner of each eye; 'the idea of my being made such a fool of!'\n\n'Ah! you may thank your papa, my dear,' said Mrs. Nupkins; 'how I\nhave implored and begged that man to inquire into the captain's family\nconnections; how I have urged and entreated him to take some decisive\nstep! I am quite certain nobody would believe it--quite.'\n\n'But, my dear,' said Mr. Nupkins.\n\n'Don't talk to me, you aggravating thing, don't!' said Mrs. Nupkins.\n\n'My love,' said Mr. Nupkins, 'you professed yourself very fond of\nCaptain Fitz-Marshall. You have constantly asked him here, my dear, and\nyou have lost no opportunity of introducing him elsewhere.'\n\n'Didn't I say so, Henrietta?' cried Mrs. Nupkins, appealing to her\ndaughter with the air of a much-injured female. 'Didn't I say that your\npapa would turn round and lay all this at my door? Didn't I say so?'\nHere Mrs. Nupkins sobbed.\n\n'Oh, pa!' remonstrated Miss Nupkins. And here she sobbed too.\n\n'Isn't it too much, when he has brought all this disgrace and ridicule\nupon us, to taunt me with being the cause of it?' exclaimed Mrs.\nNupkins.\n\n'How can we ever show ourselves in society!' said Miss Nupkins.\n\n'How can we face the Porkenhams?' cried Mrs. Nupkins.\n\n'Or the Griggs!' cried Miss Nupkins. 'Or the Slummintowkens!' cried\nMrs. Nupkins. 'But what does your papa care! What is it to HIM!' At this\ndreadful reflection, Mrs. Nupkins wept mental anguish, and Miss Nupkins\nfollowed on the same side.\n\nMrs. Nupkins's tears continued to gush forth, with great velocity, until\nshe had gained a little time to think the matter over; when she decided,\nin her own mind, that the best thing to do would be to ask Mr. Pickwick\nand his friends to remain until the captain's arrival, and then to\ngive Mr. Pickwick the opportunity he sought. If it appeared that he\nhad spoken truly, the captain could be turned out of the house without\nnoising the matter abroad, and they could easily account to the\nPorkenhams for his disappearance, by saying that he had been appointed,\nthrough the Court influence of his family, to the governor-generalship\nof Sierra Leone, of Saugur Point, or any other of those salubrious\nclimates which enchant Europeans so much, that when they once get there,\nthey can hardly ever prevail upon themselves to come back again.\n\nWhen Mrs. Nupkins dried up her tears, Miss Nupkins dried up hers, and\nMr. Nupkins was very glad to settle the matter as Mrs. Nupkins had\nproposed. So Mr. Pickwick and his friends, having washed off all\nmarks of their late encounter, were introduced to the ladies, and soon\nafterwards to their dinner; and Mr. Weller, whom the magistrate, with\nhis peculiar sagacity, had discovered in half an hour to be one of the\nfinest fellows alive, was consigned to the care and guardianship of Mr.\nMuzzle, who was specially enjoined to take him below, and make much of\nhim.\n\n'How de do, sir?' said Mr. Muzzle, as he conducted Mr. Weller down the\nkitchen stairs.\n\n'Why, no considerable change has taken place in the state of my system,\nsince I see you cocked up behind your governor's chair in the parlour, a\nlittle vile ago,' replied Sam.\n\n'You will excuse my not taking more notice of you then,' said Mr.\nMuzzle. 'You see, master hadn't introduced us, then. Lord, how fond he\nis of you, Mr. Weller, to be sure!'\n\n'Ah!' said Sam, 'what a pleasant chap he is!'\n\n'Ain't he?'replied Mr. Muzzle.\n\n'So much humour,' said Sam.\n\n'And such a man to speak,' said Mr. Muzzle. 'How his ideas flow, don't\nthey?'\n\n'Wonderful,' replied Sam; 'they comes a-pouring out, knocking each\nother's heads so fast, that they seems to stun one another; you hardly\nknow what he's arter, do you?' 'That's the great merit of his style of\nspeaking,' rejoined Mr. Muzzle. 'Take care of the last step, Mr. Weller.\nWould you like to wash your hands, sir, before we join the ladies'!\nHere's a sink, with the water laid on, Sir, and a clean jack towel\nbehind the door.'\n\n'Ah! perhaps I may as well have a rinse,' replied Mr. Weller, applying\nplenty of yellow soap to the towel, and rubbing away till his face shone\nagain. 'How many ladies are there?'\n\n'Only two in our kitchen,' said Mr. Muzzle; 'cook and 'ouse-maid. We\nkeep a boy to do the dirty work, and a gal besides, but they dine in the\nwash'us.'\n\n'Oh, they dines in the wash'us, do they?' said Mr. Weller.\n\n'Yes,' replied Mr. Muzzle, 'we tried 'em at our table when they first\ncome, but we couldn't keep 'em. The gal's manners is dreadful vulgar;\nand the boy breathes so very hard while he's eating, that we found it\nimpossible to sit at table with him.'\n\n'Young grampus!' said Mr. Weller.\n\n'Oh, dreadful,' rejoined Mr. Muzzle; 'but that is the worst of country\nservice, Mr. Weller; the juniors is always so very savage. This way,\nsir, if you please, this way.'\n\nPreceding Mr. Weller, with the utmost politeness, Mr. Muzzle conducted\nhim into the kitchen.\n\n'Mary,' said Mr. Muzzle to the pretty servant-girl, 'this is Mr. Weller;\na gentleman as master has sent down, to be made as comfortable as\npossible.'\n\n'And your master's a knowin' hand, and has just sent me to the right\nplace,' said Mr. Weller, with a glance of admiration at Mary. 'If I\nwos master o' this here house, I should alvays find the materials for\ncomfort vere Mary wos.' 'Lor, Mr. Weller!' said Mary blushing.\n\n'Well, I never!' ejaculated the cook.\n\n'Bless me, cook, I forgot you,' said Mr. Muzzle. 'Mr. Weller, let me\nintroduce you.'\n\n'How are you, ma'am?' said Mr. Weller.'Wery glad to see you, indeed, and\nhope our acquaintance may be a long 'un, as the gen'l'm'n said to the\nfi' pun' note.'\n\nWhen this ceremony of introduction had been gone through, the cook and\nMary retired into the back kitchen to titter, for ten minutes; then\nreturning, all giggles and blushes, they sat down to dinner. Mr.\nWeller's easy manners and conversational powers had such irresistible\ninfluence with his new friends, that before the dinner was half over,\nthey were on a footing of perfect intimacy, and in possession of a full\naccount of the delinquency of Job Trotter.\n\n'I never could a-bear that Job,' said Mary.\n\n'No more you never ought to, my dear,' replied Mr. Weller.\n\n'Why not?' inquired Mary.\n\n''Cos ugliness and svindlin' never ought to be formiliar with elegance\nand wirtew,' replied Mr. Weller. 'Ought they, Mr. Muzzle?'\n\n'Not by no means,' replied that gentleman.\n\nHere Mary laughed, and said the cook had made her; and the cook laughed,\nand said she hadn't.\n\n'I ha'n't got a glass,' said Mary.\n\n'Drink with me, my dear,' said Mr. Weller. 'Put your lips to this here\ntumbler, and then I can kiss you by deputy.'\n\n'For shame, Mr. Weller!' said Mary.\n\n'What's a shame, my dear?'\n\n'Talkin' in that way.'\n\n'Nonsense; it ain't no harm. It's natur; ain't it, cook?'\n\n'Don't ask me, imperence,' replied the cook, in a high state of delight;\nand hereupon the cook and Mary laughed again, till what between the\nbeer, and the cold meat, and the laughter combined, the latter young\nlady was brought to the verge of choking--an alarming crisis from which\nshe was only recovered by sundry pats on the back, and other necessary\nattentions, most delicately administered by Mr. Samuel Weller. In the\nmidst of all this jollity and conviviality, a loud ring was heard at\nthe garden gate, to which the young gentleman who took his meals in the\nwash-house, immediately responded. Mr. Weller was in the height of\nhis attentions to the pretty house-maid; Mr. Muzzle was busy doing the\nhonours of the table; and the cook had just paused to laugh, in the very\nact of raising a huge morsel to her lips; when the kitchen door opened,\nand in walked Mr. Job Trotter.\n\nWe have said in walked Mr. Job Trotter, but the statement is not\ndistinguished by our usual scrupulous adherence to fact. The door opened\nand Mr. Trotter appeared. He would have walked in, and was in the\nvery act of doing so, indeed, when catching sight of Mr. Weller,\nhe involuntarily shrank back a pace or two, and stood gazing on the\nunexpected scene before him, perfectly motionless with amazement and\nterror.\n\n'Here he is!' said Sam, rising with great glee. 'Why we were that wery\nmoment a-speaking o' you. How are you? Where have you been? Come in.'\n\nLaying his hand on the mulberry collar of the unresisting Job, Mr.\nWeller dragged him into the kitchen; and, locking the door, handed the\nkey to Mr. Muzzle, who very coolly buttoned it up in a side pocket.\n\n'Well, here's a game!' cried Sam. 'Only think o' my master havin' the\npleasure o' meeting yourn upstairs, and me havin' the joy o' meetin'\nyou down here. How are you gettin' on, and how is the chandlery bis'ness\nlikely to do? Well, I am so glad to see you. How happy you look. It's\nquite a treat to see you; ain't it, Mr. Muzzle?'\n\n'Quite,' said Mr. Muzzle.\n\n'So cheerful he is!' said Sam.\n\n'In such good spirits!' said Muzzle. 'And so glad to see us--that makes\nit so much more comfortable,' said Sam. 'Sit down; sit down.'\n\nMr. Trotter suffered himself to be forced into a chair by the fireside.\nHe cast his small eyes, first on Mr. Weller, and then on Mr. Muzzle, but\nsaid nothing.\n\n'Well, now,' said Sam, 'afore these here ladies, I should jest like to\nask you, as a sort of curiosity, whether you don't consider yourself\nas nice and well-behaved a young gen'l'm'n, as ever used a pink check\npocket-handkerchief, and the number four collection?'\n\n'And as was ever a-going to be married to a cook,' said that lady\nindignantly. 'The willin!'\n\n'And leave off his evil ways, and set up in the chandlery line\narterwards,' said the housemaid.\n\n'Now, I'll tell you what it is, young man,' said Mr. Muzzle solemnly,\nenraged at the last two allusions, 'this here lady (pointing to the\ncook) keeps company with me; and when you presume, Sir, to talk of\nkeeping chandlers' shops with her, you injure me in one of the most\ndelicatest points in which one man can injure another. Do you understand\nthat, Sir?'\n\nHere Mr. Muzzle, who had a great notion of his eloquence, in which he\nimitated his master, paused for a reply.\n\nBut Mr. Trotter made no reply. So Mr. Muzzle proceeded in a solemn\nmanner--\n\n'It's very probable, sir, that you won't be wanted upstairs for several\nminutes, Sir, because MY master is at this moment particularly engaged\nin settling the hash of YOUR master, Sir; and therefore you'll have\nleisure, Sir, for a little private talk with me, Sir. Do you understand\nthat, Sir?'\n\nMr. Muzzle again paused for a reply; and again Mr. Trotter disappointed\nhim.\n\n'Well, then,' said Mr. Muzzle, 'I'm very sorry to have to explain myself\nbefore ladies, but the urgency of the case will be my excuse. The back\nkitchen's empty, Sir. If you will step in there, Sir, Mr. Weller will\nsee fair, and we can have mutual satisfaction till the bell rings.\nFollow me, Sir!'\n\nAs Mr. Muzzle uttered these words, he took a step or two towards the\ndoor; and, by way of saving time, began to pull off his coat as he\nwalked along.\n\nNow, the cook no sooner heard the concluding words of this desperate\nchallenge, and saw Mr. Muzzle about to put it into execution, than she\nuttered a loud and piercing shriek; and rushing on Mr. Job Trotter, who\nrose from his chair on the instant, tore and buffeted his large flat\nface, with an energy peculiar to excited females, and twining her hands\nin his long black hair, tore therefrom about enough to make five or six\ndozen of the very largest-sized mourning-rings. Having accomplished this\nfeat with all the ardour which her devoted love for Mr. Muzzle inspired,\nshe staggered back; and being a lady of very excitable and delicate\nfeelings, she instantly fell under the dresser, and fainted away.\n\nAt this moment, the bell rang.\n\n'That's for you, Job Trotter,' said Sam; and before Mr. Trotter could\noffer remonstrance or reply--even before he had time to stanch the\nwounds inflicted by the insensible lady--Sam seized one arm and Mr.\nMuzzle the other, and one pulling before, and the other pushing behind,\nthey conveyed him upstairs, and into the parlour.\n\nIt was an impressive tableau. Alfred Jingle, Esquire, alias Captain\nFitz-Marshall, was standing near the door with his hat in his hand, and\na smile on his face, wholly unmoved by his very unpleasant situation.\nConfronting him, stood Mr. Pickwick, who had evidently been inculcating\nsome high moral lesson; for his left hand was beneath his coat tail, and\nhis right extended in air, as was his wont when delivering himself of\nan impressive address. At a little distance, stood Mr. Tupman with\nindignant countenance, carefully held back by his two younger friends;\nat the farther end of the room were Mr. Nupkins, Mrs. Nupkins, and Miss\nNupkins, gloomily grand and savagely vexed. 'What prevents me,' said Mr.\nNupkins, with magisterial dignity, as Job was brought in--'what prevents\nme from detaining these men as rogues and impostors? It is a foolish\nmercy. What prevents me?'\n\n'Pride, old fellow, pride,' replied Jingle, quite at his ease. 'Wouldn't\ndo--no go--caught a captain, eh?--ha! ha! very good--husband for\ndaughter--biter bit--make it public--not for worlds--look stupid--very!'\n\n'Wretch,' said Mr. Nupkins, 'we scorn your base insinuations.'\n\n'I always hated him,' added Henrietta.\n\n'Oh, of course,' said Jingle. 'Tall young man--old lover--Sidney\nPorkenham--rich--fine fellow--not so rich as captain, though, eh?--turn\nhim away--off with him--anything for captain--nothing like captain\nanywhere--all the girls--raving mad--eh, Job, eh?'\n\nHere Mr. Jingle laughed very heartily; and Job, rubbing his hands with\ndelight, uttered the first sound he had given vent to since he entered\nthe house--a low, noiseless chuckle, which seemed to intimate that\nhe enjoyed his laugh too much, to let any of it escape in sound. 'Mr.\nNupkins,' said the elder lady,'this is not a fit conversation for the\nservants to overhear. Let these wretches be removed.'\n\n'Certainly, my dear,' Said Mr. Nupkins. 'Muzzle!'\n\n'Your Worship.'\n\n'Open the front door.'\n\n'Yes, your Worship.'\n\n'Leave the house!' said Mr. Nupkins, waving his hand emphatically.\n\nJingle smiled, and moved towards the door.\n\n'Stay!' said Mr. Pickwick. Jingle stopped.\n\n'I might,' said Mr. Pickwick, 'have taken a much greater revenge for\nthe treatment I have experienced at your hands, and that of your\nhypocritical friend there.'\n\nJob Trotter bowed with great politeness, and laid his hand upon his\nheart.\n\n'I say,' said Mr. Pickwick, growing gradually angry, 'that I might have\ntaken a greater revenge, but I content myself with exposing you, which I\nconsider a duty I owe to society. This is a leniency, Sir, which I hope\nyou will remember.'\n\nWhen Mr. Pickwick arrived at this point, Job Trotter, with facetious\ngravity, applied his hand to his ear, as if desirous not to lose a\nsyllable he uttered.\n\n'And I have only to add, sir,' said Mr. Pickwick, now thoroughly angry,\n'that I consider you a rascal, and a--a--ruffian--and--and worse than\nany man I ever saw, or heard of, except that pious and sanctified\nvagabond in the mulberry livery.'\n\n'Ha! ha!' said Jingle, 'good fellow, Pickwick--fine heart--stout old\nboy--but must NOT be passionate--bad thing, very--bye, bye--see you\nagain some day--keep up your spirits--now, Job--trot!'\n\nWith these words, Mr. Jingle stuck on his hat in his old fashion, and\nstrode out of the room. Job Trotter paused, looked round, smiled and\nthen with a bow of mock solemnity to Mr. Pickwick, and a wink to Mr.\nWeller, the audacious slyness of which baffles all description, followed\nthe footsteps of his hopeful master.\n\n'Sam,' said Mr. Pickwick, as Mr. Weller was following.\n\n'Sir.' 'Stay here.'\n\nMr. Weller seemed uncertain.\n\n'Stay here,' repeated Mr. Pickwick.\n\n'Mayn't I polish that 'ere Job off, in the front garden?' said Mr.\nWeller. 'Certainly not,' replied Mr. Pickwick.\n\n'Mayn't I kick him out o' the gate, Sir?' said Mr. Weller.\n\n'Not on any account,' replied his master.\n\nFor the first time since his engagement, Mr. Weller looked, for a\nmoment, discontented and unhappy. But his countenance immediately\ncleared up; for the wily Mr. Muzzle, by concealing himself behind the\nstreet door, and rushing violently out, at the right instant, contrived\nwith great dexterity to overturn both Mr. Jingle and his attendant, down\nthe flight of steps, into the American aloe tubs that stood beneath.\n\n'Having discharged my duty, Sir,' said Mr. Pickwick to Mr. Nupkins, 'I\nwill, with my friends, bid you farewell. While we thank you for such\nhospitality as we have received, permit me to assure you, in our\njoint names, that we should not have accepted it, or have consented to\nextricate ourselves in this way, from our previous dilemma, had we not\nbeen impelled by a strong sense of duty. We return to London to-morrow.\nYour secret is safe with us.'\n\nHaving thus entered his protest against their treatment of the\nmorning, Mr. Pickwick bowed low to the ladies, and notwithstanding the\nsolicitations of the family, left the room with his friends.\n\n'Get your hat, Sam,' said Mr. Pickwick.\n\n'It's below stairs, Sir,' said Sam, and he ran down after it.\n\nNow, there was nobody in the kitchen, but the pretty housemaid; and as\nSam's hat was mislaid, he had to look for it, and the pretty housemaid\nlighted him. They had to look all over the place for the hat. The pretty\nhousemaid, in her anxiety to find it, went down on her knees, and turned\nover all the things that were heaped together in a little corner by the\ndoor. It was an awkward corner. You couldn't get at it without shutting\nthe door first.\n\n'Here it is,' said the pretty housemaid. 'This is it, ain't it?'\n\n'Let me look,' said Sam.\n\nThe pretty housemaid had stood the candle on the floor; and, as it gave\na very dim light, Sam was obliged to go down on HIS knees before he\ncould see whether it really was his own hat or not. It was a remarkably\nsmall corner, and so--it was nobody's fault but the man's who built\nthe house--Sam and the pretty housemaid were necessarily very close\ntogether.\n\n'Yes, this is it,' said Sam. 'Good-bye!'\n\n'Good-bye!' said the pretty housemaid.\n\n'Good-bye!' said Sam; and as he said it, he dropped the hat that had\ncost so much trouble in looking for.\n\n'How awkward you are,' said the pretty housemaid. 'You'll lose it again,\nif you don't take care.'\n\nSo just to prevent his losing it again, she put it on for him.\n\nWhether it was that the pretty housemaid's face looked prettier still,\nwhen it was raised towards Sam's, or whether it was the accidental\nconsequence of their being so near to each other, is matter of\nuncertainty to this day; but Sam kissed her.\n\n'You don't mean to say you did that on purpose,' said the pretty\nhousemaid, blushing.\n\n'No, I didn't then,' said Sam; 'but I will now.'\n\nSo he kissed her again. 'Sam!' said Mr. Pickwick, calling over the\nbanisters.\n\n'Coming, Sir,' replied Sam, running upstairs.\n\n'How long you have been!' said Mr. Pickwick.\n\n'There was something behind the door, Sir, which perwented our getting\nit open, for ever so long, Sir,' replied Sam.\n\nAnd this was the first passage of Mr. Weller's first love.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXVI. WHICH CONTAINS A BRIEF ACCOUNT OF THE PROGRESS OF THE\nACTION OF BARDELL AGAINST PICKWICK\n\n\nHaving accomplished the main end and object of his journey, by the\nexposure of Jingle, Mr. Pickwick resolved on immediately returning to\nLondon, with the view of becoming acquainted with the proceedings which\nhad been taken against him, in the meantime, by Messrs. Dodson and Fogg.\nActing upon this resolution with all the energy and decision of his\ncharacter, he mounted to the back seat of the first coach which left\nIpswich on the morning after the memorable occurrences detailed at\nlength in the two preceding chapters; and accompanied by his three\nfriends, and Mr. Samuel Weller, arrived in the metropolis, in perfect\nhealth and safety, the same evening.\n\nHere the friends, for a short time, separated. Messrs. Tupman, Winkle,\nand Snodgrass repaired to their several homes to make such preparations\nas might be requisite for their forthcoming visit to Dingley Dell;\nand Mr. Pickwick and Sam took up their present abode in very good,\nold-fashioned, and comfortable quarters, to wit, the George and Vulture\nTavern and Hotel, George Yard, Lombard Street.\n\nMr. Pickwick had dined, finished his second pint of particular port,\npulled his silk handkerchief over his head, put his feet on the fender,\nand thrown himself back in an easy-chair, when the entrance of Mr.\nWeller with his carpet-bag, aroused him from his tranquil meditation.\n\n'Sam,' said Mr. Pickwick. 'Sir,' said Mr. Weller.\n\n'I have just been thinking, Sam,' said Mr. Pickwick, 'that having left\na good many things at Mrs. Bardell's, in Goswell Street, I ought to\narrange for taking them away, before I leave town again.'\n\n'Wery good, sir,' replied Mr. Weller.\n\n'I could send them to Mr. Tupman's, for the present, Sam,' continued\nMr. Pickwick, 'but before we take them away, it is necessary that they\nshould be looked up, and put together. I wish you would step up to\nGoswell Street, Sam, and arrange about it.'\n\n'At once, Sir?' inquired Mr. Weller.\n\n'At once,' replied Mr. Pickwick. 'And stay, Sam,' added Mr. Pickwick,\npulling out his purse, 'there is some rent to pay. The quarter is not\ndue till Christmas, but you may pay it, and have done with it. A month's\nnotice terminates my tenancy. Here it is, written out. Give it, and tell\nMrs. Bardell she may put a bill up, as soon as she likes.'\n\n'Wery good, sir,' replied Mr. Weller; 'anythin' more, sir?'\n\n'Nothing more, Sam.'\n\nMr. Weller stepped slowly to the door, as if he expected something more;\nslowly opened it, slowly stepped out, and had slowly closed it within a\ncouple of inches, when Mr. Pickwick called out--\n\n'Sam.'\n\n'Yes, sir,' said Mr. Weller, stepping quickly back, and closing the door\nbehind him. 'I have no objection, Sam, to your endeavouring to ascertain\nhow Mrs. Bardell herself seems disposed towards me, and whether it is\nreally probable that this vile and groundless action is to be carried\nto extremity. I say I do not object to you doing this, if you wish it,\nSam,' said Mr. Pickwick.\n\nSam gave a short nod of intelligence, and left the room. Mr. Pickwick\ndrew the silk handkerchief once more over his head, And composed himself\nfor a nap. Mr. Weller promptly walked forth, to execute his commission.\n\nIt was nearly nine o'clock when he reached Goswell Street. A couple of\ncandles were burning in the little front parlour, and a couple of caps\nwere reflected on the window-blind. Mrs. Bardell had got company.\n\nMr. Weller knocked at the door, and after a pretty long\ninterval--occupied by the party without, in whistling a tune, and by the\nparty within, in persuading a refractory flat candle to allow itself\nto be lighted--a pair of small boots pattered over the floor-cloth, and\nMaster Bardell presented himself.\n\n'Well, young townskip,' said Sam, 'how's mother?'\n\n'She's pretty well,' replied Master Bardell, 'so am I.'\n\n'Well, that's a mercy,' said Sam; 'tell her I want to speak to her, will\nyou, my hinfant fernomenon?'\n\nMaster Bardell, thus adjured, placed the refractory flat candle on the\nbottom stair, and vanished into the front parlour with his message.\n\nThe two caps, reflected on the window-blind, were the respective\nhead-dresses of a couple of Mrs. Bardell's most particular acquaintance,\nwho had just stepped in, to have a quiet cup of tea, and a little warm\nsupper of a couple of sets of pettitoes and some toasted cheese. The\ncheese was simmering and browning away, most delightfully, in a little\nDutch oven before the fire; the pettitoes were getting on deliciously in\na little tin saucepan on the hob; and Mrs. Bardell and her two friends\nwere getting on very well, also, in a little quiet conversation about\nand concerning all their particular friends and acquaintance; when\nMaster Bardell came back from answering the door, and delivered the\nmessage intrusted to him by Mr. Samuel Weller.\n\n'Mr. Pickwick's servant!' said Mrs. Bardell, turning pale.\n\n'Bless my soul!' said Mrs. Cluppins.\n\n'Well, I raly would not ha' believed it, unless I had ha' happened to\nha' been here!' said Mrs. Sanders.\n\nMrs. Cluppins was a little, brisk, busy-looking woman; Mrs. Sanders was\na big, fat, heavy-faced personage; and the two were the company.\n\nMrs. Bardell felt it proper to be agitated; and as none of the three\nexactly knew whether under existing circumstances, any communication,\notherwise than through Dodson & Fogg, ought to be held with Mr.\nPickwick's servant, they were all rather taken by surprise. In this\nstate of indecision, obviously the first thing to be done, was to thump\nthe boy for finding Mr. Weller at the door. So his mother thumped him,\nand he cried melodiously.\n\n'Hold your noise--do--you naughty creetur!' said Mrs. Bardell.\n\n'Yes; don't worrit your poor mother,' said Mrs. Sanders.\n\n'She's quite enough to worrit her, as it is, without you, Tommy,' said\nMrs. Cluppins, with sympathising resignation.\n\n'Ah! worse luck, poor lamb!' said Mrs. Sanders. At all which moral\nreflections, Master Bardell howled the louder.\n\n'Now, what shall I do?' said Mrs. Bardell to Mrs. Cluppins.\n\n'I think you ought to see him,' replied Mrs. Cluppins. 'But on no\naccount without a witness.'\n\n'I think two witnesses would be more lawful,' said Mrs. Sanders, who,\nlike the other friend, was bursting with curiosity.\n\n'Perhaps he'd better come in here,' said Mrs. Bardell.\n\n'To be sure,' replied Mrs. Cluppins, eagerly catching at the idea; 'walk\nin, young man; and shut the street door first, please.'\n\nMr. Weller immediately took the hint; and presenting himself in the\nparlour, explained his business to Mrs. Bardell thus--\n\n'Wery sorry to 'casion any personal inconwenience, ma'am, as the\nhousebreaker said to the old lady when he put her on the fire; but as me\nand my governor 's only jest come to town, and is jest going away agin,\nit can't be helped, you see.'\n\n'Of course, the young man can't help the faults of his master,' said\nMrs. Cluppins, much struck by Mr. Weller's appearance and conversation.\n\n'Certainly not,' chimed in Mrs. Sanders, who, from certain wistful\nglances at the little tin saucepan, seemed to be engaged in a mental\ncalculation of the probable extent of the pettitoes, in the event of\nSam's being asked to stop to supper.\n\n'So all I've come about, is jest this here,' said Sam, disregarding\nthe interruption; 'first, to give my governor's notice--there it is.\nSecondly, to pay the rent--here it is. Thirdly, to say as all his\nthings is to be put together, and give to anybody as we sends for 'em.\nFourthly, that you may let the place as soon as you like--and that's\nall.'\n\n'Whatever has happened,' said Mrs. Bardell, 'I always have said, and\nalways will say, that in every respect but one, Mr. Pickwick has always\nbehaved himself like a perfect gentleman. His money always as good as\nthe bank--always.'\n\nAs Mrs. Bardell said this, she applied her handkerchief to her eyes, and\nwent out of the room to get the receipt.\n\nSam well knew that he had only to remain quiet, and the women were\nsure to talk; so he looked alternately at the tin saucepan, the toasted\ncheese, the wall, and the ceiling, in profound silence.\n\n'Poor dear!' said Mrs. Cluppins.\n\n'Ah, poor thing!' replied Mrs. Sanders. Sam said nothing. He saw they\nwere coming to the subject.\n\n'I raly cannot contain myself,' said Mrs. Cluppins, 'when I think of\nsuch perjury. I don't wish to say anything to make you uncomfortable,\nyoung man, but your master's an old brute, and I wish I had him here to\ntell him so.' 'I wish you had,' said Sam.\n\n'To see how dreadful she takes on, going moping about, and taking no\npleasure in nothing, except when her friends comes in, out of charity,\nto sit with her, and make her comfortable,' resumed Mrs. Cluppins,\nglancing at the tin saucepan and the Dutch oven, 'it's shocking!'\n\n'Barbareous,' said Mrs. Sanders.\n\n'And your master, young man! A gentleman with money, as could never feel\nthe expense of a wife, no more than nothing,' continued Mrs. Cluppins,\nwith great volubility; 'why there ain't the faintest shade of an excuse\nfor his behaviour! Why don't he marry her?'\n\n'Ah,' said Sam, 'to be sure; that's the question.'\n\n'Question, indeed,' retorted Mrs. Cluppins, 'she'd question him,\nif she'd my spirit. Hows'ever, there is law for us women, mis'rable\ncreeturs as they'd make us, if they could; and that your master will\nfind out, young man, to his cost, afore he's six months older.'\n\nAt this consolatory reflection, Mrs. Cluppins bridled up, and smiled at\nMrs. Sanders, who smiled back again.\n\n'The action's going on, and no mistake,' thought Sam, as Mrs. Bardell\nre-entered with the receipt.\n\n'Here's the receipt, Mr. Weller,' said Mrs. Bardell, 'and here's the\nchange, and I hope you'll take a little drop of something to keep the\ncold out, if it's only for old acquaintance' sake, Mr. Weller.'\n\nSam saw the advantage he should gain, and at once acquiesced; whereupon\nMrs. Bardell produced, from a small closet, a black bottle and a\nwine-glass; and so great was her abstraction, in her deep mental\naffliction, that, after filling Mr. Weller's glass, she brought out\nthree more wine-glasses, and filled them too.\n\n'Lauk, Mrs. Bardell,' said Mrs. Cluppins, 'see what you've been and\ndone!'\n\n'Well, that is a good one!' ejaculated Mrs. Sanders.\n\n'Ah, my poor head!' said Mrs. Bardell, with a faint smile.\n\nSam understood all this, of course, so he said at once, that he never\ncould drink before supper, unless a lady drank with him. A great deal of\nlaughter ensued, and Mrs. Sanders volunteered to humour him, so she took\na slight sip out of her glass. Then Sam said it must go all round, so\nthey all took a slight sip. Then little Mrs. Cluppins proposed as a\ntoast, 'Success to Bardell agin Pickwick'; and then the ladies emptied\ntheir glasses in honour of the sentiment, and got very talkative\ndirectly.\n\n'I suppose you've heard what's going forward, Mr. Weller?' said Mrs.\nBardell.\n\n'I've heerd somethin' on it,' replied Sam.\n\n'It's a terrible thing to be dragged before the public, in that way, Mr.\nWeller,' said Mrs. Bardell; 'but I see now, that it's the only thing I\nought to do, and my lawyers, Mr. Dodson and Fogg, tell me that, with the\nevidence as we shall call, we must succeed. I don't know what I should\ndo, Mr. Weller, if I didn't.'\n\nThe mere idea of Mrs. Bardell's failing in her action, affected Mrs.\nSanders so deeply, that she was under the necessity of refilling and\nre-emptying her glass immediately; feeling, as she said afterwards, that\nif she hadn't had the presence of mind to do so, she must have dropped.\n\n'Ven is it expected to come on?' inquired Sam.\n\n'Either in February or March,' replied Mrs. Bardell.\n\n'What a number of witnesses there'll be, won't there?' said Mrs.\nCluppins.\n\n'Ah! won't there!' replied Mrs. Sanders.\n\n'And won't Mr. Dodson and Fogg be wild if the plaintiff shouldn't get\nit?' added Mrs. Cluppins, 'when they do it all on speculation!'\n\n'Ah! won't they!' said Mrs. Sanders.\n\n'But the plaintiff must get it,' resumed Mrs. Cluppins.\n\n'I hope so,' said Mrs. Bardell.\n\n'Oh, there can't be any doubt about it,' rejoined Mrs. Sanders.\n\n'Vell,' said Sam, rising and setting down his glass, 'all I can say is,\nthat I vish you MAY get it.'\n\n'Thank'ee, Mr. Weller,' said Mrs. Bardell fervently.\n\n'And of them Dodson and Foggs, as does these sort o' things on spec,'\ncontinued Mr. Weller, 'as vell as for the other kind and gen'rous people\no' the same purfession, as sets people by the ears, free gratis for\nnothin', and sets their clerks to work to find out little disputes\namong their neighbours and acquaintances as vants settlin' by means of\nlawsuits--all I can say o' them is, that I vish they had the reward I'd\ngive 'em.'\n\n'Ah, I wish they had the reward that every kind and generous heart would\nbe inclined to bestow upon them!' said the gratified Mrs. Bardell.\n\n'Amen to that,' replied Sam, 'and a fat and happy liven' they'd get out\nof it! Wish you good-night, ladies.'\n\nTo the great relief of Mrs. Sanders, Sam was allowed to depart without\nany reference, on the part of the hostess, to the pettitoes and toasted\ncheese; to which the ladies, with such juvenile assistance as\nMaster Bardell could afford, soon afterwards rendered the amplest\njustice--indeed they wholly vanished before their strenuous exertions.\n\nMr. Weller wended his way back to the George and Vulture, and faithfully\nrecounted to his master, such indications of the sharp practice of\nDodson & Fogg, as he had contrived to pick up in his visit to Mrs.\nBardell's. An interview with Mr. Perker, next day, more than confirmed\nMr. Weller's statement; and Mr. Pickwick was fain to prepare for his\nChristmas visit to Dingley Dell, with the pleasant anticipation that\nsome two or three months afterwards, an action brought against him for\ndamages sustained by reason of a breach of promise of marriage, would\nbe publicly tried in the Court of Common Pleas; the plaintiff having all\nthe advantages derivable, not only from the force of circumstances, but\nfrom the sharp practice of Dodson & Fogg to boot.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXVII. SAMUEL WELLER MAKES A PILGRIMAGE TO DORKING, AND BEHOLDS\nHIS MOTHER-IN-LAW\n\n\nThere still remaining an interval of two days before the time agreed\nupon for the departure of the Pickwickians to Dingley Dell, Mr. Weller\nsat himself down in a back room at the George and Vulture, after eating\nan early dinner, to muse on the best way of disposing of his time. It\nwas a remarkably fine day; and he had not turned the matter over in his\nmind ten minutes, when he was suddenly stricken filial and affectionate;\nand it occurred to him so strongly that he ought to go down and see\nhis father, and pay his duty to his mother-in-law, that he was lost\nin astonishment at his own remissness in never thinking of this moral\nobligation before. Anxious to atone for his past neglect without another\nhour's delay, he straightway walked upstairs to Mr. Pickwick, and\nrequested leave of absence for this laudable purpose.\n\n'Certainly, Sam, certainly,' said Mr. Pickwick, his eyes glistening\nwith delight at this manifestation of filial feeling on the part of his\nattendant; 'certainly, Sam.'\n\nMr. Weller made a grateful bow.\n\n'I am very glad to see that you have so high a sense of your duties as a\nson, Sam,' said Mr. Pickwick.\n\n'I always had, sir,' replied Mr. Weller.\n\n'That's a very gratifying reflection, Sam,' said Mr. Pickwick\napprovingly.\n\n'Wery, Sir,' replied Mr. Weller; 'if ever I wanted anythin' o' my\nfather, I always asked for it in a wery 'spectful and obligin' manner.\nIf he didn't give it me, I took it, for fear I should be led to do\nanythin' wrong, through not havin' it. I saved him a world o' trouble\nthis vay, Sir.'\n\n'That's not precisely what I meant, Sam,' said Mr. Pickwick, shaking his\nhead, with a slight smile.\n\n'All good feelin', sir--the wery best intentions, as the gen'l'm'n said\nven he run away from his wife 'cos she seemed unhappy with him,' replied\nMr. Weller.\n\n'You may go, Sam,' said Mr. Pickwick.\n\n'Thank'ee, Sir,' replied Mr. Weller; and having made his best bow, and\nput on his best clothes, Sam planted himself on the top of the Arundel\ncoach, and journeyed on to Dorking.\n\nThe Marquis of Granby, in Mrs. Weller's time, was quite a model of\na roadside public-house of the better class--just large enough to be\nconvenient, and small enough to be snug. On the opposite side of the\nroad was a large sign-board on a high post, representing the head and\nshoulders of a gentleman with an apoplectic countenance, in a red\ncoat with deep blue facings, and a touch of the same blue over his\nthree-cornered hat, for a sky. Over that again were a pair of flags;\nbeneath the last button of his coat were a couple of cannon; and the\nwhole formed an expressive and undoubted likeness of the Marquis of\nGranby of glorious memory.\n\nThe bar window displayed a choice collection of geranium plants, and a\nwell-dusted row of spirit phials. The open shutters bore a variety of\ngolden inscriptions, eulogistic of good beds and neat wines; and the\nchoice group of countrymen and hostlers lounging about the stable door\nand horse-trough, afforded presumptive proof of the excellent quality of\nthe ale and spirits which were sold within. Sam Weller paused, when he\ndismounted from the coach, to note all these little indications of a\nthriving business, with the eye of an experienced traveller; and having\ndone so, stepped in at once, highly satisfied with everything he had\nobserved.\n\n'Now, then!' said a shrill female voice the instant Sam thrust his head\nin at the door, 'what do you want, young man?'\n\nSam looked round in the direction whence the voice proceeded. It came\nfrom a rather stout lady of comfortable appearance, who was seated\nbeside the fireplace in the bar, blowing the fire to make the kettle\nboil for tea. She was not alone; for on the other side of the fireplace,\nsitting bolt upright in a high-backed chair, was a man in threadbare\nblack clothes, with a back almost as long and stiff as that of the chair\nitself, who caught Sam's most particular and especial attention at once.\n\nHe was a prim-faced, red-nosed man, with a long, thin countenance, and\na semi-rattlesnake sort of eye--rather sharp, but decidedly bad. He wore\nvery short trousers, and black cotton stockings, which, like the rest of\nhis apparel, were particularly rusty. His looks were starched, but his\nwhite neckerchief was not, and its long limp ends straggled over his\nclosely-buttoned waistcoat in a very uncouth and unpicturesque fashion.\nA pair of old, worn, beaver gloves, a broad-brimmed hat, and a faded\ngreen umbrella, with plenty of whalebone sticking through the bottom,\nas if to counterbalance the want of a handle at the top, lay on a chair\nbeside him; and, being disposed in a very tidy and careful manner,\nseemed to imply that the red-nosed man, whoever he was, had no intention\nof going away in a hurry.\n\nTo do the red-nosed man justice, he would have been very far from\nwise if he had entertained any such intention; for, to judge from all\nappearances, he must have been possessed of a most desirable circle\nof acquaintance, if he could have reasonably expected to be more\ncomfortable anywhere else. The fire was blazing brightly under the\ninfluence of the bellows, and the kettle was singing gaily under the\ninfluence of both. A small tray of tea-things was arranged on the table;\na plate of hot buttered toast was gently simmering before the fire; and\nthe red-nosed man himself was busily engaged in converting a large slice\nof bread into the same agreeable edible, through the instrumentality\nof a long brass toasting-fork. Beside him stood a glass of reeking hot\npine-apple rum-and-water, with a slice of lemon in it; and every time\nthe red-nosed man stopped to bring the round of toast to his eye, with\nthe view of ascertaining how it got on, he imbibed a drop or two of the\nhot pine-apple rum-and-water, and smiled upon the rather stout lady, as\nshe blew the fire.\n\nSam was so lost in the contemplation of this comfortable scene, that he\nsuffered the first inquiry of the rather stout lady to pass unheeded. It\nwas not until it had been twice repeated, each time in a shriller tone,\nthat he became conscious of the impropriety of his behaviour.\n\n'Governor in?' inquired Sam, in reply to the question.\n\n'No, he isn't,' replied Mrs. Weller; for the rather stout lady was no\nother than the quondam relict and sole executrix of the dead-and-gone\nMr. Clarke; 'no, he isn't, and I don't expect him, either.'\n\n'I suppose he's drivin' up to-day?' said Sam.\n\n'He may be, or he may not,' replied Mrs. Weller, buttering the round\nof toast which the red-nosed man had just finished. 'I don't know, and,\nwhat's more, I don't care.--Ask a blessin', Mr. Stiggins.'\n\nThe red-nosed man did as he was desired, and instantly commenced on the\ntoast with fierce voracity.\n\nThe appearance of the red-nosed man had induced Sam, at first sight,\nto more than half suspect that he was the deputy-shepherd of whom his\nestimable parent had spoken. The moment he saw him eat, all doubt on\nthe subject was removed, and he perceived at once that if he purposed\nto take up his temporary quarters where he was, he must make his footing\ngood without delay. He therefore commenced proceedings by putting his\narm over the half-door of the bar, coolly unbolting it, and leisurely\nwalking in.\n\n'Mother-in-law,' said Sam, 'how are you?'\n\n'Why, I do believe he is a Weller!' said Mrs. W., raising her eyes to\nSam's face, with no very gratified expression of countenance.\n\n'I rayther think he is,' said the imperturbable Sam; 'and I hope this\nhere reverend gen'l'm'n 'll excuse me saying that I wish I was THE\nWeller as owns you, mother-in-law.'\n\nThis was a double-barrelled compliment. It implied that Mrs. Weller\nwas a most agreeable female, and also that Mr. Stiggins had a clerical\nappearance. It made a visible impression at once; and Sam followed up\nhis advantage by kissing his mother-in-law.\n\n'Get along with you!' said Mrs. Weller, pushing him away. 'For shame,\nyoung man!' said the gentleman with the red nose.\n\n'No offence, sir, no offence,' replied Sam; 'you're wery right, though;\nit ain't the right sort o' thing, ven mothers-in-law is young and\ngood-looking, is it, Sir?'\n\n'It's all vanity,' said Mr. Stiggins.\n\n'Ah, so it is,' said Mrs. Weller, setting her cap to rights.\n\nSam thought it was, too, but he held his peace.\n\nThe deputy-shepherd seemed by no means best pleased with Sam's arrival;\nand when the first effervescence of the compliment had subsided, even\nMrs. Weller looked as if she could have spared him without the smallest\ninconvenience. However, there he was; and as he couldn't be decently\nturned out, they all three sat down to tea.\n\n'And how's father?' said Sam.\n\nAt this inquiry, Mrs. Weller raised her hands, and turned up her eyes,\nas if the subject were too painful to be alluded to.\n\nMr. Stiggins groaned.\n\n'What's the matter with that 'ere gen'l'm'n?' inquired Sam.\n\n'He's shocked at the way your father goes on in,' replied Mrs. Weller.\n\n'Oh, he is, is he?' said Sam.\n\n'And with too good reason,' added Mrs. Weller gravely.\n\nMr. Stiggins took up a fresh piece of toast, and groaned heavily.\n\n'He is a dreadful reprobate,' said Mrs. Weller.\n\n'A man of wrath!' exclaimed Mr. Stiggins. He took a large semi-circular\nbite out of the toast, and groaned again.\n\nSam felt very strongly disposed to give the reverend Mr. Stiggins\nsomething to groan for, but he repressed his inclination, and merely\nasked, 'What's the old 'un up to now?'\n\n'Up to, indeed!' said Mrs. Weller, 'Oh, he has a hard heart. Night after\nnight does this excellent man--don't frown, Mr. Stiggins; I WILL say you\nARE an excellent man--come and sit here, for hours together, and it has\nnot the least effect upon him.' 'Well, that is odd,' said Sam; 'it 'ud\nhave a wery considerable effect upon me, if I wos in his place; I know\nthat.'\n\n'The fact is, my young friend,' said Mr. Stiggins solemnly, 'he has an\nobderrate bosom. Oh, my young friend, who else could have resisted\nthe pleading of sixteen of our fairest sisters, and withstood their\nexhortations to subscribe to our noble society for providing the\ninfant negroes in the West Indies with flannel waistcoats and moral\npocket-handkerchiefs?'\n\n'What's a moral pocket-ankercher?' said Sam; 'I never see one o' them\narticles o' furniter.'\n\n'Those which combine amusement With instruction, my young friend,'\nreplied Mr. Stiggins, 'blending select tales with wood-cuts.'\n\n'Oh, I know,' said Sam; 'them as hangs up in the linen-drapers' shops,\nwith beggars' petitions and all that 'ere upon 'em?'\n\nMr. Stiggins began a third round of toast, and nodded assent. 'And he\nwouldn't be persuaded by the ladies, wouldn't he?' said Sam.\n\n'Sat and smoked his pipe, and said the infant negroes were--what did he\nsay the infant negroes were?' said Mrs. Weller.\n\n'Little humbugs,' replied Mr. Stiggins, deeply affected.\n\n'Said the infant negroes were little humbugs,' repeated Mrs. Weller. And\nthey both groaned at the atrocious conduct of the elder Mr. Weller.\n\nA great many more iniquities of a similar nature might have been\ndisclosed, only the toast being all eaten, the tea having got very\nweak, and Sam holding out no indications of meaning to go, Mr. Stiggins\nsuddenly recollected that he had a most pressing appointment with the\nshepherd, and took himself off accordingly.\n\nThe tea-things had been scarcely put away, and the hearth swept up, when\nthe London coach deposited Mr. Weller, senior, at the door; his legs\ndeposited him in the bar; and his eyes showed him his son.\n\n'What, Sammy!' exclaimed the father.\n\n'What, old Nobs!' ejaculated the son. And they shook hands heartily.\n\n'Wery glad to see you, Sammy,' said the elder Mr. Weller, 'though how\nyou've managed to get over your mother-in-law, is a mystery to me. I\nonly vish you'd write me out the receipt, that's all.'\n\n'Hush!' said Sam, 'she's at home, old feller.' 'She ain't vithin\nhearin',' replied Mr. Weller; 'she always goes and blows up, downstairs,\nfor a couple of hours arter tea; so we'll just give ourselves a damp,\nSammy.'\n\nSaying this, Mr. Weller mixed two glasses of spirits-and-water, and\nproduced a couple of pipes. The father and son sitting down opposite\neach other; Sam on one side of the fire, in the high-backed chair, and\nMr. Weller, senior, on the other, in an easy ditto, they proceeded to\nenjoy themselves with all due gravity.\n\n'Anybody been here, Sammy?' asked Mr. Weller, senior, dryly, after a\nlong silence.\n\nSam nodded an expressive assent.\n\n'Red-nosed chap?' inquired Mr. Weller.\n\nSam nodded again.\n\n'Amiable man that 'ere, Sammy,' said Mr. Weller, smoking violently.\n\n'Seems so,' observed Sam.\n\n'Good hand at accounts,' said Mr. Weller. 'Is he?' said Sam.\n\n'Borrows eighteenpence on Monday, and comes on Tuesday for a shillin' to\nmake it up half-a-crown; calls again on Vensday for another half-crown\nto make it five shillin's; and goes on, doubling, till he gets it up to\na five pund note in no time, like them sums in the 'rithmetic book 'bout\nthe nails in the horse's shoes, Sammy.'\n\nSam intimated by a nod that he recollected the problem alluded to by his\nparent.\n\n'So you vouldn't subscribe to the flannel veskits?' said Sam, after\nanother interval of smoking.\n\n'Cert'nly not,' replied Mr. Weller; 'what's the good o' flannel veskits\nto the young niggers abroad? But I'll tell you what it is, Sammy,' said\nMr. Weller, lowering his voice, and bending across the fireplace; 'I'd\ncome down wery handsome towards strait veskits for some people at home.'\n\nAs Mr. Weller said this, he slowly recovered his former position, and\nwinked at his first-born, in a profound manner.\n\n'It cert'nly seems a queer start to send out pocket-'ankerchers to\npeople as don't know the use on 'em,' observed Sam.\n\n'They're alvays a-doin' some gammon of that sort, Sammy,' replied his\nfather. 'T'other Sunday I wos walkin' up the road, wen who should I see,\na-standin' at a chapel door, with a blue soup-plate in her hand, but\nyour mother-in-law! I werily believe there was change for a couple o'\nsuv'rins in it, then, Sammy, all in ha'pence; and as the people come\nout, they rattled the pennies in it, till you'd ha' thought that no\nmortal plate as ever was baked, could ha' stood the wear and tear. What\nd'ye think it was all for?'\n\n'For another tea-drinkin', perhaps,' said Sam.\n\n'Not a bit on it,' replied the father; 'for the shepherd's water-rate,\nSammy.'\n\n'The shepherd's water-rate!' said Sam.\n\n'Ay,' replied Mr. Weller, 'there was three quarters owin', and the\nshepherd hadn't paid a farden, not he--perhaps it might be on account\nthat the water warn't o' much use to him, for it's wery little o' that\ntap he drinks, Sammy, wery; he knows a trick worth a good half-dozen\nof that, he does. Hows'ever, it warn't paid, and so they cuts the water\noff. Down goes the shepherd to chapel, gives out as he's a persecuted\nsaint, and says he hopes the heart of the turncock as cut the water off,\n'll be softened, and turned in the right vay, but he rayther thinks\nhe's booked for somethin' uncomfortable. Upon this, the women calls\na meetin', sings a hymn, wotes your mother-in-law into the chair,\nwolunteers a collection next Sunday, and hands it all over to the\nshepherd. And if he ain't got enough out on 'em, Sammy, to make him free\nof the water company for life,' said Mr. Weller, in conclusion, 'I'm one\nDutchman, and you're another, and that's all about it.'\n\nMr. Weller smoked for some minutes in silence, and then resumed--\n\n'The worst o' these here shepherds is, my boy, that they reg'larly turns\nthe heads of all the young ladies, about here. Lord bless their little\nhearts, they thinks it's all right, and don't know no better; but\nthey're the wictims o' gammon, Samivel, they're the wictims o' gammon.'\n\n'I s'pose they are,' said Sam.\n\n'Nothin' else,' said Mr. Weller, shaking his head gravely; 'and wot\naggrawates me, Samivel, is to see 'em a-wastin' all their time and\nlabour in making clothes for copper-coloured people as don't want 'em,\nand taking no notice of flesh-coloured Christians as do. If I'd my vay,\nSamivel, I'd just stick some o' these here lazy shepherds behind a heavy\nwheelbarrow, and run 'em up and down a fourteen-inch-wide plank all day.\nThat 'ud shake the nonsense out of 'em, if anythin' vould.'\n\nMr. Weller, having delivered this gentle recipe with strong emphasis,\neked out by a variety of nods and contortions of the eye, emptied his\nglass at a draught, and knocked the ashes out of his pipe, with native\ndignity.\n\nHe was engaged in this operation, when a shrill voice was heard in the\npassage.\n\n'Here's your dear relation, Sammy,' said Mr. Weller; and Mrs. W. hurried\ninto the room.\n\n'Oh, you've come back, have you!' said Mrs. Weller.\n\n'Yes, my dear,' replied Mr. Weller, filling a fresh pipe.\n\n'Has Mr. Stiggins been back?' said Mrs. Weller.\n\n'No, my dear, he hasn't,' replied Mr. Weller, lighting the pipe by the\ningenious process of holding to the bowl thereof, between the tongs, a\nred-hot coal from the adjacent fire; and what's more, my dear, I shall\nmanage to surwive it, if he don't come back at all.'\n\n'Ugh, you wretch!' said Mrs. Weller.\n\n'Thank'ee, my love,' said Mr. Weller. 'Come, come, father,' said Sam,\n'none o' these little lovin's afore strangers. Here's the reverend\ngen'l'm'n a-comin' in now.' At this announcement, Mrs. Weller hastily\nwiped off the tears which she had just begun to force on; and Mr. W.\ndrew his chair sullenly into the chimney-corner.\n\nMr. Stiggins was easily prevailed on to take another glass of the hot\npine-apple rum-and-water, and a second, and a third, and then to refresh\nhimself with a slight supper, previous to beginning again. He sat on the\nsame side as Mr. Weller, senior; and every time he could contrive to do\nso, unseen by his wife, that gentleman indicated to his son the hidden\nemotions of his bosom, by shaking his fist over the deputy-shepherd's\nhead; a process which afforded his son the most unmingled delight and\nsatisfaction, the more especially as Mr. Stiggins went on, quietly\ndrinking the hot pine-apple rum-and-water, wholly unconscious of what\nwas going forward.\n\nThe major part of the conversation was confined to Mrs. Weller and the\nreverend Mr. Stiggins; and the topics principally descanted on, were\nthe virtues of the shepherd, the worthiness of his flock, and the high\ncrimes and misdemeanours of everybody beside--dissertations which the\nelder Mr. Weller occasionally interrupted by half-suppressed references\nto a gentleman of the name of Walker, and other running commentaries of\nthe same kind.\n\nAt length Mr. Stiggins, with several most indubitable symptoms of having\nquite as much pine-apple rum-and-water about him as he could comfortably\naccommodate, took his hat, and his leave; and Sam was, immediately\nafterwards, shown to bed by his father. The respectable old gentleman\nwrung his hand fervently, and seemed disposed to address some\nobservation to his son; but on Mrs. Weller advancing towards him, he\nappeared to relinquish that intention, and abruptly bade him good-night.\n\nSam was up betimes next day, and having partaken of a hasty breakfast,\nprepared to return to London. He had scarcely set foot without the\nhouse, when his father stood before him.\n\n'Goin', Sammy?' inquired Mr. Weller.\n\n'Off at once,' replied Sam.\n\n'I vish you could muffle that 'ere Stiggins, and take him vith you,'\nsaid Mr. Weller.\n\n'I am ashamed on you!' said Sam reproachfully; 'what do you let him show\nhis red nose in the Markis o' Granby at all, for?'\n\nMr. Weller the elder fixed on his son an earnest look, and replied,\n''Cause I'm a married man, Samivel,'cause I'm a married man. Ven you're\na married man, Samivel, you'll understand a good many things as you\ndon't understand now; but vether it's worth while goin' through so much,\nto learn so little, as the charity-boy said ven he got to the end of the\nalphabet, is a matter o' taste. I rayther think it isn't.' 'Well,' said\nSam, 'good-bye.'\n\n'Tar, tar, Sammy,' replied his father.\n\n'I've only got to say this here,' said Sam, stopping short, 'that if I\nwas the properiator o' the Markis o' Granby, and that 'ere Stiggins came\nand made toast in my bar, I'd--'\n\n'What?' interposed Mr. Weller, with great anxiety. 'What?'\n\n'Pison his rum-and-water,' said Sam.\n\n'No!' said Mr. Weller, shaking his son eagerly by the hand, 'would you\nraly, Sammy-would you, though?'\n\n'I would,' said Sam. 'I wouldn't be too hard upon him at first. I'd\ndrop him in the water-butt, and put the lid on; and if I found he was\ninsensible to kindness, I'd try the other persvasion.'\n\nThe elder Mr. Weller bestowed a look of deep, unspeakable admiration\non his son, and, having once more grasped his hand, walked slowly away,\nrevolving in his mind the numerous reflections to which his advice had\ngiven rise.\n\nSam looked after him, until he turned a corner of the road; and then set\nforward on his walk to London. He meditated at first, on the probable\nconsequences of his own advice, and the likelihood of his father's\nadopting it. He dismissed the subject from his mind, however, with\nthe consolatory reflection that time alone would show; and this is the\nreflection we would impress upon the reader.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXVIII. A GOOD-HUMOURED CHRISTMAS CHAPTER, CONTAINING AN ACCOUNT\nOF A WEDDING, AND SOME OTHER SPORTS BESIDE: WHICH ALTHOUGH IN THEIR WAY,\nEVEN AS GOOD CUSTOMS AS MARRIAGE ITSELF, ARE NOT QUITE SO RELIGIOUSLY\nKEPT UP, IN THESE DEGENERATE TIMES\n\n\nAs brisk as bees, if not altogether as light as fairies, did the\nfour Pickwickians assemble on the morning of the twenty-second day of\nDecember, in the year of grace in which these, their faithfully-recorded\nadventures, were undertaken and accomplished. Christmas was close\nat hand, in all his bluff and hearty honesty; it was the season\nof hospitality, merriment, and open-heartedness; the old year was\npreparing, like an ancient philosopher, to call his friends around him,\nand amidst the sound of feasting and revelry to pass gently and calmly\naway. Gay and merry was the time; and right gay and merry were at least\nfour of the numerous hearts that were gladdened by its coming.\n\nAnd numerous indeed are the hearts to which Christmas brings a brief\nseason of happiness and enjoyment. How many families, whose members have\nbeen dispersed and scattered far and wide, in the restless struggles\nof life, are then reunited, and meet once again in that happy state of\ncompanionship and mutual goodwill, which is a source of such pure and\nunalloyed delight; and one so incompatible with the cares and sorrows of\nthe world, that the religious belief of the most civilised nations, and\nthe rude traditions of the roughest savages, alike number it among the\nfirst joys of a future condition of existence, provided for the blessed\nand happy! How many old recollections, and how many dormant sympathies,\ndoes Christmas time awaken!\n\nWe write these words now, many miles distant from the spot at which,\nyear after year, we met on that day, a merry and joyous circle. Many of\nthe hearts that throbbed so gaily then, have ceased to beat; many of\nthe looks that shone so brightly then, have ceased to glow; the hands we\ngrasped, have grown cold; the eyes we sought, have hid their lustre in\nthe grave; and yet the old house, the room, the merry voices and smiling\nfaces, the jest, the laugh, the most minute and trivial circumstances\nconnected with those happy meetings, crowd upon our mind at each\nrecurrence of the season, as if the last assemblage had been but\nyesterday! Happy, happy Christmas, that can win us back to the delusions\nof our childish days; that can recall to the old man the pleasures of\nhis youth; that can transport the sailor and the traveller, thousands of\nmiles away, back to his own fireside and his quiet home!\n\nBut we are so taken up and occupied with the good qualities of this\nsaint Christmas, that we are keeping Mr. Pickwick and his friends\nwaiting in the cold on the outside of the Muggleton coach, which\nthey have just attained, well wrapped up in great-coats, shawls, and\ncomforters. The portmanteaus and carpet-bags have been stowed away,\nand Mr. Weller and the guard are endeavouring to insinuate into the\nfore-boot a huge cod-fish several sizes too large for it--which is\nsnugly packed up, in a long brown basket, with a layer of straw over the\ntop, and which has been left to the last, in order that he may repose\nin safety on the half-dozen barrels of real native oysters, all the\nproperty of Mr. Pickwick, which have been arranged in regular order at\nthe bottom of the receptacle. The interest displayed in Mr. Pickwick's\ncountenance is most intense, as Mr. Weller and the guard try to squeeze\nthe cod-fish into the boot, first head first, and then tail first, and\nthen top upward, and then bottom upward, and then side-ways, and then\nlong-ways, all of which artifices the implacable cod-fish sturdily\nresists, until the guard accidentally hits him in the very middle of the\nbasket, whereupon he suddenly disappears into the boot, and with him,\nthe head and shoulders of the guard himself, who, not calculating\nupon so sudden a cessation of the passive resistance of the cod-fish,\nexperiences a very unexpected shock, to the unsmotherable delight of all\nthe porters and bystanders. Upon this, Mr. Pickwick smiles with great\ngood-humour, and drawing a shilling from his waistcoat pocket, begs the\nguard, as he picks himself out of the boot, to drink his health in\na glass of hot brandy-and-water; at which the guard smiles too, and\nMessrs. Snodgrass, Winkle, and Tupman, all smile in company. The guard\nand Mr. Weller disappear for five minutes, most probably to get the hot\nbrandy-and-water, for they smell very strongly of it, when they\nreturn, the coachman mounts to the box, Mr. Weller jumps up behind, the\nPickwickians pull their coats round their legs and their shawls over\ntheir noses, the helpers pull the horse-cloths off, the coachman shouts\nout a cheery 'All right,' and away they go.\n\nThey have rumbled through the streets, and jolted over the stones, and\nat length reach the wide and open country. The wheels skim over the hard\nand frosty ground; and the horses, bursting into a canter at a\nsmart crack of the whip, step along the road as if the load behind\nthem--coach, passengers, cod-fish, oyster-barrels, and all--were but a\nfeather at their heels. They have descended a gentle slope, and enter\nupon a level, as compact and dry as a solid block of marble, two miles\nlong. Another crack of the whip, and on they speed, at a smart gallop,\nthe horses tossing their heads and rattling the harness, as if in\nexhilaration at the rapidity of the motion; while the coachman, holding\nwhip and reins in one hand, takes off his hat with the other, and\nresting it on his knees, pulls out his handkerchief, and wipes his\nforehead, partly because he has a habit of doing it, and partly because\nit's as well to show the passengers how cool he is, and what an easy\nthing it is to drive four-in-hand, when you have had as much practice as\nhe has. Having done this very leisurely (otherwise the effect would be\nmaterially impaired), he replaces his handkerchief, pulls on his hat,\nadjusts his gloves, squares his elbows, cracks the whip again, and on\nthey speed, more merrily than before. A few small houses, scattered on\neither side of the road, betoken the entrance to some town or village.\nThe lively notes of the guard's key-bugle vibrate in the clear cold air,\nand wake up the old gentleman inside, who, carefully letting down the\nwindow-sash half-way, and standing sentry over the air, takes a short\npeep out, and then carefully pulling it up again, informs the other\ninside that they're going to change directly; on which the other inside\nwakes himself up, and determines to postpone his next nap until after\nthe stoppage. Again the bugle sounds lustily forth, and rouses the\ncottager's wife and children, who peep out at the house door, and watch\nthe coach till it turns the corner, when they once more crouch round\nthe blazing fire, and throw on another log of wood against father\ncomes home; while father himself, a full mile off, has just exchanged\na friendly nod with the coachman, and turned round to take a good long\nstare at the vehicle as it whirls away.\n\nAnd now the bugle plays a lively air as the coach rattles through the\nill-paved streets of a country town; and the coachman, undoing the\nbuckle which keeps his ribands together, prepares to throw them off the\nmoment he stops. Mr. Pickwick emerges from his coat collar, and looks\nabout him with great curiosity; perceiving which, the coachman informs\nMr. Pickwick of the name of the town, and tells him it was market-day\nyesterday, both of which pieces of information Mr. Pickwick retails to\nhis fellow-passengers; whereupon they emerge from their coat collars\ntoo, and look about them also. Mr. Winkle, who sits at the extreme\nedge, with one leg dangling in the air, is nearly precipitated into the\nstreet, as the coach twists round the sharp corner by the cheesemonger's\nshop, and turns into the market-place; and before Mr. Snodgrass, who\nsits next to him, has recovered from his alarm, they pull up at the inn\nyard where the fresh horses, with cloths on, are already waiting. The\ncoachman throws down the reins and gets down himself, and the other\noutside passengers drop down also; except those who have no great\nconfidence in their ability to get up again; and they remain where they\nare, and stamp their feet against the coach to warm them--looking, with\nlonging eyes and red noses, at the bright fire in the inn bar, and the\nsprigs of holly with red berries which ornament the window.\n\nBut the guard has delivered at the corn-dealer's shop, the brown paper\npacket he took out of the little pouch which hangs over his shoulder\nby a leathern strap; and has seen the horses carefully put to; and has\nthrown on the pavement the saddle which was brought from London on the\ncoach roof; and has assisted in the conference between the coachman and\nthe hostler about the gray mare that hurt her off fore-leg last Tuesday;\nand he and Mr. Weller are all right behind, and the coachman is all\nright in front, and the old gentleman inside, who has kept the window\ndown full two inches all this time, has pulled it up again, and the\ncloths are off, and they are all ready for starting, except the 'two\nstout gentlemen,' whom the coachman inquires after with some impatience.\nHereupon the coachman, and the guard, and Sam Weller, and Mr. Winkle,\nand Mr. Snodgrass, and all the hostlers, and every one of the idlers,\nwho are more in number than all the others put together, shout for the\nmissing gentlemen as loud as they can bawl. A distant response is heard\nfrom the yard, and Mr. Pickwick and Mr. Tupman come running down it,\nquite out of breath, for they have been having a glass of ale a-piece,\nand Mr. Pickwick's fingers are so cold that he has been full five\nminutes before he could find the sixpence to pay for it. The coachman\nshouts an admonitory 'Now then, gen'l'm'n,' the guard re-echoes it; the\nold gentleman inside thinks it a very extraordinary thing that people\nWILL get down when they know there isn't time for it; Mr. Pickwick\nstruggles up on one side, Mr. Tupman on the other; Mr. Winkle cries\n'All right'; and off they start. Shawls are pulled up, coat collars are\nreadjusted, the pavement ceases, the houses disappear; and they are once\nagain dashing along the open road, with the fresh clear air blowing in\ntheir faces, and gladdening their very hearts within them.\n\nSuch was the progress of Mr. Pickwick and his friends by the Muggleton\nTelegraph, on their way to Dingley Dell; and at three o'clock that\nafternoon they all stood high and dry, safe and sound, hale and hearty,\nupon the steps of the Blue Lion, having taken on the road quite enough\nof ale and brandy, to enable them to bid defiance to the frost that\nwas binding up the earth in its iron fetters, and weaving its beautiful\nnetwork upon the trees and hedges. Mr. Pickwick was busily engaged in\ncounting the barrels of oysters and superintending the disinterment of\nthe cod-fish, when he felt himself gently pulled by the skirts of the\ncoat. Looking round, he discovered that the individual who resorted\nto this mode of catching his attention was no other than Mr. Wardle's\nfavourite page, better known to the readers of this unvarnished history,\nby the distinguishing appellation of the fat boy.\n\n'Aha!' said Mr. Pickwick.\n\n'Aha!' said the fat boy.\n\nAs he said it, he glanced from the cod-fish to the oyster-barrels, and\nchuckled joyously. He was fatter than ever.\n\n'Well, you look rosy enough, my young friend,' said Mr. Pickwick.\n\n'I've been asleep, right in front of the taproom fire,' replied the fat\nboy, who had heated himself to the colour of a new chimney-pot, in the\ncourse of an hour's nap. 'Master sent me over with the shay-cart, to\ncarry your luggage up to the house. He'd ha' sent some saddle-horses,\nbut he thought you'd rather walk, being a cold day.'\n\n'Yes, yes,' said Mr. Pickwick hastily, for he remembered how they had\ntravelled over nearly the same ground on a previous occasion. 'Yes, we\nwould rather walk. Here, Sam!'\n\n'Sir,' said Mr. Weller.\n\n'Help Mr. Wardle's servant to put the packages into the cart, and then\nride on with him. We will walk forward at once.'\n\nHaving given this direction, and settled with the coachman, Mr. Pickwick\nand his three friends struck into the footpath across the fields, and\nwalked briskly away, leaving Mr. Weller and the fat boy confronted\ntogether for the first time. Sam looked at the fat boy with great\nastonishment, but without saying a word; and began to stow the luggage\nrapidly away in the cart, while the fat boy stood quietly by, and seemed\nto think it a very interesting sort of thing to see Mr. Weller working\nby himself.\n\n'There,' said Sam, throwing in the last carpet-bag, 'there they are!'\n\n'Yes,' said the fat boy, in a very satisfied tone, 'there they are.'\n\n'Vell, young twenty stun,' said Sam, 'you're a nice specimen of a prize\nboy, you are!' 'Thank'ee,' said the fat boy.\n\n'You ain't got nothin' on your mind as makes you fret yourself, have\nyou?' inquired Sam.\n\n'Not as I knows on,' replied the fat boy.\n\n'I should rayther ha' thought, to look at you, that you was a-labourin'\nunder an unrequited attachment to some young 'ooman,' said Sam.\n\nThe fat boy shook his head.\n\n'Vell,' said Sam, 'I am glad to hear it. Do you ever drink anythin'?'\n\n'I likes eating better,' replied the boy.\n\n'Ah,' said Sam, 'I should ha' s'posed that; but what I mean is, should\nyou like a drop of anythin' as'd warm you? but I s'pose you never was\ncold, with all them elastic fixtures, was you?'\n\n'Sometimes,' replied the boy; 'and I likes a drop of something, when\nit's good.'\n\n'Oh, you do, do you?' said Sam, 'come this way, then!'\n\nThe Blue Lion tap was soon gained, and the fat boy swallowed a glass of\nliquor without so much as winking--a feat which considerably advanced\nhim in Mr. Weller's good opinion. Mr. Weller having transacted a similar\npiece of business on his own account, they got into the cart.\n\n'Can you drive?' said the fat boy. 'I should rayther think so,' replied\nSam.\n\n'There, then,' said the fat boy, putting the reins in his hand, and\npointing up a lane, 'it's as straight as you can go; you can't miss it.'\n\nWith these words, the fat boy laid himself affectionately down by the\nside of the cod-fish, and, placing an oyster-barrel under his head for a\npillow, fell asleep instantaneously.\n\n'Well,' said Sam, 'of all the cool boys ever I set my eyes on, this here\nyoung gen'l'm'n is the coolest. Come, wake up, young dropsy!'\n\nBut as young dropsy evinced no symptoms of returning animation, Sam\nWeller sat himself down in front of the cart, and starting the old horse\nwith a jerk of the rein, jogged steadily on, towards the Manor Farm.\n\nMeanwhile, Mr. Pickwick and his friends having walked their blood into\nactive circulation, proceeded cheerfully on. The paths were hard; the\ngrass was crisp and frosty; the air had a fine, dry, bracing coldness;\nand the rapid approach of the gray twilight (slate-coloured is a\nbetter term in frosty weather) made them look forward with pleasant\nanticipation to the comforts which awaited them at their hospitable\nentertainer's. It was the sort of afternoon that might induce a couple\nof elderly gentlemen, in a lonely field, to take off their greatcoats\nand play at leap-frog in pure lightness of heart and gaiety; and we\nfirmly believe that had Mr. Tupman at that moment proffered 'a back,'\nMr. Pickwick would have accepted his offer with the utmost avidity.\n\nHowever, Mr. Tupman did not volunteer any such accommodation, and the\nfriends walked on, conversing merrily. As they turned into a lane they\nhad to cross, the sound of many voices burst upon their ears; and before\nthey had even had time to form a guess to whom they belonged, they\nwalked into the very centre of the party who were expecting their\narrival--a fact which was first notified to the Pickwickians, by the\nloud 'Hurrah,' which burst from old Wardle's lips, when they appeared in\nsight.\n\nFirst, there was Wardle himself, looking, if that were possible, more\njolly than ever; then there were Bella and her faithful Trundle; and,\nlastly, there were Emily and some eight or ten young ladies, who had all\ncome down to the wedding, which was to take place next day, and who were\nin as happy and important a state as young ladies usually are, on such\nmomentous occasions; and they were, one and all, startling the fields\nand lanes, far and wide, with their frolic and laughter.\n\nThe ceremony of introduction, under such circumstances, was very soon\nperformed, or we should rather say that the introduction was soon over,\nwithout any ceremony at all. In two minutes thereafter, Mr. Pickwick was\njoking with the young ladies who wouldn't come over the stile while he\nlooked--or who, having pretty feet and unexceptionable ankles, preferred\nstanding on the top rail for five minutes or so, declaring that they\nwere too frightened to move--with as much ease and absence of reserve\nor constraint, as if he had known them for life. It is worthy of remark,\ntoo, that Mr. Snodgrass offered Emily far more assistance than the\nabsolute terrors of the stile (although it was full three feet high, and\nhad only a couple of stepping-stones) would seem to require; while one\nblack-eyed young lady in a very nice little pair of boots with fur round\nthe top, was observed to scream very loudly, when Mr. Winkle offered to\nhelp her over.\n\nAll this was very snug and pleasant. And when the difficulties of the\nstile were at last surmounted, and they once more entered on the open\nfield, old Wardle informed Mr. Pickwick how they had all been down in\na body to inspect the furniture and fittings-up of the house, which\nthe young couple were to tenant, after the Christmas holidays; at which\ncommunication Bella and Trundle both coloured up, as red as the fat boy\nafter the taproom fire; and the young lady with the black eyes and\nthe fur round the boots, whispered something in Emily's ear, and then\nglanced archly at Mr. Snodgrass; to which Emily responded that she was\na foolish girl, but turned very red, notwithstanding; and Mr. Snodgrass,\nwho was as modest as all great geniuses usually are, felt the crimson\nrising to the crown of his head, and devoutly wished, in the inmost\nrecesses of his own heart, that the young lady aforesaid, with her black\neyes, and her archness, and her boots with the fur round the top, were\nall comfortably deposited in the adjacent county.\n\nBut if they were social and happy outside the house, what was the warmth\nand cordiality of their reception when they reached the farm! The\nvery servants grinned with pleasure at sight of Mr. Pickwick; and\nEmma bestowed a half-demure, half-impudent, and all-pretty look of\nrecognition, on Mr. Tupman, which was enough to make the statue of\nBonaparte in the passage, unfold his arms, and clasp her within them.\n\nThe old lady was seated with customary state in the front parlour, but\nshe was rather cross, and, by consequence, most particularly deaf. She\nnever went out herself, and like a great many other old ladies of the\nsame stamp, she was apt to consider it an act of domestic treason, if\nanybody else took the liberty of doing what she couldn't. So, bless\nher old soul, she sat as upright as she could, in her great chair, and\nlooked as fierce as might be--and that was benevolent after all.\n\n'Mother,' said Wardle, 'Mr. Pickwick. You recollect him?'\n\n'Never mind,' replied the old lady, with great dignity. 'Don't trouble\nMr. Pickwick about an old creetur like me. Nobody cares about me now,\nand it's very nat'ral they shouldn't.' Here the old lady tossed her\nhead, and smoothed down her lavender-coloured silk dress with trembling\nhands. 'Come, come, ma'am,' said Mr. Pickwick, 'I can't let you cut an\nold friend in this way. I have come down expressly to have a long talk,\nand another rubber with you; and we'll show these boys and girls how to\ndance a minuet, before they're eight-and-forty hours older.'\n\nThe old lady was rapidly giving way, but she did not like to do it all\nat once; so she only said, 'Ah! I can't hear him!'\n\n'Nonsense, mother,' said Wardle. 'Come, come, don't be cross, there's\na good soul. Recollect Bella; come, you must keep her spirits up, poor\ngirl.'\n\nThe good old lady heard this, for her lip quivered as her son said it.\nBut age has its little infirmities of temper, and she was not quite\nbrought round yet. So, she smoothed down the lavender-coloured dress\nagain, and turning to Mr. Pickwick said, 'Ah, Mr. Pickwick, young people\nwas very different, when I was a girl.'\n\n'No doubt of that, ma'am,' said Mr. Pickwick, 'and that's the reason why\nI would make much of the few that have any traces of the old stock'--and\nsaying this, Mr. Pickwick gently pulled Bella towards him, and bestowing\na kiss upon her forehead, bade her sit down on the little stool at her\ngrandmother's feet. Whether the expression of her countenance, as it was\nraised towards the old lady's face, called up a thought of old times,\nor whether the old lady was touched by Mr. Pickwick's affectionate\ngood-nature, or whatever was the cause, she was fairly melted; so she\nthrew herself on her granddaughter's neck, and all the little ill-humour\nevaporated in a gush of silent tears.\n\nA happy party they were, that night. Sedate and solemn were the score\nof rubbers in which Mr. Pickwick and the old lady played together;\nuproarious was the mirth of the round table. Long after the ladies had\nretired, did the hot elder wine, well qualified with brandy and spice,\ngo round, and round, and round again; and sound was the sleep and\npleasant were the dreams that followed. It is a remarkable fact that\nthose of Mr. Snodgrass bore constant reference to Emily Wardle; and that\nthe principal figure in Mr. Winkle's visions was a young lady with black\neyes, and arch smile, and a pair of remarkably nice boots with fur round\nthe tops.\n\nMr. Pickwick was awakened early in the morning, by a hum of voices and\na pattering of feet, sufficient to rouse even the fat boy from his heavy\nslumbers. He sat up in bed and listened. The female servants and\nfemale visitors were running constantly to and fro; and there were such\nmultitudinous demands for hot water, such repeated outcries for needles\nand thread, and so many half-suppressed entreaties of 'Oh, do come and\ntie me, there's a dear!' that Mr. Pickwick in his innocence began to\nimagine that something dreadful must have occurred--when he grew more\nawake, and remembered the wedding. The occasion being an important\none, he dressed himself with peculiar care, and descended to the\nbreakfast-room.\n\nThere were all the female servants in a bran new uniform of pink muslin\ngowns with white bows in their caps, running about the house in a state\nof excitement and agitation which it would be impossible to describe.\nThe old lady was dressed out in a brocaded gown, which had not seen the\nlight for twenty years, saving and excepting such truant rays as had\nstolen through the chinks in the box in which it had been laid by,\nduring the whole time. Mr. Trundle was in high feather and spirits, but\na little nervous withal. The hearty old landlord was trying to look very\ncheerful and unconcerned, but failing signally in the attempt. All the\ngirls were in tears and white muslin, except a select two or three, who\nwere being honoured with a private view of the bride and bridesmaids,\nupstairs. All the Pickwickians were in most blooming array; and there\nwas a terrific roaring on the grass in front of the house, occasioned by\nall the men, boys, and hobbledehoys attached to the farm, each of whom\nhad got a white bow in his button-hole, and all of whom were cheering\nwith might and main; being incited thereto, and stimulated therein by\nthe precept and example of Mr. Samuel Weller, who had managed to become\nmighty popular already, and was as much at home as if he had been born\non the land.\n\nA wedding is a licensed subject to joke upon, but there really is no\ngreat joke in the matter after all;--we speak merely of the ceremony,\nand beg it to be distinctly understood that we indulge in no hidden\nsarcasm upon a married life. Mixed up with the pleasure and joy of the\noccasion, are the many regrets at quitting home, the tears of parting\nbetween parent and child, the consciousness of leaving the dearest and\nkindest friends of the happiest portion of human life, to encounter its\ncares and troubles with others still untried and little known--natural\nfeelings which we would not render this chapter mournful by describing,\nand which we should be still more unwilling to be supposed to ridicule.\n\nLet us briefly say, then, that the ceremony was performed by the old\nclergyman, in the parish church of Dingley Dell, and that Mr. Pickwick's\nname is attached to the register, still preserved in the vestry thereof;\nthat the young lady with the black eyes signed her name in a very\nunsteady and tremulous manner; that Emily's signature, as the other\nbridesmaid, is nearly illegible; that it all went off in very admirable\nstyle; that the young ladies generally thought it far less shocking than\nthey had expected; and that although the owner of the black eyes and the\narch smile informed Mr. Wardle that she was sure she could never submit\nto anything so dreadful, we have the very best reasons for thinking she\nwas mistaken. To all this, we may add, that Mr. Pickwick was the first\nwho saluted the bride, and that in so doing he threw over her neck a\nrich gold watch and chain, which no mortal eyes but the jeweller's had\never beheld before. Then, the old church bell rang as gaily as it could,\nand they all returned to breakfast. 'Vere does the mince-pies go, young\nopium-eater?' said Mr. Weller to the fat boy, as he assisted in laying\nout such articles of consumption as had not been duly arranged on the\nprevious night.\n\nThe fat boy pointed to the destination of the pies.\n\n'Wery good,' said Sam, 'stick a bit o' Christmas in 'em. T'other dish\nopposite. There; now we look compact and comfortable, as the father said\nven he cut his little boy's head off, to cure him o' squintin'.'\n\nAs Mr. Weller made the comparison, he fell back a step or two, to\ngive full effect to it, and surveyed the preparations with the utmost\nsatisfaction.\n\n'Wardle,' said Mr. Pickwick, almost as soon as they were all seated, 'a\nglass of wine in honour of this happy occasion!'\n\n'I shall be delighted, my boy,' said Wardle. 'Joe--damn that boy, he's\ngone to sleep.' 'No, I ain't, sir,' replied the fat boy, starting up\nfrom a remote corner, where, like the patron saint of fat boys--the\nimmortal Horner--he had been devouring a Christmas pie, though not with\nthe coolness and deliberation which characterised that young gentleman's\nproceedings.\n\n'Fill Mr. Pickwick's glass.'\n\n'Yes, sir.'\n\nThe fat boy filled Mr. Pickwick's glass, and then retired behind his\nmaster's chair, from whence he watched the play of the knives and forks,\nand the progress of the choice morsels from the dishes to the mouths\nof the company, with a kind of dark and gloomy joy that was most\nimpressive.\n\n'God bless you, old fellow!' said Mr. Pickwick.\n\n'Same to you, my boy,' replied Wardle; and they pledged each other,\nheartily.\n\n'Mrs. Wardle,' said Mr. Pickwick, 'we old folks must have a glass of\nwine together, in honour of this joyful event.'\n\nThe old lady was in a state of great grandeur just then, for she\nwas sitting at the top of the table in the brocaded gown, with her\nnewly-married granddaughter on one side, and Mr. Pickwick on the other,\nto do the carving. Mr. Pickwick had not spoken in a very loud tone, but\nshe understood him at once, and drank off a full glass of wine to his\nlong life and happiness; after which the worthy old soul launched\nforth into a minute and particular account of her own wedding, with\na dissertation on the fashion of wearing high-heeled shoes, and some\nparticulars concerning the life and adventures of the beautiful Lady\nTollimglower, deceased; at all of which the old lady herself laughed\nvery heartily indeed, and so did the young ladies too, for they were\nwondering among themselves what on earth grandma was talking about. When\nthey laughed, the old lady laughed ten times more heartily, and said\nthat these always had been considered capital stories, which caused them\nall to laugh again, and put the old lady into the very best of humours.\nThen the cake was cut, and passed through the ring; the young ladies\nsaved pieces to put under their pillows to dream of their future\nhusbands on; and a great deal of blushing and merriment was thereby\noccasioned.\n\n'Mr. Miller,' said Mr. Pickwick to his old acquaintance, the hard-headed\ngentleman, 'a glass of wine?'\n\n'With great satisfaction, Mr. Pickwick,' replied the hard-headed\ngentleman solemnly.\n\n'You'll take me in?' said the benevolent old clergyman.\n\n'And me,' interposed his wife. 'And me, and me,' said a couple of poor\nrelations at the bottom of the table, who had eaten and drunk very\nheartily, and laughed at everything.\n\nMr. Pickwick expressed his heartfelt delight at every additional\nsuggestion; and his eyes beamed with hilarity and cheerfulness. 'Ladies\nand gentlemen,' said Mr. Pickwick, suddenly rising.\n\n'Hear, hear! Hear, hear! Hear, hear!' cried Mr. Weller, in the\nexcitement of his feelings.\n\n'Call in all the servants,' cried old Wardle, interposing to prevent\nthe public rebuke which Mr. Weller would otherwise most indubitably have\nreceived from his master. 'Give them a glass of wine each to drink the\ntoast in. Now, Pickwick.'\n\nAmidst the silence of the company, the whispering of the women-servants,\nand the awkward embarrassment of the men, Mr. Pickwick proceeded--\n\n'Ladies and gentlemen--no, I won't say ladies and gentlemen, I'll call\nyou my friends, my dear friends, if the ladies will allow me to take so\ngreat a liberty--'\n\nHere Mr. Pickwick was interrupted by immense applause from the ladies,\nechoed by the gentlemen, during which the owner of the eyes was\ndistinctly heard to state that she could kiss that dear Mr. Pickwick.\nWhereupon Mr. Winkle gallantly inquired if it couldn't be done by\ndeputy: to which the young lady with the black eyes replied 'Go away,'\nand accompanied the request with a look which said as plainly as a look\ncould do, 'if you can.'\n\n'My dear friends,' resumed Mr. Pickwick, 'I am going to propose the\nhealth of the bride and bridegroom--God bless 'em (cheers and tears).\nMy young friend, Trundle, I believe to be a very excellent and manly\nfellow; and his wife I know to be a very amiable and lovely girl, well\nqualified to transfer to another sphere of action the happiness which\nfor twenty years she has diffused around her, in her father's house.\n(Here, the fat boy burst forth into stentorian blubberings, and was\nled forth by the coat collar, by Mr. Weller.) I wish,' added Mr.\nPickwick--'I wish I was young enough to be her sister's husband\n(cheers), but, failing that, I am happy to be old enough to be her\nfather; for, being so, I shall not be suspected of any latent designs\nwhen I say, that I admire, esteem, and love them both (cheers and sobs).\nThe bride's father, our good friend there, is a noble person, and I\nam proud to know him (great uproar). He is a kind, excellent,\nindependent-spirited, fine-hearted, hospitable, liberal man\n(enthusiastic shouts from the poor relations, at all the adjectives;\nand especially at the two last). That his daughter may enjoy all\nthe happiness, even he can desire; and that he may derive from the\ncontemplation of her felicity all the gratification of heart and peace\nof mind which he so well deserves, is, I am persuaded, our united wish.\nSo, let us drink their healths, and wish them prolonged life, and every\nblessing!'\n\nMr. Pickwick concluded amidst a whirlwind of applause; and once more\nwere the lungs of the supernumeraries, under Mr. Weller's command,\nbrought into active and efficient operation. Mr. Wardle proposed Mr.\nPickwick; Mr. Pickwick proposed the old lady. Mr. Snodgrass proposed\nMr. Wardle; Mr. Wardle proposed Mr. Snodgrass. One of the poor relations\nproposed Mr. Tupman, and the other poor relation proposed Mr. Winkle;\nall was happiness and festivity, until the mysterious disappearance of\nboth the poor relations beneath the table, warned the party that it was\ntime to adjourn.\n\nAt dinner they met again, after a five-and-twenty mile walk, undertaken\nby the males at Wardle's recommendation, to get rid of the effects of\nthe wine at breakfast. The poor relations had kept in bed all day, with\nthe view of attaining the same happy consummation, but, as they had been\nunsuccessful, they stopped there. Mr. Weller kept the domestics in a\nstate of perpetual hilarity; and the fat boy divided his time into small\nalternate allotments of eating and sleeping.\n\nThe dinner was as hearty an affair as the breakfast, and was quite as\nnoisy, without the tears. Then came the dessert and some more toasts.\nThen came the tea and coffee; and then, the ball.\n\nThe best sitting-room at Manor Farm was a good, long, dark-panelled room\nwith a high chimney-piece, and a capacious chimney, up which you could\nhave driven one of the new patent cabs, wheels and all. At the upper end\nof the room, seated in a shady bower of holly and evergreens were the\ntwo best fiddlers, and the only harp, in all Muggleton. In all sorts\nof recesses, and on all kinds of brackets, stood massive old silver\ncandlesticks with four branches each. The carpet was up, the candles\nburned bright, the fire blazed and crackled on the hearth, and merry\nvoices and light-hearted laughter rang through the room. If any of the\nold English yeomen had turned into fairies when they died, it was just\nthe place in which they would have held their revels.\n\nIf anything could have added to the interest of this agreeable scene, it\nwould have been the remarkable fact of Mr. Pickwick's appearing without\nhis gaiters, for the first time within the memory of his oldest friends.\n\n'You mean to dance?' said Wardle.\n\n'Of course I do,' replied Mr. Pickwick. 'Don't you see I am dressed\nfor the purpose?' Mr. Pickwick called attention to his speckled silk\nstockings, and smartly tied pumps.\n\n'YOU in silk stockings!' exclaimed Mr. Tupman jocosely.\n\n'And why not, sir--why not?' said Mr. Pickwick, turning warmly upon\nhim. 'Oh, of course there is no reason why you shouldn't wear them,'\nresponded Mr. Tupman.\n\n'I imagine not, sir--I imagine not,' said Mr. Pickwick, in a very\nperemptory tone.\n\nMr. Tupman had contemplated a laugh, but he found it was a serious\nmatter; so he looked grave, and said they were a pretty pattern.\n\n'I hope they are,' said Mr. Pickwick, fixing his eyes upon his friend.\n'You see nothing extraordinary in the stockings, AS stockings, I trust,\nSir?'\n\n'Certainly not. Oh, certainly not,' replied Mr. Tupman. He walked away;\nand Mr. Pickwick's countenance resumed its customary benign expression.\n\n'We are all ready, I believe,' said Mr. Pickwick, who was stationed with\nthe old lady at the top of the dance, and had already made four false\nstarts, in his excessive anxiety to commence.\n\n'Then begin at once,' said Wardle. 'Now!'\n\nUp struck the two fiddles and the one harp, and off went Mr. Pickwick\ninto hands across, when there was a general clapping of hands, and a cry\nof 'Stop, stop!'\n\n'What's the matter?' said Mr. Pickwick, who was only brought to, by\nthe fiddles and harp desisting, and could have been stopped by no other\nearthly power, if the house had been on fire. 'Where's Arabella Allen?'\ncried a dozen voices.\n\n'And Winkle?'added Mr. Tupman.\n\n'Here we are!' exclaimed that gentleman, emerging with his pretty\ncompanion from the corner; as he did so, it would have been hard to tell\nwhich was the redder in the face, he or the young lady with the black\neyes.\n\n'What an extraordinary thing it is, Winkle,' said Mr. Pickwick, rather\npettishly, 'that you couldn't have taken your place before.'\n\n'Not at all extraordinary,' said Mr. Winkle.\n\n'Well,' said Mr. Pickwick, with a very expressive smile, as his eyes\nrested on Arabella, 'well, I don't know that it WAS extraordinary,\neither, after all.'\n\nHowever, there was no time to think more about the matter, for the\nfiddles and harp began in real earnest. Away went Mr. Pickwick--hands\nacross--down the middle to the very end of the room, and half-way up the\nchimney, back again to the door--poussette everywhere--loud stamp on the\nground--ready for the next couple--off again--all the figure over once\nmore--another stamp to beat out the time--next couple, and the next, and\nthe next again--never was such going; at last, after they had reached\nthe bottom of the dance, and full fourteen couple after the old lady\nhad retired in an exhausted state, and the clergyman's wife had been\nsubstituted in her stead, did that gentleman, when there was no demand\nwhatever on his exertions, keep perpetually dancing in his place, to\nkeep time to the music, smiling on his partner all the while with a\nblandness of demeanour which baffles all description.\n\nLong before Mr. Pickwick was weary of dancing, the newly-married couple\nhad retired from the scene. There was a glorious supper downstairs,\nnotwithstanding, and a good long sitting after it; and when Mr. Pickwick\nawoke, late the next morning, he had a confused recollection of having,\nseverally and confidentially, invited somewhere about five-and-forty\npeople to dine with him at the George and Vulture, the very first time\nthey came to London; which Mr. Pickwick rightly considered a pretty\ncertain indication of his having taken something besides exercise, on\nthe previous night.\n\n'And so your family has games in the kitchen to-night, my dear, has\nthey?' inquired Sam of Emma.\n\n'Yes, Mr. Weller,' replied Emma; 'we always have on Christmas Eve.\nMaster wouldn't neglect to keep it up on any account.'\n\n'Your master's a wery pretty notion of keeping anythin' up, my dear,'\nsaid Mr. Weller; 'I never see such a sensible sort of man as he is, or\nsuch a reg'lar gen'l'm'n.' 'Oh, that he is!' said the fat boy, joining\nin the conversation; 'don't he breed nice pork!' The fat youth gave a\nsemi-cannibalic leer at Mr. Weller, as he thought of the roast legs and\ngravy.\n\n'Oh, you've woke up, at last, have you?' said Sam.\n\nThe fat boy nodded.\n\n'I'll tell you what it is, young boa-constructer,' said Mr. Weller\nimpressively; 'if you don't sleep a little less, and exercise a little\nmore, wen you comes to be a man you'll lay yourself open to the same\nsort of personal inconwenience as was inflicted on the old gen'l'm'n as\nwore the pigtail.'\n\n'What did they do to him?' inquired the fat boy, in a faltering voice.\n\n'I'm a-going to tell you,' replied Mr. Weller; 'he was one o' the\nlargest patterns as was ever turned out--reg'lar fat man, as hadn't\ncaught a glimpse of his own shoes for five-and-forty year.'\n\n'Lor!' exclaimed Emma.\n\n'No, that he hadn't, my dear,' said Mr. Weller; 'and if you'd put an\nexact model of his own legs on the dinin'-table afore him, he wouldn't\nha' known 'em. Well, he always walks to his office with a wery handsome\ngold watch-chain hanging out, about a foot and a quarter, and a gold\nwatch in his fob pocket as was worth--I'm afraid to say how much, but as\nmuch as a watch can be--a large, heavy, round manufacter, as stout for\na watch, as he was for a man, and with a big face in proportion. \"You'd\nbetter not carry that 'ere watch,\" says the old gen'l'm'n's friends,\n\"you'll be robbed on it,\" says they. \"Shall I?\" says he. \"Yes, you\nwill,\" says they. \"Well,\" says he, \"I should like to see the thief as\ncould get this here watch out, for I'm blessed if I ever can, it's such\na tight fit,\" says he, \"and wenever I vants to know what's o'clock, I'm\nobliged to stare into the bakers' shops,\" he says. Well, then he laughs\nas hearty as if he was a-goin' to pieces, and out he walks agin with\nhis powdered head and pigtail, and rolls down the Strand with the chain\nhangin' out furder than ever, and the great round watch almost bustin'\nthrough his gray kersey smalls. There warn't a pickpocket in all London\nas didn't take a pull at that chain, but the chain 'ud never break, and\nthe watch 'ud never come out, so they soon got tired of dragging such a\nheavy old gen'l'm'n along the pavement, and he'd go home and laugh till\nthe pigtail wibrated like the penderlum of a Dutch clock. At last, one\nday the old gen'l'm'n was a-rollin' along, and he sees a pickpocket as\nhe know'd by sight, a-coming up, arm in arm with a little boy with a\nwery large head. \"Here's a game,\" says the old gen'l'm'n to himself,\n\"they're a-goin' to have another try, but it won't do!\" So he begins\na-chucklin' wery hearty, wen, all of a sudden, the little boy leaves\nhold of the pickpocket's arm, and rushes head foremost straight into the\nold gen'l'm'n's stomach, and for a moment doubles him right up with\nthe pain. \"Murder!\" says the old gen'l'm'n. \"All right, Sir,\" says the\npickpocket, a-wisperin' in his ear. And wen he come straight agin,\nthe watch and chain was gone, and what's worse than that, the old\ngen'l'm'n's digestion was all wrong ever afterwards, to the wery last\nday of his life; so just you look about you, young feller, and take care\nyou don't get too fat.'\n\nAs Mr. Weller concluded this moral tale, with which the fat boy appeared\nmuch affected, they all three repaired to the large kitchen, in which\nthe family were by this time assembled, according to annual custom\non Christmas Eve, observed by old Wardle's forefathers from time\nimmemorial.\n\nFrom the centre of the ceiling of this kitchen, old Wardle had just\nsuspended, with his own hands, a huge branch of mistletoe, and this same\nbranch of mistletoe instantaneously gave rise to a scene of general and\nmost delightful struggling and confusion; in the midst of which, Mr.\nPickwick, with a gallantry that would have done honour to a descendant\nof Lady Tollimglower herself, took the old lady by the hand, led her\nbeneath the mystic branch, and saluted her in all courtesy and decorum.\nThe old lady submitted to this piece of practical politeness with all\nthe dignity which befitted so important and serious a solemnity, but\nthe younger ladies, not being so thoroughly imbued with a superstitious\nveneration for the custom, or imagining that the value of a salute is\nvery much enhanced if it cost a little trouble to obtain it, screamed\nand struggled, and ran into corners, and threatened and remonstrated,\nand did everything but leave the room, until some of the less\nadventurous gentlemen were on the point of desisting, when they all at\nonce found it useless to resist any longer, and submitted to be kissed\nwith a good grace. Mr. Winkle kissed the young lady with the black eyes,\nand Mr. Snodgrass kissed Emily; and Mr. Weller, not being particular\nabout the form of being under the mistletoe, kissed Emma and the other\nfemale servants, just as he caught them. As to the poor relations, they\nkissed everybody, not even excepting the plainer portions of the young\nlady visitors, who, in their excessive confusion, ran right under the\nmistletoe, as soon as it was hung up, without knowing it! Wardle stood\nwith his back to the fire, surveying the whole scene, with the utmost\nsatisfaction; and the fat boy took the opportunity of appropriating to\nhis own use, and summarily devouring, a particularly fine mince-pie,\nthat had been carefully put by, for somebody else.\n\nNow, the screaming had subsided, and faces were in a glow, and curls\nin a tangle, and Mr. Pickwick, after kissing the old lady as before\nmentioned, was standing under the mistletoe, looking with a very pleased\ncountenance on all that was passing around him, when the young lady with\nthe black eyes, after a little whispering with the other young ladies,\nmade a sudden dart forward, and, putting her arm round Mr. Pickwick's\nneck, saluted him affectionately on the left cheek; and before Mr.\nPickwick distinctly knew what was the matter, he was surrounded by the\nwhole body, and kissed by every one of them.\n\nIt was a pleasant thing to see Mr. Pickwick in the centre of the group,\nnow pulled this way, and then that, and first kissed on the chin, and\nthen on the nose, and then on the spectacles, and to hear the peals\nof laughter which were raised on every side; but it was a still more\npleasant thing to see Mr. Pickwick, blinded shortly afterwards with\na silk handkerchief, falling up against the wall, and scrambling into\ncorners, and going through all the mysteries of blind-man's buff, with\nthe utmost relish for the game, until at last he caught one of the poor\nrelations, and then had to evade the blind-man himself, which he did\nwith a nimbleness and agility that elicited the admiration and applause\nof all beholders. The poor relations caught the people who they thought\nwould like it, and, when the game flagged, got caught themselves.\nWhen they all tired of blind-man's buff, there was a great game at\nsnap-dragon, and when fingers enough were burned with that, and all the\nraisins were gone, they sat down by the huge fire of blazing logs to a\nsubstantial supper, and a mighty bowl of wassail, something smaller than\nan ordinary wash-house copper, in which the hot apples were hissing\nand bubbling with a rich look, and a jolly sound, that were perfectly\nirresistible.\n\n'This,' said Mr. Pickwick, looking round him, 'this is, indeed,\ncomfort.' 'Our invariable custom,' replied Mr. Wardle. 'Everybody sits\ndown with us on Christmas Eve, as you see them now--servants and all;\nand here we wait, until the clock strikes twelve, to usher Christmas\nin, and beguile the time with forfeits and old stories. Trundle, my boy,\nrake up the fire.'\n\nUp flew the bright sparks in myriads as the logs were stirred. The deep\nred blaze sent forth a rich glow, that penetrated into the farthest\ncorner of the room, and cast its cheerful tint on every face.\n\n'Come,' said Wardle, 'a song--a Christmas song! I'll give you one, in\ndefault of a better.'\n\n'Bravo!' said Mr. Pickwick.\n\n'Fill up,' cried Wardle. 'It will be two hours, good, before you see the\nbottom of the bowl through the deep rich colour of the wassail; fill up\nall round, and now for the song.'\n\nThus saying, the merry old gentleman, in a good, round, sturdy voice,\ncommenced without more ado--\n\n\n\n A CHRISTMAS CAROL\n\n 'I care not for Spring; on his fickle wing\n Let the blossoms and buds be borne;\n He woos them amain with his treacherous rain,\n And he scatters them ere the morn.\n An inconstant elf, he knows not himself,\n Nor his own changing mind an hour,\n He'll smile in your face, and, with wry grimace,\n He'll wither your youngest flower.\n\n 'Let the Summer sun to his bright home run,\n He shall never be sought by me;\n When he's dimmed by a cloud I can laugh aloud\n And care not how sulky he be!\n For his darling child is the madness wild\n That sports in fierce fever's train;\n And when love is too strong, it don't last long,\n As many have found to their pain.\n\n 'A mild harvest night, by the tranquil light\n Of the modest and gentle moon,\n Has a far sweeter sheen for me, I ween,\n Than the broad and unblushing noon.\n But every leaf awakens my grief,\n As it lieth beneath the tree;\n So let Autumn air be never so fair,\n It by no means agrees with me.\n\n 'But my song I troll out, for CHRISTMAS Stout,\n The hearty, the true, and the bold;\n A bumper I drain, and with might and main\n Give three cheers for this Christmas old!\n We'll usher him in with a merry din\n That shall gladden his joyous heart,\n And we'll keep him up, while there's bite or sup,\n And in fellowship good, we'll part.\n 'In his fine honest pride, he scorns to hide\n One jot of his hard-weather scars;\n They're no disgrace, for there's much the same trace\n On the cheeks of our bravest tars.\n Then again I sing till the roof doth ring\n And it echoes from wall to wall--\n To the stout old wight, fair welcome to-night,\n As the King of the Seasons all!'\n\n\nThis song was tumultuously applauded--for friends and dependents make\na capital audience--and the poor relations, especially, were in perfect\necstasies of rapture. Again was the fire replenished, and again went the\nwassail round.\n\n'How it snows!' said one of the men, in a low tone.\n\n'Snows, does it?' said Wardle.\n\n'Rough, cold night, Sir,' replied the man; 'and there's a wind got up,\nthat drifts it across the fields, in a thick white cloud.'\n\n'What does Jem say?' inquired the old lady. 'There ain't anything the\nmatter, is there?'\n\n'No, no, mother,' replied Wardle; 'he says there's a snowdrift, and a\nwind that's piercing cold. I should know that, by the way it rumbles in\nthe chimney.'\n\n'Ah!' said the old lady, 'there was just such a wind, and just such\na fall of snow, a good many years back, I recollect--just five years\nbefore your poor father died. It was a Christmas Eve, too; and I\nremember that on that very night he told us the story about the goblins\nthat carried away old Gabriel Grub.'\n\n'The story about what?' said Mr. Pickwick.\n\n'Oh, nothing, nothing,' replied Wardle. 'About an old sexton, that the\ngood people down here suppose to have been carried away by goblins.'\n\n'Suppose!' ejaculated the old lady. 'Is there anybody hardy enough to\ndisbelieve it? Suppose! Haven't you heard ever since you were a child,\nthat he WAS carried away by the goblins, and don't you know he was?'\n\n'Very well, mother, he was, if you like,' said Wardle laughing. 'He WAS\ncarried away by goblins, Pickwick; and there's an end of the matter.'\n\n'No, no,' said Mr. Pickwick, 'not an end of it, I assure you; for I must\nhear how, and why, and all about it.'\n\nWardle smiled, as every head was bent forward to hear, and filling out\nthe wassail with no stinted hand, nodded a health to Mr. Pickwick, and\nbegan as follows--\n\nBut bless our editorial heart, what a long chapter we have been betrayed\ninto! We had quite forgotten all such petty restrictions as chapters, we\nsolemnly declare. So here goes, to give the goblin a fair start in a new\none. A clear stage and no favour for the goblins, ladies and gentlemen,\nif you please.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXIX. THE STORY OF THE GOBLINS WHO STOLE A SEXTON\n\n\nIn an old abbey town, down in this part of the country, a long, long\nwhile ago--so long, that the story must be a true one, because our\ngreat-grandfathers implicitly believed it--there officiated as sexton\nand grave-digger in the churchyard, one Gabriel Grub. It by no means\nfollows that because a man is a sexton, and constantly surrounded by\nthe emblems of mortality, therefore he should be a morose and melancholy\nman; your undertakers are the merriest fellows in the world; and I once\nhad the honour of being on intimate terms with a mute, who in private\nlife, and off duty, was as comical and jocose a little fellow as ever\nchirped out a devil-may-care song, without a hitch in his memory,\nor drained off a good stiff glass without stopping for breath. But\nnotwithstanding these precedents to the contrary, Gabriel Grub was an\nill-conditioned, cross-grained, surly fellow--a morose and lonely man,\nwho consorted with nobody but himself, and an old wicker bottle which\nfitted into his large deep waistcoat pocket--and who eyed each merry\nface, as it passed him by, with such a deep scowl of malice and\nill-humour, as it was difficult to meet without feeling something the\nworse for.\n\n'A little before twilight, one Christmas Eve, Gabriel shouldered\nhis spade, lighted his lantern, and betook himself towards the old\nchurchyard; for he had got a grave to finish by next morning, and,\nfeeling very low, he thought it might raise his spirits, perhaps, if\nhe went on with his work at once. As he went his way, up the ancient\nstreet, he saw the cheerful light of the blazing fires gleam through the\nold casements, and heard the loud laugh and the cheerful shouts of those\nwho were assembled around them; he marked the bustling preparations for\nnext day's cheer, and smelled the numerous savoury odours consequent\nthereupon, as they steamed up from the kitchen windows in clouds. All\nthis was gall and wormwood to the heart of Gabriel Grub; and when groups\nof children bounded out of the houses, tripped across the road, and\nwere met, before they could knock at the opposite door, by half a dozen\ncurly-headed little rascals who crowded round them as they flocked\nupstairs to spend the evening in their Christmas games, Gabriel smiled\ngrimly, and clutched the handle of his spade with a firmer grasp, as he\nthought of measles, scarlet fever, thrush, whooping-cough, and a good\nmany other sources of consolation besides.\n\n'In this happy frame of mind, Gabriel strode along, returning a short,\nsullen growl to the good-humoured greetings of such of his neighbours as\nnow and then passed him, until he turned into the dark lane which led\nto the churchyard. Now, Gabriel had been looking forward to reaching the\ndark lane, because it was, generally speaking, a nice, gloomy, mournful\nplace, into which the townspeople did not much care to go, except in\nbroad daylight, and when the sun was shining; consequently, he was not\na little indignant to hear a young urchin roaring out some jolly song\nabout a merry Christmas, in this very sanctuary which had been called\nCoffin Lane ever since the days of the old abbey, and the time of the\nshaven-headed monks. As Gabriel walked on, and the voice drew nearer, he\nfound it proceeded from a small boy, who was hurrying along, to join one\nof the little parties in the old street, and who, partly to keep himself\ncompany, and partly to prepare himself for the occasion, was shouting\nout the song at the highest pitch of his lungs. So Gabriel waited until\nthe boy came up, and then dodged him into a corner, and rapped him\nover the head with his lantern five or six times, just to teach him to\nmodulate his voice. And as the boy hurried away with his hand to his\nhead, singing quite a different sort of tune, Gabriel Grub chuckled very\nheartily to himself, and entered the churchyard, locking the gate behind\nhim.\n\n'He took off his coat, set down his lantern, and getting into the\nunfinished grave, worked at it for an hour or so with right good-will.\nBut the earth was hardened with the frost, and it was no very easy\nmatter to break it up, and shovel it out; and although there was a moon,\nit was a very young one, and shed little light upon the grave, which was\nin the shadow of the church. At any other time, these obstacles would\nhave made Gabriel Grub very moody and miserable, but he was so well\npleased with having stopped the small boy's singing, that he took little\nheed of the scanty progress he had made, and looked down into the\ngrave, when he had finished work for the night, with grim satisfaction,\nmurmuring as he gathered up his things--\n\n Brave lodgings for one, brave lodgings for one,\n A few feet of cold earth, when life is done;\n A stone at the head, a stone at the feet,\n A rich, juicy meal for the worms to eat;\n Rank grass overhead, and damp clay around,\n Brave lodgings for one, these, in holy ground!\n\n'\"Ho! ho!\" laughed Gabriel Grub, as he sat himself down on a flat\ntombstone which was a favourite resting-place of his, and drew forth his\nwicker bottle. \"A coffin at Christmas! A Christmas box! Ho! ho! ho!\"\n\n'\"Ho! ho! ho!\" repeated a voice which sounded close behind him.\n\n'Gabriel paused, in some alarm, in the act of raising the wicker bottle\nto his lips, and looked round. The bottom of the oldest grave about him\nwas not more still and quiet than the churchyard in the pale moonlight.\nThe cold hoar frost glistened on the tombstones, and sparkled like rows\nof gems, among the stone carvings of the old church. The snow lay hard\nand crisp upon the ground; and spread over the thickly-strewn mounds\nof earth, so white and smooth a cover that it seemed as if corpses lay\nthere, hidden only by their winding sheets. Not the faintest rustle\nbroke the profound tranquillity of the solemn scene. Sound itself\nappeared to be frozen up, all was so cold and still.\n\n'\"It was the echoes,\" said Gabriel Grub, raising the bottle to his lips\nagain.\n\n'\"It was NOT,\" said a deep voice.\n\n'Gabriel started up, and stood rooted to the spot with astonishment and\nterror; for his eyes rested on a form that made his blood run cold.\n\n'Seated on an upright tombstone, close to him, was a strange, unearthly\nfigure, whom Gabriel felt at once, was no being of this world. His long,\nfantastic legs which might have reached the ground, were cocked up, and\ncrossed after a quaint, fantastic fashion; his sinewy arms were bare;\nand his hands rested on his knees. On his short, round body, he wore a\nclose covering, ornamented with small slashes; a short cloak dangled at\nhis back; the collar was cut into curious peaks, which served the goblin\nin lieu of ruff or neckerchief; and his shoes curled up at his toes\ninto long points. On his head, he wore a broad-brimmed sugar-loaf hat,\ngarnished with a single feather. The hat was covered with the white\nfrost; and the goblin looked as if he had sat on the same tombstone very\ncomfortably, for two or three hundred years. He was sitting perfectly\nstill; his tongue was put out, as if in derision; and he was grinning at\nGabriel Grub with such a grin as only a goblin could call up.\n\n'\"It was NOT the echoes,\" said the goblin.\n\n'Gabriel Grub was paralysed, and could make no reply.\n\n'\"What do you do here on Christmas Eve?\" said the goblin sternly. '\"I\ncame to dig a grave, Sir,\" stammered Gabriel Grub.\n\n'\"What man wanders among graves and churchyards on such a night as\nthis?\" cried the goblin.\n\n'\"Gabriel Grub! Gabriel Grub!\" screamed a wild chorus of voices that\nseemed to fill the churchyard. Gabriel looked fearfully round--nothing\nwas to be seen.\n\n'\"What have you got in that bottle?\" said the goblin.\n\n'\"Hollands, sir,\" replied the sexton, trembling more than ever; for\nhe had bought it of the smugglers, and he thought that perhaps his\nquestioner might be in the excise department of the goblins.\n\n'\"Who drinks Hollands alone, and in a churchyard, on such a night as\nthis?\" said the goblin.\n\n'\"Gabriel Grub! Gabriel Grub!\" exclaimed the wild voices again.\n\n'The goblin leered maliciously at the terrified sexton, and then raising\nhis voice, exclaimed--\n\n'\"And who, then, is our fair and lawful prize?\"\n\n'To this inquiry the invisible chorus replied, in a strain that sounded\nlike the voices of many choristers singing to the mighty swell of the\nold church organ--a strain that seemed borne to the sexton's ears upon\na wild wind, and to die away as it passed onward; but the burden of the\nreply was still the same, \"Gabriel Grub! Gabriel Grub!\"\n\n'The goblin grinned a broader grin than before, as he said, \"Well,\nGabriel, what do you say to this?\"\n\n'The sexton gasped for breath. '\"What do you think of this, Gabriel?\"\nsaid the goblin, kicking up his feet in the air on either side of the\ntombstone, and looking at the turned-up points with as much complacency\nas if he had been contemplating the most fashionable pair of Wellingtons\nin all Bond Street.\n\n'\"It's--it's--very curious, Sir,\" replied the sexton, half dead with\nfright; \"very curious, and very pretty, but I think I'll go back and\nfinish my work, Sir, if you please.\"\n\n'\"Work!\" said the goblin, \"what work?\"\n\n'\"The grave, Sir; making the grave,\" stammered the sexton.\n\n'\"Oh, the grave, eh?\" said the goblin; \"who makes graves at a time when\nall other men are merry, and takes a pleasure in it?\"\n\n'Again the mysterious voices replied, \"Gabriel Grub! Gabriel Grub!\"\n\n'\"I am afraid my friends want you, Gabriel,\" said the goblin, thrusting\nhis tongue farther into his cheek than ever--and a most astonishing\ntongue it was--\"I'm afraid my friends want you, Gabriel,\" said the\ngoblin.\n\n'\"Under favour, Sir,\" replied the horror-stricken sexton, \"I don't think\nthey can, Sir; they don't know me, Sir; I don't think the gentlemen have\never seen me, Sir.\"\n\n'\"Oh, yes, they have,\" replied the goblin; \"we know the man with the\nsulky face and grim scowl, that came down the street to-night, throwing\nhis evil looks at the children, and grasping his burying-spade the\ntighter. We know the man who struck the boy in the envious malice of his\nheart, because the boy could be merry, and he could not. We know him, we\nknow him.\"\n\n'Here, the goblin gave a loud, shrill laugh, which the echoes returned\ntwentyfold; and throwing his legs up in the air, stood upon his head, or\nrather upon the very point of his sugar-loaf hat, on the narrow edge of\nthe tombstone, whence he threw a Somerset with extraordinary agility,\nright to the sexton's feet, at which he planted himself in the attitude\nin which tailors generally sit upon the shop-board.\n\n'\"I--I--am afraid I must leave you, Sir,\" said the sexton, making an\neffort to move.\n\n'\"Leave us!\" said the goblin, \"Gabriel Grub going to leave us. Ho! ho!\nho!\"\n\n'As the goblin laughed, the sexton observed, for one instant, a\nbrilliant illumination within the windows of the church, as if the\nwhole building were lighted up; it disappeared, the organ pealed forth\na lively air, and whole troops of goblins, the very counterpart of the\nfirst one, poured into the churchyard, and began playing at leap-frog\nwith the tombstones, never stopping for an instant to take breath, but\n\"overing\" the highest among them, one after the other, with the most\nmarvellous dexterity. The first goblin was a most astonishing leaper,\nand none of the others could come near him; even in the extremity of his\nterror the sexton could not help observing, that while his friends were\ncontent to leap over the common-sized gravestones, the first one took\nthe family vaults, iron railings and all, with as much ease as if they\nhad been so many street-posts.\n\n'At last the game reached to a most exciting pitch; the organ played\nquicker and quicker, and the goblins leaped faster and faster, coiling\nthemselves up, rolling head over heels upon the ground, and bounding\nover the tombstones like footballs. The sexton's brain whirled round\nwith the rapidity of the motion he beheld, and his legs reeled beneath\nhim, as the spirits flew before his eyes; when the goblin king, suddenly\ndarting towards him, laid his hand upon his collar, and sank with him\nthrough the earth.\n\n'When Gabriel Grub had had time to fetch his breath, which the rapidity\nof his descent had for the moment taken away, he found himself in what\nappeared to be a large cavern, surrounded on all sides by crowds of\ngoblins, ugly and grim; in the centre of the room, on an elevated seat,\nwas stationed his friend of the churchyard; and close behind him stood\nGabriel Grub himself, without power of motion.\n\n'\"Cold to-night,\" said the king of the goblins, \"very cold. A glass of\nsomething warm here!\"\n\n'At this command, half a dozen officious goblins, with a perpetual smile\nupon their faces, whom Gabriel Grub imagined to be courtiers, on that\naccount, hastily disappeared, and presently returned with a goblet of\nliquid fire, which they presented to the king.\n\n'\"Ah!\" cried the goblin, whose cheeks and throat were transparent, as\nhe tossed down the flame, \"this warms one, indeed! Bring a bumper of the\nsame, for Mr. Grub.\"\n\n'It was in vain for the unfortunate sexton to protest that he was not in\nthe habit of taking anything warm at night; one of the goblins held\nhim while another poured the blazing liquid down his throat; the whole\nassembly screeched with laughter, as he coughed and choked, and wiped\naway the tears which gushed plentifully from his eyes, after swallowing\nthe burning draught.\n\n'\"And now,\" said the king, fantastically poking the taper corner of his\nsugar-loaf hat into the sexton's eye, and thereby occasioning him the\nmost exquisite pain; \"and now, show the man of misery and gloom, a few\nof the pictures from our own great storehouse!\"\n\n'As the goblin said this, a thick cloud which obscured the remoter end\nof the cavern rolled gradually away, and disclosed, apparently at a\ngreat distance, a small and scantily furnished, but neat and clean\napartment. A crowd of little children were gathered round a bright fire,\nclinging to their mother's gown, and gambolling around her chair. The\nmother occasionally rose, and drew aside the window-curtain, as if to\nlook for some expected object; a frugal meal was ready spread upon the\ntable; and an elbow chair was placed near the fire. A knock was heard at\nthe door; the mother opened it, and the children crowded round her, and\nclapped their hands for joy, as their father entered. He was wet and\nweary, and shook the snow from his garments, as the children crowded\nround him, and seizing his cloak, hat, stick, and gloves, with busy\nzeal, ran with them from the room. Then, as he sat down to his meal\nbefore the fire, the children climbed about his knee, and the mother sat\nby his side, and all seemed happiness and comfort.\n\n'But a change came upon the view, almost imperceptibly. The scene was\naltered to a small bedroom, where the fairest and youngest child lay\ndying; the roses had fled from his cheek, and the light from his eye;\nand even as the sexton looked upon him with an interest he had never\nfelt or known before, he died. His young brothers and sisters crowded\nround his little bed, and seized his tiny hand, so cold and heavy; but\nthey shrank back from its touch, and looked with awe on his infant face;\nfor calm and tranquil as it was, and sleeping in rest and peace as the\nbeautiful child seemed to be, they saw that he was dead, and they knew\nthat he was an angel looking down upon, and blessing them, from a bright\nand happy Heaven.\n\n'Again the light cloud passed across the picture, and again the subject\nchanged. The father and mother were old and helpless now, and the number\nof those about them was diminished more than half; but content and\ncheerfulness sat on every face, and beamed in every eye, as they crowded\nround the fireside, and told and listened to old stories of earlier and\nbygone days. Slowly and peacefully, the father sank into the grave, and,\nsoon after, the sharer of all his cares and troubles followed him to a\nplace of rest. The few who yet survived them, kneeled by their tomb, and\nwatered the green turf which covered it with their tears; then rose,\nand turned away, sadly and mournfully, but not with bitter cries, or\ndespairing lamentations, for they knew that they should one day meet\nagain; and once more they mixed with the busy world, and their content\nand cheerfulness were restored. The cloud settled upon the picture, and\nconcealed it from the sexton's view.\n\n'\"What do you think of THAT?\" said the goblin, turning his large face\ntowards Gabriel Grub.\n\n'Gabriel murmured out something about its being very pretty, and looked\nsomewhat ashamed, as the goblin bent his fiery eyes upon him.\n\n'\"You miserable man!\" said the goblin, in a tone of excessive contempt.\n\"You!\" He appeared disposed to add more, but indignation choked\nhis utterance, so he lifted up one of his very pliable legs, and,\nflourishing it above his head a little, to insure his aim, administered\na good sound kick to Gabriel Grub; immediately after which, all the\ngoblins in waiting crowded round the wretched sexton, and kicked him\nwithout mercy, according to the established and invariable custom of\ncourtiers upon earth, who kick whom royalty kicks, and hug whom royalty\nhugs.\n\n'\"Show him some more!\" said the king of the goblins.\n\n'At these words, the cloud was dispelled, and a rich and beautiful\nlandscape was disclosed to view--there is just such another, to this\nday, within half a mile of the old abbey town. The sun shone from out\nthe clear blue sky, the water sparkled beneath his rays, and the\ntrees looked greener, and the flowers more gay, beneath its cheering\ninfluence. The water rippled on with a pleasant sound, the trees rustled\nin the light wind that murmured among their leaves, the birds sang upon\nthe boughs, and the lark carolled on high her welcome to the morning.\nYes, it was morning; the bright, balmy morning of summer; the minutest\nleaf, the smallest blade of grass, was instinct with life. The ant crept\nforth to her daily toil, the butterfly fluttered and basked in the warm\nrays of the sun; myriads of insects spread their transparent wings, and\nrevelled in their brief but happy existence. Man walked forth, elated\nwith the scene; and all was brightness and splendour.\n\n'\"YOU a miserable man!\" said the king of the goblins, in a more\ncontemptuous tone than before. And again the king of the goblins gave\nhis leg a flourish; again it descended on the shoulders of the sexton;\nand again the attendant goblins imitated the example of their chief.\n\n'Many a time the cloud went and came, and many a lesson it taught to\nGabriel Grub, who, although his shoulders smarted with pain from the\nfrequent applications of the goblins' feet thereunto, looked on with an\ninterest that nothing could diminish. He saw that men who worked hard,\nand earned their scanty bread with lives of labour, were cheerful and\nhappy; and that to the most ignorant, the sweet face of Nature was a\nnever-failing source of cheerfulness and joy. He saw those who had been\ndelicately nurtured, and tenderly brought up, cheerful under privations,\nand superior to suffering, that would have crushed many of a rougher\ngrain, because they bore within their own bosoms the materials of\nhappiness, contentment, and peace. He saw that women, the tenderest\nand most fragile of all God's creatures, were the oftenest superior to\nsorrow, adversity, and distress; and he saw that it was because they\nbore, in their own hearts, an inexhaustible well-spring of affection and\ndevotion. Above all, he saw that men like himself, who snarled at the\nmirth and cheerfulness of others, were the foulest weeds on the fair\nsurface of the earth; and setting all the good of the world against\nthe evil, he came to the conclusion that it was a very decent and\nrespectable sort of world after all. No sooner had he formed it, than\nthe cloud which had closed over the last picture, seemed to settle on\nhis senses, and lull him to repose. One by one, the goblins faded from\nhis sight; and, as the last one disappeared, he sank to sleep.\n\n'The day had broken when Gabriel Grub awoke, and found himself lying at\nfull length on the flat gravestone in the churchyard, with the wicker\nbottle lying empty by his side, and his coat, spade, and lantern, all\nwell whitened by the last night's frost, scattered on the ground. The\nstone on which he had first seen the goblin seated, stood bolt upright\nbefore him, and the grave at which he had worked, the night before, was\nnot far off. At first, he began to doubt the reality of his adventures,\nbut the acute pain in his shoulders when he attempted to rise, assured\nhim that the kicking of the goblins was certainly not ideal. He was\nstaggered again, by observing no traces of footsteps in the snow on\nwhich the goblins had played at leap-frog with the gravestones, but he\nspeedily accounted for this circumstance when he remembered that, being\nspirits, they would leave no visible impression behind them. So, Gabriel\nGrub got on his feet as well as he could, for the pain in his back; and,\nbrushing the frost off his coat, put it on, and turned his face towards\nthe town.\n\n'But he was an altered man, and he could not bear the thought of\nreturning to a place where his repentance would be scoffed at, and his\nreformation disbelieved. He hesitated for a few moments; and then turned\naway to wander where he might, and seek his bread elsewhere.\n\n'The lantern, the spade, and the wicker bottle were found, that day, in\nthe churchyard. There were a great many speculations about the sexton's\nfate, at first, but it was speedily determined that he had been carried\naway by the goblins; and there were not wanting some very credible\nwitnesses who had distinctly seen him whisked through the air on the\nback of a chestnut horse blind of one eye, with the hind-quarters of a\nlion, and the tail of a bear. At length all this was devoutly believed;\nand the new sexton used to exhibit to the curious, for a trifling\nemolument, a good-sized piece of the church weathercock which had been\naccidentally kicked off by the aforesaid horse in his aerial flight, and\npicked up by himself in the churchyard, a year or two afterwards.\n\n'Unfortunately, these stories were somewhat disturbed by the\nunlooked-for reappearance of Gabriel Grub himself, some ten years\nafterwards, a ragged, contented, rheumatic old man. He told his story to\nthe clergyman, and also to the mayor; and in course of time it began to\nbe received as a matter of history, in which form it has continued\ndown to this very day. The believers in the weathercock tale, having\nmisplaced their confidence once, were not easily prevailed upon to part\nwith it again, so they looked as wise as they could, shrugged their\nshoulders, touched their foreheads, and murmured something about Gabriel\nGrub having drunk all the Hollands, and then fallen asleep on the\nflat tombstone; and they affected to explain what he supposed he had\nwitnessed in the goblin's cavern, by saying that he had seen the world,\nand grown wiser. But this opinion, which was by no means a popular\none at any time, gradually died off; and be the matter how it may, as\nGabriel Grub was afflicted with rheumatism to the end of his days, this\nstory has at least one moral, if it teach no better one--and that is,\nthat if a man turn sulky and drink by himself at Christmas time, he may\nmake up his mind to be not a bit the better for it: let the spirits\nbe never so good, or let them be even as many degrees beyond proof, as\nthose which Gabriel Grub saw in the goblin's cavern.'\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXX. HOW THE PICKWICKIANS MADE AND CULTIVATED THE ACQUAINTANCE\nOF A COUPLE OF NICE YOUNG MEN BELONGING TO ONE OF THE LIBERAL\nPROFESSIONS; HOW THEY DISPORTED THEMSELVES ON THE ICE; AND HOW THEIR\nVISIT CAME TO A CONCLUSION\n\n\n'Well, Sam,' said Mr. Pickwick, as that favoured servitor entered his\nbed-chamber, with his warm water, on the morning of Christmas Day,\n'still frosty?'\n\n'Water in the wash-hand basin's a mask o' ice, Sir,' responded Sam.\n\n'Severe weather, Sam,' observed Mr. Pickwick.\n\n'Fine time for them as is well wropped up, as the Polar bear said to\nhimself, ven he was practising his skating,' replied Mr. Weller.\n\n'I shall be down in a quarter of an hour, Sam,' said Mr. Pickwick,\nuntying his nightcap.\n\n'Wery good, sir,' replied Sam. 'There's a couple o' sawbones\ndownstairs.'\n\n'A couple of what!' exclaimed Mr. Pickwick, sitting up in bed.\n\n'A couple o' sawbones,' said Sam.\n\n'What's a sawbones?' inquired Mr. Pickwick, not quite certain whether it\nwas a live animal, or something to eat.\n\n'What! Don't you know what a sawbones is, sir?' inquired Mr. Weller. 'I\nthought everybody know'd as a sawbones was a surgeon.'\n\n'Oh, a surgeon, eh?' said Mr. Pickwick, with a smile.\n\n'Just that, sir,' replied Sam. 'These here ones as is below, though,\nain't reg'lar thoroughbred sawbones; they're only in trainin'.' 'In\nother words they're medical students, I suppose?' said Mr. Pickwick.\n\nSam Weller nodded assent.\n\n'I am glad of it,' said Mr. Pickwick, casting his nightcap energetically\non the counterpane. 'They are fine fellows--very fine fellows; with\njudgments matured by observation and reflection; and tastes refined by\nreading and study. I am very glad of it.'\n\n'They're a-smokin' cigars by the kitchen fire,' said Sam.\n\n'Ah!' observed Mr. Pickwick, rubbing his hands, 'overflowing with kindly\nfeelings and animal spirits. Just what I like to see.' 'And one on 'em,'\nsaid Sam, not noticing his master's interruption, 'one on 'em's got\nhis legs on the table, and is a-drinking brandy neat, vile the t'other\none--him in the barnacles--has got a barrel o' oysters atween his knees,\nwhich he's a-openin' like steam, and as fast as he eats 'em, he takes a\naim vith the shells at young dropsy, who's a sittin' down fast asleep,\nin the chimbley corner.'\n\n'Eccentricities of genius, Sam,' said Mr. Pickwick. 'You may retire.'\n\nSam did retire accordingly. Mr. Pickwick at the expiration of the\nquarter of an hour, went down to breakfast.\n\n'Here he is at last!' said old Mr. Wardle. 'Pickwick, this is Miss\nAllen's brother, Mr. Benjamin Allen. Ben we call him, and so may you, if\nyou like. This gentleman is his very particular friend, Mr.--'\n\n'Mr. Bob Sawyer,'interposed Mr. Benjamin Allen; whereupon Mr. Bob Sawyer\nand Mr. Benjamin Allen laughed in concert.\n\nMr. Pickwick bowed to Bob Sawyer, and Bob Sawyer bowed to Mr. Pickwick.\nBob and his very particular friend then applied themselves most\nassiduously to the eatables before them; and Mr. Pickwick had an\nopportunity of glancing at them both.\n\nMr. Benjamin Allen was a coarse, stout, thick-set young man, with\nblack hair cut rather short, and a white face cut rather long. He was\nembellished with spectacles, and wore a white neckerchief. Below his\nsingle-breasted black surtout, which was buttoned up to his chin,\nappeared the usual number of pepper-and-salt coloured legs, terminating\nin a pair of imperfectly polished boots. Although his coat was short in\nthe sleeves, it disclosed no vestige of a linen wristband; and although\nthere was quite enough of his face to admit of the encroachment of\na shirt collar, it was not graced by the smallest approach to that\nappendage. He presented, altogether, rather a mildewy appearance, and\nemitted a fragrant odour of full-flavoured Cubas.\n\nMr. Bob Sawyer, who was habited in a coarse, blue coat, which, without\nbeing either a greatcoat or a surtout, partook of the nature and\nqualities of both, had about him that sort of slovenly smartness, and\nswaggering gait, which is peculiar to young gentlemen who smoke in the\nstreets by day, shout and scream in the same by night, call waiters by\ntheir Christian names, and do various other acts and deeds of an equally\nfacetious description. He wore a pair of plaid trousers, and a large,\nrough, double-breasted waistcoat; out of doors, he carried a thick\nstick with a big top. He eschewed gloves, and looked, upon the whole,\nsomething like a dissipated Robinson Crusoe.\n\nSuch were the two worthies to whom Mr. Pickwick was introduced, as he\ntook his seat at the breakfast-table on Christmas morning.\n\n'Splendid morning, gentlemen,' said Mr. Pickwick.\n\nMr. Bob Sawyer slightly nodded his assent to the proposition, and asked\nMr. Benjamin Allen for the mustard.\n\n'Have you come far this morning, gentlemen?' inquired Mr. Pickwick.\n\n'Blue Lion at Muggleton,' briefly responded Mr. Allen.\n\n'You should have joined us last night,' said Mr. Pickwick.\n\n'So we should,' replied Bob Sawyer, 'but the brandy was too good to\nleave in a hurry; wasn't it, Ben?'\n\n'Certainly,' said Mr. Benjamin Allen; 'and the cigars were not bad, or\nthe pork-chops either; were they, Bob?'\n\n'Decidedly not,' said Bob. The particular friends resumed their attack\nupon the breakfast, more freely than before, as if the recollection of\nlast night's supper had imparted a new relish to the meal.\n\n'Peg away, Bob,' said Mr. Allen, to his companion, encouragingly.\n\n'So I do,' replied Bob Sawyer. And so, to do him justice, he did.\n\n'Nothing like dissecting, to give one an appetite,' said Mr. Bob Sawyer,\nlooking round the table.\n\nMr. Pickwick slightly shuddered.\n\n'By the bye, Bob,' said Mr. Allen, 'have you finished that leg yet?'\n\n'Nearly,' replied Sawyer, helping himself to half a fowl as he spoke.\n'It's a very muscular one for a child's.' 'Is it?' inquired Mr. Allen\ncarelessly.\n\n'Very,' said Bob Sawyer, with his mouth full.\n\n'I've put my name down for an arm at our place,' said Mr. Allen. 'We're\nclubbing for a subject, and the list is nearly full, only we can't get\nhold of any fellow that wants a head. I wish you'd take it.'\n\n'No,' replied 'Bob Sawyer; 'can't afford expensive luxuries.'\n\n'Nonsense!' said Allen.\n\n'Can't, indeed,' rejoined Bob Sawyer, 'I wouldn't mind a brain, but I\ncouldn't stand a whole head.' 'Hush, hush, gentlemen, pray,' said Mr.\nPickwick, 'I hear the ladies.'\n\nAs Mr. Pickwick spoke, the ladies, gallantly escorted by Messrs.\nSnodgrass, Winkle, and Tupman, returned from an early walk.\n\n'Why, Ben!' said Arabella, in a tone which expressed more surprise than\npleasure at the sight of her brother.\n\n'Come to take you home to-morrow,' replied Benjamin.\n\nMr. Winkle turned pale.\n\n'Don't you see Bob Sawyer, Arabella?' inquired Mr. Benjamin Allen,\nsomewhat reproachfully. Arabella gracefully held out her hand, in\nacknowledgment of Bob Sawyer's presence. A thrill of hatred struck to\nMr. Winkle's heart, as Bob Sawyer inflicted on the proffered hand a\nperceptible squeeze.\n\n'Ben, dear!' said Arabella, blushing; 'have--have--you been introduced\nto Mr. Winkle?'\n\n'I have not been, but I shall be very happy to be, Arabella,' replied\nher brother gravely. Here Mr. Allen bowed grimly to Mr. Winkle, while\nMr. Winkle and Mr. Bob Sawyer glanced mutual distrust out of the corners\nof their eyes.\n\nThe arrival of the two new visitors, and the consequent check upon Mr.\nWinkle and the young lady with the fur round her boots, would in all\nprobability have proved a very unpleasant interruption to the hilarity\nof the party, had not the cheerfulness of Mr. Pickwick, and the good\nhumour of the host, been exerted to the very utmost for the common weal.\nMr. Winkle gradually insinuated himself into the good graces of Mr.\nBenjamin Allen, and even joined in a friendly conversation with Mr.\nBob Sawyer; who, enlivened with the brandy, and the breakfast, and the\ntalking, gradually ripened into a state of extreme facetiousness, and\nrelated with much glee an agreeable anecdote, about the removal of a\ntumour on some gentleman's head, which he illustrated by means of an\noyster-knife and a half-quartern loaf, to the great edification of\nthe assembled company. Then the whole train went to church, where Mr.\nBenjamin Allen fell fast asleep; while Mr. Bob Sawyer abstracted his\nthoughts from worldly matters, by the ingenious process of carving his\nname on the seat of the pew, in corpulent letters of four inches long.\n\n'Now,' said Wardle, after a substantial lunch, with the agreeable items\nof strong beer and cherry-brandy, had been done ample justice to, 'what\nsay you to an hour on the ice? We shall have plenty of time.'\n\n'Capital!' said Mr. Benjamin Allen.\n\n'Prime!' ejaculated Mr. Bob Sawyer.\n\n'You skate, of course, Winkle?' said Wardle.\n\n'Ye-yes; oh, yes,' replied Mr. Winkle. 'I--I--am RATHER out of\npractice.'\n\n'Oh, DO skate, Mr. Winkle,' said Arabella. 'I like to see it so much.'\n\n'Oh, it is SO graceful,' said another young lady. A third young lady\nsaid it was elegant, and a fourth expressed her opinion that it was\n'swan-like.'\n\n'I should be very happy, I'm sure,' said Mr. Winkle, reddening; 'but I\nhave no skates.'\n\nThis objection was at once overruled. Trundle had a couple of pair,\nand the fat boy announced that there were half a dozen more downstairs;\nwhereat Mr. Winkle expressed exquisite delight, and looked exquisitely\nuncomfortable.\n\nOld Wardle led the way to a pretty large sheet of ice; and the fat\nboy and Mr. Weller, having shovelled and swept away the snow which had\nfallen on it during the night, Mr. Bob Sawyer adjusted his skates with\na dexterity which to Mr. Winkle was perfectly marvellous, and described\ncircles with his left leg, and cut figures of eight, and inscribed upon\nthe ice, without once stopping for breath, a great many other pleasant\nand astonishing devices, to the excessive satisfaction of Mr.\nPickwick, Mr. Tupman, and the ladies; which reached a pitch of positive\nenthusiasm, when old Wardle and Benjamin Allen, assisted by the\naforesaid Bob Sawyer, performed some mystic evolutions, which they\ncalled a reel.\n\nAll this time, Mr. Winkle, with his face and hands blue with the cold,\nhad been forcing a gimlet into the sole of his feet, and putting his\nskates on, with the points behind, and getting the straps into a very\ncomplicated and entangled state, with the assistance of Mr. Snodgrass,\nwho knew rather less about skates than a Hindoo. At length, however,\nwith the assistance of Mr. Weller, the unfortunate skates were firmly\nscrewed and buckled on, and Mr. Winkle was raised to his feet.\n\n'Now, then, Sir,' said Sam, in an encouraging tone; 'off vith you, and\nshow 'em how to do it.'\n\n'Stop, Sam, stop!' said Mr. Winkle, trembling violently, and clutching\nhold of Sam's arms with the grasp of a drowning man. 'How slippery it\nis, Sam!'\n\n'Not an uncommon thing upon ice, Sir,' replied Mr. Weller. 'Hold up,\nSir!'\n\nThis last observation of Mr. Weller's bore reference to a demonstration\nMr. Winkle made at the instant, of a frantic desire to throw his feet in\nthe air, and dash the back of his head on the ice.\n\n'These--these--are very awkward skates; ain't they, Sam?' inquired Mr.\nWinkle, staggering.\n\n'I'm afeerd there's a orkard gen'l'm'n in 'em, Sir,' replied Sam.\n\n'Now, Winkle,' cried Mr. Pickwick, quite unconscious that there was\nanything the matter. 'Come; the ladies are all anxiety.'\n\n'Yes, yes,' replied Mr. Winkle, with a ghastly smile. 'I'm coming.'\n\n'Just a-goin' to begin,' said Sam, endeavouring to disengage himself.\n'Now, Sir, start off!'\n\n'Stop an instant, Sam,' gasped Mr. Winkle, clinging most affectionately\nto Mr. Weller. 'I find I've got a couple of coats at home that I don't\nwant, Sam. You may have them, Sam.'\n\n'Thank'ee, Sir,' replied Mr. Weller.\n\n'Never mind touching your hat, Sam,' said Mr. Winkle hastily. 'You\nneedn't take your hand away to do that. I meant to have given you five\nshillings this morning for a Christmas box, Sam. I'll give it you this\nafternoon, Sam.'\n\n'You're wery good, sir,' replied Mr. Weller.\n\n'Just hold me at first, Sam; will you?' said Mr. Winkle. 'There--that's\nright. I shall soon get in the way of it, Sam. Not too fast, Sam; not\ntoo fast.'\n\nMr. Winkle, stooping forward, with his body half doubled up, was being\nassisted over the ice by Mr. Weller, in a very singular and un-swan-like\nmanner, when Mr. Pickwick most innocently shouted from the opposite\nbank--\n\n'Sam!'\n\n'Sir?'\n\n'Here. I want you.'\n\n'Let go, Sir,' said Sam. 'Don't you hear the governor a-callin'? Let go,\nsir.'\n\nWith a violent effort, Mr. Weller disengaged himself from the grasp of\nthe agonised Pickwickian, and, in so doing, administered a considerable\nimpetus to the unhappy Mr. Winkle. With an accuracy which no degree of\ndexterity or practice could have insured, that unfortunate gentleman\nbore swiftly down into the centre of the reel, at the very moment when\nMr. Bob Sawyer was performing a flourish of unparalleled beauty. Mr.\nWinkle struck wildly against him, and with a loud crash they both fell\nheavily down. Mr. Pickwick ran to the spot. Bob Sawyer had risen to his\nfeet, but Mr. Winkle was far too wise to do anything of the kind, in\nskates. He was seated on the ice, making spasmodic efforts to smile; but\nanguish was depicted on every lineament of his countenance.\n\n'Are you hurt?' inquired Mr. Benjamin Allen, with great anxiety.\n\n'Not much,' said Mr. Winkle, rubbing his back very hard. 'I wish you'd\nlet me bleed you,' said Mr. Benjamin, with great eagerness.\n\n'No, thank you,' replied Mr. Winkle hurriedly.\n\n'I really think you had better,' said Allen.\n\n'Thank you,' replied Mr. Winkle; 'I'd rather not.'\n\n'What do YOU think, Mr. Pickwick?' inquired Bob Sawyer.\n\nMr. Pickwick was excited and indignant. He beckoned to Mr. Weller, and\nsaid in a stern voice, 'Take his skates off.'\n\n'No; but really I had scarcely begun,' remonstrated Mr. Winkle.\n\n'Take his skates off,' repeated Mr. Pickwick firmly.\n\nThe command was not to be resisted. Mr. Winkle allowed Sam to obey it,\nin silence.\n\n'Lift him up,' said Mr. Pickwick. Sam assisted him to rise.\n\nMr. Pickwick retired a few paces apart from the bystanders; and,\nbeckoning his friend to approach, fixed a searching look upon him,\nand uttered in a low, but distinct and emphatic tone, these remarkable\nwords--\n\n'You're a humbug, sir.' 'A what?' said Mr. Winkle, starting.\n\n'A humbug, Sir. I will speak plainer, if you wish it. An impostor, sir.'\n\nWith those words, Mr. Pickwick turned slowly on his heel, and rejoined\nhis friends.\n\nWhile Mr. Pickwick was delivering himself of the sentiment just\nrecorded, Mr. Weller and the fat boy, having by their joint endeavours\ncut out a slide, were exercising themselves thereupon, in a very\nmasterly and brilliant manner. Sam Weller, in particular, was displaying\nthat beautiful feat of fancy-sliding which is currently denominated\n'knocking at the cobbler's door,' and which is achieved by skimming over\nthe ice on one foot, and occasionally giving a postman's knock upon it\nwith the other. It was a good long slide, and there was something in the\nmotion which Mr. Pickwick, who was very cold with standing still, could\nnot help envying.\n\n'It looks a nice warm exercise that, doesn't it?' he inquired of Wardle,\nwhen that gentleman was thoroughly out of breath, by reason of the\nindefatigable manner in which he had converted his legs into a pair of\ncompasses, and drawn complicated problems on the ice.\n\n'Ah, it does, indeed,' replied Wardle. 'Do you slide?'\n\n'I used to do so, on the gutters, when I was a boy,' replied Mr.\nPickwick.\n\n'Try it now,' said Wardle.\n\n'Oh, do, please, Mr. Pickwick!' cried all the ladies.\n\n'I should be very happy to afford you any amusement,' replied Mr.\nPickwick, 'but I haven't done such a thing these thirty years.'\n\n'Pooh! pooh! Nonsense!' said Wardle, dragging off his skates with the\nimpetuosity which characterised all his proceedings. 'Here; I'll keep\nyou company; come along!' And away went the good-tempered old fellow\ndown the slide, with a rapidity which came very close upon Mr. Weller,\nand beat the fat boy all to nothing.\n\nMr. Pickwick paused, considered, pulled off his gloves and put them in\nhis hat; took two or three short runs, baulked himself as often, and at\nlast took another run, and went slowly and gravely down the slide, with\nhis feet about a yard and a quarter apart, amidst the gratified shouts\nof all the spectators.\n\n'Keep the pot a-bilin', Sir!' said Sam; and down went Wardle again, and\nthen Mr. Pickwick, and then Sam, and then Mr. Winkle, and then Mr. Bob\nSawyer, and then the fat boy, and then Mr. Snodgrass, following closely\nupon each other's heels, and running after each other with as much\neagerness as if their future prospects in life depended on their\nexpedition.\n\nIt was the most intensely interesting thing, to observe the manner in\nwhich Mr. Pickwick performed his share in the ceremony; to watch the\ntorture of anxiety with which he viewed the person behind, gaining upon\nhim at the imminent hazard of tripping him up; to see him gradually\nexpend the painful force he had put on at first, and turn slowly round\non the slide, with his face towards the point from which he had started;\nto contemplate the playful smile which mantled on his face when he had\naccomplished the distance, and the eagerness with which he turned round\nwhen he had done so, and ran after his predecessor, his black gaiters\ntripping pleasantly through the snow, and his eyes beaming cheerfulness\nand gladness through his spectacles. And when he was knocked down\n(which happened upon the average every third round), it was the most\ninvigorating sight that can possibly be imagined, to behold him gather\nup his hat, gloves, and handkerchief, with a glowing countenance, and\nresume his station in the rank, with an ardour and enthusiasm that\nnothing could abate.\n\nThe sport was at its height, the sliding was at the quickest, the\nlaughter was at the loudest, when a sharp smart crack was heard. There\nwas a quick rush towards the bank, a wild scream from the ladies, and\na shout from Mr. Tupman. A large mass of ice disappeared; the water\nbubbled up over it; Mr. Pickwick's hat, gloves, and handkerchief were\nfloating on the surface; and this was all of Mr. Pickwick that anybody\ncould see.\n\nDismay and anguish were depicted on every countenance; the males turned\npale, and the females fainted; Mr. Snodgrass and Mr. Winkle grasped each\nother by the hand, and gazed at the spot where their leader had gone\ndown, with frenzied eagerness; while Mr. Tupman, by way of rendering the\npromptest assistance, and at the same time conveying to any persons\nwho might be within hearing, the clearest possible notion of the\ncatastrophe, ran off across the country at his utmost speed, screaming\n'Fire!' with all his might.\n\nIt was at this moment, when old Wardle and Sam Weller were approaching\nthe hole with cautious steps, and Mr. Benjamin Allen was holding a\nhurried consultation with Mr. Bob Sawyer on the advisability of bleeding\nthe company generally, as an improving little bit of professional\npractice--it was at this very moment, that a face, head, and shoulders,\nemerged from beneath the water, and disclosed the features and\nspectacles of Mr. Pickwick.\n\n'Keep yourself up for an instant--for only one instant!' bawled Mr.\nSnodgrass.\n\n'Yes, do; let me implore you--for my sake!' roared Mr. Winkle, deeply\naffected. The adjuration was rather unnecessary; the probability being,\nthat if Mr. Pickwick had declined to keep himself up for anybody else's\nsake, it would have occurred to him that he might as well do so, for his\nown.\n\n'Do you feel the bottom there, old fellow?' said Wardle.\n\n'Yes, certainly,' replied Mr. Pickwick, wringing the water from his head\nand face, and gasping for breath. 'I fell upon my back. I couldn't get\non my feet at first.'\n\nThe clay upon so much of Mr. Pickwick's coat as was yet visible, bore\ntestimony to the accuracy of this statement; and as the fears of\nthe spectators were still further relieved by the fat boy's suddenly\nrecollecting that the water was nowhere more than five feet deep,\nprodigies of valour were performed to get him out. After a vast quantity\nof splashing, and cracking, and struggling, Mr. Pickwick was at length\nfairly extricated from his unpleasant position, and once more stood on\ndry land.\n\n'Oh, he'll catch his death of cold,' said Emily.\n\n'Dear old thing!' said Arabella. 'Let me wrap this shawl round you, Mr.\nPickwick.'\n\n'Ah, that's the best thing you can do,' said Wardle; 'and when you've\ngot it on, run home as fast as your legs can carry you, and jump into\nbed directly.' A dozen shawls were offered on the instant. Three or four\nof the thickest having been selected, Mr. Pickwick was wrapped up, and\nstarted off, under the guidance of Mr. Weller; presenting the singular\nphenomenon of an elderly gentleman, dripping wet, and without a hat,\nwith his arms bound down to his sides, skimming over the ground, without\nany clearly-defined purpose, at the rate of six good English miles an\nhour.\n\nBut Mr. Pickwick cared not for appearances in such an extreme case, and\nurged on by Sam Weller, he kept at the very top of his speed until he\nreached the door of Manor Farm, where Mr. Tupman had arrived some five\nminutes before, and had frightened the old lady into palpitations of the\nheart by impressing her with the unalterable conviction that the kitchen\nchimney was on fire--a calamity which always presented itself in glowing\ncolours to the old lady's mind, when anybody about her evinced the\nsmallest agitation.\n\nMr. Pickwick paused not an instant until he was snug in bed. Sam Weller\nlighted a blazing fire in the room, and took up his dinner; a bowl of\npunch was carried up afterwards, and a grand carouse held in honour of\nhis safety. Old Wardle would not hear of his rising, so they made the\nbed the chair, and Mr. Pickwick presided. A second and a third bowl were\nordered in; and when Mr. Pickwick awoke next morning, there was not a\nsymptom of rheumatism about him; which proves, as Mr. Bob Sawyer very\njustly observed, that there is nothing like hot punch in such cases; and\nthat if ever hot punch did fail to act as a preventive, it was merely\nbecause the patient fell into the vulgar error of not taking enough of\nit.\n\nThe jovial party broke up next morning. Breakings-up are capital things\nin our school-days, but in after life they are painful enough. Death,\nself-interest, and fortune's changes, are every day breaking up many a\nhappy group, and scattering them far and wide; and the boys and girls\nnever come back again. We do not mean to say that it was exactly the\ncase in this particular instance; all we wish to inform the reader\nis, that the different members of the party dispersed to their several\nhomes; that Mr. Pickwick and his friends once more took their seats on\nthe top of the Muggleton coach; and that Arabella Allen repaired to\nher place of destination, wherever it might have been--we dare say Mr.\nWinkle knew, but we confess we don't--under the care and guardianship of\nher brother Benjamin, and his most intimate and particular friend, Mr.\nBob Sawyer.\n\nBefore they separated, however, that gentleman and Mr. Benjamin Allen\ndrew Mr. Pickwick aside with an air of some mystery; and Mr. Bob Sawyer,\nthrusting his forefinger between two of Mr. Pickwick's ribs, and thereby\ndisplaying his native drollery, and his knowledge of the anatomy of the\nhuman frame, at one and the same time, inquired--\n\n'I say, old boy, where do you hang out?' Mr. Pickwick replied that he\nwas at present suspended at the George and Vulture.\n\n'I wish you'd come and see me,' said Bob Sawyer.\n\n'Nothing would give me greater pleasure,' replied Mr. Pickwick.\n\n'There's my lodgings,' said Mr. Bob Sawyer, producing a card. 'Lant\nStreet, Borough; it's near Guy's, and handy for me, you know. Little\ndistance after you've passed St. George's Church--turns out of the High\nStreet on the right hand side the way.'\n\n'I shall find it,' said Mr. Pickwick.\n\n'Come on Thursday fortnight, and bring the other chaps with you,' said\nMr. Bob Sawyer; 'I'm going to have a few medical fellows that night.'\n\nMr. Pickwick expressed the pleasure it would afford him to meet the\nmedical fellows; and after Mr. Bob Sawyer had informed him that he meant\nto be very cosy, and that his friend Ben was to be one of the party,\nthey shook hands and separated.\n\nWe feel that in this place we lay ourself open to the inquiry whether\nMr. Winkle was whispering, during this brief conversation, to Arabella\nAllen; and if so, what he said; and furthermore, whether Mr. Snodgrass\nwas conversing apart with Emily Wardle; and if so, what HE said. To\nthis, we reply, that whatever they might have said to the ladies, they\nsaid nothing at all to Mr. Pickwick or Mr. Tupman for eight-and-twenty\nmiles, and that they sighed very often, refused ale and brandy, and\nlooked gloomy. If our observant lady readers can deduce any satisfactory\ninferences from these facts, we beg them by all means to do so.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXXI. WHICH IS ALL ABOUT THE LAW, AND SUNDRY GREAT AUTHORITIES\nLEARNED THEREIN\n\n\nScattered about, in various holes and corners of the Temple, are\ncertain dark and dirty chambers, in and out of which, all the morning\nin vacation, and half the evening too in term time, there may be\nseen constantly hurrying with bundles of papers under their arms, and\nprotruding from their pockets, an almost uninterrupted succession of\nlawyers' clerks. There are several grades of lawyers' clerks. There\nis the articled clerk, who has paid a premium, and is an attorney in\nperspective, who runs a tailor's bill, receives invitations to parties,\nknows a family in Gower Street, and another in Tavistock Square; who\ngoes out of town every long vacation to see his father, who keeps live\nhorses innumerable; and who is, in short, the very aristocrat of clerks.\nThere is the salaried clerk--out of door, or in door, as the case may\nbe--who devotes the major part of his thirty shillings a week to his\nPersonal pleasure and adornments, repairs half-price to the Adelphi\nTheatre at least three times a week, dissipates majestically at the\ncider cellars afterwards, and is a dirty caricature of the fashion which\nexpired six months ago. There is the middle-aged copying clerk, with a\nlarge family, who is always shabby, and often drunk. And there are the\noffice lads in their first surtouts, who feel a befitting contempt for\nboys at day-schools, club as they go home at night, for saveloys and\nporter, and think there's nothing like 'life.' There are varieties of\nthe genus, too numerous to recapitulate, but however numerous they\nmay be, they are all to be seen, at certain regulated business hours,\nhurrying to and from the places we have just mentioned.\n\nThese sequestered nooks are the public offices of the legal profession,\nwhere writs are issued, judgments signed, declarations filed, and\nnumerous other ingenious machines put in motion for the torture and\ntorment of His Majesty's liege subjects, and the comfort and emolument\nof the practitioners of the law. They are, for the most part,\nlow-roofed, mouldy rooms, where innumerable rolls of parchment, which\nhave been perspiring in secret for the last century, send forth an\nagreeable odour, which is mingled by day with the scent of the dry-rot,\nand by night with the various exhalations which arise from damp cloaks,\nfestering umbrellas, and the coarsest tallow candles.\n\nAbout half-past seven o'clock in the evening, some ten days or a\nfortnight after Mr. Pickwick and his friends returned to London, there\nhurried into one of these offices, an individual in a brown coat and\nbrass buttons, whose long hair was scrupulously twisted round the rim of\nhis napless hat, and whose soiled drab trousers were so tightly strapped\nover his Blucher boots, that his knees threatened every moment to start\nfrom their concealment. He produced from his coat pockets a long and\nnarrow strip of parchment, on which the presiding functionary impressed\nan illegible black stamp. He then drew forth four scraps of paper,\nof similar dimensions, each containing a printed copy of the strip of\nparchment with blanks for a name; and having filled up the blanks, put\nall the five documents in his pocket, and hurried away.\n\nThe man in the brown coat, with the cabalistic documents in his pocket,\nwas no other than our old acquaintance Mr. Jackson, of the house of\nDodson & Fogg, Freeman's Court, Cornhill. Instead of returning to the\noffice whence he came, however, he bent his steps direct to Sun Court,\nand walking straight into the George and Vulture, demanded to know\nwhether one Mr. Pickwick was within.\n\n'Call Mr. Pickwick's servant, Tom,' said the barmaid of the George and\nVulture.\n\n'Don't trouble yourself,' said Mr. Jackson. 'I've come on business. If\nyou'll show me Mr. Pickwick's room I'll step up myself.'\n\n'What name, Sir?' said the waiter.\n\n'Jackson,' replied the clerk.\n\nThe waiter stepped upstairs to announce Mr. Jackson; but Mr. Jackson\nsaved him the trouble by following close at his heels, and walking into\nthe apartment before he could articulate a syllable.\n\nMr. Pickwick had, that day, invited his three friends to dinner; they\nwere all seated round the fire, drinking their wine, when Mr. Jackson\npresented himself, as above described.\n\n'How de do, sir?' said Mr. Jackson, nodding to Mr. Pickwick.\n\nThat gentleman bowed, and looked somewhat surprised, for the physiognomy\nof Mr. Jackson dwelt not in his recollection.\n\n'I have called from Dodson and Fogg's,' said Mr. Jackson, in an\nexplanatory tone.\n\nMr. Pickwick roused at the name. 'I refer you to my attorney, Sir; Mr.\nPerker, of Gray's Inn,' said he. 'Waiter, show this gentleman out.'\n\n'Beg your pardon, Mr. Pickwick,' said Jackson, deliberately depositing\nhis hat on the floor, and drawing from his pocket the strip of\nparchment. 'But personal service, by clerk or agent, in these cases, you\nknow, Mr. Pickwick--nothing like caution, sir, in all legal forms--eh?'\n\nHere Mr. Jackson cast his eye on the parchment; and, resting his hands\non the table, and looking round with a winning and persuasive smile,\nsaid, 'Now, come; don't let's have no words about such a little matter\nas this. Which of you gentlemen's name's Snodgrass?'\n\nAt this inquiry, Mr. Snodgrass gave such a very undisguised and palpable\nstart, that no further reply was needed.\n\n'Ah! I thought so,' said Mr. Jackson, more affably than before. 'I've a\nlittle something to trouble you with, Sir.'\n\n'Me!'exclaimed Mr. Snodgrass.\n\n'It's only a subpoena in Bardell and Pickwick on behalf of the\nplaintiff,' replied Jackson, singling out one of the slips of paper, and\nproducing a shilling from his waistcoat pocket. 'It'll come on, in the\nsettens after Term: fourteenth of Febooary, we expect; we've marked it a\nspecial jury cause, and it's only ten down the paper. That's yours, Mr.\nSnodgrass.' As Jackson said this, he presented the parchment before the\neyes of Mr. Snodgrass, and slipped the paper and the shilling into his\nhand.\n\nMr. Tupman had witnessed this process in silent astonishment, when\nJackson, turning sharply upon him, said--\n\n'I think I ain't mistaken when I say your name's Tupman, am I?'\n\nMr. Tupman looked at Mr. Pickwick; but, perceiving no encouragement in\nthat gentleman's widely-opened eyes to deny his name, said--\n\n'Yes, my name is Tupman, Sir.'\n\n'And that other gentleman's Mr. Winkle, I think?' said Jackson. Mr.\nWinkle faltered out a reply in the affirmative; and both gentlemen were\nforthwith invested with a slip of paper, and a shilling each, by the\ndexterous Mr. Jackson.\n\n'Now,' said Jackson, 'I'm afraid you'll think me rather troublesome, but\nI want somebody else, if it ain't inconvenient. I have Samuel Weller's\nname here, Mr. Pickwick.'\n\n'Send my servant here, waiter,' said Mr. Pickwick. The waiter retired,\nconsiderably astonished, and Mr. Pickwick motioned Jackson to a seat.\n\nThere was a painful pause, which was at length broken by the innocent\ndefendant. 'I suppose, Sir,' said Mr. Pickwick, his indignation rising\nwhile he spoke--'I suppose, Sir, that it is the intention of your\nemployers to seek to criminate me upon the testimony of my own friends?'\n\nMr. Jackson struck his forefinger several times against the left side of\nhis nose, to intimate that he was not there to disclose the secrets of\nthe prison house, and playfully rejoined--\n\n'Not knowin', can't say.'\n\n'For what other reason, Sir,' pursued Mr. Pickwick, 'are these subpoenas\nserved upon them, if not for this?'\n\n'Very good plant, Mr. Pickwick,' replied Jackson, slowly shaking his\nhead. 'But it won't do. No harm in trying, but there's little to be got\nout of me.'\n\nHere Mr. Jackson smiled once more upon the company, and, applying his\nleft thumb to the tip of his nose, worked a visionary coffee-mill with\nhis right hand, thereby performing a very graceful piece of pantomime\n(then much in vogue, but now, unhappily, almost obsolete) which was\nfamiliarly denominated 'taking a grinder.'\n\n'No, no, Mr. Pickwick,' said Jackson, in conclusion; 'Perker's people\nmust guess what we've served these subpoenas for. If they can't, they\nmust wait till the action comes on, and then they'll find out.' Mr.\nPickwick bestowed a look of excessive disgust on his unwelcome visitor,\nand would probably have hurled some tremendous anathema at the heads of\nMessrs. Dodson & Fogg, had not Sam's entrance at the instant interrupted\nhim.\n\n'Samuel Weller?' said Mr. Jackson, inquiringly.\n\n'Vun o' the truest things as you've said for many a long year,' replied\nSam, in a most composed manner.\n\n'Here's a subpoena for you, Mr. Weller,' said Jackson.\n\n'What's that in English?' inquired Sam.\n\n'Here's the original,' said Jackson, declining the required explanation.\n\n'Which?' said Sam.\n\n'This,' replied Jackson, shaking the parchment.\n\n'Oh, that's the 'rig'nal, is it?' said Sam. 'Well, I'm wery glad I've\nseen the 'rig'nal, 'cos it's a gratifyin' sort o' thing, and eases vun's\nmind so much.'\n\n'And here's the shilling,' said Jackson. 'It's from Dodson and Fogg's.'\n\n'And it's uncommon handsome o' Dodson and Fogg, as knows so little of\nme, to come down vith a present,' said Sam. 'I feel it as a wery high\ncompliment, sir; it's a wery honorable thing to them, as they knows how\nto reward merit werever they meets it. Besides which, it's affectin' to\none's feelin's.'\n\nAs Mr. Weller said this, he inflicted a little friction on his right\neyelid, with the sleeve of his coat, after the most approved manner of\nactors when they are in domestic pathetics.\n\nMr. Jackson seemed rather puzzled by Sam's proceedings; but, as he had\nserved the subpoenas, and had nothing more to say, he made a feint of\nputting on the one glove which he usually carried in his hand, for the\nsake of appearances; and returned to the office to report progress.\n\nMr. Pickwick slept little that night; his memory had received a very\ndisagreeable refresher on the subject of Mrs. Bardell's action. He\nbreakfasted betimes next morning, and, desiring Sam to accompany him,\nset forth towards Gray's Inn Square.\n\n'Sam!' said Mr. Pickwick, looking round, when they got to the end of\nCheapside.\n\n'Sir?' said Sam, stepping up to his master.\n\n'Which way?' 'Up Newgate Street.'\n\nMr. Pickwick did not turn round immediately, but looked vacantly in\nSam's face for a few seconds, and heaved a deep sigh.\n\n'What's the matter, sir?' inquired Sam.\n\n'This action, Sam,' said Mr. Pickwick, 'is expected to come on, on the\nfourteenth of next month.' 'Remarkable coincidence that 'ere, sir,'\nreplied Sam.\n\n'Why remarkable, Sam?' inquired Mr. Pickwick.\n\n'Walentine's day, sir,' responded Sam; 'reg'lar good day for a breach o'\npromise trial.'\n\nMr. Weller's smile awakened no gleam of mirth in his master's\ncountenance. Mr. Pickwick turned abruptly round, and led the way in\nsilence.\n\nThey had walked some distance, Mr. Pickwick trotting on before, plunged\nin profound meditation, and Sam following behind, with a countenance\nexpressive of the most enviable and easy defiance of everything and\neverybody, when the latter, who was always especially anxious to impart\nto his master any exclusive information he possessed, quickened his pace\nuntil he was close at Mr. Pickwick's heels; and, pointing up at a house\nthey were passing, said--\n\n'Wery nice pork-shop that 'ere, sir.'\n\n'Yes, it seems so,' said Mr. Pickwick.\n\n'Celebrated sassage factory,' said Sam.\n\n'Is it?' said Mr. Pickwick.\n\n'Is it!' reiterated Sam, with some indignation; 'I should rayther\nthink it was. Why, sir, bless your innocent eyebrows, that's where the\nmysterious disappearance of a 'spectable tradesman took place four years\nago.'\n\n'You don't mean to say he was burked, Sam?' said Mr. Pickwick, looking\nhastily round.\n\n'No, I don't indeed, sir,' replied Mr. Weller, 'I wish I did; far worse\nthan that. He was the master o' that 'ere shop, sir, and the inwentor\no' the patent-never-leavin'-off sassage steam-ingin, as 'ud swaller up a\npavin' stone if you put it too near, and grind it into sassages as easy\nas if it was a tender young babby. Wery proud o' that machine he was, as\nit was nat'ral he should be, and he'd stand down in the celler a-lookin'\nat it wen it was in full play, till he got quite melancholy with joy. A\nwery happy man he'd ha' been, Sir, in the procession o' that 'ere ingin\nand two more lovely hinfants besides, if it hadn't been for his wife,\nwho was a most owdacious wixin. She was always a-follerin' him about,\nand dinnin' in his ears, till at last he couldn't stand it no longer.\n\"I'll tell you what it is, my dear,\" he says one day; \"if you persewere\nin this here sort of amusement,\" he says, \"I'm blessed if I don't go\naway to 'Merriker; and that's all about it.\" \"You're a idle willin,\"\nsays she, \"and I wish the 'Merrikins joy of their bargain.\" Arter which\nshe keeps on abusin' of him for half an hour, and then runs into the\nlittle parlour behind the shop, sets to a-screamin', says he'll be the\ndeath on her, and falls in a fit, which lasts for three good hours--one\no' them fits wich is all screamin' and kickin'. Well, next mornin', the\nhusband was missin'. He hadn't taken nothin' from the till--hadn't even\nput on his greatcoat--so it was quite clear he warn't gone to 'Merriker.\nDidn't come back next day; didn't come back next week; missis had\nbills printed, sayin' that, if he'd come back, he should be forgiven\neverythin' (which was very liberal, seein' that he hadn't done nothin'\nat all); the canals was dragged, and for two months arterwards, wenever\na body turned up, it was carried, as a reg'lar thing, straight off to\nthe sassage shop. Hows'ever, none on 'em answered; so they gave out\nthat he'd run away, and she kep' on the bis'ness. One Saturday night, a\nlittle, thin, old gen'l'm'n comes into the shop in a great passion and\nsays, \"Are you the missis o' this here shop?\" \"Yes, I am,\" says she.\n\"Well, ma'am,\" says he, \"then I've just looked in to say that me and\nmy family ain't a-goin' to be choked for nothin'; and more than that,\nma'am,\" he says, \"you'll allow me to observe that as you don't use the\nprimest parts of the meat in the manafacter o' sassages, I'd think you'd\nfind beef come nearly as cheap as buttons.\" \"As buttons, Sir!\" says she.\n\"Buttons, ma'am,\" says the little, old gentleman, unfolding a bit of\npaper, and showin' twenty or thirty halves o' buttons. \"Nice seasonin'\nfor sassages, is trousers' buttons, ma'am.\" \"They're my husband's\nbuttons!\" says the widder beginnin' to faint, \"What!\" screams the little\nold gen'l'm'n, turnin' wery pale. \"I see it all,\" says the widder; \"in\na fit of temporary insanity he rashly converted hisself into sassages!\"\nAnd so he had, Sir,' said Mr. Weller, looking steadily into Mr.\nPickwick's horror-stricken countenance, 'or else he'd been draw'd into\nthe ingin; but however that might ha' been, the little, old gen'l'm'n,\nwho had been remarkably partial to sassages all his life, rushed out o'\nthe shop in a wild state, and was never heerd on arterwards!'\n\nThe relation of this affecting incident of private life brought master\nand man to Mr. Perker's chambers. Lowten, holding the door half open,\nwas in conversation with a rustily-clad, miserable-looking man, in boots\nwithout toes and gloves without fingers. There were traces of privation\nand suffering--almost of despair--in his lank and care-worn countenance;\nhe felt his poverty, for he shrank to the dark side of the staircase as\nMr. Pickwick approached.\n\n'It's very unfortunate,' said the stranger, with a sigh.\n\n'Very,' said Lowten, scribbling his name on the doorpost with his pen,\nand rubbing it out again with the feather. 'Will you leave a message for\nhim?'\n\n'When do you think he'll be back?' inquired the stranger.\n\n'Quite uncertain,' replied Lowten, winking at Mr. Pickwick, as the\nstranger cast his eyes towards the ground.\n\n'You don't think it would be of any use my waiting for him?' said the\nstranger, looking wistfully into the office.\n\n'Oh, no, I'm sure it wouldn't,' replied the clerk, moving a little more\ninto the centre of the doorway. 'He's certain not to be back this week,\nand it's a chance whether he will be next; for when Perker once gets out\nof town, he's never in a hurry to come back again.'\n\n'Out of town!' said Mr. Pickwick; 'dear me, how unfortunate!'\n\n'Don't go away, Mr. Pickwick,' said Lowten, 'I've got a letter for you.'\nThe stranger, seeming to hesitate, once more looked towards the ground,\nand the clerk winked slyly at Mr. PickwiCK, as if to intimate that some\nexquisite piece of humour was going forward, though what it was Mr.\nPickwick could not for the life of him divine. 'Step in, Mr. Pickwick,'\nsaid Lowten. 'Well, will you leave a message, Mr. Watty, or will you\ncall again?'\n\n'Ask him to be so kind as to leave out word what has been done in my\nbusiness,' said the man; 'for God's sake don't neglect it, Mr. Lowten.'\n\n'No, no; I won't forget it,' replied the clerk. 'Walk in, Mr. Pickwick.\nGood-morning, Mr. Watty; it's a fine day for walking, isn't it?' Seeing\nthat the stranger still lingered, he beckoned Sam Weller to follow his\nmaster in, and shut the door in his face.\n\n'There never was such a pestering bankrupt as that since the world\nbegan, I do believe!' said Lowten, throwing down his pen with the air of\nan injured man. 'His affairs haven't been in Chancery quite four years\nyet, and I'm d--d if he don't come worrying here twice a week. Step this\nway, Mr. Pickwick. Perker IS in, and he'll see you, I know. Devilish\ncold,' he added pettishly, 'standing at that door, wasting one's\ntime with such seedy vagabonds!' Having very vehemently stirred a\nparticularly large fire with a particularly small poker, the clerk led\nthe way to his principal's private room, and announced Mr. Pickwick.\n\n'Ah, my dear Sir,' said little Mr. Perker, bustling up from his chair.\n'Well, my dear sir, and what's the news about your matter, eh? Anything\nmore about our friends in Freeman's Court? They've not been sleeping, I\nknow that. Ah, they're very smart fellows; very smart, indeed.'\n\nAs the little man concluded, he took an emphatic pinch of snuff, as a\ntribute to the smartness of Messrs. Dodson and Fogg.\n\n'They are great scoundrels,' said Mr. Pickwick.\n\n'Aye, aye,' said the little man; 'that's a matter of opinion, you\nknow, and we won't dispute about terms; because of course you can't be\nexpected to view these subjects with a professional eye. Well, we've\ndone everything that's necessary. I have retained Serjeant Snubbin.'\n\n'Is he a good man?' inquired Mr. Pickwick.\n\n'Good man!' replied Perker; 'bless your heart and soul, my dear Sir,\nSerjeant Snubbin is at the very top of his profession. Gets treble the\nbusiness of any man in court--engaged in every case. You needn't mention\nit abroad; but we say--we of the profession--that Serjeant Snubbin leads\nthe court by the nose.'\n\nThe little man took another pinch of snuff as he made this\ncommunication, and nodded mysteriously to Mr. Pickwick.\n\n'They have subpoenaed my three friends,' said Mr. Pickwick.\n\n'Ah! of course they would,' replied Perker. 'Important witnesses; saw\nyou in a delicate situation.'\n\n'But she fainted of her own accord,' said Mr. Pickwick. 'She threw\nherself into my arms.'\n\n'Very likely, my dear Sir,' replied Perker; 'very likely and very\nnatural. Nothing more so, my dear Sir, nothing. But who's to prove it?'\n\n'They have subpoenaed my servant, too,' said Mr. Pickwick, quitting the\nother point; for there Mr. Perker's question had somewhat staggered him.\n\n'Sam?' said Perker.\n\nMr. Pickwick replied in the affirmative.\n\n'Of course, my dear Sir; of course. I knew they would. I could have\ntold you that, a month ago. You know, my dear Sir, if you WILL take the\nmanagement of your affairs into your own hands after entrusting them to\nyour solicitor, you must also take the consequences.' Here Mr. Perker\ndrew himself up with conscious dignity, and brushed some stray grains of\nsnuff from his shirt frill.\n\n'And what do they want him to prove?' asked Mr. Pickwick, after two or\nthree minutes' silence.\n\n'That you sent him up to the plaintiff 's to make some offer of a\ncompromise, I suppose,' replied Perker. 'It don't matter much, though; I\ndon't think many counsel could get a great deal out of HIM.'\n\n'I don't think they could,' said Mr. Pickwick, smiling, despite his\nvexation, at the idea of Sam's appearance as a witness. 'What course do\nwe pursue?'\n\n'We have only one to adopt, my dear Sir,' replied Perker; 'cross-examine\nthe witnesses; trust to Snubbin's eloquence; throw dust in the eyes of\nthe judge; throw ourselves on the jury.'\n\n'And suppose the verdict is against me?' said Mr. Pickwick.\n\nMr. Perker smiled, took a very long pinch of snuff, stirred the fire,\nshrugged his shoulders, and remained expressively silent.\n\n'You mean that in that case I must pay the damages?' said Mr. Pickwick,\nwho had watched this telegraphic answer with considerable sternness.\n\nPerker gave the fire another very unnecessary poke, and said, 'I am\nafraid so.'\n\n'Then I beg to announce to you my unalterable determination to pay no\ndamages whatever,' said Mr. Pickwick, most emphatically. 'None, Perker.\nNot a pound, not a penny of my money, shall find its way into the\npockets of Dodson and Fogg. That is my deliberate and irrevocable\ndetermination.' Mr. Pickwick gave a heavy blow on the table before him,\nin confirmation of the irrevocability of his intention.\n\n'Very well, my dear Sir, very well,' said Perker. 'You know best, of\ncourse.'\n\n'Of course,' replied Mr. Pickwick hastily. 'Where does Serjeant Snubbin\nlive?' 'In Lincoln's Inn Old Square,' replied Perker.\n\n'I should like to see him,' said Mr. Pickwick.\n\n'See Serjeant Snubbin, my dear Sir!' rejoined Perker, in utter\namazement. 'Pooh, pooh, my dear Sir, impossible. See Serjeant Snubbin!\nBless you, my dear Sir, such a thing was never heard of, without a\nconsultation fee being previously paid, and a consultation fixed. It\ncouldn't be done, my dear Sir; it couldn't be done.'\n\nMr. Pickwick, however, had made up his mind not only that it could be\ndone, but that it should be done; and the consequence was, that within\nten minutes after he had received the assurance that the thing was\nimpossible, he was conducted by his solicitor into the outer office of\nthe great Serjeant Snubbin himself.\n\nIt was an uncarpeted room of tolerable dimensions, with a large\nwriting-table drawn up near the fire, the baize top of which had long\nsince lost all claim to its original hue of green, and had gradually\ngrown gray with dust and age, except where all traces of its natural\ncolour were obliterated by ink-stains. Upon the table were numerous\nlittle bundles of papers tied with red tape; and behind it, sat an\nelderly clerk, whose sleek appearance and heavy gold watch-chain\npresented imposing indications of the extensive and lucrative practice\nof Mr. Serjeant Snubbin.\n\n'Is the Serjeant in his room, Mr. Mallard?' inquired Perker, offering\nhis box with all imaginable courtesy.\n\n'Yes, he is,' was the reply, 'but he's very busy. Look here; not an\nopinion given yet, on any one of these cases; and an expedition fee\npaid with all of 'em.' The clerk smiled as he said this, and inhaled the\npinch of snuff with a zest which seemed to be compounded of a fondness\nfor snuff and a relish for fees.\n\n'Something like practice that,' said Perker.\n\n'Yes,' said the barrister's clerk, producing his own box, and offering\nit with the greatest cordiality; 'and the best of it is, that as nobody\nalive except myself can read the serjeant's writing, they are obliged to\nwait for the opinions, when he has given them, till I have copied 'em,\nha-ha-ha!'\n\n'Which makes good for we know who, besides the serjeant, and draws a\nlittle more out of the clients, eh?' said Perker; 'ha, ha, ha!' At this\nthe serjeant's clerk laughed again--not a noisy boisterous laugh, but\na silent, internal chuckle, which Mr. Pickwick disliked to hear. When\na man bleeds inwardly, it is a dangerous thing for himself; but when he\nlaughs inwardly, it bodes no good to other people.\n\n'You haven't made me out that little list of the fees that I'm in your\ndebt, have you?' said Perker.\n\n'No, I have not,' replied the clerk.\n\n'I wish you would,' said Perker. 'Let me have them, and I'll send you\na cheque. But I suppose you're too busy pocketing the ready money, to\nthink of the debtors, eh? ha, ha, ha!' This sally seemed to tickle\nthe clerk amazingly, and he once more enjoyed a little quiet laugh to\nhimself.\n\n'But, Mr. Mallard, my dear friend,' said Perker, suddenly recovering\nhis gravity, and drawing the great man's great man into a Corner, by the\nlappel of his coat; 'you must persuade the Serjeant to see me, and my\nclient here.'\n\n'Come, come,' said the clerk, 'that's not bad either. See the Serjeant!\ncome, that's too absurd.' Notwithstanding the absurdity of the proposal,\nhowever, the clerk allowed himself to be gently drawn beyond the hearing\nof Mr. Pickwick; and after a short conversation conducted in whispers,\nwalked softly down a little dark passage, and disappeared into the legal\nluminary's sanctum, whence he shortly returned on tiptoe, and informed\nMr. Perker and Mr. Pickwick that the Serjeant had been prevailed upon,\nin violation of all established rules and customs, to admit them at\nonce.\n\nMr. Serjeant Snubbins was a lantern-faced, sallow-complexioned man, of\nabout five-and-forty, or--as the novels say--he might be fifty. He had\nthat dull-looking, boiled eye which is often to be seen in the heads\nof people who have applied themselves during many years to a weary and\nlaborious course of study; and which would have been sufficient, without\nthe additional eyeglass which dangled from a broad black riband round\nhis neck, to warn a stranger that he was very near-sighted. His hair was\nthin and weak, which was partly attributable to his having never\ndevoted much time to its arrangement, and partly to his having worn for\nfive-and-twenty years the forensic wig which hung on a block beside him.\nThe marks of hairpowder on his coat-collar, and the ill-washed and worse\ntied white neckerchief round his throat, showed that he had not found\nleisure since he left the court to make any alteration in his dress;\nwhile the slovenly style of the remainder of his costume warranted the\ninference that his personal appearance would not have been very much\nimproved if he had. Books of practice, heaps of papers, and opened\nletters, were scattered over the table, without any attempt at order or\narrangement; the furniture of the room was old and rickety; the doors of\nthe book-case were rotting in their hinges; the dust flew out from the\ncarpet in little clouds at every step; the blinds were yellow with age\nand dirt; the state of everything in the room showed, with a clearness\nnot to be mistaken, that Mr. Serjeant Snubbin was far too much occupied\nwith his professional pursuits to take any great heed or regard of his\npersonal comforts.\n\nThe Serjeant was writing when his clients entered; he bowed abstractedly\nwhen Mr. Pickwick was introduced by his solicitor; and then, motioning\nthem to a seat, put his pen carefully in the inkstand, nursed his left\nleg, and waited to be spoken to.\n\n'Mr. Pickwick is the defendant in Bardell and Pickwick, Serjeant\nSnubbin,' said Perker.\n\n'I am retained in that, am I?' said the Serjeant.\n\n'You are, Sir,' replied Perker.\n\nThe Serjeant nodded his head, and waited for something else.\n\n'Mr. Pickwick was anxious to call upon you, Serjeant Snubbin,' said\nPerker, 'to state to you, before you entered upon the case, that he\ndenies there being any ground or pretence whatever for the action\nagainst him; and that unless he came into court with clean hands, and\nwithout the most conscientious conviction that he was right in resisting\nthe plaintiff's demand, he would not be there at all. I believe I state\nyour views correctly; do I not, my dear Sir?' said the little man,\nturning to Mr. Pickwick.\n\n'Quite so,' replied that gentleman.\n\nMr. Serjeant Snubbin unfolded his glasses, raised them to his eyes; and,\nafter looking at Mr. Pickwick for a few seconds with great curiosity,\nturned to Mr. Perker, and said, smiling slightly as he spoke--'Has Mr.\nPickwick a strong case?'\n\nThe attorney shrugged his shoulders.\n\n'Do you propose calling witnesses?'\n\n'No.'\n\nThe smile on the Serjeant's countenance became more defined; he rocked\nhis leg with increased violence; and, throwing himself back in his\neasy-chair, coughed dubiously.\n\nThese tokens of the Serjeant's presentiments on the subject, slight as\nthey were, were not lost on Mr. Pickwick. He settled the spectacles,\nthrough which he had attentively regarded such demonstrations of the\nbarrister's feelings as he had permitted himself to exhibit, more firmly\non his nose; and said with great energy, and in utter disregard of all\nMr. Perker's admonitory winkings and frownings--\n\n'My wishing to wait upon you, for such a purpose as this, Sir, appears,\nI have no doubt, to a gentleman who sees so much of these matters as you\nmust necessarily do, a very extraordinary circumstance.'\n\nThe Serjeant tried to look gravely at the fire, but the smile came back\nagain.\n\n'Gentlemen of your profession, Sir,' continued Mr. Pickwick, 'see the\nworst side of human nature. All its disputes, all its ill-will and bad\nblood, rise up before you. You know from your experience of juries (I\nmean no disparagement to you, or them) how much depends upon effect;\nand you are apt to attribute to others, a desire to use, for purposes\nof deception and Self-interest, the very instruments which you, in pure\nhonesty and honour of purpose, and with a laudable desire to do your\nutmost for your client, know the temper and worth of so well, from\nconstantly employing them yourselves. I really believe that to this\ncircumstance may be attributed the vulgar but very general notion of\nyour being, as a body, suspicious, distrustful, and over-cautious.\nConscious as I am, sir, of the disadvantage of making such a declaration\nto you, under such circumstances, I have come here, because I wish you\ndistinctly to understand, as my friend Mr. Perker has said, that I am\ninnocent of the falsehood laid to my charge; and although I am very well\naware of the inestimable value of your assistance, Sir, I must beg to\nadd, that unless you sincerely believe this, I would rather be deprived\nof the aid of your talents than have the advantage of them.'\n\nLong before the close of this address, which we are bound to say was of\na very prosy character for Mr. Pickwick, the Serjeant had relapsed into\na state of abstraction. After some minutes, however, during which he had\nreassumed his pen, he appeared to be again aware of the presence of his\nclients; raising his head from the paper, he said, rather snappishly--\n\n'Who is with me in this case?'\n\n'Mr. Phunky, Serjeant Snubbin,' replied the attorney.\n\n'Phunky--Phunky,' said the Serjeant, 'I never heard the name before. He\nmust be a very young man.'\n\n'Yes, he is a very young man,' replied the attorney. 'He was only called\nthe other day. Let me see--he has not been at the Bar eight years yet.'\n\n'Ah, I thought not,' said the Serjeant, in that sort of pitying tone in\nwhich ordinary folks would speak of a very helpless little child. 'Mr.\nMallard, send round to Mr.--Mr.--' 'Phunky's--Holborn Court, Gray's\nInn,' interposed Perker. (Holborn Court, by the bye, is South Square\nnow.) 'Mr. Phunky, and say I should be glad if he'd step here, a\nmoment.'\n\nMr. Mallard departed to execute his commission; and Serjeant Snubbin\nrelapsed into abstraction until Mr. Phunky himself was introduced.\n\nAlthough an infant barrister, he was a full-grown man. He had a very\nnervous manner, and a painful hesitation in his speech; it did not\nappear to be a natural defect, but seemed rather the result of timidity,\narising from the consciousness of being 'kept down' by want of means,\nor interest, or connection, or impudence, as the case might be. He was\noverawed by the Serjeant, and profoundly courteous to the attorney.\n\n'I have not had the pleasure of seeing you before, Mr. Phunky,' said\nSerjeant Snubbin, with haughty condescension.\n\nMr. Phunky bowed. He HAD had the pleasure of seeing the Serjeant, and\nof envying him too, with all a poor man's envy, for eight years and a\nquarter.\n\n'You are with me in this case, I understand?' said the Serjeant.\n\nIf Mr. Phunky had been a rich man, he would have instantly sent for his\nclerk to remind him; if he had been a wise one, he would have applied\nhis forefinger to his forehead, and endeavoured to recollect, whether,\nin the multiplicity of his engagements, he had undertaken this one or\nnot; but as he was neither rich nor wise (in this sense, at all events)\nhe turned red, and bowed.\n\n'Have you read the papers, Mr. Phunky?' inquired the Serjeant.\n\nHere again, Mr. Phunky should have professed to have forgotten all about\nthe merits of the case; but as he had read such papers as had been laid\nbefore him in the course of the action, and had thought of nothing else,\nwaking or sleeping, throughout the two months during which he had been\nretained as Mr. Serjeant Snubbin's junior, he turned a deeper red and\nbowed again.\n\n'This is Mr. Pickwick,' said the Serjeant, waving his pen in the\ndirection in which that gentleman was standing.\n\nMr. Phunky bowed to Mr. Pickwick, with a reverence which a first client\nmust ever awaken; and again inclined his head towards his leader.\n\n'Perhaps you will take Mr. Pickwick away,' said the Serjeant,\n'and--and--and--hear anything Mr. Pickwick may wish to communicate. We\nshall have a consultation, of course.' With that hint that he had\nbeen interrupted quite long enough, Mr. Serjeant Snubbin, who had been\ngradually growing more and more abstracted, applied his glass to his\neyes for an instant, bowed slightly round, and was once more deeply\nimmersed in the case before him, which arose out of an interminable\nlawsuit, originating in the act of an individual, deceased a century\nor so ago, who had stopped up a pathway leading from some place which\nnobody ever came from, to some other place which nobody ever went to.\n\nMr. Phunky would not hear of passing through any door until Mr. Pickwick\nand his solicitor had passed through before him, so it was some time\nbefore they got into the Square; and when they did reach it, they walked\nup and down, and held a long conference, the result of which was, that\nit was a very difficult matter to say how the verdict would go; that\nnobody could presume to calculate on the issue of an action; that it\nwas very lucky they had prevented the other party from getting Serjeant\nSnubbin; and other topics of doubt and consolation, common in such a\nposition of affairs.\n\nMr. Weller was then roused by his master from a sweet sleep of an hour's\nduration; and, bidding adieu to Lowten, they returned to the city.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXXII. DESCRIBES, FAR MORE FULLY THAN THE COURT NEWSMAN EVER\nDID, A BACHELOR'S PARTY, GIVEN BY Mr. BOB SAWYER AT HIS LODGINGS IN THE\nBOROUGH\n\n\nThere is a repose about Lant Street, in the Borough, which sheds a\ngentle melancholy upon the soul. There are always a good many houses to\nlet in the street: it is a by-street too, and its dulness is soothing.\nA house in Lant Street would not come within the denomination of a\nfirst-rate residence, in the strict acceptation of the term; but it is\na most desirable spot nevertheless. If a man wished to abstract\nhimself from the world--to remove himself from within the reach of\ntemptation--to place himself beyond the possibility of any inducement to\nlook out of the window--we should recommend him by all means go to Lant\nStreet.\n\nIn this happy retreat are colonised a few clear-starchers, a sprinkling\nof journeymen bookbinders, one or two prison agents for the Insolvent\nCourt, several small housekeepers who are employed in the Docks, a\nhandful of mantua-makers, and a seasoning of jobbing tailors. The\nmajority of the inhabitants either direct their energies to the letting\nof furnished apartments, or devote themselves to the healthful and\ninvigorating pursuit of mangling. The chief features in the still life\nof the street are green shutters, lodging-bills, brass door-plates, and\nbell-handles; the principal specimens of animated nature, the pot-boy,\nthe muffin youth, and the baked-potato man. The population is migratory,\nusually disappearing on the verge of quarter-day, and generally by\nnight. His Majesty's revenues are seldom collected in this happy valley;\nthe rents are dubious; and the water communication is very frequently\ncut off.\n\nMr. Bob Sawyer embellished one side of the fire, in his first-floor\nfront, early on the evening for which he had invited Mr. Pickwick, and\nMr. Ben Allen the other. The preparations for the reception of visitors\nappeared to be completed. The umbrellas in the passage had been heaped\ninto the little corner outside the back-parlour door; the bonnet and\nshawl of the landlady's servant had been removed from the bannisters;\nthere were not more than two pairs of pattens on the street-door mat;\nand a kitchen candle, with a very long snuff, burned cheerfully on the\nledge of the staircase window. Mr. Bob Sawyer had himself purchased the\nspirits at a wine vaults in High Street, and had returned home preceding\nthe bearer thereof, to preclude the possibility of their delivery at\nthe wrong house. The punch was ready-made in a red pan in the bedroom;\na little table, covered with a green baize cloth, had been borrowed from\nthe parlour, to play at cards on; and the glasses of the establishment,\ntogether with those which had been borrowed for the occasion from the\npublic-house, were all drawn up in a tray, which was deposited on the\nlanding outside the door.\n\nNotwithstanding the highly satisfactory nature of all these\narrangements, there was a cloud on the countenance of Mr. Bob Sawyer, as\nhe sat by the fireside. There was a sympathising expression, too, in the\nfeatures of Mr. Ben Allen, as he gazed intently on the coals, and a tone\nof melancholy in his voice, as he said, after a long silence--'Well, it\nis unlucky she should have taken it in her head to turn sour, just on\nthis occasion. She might at least have waited till to-morrow.'\n\n'That's her malevolence--that's her malevolence,' returned Mr. Bob\nSawyer vehemently. 'She says that if I can afford to give a party I\nought to be able to pay her confounded \"little bill.\"' 'How long has it\nbeen running?' inquired Mr. Ben Allen. A bill, by the bye, is the most\nextraordinary locomotive engine that the genius of man ever produced.\nIt would keep on running during the longest lifetime, without ever once\nstopping of its own accord.\n\n'Only a quarter, and a month or so,' replied Mr. Bob Sawyer.\n\nBen Allen coughed hopelessly, and directed a searching look between the\ntwo top bars of the stove.\n\n'It'll be a deuced unpleasant thing if she takes it into her head to\nlet out, when those fellows are here, won't it?' said Mr. Ben Allen at\nlength.\n\n'Horrible,' replied Bob Sawyer, 'horrible.' A low tap was heard at the\nroom door. Mr. Bob Sawyer looked expressively at his friend, and bade\nthe tapper come in; whereupon a dirty, slipshod girl in black cotton\nstockings, who might have passed for the neglected daughter of a\nsuperannuated dustman in very reduced circumstances, thrust in her head,\nand said--\n\n'Please, Mister Sawyer, Missis Raddle wants to speak to you.'\n\nBefore Mr. Bob Sawyer could return any answer, the girl suddenly\ndisappeared with a jerk, as if somebody had given her a violent pull\nbehind; this mysterious exit was no sooner accomplished, than there\nwas another tap at the door--a smart, pointed tap, which seemed to say,\n'Here I am, and in I'm coming.'\n\nMr. Bob Sawyer glanced at his friend with a look of abject apprehension,\nand once more cried, 'Come in.'\n\nThe permission was not at all necessary, for, before Mr. Bob Sawyer had\nuttered the words, a little, fierce woman bounced into the room, all in\na tremble with passion, and pale with rage.\n\n'Now, Mr. Sawyer,' said the little, fierce woman, trying to appear very\ncalm, 'if you'll have the kindness to settle that little bill of mine\nI'll thank you, because I've got my rent to pay this afternoon, and my\nlandlord's a-waiting below now.' Here the little woman rubbed her hands,\nand looked steadily over Mr. Bob Sawyer's head, at the wall behind him.\n\n'I am very sorry to put you to any inconvenience, Mrs. Raddle,' said Bob\nSawyer deferentially, 'but--'\n\n'Oh, it isn't any inconvenience,' replied the little woman, with a\nshrill titter. 'I didn't want it particular before to-day; leastways, as\nit has to go to my landlord directly, it was as well for you to keep it\nas me. You promised me this afternoon, Mr. Sawyer, and every gentleman\nas has ever lived here, has kept his word, Sir, as of course anybody as\ncalls himself a gentleman does.' Mrs. Raddle tossed her head, bit her\nlips, rubbed her hands harder, and looked at the wall more steadily\nthan ever. It was plain to see, as Mr. Bob Sawyer remarked in a style\nof Eastern allegory on a subsequent occasion, that she was 'getting the\nsteam up.'\n\n'I am very sorry, Mrs. Raddle,' said Bob Sawyer, with all imaginable\nhumility, 'but the fact is, that I have been disappointed in the City\nto-day.'--Extraordinary place that City. An astonishing number of men\nalways ARE getting disappointed there.\n\n'Well, Mr. Sawyer,' said Mrs. Raddle, planting herself firmly on a\npurple cauliflower in the Kidderminster carpet, 'and what's that to me,\nSir?'\n\n'I--I--have no doubt, Mrs. Raddle,' said Bob Sawyer, blinking this last\nquestion, 'that before the middle of next week we shall be able to set\nourselves quite square, and go on, on a better system, afterwards.'\n\nThis was all Mrs. Raddle wanted. She had bustled up to the apartment of\nthe unlucky Bob Sawyer, so bent upon going into a passion, that, in all\nprobability, payment would have rather disappointed her than otherwise.\nShe was in excellent order for a little relaxation of the kind, having\njust exchanged a few introductory compliments with Mr. R. in the front\nkitchen.\n\n'Do you suppose, Mr. Sawyer,' said Mrs. Raddle, elevating her voice for\nthe information of the neighbours--'do you suppose that I'm a-going day\nafter day to let a fellar occupy my lodgings as never thinks of paying\nhis rent, nor even the very money laid out for the fresh butter and lump\nsugar that's bought for his breakfast, and the very milk that's took in,\nat the street door? Do you suppose a hard-working and industrious woman\nas has lived in this street for twenty year (ten year over the way, and\nnine year and three-quarters in this very house) has nothing else to do\nbut to work herself to death after a parcel of lazy idle fellars, that\nare always smoking and drinking, and lounging, when they ought to be\nglad to turn their hands to anything that would help 'em to pay their\nbills? Do you--'\n\n'My good soul,' interposed Mr. Benjamin Allen soothingly.\n\n'Have the goodness to keep your observashuns to yourself, Sir, I beg,'\nsaid Mrs. Raddle, suddenly arresting the rapid torrent of her speech,\nand addressing the third party with impressive slowness and solemnity.\n'I am not aweer, Sir, that you have any right to address your\nconversation to me. I don't think I let these apartments to you, Sir.'\n\n'No, you certainly did not,' said Mr. Benjamin Allen.\n\n'Very good, Sir,' responded Mrs. Raddle, with lofty politeness. 'Then\np'raps, Sir, you'll confine yourself to breaking the arms and legs of\nthe poor people in the hospitals, and keep yourself TO yourself, Sir, or\nthere may be some persons here as will make you, Sir.'\n\n'But you are such an unreasonable woman,' remonstrated Mr. Benjamin\nAllen.\n\n'I beg your parding, young man,' said Mrs. Raddle, in a cold\nperspiration of anger. 'But will you have the goodness just to call me\nthat again, sir?'\n\n'I didn't make use of the word in any invidious sense, ma'am,' replied\nMr. Benjamin Allen, growing somewhat uneasy on his own account.\n\n'I beg your parding, young man,' demanded Mrs. Raddle, in a louder and\nmore imperative tone. 'But who do you call a woman? Did you make that\nremark to me, sir?'\n\n'Why, bless my heart!' said Mr. Benjamin Allen.\n\n'Did you apply that name to me, I ask of you, sir?' interrupted Mrs.\nRaddle, with intense fierceness, throwing the door wide open.\n\n'Why, of course I did,' replied Mr. Benjamin Allen.\n\n'Yes, of course you did,' said Mrs. Raddle, backing gradually to the\ndoor, and raising her voice to its loudest pitch, for the special behoof\nof Mr. Raddle in the kitchen. 'Yes, of course you did! And everybody\nknows that they may safely insult me in my own 'ouse while my husband\nsits sleeping downstairs, and taking no more notice than if I was a\ndog in the streets. He ought to be ashamed of himself (here Mrs. Raddle\nsobbed) to allow his wife to be treated in this way by a parcel of young\ncutters and carvers of live people's bodies, that disgraces the lodgings\n(another sob), and leaving her exposed to all manner of abuse; a base,\nfaint-hearted, timorous wretch, that's afraid to come upstairs, and\nface the ruffinly creatures--that's afraid--that's afraid to come!' Mrs.\nRaddle paused to listen whether the repetition of the taunt had roused\nher better half; and finding that it had not been successful, proceeded\nto descend the stairs with sobs innumerable; when there came a loud\ndouble knock at the street door; whereupon she burst into an hysterical\nfit of weeping, accompanied with dismal moans, which was prolonged until\nthe knock had been repeated six times, when, in an uncontrollable burst\nof mental agony, she threw down all the umbrellas, and disappeared into\nthe back parlour, closing the door after her with an awful crash.\n\n'Does Mr. Sawyer live here?' said Mr. Pickwick, when the door was\nopened.\n\n'Yes,' said the girl, 'first floor. It's the door straight afore you,\nwhen you gets to the top of the stairs.' Having given this instruction,\nthe handmaid, who had been brought up among the aboriginal inhabitants\nof Southwark, disappeared, with the candle in her hand, down the kitchen\nstairs, perfectly satisfied that she had done everything that could\npossibly be required of her under the circumstances.\n\nMr. Snodgrass, who entered last, secured the street door, after several\nineffectual efforts, by putting up the chain; and the friends stumbled\nupstairs, where they were received by Mr. Bob Sawyer, who had been\nafraid to go down, lest he should be waylaid by Mrs. Raddle.\n\n'How are you?' said the discomfited student. 'Glad to see you--take care\nof the glasses.' This caution was addressed to Mr. Pickwick, who had put\nhis hat in the tray.\n\n'Dear me,' said Mr. Pickwick, 'I beg your pardon.'\n\n'Don't mention it, don't mention it,' said Bob Sawyer. 'I'm rather\nconfined for room here, but you must put up with all that, when you come\nto see a young bachelor. Walk in. You've seen this gentleman before,\nI think?' Mr. Pickwick shook hands with Mr. Benjamin Allen, and his\nfriends followed his example. They had scarcely taken their seats when\nthere was another double knock.\n\n'I hope that's Jack Hopkins!' said Mr. Bob Sawyer. 'Hush. Yes, it is.\nCome up, Jack; come up.'\n\nA heavy footstep was heard upon the stairs, and Jack Hopkins presented\nhimself. He wore a black velvet waistcoat, with thunder-and-lightning\nbuttons; and a blue striped shirt, with a white false collar.\n\n'You're late, Jack?' said Mr. Benjamin Allen.\n\n'Been detained at Bartholomew's,' replied Hopkins.\n\n'Anything new?'\n\n'No, nothing particular. Rather a good accident brought into the\ncasualty ward.'\n\n'What was that, sir?' inquired Mr. Pickwick.\n\n'Only a man fallen out of a four pair of stairs' window; but it's a very\nfair case indeed.'\n\n'Do you mean that the patient is in a fair way to recover?' inquired Mr.\nPickwick. 'No,' replied Mr. Hopkins carelessly. 'No, I should rather\nsay he wouldn't. There must be a splendid operation, though,\nto-morrow--magnificent sight if Slasher does it.'\n\n'You consider Mr. Slasher a good operator?' said Mr. Pickwick. 'Best\nalive,' replied Hopkins. 'Took a boy's leg out of the socket last\nweek--boy ate five apples and a gingerbread cake--exactly two minutes\nafter it was all over, boy said he wouldn't lie there to be made game\nof, and he'd tell his mother if they didn't begin.'\n\n'Dear me!' said Mr. Pickwick, astonished.\n\n'Pooh! That's nothing, that ain't,' said Jack Hopkins. 'Is it, Bob?'\n\n'Nothing at all,' replied Mr. Bob Sawyer.\n\n'By the bye, Bob,' said Hopkins, with a scarcely perceptible glance at\nMr. Pickwick's attentive face, 'we had a curious accident last night. A\nchild was brought in, who had swallowed a necklace.'\n\n'Swallowed what, Sir?' interrupted Mr. Pickwick. 'A necklace,' replied\nJack Hopkins. 'Not all at once, you know, that would be too much--you\ncouldn't swallow that, if the child did--eh, Mr. Pickwick? ha, ha!'\nMr. Hopkins appeared highly gratified with his own pleasantry, and\ncontinued--'No, the way was this. Child's parents were poor people\nwho lived in a court. Child's eldest sister bought a necklace--common\nnecklace, made of large black wooden beads. Child being fond of toys,\ncribbed the necklace, hid it, played with it, cut the string, and\nswallowed a bead. Child thought it capital fun, went back next day, and\nswallowed another bead.'\n\n'Bless my heart,' said Mr. Pickwick, 'what a dreadful thing! I beg your\npardon, Sir. Go on.'\n\n'Next day, child swallowed two beads; the day after that, he treated\nhimself to three, and so on, till in a week's time he had got through\nthe necklace--five-and-twenty beads in all. The sister, who was an\nindustrious girl, and seldom treated herself to a bit of finery, cried\nher eyes out, at the loss of the necklace; looked high and low for it;\nbut, I needn't say, didn't find it. A few days afterwards, the family\nwere at dinner--baked shoulder of mutton, and potatoes under it--the\nchild, who wasn't hungry, was playing about the room, when suddenly\nthere was heard a devil of a noise, like a small hailstorm. \"Don't do\nthat, my boy,\" said the father. \"I ain't a-doin' nothing,\" said the\nchild. \"Well, don't do it again,\" said the father. There was a short\nsilence, and then the noise began again, worse than ever. \"If you don't\nmind what I say, my boy,\" said the father, \"you'll find yourself in bed,\nin something less than a pig's whisper.\" He gave the child a shake\nto make him obedient, and such a rattling ensued as nobody ever heard\nbefore. \"Why, damme, it's IN the child!\" said the father, \"he's got\nthe croup in the wrong place!\" \"No, I haven't, father,\" said the child,\nbeginning to cry, \"it's the necklace; I swallowed it, father.\"--The\nfather caught the child up, and ran with him to the hospital; the beads\nin the boy's stomach rattling all the way with the jolting; and the\npeople looking up in the air, and down in the cellars, to see where the\nunusual sound came from. He's in the hospital now,' said Jack Hopkins,\n'and he makes such a devil of a noise when he walks about, that they're\nobliged to muffle him in a watchman's coat, for fear he should wake the\npatients.'\n\n'That's the most extraordinary case I ever heard of,' said Mr. Pickwick,\nwith an emphatic blow on the table.\n\n'Oh, that's nothing,' said Jack Hopkins. 'Is it, Bob?'\n\n'Certainly not,' replied Bob Sawyer.\n\n'Very singular things occur in our profession, I can assure you, Sir,'\nsaid Hopkins.\n\n'So I should be disposed to imagine,' replied Mr. Pickwick.\n\nAnother knock at the door announced a large-headed young man in a black\nwig, who brought with him a scorbutic youth in a long stock. The next\ncomer was a gentleman in a shirt emblazoned with pink anchors, who was\nclosely followed by a pale youth with a plated watchguard. The arrival\nof a prim personage in clean linen and cloth boots rendered the party\ncomplete. The little table with the green baize cover was wheeled out;\nthe first instalment of punch was brought in, in a white jug; and the\nsucceeding three hours were devoted to VINGT-ET-UN at sixpence a\ndozen, which was only once interrupted by a slight dispute between the\nscorbutic youth and the gentleman with the pink anchors; in the course\nof which, the scorbutic youth intimated a burning desire to pull the\nnose of the gentleman with the emblems of hope; in reply to which, that\nindividual expressed his decided unwillingness to accept of any 'sauce'\non gratuitous terms, either from the irascible young gentleman with the\nscorbutic countenance, or any other person who was ornamented with a\nhead.\n\nWhen the last 'natural' had been declared, and the profit and loss\naccount of fish and sixpences adjusted, to the satisfaction of all\nparties, Mr. Bob Sawyer rang for supper, and the visitors squeezed\nthemselves into corners while it was getting ready.\n\nIt was not so easily got ready as some people may imagine. First of all,\nit was necessary to awaken the girl, who had fallen asleep with her face\non the kitchen table; this took a little time, and, even when she did\nanswer the bell, another quarter of an hour was consumed in fruitless\nendeavours to impart to her a faint and distant glimmering of reason.\nThe man to whom the order for the oysters had been sent, had not been\ntold to open them; it is a very difficult thing to open an oyster with a\nlimp knife and a two-pronged fork; and very little was done in this way.\nVery little of the beef was done either; and the ham (which was\nalso from the German-sausage shop round the corner) was in a similar\npredicament. However, there was plenty of porter in a tin can; and the\ncheese went a great way, for it was very strong. So upon the whole,\nperhaps, the supper was quite as good as such matters usually are.\n\nAfter supper, another jug of punch was put upon the table, together with\na paper of cigars, and a couple of bottles of spirits. Then there was\nan awful pause; and this awful pause was occasioned by a very\ncommon occurrence in this sort of place, but a very embarrassing one\nnotwithstanding.\n\nThe fact is, the girl was washing the glasses. The establishment boasted\nfour: we do not record the circumstance as at all derogatory to Mrs.\nRaddle, for there never was a lodging-house yet, that was not short of\nglasses. The landlady's glasses were little, thin, blown-glass tumblers,\nand those which had been borrowed from the public-house were great,\ndropsical, bloated articles, each supported on a huge gouty leg. This\nwould have been in itself sufficient to have possessed the company with\nthe real state of affairs; but the young woman of all work had prevented\nthe possibility of any misconception arising in the mind of any\ngentleman upon the subject, by forcibly dragging every man's glass away,\nlong before he had finished his beer, and audibly stating, despite the\nwinks and interruptions of Mr. Bob Sawyer, that it was to be conveyed\ndownstairs, and washed forthwith.\n\nIt is a very ill wind that blows nobody any good. The prim man in the\ncloth boots, who had been unsuccessfully attempting to make a joke\nduring the whole time the round game lasted, saw his opportunity, and\navailed himself of it. The instant the glasses disappeared, he\ncommenced a long story about a great public character, whose name he\nhad forgotten, making a particularly happy reply to another eminent\nand illustrious individual whom he had never been able to identify. He\nenlarged at some length and with great minuteness upon divers collateral\ncircumstances, distantly connected with the anecdote in hand, but for\nthe life of him he couldn't recollect at that precise moment what the\nanecdote was, although he had been in the habit of telling the story\nwith great applause for the last ten years.\n\n'Dear me,' said the prim man in the cloth boots, 'it is a very\nextraordinary circumstance.'\n\n'I am sorry you have forgotten it,' said Mr. Bob Sawyer, glancing\neagerly at the door, as he thought he heard the noise of glasses\njingling; 'very sorry.'\n\n'So am I,' responded the prim man, 'because I know it would have\nafforded so much amusement. Never mind; I dare say I shall manage to\nrecollect it, in the course of half an hour or so.'\n\nThe prim man arrived at this point just as the glasses came back, when\nMr. Bob Sawyer, who had been absorbed in attention during the whole\ntime, said he should very much like to hear the end of it, for, so far\nas it went, it was, without exception, the very best story he had ever\nheard. The sight of the tumblers restored Bob Sawyer to a degree of\nequanimity which he had not possessed since his interview with his\nlandlady. His face brightened up, and he began to feel quite convivial.\n\n'Now, Betsy,' said Mr. Bob Sawyer, with great suavity, and dispersing,\nat the same time, the tumultuous little mob of glasses the girl had\ncollected in the centre of the table--'now, Betsy, the warm water; be\nbrisk, there's a good girl.'\n\n'You can't have no warm water,' replied Betsy.\n\n'No warm water!' exclaimed Mr. Bob Sawyer.\n\n'No,' said the girl, with a shake of the head which expressed a more\ndecided negative than the most copious language could have conveyed.\n'Missis Raddle said you warn't to have none.'\n\nThe surprise depicted on the countenances of his guests imparted new\ncourage to the host.\n\n'Bring up the warm water instantly--instantly!' said Mr. Bob Sawyer,\nwith desperate sternness.\n\n'No. I can't,' replied the girl; 'Missis Raddle raked out the kitchen\nfire afore she went to bed, and locked up the kittle.'\n\n'Oh, never mind; never mind. Pray don't disturb yourself about such\na trifle,' said Mr. Pickwick, observing the conflict of Bob Sawyer's\npassions, as depicted in his countenance, 'cold water will do very\nwell.'\n\n'Oh, admirably,' said Mr. Benjamin Allen.\n\n'My landlady is subject to some slight attacks of mental derangement,'\nremarked Bob Sawyer, with a ghastly smile; 'I fear I must give her\nwarning.'\n\n'No, don't,' said Ben Allen.\n\n'I fear I must,' said Bob, with heroic firmness. 'I'll pay her what\nI owe her, and give her warning to-morrow morning.' Poor fellow! how\ndevoutly he wished he could!\n\nMr. Bob Sawyer's heart-sickening attempts to rally under this last blow,\ncommunicated a dispiriting influence to the company, the greater part of\nwhom, with the view of raising their spirits, attached themselves with\nextra cordiality to the cold brandy-and-water, the first perceptible\neffects of which were displayed in a renewal of hostilities between the\nscorbutic youth and the gentleman in the shirt. The belligerents vented\ntheir feelings of mutual contempt, for some time, in a variety of\nfrownings and snortings, until at last the scorbutic youth felt it\nnecessary to come to a more explicit understanding on the matter;\nwhen the following clear understanding took place. 'Sawyer,' said the\nscorbutic youth, in a loud voice.\n\n'Well, Noddy,' replied Mr. Bob Sawyer.\n\n'I should be very sorry, Sawyer,' said Mr. Noddy, 'to create any\nunpleasantness at any friend's table, and much less at yours,\nSawyer--very; but I must take this opportunity of informing Mr. Gunter\nthat he is no gentleman.'\n\n'And I should be very sorry, Sawyer, to create any disturbance in the\nstreet in which you reside,' said Mr. Gunter, 'but I'm afraid I shall\nbe under the necessity of alarming the neighbours by throwing the person\nwho has just spoken, out o' window.'\n\n'What do you mean by that, sir?' inquired Mr. Noddy.\n\n'What I say, Sir,' replied Mr. Gunter.\n\n'I should like to see you do it, Sir,' said Mr. Noddy.\n\n'You shall FEEL me do it in half a minute, Sir,' replied Mr. Gunter.\n\n'I request that you'll favour me with your card, Sir,' said Mr. Noddy.\n\n'I'll do nothing of the kind, Sir,' replied Mr. Gunter.\n\n'Why not, Sir?' inquired Mr. Noddy.\n\n'Because you'll stick it up over your chimney-piece, and delude your\nvisitors into the false belief that a gentleman has been to see you,\nSir,' replied Mr. Gunter.\n\n'Sir, a friend of mine shall wait on you in the morning,' said Mr.\nNoddy.\n\n'Sir, I'm very much obliged to you for the caution, and I'll leave\nparticular directions with the servant to lock up the spoons,' replied\nMr. Gunter.\n\nAt this point the remainder of the guests interposed, and remonstrated\nwith both parties on the impropriety of their conduct; on which Mr.\nNoddy begged to state that his father was quite as respectable as Mr.\nGunter's father; to which Mr. Gunter replied that his father was to the\nfull as respectable as Mr. Noddy's father, and that his father's son was\nas good a man as Mr. Noddy, any day in the week. As this announcement\nseemed the prelude to a recommencement of the dispute, there was another\ninterference on the part of the company; and a vast quantity of talking\nand clamouring ensued, in the course of which Mr. Noddy gradually\nallowed his feelings to overpower him, and professed that he had ever\nentertained a devoted personal attachment towards Mr. Gunter. To this\nMr. Gunter replied that, upon the whole, he rather preferred Mr. Noddy\nto his own brother; on hearing which admission, Mr. Noddy magnanimously\nrose from his seat, and proffered his hand to Mr. Gunter. Mr. Gunter\ngrasped it with affecting fervour; and everybody said that the whole\ndispute had been conducted in a manner which was highly honourable to\nboth parties concerned.\n\n'Now,' said Jack Hopkins, 'just to set us going again, Bob, I don't mind\nsinging a song.' And Hopkins, incited thereto by tumultuous applause,\nplunged himself at once into 'The King, God bless him,' which he sang as\nloud as he could, to a novel air, compounded of the 'Bay of Biscay,' and\n'A Frog he would.' The chorus was the essence of the song; and, as each\ngentleman sang it to the tune he knew best, the effect was very striking\nindeed.\n\nIt was at the end of the chorus to the first verse, that Mr. Pickwick\nheld up his hand in a listening attitude, and said, as soon as silence\nwas restored--\n\n'Hush! I beg your pardon. I thought I heard somebody calling from\nupstairs.'\n\nA profound silence immediately ensued; and Mr. Bob Sawyer was observed\nto turn pale.\n\n'I think I hear it now,' said Mr. Pickwick. 'Have the goodness to open\nthe door.'\n\nThe door was no sooner opened than all doubt on the subject was removed.\n\n'Mr. Sawyer! Mr. Sawyer!' screamed a voice from the two-pair landing.\n\n'It's my landlady,' said Bob Sawyer, looking round him with great\ndismay. 'Yes, Mrs. Raddle.'\n\n'What do you mean by this, Mr. Sawyer?' replied the voice, with great\nshrillness and rapidity of utterance. 'Ain't it enough to be swindled\nout of one's rent, and money lent out of pocket besides, and abused\nand insulted by your friends that dares to call themselves men, without\nhaving the house turned out of the window, and noise enough made to\nbring the fire-engines here, at two o'clock in the morning?--Turn them\nwretches away.'\n\n'You ought to be ashamed of yourselves,' said the voice of Mr. Raddle,\nwhich appeared to proceed from beneath some distant bed-clothes.\n\n'Ashamed of themselves!' said Mrs. Raddle. 'Why don't you go down and\nknock 'em every one downstairs? You would if you was a man.' 'I should\nif I was a dozen men, my dear,' replied Mr. Raddle pacifically, 'but\nthey have the advantage of me in numbers, my dear.'\n\n'Ugh, you coward!' replied Mrs. Raddle, with supreme contempt. 'DO you\nmean to turn them wretches out, or not, Mr. Sawyer?'\n\n'They're going, Mrs. Raddle, they're going,' said the miserable Bob.\n'I am afraid you'd better go,' said Mr. Bob Sawyer to his friends. 'I\nthought you were making too much noise.'\n\n'It's a very unfortunate thing,' said the prim man. 'Just as we were\ngetting so comfortable too!' The prim man was just beginning to have a\ndawning recollection of the story he had forgotten.\n\n'It's hardly to be borne,' said the prim man, looking round. 'Hardly to\nbe borne, is it?'\n\n'Not to be endured,' replied Jack Hopkins; 'let's have the other verse,\nBob. Come, here goes!'\n\n'No, no, Jack, don't,' interposed Bob Sawyer; 'it's a capital song,\nbut I am afraid we had better not have the other verse. They are very\nviolent people, the people of the house.'\n\n'Shall I step upstairs, and pitch into the landlord?' inquired Hopkins,\n'or keep on ringing the bell, or go and groan on the staircase? You may\ncommand me, Bob.'\n\n'I am very much indebted to you for your friendship and good-nature,\nHopkins,' said the wretched Mr. Bob Sawyer, 'but I think the best plan\nto avoid any further dispute is for us to break up at once.'\n\n'Now, Mr. Sawyer,' screamed the shrill voice of Mrs. Raddle, 'are them\nbrutes going?'\n\n'They're only looking for their hats, Mrs. Raddle,' said Bob; 'they are\ngoing directly.'\n\n'Going!' said Mrs. Raddle, thrusting her nightcap over the banisters\njust as Mr. Pickwick, followed by Mr. Tupman, emerged from the\nsitting-room. 'Going! what did they ever come for?'\n\n'My dear ma'am,' remonstrated Mr. Pickwick, looking up.\n\n'Get along with you, old wretch!' replied Mrs. Raddle, hastily\nwithdrawing the nightcap. 'Old enough to be his grandfather, you willin!\nYou're worse than any of 'em.'\n\nMr. Pickwick found it in vain to protest his innocence, so hurried\ndownstairs into the street, whither he was closely followed by Mr.\nTupman, Mr. Winkle, and Mr. Snodgrass. Mr. Ben Allen, who was dismally\ndepressed with spirits and agitation, accompanied them as far as London\nBridge, and in the course of the walk confided to Mr. Winkle, as\nan especially eligible person to intrust the secret to, that he was\nresolved to cut the throat of any gentleman, except Mr. Bob Sawyer, who\nshould aspire to the affections of his sister Arabella. Having expressed\nhis determination to perform this painful duty of a brother with proper\nfirmness, he burst into tears, knocked his hat over his eyes, and,\nmaking the best of his way back, knocked double knocks at the door of\nthe Borough Market office, and took short naps on the steps alternately,\nuntil daybreak, under the firm impression that he lived there, and had\nforgotten the key.\n\nThe visitors having all departed, in compliance with the rather pressing\nrequest of Mrs. Raddle, the luckless Mr. Bob Sawyer was left alone, to\nmeditate on the probable events of to-morrow, and the pleasures of the\nevening.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXXIII. Mr. WELLER THE ELDER DELIVERS SOME CRITICAL SENTIMENTS\nRESPECTING LITERARY COMPOSITION; AND, ASSISTED BY HIS SON SAMUEL, PAYS A\nSMALL INSTALMENT OF RETALIATION TO THE ACCOUNT OF THE REVEREND GENTLEMAN\nWITH THE RED NOSE\n\n\nThe morning of the thirteenth of February, which the readers of this\nauthentic narrative know, as well as we do, to have been the day\nimmediately preceding that which was appointed for the trial of Mrs.\nBardell's action, was a busy time for Mr. Samuel Weller, who was\nperpetually engaged in travelling from the George and Vulture to Mr.\nPerker's chambers and back again, from and between the hours of nine\no'clock in the morning and two in the afternoon, both inclusive. Not\nthat there was anything whatever to be done, for the consultation\nhad taken place, and the course of proceeding to be adopted, had been\nfinally determined on; but Mr. Pickwick being in a most extreme state\nof excitement, persevered in constantly sending small notes to his\nattorney, merely containing the inquiry, 'Dear Perker. Is all going\non well?' to which Mr. Perker invariably forwarded the reply, 'Dear\nPickwick. As well as possible'; the fact being, as we have already\nhinted, that there was nothing whatever to go on, either well or ill,\nuntil the sitting of the court on the following morning.\n\nBut people who go voluntarily to law, or are taken forcibly there, for\nthe first time, may be allowed to labour under some temporary irritation\nand anxiety; and Sam, with a due allowance for the frailties of\nhuman nature, obeyed all his master's behests with that imperturbable\ngood-humour and unruffable composure which formed one of his most\nstriking and amiable characteristics.\n\nSam had solaced himself with a most agreeable little dinner, and was\nwaiting at the bar for the glass of warm mixture in which Mr. Pickwick\nhad requested him to drown the fatigues of his morning's walks, when a\nyoung boy of about three feet high, or thereabouts, in a hairy cap and\nfustian overalls, whose garb bespoke a laudable ambition to attain in\ntime the elevation of an hostler, entered the passage of the George and\nVulture, and looked first up the stairs, and then along the passage,\nand then into the bar, as if in search of somebody to whom he bore a\ncommission; whereupon the barmaid, conceiving it not improbable that\nthe said commission might be directed to the tea or table spoons of the\nestablishment, accosted the boy with--\n\n'Now, young man, what do you want?'\n\n'Is there anybody here, named Sam?' inquired the youth, in a loud voice\nof treble quality.\n\n'What's the t'other name?' said Sam Weller, looking round.\n\n'How should I know?' briskly replied the young gentleman below the hairy\ncap. 'You're a sharp boy, you are,' said Mr. Weller; 'only I wouldn't\nshow that wery fine edge too much, if I was you, in case anybody took it\noff. What do you mean by comin' to a hot-el, and asking arter Sam, vith\nas much politeness as a vild Indian?'\n\n''Cos an old gen'l'm'n told me to,' replied the boy.\n\n'What old gen'l'm'n?' inquired Sam, with deep disdain.\n\n'Him as drives a Ipswich coach, and uses our parlour,' rejoined the\nboy. 'He told me yesterday mornin' to come to the George and Wultur this\narternoon, and ask for Sam.'\n\n'It's my father, my dear,' said Mr. Weller, turning with an explanatory\nair to the young lady in the bar; 'blessed if I think he hardly knows\nwot my other name is. Well, young brockiley sprout, wot then?'\n\n'Why then,' said the boy, 'you was to come to him at six o'clock to our\n'ouse, 'cos he wants to see you--Blue Boar, Leaden'all Markit. Shall I\nsay you're comin'?'\n\n'You may wenture on that 'ere statement, Sir,' replied Sam. And thus\nempowered, the young gentleman walked away, awakening all the echoes\nin George Yard as he did so, with several chaste and extremely correct\nimitations of a drover's whistle, delivered in a tone of peculiar\nrichness and volume.\n\nMr. Weller having obtained leave of absence from Mr. Pickwick, who, in\nhis then state of excitement and worry, was by no means displeased at\nbeing left alone, set forth, long before the appointed hour, and having\nplenty of time at his disposal, sauntered down as far as the Mansion\nHouse, where he paused and contemplated, with a face of great calmness\nand philosophy, the numerous cads and drivers of short stages who\nassemble near that famous place of resort, to the great terror and\nconfusion of the old-lady population of these realms. Having loitered\nhere, for half an hour or so, Mr. Weller turned, and began wending\nhis way towards Leadenhall Market, through a variety of by-streets and\ncourts. As he was sauntering away his spare time, and stopped to look at\nalmost every object that met his gaze, it is by no means surprising\nthat Mr. Weller should have paused before a small stationer's and\nprint-seller's window; but without further explanation it does appear\nsurprising that his eyes should have no sooner rested on certain\npictures which were exposed for sale therein, than he gave a sudden\nstart, smote his right leg with great vehemence, and exclaimed, with\nenergy, 'if it hadn't been for this, I should ha' forgot all about it,\ntill it was too late!'\n\nThe particular picture on which Sam Weller's eyes were fixed, as he said\nthis, was a highly-coloured representation of a couple of human hearts\nskewered together with an arrow, cooking before a cheerful fire, while a\nmale and female cannibal in modern attire, the gentleman being clad in a\nblue coat and white trousers, and the lady in a deep red pelisse with\na parasol of the same, were approaching the meal with hungry eyes, up a\nserpentine gravel path leading thereunto. A decidedly indelicate\nyoung gentleman, in a pair of wings and nothing else, was depicted as\nsuperintending the cooking; a representation of the spire of the church\nin Langham Place, London, appeared in the distance; and the whole\nformed a 'valentine,' of which, as a written inscription in the window\ntestified, there was a large assortment within, which the shopkeeper\npledged himself to dispose of, to his countrymen generally, at the\nreduced rate of one-and-sixpence each.\n\n'I should ha' forgot it; I should certainly ha' forgot it!' said Sam; so\nsaying, he at once stepped into the stationer's shop, and requested\nto be served with a sheet of the best gilt-edged letter-paper, and a\nhard-nibbed pen which could be warranted not to splutter. These articles\nhaving been promptly supplied, he walked on direct towards Leadenhall\nMarket at a good round pace, very different from his recent lingering\none. Looking round him, he there beheld a signboard on which the\npainter's art had delineated something remotely resembling a cerulean\nelephant with an aquiline nose in lieu of trunk. Rightly conjecturing\nthat this was the Blue Boar himself, he stepped into the house, and\ninquired concerning his parent.\n\n'He won't be here this three-quarters of an hour or more,' said the\nyoung lady who superintended the domestic arrangements of the Blue Boar.\n\n'Wery good, my dear,' replied Sam. 'Let me have nine-penn'oth o'\nbrandy-and-water luke, and the inkstand, will you, miss?'\n\nThe brandy-and-water luke, and the inkstand, having been carried into\nthe little parlour, and the young lady having carefully flattened\ndown the coals to prevent their blazing, and carried away the poker to\npreclude the possibility of the fire being stirred, without the full\nprivity and concurrence of the Blue Boar being first had and obtained,\nSam Weller sat himself down in a box near the stove, and pulled out the\nsheet of gilt-edged letter-paper, and the hard-nibbed pen. Then looking\ncarefully at the pen to see that there were no hairs in it, and dusting\ndown the table, so that there might be no crumbs of bread under the\npaper, Sam tucked up the cuffs of his coat, squared his elbows, and\ncomposed himself to write.\n\nTo ladies and gentlemen who are not in the habit of devoting themselves\npractically to the science of penmanship, writing a letter is no very\neasy task; it being always considered necessary in such cases for the\nwriter to recline his head on his left arm, so as to place his eyes\nas nearly as possible on a level with the paper, and, while glancing\nsideways at the letters he is constructing, to form with his\ntongue imaginary characters to correspond. These motions, although\nunquestionably of the greatest assistance to original composition,\nretard in some degree the progress of the writer; and Sam had\nunconsciously been a full hour and a half writing words in small text,\nsmearing out wrong letters with his little finger, and putting in new\nones which required going over very often to render them visible through\nthe old blots, when he was roused by the opening of the door and the\nentrance of his parent.\n\n'Vell, Sammy,' said the father.\n\n'Vell, my Prooshan Blue,' responded the son, laying down his pen.\n'What's the last bulletin about mother-in-law?'\n\n'Mrs. Veller passed a very good night, but is uncommon perwerse, and\nunpleasant this mornin'. Signed upon oath, Tony Veller, Esquire. That's\nthe last vun as was issued, Sammy,' replied Mr. Weller, untying his\nshawl.\n\n'No better yet?' inquired Sam.\n\n'All the symptoms aggerawated,' replied Mr. Weller, shaking his\nhead. 'But wot's that, you're a-doin' of? Pursuit of knowledge under\ndifficulties, Sammy?'\n\n'I've done now,' said Sam, with slight embarrassment; 'I've been\na-writin'.'\n\n'So I see,' replied Mr. Weller. 'Not to any young 'ooman, I hope,\nSammy?'\n\n'Why, it's no use a-sayin' it ain't,' replied Sam; 'it's a walentine.'\n\n'A what!' exclaimed Mr. Weller, apparently horror-stricken by the word.\n\n'A walentine,' replied Sam. 'Samivel, Samivel,' said Mr. Weller, in\nreproachful accents, 'I didn't think you'd ha' done it. Arter the\nwarnin' you've had o' your father's wicious propensities; arter all\nI've said to you upon this here wery subject; arter actiwally seein'\nand bein' in the company o' your own mother-in-law, vich I should ha'\nthought wos a moral lesson as no man could never ha' forgotten to his\ndyin' day! I didn't think you'd ha' done it, Sammy, I didn't think you'd\nha' done it!' These reflections were too much for the good old man. He\nraised Sam's tumbler to his lips and drank off its contents.\n\n'Wot's the matter now?' said Sam.\n\n'Nev'r mind, Sammy,' replied Mr. Weller, 'it'll be a wery agonisin'\ntrial to me at my time of life, but I'm pretty tough, that's vun\nconsolation, as the wery old turkey remarked wen the farmer said he wos\nafeerd he should be obliged to kill him for the London market.'\n\n'Wot'll be a trial?' inquired Sam. 'To see you married, Sammy--to see\nyou a dilluded wictim, and thinkin' in your innocence that it's all\nwery capital,' replied Mr. Weller. 'It's a dreadful trial to a father's\nfeelin's, that 'ere, Sammy--'\n\n'Nonsense,' said Sam. 'I ain't a-goin' to get married, don't you fret\nyourself about that; I know you're a judge of these things. Order in\nyour pipe and I'll read you the letter. There!'\n\nWe cannot distinctly say whether it was the prospect of the pipe, or the\nconsolatory reflection that a fatal disposition to get married ran in\nthe family, and couldn't be helped, which calmed Mr. Weller's feelings,\nand caused his grief to subside. We should be rather disposed to\nsay that the result was attained by combining the two sources of\nconsolation, for he repeated the second in a low tone, very frequently;\nringing the bell meanwhile, to order in the first. He then divested\nhimself of his upper coat; and lighting the pipe and placing himself in\nfront of the fire with his back towards it, so that he could feel its\nfull heat, and recline against the mantel-piece at the same time, turned\ntowards Sam, and, with a countenance greatly mollified by the softening\ninfluence of tobacco, requested him to 'fire away.'\n\nSam dipped his pen into the ink to be ready for any corrections, and\nbegan with a very theatrical air--\n\n'\"Lovely--\"'\n\n'Stop,' said Mr. Weller, ringing the bell. 'A double glass o' the\ninwariable, my dear.'\n\n'Very well, Sir,' replied the girl; who with great quickness appeared,\nvanished, returned, and disappeared.\n\n'They seem to know your ways here,' observed Sam.\n\n'Yes,' replied his father, 'I've been here before, in my time. Go on,\nSammy.'\n\n'\"Lovely creetur,\"' repeated Sam.\n\n''Tain't in poetry, is it?' interposed his father.\n\n'No, no,' replied Sam.\n\n'Wery glad to hear it,' said Mr. Weller. 'Poetry's unnat'ral; no man\never talked poetry 'cept a beadle on boxin'-day, or Warren's blackin',\nor Rowland's oil, or some of them low fellows; never you let yourself\ndown to talk poetry, my boy. Begin agin, Sammy.'\n\nMr. Weller resumed his pipe with critical solemnity, and Sam once more\ncommenced, and read as follows:\n\n'\"Lovely creetur I feel myself a damned--\"' 'That ain't proper,' said\nMr. Weller, taking his pipe from his mouth.\n\n'No; it ain't \"damned,\"' observed Sam, holding the letter up to the\nlight, 'it's \"shamed,\" there's a blot there--\"I feel myself ashamed.\"'\n\n'Wery good,' said Mr. Weller. 'Go on.'\n\n'Feel myself ashamed, and completely cir--' I forget what this here\nword is,' said Sam, scratching his head with the pen, in vain attempts\nto remember.\n\n'Why don't you look at it, then?' inquired Mr. Weller.\n\n'So I am a-lookin' at it,' replied Sam, 'but there's another blot.\nHere's a \"c,\" and a \"i,\" and a \"d.\"'\n\n'Circumwented, p'raps,' suggested Mr. Weller.\n\n'No, it ain't that,' said Sam, '\"circumscribed\"; that's it.'\n\n'That ain't as good a word as \"circumwented,\" Sammy,' said Mr. Weller\ngravely.\n\n'Think not?' said Sam.\n\n'Nothin' like it,' replied his father.\n\n'But don't you think it means more?' inquired Sam.\n\n'Vell p'raps it's a more tenderer word,' said Mr. Weller, after a few\nmoments' reflection. 'Go on, Sammy.'\n\n'\"Feel myself ashamed and completely circumscribed in a-dressin' of you,\nfor you are a nice gal and nothin' but it.\"'\n\n'That's a wery pretty sentiment,' said the elder Mr. Weller, removing\nhis pipe to make way for the remark.\n\n'Yes, I think it is rayther good,' observed Sam, highly flattered.\n\n'Wot I like in that 'ere style of writin',' said the elder Mr. Weller,\n'is, that there ain't no callin' names in it--no Wenuses, nor nothin' o'\nthat kind. Wot's the good o' callin' a young 'ooman a Wenus or a angel,\nSammy?'\n\n'Ah! what, indeed?' replied Sam.\n\n'You might jist as well call her a griffin, or a unicorn, or a king's\narms at once, which is wery well known to be a collection o' fabulous\nanimals,' added Mr. Weller.\n\n'Just as well,' replied Sam.\n\n'Drive on, Sammy,' said Mr. Weller.\n\nSam complied with the request, and proceeded as follows; his father\ncontinuing to smoke, with a mixed expression of wisdom and complacency,\nwhich was particularly edifying.\n\n'\"Afore I see you, I thought all women was alike.\"'\n\n'So they are,' observed the elder Mr. Weller parenthetically.\n\n'\"But now,\"' continued Sam, '\"now I find what a reg'lar soft-headed,\ninkred'lous turnip I must ha' been; for there ain't nobody like you,\nthough I like you better than nothin' at all.\" I thought it best to make\nthat rayther strong,' said Sam, looking up.\n\nMr. Weller nodded approvingly, and Sam resumed.\n\n'\"So I take the privilidge of the day, Mary, my dear--as the gen'l'm'n\nin difficulties did, ven he valked out of a Sunday--to tell you that the\nfirst and only time I see you, your likeness was took on my hart in much\nquicker time and brighter colours than ever a likeness was took by the\nprofeel macheen (wich p'raps you may have heerd on Mary my dear) altho\nit DOES finish a portrait and put the frame and glass on complete,\nwith a hook at the end to hang it up by, and all in two minutes and a\nquarter.\"'\n\n'I am afeerd that werges on the poetical, Sammy,' said Mr. Weller\ndubiously.\n\n'No, it don't,' replied Sam, reading on very quickly, to avoid\ncontesting the point--\n\n'\"Except of me Mary my dear as your walentine and think over what I've\nsaid.--My dear Mary I will now conclude.\" That's all,' said Sam.\n\n'That's rather a Sudden pull-up, ain't it, Sammy?' inquired Mr. Weller.\n\n'Not a bit on it,' said Sam; 'she'll vish there wos more, and that's the\ngreat art o' letter-writin'.'\n\n'Well,' said Mr. Weller, 'there's somethin' in that; and I wish your\nmother-in-law 'ud only conduct her conwersation on the same gen-teel\nprinciple. Ain't you a-goin' to sign it?'\n\n'That's the difficulty,' said Sam; 'I don't know what to sign it.'\n\n'Sign it--\"Veller\",' said the oldest surviving proprietor of that name.\n\n'Won't do,' said Sam. 'Never sign a walentine with your own name.'\n\n'Sign it \"Pickwick,\" then,' said Mr. Weller; 'it's a wery good name, and\na easy one to spell.' 'The wery thing,' said Sam. 'I COULD end with a\nwerse; what do you think?'\n\n'I don't like it, Sam,' rejoined Mr. Weller. 'I never know'd a\nrespectable coachman as wrote poetry, 'cept one, as made an affectin'\ncopy o' werses the night afore he was hung for a highway robbery; and he\nwos only a Cambervell man, so even that's no rule.'\n\nBut Sam was not to be dissuaded from the poetical idea that had occurred\nto him, so he signed the letter--\n\n 'Your love-sick\n Pickwick.'\n\nAnd having folded it, in a very intricate manner, squeezed a downhill\ndirection in one corner: 'To Mary, Housemaid, at Mr. Nupkins's, Mayor's,\nIpswich, Suffolk'; and put it into his pocket, wafered, and ready for\nthe general post. This important business having been transacted, Mr.\nWeller the elder proceeded to open that, on which he had summoned his\nson.\n\n'The first matter relates to your governor, Sammy,' said Mr. Weller.\n'He's a-goin' to be tried to-morrow, ain't he?'\n\n'The trial's a-comin' on,' replied Sam.\n\n'Vell,' said Mr. Weller, 'Now I s'pose he'll want to call some witnesses\nto speak to his character, or p'rhaps to prove a alleybi. I've been\na-turnin' the bis'ness over in my mind, and he may make his-self easy,\nSammy. I've got some friends as'll do either for him, but my adwice\n'ud be this here--never mind the character, and stick to the alleybi.\nNothing like a alleybi, Sammy, nothing.' Mr. Weller looked very profound\nas he delivered this legal opinion; and burying his nose in his tumbler,\nwinked over the top thereof, at his astonished son. 'Why, what do you\nmean?' said Sam; 'you don't think he's a-goin' to be tried at the Old\nBailey, do you?'\n\n'That ain't no part of the present consideration, Sammy,' replied Mr.\nWeller. 'Verever he's a-goin' to be tried, my boy, a alleybi's the thing\nto get him off. Ve got Tom Vildspark off that 'ere manslaughter, with\na alleybi, ven all the big vigs to a man said as nothing couldn't save\nhim. And my 'pinion is, Sammy, that if your governor don't prove a\nalleybi, he'll be what the Italians call reg'larly flummoxed, and that's\nall about it.'\n\nAs the elder Mr. Weller entertained a firm and unalterable conviction\nthat the Old Bailey was the supreme court of judicature in this country,\nand that its rules and forms of proceeding regulated and controlled\nthe practice of all other courts of justice whatsoever, he totally\ndisregarded the assurances and arguments of his son, tending to show\nthat the alibi was inadmissible; and vehemently protested that Mr.\nPickwick was being 'wictimised.' Finding that it was of no use to\ndiscuss the matter further, Sam changed the subject, and inquired what\nthe second topic was, on which his revered parent wished to consult him.\n\n'That's a pint o' domestic policy, Sammy,' said Mr. Weller. 'This here\nStiggins--'\n\n'Red-nosed man?' inquired Sam.\n\n'The wery same,' replied Mr. Weller. 'This here red-nosed man, Sammy,\nwisits your mother-in-law vith a kindness and constancy I never see\nequalled. He's sitch a friend o' the family, Sammy, that wen he's avay\nfrom us, he can't be comfortable unless he has somethin' to remember us\nby.'\n\n'And I'd give him somethin' as 'ud turpentine and beeswax his memory for\nthe next ten years or so, if I wos you,' interposed Sam.\n\n'Stop a minute,' said Mr. Weller; 'I wos a-going to say, he always\nbrings now, a flat bottle as holds about a pint and a half, and fills it\nvith the pine-apple rum afore he goes avay.'\n\n'And empties it afore he comes back, I s'pose?' said Sam.\n\n'Clean!' replied Mr. Weller; 'never leaves nothin' in it but the cork\nand the smell; trust him for that, Sammy. Now, these here fellows, my\nboy, are a-goin' to-night to get up the monthly meetin' o' the\nBrick Lane Branch o' the United Grand Junction Ebenezer Temperance\nAssociation. Your mother-in-law wos a-goin', Sammy, but she's got the\nrheumatics, and can't; and I, Sammy--I've got the two tickets as wos\nsent her.' Mr. Weller communicated this secret with great glee, and\nwinked so indefatigably after doing so, that Sam began to think he must\nhave got the TIC DOLOUREUX in his right eyelid.\n\n'Well?' said that young gentleman. 'Well,' continued his progenitor,\nlooking round him very cautiously, 'you and I'll go, punctiwal to the\ntime. The deputy-shepherd won't, Sammy; the deputy-shepherd won't.'\nHere Mr. Weller was seized with a paroxysm of chuckles, which gradually\nterminated in as near an approach to a choke as an elderly gentleman\ncan, with safety, sustain.\n\n'Well, I never see sitch an old ghost in all my born days,' exclaimed\nSam, rubbing the old gentleman's back, hard enough to set him on fire\nwith the friction. 'What are you a-laughin' at, corpilence?'\n\n'Hush! Sammy,' said Mr. Weller, looking round him with increased\ncaution, and speaking in a whisper. 'Two friends o' mine, as works\nthe Oxford Road, and is up to all kinds o' games, has got the\ndeputy-shepherd safe in tow, Sammy; and ven he does come to the Ebenezer\nJunction (vich he's sure to do: for they'll see him to the door, and\nshove him in, if necessary), he'll be as far gone in rum-and-water, as\never he wos at the Markis o' Granby, Dorkin', and that's not sayin'\na little neither.' And with this, Mr. Weller once more laughed\nimmoderately, and once more relapsed into a state of partial\nsuffocation, in consequence.\n\nNothing could have been more in accordance with Sam Weller's feelings\nthan the projected exposure of the real propensities and qualities of\nthe red-nosed man; and it being very near the appointed hour of meeting,\nthe father and son took their way at once to Brick Lane, Sam not\nforgetting to drop his letter into a general post-office as they walked\nalong.\n\nThe monthly meetings of the Brick Lane Branch of the United Grand\nJunction Ebenezer Temperance Association were held in a large room,\npleasantly and airily situated at the top of a safe and commodious\nladder. The president was the straight-walking Mr. Anthony Humm, a\nconverted fireman, now a schoolmaster, and occasionally an itinerant\npreacher; and the secretary was Mr. Jonas Mudge, chandler's shopkeeper,\nan enthusiastic and disinterested vessel, who sold tea to the members.\nPrevious to the commencement of business, the ladies sat upon forms, and\ndrank tea, till such time as they considered it expedient to leave off;\nand a large wooden money-box was conspicuously placed upon the green\nbaize cloth of the business-table, behind which the secretary stood, and\nacknowledged, with a gracious smile, every addition to the rich vein of\ncopper which lay concealed within.\n\nOn this particular occasion the women drank tea to a most alarming\nextent; greatly to the horror of Mr. Weller, senior, who, utterly\nregardless of all Sam's admonitory nudgings, stared about him in every\ndirection with the most undisguised astonishment.\n\n'Sammy,' whispered Mr. Weller, 'if some o' these here people don't want\ntappin' to-morrow mornin', I ain't your father, and that's wot it is.\nWhy, this here old lady next me is a-drowndin' herself in tea.' 'Be\nquiet, can't you?' murmured Sam.\n\n'Sam,' whispered Mr. Weller, a moment afterwards, in a tone of deep\nagitation, 'mark my vords, my boy. If that 'ere secretary fellow keeps\non for only five minutes more, he'll blow hisself up with toast and\nwater.'\n\n'Well, let him, if he likes,' replied Sam; 'it ain't no bis'ness o'\nyourn.'\n\n'If this here lasts much longer, Sammy,' said Mr. Weller, in the same\nlow voice, 'I shall feel it my duty, as a human bein', to rise and\naddress the cheer. There's a young 'ooman on the next form but two, as\nhas drunk nine breakfast cups and a half; and she's a-swellin' wisibly\nbefore my wery eyes.'\n\nThere is little doubt that Mr. Weller would have carried his benevolent\nintention into immediate execution, if a great noise, occasioned by\nputting up the cups and saucers, had not very fortunately announced that\nthe tea-drinking was over. The crockery having been removed, the table\nwith the green baize cover was carried out into the centre of the room,\nand the business of the evening was commenced by a little emphatic man,\nwith a bald head and drab shorts, who suddenly rushed up the ladder, at\nthe imminent peril of snapping the two little legs incased in the drab\nshorts, and said--\n\n'Ladies and gentlemen, I move our excellent brother, Mr. Anthony Humm,\ninto the chair.'\n\nThe ladies waved a choice selection of pocket-handkerchiefs at this\nproposition; and the impetuous little man literally moved Mr. Humm\ninto the chair, by taking him by the shoulders and thrusting him into a\nmahogany-frame which had once represented that article of furniture.\nThe waving of handkerchiefs was renewed; and Mr. Humm, who was a sleek,\nwhite-faced man, in a perpetual perspiration, bowed meekly, to the great\nadmiration of the females, and formally took his seat. Silence was then\nproclaimed by the little man in the drab shorts, and Mr. Humm rose and\nsaid--That, with the permission of his Brick Lane Branch brothers and\nsisters, then and there present, the secretary would read the report of\nthe Brick Lane Branch committee; a proposition which was again received\nwith a demonstration of pocket-handkerchiefs.\n\nThe secretary having sneezed in a very impressive manner, and the cough\nwhich always seizes an assembly, when anything particular is going to be\ndone, having been duly performed, the following document was read:\n\n'REPORT OF THE COMMITTEE OF THE BRICK LANE BRANCH OF THE UNITED GRAND\nJUNCTION EBENEZER TEMPERANCE ASSOCIATION\n\n\n'Your committee have pursued their grateful labours during the past\nmonth, and have the unspeakable pleasure of reporting the following\nadditional cases of converts to Temperance.\n\n'H. Walker, tailor, wife, and two children. When in better\ncircumstances, owns to having been in the constant habit of drinking ale\nand beer; says he is not certain whether he did not twice a week,\nfor twenty years, taste \"dog's nose,\" which your committee find upon\ninquiry, to be compounded of warm porter, moist sugar, gin, and nutmeg\n(a groan, and 'So it is!' from an elderly female). Is now out of work\nand penniless; thinks it must be the porter (cheers) or the loss of the\nuse of his right hand; is not certain which, but thinks it very likely\nthat, if he had drunk nothing but water all his life, his fellow-workman\nwould never have stuck a rusty needle in him, and thereby occasioned his\naccident (tremendous cheering). Has nothing but cold water to drink, and\nnever feels thirsty (great applause).\n\n'Betsy Martin, widow, one child, and one eye. Goes out charing and\nwashing, by the day; never had more than one eye, but knows her mother\ndrank bottled stout, and shouldn't wonder if that caused it (immense\ncheering). Thinks it not impossible that if she had always abstained\nfrom spirits she might have had two eyes by this time (tremendous\napplause). Used, at every place she went to, to have eighteen-pence a\nday, a pint of porter, and a glass of spirits; but since she became a\nmember of the Brick Lane Branch, has always demanded three-and-sixpence\n(the announcement of this most interesting fact was received with\ndeafening enthusiasm).\n\n'Henry Beller was for many years toast-master at various corporation\ndinners, during which time he drank a great deal of foreign wine; may\nsometimes have carried a bottle or two home with him; is not quite\ncertain of that, but is sure if he did, that he drank the contents.\nFeels very low and melancholy, is very feverish, and has a constant\nthirst upon him; thinks it must be the wine he used to drink (cheers).\nIs out of employ now; and never touches a drop of foreign wine by any\nchance (tremendous plaudits).\n\n'Thomas Burton is purveyor of cat's meat to the Lord Mayor and Sheriffs,\nand several members of the Common Council (the announcement of this\ngentleman's name was received with breathless interest). Has a wooden\nleg; finds a wooden leg expensive, going over the stones; used to\nwear second-hand wooden legs, and drink a glass of hot gin-and-water\nregularly every night--sometimes two (deep sighs). Found the second-hand\nwooden legs split and rot very quickly; is firmly persuaded that their\nconstitution was undermined by the gin-and-water (prolonged cheering).\nBuys new wooden legs now, and drinks nothing but water and weak tea. The\nnew legs last twice as long as the others used to do, and he attributes\nthis solely to his temperate habits (triumphant cheers).'\n\n\nAnthony Humm now moved that the assembly do regale itself with a song.\nWith a view to their rational and moral enjoyment, Brother Mordlin\nhad adapted the beautiful words of 'Who hasn't heard of a Jolly Young\nWaterman?' to the tune of the Old Hundredth, which he would request them\nto join him in singing (great applause). He might take that opportunity\nof expressing his firm persuasion that the late Mr. Dibdin, seeing the\nerrors of his former life, had written that song to show the advantages\nof abstinence. It was a temperance song (whirlwinds of cheers). The\nneatness of the young man's attire, the dexterity of his feathering, the\nenviable state of mind which enabled him in the beautiful words of the\npoet, to\n\n 'Row along, thinking of nothing at all,'\n\nall combined to prove that he must have been a water-drinker (cheers).\nOh, what a state of virtuous jollity! (rapturous cheering). And what was\nthe young man's reward? Let all young men present mark this:\n\n 'The maidens all flocked to his boat so readily.'\n\n(Loud cheers, in which the ladies joined.) What a bright example! The\nsisterhood, the maidens, flocking round the young waterman, and urging\nhim along the stream of duty and of temperance. But, was it the maidens\nof humble life only, who soothed, consoled, and supported him? No!\n\n 'He was always first oars with the fine city ladies.'\n\n(Immense cheering.) The soft sex to a man--he begged pardon, to a\nfemale--rallied round the young waterman, and turned with disgust from\nthe drinker of spirits (cheers). The Brick Lane Branch brothers were\nwatermen (cheers and laughter). That room was their boat; that audience\nwere the maidens; and he (Mr. Anthony Humm), however unworthily, was\n'first oars' (unbounded applause).\n\n'Wot does he mean by the soft sex, Sammy?' inquired Mr. Weller, in a\nwhisper.\n\n'The womin,' said Sam, in the same tone.\n\n'He ain't far out there, Sammy,' replied Mr. Weller; 'they MUST be a\nsoft sex--a wery soft sex, indeed--if they let themselves be gammoned by\nsuch fellers as him.'\n\nAny further observations from the indignant old gentleman were cut short\nby the announcement of the song, which Mr. Anthony Humm gave out two\nlines at a time, for the information of such of his hearers as were\nunacquainted with the legend. While it was being sung, the little\nman with the drab shorts disappeared; he returned immediately on its\nconclusion, and whispered Mr. Anthony Humm, with a face of the deepest\nimportance. 'My friends,' said Mr. Humm, holding up his hand in a\ndeprecatory manner, to bespeak the silence of such of the stout old\nladies as were yet a line or two behind; 'my friends, a delegate from\nthe Dorking Branch of our society, Brother Stiggins, attends below.'\n\nOut came the pocket-handkerchiefs again, in greater force than ever; for\nMr. Stiggins was excessively popular among the female constituency of\nBrick Lane.\n\n'He may approach, I think,' said Mr. Humm, looking round him, with a fat\nsmile. 'Brother Tadger, let him come forth and greet us.'\n\nThe little man in the drab shorts who answered to the name of Brother\nTadger, bustled down the ladder with great speed, and was immediately\nafterwards heard tumbling up with the Reverend Mr. Stiggins.\n\n'He's a-comin', Sammy,' whispered Mr. Weller, purple in the countenance\nwith suppressed laughter.\n\n'Don't say nothin' to me,' replied Sam, 'for I can't bear it. He's close\nto the door. I hear him a-knockin' his head again the lath and plaster\nnow.'\n\nAs Sam Weller spoke, the little door flew open, and Brother Tadger\nappeared, closely followed by the Reverend Mr. Stiggins, who no sooner\nentered, than there was a great clapping of hands, and stamping of feet,\nand flourishing of handkerchiefs; to all of which manifestations of\ndelight, Brother Stiggins returned no other acknowledgment than staring\nwith a wild eye, and a fixed smile, at the extreme top of the wick of\nthe candle on the table, swaying his body to and fro, meanwhile, in a\nvery unsteady and uncertain manner.\n\n'Are you unwell, Brother Stiggins?' whispered Mr. Anthony Humm.\n\n'I am all right, Sir,' replied Mr. Stiggins, in a tone in which ferocity\nwas blended with an extreme thickness of utterance; 'I am all right,\nSir.'\n\n'Oh, very well,' rejoined Mr. Anthony Humm, retreating a few paces.\n\n'I believe no man here has ventured to say that I am not all right,\nSir?' said Mr. Stiggins.\n\n'Oh, certainly not,' said Mr. Humm. 'I should advise him not to, Sir; I\nshould advise him not,' said Mr. Stiggins.\n\nBy this time the audience were perfectly silent, and waited with some\nanxiety for the resumption of business.\n\n'Will you address the meeting, brother?' said Mr. Humm, with a smile of\ninvitation.\n\n'No, sir,' rejoined Mr. Stiggins; 'No, sir. I will not, sir.'\n\nThe meeting looked at each other with raised eyelids; and a murmur of\nastonishment ran through the room.\n\n'It's my opinion, sir,' said Mr. Stiggins, unbuttoning his coat, and\nspeaking very loudly--'it's my opinion, sir, that this meeting is drunk,\nsir. Brother Tadger, sir!' said Mr. Stiggins, suddenly increasing in\nferocity, and turning sharp round on the little man in the drab\nshorts, 'YOU are drunk, sir!' With this, Mr. Stiggins, entertaining\na praiseworthy desire to promote the sobriety of the meeting, and to\nexclude therefrom all improper characters, hit Brother Tadger on\nthe summit of the nose with such unerring aim, that the drab shorts\ndisappeared like a flash of lightning. Brother Tadger had been knocked,\nhead first, down the ladder.\n\nUpon this, the women set up a loud and dismal screaming; and rushing in\nsmall parties before their favourite brothers, flung their arms around\nthem to preserve them from danger. An instance of affection, which had\nnearly proved fatal to Humm, who, being extremely popular, was all but\nsuffocated, by the crowd of female devotees that hung about his neck,\nand heaped caresses upon him. The greater part of the lights were\nquickly put out, and nothing but noise and confusion resounded on all\nsides.\n\n'Now, Sammy,' said Mr. Weller, taking off his greatcoat with much\ndeliberation, 'just you step out, and fetch in a watchman.'\n\n'And wot are you a-goin' to do, the while?' inquired Sam.\n\n'Never you mind me, Sammy,' replied the old gentleman; 'I shall ockipy\nmyself in havin' a small settlement with that 'ere Stiggins.' Before Sam\ncould interfere to prevent it, his heroic parent had penetrated into a\nremote corner of the room, and attacked the Reverend Mr. Stiggins with\nmanual dexterity.\n\n'Come off!' said Sam.\n\n'Come on!' cried Mr. Weller; and without further invitation he gave the\nReverend Mr. Stiggins a preliminary tap on the head, and began dancing\nround him in a buoyant and cork-like manner, which in a gentleman at his\ntime of life was a perfect marvel to behold.\n\nFinding all remonstrances unavailing, Sam pulled his hat firmly on,\nthrew his father's coat over his arm, and taking the old man round the\nwaist, forcibly dragged him down the ladder, and into the street; never\nreleasing his hold, or permitting him to stop, until they reached the\ncorner. As they gained it, they could hear the shouts of the populace,\nwho were witnessing the removal of the Reverend Mr. Stiggins to strong\nlodgings for the night, and could hear the noise occasioned by the\ndispersion in various directions of the members of the Brick Lane Branch\nof the United Grand Junction Ebenezer Temperance Association.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXXIV. IS WHOLLY DEVOTED TO A FULL AND FAITHFUL REPORT OF THE\nMEMORABLE TRIAL OF BARDELL AGAINST PICKWICK\n\n\n'I wonder what the foreman of the jury, whoever he'll be, has got for\nbreakfast,' said Mr. Snodgrass, by way of keeping up a conversation on\nthe eventful morning of the fourteenth of February.\n\n'Ah!' said Perker, 'I hope he's got a good one.' 'Why so?' inquired Mr.\nPickwick.\n\n'Highly important--very important, my dear Sir,' replied Perker. 'A\ngood, contented, well-breakfasted juryman is a capital thing to get hold\nof. Discontented or hungry jurymen, my dear sir, always find for the\nplaintiff.'\n\n'Bless my heart,' said Mr. Pickwick, looking very blank, 'what do they\ndo that for?'\n\n'Why, I don't know,' replied the little man coolly; 'saves time, I\nsuppose. If it's near dinner-time, the foreman takes out his watch when\nthe jury has retired, and says, \"Dear me, gentlemen, ten minutes to\nfive, I declare! I dine at five, gentlemen.\" \"So do I,\" says everybody\nelse, except two men who ought to have dined at three and seem more than\nhalf disposed to stand out in consequence. The foreman smiles, and puts\nup his watch:--\"Well, gentlemen, what do we say, plaintiff or defendant,\ngentlemen? I rather think, so far as I am concerned, gentlemen,--I say,\nI rather think--but don't let that influence you--I RATHER think the\nplaintiff's the man.\" Upon this, two or three other men are sure to say\nthat they think so too--as of course they do; and then they get on very\nunanimously and comfortably. Ten minutes past nine!' said the little\nman, looking at his watch.'Time we were off, my dear sir; breach of\npromise trial-court is generally full in such cases. You had better ring\nfor a coach, my dear sir, or we shall be rather late.'\n\nMr. Pickwick immediately rang the bell, and a coach having been\nprocured, the four Pickwickians and Mr. Perker ensconced themselves\ntherein, and drove to Guildhall; Sam Weller, Mr. Lowten, and the blue\nbag, following in a cab.\n\n'Lowten,' said Perker, when they reached the outer hall of the court,\n'put Mr. Pickwick's friends in the students' box; Mr. Pickwick himself\nhad better sit by me. This way, my dear sir, this way.' Taking Mr.\nPickwick by the coat sleeve, the little man led him to the low seat just\nbeneath the desks of the King's Counsel, which is constructed for the\nconvenience of attorneys, who from that spot can whisper into the ear of\nthe leading counsel in the case, any instructions that may be necessary\nduring the progress of the trial. The occupants of this seat are\ninvisible to the great body of spectators, inasmuch as they sit on a\nmuch lower level than either the barristers or the audience, whose seats\nare raised above the floor. Of course they have their backs to both, and\ntheir faces towards the judge.\n\n'That's the witness-box, I suppose?' said Mr. Pickwick, pointing to a\nkind of pulpit, with a brass rail, on his left hand.\n\n'That's the witness-box, my dear sir,' replied Perker, disinterring a\nquantity of papers from the blue bag, which Lowten had just deposited at\nhis feet.\n\n'And that,' said Mr. Pickwick, pointing to a couple of enclosed seats on\nhis right, 'that's where the jurymen sit, is it not?'\n\n'The identical place, my dear Sir,' replied Perker, tapping the lid of\nhis snuff-box.\n\nMr. Pickwick stood up in a state of great agitation, and took a glance\nat the court. There were already a pretty large sprinkling of spectators\nin the gallery, and a numerous muster of gentlemen in wigs, in the\nbarristers' seats, who presented, as a body, all that pleasing and\nextensive variety of nose and whisker for which the Bar of England is\nso justly celebrated. Such of the gentlemen as had a brief to carry,\ncarried it in as conspicuous a manner as possible, and occasionally\nscratched their noses therewith, to impress the fact more strongly on\nthe observation of the spectators. Other gentlemen, who had no briefs to\nshow, carried under their arms goodly octavos, with a red label behind,\nand that under-done-pie-crust-coloured cover, which is technically known\nas 'law calf.' Others, who had neither briefs nor books, thrust their\nhands into their pockets, and looked as wise as they conveniently\ncould; others, again, moved here and there with great restlessness and\nearnestness of manner, content to awaken thereby the admiration and\nastonishment of the uninitiated strangers. The whole, to the great\nwonderment of Mr. Pickwick, were divided into little groups, who were\nchatting and discussing the news of the day in the most unfeeling manner\npossible--just as if no trial at all were coming on.\n\nA bow from Mr. Phunky, as he entered, and took his seat behind the row\nappropriated to the King's Counsel, attracted Mr. Pickwick's attention;\nand he had scarcely returned it, when Mr. Serjeant Snubbin appeared,\nfollowed by Mr. Mallard, who half hid the Serjeant behind a large\ncrimson bag, which he placed on his table, and, after shaking hands with\nPerker, withdrew. Then there entered two or three more Serjeants; and\namong them, one with a fat body and a red face, who nodded in a friendly\nmanner to Mr. Serjeant Snubbin, and said it was a fine morning.\n\n'Who's that red-faced man, who said it was a fine morning, and nodded to\nour counsel?' whispered Mr. Pickwick.\n\n'Mr. Serjeant Buzfuz,' replied Perker. 'He's opposed to us; he leads on\nthe other side. That gentleman behind him is Mr. Skimpin, his junior.'\n\nMr. Pickwick was on the point of inquiring, with great abhorrence of the\nman's cold-blooded villainy, how Mr. Serjeant Buzfuz, who was counsel\nfor the opposite party, dared to presume to tell Mr. Serjeant Snubbin,\nwho was counsel for him, that it was a fine morning, when he was\ninterrupted by a general rising of the barristers, and a loud cry of\n'Silence!' from the officers of the court. Looking round, he found that\nthis was caused by the entrance of the judge.\n\nMr. Justice Stareleigh (who sat in the absence of the Chief Justice,\noccasioned by indisposition) was a most particularly short man, and\nso fat, that he seemed all face and waistcoat. He rolled in, upon two\nlittle turned legs, and having bobbed gravely to the Bar, who bobbed\ngravely to him, put his little legs underneath his table, and his little\nthree-cornered hat upon it; and when Mr. Justice Stareleigh had done\nthis, all you could see of him was two queer little eyes, one broad pink\nface, and somewhere about half of a big and very comical-looking wig.\n\nThe judge had no sooner taken his seat, than the officer on the floor of\nthe court called out 'Silence!' in a commanding tone, upon which another\nofficer in the gallery cried 'Silence!' in an angry manner, whereupon\nthree or four more ushers shouted 'Silence!' in a voice of indignant\nremonstrance. This being done, a gentleman in black, who sat below the\njudge, proceeded to call over the names of the jury; and after a great\ndeal of bawling, it was discovered that only ten special jurymen were\npresent. Upon this, Mr. Serjeant Buzfuz prayed a TALES; the gentleman in\nblack then proceeded to press into the special jury, two of the common\njurymen; and a greengrocer and a chemist were caught directly.\n\n'Answer to your names, gentlemen, that you may be sworn,' said the\ngentleman in black. 'Richard Upwitch.'\n\n'Here,' said the greengrocer.\n\n'Thomas Groffin.'\n\n'Here,' said the chemist.\n\n'Take the book, gentlemen. You shall well and truly try--'\n\n'I beg this court's pardon,' said the chemist, who was a tall, thin,\nyellow-visaged man, 'but I hope this court will excuse my attendance.'\n\n'On what grounds, Sir?' said Mr. Justice Stareleigh.\n\n'I have no assistant, my Lord,' said the chemist.\n\n'I can't help that, Sir,' replied Mr. Justice Stareleigh. 'You should\nhire one.'\n\n'I can't afford it, my Lord,' rejoined the chemist.\n\n'Then you ought to be able to afford it, Sir,' said the judge,\nreddening; for Mr. Justice Stareleigh's temper bordered on the\nirritable, and brooked not contradiction.\n\n'I know I OUGHT to do, if I got on as well as I deserved; but I don't,\nmy Lord,' answered the chemist.\n\n'Swear the gentleman,' said the judge peremptorily.\n\nThe officer had got no further than the 'You shall well and truly try,'\nwhen he was again interrupted by the chemist.\n\n'I am to be sworn, my Lord, am I?' said the chemist.\n\n'Certainly, sir,' replied the testy little judge.\n\n'Very well, my Lord,' replied the chemist, in a resigned manner. 'Then\nthere'll be murder before this trial's over; that's all. Swear me, if\nyou please, Sir;' and sworn the chemist was, before the judge could find\nwords to utter.\n\n'I merely wanted to observe, my Lord,' said the chemist, taking his seat\nwith great deliberation, 'that I've left nobody but an errand-boy in\nmy shop. He is a very nice boy, my Lord, but he is not acquainted with\ndrugs; and I know that the prevailing impression on his mind is, that\nEpsom salts means oxalic acid; and syrup of senna, laudanum. That's\nall, my Lord.' With this, the tall chemist composed himself into\na comfortable attitude, and, assuming a pleasant expression of\ncountenance, appeared to have prepared himself for the worst.\n\nMr. Pickwick was regarding the chemist with feelings of the deepest\nhorror, when a slight sensation was perceptible in the body of the\ncourt; and immediately afterwards Mrs. Bardell, supported by Mrs.\nCluppins, was led in, and placed, in a drooping state, at the other end\nof the seat on which Mr. Pickwick sat. An extra-sized umbrella was then\nhanded in by Mr. Dodson, and a pair of pattens by Mr. Fogg, each of whom\nhad prepared a most sympathising and melancholy face for the occasion.\nMrs. Sanders then appeared, leading in Master Bardell. At sight of her\nchild, Mrs. Bardell started; suddenly recollecting herself, she kissed\nhim in a frantic manner; then relapsing into a state of hysterical\nimbecility, the good lady requested to be informed where she was. In\nreply to this, Mrs. Cluppins and Mrs. Sanders turned their heads away\nand wept, while Messrs. Dodson and Fogg entreated the plaintiff to\ncompose herself. Serjeant Buzfuz rubbed his eyes very hard with a large\nwhite handkerchief, and gave an appealing look towards the jury, while\nthe judge was visibly affected, and several of the beholders tried to\ncough down their emotion.\n\n'Very good notion that indeed,' whispered Perker to Mr. Pickwick.\n'Capital fellows those Dodson and Fogg; excellent ideas of effect, my\ndear Sir, excellent.'\n\nAs Perker spoke, Mrs. Bardell began to recover by slow degrees, while\nMrs. Cluppins, after a careful survey of Master Bardell's buttons and\nthe button-holes to which they severally belonged, placed him on the\nfloor of the court in front of his mother--a commanding position in\nwhich he could not fail to awaken the full commiseration and sympathy of\nboth judge and jury. This was not done without considerable opposition,\nand many tears, on the part of the young gentleman himself, who had\ncertain inward misgivings that the placing him within the full glare\nof the judge's eye was only a formal prelude to his being immediately\nordered away for instant execution, or for transportation beyond the\nseas, during the whole term of his natural life, at the very least.\n\n'Bardell and Pickwick,' cried the gentleman in black, calling on the\ncase, which stood first on the list.\n\n'I am for the plaintiff, my Lord,' said Mr. Serjeant Buzfuz.\n\n'Who is with you, Brother Buzfuz?' said the judge. Mr. Skimpin bowed, to\nintimate that he was.\n\n'I appear for the defendant, my Lord,' said Mr. Serjeant Snubbin.\n\n'Anybody with you, Brother Snubbin?' inquired the court.\n\n'Mr. Phunky, my Lord,' replied Serjeant Snubbin.\n\n'Serjeant Buzfuz and Mr. Skimpin for the plaintiff,' said the judge,\nwriting down the names in his note-book, and reading as he wrote; 'for\nthe defendant, Serjeant Snubbin and Mr. Monkey.'\n\n'Beg your Lordship's pardon, Phunky.'\n\n'Oh, very good,' said the judge; 'I never had the pleasure of hearing\nthe gentleman's name before.' Here Mr. Phunky bowed and smiled, and the\njudge bowed and smiled too, and then Mr. Phunky, blushing into the very\nwhites of his eyes, tried to look as if he didn't know that everybody\nwas gazing at him, a thing which no man ever succeeded in doing yet, or\nin all reasonable probability, ever will.\n\n'Go on,' said the judge.\n\nThe ushers again called silence, and Mr. Skimpin proceeded to 'open the\ncase'; and the case appeared to have very little inside it when he\nhad opened it, for he kept such particulars as he knew, completely to\nhimself, and sat down, after a lapse of three minutes, leaving the jury\nin precisely the same advanced stage of wisdom as they were in before.\n\nSerjeant Buzfuz then rose with all the majesty and dignity which the\ngrave nature of the proceedings demanded, and having whispered to\nDodson, and conferred briefly with Fogg, pulled his gown over his\nshoulders, settled his wig, and addressed the jury.\n\nSerjeant Buzfuz began by saying, that never, in the whole course of\nhis professional experience--never, from the very first moment of his\napplying himself to the study and practice of the law--had he approached\na case with feelings of such deep emotion, or with such a heavy sense\nof the responsibility imposed upon him--a responsibility, he would say,\nwhich he could never have supported, were he not buoyed up and sustained\nby a conviction so strong, that it amounted to positive certainty that\nthe cause of truth and justice, or, in other words, the cause of\nhis much-injured and most oppressed client, must prevail with the\nhigh-minded and intelligent dozen of men whom he now saw in that box\nbefore him.\n\nCounsel usually begin in this way, because it puts the jury on the very\nbest terms with themselves, and makes them think what sharp fellows\nthey must be. A visible effect was produced immediately, several jurymen\nbeginning to take voluminous notes with the utmost eagerness.\n\n'You have heard from my learned friend, gentlemen,' continued Serjeant\nBuzfuz, well knowing that, from the learned friend alluded to, the\ngentlemen of the jury had heard just nothing at all--'you have heard\nfrom my learned friend, gentlemen, that this is an action for a breach\nof promise of marriage, in which the damages are laid at #1,500. But\nyou have not heard from my learned friend, inasmuch as it did not come\nwithin my learned friend's province to tell you, what are the facts and\ncircumstances of the case. Those facts and circumstances, gentlemen, you\nshall hear detailed by me, and proved by the unimpeachable female whom I\nwill place in that box before you.'\n\nHere, Mr. Serjeant Buzfuz, with a tremendous emphasis on the word 'box,'\nsmote his table with a mighty sound, and glanced at Dodson and Fogg,\nwho nodded admiration of the Serjeant, and indignant defiance of the\ndefendant.\n\n'The plaintiff, gentlemen,' continued Serjeant Buzfuz, in a soft and\nmelancholy voice, 'the plaintiff is a widow; yes, gentlemen, a widow.\nThe late Mr. Bardell, after enjoying, for many years, the esteem and\nconfidence of his sovereign, as one of the guardians of his royal\nrevenues, glided almost imperceptibly from the world, to seek elsewhere\nfor that repose and peace which a custom-house can never afford.' At\nthis pathetic description of the decease of Mr. Bardell, who had been\nknocked on the head with a quart-pot in a public-house cellar, the\nlearned serjeant's voice faltered, and he proceeded, with emotion--\n\n'Some time before his death, he had stamped his likeness upon a little\nboy. With this little boy, the only pledge of her departed exciseman,\nMrs. Bardell shrank from the world, and courted the retirement and\ntranquillity of Goswell Street; and here she placed in her front\nparlour window a written placard, bearing this inscription--\"Apartments\nfurnished for a single gentleman. Inquire within.\"' Here Serjeant Buzfuz\npaused, while several gentlemen of the jury took a note of the document.\n\n'There is no date to that, is there?' inquired a juror. 'There is no\ndate, gentlemen,' replied Serjeant Buzfuz; 'but I am instructed to say\nthat it was put in the plaintiff's parlour window just this time three\nyears. I entreat the attention of the jury to the wording of this\ndocument--\"Apartments furnished for a single gentleman\"! Mrs. Bardell's\nopinions of the opposite sex, gentlemen, were derived from a long\ncontemplation of the inestimable qualities of her lost husband. She had\nno fear, she had no distrust, she had no suspicion; all was confidence\nand reliance. \"Mr. Bardell,\" said the widow--\"Mr. Bardell was a man of\nhonour, Mr. Bardell was a man of his word, Mr. Bardell was no deceiver,\nMr. Bardell was once a single gentleman himself; to single gentlemen I\nlook for protection, for assistance, for comfort, and for consolation;\nin single gentlemen I shall perpetually see something to remind me of\nwhat Mr. Bardell was when he first won my young and untried affections;\nto a single gentleman, then, shall my lodgings be let.\" Actuated by this\nbeautiful and touching impulse (among the best impulses of our imperfect\nnature, gentlemen), the lonely and desolate widow dried her tears,\nfurnished her first floor, caught her innocent boy to her maternal\nbosom, and put the bill up in her parlour window. Did it remain there\nlong? No. The serpent was on the watch, the train was laid, the mine was\npreparing, the sapper and miner was at work. Before the bill had been\nin the parlour window three days--three days, gentlemen--a being, erect\nupon two legs, and bearing all the outward semblance of a man, and not\nof a monster, knocked at the door of Mrs. Bardell's house. He inquired\nwithin--he took the lodgings; and on the very next day he entered into\npossession of them. This man was Pickwick--Pickwick, the defendant.'\n\nSerjeant Buzfuz, who had proceeded with such volubility that his face\nwas perfectly crimson, here paused for breath. The silence awoke Mr.\nJustice Stareleigh, who immediately wrote down something with a pen\nwithout any ink in it, and looked unusually profound, to impress the\njury with the belief that he always thought most deeply with his eyes\nshut. Serjeant Buzfuz proceeded--\n\n'Of this man Pickwick I will say little; the subject presents but few\nattractions; and I, gentlemen, am not the man, nor are you, gentlemen,\nthe men, to delight in the contemplation of revolting heartlessness, and\nof systematic villainy.'\n\nHere Mr. Pickwick, who had been writhing in silence for some time, gave\na violent start, as if some vague idea of assaulting Serjeant Buzfuz, in\nthe august presence of justice and law, suggested itself to his mind.\nAn admonitory gesture from Perker restrained him, and he listened to\nthe learned gentleman's continuation with a look of indignation, which\ncontrasted forcibly with the admiring faces of Mrs. Cluppins and Mrs.\nSanders.\n\n'I say systematic villainy, gentlemen,' said Serjeant Buzfuz, looking\nthrough Mr. Pickwick, and talking AT him; 'and when I say systematic\nvillainy, let me tell the defendant Pickwick, if he be in court, as I\nam informed he is, that it would have been more decent in him, more\nbecoming, in better judgment, and in better taste, if he had stopped\naway. Let me tell him, gentlemen, that any gestures of dissent or\ndisapprobation in which he may indulge in this court will not go down\nwith you; that you will know how to value and how to appreciate them;\nand let me tell him further, as my Lord will tell you, gentlemen, that\na counsel, in the discharge of his duty to his client, is neither to be\nintimidated nor bullied, nor put down; and that any attempt to do either\nthe one or the other, or the first, or the last, will recoil on the\nhead of the attempter, be he plaintiff or be he defendant, be his name\nPickwick, or Noakes, or Stoakes, or Stiles, or Brown, or Thompson.'\n\nThis little divergence from the subject in hand, had, of course, the\nintended effect of turning all eyes to Mr. Pickwick. Serjeant Buzfuz,\nhaving partially recovered from the state of moral elevation into which\nhe had lashed himself, resumed--\n\n'I shall show you, gentlemen, that for two years, Pickwick continued\nto reside constantly, and without interruption or intermission, at Mrs.\nBardell's house. I shall show you that Mrs. Bardell, during the whole\nof that time, waited on him, attended to his comforts, cooked his meals,\nlooked out his linen for the washerwoman when it went abroad, darned,\naired, and prepared it for wear, when it came home, and, in short,\nenjoyed his fullest trust and confidence. I shall show you that, on many\noccasions, he gave halfpence, and on some occasions even sixpences, to\nher little boy; and I shall prove to you, by a witness whose testimony\nit will be impossible for my learned friend to weaken or controvert,\nthat on one occasion he patted the boy on the head, and, after inquiring\nwhether he had won any \"ALLEY TORS\" or \"COMMONEYS\" lately (both of which\nI understand to be a particular species of marbles much prized by the\nyouth of this town), made use of this remarkable expression, \"How should\nyou like to have another father?\" I shall prove to you, gentlemen, that\nabout a year ago, Pickwick suddenly began to absent himself from home,\nduring long intervals, as if with the intention of gradually breaking\noff from my client; but I shall show you also, that his resolution\nwas not at that time sufficiently strong, or that his better\nfeelings conquered, if better feelings he has, or that the charms and\naccomplishments of my client prevailed against his unmanly intentions,\nby proving to you, that on one occasion, when he returned from the\ncountry, he distinctly and in terms, offered her marriage: previously,\nhowever, taking special care that there would be no witness to their\nsolemn contract; and I am in a situation to prove to you, on the\ntestimony of three of his own friends--most unwilling witnesses,\ngentlemen--most unwilling witnesses--that on that morning he was\ndiscovered by them holding the plaintiff in his arms, and soothing her\nagitation by his caresses and endearments.'\n\nA visible impression was produced upon the auditors by this part of\nthe learned Serjeant's address. Drawing forth two very small scraps of\npaper, he proceeded--'And now, gentlemen, but one word more. Two letters\nhave passed between these parties, letters which are admitted to be in\nthe handwriting of the defendant, and which speak volumes, indeed.\nThe letters, too, bespeak the character of the man. They are not open,\nfervent, eloquent epistles, breathing nothing but the language\nof affectionate attachment. They are covert, sly, underhanded\ncommunications, but, fortunately, far more conclusive than if couched in\nthe most glowing language and the most poetic imagery--letters that\nmust be viewed with a cautious and suspicious eye--letters that were\nevidently intended at the time, by Pickwick, to mislead and delude any\nthird parties into whose hands they might fall. Let me read the first:\n\"Garraways, twelve o'clock. Dear Mrs. B.--Chops and tomato sauce. Yours,\nPICKWICK.\" Gentlemen, what does this mean? Chops and tomato sauce.\nYours, Pickwick! Chops! Gracious heavens! and tomato sauce! Gentlemen,\nis the happiness of a sensitive and confiding female to be trifled away,\nby such shallow artifices as these? The next has no date whatever, which\nis in itself suspicious. \"Dear Mrs. B., I shall not be at home\ntill to-morrow. Slow coach.\" And then follows this very remarkable\nexpression. \"Don't trouble yourself about the warming-pan.\" The\nwarming-pan! Why, gentlemen, who DOES trouble himself about a\nwarming-pan? When was the peace of mind of man or woman broken or\ndisturbed by a warming-pan, which is in itself a harmless, a useful, and\nI will add, gentlemen, a comforting article of domestic furniture? Why\nis Mrs. Bardell so earnestly entreated not to agitate herself about this\nwarming-pan, unless (as is no doubt the case) it is a mere cover for\nhidden fire--a mere substitute for some endearing word or promise,\nagreeably to a preconcerted system of correspondence, artfully contrived\nby Pickwick with a view to his contemplated desertion, and which I am\nnot in a condition to explain? And what does this allusion to the slow\ncoach mean? For aught I know, it may be a reference to Pickwick himself,\nwho has most unquestionably been a criminally slow coach during the\nwhole of this transaction, but whose speed will now be very unexpectedly\naccelerated, and whose wheels, gentlemen, as he will find to his cost,\nwill very soon be greased by you!'\n\nMr. Serjeant Buzfuz paused in this place, to see whether the jury\nsmiled at his joke; but as nobody took it but the greengrocer, whose\nsensitiveness on the subject was very probably occasioned by his having\nsubjected a chaise-cart to the process in question on that identical\nmorning, the learned Serjeant considered it advisable to undergo a\nslight relapse into the dismals before he concluded.\n\n'But enough of this, gentlemen,' said Mr. Serjeant Buzfuz, 'it is\ndifficult to smile with an aching heart; it is ill jesting when our\ndeepest sympathies are awakened. My client's hopes and prospects are\nruined, and it is no figure of speech to say that her occupation is\ngone indeed. The bill is down--but there is no tenant. Eligible single\ngentlemen pass and repass-but there is no invitation for to inquire\nwithin or without. All is gloom and silence in the house; even the\nvoice of the child is hushed; his infant sports are disregarded when his\nmother weeps; his \"alley tors\" and his \"commoneys\" are alike neglected;\nhe forgets the long familiar cry of \"knuckle down,\" and at tip-cheese,\nor odd and even, his hand is out. But Pickwick, gentlemen, Pickwick,\nthe ruthless destroyer of this domestic oasis in the desert of Goswell\nStreet--Pickwick who has choked up the well, and thrown ashes on the\nsward--Pickwick, who comes before you to-day with his heartless tomato\nsauce and warming-pans--Pickwick still rears his head with unblushing\neffrontery, and gazes without a sigh on the ruin he has made. Damages,\ngentlemen--heavy damages is the only punishment with which you can\nvisit him; the only recompense you can award to my client. And for\nthose damages she now appeals to an enlightened, a high-minded, a\nright-feeling, a conscientious, a dispassionate, a sympathising, a\ncontemplative jury of her civilised countrymen.' With this beautiful\nperoration, Mr. Serjeant Buzfuz sat down, and Mr. Justice Stareleigh\nwoke up.\n\n'Call Elizabeth Cluppins,' said Serjeant Buzfuz, rising a minute\nafterwards, with renewed vigour.\n\nThe nearest usher called for Elizabeth Tuppins; another one, at a\nlittle distance off, demanded Elizabeth Jupkins; and a third rushed in\na breathless state into King Street, and screamed for Elizabeth Muffins\ntill he was hoarse.\n\nMeanwhile Mrs. Cluppins, with the combined assistance of Mrs.\nBardell, Mrs. Sanders, Mr. Dodson, and Mr. Fogg, was hoisted into the\nwitness-box; and when she was safely perched on the top step, Mrs.\nBardell stood on the bottom one, with the pocket-handkerchief and\npattens in one hand, and a glass bottle that might hold about a quarter\nof a pint of smelling-salts in the other, ready for any emergency. Mrs.\nSanders, whose eyes were intently fixed on the judge's face, planted\nherself close by, with the large umbrella, keeping her right thumb\npressed on the spring with an earnest countenance, as if she were fully\nprepared to put it up at a moment's notice.\n\n'Mrs. Cluppins,' said Serjeant Buzfuz, 'pray compose yourself, ma'am.'\nOf course, directly Mrs. Cluppins was desired to compose herself, she\nsobbed with increased vehemence, and gave divers alarming manifestations\nof an approaching fainting fit, or, as she afterwards said, of her\nfeelings being too many for her.\n\n'Do you recollect, Mrs. Cluppins,' said Serjeant Buzfuz, after a few\nunimportant questions--'do you recollect being in Mrs. Bardell's back\none pair of stairs, on one particular morning in July last, when she was\ndusting Pickwick's apartment?'\n\n'Yes, my Lord and jury, I do,' replied Mrs. Cluppins.\n\n'Mr. Pickwick's sitting-room was the first-floor front, I believe?'\n\n'Yes, it were, Sir,' replied Mrs. Cluppins.\n\n'What were you doing in the back room, ma'am?' inquired the little\njudge.\n\n'My Lord and jury,' said Mrs. Cluppins, with interesting agitation, 'I\nwill not deceive you.'\n\n'You had better not, ma'am,' said the little judge.\n\n'I was there,' resumed Mrs. Cluppins, 'unbeknown to Mrs. Bardell; I\nhad been out with a little basket, gentlemen, to buy three pound of red\nkidney pertaties, which was three pound tuppence ha'penny, when I see\nMrs. Bardell's street door on the jar.'\n\n'On the what?' exclaimed the little judge.\n\n'Partly open, my Lord,' said Serjeant Snubbin.\n\n'She said on the jar,' said the little judge, with a cunning look.\n\n'It's all the same, my Lord,' said Serjeant Snubbin. The little judge\nlooked doubtful, and said he'd make a note of it. Mrs. Cluppins then\nresumed--\n\n'I walked in, gentlemen, just to say good-mornin', and went, in a\npermiscuous manner, upstairs, and into the back room. Gentlemen, there\nwas the sound of voices in the front room, and--'\n\n'And you listened, I believe, Mrs. Cluppins?' said Serjeant Buzfuz.\n\n'Beggin' your pardon, Sir,' replied Mrs. Cluppins, in a majestic manner,\n'I would scorn the haction. The voices was very loud, Sir, and forced\nthemselves upon my ear.'\n\n'Well, Mrs. Cluppins, you were not listening, but you heard the voices.\nWas one of those voices Pickwick's?'\n\n'Yes, it were, Sir.' And Mrs. Cluppins, after distinctly stating\nthat Mr. Pickwick addressed himself to Mrs. Bardell, repeated by slow\ndegrees, and by dint of many questions, the conversation with which our\nreaders are already acquainted.\n\nThe jury looked suspicious, and Mr. Serjeant Buzfuz smiled as he sat\ndown. They looked positively awful when Serjeant Snubbin intimated that\nhe should not cross-examine the witness, for Mr. Pickwick wished it to\nbe distinctly stated that it was due to her to say, that her account was\nin substance correct.\n\nMrs. Cluppins having once broken the ice, thought it a favourable\nopportunity for entering into a short dissertation on her own domestic\naffairs; so she straightway proceeded to inform the court that she was\nthe mother of eight children at that present speaking, and that she\nentertained confident expectations of presenting Mr. Cluppins with a\nninth, somewhere about that day six months. At this interesting point,\nthe little judge interposed most irascibly; and the effect of the\ninterposition was, that both the worthy lady and Mrs. Sanders were\npolitely taken out of court, under the escort of Mr. Jackson, without\nfurther parley.\n\n'Nathaniel Winkle!' said Mr. Skimpin.\n\n'Here!' replied a feeble voice. Mr. Winkle entered the witness-box, and\nhaving been duly sworn, bowed to the judge with considerable deference.\n\n'Don't look at me, Sir,' said the judge sharply, in acknowledgment of\nthe salute; 'look at the jury.'\n\nMr. Winkle obeyed the mandate, and looked at the place where he thought\nit most probable the jury might be; for seeing anything in his then\nstate of intellectual complication was wholly out of the question.\n\nMr. Winkle was then examined by Mr. Skimpin, who, being a promising\nyoung man of two or three-and-forty, was of course anxious to confuse a\nwitness who was notoriously predisposed in favour of the other side, as\nmuch as he could.\n\n'Now, Sir,' said Mr. Skimpin, 'have the goodness to let his Lordship\nknow what your name is, will you?' and Mr. Skimpin inclined his head on\none side to listen with great sharpness to the answer, and glanced at\nthe jury meanwhile, as if to imply that he rather expected Mr. Winkle's\nnatural taste for perjury would induce him to give some name which did\nnot belong to him.\n\n'Winkle,' replied the witness.\n\n'What's your Christian name, Sir?' angrily inquired the little judge.\n\n'Nathaniel, Sir.'\n\n'Daniel--any other name?'\n\n'Nathaniel, sir--my Lord, I mean.'\n\n'Nathaniel Daniel, or Daniel Nathaniel?'\n\n'No, my Lord, only Nathaniel--not Daniel at all.'\n\n'What did you tell me it was Daniel for, then, sir?' inquired the judge.\n\n'I didn't, my Lord,' replied Mr. Winkle.\n\n'You did, Sir,' replied the judge, with a severe frown. 'How could I\nhave got Daniel on my notes, unless you told me so, Sir?' This argument\nwas, of course, unanswerable.\n\n'Mr. Winkle has rather a short memory, my Lord,' interposed Mr. Skimpin,\nwith another glance at the jury. 'We shall find means to refresh it\nbefore we have quite done with him, I dare say.'\n\n'You had better be careful, Sir,' said the little judge, with a sinister\nlook at the witness.\n\nPoor Mr. Winkle bowed, and endeavoured to feign an easiness of manner,\nwhich, in his then state of confusion, gave him rather the air of a\ndisconcerted pickpocket.\n\n'Now, Mr. Winkle,' said Mr. Skimpin, 'attend to me, if you please,\nSir; and let me recommend you, for your own sake, to bear in mind his\nLordship's injunctions to be careful. I believe you are a particular\nfriend of Mr. Pickwick, the defendant, are you not?'\n\n'I have known Mr. Pickwick now, as well as I recollect at this moment,\nnearly--'\n\n'Pray, Mr. Winkle, do not evade the question. Are you, or are you not, a\nparticular friend of the defendant's?'\n\n'I was just about to say, that--'\n\n'Will you, or will you not, answer my question, Sir?' 'If you don't\nanswer the question, you'll be committed, Sir,' interposed the little\njudge, looking over his note-book.\n\n'Come, Sir,' said Mr. Skimpin, 'yes or no, if you please.'\n\n'Yes, I am,' replied Mr. Winkle.\n\n'Yes, you are. And why couldn't you say that at once, Sir? Perhaps you\nknow the plaintiff too? Eh, Mr. Winkle?'\n\n'I don't know her; I've seen her.'\n\n'Oh, you don't know her, but you've seen her? Now, have the goodness to\ntell the gentlemen of the jury what you mean by that, Mr. Winkle.'\n\n'I mean that I am not intimate with her, but I have seen her when I went\nto call on Mr. Pickwick, in Goswell Street.'\n\n'How often have you seen her, Sir?'\n\n'How often?'\n\n'Yes, Mr. Winkle, how often? I'll repeat the question for you a dozen\ntimes, if you require it, Sir.' And the learned gentleman, with a firm\nand steady frown, placed his hands on his hips, and smiled suspiciously\nto the jury.\n\nOn this question there arose the edifying brow-beating, customary on\nsuch points. First of all, Mr. Winkle said it was quite impossible for\nhim to say how many times he had seen Mrs. Bardell. Then he was asked if\nhe had seen her twenty times, to which he replied, 'Certainly--more\nthan that.' Then he was asked whether he hadn't seen her a hundred\ntimes--whether he couldn't swear that he had seen her more than fifty\ntimes--whether he didn't know that he had seen her at least seventy-five\ntimes, and so forth; the satisfactory conclusion which was arrived at,\nat last, being, that he had better take care of himself, and mind what\nhe was about. The witness having been by these means reduced to the\nrequisite ebb of nervous perplexity, the examination was continued as\nfollows--\n\n'Pray, Mr. Winkle, do you remember calling on the defendant Pickwick\nat these apartments in the plaintiff's house in Goswell Street, on one\nparticular morning, in the month of July last?'\n\n'Yes, I do.'\n\n'Were you accompanied on that occasion by a friend of the name of\nTupman, and another by the name of Snodgrass?'\n\n'Yes, I was.'\n\n'Are they here?' 'Yes, they are,' replied Mr. Winkle, looking very\nearnestly towards the spot where his friends were stationed.\n\n'Pray attend to me, Mr. Winkle, and never mind your friends,' said Mr.\nSkimpin, with another expressive look at the jury. 'They must tell their\nstories without any previous consultation with you, if none has yet\ntaken place (another look at the jury). Now, Sir, tell the gentlemen\nof the jury what you saw on entering the defendant's room, on this\nparticular morning. Come; out with it, Sir; we must have it, sooner or\nlater.'\n\n'The defendant, Mr. Pickwick, was holding the plaintiff in his arms,\nwith his hands clasping her waist,' replied Mr. Winkle with natural\nhesitation, 'and the plaintiff appeared to have fainted away.'\n\n'Did you hear the defendant say anything?'\n\n'I heard him call Mrs. Bardell a good creature, and I heard him ask her\nto compose herself, for what a situation it was, if anybody should come,\nor words to that effect.'\n\n'Now, Mr. Winkle, I have only one more question to ask you, and I beg\nyou to bear in mind his Lordship's caution. Will you undertake to\nswear that Pickwick, the defendant, did not say on the occasion in\nquestion--\"My dear Mrs. Bardell, you're a good creature; compose\nyourself to this situation, for to this situation you must come,\" or\nwords to that effect?'\n\n'I--I didn't understand him so, certainly,' said Mr. Winkle, astounded\non this ingenious dove-tailing of the few words he had heard. 'I was on\nthe staircase, and couldn't hear distinctly; the impression on my mind\nis--'\n\n'The gentlemen of the jury want none of the impressions on your\nmind, Mr. Winkle, which I fear would be of little service to honest,\nstraightforward men,' interposed Mr. Skimpin. 'You were on the\nstaircase, and didn't distinctly hear; but you will not swear that\nPickwick did not make use of the expressions I have quoted? Do I\nunderstand that?'\n\n'No, I will not,' replied Mr. Winkle; and down sat Mr. Skimpin with a\ntriumphant countenance.\n\nMr. Pickwick's case had not gone off in so particularly happy a manner,\nup to this point, that it could very well afford to have any additional\nsuspicion cast upon it. But as it could afford to be placed in a rather\nbetter light, if possible, Mr. Phunky rose for the purpose of getting\nsomething important out of Mr. Winkle in cross-examination. Whether he\ndid get anything important out of him, will immediately appear.\n\n'I believe, Mr. Winkle,' said Mr. Phunky, 'that Mr. Pickwick is not a\nyoung man?'\n\n'Oh, no,' replied Mr. Winkle; 'old enough to be my father.'\n\n'You have told my learned friend that you have known Mr. Pickwick a long\ntime. Had you ever any reason to suppose or believe that he was about to\nbe married?'\n\n'Oh, no; certainly not;' replied Mr. Winkle with so much eagerness,\nthat Mr. Phunky ought to have got him out of the box with all possible\ndispatch. Lawyers hold that there are two kinds of particularly bad\nwitnesses--a reluctant witness, and a too-willing witness; it was Mr.\nWinkle's fate to figure in both characters.\n\n'I will even go further than this, Mr. Winkle,' continued Mr. Phunky, in\na most smooth and complacent manner. 'Did you ever see anything in Mr.\nPickwick's manner and conduct towards the opposite sex, to induce you to\nbelieve that he ever contemplated matrimony of late years, in any case?'\n\n'Oh, no; certainly not,' replied Mr. Winkle.\n\n'Has his behaviour, when females have been in the case, always been that\nof a man, who, having attained a pretty advanced period of life, content\nwith his own occupations and amusements, treats them only as a father\nmight his daughters?'\n\n'Not the least doubt of it,' replied Mr. Winkle, in the fulness of his\nheart. 'That is--yes--oh, yes--certainly.'\n\n'You have never known anything in his behaviour towards Mrs. Bardell,\nor any other female, in the least degree suspicious?' said Mr. Phunky,\npreparing to sit down; for Serjeant Snubbin was winking at him.\n\n'N-n-no,' replied Mr. Winkle, 'except on one trifling occasion, which, I\nhave no doubt, might be easily explained.'\n\nNow, if the unfortunate Mr. Phunky had sat down when Serjeant Snubbin\nhad winked at him, or if Serjeant Buzfuz had stopped this irregular\ncross-examination at the outset (which he knew better than to do;\nobserving Mr. Winkle's anxiety, and well knowing it would, in all\nprobability, lead to something serviceable to him), this unfortunate\nadmission would not have been elicited. The moment the words fell from\nMr. Winkle's lips, Mr. Phunky sat down, and Serjeant Snubbin rather\nhastily told him he might leave the box, which Mr. Winkle prepared to do\nwith great readiness, when Serjeant Buzfuz stopped him.\n\n'Stay, Mr. Winkle, stay!' said Serjeant Buzfuz, 'will your Lordship have\nthe goodness to ask him, what this one instance of suspicious behaviour\ntowards females on the part of this gentleman, who is old enough to be\nhis father, was?'\n\n'You hear what the learned counsel says, Sir,' observed the judge,\nturning to the miserable and agonised Mr. Winkle. 'Describe the occasion\nto which you refer.'\n\n'My Lord,' said Mr. Winkle, trembling with anxiety, 'I--I'd rather not.'\n\n'Perhaps so,' said the little judge; 'but you must.'\n\nAmid the profound silence of the whole court, Mr. Winkle faltered out,\nthat the trifling circumstance of suspicion was Mr. Pickwick's being\nfound in a lady's sleeping-apartment at midnight; which had terminated,\nhe believed, in the breaking off of the projected marriage of the lady\nin question, and had led, he knew, to the whole party being forcibly\ncarried before George Nupkins, Esq., magistrate and justice of the\npeace, for the borough of Ipswich!\n\n'You may leave the box, Sir,' said Serjeant Snubbin. Mr. Winkle did\nleave the box, and rushed with delirious haste to the George and\nVulture, where he was discovered some hours after, by the waiter,\ngroaning in a hollow and dismal manner, with his head buried beneath the\nsofa cushions.\n\nTracy Tupman, and Augustus Snodgrass, were severally called into the\nbox; both corroborated the testimony of their unhappy friend; and each\nwas driven to the verge of desperation by excessive badgering.\nSusannah Sanders was then called, and examined by Serjeant Buzfuz, and\ncross-examined by Serjeant Snubbin. Had always said and believed that\nPickwick would marry Mrs. Bardell; knew that Mrs. Bardell's being\nengaged to Pickwick was the current topic of conversation in the\nneighbourhood, after the fainting in July; had been told it herself by\nMrs. Mudberry which kept a mangle, and Mrs. Bunkin which clear-starched,\nbut did not see either Mrs. Mudberry or Mrs. Bunkin in court. Had heard\nPickwick ask the little boy how he should like to have another father.\nDid not know that Mrs. Bardell was at that time keeping company with\nthe baker, but did know that the baker was then a single man and is\nnow married. Couldn't swear that Mrs. Bardell was not very fond of\nthe baker, but should think that the baker was not very fond of Mrs.\nBardell, or he wouldn't have married somebody else. Thought Mrs. Bardell\nfainted away on the morning in July, because Pickwick asked her to\nname the day: knew that she (witness) fainted away stone dead when Mr.\nSanders asked her to name the day, and believed that everybody as called\nherself a lady would do the same, under similar circumstances. Heard\nPickwick ask the boy the question about the marbles, but upon her oath\ndid not know the difference between an 'alley tor' and a 'commoney.'\n\nBy the COURT.--During the period of her keeping company with Mr.\nSanders, had received love letters, like other ladies. In the course\nof their correspondence Mr. Sanders had often called her a 'duck,'\nbut never 'chops,' nor yet 'tomato sauce.' He was particularly fond\nof ducks. Perhaps if he had been as fond of chops and tomato sauce, he\nmight have called her that, as a term of affection.\n\nSerjeant Buzfuz now rose with more importance than he had yet exhibited,\nif that were possible, and vociferated; 'Call Samuel Weller.'\n\nIt was quite unnecessary to call Samuel Weller; for Samuel Weller\nstepped briskly into the box the instant his name was pronounced;\nand placing his hat on the floor, and his arms on the rail, took a\nbird's-eye view of the Bar, and a comprehensive survey of the Bench,\nwith a remarkably cheerful and lively aspect. 'What's your name, sir?'\ninquired the judge.\n\n'Sam Weller, my Lord,' replied that gentleman.\n\n'Do you spell it with a \"V\" or a \"W\"?' inquired the judge.\n\n'That depends upon the taste and fancy of the speller, my Lord,' replied\nSam; 'I never had occasion to spell it more than once or twice in my\nlife, but I spells it with a \"V.\"'\n\nHere a voice in the gallery exclaimed aloud, 'Quite right too, Samivel,\nquite right. Put it down a \"we,\" my Lord, put it down a \"we.\"' 'Who is\nthat, who dares address the court?' said the little judge, looking up.\n'Usher.'\n\n'Yes, my Lord.'\n\n'Bring that person here instantly.'\n\n'Yes, my Lord.'\n\nBut as the usher didn't find the person, he didn't bring him; and,\nafter a great commotion, all the people who had got up to look for the\nculprit, sat down again. The little judge turned to the witness as soon\nas his indignation would allow him to speak, and said--\n\n'Do you know who that was, sir?'\n\n'I rayther suspect it was my father, my lord,' replied Sam.\n\n'Do you see him here now?' said the judge.\n\n'No, I don't, my Lord,' replied Sam, staring right up into the lantern\nat the roof of the court.\n\n'If you could have pointed him out, I would have committed him\ninstantly,' said the judge. Sam bowed his acknowledgments and turned,\nwith unimpaired cheerfulness of countenance, towards Serjeant Buzfuz.\n\n'Now, Mr. Weller,' said Serjeant Buzfuz.\n\n'Now, sir,' replied Sam.\n\n'I believe you are in the service of Mr. Pickwick, the defendant in this\ncase? Speak up, if you please, Mr. Weller.'\n\n'I mean to speak up, Sir,' replied Sam; 'I am in the service o' that\n'ere gen'l'man, and a wery good service it is.'\n\n'Little to do, and plenty to get, I suppose?' said Serjeant Buzfuz, with\njocularity. 'Oh, quite enough to get, Sir, as the soldier said ven they\nordered him three hundred and fifty lashes,' replied Sam.\n\n'You must not tell us what the soldier, or any other man, said, Sir,'\ninterposed the judge; 'it's not evidence.'\n\n'Wery good, my Lord,' replied Sam.\n\n'Do you recollect anything particular happening on the morning when\nyou were first engaged by the defendant; eh, Mr. Weller?' said Serjeant\nBuzfuz.\n\n'Yes, I do, sir,' replied Sam.\n\n'Have the goodness to tell the jury what it was.'\n\n'I had a reg'lar new fit out o' clothes that mornin', gen'l'men of\nthe jury,' said Sam, 'and that was a wery partickler and uncommon\ncircumstance vith me in those days.'\n\nHereupon there was a general laugh; and the little judge, looking with\nan angry countenance over his desk, said, 'You had better be careful,\nSir.'\n\n'So Mr. Pickwick said at the time, my Lord,' replied Sam; 'and I was\nwery careful o' that 'ere suit o' clothes; wery careful indeed, my\nLord.'\n\nThe judge looked sternly at Sam for full two minutes, but Sam's features\nwere so perfectly calm and serene that the judge said nothing, and\nmotioned Serjeant Buzfuz to proceed.\n\n'Do you mean to tell me, Mr. Weller,' said Serjeant Buzfuz, folding his\narms emphatically, and turning half-round to the jury, as if in mute\nassurance that he would bother the witness yet--'do you mean to tell\nme, Mr. Weller, that you saw nothing of this fainting on the part of the\nplaintiff in the arms of the defendant, which you have heard described\nby the witnesses?' 'Certainly not,' replied Sam; 'I was in the passage\ntill they called me up, and then the old lady was not there.'\n\n'Now, attend, Mr. Weller,' said Serjeant Buzfuz, dipping a large pen\ninto the inkstand before him, for the purpose of frightening Sam with\na show of taking down his answer. 'You were in the passage, and yet saw\nnothing of what was going forward. Have you a pair of eyes, Mr. Weller?'\n\n'Yes, I have a pair of eyes,' replied Sam, 'and that's just it. If they\nwos a pair o' patent double million magnifyin' gas microscopes of hextra\npower, p'raps I might be able to see through a flight o' stairs and a\ndeal door; but bein' only eyes, you see, my wision 's limited.'\n\nAt this answer, which was delivered without the slightest appearance\nof irritation, and with the most complete simplicity and equanimity of\nmanner, the spectators tittered, the little judge smiled, and Serjeant\nBuzfuz looked particularly foolish. After a short consultation with\nDodson & Fogg, the learned Serjeant again turned towards Sam, and said,\nwith a painful effort to conceal his vexation, 'Now, Mr. Weller, I'll\nask you a question on another point, if you please.'\n\n'If you please, Sir,' rejoined Sam, with the utmost good-humour.\n\n'Do you remember going up to Mrs. Bardell's house, one night in November\nlast?' 'Oh, yes, wery well.'\n\n'Oh, you do remember that, Mr. Weller,' said Serjeant Buzfuz, recovering\nhis spirits; 'I thought we should get at something at last.'\n\n'I rayther thought that, too, sir,' replied Sam; and at this the\nspectators tittered again.\n\n'Well; I suppose you went up to have a little talk about this trial--eh,\nMr. Weller?' said Serjeant Buzfuz, looking knowingly at the jury.\n\n'I went up to pay the rent; but we did get a-talkin' about the trial,'\nreplied Sam.\n\n'Oh, you did get a-talking about the trial,' said Serjeant Buzfuz,\nbrightening up with the anticipation of some important discovery. 'Now,\nwhat passed about the trial; will you have the goodness to tell us, Mr.\nWeller'?'\n\n'Vith all the pleasure in life, sir,' replied Sam. 'Arter a few\nunimportant obserwations from the two wirtuous females as has been\nexamined here to-day, the ladies gets into a very great state o'\nadmiration at the honourable conduct of Mr. Dodson and Fogg--them two\ngen'l'men as is settin' near you now.' This, of course, drew general\nattention to Dodson & Fogg, who looked as virtuous as possible.\n\n'The attorneys for the plaintiff,' said Mr. Serjeant Buzfuz. 'Well! They\nspoke in high praise of the honourable conduct of Messrs. Dodson and\nFogg, the attorneys for the plaintiff, did they?'\n\n'Yes,' said Sam, 'they said what a wery gen'rous thing it was o' them to\nhave taken up the case on spec, and to charge nothing at all for costs,\nunless they got 'em out of Mr. Pickwick.'\n\nAt this very unexpected reply, the spectators tittered again, and Dodson\n& Fogg, turning very red, leaned over to Serjeant Buzfuz, and in a\nhurried manner whispered something in his ear.\n\n'You are quite right,' said Serjeant Buzfuz aloud, with affected\ncomposure. 'It's perfectly useless, my Lord, attempting to get at any\nevidence through the impenetrable stupidity of this witness. I will not\ntrouble the court by asking him any more questions. Stand down, sir.'\n\n'Would any other gen'l'man like to ask me anythin'?' inquired Sam,\ntaking up his hat, and looking round most deliberately.\n\n'Not I, Mr. Weller, thank you,' said Serjeant Snubbin, laughing.\n\n'You may go down, sir,' said Serjeant Buzfuz, waving his hand\nimpatiently. Sam went down accordingly, after doing Messrs. Dodson &\nFogg's case as much harm as he conveniently could, and saying just as\nlittle respecting Mr. Pickwick as might be, which was precisely the\nobject he had had in view all along.\n\n'I have no objection to admit, my Lord,' said Serjeant Snubbin, 'if\nit will save the examination of another witness, that Mr. Pickwick has\nretired from business, and is a gentleman of considerable independent\nproperty.'\n\n'Very well,' said Serjeant Buzfuz, putting in the two letters to be\nread, 'then that's my case, my Lord.'\n\nSerjeant Snubbin then addressed the jury on behalf of the defendant;\nand a very long and a very emphatic address he delivered, in which he\nbestowed the highest possible eulogiums on the conduct and character of\nMr. Pickwick; but inasmuch as our readers are far better able to form a\ncorrect estimate of that gentleman's merits and deserts, than Serjeant\nSnubbin could possibly be, we do not feel called upon to enter at any\nlength into the learned gentleman's observations. He attempted to\nshow that the letters which had been exhibited, merely related to Mr.\nPickwick's dinner, or to the preparations for receiving him in his\napartments on his return from some country excursion. It is sufficient\nto add in general terms, that he did the best he could for Mr. Pickwick;\nand the best, as everybody knows, on the infallible authority of the old\nadage, could do no more.\n\nMr. Justice Stareleigh summed up, in the old-established and most\napproved form. He read as much of his notes to the jury as he could\ndecipher on so short a notice, and made running-comments on the evidence\nas he went along. If Mrs. Bardell were right, it was perfectly clear\nthat Mr. Pickwick was wrong, and if they thought the evidence of Mrs.\nCluppins worthy of credence they would believe it, and, if they didn't,\nwhy, they wouldn't. If they were satisfied that a breach of promise of\nmarriage had been committed they would find for the plaintiff with such\ndamages as they thought proper; and if, on the other hand, it appeared\nto them that no promise of marriage had ever been given, they would find\nfor the defendant with no damages at all. The jury then retired to\ntheir private room to talk the matter over, and the judge retired to\nHIS private room, to refresh himself with a mutton chop and a glass of\nsherry. An anxious quarter of a hour elapsed; the jury came back; the\njudge was fetched in. Mr. Pickwick put on his spectacles, and gazed at\nthe foreman with an agitated countenance and a quickly-beating heart.\n\n'Gentlemen,' said the individual in black, 'are you all agreed upon your\nverdict?'\n\n'We are,' replied the foreman.\n\n'Do you find for the plaintiff, gentlemen, or for the defendant?' 'For\nthe plaintiff.'\n\n'With what damages, gentlemen?'\n\n'Seven hundred and fifty pounds.'\n\nMr. Pickwick took off his spectacles, carefully wiped the glasses,\nfolded them into their case, and put them in his pocket; then, having\ndrawn on his gloves with great nicety, and stared at the foreman all\nthe while, he mechanically followed Mr. Perker and the blue bag out of\ncourt.\n\nThey stopped in a side room while Perker paid the court fees; and\nhere, Mr. Pickwick was joined by his friends. Here, too, he encountered\nMessrs. Dodson & Fogg, rubbing their hands with every token of outward\nsatisfaction.\n\n'Well, gentlemen,' said Mr. Pickwick.\n\n'Well, Sir,' said Dodson, for self and partner.\n\n'You imagine you'll get your costs, don't you, gentlemen?' said Mr.\nPickwick.\n\nFogg said they thought it rather probable. Dodson smiled, and said\nthey'd try.\n\n'You may try, and try, and try again, Messrs. Dodson and Fogg,' said\nMr. Pickwick vehemently,'but not one farthing of costs or damages do\nyou ever get from me, if I spend the rest of my existence in a debtor's\nprison.'\n\n'Ha! ha!' laughed Dodson. 'You'll think better of that, before next\nterm, Mr. Pickwick.'\n\n'He, he, he! We'll soon see about that, Mr. Pickwick,' grinned Fogg.\n\nSpeechless with indignation, Mr. Pickwick allowed himself to be led\nby his solicitor and friends to the door, and there assisted into\na hackney-coach, which had been fetched for the purpose, by the\never-watchful Sam Weller.\n\nSam had put up the steps, and was preparing to jump upon the box, when\nhe felt himself gently touched on the shoulder; and, looking round, his\nfather stood before him. The old gentleman's countenance wore a mournful\nexpression, as he shook his head gravely, and said, in warning accents--\n\n'I know'd what 'ud come o' this here mode o' doin' bisness. Oh, Sammy,\nSammy, vy worn't there a alleybi!'\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXXV. IN WHICH Mr. PICKWICK THINKS HE HAD BETTER GO TO BATH; AND\nGOES ACCORDINGLY\n\n\n'But surely, my dear sir,' said little Perker, as he stood in Mr.\nPickwick's apartment on the morning after the trial, 'surely you don't\nreally mean--really and seriously now, and irritation apart--that you\nwon't pay these costs and damages?'\n\n'Not one halfpenny,' said Mr. Pickwick firmly; 'not one halfpenny.'\n\n'Hooroar for the principle, as the money-lender said ven he vouldn't\nrenew the bill,' observed Mr. Weller, who was clearing away the\nbreakfast-things.\n\n'Sam,' said Mr. Pickwick, 'have the goodness to step downstairs.'\n\n'Cert'nly, sir,' replied Mr. Weller; and acting on Mr. Pickwick's gentle\nhint, Sam retired.\n\n'No, Perker,' said Mr. Pickwick, with great seriousness of manner, 'my\nfriends here have endeavoured to dissuade me from this determination,\nbut without avail. I shall employ myself as usual, until the opposite\nparty have the power of issuing a legal process of execution against me;\nand if they are vile enough to avail themselves of it, and to arrest my\nperson, I shall yield myself up with perfect cheerfulness and content of\nheart. When can they do this?'\n\n'They can issue execution, my dear Sir, for the amount of the damages\nand taxed costs, next term,' replied Perker, 'just two months hence, my\ndear sir.'\n\n'Very good,' said Mr. Pickwick. 'Until that time, my dear fellow, let\nme hear no more of the matter. And now,' continued Mr. Pickwick, looking\nround on his friends with a good-humoured smile, and a sparkle in the\neye which no spectacles could dim or conceal, 'the only question is,\nWhere shall we go next?'\n\nMr. Tupman and Mr. Snodgrass were too much affected by their friend's\nheroism to offer any reply. Mr. Winkle had not yet sufficiently\nrecovered the recollection of his evidence at the trial, to make any\nobservation on any subject, so Mr. Pickwick paused in vain.\n\n'Well,' said that gentleman, 'if you leave me to suggest our\ndestination, I say Bath. I think none of us have ever been there.'\n\nNobody had; and as the proposition was warmly seconded by Perker, who\nconsidered it extremely probable that if Mr. Pickwick saw a little\nchange and gaiety he would be inclined to think better of his\ndetermination, and worse of a debtor's prison, it was carried\nunanimously; and Sam was at once despatched to the White Horse Cellar,\nto take five places by the half-past seven o'clock coach, next morning.\n\nThere were just two places to be had inside, and just three to be had\nout; so Sam Weller booked for them all, and having exchanged a few\ncompliments with the booking-office clerk on the subject of a pewter\nhalf-crown which was tendered him as a portion of his 'change,' walked\nback to the George and Vulture, where he was pretty busily employed\nuntil bed-time in reducing clothes and linen into the smallest possible\ncompass, and exerting his mechanical genius in constructing a variety of\ningenious devices for keeping the lids on boxes which had neither locks\nnor hinges.\n\nThe next was a very unpropitious morning for a journey--muggy, damp,\nand drizzly. The horses in the stages that were going out, and had come\nthrough the city, were smoking so, that the outside passengers were\ninvisible. The newspaper-sellers looked moist, and smelled mouldy; the\nwet ran off the hats of the orange-vendors as they thrust their heads\ninto the coach windows, and diluted the insides in a refreshing manner.\nThe Jews with the fifty-bladed penknives shut them up in despair; the\nmen with the pocket-books made pocket-books of them. Watch-guards and\ntoasting-forks were alike at a discount, and pencil-cases and sponges\nwere a drug in the market.\n\nLeaving Sam Weller to rescue the luggage from the seven or eight porters\nwho flung themselves savagely upon it, the moment the coach stopped, and\nfinding that they were about twenty minutes too early, Mr. Pickwick\nand his friends went for shelter into the travellers' room--the last\nresource of human dejection.\n\nThe travellers' room at the White Horse Cellar is of course\nuncomfortable; it would be no travellers' room if it were not. It is the\nright-hand parlour, into which an aspiring kitchen fireplace appears to\nhave walked, accompanied by a rebellious poker, tongs, and shovel. It is\ndivided into boxes, for the solitary confinement of travellers, and is\nfurnished with a clock, a looking-glass, and a live waiter, which latter\narticle is kept in a small kennel for washing glasses, in a corner of\nthe apartment.\n\nOne of these boxes was occupied, on this particular occasion, by a\nstern-eyed man of about five-and-forty, who had a bald and glossy\nforehead, with a good deal of black hair at the sides and back of his\nhead, and large black whiskers. He was buttoned up to the chin in a\nbrown coat; and had a large sealskin travelling-cap, and a greatcoat and\ncloak, lying on the seat beside him. He looked up from his breakfast as\nMr. Pickwick entered, with a fierce and peremptory air, which was very\ndignified; and, having scrutinised that gentleman and his companions to\nhis entire satisfaction, hummed a tune, in a manner which seemed to say\nthat he rather suspected somebody wanted to take advantage of him, but\nit wouldn't do.\n\n'Waiter,' said the gentleman with the whiskers.\n\n'Sir?' replied a man with a dirty complexion, and a towel of the same,\nemerging from the kennel before mentioned.\n\n'Some more toast.'\n\n'Yes, sir.'\n\n'Buttered toast, mind,' said the gentleman fiercely.\n\n'Directly, sir,' replied the waiter.\n\nThe gentleman with the whiskers hummed a tune in the same manner as\nbefore, and pending the arrival of the toast, advanced to the front of\nthe fire, and, taking his coat tails under his arms, looked at his boots\nand ruminated.\n\n'I wonder whereabouts in Bath this coach puts up,' said Mr. Pickwick,\nmildly addressing Mr. Winkle.\n\n'Hum--eh--what's that?' said the strange man.\n\n'I made an observation to my friend, sir,' replied Mr. Pickwick, always\nready to enter into conversation. 'I wondered at what house the Bath\ncoach put up. Perhaps you can inform me.' 'Are you going to Bath?' said\nthe strange man.\n\n'I am, sir,' replied Mr. Pickwick.\n\n'And those other gentlemen?'\n\n'They are going also,' said Mr. Pickwick.\n\n'Not inside--I'll be damned if you're going inside,' said the strange\nman.\n\n'Not all of us,' said Mr. Pickwick.\n\n'No, not all of you,' said the strange man emphatically. 'I've taken two\nplaces. If they try to squeeze six people into an infernal box that only\nholds four, I'll take a post-chaise and bring an action. I've paid\nmy fare. It won't do; I told the clerk when I took my places that it\nwouldn't do. I know these things have been done. I know they are done\nevery day; but I never was done, and I never will be. Those who know me\nbest, best know it; crush me!' Here the fierce gentleman rang the bell\nwith great violence, and told the waiter he'd better bring the toast in\nfive seconds, or he'd know the reason why.\n\n'My good sir,' said Mr. Pickwick, 'you will allow me to observe that\nthis is a very unnecessary display of excitement. I have only taken\nplaces inside for two.'\n\n'I am glad to hear it,' said the fierce man. 'I withdraw my expressions.\nI tender an apology. There's my card. Give me your acquaintance.'\n\n'With great pleasure, Sir,' replied Mr. Pickwick. 'We are to be\nfellow-travellers, and I hope we shall find each other's society\nmutually agreeable.'\n\n'I hope we shall,' said the fierce gentleman. 'I know we shall. I like\nyour looks; they please me. Gentlemen, your hands and names. Know me.'\n\nOf course, an interchange of friendly salutations followed this gracious\nspeech; and the fierce gentleman immediately proceeded to inform the\nfriends, in the same short, abrupt, jerking sentences, that his name was\nDowler; that he was going to Bath on pleasure; that he was formerly in\nthe army; that he had now set up in business as a gentleman; that he\nlived upon the profits; and that the individual for whom the second\nplace was taken, was a personage no less illustrious than Mrs. Dowler,\nhis lady wife.\n\n'She's a fine woman,' said Mr. Dowler. 'I am proud of her. I have\nreason.'\n\n'I hope I shall have the pleasure of judging,' said Mr. Pickwick, with\na smile. 'You shall,' replied Dowler. 'She shall know you. She shall\nesteem you. I courted her under singular circumstances. I won her\nthrough a rash vow. Thus. I saw her; I loved her; I proposed; she\nrefused me.--\"You love another?\"--\"Spare my blushes.\"--\"I know\nhim.\"--\"You do.\"--\"Very good; if he remains here, I'll skin him.\"'\n\n'Lord bless me!' exclaimed Mr. Pickwick involuntarily.\n\n'Did you skin the gentleman, Sir?' inquired Mr. Winkle, with a very pale\nface.\n\n'I wrote him a note, I said it was a painful thing. And so it was.'\n\n'Certainly,' interposed Mr. Winkle.\n\n'I said I had pledged my word as a gentleman to skin him. My character\nwas at stake. I had no alternative. As an officer in His Majesty's\nservice, I was bound to skin him. I regretted the necessity, but it must\nbe done. He was open to conviction. He saw that the rules of the service\nwere imperative. He fled. I married her. Here's the coach. That's her\nhead.'\n\nAs Mr. Dowler concluded, he pointed to a stage which had just driven\nup, from the open window of which a rather pretty face in a bright blue\nbonnet was looking among the crowd on the pavement, most probably for\nthe rash man himself. Mr. Dowler paid his bill, and hurried out with\nhis travelling cap, coat, and cloak; and Mr. Pickwick and his friends\nfollowed to secure their places. Mr. Tupman and Mr. Snodgrass had seated\nthemselves at the back part of the coach; Mr. Winkle had got inside; and\nMr. Pickwick was preparing to follow him, when Sam Weller came up to his\nmaster, and whispering in his ear, begged to speak to him, with an air\nof the deepest mystery.\n\n'Well, Sam,' said Mr. Pickwick, 'what's the matter now?'\n\n'Here's rayther a rum go, sir,' replied Sam.\n\n'What?' inquired Mr. Pickwick.\n\n'This here, Sir,' rejoined Sam. 'I'm wery much afeerd, sir, that the\nproperiator o' this here coach is a playin' some imperence vith us.'\n\n'How is that, Sam?' said Mr. Pickwick; 'aren't the names down on the\nway-bill?'\n\n'The names is not only down on the vay-bill, Sir,' replied Sam, 'but\nthey've painted vun on 'em up, on the door o' the coach.' As Sam spoke,\nhe pointed to that part of the coach door on which the proprietor's name\nusually appears; and there, sure enough, in gilt letters of a goodly\nsize, was the magic name of PICKWICK!\n\n'Dear me,' exclaimed Mr. Pickwick, quite staggered by the coincidence;\n'what a very extraordinary thing!'\n\n'Yes, but that ain't all,' said Sam, again directing his master's\nattention to the coach door; 'not content vith writin' up \"Pick-wick,\"\nthey puts \"Moses\" afore it, vich I call addin' insult to injury, as the\nparrot said ven they not only took him from his native land, but made\nhim talk the English langwidge arterwards.'\n\n'It's odd enough, certainly, Sam,' said Mr. Pickwick; 'but if we stand\ntalking here, we shall lose our places.'\n\n'Wot, ain't nothin' to be done in consequence, sir?' exclaimed Sam,\nperfectly aghast at the coolness with which Mr. Pickwick prepared to\nensconce himself inside.\n\n'Done!' said Mr. Pickwick. 'What should be done?' 'Ain't nobody to be\nwhopped for takin' this here liberty, sir?' said Mr. Weller, who had\nexpected that at least he would have been commissioned to challenge the\nguard and the coachman to a pugilistic encounter on the spot.\n\n'Certainly not,' replied Mr. Pickwick eagerly; 'not on any account. Jump\nup to your seat directly.'\n\n'I am wery much afeered,' muttered Sam to himself, as he turned away,\n'that somethin' queer's come over the governor, or he'd never ha' stood\nthis so quiet. I hope that 'ere trial hasn't broke his spirit, but\nit looks bad, wery bad.' Mr. Weller shook his head gravely; and it is\nworthy of remark, as an illustration of the manner in which he took\nthis circumstance to heart, that he did not speak another word until the\ncoach reached the Kensington turnpike. Which was so long a time for\nhim to remain taciturn, that the fact may be considered wholly\nunprecedented.\n\nNothing worthy of special mention occurred during the journey. Mr.\nDowler related a variety of anecdotes, all illustrative of his own\npersonal prowess and desperation, and appealed to Mrs. Dowler in\ncorroboration thereof; when Mrs. Dowler invariably brought in, in the\nform of an appendix, some remarkable fact or circumstance which Mr.\nDowler had forgotten, or had perhaps through modesty, omitted; for the\naddenda in every instance went to show that Mr. Dowler was even a more\nwonderful fellow than he made himself out to be. Mr. Pickwick and Mr.\nWinkle listened with great admiration, and at intervals conversed with\nMrs. Dowler, who was a very agreeable and fascinating person. So,\nwhat between Mr. Dowler's stories, and Mrs. Dowler's charms, and Mr.\nPickwick's good-humour, and Mr. Winkle's good listening, the insides\ncontrived to be very companionable all the way. The outsides did\nas outsides always do. They were very cheerful and talkative at the\nbeginning of every stage, and very dismal and sleepy in the middle,\nand very bright and wakeful again towards the end. There was one young\ngentleman in an India-rubber cloak, who smoked cigars all day; and there\nwas another young gentleman in a parody upon a greatcoat, who lighted a\ngood many, and feeling obviously unsettled after the second whiff, threw\nthem away when he thought nobody was looking at him. There was a third\nyoung man on the box who wished to be learned in cattle; and an old one\nbehind, who was familiar with farming. There was a constant succession\nof Christian names in smock-frocks and white coats, who were invited to\nhave a 'lift' by the guard, and who knew every horse and hostler on the\nroad and off it; and there was a dinner which would have been cheap at\nhalf-a-crown a mouth, if any moderate number of mouths could have eaten\nit in the time. And at seven o'clock P.M. Mr. Pickwick and his friends,\nand Mr. Dowler and his wife, respectively retired to their private\nsitting-rooms at the White Hart Hotel, opposite the Great Pump Room,\nBath, where the waiters, from their costume, might be mistaken for\nWestminster boys, only they destroy the illusion by behaving themselves\nmuch better. Breakfast had scarcely been cleared away on the succeeding\nmorning, when a waiter brought in Mr. Dowler's card, with a request to\nbe allowed permission to introduce a friend. Mr. Dowler at once followed\nup the delivery of the card, by bringing himself and the friend also.\n\nThe friend was a charming young man of not much more than fifty, dressed\nin a very bright blue coat with resplendent buttons, black trousers, and\nthe thinnest possible pair of highly-polished boots. A gold eye-glass\nwas suspended from his neck by a short, broad, black ribbon; a gold\nsnuff-box was lightly clasped in his left hand; gold rings innumerable\nglittered on his fingers; and a large diamond pin set in gold glistened\nin his shirt frill. He had a gold watch, and a gold curb chain with\nlarge gold seals; and he carried a pliant ebony cane with a gold top.\nHis linen was of the very whitest, finest, and stiffest; his wig of the\nglossiest, blackest, and curliest. His snuff was princes' mixture; his\nscent BOUQUET DU ROI. His features were contracted into a perpetual\nsmile; and his teeth were in such perfect order that it was difficult at\na small distance to tell the real from the false.\n\n'Mr. Pickwick,' said Mr. Dowler; 'my friend, Angelo Cyrus Bantam,\nEsquire, M.C.; Bantam; Mr. Pickwick. Know each other.'\n\n'Welcome to Ba-ath, Sir. This is indeed an acquisition. Most welcome to\nBa-ath, sir. It is long--very long, Mr. Pickwick, since you drank the\nwaters. It appears an age, Mr. Pickwick. Re-markable!'\n\nSuch were the expressions with which Angelo Cyrus Bantam, Esquire, M.C.,\ntook Mr. Pickwick's hand; retaining it in his, meantime, and shrugging\nup his shoulders with a constant succession of bows, as if he really\ncould not make up his mind to the trial of letting it go again.\n\n'It is a very long time since I drank the waters, certainly,' replied\nMr. Pickwick; 'for, to the best of my knowledge, I was never here\nbefore.'\n\n'Never in Ba-ath, Mr. Pickwick!' exclaimed the Grand Master, letting the\nhand fall in astonishment. 'Never in Ba-ath! He! he! Mr. Pickwick, you\nare a wag. Not bad, not bad. Good, good. He! he! he! Re-markable!'\n\n'To my shame, I must say that I am perfectly serious,' rejoined Mr.\nPickwick. 'I really never was here before.'\n\n'Oh, I see,' exclaimed the Grand Master, looking extremely pleased;\n'yes, yes--good, good--better and better. You are the gentleman of whom\nwe have heard. Yes; we know you, Mr. Pickwick; we know you.'\n\n'The reports of the trial in those confounded papers,' thought Mr.\nPickwick. 'They have heard all about me.' 'You are the gentleman\nresiding on Clapham Green,' resumed Bantam, 'who lost the use of his\nlimbs from imprudently taking cold after port wine; who could not be\nmoved in consequence of acute suffering, and who had the water from the\nking's bath bottled at one hundred and three degrees, and sent by wagon\nto his bedroom in town, where he bathed, sneezed, and the same day\nrecovered. Very remarkable!'\n\nMr. Pickwick acknowledged the compliment which the supposition implied,\nbut had the self-denial to repudiate it, notwithstanding; and taking\nadvantage of a moment's silence on the part of the M.C., begged to\nintroduce his friends, Mr. Tupman, Mr. Winkle, and Mr. Snodgrass. An\nintroduction which overwhelmed the M.C. with delight and honour.\n\n'Bantam,' said Mr. Dowler, 'Mr. Pickwick and his friends are strangers.\nThey must put their names down. Where's the book?'\n\n'The register of the distinguished visitors in Ba-ath will be at the\nPump Room this morning at two o'clock,' replied the M.C. 'Will you guide\nour friends to that splendid building, and enable me to procure their\nautographs?'\n\n'I will,' rejoined Dowler. 'This is a long call. It's time to go. I\nshall be here again in an hour. Come.'\n\n'This is a ball-night,' said the M.C., again taking Mr. Pickwick's hand,\nas he rose to go. 'The ball-nights in Ba-ath are moments snatched from\nparadise; rendered bewitching by music, beauty, elegance, fashion,\netiquette, and--and--above all, by the absence of tradespeople, who\nare quite inconsistent with paradise, and who have an amalgamation of\nthemselves at the Guildhall every fortnight, which is, to say the least,\nremarkable. Good-bye, good-bye!' and protesting all the way downstairs\nthat he was most satisfied, and most delighted, and most overpowered,\nand most flattered, Angelo Cyrus Bantam, Esquire, M.C., stepped into a\nvery elegant chariot that waited at the door, and rattled off.\n\nAt the appointed hour, Mr. Pickwick and his friends, escorted by Dowler,\nrepaired to the Assembly Rooms, and wrote their names down in the\nbook--an instance of condescension at which Angelo Bantam was even more\noverpowered than before. Tickets of admission to that evening's assembly\nwere to have been prepared for the whole party, but as they were not\nready, Mr. Pickwick undertook, despite all the protestations to the\ncontrary of Angelo Bantam, to send Sam for them at four o'clock in the\nafternoon, to the M.C.'s house in Queen Square. Having taken a short\nwalk through the city, and arrived at the unanimous conclusion that\nPark Street was very much like the perpendicular streets a man sees in a\ndream, which he cannot get up for the life of him, they returned to the\nWhite Hart, and despatched Sam on the errand to which his master had\npledged him.\n\nSam Weller put on his hat in a very easy and graceful manner, and,\nthrusting his hands in his waistcoat pockets, walked with great\ndeliberation to Queen Square, whistling as he went along, several of the\nmost popular airs of the day, as arranged with entirely new movements\nfor that noble instrument the organ, either mouth or barrel. Arriving\nat the number in Queen Square to which he had been directed, he left off\nwhistling and gave a cheerful knock, which was instantaneously answered\nby a powdered-headed footman in gorgeous livery, and of symmetrical\nstature.\n\n'Is this here Mr. Bantam's, old feller?' inquired Sam Weller, nothing\nabashed by the blaze of splendour which burst upon his sight in the\nperson of the powdered-headed footman with the gorgeous livery.\n\n'Why, young man?' was the haughty inquiry of the powdered-headed\nfootman.\n\n''Cos if it is, jist you step in to him with that 'ere card, and say Mr.\nVeller's a-waitin', will you?' said Sam. And saying it, he very coolly\nwalked into the hall, and sat down.\n\nThe powdered-headed footman slammed the door very hard, and scowled very\ngrandly; but both the slam and the scowl were lost upon Sam, who was\nregarding a mahogany umbrella-stand with every outward token of critical\napproval.\n\nApparently his master's reception of the card had impressed the\npowdered-headed footman in Sam's favour, for when he came back from\ndelivering it, he smiled in a friendly manner, and said that the answer\nwould be ready directly.\n\n'Wery good,' said Sam. 'Tell the old gen'l'm'n not to put himself in a\nperspiration. No hurry, six-foot. I've had my dinner.'\n\n'You dine early, sir,' said the powdered-headed footman.\n\n'I find I gets on better at supper when I does,' replied Sam.\n\n'Have you been long in Bath, sir?' inquired the powdered-headed footman.\n'I have not had the pleasure of hearing of you before.'\n\n'I haven't created any wery surprisin' sensation here, as yet,' rejoined\nSam, 'for me and the other fash'nables only come last night.'\n\n'Nice place, Sir,' said the powdered-headed footman.\n\n'Seems so,' observed Sam.\n\n'Pleasant society, sir,' remarked the powdered-headed footman. 'Very\nagreeable servants, sir.'\n\n'I should think they wos,' replied Sam. 'Affable, unaffected,\nsay-nothin'-to-nobody sorts o' fellers.'\n\n'Oh, very much so, indeed, sir,' said the powdered-headed footman,\ntaking Sam's remarks as a high compliment. 'Very much so indeed. Do you\ndo anything in this way, Sir?' inquired the tall footman, producing a\nsmall snuff-box with a fox's head on the top of it.\n\n'Not without sneezing,' replied Sam.\n\n'Why, it IS difficult, sir, I confess,' said the tall footman. 'It may\nbe done by degrees, Sir. Coffee is the best practice. I carried coffee,\nSir, for a long time. It looks very like rappee, sir.'\n\nHere, a sharp peal at the bell reduced the powdered-headed footman to\nthe ignominious necessity of putting the fox's head in his pocket, and\nhastening with a humble countenance to Mr. Bantam's 'study.' By the bye,\nwho ever knew a man who never read or wrote either, who hadn't got some\nsmall back parlour which he WOULD call a study!\n\n'There is the answer, sir,' said the powdered-headed footman. 'I'm\nafraid you'll find it inconveniently large.'\n\n'Don't mention it,' said Sam, taking a letter with a small enclosure.\n'It's just possible as exhausted natur' may manage to surwive it.'\n\n'I hope we shall meet again, Sir,' said the powdered-headed footman,\nrubbing his hands, and following Sam out to the door-step.\n\n'You are wery obligin', sir,' replied Sam. 'Now, don't allow yourself to\nbe fatigued beyond your powers; there's a amiable bein'. Consider what\nyou owe to society, and don't let yourself be injured by too much work.\nFor the sake o' your feller-creeturs, keep yourself as quiet as you can;\nonly think what a loss you would be!' With these pathetic words, Sam\nWeller departed.\n\n'A very singular young man that,' said the powdered-headed footman,\nlooking after Mr. Weller, with a countenance which clearly showed he\ncould make nothing of him.\n\nSam said nothing at all. He winked, shook his head, smiled, winked\nagain; and, with an expression of countenance which seemed to denote\nthat he was greatly amused with something or other, walked merrily away.\n\nAt precisely twenty minutes before eight o'clock that night, Angelo\nCyrus Bantam, Esq., the Master of the Ceremonies, emerged from his\nchariot at the door of the Assembly Rooms in the same wig, the same\nteeth, the same eye-glass, the same watch and seals, the same rings, the\nsame shirt-pin, and the same cane. The only observable alterations in\nhis appearance were, that he wore a brighter blue coat, with a white\nsilk lining, black tights, black silk stockings, and pumps, and a white\nwaistcoat, and was, if possible, just a thought more scented.\n\nThus attired, the Master of the Ceremonies, in strict discharge of the\nimportant duties of his all-important office, planted himself in the\nroom to receive the company.\n\nBath being full, the company, and the sixpences for tea, poured in, in\nshoals. In the ballroom, the long card-room, the octagonal card-room,\nthe staircases, and the passages, the hum of many voices, and the sound\nof many feet, were perfectly bewildering. Dresses rustled, feathers\nwaved, lights shone, and jewels sparkled. There was the music--not of\nthe quadrille band, for it had not yet commenced; but the music of soft,\ntiny footsteps, with now and then a clear, merry laugh--low and\ngentle, but very pleasant to hear in a female voice, whether in Bath\nor elsewhere. Brilliant eyes, lighted up with pleasurable expectation,\ngleamed from every side; and, look where you would, some exquisite form\nglided gracefully through the throng, and was no sooner lost, than it\nwas replaced by another as dainty and bewitching.\n\nIn the tea-room, and hovering round the card-tables, were a vast number\nof queer old ladies, and decrepit old gentlemen, discussing all the\nsmall talk and scandal of the day, with a relish and gusto which\nsufficiently bespoke the intensity of the pleasure they derived from the\noccupation. Mingled with these groups, were three or four match-making\nmammas, appearing to be wholly absorbed by the conversation in which\nthey were taking part, but failing not from time to time to cast an\nanxious sidelong glance upon their daughters, who, remembering the\nmaternal injunction to make the best use of their youth, had already\ncommenced incipient flirtations in the mislaying scarves, putting on\ngloves, setting down cups, and so forth; slight matters apparently,\nbut which may be turned to surprisingly good account by expert\npractitioners.\n\nLounging near the doors, and in remote corners, were various knots of\nsilly young men, displaying various varieties of puppyism and stupidity;\namusing all sensible people near them with their folly and conceit; and\nhappily thinking themselves the objects of general admiration--a wise\nand merciful dispensation which no good man will quarrel with.\n\nAnd lastly, seated on some of the back benches, where they had already\ntaken up their positions for the evening, were divers unmarried ladies\npast their grand climacteric, who, not dancing because there were no\npartners for them, and not playing cards lest they should be set down as\nirretrievably single, were in the favourable situation of being able to\nabuse everybody without reflecting on themselves. In short, they could\nabuse everybody, because everybody was there. It was a scene of gaiety,\nglitter, and show; of richly-dressed people, handsome mirrors, chalked\nfloors, girandoles and wax-candles; and in all parts of the scene,\ngliding from spot to spot in silent softness, bowing obsequiously to\nthis party, nodding familiarly to that, and smiling complacently on all,\nwas the sprucely-attired person of Angelo Cyrus Bantam, Esquire, the\nMaster of the Ceremonies.\n\n'Stop in the tea-room. Take your sixpenn'orth. Then lay on hot water,\nand call it tea. Drink it,' said Mr. Dowler, in a loud voice, directing\nMr. Pickwick, who advanced at the head of the little party, with Mrs.\nDowler on his arm. Into the tea-room Mr. Pickwick turned; and catching\nsight of him, Mr. Bantam corkscrewed his way through the crowd and\nwelcomed him with ecstasy.\n\n'My dear Sir, I am highly honoured. Ba-ath is favoured. Mrs. Dowler, you\nembellish the rooms. I congratulate you on your feathers. Re-markable!'\n\n'Anybody here?' inquired Dowler suspiciously.\n\n'Anybody! The ELITE of Ba-ath. Mr. Pickwick, do you see the old lady in\nthe gauze turban?'\n\n'The fat old lady?' inquired Mr. Pickwick innocently.\n\n'Hush, my dear sir--nobody's fat or old in Ba-ath. That's the Dowager\nLady Snuphanuph.'\n\n'Is it, indeed?' said Mr. Pickwick.\n\n'No less a person, I assure you,' said the Master of the\nCeremonies. 'Hush. Draw a little nearer, Mr. Pickwick. You see the\nsplendidly-dressed young man coming this way?'\n\n'The one with the long hair, and the particularly small forehead?'\ninquired Mr. Pickwick.\n\n'The same. The richest young man in Ba-ath at this moment. Young Lord\nMutanhed.'\n\n'You don't say so?' said Mr. Pickwick.\n\n'Yes. You'll hear his voice in a moment, Mr. Pickwick. He'll speak to\nme. The other gentleman with him, in the red under-waistcoat and dark\nmoustache, is the Honourable Mr. Crushton, his bosom friend. How do you\ndo, my Lord?'\n\n'Veway hot, Bantam,' said his Lordship.\n\n'It IS very warm, my Lord,' replied the M.C.\n\n'Confounded,' assented the Honourable Mr. Crushton.\n\n'Have you seen his Lordship's mail-cart, Bantam?' inquired the\nHonourable Mr. Crushton, after a short pause, during which young Lord\nMutanhed had been endeavouring to stare Mr. Pickwick out of countenance,\nand Mr. Crushton had been reflecting what subject his Lordship could\ntalk about best.\n\n'Dear me, no,' replied the M.C.'A mail-cart! What an excellent idea.\nRe-markable!'\n\n'Gwacious heavens!' said his Lordship, 'I thought evewebody had seen the\nnew mail-cart; it's the neatest, pwettiest, gwacefullest thing that ever\nwan upon wheels. Painted wed, with a cweam piebald.'\n\n'With a real box for the letters, and all complete,' said the Honourable\nMr. Crushton.\n\n'And a little seat in fwont, with an iwon wail, for the dwiver,' added\nhis Lordship. 'I dwove it over to Bwistol the other morning, in a\ncwimson coat, with two servants widing a quarter of a mile behind; and\nconfound me if the people didn't wush out of their cottages, and awest\nmy pwogwess, to know if I wasn't the post. Glorwious--glorwious!'\n\nAt this anecdote his Lordship laughed very heartily, as did the\nlisteners, of course. Then, drawing his arm through that of the\nobsequious Mr. Crushton, Lord Mutanhed walked away.\n\n'Delightful young man, his Lordship,' said the Master of the Ceremonies.\n\n'So I should think,' rejoined Mr. Pickwick drily.\n\nThe dancing having commenced, the necessary introductions having\nbeen made, and all preliminaries arranged, Angelo Bantam rejoined Mr.\nPickwick, and led him into the card-room.\n\nJust at the very moment of their entrance, the Dowager Lady Snuphanuph\nand two other ladies of an ancient and whist-like appearance, were\nhovering over an unoccupied card-table; and they no sooner set eyes\nupon Mr. Pickwick under the convoy of Angelo Bantam, than they exchanged\nglances with each other, seeing that he was precisely the very person\nthey wanted, to make up the rubber.\n\n'My dear Bantam,' said the Dowager Lady Snuphanuph coaxingly, 'find\nus some nice creature to make up this table; there's a good soul.'\nMr. Pickwick happened to be looking another way at the moment, so her\nLadyship nodded her head towards him, and frowned expressively.\n\n'My friend Mr. Pickwick, my Lady, will be most happy, I am sure,\nremarkably so,' said the M.C., taking the hint. 'Mr. Pickwick, Lady\nSnuphanuph--Mrs. Colonel Wugsby--Miss Bolo.'\n\nMr. Pickwick bowed to each of the ladies, and, finding escape\nimpossible, cut. Mr. Pickwick and Miss Bolo against Lady Snuphanuph\nand Mrs. Colonel Wugsby. As the trump card was turned up, at the\ncommencement of the second deal, two young ladies hurried into the room,\nand took their stations on either side of Mrs. Colonel Wugsby's chair,\nwhere they waited patiently until the hand was over.\n\n'Now, Jane,' said Mrs. Colonel Wugsby, turning to one of the girls,\n'what is it?' 'I came to ask, ma, whether I might dance with the\nyoungest Mr. Crawley,' whispered the prettier and younger of the two.\n\n'Good God, Jane, how can you think of such things?' replied the mamma\nindignantly. 'Haven't you repeatedly heard that his father has eight\nhundred a year, which dies with him? I am ashamed of you. Not on any\naccount.'\n\n'Ma,' whispered the other, who was much older than her sister, and very\ninsipid and artificial, 'Lord Mutanhed has been introduced to me. I said\nI thought I wasn't engaged, ma.'\n\n'You're a sweet pet, my love,' replied Mrs. Colonel Wugsby, tapping\nher daughter's cheek with her fan, 'and are always to be trusted. He's\nimmensely rich, my dear. Bless you!' With these words Mrs. Colonel\nWugsby kissed her eldest daughter most affectionately, and frowning in a\nwarning manner upon the other, sorted her cards.\n\nPoor Mr. Pickwick! he had never played with three thorough-paced female\ncard-players before. They were so desperately sharp, that they quite\nfrightened him. If he played a wrong card, Miss Bolo looked a small\narmoury of daggers; if he stopped to consider which was the right one,\nLady Snuphanuph would throw herself back in her chair, and smile with a\nmingled glance of impatience and pity to Mrs. Colonel Wugsby, at which\nMrs. Colonel Wugsby would shrug up her shoulders, and cough, as much\nas to say she wondered whether he ever would begin. Then, at the end\nof every hand, Miss Bolo would inquire with a dismal countenance and\nreproachful sigh, why Mr. Pickwick had not returned that diamond, or led\nthe club, or roughed the spade, or finessed the heart, or led through\nthe honour, or brought out the ace, or played up to the king, or some\nsuch thing; and in reply to all these grave charges, Mr. Pickwick would\nbe wholly unable to plead any justification whatever, having by this\ntime forgotten all about the game. People came and looked on, too, which\nmade Mr. Pickwick nervous. Besides all this, there was a great deal of\ndistracting conversation near the table, between Angelo Bantam and the\ntwo Misses Matinter, who, being single and singular, paid great court to\nthe Master of the Ceremonies, in the hope of getting a stray partner now\nand then. All these things, combined with the noises and interruptions\nof constant comings in and goings out, made Mr. Pickwick play rather\nbadly; the cards were against him, also; and when they left off at\nten minutes past eleven, Miss Bolo rose from the table considerably\nagitated, and went straight home, in a flood of tears and a sedan-chair.\n\nBeing joined by his friends, who one and all protested that they had\nscarcely ever spent a more pleasant evening, Mr. Pickwick accompanied\nthem to the White Hart, and having soothed his feelings with something\nhot, went to bed, and to sleep, almost simultaneously.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXXVI. THE CHIEF FEATURES OF WHICH WILL BE FOUND TO BE\nAN AUTHENTIC VERSION OF THE LEGEND OF PRINCE BLADUD, AND A MOST\nEXTRAORDINARY CALAMITY THAT BEFELL Mr. WINKLE\n\n\nAs Mr. Pickwick contemplated a stay of at least two months in Bath, he\ndeemed it advisable to take private lodgings for himself and friends for\nthat period; and as a favourable opportunity offered for their securing,\non moderate terms, the upper portion of a house in the Royal Crescent,\nwhich was larger than they required, Mr. and Mrs. Dowler offered to\nrelieve them of a bedroom and sitting-room. This proposition was at once\naccepted, and in three days' time they were all located in their new\nabode, when Mr. Pickwick began to drink the waters with the utmost\nassiduity. Mr. Pickwick took them systematically. He drank a quarter of\na pint before breakfast, and then walked up a hill; and another quarter\nof a pint after breakfast, and then walked down a hill; and, after every\nfresh quarter of a pint, Mr. Pickwick declared, in the most solemn and\nemphatic terms, that he felt a great deal better; whereat his friends\nwere very much delighted, though they had not been previously aware that\nthere was anything the matter with him.\n\nThe Great Pump Room is a spacious saloon, ornamented with Corinthian\npillars, and a music-gallery, and a Tompion clock, and a statue of Nash,\nand a golden inscription, to which all the water-drinkers should attend,\nfor it appeals to them in the cause of a deserving charity. There is a\nlarge bar with a marble vase, out of which the pumper gets the water;\nand there are a number of yellow-looking tumblers, out of which the\ncompany get it; and it is a most edifying and satisfactory sight to\nbehold the perseverance and gravity with which they swallow it. There\nare baths near at hand, in which a part of the company wash themselves;\nand a band plays afterwards, to congratulate the remainder on their\nhaving done so. There is another pump room, into which infirm ladies\nand gentlemen are wheeled, in such an astonishing variety of chairs and\nchaises, that any adventurous individual who goes in with the regular\nnumber of toes, is in imminent danger of coming out without them; and\nthere is a third, into which the quiet people go, for it is less noisy\nthan either. There is an immensity of promenading, on crutches and\noff, with sticks and without, and a great deal of conversation, and\nliveliness, and pleasantry.\n\nEvery morning, the regular water-drinkers, Mr. Pickwick among the\nnumber, met each other in the pump room, took their quarter of a\npint, and walked constitutionally. At the afternoon's promenade, Lord\nMutanhed, and the Honourable Mr. Crushton, the Dowager Lady Snuphanuph,\nMrs. Colonel Wugsby, and all the great people, and all the morning\nwater-drinkers, met in grand assemblage. After this, they walked out, or\ndrove out, or were pushed out in bath-chairs, and met one another again.\nAfter this, the gentlemen went to the reading-rooms, and met divisions\nof the mass. After this, they went home. If it were theatre-night,\nperhaps they met at the theatre; if it were assembly-night, they met\nat the rooms; and if it were neither, they met the next day. A very\npleasant routine, with perhaps a slight tinge of sameness.\n\nMr. Pickwick was sitting up by himself, after a day spent in this\nmanner, making entries in his journal, his friends having retired to\nbed, when he was roused by a gentle tap at the room door.\n\n'Beg your pardon, Sir,' said Mrs. Craddock, the landlady, peeping in;\n'but did you want anything more, sir?'\n\n'Nothing more, ma'am,' replied Mr. Pickwick.\n\n'My young girl is gone to bed, Sir,' said Mrs. Craddock; 'and Mr. Dowler\nis good enough to say that he'll sit up for Mrs. Dowler, as the party\nisn't expected to be over till late; so I was thinking that if you\nwanted nothing more, Mr. Pickwick, I would go to bed.'\n\n'By all means, ma'am,' replied Mr. Pickwick. 'Wish you good-night, Sir,'\nsaid Mrs. Craddock.\n\n'Good-night, ma'am,' rejoined Mr. Pickwick.\n\nMrs. Craddock closed the door, and Mr. Pickwick resumed his writing.\n\nIn half an hour's time the entries were concluded. Mr. Pickwick\ncarefully rubbed the last page on the blotting-paper, shut up the book,\nwiped his pen on the bottom of the inside of his coat tail, and opened\nthe drawer of the inkstand to put it carefully away. There were a couple\nof sheets of writing-paper, pretty closely written over, in the inkstand\ndrawer, and they were folded so, that the title, which was in a good\nround hand, was fully disclosed to him. Seeing from this, that it was\nno private document; and as it seemed to relate to Bath, and was very\nshort: Mr. Pick-wick unfolded it, lighted his bedroom candle that it\nmight burn up well by the time he finished; and drawing his chair nearer\nthe fire, read as follows--\n\n\n THE TRUE LEGEND OF PRINCE BLADUD\n\n'Less than two hundred years ago, on one of the public baths in this\ncity, there appeared an inscription in honour of its mighty founder, the\nrenowned Prince Bladud. That inscription is now erased.\n\n'For many hundred years before that time, there had been handed down,\nfrom age to age, an old legend, that the illustrious prince being\nafflicted with leprosy, on his return from reaping a rich harvest\nof knowledge in Athens, shunned the court of his royal father, and\nconsorted moodily with husbandman and pigs. Among the herd (so said the\nlegend) was a pig of grave and solemn countenance, with whom the prince\nhad a fellow-feeling--for he too was wise--a pig of thoughtful and\nreserved demeanour; an animal superior to his fellows, whose grunt was\nterrible, and whose bite was sharp. The young prince sighed deeply as\nhe looked upon the countenance of the majestic swine; he thought of his\nroyal father, and his eyes were bedewed with tears.\n\n'This sagacious pig was fond of bathing in rich, moist mud. Not in\nsummer, as common pigs do now, to cool themselves, and did even in\nthose distant ages (which is a proof that the light of civilisation had\nalready begun to dawn, though feebly), but in the cold, sharp days of\nwinter. His coat was ever so sleek, and his complexion so clear, that\nthe prince resolved to essay the purifying qualities of the same water\nthat his friend resorted to. He made the trial. Beneath that black mud,\nbubbled the hot springs of Bath. He washed, and was cured. Hastening\nto his father's court, he paid his best respects, and returning quickly\nhither, founded this city and its famous baths.\n\n'He sought the pig with all the ardour of their early friendship--but,\nalas! the waters had been his death. He had imprudently taken a bath at\ntoo high a temperature, and the natural philosopher was no more! He was\nsucceeded by Pliny, who also fell a victim to his thirst for knowledge.\n\n\n'This was the legend. Listen to the true one.\n\n'A great many centuries since, there flourished, in great state, the\nfamous and renowned Lud Hudibras, king of Britain. He was a mighty\nmonarch. The earth shook when he walked--he was so very stout. His\npeople basked in the light of his countenance--it was so red and\nglowing. He was, indeed, every inch a king. And there were a good\nmany inches of him, too, for although he was not very tall, he was a\nremarkable size round, and the inches that he wanted in height, he made\nup in circumference. If any degenerate monarch of modern times could be\nin any way compared with him, I should say the venerable King Cole would\nbe that illustrious potentate.\n\n'This good king had a queen, who eighteen years before, had had a son,\nwho was called Bladud. He was sent to a preparatory seminary in his\nfather's dominions until he was ten years old, and was then despatched,\nin charge of a trusty messenger, to a finishing school at Athens; and\nas there was no extra charge for remaining during the holidays, and no\nnotice required previous to the removal of a pupil, there he remained\nfor eight long years, at the expiration of which time, the king his\nfather sent the lord chamberlain over, to settle the bill, and to bring\nhim home; which, the lord chamberlain doing, was received with shouts,\nand pensioned immediately.\n\n'When King Lud saw the prince his son, and found he had grown up such a\nfine young man, he perceived what a grand thing it would be to have\nhim married without delay, so that his children might be the means of\nperpetuating the glorious race of Lud, down to the very latest ages of\nthe world. With this view, he sent a special embassy, composed of\ngreat noblemen who had nothing particular to do, and wanted lucrative\nemployment, to a neighbouring king, and demanded his fair daughter in\nmarriage for his son; stating at the same time that he was anxious to be\non the most affectionate terms with his brother and friend, but that if\nthey couldn't agree in arranging this marriage, he should be under the\nunpleasant necessity of invading his kingdom and putting his eyes out.\nTo this, the other king (who was the weaker of the two) replied that he\nwas very much obliged to his friend and brother for all his goodness\nand magnanimity, and that his daughter was quite ready to be married,\nwhenever Prince Bladud liked to come and fetch her.\n\n'This answer no sooner reached Britain, than the whole nation was\ntransported with joy. Nothing was heard, on all sides, but the sounds of\nfeasting and revelry--except the chinking of money as it was paid in\nby the people to the collector of the royal treasures, to defray the\nexpenses of the happy ceremony. It was upon this occasion that King Lud,\nseated on the top of his throne in full council, rose, in the exuberance\nof his feelings, and commanded the lord chief justice to order in the\nrichest wines and the court minstrels--an act of graciousness which has\nbeen, through the ignorance of traditionary historians, attributed to\nKing Cole, in those celebrated lines in which his Majesty is represented\nas\n\n Calling for his pipe, and calling for his pot,\n And calling for his fiddlers three.\n\nWhich is an obvious injustice to the memory of King Lud, and a dishonest\nexaltation of the virtues of King Cole.\n\n'But, in the midst of all this festivity and rejoicing, there was one\nindividual present, who tasted not when the sparkling wines were poured\nforth, and who danced not, when the minstrels played. This was no other\nthan Prince Bladud himself, in honour of whose happiness a whole\npeople were, at that very moment, straining alike their throats and\npurse-strings. The truth was, that the prince, forgetting the undoubted\nright of the minister for foreign affairs to fall in love on his behalf,\nhad, contrary to every precedent of policy and diplomacy, already fallen\nin love on his own account, and privately contracted himself unto the\nfair daughter of a noble Athenian.\n\n'Here we have a striking example of one of the manifold advantages of\ncivilisation and refinement. If the prince had lived in later days, he\nmight at once have married the object of his father's choice, and then\nset himself seriously to work, to relieve himself of the burden which\nrested heavily upon him. He might have endeavoured to break her heart by\na systematic course of insult and neglect; or, if the spirit of her sex,\nand a proud consciousness of her many wrongs had upheld her under this\nill-treatment, he might have sought to take her life, and so get rid of\nher effectually. But neither mode of relief suggested itself to Prince\nBladud; so he solicited a private audience, and told his father.\n\n'It is an old prerogative of kings to govern everything but their\npassions. King Lud flew into a frightful rage, tossed his crown up to\nthe ceiling, and caught it again--for in those days kings kept their\ncrowns on their heads, and not in the Tower--stamped the ground, rapped\nhis forehead, wondered why his own flesh and blood rebelled against him,\nand, finally, calling in his guards, ordered the prince away to instant\nConfinement in a lofty turret; a course of treatment which the kings of\nold very generally pursued towards their sons, when their matrimonial\ninclinations did not happen to point to the same quarter as their own.\n\n'When Prince Bladud had been shut up in the lofty turret for the greater\npart of a year, with no better prospect before his bodily eyes than a\nstone wall, or before his mental vision than prolonged imprisonment, he\nnaturally began to ruminate on a plan of escape, which, after months\nof preparation, he managed to accomplish; considerately leaving his\ndinner-knife in the heart of his jailer, lest the poor fellow (who had\na family) should be considered privy to his flight, and punished\naccordingly by the infuriated king.\n\n'The monarch was frantic at the loss of his son. He knew not on whom to\nvent his grief and wrath, until fortunately bethinking himself of the\nlord chamberlain who had brought him home, he struck off his pension and\nhis head together.\n\n'Meanwhile, the young prince, effectually disguised, wandered on\nfoot through his father's dominions, cheered and supported in all his\nhardships by sweet thoughts of the Athenian maid, who was the innocent\ncause of his weary trials. One day he stopped to rest in a country\nvillage; and seeing that there were gay dances going forward on the\ngreen, and gay faces passing to and fro, ventured to inquire of a\nreveller who stood near him, the reason for this rejoicing.\n\n'\"Know you not, O stranger,\" was the reply, \"of the recent proclamation\nof our gracious king?\"\n\n'\"Proclamation! No. What proclamation?\" rejoined the prince--for he had\ntravelled along the by and little-frequented ways, and knew nothing of\nwhat had passed upon the public roads, such as they were.\n\n'\"Why,\" replied the peasant, \"the foreign lady that our prince wished\nto wed, is married to a foreign noble of her own country, and the king\nproclaims the fact, and a great public festival besides; for now, of\ncourse, Prince Bladud will come back and marry the lady his father\nchose, who they say is as beautiful as the noonday sun. Your health,\nsir. God save the king!\"\n\n'The prince remained to hear no more. He fled from the spot, and plunged\ninto the thickest recesses of a neighbouring wood. On, on, he wandered,\nnight and day; beneath the blazing sun, and the cold pale moon; through\nthe dry heat of noon, and the damp cold of night; in the gray light of\nmorn, and the red glare of eve. So heedless was he of time or object,\nthat being bound for Athens, he wandered as far out of his way as Bath.\n\n'There was no city where Bath stands, then. There was no vestige of\nhuman habitation, or sign of man's resort, to bear the name; but there\nwas the same noble country, the same broad expanse of hill and dale, the\nsame beautiful channel stealing on, far away, the same lofty mountains\nwhich, like the troubles of life, viewed at a distance, and partially\nobscured by the bright mist of its morning, lose their ruggedness and\nasperity, and seem all ease and softness. Moved by the gentle beauty of\nthe scene, the prince sank upon the green turf, and bathed his swollen\nfeet in his tears.\n\n'\"Oh!\" said the unhappy Bladud, clasping his hands, and mournfully\nraising his eyes towards the sky, \"would that my wanderings might\nend here! Would that these grateful tears with which I now mourn hope\nmisplaced, and love despised, might flow in peace for ever!\"\n\n'The wish was heard. It was in the time of the heathen deities, who used\noccasionally to take people at their words, with a promptness, in some\ncases, extremely awkward. The ground opened beneath the prince's feet;\nhe sank into the chasm; and instantaneously it closed upon his head for\never, save where his hot tears welled up through the earth, and where\nthey have continued to gush forth ever since.\n\n'It is observable that, to this day, large numbers of elderly ladies and\ngentlemen who have been disappointed in procuring partners, and almost\nas many young ones who are anxious to obtain them, repair annually\nto Bath to drink the waters, from which they derive much strength and\ncomfort. This is most complimentary to the virtue of Prince Bladud's\ntears, and strongly corroborative of the veracity of this legend.'\n\n\nMr. Pickwick yawned several times when he had arrived at the end of this\nlittle manuscript, carefully refolded, and replaced it in the inkstand\ndrawer, and then, with a countenance expressive of the utmost weariness,\nlighted his chamber candle, and went upstairs to bed. He stopped at Mr.\nDowler's door, according to custom, and knocked to say good-night.\n\n'Ah!' said Dowler, 'going to bed? I wish I was. Dismal night. Windy;\nisn't it?'\n\n'Very,' said Mr. Pickwick. 'Good-night.'\n\n'Good-night.'\n\nMr. Pickwick went to his bedchamber, and Mr. Dowler resumed his seat\nbefore the fire, in fulfilment of his rash promise to sit up till his\nwife came home.\n\nThere are few things more worrying than sitting up for somebody,\nespecially if that somebody be at a party. You cannot help thinking how\nquickly the time passes with them, which drags so heavily with you; and\nthe more you think of this, the more your hopes of their speedy arrival\ndecline. Clocks tick so loud, too, when you are sitting up alone, and\nyou seem as if you had an under-garment of cobwebs on. First, something\ntickles your right knee, and then the same sensation irritates your\nleft. You have no sooner changed your position, than it comes again\nin the arms; when you have fidgeted your limbs into all sorts of queer\nshapes, you have a sudden relapse in the nose, which you rub as if to\nrub it off--as there is no doubt you would, if you could. Eyes, too, are\nmere personal inconveniences; and the wick of one candle gets an inch\nand a half long, while you are snuffing the other. These, and various\nother little nervous annoyances, render sitting up for a length of time\nafter everybody else has gone to bed, anything but a cheerful amusement.\n\nThis was just Mr. Dowler's opinion, as he sat before the fire, and felt\nhonestly indignant with all the inhuman people at the party who were\nkeeping him up. He was not put into better humour either, by the\nreflection that he had taken it into his head, early in the evening, to\nthink he had got an ache there, and so stopped at home. At length, after\nseveral droppings asleep, and fallings forward towards the bars, and\ncatchings backward soon enough to prevent being branded in the face, Mr.\nDowler made up his mind that he would throw himself on the bed in the\nback room and think--not sleep, of course.\n\n'I'm a heavy sleeper,' said Mr. Dowler, as he flung himself on the bed.\n'I must keep awake. I suppose I shall hear a knock here. Yes. I thought\nso. I can hear the watchman. There he goes. Fainter now, though. A\nlittle fainter. He's turning the corner. Ah!' When Mr. Dowler arrived at\nthis point, he turned the corner at which he had been long hesitating,\nand fell fast asleep.\n\nJust as the clock struck three, there was blown into the crescent a\nsedan-chair with Mrs. Dowler inside, borne by one short, fat chairman,\nand one long, thin one, who had had much ado to keep their bodies\nperpendicular: to say nothing of the chair. But on that high ground,\nand in the crescent, which the wind swept round and round as if it were\ngoing to tear the paving stones up, its fury was tremendous. They were\nvery glad to set the chair down, and give a good round loud double-knock\nat the street door.\n\nThey waited some time, but nobody came.\n\n'Servants is in the arms o' Porpus, I think,' said the short chairman,\nwarming his hands at the attendant link-boy's torch.\n\n'I wish he'd give 'em a squeeze and wake 'em,' observed the long one.\n\n'Knock again, will you, if you please,' cried Mrs. Dowler from the\nchair. 'Knock two or three times, if you please.'\n\nThe short man was quite willing to get the job over, as soon as\npossible; so he stood on the step, and gave four or five most startling\ndouble-knocks, of eight or ten knocks a-piece, while the long man went\ninto the road, and looked up at the windows for a light.\n\nNobody came. It was all as silent and dark as ever.\n\n'Dear me!' said Mrs. Dowler. 'You must knock again, if you please.'\n'There ain't a bell, is there, ma'am?' said the short chairman.\n\n'Yes, there is,' interposed the link-boy, 'I've been a-ringing at it\never so long.'\n\n'It's only a handle,' said Mrs. Dowler, 'the wire's broken.'\n\n'I wish the servants' heads wos,' growled the long man.\n\n'I must trouble you to knock again, if you please,' said Mrs. Dowler,\nwith the utmost politeness.\n\nThe short man did knock again several times, without producing the\nsmallest effect. The tall man, growing very impatient, then relieved\nhim, and kept on perpetually knocking double-knocks of two loud knocks\neach, like an insane postman.\n\nAt length Mr. Winkle began to dream that he was at a club, and that the\nmembers being very refractory, the chairman was obliged to hammer the\ntable a good deal to preserve order; then he had a confused notion of an\nauction room where there were no bidders, and the auctioneer was buying\neverything in; and ultimately he began to think it just within the\nbounds of possibility that somebody might be knocking at the street\ndoor. To make quite certain, however, he remained quiet in bed for\nten minutes or so, and listened; and when he had counted two or\nthree-and-thirty knocks, he felt quite satisfied, and gave himself a\ngreat deal of credit for being so wakeful.\n\n'Rap rap-rap rap-rap rap-ra, ra, ra, ra, ra, rap!' went the knocker.\n\nMr. Winkle jumped out of bed, wondering very much what could possibly\nbe the matter, and hastily putting on his stockings and slippers, folded\nhis dressing-gown round him, lighted a flat candle from the rush-light\nthat was burning in the fireplace, and hurried downstairs.\n\n'Here's somebody comin' at last, ma'am,' said the short chairman.\n\n'I wish I wos behind him vith a bradawl,' muttered the long one.\n\n'Who's there?' cried Mr. Winkle, undoing the chain.\n\n'Don't stop to ask questions, cast-iron head,' replied the long man,\nwith great disgust, taking it for granted that the inquirer was a\nfootman; 'but open the door.'\n\n'Come, look sharp, timber eyelids,' added the other encouragingly.\n\nMr. Winkle, being half asleep, obeyed the command mechanically, opened\nthe door a little, and peeped out. The first thing he saw, was the red\nglare of the link-boy's torch. Startled by the sudden fear that the\nhouse might be on fire, he hastily threw the door wide open, and holding\nthe candle above his head, stared eagerly before him, not quite certain\nwhether what he saw was a sedan-chair or a fire-engine. At this instant\nthere came a violent gust of wind; the light was blown out; Mr. Winkle\nfelt himself irresistibly impelled on to the steps; and the door blew\nto, with a loud crash.\n\n'Well, young man, now you HAVE done it!' said the short chairman.\n\nMr. Winkle, catching sight of a lady's face at the window of the sedan,\nturned hastily round, plied the knocker with all his might and main, and\ncalled frantically upon the chairman to take the chair away again.\n\n'Take it away, take it away,' cried Mr. Winkle. 'Here's somebody coming\nout of another house; put me into the chair. Hide me! Do something with\nme!'\n\nAll this time he was shivering with cold; and every time he raised\nhis hand to the knocker, the wind took the dressing-gown in a most\nunpleasant manner.\n\n'The people are coming down the crescent now. There are ladies with 'em;\ncover me up with something. Stand before me!' roared Mr. Winkle. But\nthe chairmen were too much exhausted with laughing to afford him the\nslightest assistance, and the ladies were every moment approaching\nnearer and nearer. Mr. Winkle gave a last hopeless knock; the ladies\nwere only a few doors off. He threw away the extinguished candle, which,\nall this time he had held above his head, and fairly bolted into the\nsedan-chair where Mrs. Dowler was.\n\nNow, Mrs. Craddock had heard the knocking and the voices at last; and,\nonly waiting to put something smarter on her head than her nightcap,\nran down into the front drawing-room to make sure that it was the right\nparty. Throwing up the window-sash as Mr. Winkle was rushing into the\nchair, she no sooner caught sight of what was going forward below, than\nshe raised a vehement and dismal shriek, and implored Mr. Dowler to get\nup directly, for his wife was running away with another gentleman.\n\nUpon this, Mr. Dowler bounced off the bed as abruptly as an India-rubber\nball, and rushing into the front room, arrived at one window just as Mr.\nPickwick threw up the other, when the first object that met the gaze of\nboth, was Mr. Winkle bolting into the sedan-chair.\n\n'Watchman,' shouted Dowler furiously, 'stop him--hold him--keep him\ntight--shut him in, till I come down. I'll cut his throat--give me a\nknife--from ear to ear, Mrs. Craddock--I will!' And breaking from the\nshrieking landlady, and from Mr. Pickwick, the indignant husband seized\na small supper-knife, and tore into the street. But Mr. Winkle didn't\nwait for him. He no sooner heard the horrible threat of the valorous\nDowler, than he bounced out of the sedan, quite as quickly as he had\nbounced in, and throwing off his slippers into the road, took to his\nheels and tore round the crescent, hotly pursued by Dowler and the\nwatchman. He kept ahead; the door was open as he came round the second\ntime; he rushed in, slammed it in Dowler's face, mounted to his bedroom,\nlocked the door, piled a wash-hand-stand, chest of drawers, and a table\nagainst it, and packed up a few necessaries ready for flight with the\nfirst ray of morning.\n\nDowler came up to the outside of the door; avowed, through the keyhole,\nhis steadfast determination of cutting Mr. Winkle's throat next day;\nand, after a great confusion of voices in the drawing-room, amidst which\nthat of Mr. Pickwick was distinctly heard endeavouring to make peace,\nthe inmates dispersed to their several bed-chambers, and all was quiet\nonce more.\n\nIt is not unlikely that the inquiry may be made, where Mr. Weller was,\nall this time? We will state where he was, in the next chapter.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXXVII. HONOURABLY ACCOUNTS FOR Mr. WELLER'S ABSENCE, BY\nDESCRIBING A SOIREE TO WHICH HE WAS INVITED AND WENT; ALSO RELATES HOW\nHE WAS ENTRUSTED BY Mr. PICKWICK WITH A PRIVATE MISSION OF DELICACY AND\nIMPORTANCE\n\n\n'Mr. Weller,' said Mrs. Craddock, upon the morning of this very eventful\nday, 'here's a letter for you.'\n\n'Wery odd that,' said Sam; 'I'm afeerd there must be somethin' the\nmatter, for I don't recollect any gen'l'm'n in my circle of acquaintance\nas is capable o' writin' one.'\n\n'Perhaps something uncommon has taken place,' observed Mrs. Craddock.\n\n'It must be somethin' wery uncommon indeed, as could perduce a letter\nout o' any friend o' mine,' replied Sam, shaking his head dubiously;\n'nothin' less than a nat'ral conwulsion, as the young gen'l'm'n observed\nven he wos took with fits. It can't be from the gov'ner,' said Sam,\nlooking at the direction. 'He always prints, I know, 'cos he learnt\nwritin' from the large bills in the booking-offices. It's a wery strange\nthing now, where this here letter can ha' come from.'\n\nAs Sam said this, he did what a great many people do when they are\nuncertain about the writer of a note--looked at the seal, and then at\nthe front, and then at the back, and then at the sides, and then at the\nsuperscription; and, as a last resource, thought perhaps he might as\nwell look at the inside, and try to find out from that.\n\n'It's wrote on gilt-edged paper,' said Sam, as he unfolded it, 'and\nsealed in bronze vax vith the top of a door key. Now for it.' And, with\na very grave face, Mr. Weller slowly read as follows--\n\n\n'A select company of the Bath footmen presents their compliments to\nMr. Weller, and requests the pleasure of his company this evening, to\na friendly swarry, consisting of a boiled leg of mutton with the\nusual trimmings. The swarry to be on table at half-past nine o'clock\npunctually.'\n\n\nThis was inclosed in another note, which ran thus--\n\n\n'Mr. John Smauker, the gentleman who had the pleasure of meeting Mr.\nWeller at the house of their mutual acquaintance, Mr. Bantam, a few days\nsince, begs to inclose Mr. Weller the herewith invitation. If Mr. Weller\nwill call on Mr. John Smauker at nine o'clock, Mr. John Smauker will\nhave the pleasure of introducing Mr. Weller.\n\n (Signed) 'JOHN SMAUKER.'\n\n\nThe envelope was directed to blank Weller, Esq., at Mr. Pickwick's; and\nin a parenthesis, in the left hand corner, were the words 'airy bell,'\nas an instruction to the bearer.\n\n'Vell,' said Sam, 'this is comin' it rayther powerful, this is. I never\nheerd a biled leg o' mutton called a swarry afore. I wonder wot they'd\ncall a roast one.'\n\nHowever, without waiting to debate the point, Sam at once betook himself\ninto the presence of Mr. Pickwick, and requested leave of absence for\nthat evening, which was readily granted. With this permission and the\nstreet-door key, Sam Weller issued forth a little before the appointed\ntime, and strolled leisurely towards Queen Square, which he no sooner\ngained than he had the satisfaction of beholding Mr. John Smauker\nleaning his powdered head against a lamp-post at a short distance off,\nsmoking a cigar through an amber tube.\n\n'How do you do, Mr. Weller?' said Mr. John Smauker, raising his\nhat gracefully with one hand, while he gently waved the other in a\ncondescending manner. 'How do you do, Sir?'\n\n'Why, reasonably conwalessent,' replied Sam. 'How do YOU find yourself,\nmy dear feller?'\n\n'Only so so,' said Mr. John Smauker.\n\n'Ah, you've been a-workin' too hard,' observed Sam. 'I was fearful\nyou would; it won't do, you know; you must not give way to that 'ere\nuncompromisin' spirit o' yourn.'\n\n'It's not so much that, Mr. Weller,' replied Mr. John Smauker, 'as bad\nwine; I'm afraid I've been dissipating.'\n\n'Oh! that's it, is it?' said Sam; 'that's a wery bad complaint, that.'\n\n'And yet the temptation, you see, Mr. Weller,' observed Mr. John\nSmauker.\n\n'Ah, to be sure,' said Sam.\n\n'Plunged into the very vortex of society, you know, Mr. Weller,' said\nMr. John Smauker, with a sigh.\n\n'Dreadful, indeed!' rejoined Sam.\n\n'But it's always the way,' said Mr. John Smauker; 'if your destiny\nleads you into public life, and public station, you must expect to be\nsubjected to temptations which other people is free from, Mr. Weller.'\n\n'Precisely what my uncle said, ven he vent into the public line,'\nremarked Sam, 'and wery right the old gen'l'm'n wos, for he drank\nhisself to death in somethin' less than a quarter.' Mr. John Smauker\nlooked deeply indignant at any parallel being drawn between himself and\nthe deceased gentleman in question; but, as Sam's face was in the most\nimmovable state of calmness, he thought better of it, and looked affable\nagain. 'Perhaps we had better be walking,' said Mr. Smauker, consulting\na copper timepiece which dwelt at the bottom of a deep watch-pocket, and\nwas raised to the surface by means of a black string, with a copper key\nat the other end.\n\n'P'raps we had,' replied Sam, 'or they'll overdo the swarry, and that'll\nspile it.'\n\n'Have you drank the waters, Mr. Weller?' inquired his companion, as they\nwalked towards High Street.\n\n'Once,' replied Sam.\n\n'What did you think of 'em, Sir?'\n\n'I thought they was particklery unpleasant,' replied Sam.\n\n'Ah,' said Mr. John Smauker, 'you disliked the killibeate taste,\nperhaps?'\n\n'I don't know much about that 'ere,' said Sam. 'I thought they'd a wery\nstrong flavour o' warm flat irons.'\n\n'That IS the killibeate, Mr. Weller,' observed Mr. John Smauker\ncontemptuously.\n\n'Well, if it is, it's a wery inexpressive word, that's all,' said Sam.\n'It may be, but I ain't much in the chimical line myself, so I can't\nsay.' And here, to the great horror of Mr. John Smauker, Sam Weller\nbegan to whistle.\n\n'I beg your pardon, Mr. Weller,' said Mr. John Smauker, agonised at the\nexceeding ungenteel sound, 'will you take my arm?'\n\n'Thank'ee, you're wery good, but I won't deprive you of it,' replied\nSam. 'I've rayther a way o' putting my hands in my pockets, if it's all\nthe same to you.' As Sam said this, he suited the action to the word,\nand whistled far louder than before.\n\n'This way,' said his new friend, apparently much relieved as they turned\ndown a by-street; 'we shall soon be there.'\n\n'Shall we?' said Sam, quite unmoved by the announcement of his close\nvicinity to the select footmen of Bath.\n\n'Yes,' said Mr. John Smauker. 'Don't be alarmed, Mr. Weller.'\n\n'Oh, no,' said Sam.\n\n'You'll see some very handsome uniforms, Mr. Weller,' continued Mr. John\nSmauker; 'and perhaps you'll find some of the gentlemen rather high at\nfirst, you know, but they'll soon come round.'\n\n'That's wery kind on 'em,' replied Sam. 'And you know,' resumed Mr.\nJohn Smauker, with an air of sublime protection--'you know, as you're a\nstranger, perhaps, they'll be rather hard upon you at first.'\n\n'They won't be wery cruel, though, will they?' inquired Sam.\n\n'No, no,' replied Mr. John Smauker, pulling forth the fox's head, and\ntaking a gentlemanly pinch. 'There are some funny dogs among us, and\nthey will have their joke, you know; but you mustn't mind 'em, you\nmustn't mind 'em.'\n\n'I'll try and bear up agin such a reg'lar knock down o' talent,' replied\nSam.\n\n'That's right,' said Mr. John Smauker, putting forth his fox's head, and\nelevating his own; 'I'll stand by you.'\n\nBy this time they had reached a small greengrocer's shop, which Mr. John\nSmauker entered, followed by Sam, who, the moment he got behind him,\nrelapsed into a series of the very broadest and most unmitigated grins,\nand manifested other demonstrations of being in a highly enviable state\nof inward merriment.\n\nCrossing the greengrocer's shop, and putting their hats on the stairs in\nthe little passage behind it, they walked into a small parlour; and here\nthe full splendour of the scene burst upon Mr. Weller's view.\n\nA couple of tables were put together in the middle of the parlour,\ncovered with three or four cloths of different ages and dates of\nwashing, arranged to look as much like one as the circumstances of the\ncase would allow. Upon these were laid knives and forks for six or eight\npeople. Some of the knife handles were green, others red, and a few\nyellow; and as all the forks were black, the combination of colours was\nexceedingly striking. Plates for a corresponding number of guests were\nwarming behind the fender; and the guests themselves were warming before\nit: the chief and most important of whom appeared to be a stoutish\ngentleman in a bright crimson coat with long tails, vividly red\nbreeches, and a cocked hat, who was standing with his back to the fire,\nand had apparently just entered, for besides retaining his cocked hat on\nhis head, he carried in his hand a high stick, such as gentlemen of\nhis profession usually elevate in a sloping position over the roofs of\ncarriages.\n\n'Smauker, my lad, your fin,' said the gentleman with the cocked hat.\n\nMr. Smauker dovetailed the top joint of his right-hand little finger\ninto that of the gentleman with the cocked hat, and said he was charmed\nto see him looking so well.\n\n'Well, they tell me I am looking pretty blooming,' said the man with the\ncocked hat, 'and it's a wonder, too. I've been following our old woman\nabout, two hours a day, for the last fortnight; and if a constant\ncontemplation of the manner in which she hooks-and-eyes that infernal\nlavender-coloured old gown of hers behind, isn't enough to throw anybody\ninto a low state of despondency for life, stop my quarter's salary.'\n\nAt this, the assembled selections laughed very heartily; and one\ngentleman in a yellow waistcoat, with a coach-trimming border, whispered\na neighbour in green-foil smalls, that Tuckle was in spirits to-night.\n\n'By the bye,' said Mr. Tuckle, 'Smauker, my boy, you--' The remainder of\nthe sentence was forwarded into Mr. John Smauker's ear, by whisper.\n\n'Oh, dear me, I quite forgot,' said Mr. John Smauker. 'Gentlemen, my\nfriend Mr. Weller.'\n\n'Sorry to keep the fire off you, Weller,' said Mr. Tuckle, with a\nfamiliar nod. 'Hope you're not cold, Weller.'\n\n'Not by no means, Blazes,' replied Sam. 'It 'ud be a wery chilly subject\nas felt cold wen you stood opposite. You'd save coals if they put you\nbehind the fender in the waitin'-room at a public office, you would.'\n\nAs this retort appeared to convey rather a personal allusion to Mr.\nTuckle's crimson livery, that gentleman looked majestic for a few\nseconds, but gradually edging away from the fire, broke into a forced\nsmile, and said it wasn't bad.\n\n'Wery much obliged for your good opinion, sir,' replied Sam. 'We shall\nget on by degrees, I des-say. We'll try a better one by and bye.'\n\nAt this point the conversation was interrupted by the arrival of a\ngentleman in orange-coloured plush, accompanied by another selection\nin purple cloth, with a great extent of stocking. The new-comers having\nbeen welcomed by the old ones, Mr. Tuckle put the question that supper\nbe ordered in, which was carried unanimously.\n\nThe greengrocer and his wife then arranged upon the table a boiled leg\nof mutton, hot, with caper sauce, turnips, and potatoes. Mr. Tuckle\ntook the chair, and was supported at the other end of the board by the\ngentleman in orange plush. The greengrocer put on a pair of wash-leather\ngloves to hand the plates with, and stationed himself behind Mr.\nTuckle's chair.\n\n'Harris,' said Mr. Tuckle, in a commanding tone. 'Sir,' said the\ngreengrocer.\n\n'Have you got your gloves on?' 'Yes, Sir.'\n\n'Then take the kiver off.'\n\n'Yes, Sir.'\n\nThe greengrocer did as he was told, with a show of great humility, and\nobsequiously handed Mr. Tuckle the carving-knife; in doing which, he\naccidentally gaped.\n\n'What do you mean by that, Sir?' said Mr. Tuckle, with great asperity.\n\n'I beg your pardon, Sir,' replied the crestfallen greengrocer, 'I didn't\nmean to do it, Sir; I was up very late last night, Sir.'\n\n'I tell you what my opinion of you is, Harris,' said Mr. Tuckle, with a\nmost impressive air, 'you're a wulgar beast.'\n\n'I hope, gentlemen,' said Harris, 'that you won't be severe with me,\ngentlemen. I am very much obliged to you indeed, gentlemen, for your\npatronage, and also for your recommendations, gentlemen, whenever\nadditional assistance in waiting is required. I hope, gentlemen, I give\nsatisfaction.'\n\n'No, you don't, Sir,' said Mr. Tuckle. 'Very far from it, Sir.'\n\n'We consider you an inattentive reskel,' said the gentleman in the\norange plush.\n\n'And a low thief,' added the gentleman in the green-foil smalls.\n\n'And an unreclaimable blaygaird,' added the gentleman in purple.\n\nThe poor greengrocer bowed very humbly while these little epithets were\nbestowed upon him, in the true spirit of the very smallest tyranny; and\nwhen everybody had said something to show his superiority, Mr. Tuckle\nproceeded to carve the leg of mutton, and to help the company.\n\nThis important business of the evening had hardly commenced, when the\ndoor was thrown briskly open, and another gentleman in a light-blue\nsuit, and leaden buttons, made his appearance.\n\n'Against the rules,' said Mr. Tuckle. 'Too late, too late.'\n\n'No, no; positively I couldn't help it,' said the gentleman in blue. 'I\nappeal to the company. An affair of gallantry now, an appointment at the\ntheayter.'\n\n'Oh, that indeed,' said the gentleman in the orange plush.\n\n'Yes; raly now, honour bright,' said the man in blue. 'I made a promese\nto fetch our youngest daughter at half-past ten, and she is such an\nuncauminly fine gal, that I raly hadn't the 'art to disappint her. No\noffence to the present company, Sir, but a petticut, sir--a petticut,\nSir, is irrevokeable.'\n\n'I begin to suspect there's something in that quarter,' said Tuckle,\nas the new-comer took his seat next Sam, 'I've remarked, once or twice,\nthat she leans very heavy on your shoulder when she gets in and out of\nthe carriage.'\n\n'Oh, raly, raly, Tuckle, you shouldn't,' said the man in blue. 'It's not\nfair. I may have said to one or two friends that she wos a very divine\ncreechure, and had refused one or two offers without any hobvus cause,\nbut--no, no, no, indeed, Tuckle--before strangers, too--it's not\nright--you shouldn't. Delicacy, my dear friend, delicacy!' And the\nman in blue, pulling up his neckerchief, and adjusting his coat cuffs,\nnodded and frowned as if there were more behind, which he could say if\nhe liked, but was bound in honour to suppress.\n\nThe man in blue being a light-haired, stiff-necked, free and easy sort\nof footman, with a swaggering air and pert face, had attracted Mr.\nWeller's special attention at first, but when he began to come out\nin this way, Sam felt more than ever disposed to cultivate his\nacquaintance; so he launched himself into the conversation at once, with\ncharacteristic independence.\n\n'Your health, Sir,' said Sam. 'I like your conversation much. I think\nit's wery pretty.'\n\nAt this the man in blue smiled, as if it were a compliment he was well\nused to; but looked approvingly on Sam at the same time, and said he\nhoped he should be better acquainted with him, for without any flattery\nat all he seemed to have the makings of a very nice fellow about him,\nand to be just the man after his own heart.\n\n'You're wery good, sir,' said Sam. 'What a lucky feller you are!'\n\n'How do you mean?' inquired the gentleman in blue.\n\n'That 'ere young lady,' replied Sam.'She knows wot's wot, she does. Ah!\nI see.' Mr. Weller closed one eye, and shook his head from side to side,\nin a manner which was highly gratifying to the personal vanity of the\ngentleman in blue.\n\n'I'm afraid your a cunning fellow, Mr. Weller,' said that individual.\n\n'No, no,' said Sam. 'I leave all that 'ere to you. It's a great deal\nmore in your way than mine, as the gen'l'm'n on the right side o'\nthe garden vall said to the man on the wrong un, ven the mad bull vos\na-comin' up the lane.'\n\n'Well, well, Mr. Weller,' said the gentleman in blue, 'I think she has\nremarked my air and manner, Mr. Weller.'\n\n'I should think she couldn't wery well be off o' that,' said Sam.\n\n'Have you any little thing of that kind in hand, sir?' inquired the\nfavoured gentleman in blue, drawing a toothpick from his waistcoat\npocket.\n\n'Not exactly,' said Sam. 'There's no daughters at my place, else o'\ncourse I should ha' made up to vun on 'em. As it is, I don't think I\ncan do with anythin' under a female markis. I might keep up with a young\n'ooman o' large property as hadn't a title, if she made wery fierce love\nto me. Not else.'\n\n'Of course not, Mr. Weller,' said the gentleman in blue, 'one can't\nbe troubled, you know; and WE know, Mr. Weller--we, who are men of the\nworld--that a good uniform must work its way with the women, sooner or\nlater. In fact, that's the only thing, between you and me, that makes\nthe service worth entering into.'\n\n'Just so,' said Sam. 'That's it, o' course.'\n\nWhen this confidential dialogue had gone thus far, glasses were placed\nround, and every gentleman ordered what he liked best, before the\npublic-house shut up. The gentleman in blue, and the man in orange, who\nwere the chief exquisites of the party, ordered 'cold shrub and water,'\nbut with the others, gin-and-water, sweet, appeared to be the favourite\nbeverage. Sam called the greengrocer a 'desp'rate willin,' and ordered\na large bowl of punch--two circumstances which seemed to raise him very\nmuch in the opinion of the selections.\n\n'Gentlemen,' said the man in blue, with an air of the most consummate\ndandyism, 'I'll give you the ladies; come.'\n\n'Hear, hear!' said Sam. 'The young mississes.'\n\nHere there was a loud cry of 'Order,' and Mr. John Smauker, as the\ngentleman who had introduced Mr. Weller into that company, begged to\ninform him that the word he had just made use of, was unparliamentary.\n\n'Which word was that 'ere, Sir?' inquired Sam. 'Mississes, Sir,' replied\nMr. John Smauker, with an alarming frown. 'We don't recognise such\ndistinctions here.'\n\n'Oh, wery good,' said Sam; 'then I'll amend the obserwation and call 'em\nthe dear creeturs, if Blazes vill allow me.'\n\nSome doubt appeared to exist in the mind of the gentleman in the\ngreen-foil smalls, whether the chairman could be legally appealed to,\nas 'Blazes,' but as the company seemed more disposed to stand upon\ntheir own rights than his, the question was not raised. The man with\nthe cocked hat breathed short, and looked long at Sam, but apparently\nthought it as well to say nothing, in case he should get the worst of\nit. After a short silence, a gentleman in an embroidered coat reaching\ndown to his heels, and a waistcoat of the same which kept one half of\nhis legs warm, stirred his gin-and-water with great energy, and putting\nhimself upon his feet, all at once by a violent effort, said he was\ndesirous of offering a few remarks to the company, whereupon the person\nin the cocked hat had no doubt that the company would be very happy to\nhear any remarks that the man in the long coat might wish to offer.\n\n'I feel a great delicacy, gentlemen, in coming for'ard,' said the man in\nthe long coat, 'having the misforchune to be a coachman, and being only\nadmitted as a honorary member of these agreeable swarrys, but I do\nfeel myself bound, gentlemen--drove into a corner, if I may use the\nexpression--to make known an afflicting circumstance which has come\nto my knowledge; which has happened I may say within the soap of my\neveryday contemplation. Gentlemen, our friend Mr. Whiffers (everybody\nlooked at the individual in orange), our friend Mr. Whiffers has\nresigned.'\n\nUniversal astonishment fell upon the hearers. Each gentleman looked in\nhis neighbour's face, and then transferred his glance to the upstanding\ncoachman.\n\n'You may well be sapparised, gentlemen,' said the coachman. 'I will not\nwenchure to state the reasons of this irrepairabel loss to the service,\nbut I will beg Mr. Whiffers to state them himself, for the improvement\nand imitation of his admiring friends.'\n\nThe suggestion being loudly approved of, Mr. Whiffers explained. He said\nhe certainly could have wished to have continued to hold the appointment\nhe had just resigned. The uniform was extremely rich and expensive,\nthe females of the family was most agreeable, and the duties of the\nsituation was not, he was bound to say, too heavy; the principal service\nthat was required of him, being, that he should look out of the hall\nwindow as much as possible, in company with another gentleman, who had\nalso resigned. He could have wished to have spared that company the\npainful and disgusting detail on which he was about to enter, but as\nthe explanation had been demanded of him, he had no alternative but\nto state, boldly and distinctly, that he had been required to eat cold\nmeat.\n\nIt is impossible to conceive the disgust which this avowal awakened in\nthe bosoms of the hearers. Loud cries of 'Shame,' mingled with groans\nand hisses, prevailed for a quarter of an hour.\n\nMr. Whiffers then added that he feared a portion of this outrage might\nbe traced to his own forbearing and accommodating disposition. He had a\ndistinct recollection of having once consented to eat salt butter, and\nhe had, moreover, on an occasion of sudden sickness in the house, so far\nforgotten himself as to carry a coal-scuttle up to the second floor. He\ntrusted he had not lowered himself in the good opinion of his friends\nby this frank confession of his faults; and he hoped the promptness with\nwhich he had resented the last unmanly outrage on his feelings, to which\nhe had referred, would reinstate him in their good opinion, if he had.\n\nMr. Whiffers's address was responded to, with a shout of admiration, and\nthe health of the interesting martyr was drunk in a most enthusiastic\nmanner; for this, the martyr returned thanks, and proposed their\nvisitor, Mr. Weller--a gentleman whom he had not the pleasure of an\nintimate acquaintance with, but who was the friend of Mr. John Smauker,\nwhich was a sufficient letter of recommendation to any society of\ngentlemen whatever, or wherever. On this account, he should have been\ndisposed to have given Mr. Weller's health with all the honours, if his\nfriends had been drinking wine; but as they were taking spirits by way\nof a change, and as it might be inconvenient to empty a tumbler at every\ntoast, he should propose that the honours be understood.\n\nAt the conclusion of this speech, everybody took a sip in honour of\nSam; and Sam having ladled out, and drunk, two full glasses of punch in\nhonour of himself, returned thanks in a neat speech.\n\n'Wery much obliged to you, old fellers,' said Sam, ladling away at\nthe punch in the most unembarrassed manner possible, 'for this here\ncompliment; which, comin' from sich a quarter, is wery overvelmin'.\nI've heered a good deal on you as a body, but I will say, that I never\nthought you was sich uncommon nice men as I find you air. I only hope\nyou'll take care o' yourselves, and not compromise nothin' o' your\ndignity, which is a wery charmin' thing to see, when one's out\na-walkin', and has always made me wery happy to look at, ever since\nI was a boy about half as high as the brass-headed stick o' my wery\nrespectable friend, Blazes, there. As to the wictim of oppression in the\nsuit o' brimstone, all I can say of him, is, that I hope he'll get jist\nas good a berth as he deserves; in vitch case it's wery little cold\nswarry as ever he'll be troubled with agin.'\n\nHere Sam sat down with a pleasant smile, and his speech having been\nvociferously applauded, the company broke up.\n\n'Wy, you don't mean to say you're a-goin' old feller?' said Sam Weller\nto his friend, Mr. John Smauker.\n\n'I must, indeed,' said Mr. Smauker; 'I promised Bantam.'\n\n'Oh, wery well,' said Sam; 'that's another thing. P'raps he'd resign if\nyou disappinted him. You ain't a-goin', Blazes?'\n\n'Yes, I am,' said the man with the cocked hat.\n\n'Wot, and leave three-quarters of a bowl of punch behind you!' said Sam;\n'nonsense, set down agin.'\n\nMr. Tuckle was not proof against this invitation. He laid aside the\ncocked hat and stick which he had just taken up, and said he would have\none glass, for good fellowship's sake.\n\nAs the gentleman in blue went home the same way as Mr. Tuckle, he was\nprevailed upon to stop too. When the punch was about half gone, Sam\nordered in some oysters from the green-grocer's shop; and the effect of\nboth was so extremely exhilarating, that Mr. Tuckle, dressed out with\nthe cocked hat and stick, danced the frog hornpipe among the shells on\nthe table, while the gentleman in blue played an accompaniment upon an\ningenious musical instrument formed of a hair-comb upon a curl-paper. At\nlast, when the punch was all gone, and the night nearly so, they sallied\nforth to see each other home. Mr. Tuckle no sooner got into the open\nair, than he was seized with a sudden desire to lie on the curbstone;\nSam thought it would be a pity to contradict him, and so let him have\nhis own way. As the cocked hat would have been spoiled if left there,\nSam very considerately flattened it down on the head of the gentleman in\nblue, and putting the big stick in his hand, propped him up against his\nown street-door, rang the bell, and walked quietly home.\n\nAt a much earlier hour next morning than his usual time of rising, Mr.\nPickwick walked downstairs completely dressed, and rang the bell.\n\n'Sam,' said Mr. Pickwick, when Mr. Weller appeared in reply to the\nsummons, 'shut the door.'\n\nMr. Weller did so.\n\n'There was an unfortunate occurrence here, last night, Sam,' said Mr.\nPickwick, 'which gave Mr. Winkle some cause to apprehend violence from\nMr. Dowler.'\n\n'So I've heerd from the old lady downstairs, Sir,' replied Sam.\n\n'And I'm sorry to say, Sam,' continued Mr. Pickwick, with a most\nperplexed countenance, 'that in dread of this violence, Mr. Winkle has\ngone away.'\n\n'Gone avay!' said Sam.\n\n'Left the house early this morning, without the slightest previous\ncommunication with me,' replied Mr. Pickwick. 'And is gone, I know not\nwhere.'\n\n'He should ha' stopped and fought it out, Sir,' replied Sam\ncontemptuously. 'It wouldn't take much to settle that 'ere Dowler, Sir.'\n\n'Well, Sam,' said Mr. Pickwick, 'I may have my doubts of his great\nbravery and determination also. But however that may be, Mr. Winkle is\ngone. He must be found, Sam. Found and brought back to me.' 'And s'pose\nhe won't come back, Sir?' said Sam.\n\n'He must be made, Sam,' said Mr. Pickwick.\n\n'Who's to do it, Sir?' inquired Sam, with a smile.\n\n'You,' replied Mr. Pickwick.\n\n'Wery good, Sir.'\n\nWith these words Mr. Weller left the room, and immediately afterwards\nwas heard to shut the street door. In two hours' time he returned with\nso much coolness as if he had been despatched on the most ordinary\nmessage possible, and brought the information that an individual, in\nevery respect answering Mr. Winkle's description, had gone over to\nBristol that morning, by the branch coach from the Royal Hotel.\n\n'Sam,' said Mr. Pickwick, grasping his hand, 'you're a capital fellow;\nan invaluable fellow. You must follow him, Sam.'\n\n'Cert'nly, Sir,' replied Mr. Weller.\n\n'The instant you discover him, write to me immediately, Sam,' said Mr.\nPickwick. 'If he attempts to run away from you, knock him down, or lock\nhim up. You have my full authority, Sam.'\n\n'I'll be wery careful, sir,' rejoined Sam.\n\n'You'll tell him,' said Mr. Pickwick, 'that I am highly excited, highly\ndispleased, and naturally indignant, at the very extraordinary course he\nhas thought proper to pursue.'\n\n'I will, Sir,' replied Sam.\n\n'You'll tell him,' said Mr. Pickwick, 'that if he does not come back to\nthis very house, with you, he will come back with me, for I will come\nand fetch him.'\n\n'I'll mention that 'ere, Sir,' rejoined Sam.\n\n'You think you can find him, Sam?' said Mr. Pickwick, looking earnestly\nin his face.\n\n'Oh, I'll find him if he's anyvere,' rejoined Sam, with great\nconfidence.\n\n'Very well,' said Mr. Pickwick. 'Then the sooner you go the better.'\n\nWith these instructions, Mr. Pickwick placed a sum of money in the\nhands of his faithful servitor, and ordered him to start for Bristol\nimmediately, in pursuit of the fugitive.\n\nSam put a few necessaries in a carpet-bag, and was ready for starting.\nHe stopped when he had got to the end of the passage, and walking\nquietly back, thrust his head in at the parlour door.\n\n'Sir,' whispered Sam.\n\n'Well, Sam,' said Mr. Pickwick.\n\n'I fully understands my instructions, do I, Sir?' inquired Sam.\n\n'I hope so,' said Mr. Pickwick.\n\n'It's reg'larly understood about the knockin' down, is it, Sir?'\ninquired Sam.\n\n'Perfectly,' replied Pickwick. 'Thoroughly. Do what you think necessary.\nYou have my orders.'\n\nSam gave a nod of intelligence, and withdrawing his head from the door,\nset forth on his pilgrimage with a light heart.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXXVIII. HOW Mr. WINKLE, WHEN HE STEPPED OUT OF THE FRYING-PAN,\nWALKED GENTLY AND COMFORTABLY INTO THE FIRE\n\n\nThe ill-starred gentleman who had been the unfortunate cause of the\nunusual noise and disturbance which alarmed the inhabitants of the Royal\nCrescent in manner and form already described, after passing a night\nof great confusion and anxiety, left the roof beneath which his\nfriends still slumbered, bound he knew not whither. The excellent and\nconsiderate feelings which prompted Mr. Winkle to take this step can\nnever be too highly appreciated or too warmly extolled. 'If,' reasoned\nMr. Winkle with himself--'if this Dowler attempts (as I have no doubt\nhe will) to carry into execution his threat of personal violence against\nmyself, it will be incumbent on me to call him out. He has a wife; that\nwife is attached to, and dependent on him. Heavens! If I should kill\nhim in the blindness of my wrath, what would be my feelings ever\nafterwards!' This painful consideration operated so powerfully on\nthe feelings of the humane young man, as to cause his knees to knock\ntogether, and his countenance to exhibit alarming manifestations of\ninward emotion. Impelled by such reflections, he grasped his carpet-bag,\nand creeping stealthily downstairs, shut the detestable street door with\nas little noise as possible, and walked off. Bending his steps towards\nthe Royal Hotel, he found a coach on the point of starting for Bristol,\nand, thinking Bristol as good a place for his purpose as any other he\ncould go to, he mounted the box, and reached his place of destination\nin such time as the pair of horses, who went the whole stage and back\nagain, twice a day or more, could be reasonably supposed to arrive\nthere. He took up his quarters at the Bush, and designing to postpone\nany communication by letter with Mr. Pickwick until it was probable that\nMr. Dowler's wrath might have in some degree evaporated, walked forth\nto view the city, which struck him as being a shade more dirty than any\nplace he had ever seen. Having inspected the docks and shipping, and\nviewed the cathedral, he inquired his way to Clifton, and being directed\nthither, took the route which was pointed out to him. But as the\npavements of Bristol are not the widest or cleanest upon earth, so its\nstreets are not altogether the straightest or least intricate; and Mr.\nWinkle, being greatly puzzled by their manifold windings and twistings,\nlooked about him for a decent shop in which he could apply afresh for\ncounsel and instruction.\n\nHis eye fell upon a newly-painted tenement which had been recently\nconverted into something between a shop and a private house, and which\na red lamp, projecting over the fanlight of the street door, would have\nsufficiently announced as the residence of a medical practitioner, even\nif the word 'Surgery' had not been inscribed in golden characters on a\nwainscot ground, above the window of what, in times bygone, had been\nthe front parlour. Thinking this an eligible place wherein to make\nhis inquiries, Mr. Winkle stepped into the little shop where the\ngilt-labelled drawers and bottles were; and finding nobody there,\nknocked with a half-crown on the counter, to attract the attention of\nanybody who might happen to be in the back parlour, which he judged to\nbe the innermost and peculiar sanctum of the establishment, from the\nrepetition of the word surgery on the door--painted in white letters\nthis time, by way of taking off the monotony.\n\nAt the first knock, a sound, as of persons fencing with fire-irons,\nwhich had until now been very audible, suddenly ceased; at the second, a\nstudious-looking young gentleman in green spectacles, with a very large\nbook in his hand, glided quietly into the shop, and stepping behind the\ncounter, requested to know the visitor's pleasure.\n\n'I am sorry to trouble you, Sir,' said Mr. Winkle, 'but will you have\nthe goodness to direct me to--'\n\n'Ha! ha! ha!' roared the studious young gentleman, throwing the large\nbook up into the air, and catching it with great dexterity at the very\nmoment when it threatened to smash to atoms all the bottles on the\ncounter. 'Here's a start!'\n\nThere was, without doubt; for Mr. Winkle was so very much astonished\nat the extraordinary behaviour of the medical gentleman, that he\ninvoluntarily retreated towards the door, and looked very much disturbed\nat his strange reception.\n\n'What, don't you know me?' said the medical gentleman. Mr. Winkle\nmurmured, in reply, that he had not that pleasure.\n\n'Why, then,' said the medical gentleman, 'there are hopes for me yet; I\nmay attend half the old women in Bristol, if I've decent luck. Get\nout, you mouldy old villain, get out!' With this adjuration, which was\naddressed to the large book, the medical gentleman kicked the volume\nwith remarkable agility to the farther end of the shop, and, pulling\noff his green spectacles, grinned the identical grin of Robert Sawyer,\nEsquire, formerly of Guy's Hospital in the Borough, with a private\nresidence in Lant Street.\n\n'You don't mean to say you weren't down upon me?' said Mr. Bob Sawyer,\nshaking Mr. Winkle's hand with friendly warmth.\n\n'Upon my word I was not,' replied Mr. Winkle, returning his pressure.\n\n'I wonder you didn't see the name,' said Bob Sawyer, calling his\nfriend's attention to the outer door, on which, in the same white paint,\nwere traced the words 'Sawyer, late Nockemorf.'\n\n'It never caught my eye,' returned Mr. Winkle.\n\n'Lord, if I had known who you were, I should have rushed out, and caught\nyou in my arms,' said Bob Sawyer; 'but upon my life, I thought you were\nthe King's-taxes.'\n\n'No!' said Mr. Winkle.\n\n'I did, indeed,' responded Bob Sawyer, 'and I was just going to say that\nI wasn't at home, but if you'd leave a message I'd be sure to give it\nto myself; for he don't know me; no more does the Lighting and Paving.\nI think the Church-rates guesses who I am, and I know the Water-works\ndoes, because I drew a tooth of his when I first came down here. But\ncome in, come in!' Chattering in this way, Mr. Bob Sawyer pushed Mr.\nWinkle into the back room, where, amusing himself by boring little\ncircular caverns in the chimney-piece with a red-hot poker, sat no less\na person than Mr. Benjamin Allen.\n\n'Well!' said Mr. Winkle. 'This is indeed a pleasure I did not expect.\nWhat a very nice place you have here!'\n\n'Pretty well, pretty well,' replied Bob Sawyer. 'I PASSED, soon after\nthat precious party, and my friends came down with the needful for this\nbusiness; so I put on a black suit of clothes, and a pair of spectacles,\nand came here to look as solemn as I could.'\n\n'And a very snug little business you have, no doubt?' said Mr. Winkle\nknowingly.\n\n'Very,' replied Bob Sawyer. 'So snug, that at the end of a few years\nyou might put all the profits in a wine-glass, and cover 'em over with\na gooseberry leaf.' 'You cannot surely mean that?' said Mr. Winkle.\n'The stock itself--' 'Dummies, my dear boy,' said Bob Sawyer; 'half the\ndrawers have nothing in 'em, and the other half don't open.'\n\n'Nonsense!' said Mr. Winkle.\n\n'Fact--honour!' returned Bob Sawyer, stepping out into the shop, and\ndemonstrating the veracity of the assertion by divers hard pulls at the\nlittle gilt knobs on the counterfeit drawers. 'Hardly anything real in\nthe shop but the leeches, and THEY are second-hand.'\n\n'I shouldn't have thought it!' exclaimed Mr. Winkle, much surprised.\n\n'I hope not,' replied Bob Sawyer, 'else where's the use of appearances,\neh? But what will you take? Do as we do? That's right. Ben, my fine\nfellow, put your hand into the cupboard, and bring out the patent\ndigester.'\n\nMr. Benjamin Allen smiled his readiness, and produced from the closet at\nhis elbow a black bottle half full of brandy.\n\n'You don't take water, of course?' said Bob Sawyer.\n\n'Thank you,' replied Mr. Winkle. 'It's rather early. I should like to\nqualify it, if you have no objection.'\n\n'None in the least, if you can reconcile it to your conscience,' replied\nBob Sawyer, tossing off, as he spoke, a glass of the liquor with great\nrelish. 'Ben, the pipkin!'\n\nMr. Benjamin Allen drew forth, from the same hiding-place, a small brass\npipkin, which Bob Sawyer observed he prided himself upon, particularly\nbecause it looked so business-like. The water in the professional\npipkin having been made to boil, in course of time, by various little\nshovelfuls of coal, which Mr. Bob Sawyer took out of a practicable\nwindow-seat, labelled 'Soda Water,' Mr. Winkle adulterated his brandy;\nand the conversation was becoming general, when it was interrupted\nby the entrance into the shop of a boy, in a sober gray livery and a\ngold-laced hat, with a small covered basket under his arm, whom Mr. Bob\nSawyer immediately hailed with, 'Tom, you vagabond, come here.'\n\nThe boy presented himself accordingly.\n\n'You've been stopping to \"over\" all the posts in Bristol, you idle young\nscamp!' said Mr. Bob Sawyer.\n\n'No, sir, I haven't,' replied the boy.\n\n'You had better not!' said Mr. Bob Sawyer, with a threatening aspect.\n'Who do you suppose will ever employ a professional man, when they see\nhis boy playing at marbles in the gutter, or flying the garter in the\nhorse-road? Have you no feeling for your profession, you groveller? Did\nyou leave all the medicine?' 'Yes, Sir.'\n\n'The powders for the child, at the large house with the new family,\nand the pills to be taken four times a day at the ill-tempered old\ngentleman's with the gouty leg?'\n\n'Yes, sir.'\n\n'Then shut the door, and mind the shop.'\n\n'Come,' said Mr. Winkle, as the boy retired, 'things are not quite so\nbad as you would have me believe, either. There is SOME medicine to be\nsent out.'\n\nMr. Bob Sawyer peeped into the shop to see that no stranger was within\nhearing, and leaning forward to Mr. Winkle, said, in a low tone--\n\n'He leaves it all at the wrong houses.'\n\nMr. Winkle looked perplexed, and Bob Sawyer and his friend laughed.\n\n'Don't you see?' said Bob. 'He goes up to a house, rings the area bell,\npokes a packet of medicine without a direction into the servant's hand,\nand walks off. Servant takes it into the dining-parlour; master opens\nit, and reads the label: \"Draught to be taken at bedtime--pills as\nbefore--lotion as usual--the powder. From Sawyer's, late Nockemorf's.\nPhysicians' prescriptions carefully prepared,\" and all the rest of\nit. Shows it to his wife--she reads the label; it goes down to the\nservants--THEY read the label. Next day, boy calls: \"Very sorry--his\nmistake--immense business--great many parcels to deliver--Mr. Sawyer's\ncompliments--late Nockemorf.\" The name gets known, and that's the thing,\nmy boy, in the medical way. Bless your heart, old fellow, it's better\nthan all the advertising in the world. We have got one four-ounce bottle\nthat's been to half the houses in Bristol, and hasn't done yet.'\n\n'Dear me, I see,' observed Mr. Winkle; 'what an excellent plan!'\n\n'Oh, Ben and I have hit upon a dozen such,' replied Bob Sawyer, with\ngreat glee. 'The lamplighter has eighteenpence a week to pull the\nnight-bell for ten minutes every time he comes round; and my boy always\nrushes into the church just before the psalms, when the people have\ngot nothing to do but look about 'em, and calls me out, with horror and\ndismay depicted on his countenance. \"Bless my soul,\" everybody says,\n\"somebody taken suddenly ill! Sawyer, late Nockemorf, sent for. What a\nbusiness that young man has!\"'\n\nAt the termination of this disclosure of some of the mysteries of\nmedicine, Mr. Bob Sawyer and his friend, Ben Allen, threw themselves\nback in their respective chairs, and laughed boisterously. When they\nhad enjoyed the joke to their heart's content, the discourse changed to\ntopics in which Mr. Winkle was more immediately interested.\n\nWe think we have hinted elsewhere, that Mr. Benjamin Allen had a way of\nbecoming sentimental after brandy. The case is not a peculiar one, as\nwe ourself can testify, having, on a few occasions, had to deal with\npatients who have been afflicted in a similar manner. At this precise\nperiod of his existence, Mr. Benjamin Allen had perhaps a greater\npredisposition to maudlinism than he had ever known before; the cause\nof which malady was briefly this. He had been staying nearly three weeks\nwith Mr. Bob Sawyer; Mr. Bob Sawyer was not remarkable for temperance,\nnor was Mr. Benjamin Allen for the ownership of a very strong head; the\nconsequence was that, during the whole space of time just mentioned,\nMr. Benjamin Allen had been wavering between intoxication partial, and\nintoxication complete.\n\n'My dear friend,' said Mr. Ben Allen, taking advantage of Mr. Bob\nSawyer's temporary absence behind the counter, whither he had retired\nto dispense some of the second-hand leeches, previously referred to; 'my\ndear friend, I am very miserable.'\n\nMr. Winkle professed his heartfelt regret to hear it, and begged to know\nwhether he could do anything to alleviate the sorrows of the suffering\nstudent.\n\n'Nothing, my dear boy, nothing,' said Ben. 'You recollect Arabella,\nWinkle? My sister Arabella--a little girl, Winkle, with black eyes--when\nwe were down at Wardle's? I don't know whether you happened to notice\nher--a nice little girl, Winkle. Perhaps my features may recall her\ncountenance to your recollection?'\n\nMr. Winkle required nothing to recall the charming Arabella to his mind;\nand it was rather fortunate he did not, for the features of her brother\nBenjamin would unquestionably have proved but an indifferent refresher\nto his memory. He answered, with as much calmness as he could assume,\nthat he perfectly remembered the young lady referred to, and sincerely\ntrusted she was in good health.\n\n'Our friend Bob is a delightful fellow, Winkle,' was the only reply of\nMr. Ben Allen.\n\n'Very,' said Mr. Winkle, not much relishing this close connection of the\ntwo names.\n\n'I designed 'em for each other; they were made for each other, sent into\nthe world for each other, born for each other, Winkle,' said Mr. Ben\nAllen, setting down his glass with emphasis. 'There's a special destiny\nin the matter, my dear sir; there's only five years' difference between\n'em, and both their birthdays are in August.'\n\nMr. Winkle was too anxious to hear what was to follow to express much\nwonderment at this extraordinary coincidence, marvellous as it was; so\nMr. Ben Allen, after a tear or two, went on to say that, notwithstanding\nall his esteem and respect and veneration for his friend, Arabella had\nunaccountably and undutifully evinced the most determined antipathy to\nhis person.\n\n'And I think,' said Mr. Ben Allen, in conclusion. 'I think there's a\nprior attachment.'\n\n'Have you any idea who the object of it might be?' asked Mr. Winkle,\nwith great trepidation.\n\nMr. Ben Allen seized the poker, flourished it in a warlike manner above\nhis head, inflicted a savage blow on an imaginary skull, and wound up by\nsaying, in a very expressive manner, that he only wished he could guess;\nthat was all.\n\n'I'd show him what I thought of him,' said Mr. Ben Allen. And round went\nthe poker again, more fiercely than before.\n\nAll this was, of course, very soothing to the feelings of Mr. Winkle,\nwho remained silent for a few minutes; but at length mustered up\nresolution to inquire whether Miss Allen was in Kent.\n\n'No, no,' said Mr. Ben Allen, laying aside the poker, and looking very\ncunning; 'I didn't think Wardle's exactly the place for a headstrong\ngirl; so, as I am her natural protector and guardian, our parents being\ndead, I have brought her down into this part of the country to spend a\nfew months at an old aunt's, in a nice, dull, close place. I think that\nwill cure her, my boy. If it doesn't, I'll take her abroad for a little\nwhile, and see what that'll do.'\n\n'Oh, the aunt's is in Bristol, is it?' faltered Mr. Winkle.\n\n'No, no, not in Bristol,' replied Mr. Ben Allen, jerking his thumb over\nhis right shoulder; 'over that way--down there. But, hush, here's Bob.\nNot a word, my dear friend, not a word.'\n\nShort as this conversation was, it roused in Mr. Winkle the highest\ndegree of excitement and anxiety. The suspected prior attachment rankled\nin his heart. Could he be the object of it? Could it be for him that the\nfair Arabella had looked scornfully on the sprightly Bob Sawyer, or had\nhe a successful rival? He determined to see her, cost what it might;\nbut here an insurmountable objection presented itself, for whether the\nexplanatory 'over that way,' and 'down there,' of Mr. Ben Allen, meant\nthree miles off, or thirty, or three hundred, he could in no wise guess.\n\nBut he had no opportunity of pondering over his love just then, for Bob\nSawyer's return was the immediate precursor of the arrival of a meat-pie\nfrom the baker's, of which that gentleman insisted on his staying to\npartake. The cloth was laid by an occasional charwoman, who officiated\nin the capacity of Mr. Bob Sawyer's housekeeper; and a third knife and\nfork having been borrowed from the mother of the boy in the gray livery\n(for Mr. Sawyer's domestic arrangements were as yet conducted on a\nlimited scale), they sat down to dinner; the beer being served up, as\nMr. Sawyer remarked, 'in its native pewter.'\n\nAfter dinner, Mr. Bob Sawyer ordered in the largest mortar in the shop,\nand proceeded to brew a reeking jorum of rum-punch therein, stirring up\nand amalgamating the materials with a pestle in a very creditable and\napothecary-like manner. Mr. Sawyer, being a bachelor, had only one\ntumbler in the house, which was assigned to Mr. Winkle as a compliment\nto the visitor, Mr. Ben Allen being accommodated with a funnel with a\ncork in the narrow end, and Bob Sawyer contented himself with one of\nthose wide-lipped crystal vessels inscribed with a variety of cabalistic\ncharacters, in which chemists are wont to measure out their liquid drugs\nin compounding prescriptions. These preliminaries adjusted, the punch\nwas tasted, and pronounced excellent; and it having been arranged that\nBob Sawyer and Ben Allen should be considered at liberty to fill twice\nto Mr. Winkle's once, they started fair, with great satisfaction and\ngood-fellowship.\n\nThere was no singing, because Mr. Bob Sawyer said it wouldn't look\nprofessional; but to make amends for this deprivation there was so much\ntalking and laughing that it might have been heard, and very likely was,\nat the end of the street. Which conversation materially lightened the\nhours and improved the mind of Mr. Bob Sawyer's boy, who, instead of\ndevoting the evening to his ordinary occupation of writing his name on\nthe counter, and rubbing it out again, peeped through the glass door,\nand thus listened and looked on at the same time.\n\nThe mirth of Mr. Bob Sawyer was rapidly ripening into the furious, Mr.\nBen Allen was fast relapsing into the sentimental, and the punch had\nwell-nigh disappeared altogether, when the boy hastily running in,\nannounced that a young woman had just come over, to say that Sawyer late\nNockemorf was wanted directly, a couple of streets off. This broke up\nthe party. Mr. Bob Sawyer, understanding the message, after some twenty\nrepetitions, tied a wet cloth round his head to sober himself, and,\nhaving partially succeeded, put on his green spectacles and issued\nforth. Resisting all entreaties to stay till he came back, and finding\nit quite impossible to engage Mr. Ben Allen in any intelligible\nconversation on the subject nearest his heart, or indeed on any other,\nMr. Winkle took his departure, and returned to the Bush.\n\nThe anxiety of his mind, and the numerous meditations which Arabella\nhad awakened, prevented his share of the mortar of punch producing that\neffect upon him which it would have had under other circumstances. So,\nafter taking a glass of soda-water and brandy at the bar, he turned into\nthe coffee-room, dispirited rather than elevated by the occurrences of\nthe evening. Sitting in front of the fire, with his back towards him,\nwas a tallish gentleman in a greatcoat: the only other occupant of the\nroom. It was rather a cool evening for the season of the year, and the\ngentleman drew his chair aside to afford the new-comer a sight of the\nfire. What were Mr. Winkle's feelings when, in doing so, he disclosed to\nview the face and figure of the vindictive and sanguinary Dowler!\n\nMr. Winkle's first impulse was to give a violent pull at the nearest\nbell-handle, but that unfortunately happened to be immediately behind\nMr. Dowler's head. He had made one step towards it, before he checked\nhimself. As he did so, Mr. Dowler very hastily drew back.\n\n'Mr. Winkle, Sir. Be calm. Don't strike me. I won't bear it. A blow!\nNever!' said Mr. Dowler, looking meeker than Mr. Winkle had expected in\na gentleman of his ferocity.\n\n'A blow, Sir?' stammered Mr. Winkle.\n\n'A blow, Sir,' replied Dowler. 'Compose your feelings. Sit down. Hear\nme.'\n\n'Sir,' said Mr. Winkle, trembling from head to foot, 'before I consent\nto sit down beside, or opposite you, without the presence of a waiter, I\nmust be secured by some further understanding. You used a threat against\nme last night, Sir, a dreadful threat, Sir.' Here Mr. Winkle turned very\npale indeed, and stopped short.\n\n'I did,' said Dowler, with a countenance almost as white as Mr.\nWinkle's. 'Circumstances were suspicious. They have been explained.\nI respect your bravery. Your feeling is upright. Conscious innocence.\nThere's my hand. Grasp it.'\n\n'Really, Sir,' said Mr. Winkle, hesitating whether to give his hand or\nnot, and almost fearing that it was demanded in order that he might be\ntaken at an advantage, 'really, Sir, I--'\n\n'I know what you mean,' interposed Dowler. 'You feel aggrieved. Very\nnatural. So should I. I was wrong. I beg your pardon. Be friendly.\nForgive me.' With this, Dowler fairly forced his hand upon Mr. Winkle,\nand shaking it with the utmost vehemence, declared he was a fellow of\nextreme spirit, and he had a higher opinion of him than ever.\n\n'Now,' said Dowler, 'sit down. Relate it all. How did you find me? When\ndid you follow? Be frank. Tell me.'\n\n'It's quite accidental,' replied Mr. Winkle, greatly perplexed by the\ncurious and unexpected nature of the interview. 'Quite.'\n\n'Glad of it,' said Dowler. 'I woke this morning. I had forgotten my\nthreat. I laughed at the accident. I felt friendly. I said so.'\n\n'To whom?' inquired Mr. Winkle.\n\n'To Mrs. Dowler. \"You made a vow,\" said she. \"I did,\" said I. \"It was a\nrash one,\" said she. \"It was,\" said I. \"I'll apologise. Where is he?\"'\n\n'Who?' inquired Mr. Winkle.\n\n'You,' replied Dowler. 'I went downstairs. You were not to be found.\nPickwick looked gloomy. Shook his head. Hoped no violence would be\ncommitted. I saw it all. You felt yourself insulted. You had gone, for\na friend perhaps. Possibly for pistols. \"High spirit,\" said I. \"I admire\nhim.\"'\n\nMr. Winkle coughed, and beginning to see how the land lay, assumed a\nlook of importance.\n\n'I left a note for you,' resumed Dowler. 'I said I was sorry. So I was.\nPressing business called me here. You were not satisfied. You followed.\nYou required a verbal explanation. You were right. It's all over now. My\nbusiness is finished. I go back to-morrow. Join me.'\n\nAs Dowler progressed in his explanation, Mr. Winkle's countenance grew\nmore and more dignified. The mysterious nature of the commencement of\ntheir conversation was explained; Mr. Dowler had as great an objection\nto duelling as himself; in short, this blustering and awful personage\nwas one of the most egregious cowards in existence, and interpreting Mr.\nWinkle's absence through the medium of his own fears, had taken the same\nstep as himself, and prudently retired until all excitement of feeling\nshould have subsided.\n\nAs the real state of the case dawned upon Mr. Winkle's mind, he looked\nvery terrible, and said he was perfectly satisfied; but at the same\ntime, said so with an air that left Mr. Dowler no alternative but to\ninfer that if he had not been, something most horrible and destructive\nmust inevitably have occurred. Mr. Dowler appeared to be impressed with\na becoming sense of Mr. Winkle's magnanimity and condescension; and\nthe two belligerents parted for the night, with many protestations of\neternal friendship.\n\nAbout half-past twelve o'clock, when Mr. Winkle had been revelling some\ntwenty minutes in the full luxury of his first sleep, he was suddenly\nawakened by a loud knocking at his chamber door, which, being repeated\nwith increased vehemence, caused him to start up in bed, and inquire who\nwas there, and what the matter was.\n\n'Please, Sir, here's a young man which says he must see you directly,'\nresponded the voice of the chambermaid.\n\n'A young man!' exclaimed Mr. Winkle.\n\n'No mistake about that 'ere, Sir,' replied another voice through the\nkeyhole; 'and if that wery same interestin' young creetur ain't let\nin vithout delay, it's wery possible as his legs vill enter afore his\ncountenance.' The young man gave a gentle kick at one of the lower\npanels of the door, after he had given utterance to this hint, as if to\nadd force and point to the remark.\n\n'Is that you, Sam?' inquired Mr. Winkle, springing out of bed.\n\n'Quite unpossible to identify any gen'l'm'n vith any degree o'\nmental satisfaction, vithout lookin' at him, Sir,' replied the voice\ndogmatically.\n\nMr. Winkle, not much doubting who the young man was, unlocked the door;\nwhich he had no sooner done than Mr. Samuel Weller entered with great\nprecipitation, and carefully relocking it on the inside, deliberately\nput the key in his waistcoat pocket; and, after surveying Mr. Winkle\nfrom head to foot, said--\n\n'You're a wery humorous young gen'l'm'n, you air, Sir!'\n\n'What do you mean by this conduct, Sam?' inquired Mr. Winkle\nindignantly. 'Get out, sir, this instant. What do you mean, Sir?'\n\n'What do I mean,' retorted Sam; 'come, Sir, this is rayther too rich,\nas the young lady said when she remonstrated with the pastry-cook, arter\nhe'd sold her a pork pie as had got nothin' but fat inside. What do I\nmean! Well, that ain't a bad 'un, that ain't.'\n\n'Unlock that door, and leave this room immediately, Sir,' said Mr.\nWinkle.\n\n'I shall leave this here room, sir, just precisely at the wery same\nmoment as you leaves it,' responded Sam, speaking in a forcible manner,\nand seating himself with perfect gravity. 'If I find it necessary to\ncarry you away, pick-a-back, o' course I shall leave it the least bit\no' time possible afore you; but allow me to express a hope as you\nwon't reduce me to extremities; in saying wich, I merely quote wot the\nnobleman said to the fractious pennywinkle, ven he vouldn't come out\nof his shell by means of a pin, and he conseqvently began to be afeered\nthat he should be obliged to crack him in the parlour door.' At the end\nof this address, which was unusually lengthy for him, Mr. Weller planted\nhis hands on his knees, and looked full in Mr. Winkle's face, with an\nexpression of countenance which showed that he had not the remotest\nintention of being trifled with.\n\n'You're a amiably-disposed young man, Sir, I don't think,' resumed\nMr. Weller, in a tone of moral reproof, 'to go inwolving our precious\ngovernor in all sorts o' fanteegs, wen he's made up his mind to go\nthrough everythink for principle. You're far worse nor Dodson, Sir;\nand as for Fogg, I consider him a born angel to you!' Mr. Weller having\naccompanied this last sentiment with an emphatic slap on each knee,\nfolded his arms with a look of great disgust, and threw himself back in\nhis chair, as if awaiting the criminal's defence.\n\n'My good fellow,' said Mr. Winkle, extending his hand--his teeth\nchattering all the time he spoke, for he had been standing, during the\nwhole of Mr. Weller's lecture, in his night-gear--'my good fellow, I\nrespect your attachment to my excellent friend, and I am very sorry\nindeed to have added to his causes for disquiet. There, Sam, there!'\n\n'Well,' said Sam, rather sulkily, but giving the proffered hand a\nrespectful shake at the same time--'well, so you ought to be, and I am\nvery glad to find you air; for, if I can help it, I won't have him put\nupon by nobody, and that's all about it.'\n\n'Certainly not, Sam,' said Mr. Winkle. 'There! Now go to bed, Sam, and\nwe'll talk further about this in the morning.'\n\n'I'm wery sorry,' said Sam, 'but I can't go to bed.'\n\n'Not go to bed!' repeated Mr. Winkle.\n\n'No,' said Sam, shaking his head. 'Can't be done.'\n\n'You don't mean to say you're going back to-night, Sam?' urged Mr.\nWinkle, greatly surprised.\n\n'Not unless you particklerly wish it,' replied Sam; 'but I mustn't leave\nthis here room. The governor's orders wos peremptory.'\n\n'Nonsense, Sam,' said Mr. Winkle, 'I must stop here two or three days;\nand more than that, Sam, you must stop here too, to assist me in gaining\nan interview with a young lady--Miss Allen, Sam; you remember her--whom\nI must and will see before I leave Bristol.'\n\nBut in reply to each of these positions, Sam shook his head with great\nfirmness, and energetically replied, 'It can't be done.'\n\nAfter a great deal of argument and representation on the part of\nMr. Winkle, however, and a full disclosure of what had passed in the\ninterview with Dowler, Sam began to waver; and at length a compromise\nwas effected, of which the following were the main and principal\nconditions:--\n\nThat Sam should retire, and leave Mr. Winkle in the undisturbed\npossession of his apartment, on the condition that he had permission to\nlock the door on the outside, and carry off the key; provided always,\nthat in the event of an alarm of fire, or other dangerous contingency,\nthe door should be instantly unlocked. That a letter should be written\nto Mr. Pickwick early next morning, and forwarded per Dowler, requesting\nhis consent to Sam and Mr. Winkle's remaining at Bristol, for the\npurpose and with the object already assigned, and begging an answer\nby the next coach--, if favourable, the aforesaid parties to remain\naccordingly, and if not, to return to Bath immediately on the receipt\nthereof. And, lastly, that Mr. Winkle should be understood as distinctly\npledging himself not to resort to the window, fireplace, or other\nsurreptitious mode of escape in the meanwhile. These stipulations having\nbeen concluded, Sam locked the door and departed.\n\nHe had nearly got downstairs, when he stopped, and drew the key from his\npocket.\n\n'I quite forgot about the knockin' down,' said Sam, half turning back.\n'The governor distinctly said it was to be done. Amazin' stupid o' me,\nthat 'ere! Never mind,' said Sam, brightening up, 'it's easily done\nto-morrow, anyvays.'\n\nApparently much consoled by this reflection, Mr. Weller once more\ndeposited the key in his pocket, and descending the remainder of the\nstairs without any fresh visitations of conscience, was soon, in common\nwith the other inmates of the house, buried in profound repose.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXXIX. Mr. SAMUEL WELLER, BEING INTRUSTED WITH A MISSION OF\nLOVE, PROCEEDS TO EXECUTE IT; WITH WHAT SUCCESS WILL HEREINAFTER APPEAR\n\n\nDuring the whole of next day, Sam kept Mr. Winkle steadily in sight,\nfully determined not to take his eyes off him for one instant, until\nhe should receive express instructions from the fountain-head. However\ndisagreeable Sam's very close watch and great vigilance were to Mr.\nWinkle, he thought it better to bear with them, than, by any act of\nviolent opposition, to hazard being carried away by force, which Mr.\nWeller more than once strongly hinted was the line of conduct that a\nstrict sense of duty prompted him to pursue. There is little reason to\ndoubt that Sam would very speedily have quieted his scruples, by bearing\nMr. Winkle back to Bath, bound hand and foot, had not Mr. Pickwick's\nprompt attention to the note, which Dowler had undertaken to deliver,\nforestalled any such proceeding. In short, at eight o'clock in the\nevening, Mr. Pickwick himself walked into the coffee-room of the Bush\nTavern, and told Sam with a smile, to his very great relief, that he\nhad done quite right, and it was unnecessary for him to mount guard any\nlonger.\n\n'I thought it better to come myself,' said Mr. Pickwick, addressing Mr.\nWinkle, as Sam disencumbered him of his great-coat and travelling-shawl,\n'to ascertain, before I gave my consent to Sam's employment in this\nmatter, that you are quite in earnest and serious, with respect to this\nyoung lady.'\n\n'Serious, from my heart--from my soul!' returned Mr. Winkle, with great\nenergy.\n\n'Remember,' said Mr. Pickwick, with beaming eyes, 'we met her at our\nexcellent and hospitable friend's, Winkle. It would be an ill return to\ntamper lightly, and without due consideration, with this young lady's\naffections. I'll not allow that, sir. I'll not allow it.'\n\n'I have no such intention, indeed,' exclaimed Mr. Winkle warmly. 'I\nhave considered the matter well, for a long time, and I feel that my\nhappiness is bound up in her.'\n\n'That's wot we call tying it up in a small parcel, sir,' interposed Mr.\nWeller, with an agreeable smile.\n\nMr. Winkle looked somewhat stern at this interruption, and Mr. Pickwick\nangrily requested his attendant not to jest with one of the best\nfeelings of our nature; to which Sam replied, 'That he wouldn't, if he\nwas aware on it; but there were so many on 'em, that he hardly know'd\nwhich was the best ones wen he heerd 'em mentioned.'\n\nMr. Winkle then recounted what had passed between himself and Mr. Ben\nAllen, relative to Arabella; stated that his object was to gain an\ninterview with the young lady, and make a formal disclosure of his\npassion; and declared his conviction, founded on certain dark hints\nand mutterings of the aforesaid Ben, that, wherever she was at present\nimmured, it was somewhere near the Downs. And this was his whole stock\nof knowledge or suspicion on the subject.\n\nWith this very slight clue to guide him, it was determined that Mr.\nWeller should start next morning on an expedition of discovery; it was\nalso arranged that Mr. Pickwick and Mr. Winkle, who were less confident\nof their powers, should parade the town meanwhile, and accidentally drop\nin upon Mr. Bob Sawyer in the course of the day, in the hope of seeing\nor hearing something of the young lady's whereabouts.\n\nAccordingly, next morning, Sam Weller issued forth upon his quest, in\nno way daunted by the very discouraging prospect before him; and away\nhe walked, up one street and down another--we were going to say, up one\nhill and down another, only it's all uphill at Clifton--without meeting\nwith anything or anybody that tended to throw the faintest light on the\nmatter in hand. Many were the colloquies into which Sam entered with\ngrooms who were airing horses on roads, and nursemaids who were\nairing children in lanes; but nothing could Sam elicit from either the\nfirst-mentioned or the last, which bore the slightest reference to the\nobject of his artfully-prosecuted inquiries. There were a great many\nyoung ladies in a great many houses, the greater part whereof were\nshrewdly suspected by the male and female domestics to be deeply\nattached to somebody, or perfectly ready to become so, if opportunity\nafforded. But as none among these young ladies was Miss Arabella Allen,\nthe information left Sam at exactly the old point of wisdom at which he\nhad stood before.\n\nSam struggled across the Downs against a good high wind, wondering\nwhether it was always necessary to hold your hat on with both hands in\nthat part of the country, and came to a shady by-place, about which\nwere sprinkled several little villas of quiet and secluded appearance.\nOutside a stable door at the bottom of a long back lane without a\nthoroughfare, a groom in undress was idling about, apparently persuading\nhimself that he was doing something with a spade and a wheel-barrow. We\nmay remark, in this place, that we have scarcely ever seen a groom near\na stable, in his lazy moments, who has not been, to a greater or less\nextent, the victim of this singular delusion.\n\nSam thought he might as well talk to this groom as to any one else,\nespecially as he was very tired with walking, and there was a good large\nstone just opposite the wheel-barrow; so he strolled down the lane, and,\nseating himself on the stone, opened a conversation with the ease and\nfreedom for which he was remarkable.\n\n'Mornin', old friend,' said Sam.\n\n'Arternoon, you mean,' replied the groom, casting a surly look at Sam.\n\n'You're wery right, old friend,' said Sam; 'I DO mean arternoon. How are\nyou?'\n\n'Why, I don't find myself much the better for seeing of you,' replied\nthe ill-tempered groom.\n\n'That's wery odd--that is,' said Sam, 'for you look so uncommon\ncheerful, and seem altogether so lively, that it does vun's heart good\nto see you.'\n\nThe surly groom looked surlier still at this, but not sufficiently so\nto produce any effect upon Sam, who immediately inquired, with a\ncountenance of great anxiety, whether his master's name was not Walker.\n\n'No, it ain't,' said the groom.\n\n'Nor Brown, I s'pose?' said Sam.\n\n'No, it ain't.'\n\n'Nor Vilson?'\n\n'No; nor that either,' said the groom.\n\n'Vell,' replied Sam, 'then I'm mistaken, and he hasn't got the honour\no' my acquaintance, which I thought he had. Don't wait here out o'\ncompliment to me,' said Sam, as the groom wheeled in the barrow, and\nprepared to shut the gate. 'Ease afore ceremony, old boy; I'll excuse\nyou.'\n\n'I'd knock your head off for half-a-crown,' said the surly groom,\nbolting one half of the gate.\n\n'Couldn't afford to have it done on those terms,' rejoined Sam. 'It\n'ud be worth a life's board wages at least, to you, and 'ud be cheap at\nthat. Make my compliments indoors. Tell 'em not to vait dinner for me,\nand say they needn't mind puttin' any by, for it'll be cold afore I come\nin.'\n\nIn reply to this, the groom waxing very wroth, muttered a desire to\ndamage somebody's person; but disappeared without carrying it into\nexecution, slamming the door angrily after him, and wholly unheeding\nSam's affectionate request, that he would leave him a lock of his hair\nbefore he went.\n\nSam continued to sit on the large stone, meditating upon what was best\nto be done, and revolving in his mind a plan for knocking at all the\ndoors within five miles of Bristol, taking them at a hundred and fifty\nor two hundred a day, and endeavouring to find Miss Arabella by that\nexpedient, when accident all of a sudden threw in his way what he might\nhave sat there for a twelvemonth and yet not found without it.\n\nInto the lane where he sat, there opened three or four garden gates,\nbelonging to as many houses, which though detached from each other, were\nonly separated by their gardens. As these were large and long, and well\nplanted with trees, the houses were not only at some distance off,\nbut the greater part of them were nearly concealed from view. Sam was\nsitting with his eyes fixed upon the dust-heap outside the next gate to\nthat by which the groom had disappeared, profoundly turning over in his\nmind the difficulties of his present undertaking, when the gate opened,\nand a female servant came out into the lane to shake some bedside\ncarpets.\n\nSam was so very busy with his own thoughts, that it is probable he would\nhave taken no more notice of the young woman than just raising his\nhead and remarking that she had a very neat and pretty figure, if his\nfeelings of gallantry had not been most strongly roused by observing\nthat she had no one to help her, and that the carpets seemed too heavy\nfor her single strength. Mr. Weller was a gentleman of great gallantry\nin his own way, and he no sooner remarked this circumstance than he\nhastily rose from the large stone, and advanced towards her.\n\n'My dear,' said Sam, sliding up with an air of great respect, 'you'll\nspile that wery pretty figure out o' all perportion if you shake them\ncarpets by yourself. Let me help you.'\n\nThe young lady, who had been coyly affecting not to know that a\ngentleman was so near, turned round as Sam spoke--no doubt (indeed she\nsaid so, afterwards) to decline this offer from a perfect stranger--when\ninstead of speaking, she started back, and uttered a half-suppressed\nscream. Sam was scarcely less staggered, for in the countenance of\nthe well-shaped female servant, he beheld the very features of his\nvalentine, the pretty housemaid from Mr. Nupkins's.\n\n'Wy, Mary, my dear!' said Sam.\n\n'Lauk, Mr. Weller,' said Mary, 'how you do frighten one!'\n\nSam made no verbal answer to this complaint, nor can we precisely say\nwhat reply he did make. We merely know that after a short pause Mary\nsaid, 'Lor, do adun, Mr. Weller!' and that his hat had fallen off a few\nmoments before--from both of which tokens we should be disposed to infer\nthat one kiss, or more, had passed between the parties.\n\n'Why, how did you come here?' said Mary, when the conversation to which\nthis interruption had been offered, was resumed.\n\n'O' course I came to look arter you, my darlin',' replied Mr. Weller;\nfor once permitting his passion to get the better of his veracity.\n\n'And how did you know I was here?' inquired Mary. 'Who could have told\nyou that I took another service at Ipswich, and that they afterwards\nmoved all the way here? Who COULD have told you that, Mr. Weller?'\n\n'Ah, to be sure,' said Sam, with a cunning look, 'that's the pint. Who\ncould ha' told me?'\n\n'It wasn't Mr. Muzzle, was it?' inquired Mary.\n\n'Oh, no.' replied Sam, with a solemn shake of the head, 'it warn't him.'\n\n'It must have been the cook,' said Mary.\n\n'O' course it must,' said Sam.\n\n'Well, I never heard the like of that!' exclaimed Mary.\n\n'No more did I,' said Sam. 'But Mary, my dear'--here Sam's manner grew\nextremely affectionate--'Mary, my dear, I've got another affair in hand\nas is wery pressin'. There's one o' my governor's friends--Mr. Winkle,\nyou remember him?'\n\n'Him in the green coat?' said Mary. 'Oh, yes, I remember him.'\n\n'Well,' said Sam, 'he's in a horrid state o' love; reg'larly comfoozled,\nand done over vith it.'\n\n'Lor!' interposed Mary.\n\n'Yes,' said Sam; 'but that's nothin' if we could find out the young\n'ooman;' and here Sam, with many digressions upon the personal beauty of\nMary, and the unspeakable tortures he had experienced since he last saw\nher, gave a faithful account of Mr. Winkle's present predicament.\n\n'Well,' said Mary, 'I never did!'\n\n'O' course not,' said Sam, 'and nobody never did, nor never vill\nneither; and here am I a-walkin' about like the wandering Jew--a\nsportin' character you have perhaps heerd on Mary, my dear, as vos\nalvays doin' a match agin' time, and never vent to sleep--looking arter\nthis here Miss Arabella Allen.'\n\n'Miss who?' said Mary, in great astonishment.\n\n'Miss Arabella Allen,' said Sam.\n\n'Goodness gracious!' said Mary, pointing to the garden door which the\nsulky groom had locked after him. 'Why, it's that very house; she's\nbeen living there these six weeks. Their upper house-maid, which is\nlady's-maid too, told me all about it over the wash-house palin's before\nthe family was out of bed, one mornin'.'\n\n'Wot, the wery next door to you?' said Sam.\n\n'The very next,' replied Mary.\n\nMr. Weller was so deeply overcome on receiving this intelligence that\nhe found it absolutely necessary to cling to his fair informant for\nsupport; and divers little love passages had passed between them, before\nhe was sufficiently collected to return to the subject.\n\n'Vell,' said Sam at length, 'if this don't beat cock-fightin' nothin'\nnever vill, as the lord mayor said, ven the chief secretary o' state\nproposed his missis's health arter dinner. That wery next house! Wy,\nI've got a message to her as I've been a-trying all day to deliver.'\n\n'Ah,' said Mary, 'but you can't deliver it now, because she only walks\nin the garden in the evening, and then only for a very little time; she\nnever goes out, without the old lady.'\n\nSam ruminated for a few moments, and finally hit upon the following plan\nof operations; that he should return just at dusk--the time at which\nArabella invariably took her walk--and, being admitted by Mary into the\ngarden of the house to which she belonged, would contrive to scramble\nup the wall, beneath the overhanging boughs of a large pear-tree, which\nwould effectually screen him from observation; would there deliver his\nmessage, and arrange, if possible, an interview on behalf of Mr. Winkle\nfor the ensuing evening at the same hour. Having made this arrangement\nwith great despatch, he assisted Mary in the long-deferred occupation of\nshaking the carpets.\n\nIt is not half as innocent a thing as it looks, that shaking little\npieces of carpet--at least, there may be no great harm in the shaking,\nbut the folding is a very insidious process. So long as the shaking\nlasts, and the two parties are kept the carpet's length apart, it is\nas innocent an amusement as can well be devised; but when the folding\nbegins, and the distance between them gets gradually lessened from one\nhalf its former length to a quarter, and then to an eighth, and then to\na sixteenth, and then to a thirty-second, if the carpet be long enough,\nit becomes dangerous. We do not know, to a nicety, how many pieces of\ncarpet were folded in this instance, but we can venture to state that\nas many pieces as there were, so many times did Sam kiss the pretty\nhousemaid.\n\nMr. Weller regaled himself with moderation at the nearest tavern\nuntil it was nearly dusk, and then returned to the lane without the\nthoroughfare. Having been admitted into the garden by Mary, and having\nreceived from that lady sundry admonitions concerning the safety of his\nlimbs and neck, Sam mounted into the pear-tree, to wait until Arabella\nshould come into sight.\n\nHe waited so long without this anxiously-expected event occurring, that\nhe began to think it was not going to take place at all, when he heard\nlight footsteps upon the gravel, and immediately afterwards beheld\nArabella walking pensively down the garden. As soon as she came nearly\nbelow the tree, Sam began, by way of gently indicating his presence, to\nmake sundry diabolical noises similar to those which would probably\nbe natural to a person of middle age who had been afflicted with a\ncombination of inflammatory sore throat, croup, and whooping-cough, from\nhis earliest infancy.\n\nUpon this, the young lady cast a hurried glance towards the spot whence\nthe dreadful sounds proceeded; and her previous alarm being not at\nall diminished when she saw a man among the branches, she would most\ncertainly have decamped, and alarmed the house, had not fear fortunately\ndeprived her of the power of moving, and caused her to sink down on a\ngarden seat, which happened by good luck to be near at hand.\n\n'She's a-goin' off,' soliloquised Sam in great perplexity. 'Wot a thing\nit is, as these here young creeturs will go a-faintin' avay just ven\nthey oughtn't to. Here, young 'ooman, Miss Sawbones, Mrs. Vinkle,\ndon't!'\n\nWhether it was the magic of Mr. Winkle's name, or the coolness of the\nopen air, or some recollection of Mr. Weller's voice, that revived\nArabella, matters not. She raised her head and languidly inquired,\n'Who's that, and what do you want?'\n\n'Hush,' said Sam, swinging himself on to the wall, and crouching there\nin as small a compass as he could reduce himself to, 'only me, miss,\nonly me.'\n\n'Mr. Pickwick's servant!' said Arabella earnestly.\n\n'The wery same, miss,' replied Sam. 'Here's Mr. Vinkle reg'larly sewed\nup vith desperation, miss.'\n\n'Ah!' said Arabella, drawing nearer the wall.\n\n'Ah, indeed,' said Sam. 'Ve thought ve should ha' been obliged to\nstrait-veskit him last night; he's been a-ravin' all day; and he says\nif he can't see you afore to-morrow night's over, he vishes he may be\nsomethin' unpleasanted if he don't drownd hisself.'\n\n'Oh, no, no, Mr. Weller!' said Arabella, clasping her hands.\n\n'That's wot he says, miss,' replied Sam coolly. 'He's a man of his word,\nand it's my opinion he'll do it, miss. He's heerd all about you from the\nsawbones in barnacles.'\n\n'From my brother!' said Arabella, having some faint recognition of Sam's\ndescription.\n\n'I don't rightly know which is your brother, miss,' replied Sam. 'Is it\nthe dirtiest vun o' the two?'\n\n'Yes, yes, Mr. Weller,' returned Arabella, 'go on. Make haste, pray.'\n\n'Well, miss,' said Sam, 'he's heerd all about it from him; and it's the\ngov'nor's opinion that if you don't see him wery quick, the sawbones as\nwe've been a-speakin' on, 'ull get as much extra lead in his head as'll\nrayther damage the dewelopment o' the orgins if they ever put it in\nspirits artervards.'\n\n'Oh, what can I do to prevent these dreadful quarrels!' exclaimed\nArabella.\n\n'It's the suspicion of a priory 'tachment as is the cause of it all,'\nreplied Sam. 'You'd better see him, miss.'\n\n'But how?--where?'cried Arabella. 'I dare not leave the house alone.\nMy brother is so unkind, so unreasonable! I know how strange my talking\nthus to you may appear, Mr. Weller, but I am very, very unhappy--' and\nhere poor Arabella wept so bitterly that Sam grew chivalrous.\n\n'It may seem wery strange talkin' to me about these here affairs, miss,'\nsaid Sam, with great vehemence; 'but all I can say is, that I'm not only\nready but villin' to do anythin' as'll make matters agreeable; and if\nchuckin' either o' them sawboneses out o' winder 'ull do it, I'm the\nman.' As Sam Weller said this, he tucked up his wristbands, at the\nimminent hazard of falling off the wall in so doing, to intimate his\nreadiness to set to work immediately.\n\nFlattering as these professions of good feeling were, Arabella\nresolutely declined (most unaccountably, as Sam thought) to avail\nherself of them. For some time she strenuously refused to grant Mr.\nWinkle the interview Sam had so pathetically requested; but at length,\nwhen the conversation threatened to be interrupted by the unwelcome\narrival of a third party, she hurriedly gave him to understand, with\nmany professions of gratitude, that it was barely possible she might be\nin the garden an hour later, next evening. Sam understood this perfectly\nwell; and Arabella, bestowing upon him one of her sweetest smiles,\ntripped gracefully away, leaving Mr. Weller in a state of very great\nadmiration of her charms, both personal and mental.\n\nHaving descended in safety from the wall, and not forgotten to devote a\nfew moments to his own particular business in the same department,\nMr. Weller then made the best of his way back to the Bush, where his\nprolonged absence had occasioned much speculation and some alarm.\n\n'We must be careful,' said Mr. Pickwick, after listening attentively to\nSam's tale, 'not for our sakes, but for that of the young lady. We must\nbe very cautious.'\n\n'WE!' said Mr. Winkle, with marked emphasis.\n\nMr. Pickwick's momentary look of indignation at the tone of this remark,\nsubsided into his characteristic expression of benevolence, as he\nreplied--\n\n'WE, Sir! I shall accompany you.'\n\n'You!' said Mr. Winkle.\n\n'I,' replied Mr. Pickwick mildly. 'In affording you this interview,\nthe young lady has taken a natural, perhaps, but still a very imprudent\nstep. If I am present at the meeting--a mutual friend, who is old enough\nto be the father of both parties--the voice of calumny can never be\nraised against her hereafter.'\n\nMr. Pickwick's eyes lightened with honest exultation at his own\nforesight, as he spoke thus. Mr. Winkle was touched by this little trait\nof his delicate respect for the young PROTEGEE of his friend, and took\nhis hand with a feeling of regard, akin to veneration.\n\n'You SHALL go,' said Mr. Winkle.\n\n'I will,' said Mr. Pickwick. 'Sam, have my greatcoat and shawl ready,\nand order a conveyance to be at the door to-morrow evening, rather\nearlier than is absolutely necessary, in order that we may be in good\ntime.'\n\nMr. Weller touched his hat, as an earnest of his obedience, and withdrew\nto make all needful preparations for the expedition.\n\nThe coach was punctual to the time appointed; and Mr. Weller, after duly\ninstalling Mr. Pickwick and Mr. Winkle inside, took his seat on the box\nby the driver. They alighted, as had been agreed on, about a quarter of\na mile from the place of rendezvous, and desiring the coachman to await\ntheir return, proceeded the remaining distance on foot.\n\nIt was at this stage of the undertaking that Mr. Pickwick, with many\nsmiles and various other indications of great self-satisfaction,\nproduced from one of his coat pockets a dark lantern, with which he had\nspecially provided himself for the occasion, and the great mechanical\nbeauty of which he proceeded to explain to Mr. Winkle, as they walked\nalong, to the no small surprise of the few stragglers they met.\n\n'I should have been the better for something of this kind, in my last\ngarden expedition, at night; eh, Sam?' said Mr. Pickwick, looking\ngood-humouredly round at his follower, who was trudging behind.\n\n'Wery nice things, if they're managed properly, Sir,' replied Mr.\nWeller; 'but wen you don't want to be seen, I think they're more useful\narter the candle's gone out, than wen it's alight.'\n\nMr. Pickwick appeared struck by Sam's remarks, for he put the lantern\ninto his pocket again, and they walked on in silence.\n\n'Down here, Sir,' said Sam. 'Let me lead the way. This is the lane,\nSir.'\n\nDown the lane they went, and dark enough it was. Mr. Pickwick brought\nout the lantern, once or twice, as they groped their way along, and\nthrew a very brilliant little tunnel of light before them, about a\nfoot in diameter. It was very pretty to look at, but seemed to have the\neffect of rendering surrounding objects rather darker than before.\n\nAt length they arrived at the large stone. Here Sam recommended his\nmaster and Mr. Winkle to seat themselves, while he reconnoitred, and\nascertained whether Mary was yet in waiting.\n\nAfter an absence of five or ten minutes, Sam returned to say that the\ngate was opened, and all quiet. Following him with stealthy tread,\nMr. Pickwick and Mr. Winkle soon found themselves in the garden. Here\neverybody said, 'Hush!' a good many times; and that being done, no one\nseemed to have any very distinct apprehension of what was to be done\nnext.\n\n'Is Miss Allen in the garden yet, Mary?' inquired Mr. Winkle, much\nagitated.\n\n'I don't know, sir,' replied the pretty housemaid. 'The best thing to be\ndone, sir, will be for Mr. Weller to give you a hoist up into the tree,\nand perhaps Mr. Pickwick will have the goodness to see that nobody comes\nup the lane, while I watch at the other end of the garden. Goodness\ngracious, what's that?'\n\n'That 'ere blessed lantern 'ull be the death on us all,' exclaimed Sam\npeevishly. 'Take care wot you're a-doin' on, sir; you're a-sendin' a\nblaze o' light, right into the back parlour winder.'\n\n'Dear me!' said Mr. Pickwick, turning hastily aside, 'I didn't mean to\ndo that.'\n\n'Now, it's in the next house, sir,' remonstrated Sam.\n\n'Bless my heart!' exclaimed Mr. Pickwick, turning round again.\n\n'Now, it's in the stable, and they'll think the place is afire,' said\nSam. 'Shut it up, sir, can't you?'\n\n'It's the most extraordinary lantern I ever met with, in all my life!'\nexclaimed Mr. Pickwick, greatly bewildered by the effects he had so\nunintentionally produced. 'I never saw such a powerful reflector.'\n\n'It'll be vun too powerful for us, if you keep blazin' avay in that\nmanner, sir,' replied Sam, as Mr. Pickwick, after various unsuccessful\nefforts, managed to close the slide. 'There's the young lady's\nfootsteps. Now, Mr. Winkle, sir, up vith you.'\n\n'Stop, stop!' said Mr. Pickwick, 'I must speak to her first. Help me up,\nSam.'\n\n'Gently, Sir,' said Sam, planting his head against the wall, and making\na platform of his back. 'Step atop o' that 'ere flower-pot, Sir. Now\nthen, up vith you.'\n\n'I'm afraid I shall hurt you, Sam,' said Mr. Pickwick.\n\n'Never mind me, Sir,' replied Sam. 'Lend him a hand, Mr. Winkle, sir.\nSteady, sir, steady! That's the time o' day!'\n\nAs Sam spoke, Mr. Pickwick, by exertions almost supernatural in a\ngentleman of his years and weight, contrived to get upon Sam's back; and\nSam gently raising himself up, and Mr. Pickwick holding on fast by the\ntop of the wall, while Mr. Winkle clasped him tight by the legs, they\ncontrived by these means to bring his spectacles just above the level of\nthe coping.\n\n'My dear,' said Mr. Pickwick, looking over the wall, and catching sight\nof Arabella, on the other side, 'don't be frightened, my dear, it's only\nme.' 'Oh, pray go away, Mr. Pickwick,' said Arabella. 'Tell them all to\ngo away. I am so dreadfully frightened. Dear, dear Mr. Pickwick, don't\nstop there. You'll fall down and kill yourself, I know you will.'\n\n'Now, pray don't alarm yourself, my dear,' said Mr. Pickwick soothingly.\n'There is not the least cause for fear, I assure you. Stand firm, Sam,'\nsaid Mr. Pickwick, looking down.\n\n'All right, sir,' replied Mr. Weller. 'Don't be longer than you can\nconweniently help, sir. You're rayther heavy.'\n\n'Only another moment, Sam,' replied Mr. Pickwick.\n\n'I merely wished you to know, my dear, that I should not have allowed\nmy young friend to see you in this clandestine way, if the situation\nin which you are placed had left him any alternative; and, lest the\nimpropriety of this step should cause you any uneasiness, my love, it\nmay be a satisfaction to you, to know that I am present. That's all, my\ndear.'\n\n'Indeed, Mr. Pickwick, I am very much obliged to you for your kindness\nand consideration,' replied Arabella, drying her tears with her\nhandkerchief. She would probably have said much more, had not Mr.\nPickwick's head disappeared with great swiftness, in consequence of a\nfalse step on Sam's shoulder which brought him suddenly to the ground.\nHe was up again in an instant however; and bidding Mr. Winkle make haste\nand get the interview over, ran out into the lane to keep watch, with\nall the courage and ardour of youth. Mr. Winkle himself, inspired by the\noccasion, was on the wall in a moment, merely pausing to request Sam to\nbe careful of his master.\n\n'I'll take care on him, sir,' replied Sam. 'Leave him to me.'\n\n'Where is he? What's he doing, Sam?' inquired Mr. Winkle.\n\n'Bless his old gaiters,' rejoined Sam, looking out at the garden door.\n'He's a-keepin' guard in the lane vith that 'ere dark lantern, like a\namiable Guy Fawkes! I never see such a fine creetur in my days. Blessed\nif I don't think his heart must ha' been born five-and-twenty year arter\nhis body, at least!'\n\nMr. Winkle stayed not to hear the encomium upon his friend. He had\ndropped from the wall; thrown himself at Arabella's feet; and by this\ntime was pleading the sincerity of his passion with an eloquence worthy\neven of Mr. Pickwick himself.\n\nWhile these things were going on in the open air, an elderly gentleman\nof scientific attainments was seated in his library, two or three houses\noff, writing a philosophical treatise, and ever and anon moistening his\nclay and his labours with a glass of claret from a venerable-looking\nbottle which stood by his side. In the agonies of composition, the\nelderly gentleman looked sometimes at the carpet, sometimes at the\nceiling, and sometimes at the wall; and when neither carpet, ceiling,\nnor wall afforded the requisite degree of inspiration, he looked out of\nthe window.\n\nIn one of these pauses of invention, the scientific gentleman was\ngazing abstractedly on the thick darkness outside, when he was very much\nsurprised by observing a most brilliant light glide through the air, at\na short distance above the ground, and almost instantaneously vanish.\nAfter a short time the phenomenon was repeated, not once or twice, but\nseveral times; at last the scientific gentleman, laying down his pen,\nbegan to consider to what natural causes these appearances were to be\nassigned.\n\nThey were not meteors; they were too low. They were not glow-worms; they\nwere too high. They were not will-o'-the-wisps; they were not fireflies;\nthey were not fireworks. What could they be? Some extraordinary and\nwonderful phenomenon of nature, which no philosopher had ever seen\nbefore; something which it had been reserved for him alone to discover,\nand which he should immortalise his name by chronicling for the benefit\nof posterity. Full of this idea, the scientific gentleman seized his\npen again, and committed to paper sundry notes of these unparalleled\nappearances, with the date, day, hour, minute, and precise second\nat which they were visible: all of which were to form the data of a\nvoluminous treatise of great research and deep learning, which should\nastonish all the atmospherical wiseacres that ever drew breath in any\npart of the civilised globe.\n\nHe threw himself back in his easy-chair, wrapped in contemplations of\nhis future greatness. The mysterious light appeared more brilliantly\nthan before, dancing, to all appearance, up and down the lane, crossing\nfrom side to side, and moving in an orbit as eccentric as comets\nthemselves.\n\nThe scientific gentleman was a bachelor. He had no wife to call in and\nastonish, so he rang the bell for his servant.\n\n'Pruffle,' said the scientific gentleman, 'there is something very\nextraordinary in the air to-night? Did you see that?' said the\nscientific gentleman, pointing out of the window, as the light again\nbecame visible.\n\n'Yes, I did, Sir.'\n\n'What do you think of it, Pruffle?'\n\n'Think of it, Sir?'\n\n'Yes. You have been bred up in this country. What should you say was the\ncause for those lights, now?'\n\nThe scientific gentleman smilingly anticipated Pruffle's reply that he\ncould assign no cause for them at all. Pruffle meditated.\n\n'I should say it was thieves, Sir,' said Pruffle at length.\n\n'You're a fool, and may go downstairs,' said the scientific gentleman.\n\n'Thank you, Sir,' said Pruffle. And down he went.\n\nBut the scientific gentleman could not rest under the idea of the\ningenious treatise he had projected being lost to the world, which must\ninevitably be the case if the speculation of the ingenious Mr. Pruffle\nwere not stifled in its birth. He put on his hat and walked quickly down\nthe garden, determined to investigate the matter to the very bottom.\n\nNow, shortly before the scientific gentleman walked out into the garden,\nMr. Pickwick had run down the lane as fast as he could, to convey a\nfalse alarm that somebody was coming that way; occasionally drawing back\nthe slide of the dark lantern to keep himself from the ditch. The alarm\nwas no sooner given, than Mr. Winkle scrambled back over the wall, and\nArabella ran into the house; the garden gate was shut, and the three\nadventurers were making the best of their way down the lane, when they\nwere startled by the scientific gentleman unlocking his garden gate.\n\n'Hold hard,' whispered Sam, who was, of course, the first of the party.\n'Show a light for just vun second, Sir.'\n\nMr. Pickwick did as he was desired, and Sam, seeing a man's head peeping\nout very cautiously within half a yard of his own, gave it a gentle tap\nwith his clenched fist, which knocked it, with a hollow sound,\nagainst the gate. Having performed this feat with great suddenness and\ndexterity, Mr. Weller caught Mr. Pickwick up on his back, and followed\nMr. Winkle down the lane at a pace which, considering the burden he\ncarried, was perfectly astonishing.\n\n'Have you got your vind back agin, Sir,' inquired Sam, when they had\nreached the end.\n\n'Quite. Quite, now,' replied Mr. Pickwick.\n\n'Then come along, Sir,' said Sam, setting his master on his feet again.\n'Come betveen us, sir. Not half a mile to run. Think you're vinnin' a\ncup, sir. Now for it.'\n\nThus encouraged, Mr. Pickwick made the very best use of his legs. It may\nbe confidently stated that a pair of black gaiters never got over the\nground in better style than did those of Mr. Pickwick on this memorable\noccasion.\n\nThe coach was waiting, the horses were fresh, the roads were good, and\nthe driver was willing. The whole party arrived in safety at the Bush\nbefore Mr. Pickwick had recovered his breath.\n\n'In with you at once, sir,' said Sam, as he helped his master out.\n'Don't stop a second in the street, arter that 'ere exercise. Beg your\npardon, sir,'continued Sam, touching his hat as Mr. Winkle descended,\n'hope there warn't a priory 'tachment, sir?'\n\nMr. Winkle grasped his humble friend by the hand, and whispered in his\near, 'It's all right, Sam; quite right.' Upon which Mr. Weller struck\nthree distinct blows upon his nose in token of intelligence, smiled,\nwinked, and proceeded to put the steps up, with a countenance expressive\nof lively satisfaction.\n\nAs to the scientific gentleman, he demonstrated, in a masterly treatise,\nthat these wonderful lights were the effect of electricity; and clearly\nproved the same by detailing how a flash of fire danced before his eyes\nwhen he put his head out of the gate, and how he received a shock which\nstunned him for a quarter of an hour afterwards; which demonstration\ndelighted all the scientific associations beyond measure, and caused him\nto be considered a light of science ever afterwards.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XL. INTRODUCES Mr. PICKWICK TO A NEW AND NOT UNINTERESTING SCENE\nIN THE GREAT DRAMA OF LIFE\n\n\nThe remainder of the period which Mr. Pickwick had assigned as the\nduration of the stay at Bath passed over without the occurrence of\nanything material. Trinity term commenced. On the expiration of its\nfirst week, Mr. Pickwick and his friends returned to London; and the\nformer gentleman, attended of course by Sam, straightway repaired to his\nold quarters at the George and Vulture.\n\nOn the third morning after their arrival, just as all the clocks in the\ncity were striking nine individually, and somewhere about nine hundred\nand ninety-nine collectively, Sam was taking the air in George Yard,\nwhen a queer sort of fresh-painted vehicle drove up, out of which there\njumped with great agility, throwing the reins to a stout man who sat\nbeside him, a queer sort of gentleman, who seemed made for the vehicle,\nand the vehicle for him.\n\nThe vehicle was not exactly a gig, neither was it a stanhope. It was not\nwhat is currently denominated a dog-cart, neither was it a taxed cart,\nnor a chaise-cart, nor a guillotined cabriolet; and yet it had something\nof the character of each and every of these machines. It was painted a\nbright yellow, with the shafts and wheels picked out in black; and the\ndriver sat in the orthodox sporting style, on cushions piled about two\nfeet above the rail. The horse was a bay, a well-looking animal\nenough; but with something of a flash and dog-fighting air about him,\nnevertheless, which accorded both with the vehicle and his master.\n\nThe master himself was a man of about forty, with black hair, and\ncarefully combed whiskers. He was dressed in a particularly gorgeous\nmanner, with plenty of articles of jewellery about him--all about three\nsizes larger than those which are usually worn by gentlemen--and a rough\ngreatcoat to crown the whole. Into one pocket of this greatcoat, he\nthrust his left hand the moment he dismounted, while from the other he\ndrew forth, with his right, a very bright and glaring silk handkerchief,\nwith which he whisked a speck or two of dust from his boots, and then,\ncrumpling it in his hand, swaggered up the court.\n\nIt had not escaped Sam's attention that, when this person dismounted, a\nshabby-looking man in a brown greatcoat shorn of divers buttons, who had\nbeen previously slinking about, on the opposite side of the way, crossed\nover, and remained stationary close by. Having something more than a\nsuspicion of the object of the gentleman's visit, Sam preceded him to\nthe George and Vulture, and, turning sharp round, planted himself in the\nCentre of the doorway.\n\n'Now, my fine fellow!' said the man in the rough coat, in an imperious\ntone, attempting at the same time to push his way past.\n\n'Now, Sir, wot's the matter?' replied Sam, returning the push with\ncompound interest.\n\n'Come, none of this, my man; this won't do with me,' said the owner of\nthe rough coat, raising his voice, and turning white. 'Here, Smouch!'\n\n'Well, wot's amiss here?' growled the man in the brown coat, who had\nbeen gradually sneaking up the court during this short dialogue.\n\n'Only some insolence of this young man's,' said the principal, giving\nSam another push.\n\n'Come, none o' this gammon,' growled Smouch, giving him another, and a\nharder one.\n\nThis last push had the effect which it was intended by the experienced\nMr. Smouch to produce; for while Sam, anxious to return the compliment,\nwas grinding that gentleman's body against the door-post, the principal\ncrept past, and made his way to the bar, whither Sam, after bandying a\nfew epithetical remarks with Mr. Smouch, followed at once.\n\n'Good-morning, my dear,' said the principal, addressing the young lady\nat the bar, with Botany Bay ease, and New South Wales gentility; 'which\nis Mr. Pickwick's room, my dear?'\n\n'Show him up,' said the barmaid to a waiter, without deigning another\nlook at the exquisite, in reply to his inquiry.\n\nThe waiter led the way upstairs as he was desired, and the man in the\nrough coat followed, with Sam behind him, who, in his progress up the\nstaircase, indulged in sundry gestures indicative of supreme contempt\nand defiance, to the unspeakable gratification of the servants and other\nlookers-on. Mr. Smouch, who was troubled with a hoarse cough, remained\nbelow, and expectorated in the passage.\n\nMr. Pickwick was fast asleep in bed, when his early visitor, followed by\nSam, entered the room. The noise they made, in so doing, awoke him.\n\n'Shaving-water, Sam,' said Mr. Pickwick, from within the curtains.\n\n'Shave you directly, Mr. Pickwick,' said the visitor, drawing one of\nthem back from the bed's head. 'I've got an execution against you, at\nthe suit of Bardell.--Here's the warrant.--Common Pleas.--Here's my\ncard. I suppose you'll come over to my house.' Giving Mr. Pickwick a\nfriendly tap on the shoulder, the sheriff's officer (for such he was)\nthrew his card on the counterpane, and pulled a gold toothpick from his\nwaistcoat pocket.\n\n'Namby's the name,' said the sheriff's deputy, as Mr. Pickwick took his\nspectacles from under the pillow, and put them on, to read the card.\n'Namby, Bell Alley, Coleman Street.'\n\nAt this point, Sam Weller, who had had his eyes fixed hitherto on Mr.\nNamby's shining beaver, interfered.\n\n'Are you a Quaker?' said Sam.\n\n'I'll let you know I am, before I've done with you,' replied the\nindignant officer. 'I'll teach you manners, my fine fellow, one of these\nfine mornings.'\n\n'Thank'ee,' said Sam. 'I'll do the same to you. Take your hat off.' With\nthis, Mr. Weller, in the most dexterous manner, knocked Mr. Namby's\nhat to the other side of the room, with such violence, that he had very\nnearly caused him to swallow the gold toothpick into the bargain.\n\n'Observe this, Mr. Pickwick,' said the disconcerted officer, gasping\nfor breath. 'I've been assaulted in the execution of my dooty by your\nservant in your chamber. I'm in bodily fear. I call you to witness\nthis.'\n\n'Don't witness nothin', Sir,' interposed Sam. 'Shut your eyes up tight,\nSir. I'd pitch him out o' winder, only he couldn't fall far enough,\n'cause o' the leads outside.'\n\n'Sam,' said Mr. Pickwick, in an angry voice, as his attendant made\nvarious demonstrations of hostilities, 'if you say another word, or\noffer the slightest interference with this person, I discharge you that\ninstant.'\n\n'But, Sir!' said Sam.\n\n'Hold your tongue,' interposed Mr. Pickwick. 'Take that hat up again.'\n\nBut this Sam flatly and positively refused to do; and, after he had\nbeen severely reprimanded by his master, the officer, being in a hurry,\ncondescended to pick it up himself, venting a great variety of threats\nagainst Sam meanwhile, which that gentleman received with perfect\ncomposure, merely observing that if Mr. Namby would have the goodness\nto put his hat on again, he would knock it into the latter end of\nnext week. Mr. Namby, perhaps thinking that such a process might\nbe productive of inconvenience to himself, declined to offer the\ntemptation, and, soon after, called up Smouch. Having informed him that\nthe capture was made, and that he was to wait for the prisoner until he\nshould have finished dressing, Namby then swaggered out, and drove away.\nSmouch, requesting Mr. Pickwick in a surly manner 'to be as alive as\nhe could, for it was a busy time,' drew up a chair by the door and sat\nthere, until he had finished dressing. Sam was then despatched for a\nhackney-coach, and in it the triumvirate proceeded to Coleman Street. It\nwas fortunate the distance was short; for Mr. Smouch, besides possessing\nno very enchanting conversational powers, was rendered a decidedly\nunpleasant companion in a limited space, by the physical weakness to\nwhich we have elsewhere adverted.\n\nThe coach having turned into a very narrow and dark street, stopped\nbefore a house with iron bars to all the windows; the door-posts of\nwhich were graced by the name and title of 'Namby, Officer to the\nSheriffs of London'; the inner gate having been opened by a gentleman\nwho might have passed for a neglected twin-brother of Mr. Smouch, and\nwho was endowed with a large key for the purpose, Mr. Pickwick was shown\ninto the 'coffee-room.'\n\nThis coffee-room was a front parlour, the principal features of which\nwere fresh sand and stale tobacco smoke. Mr. Pickwick bowed to the three\npersons who were seated in it when he entered; and having despatched Sam\nfor Perker, withdrew into an obscure corner, and looked thence with some\ncuriosity upon his new companions.\n\nOne of these was a mere boy of nineteen or twenty, who, though it\nwas yet barely ten o'clock, was drinking gin-and-water, and smoking a\ncigar--amusements to which, judging from his inflamed countenance, he\nhad devoted himself pretty constantly for the last year or two of his\nlife. Opposite him, engaged in stirring the fire with the toe of his\nright boot, was a coarse, vulgar young man of about thirty, with a\nsallow face and harsh voice; evidently possessed of that knowledge of\nthe world, and captivating freedom of manner, which is to be acquired in\npublic-house parlours, and at low billiard tables. The third tenant of\nthe apartment was a middle-aged man in a very old suit of black, who\nlooked pale and haggard, and paced up and down the room incessantly;\nstopping, now and then, to look with great anxiety out of the window as\nif he expected somebody, and then resuming his walk.\n\n'You'd better have the loan of my razor this morning, Mr. Ayresleigh,'\nsaid the man who was stirring the fire, tipping the wink to his friend\nthe boy.\n\n'Thank you, no, I shan't want it; I expect I shall be out, in the course\nof an hour or so,' replied the other in a hurried manner. Then, walking\nagain up to the window, and once more returning disappointed, he sighed\ndeeply, and left the room; upon which the other two burst into a loud\nlaugh.\n\n'Well, I never saw such a game as that,' said the gentleman who had\noffered the razor, whose name appeared to be Price. 'Never!' Mr. Price\nconfirmed the assertion with an oath, and then laughed again, when\nof course the boy (who thought his companion one of the most dashing\nfellows alive) laughed also.\n\n'You'd hardly think, would you now,' said Price, turning towards Mr.\nPickwick, 'that that chap's been here a week yesterday, and never once\nshaved himself yet, because he feels so certain he's going out in half\nan hour's time, thinks he may as well put it off till he gets home?'\n\n'Poor man!' said Mr. Pickwick. 'Are his chances of getting out of his\ndifficulties really so great?'\n\n'Chances be d--d,' replied Price; 'he hasn't half the ghost of one. I\nwouldn't give THAT for his chance of walking about the streets this time\nten years.' With this, Mr. Price snapped his fingers contemptuously, and\nrang the bell.\n\n'Give me a sheet of paper, Crookey,' said Mr. Price to the attendant,\nwho in dress and general appearance looked something between a bankrupt\nglazier, and a drover in a state of insolvency; 'and a glass of\nbrandy-and-water, Crookey, d'ye hear? I'm going to write to my father,\nand I must have a stimulant, or I shan't be able to pitch it strong\nenough into the old boy.' At this facetious speech, the young boy, it is\nalmost needless to say, was fairly convulsed.\n\n'That's right,' said Mr. Price. 'Never say die. All fun, ain't it?'\n\n'Prime!' said the young gentleman.\n\n'You've got some spirit about you, you have,' said Price. 'You've seen\nsomething of life.'\n\n'I rather think I have!' replied the boy. He had looked at it through\nthe dirty panes of glass in a bar door.\n\nMr. Pickwick, feeling not a little disgusted with this dialogue, as well\nas with the air and manner of the two beings by whom it had been carried\non, was about to inquire whether he could not be accommodated with a\nprivate sitting-room, when two or three strangers of genteel appearance\nentered, at sight of whom the boy threw his cigar into the fire, and\nwhispering to Mr. Price that they had come to 'make it all right' for\nhim, joined them at a table in the farther end of the room.\n\nIt would appear, however, that matters were not going to be made all\nright quite so speedily as the young gentleman anticipated; for a very\nlong conversation ensued, of which Mr. Pickwick could not avoid hearing\ncertain angry fragments regarding dissolute conduct, and repeated\nforgiveness. At last, there were very distinct allusions made by the\noldest gentleman of the party to one Whitecross Street, at which the\nyoung gentleman, notwithstanding his primeness and his spirit, and his\nknowledge of life into the bargain, reclined his head upon the table,\nand howled dismally.\n\nVery much satisfied with this sudden bringing down of the youth's\nvalour, and this effectual lowering of his tone, Mr. Pickwick rang the\nbell, and was shown, at his own request, into a private room furnished\nwith a carpet, table, chairs, sideboard and sofa, and ornamented with\na looking-glass, and various old prints. Here he had the advantage of\nhearing Mrs. Namby's performance on a square piano overhead, while the\nbreakfast was getting ready; when it came, Mr. Perker came too.\n\n'Aha, my dear sir,' said the little man, 'nailed at last, eh? Come,\ncome, I'm not sorry for it either, because now you'll see the absurdity\nof this conduct. I've noted down the amount of the taxed costs and\ndamages for which the ca-sa was issued, and we had better settle at once\nand lose no time. Namby is come home by this time, I dare say. What say\nyou, my dear sir? Shall I draw a cheque, or will you?' The little\nman rubbed his hands with affected cheerfulness as he said this, but\nglancing at Mr. Pickwick's countenance, could not forbear at the same\ntime casting a desponding look towards Sam Weller.\n\n'Perker,' said Mr. Pickwick, 'let me hear no more of this, I beg. I see\nno advantage in staying here, so I shall go to prison to-night.'\n\n'You can't go to Whitecross Street, my dear Sir,' said Perker.\n'Impossible! There are sixty beds in a ward; and the bolt's on, sixteen\nhours out of the four-and-twenty.'\n\n'I would rather go to some other place of confinement if I can,' said\nMr. Pickwick. 'If not, I must make the best I can of that.'\n\n'You can go to the Fleet, my dear Sir, if you're determined to go\nsomewhere,' said Perker.\n\n'That'll do,' said Mr. Pickwick. 'I'll go there directly I have finished\nmy breakfast.'\n\n'Stop, stop, my dear Sir; not the least occasion for being in such a\nviolent hurry to get into a place that most other men are as eager to\nget out of,' said the good-natured little attorney. 'We must have a\nhabeas-corpus. There'll be no judge at chambers till four o'clock this\nafternoon. You must wait till then.'\n\n'Very good,' said Mr. Pickwick, with unmoved patience. 'Then we will\nhave a chop here, at two. See about it, Sam, and tell them to be\npunctual.'\n\nMr. Pickwick remaining firm, despite all the remonstrances and arguments\nof Perker, the chops appeared and disappeared in due course; he was then\nput into another hackney coach, and carried off to Chancery Lane, after\nwaiting half an hour or so for Mr. Namby, who had a select dinner-party\nand could on no account be disturbed before.\n\nThere were two judges in attendance at Serjeant's Inn--one King's\nBench, and one Common Pleas--and a great deal of business appeared to\nbe transacting before them, if the number of lawyer's clerks who were\nhurrying in and out with bundles of papers, afforded any test. When they\nreached the low archway which forms the entrance to the inn, Perker was\ndetained a few moments parlaying with the coachman about the fare and\nthe change; and Mr. Pickwick, stepping to one side to be out of the way\nof the stream of people that were pouring in and out, looked about him\nwith some curiosity.\n\nThe people that attracted his attention most, were three or four men\nof shabby-genteel appearance, who touched their hats to many of the\nattorneys who passed, and seemed to have some business there, the\nnature of which Mr. Pickwick could not divine. They were curious-looking\nfellows. One was a slim and rather lame man in rusty black, and a white\nneckerchief; another was a stout, burly person, dressed in the same\napparel, with a great reddish-black cloth round his neck; a third was\na little weazen, drunken-looking body, with a pimply face. They were\nloitering about, with their hands behind them, and now and then with\nan anxious countenance whispered something in the ear of some of the\ngentlemen with papers, as they hurried by. Mr. Pickwick remembered to\nhave very often observed them lounging under the archway when he had\nbeen walking past; and his curiosity was quite excited to know to what\nbranch of the profession these dingy-looking loungers could possibly\nbelong.\n\nHe was about to propound the question to Namby, who kept close beside\nhim, sucking a large gold ring on his little finger, when Perker bustled\nup, and observing that there was no time to lose, led the way into\nthe inn. As Mr. Pickwick followed, the lame man stepped up to him, and\ncivilly touching his hat, held out a written card, which Mr. Pickwick,\nnot wishing to hurt the man's feelings by refusing, courteously accepted\nand deposited in his waistcoat pocket.\n\n'Now,' said Perker, turning round before he entered one of the offices,\nto see that his companions were close behind him. 'In here, my dear sir.\nHallo, what do you want?'\n\nThis last question was addressed to the lame man, who, unobserved by Mr.\nPickwick, made one of the party. In reply to it, the lame man touched\nhis hat again, with all imaginable politeness, and motioned towards Mr.\nPickwick.\n\n'No, no,' said Perker, with a smile. 'We don't want you, my dear friend,\nwe don't want you.'\n\n'I beg your pardon, sir,' said the lame man. 'The gentleman took my\ncard. I hope you will employ me, sir. The gentleman nodded to me. I'll\nbe judged by the gentleman himself. You nodded to me, sir?'\n\n'Pooh, pooh, nonsense. You didn't nod to anybody, Pickwick? A mistake, a\nmistake,' said Perker.\n\n'The gentleman handed me his card,' replied Mr. Pickwick, producing it\nfrom his waistcoat pocket. 'I accepted it, as the gentleman seemed to\nwish it--in fact I had some curiosity to look at it when I should be at\nleisure. I--'\n\nThe little attorney burst into a loud laugh, and returning the card\nto the lame man, informing him it was all a mistake, whispered to Mr.\nPickwick as the man turned away in dudgeon, that he was only a bail.\n\n'A what!' exclaimed Mr. Pickwick.\n\n'A bail,' replied Perker.\n\n'A bail!' 'Yes, my dear sir--half a dozen of 'em here. Bail you to any\namount, and only charge half a crown. Curious trade, isn't it?' said\nPerker, regaling himself with a pinch of snuff.\n\n'What! Am I to understand that these men earn a livelihood by waiting\nabout here, to perjure themselves before the judges of the land, at the\nrate of half a crown a crime?' exclaimed Mr. Pickwick, quite aghast at\nthe disclosure.\n\n'Why, I don't exactly know about perjury, my dear sir,' replied the\nlittle gentleman. 'Harsh word, my dear sir, very harsh word indeed. It's\na legal fiction, my dear sir, nothing more.' Saying which, the attorney\nshrugged his shoulders, smiled, took a second pinch of snuff, and led\nthe way into the office of the judge's clerk.\n\nThis was a room of specially dirty appearance, with a very low ceiling\nand old panelled walls; and so badly lighted, that although it was broad\nday outside, great tallow candles were burning on the desks. At one end,\nwas a door leading to the judge's private apartment, round which were\ncongregated a crowd of attorneys and managing clerks, who were called\nin, in the order in which their respective appointments stood upon the\nfile. Every time this door was opened to let a party out, the next\nparty made a violent rush to get in; and, as in addition to the numerous\ndialogues which passed between the gentlemen who were waiting to see the\njudge, a variety of personal squabbles ensued between the greater part\nof those who had seen him, there was as much noise as could well be\nraised in an apartment of such confined dimensions.\n\nNor were the conversations of these gentlemen the only sounds that broke\nupon the ear. Standing on a box behind a wooden bar at another end of\nthe room was a clerk in spectacles who was 'taking the affidavits';\nlarge batches of which were, from time to time, carried into the private\nroom by another clerk for the judge's signature. There were a\nlarge number of attorneys' clerks to be sworn, and it being a moral\nimpossibility to swear them all at once, the struggles of these\ngentlemen to reach the clerk in spectacles, were like those of a crowd\nto get in at the pit door of a theatre when Gracious Majesty honours it\nwith its presence. Another functionary, from time to time, exercised\nhis lungs in calling over the names of those who had been sworn, for the\npurpose of restoring to them their affidavits after they had been signed\nby the judge, which gave rise to a few more scuffles; and all these\nthings going on at the same time, occasioned as much bustle as the\nmost active and excitable person could desire to behold. There were yet\nanother class of persons--those who were waiting to attend summonses\ntheir employers had taken out, which it was optional to the attorney on\nthe opposite side to attend or not--and whose business it was, from time\nto time, to cry out the opposite attorney's name; to make certain that\nhe was not in attendance without their knowledge.\n\nFor example. Leaning against the wall, close beside the seat Mr.\nPickwick had taken, was an office-lad of fourteen, with a tenor voice;\nnear him a common-law clerk with a bass one.\n\nA clerk hurried in with a bundle of papers, and stared about him.\n\n'Sniggle and Blink,' cried the tenor.\n\n'Porkin and Snob,' growled the bass. 'Stumpy and Deacon,' said the\nnew-comer.\n\nNobody answered; the next man who came in, was bailed by the whole\nthree; and he in his turn shouted for another firm; and then somebody\nelse roared in a loud voice for another; and so forth.\n\nAll this time, the man in the spectacles was hard at work, swearing the\nclerks; the oath being invariably administered, without any effort at\npunctuation, and usually in the following terms:--\n\n'Take the book in your right hand this is your name and hand-writing you\nswear that the contents of this your affidavit are true so help you God\na shilling you must get change I haven't got it.'\n\n'Well, Sam,' said Mr. Pickwick, 'I suppose they are getting the\nHABEAS-CORPUS ready?'\n\n'Yes,' said Sam, 'and I vish they'd bring out the have-his-carcase.\nIt's wery unpleasant keepin' us vaitin' here. I'd ha' got half a dozen\nhave-his-carcases ready, pack'd up and all, by this time.'\n\nWhat sort of cumbrous and unmanageable machine, Sam Weller imagined a\nhabeas-corpus to be, does not appear; for Perker, at that moment, walked\nup and took Mr. Pickwick away.\n\nThe usual forms having been gone through, the body of Samuel Pickwick\nwas soon afterwards confided to the custody of the tipstaff, to be by\nhim taken to the warden of the Fleet Prison, and there detained until\nthe amount of the damages and costs in the action of Bardell against\nPickwick was fully paid and satisfied.\n\n'And that,' said Mr. Pickwick, laughing, 'will be a very long time. Sam,\ncall another hackney-coach. Perker, my dear friend, good-bye.'\n\n'I shall go with you, and see you safe there,' said Perker.\n\n'Indeed,' replied Mr. Pickwick, 'I would rather go without any other\nattendant than Sam. As soon as I get settled, I will write and let you\nknow, and I shall expect you immediately. Until then, good-bye.'\n\nAs Mr. Pickwick said this, he got into the coach which had by this time\narrived, followed by the tipstaff. Sam having stationed himself on the\nbox, it rolled away.\n\n'A most extraordinary man that!' said Perker, as he stopped to pull on\nhis gloves.\n\n'What a bankrupt he'd make, Sir,' observed Mr. Lowten, who was standing\nnear. 'How he would bother the commissioners! He'd set 'em at defiance\nif they talked of committing him, Sir.'\n\nThe attorney did not appear very much delighted with his clerk's\nprofessional estimate of Mr. Pickwick's character, for he walked away\nwithout deigning any reply.\n\nThe hackney-coach jolted along Fleet Street, as hackney-coaches usually\ndo. The horses 'went better', the driver said, when they had anything\nbefore them (they must have gone at a most extraordinary pace when\nthere was nothing), and so the vehicle kept behind a cart; when the cart\nstopped, it stopped; and when the cart went on again, it did the same.\nMr. Pickwick sat opposite the tipstaff; and the tipstaff sat with his\nhat between his knees, whistling a tune, and looking out of the coach\nwindow.\n\nTime performs wonders. By the powerful old gentleman's aid, even a\nhackney-coach gets over half a mile of ground. They stopped at length,\nand Mr. Pickwick alighted at the gate of the Fleet.\n\nThe tipstaff, just looking over his shoulder to see that his charge was\nfollowing close at his heels, preceded Mr. Pickwick into the prison;\nturning to the left, after they had entered, they passed through an open\ndoor into a lobby, from which a heavy gate, opposite to that by which\nthey had entered, and which was guarded by a stout turnkey with the key\nin his hand, led at once into the interior of the prison.\n\nHere they stopped, while the tipstaff delivered his papers; and here Mr.\nPickwick was apprised that he would remain, until he had undergone the\nceremony, known to the initiated as 'sitting for your portrait.'\n\n'Sitting for my portrait?' said Mr. Pickwick.\n\n'Having your likeness taken, sir,' replied the stout turnkey. 'We're\ncapital hands at likenesses here. Take 'em in no time, and always exact.\nWalk in, sir, and make yourself at home.'\n\nMr. Pickwick complied with the invitation, and sat himself down; when\nMr. Weller, who stationed himself at the back of the chair, whispered\nthat the sitting was merely another term for undergoing an inspection\nby the different turnkeys, in order that they might know prisoners from\nvisitors.\n\n'Well, Sam,' said Mr. Pickwick, 'then I wish the artists would come.\nThis is rather a public place.'\n\n'They von't be long, Sir, I des-say,' replied Sam. 'There's a Dutch\nclock, sir.'\n\n'So I see,' observed Mr. Pickwick.\n\n'And a bird-cage, sir,' says Sam. 'Veels vithin veels, a prison in a\nprison. Ain't it, Sir?'\n\nAs Mr. Weller made this philosophical remark, Mr. Pickwick was aware\nthat his sitting had commenced. The stout turnkey having been relieved\nfrom the lock, sat down, and looked at him carelessly, from time to\ntime, while a long thin man who had relieved him, thrust his hands\nbeneath his coat tails, and planting himself opposite, took a good long\nview of him. A third rather surly-looking gentleman, who had apparently\nbeen disturbed at his tea, for he was disposing of the last remnant of\na crust and butter when he came in, stationed himself close to Mr.\nPickwick; and, resting his hands on his hips, inspected him narrowly;\nwhile two others mixed with the group, and studied his features with\nmost intent and thoughtful faces. Mr. Pickwick winced a good deal under\nthe operation, and appeared to sit very uneasily in his chair; but he\nmade no remark to anybody while it was being performed, not even to\nSam, who reclined upon the back of the chair, reflecting, partly on the\nsituation of his master, and partly on the great satisfaction it would\nhave afforded him to make a fierce assault upon all the turnkeys there\nassembled, one after the other, if it were lawful and peaceable so to\ndo.\n\nAt length the likeness was completed, and Mr. Pickwick was informed that\nhe might now proceed into the prison.\n\n'Where am I to sleep to-night?' inquired Mr. Pickwick.\n\n'Why, I don't rightly know about to-night,' replied the stout turnkey.\n'You'll be chummed on somebody to-morrow, and then you'll be all snug\nand comfortable. The first night's generally rather unsettled, but\nyou'll be set all squares to-morrow.'\n\nAfter some discussion, it was discovered that one of the turnkeys had\na bed to let, which Mr. Pickwick could have for that night. He gladly\nagreed to hire it.\n\n'If you'll come with me, I'll show it you at once,' said the man. 'It\nain't a large 'un; but it's an out-and-outer to sleep in. This way,\nsir.'\n\nThey passed through the inner gate, and descended a short flight of\nsteps. The key was turned after them; and Mr. Pickwick found himself,\nfor the first time in his life, within the walls of a debtors' prison.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XLI. WHAT BEFELL Mr. PICKWICK WHEN HE GOT INTO THE FLEET; WHAT\nPRISONERS HE SAW THERE, AND HOW HE PASSED THE NIGHT\n\n\nMr. Tom Roker, the gentleman who had accompanied Mr. Pickwick into the\nprison, turned sharp round to the right when he got to the bottom of\nthe little flight of steps, and led the way, through an iron gate which\nstood open, and up another short flight of steps, into a long narrow\ngallery, dirty and low, paved with stone, and very dimly lighted by a\nwindow at each remote end.\n\n'This,' said the gentleman, thrusting his hands into his pockets, and\nlooking carelessly over his shoulder to Mr. Pickwick--'this here is the\nhall flight.'\n\n'Oh,' replied Mr. Pickwick, looking down a dark and filthy staircase,\nwhich appeared to lead to a range of damp and gloomy stone vaults,\nbeneath the ground, 'and those, I suppose, are the little cellars where\nthe prisoners keep their small quantities of coals. Unpleasant places to\nhave to go down to; but very convenient, I dare say.'\n\n'Yes, I shouldn't wonder if they was convenient,' replied the gentleman,\n'seeing that a few people live there, pretty snug. That's the Fair, that\nis.'\n\n'My friend,' said Mr. Pickwick, 'you don't really mean to say that human\nbeings live down in those wretched dungeons?'\n\n'Don't I?' replied Mr. Roker, with indignant astonishment; 'why\nshouldn't I?'\n\n'Live!--live down there!' exclaimed Mr. Pickwick.\n\n'Live down there! Yes, and die down there, too, very often!' replied Mr.\nRoker; 'and what of that? Who's got to say anything agin it? Live down\nthere! Yes, and a wery good place it is to live in, ain't it?'\n\nAs Roker turned somewhat fiercely upon Mr. Pickwick in saying this, and\nmoreover muttered in an excited fashion certain unpleasant invocations\nconcerning his own eyes, limbs, and circulating fluids, the latter\ngentleman deemed it advisable to pursue the discourse no further. Mr.\nRoker then proceeded to mount another staircase, as dirty as that which\nled to the place which has just been the subject of discussion, in which\nascent he was closely followed by Mr. Pickwick and Sam.\n\n'There,' said Mr. Roker, pausing for breath when they reached\nanother gallery of the same dimensions as the one below, 'this is the\ncoffee-room flight; the one above's the third, and the one above that's\nthe top; and the room where you're a-going to sleep to-night is the\nwarden's room, and it's this way--come on.' Having said all this in a\nbreath, Mr. Roker mounted another flight of stairs with Mr. Pickwick and\nSam Weller following at his heels.\n\nThese staircases received light from sundry windows placed at some\nlittle distance above the floor, and looking into a gravelled area\nbounded by a high brick wall, with iron CHEVAUX-DE-FRISE at the\ntop. This area, it appeared from Mr. Roker's statement, was the\nracket-ground; and it further appeared, on the testimony of the same\ngentleman, that there was a smaller area in that portion of the prison\nwhich was nearest Farringdon Street, denominated and called 'the Painted\nGround,' from the fact of its walls having once displayed the semblance\nof various men-of-war in full sail, and other artistical effects\nachieved in bygone times by some imprisoned draughtsman in his leisure\nhours.\n\nHaving communicated this piece of information, apparently more for the\npurpose of discharging his bosom of an important fact, than with any\nspecific view of enlightening Mr. Pickwick, the guide, having at length\nreached another gallery, led the way into a small passage at the extreme\nend, opened a door, and disclosed an apartment of an appearance by no\nmeans inviting, containing eight or nine iron bedsteads.\n\n'There,' said Mr. Roker, holding the door open, and looking triumphantly\nround at Mr. Pickwick, 'there's a room!'\n\nMr. Pickwick's face, however, betokened such a very trifling portion of\nsatisfaction at the appearance of his lodging, that Mr. Roker looked,\nfor a reciprocity of feeling, into the countenance of Samuel Weller,\nwho, until now, had observed a dignified silence. 'There's a room, young\nman,' observed Mr. Roker.\n\n'I see it,' replied Sam, with a placid nod of the head.\n\n'You wouldn't think to find such a room as this in the Farringdon Hotel,\nwould you?' said Mr. Roker, with a complacent smile.\n\nTo this Mr. Weller replied with an easy and unstudied closing of one\neye; which might be considered to mean, either that he would have\nthought it, or that he would not have thought it, or that he had\nnever thought anything at all about it, as the observer's imagination\nsuggested. Having executed this feat, and reopened his eye, Mr. Weller\nproceeded to inquire which was the individual bedstead that Mr. Roker\nhad so flatteringly described as an out-and-outer to sleep in.\n\n'That's it,' replied Mr. Roker, pointing to a very rusty one in a\ncorner. 'It would make any one go to sleep, that bedstead would, whether\nthey wanted to or not.'\n\n'I should think,' said Sam, eyeing the piece of furniture in question\nwith a look of excessive disgust--'I should think poppies was nothing to\nit.'\n\n'Nothing at all,' said Mr. Roker.\n\n'And I s'pose,' said Sam, with a sidelong glance at his master, as if to\nsee whether there were any symptoms of his determination being shaken\nby what passed, 'I s'pose the other gen'l'men as sleeps here ARE\ngen'l'men.'\n\n'Nothing but it,' said Mr. Roker. 'One of 'em takes his twelve pints of\nale a day, and never leaves off smoking even at his meals.'\n\n'He must be a first-rater,' said Sam.\n\n'A1,' replied Mr. Roker.\n\nNothing daunted, even by this intelligence, Mr. Pickwick smilingly\nannounced his determination to test the powers of the narcotic bedstead\nfor that night; and Mr. Roker, after informing him that he could retire\nto rest at whatever hour he thought proper, without any further notice\nor formality, walked off, leaving him standing with Sam in the gallery.\n\nIt was getting dark; that is to say, a few gas jets were kindled in this\nplace which was never light, by way of compliment to the evening, which\nhad set in outside. As it was rather warm, some of the tenants of the\nnumerous little rooms which opened into the gallery on either hand, had\nset their doors ajar. Mr. Pickwick peeped into them as he passed along,\nwith great curiosity and interest. Here, four or five great hulking\nfellows, just visible through a cloud of tobacco smoke, were engaged\nin noisy and riotous conversation over half-emptied pots of beer, or\nplaying at all-fours with a very greasy pack of cards. In the adjoining\nroom, some solitary tenant might be seen poring, by the light of a\nfeeble tallow candle, over a bundle of soiled and tattered papers,\nyellow with dust and dropping to pieces from age, writing, for the\nhundredth time, some lengthened statement of his grievances, for the\nperusal of some great man whose eyes it would never reach, or whose\nheart it would never touch. In a third, a man, with his wife and a whole\ncrowd of children, might be seen making up a scanty bed on the ground,\nor upon a few chairs, for the younger ones to pass the night in. And in\na fourth, and a fifth, and a sixth, and a seventh, the noise, and the\nbeer, and the tobacco smoke, and the cards, all came over again in\ngreater force than before.\n\nIn the galleries themselves, and more especially on the stair-cases,\nthere lingered a great number of people, who came there, some because\ntheir rooms were empty and lonesome, others because their rooms\nwere full and hot; the greater part because they were restless and\nuncomfortable, and not possessed of the secret of exactly knowing what\nto do with themselves. There were many classes of people here, from the\nlabouring man in his fustian jacket, to the broken-down spendthrift in\nhis shawl dressing-gown, most appropriately out at elbows; but there\nwas the same air about them all--a kind of listless, jail-bird, careless\nswagger, a vagabondish who's-afraid sort of bearing, which is wholly\nindescribable in words, but which any man can understand in one moment\nif he wish, by setting foot in the nearest debtors' prison, and looking\nat the very first group of people he sees there, with the same interest\nas Mr. Pickwick did.\n\n'It strikes me, Sam,' said Mr. Pickwick, leaning over the iron rail\nat the stair-head-'it strikes me, Sam, that imprisonment for debt is\nscarcely any punishment at all.'\n\n'Think not, sir?' inquired Mr. Weller.\n\n'You see how these fellows drink, and smoke, and roar,' replied Mr.\nPickwick. 'It's quite impossible that they can mind it much.'\n\n'Ah, that's just the wery thing, Sir,' rejoined Sam, 'they don't mind\nit; it's a reg'lar holiday to them--all porter and skittles. It's\nthe t'other vuns as gets done over vith this sort o' thing; them\ndown-hearted fellers as can't svig avay at the beer, nor play at\nskittles neither; them as vould pay if they could, and gets low by being\nboxed up. I'll tell you wot it is, sir; them as is always a-idlin' in\npublic-houses it don't damage at all, and them as is alvays a-workin'\nwen they can, it damages too much. \"It's unekal,\" as my father used to\nsay wen his grog worn't made half-and-half: \"it's unekal, and that's the\nfault on it.\"'\n\n'I think you're right, Sam,' said Mr. Pickwick, after a few moments'\nreflection, 'quite right.'\n\n'P'raps, now and then, there's some honest people as likes it,' observed\nMr. Weller, in a ruminative tone, 'but I never heerd o' one as I can\ncall to mind, 'cept the little dirty-faced man in the brown coat; and\nthat was force of habit.'\n\n'And who was he?' inquired Mr. Pickwick.\n\n'Wy, that's just the wery point as nobody never know'd,' replied Sam.\n\n'But what did he do?'\n\n'Wy, he did wot many men as has been much better know'd has done in\ntheir time, Sir,' replied Sam, 'he run a match agin the constable, and\nvun it.'\n\n'In other words, I suppose,' said Mr. Pickwick, 'he got into debt.'\n\n'Just that, Sir,' replied Sam, 'and in course o' time he come here in\nconsekens. It warn't much--execution for nine pound nothin', multiplied\nby five for costs; but hows'ever here he stopped for seventeen year. If\nhe got any wrinkles in his face, they were stopped up vith the dirt, for\nboth the dirty face and the brown coat wos just the same at the end\no' that time as they wos at the beginnin'. He wos a wery peaceful,\ninoffendin' little creetur, and wos alvays a-bustlin' about for\nsomebody, or playin' rackets and never vinnin'; till at last the\nturnkeys they got quite fond on him, and he wos in the lodge ev'ry\nnight, a-chattering vith 'em, and tellin' stories, and all that 'ere.\nVun night he wos in there as usual, along vith a wery old friend of\nhis, as wos on the lock, ven he says all of a sudden, \"I ain't seen the\nmarket outside, Bill,\" he says (Fleet Market wos there at that time)--\"I\nain't seen the market outside, Bill,\" he says, \"for seventeen year.\" \"I\nknow you ain't,\" says the turnkey, smoking his pipe. \"I should like to\nsee it for a minit, Bill,\" he says. \"Wery probable,\" says the turnkey,\nsmoking his pipe wery fierce, and making believe he warn't up to wot the\nlittle man wanted. \"Bill,\" says the little man, more abrupt than afore,\n\"I've got the fancy in my head. Let me see the public streets once more\nafore I die; and if I ain't struck with apoplexy, I'll be back in five\nminits by the clock.\" \"And wot 'ud become o' me if you WOS struck with\napoplexy?\" said the turnkey. \"Wy,\" says the little creetur, \"whoever\nfound me, 'ud bring me home, for I've got my card in my pocket, Bill,\"\nhe says, \"No. 20, Coffee-room Flight\": and that wos true, sure enough,\nfor wen he wanted to make the acquaintance of any new-comer, he used to\npull out a little limp card vith them words on it and nothin' else; in\nconsideration of vich, he vos alvays called Number Tventy. The turnkey\ntakes a fixed look at him, and at last he says in a solemn manner,\n\"Tventy,\" he says, \"I'll trust you; you Won't get your old friend into\ntrouble.\" \"No, my boy; I hope I've somethin' better behind here,\" says\nthe little man; and as he said it he hit his little vesket wery hard,\nand then a tear started out o' each eye, which wos wery extraordinary,\nfor it wos supposed as water never touched his face. He shook the\nturnkey by the hand; out he vent--'\n\n'And never came back again,' said Mr. Pickwick.\n\n'Wrong for vunce, sir,' replied Mr. Weller, 'for back he come, two\nminits afore the time, a-bilin' with rage, sayin' how he'd been nearly\nrun over by a hackney-coach that he warn't used to it; and he was blowed\nif he wouldn't write to the lord mayor. They got him pacified at last;\nand for five years arter that, he never even so much as peeped out o'\nthe lodge gate.'\n\n'At the expiration of that time he died, I suppose,' said Mr. Pickwick.\n\n'No, he didn't, Sir,' replied Sam. 'He got a curiosity to go and taste\nthe beer at a new public-house over the way, and it wos such a wery nice\nparlour, that he took it into his head to go there every night, which\nhe did for a long time, always comin' back reg'lar about a quarter of\nan hour afore the gate shut, which was all wery snug and comfortable. At\nlast he began to get so precious jolly, that he used to forget how the\ntime vent, or care nothin' at all about it, and he went on gettin'\nlater and later, till vun night his old friend wos just a-shuttin' the\ngate--had turned the key in fact--wen he come up. \"Hold hard, Bill,\"\nhe says. \"Wot, ain't you come home yet, Tventy?\" says the turnkey, \"I\nthought you wos in, long ago.\" \"No, I wasn't,\" says the little man,\nwith a smile. \"Well, then, I'll tell you wot it is, my friend,\" says\nthe turnkey, openin' the gate wery slow and sulky, \"it's my 'pinion as\nyou've got into bad company o' late, which I'm wery sorry to see. Now,\nI don't wish to do nothing harsh,\" he says, \"but if you can't confine\nyourself to steady circles, and find your vay back at reg'lar hours,\nas sure as you're a-standin' there, I'll shut you out altogether!\" The\nlittle man was seized vith a wiolent fit o' tremblin', and never vent\noutside the prison walls artervards!'\n\nAs Sam concluded, Mr. Pickwick slowly retraced his steps downstairs.\nAfter a few thoughtful turns in the Painted Ground, which, as it was now\ndark, was nearly deserted, he intimated to Mr. Weller that he thought\nit high time for him to withdraw for the night; requesting him to seek\na bed in some adjacent public-house, and return early in the morning,\nto make arrangements for the removal of his master's wardrobe from the\nGeorge and Vulture. This request Mr. Samuel Weller prepared to obey,\nwith as good a grace as he could assume, but with a very considerable\nshow of reluctance nevertheless. He even went so far as to essay sundry\nineffectual hints regarding the expediency of stretching himself on the\ngravel for that night; but finding Mr. Pickwick obstinately deaf to any\nsuch suggestions, finally withdrew.\n\nThere is no disguising the fact that Mr. Pickwick felt very low-spirited\nand uncomfortable--not for lack of society, for the prison was very\nfull, and a bottle of wine would at once have purchased the utmost\ngood-fellowship of a few choice spirits, without any more formal\nceremony of introduction; but he was alone in the coarse, vulgar crowd,\nand felt the depression of spirits and sinking of heart, naturally\nconsequent on the reflection that he was cooped and caged up, without\na prospect of liberation. As to the idea of releasing himself by\nministering to the sharpness of Dodson & Fogg, it never for an instant\nentered his thoughts.\n\nIn this frame of mind he turned again into the coffee-room gallery, and\nwalked slowly to and fro. The place was intolerably dirty, and the smell\nof tobacco smoke perfectly suffocating. There was a perpetual slamming\nand banging of doors as the people went in and out; and the noise of\ntheir voices and footsteps echoed and re-echoed through the passages\nconstantly. A young woman, with a child in her arms, who seemed scarcely\nable to crawl, from emaciation and misery, was walking up and down the\npassage in conversation with her husband, who had no other place to\nsee her in. As they passed Mr. Pickwick, he could hear the female sob\nbitterly; and once she burst into such a passion of grief, that she was\ncompelled to lean against the wall for support, while the man took the\nchild in his arms, and tried to soothe her.\n\nMr. Pickwick's heart was really too full to bear it, and he went\nupstairs to bed.\n\nNow, although the warder's room was a very uncomfortable one (being,\nin every point of decoration and convenience, several hundred degrees\ninferior to the common infirmary of a county jail), it had at present\nthe merit of being wholly deserted save by Mr. Pickwick himself. So, he\nsat down at the foot of his little iron bedstead, and began to wonder\nhow much a year the warder made out of the dirty room. Having satisfied\nhimself, by mathematical calculation, that the apartment was about equal\nin annual value to the freehold of a small street in the suburbs of\nLondon, he took to wondering what possible temptation could have induced\na dingy-looking fly that was crawling over his pantaloons, to come into\na close prison, when he had the choice of so many airy situations--a\ncourse of meditation which led him to the irresistible conclusion\nthat the insect was insane. After settling this point, he began to be\nconscious that he was getting sleepy; whereupon he took his nightcap\nout of the pocket in which he had had the precaution to stow it in\nthe morning, and, leisurely undressing himself, got into bed and fell\nasleep.\n\n'Bravo! Heel over toe--cut and shuffle--pay away at it, Zephyr! I'm\nsmothered if the opera house isn't your proper hemisphere. Keep it up!\nHooray!' These expressions, delivered in a most boisterous tone, and\naccompanied with loud peals of laughter, roused Mr. Pickwick from one of\nthose sound slumbers which, lasting in reality some half-hour, seem to\nthe sleeper to have been protracted for three weeks or a month.\n\nThe voice had no sooner ceased than the room was shaken with such\nviolence that the windows rattled in their frames, and the bedsteads\ntrembled again. Mr. Pickwick started up, and remained for some minutes\nfixed in mute astonishment at the scene before him.\n\nOn the floor of the room, a man in a broad-skirted green coat, with\ncorduroy knee-smalls and gray cotton stockings, was performing the most\npopular steps of a hornpipe, with a slang and burlesque caricature of\ngrace and lightness, which, combined with the very appropriate character\nof his costume, was inexpressibly absurd. Another man, evidently very\ndrunk, who had probably been tumbled into bed by his companions, was\nsitting up between the sheets, warbling as much as he could recollect\nof a comic song, with the most intensely sentimental feeling and\nexpression; while a third, seated on one of the bedsteads, was\napplauding both performers with the air of a profound connoisseur, and\nencouraging them by such ebullitions of feeling as had already roused\nMr. Pickwick from his sleep.\n\nThis last man was an admirable specimen of a class of gentry which never\ncan be seen in full perfection but in such places--they may be met\nwith, in an imperfect state, occasionally about stable-yards and\nPublic-houses; but they never attain their full bloom except in these\nhot-beds, which would almost seem to be considerately provided by the\nlegislature for the sole purpose of rearing them.\n\n\nHe was a tall fellow, with an olive complexion, long dark hair, and very\nthick bushy whiskers meeting under his chin. He wore no neckerchief, as\nhe had been playing rackets all day, and his open shirt collar\ndisplayed their full luxuriance. On his head he wore one of the common\neighteenpenny French skull-caps, with a gaudy tassel dangling therefrom,\nvery happily in keeping with a common fustian coat. His legs,\nwhich, being long, were afflicted with weakness, graced a pair of\nOxford-mixture trousers, made to show the full symmetry of those\nlimbs. Being somewhat negligently braced, however, and, moreover, but\nimperfectly buttoned, they fell in a series of not the most graceful\nfolds over a pair of shoes sufficiently down at heel to display a pair\nof very soiled white stockings. There was a rakish, vagabond smartness,\nand a kind of boastful rascality, about the whole man, that was worth a\nmine of gold.\n\nThis figure was the first to perceive that Mr. Pickwick was looking\non; upon which he winked to the Zephyr, and entreated him, with mock\ngravity, not to wake the gentleman. 'Why, bless the gentleman's honest\nheart and soul!' said the Zephyr, turning round and affecting the\nextremity of surprise; 'the gentleman is awake. Hem, Shakespeare! How do\nyou do, Sir? How is Mary and Sarah, sir? and the dear old lady at home,\nSir? Will you have the kindness to put my compliments into the first\nlittle parcel you're sending that way, sir, and say that I would have\nsent 'em before, only I was afraid they might be broken in the wagon,\nsir?'\n\n'Don't overwhelm the gentlemen with ordinary civilities when you see\nhe's anxious to have something to drink,' said the gentleman with the\nwhiskers, with a jocose air. 'Why don't you ask the gentleman what he'll\ntake?'\n\n'Dear me, I quite forgot,' replied the other. 'What will you take, sir?\nWill you take port wine, sir, or sherry wine, sir? I can recommend the\nale, sir; or perhaps you'd like to taste the porter, sir? Allow me to\nhave the felicity of hanging up your nightcap, Sir.'\n\nWith this, the speaker snatched that article of dress from Mr.\nPickwick's head, and fixed it in a twinkling on that of the drunken man,\nwho, firmly impressed with the belief that he was delighting a numerous\nassembly, continued to hammer away at the comic song in the most\nmelancholy strains imaginable.\n\nTaking a man's nightcap from his brow by violent means, and adjusting\nit on the head of an unknown gentleman, of dirty exterior, however\ningenious a witticism in itself, is unquestionably one of those which\ncome under the denomination of practical jokes. Viewing the matter\nprecisely in this light, Mr. Pickwick, without the slightest intimation\nof his purpose, sprang vigorously out of bed, struck the Zephyr so smart\na blow in the chest as to deprive him of a considerable portion of the\ncommodity which sometimes bears his name, and then, recapturing his\nnightcap, boldly placed himself in an attitude of defence.\n\n'Now,' said Mr. Pickwick, gasping no less from excitement than from the\nexpenditure of so much energy, 'come on--both of you--both of you!' With\nthis liberal invitation the worthy gentleman communicated a revolving\nmotion to his clenched fists, by way of appalling his antagonists with a\ndisplay of science.\n\nIt might have been Mr. Pickwick's very unexpected gallantry, or it might\nhave been the complicated manner in which he had got himself out of\nbed, and fallen all in a mass upon the hornpipe man, that touched his\nadversaries. Touched they were; for, instead of then and there making\nan attempt to commit man-slaughter, as Mr. Pickwick implicitly believed\nthey would have done, they paused, stared at each other a short time,\nand finally laughed outright.\n\n'Well, you're a trump, and I like you all the better for it,' said the\nZephyr. 'Now jump into bed again, or you'll catch the rheumatics. No\nmalice, I hope?' said the man, extending a hand the size of the yellow\nclump of fingers which sometimes swings over a glover's door.\n\n'Certainly not,' said Mr. Pickwick, with great alacrity; for, now that\nthe excitement was over, he began to feel rather cool about the legs.\n\n'Allow me the H-onour,' said the gentleman with the whiskers, presenting\nhis dexter hand, and aspirating the h.\n\n'With much pleasure, sir,' said Mr. Pickwick; and having executed a very\nlong and solemn shake, he got into bed again.\n\n'My name is Smangle, sir,' said the man with the whiskers.\n\n'Oh,' said Mr. Pickwick.\n\n'Mine is Mivins,' said the man in the stockings.\n\n'I am delighted to hear it, sir,' said Mr. Pickwick.\n\n'Hem,' coughed Mr. Smangle.\n\n'Did you speak, sir?' said Mr. Pickwick.\n\n'No, I did not, sir,' said Mr. Smangle.\n\nAll this was very genteel and pleasant; and, to make matters still more\ncomfortable, Mr. Smangle assured Mr. Pickwick a great many more times\nthat he entertained a very high respect for the feelings of a gentleman;\nwhich sentiment, indeed, did him infinite credit, as he could be in no\nwise supposed to understand them.\n\n'Are you going through the court, sir?' inquired Mr. Smangle. 'Through\nthe what?' said Mr. Pickwick.\n\n'Through the court--Portugal Street--the Court for Relief of--You know.'\n\n'Oh, no,' replied Mr. Pickwick. 'No, I am not.'\n\n'Going out, perhaps?' suggested Mr. Mivins.\n\n'I fear not,' replied Mr. Pickwick. 'I refuse to pay some damages, and\nam here in consequence.'\n\n'Ah,' said Mr. Smangle, 'paper has been my ruin.'\n\n'A stationer, I presume, Sir?' said Mr. Pickwick innocently.\n\n'Stationer! No, no; confound and curse me! Not so low as that. No trade.\nWhen I say paper, I mean bills.'\n\n'Oh, you use the word in that sense. I see,' said Mr. Pickwick. 'Damme!\nA gentleman must expect reverses,' said Smangle. 'What of that? Here\nam I in the Fleet Prison. Well; good. What then? I'm none the worse for\nthat, am I?'\n\n'Not a bit,' replied Mr. Mivins. And he was quite right; for, so far\nfrom Mr. Smangle being any the worse for it, he was something the\nbetter, inasmuch as to qualify himself for the place, he had attained\ngratuitous possession of certain articles of jewellery, which, long\nbefore that, had found their way to the pawnbroker's.\n\n'Well; but come,' said Mr. Smangle; 'this is dry work. Let's rinse\nour mouths with a drop of burnt sherry; the last-comer shall stand it,\nMivins shall fetch it, and I'll help to drink it. That's a fair and\ngentlemanlike division of labour, anyhow. Curse me!'\n\nUnwilling to hazard another quarrel, Mr. Pickwick gladly assented to\nthe proposition, and consigned the money to Mr. Mivins, who, as it was\nnearly eleven o'clock, lost no time in repairing to the coffee-room on\nhis errand.\n\n'I say,' whispered Smangle, the moment his friend had left the room;\n'what did you give him?'\n\n'Half a sovereign,' said Mr. Pickwick.\n\n'He's a devilish pleasant gentlemanly dog,' said Mr. Smangle;--'infernal\npleasant. I don't know anybody more so; but--' Here Mr. Smangle stopped\nshort, and shook his head dubiously.\n\n'You don't think there is any probability of his appropriating the money\nto his own use?' said Mr. Pickwick.\n\n'Oh, no! Mind, I don't say that; I expressly say that he's a devilish\ngentlemanly fellow,' said Mr. Smangle. 'But I think, perhaps, if\nsomebody went down, just to see that he didn't dip his beak into the jug\nby accident, or make some confounded mistake in losing the money as he\ncame upstairs, it would be as well. Here, you sir, just run downstairs,\nand look after that gentleman, will you?'\n\nThis request was addressed to a little timid-looking, nervous man, whose\nappearance bespoke great poverty, and who had been crouching on his\nbedstead all this while, apparently stupefied by the novelty of his\nsituation.\n\n'You know where the coffee-room is,' said Smangle; 'just run down,\nand tell that gentleman you've come to help him up with the jug.\nOr--stop--I'll tell you what--I'll tell you how we'll do him,' said\nSmangle, with a cunning look.\n\n'How?' said Mr. Pickwick.\n\n'Send down word that he's to spend the change in cigars. Capital\nthought. Run and tell him that; d'ye hear? They shan't be wasted,'\ncontinued Smangle, turning to Mr. Pickwick. 'I'LL smoke 'em.'\n\nThis manoeuvring was so exceedingly ingenious and, withal, performed\nwith such immovable composure and coolness, that Mr. Pickwick would have\nhad no wish to disturb it, even if he had had the power. In a short time\nMr. Mivins returned, bearing the sherry, which Mr. Smangle dispensed\nin two little cracked mugs; considerately remarking, with reference\nto himself, that a gentleman must not be particular under such\ncircumstances, and that, for his part, he was not too proud to drink out\nof the jug. In which, to show his sincerity, he forthwith pledged the\ncompany in a draught which half emptied it.\n\nAn excellent understanding having been by these means promoted, Mr.\nSmangle proceeded to entertain his hearers with a relation of divers\nromantic adventures in which he had been from time to time engaged,\ninvolving various interesting anecdotes of a thoroughbred horse, and a\nmagnificent Jewess, both of surpassing beauty, and much coveted by the\nnobility and gentry of these kingdoms.\n\nLong before these elegant extracts from the biography of a gentleman\nwere concluded, Mr. Mivins had betaken himself to bed, and had set in\nsnoring for the night, leaving the timid stranger and Mr. Pickwick to\nthe full benefit of Mr. Smangle's experiences.\n\nNor were the two last-named gentlemen as much edified as they might have\nbeen by the moving passages narrated. Mr. Pickwick had been in a state\nof slumber for some time, when he had a faint perception of the drunken\nman bursting out afresh with the comic song, and receiving from Mr.\nSmangle a gentle intimation, through the medium of the water-jug, that\nhis audience was not musically disposed. Mr. Pickwick then once again\ndropped off to sleep, with a confused consciousness that Mr. Smangle\nwas still engaged in relating a long story, the chief point of which\nappeared to be that, on some occasion particularly stated and set forth,\nhe had 'done' a bill and a gentleman at the same time.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XLII. ILLUSTRATIVE, LIKE THE PRECEDING ONE, OF THE OLD PROVERB,\nTHAT ADVERSITY BRINGS A MAN ACQUAINTED WITH STRANGE BEDFELLOWS--LIKEWISE\nCONTAINING Mr. PICKWICK'S EXTRAORDINARY AND STARTLING ANNOUNCEMENT TO\nMr. SAMUEL WELLER\n\n\nWhen Mr. Pickwick opened his eyes next morning, the first object\nupon which they rested was Samuel Weller, seated upon a small black\nportmanteau, intently regarding, apparently in a condition of profound\nabstraction, the stately figure of the dashing Mr. Smangle; while Mr.\nSmangle himself, who was already partially dressed, was seated on his\nbedstead, occupied in the desperately hopeless attempt of staring Mr.\nWeller out of countenance. We say desperately hopeless, because Sam,\nwith a comprehensive gaze which took in Mr. Smangle's cap, feet, head,\nface, legs, and whiskers, all at the same time, continued to look\nsteadily on, with every demonstration of lively satisfaction, but with\nno more regard to Mr. Smangle's personal sentiments on the subject than\nhe would have displayed had he been inspecting a wooden statue, or a\nstraw-embowelled Guy Fawkes.\n\n'Well; will you know me again?' said Mr. Smangle, with a frown.\n\n'I'd svear to you anyveres, Sir,' replied Sam cheerfully.\n\n'Don't be impertinent to a gentleman, Sir,' said Mr. Smangle.\n\n'Not on no account,' replied Sam. 'If you'll tell me wen he wakes, I'll\nbe upon the wery best extra-super behaviour!' This observation, having a\nremote tendency to imply that Mr. Smangle was no gentleman, kindled his\nire.\n\n'Mivins!' said Mr. Smangle, with a passionate air.\n\n'What's the office?' replied that gentleman from his couch.\n\n'Who the devil is this fellow?'\n\n''Gad,' said Mr. Mivins, looking lazily out from under the bed-clothes,\n'I ought to ask YOU that. Hasn't he any business here?'\n\n'No,' replied Mr. Smangle. 'Then knock him downstairs, and tell him not\nto presume to get up till I come and kick him,' rejoined Mr. Mivins;\nwith this prompt advice that excellent gentleman again betook himself to\nslumber.\n\nThe conversation exhibiting these unequivocal symptoms of verging on the\npersonal, Mr. Pickwick deemed it a fit point at which to interpose.\n\n'Sam,' said Mr. Pickwick.\n\n'Sir,' rejoined that gentleman.\n\n'Has anything new occurred since last night?'\n\n'Nothin' partickler, sir,' replied Sam, glancing at Mr. Smangle's\nwhiskers; 'the late prewailance of a close and confined atmosphere\nhas been rayther favourable to the growth of veeds, of an alarmin' and\nsangvinary natur; but vith that 'ere exception things is quiet enough.'\n\n'I shall get up,' said Mr. Pickwick; 'give me some clean things.'\nWhatever hostile intentions Mr. Smangle might have entertained, his\nthoughts were speedily diverted by the unpacking of the portmanteau; the\ncontents of which appeared to impress him at once with a most favourable\nopinion, not only of Mr. Pickwick, but of Sam also, who, he took an\nearly opportunity of declaring in a tone of voice loud enough for that\neccentric personage to overhear, was a regular thoroughbred original,\nand consequently the very man after his own heart. As to Mr. Pickwick,\nthe affection he conceived for him knew no limits.\n\n'Now is there anything I can do for you, my dear Sir?' said Smangle.\n\n'Nothing that I am aware of, I am obliged to you,' replied Mr. Pickwick.\n\n'No linen that you want sent to the washerwoman's? I know a delightful\nwasherwoman outside, that comes for my things twice a week; and, by\nJove!--how devilish lucky!--this is the day she calls. Shall I put\nany of those little things up with mine? Don't say anything about the\ntrouble. Confound and curse it! if one gentleman under a cloud is not to\nput himself a little out of the way to assist another gentleman in the\nsame condition, what's human nature?'\n\nThus spake Mr. Smangle, edging himself meanwhile as near as possible\nto the portmanteau, and beaming forth looks of the most fervent and\ndisinterested friendship.\n\n'There's nothing you want to give out for the man to brush, my dear\ncreature, is there?' resumed Smangle.\n\n'Nothin' whatever, my fine feller,' rejoined Sam, taking the reply into\nhis own mouth. 'P'raps if vun of us wos to brush, without troubling the\nman, it 'ud be more agreeable for all parties, as the schoolmaster said\nwhen the young gentleman objected to being flogged by the butler.'\n\n'And there's nothing I can send in my little box to the washer-woman's,\nis there?' said Smangle, turning from Sam to Mr. Pickwick, with an air\nof some discomfiture.\n\n'Nothin' whatever, Sir,' retorted Sam; 'I'm afeered the little box must\nbe chock full o' your own as it is.'\n\nThis speech was accompanied with such a very expressive look at that\nparticular portion of Mr. Smangle's attire, by the appearance of which\nthe skill of laundresses in getting up gentlemen's linen is generally\ntested, that he was fain to turn upon his heel, and, for the present at\nany rate, to give up all design on Mr. Pickwick's purse and wardrobe.\nHe accordingly retired in dudgeon to the racket-ground, where he made a\nlight and whole-some breakfast on a couple of the cigars which had been\npurchased on the previous night. Mr. Mivins, who was no smoker, and\nwhose account for small articles of chandlery had also reached down\nto the bottom of the slate, and been 'carried over' to the other side,\nremained in bed, and, in his own words, 'took it out in sleep.'\n\nAfter breakfasting in a small closet attached to the coffee-room, which\nbore the imposing title of the Snuggery, the temporary inmate of which,\nin consideration of a small additional charge, had the unspeakable\nadvantage of overhearing all the conversation in the coffee-room\naforesaid; and, after despatching Mr. Weller on some necessary errands,\nMr. Pickwick repaired to the lodge, to consult Mr. Roker concerning his\nfuture accommodation.\n\n'Accommodation, eh?' said that gentleman, consulting a large book.\n'Plenty of that, Mr. Pickwick. Your chummage ticket will be on\ntwenty-seven, in the third.'\n\n'Oh,' said Mr. Pickwick. 'My what, did you say?'\n\n'Your chummage ticket,' replied Mr. Roker; 'you're up to that?'\n\n'Not quite,' replied Mr. Pickwick, with a smile.\n\n'Why,' said Mr. Roker, 'it's as plain as Salisbury. You'll have a\nchummage ticket upon twenty-seven in the third, and them as is in the\nroom will be your chums.'\n\n'Are there many of them?' inquired Mr. Pickwick dubiously.\n\n'Three,' replied Mr. Roker.\n\nMr. Pickwick coughed.\n\n'One of 'em's a parson,' said Mr. Roker, filling up a little piece of\npaper as he spoke; 'another's a butcher.'\n\n'Eh?' exclaimed Mr. Pickwick.\n\n'A butcher,' repeated Mr. Roker, giving the nib of his pen a tap on the\ndesk to cure it of a disinclination to mark. 'What a thorough-paced\ngoer he used to be sure-ly! You remember Tom Martin, Neddy?' said Roker,\nappealing to another man in the lodge, who was paring the mud off his\nshoes with a five-and-twenty-bladed pocket-knife.\n\n'I should think so,' replied the party addressed, with a strong emphasis\non the personal pronoun.\n\n'Bless my dear eyes!' said Mr. Roker, shaking his head slowly from side\nto side, and gazing abstractedly out of the grated windows before him,\nas if he were fondly recalling some peaceful scene of his early\nyouth; 'it seems but yesterday that he whopped the coal-heaver down\nFox-under-the-Hill by the wharf there. I think I can see him now,\na-coming up the Strand between the two street-keepers, a little sobered\nby the bruising, with a patch o' winegar and brown paper over his\nright eyelid, and that 'ere lovely bulldog, as pinned the little boy\narterwards, a-following at his heels. What a rum thing time is, ain't\nit, Neddy?'\n\nThe gentleman to whom these observations were addressed, who appeared\nof a taciturn and thoughtful cast, merely echoed the inquiry; Mr. Roker,\nshaking off the poetical and gloomy train of thought into which he had\nbeen betrayed, descended to the common business of life, and resumed his\npen.\n\n'Do you know what the third gentlemen is?' inquired Mr. Pickwick, not\nvery much gratified by this description of his future associates.\n\n'What is that Simpson, Neddy?' said Mr. Roker, turning to his companion.\n\n'What Simpson?' said Neddy.\n\n'Why, him in twenty-seven in the third, that this gentleman's going to\nbe chummed on.'\n\n'Oh, him!' replied Neddy; 'he's nothing exactly. He WAS a horse\nchaunter: he's a leg now.'\n\n'Ah, so I thought,' rejoined Mr. Roker, closing the book, and placing\nthe small piece of paper in Mr. Pickwick's hands. 'That's the ticket,\nsir.'\n\nVery much perplexed by this summary disposition of this person, Mr.\nPickwick walked back into the prison, revolving in his mind what he had\nbetter do. Convinced, however, that before he took any other steps it\nwould be advisable to see, and hold personal converse with, the three\ngentlemen with whom it was proposed to quarter him, he made the best of\nhis way to the third flight.\n\nAfter groping about in the gallery for some time, attempting in the\ndim light to decipher the numbers on the different doors, he at\nlength appealed to a pot-boy, who happened to be pursuing his morning\noccupation of gleaning for pewter.\n\n'Which is twenty-seven, my good fellow?' said Mr. Pickwick.\n\n'Five doors farther on,' replied the pot-boy. 'There's the likeness of a\nman being hung, and smoking the while, chalked outside the door.'\n\nGuided by this direction, Mr. Pickwick proceeded slowly along the\ngallery until he encountered the 'portrait of a gentleman,' above\ndescribed, upon whose countenance he tapped, with the knuckle of his\nforefinger--gently at first, and then audibly. After repeating this\nprocess several times without effect, he ventured to open the door and\npeep in.\n\nThere was only one man in the room, and he was leaning out of window as\nfar as he could without overbalancing himself, endeavouring, with great\nperseverance, to spit upon the crown of the hat of a personal friend on\nthe parade below. As neither speaking, coughing, sneezing, knocking, nor\nany other ordinary mode of attracting attention, made this person aware\nof the presence of a visitor, Mr. Pickwick, after some delay, stepped\nup to the window, and pulled him gently by the coat tail. The individual\nbrought in his head and shoulders with great swiftness, and surveying\nMr. Pickwick from head to foot, demanded in a surly tone what\nthe--something beginning with a capital H--he wanted.\n\n'I believe,' said Mr. Pickwick, consulting his ticket--'I believe this\nis twenty-seven in the third?'\n\n'Well?' replied the gentleman.\n\n'I have come here in consequence of receiving this bit of paper,'\nrejoined Mr. Pickwick.\n\n'Hand it over,' said the gentleman.\n\nMr. Pickwick complied.\n\n'I think Roker might have chummed you somewhere else,' said Mr. Simpson\n(for it was the leg), after a very discontented sort of a pause.\n\nMr. Pickwick thought so also; but, under all the circumstances, he\nconsidered it a matter of sound policy to be silent. Mr. Simpson mused\nfor a few moments after this, and then, thrusting his head out of the\nwindow, gave a shrill whistle, and pronounced some word aloud, several\ntimes. What the word was, Mr. Pickwick could not distinguish; but he\nrather inferred that it must be some nickname which distinguished Mr.\nMartin, from the fact of a great number of gentlemen on the ground\nbelow, immediately proceeding to cry 'Butcher!' in imitation of the tone\nin which that useful class of society are wont, diurnally, to make their\npresence known at area railings.\n\nSubsequent occurrences confirmed the accuracy of Mr. Pickwick's\nimpression; for, in a few seconds, a gentleman, prematurely broad for\nhis years, clothed in a professional blue jean frock and top-boots with\ncircular toes, entered the room nearly out of breath, closely followed\nby another gentleman in very shabby black, and a sealskin cap. The\nlatter gentleman, who fastened his coat all the way up to his chin by\nmeans of a pin and a button alternately, had a very coarse red face, and\nlooked like a drunken chaplain; which, indeed, he was.\n\nThese two gentlemen having by turns perused Mr. Pickwick's billet,\nthe one expressed his opinion that it was 'a rig,' and the other his\nconviction that it was 'a go.' Having recorded their feelings in these\nvery intelligible terms, they looked at Mr. Pickwick and each other in\nawkward silence.\n\n'It's an aggravating thing, just as we got the beds so snug,' said\nthe chaplain, looking at three dirty mattresses, each rolled up in\na blanket; which occupied one corner of the room during the day, and\nformed a kind of slab, on which were placed an old cracked basin, ewer,\nand soap-dish, of common yellow earthenware, with a blue flower--'very\naggravating.'\n\nMr. Martin expressed the same opinion in rather stronger terms; Mr.\nSimpson, after having let a variety of expletive adjectives loose\nupon society without any substantive to accompany them, tucked up his\nsleeves, and began to wash the greens for dinner.\n\nWhile this was going on, Mr. Pickwick had been eyeing the room, which\nwas filthily dirty, and smelt intolerably close. There was no vestige\nof either carpet, curtain, or blind. There was not even a closet in it.\nUnquestionably there were but few things to put away, if there had been\none; but, however few in number, or small in individual amount, still,\nremnants of loaves and pieces of cheese, and damp towels, and scrags\nof meat, and articles of wearing apparel, and mutilated crockery, and\nbellows without nozzles, and toasting-forks without prongs, do present\nsomewhat of an uncomfortable appearance when they are scattered about\nthe floor of a small apartment, which is the common sitting and sleeping\nroom of three idle men.\n\n'I suppose this can be managed somehow,' said the butcher, after\na pretty long silence. 'What will you take to go out?' 'I beg your\npardon,' replied Mr. Pickwick. 'What did you say? I hardly understand\nyou.'\n\n'What will you take to be paid out?' said the butcher. 'The regular\nchummage is two-and-six. Will you take three bob?'\n\n'And a bender,' suggested the clerical gentleman.\n\n'Well, I don't mind that; it's only twopence a piece more,' said Mr.\nMartin. 'What do you say, now? We'll pay you out for three-and-sixpence\na week. Come!'\n\n'And stand a gallon of beer down,' chimed in Mr. Simpson. 'There!'\n\n'And drink it on the spot,' said the chaplain. 'Now!'\n\n'I really am so wholly ignorant of the rules of this place,' returned\nMr. Pickwick, 'that I do not yet comprehend you. Can I live anywhere\nelse? I thought I could not.'\n\nAt this inquiry Mr. Martin looked, with a countenance of excessive\nsurprise, at his two friends, and then each gentleman pointed with his\nright thumb over his left shoulder. This action imperfectly described in\nwords by the very feeble term of 'over the left,' when performed by any\nnumber of ladies or gentlemen who are accustomed to act in unison, has\na very graceful and airy effect; its expression is one of light and\nplayful sarcasm.\n\n'CAN you!' repeated Mr. Martin, with a smile of pity.\n\n'Well, if I knew as little of life as that, I'd eat my hat and swallow\nthe buckle whole,' said the clerical gentleman.\n\n'So would I,' added the sporting one solemnly.\n\nAfter this introductory preface, the three chums informed Mr. Pickwick,\nin a breath, that money was, in the Fleet, just what money was out of\nit; that it would instantly procure him almost anything he desired; and\nthat, supposing he had it, and had no objection to spend it, if he only\nsignified his wish to have a room to himself, he might take possession\nof one, furnished and fitted to boot, in half an hour's time.\n\nWith this the parties separated, very much to their common satisfaction;\nMr. Pickwick once more retracing his steps to the lodge, and the three\ncompanions adjourning to the coffee-room, there to spend the five\nshillings which the clerical gentleman had, with admirable prudence and\nforesight, borrowed of him for the purpose.\n\n'I knowed it!' said Mr. Roker, with a chuckle, when Mr. Pickwick stated\nthe object with which he had returned. 'Didn't I say so, Neddy?'\n\nThe philosophical owner of the universal penknife growled an\naffirmative.\n\n'I knowed you'd want a room for yourself, bless you!' said Mr. Roker.\n'Let me see. You'll want some furniture. You'll hire that of me, I\nsuppose? That's the reg'lar thing.'\n\n'With great pleasure,' replied Mr. Pickwick.\n\n'There's a capital room up in the coffee-room flight, that belongs to a\nChancery prisoner,' said Mr. Roker. 'It'll stand you in a pound a week.\nI suppose you don't mind that?'\n\n'Not at all,' said Mr. Pickwick.\n\n'Just step there with me,' said Roker, taking up his hat with great\nalacrity; 'the matter's settled in five minutes. Lord! why didn't you\nsay at first that you was willing to come down handsome?'\n\nThe matter was soon arranged, as the turnkey had foretold. The Chancery\nprisoner had been there long enough to have lost his friends, fortune,\nhome, and happiness, and to have acquired the right of having a room\nto himself. As he laboured, however, under the inconvenience of often\nwanting a morsel of bread, he eagerly listened to Mr. Pickwick's\nproposal to rent the apartment, and readily covenanted and agreed\nto yield him up the sole and undisturbed possession thereof, in\nconsideration of the weekly payment of twenty shillings; from which fund\nhe furthermore contracted to pay out any person or persons that might be\nchummed upon it.\n\nAs they struck the bargain, Mr. Pickwick surveyed him with a painful\ninterest. He was a tall, gaunt, cadaverous man, in an old greatcoat and\nslippers, with sunken cheeks, and a restless, eager eye. His lips were\nbloodless, and his bones sharp and thin. God help him! the iron teeth\nof confinement and privation had been slowly filing him down for twenty\nyears.\n\n'And where will you live meanwhile, Sir?' said Mr. Pickwick, as he laid\nthe amount of the first week's rent, in advance, on the tottering table.\n\nThe man gathered up the money with a trembling hand, and replied that he\ndidn't know yet; he must go and see where he could move his bed to.\n\n'I am afraid, sir,' said Mr. Pickwick, laying his hand gently and\ncompassionately on his arm--'I am afraid you will have to live in some\nnoisy, crowded place. Now, pray, consider this room your own when you\nwant quiet, or when any of your friends come to see you.'\n\n'Friends!' interposed the man, in a voice which rattled in his throat.\n'if I lay dead at the bottom of the deepest mine in the world; tight\nscrewed down and soldered in my coffin; rotting in the dark and filthy\nditch that drags its slime along, beneath the foundations of this\nprison; I could not be more forgotten or unheeded than I am here. I am\na dead man; dead to society, without the pity they bestow on those whose\nsouls have passed to judgment. Friends to see me! My God! I have sunk,\nfrom the prime of life into old age, in this place, and there is not one\nto raise his hand above my bed when I lie dead upon it, and say, \"It is\na blessing he is gone!\"'\n\nThe excitement, which had cast an unwonted light over the man's face,\nwhile he spoke, subsided as he concluded; and pressing his withered\nhands together in a hasty and disordered manner, he shuffled from the\nroom.\n\n'Rides rather rusty,' said Mr. Roker, with a smile. 'Ah! they're like\nthe elephants. They feel it now and then, and it makes 'em wild!'\n\nHaving made this deeply-sympathising remark, Mr. Roker entered upon his\narrangements with such expedition, that in a short time the room\nwas furnished with a carpet, six chairs, a table, a sofa bedstead, a\ntea-kettle, and various small articles, on hire, at the very reasonable\nrate of seven-and-twenty shillings and sixpence per week.\n\n'Now, is there anything more we can do for you?' inquired Mr. Roker,\nlooking round with great satisfaction, and gaily chinking the first\nweek's hire in his closed fist.\n\n'Why, yes,' said Mr. Pickwick, who had been musing deeply for some time.\n'Are there any people here who run on errands, and so forth?'\n\n'Outside, do you mean?' inquired Mr. Roker.\n\n'Yes. I mean who are able to go outside. Not prisoners.'\n\n'Yes, there is,' said Roker. 'There's an unfortunate devil, who has got\na friend on the poor side, that's glad to do anything of that sort. He's\nbeen running odd jobs, and that, for the last two months. Shall I send\nhim?'\n\n'If you please,' rejoined Mr. Pickwick. 'Stay; no. The poor side, you\nsay? I should like to see it. I'll go to him myself.'\n\nThe poor side of a debtor's prison is, as its name imports, that in\nwhich the most miserable and abject class of debtors are confined.\nA prisoner having declared upon the poor side, pays neither rent nor\nchummage. His fees, upon entering and leaving the jail, are reduced in\namount, and he becomes entitled to a share of some small quantities\nof food: to provide which, a few charitable persons have, from time to\ntime, left trifling legacies in their wills. Most of our readers will\nremember, that, until within a very few years past, there was a kind of\niron cage in the wall of the Fleet Prison, within which was posted some\nman of hungry looks, who, from time to time, rattled a money-box, and\nexclaimed in a mournful voice, 'Pray, remember the poor debtors; pray\nremember the poor debtors.' The receipts of this box, when there were\nany, were divided among the poor prisoners; and the men on the poor side\nrelieved each other in this degrading office.\n\nAlthough this custom has been abolished, and the cage is now boarded up,\nthe miserable and destitute condition of these unhappy persons remains\nthe same. We no longer suffer them to appeal at the prison gates to the\ncharity and compassion of the passersby; but we still leave unblotted\nthe leaves of our statute book, for the reverence and admiration of\nsucceeding ages, the just and wholesome law which declares that the\nsturdy felon shall be fed and clothed, and that the penniless debtor\nshall be left to die of starvation and nakedness. This is no fiction.\nNot a week passes over our head, but, in every one of our prisons for\ndebt, some of these men must inevitably expire in the slow agonies of\nwant, if they were not relieved by their fellow-prisoners.\n\nTurning these things in his mind, as he mounted the narrow staircase\nat the foot of which Roker had left him, Mr. Pickwick gradually worked\nhimself to the boiling-over point; and so excited was he with his\nreflections on this subject, that he had burst into the room to which\nhe had been directed, before he had any distinct recollection, either of\nthe place in which he was, or of the object of his visit.\n\nThe general aspect of the room recalled him to himself at once; but he\nhad no sooner cast his eye on the figure of a man who was brooding\nover the dusty fire, than, letting his hat fall on the floor, he stood\nperfectly fixed and immovable with astonishment.\n\nYes; in tattered garments, and without a coat; his common calico shirt,\nyellow and in rags; his hair hanging over his face; his features changed\nwith suffering, and pinched with famine--there sat Mr. Alfred Jingle;\nhis head resting on his hands, his eyes fixed upon the fire, and his\nwhole appearance denoting misery and dejection!\n\nNear him, leaning listlessly against the wall, stood a strong-built\ncountryman, flicking with a worn-out hunting-whip the top-boot that\nadorned his right foot; his left being thrust into an old slipper.\nHorses, dogs, and drink had brought him there, pell-mell. There was a\nrusty spur on the solitary boot, which he occasionally jerked into the\nempty air, at the same time giving the boot a smart blow, and muttering\nsome of the sounds by which a sportsman encourages his horse. He was\nriding, in imagination, some desperate steeplechase at that moment. Poor\nwretch! He never rode a match on the swiftest animal in his costly stud,\nwith half the speed at which he had torn along the course that ended in\nthe Fleet.\n\nOn the opposite side of the room an old man was seated on a small wooden\nbox, with his eyes riveted on the floor, and his face settled into an\nexpression of the deepest and most hopeless despair. A young girl--his\nlittle grand-daughter--was hanging about him, endeavouring, with a\nthousand childish devices, to engage his attention; but the old man\nneither saw nor heard her. The voice that had been music to him, and\nthe eyes that had been light, fell coldly on his senses. His limbs were\nshaking with disease, and the palsy had fastened on his mind.\n\nThere were two or three other men in the room, congregated in a little\nknot, and noiselessly talking among themselves. There was a lean and\nhaggard woman, too--a prisoner's wife--who was watering, with great\nsolicitude, the wretched stump of a dried-up, withered plant, which, it\nwas plain to see, could never send forth a green leaf again--too true an\nemblem, perhaps, of the office she had come there to discharge.\n\nSuch were the objects which presented themselves to Mr. Pickwick's view,\nas he looked round him in amazement. The noise of some one stumbling\nhastily into the room, roused him. Turning his eyes towards the door,\nthey encountered the new-comer; and in him, through his rags and dirt,\nhe recognised the familiar features of Mr. Job Trotter.\n\n'Mr. Pickwick!' exclaimed Job aloud.\n\n'Eh?' said Jingle, starting from his seat. 'Mr ----! So it is--queer\nplace--strange things--serves me right--very.' Mr. Jingle thrust\nhis hands into the place where his trousers pockets used to be, and,\ndropping his chin upon his breast, sank back into his chair.\n\nMr. Pickwick was affected; the two men looked so very miserable. The\nsharp, involuntary glance Jingle had cast at a small piece of raw loin\nof mutton, which Job had brought in with him, said more of their reduced\nstate than two hours' explanation could have done. Mr. Pickwick looked\nmildly at Jingle, and said--\n\n'I should like to speak to you in private. Will you step out for an\ninstant?'\n\n'Certainly,' said Jingle, rising hastily. 'Can't step far--no danger of\noverwalking yourself here--spike park--grounds pretty--romantic, but\nnot extensive--open for public inspection--family always in\ntown--housekeeper desperately careful--very.'\n\n'You have forgotten your coat,' said Mr. Pickwick, as they walked out to\nthe staircase, and closed the door after them.\n\n'Eh?' said Jingle. 'Spout--dear relation--uncle Tom--couldn't help\nit--must eat, you know. Wants of nature--and all that.'\n\n'What do you mean?'\n\n'Gone, my dear sir--last coat--can't help it. Lived on a pair of boots,\nwhole fortnight. Silk umbrella--ivory handle--week--fact--honour--ask\nJob--knows it.'\n\n'Lived for three weeks upon a pair of boots, and a silk umbrella with an\nivory handle!' exclaimed Mr. Pickwick, who had only heard of such things\nin shipwrecks or read of them in Constable's Miscellany.\n\n'True,' said Jingle, nodding his head. 'Pawnbroker's shop--duplicates\nhere--small sums--mere nothing--all rascals.'\n\n'Oh,' said Mr. Pickwick, much relieved by this explanation; 'I\nunderstand you. You have pawned your wardrobe.'\n\n'Everything--Job's too--all shirts gone--never mind--saves washing.\nNothing soon--lie in bed--starve--die--inquest--little bone-house--poor\nprisoner--common necessaries--hush it up--gentlemen of the\njury--warden's tradesmen--keep it snug--natural death--coroner's\norder--workhouse funeral--serve him right--all over--drop the curtain.'\n\nJingle delivered this singular summary of his prospects in life, with\nhis accustomed volubility, and with various twitches of the countenance\nto counterfeit smiles. Mr. Pickwick easily perceived that his\nrecklessness was assumed, and looking him full, but not unkindly, in the\nface, saw that his eyes were moist with tears.\n\n'Good fellow,' said Jingle, pressing his hand, and turning his\nhead away. 'Ungrateful dog--boyish to cry--can't help it--bad\nfever--weak--ill--hungry. Deserved it all--but suffered much--very.'\nWholly unable to keep up appearances any longer, and perhaps rendered\nworse by the effort he had made, the dejected stroller sat down on the\nstairs, and, covering his face with his hands, sobbed like a child.\n\n'Come, come,' said Mr. Pickwick, with considerable emotion, 'we will see\nwhat can be done, when I know all about the matter. Here, Job; where is\nthat fellow?'\n\n'Here, sir,' replied Job, presenting himself on the staircase. We have\ndescribed him, by the bye, as having deeply-sunken eyes, in the best of\ntimes. In his present state of want and distress, he looked as if those\nfeatures had gone out of town altogether.\n\n'Here, sir,' cried Job.\n\n'Come here, sir,' said Mr. Pickwick, trying to look stern, with four\nlarge tears running down his waistcoat. 'Take that, sir.'\n\nTake what? In the ordinary acceptation of such language, it should have\nbeen a blow. As the world runs, it ought to have been a sound, hearty\ncuff; for Mr. Pickwick had been duped, deceived, and wronged by the\ndestitute outcast who was now wholly in his power. Must we tell the\ntruth? It was something from Mr. Pickwick's waistcoat pocket, which\nchinked as it was given into Job's hand, and the giving of which,\nsomehow or other imparted a sparkle to the eye, and a swelling to the\nheart, of our excellent old friend, as he hurried away.\n\nSam had returned when Mr. Pickwick reached his own room, and was\ninspecting the arrangements that had been made for his comfort, with a\nkind of grim satisfaction which was very pleasant to look upon. Having\na decided objection to his master's being there at all, Mr. Weller\nappeared to consider it a high moral duty not to appear too much pleased\nwith anything that was done, said, suggested, or proposed.\n\n'Well, Sam,' said Mr. Pickwick.\n\n'Well, sir,' replied Mr. Weller.\n\n'Pretty comfortable now, eh, Sam?'\n\n'Pretty vell, sir,' responded Sam, looking round him in a disparaging\nmanner.\n\n'Have you seen Mr. Tupman and our other friends?'\n\n'Yes, I HAVE seen 'em, sir, and they're a-comin' to-morrow, and wos wery\nmuch surprised to hear they warn't to come to-day,' replied Sam.\n\n'You have brought the things I wanted?'\n\nMr. Weller in reply pointed to various packages which he had arranged,\nas neatly as he could, in a corner of the room.\n\n'Very well, Sam,' said Mr. Pickwick, after a little hesitation; 'listen\nto what I am going to say, Sam.'\n\n'Cert'nly, Sir,' rejoined Mr. Weller; 'fire away, Sir.'\n\n'I have felt from the first, Sam,' said Mr. Pickwick, with much\nsolemnity, 'that this is not the place to bring a young man to.'\n\n'Nor an old 'un neither, Sir,' observed Mr. Weller.\n\n'You're quite right, Sam,' said Mr. Pickwick; 'but old men may come here\nthrough their own heedlessness and unsuspicion, and young men may be\nbrought here by the selfishness of those they serve. It is better for\nthose young men, in every point of view, that they should not remain\nhere. Do you understand me, Sam?'\n\n'Vy no, Sir, I do NOT,' replied Mr. Weller doggedly.\n\n'Try, Sam,' said Mr. Pickwick.\n\n'Vell, sir,' rejoined Sam, after a short pause, 'I think I see your\ndrift; and if I do see your drift, it's my 'pinion that you're a-comin'\nit a great deal too strong, as the mail-coachman said to the snowstorm,\nven it overtook him.'\n\n'I see you comprehend me, Sam,' said Mr. Pickwick. 'Independently of my\nwish that you should not be idling about a place like this, for years\nto come, I feel that for a debtor in the Fleet to be attended by his\nmanservant is a monstrous absurdity. Sam,' said Mr. Pickwick, 'for a\ntime you must leave me.'\n\n'Oh, for a time, eh, sir?' rejoined Mr. Weller rather sarcastically.\n\n'Yes, for the time that I remain here,' said Mr. Pickwick. 'Your wages I\nshall continue to pay. Any one of my three friends will be happy to\ntake you, were it only out of respect to me. And if I ever do leave this\nplace, Sam,' added Mr. Pickwick, with assumed cheerfulness--'if I do, I\npledge you my word that you shall return to me instantly.'\n\n'Now I'll tell you wot it is, Sir,' said Mr. Weller, in a grave and\nsolemn voice. 'This here sort o' thing won't do at all, so don't let's\nhear no more about it.' 'I am serious, and resolved, Sam,' said Mr.\nPickwick.\n\n'You air, air you, sir?' inquired Mr. Weller firmly. 'Wery good, Sir;\nthen so am I.'\n\nThus speaking, Mr. Weller fixed his hat on his head with great\nprecision, and abruptly left the room.\n\n'Sam!' cried Mr. Pickwick, calling after him, 'Sam! Here!'\n\nBut the long gallery ceased to re-echo the sound of footsteps. Sam\nWeller was gone.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XLIII. SHOWING HOW Mr. SAMUEL WELLER GOT INTO DIFFICULTIES\n\n\nIn a lofty room, ill-lighted and worse ventilated, situated in Portugal\nStreet, Lincoln's Inn Fields, there sit nearly the whole year round,\none, two, three, or four gentlemen in wigs, as the case may be, with\nlittle writing-desks before them, constructed after the fashion of those\nused by the judges of the land, barring the French polish. There is\na box of barristers on their right hand; there is an enclosure of\ninsolvent debtors on their left; and there is an inclined plane of\nmost especially dirty faces in their front. These gentlemen are the\nCommissioners of the Insolvent Court, and the place in which they sit,\nis the Insolvent Court itself.\n\nIt is, and has been, time out of mind, the remarkable fate of this court\nto be, somehow or other, held and understood, by the general consent\nof all the destitute shabby-genteel people in London, as their common\nresort, and place of daily refuge. It is always full. The steams of beer\nand spirits perpetually ascend to the ceiling, and, being condensed by\nthe heat, roll down the walls like rain; there are more old suits\nof clothes in it at one time, than will be offered for sale in all\nHoundsditch in a twelvemonth; more unwashed skins and grizzly beards\nthan all the pumps and shaving-shops between Tyburn and Whitechapel\ncould render decent, between sunrise and sunset.\n\nIt must not be supposed that any of these people have the least shadow\nof business in, or the remotest connection with, the place they so\nindefatigably attend. If they had, it would be no matter of surprise,\nand the singularity of the thing would cease. Some of them sleep during\nthe greater part of the sitting; others carry small portable dinners\nwrapped in pocket-handkerchiefs or sticking out of their worn-out\npockets, and munch and listen with equal relish; but no one among them\nwas ever known to have the slightest personal interest in any case that\nwas ever brought forward. Whatever they do, there they sit from the\nfirst moment to the last. When it is heavy, rainy weather, they all come\nin, wet through; and at such times the vapours of the court are like\nthose of a fungus-pit.\n\nA casual visitor might suppose this place to be a temple dedicated to\nthe Genius of Seediness. There is not a messenger or process-server\nattached to it, who wears a coat that was made for him; not a tolerably\nfresh, or wholesome-looking man in the whole establishment, except\na little white-headed apple-faced tipstaff, and even he, like an\nill-conditioned cherry preserved in brandy, seems to have artificially\ndried and withered up into a state of preservation to which he can lay\nno natural claim. The very barristers' wigs are ill-powdered, and their\ncurls lack crispness.\n\nBut the attorneys, who sit at a large bare table below the\ncommissioners, are, after all, the greatest curiosities. The\nprofessional establishment of the more opulent of these gentlemen,\nconsists of a blue bag and a boy; generally a youth of the Jewish\npersuasion. They have no fixed offices, their legal business being\ntransacted in the parlours of public-houses, or the yards of prisons,\nwhither they repair in crowds, and canvass for customers after the\nmanner of omnibus cads. They are of a greasy and mildewed appearance;\nand if they can be said to have any vices at all, perhaps drinking\nand cheating are the most conspicuous among them. Their residences are\nusually on the outskirts of 'the Rules,' chiefly lying within a circle\nof one mile from the obelisk in St. George's Fields. Their looks are not\nprepossessing, and their manners are peculiar.\n\nMr. Solomon Pell, one of this learned body, was a fat, flabby, pale man,\nin a surtout which looked green one minute, and brown the next, with a\nvelvet collar of the same chameleon tints. His forehead was narrow, his\nface wide, his head large, and his nose all on one side, as if Nature,\nindignant with the propensities she observed in him in his birth, had\ngiven it an angry tweak which it had never recovered. Being short-necked\nand asthmatic, however, he respired principally through this feature;\nso, perhaps, what it wanted in ornament, it made up in usefulness.\n\n'I'm sure to bring him through it,' said Mr. Pell.\n\n'Are you, though?' replied the person to whom the assurance was pledged.\n\n'Certain sure,' replied Pell; 'but if he'd gone to any irregular\npractitioner, mind you, I wouldn't have answered for the consequences.'\n\n'Ah!' said the other, with open mouth.\n\n'No, that I wouldn't,' said Mr. Pell; and he pursed up his lips,\nfrowned, and shook his head mysteriously.\n\nNow, the place where this discourse occurred was the public-house just\nopposite to the Insolvent Court; and the person with whom it was held\nwas no other than the elder Mr. Weller, who had come there, to comfort\nand console a friend, whose petition to be discharged under the act,\nwas to be that day heard, and whose attorney he was at that moment\nconsulting.\n\n'And vere is George?' inquired the old gentleman.\n\nMr. Pell jerked his head in the direction of a back parlour, whither\nMr. Weller at once repairing, was immediately greeted in the warmest and\nmost flattering manner by some half-dozen of his professional brethren,\nin token of their gratification at his arrival. The insolvent gentleman,\nwho had contracted a speculative but imprudent passion for horsing long\nstages, which had led to his present embarrassments, looked extremely\nwell, and was soothing the excitement of his feelings with shrimps and\nporter.\n\nThe salutation between Mr. Weller and his friends was strictly confined\nto the freemasonry of the craft; consisting of a jerking round of the\nright wrist, and a tossing of the little finger into the air at the same\ntime. We once knew two famous coachmen (they are dead now, poor fellows)\nwho were twins, and between whom an unaffected and devoted attachment\nexisted. They passed each other on the Dover road, every day, for\ntwenty-four years, never exchanging any other greeting than this; and\nyet, when one died, the other pined away, and soon afterwards followed\nhim!\n\n'Vell, George,' said Mr. Weller senior, taking off his upper coat,\nand seating himself with his accustomed gravity. 'How is it? All right\nbehind, and full inside?'\n\n'All right, old feller,' replied the embarrassed gentleman.\n\n'Is the gray mare made over to anybody?' inquired Mr. Weller anxiously.\nGeorge nodded in the affirmative.\n\n'Vell, that's all right,' said Mr. Weller. 'Coach taken care on, also?'\n\n'Con-signed in a safe quarter,' replied George, wringing the heads off\nhalf a dozen shrimps, and swallowing them without any more ado.\n\n'Wery good, wery good,' said Mr. Weller. 'Alvays see to the drag ven you\ngo downhill. Is the vay-bill all clear and straight for'erd?'\n\n'The schedule, sir,' said Pell, guessing at Mr. Weller's meaning, 'the\nschedule is as plain and satisfactory as pen and ink can make it.'\n\nMr. Weller nodded in a manner which bespoke his inward approval of\nthese arrangements; and then, turning to Mr. Pell, said, pointing to his\nfriend George--\n\n'Ven do you take his cloths off?'\n\n'Why,' replied Mr. Pell, 'he stands third on the opposed list, and I\nshould think it would be his turn in about half an hour. I told my clerk\nto come over and tell us when there was a chance.'\n\nMr. Weller surveyed the attorney from head to foot with great\nadmiration, and said emphatically--\n\n'And what'll you take, sir?'\n\n'Why, really,' replied Mr. Pell, 'you're very--Upon my word and honour,\nI'm not in the habit of--It's so very early in the morning, that,\nactually, I am almost--Well, you may bring me threepenn'orth of rum, my\ndear.'\n\nThe officiating damsel, who had anticipated the order before it was\ngiven, set the glass of spirits before Pell, and retired.\n\n'Gentlemen,' said Mr. Pell, looking round upon the company, 'success to\nyour friend! I don't like to boast, gentlemen; it's not my way; but I\ncan't help saying, that, if your friend hadn't been fortunate enough\nto fall into hands that--But I won't say what I was going to say.\nGentlemen, my service to you.' Having emptied the glass in a twinkling,\nMr. Pell smacked his lips, and looked complacently round on the\nassembled coachmen, who evidently regarded him as a species of divinity.\n\n'Let me see,' said the legal authority. 'What was I a-saying,\ngentlemen?'\n\n'I think you was remarkin' as you wouldn't have no objection to another\no' the same, Sir,' said Mr. Weller, with grave facetiousness. 'Ha, ha!'\nlaughed Mr. Pell. 'Not bad, not bad. A professional man, too! At this\ntime of the morning, it would be rather too good a--Well, I don't know,\nmy dear--you may do that again, if you please. Hem!'\n\nThis last sound was a solemn and dignified cough, in which Mr. Pell,\nobserving an indecent tendency to mirth in some of his auditors,\nconsidered it due to himself to indulge.\n\n'The late Lord Chancellor, gentlemen, was very fond of me,' said Mr.\nPell.\n\n'And wery creditable in him, too,' interposed Mr. Weller.\n\n'Hear, hear,' assented Mr. Pell's client. 'Why shouldn't he be?\n\n'Ah! Why, indeed!' said a very red-faced man, who had said nothing yet,\nand who looked extremely unlikely to say anything more. 'Why shouldn't\nhe?'\n\nA murmur of assent ran through the company.\n\n'I remember, gentlemen,' said Mr. Pell, 'dining with him on one\noccasion; there was only us two, but everything as splendid as if twenty\npeople had been expected--the great seal on a dumb-waiter at his right\nhand, and a man in a bag-wig and suit of armour guarding the mace with\na drawn sword and silk stockings--which is perpetually done, gentlemen,\nnight and day; when he said, \"Pell,\" he said, \"no false delicacy, Pell.\nYou're a man of talent; you can get anybody through the Insolvent Court,\nPell; and your country should be proud of you.\" Those were his very\nwords. \"My Lord,\" I said, \"you flatter me.\"--\"Pell,\" he said, \"if I do,\nI'm damned.\"'\n\n'Did he say that?' inquired Mr. Weller.\n\n'He did,' replied Pell.\n\n'Vell, then,' said Mr. Weller, 'I say Parliament ought to ha' took it\nup; and if he'd been a poor man, they would ha' done it.'\n\n'But, my dear friend,' argued Mr. Pell, 'it was in confidence.'\n\n'In what?' said Mr. Weller.\n\n'In confidence.'\n\n'Oh! wery good,' replied Mr. Weller, after a little reflection. 'If he\ndamned hisself in confidence, o' course that was another thing.'\n\n'Of course it was,' said Mr. Pell. 'The distinction's obvious, you will\nperceive.'\n\n'Alters the case entirely,' said Mr. Weller. 'Go on, Sir.' 'No, I will\nnot go on, Sir,' said Mr. Pell, in a low and serious tone. 'You have\nreminded me, Sir, that this conversation was private--private and\nconfidential, gentlemen. Gentlemen, I am a professional man. It may be\nthat I am a good deal looked up to, in my profession--it may be that I\nam not. Most people know. I say nothing. Observations have already been\nmade, in this room, injurious to the reputation of my noble friend. You\nwill excuse me, gentlemen; I was imprudent. I feel that I have no right\nto mention this matter without his concurrence. Thank you, Sir; thank\nyou.' Thus delivering himself, Mr. Pell thrust his hands into his\npockets, and, frowning grimly around, rattled three halfpence with\nterrible determination.\n\nThis virtuous resolution had scarcely been formed, when the boy and the\nblue bag, who were inseparable companions, rushed violently into the\nroom, and said (at least the boy did, for the blue bag took no part in\nthe announcement) that the case was coming on directly. The intelligence\nwas no sooner received than the whole party hurried across the street,\nand began to fight their way into court--a preparatory ceremony, which\nhas been calculated to occupy, in ordinary cases, from twenty-five\nminutes to thirty.\n\nMr. Weller, being stout, cast himself at once into the crowd, with the\ndesperate hope of ultimately turning up in some place which would suit\nhim. His success was not quite equal to his expectations; for having\nneglected to take his hat off, it was knocked over his eyes by some\nunseen person, upon whose toes he had alighted with considerable\nforce. Apparently this individual regretted his impetuosity immediately\nafterwards, for, muttering an indistinct exclamation of surprise, he\ndragged the old man out into the hall, and, after a violent struggle,\nreleased his head and face.\n\n'Samivel!' exclaimed Mr. Weller, when he was thus enabled to behold his\nrescuer.\n\nSam nodded.\n\n'You're a dutiful and affectionate little boy, you are, ain't you,' said\nMr. Weller, 'to come a-bonnetin' your father in his old age?'\n\n'How should I know who you wos?' responded the son. 'Do you s'pose I wos\nto tell you by the weight o' your foot?'\n\n'Vell, that's wery true, Sammy,' replied Mr. Weller, mollified at once;\n'but wot are you a-doin' on here? Your gov'nor can't do no good here,\nSammy. They won't pass that werdick, they won't pass it, Sammy.' And Mr.\nWeller shook his head with legal solemnity.\n\n'Wot a perwerse old file it is!' exclaimed Sam. 'always a-goin' on about\nwerdicks and alleybis and that. Who said anything about the werdick?'\n\nMr. Weller made no reply, but once more shook his head most learnedly.\n\n'Leave off rattlin' that 'ere nob o' yourn, if you don't want it to\ncome off the springs altogether,' said Sam impatiently, 'and behave\nreasonable. I vent all the vay down to the Markis o' Granby, arter you,\nlast night.'\n\n'Did you see the Marchioness o' Granby, Sammy?' inquired Mr. Weller,\nwith a sigh.\n\n'Yes, I did,' replied Sam.\n\n'How wos the dear creetur a-lookin'?'\n\n'Wery queer,' said Sam. 'I think she's a-injurin' herself gradivally\nvith too much o' that 'ere pine-apple rum, and other strong medicines of\nthe same natur.'\n\n'You don't mean that, Sammy?' said the senior earnestly.\n\n'I do, indeed,' replied the junior. Mr. Weller seized his son's hand,\nclasped it, and let it fall. There was an expression on his countenance\nin doing so--not of dismay or apprehension, but partaking more of the\nsweet and gentle character of hope. A gleam of resignation, and even\nof cheerfulness, passed over his face too, as he slowly said, 'I ain't\nquite certain, Sammy; I wouldn't like to say I wos altogether positive,\nin case of any subsekent disappointment, but I rayther think, my boy, I\nrayther think, that the shepherd's got the liver complaint!'\n\n'Does he look bad?' inquired Sam.\n\n'He's uncommon pale,' replied his father, ''cept about the nose,\nwhich is redder than ever. His appetite is wery so-so, but he imbibes\nwonderful.'\n\nSome thoughts of the rum appeared to obtrude themselves on Mr. Weller's\nmind, as he said this; for he looked gloomy and thoughtful; but he very\nshortly recovered, as was testified by a perfect alphabet of winks, in\nwhich he was only wont to indulge when particularly pleased.\n\n'Vell, now,' said Sam, 'about my affair. Just open them ears o' yourn,\nand don't say nothin' till I've done.' With this preface, Sam related,\nas succinctly as he could, the last memorable conversation he had had\nwith Mr. Pickwick.\n\n'Stop there by himself, poor creetur!' exclaimed the elder Mr. Weller,\n'without nobody to take his part! It can't be done, Samivel, it can't be\ndone.'\n\n'O' course it can't,' asserted Sam: 'I know'd that, afore I came.' 'Why,\nthey'll eat him up alive, Sammy,'exclaimed Mr. Weller.\n\nSam nodded his concurrence in the opinion.\n\n'He goes in rayther raw, Sammy,' said Mr. Weller metaphorically, 'and\nhe'll come out, done so ex-ceedin' brown, that his most formiliar\nfriends won't know him. Roast pigeon's nothin' to it, Sammy.'\n\nAgain Sam Weller nodded.\n\n'It oughtn't to be, Samivel,' said Mr. Weller gravely.\n\n'It mustn't be,' said Sam.\n\n'Cert'nly not,' said Mr. Weller.\n\n'Vell now,' said Sam, 'you've been a-prophecyin' away, wery fine, like a\nred-faced Nixon, as the sixpenny books gives picters on.'\n\n'Who wos he, Sammy?' inquired Mr. Weller.\n\n'Never mind who he was,' retorted Sam; 'he warn't a coachman; that's\nenough for you.' 'I know'd a ostler o' that name,' said Mr. Weller,\nmusing.\n\n'It warn't him,' said Sam. 'This here gen'l'm'n was a prophet.'\n\n'Wot's a prophet?' inquired Mr. Weller, looking sternly on his son.\n\n'Wy, a man as tells what's a-goin' to happen,' replied Sam.\n\n'I wish I'd know'd him, Sammy,' said Mr. Weller. 'P'raps he might ha'\nthrow'd a small light on that 'ere liver complaint as we wos a-speakin'\non, just now. Hows'ever, if he's dead, and ain't left the bisness to\nnobody, there's an end on it. Go on, Sammy,' said Mr. Weller, with a\nsigh.\n\n'Well,' said Sam, 'you've been a-prophecyin' avay about wot'll happen to\nthe gov'ner if he's left alone. Don't you see any way o' takin' care on\nhim?'\n\n'No, I don't, Sammy,' said Mr. Weller, with a reflective visage.\n\n'No vay at all?' inquired Sam.\n\n'No vay,' said Mr. Weller, 'unless'--and a gleam of intelligence lighted\nup his countenance as he sank his voice to a whisper, and applied his\nmouth to the ear of his offspring--'unless it is getting him out in a\nturn-up bedstead, unbeknown to the turnkeys, Sammy, or dressin' him up\nlike a old 'ooman vith a green wail.'\n\nSam Weller received both of these suggestions with unexpected contempt,\nand again propounded his question.\n\n'No,' said the old gentleman; 'if he von't let you stop there, I see no\nvay at all. It's no thoroughfare, Sammy, no thoroughfare.'\n\n'Well, then, I'll tell you wot it is,' said Sam, 'I'll trouble you for\nthe loan of five-and-twenty pound.'\n\n'Wot good'll that do?' inquired Mr. Weller.\n\n'Never mind,' replied Sam. 'P'raps you may ask for it five minits\narterwards; p'raps I may say I von't pay, and cut up rough. You von't\nthink o' arrestin' your own son for the money, and sendin' him off to\nthe Fleet, will you, you unnat'ral wagabone?'\n\nAt this reply of Sam's, the father and son exchanged a complete code\nof telegraph nods and gestures, after which, the elder Mr. Weller sat\nhimself down on a stone step and laughed till he was purple.\n\n'Wot a old image it is!' exclaimed Sam, indignant at this loss of time.\n'What are you a-settin' down there for, con-wertin' your face into a\nstreet-door knocker, wen there's so much to be done. Where's the money?'\n'In the boot, Sammy, in the boot,' replied Mr. Weller, composing his\nfeatures. 'Hold my hat, Sammy.'\n\nHaving divested himself of this encumbrance, Mr. Weller gave his body\na sudden wrench to one side, and by a dexterous twist, contrived to get\nhis right hand into a most capacious pocket, from whence, after a great\ndeal of panting and exertion, he extricated a pocket-book of the large\noctavo size, fastened by a huge leathern strap. From this ledger he drew\nforth a couple of whiplashes, three or four buckles, a little sample-bag\nof corn, and, finally, a small roll of very dirty bank-notes, from which\nhe selected the required amount, which he handed over to Sam.\n\n'And now, Sammy,' said the old gentleman, when the whip-lashes, and the\nbuckles, and the samples, had been all put back, and the book once\nmore deposited at the bottom of the same pocket, 'now, Sammy, I know a\ngen'l'm'n here, as'll do the rest o' the bisness for us, in no time--a\nlimb o' the law, Sammy, as has got brains like the frogs, dispersed all\nover his body, and reachin' to the wery tips of his fingers; a friend\nof the Lord Chancellorship's, Sammy, who'd only have to tell him what he\nwanted, and he'd lock you up for life, if that wos all.'\n\n'I say,' said Sam, 'none o' that.'\n\n'None o' wot?' inquired Mr. Weller.\n\n'Wy, none o' them unconstitootional ways o' doin' it,' retorted Sam.\n'The have-his-carcass, next to the perpetual motion, is vun of\nthe blessedest things as wos ever made. I've read that 'ere in the\nnewspapers wery of'en.'\n\n'Well, wot's that got to do vith it?' inquired Mr. Weller.\n\n'Just this here,' said Sam, 'that I'll patronise the inwention, and\ngo in, that vay. No visperin's to the Chancellorship--I don't like the\nnotion. It mayn't be altogether safe, vith reference to gettin' out\nagin.'\n\nDeferring to his son's feeling upon this point, Mr. Weller at once\nsought the erudite Solomon Pell, and acquainted him with his desire to\nissue a writ, instantly, for the SUM of twenty-five pounds, and costs\nof process; to be executed without delay upon the body of one Samuel\nWeller; the charges thereby incurred, to be paid in advance to Solomon\nPell.\n\nThe attorney was in high glee, for the embarrassed coach-horser\nwas ordered to be discharged forthwith. He highly approved of Sam's\nattachment to his master; declared that it strongly reminded him of his\nown feelings of devotion to his friend, the Chancellor; and at once led\nthe elder Mr. Weller down to the Temple, to swear the affidavit of debt,\nwhich the boy, with the assistance of the blue bag, had drawn up on the\nspot.\n\nMeanwhile, Sam, having been formally introduced to the whitewashed\ngentleman and his friends, as the offspring of Mr. Weller, of the Belle\nSavage, was treated with marked distinction, and invited to regale\nhimself with them in honour of the occasion--an invitation which he was\nby no means backward in accepting.\n\nThe mirth of gentlemen of this class is of a grave and quiet character,\nusually; but the present instance was one of peculiar festivity, and\nthey relaxed in proportion. After some rather tumultuous toasting of the\nChief Commissioner and Mr. Solomon Pell, who had that day displayed\nsuch transcendent abilities, a mottled-faced gentleman in a blue shawl\nproposed that somebody should sing a song. The obvious suggestion was,\nthat the mottled-faced gentleman, being anxious for a song, should sing\nit himself; but this the mottled-faced gentleman sturdily, and somewhat\noffensively, declined to do. Upon which, as is not unusual in such\ncases, a rather angry colloquy ensued.\n\n'Gentlemen,' said the coach-horser, 'rather than disturb the harmony\nof this delightful occasion, perhaps Mr. Samuel Weller will oblige the\ncompany.'\n\n'Raly, gentlemen,' said Sam, 'I'm not wery much in the habit o' singin'\nwithout the instrument; but anythin' for a quiet life, as the man said\nwen he took the sitivation at the lighthouse.'\n\nWith this prelude, Mr. Samuel Weller burst at once into the following\nwild and beautiful legend, which, under the impression that it is not\ngenerally known, we take the liberty of quoting. We would beg to call\nparticular attention to the monosyllable at the end of the second and\nfourth lines, which not only enables the singer to take breath at those\npoints, but greatly assists the metre.\n\n\n ROMANCE\n\n I\n\n Bold Turpin vunce, on Hounslow Heath,\n His bold mare Bess bestrode-er;\n Ven there he see'd the Bishop's coach\n A-coming along the road-er.\n So he gallops close to the 'orse's legs,\n And he claps his head vithin;\n And the Bishop says, 'Sure as eggs is eggs,\n This here's the bold Turpin!'\n\n CHORUS\n\n And the Bishop says, 'Sure as eggs is eggs,\n This here's the bold Turpin!'\n\n II\n\n Says Turpin, 'You shall eat your words,\n With a sarse of leaden bul-let;'\n So he puts a pistol to his mouth,\n And he fires it down his gul-let.\n The coachman he not likin' the job,\n Set off at full gal-lop,\n But Dick put a couple of balls in his nob,\n And perwailed on him to stop.\n\n CHORUS (sarcastically)\n\n But Dick put a couple of balls in his nob,\n And perwailed on him to stop.\n\n\n'I maintain that that 'ere song's personal to the cloth,' said the\nmottled-faced gentleman, interrupting it at this point. 'I demand the\nname o' that coachman.'\n\n'Nobody know'd,' replied Sam. 'He hadn't got his card in his pocket.'\n\n'I object to the introduction o' politics,' said the mottled-faced\ngentleman. 'I submit that, in the present company, that 'ere song's\npolitical; and, wot's much the same, that it ain't true. I say that that\ncoachman did not run away; but that he died game--game as pheasants; and\nI won't hear nothin' said to the contrairey.'\n\nAs the mottled-faced gentleman spoke with great energy and\ndetermination, and as the opinions of the company seemed divided on\nthe subject, it threatened to give rise to fresh altercation, when Mr.\nWeller and Mr. Pell most opportunely arrived.\n\n'All right, Sammy,' said Mr. Weller.\n\n'The officer will be here at four o'clock,' said Mr. Pell. 'I suppose\nyou won't run away meanwhile, eh? Ha! ha!'\n\n'P'raps my cruel pa 'ull relent afore then,' replied Sam, with a broad\ngrin.\n\n'Not I,' said the elder Mr. Weller.\n\n'Do,' said Sam.\n\n'Not on no account,' replied the inexorable creditor.\n\n'I'll give bills for the amount, at sixpence a month,' said Sam.\n\n'I won't take 'em,' said Mr. Weller.\n\n'Ha, ha, ha! very good, very good,' said Mr. Solomon Pell, who was\nmaking out his little bill of costs; 'a very amusing incident indeed!\nBenjamin, copy that.' And Mr. Pell smiled again, as he called Mr.\nWeller's attention to the amount.\n\n'Thank you, thank you,' said the professional gentleman, taking up\nanother of the greasy notes as Mr. Weller took it from the pocket-book.\n'Three ten and one ten is five. Much obliged to you, Mr. Weller. Your\nson is a most deserving young man, very much so indeed, Sir. It's a\nvery pleasant trait in a young man's character, very much so,' added Mr.\nPell, smiling smoothly round, as he buttoned up the money.\n\n'Wot a game it is!' said the elder Mr. Weller, with a chuckle. 'A\nreg'lar prodigy son!'\n\n'Prodigal--prodigal son, Sir,' suggested Mr. Pell, mildly.\n\n'Never mind, Sir,' said Mr. Weller, with dignity. 'I know wot's o'clock,\nSir. Wen I don't, I'll ask you, Sir.'\n\nBy the time the officer arrived, Sam had made himself so extremely\npopular, that the congregated gentlemen determined to see him to prison\nin a body. So off they set; the plaintiff and defendant walking arm\nin arm, the officer in front, and eight stout coachmen bringing up the\nrear. At Serjeant's Inn Coffee-house the whole party halted to refresh,\nand, the legal arrangements being completed, the procession moved on\nagain.\n\nSome little commotion was occasioned in Fleet Street, by the pleasantry\nof the eight gentlemen in the flank, who persevered in walking four\nabreast; it was also found necessary to leave the mottled-faced\ngentleman behind, to fight a ticket-porter, it being arranged that his\nfriends should call for him as they came back. Nothing but these little\nincidents occurred on the way. When they reached the gate of the Fleet,\nthe cavalcade, taking the time from the plaintiff, gave three tremendous\ncheers for the defendant, and, after having shaken hands all round, left\nhim.\n\nSam, having been formally delivered into the warder's custody, to the\nintense astonishment of Roker, and to the evident emotion of even the\nphlegmatic Neddy, passed at once into the prison, walked straight to his\nmaster's room, and knocked at the door.\n\n'Come in,' said Mr. Pickwick.\n\nSam appeared, pulled off his hat, and smiled.\n\n'Ah, Sam, my good lad!' said Mr. Pickwick, evidently delighted to see\nhis humble friend again; 'I had no intention of hurting your feelings\nyesterday, my faithful fellow, by what I said. Put down your hat, Sam,\nand let me explain my meaning, a little more at length.'\n\n'Won't presently do, sir?' inquired Sam.\n\n'Certainly,' said Mr. Pickwick; 'but why not now?'\n\n'I'd rayther not now, sir,' rejoined Sam.\n\n'Why?' inquired Mr. Pickwick.\n\n''Cause--' said Sam, hesitating.\n\n'Because of what?' inquired Mr. Pickwick, alarmed at his follower's\nmanner. 'Speak out, Sam.'\n\n''Cause,' rejoined Sam--''cause I've got a little bisness as I want to\ndo.'\n\n'What business?' inquired Mr. Pickwick, surprised at Sam's confused\nmanner.\n\n'Nothin' partickler, Sir,' replied Sam.\n\n'Oh, if it's nothing particular,' said Mr. Pickwick, with a smile, 'you\ncan speak with me first.'\n\n'I think I'd better see arter it at once,' said Sam, still hesitating.\n\nMr. Pickwick looked amazed, but said nothing.\n\n'The fact is--' said Sam, stopping short.\n\n'Well!' said Mr. Pickwick. 'Speak out, Sam.'\n\n'Why, the fact is,' said Sam, with a desperate effort, 'perhaps I'd\nbetter see arter my bed afore I do anythin' else.'\n\n'YOUR BED!' exclaimed Mr. Pickwick, in astonishment.\n\n'Yes, my bed, Sir,' replied Sam, 'I'm a prisoner. I was arrested this\nhere wery arternoon for debt.'\n\n'You arrested for debt!' exclaimed Mr. Pickwick, sinking into a chair.\n\n'Yes, for debt, Sir,' replied Sam. 'And the man as puts me in, 'ull\nnever let me out till you go yourself.'\n\n'Bless my heart and soul!' ejaculated Mr. Pickwick. 'What do you mean?'\n\n'Wot I say, Sir,' rejoined Sam. 'If it's forty years to come, I shall\nbe a prisoner, and I'm very glad on it; and if it had been Newgate, it\nwould ha' been just the same. Now the murder's out, and, damme, there's\nan end on it!'\n\nWith these words, which he repeated with great emphasis and violence,\nSam Weller dashed his hat upon the ground, in a most unusual state of\nexcitement; and then, folding his arms, looked firmly and fixedly in his\nmaster's face.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER LXIV. TREATS OF DIVERS LITTLE MATTERS WHICH OCCURRED IN THE\nFLEET, AND OF Mr. WINKLE'S MYSTERIOUS BEHAVIOUR; AND SHOWS HOW THE POOR\nCHANCERY PRISONER OBTAINED HIS RELEASE AT LAST\n\n\nMr. Pickwick felt a great deal too much touched by the warmth of\nSam's attachment, to be able to exhibit any manifestation of anger or\ndispleasure at the precipitate course he had adopted, in voluntarily\nconsigning himself to a debtor's prison for an indefinite period. The\nonly point on which he persevered in demanding an explanation, was, the\nname of Sam's detaining creditor; but this Mr. Weller as perseveringly\nwithheld.\n\n'It ain't o' no use, sir,' said Sam, again and again; 'he's a malicious,\nbad-disposed, vorldly-minded, spiteful, windictive creetur, with a hard\nheart as there ain't no soft'nin', as the wirtuous clergyman remarked of\nthe old gen'l'm'n with the dropsy, ven he said, that upon the whole he\nthought he'd rayther leave his property to his vife than build a chapel\nvith it.'\n\n'But consider, Sam,' Mr. Pickwick remonstrated, 'the sum is so small\nthat it can very easily be paid; and having made up my mind that you\nshall stop with me, you should recollect how much more useful you would\nbe, if you could go outside the walls.' 'Wery much obliged to you, sir,'\nreplied Mr. Weller gravely; 'but I'd rayther not.'\n\n'Rather not do what, Sam?'\n\n'Wy, I'd rayther not let myself down to ask a favour o' this here\nunremorseful enemy.'\n\n'But it is no favour asking him to take his money, Sam,' reasoned Mr.\nPickwick.\n\n'Beg your pardon, sir,' rejoined Sam, 'but it 'ud be a wery great favour\nto pay it, and he don't deserve none; that's where it is, sir.'\n\nHere Mr. Pickwick, rubbing his nose with an air of some vexation, Mr.\nWeller thought it prudent to change the theme of the discourse.\n\n'I takes my determination on principle, Sir,' remarked Sam, 'and you\ntakes yours on the same ground; wich puts me in mind o' the man as\nkilled his-self on principle, wich o' course you've heerd on, Sir.' Mr.\nWeller paused when he arrived at this point, and cast a comical look at\nhis master out of the corners of his eyes.\n\n'There is no \"of course\" in the case, Sam,' said Mr. Pickwick, gradually\nbreaking into a smile, in spite of the uneasiness which Sam's obstinacy\nhad given him. 'The fame of the gentleman in question, never reached my\nears.'\n\n'No, sir!' exclaimed Mr. Weller. 'You astonish me, Sir; he wos a clerk\nin a gov'ment office, sir.'\n\n'Was he?' said Mr. Pickwick.\n\n'Yes, he wos, Sir,' rejoined Mr. Weller; 'and a wery pleasant gen'l'm'n\ntoo--one o' the precise and tidy sort, as puts their feet in little\nIndia-rubber fire-buckets wen it's wet weather, and never has no other\nbosom friends but hare-skins; he saved up his money on principle, wore a\nclean shirt ev'ry day on principle; never spoke to none of his relations\non principle, 'fear they shou'd want to borrow money of him; and wos\naltogether, in fact, an uncommon agreeable character. He had his hair\ncut on principle vunce a fortnight, and contracted for his clothes on\nthe economic principle--three suits a year, and send back the old uns.\nBeing a wery reg'lar gen'l'm'n, he din'd ev'ry day at the same place,\nwhere it was one-and-nine to cut off the joint, and a wery good\none-and-nine's worth he used to cut, as the landlord often said, with\nthe tears a-tricklin' down his face, let alone the way he used to\npoke the fire in the vinter time, which wos a dead loss o' four-pence\nha'penny a day, to say nothin' at all o' the aggrawation o' seein' him\ndo it. So uncommon grand with it too! \"POST arter the next gen'l'm'n,\"\nhe sings out ev'ry day ven he comes in. \"See arter the TIMES, Thomas;\nlet me look at the MORNIN' HERALD, when it's out o' hand; don't forget\nto bespeak the CHRONICLE; and just bring the 'TIZER, vill you:\" and then\nhe'd set vith his eyes fixed on the clock, and rush out, just a quarter\nof a minit 'fore the time to waylay the boy as wos a-comin' in with\nthe evenin' paper, which he'd read with sich intense interest and\npersewerance as worked the other customers up to the wery confines o'\ndesperation and insanity, 'specially one i-rascible old gen'l'm'n as the\nvaiter wos always obliged to keep a sharp eye on, at sich times, fear he\nshould be tempted to commit some rash act with the carving-knife. Vell,\nSir, here he'd stop, occupyin' the best place for three hours, and never\ntakin' nothin' arter his dinner, but sleep, and then he'd go away to a\ncoffee-house a few streets off, and have a small pot o' coffee and four\ncrumpets, arter wich he'd walk home to Kensington and go to bed. One\nnight he wos took very ill; sends for a doctor; doctor comes in a green\nfly, with a kind o' Robinson Crusoe set o' steps, as he could let down\nwen he got out, and pull up arter him wen he got in, to perwent the\nnecessity o' the coachman's gettin' down, and thereby undeceivin' the\npublic by lettin' 'em see that it wos only a livery coat as he'd got\non, and not the trousers to match. \"Wot's the matter?\" says the doctor.\n\"Wery ill,\" says the patient. \"Wot have you been a-eatin' on?\" says\nthe doctor. \"Roast weal,\" says the patient. \"Wot's the last thing you\ndewoured?\" says the doctor. \"Crumpets,\" says the patient. \"That's it!\"\nsays the doctor. \"I'll send you a box of pills directly, and don't\nyou never take no more of 'em,\" he says. \"No more o' wot?\" says the\npatient--\"pills?\" \"No; crumpets,\" says the doctor. \"Wy?\" says the\npatient, starting up in bed; \"I've eat four crumpets, ev'ry night for\nfifteen year, on principle.\" \"Well, then, you'd better leave 'em off, on\nprinciple,\" says the doctor. \"Crumpets is NOT wholesome, Sir,\" says the\ndoctor, wery fierce. \"But they're so cheap,\" says the patient, comin'\ndown a little, \"and so wery fillin' at the price.\" \"They'd be dear to\nyou, at any price; dear if you wos paid to eat 'em,\" says the doctor.\n\"Four crumpets a night,\" he says, \"vill do your business in six months!\"\nThe patient looks him full in the face, and turns it over in his mind\nfor a long time, and at last he says, \"Are you sure o' that 'ere, Sir?\"\n\"I'll stake my professional reputation on it,\" says the doctor. \"How\nmany crumpets, at a sittin', do you think 'ud kill me off at once?\"\nsays the patient. \"I don't know,\" says the doctor. \"Do you think\nhalf-a-crown's wurth 'ud do it?\" says the patient. \"I think it might,\"\nsays the doctor. \"Three shillins' wurth 'ud be sure to do it, I s'pose?\"\nsays the patient. \"Certainly,\" says the doctor. \"Wery good,\" says the\npatient; \"good-night.\" Next mornin' he gets up, has a fire lit, orders\nin three shillins' wurth o' crumpets, toasts 'em all, eats 'em all, and\nblows his brains out.'\n\n'What did he do that for?' inquired Mr. Pickwick abruptly; for he was\nconsiderably startled by this tragical termination of the narrative.\n\n'Wot did he do it for, Sir?' reiterated Sam. 'Wy, in support of his\ngreat principle that crumpets wos wholesome, and to show that he\nwouldn't be put out of his way for nobody!' With such like shiftings and\nchangings of the discourse, did Mr. Weller meet his master's questioning\non the night of his taking up his residence in the Fleet. Finding all\ngentle remonstrance useless, Mr. Pickwick at length yielded a reluctant\nconsent to his taking lodgings by the week, of a bald-headed cobbler,\nwho rented a small slip room in one of the upper galleries. To this\nhumble apartment Mr. Weller moved a mattress and bedding, which he hired\nof Mr. Roker; and, by the time he lay down upon it at night, was as much\nat home as if he had been bred in the prison, and his whole family had\nvegetated therein for three generations.\n\n'Do you always smoke arter you goes to bed, old cock?' inquired Mr.\nWeller of his landlord, when they had both retired for the night.\n\n'Yes, I does, young bantam,' replied the cobbler.\n\n'Will you allow me to in-quire wy you make up your bed under that 'ere\ndeal table?' said Sam.\n\n''Cause I was always used to a four-poster afore I came here, and I find\nthe legs of the table answer just as well,' replied the cobbler.\n\n'You're a character, sir,' said Sam.\n\n'I haven't got anything of the kind belonging to me,' rejoined the\ncobbler, shaking his head; 'and if you want to meet with a good one, I'm\nafraid you'll find some difficulty in suiting yourself at this register\noffice.'\n\nThe above short dialogue took place as Mr. Weller lay extended on his\nmattress at one end of the room, and the cobbler on his, at the other;\nthe apartment being illumined by the light of a rush-candle, and the\ncobbler's pipe, which was glowing below the table, like a red-hot coal.\nThe conversation, brief as it was, predisposed Mr. Weller strongly in\nhis landlord's favour; and, raising himself on his elbow, he took a more\nlengthened survey of his appearance than he had yet had either time or\ninclination to make.\n\nHe was a sallow man--all cobblers are; and had a strong bristly\nbeard--all cobblers have. His face was a queer, good-tempered,\ncrooked-featured piece of workmanship, ornamented with a couple of\neyes that must have worn a very joyous expression at one time, for they\nsparkled yet. The man was sixty, by years, and Heaven knows how old\nby imprisonment, so that his having any look approaching to mirth or\ncontentment, was singular enough. He was a little man, and, being half\ndoubled up as he lay in bed, looked about as long as he ought to have\nbeen without his legs. He had a great red pipe in his mouth, and\nwas smoking, and staring at the rush-light, in a state of enviable\nplacidity.\n\n'Have you been here long?' inquired Sam, breaking the silence which had\nlasted for some time.\n\n'Twelve year,' replied the cobbler, biting the end of his pipe as he\nspoke.\n\n'Contempt?' inquired Sam. The cobbler nodded.\n\n'Well, then,' said Sam, with some sternness, 'wot do you persevere\nin bein' obstinit for, vastin' your precious life away, in this here\nmagnified pound? Wy don't you give in, and tell the Chancellorship that\nyou're wery sorry for makin' his court contemptible, and you won't do so\nno more?'\n\nThe cobbler put his pipe in the corner of his mouth, while he smiled,\nand then brought it back to its old place again; but said nothing.\n\n'Wy don't you?' said Sam, urging his question strenuously.\n\n'Ah,' said the cobbler, 'you don't quite understand these matters. What\ndo you suppose ruined me, now?'\n\n'Wy,' said Sam, trimming the rush-light, 'I s'pose the beginnin' wos,\nthat you got into debt, eh?'\n\n'Never owed a farden,' said the cobbler; 'try again.'\n\n'Well, perhaps,' said Sam, 'you bought houses, wich is delicate English\nfor goin' mad; or took to buildin', wich is a medical term for bein'\nincurable.'\n\nThe cobbler shook his head and said, 'Try again.'\n\n'You didn't go to law, I hope?' said Sam suspiciously.\n\n'Never in my life,' replied the cobbler.\n\n'The fact is, I was ruined by having money left me.'\n\n'Come, come,' said Sam, 'that von't do. I wish some rich enemy 'ud try\nto vork my destruction in that 'ere vay. I'd let him.'\n\n'Oh, I dare say you don't believe it,' said the cobbler, quietly\nsmoking his pipe. 'I wouldn't if I was you; but it's true for all that.'\n\n'How wos it?' inquired Sam, half induced to believe the fact already, by\nthe look the cobbler gave him.\n\n'Just this,' replied the cobbler; 'an old gentleman that I worked for,\ndown in the country, and a humble relation of whose I married--she's\ndead, God bless her, and thank Him for it!--was seized with a fit and\nwent off.'\n\n'Where?' inquired Sam, who was growing sleepy after the numerous events\nof the day.\n\n'How should I know where he went?' said the cobbler, speaking through\nhis nose in an intense enjoyment of his pipe. 'He went off dead.'\n\n'Oh, that indeed,' said Sam. 'Well?'\n\n'Well,' said the cobbler, 'he left five thousand pound behind him.'\n\n'And wery gen-teel in him so to do,' said Sam.\n\n'One of which,' continued the cobbler, 'he left to me, 'cause I married\nhis relation, you see.'\n\n'Wery good,' murmured Sam.\n\n'And being surrounded by a great number of nieces and nevys, as was\nalways quarrelling and fighting among themselves for the property, he\nmakes me his executor, and leaves the rest to me in trust, to divide it\namong 'em as the will prowided.'\n\n'Wot do you mean by leavin' it on trust?' inquired Sam, waking up a\nlittle. 'If it ain't ready-money, were's the use on it?'\n\n'It's a law term, that's all,' said the cobbler.\n\n'I don't think that,' said Sam, shaking his head. 'There's wery little\ntrust at that shop. Hows'ever, go on.' 'Well,' said the cobbler, 'when\nI was going to take out a probate of the will, the nieces and nevys,\nwho was desperately disappointed at not getting all the money, enters a\ncaveat against it.' 'What's that?' inquired Sam.\n\n'A legal instrument, which is as much as to say, it's no go,' replied\nthe cobbler.\n\n'I see,' said Sam, 'a sort of brother-in-law o' the have-his-carcass.\nWell.'\n\n'But,' continued the cobbler, 'finding that they couldn't agree among\nthemselves, and consequently couldn't get up a case against the will,\nthey withdrew the caveat, and I paid all the legacies. I'd hardly done\nit, when one nevy brings an action to set the will aside. The case comes\non, some months afterwards, afore a deaf old gentleman, in a back room\nsomewhere down by Paul's Churchyard; and arter four counsels had taken a\nday a-piece to bother him regularly, he takes a week or two to consider,\nand read the evidence in six volumes, and then gives his judgment that\nhow the testator was not quite right in his head, and I must pay all the\nmoney back again, and all the costs. I appealed; the case come on before\nthree or four very sleepy gentlemen, who had heard it all before in the\nother court, where they're lawyers without work; the only difference\nbeing, that, there, they're called doctors, and in the other place\ndelegates, if you understand that; and they very dutifully confirmed the\ndecision of the old gentleman below. After that, we went into Chancery,\nwhere we are still, and where I shall always be. My lawyers have had all\nmy thousand pound long ago; and what between the estate, as they call\nit, and the costs, I'm here for ten thousand, and shall stop here, till\nI die, mending shoes. Some gentlemen have talked of bringing it before\nParliament, and I dare say would have done it, only they hadn't time to\ncome to me, and I hadn't power to go to them, and they got tired of my\nlong letters, and dropped the business. And this is God's truth, without\none word of suppression or exaggeration, as fifty people, both in this\nplace and out of it, very well know.'\n\nThe cobbler paused to ascertain what effect his story had produced on\nSam; but finding that he had dropped asleep, knocked the ashes out of\nhis pipe, sighed, put it down, drew the bed-clothes over his head, and\nwent to sleep, too.\n\nMr. Pickwick was sitting at breakfast, alone, next morning (Sam being\nbusily engaged in the cobbler's room, polishing his master's shoes and\nbrushing the black gaiters) when there came a knock at the door, which,\nbefore Mr. Pickwick could cry 'Come in!' was followed by the appearance\nof a head of hair and a cotton-velvet cap, both of which articles of\ndress he had no difficulty in recognising as the personal property of\nMr. Smangle.\n\n'How are you?' said that worthy, accompanying the inquiry with a score\nor two of nods; 'I say--do you expect anybody this morning? Three\nmen--devilish gentlemanly fellows--have been asking after you\ndownstairs, and knocking at every door on the hall flight; for which\nthey've been most infernally blown up by the collegians that had the\ntrouble of opening 'em.'\n\n'Dear me! How very foolish of them,' said Mr. Pickwick, rising. 'Yes;\nI have no doubt they are some friends whom I rather expected to see,\nyesterday.'\n\n'Friends of yours!' exclaimed Smangle, seizing Mr. Pickwick by the hand.\n'Say no more. Curse me, they're friends of mine from this minute, and\nfriends of Mivins's, too. Infernal pleasant, gentlemanly dog, Mivins,\nisn't he?' said Smangle, with great feeling.\n\n'I know so little of the gentleman,' said Mr. Pickwick, hesitating,\n'that I--'\n\n'I know you do,' interrupted Smangle, clasping Mr. Pickwick by the\nshoulder. 'You shall know him better. You'll be delighted with him. That\nman, Sir,' said Smangle, with a solemn countenance, 'has comic powers\nthat would do honour to Drury Lane Theatre.'\n\n'Has he indeed?' said Mr. Pickwick.\n\n'Ah, by Jove he has!' replied Smangle. 'Hear him come the four cats in\nthe wheel-barrow--four distinct cats, sir, I pledge you my honour. Now\nyou know that's infernal clever! Damme, you can't help liking a man,\nwhen you see these traits about him. He's only one fault--that little\nfailing I mentioned to you, you know.'\n\nAs Mr. Smangle shook his head in a confidential and sympathising\nmanner at this juncture, Mr. Pickwick felt that he was expected to say\nsomething, so he said, 'Ah!' and looked restlessly at the door.\n\n'Ah!' echoed Mr. Smangle, with a long-drawn sigh. 'He's delightful\ncompany, that man is, sir. I don't know better company anywhere; but he\nhas that one drawback. If the ghost of his grandfather, Sir, was to rise\nbefore him this minute, he'd ask him for the loan of his acceptance on\nan eightpenny stamp.' 'Dear me!' exclaimed Mr. Pickwick.\n\n'Yes,' added Mr. Smangle; 'and if he'd the power of raising him again,\nhe would, in two months and three days from this time, to renew the\nbill!'\n\n'Those are very remarkable traits,' said Mr. Pickwick; 'but I'm afraid\nthat while we are talking here, my friends may be in a state of great\nperplexity at not finding me.'\n\n'I'll show 'em the way,' said Smangle, making for the door. 'Good-day. I\nwon't disturb you while they're here, you know. By the bye--'\n\nAs Smangle pronounced the last three words, he stopped suddenly,\nreclosed the door which he had opened, and, walking softly back to Mr.\nPickwick, stepped close up to him on tiptoe, and said, in a very soft\nwhisper--\n\n'You couldn't make it convenient to lend me half-a-crown till the latter\nend of next week, could you?'\n\nMr. Pickwick could scarcely forbear smiling, but managing to preserve\nhis gravity, he drew forth the coin, and placed it in Mr. Smangle's\npalm; upon which, that gentleman, with many nods and winks, implying\nprofound mystery, disappeared in quest of the three strangers, with whom\nhe presently returned; and having coughed thrice, and nodded as many\ntimes, as an assurance to Mr. Pickwick that he would not forget to pay,\nhe shook hands all round, in an engaging manner, and at length took\nhimself off.\n\n'My dear friends,' said Mr. Pickwick, shaking hands alternately with Mr.\nTupman, Mr. Winkle, and Mr. Snodgrass, who were the three visitors in\nquestion, 'I am delighted to see you.'\n\nThe triumvirate were much affected. Mr. Tupman shook his head\ndeploringly, Mr. Snodgrass drew forth his handkerchief, with undisguised\nemotion; and Mr. Winkle retired to the window, and sniffed aloud.\n\n'Mornin', gen'l'm'n,' said Sam, entering at the moment with the shoes\nand gaiters. 'Avay vith melincholly, as the little boy said ven his\nschoolmissus died. Velcome to the college, gen'l'm'n.'\n\n'This foolish fellow,' said Mr. Pickwick, tapping Sam on the\nhead as he knelt down to button up his master's gaiters--'this foolish\nfellow has got himself arrested, in order to be near me.'\n\n'What!' exclaimed the three friends.\n\n'Yes, gen'l'm'n,' said Sam, 'I'm a--stand steady, sir, if you\nplease--I'm a prisoner, gen'l'm'n. Con-fined, as the lady said.'\n\n'A prisoner!' exclaimed Mr. Winkle, with unaccountable vehemence.\n\n'Hollo, sir!' responded Sam, looking up. 'Wot's the matter, Sir?'\n\n'I had hoped, Sam, that--Nothing, nothing,' said Mr. Winkle\nprecipitately.\n\nThere was something so very abrupt and unsettled in Mr. Winkle's\nmanner, that Mr. Pickwick involuntarily looked at his two friends for an\nexplanation.\n\n'We don't know,' said Mr. Tupman, answering this mute appeal aloud. 'He\nhas been much excited for two days past, and his whole demeanour very\nunlike what it usually is. We feared there must be something the matter,\nbut he resolutely denies it.'\n\n'No, no,' said Mr. Winkle, colouring beneath Mr. Pickwick's gaze; 'there\nis really nothing. I assure you there is nothing, my dear sir. It\nwill be necessary for me to leave town, for a short time, on private\nbusiness, and I had hoped to have prevailed upon you to allow Sam to\naccompany me.'\n\nMr. Pickwick looked more astonished than before.\n\n'I think,' faltered Mr. Winkle, 'that Sam would have had no objection to\ndo so; but, of course, his being a prisoner here, renders it impossible.\nSo I must go alone.'\n\nAs Mr. Winkle said these words, Mr. Pickwick felt, with some\nastonishment, that Sam's fingers were trembling at the gaiters, as if\nhe were rather surprised or startled. Sam looked up at Mr. Winkle, too,\nwhen he had finished speaking; and though the glance they exchanged was\ninstantaneous, they seemed to understand each other.\n\n'Do you know anything of this, Sam?' said Mr. Pickwick sharply.\n\n'No, I don't, sir,' replied Mr. Weller, beginning to button with\nextraordinary assiduity.\n\n'Are you sure, Sam?' said Mr. Pickwick.\n\n'Wy, sir,' responded Mr. Weller; 'I'm sure so far, that I've never heerd\nanythin' on the subject afore this moment. If I makes any guess about\nit,' added Sam, looking at Mr. Winkle, 'I haven't got any right to say\nwhat 'It is, fear it should be a wrong 'un.'\n\n'I have no right to make any further inquiry into the private affairs of\na friend, however intimate a friend,' said Mr. Pickwick, after a short\nsilence; 'at present let me merely say, that I do not understand this at\nall. There. We have had quite enough of the subject.'\n\nThus expressing himself, Mr. Pickwick led the conversation to different\ntopics, and Mr. Winkle gradually appeared more at ease, though still\nvery far from being completely so. They had all so much to converse\nabout, that the morning very quickly passed away; and when, at three\no'clock, Mr. Weller produced upon the little dining-table, a roast leg\nof mutton and an enormous meat-pie, with sundry dishes of vegetables,\nand pots of porter, which stood upon the chairs or the sofa bedstead,\nor where they could, everybody felt disposed to do justice to the meal,\nnotwithstanding that the meat had been purchased, and dressed, and the\npie made, and baked, at the prison cookery hard by.\n\nTo these succeeded a bottle or two of very good wine, for which a\nmessenger was despatched by Mr. Pickwick to the Horn Coffee-house, in\nDoctors' Commons. The bottle or two, indeed, might be more properly\ndescribed as a bottle or six, for by the time it was drunk, and tea\nover, the bell began to ring for strangers to withdraw.\n\nBut, if Mr. Winkle's behaviour had been unaccountable in the morning, it\nbecame perfectly unearthly and solemn when, under the influence of his\nfeelings, and his share of the bottle or six, he prepared to take leave\nof his friend. He lingered behind, until Mr. Tupman and Mr. Snodgrass\nhad disappeared, and then fervently clenched Mr. Pickwick's hand, with\nan expression of face in which deep and mighty resolve was fearfully\nblended with the very concentrated essence of gloom.\n\n'Good-night, my dear Sir!' said Mr. Winkle between his set teeth.\n\n'Bless you, my dear fellow!' replied the warm-hearted Mr. Pickwick, as\nhe returned the pressure of his young friend's hand.\n\n'Now then!' cried Mr. Tupman from the gallery.\n\n'Yes, yes, directly,' replied Mr. Winkle. 'Good-night!'\n\n'Good-night,' said Mr. Pickwick.\n\nThere was another good-night, and another, and half a dozen more after\nthat, and still Mr. Winkle had fast hold of his friend's hand, and was\nlooking into his face with the same strange expression.\n\n'Is anything the matter?' said Mr. Pickwick at last, when his arm was\nquite sore with shaking. 'Nothing,' said Mr. Winkle.\n\n'Well then, good-night,' said Mr. Pickwick, attempting to disengage his\nhand.\n\n'My friend, my benefactor, my honoured companion,' murmured Mr. Winkle,\ncatching at his wrist. 'Do not judge me harshly; do not, when you hear\nthat, driven to extremity by hopeless obstacles, I--'\n\n'Now then,' said Mr. Tupman, reappearing at the door. 'Are you coming,\nor are we to be locked in?'\n\n'Yes, yes, I am ready,' replied Mr. Winkle. And with a violent effort he\ntore himself away.\n\nAs Mr. Pickwick was gazing down the passage after them in silent\nastonishment, Sam Weller appeared at the stair-head, and whispered for\none moment in Mr. Winkle's ear.\n\n'Oh, certainly, depend upon me,' said that gentleman aloud.\n\n'Thank'ee, sir. You won't forget, sir?' said Sam. 'Of course not,'\nreplied Mr. Winkle.\n\n'Wish you luck, Sir,' said Sam, touching his hat. 'I should very much\nliked to ha' joined you, Sir; but the gov'nor, o' course, is paramount.'\n\n'It is very much to your credit that you remain here,' said Mr. Winkle.\nWith these words they disappeared down the stairs.\n\n'Very extraordinary,' said Mr. Pickwick, going back into his room, and\nseating himself at the table in a musing attitude. 'What can that young\nman be going to do?'\n\nHe had sat ruminating about the matter for some time, when the voice of\nRoker, the turnkey, demanded whether he might come in.\n\n'By all means,' said Mr. Pickwick.\n\n'I've brought you a softer pillow, Sir,' said Mr. Roker, 'instead of the\ntemporary one you had last night.'\n\n'Thank you,' said Mr. Pickwick. 'Will you take a glass of wine?'\n\n'You're wery good, Sir,' replied Mr. Roker, accepting the proffered\nglass. 'Yours, sir.'\n\n'Thank you,' said Mr. Pickwick.\n\n'I'm sorry to say that your landlord's wery bad to-night, Sir,' said\nRoker, setting down the glass, and inspecting the lining of his hat\npreparatory to putting it on again.\n\n'What! The Chancery prisoner!' exclaimed Mr. Pickwick.\n\n'He won't be a Chancery prisoner wery long, Sir,' replied Roker, turning\nhis hat round, so as to get the maker's name right side upwards, as he\nlooked into it.\n\n'You make my blood run cold,' said Mr. Pickwick. 'What do you mean?'\n\n'He's been consumptive for a long time past,' said Mr. Roker, 'and he's\ntaken wery bad in the breath to-night. The doctor said, six months ago,\nthat nothing but change of air could save him.'\n\n'Great Heaven!' exclaimed Mr. Pickwick; 'has this man been slowly\nmurdered by the law for six months?'\n\n'I don't know about that,' replied Roker, weighing the hat by the brim\nin both hands. 'I suppose he'd have been took the same, wherever he was.\nHe went into the infirmary, this morning; the doctor says his strength\nis to be kept up as much as possible; and the warden's sent him wine\nand broth and that, from his own house. It's not the warden's fault, you\nknow, sir.'\n\n'Of course not,' replied Mr. Pickwick hastily.\n\n'I'm afraid, however,' said Roker, shaking his head, 'that it's all up\nwith him. I offered Neddy two six-penn'orths to one upon it just now,\nbut he wouldn't take it, and quite right. Thank'ee, Sir. Good-night,\nsir.'\n\n'Stay,' said Mr. Pickwick earnestly. 'Where is this infirmary?'\n\n'Just over where you slept, sir,' replied Roker. 'I'll show you, if you\nlike to come.' Mr. Pickwick snatched up his hat without speaking, and\nfollowed at once.\n\nThe turnkey led the way in silence; and gently raising the latch of\nthe room door, motioned Mr. Pickwick to enter. It was a large, bare,\ndesolate room, with a number of stump bedsteads made of iron, on one\nof which lay stretched the shadow of a man--wan, pale, and ghastly. His\nbreathing was hard and thick, and he moaned painfully as it came and\nwent. At the bedside sat a short old man in a cobbler's apron, who, by\nthe aid of a pair of horn spectacles, was reading from the Bible aloud.\nIt was the fortunate legatee.\n\nThe sick man laid his hand upon his attendant's arm, and motioned him to\nstop. He closed the book, and laid it on the bed.\n\n'Open the window,' said the sick man.\n\nHe did so. The noise of carriages and carts, the rattle of wheels,\nthe cries of men and boys, all the busy sounds of a mighty multitude\ninstinct with life and occupation, blended into one deep murmur, floated\ninto the room. Above the hoarse loud hum, arose, from time to time, a\nboisterous laugh; or a scrap of some jingling song, shouted forth, by\none of the giddy crowd, would strike upon the ear, for an instant, and\nthen be lost amidst the roar of voices and the tramp of footsteps; the\nbreaking of the billows of the restless sea of life, that rolled heavily\non, without. These are melancholy sounds to a quiet listener at any\ntime; but how melancholy to the watcher by the bed of death!\n\n'There is no air here,' said the man faintly. 'The place pollutes it. It\nwas fresh round about, when I walked there, years ago; but it grows hot\nand heavy in passing these walls. I cannot breathe it.'\n\n'We have breathed it together, for a long time,' said the old man.\n'Come, come.'\n\nThere was a short silence, during which the two spectators approached\nthe bed. The sick man drew a hand of his old fellow-prisoner towards\nhim, and pressing it affectionately between both his own, retained it in\nhis grasp.\n\n'I hope,' he gasped after a while, so faintly that they bent their ears\nclose over the bed to catch the half-formed sounds his pale lips gave\nvent to--'I hope my merciful Judge will bear in mind my heavy punishment\non earth. Twenty years, my friend, twenty years in this hideous grave!\nMy heart broke when my child died, and I could not even kiss him in his\nlittle coffin. My loneliness since then, in all this noise and riot,\nhas been very dreadful. May God forgive me! He has seen my solitary,\nlingering death.'\n\nHe folded his hands, and murmuring something more they could not hear,\nfell into a sleep--only a sleep at first, for they saw him smile.\n\nThey whispered together for a little time, and the turnkey, stooping\nover the pillow, drew hastily back. 'He has got his discharge, by G--!'\nsaid the man.\n\nHe had. But he had grown so like death in life, that they knew not when\nhe died.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XLIV. DESCRIPTIVE OF AN AFFECTING INTERVIEW BETWEEN Mr. SAMUEL\nWELLER AND A FAMILY PARTY. Mr. PICKWICK MAKES A TOUR OF THE DIMINUTIVE\nWORLD HE INHABITS, AND RESOLVES TO MIX WITH IT, IN FUTURE, AS LITTLE AS\nPOSSIBLE\n\n\nA few mornings after his incarceration, Mr. Samuel Weller, having\narranged his master's room with all possible care, and seen him\ncomfortably seated over his books and papers, withdrew to employ himself\nfor an hour or two to come, as he best could. It was a fine morning, and\nit occurred to Sam that a pint of porter in the open air would lighten\nhis next quarter of an hour or so, as well as any little amusement in\nwhich he could indulge.\n\nHaving arrived at this conclusion, he betook himself to the\ntap. Having purchased the beer, and obtained, moreover, the\nday-but-one-before-yesterday's paper, he repaired to the skittle-ground,\nand seating himself on a bench, proceeded to enjoy himself in a very\nsedate and methodical manner.\n\nFirst of all, he took a refreshing draught of the beer, and then he\nlooked up at a window, and bestowed a platonic wink on a young lady who\nwas peeling potatoes thereat. Then he opened the paper, and folded it\nso as to get the police reports outwards; and this being a vexatious and\ndifficult thing to do, when there is any wind stirring, he took another\ndraught of the beer when he had accomplished it. Then, he read two lines\nof the paper, and stopped short to look at a couple of men who were\nfinishing a game at rackets, which, being concluded, he cried out 'wery\ngood,' in an approving manner, and looked round upon the spectators, to\nascertain whether their sentiments coincided with his own. This involved\nthe necessity of looking up at the windows also; and as the young lady\nwas still there, it was an act of common politeness to wink again, and\nto drink to her good health in dumb show, in another draught of the\nbeer, which Sam did; and having frowned hideously upon a small boy who\nhad noted this latter proceeding with open eyes, he threw one leg over\nthe other, and, holding the newspaper in both hands, began to read in\nreal earnest.\n\nHe had hardly composed himself into the needful state of abstraction,\nwhen he thought he heard his own name proclaimed in some distant\npassage. Nor was he mistaken, for it quickly passed from mouth to mouth,\nand in a few seconds the air teemed with shouts of 'Weller!' 'Here!'\nroared Sam, in a stentorian voice. 'Wot's the matter? Who wants him? Has\nan express come to say that his country house is afire?'\n\n'Somebody wants you in the hall,' said a man who was standing by.\n\n'Just mind that 'ere paper and the pot, old feller, will you?' said\nSam. 'I'm a-comin'. Blessed, if they was a-callin' me to the bar, they\ncouldn't make more noise about it!'\n\nAccompanying these words with a gentle rap on the head of the young\ngentleman before noticed, who, unconscious of his close vicinity to\nthe person in request, was screaming 'Weller!' with all his might, Sam\nhastened across the ground, and ran up the steps into the hall. Here,\nthe first object that met his eyes was his beloved father sitting on a\nbottom stair, with his hat in his hand, shouting out 'Weller!' in his\nvery loudest tone, at half-minute intervals.\n\n'Wot are you a-roarin' at?' said Sam impetuously, when the old gentleman\nhad discharged himself of another shout; 'making yourself so precious\nhot that you looks like a aggrawated glass-blower. Wot's the matter?'\n\n'Aha!' replied the old gentleman, 'I began to be afeerd that you'd gone\nfor a walk round the Regency Park, Sammy.'\n\n'Come,' said Sam, 'none o' them taunts agin the wictim o' avarice, and\ncome off that 'ere step. Wot are you a-settin' down there for? I don't\nlive there.'\n\n'I've got such a game for you, Sammy,' said the elder Mr. Weller,\nrising.\n\n'Stop a minit,' said Sam, 'you're all vite behind.'\n\n'That's right, Sammy, rub it off,' said Mr. Weller, as his son dusted\nhim. 'It might look personal here, if a man walked about with vitevash\non his clothes, eh, Sammy?'\n\nAs Mr. Weller exhibited in this place unequivocal symptoms of an\napproaching fit of chuckling, Sam interposed to stop it.\n\n'Keep quiet, do,' said Sam, 'there never vos such a old picter-card\nborn. Wot are you bustin' vith, now?'\n\n'Sammy,' said Mr. Weller, wiping his forehead, 'I'm afeerd that vun o'\nthese days I shall laugh myself into a appleplexy, my boy.'\n\n'Vell, then, wot do you do it for?' said Sam. 'Now, then, wot have you\ngot to say?'\n\n'Who do you think's come here with me, Samivel?' said Mr. Weller,\ndrawing back a pace or two, pursing up his mouth, and extending his\neyebrows. 'Pell?' said Sam.\n\nMr. Weller shook his head, and his red cheeks expanded with the laughter\nthat was endeavouring to find a vent.\n\n'Mottled-faced man, p'raps?' asked Sam.\n\nAgain Mr. Weller shook his head.\n\n'Who then?'asked Sam.\n\n'Your mother-in-law,' said Mr. Weller; and it was lucky he did say it,\nor his cheeks must inevitably have cracked, from their most unnatural\ndistension.\n\n'Your mother--in--law, Sammy,' said Mr. Weller, 'and the red-nosed man,\nmy boy; and the red-nosed man. Ho! ho! ho!'\n\nWith this, Mr. Weller launched into convulsions of laughter, while\nSam regarded him with a broad grin gradually over-spreading his whole\ncountenance.\n\n'They've come to have a little serious talk with you, Samivel,' said\nMr. Weller, wiping his eyes. 'Don't let out nothin' about the unnat'ral\ncreditor, Sammy.'\n\n'Wot, don't they know who it is?' inquired Sam.\n\n'Not a bit on it,' replied his father.\n\n'Vere are they?' said Sam, reciprocating all the old gentleman's grins.\n\n'In the snuggery,' rejoined Mr. Weller. 'Catch the red-nosed man a-goin'\nanyvere but vere the liquors is; not he, Samivel, not he. Ve'd a wery\npleasant ride along the road from the Markis this mornin', Sammy,' said\nMr. Weller, when he felt himself equal to the task of speaking in\nan articulate manner. 'I drove the old piebald in that 'ere little\nshay-cart as belonged to your mother-in-law's first wenter, into vich\na harm-cheer wos lifted for the shepherd; and I'm blessed,' said Mr.\nWeller, with a look of deep scorn--'I'm blessed if they didn't bring a\nportable flight o' steps out into the road a-front o' our door for him,\nto get up by.'\n\n'You don't mean that?' said Sam.\n\n'I do mean that, Sammy,' replied his father, 'and I vish you could ha'\nseen how tight he held on by the sides wen he did get up, as if he wos\nafeerd o' being precipitayted down full six foot, and dashed into a\nmillion hatoms. He tumbled in at last, however, and avay ve vent; and I\nrayther think--I say I rayther think, Samivel--that he found his-self a\nlittle jolted ven ve turned the corners.'\n\n'Wot, I s'pose you happened to drive up agin a post or two?' said Sam.\n'I'm afeerd,' replied Mr. Weller, in a rapture of winks--'I'm afeerd I\ntook vun or two on 'em, Sammy; he wos a-flyin' out o' the arm-cheer all\nthe way.'\n\nHere the old gentleman shook his head from side to side, and was seized\nwith a hoarse internal rumbling, accompanied with a violent swelling\nof the countenance, and a sudden increase in the breadth of all his\nfeatures; symptoms which alarmed his son not a little.\n\n'Don't be frightened, Sammy, don't be frightened,' said the old\ngentleman, when by dint of much struggling, and various convulsive\nstamps upon the ground, he had recovered his voice. 'It's only a kind o'\nquiet laugh as I'm a-tryin' to come, Sammy.'\n\n'Well, if that's wot it is,' said Sam, 'you'd better not try to come it\nagin. You'll find it rayther a dangerous inwention.'\n\n'Don't you like it, Sammy?' inquired the old gentleman.\n\n'Not at all,' replied Sam.\n\n'Well,' said Mr. Weller, with the tears still running down his cheeks,\n'it 'ud ha' been a wery great accommodation to me if I could ha' done\nit, and 'ud ha' saved a good many vords atween your mother-in-law and\nme, sometimes; but I'm afeerd you're right, Sammy, it's too much in the\nappleplexy line--a deal too much, Samivel.'\n\nThis conversation brought them to the door of the snuggery, into which\nSam--pausing for an instant to look over his shoulder, and cast a sly\nleer at his respected progenitor, who was still giggling behind--at once\nled the way.\n\n'Mother-in-law,' said Sam, politely saluting the lady, 'wery much\nobliged to you for this here wisit.--Shepherd, how air you?'\n\n'Oh, Samuel!' said Mrs. Weller. 'This is dreadful.'\n\n'Not a bit on it, mum,' replied Sam.--'Is it, shepherd?'\n\nMr. Stiggins raised his hands, and turned up his eyes, until the\nwhites--or rather the yellows--were alone visible; but made no reply in\nwords.\n\n'Is this here gen'l'm'n troubled with any painful complaint?' said Sam,\nlooking to his mother-in-law for explanation.\n\n'The good man is grieved to see you here, Samuel,' replied Mrs. Weller.\n\n'Oh, that's it, is it?' said Sam. 'I was afeerd, from his manner, that\nhe might ha' forgotten to take pepper vith that 'ere last cowcumber he\neat. Set down, Sir, ve make no extra charge for settin' down, as the\nking remarked wen he blowed up his ministers.'\n\n'Young man,' said Mr. Stiggins ostentatiously, 'I fear you are not\nsoftened by imprisonment.'\n\n'Beg your pardon, Sir,' replied Sam; 'wot wos you graciously pleased to\nhobserve?'\n\n'I apprehend, young man, that your nature is no softer for this\nchastening,' said Mr. Stiggins, in a loud voice.\n\n'Sir,' replied Sam, 'you're wery kind to say so. I hope my natur is NOT\na soft vun, Sir. Wery much obliged to you for your good opinion, Sir.'\n\nAt this point of the conversation, a sound, indecorously approaching\nto a laugh, was heard to proceed from the chair in which the elder Mr.\nWeller was seated; upon which Mrs. Weller, on a hasty consideration of\nall the circumstances of the case, considered it her bounden duty to\nbecome gradually hysterical.\n\n'Weller,' said Mrs. W. (the old gentleman was seated in a corner);\n'Weller! Come forth.'\n\n'Wery much obleeged to you, my dear,' replied Mr. Weller; 'but I'm quite\ncomfortable vere I am.'\n\nUpon this, Mrs. Weller burst into tears.\n\n'Wot's gone wrong, mum?' said Sam.\n\n'Oh, Samuel!' replied Mrs. Weller, 'your father makes me wretched. Will\nnothing do him good?'\n\n'Do you hear this here?' said Sam. 'Lady vants to know vether nothin'\n'ull do you good.'\n\n'Wery much indebted to Mrs. Weller for her po-lite inquiries, Sammy,'\nreplied the old gentleman. 'I think a pipe vould benefit me a good deal.\nCould I be accommodated, Sammy?'\n\nHere Mrs. Weller let fall some more tears, and Mr. Stiggins groaned.\n\n'Hollo! Here's this unfortunate gen'l'm'n took ill agin,' said Sam,\nlooking round. 'Vere do you feel it now, sir?'\n\n'In the same place, young man,' rejoined Mr. Stiggins, 'in the same\nplace.'\n\n'Vere may that be, Sir?' inquired Sam, with great outward simplicity.\n\n'In the buzzim, young man,' replied Mr. Stiggins, placing his umbrella\non his waistcoat.\n\nAt this affecting reply, Mrs. Weller, being wholly unable to suppress\nher feelings, sobbed aloud, and stated her conviction that the red-nosed\nman was a saint; whereupon Mr. Weller, senior, ventured to suggest, in\nan undertone, that he must be the representative of the united parishes\nof St. Simon Without and St. Walker Within.\n\n'I'm afeered, mum,' said Sam, 'that this here gen'l'm'n, with the twist\nin his countenance, feels rather thirsty, with the melancholy spectacle\nafore him. Is it the case, mum?'\n\nThe worthy lady looked at Mr. Stiggins for a reply; that gentleman, with\nmany rollings of the eye, clenched his throat with his right hand, and\nmimicked the act of swallowing, to intimate that he was athirst.\n\n'I am afraid, Samuel, that his feelings have made him so indeed,' said\nMrs. Weller mournfully.\n\n'Wot's your usual tap, sir?' replied Sam.\n\n'Oh, my dear young friend,' replied Mr. Stiggins, 'all taps is\nvanities!'\n\n'Too true, too true, indeed,' said Mrs. Weller, murmuring a groan, and\nshaking her head assentingly.\n\n'Well,' said Sam, 'I des-say they may be, sir; but wich is your\npartickler wanity? Wich wanity do you like the flavour on best, sir?'\n\n'Oh, my dear young friend,' replied Mr. Stiggins, 'I despise them all.\nIf,' said Mr. Stiggins--'if there is any one of them less odious than\nanother, it is the liquor called rum. Warm, my dear young friend, with\nthree lumps of sugar to the tumbler.'\n\n'Wery sorry to say, sir,' said Sam, 'that they don't allow that\nparticular wanity to be sold in this here establishment.'\n\n'Oh, the hardness of heart of these inveterate men!' ejaculated Mr.\nStiggins. 'Oh, the accursed cruelty of these inhuman persecutors!'\n\nWith these words, Mr. Stiggins again cast up his eyes, and rapped\nhis breast with his umbrella; and it is but justice to the reverend\ngentleman to say, that his indignation appeared very real and unfeigned\nindeed.\n\nAfter Mrs. Weller and the red-nosed gentleman had commented on this\ninhuman usage in a very forcible manner, and had vented a variety of\npious and holy execrations against its authors, the latter recommended\na bottle of port wine, warmed with a little water, spice, and sugar, as\nbeing grateful to the stomach, and savouring less of vanity than many\nother compounds. It was accordingly ordered to be prepared, and pending\nits preparation the red-nosed man and Mrs. Weller looked at the elder W.\nand groaned.\n\n'Well, Sammy,' said the gentleman, 'I hope you'll find your spirits rose\nby this here lively wisit. Wery cheerful and improvin' conwersation,\nain't it, Sammy?'\n\n'You're a reprobate,' replied Sam; 'and I desire you won't address no\nmore o' them ungraceful remarks to me.'\n\nSo far from being edified by this very proper reply, the elder Mr.\nWeller at once relapsed into a broad grin; and this inexorable conduct\ncausing the lady and Mr. Stiggins to close their eyes, and rock\nthemselves to and fro on their chairs, in a troubled manner, he\nfurthermore indulged in several acts of pantomime, indicative of a\ndesire to pummel and wring the nose of the aforesaid Stiggins, the\nperformance of which, appeared to afford him great mental relief. The\nold gentleman very narrowly escaped detection in one instance; for Mr.\nStiggins happening to give a start on the arrival of the negus, brought\nhis head in smart contact with the clenched fist with which Mr. Weller\nhad been describing imaginary fireworks in the air, within two inches of\nhis ear, for some minutes.\n\n'Wot are you a-reachin' out, your hand for the tumbler in that 'ere\nsawage way for?' said Sam, with great promptitude. 'Don't you see you've\nhit the gen'l'm'n?'\n\n'I didn't go to do it, Sammy,' said Mr. Weller, in some degree abashed\nby the very unexpected occurrence of the incident.\n\n'Try an in'ard application, sir,' said Sam, as the red-nosed gentleman\nrubbed his head with a rueful visage. 'Wot do you think o' that, for a\ngo o' wanity, warm, Sir?'\n\nMr. Stiggins made no verbal answer, but his manner was expressive. He\ntasted the contents of the glass which Sam had placed in his hand,\nput his umbrella on the floor, and tasted it again, passing his hand\nplacidly across his stomach twice or thrice; he then drank the whole at\na breath, and smacking his lips, held out the tumbler for more.\n\nNor was Mrs. Weller behind-hand in doing justice to the composition. The\ngood lady began by protesting that she couldn't touch a drop--then\ntook a small drop--then a large drop--then a great many drops; and her\nfeelings being of the nature of those substances which are powerfully\naffected by the application of strong waters, she dropped a tear with\nevery drop of negus, and so got on, melting the feelings down, until at\nlength she had arrived at a very pathetic and decent pitch of misery.\n\nThe elder Mr. Weller observed these signs and tokens with many\nmanifestations of disgust, and when, after a second jug of the same,\nMr. Stiggins began to sigh in a dismal manner, he plainly evinced his\ndisapprobation of the whole proceedings, by sundry incoherent ramblings\nof speech, among which frequent angry repetitions of the word 'gammon'\nwere alone distinguishable to the ear.\n\n'I'll tell you wot it is, Samivel, my boy,' whispered the old gentleman\ninto his son's ear, after a long and steadfast contemplation of his\nlady and Mr. Stiggins; 'I think there must be somethin' wrong in your\nmother-in-law's inside, as vell as in that o' the red-nosed man.'\n\n'Wot do you mean?' said Sam.\n\n'I mean this here, Sammy,' replied the old gentleman, 'that wot they\ndrink, don't seem no nourishment to 'em; it all turns to warm water,\nand comes a-pourin' out o' their eyes. 'Pend upon it, Sammy, it's a\nconstitootional infirmity.'\n\nMr. Weller delivered this scientific opinion with many confirmatory\nfrowns and nods; which, Mrs. Weller remarking, and concluding that they\nbore some disparaging reference either to herself or to Mr. Stiggins,\nor to both, was on the point of becoming infinitely worse, when Mr.\nStiggins, getting on his legs as well as he could, proceeded to\ndeliver an edifying discourse for the benefit of the company, but more\nespecially of Mr. Samuel, whom he adjured in moving terms to be upon his\nguard in that sink of iniquity into which he was cast; to abstain\nfrom all hypocrisy and pride of heart; and to take in all things exact\npattern and copy by him (Stiggins), in which case he might calculate on\narriving, sooner or later at the comfortable conclusion, that, like\nhim, he was a most estimable and blameless character, and that all\nhis acquaintances and friends were hopelessly abandoned and profligate\nwretches. Which consideration, he said, could not but afford him the\nliveliest satisfaction.\n\nHe furthermore conjured him to avoid, above all things, the vice of\nintoxication, which he likened unto the filthy habits of swine, and to\nthose poisonous and baleful drugs which being chewed in the mouth,\nare said to filch away the memory. At this point of his discourse,\nthe reverend and red-nosed gentleman became singularly incoherent, and\nstaggering to and fro in the excitement of his eloquence, was fain to\ncatch at the back of a chair to preserve his perpendicular.\n\nMr. Stiggins did not desire his hearers to be upon their guard against\nthose false prophets and wretched mockers of religion, who, without\nsense to expound its first doctrines, or hearts to feel its first\nprinciples, are more dangerous members of society than the common\ncriminal; imposing, as they necessarily do, upon the weakest and worst\ninformed, casting scorn and contempt on what should be held most\nsacred, and bringing into partial disrepute large bodies of virtuous and\nwell-conducted persons of many excellent sects and persuasions. But\nas he leaned over the back of the chair for a considerable time, and\nclosing one eye, winked a good deal with the other, it is presumed that\nhe thought all this, but kept it to himself.\n\nDuring the delivery of the oration, Mrs. Weller sobbed and wept at the\nend of the paragraphs; while Sam, sitting cross-legged on a chair\nand resting his arms on the top rail, regarded the speaker with great\nsuavity and blandness of demeanour; occasionally bestowing a look of\nrecognition on the old gentleman, who was delighted at the beginning,\nand went to sleep about half-way.\n\n'Brayvo; wery pretty!' said Sam, when the red-nosed man having finished,\npulled his worn gloves on, thereby thrusting his fingers through the\nbroken tops till the knuckles were disclosed to view. 'Wery pretty.'\n\n'I hope it may do you good, Samuel,' said Mrs. Weller solemnly.\n\n'I think it vill, mum,' replied Sam.\n\n'I wish I could hope that it would do your father good,' said Mrs.\nWeller.\n\n'Thank'ee, my dear,' said Mr. Weller, senior. 'How do you find yourself\narter it, my love?'\n\n'Scoffer!' exclaimed Mrs. Weller.\n\n'Benighted man!' said the Reverend Mr. Stiggins.\n\n'If I don't get no better light than that 'ere moonshine o' yourn, my\nworthy creetur,' said the elder Mr. Weller, 'it's wery likely as I shall\ncontiney to be a night coach till I'm took off the road altogether. Now,\nMrs. We, if the piebald stands at livery much longer, he'll stand at\nnothin' as we go back, and p'raps that 'ere harm-cheer 'ull be tipped\nover into some hedge or another, with the shepherd in it.'\n\nAt this supposition, the Reverend Mr. Stiggins, in evident\nconsternation, gathered up his hat and umbrella, and proposed an\nimmediate departure, to which Mrs. Weller assented. Sam walked with them\nto the lodge gate, and took a dutiful leave.\n\n'A-do, Samivel,' said the old gentleman.\n\n'Wot's a-do?' inquired Sammy.\n\n'Well, good-bye, then,' said the old gentleman.\n\n'Oh, that's wot you're aimin' at, is it?' said Sam. 'Good-bye!'\n\n'Sammy,' whispered Mr. Weller, looking cautiously round; 'my duty to\nyour gov'nor, and tell him if he thinks better o' this here bis'ness,\nto com-moonicate vith me. Me and a cab'net-maker has dewised a plan\nfor gettin' him out. A pianner, Samivel--a pianner!' said Mr. Weller,\nstriking his son on the chest with the back of his hand, and falling\nback a step or two.\n\n'Wot do you mean?' said Sam.\n\n'A pianner-forty, Samivel,' rejoined Mr. Weller, in a still more\nmysterious manner, 'as he can have on hire; vun as von't play, Sammy.'\n\n'And wot 'ud be the good o' that?' said Sam.\n\n'Let him send to my friend, the cabinet-maker, to fetch it back, Sammy,'\nreplied Mr. Weller. 'Are you avake, now?'\n\n'No,' rejoined Sam.\n\n'There ain't no vurks in it,' whispered his father. 'It 'ull hold him\neasy, vith his hat and shoes on, and breathe through the legs, vich his\nholler. Have a passage ready taken for 'Merriker. The 'Merrikin gov'ment\nwill never give him up, ven vunce they find as he's got money to spend,\nSammy. Let the gov'nor stop there, till Mrs. Bardell's dead, or Mr.\nDodson and Fogg's hung (wich last ewent I think is the most likely to\nhappen first, Sammy), and then let him come back and write a book about\nthe 'Merrikins as'll pay all his expenses and more, if he blows 'em up\nenough.'\n\nMr. Weller delivered this hurried abstract of his plot with great\nvehemence of whisper; and then, as if fearful of weakening the effect\nof the tremendous communication by any further dialogue, he gave the\ncoachman's salute, and vanished.\n\nSam had scarcely recovered his usual composure of countenance, which\nhad been greatly disturbed by the secret communication of his respected\nrelative, when Mr. Pickwick accosted him.\n\n'Sam,' said that gentleman.\n\n'Sir,' replied Mr. Weller.\n\n'I am going for a walk round the prison, and I wish you to attend me.\nI see a prisoner we know coming this way, Sam,' said Mr. Pickwick,\nsmiling.\n\n'Wich, Sir?' inquired Mr. Weller; 'the gen'l'm'n vith the head o' hair,\nor the interestin' captive in the stockin's?'\n\n'Neither,' rejoined Mr. Pickwick. 'He is an older friend of yours, Sam.'\n\n'O' mine, Sir?' exclaimed Mr. Weller.\n\n'You recollect the gentleman very well, I dare say, Sam,' replied Mr.\nPickwick, 'or else you are more unmindful of your old acquaintances than\nI think you are. Hush! not a word, Sam; not a syllable. Here he is.'\n\nAs Mr. Pickwick spoke, Jingle walked up. He looked less miserable than\nbefore, being clad in a half-worn suit of clothes, which, with Mr.\nPickwick's assistance, had been released from the pawnbroker's. He wore\nclean linen too, and had had his hair cut. He was very pale and thin,\nhowever; and as he crept slowly up, leaning on a stick, it was easy to\nsee that he had suffered severely from illness and want, and was still\nvery weak. He took off his hat as Mr. Pickwick saluted him, and seemed\nmuch humbled and abashed at the sight of Sam Weller.\n\nFollowing close at his heels, came Mr. Job Trotter, in the catalogue of\nwhose vices, want of faith and attachment to his companion could at all\nevents find no place. He was still ragged and squalid, but his face was\nnot quite so hollow as on his first meeting with Mr. Pickwick, a few\ndays before. As he took off his hat to our benevolent old friend, he\nmurmured some broken expressions of gratitude, and muttered something\nabout having been saved from starving.\n\n'Well, well,' said Mr. Pickwick, impatiently interrupting him, 'you\ncan follow with Sam. I want to speak to you, Mr. Jingle. Can you walk\nwithout his arm?'\n\n'Certainly, sir--all ready--not too fast--legs shaky--head queer--round\nand round--earthquaky sort of feeling--very.'\n\n'Here, give me your arm,' said Mr. Pickwick.\n\n'No, no,' replied Jingle; 'won't indeed--rather not.'\n\n'Nonsense,' said Mr. Pickwick; 'lean upon me, I desire, Sir.'\n\nSeeing that he was confused and agitated, and uncertain what to do, Mr.\nPickwick cut the matter short by drawing the invalided stroller's arm\nthrough his, and leading him away, without saying another word about it.\n\nDuring the whole of this time the countenance of Mr. Samuel Weller\nhad exhibited an expression of the most overwhelming and absorbing\nastonishment that the imagination can portray. After looking from Job to\nJingle, and from Jingle to Job in profound silence, he softly ejaculated\nthe words, 'Well, I AM damn'd!' which he repeated at least a score of\ntimes; after which exertion, he appeared wholly bereft of speech, and\nagain cast his eyes, first upon the one and then upon the other, in mute\nperplexity and bewilderment.\n\n'Now, Sam!' said Mr. Pickwick, looking back.\n\n'I'm a-comin', sir,' replied Mr. Weller, mechanically following his\nmaster; and still he lifted not his eyes from Mr. Job Trotter, who\nwalked at his side in silence. Job kept his eyes fixed on the ground for\nsome time. Sam, with his glued to Job's countenance, ran up against\nthe people who were walking about, and fell over little children, and\nstumbled against steps and railings, without appearing at all sensible\nof it, until Job, looking stealthily up, said--\n\n'How do you do, Mr. Weller?'\n\n'It IS him!' exclaimed Sam; and having established Job's identity beyond\nall doubt, he smote his leg, and vented his feelings in a long, shrill\nwhistle.\n\n'Things has altered with me, sir,' said Job.\n\n'I should think they had,' exclaimed Mr. Weller, surveying his\ncompanion's rags with undisguised wonder. 'This is rayther a change for\nthe worse, Mr. Trotter, as the gen'l'm'n said, wen he got two doubtful\nshillin's and sixpenn'orth o' pocket-pieces for a good half-crown.'\n\n'It is indeed,' replied Job, shaking his head. 'There is no\ndeception now, Mr. Weller. Tears,' said Job, with a look of momentary\nslyness--'tears are not the only proofs of distress, nor the best ones.'\n\n'No, they ain't,' replied Sam expressively.\n\n'They may be put on, Mr. Weller,' said Job.\n\n'I know they may,' said Sam; 'some people, indeed, has 'em always ready\nlaid on, and can pull out the plug wenever they likes.'\n\n'Yes,' replied Job; 'but these sort of things are not so easily\ncounterfeited, Mr. Weller, and it is a more painful process to get them\nup.' As he spoke, he pointed to his sallow, sunken cheeks, and, drawing\nup his coat sleeve, disclosed an arm which looked as if the bone could\nbe broken at a touch, so sharp and brittle did it appear, beneath its\nthin covering of flesh.\n\n'Wot have you been a-doin' to yourself?' said Sam, recoiling.\n\n'Nothing,' replied Job.\n\n'Nothin'!' echoed Sam.\n\n'I have been doin' nothing for many weeks past,' said Job; and eating\nand drinking almost as little.'\n\nSam took one comprehensive glance at Mr. Trotter's thin face and\nwretched apparel; and then, seizing him by the arm, commenced dragging\nhim away with great violence.\n\n'Where are you going, Mr. Weller?' said Job, vainly struggling in the\npowerful grasp of his old enemy. 'Come on,' said Sam; 'come on!' He\ndeigned no further explanation till they reached the tap, and then\ncalled for a pot of porter, which was speedily produced.\n\n'Now,' said Sam, 'drink that up, ev'ry drop on it, and then turn the pot\nupside down, to let me see as you've took the medicine.'\n\n'But, my dear Mr. Weller,' remonstrated Job.\n\n'Down vith it!' said Sam peremptorily.\n\nThus admonished, Mr. Trotter raised the pot to his lips, and, by gentle\nand almost imperceptible degrees, tilted it into the air. He paused\nonce, and only once, to draw a long breath, but without raising his\nface from the vessel, which, in a few moments thereafter, he held out\nat arm's length, bottom upward. Nothing fell upon the ground but a few\nparticles of froth, which slowly detached themselves from the rim, and\ntrickled lazily down.\n\n'Well done!' said Sam. 'How do you find yourself arter it?'\n\n'Better, Sir. I think I am better,' responded Job.\n\n'O' course you air,' said Sam argumentatively. 'It's like puttin' gas in\na balloon. I can see with the naked eye that you gets stouter under the\noperation. Wot do you say to another o' the same dimensions?'\n\n'I would rather not, I am much obliged to you, Sir,' replied Job--'much\nrather not.'\n\n'Vell, then, wot do you say to some wittles?' inquired Sam.\n\n'Thanks to your worthy governor, Sir,' said Mr. Trotter, 'we have half a\nleg of mutton, baked, at a quarter before three, with the potatoes under\nit to save boiling.'\n\n'Wot! Has HE been a-purwidin' for you?' asked Sam emphatically.\n\n'He has, Sir,' replied Job. 'More than that, Mr. Weller; my master being\nvery ill, he got us a room--we were in a kennel before--and paid for\nit, Sir; and come to look at us, at night, when nobody should know. Mr.\nWeller,' said Job, with real tears in his eyes, for once, 'I could serve\nthat gentleman till I fell down dead at his feet.'\n\n'I say!' said Sam, 'I'll trouble you, my friend! None o' that!'\n\nJob Trotter looked amazed.\n\n'None o' that, I say, young feller,' repeated Sam firmly. 'No man serves\nhim but me. And now we're upon it, I'll let you into another secret\nbesides that,' said Sam, as he paid for the beer. 'I never heerd, mind\nyou, or read of in story-books, nor see in picters, any angel in tights\nand gaiters--not even in spectacles, as I remember, though that may ha'\nbeen done for anythin' I know to the contrairey--but mark my vords, Job\nTrotter, he's a reg'lar thoroughbred angel for all that; and let me\nsee the man as wenturs to tell me he knows a better vun.' With this\ndefiance, Mr. Weller buttoned up his change in a side pocket, and, with\nmany confirmatory nods and gestures by the way, proceeded in search of\nthe subject of discourse.\n\nThey found Mr. Pickwick, in company with Jingle, talking very earnestly,\nand not bestowing a look on the groups who were congregated on the\nracket-ground; they were very motley groups too, and worth the looking\nat, if it were only in idle curiosity.\n\n'Well,' said Mr. Pickwick, as Sam and his companion drew nigh, 'you\nwill see how your health becomes, and think about it meanwhile. Make\nthe statement out for me when you feel yourself equal to the task, and I\nwill discuss the subject with you when I have considered it. Now, go to\nyour room. You are tired, and not strong enough to be out long.'\n\nMr. Alfred Jingle, without one spark of his old animation--with nothing\neven of the dismal gaiety which he had assumed when Mr. Pickwick\nfirst stumbled on him in his misery--bowed low without speaking, and,\nmotioning to Job not to follow him just yet, crept slowly away.\n\n'Curious scene this, is it not, Sam?' said Mr. Pickwick, looking\ngood-humouredly round.\n\n'Wery much so, Sir,' replied Sam. 'Wonders 'ull never cease,' added Sam,\nspeaking to himself. 'I'm wery much mistaken if that 'ere Jingle worn't\na-doin somethin' in the water-cart way!'\n\nThe area formed by the wall in that part of the Fleet in which Mr.\nPickwick stood was just wide enough to make a good racket-court; one\nside being formed, of course, by the wall itself, and the other by that\nportion of the prison which looked (or rather would have looked, but for\nthe wall) towards St. Paul's Cathedral. Sauntering or sitting about,\nin every possible attitude of listless idleness, were a great number of\ndebtors, the major part of whom were waiting in prison until their day\nof 'going up' before the Insolvent Court should arrive; while others\nhad been remanded for various terms, which they were idling away as they\nbest could. Some were shabby, some were smart, many dirty, a few clean;\nbut there they all lounged, and loitered, and slunk about with as little\nspirit or purpose as the beasts in a menagerie.\n\nLolling from the windows which commanded a view of this promenade were\na number of persons, some in noisy conversation with their acquaintance\nbelow, others playing at ball with some adventurous throwers outside,\nothers looking on at the racket-players, or watching the boys as they\ncried the game. Dirty, slipshod women passed and repassed, on their way\nto the cooking-house in one corner of the yard; children screamed, and\nfought, and played together, in another; the tumbling of the skittles,\nand the shouts of the players, mingled perpetually with these and a\nhundred other sounds; and all was noise and tumult--save in a little\nmiserable shed a few yards off, where lay, all quiet and ghastly, the\nbody of the Chancery prisoner who had died the night before, awaiting\nthe mockery of an inquest. The body! It is the lawyer's term for the\nrestless, whirling mass of cares and anxieties, affections, hopes, and\ngriefs, that make up the living man. The law had his body; and there it\nlay, clothed in grave-clothes, an awful witness to its tender mercy.\n\n'Would you like to see a whistling-shop, Sir?' inquired Job Trotter.\n\n'What do you mean?' was Mr. Pickwick's counter inquiry.\n\n'A vistlin' shop, Sir,' interposed Mr. Weller.\n\n'What is that, Sam?--A bird-fancier's?' inquired Mr. Pickwick.\n\n'Bless your heart, no, Sir,' replied Job; 'a whistling-shop, Sir, is\nwhere they sell spirits.' Mr. Job Trotter briefly explained here, that\nall persons, being prohibited under heavy penalties from conveying\nspirits into debtors' prisons, and such commodities being highly prized\nby the ladies and gentlemen confined therein, it had occurred to some\nspeculative turnkey to connive, for certain lucrative considerations, at\ntwo or three prisoners retailing the favourite article of gin, for their\nown profit and advantage.\n\n'This plan, you see, Sir, has been gradually introduced into all the\nprisons for debt,' said Mr. Trotter.\n\n'And it has this wery great advantage,' said Sam, 'that the turnkeys\ntakes wery good care to seize hold o' ev'rybody but them as pays 'em,\nthat attempts the willainy, and wen it gets in the papers they're\napplauded for their wigilance; so it cuts two ways--frightens other\npeople from the trade, and elewates their own characters.'\n\n'Exactly so, Mr. Weller,' observed Job.\n\n'Well, but are these rooms never searched to ascertain whether any\nspirits are concealed in them?' said Mr. Pickwick.\n\n'Cert'nly they are, Sir,' replied Sam; 'but the turnkeys knows\nbeforehand, and gives the word to the wistlers, and you may wistle for\nit wen you go to look.'\n\nBy this time, Job had tapped at a door, which was opened by a gentleman\nwith an uncombed head, who bolted it after them when they had walked\nin, and grinned; upon which Job grinned, and Sam also; whereupon Mr.\nPickwick, thinking it might be expected of him, kept on smiling to the\nend of the interview.\n\nThe gentleman with the uncombed head appeared quite satisfied with this\nmute announcement of their business, and, producing a flat stone bottle,\nwhich might hold about a couple of quarts, from beneath his bedstead,\nfilled out three glasses of gin, which Job Trotter and Sam disposed of\nin a most workmanlike manner.\n\n'Any more?' said the whistling gentleman.\n\n'No more,' replied Job Trotter.\n\nMr. Pickwick paid, the door was unbolted, and out they came; the\nuncombed gentleman bestowing a friendly nod upon Mr. Roker, who happened\nto be passing at the moment.\n\nFrom this spot, Mr. Pickwick wandered along all the galleries, up and\ndown all the staircases, and once again round the whole area of the\nyard. The great body of the prison population appeared to be Mivins, and\nSmangle, and the parson, and the butcher, and the leg, over and over,\nand over again. There were the same squalor, the same turmoil and noise,\nthe same general characteristics, in every corner; in the best and\nthe worst alike. The whole place seemed restless and troubled; and the\npeople were crowding and flitting to and fro, like the shadows in an\nuneasy dream.\n\n'I have seen enough,' said Mr. Pickwick, as he threw himself into a\nchair in his little apartment. 'My head aches with these scenes, and my\nheart too. Henceforth I will be a prisoner in my own room.'\n\nAnd Mr. Pickwick steadfastly adhered to this determination. For three\nlong months he remained shut up, all day; only stealing out at night to\nbreathe the air, when the greater part of his fellow-prisoners were in\nbed or carousing in their rooms. His health was beginning to suffer\nfrom the closeness of the confinement, but neither the often-repeated\nentreaties of Perker and his friends, nor the still more\nfrequently-repeated warnings and admonitions of Mr. Samuel Weller, could\ninduce him to alter one jot of his inflexible resolution.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XLVI. RECORDS A TOUCHING ACT OF DELICATE FEELING, NOT UNMIXED\nWITH PLEASANTRY, ACHIEVED AND PERFORMED BY Messrs. DODSON AND FOGG\n\n\nIt was within a week of the close of the month of July, that a hackney\ncabriolet, number unrecorded, was seen to proceed at a rapid pace up\nGoswell Street; three people were squeezed into it besides the driver,\nwho sat in his own particular little dickey at the side; over the apron\nwere hung two shawls, belonging to two small vixenish-looking ladies\nunder the apron; between whom, compressed into a very small compass, was\nstowed away, a gentleman of heavy and subdued demeanour, who, whenever\nhe ventured to make an observation, was snapped up short by one of the\nvixenish ladies before-mentioned. Lastly, the two vixenish ladies and\nthe heavy gentleman were giving the driver contradictory directions, all\ntending to the one point, that he should stop at Mrs. Bardell's door;\nwhich the heavy gentleman, in direct opposition to, and defiance of, the\nvixenish ladies, contended was a green door and not a yellow one.\n\n'Stop at the house with a green door, driver,' said the heavy gentleman.\n\n'Oh! You perwerse creetur!' exclaimed one of the vixenish ladies. 'Drive\nto the 'ouse with the yellow door, cabmin.'\n\nUpon this the cabman, who in a sudden effort to pull up at the house\nwith the green door, had pulled the horse up so high that he nearly\npulled him backward into the cabriolet, let the animal's fore-legs down\nto the ground again, and paused.\n\n'Now vere am I to pull up?' inquired the driver. 'Settle it among\nyourselves. All I ask is, vere?'\n\nHere the contest was renewed with increased violence; and the horse\nbeing troubled with a fly on his nose, the cabman humanely employed\nhis leisure in lashing him about on the head, on the counter-irritation\nprinciple.\n\n'Most wotes carries the day!' said one of the vixenish ladies at length.\n'The 'ouse with the yellow door, cabman.'\n\nBut after the cabriolet had dashed up, in splendid style, to the\nhouse with the yellow door, 'making,' as one of the vixenish ladies\ntriumphantly said, 'acterrally more noise than if one had come in one's\nown carriage,' and after the driver had dismounted to assist the ladies\nin getting out, the small round head of Master Thomas Bardell was thrust\nout of the one-pair window of a house with a red door, a few numbers\noff.\n\n'Aggrawatin' thing!' said the vixenish lady last-mentioned, darting a\nwithering glance at the heavy gentleman.\n\n'My dear, it's not my fault,' said the gentleman.\n\n'Don't talk to me, you creetur, don't,' retorted the lady. 'The house\nwith the red door, cabmin. Oh! If ever a woman was troubled with a\nruffinly creetur, that takes a pride and a pleasure in disgracing his\nwife on every possible occasion afore strangers, I am that woman!'\n\n'You ought to be ashamed of yourself, Raddle,' said the other little\nwoman, who was no other than Mrs. Cluppins. 'What have I been a-doing\nof?' asked Mr. Raddle.\n\n'Don't talk to me, don't, you brute, for fear I should be perwoked to\nforgit my sect and strike you!' said Mrs. Raddle.\n\nWhile this dialogue was going on, the driver was most ignominiously\nleading the horse, by the bridle, up to the house with the red door,\nwhich Master Bardell had already opened. Here was a mean and low way of\narriving at a friend's house! No dashing up, with all the fire and fury\nof the animal; no jumping down of the driver; no loud knocking at the\ndoor; no opening of the apron with a crash at the very last moment, for\nfear of the ladies sitting in a draught; and then the man handing the\nshawls out, afterwards, as if he were a private coachman! The whole edge\nof the thing had been taken off--it was flatter than walking.\n\n'Well, Tommy,' said Mrs. Cluppins, 'how's your poor dear mother?'\n\n'Oh, she's very well,' replied Master Bardell. 'She's in the front\nparlour, all ready. I'm ready too, I am.' Here Master Bardell put his\nhands in his pockets, and jumped off and on the bottom step of the door.\n\n'Is anybody else a-goin', Tommy?' said Mrs. Cluppins, arranging her\npelerine.\n\n'Mrs. Sanders is going, she is,' replied Tommy; 'I'm going too, I am.'\n\n'Drat the boy,' said little Mrs. Cluppins. 'He thinks of nobody but\nhimself. Here, Tommy, dear.'\n\n'Well,' said Master Bardell.\n\n'Who else is a-goin', lovey?' said Mrs. Cluppins, in an insinuating\nmanner.\n\n'Oh! Mrs. Rogers is a-goin',' replied Master Bardell, opening his eyes\nvery wide as he delivered the intelligence.\n\n'What? The lady as has taken the lodgings!' ejaculated Mrs. Cluppins.\n\nMaster Bardell put his hands deeper down into his pockets, and nodded\nexactly thirty-five times, to imply that it was the lady-lodger, and no\nother.\n\n'Bless us!' said Mrs. Cluppins. 'It's quite a party!'\n\n'Ah, if you knew what was in the cupboard, you'd say so,' replied Master\nBardell.\n\n'What is there, Tommy?' said Mrs. Cluppins coaxingly. 'You'll tell ME,\nTommy, I know.' 'No, I won't,' replied Master Bardell, shaking his head,\nand applying himself to the bottom step again.\n\n'Drat the child!' muttered Mrs. Cluppins. 'What a prowokin' little\nwretch it is! Come, Tommy, tell your dear Cluppy.'\n\n'Mother said I wasn't to,' rejoined Master Bardell, 'I'm a-goin' to\nhave some, I am.' Cheered by this prospect, the precocious boy applied\nhimself to his infantile treadmill, with increased vigour.\n\nThe above examination of a child of tender years took place while Mr.\nand Mrs. Raddle and the cab-driver were having an altercation concerning\nthe fare, which, terminating at this point in favour of the cabman, Mrs.\nRaddle came up tottering.\n\n'Lauk, Mary Ann! what's the matter?' said Mrs. Cluppins.\n\n'It's put me all over in such a tremble, Betsy,' replied Mrs. Raddle.\n'Raddle ain't like a man; he leaves everythink to me.'\n\nThis was scarcely fair upon the unfortunate Mr. Raddle, who had been\nthrust aside by his good lady in the commencement of the dispute, and\nperemptorily commanded to hold his tongue. He had no opportunity of\ndefending himself, however, for Mrs. Raddle gave unequivocal signs of\nfainting; which, being perceived from the parlour window, Mrs. Bardell,\nMrs. Sanders, the lodger, and the lodger's servant, darted precipitately\nout, and conveyed her into the house, all talking at the same time, and\ngiving utterance to various expressions of pity and condolence, as if\nshe were one of the most suffering mortals on earth. Being conveyed into\nthe front parlour, she was there deposited on a sofa; and the lady from\nthe first floor running up to the first floor, returned with a bottle\nof sal-volatile, which, holding Mrs. Raddle tight round the neck, she\napplied in all womanly kindness and pity to her nose, until that lady\nwith many plunges and struggles was fain to declare herself decidedly\nbetter.\n\n'Ah, poor thing!' said Mrs. Rogers, 'I know what her feelin's is, too\nwell.' 'Ah, poor thing! so do I,' said Mrs. Sanders; and then all the\nladies moaned in unison, and said they knew what it was, and they pitied\nher from their hearts, they did. Even the lodger's little servant, who\nwas thirteen years old and three feet high, murmured her sympathy.\n\n'But what's been the matter?' said Mrs. Bardell.\n\n'Ah, what has decomposed you, ma'am?' inquired Mrs. Rogers.\n\n'I have been a good deal flurried,' replied Mrs. Raddle, in a\nreproachful manner. Thereupon the ladies cast indignant glances at Mr.\nRaddle.\n\n'Why, the fact is,' said that unhappy gentleman, stepping forward,\n'when we alighted at this door, a dispute arose with the driver of the\ncabrioily--' A loud scream from his wife, at the mention of this word,\nrendered all further explanation inaudible.\n\n'You'd better leave us to bring her round, Raddle,' said Mrs. Cluppins.\n'She'll never get better as long as you're here.'\n\nAll the ladies concurred in this opinion; so Mr. Raddle was pushed out\nof the room, and requested to give himself an airing in the back yard.\nWhich he did for about a quarter of an hour, when Mrs. Bardell announced\nto him with a solemn face that he might come in now, but that he must be\nvery careful how he behaved towards his wife. She knew he didn't mean to\nbe unkind; but Mary Ann was very far from strong, and, if he didn't take\ncare, he might lose her when he least expected it, which would be a very\ndreadful reflection for him afterwards; and so on. All this, Mr. Raddle\nheard with great submission, and presently returned to the parlour in a\nmost lamb-like manner.\n\n'Why, Mrs. Rogers, ma'am,' said Mrs. Bardell, 'you've never been\nintroduced, I declare! Mr. Raddle, ma'am; Mrs. Cluppins, ma'am; Mrs.\nRaddle, ma'am.'\n\n'Which is Mrs. Cluppins's sister,' suggested Mrs. Sanders.\n\n'Oh, indeed!' said Mrs. Rogers graciously; for she was the lodger, and\nher servant was in waiting, so she was more gracious than intimate, in\nright of her position. 'Oh, indeed!'\n\nMrs. Raddle smiled sweetly, Mr. Raddle bowed, and Mrs. Cluppins said,\n'she was sure she was very happy to have an opportunity of being known\nto a lady which she had heerd so much in favour of, as Mrs. Rogers.'\nA compliment which the last-named lady acknowledged with graceful\ncondescension.\n\n'Well, Mr. Raddle,' said Mrs. Bardell; 'I'm sure you ought to feel very\nmuch honoured at you and Tommy being the only gentlemen to escort so\nmany ladies all the way to the Spaniards, at Hampstead. Don't you think\nhe ought, Mrs. Rogers, ma'am?' 'Oh, certainly, ma'am,' replied Mrs.\nRogers; after whom all the other ladies responded, 'Oh, certainly.'\n\n'Of course I feel it, ma'am,' said Mr. Raddle, rubbing his hands, and\nevincing a slight tendency to brighten up a little. 'Indeed, to tell you\nthe truth, I said, as we was a-coming along in the cabrioily--'\n\nAt the recapitulation of the word which awakened so many painful\nrecollections, Mrs. Raddle applied her handkerchief to her eyes again,\nand uttered a half-suppressed scream; so that Mrs. Bardell frowned upon\nMr. Raddle, to intimate that he had better not say anything more, and\ndesired Mrs. Rogers's servant, with an air, to 'put the wine on.'\n\nThis was the signal for displaying the hidden treasures of the closet,\nwhich comprised sundry plates of oranges and biscuits, and a bottle of\nold crusted port--that at one-and-nine--with another of the celebrated\nEast India sherry at fourteen-pence, which were all produced in honour\nof the lodger, and afforded unlimited satisfaction to everybody. After\ngreat consternation had been excited in the mind of Mrs. Cluppins, by an\nattempt on the part of Tommy to recount how he had been cross-examined\nregarding the cupboard then in action (which was fortunately nipped in\nthe bud by his imbibing half a glass of the old crusted 'the wrong way,'\nand thereby endangering his life for some seconds), the party walked\nforth in quest of a Hampstead stage. This was soon found, and in a\ncouple of hours they all arrived safely in the Spaniards Tea-gardens,\nwhere the luckless Mr. Raddle's very first act nearly occasioned his\ngood lady a relapse; it being neither more nor less than to order tea\nfor seven, whereas (as the ladies one and all remarked), what could\nhave been easier than for Tommy to have drank out of anybody's cup--or\neverybody's, if that was all--when the waiter wasn't looking, which\nwould have saved one head of tea, and the tea just as good!\n\nHowever, there was no help for it, and the tea-tray came, with seven\ncups and saucers, and bread-and-butter on the same scale. Mrs. Bardell\nwas unanimously voted into the chair, and Mrs. Rogers being stationed\non her right hand, and Mrs. Raddle on her left, the meal proceeded with\ngreat merriment and success.\n\n'How sweet the country is, to be sure!' sighed Mrs. Rogers; 'I almost\nwish I lived in it always.'\n\n'Oh, you wouldn't like that, ma'am,' replied Mrs. Bardell, rather\nhastily; for it was not at all advisable, with reference to the\nlodgings, to encourage such notions; 'you wouldn't like it, ma'am.'\n\n'Oh! I should think you was a deal too lively and sought after, to be\ncontent with the country, ma'am,' said little Mrs. Cluppins.\n\n'Perhaps I am, ma'am. Perhaps I am,' sighed the first-floor lodger.\n\n'For lone people as have got nobody to care for them, or take care\nof them, or as have been hurt in their mind, or that kind of thing,'\nobserved Mr. Raddle, plucking up a little cheerfulness, and looking\nround, 'the country is all very well. The country for a wounded spirit,\nthey say.'\n\nNow, of all things in the world that the unfortunate man could have\nsaid, any would have been preferable to this. Of course Mrs. Bardell\nburst into tears, and requested to be led from the table instantly; upon\nwhich the affectionate child began to cry too, most dismally.\n\n'Would anybody believe, ma'am,' exclaimed Mrs. Raddle, turning fiercely\nto the first-floor lodger, 'that a woman could be married to such a\nunmanly creetur, which can tamper with a woman's feelings as he does,\nevery hour in the day, ma'am?'\n\n'My dear,' remonstrated Mr. Raddle, 'I didn't mean anything, my dear.'\n\n'You didn't mean!' repeated Mrs. Raddle, with great scorn and contempt.\n'Go away. I can't bear the sight on you, you brute.'\n\n'You must not flurry yourself, Mary Ann,' interposed Mrs. Cluppins. 'You\nreally must consider yourself, my dear, which you never do. Now go away,\nRaddle, there's a good soul, or you'll only aggravate her.'\n\n'You had better take your tea by yourself, Sir, indeed,' said Mrs.\nRogers, again applying the smelling-bottle.\n\nMrs. Sanders, who, according to custom, was very busy with the\nbread-and-butter, expressed the same opinion, and Mr. Raddle quietly\nretired.\n\nAfter this, there was a great hoisting up of Master Bardell, who was\nrather a large size for hugging, into his mother's arms, in which\noperation he got his boots in the tea-board, and occasioned some\nconfusion among the cups and saucers. But that description of fainting\nfits, which is contagious among ladies, seldom lasts long; so when he\nhad been well kissed, and a little cried over, Mrs. Bardell recovered,\nset him down again, wondering how she could have been so foolish, and\npoured out some more tea.\n\nIt was at this moment, that the sound of approaching wheels was heard,\nand that the ladies, looking up, saw a hackney-coach stop at the garden\ngate.\n\n'More company!' said Mrs. Sanders.\n\n'It's a gentleman,' said Mrs. Raddle.\n\n'Well, if it ain't Mr. Jackson, the young man from Dodson and Fogg's!'\ncried Mrs. Bardell. 'Why, gracious! Surely Mr. Pickwick can't have paid\nthe damages.'\n\n'Or hoffered marriage!' said Mrs. Cluppins.\n\n'Dear me, how slow the gentleman is,'exclaimed Mrs. Rogers. 'Why doesn't\nhe make haste!'\n\nAs the lady spoke these words, Mr. Jackson turned from the coach where\nhe had been addressing some observations to a shabby man in black\nleggings, who had just emerged from the vehicle with a thick ash stick\nin his hand, and made his way to the place where the ladies were seated;\nwinding his hair round the brim of his hat, as he came along. 'Is\nanything the matter? Has anything taken place, Mr. Jackson?' said Mrs.\nBardell eagerly.\n\n'Nothing whatever, ma'am,' replied Mr. Jackson. 'How de do, ladies?\nI have to ask pardon, ladies, for intruding--but the law, ladies--the\nlaw.' With this apology Mr. Jackson smiled, made a comprehensive bow,\nand gave his hair another wind. Mrs. Rogers whispered Mrs. Raddle that\nhe was really an elegant young man.\n\n'I called in Goswell Street,' resumed Mr. Jackson, 'and hearing that you\nwere here, from the slavey, took a coach and came on. Our people want\nyou down in the city directly, Mrs. Bardell.'\n\n'Lor!' ejaculated that lady, starting at the sudden nature of the\ncommunication.\n\n'Yes,' said Mr. Jackson, biting his lip. 'It's very important and\npressing business, which can't be postponed on any account. Indeed,\nDodson expressly said so to me, and so did Fogg. I've kept the coach on\npurpose for you to go back in.'\n\n'How very strange!' exclaimed Mrs. Bardell.\n\nThe ladies agreed that it WAS very strange, but were unanimously of\nopinion that it must be very important, or Dodson & Fogg would never\nhave sent; and further, that the business being urgent, she ought to\nrepair to Dodson & Fogg's without any delay.\n\nThere was a certain degree of pride and importance about being wanted\nby one's lawyers in such a monstrous hurry, that was by no means\ndispleasing to Mrs. Bardell, especially as it might be reasonably\nsupposed to enhance her consequence in the eyes of the first-floor\nlodger. She simpered a little, affected extreme vexation and hesitation,\nand at last arrived at the conclusion that she supposed she must go.\n\n'But won't you refresh yourself after your walk, Mr. Jackson?' said Mrs.\nBardell persuasively.\n\n'Why, really there ain't much time to lose,' replied Jackson; 'and I've\ngot a friend here,' he continued, looking towards the man with the ash\nstick.\n\n'Oh, ask your friend to come here, Sir,' said Mrs. Bardell. 'Pray ask\nyour friend here, Sir.'\n\n'Why, thank'ee, I'd rather not,' said Mr. Jackson, with some\nembarrassment of manner. 'He's not much used to ladies' society, and it\nmakes him bashful. If you'll order the waiter to deliver him anything\nshort, he won't drink it off at once, won't he!--only try him!' Mr.\nJackson's fingers wandered playfully round his nose at this portion of\nhis discourse, to warn his hearers that he was speaking ironically.\n\nThe waiter was at once despatched to the bashful gentleman, and the\nbashful gentleman took something; Mr. Jackson also took something, and\nthe ladies took something, for hospitality's sake. Mr. Jackson then\nsaid he was afraid it was time to go; upon which, Mrs. Sanders, Mrs.\nCluppins, and Tommy (who it was arranged should accompany Mrs. Bardell,\nleaving the others to Mr. Raddle's protection), got into the coach.\n\n'Isaac,' said Jackson, as Mrs. Bardell prepared to get in, looking up at\nthe man with the ash stick, who was seated on the box, smoking a cigar.\n\n'Well?'\n\n'This is Mrs. Bardell.'\n\n'Oh, I know'd that long ago,' said the man.\n\nMrs. Bardell got in, Mr. Jackson got in after her, and away they drove.\nMrs. Bardell could not help ruminating on what Mr. Jackson's friend\nhad said. Shrewd creatures, those lawyers. Lord bless us, how they find\npeople out!\n\n'Sad thing about these costs of our people's, ain't it,' said Jackson,\nwhen Mrs. Cluppins and Mrs. Sanders had fallen asleep; 'your bill of\ncosts, I mean.'\n\n'I'm very sorry they can't get them,' replied Mrs. Bardell. 'But if you\nlaw gentlemen do these things on speculation, why you must get a loss\nnow and then, you know.'\n\n'You gave them a COGNOVIT for the amount of your costs, after the trial,\nI'm told!' said Jackson.\n\n'Yes. Just as a matter of form,' replied Mrs. Bardell.\n\n'Certainly,' replied Jackson drily. 'Quite a matter of form. Quite.'\n\nOn they drove, and Mrs. Bardell fell asleep. She was awakened, after\nsome time, by the stopping of the coach.\n\n'Bless us!' said the lady.'Are we at Freeman's Court?'\n\n'We're not going quite so far,' replied Jackson. 'Have the goodness to\nstep out.'\n\nMrs. Bardell, not yet thoroughly awake, complied. It was a curious\nplace: a large wall, with a gate in the middle, and a gas-light burning\ninside.\n\n'Now, ladies,' cried the man with the ash stick, looking into the coach,\nand shaking Mrs. Sanders to wake her, 'Come!' Rousing her friend, Mrs.\nSanders alighted. Mrs. Bardell, leaning on Jackson's arm, and leading\nTommy by the hand, had already entered the porch. They followed.\n\nThe room they turned into was even more odd-looking than the porch. Such\na number of men standing about! And they stared so!\n\n'What place is this?' inquired Mrs. Bardell, pausing.\n\n'Only one of our public offices,' replied Jackson, hurrying her through\na door, and looking round to see that the other women were following.\n'Look sharp, Isaac!'\n\n'Safe and sound,' replied the man with the ash stick. The door swung\nheavily after them, and they descended a small flight of steps.\n\n'Here we are at last. All right and tight, Mrs. Bardell!' said Jackson,\nlooking exultingly round.\n\n'What do you mean?' said Mrs. Bardell, with a palpitating heart.\n\n'Just this,' replied Jackson, drawing her a little on one side; 'don't\nbe frightened, Mrs. Bardell. There never was a more delicate man than\nDodson, ma'am, or a more humane man than Fogg. It was their duty in the\nway of business, to take you in execution for them costs; but they were\nanxious to spare your feelings as much as they could. What a comfort it\nmust be, to you, to think how it's been done! This is the Fleet, ma'am.\nWish you good-night, Mrs. Bardell. Good-night, Tommy!'\n\nAs Jackson hurried away in company with the man with the ash stick\nanother man, with a key in his hand, who had been looking on, led\nthe bewildered female to a second short flight of steps leading to a\ndoorway. Mrs. Bardell screamed violently; Tommy roared; Mrs. Cluppins\nshrunk within herself; and Mrs. Sanders made off, without more ado. For\nthere stood the injured Mr. Pickwick, taking his nightly allowance of\nair; and beside him leant Samuel Weller, who, seeing Mrs. Bardell, took\nhis hat off with mock reverence, while his master turned indignantly on\nhis heel.\n\n'Don't bother the woman,' said the turnkey to Weller; 'she's just come\nin.'\n\n'A prisoner!' said Sam, quickly replacing his hat. 'Who's the\nplaintives? What for? Speak up, old feller.'\n\n'Dodson and Fogg,' replied the man; 'execution on COGNOVIT for costs.'\n\n'Here, Job, Job!' shouted Sam, dashing into the passage. 'Run to Mr.\nPerker's, Job. I want him directly. I see some good in this. Here's a\ngame. Hooray! vere's the gov'nor?'\n\nBut there was no reply to these inquiries, for Job had started furiously\noff, the instant he received his commission, and Mrs. Bardell had\nfainted in real downright earnest.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XLVII. IS CHIEFLY DEVOTED TO MATTERS OF BUSINESS, AND THE\nTEMPORAL ADVANTAGE OF DODSON AND FOGG--Mr. WINKLE REAPPEARS UNDER\nEXTRAORDINARY CIRCUMSTANCES--Mr. PICKWICK'S BENEVOLENCE PROVES STRONGER\nTHAN HIS OBSTINACY\n\n\nJob Trotter, abating nothing of his speed, ran up Holborn, sometimes\nin the middle of the road, sometimes on the pavement, sometimes in the\ngutter, as the chances of getting along varied with the press of men,\nwomen, children, and coaches, in each division of the thoroughfare, and,\nregardless of all obstacles stopped not for an instant until he reached\nthe gate of Gray's Inn. Notwithstanding all the expedition he had used,\nhowever, the gate had been closed a good half-hour when he reached it,\nand by the time he had discovered Mr. Perker's laundress, who lived\nwith a married daughter, who had bestowed her hand upon a non-resident\nwaiter, who occupied the one-pair of some number in some street closely\nadjoining to some brewery somewhere behind Gray's Inn Lane, it was\nwithin fifteen minutes of closing the prison for the night. Mr. Lowten\nhad still to be ferreted out from the back parlour of the Magpie and\nStump; and Job had scarcely accomplished this object, and communicated\nSam Weller's message, when the clock struck ten.\n\n'There,' said Lowten, 'it's too late now. You can't get in to-night;\nyou've got the key of the street, my friend.'\n\n'Never mind me,' replied Job. 'I can sleep anywhere. But won't it be\nbetter to see Mr. Perker to-night, so that we may be there, the first\nthing in the morning?'\n\n'Why,' responded Lowten, after a little consideration, 'if it was in\nanybody else's case, Perker wouldn't be best pleased at my going up to\nhis house; but as it's Mr. Pickwick's, I think I may venture to take a\ncab and charge it to the office.' Deciding on this line of conduct, Mr.\nLowten took up his hat, and begging the assembled company to appoint a\ndeputy-chairman during his temporary absence, led the way to the nearest\ncoach-stand. Summoning the cab of most promising appearance, he directed\nthe driver to repair to Montague Place, Russell Square.\n\nMr. Perker had had a dinner-party that day, as was testified by the\nappearance of lights in the drawing-room windows, the sound of an\nimproved grand piano, and an improvable cabinet voice issuing therefrom,\nand a rather overpowering smell of meat which pervaded the steps and\nentry. In fact, a couple of very good country agencies happening to come\nup to town, at the same time, an agreeable little party had been got\ntogether to meet them, comprising Mr. Snicks, the Life Office Secretary,\nMr. Prosee, the eminent counsel, three solicitors, one commissioner of\nbankrupts, a special pleader from the Temple, a small-eyed peremptory\nyoung gentleman, his pupil, who had written a lively book about the law\nof demises, with a vast quantity of marginal notes and references; and\nseveral other eminent and distinguished personages. From this society,\nlittle Mr. Perker detached himself, on his clerk being announced in a\nwhisper; and repairing to the dining-room, there found Mr. Lowten and\nJob Trotter looking very dim and shadowy by the light of a kitchen\ncandle, which the gentleman who condescended to appear in plush shorts\nand cottons for a quarterly stipend, had, with a becoming contempt for\nthe clerk and all things appertaining to 'the office,' placed upon the\ntable.\n\n'Now, Lowten,' said little Mr. Perker, shutting the door,'what's the\nmatter? No important letter come in a parcel, is there?'\n\n'No, Sir,' replied Lowten. 'This is a messenger from Mr. Pickwick, Sir.'\n\n'From Pickwick, eh?' said the little man, turning quickly to Job. 'Well,\nwhat is it?'\n\n'Dodson and Fogg have taken Mrs. Bardell in execution for her costs,\nSir,' said Job.\n\n'No!' exclaimed Perker, putting his hands in his pockets, and reclining\nagainst the sideboard.\n\n'Yes,' said Job. 'It seems they got a cognovit out of her, for the\namount of 'em, directly after the trial.'\n\n'By Jove!' said Perker, taking both hands out of his pockets, and\nstriking the knuckles of his right against the palm of his left,\nemphatically, 'those are the cleverest scamps I ever had anything to do\nwith!'\n\n'The sharpest practitioners I ever knew, Sir,' observed Lowten.\n\n'Sharp!' echoed Perker. 'There's no knowing where to have them.'\n\n'Very true, Sir, there is not,' replied Lowten; and then, both master\nand man pondered for a few seconds, with animated countenances, as\nif they were reflecting upon one of the most beautiful and ingenious\ndiscoveries that the intellect of man had ever made. When they had in\nsome measure recovered from their trance of admiration, Job Trotter\ndischarged himself of the rest of his commission. Perker nodded his head\nthoughtfully, and pulled out his watch.\n\n'At ten precisely, I will be there,' said the little man. 'Sam is quite\nright. Tell him so. Will you take a glass of wine, Lowten?' 'No, thank\nyou, Sir.'\n\n'You mean yes, I think,' said the little man, turning to the sideboard\nfor a decanter and glasses.\n\nAs Lowten DID mean yes, he said no more on the subject, but inquired of\nJob, in an audible whisper, whether the portrait of Perker, which hung\nopposite the fireplace, wasn't a wonderful likeness, to which Job of\ncourse replied that it was. The wine being by this time poured out,\nLowten drank to Mrs. Perker and the children, and Job to Perker. The\ngentleman in the plush shorts and cottons considering it no part of his\nduty to show the people from the office out, consistently declined to\nanswer the bell, and they showed themselves out. The attorney betook\nhimself to his drawing-room, the clerk to the Magpie and Stump, and Job\nto Covent Garden Market to spend the night in a vegetable basket.\n\nPunctually at the appointed hour next morning, the good-humoured little\nattorney tapped at Mr. Pickwick's door, which was opened with great\nalacrity by Sam Weller.\n\n'Mr. Perker, sir,' said Sam, announcing the visitor to Mr. Pickwick, who\nwas sitting at the window in a thoughtful attitude. 'Wery glad you've\nlooked in accidentally, Sir. I rather think the gov'nor wants to have a\nword and a half with you, Sir.'\n\nPerker bestowed a look of intelligence on Sam, intimating that he\nunderstood he was not to say he had been sent for; and beckoning him to\napproach, whispered briefly in his ear.\n\n'You don't mean that 'ere, Sir?' said Sam, starting back in excessive\nsurprise.\n\nPerker nodded and smiled.\n\nMr. Samuel Weller looked at the little lawyer, then at Mr. Pickwick,\nthen at the ceiling, then at Perker again; grinned, laughed outright,\nand finally, catching up his hat from the carpet, without further\nexplanation, disappeared.\n\n'What does this mean?' inquired Mr. Pickwick, looking at Perker with\nastonishment. 'What has put Sam into this extraordinary state?'\n\n'Oh, nothing, nothing,' replied Perker. 'Come, my dear Sir, draw up your\nchair to the table. I have a good deal to say to you.'\n\n'What papers are those?' inquired Mr. Pickwick, as the little man\ndeposited on the table a small bundle of documents tied with red tape.\n\n'The papers in Bardell and Pickwick,' replied Perker, undoing the knot\nwith his teeth.\n\nMr. Pickwick grated the legs of his chair against the ground; and\nthrowing himself into it, folded his hands and looked sternly--if Mr.\nPickwick ever could look sternly--at his legal friend.\n\n'You don't like to hear the name of the cause?' said the little man,\nstill busying himself with the knot.\n\n'No, I do not indeed,' replied Mr. Pickwick.\n\n'Sorry for that,' resumed Perker, 'because it will form the subject of\nour conversation.'\n\n'I would rather that the subject should be never mentioned between us,\nPerker,' interposed Mr. Pickwick hastily.\n\n'Pooh, pooh, my dear Sir,' said the little man, untying the bundle, and\nglancing eagerly at Mr. Pickwick out of the corners of his eyes. 'It\nmust be mentioned. I have come here on purpose. Now, are you ready to\nhear what I have to say, my dear Sir? No hurry; if you are not, I can\nwait. I have this morning's paper here. Your time shall be mine. There!'\nHereupon, the little man threw one leg over the other, and made a show\nof beginning to read with great composure and application.\n\n'Well, well,' said Mr. Pickwick, with a sigh, but softening into a\nsmile at the same time. 'Say what you have to say; it's the old story, I\nsuppose?'\n\n'With a difference, my dear Sir; with a difference,' rejoined Perker,\ndeliberately folding up the paper and putting it into his pocket again.\n'Mrs. Bardell, the plaintiff in the action, is within these walls, Sir.'\n\n'I know it,' was Mr. Pickwick's reply.\n\n'Very good,' retorted Perker. 'And you know how she comes here, I\nsuppose; I mean on what grounds, and at whose suit?'\n\n'Yes; at least I have heard Sam's account of the matter,' said Mr.\nPickwick, with affected carelessness.\n\n'Sam's account of the matter,' replied Perker, 'is, I will venture to\nsay, a perfectly correct one. Well now, my dear Sir, the first question\nI have to ask, is, whether this woman is to remain here?'\n\n'To remain here!' echoed Mr. Pickwick.\n\n'To remain here, my dear Sir,' rejoined Perker, leaning back in his\nchair and looking steadily at his client.\n\n'How can you ask me?' said that gentleman. 'It rests with Dodson and\nFogg; you know that very well.'\n\n'I know nothing of the kind,' retorted Perker firmly. 'It does NOT rest\nwith Dodson and Fogg; you know the men, my dear Sir, as well as I do. It\nrests solely, wholly, and entirely with you.'\n\n'With me!' ejaculated Mr. Pickwick, rising nervously from his chair, and\nreseating himself directly afterwards.\n\nThe little man gave a double-knock on the lid of his snuff-box, opened\nit, took a great pinch, shut it up again, and repeated the words, 'With\nyou.'\n\n'I say, my dear Sir,' resumed the little man, who seemed to gather\nconfidence from the snuff--'I say, that her speedy liberation or\nperpetual imprisonment rests with you, and with you alone. Hear me out,\nmy dear Sir, if you please, and do not be so very energetic, for it\nwill only put you into a perspiration and do no good whatever. I say,'\ncontinued Perker, checking off each position on a different finger, as\nhe laid it down--'I say that nobody but you can rescue her from this den\nof wretchedness; and that you can only do that, by paying the costs\nof this suit--both of plaintive and defendant--into the hands of these\nFreeman Court sharks. Now pray be quiet, my dear sir.'\n\nMr. Pickwick, whose face had been undergoing most surprising changes\nduring this speech, and was evidently on the verge of a strong burst of\nindignation, calmed his wrath as well as he could. Perker, strengthening\nhis argumentative powers with another pinch of snuff, proceeded--\n\n'I have seen the woman, this morning. By paying the costs, you can\nobtain a full release and discharge from the damages; and further--this\nI know is a far greater object of consideration with you, my dear sir--a\nvoluntary statement, under her hand, in the form of a letter to me, that\nthis business was, from the very first, fomented, and encouraged, and\nbrought about, by these men, Dodson and Fogg; that she deeply regrets\never having been the instrument of annoyance or injury to you; and that\nshe entreats me to intercede with you, and implore your pardon.'\n\n'If I pay her costs for her,' said Mr. Pickwick indignantly. 'A valuable\ndocument, indeed!'\n\n'No \"if\" in the case, my dear Sir,' said Perker triumphantly. 'There\nis the very letter I speak of. Brought to my office by another woman at\nnine o'clock this morning, before I had set foot in this place, or held\nany communication with Mrs. Bardell, upon my honour.' Selecting the\nletter from the bundle, the little lawyer laid it at Mr. Pickwick's\nelbow, and took snuff for two consecutive minutes, without winking.\n\n'Is this all you have to say to me?' inquired Mr. Pickwick mildly.\n\n'Not quite,' replied Perker. 'I cannot undertake to say, at this moment,\nwhether the wording of the cognovit, the nature of the ostensible\nconsideration, and the proof we can get together about the whole conduct\nof the suit, will be sufficient to justify an indictment for conspiracy.\nI fear not, my dear Sir; they are too clever for that, I doubt. I do\nmean to say, however, that the whole facts, taken together, will be\nsufficient to justify you, in the minds of all reasonable men. And now,\nmy dear Sir, I put it to you. This one hundred and fifty pounds, or\nwhatever it may be--take it in round numbers--is nothing to you. A jury\nhad decided against you; well, their verdict is wrong, but still they\ndecided as they thought right, and it IS against you. You have now\nan opportunity, on easy terms, of placing yourself in a much higher\nposition than you ever could, by remaining here; which would only be\nimputed, by people who didn't know you, to sheer dogged, wrongheaded,\nbrutal obstinacy; nothing else, my dear Sir, believe me. Can you\nhesitate to avail yourself of it, when it restores you to your friends,\nyour old pursuits, your health and amusements; when it liberates your\nfaithful and attached servant, whom you otherwise doom to imprisonment\nfor the whole of your life; and above all, when it enables you to take\nthe very magnanimous revenge--which I know, my dear sir, is one after\nyour own heart--of releasing this woman from a scene of misery and\ndebauchery, to which no man should ever be consigned, if I had my will,\nbut the infliction of which on any woman, is even more frightful and\nbarbarous. Now I ask you, my dear sir, not only as your legal adviser,\nbut as your very true friend, will you let slip the occasion of\nattaining all these objects, and doing all this good, for the paltry\nconsideration of a few pounds finding their way into the pockets of a\ncouple of rascals, to whom it makes no manner of difference, except that\nthe more they gain, the more they'll seek, and so the sooner be led\ninto some piece of knavery that must end in a crash? I have put these\nconsiderations to you, my dear Sir, very feebly and imperfectly, but\nI ask you to think of them. Turn them over in your mind as long as you\nplease. I wait here most patiently for your answer.'\n\nBefore Mr. Pickwick could reply, before Mr. Perker had taken one\ntwentieth part of the snuff with which so unusually long an address\nimperatively required to be followed up, there was a low murmuring of\nvoices outside, and then a hesitating knock at the door.\n\n'Dear, dear,' exclaimed Mr. Pickwick, who had been evidently roused by\nhis friend's appeal; 'what an annoyance that door is! Who is that?'\n\n'Me, Sir,' replied Sam Weller, putting in his head.\n\n'I can't speak to you just now, Sam,' said Mr. Pickwick. 'I am engaged\nat this moment, Sam.'\n\n'Beg your pardon, Sir,' rejoined Mr. Weller. 'But here's a lady here,\nSir, as says she's somethin' wery partickler to disclose.'\n\n'I can't see any lady,' replied Mr. Pickwick, whose mind was filled with\nvisions of Mrs. Bardell.\n\n'I wouldn't make too sure o' that, Sir,' urged Mr. Weller, shaking his\nhead. 'If you know'd who was near, sir, I rayther think you'd change\nyour note; as the hawk remarked to himself vith a cheerful laugh, ven he\nheerd the robin-redbreast a-singin' round the corner.'\n\n'Who is it?' inquired Mr. Pickwick.\n\n'Will you see her, Sir?' asked Mr. Weller, holding the door in his hand\nas if he had some curious live animal on the other side.\n\n'I suppose I must,' said Mr. Pickwick, looking at Perker.\n\n'Well then, all in to begin!' cried Sam. 'Sound the gong, draw up the\ncurtain, and enter the two conspiraytors.'\n\nAs Sam Weller spoke, he threw the door open, and there rushed\ntumultuously into the room, Mr. Nathaniel Winkle, leading after him\nby the hand, the identical young lady who at Dingley Dell had worn the\nboots with the fur round the tops, and who, now a very pleasing compound\nof blushes and confusion, and lilac silk, and a smart bonnet, and a rich\nlace veil, looked prettier than ever.\n\n'Miss Arabella Allen!' exclaimed Mr. Pickwick, rising from his chair.\n\n'No,' replied Mr. Winkle, dropping on his knees. 'Mrs. Winkle. Pardon,\nmy dear friend, pardon!'\n\nMr. Pickwick could scarcely believe the evidence of his senses, and\nperhaps would not have done so, but for the corroborative testimony\nafforded by the smiling countenance of Perker, and the bodily presence,\nin the background, of Sam and the pretty housemaid; who appeared to\ncontemplate the proceedings with the liveliest satisfaction.\n\n'Oh, Mr. Pickwick!' said Arabella, in a low voice, as if alarmed at the\nsilence. 'Can you forgive my imprudence?'\n\nMr. Pickwick returned no verbal response to this appeal; but he took off\nhis spectacles in great haste, and seizing both the young lady's hands\nin his, kissed her a great number of times--perhaps a greater number\nthan was absolutely necessary--and then, still retaining one of her\nhands, told Mr. Winkle he was an audacious young dog, and bade him get\nup. This, Mr. Winkle, who had been for some seconds scratching his\nnose with the brim of his hat, in a penitent manner, did; whereupon Mr.\nPickwick slapped him on the back several times, and then shook hands\nheartily with Perker, who, not to be behind-hand in the compliments of\nthe occasion, saluted both the bride and the pretty housemaid with right\ngood-will, and, having wrung Mr. Winkle's hand most cordially, wound up\nhis demonstrations of joy by taking snuff enough to set any half-dozen\nmen with ordinarily-constructed noses, a-sneezing for life. 'Why, my\ndear girl,' said Mr. Pickwick, 'how has all this come about? Come! Sit\ndown, and let me hear it all. How well she looks, doesn't she, Perker?'\nadded Mr. Pickwick, surveying Arabella's face with a look of as much\npride and exultation, as if she had been his daughter.\n\n'Delightful, my dear Sir,' replied the little man. 'If I were not a\nmarried man myself, I should be disposed to envy you, you dog.' Thus\nexpressing himself, the little lawyer gave Mr. Winkle a poke in the\nchest, which that gentleman reciprocated; after which they both laughed\nvery loudly, but not so loudly as Mr. Samuel Weller, who had just\nrelieved his feelings by kissing the pretty housemaid under cover of the\ncupboard door.\n\n'I can never be grateful enough to you, Sam, I am sure,' said Arabella,\nwith the sweetest smile imaginable. 'I shall not forget your exertions\nin the garden at Clifton.'\n\n'Don't say nothin' wotever about it, ma'am,' replied Sam. 'I only\nassisted natur, ma'am; as the doctor said to the boy's mother, after\nhe'd bled him to death.'\n\n'Mary, my dear, sit down,' said Mr. Pickwick, cutting short these\ncompliments. 'Now then; how long have you been married, eh?'\n\nArabella looked bashfully at her lord and master, who replied, 'Only\nthree days.'\n\n'Only three days, eh?' said Mr. Pickwick. 'Why, what have you been doing\nthese three months?'\n\n'Ah, to be sure!' interposed Perker; 'come, account for this idleness.\nYou see Mr. Pickwick's only astonishment is, that it wasn't all over,\nmonths ago.'\n\n'Why the fact is,' replied Mr. Winkle, looking at his blushing young\nwife, 'that I could not persuade Bella to run away, for a long time. And\nwhen I had persuaded her, it was a long time more before we could find\nan opportunity. Mary had to give a month's warning, too, before she\ncould leave her place next door, and we couldn't possibly have done it\nwithout her assistance.' 'Upon my word,' exclaimed Mr. Pickwick, who by\nthis time had resumed his spectacles, and was looking from Arabella to\nWinkle, and from Winkle to Arabella, with as much delight depicted in\nhis countenance as warmheartedness and kindly feeling can communicate to\nthe human face--'upon my word! you seem to have been very systematic\nin your proceedings. And is your brother acquainted with all this, my\ndear?'\n\n'Oh, no, no,' replied Arabella, changing colour. 'Dear Mr. Pickwick, he\nmust only know it from you--from your lips alone. He is so violent, so\nprejudiced, and has been so--so anxious in behalf of his friend, Mr.\nSawyer,' added Arabella, looking down, 'that I fear the consequences\ndreadfully.'\n\n'Ah, to be sure,' said Perker gravely. 'You must take this matter in\nhand for them, my dear sir. These young men will respect you, when they\nwould listen to nobody else. You must prevent mischief, my dear Sir. Hot\nblood, hot blood.' And the little man took a warning pinch, and shook\nhis head doubtfully.\n\n'You forget, my love,' said Mr. Pickwick gently, 'you forget that I am a\nprisoner.'\n\n'No, indeed I do not, my dear Sir,' replied Arabella. 'I never have\nforgotten it. I have never ceased to think how great your sufferings\nmust have been in this shocking place. But I hoped that what no\nconsideration for yourself would induce you to do, a regard to our\nhappiness might. If my brother hears of this, first, from you, I feel\ncertain we shall be reconciled. He is my only relation in the world, Mr.\nPickwick, and unless you plead for me, I fear I have lost even him. I\nhave done wrong, very, very wrong, I know.'Here poor Arabella hid her\nface in her handkerchief, and wept bitterly.\n\nMr. Pickwick's nature was a good deal worked upon, by these same tears;\nbut when Mrs. Winkle, drying her eyes, took to coaxing and entreating\nin the sweetest tones of a very sweet voice, he became particularly\nrestless, and evidently undecided how to act, as was evinced by sundry\nnervous rubbings of his spectacle-glasses, nose, tights, head, and\ngaiters.\n\nTaking advantage of these symptoms of indecision, Mr. Perker (to whom,\nit appeared, the young couple had driven straight that morning) urged\nwith legal point and shrewdness that Mr. Winkle, senior, was still\nunacquainted with the important rise in life's flight of steps which\nhis son had taken; that the future expectations of the said son depended\nentirely upon the said Winkle, senior, continuing to regard him with\nundiminished feelings of affection and attachment, which it was very\nunlikely he would, if this great event were long kept a secret from him;\nthat Mr. Pickwick, repairing to Bristol to seek Mr. Allen, might, with\nequal reason, repair to Birmingham to seek Mr. Winkle, senior; lastly,\nthat Mr. Winkle, senior, had good right and title to consider Mr.\nPickwick as in some degree the guardian and adviser of his son, and\nthat it consequently behoved that gentleman, and was indeed due to\nhis personal character, to acquaint the aforesaid Winkle, senior,\npersonally, and by word of mouth, with the whole circumstances of the\ncase, and with the share he had taken in the transaction.\n\nMr. Tupman and Mr. Snodgrass arrived, most opportunely, in this stage of\nthe pleadings, and as it was necessary to explain to them all that had\noccurred, together with the various reasons pro and con, the whole of\nthe arguments were gone over again, after which everybody urged every\nargument in his own way, and at his own length. And, at last, Mr.\nPickwick, fairly argued and remonstrated out of all his resolutions,\nand being in imminent danger of being argued and remonstrated out of\nhis wits, caught Arabella in his arms, and declaring that she was a very\namiable creature, and that he didn't know how it was, but he had always\nbeen very fond of her from the first, said he could never find it in his\nheart to stand in the way of young people's happiness, and they might do\nwith him as they pleased.\n\nMr. Weller's first act, on hearing this concession, was to despatch Job\nTrotter to the illustrious Mr. Pell, with an authority to deliver to\nthe bearer the formal discharge which his prudent parent had had the\nforesight to leave in the hands of that learned gentleman, in case it\nshould be, at any time, required on an emergency; his next proceeding\nwas, to invest his whole stock of ready-money in the purchase of\nfive-and-twenty gallons of mild porter, which he himself dispensed on\nthe racket-ground to everybody who would partake of it; this done, he\nhurra'd in divers parts of the building until he lost his voice,\nand then quietly relapsed into his usual collected and philosophical\ncondition.\n\nAt three o'clock that afternoon, Mr. Pickwick took a last look at his\nlittle room, and made his way, as well as he could, through the throng\nof debtors who pressed eagerly forward to shake him by the hand, until\nhe reached the lodge steps. He turned here, to look about him, and his\neye lightened as he did so. In all the crowd of wan, emaciated faces, he\nsaw not one which was not happier for his sympathy and charity.\n\n'Perker,' said Mr. Pickwick, beckoning one young man towards him, 'this\nis Mr. Jingle, whom I spoke to you about.'\n\n'Very good, my dear Sir,' replied Perker, looking hard at Jingle. 'You\nwill see me again, young man, to-morrow. I hope you may live to remember\nand feel deeply, what I shall have to communicate, Sir.'\n\nJingle bowed respectfully, trembled very much as he took Mr. Pickwick's\nproffered hand, and withdrew.\n\n'Job you know, I think?' said Mr. Pickwick, presenting that gentleman.\n\n'I know the rascal,' replied Perker good-humouredly. 'See after your\nfriend, and be in the way to-morrow at one. Do you hear? Now, is there\nanything more?'\n\n'Nothing,' rejoined Mr. Pickwick. 'You have delivered the little parcel\nI gave you for your old landlord, Sam?'\n\n'I have, Sir,' replied Sam. 'He bust out a-cryin', Sir, and said you\nwos wery gen'rous and thoughtful, and he only wished you could have\nhim innockilated for a gallopin' consumption, for his old friend as\nhad lived here so long wos dead, and he'd noweres to look for another.'\n'Poor fellow, poor fellow!' said Mr. Pickwick. 'God bless you, my\nfriends!'\n\nAs Mr. Pickwick uttered this adieu, the crowd raised a loud shout. Many\namong them were pressing forward to shake him by the hand again, when he\ndrew his arm through Perker's, and hurried from the prison, far more sad\nand melancholy, for the moment, than when he had first entered it. Alas!\nhow many sad and unhappy beings had he left behind!\n\nA happy evening was that for at least one party in the George and\nVulture; and light and cheerful were two of the hearts that emerged from\nits hospitable door next morning. The owners thereof were Mr. Pickwick\nand Sam Weller, the former of whom was speedily deposited inside a\ncomfortable post-coach, with a little dickey behind, in which the latter\nmounted with great agility.\n\n'Sir,' called out Mr. Weller to his master.\n\n'Well, Sam,' replied Mr. Pickwick, thrusting his head out of the window.\n\n'I wish them horses had been three months and better in the Fleet, Sir.'\n\n'Why, Sam?' inquired Mr. Pickwick.\n\n'Wy, Sir,' exclaimed Mr. Weller, rubbing his hands, 'how they would go\nif they had been!'\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XLVIII. RELATES HOW Mr. PICKWICK, WITH THE ASSISTANCE OF SAMUEL\nWELLER, ESSAYED TO SOFTEN THE HEART OF Mr. BENJAMIN ALLEN, AND TO\nMOLLIFY THE WRATH OF Mr. ROBERT SAWYER\n\n\nMr. Ben Allen and Mr. Bob Sawyer sat together in the little surgery\nbehind the shop, discussing minced veal and future prospects, when the\ndiscourse, not unnaturally, turned upon the practice acquired by Bob the\naforesaid, and his present chances of deriving a competent independence\nfrom the honourable profession to which he had devoted himself.\n\n'Which, I think,' observed Mr. Bob Sawyer, pursuing the thread of the\nsubject--'which, I think, Ben, are rather dubious.'\n\n'What's rather dubious?' inquired Mr. Ben Allen, at the same time\nsharpening his intellect with a draught of beer. 'What's dubious?'\n\n'Why, the chances,' responded Mr. Bob Sawyer.\n\n'I forgot,' said Mr. Ben Allen. 'The beer has reminded me that I forgot,\nBob--yes; they ARE dubious.'\n\n'It's wonderful how the poor people patronise me,' said Mr. Bob Sawyer\nreflectively. 'They knock me up, at all hours of the night; they take\nmedicine to an extent which I should have conceived impossible; they put\non blisters and leeches with a perseverance worthy of a better cause;\nthey make additions to their families, in a manner which is quite awful.\nSix of those last-named little promissory notes, all due on the same\nday, Ben, and all intrusted to me!'\n\n'It's very gratifying, isn't it?' said Mr. Ben Allen, holding his plate\nfor some more minced veal.\n\n'Oh, very,' replied Bob; 'only not quite so much so as the confidence\nof patients with a shilling or two to spare would be. This business was\ncapitally described in the advertisement, Ben. It is a practice, a very\nextensive practice--and that's all.'\n\n'Bob,' said Mr. Ben Allen, laying down his knife and fork, and fixing\nhis eyes on the visage of his friend, 'Bob, I'll tell you what it is.'\n\n'What is it?' inquired Mr. Bob Sawyer.\n\n'You must make yourself, with as little delay as possible, master of\nArabella's one thousand pounds.'\n\n'Three per cent. consolidated bank annuities, now standing in her\nname in the book or books of the governor and company of the Bank of\nEngland,' added Bob Sawyer, in legal phraseology.\n\n'Exactly so,' said Ben. 'She has it when she comes of age, or marries.\nShe wants a year of coming of age, and if you plucked up a spirit she\nneedn't want a month of being married.'\n\n'She's a very charming and delightful creature,' quoth Mr. Robert\nSawyer, in reply; 'and has only one fault that I know of, Ben. It\nhappens, unfortunately, that that single blemish is a want of taste. She\ndon't like me.'\n\n'It's my opinion that she don't know what she does like,' said Mr. Ben\nAllen contemptuously.\n\n'Perhaps not,' remarked Mr. Bob Sawyer. 'But it's my opinion that she\ndoes know what she doesn't like, and that's of more importance.'\n\n'I wish,' said Mr. Ben Allen, setting his teeth together, and speaking\nmore like a savage warrior who fed on raw wolf's flesh which he carved\nwith his fingers, than a peaceable young gentleman who ate minced veal\nwith a knife and fork--'I wish I knew whether any rascal really has been\ntampering with her, and attempting to engage her affections. I think I\nshould assassinate him, Bob.'\n\n'I'd put a bullet in him, if I found him out,' said Mr. Sawyer, stopping\nin the course of a long draught of beer, and looking malignantly out\nof the porter pot. 'If that didn't do his business, I'd extract it\nafterwards, and kill him that way.'\n\nMr. Benjamin Allen gazed abstractedly on his friend for some minutes in\nsilence, and then said--\n\n'You have never proposed to her, point-blank, Bob?'\n\n'No. Because I saw it would be of no use,' replied Mr. Robert Sawyer.\n\n'You shall do it, before you are twenty-four hours older,' retorted Ben,\nwith desperate calmness. 'She shall have you, or I'll know the reason\nwhy. I'll exert my authority.'\n\n'Well,' said Mr. Bob Sawyer, 'we shall see.'\n\n'We shall see, my friend,' replied Mr. Ben Allen fiercely. He paused for\na few seconds, and added in a voice broken by emotion, 'You have loved\nher from a child, my friend. You loved her when we were boys at school\ntogether, and, even then, she was wayward and slighted your young\nfeelings. Do you recollect, with all the eagerness of a child's love,\none day pressing upon her acceptance, two small caraway-seed biscuits\nand one sweet apple, neatly folded into a circular parcel with the leaf\nof a copy-book?'\n\n'I do,' replied Bob Sawyer.\n\n'She slighted that, I think?' said Ben Allen.\n\n'She did,' rejoined Bob. 'She said I had kept the parcel so long in the\npockets of my corduroys, that the apple was unpleasantly warm.'\n\n'I remember,' said Mr. Allen gloomily. 'Upon which we ate it ourselves,\nin alternate bites.'\n\nBob Sawyer intimated his recollection of the circumstance last alluded\nto, by a melancholy frown; and the two friends remained for some time\nabsorbed, each in his own meditations.\n\nWhile these observations were being exchanged between Mr. Bob Sawyer and\nMr. Benjamin Allen; and while the boy in the gray livery, marvelling at\nthe unwonted prolongation of the dinner, cast an anxious look, from\ntime to time, towards the glass door, distracted by inward misgivings\nregarding the amount of minced veal which would be ultimately reserved\nfor his individual cravings; there rolled soberly on through the streets\nof Bristol, a private fly, painted of a sad green colour, drawn by a\nchubby sort of brown horse, and driven by a surly-looking man with his\nlegs dressed like the legs of a groom, and his body attired in the coat\nof a coachman. Such appearances are common to many vehicles belonging\nto, and maintained by, old ladies of economic habits; and in this\nvehicle sat an old lady who was its mistress and proprietor.\n\n'Martin!' said the old lady, calling to the surly man, out of the front\nwindow.\n\n'Well?' said the surly man, touching his hat to the old lady.\n\n'Mr. Sawyer's,' said the old lady.\n\n'I was going there,' said the surly man.\n\nThe old lady nodded the satisfaction which this proof of the surly man's\nforesight imparted to her feelings; and the surly man giving a smart\nlash to the chubby horse, they all repaired to Mr. Bob Sawyer's\ntogether.\n\n'Martin!' said the old lady, when the fly stopped at the door of Mr.\nRobert Sawyer, late Nockemorf.\n\n'Well?' said Martin.\n\n'Ask the lad to step out, and mind the horse.'\n\n'I'm going to mind the horse myself,' said Martin, laying his whip on\nthe roof of the fly.\n\n'I can't permit it, on any account,' said the old lady; 'your testimony\nwill be very important, and I must take you into the house with me. You\nmust not stir from my side during the whole interview. Do you hear?'\n\n'I hear,' replied Martin.\n\n'Well; what are you stopping for?'\n\n'Nothing,' replied Martin. So saying, the surly man leisurely descended\nfrom the wheel, on which he had been poising himself on the tops of the\ntoes of his right foot, and having summoned the boy in the gray livery,\nopened the coach door, flung down the steps, and thrusting in a hand\nenveloped in a dark wash-leather glove, pulled out the old lady with as\nmuch unconcern in his manner as if she were a bandbox.\n\n'Dear me!' exclaimed the old lady. 'I am so flurried, now I have got\nhere, Martin, that I'm all in a tremble.'\n\nMr. Martin coughed behind the dark wash-leather gloves, but expressed\nno sympathy; so the old lady, composing herself, trotted up Mr. Bob\nSawyer's steps, and Mr. Martin followed. Immediately on the old lady's\nentering the shop, Mr. Benjamin Allen and Mr. Bob Sawyer, who had been\nputting the spirits-and-water out of sight, and upsetting nauseous drugs\nto take off the smell of the tobacco smoke, issued hastily forth in a\ntransport of pleasure and affection.\n\n'My dear aunt,' exclaimed Mr. Ben Allen, 'how kind of you to look in\nupon us! Mr. Sawyer, aunt; my friend Mr. Bob Sawyer whom I have spoken\nto you about, regarding--you know, aunt.' And here Mr. Ben Allen, who\nwas not at the moment extraordinarily sober, added the word 'Arabella,'\nin what was meant to be a whisper, but which was an especially audible\nand distinct tone of speech which nobody could avoid hearing, if anybody\nwere so disposed.\n\n'My dear Benjamin,' said the old lady, struggling with a great shortness\nof breath, and trembling from head to foot, 'don't be alarmed, my dear,\nbut I think I had better speak to Mr. Sawyer, alone, for a moment. Only\nfor one moment.'\n\n'Bob,' said Mr. Allen, 'will you take my aunt into the surgery?'\n\n'Certainly,' responded Bob, in a most professional voice. 'Step this\nway, my dear ma'am. Don't be frightened, ma'am. We shall be able to set\nyou to rights in a very short time, I have no doubt, ma'am. Here, my\ndear ma'am. Now then!' With this, Mr. Bob Sawyer having handed the old\nlady to a chair, shut the door, drew another chair close to her, and\nwaited to hear detailed the symptoms of some disorder from which he saw\nin perspective a long train of profits and advantages.\n\nThe first thing the old lady did, was to shake her head a great many\ntimes, and began to cry.\n\n'Nervous,' said Bob Sawyer complacently. 'Camphor-julep and water three\ntimes a day, and composing draught at night.'\n\n'I don't know how to begin, Mr. Sawyer,' said the old lady. 'It is so\nvery painful and distressing.'\n\n'You need not begin, ma'am,' rejoined Mr. Bob Sawyer. 'I can anticipate\nall you would say. The head is in fault.'\n\n'I should be very sorry to think it was the heart,' said the old lady,\nwith a slight groan.\n\n'Not the slightest danger of that, ma'am,' replied Bob Sawyer. 'The\nstomach is the primary cause.'\n\n'Mr. Sawyer!' exclaimed the old lady, starting.\n\n'Not the least doubt of it, ma'am,' rejoined Bob, looking wondrous wise.\n'Medicine, in time, my dear ma'am, would have prevented it all.'\n\n'Mr. Sawyer,' said the old lady, more flurried than before, 'this\nconduct is either great impertinence to one in my situation, Sir, or\nit arises from your not understanding the object of my visit. If it had\nbeen in the power of medicine, or any foresight I could have used, to\nprevent what has occurred, I should certainly have done so. I had\nbetter see my nephew at once,' said the old lady, twirling her reticule\nindignantly, and rising as she spoke.\n\n'Stop a moment, ma'am,' said Bob Sawyer; 'I'm afraid I have not\nunderstood you. What IS the matter, ma'am?'\n\n'My niece, Mr. Sawyer,' said the old lady: 'your friend's sister.'\n\n'Yes, ma'am,' said Bob, all impatience; for the old lady, although much\nagitated, spoke with the most tantalising deliberation, as old ladies\noften do. 'Yes, ma'am.'\n\n'Left my home, Mr. Sawyer, three days ago, on a pretended visit to my\nsister, another aunt of hers, who keeps the large boarding-school, just\nbeyond the third mile-stone, where there is a very large laburnum-tree\nand an oak gate,' said the old lady, stopping in this place to dry her\neyes.\n\n'Oh, devil take the laburnum-tree, ma'am!' said Bob, quite forgetting\nhis professional dignity in his anxiety. 'Get on a little faster; put a\nlittle more steam on, ma'am, pray.'\n\n'This morning,' said the old lady slowly--'this morning, she--'\n\n'She came back, ma'am, I suppose,' said Bob, with great animation. 'Did\nshe come back?'\n\n'No, she did not; she wrote,' replied the old lady.\n\n'What did she say?' inquired Bob eagerly.\n\n'She said, Mr. Sawyer,' replied the old lady--'and it is this I want to\nprepare Benjamin's mind for, gently and by degrees; she said that she\nwas--I have got the letter in my pocket, Mr. Sawyer, but my glasses are\nin the carriage, and I should only waste your time if I attempted to\npoint out the passage to you, without them; she said, in short, Mr.\nSawyer, that she was married.' 'What!' said, or rather shouted, Mr. Bob\nSawyer.\n\n'Married,' repeated the old lady.\n\nMr. Bob Sawyer stopped to hear no more; but darting from the surgery\ninto the outer shop, cried in a stentorian voice, 'Ben, my boy, she's\nbolted!'\n\nMr. Ben Allen, who had been slumbering behind the counter, with his\nhead half a foot or so below his knees, no sooner heard this appalling\ncommunication, than he made a precipitate rush at Mr. Martin, and,\ntwisting his hand in the neck-cloth of that taciturn servitor, expressed\nan obliging intention of choking him where he stood. This intention,\nwith a promptitude often the effect of desperation, he at once commenced\ncarrying into execution, with much vigour and surgical skill.\n\nMr. Martin, who was a man of few words and possessed but little power\nof eloquence or persuasion, submitted to this operation with a very\ncalm and agreeable expression of countenance, for some seconds; finding,\nhowever, that it threatened speedily to lead to a result which would\nplace it beyond his power to claim any wages, board or otherwise, in all\ntime to come, he muttered an inarticulate remonstrance and felled Mr.\nBenjamin Allen to the ground. As that gentleman had his hands entangled\nin his cravat, he had no alternative but to follow him to the floor.\nThere they both lay struggling, when the shop door opened, and the party\nwas increased by the arrival of two most unexpected visitors, to wit,\nMr. Pickwick and Mr. Samuel Weller.\n\nThe impression at once produced on Mr. Weller's mind by what he saw,\nwas, that Mr. Martin was hired by the establishment of Sawyer,\nlate Nockemorf, to take strong medicine, or to go into fits and be\nexperimentalised upon, or to swallow poison now and then with the view\nof testing the efficacy of some new antidotes, or to do something or\nother to promote the great science of medicine, and gratify the ardent\nspirit of inquiry burning in the bosoms of its two young professors. So,\nwithout presuming to interfere, Sam stood perfectly still, and looked\non, as if he were mightily interested in the result of the then pending\nexperiment. Not so, Mr. Pickwick. He at once threw himself on the\nastonished combatants, with his accustomed energy, and loudly called\nupon the bystanders to interpose.\n\nThis roused Mr. Bob Sawyer, who had been hitherto quite paralysed by the\nfrenzy of his companion. With that gentleman's assistance, Mr. Pickwick\nraised Ben Allen to his feet. Mr. Martin finding himself alone on the\nfloor, got up, and looked about him.\n\n'Mr. Allen,' said Mr. Pickwick, 'what is the matter, Sir?'\n\n'Never mind, Sir!' replied Mr. Allen, with haughty defiance.\n\n'What is it?' inquired Mr. Pickwick, looking at Bob Sawyer. 'Is he\nunwell?'\n\nBefore Bob could reply, Mr. Ben Allen seized Mr. Pickwick by the hand,\nand murmured, in sorrowful accents, 'My sister, my dear Sir; my sister.'\n\n'Oh, is that all!' said Mr. Pickwick. 'We shall easily arrange that\nmatter, I hope. Your sister is safe and well, and I am here, my dear\nSir, to--'\n\n'Sorry to do anythin' as may cause an interruption to such wery\npleasant proceedin's, as the king said wen he dissolved the parliament,'\ninterposed Mr. Weller, who had been peeping through the glass door;\n'but there's another experiment here, sir. Here's a wenerable old lady\na--lyin' on the carpet waitin' for dissection, or galwinism, or some\nother rewivin' and scientific inwention.'\n\n'I forgot,' exclaimed Mr. Ben Allen. 'It is my aunt.'\n\n'Dear me!' said Mr. Pickwick. 'Poor lady! Gently Sam, gently.'\n\n'Strange sitivation for one o' the family,' observed Sam Weller,\nhoisting the aunt into a chair. 'Now depitty sawbones, bring out the\nwollatilly!'\n\nThe latter observation was addressed to the boy in gray, who, having\nhanded over the fly to the care of the street-keeper, had come back to\nsee what all the noise was about. Between the boy in gray, and Mr. Bob\nSawyer, and Mr. Benjamin Allen (who having frightened his aunt into a\nfainting fit, was affectionately solicitous for her recovery) the\nold lady was at length restored to consciousness; then Mr. Ben Allen,\nturning with a puzzled countenance to Mr. Pickwick, asked him what he\nwas about to say, when he had been so alarmingly interrupted.\n\n'We are all friends here, I presume?' said Mr. Pickwick, clearing\nhis voice, and looking towards the man of few words with the surly\ncountenance, who drove the fly with the chubby horse.\n\nThis reminded Mr. Bob Sawyer that the boy in gray was looking on, with\neyes wide open, and greedy ears. The incipient chemist having been\nlifted up by his coat collar, and dropped outside the door, Bob Sawyer\nassured Mr. Pickwick that he might speak without reserve.\n\n'Your sister, my dear Sir,' said Mr. Pickwick, turning to Benjamin\nAllen, 'is in London; well and happy.'\n\n'Her happiness is no object to me, sir,' said Benjamin Allen, with a\nflourish of the hand.\n\n'Her husband IS an object to ME, Sir,' said Bob Sawyer. 'He shall be\nan object to me, sir, at twelve paces, and a pretty object I'll make\nof him, sir--a mean-spirited scoundrel!' This, as it stood, was a very\npretty denunciation, and magnanimous withal; but Mr. Bob Sawyer rather\nweakened its effect, by winding up with some general observations\nconcerning the punching of heads and knocking out of eyes, which were\ncommonplace by comparison.\n\n'Stay, sir,' said Mr. Pickwick; 'before you apply those epithets to\nthe gentleman in question, consider, dispassionately, the extent of his\nfault, and above all remember that he is a friend of mine.'\n\n'What!' said Mr. Bob Sawyer. 'His name!' cried Ben Allen. 'His name!'\n\n'Mr. Nathaniel Winkle,' said Mr. Pickwick.\n\nMr. Benjamin Allen deliberately crushed his spectacles beneath the heel\nof his boot, and having picked up the pieces, and put them into three\nseparate pockets, folded his arms, bit his lips, and looked in a\nthreatening manner at the bland features of Mr. Pickwick.\n\n'Then it's you, is it, Sir, who have encouraged and brought about this\nmatch?' inquired Mr. Benjamin Allen at length.\n\n'And it's this gentleman's servant, I suppose,' interrupted the old\nlady, 'who has been skulking about my house, and endeavouring to entrap\nmy servants to conspire against their mistress.--Martin!'\n\n'Well?' said the surly man, coming forward.\n\n'Is that the young man you saw in the lane, whom you told me about, this\nmorning?'\n\nMr. Martin, who, as it has already appeared, was a man of few words,\nlooked at Sam Weller, nodded his head, and growled forth, 'That's\nthe man.' Mr. Weller, who was never proud, gave a smile of friendly\nrecognition as his eyes encountered those of the surly groom, and\nadmitted in courteous terms, that he had 'knowed him afore.'\n\n'And this is the faithful creature,' exclaimed Mr. Ben Allen, 'whom I\nhad nearly suffocated!--Mr. Pickwick, how dare you allow your fellow\nto be employed in the abduction of my sister? I demand that you explain\nthis matter, sir.'\n\n'Explain it, sir!' cried Bob Sawyer fiercely.\n\n'It's a conspiracy,' said Ben Allen.\n\n'A regular plant,' added Mr. Bob Sawyer.\n\n'A disgraceful imposition,' observed the old lady.\n\n'Nothing but a do,' remarked Martin. 'Pray hear me,' urged Mr. Pickwick,\nas Mr. Ben Allen fell into a chair that patients were bled in, and gave\nway to his pocket-handkerchief. 'I have rendered no assistance in this\nmatter, beyond being present at one interview between the young people\nwhich I could not prevent, and from which I conceived my presence would\nremove any slight colouring of impropriety that it might otherwise have\nhad; this is the whole share I have had in the transaction, and I had\nno suspicion that an immediate marriage was even contemplated. Though,\nmind,' added Mr. Pickwick, hastily checking himself--'mind, I do not say\nI should have prevented it, if I had known that it was intended.'\n\n'You hear that, all of you; you hear that?' said Mr. Benjamin Allen.\n\n'I hope they do,' mildly observed Mr. Pickwick, looking round, 'and,'\nadded that gentleman, his colour mounting as he spoke, 'I hope they hear\nthis, Sir, also. That from what has been stated to me, sir, I assert\nthat you were by no means justified in attempting to force your sister's\ninclinations as you did, and that you should rather have endeavoured by\nyour kindness and forbearance to have supplied the place of other nearer\nrelations whom she had never known, from a child. As regards my young\nfriend, I must beg to add, that in every point of worldly advantage he\nis, at least, on an equal footing with yourself, if not on a much better\none, and that unless I hear this question discussed with becoming temper\nand moderation, I decline hearing any more said upon the subject.'\n\n'I wish to make a wery few remarks in addition to wot has been put\nfor'ard by the honourable gen'l'm'n as has jist give over,' said Mr.\nWeller, stepping forth, 'wich is this here: a indiwidual in company has\ncalled me a feller.'\n\n'That has nothing whatever to do with the matter, Sam,' interposed Mr.\nPickwick. 'Pray hold your tongue.'\n\n'I ain't a-goin' to say nothin' on that 'ere pint, sir,' replied Sam,\n'but merely this here. P'raps that gen'l'm'n may think as there wos a\npriory 'tachment; but there worn't nothin' o' the sort, for the young\nlady said in the wery beginnin' o' the keepin' company, that she\ncouldn't abide him. Nobody's cut him out, and it 'ud ha' been jist the\nwery same for him if the young lady had never seen Mr. Vinkle.\nThat's what I wished to say, sir, and I hope I've now made that 'ere\ngen'l'm'n's mind easy.\n\nA short pause followed these consolatory remarks of Mr. Weller. Then\nMr. Ben Allen rising from his chair, protested that he would never see\nArabella's face again; while Mr. Bob Sawyer, despite Sam's flattering\nassurance, vowed dreadful vengeance on the happy bridegroom.\n\nBut, just when matters were at their height, and threatening to remain\nso, Mr. Pickwick found a powerful assistant in the old lady, who,\nevidently much struck by the mode in which he had advocated her niece's\ncause, ventured to approach Mr. Benjamin Allen with a few comforting\nreflections, of which the chief were, that after all, perhaps, it was\nwell it was no worse; the least said the soonest mended, and upon her\nword she did not know that it was so very bad after all; what was over\ncouldn't be begun, and what couldn't be cured must be endured;\nwith various other assurances of the like novel and strengthening\ndescription. To all of these, Mr. Benjamin Allen replied that he meant\nno disrespect to his aunt, or anybody there, but if it were all the same\nto them, and they would allow him to have his own way, he would rather\nhave the pleasure of hating his sister till death, and after it.\n\nAt length, when this determination had been announced half a hundred\ntimes, the old lady suddenly bridling up and looking very majestic,\nwished to know what she had done that no respect was to be paid to her\nyears or station, and that she should be obliged to beg and pray, in\nthat way, of her own nephew, whom she remembered about five-and-twenty\nyears before he was born, and whom she had known, personally, when he\nhadn't a tooth in his head; to say nothing of her presence on the first\noccasion of his having his hair cut, and assistance at numerous other\ntimes and ceremonies during his babyhood, of sufficient importance to\nfound a claim upon his affection, obedience, and sympathies, for ever.\n\nWhile the good lady was bestowing this objurgation on Mr. Ben Allen, Bob\nSawyer and Mr. Pickwick had retired in close conversation to the inner\nroom, where Mr. Sawyer was observed to apply himself several times to\nthe mouth of a black bottle, under the influence of which, his features\ngradually assumed a cheerful and even jovial expression. And at last he\nemerged from the room, bottle in hand, and, remarking that he was very\nsorry to say he had been making a fool of himself, begged to propose the\nhealth and happiness of Mr. and Mrs. Winkle, whose felicity, so far from\nenvying, he would be the first to congratulate them upon. Hearing this,\nMr. Ben Allen suddenly arose from his chair, and, seizing the black\nbottle, drank the toast so heartily, that, the liquor being strong, he\nbecame nearly as black in the face as the bottle. Finally, the black\nbottle went round till it was empty, and there was so much shaking of\nhands and interchanging of compliments, that even the metal-visaged Mr.\nMartin condescended to smile.\n\n'And now,' said Bob Sawyer, rubbing his hands, 'we'll have a jolly\nnight.'\n\n'I am sorry,' said Mr. Pickwick, 'that I must return to my inn. I have\nnot been accustomed to fatigue lately, and my journey has tired me\nexceedingly.'\n\n'You'll take some tea, Mr. Pickwick?' said the old lady, with\nirresistible sweetness.\n\n'Thank you, I would rather not,' replied that gentleman. The truth is,\nthat the old lady's evidently increasing admiration was Mr. Pickwick's\nprincipal inducement for going away. He thought of Mrs. Bardell; and\nevery glance of the old lady's eyes threw him into a cold perspiration.\n\nAs Mr. Pickwick could by no means be prevailed upon to stay, it was\narranged at once, on his own proposition, that Mr. Benjamin Allen should\naccompany him on his journey to the elder Mr. Winkle's, and that the\ncoach should be at the door, at nine o'clock next morning. He then took\nhis leave, and, followed by Samuel Weller, repaired to the Bush. It is\nworthy of remark, that Mr. Martin's face was horribly convulsed as he\nshook hands with Sam at parting, and that he gave vent to a smile and an\noath simultaneously; from which tokens it has been inferred by those\nwho were best acquainted with that gentleman's peculiarities, that he\nexpressed himself much pleased with Mr. Weller's society, and requested\nthe honour of his further acquaintance.\n\n'Shall I order a private room, Sir?' inquired Sam, when they reached the\nBush.\n\n'Why, no, Sam,' replied Mr. Pickwick; 'as I dined in the coffee-room,\nand shall go to bed soon, it is hardly worth while. See who there is in\nthe travellers' room, Sam.'\n\nMr. Weller departed on his errand, and presently returned to say that\nthere was only a gentleman with one eye; and that he and the landlord\nwere drinking a bowl of bishop together.\n\n'I will join them,' said Mr. Pickwick.\n\n'He's a queer customer, the vun-eyed vun, sir,' observed Mr. Weller, as\nhe led the way. 'He's a-gammonin' that 'ere landlord, he is, sir, till\nhe don't rightly know wether he's a-standing on the soles of his boots\nor the crown of his hat.'\n\nThe individual to whom this observation referred, was sitting at the\nupper end of the room when Mr. Pickwick entered, and was smoking a\nlarge Dutch pipe, with his eye intently fixed on the round face of the\nlandlord; a jolly-looking old personage, to whom he had recently been\nrelating some tale of wonder, as was testified by sundry disjointed\nexclamations of, 'Well, I wouldn't have believed it! The strangest thing\nI ever heard! Couldn't have supposed it possible!' and other expressions\nof astonishment which burst spontaneously from his lips, as he returned\nthe fixed gaze of the one-eyed man.\n\n'Servant, sir,' said the one-eyed man to Mr. Pickwick. 'Fine night,\nsir.'\n\n'Very much so indeed,' replied Mr. Pickwick, as the waiter placed a\nsmall decanter of brandy, and some hot water before him.\n\nWhile Mr. Pickwick was mixing his brandy-and-water, the one-eyed man\nlooked round at him earnestly, from time to time, and at length said--\n\n'I think I've seen you before.'\n\n'I don't recollect you,' rejoined Mr. Pickwick.\n\n'I dare say not,' said the one-eyed man. 'You didn't know me, but I knew\ntwo friends of yours that were stopping at the Peacock at Eatanswill, at\nthe time of the election.'\n\n'Oh, indeed!' exclaimed Mr. Pickwick.\n\n'Yes,' rejoined the one-eyed man. 'I mentioned a little circumstance\nto them about a friend of mine of the name of Tom Smart. Perhaps you've\nheard them speak of it.'\n\n'Often,' rejoined Mr. Pickwick, smiling. 'He was your uncle, I think?'\n\n'No, no; only a friend of my uncle's,' replied the one-eyed man.\n\n'He was a wonderful man, that uncle of yours, though,' remarked the\nlandlord shaking his head.\n\n'Well, I think he was; I think I may say he was,' answered the one-eyed\nman. 'I could tell you a story about that same uncle, gentlemen, that\nwould rather surprise you.'\n\n'Could you?' said Mr. Pickwick. 'Let us hear it, by all means.'\n\nThe one-eyed bagman ladled out a glass of negus from the bowl, and drank\nit; smoked a long whiff out of the Dutch pipe; and then, calling to Sam\nWeller who was lingering near the door, that he needn't go away unless\nhe wanted to, because the story was no secret, fixed his eye upon the\nlandlord's, and proceeded, in the words of the next chapter.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XLIX. CONTAINING THE STORY OF THE BAGMAN'S UNCLE\n\n\n'My uncle, gentlemen,' said the bagman, 'was one of the merriest,\npleasantest, cleverest fellows, that ever lived. I wish you had known\nhim, gentlemen. On second thoughts, gentlemen, I don't wish you had\nknown him, for if you had, you would have been all, by this time, in the\nordinary course of nature, if not dead, at all events so near it, as to\nhave taken to stopping at home and giving up company, which would\nhave deprived me of the inestimable pleasure of addressing you at this\nmoment. Gentlemen, I wish your fathers and mothers had known my uncle.\nThey would have been amazingly fond of him, especially your respectable\nmothers; I know they would. If any two of his numerous virtues\npredominated over the many that adorned his character, I should say they\nwere his mixed punch and his after-supper song. Excuse my dwelling on\nthese melancholy recollections of departed worth; you won't see a man\nlike my uncle every day in the week.\n\n'I have always considered it a great point in my uncle's character,\ngentlemen, that he was the intimate friend and companion of Tom Smart,\nof the great house of Bilson and Slum, Cateaton Street, City. My uncle\ncollected for Tiggin and Welps, but for a long time he went pretty near\nthe same journey as Tom; and the very first night they met, my uncle\ntook a fancy for Tom, and Tom took a fancy for my uncle. They made a bet\nof a new hat before they had known each other half an hour, who should\nbrew the best quart of punch and drink it the quickest. My uncle was\njudged to have won the making, but Tom Smart beat him in the drinking by\nabout half a salt-spoonful. They took another quart apiece to drink each\nother's health in, and were staunch friends ever afterwards. There's a\ndestiny in these things, gentlemen; we can't help it.\n\n'In personal appearance, my uncle was a trifle shorter than the middle\nsize; he was a thought stouter too, than the ordinary run of people, and\nperhaps his face might be a shade redder. He had the jolliest face you\never saw, gentleman: something like Punch, with a handsome nose and\nchin; his eyes were always twinkling and sparkling with good-humour;\nand a smile--not one of your unmeaning wooden grins, but a real, merry,\nhearty, good-tempered smile--was perpetually on his countenance. He\nwas pitched out of his gig once, and knocked, head first, against a\nmilestone. There he lay, stunned, and so cut about the face with some\ngravel which had been heaped up alongside it, that, to use my uncle's\nown strong expression, if his mother could have revisited the earth,\nshe wouldn't have known him. Indeed, when I come to think of the matter,\ngentlemen, I feel pretty sure she wouldn't, for she died when my uncle\nwas two years and seven months old, and I think it's very likely that,\neven without the gravel, his top-boots would have puzzled the good lady\nnot a little; to say nothing of his jolly red face. However, there he\nlay, and I have heard my uncle say, many a time, that the man said who\npicked him up that he was smiling as merrily as if he had tumbled\nout for a treat, and that after they had bled him, the first faint\nglimmerings of returning animation, were his jumping up in bed, bursting\nout into a loud laugh, kissing the young woman who held the basin,\nand demanding a mutton chop and a pickled walnut. He was very fond of\npickled walnuts, gentlemen. He said he always found that, taken without\nvinegar, they relished the beer.\n\n'My uncle's great journey was in the fall of the leaf, at which time\nhe collected debts, and took orders, in the north; going from London to\nEdinburgh, from Edinburgh to Glasgow, from Glasgow back to Edinburgh,\nand thence to London by the smack. You are to understand that his second\nvisit to Edinburgh was for his own pleasure. He used to go back for a\nweek, just to look up his old friends; and what with breakfasting with\nthis one, lunching with that, dining with the third, and supping with\nanother, a pretty tight week he used to make of it. I don't know whether\nany of you, gentlemen, ever partook of a real substantial hospitable\nScotch breakfast, and then went out to a slight lunch of a bushel of\noysters, a dozen or so of bottled ale, and a noggin or two of whiskey to\nclose up with. If you ever did, you will agree with me that it requires\na pretty strong head to go out to dinner and supper afterwards.\n\n'But bless your hearts and eyebrows, all this sort of thing was nothing\nto my uncle! He was so well seasoned, that it was mere child's play. I\nhave heard him say that he could see the Dundee people out, any day, and\nwalk home afterwards without staggering; and yet the Dundee people have\nas strong heads and as strong punch, gentlemen, as you are likely to\nmeet with, between the poles. I have heard of a Glasgow man and a Dundee\nman drinking against each other for fifteen hours at a sitting. They\nwere both suffocated, as nearly as could be ascertained, at the same\nmoment, but with this trifling exception, gentlemen, they were not a bit\nthe worse for it.\n\n'One night, within four-and-twenty hours of the time when he had settled\nto take shipping for London, my uncle supped at the house of a very old\nfriend of his, a Bailie Mac something and four syllables after it, who\nlived in the old town of Edinburgh. There were the bailie's wife, and\nthe bailie's three daughters, and the bailie's grown-up son, and three\nor four stout, bushy eye-browed, canny, old Scotch fellows, that the\nbailie had got together to do honour to my uncle, and help to make\nmerry. It was a glorious supper. There was kippered salmon, and Finnan\nhaddocks, and a lamb's head, and a haggis--a celebrated Scotch dish,\ngentlemen, which my uncle used to say always looked to him, when it\ncame to table, very much like a Cupid's stomach--and a great many\nother things besides, that I forget the names of, but very good things,\nnotwithstanding. The lassies were pretty and agreeable; the bailie's\nwife was one of the best creatures that ever lived; and my uncle was in\nthoroughly good cue. The consequence of which was, that the young ladies\ntittered and giggled, and the old lady laughed out loud, and the bailie\nand the other old fellows roared till they were red in the face,\nthe whole mortal time. I don't quite recollect how many tumblers of\nwhiskey-toddy each man drank after supper; but this I know, that about\none o'clock in the morning, the bailie's grown-up son became insensible\nwhile attempting the first verse of \"Willie brewed a peck o' maut\";\nand he having been, for half an hour before, the only other man visible\nabove the mahogany, it occurred to my uncle that it was almost time to\nthink about going, especially as drinking had set in at seven o'clock,\nin order that he might get home at a decent hour. But, thinking it might\nnot be quite polite to go just then, my uncle voted himself into the\nchair, mixed another glass, rose to propose his own health, addressed\nhimself in a neat and complimentary speech, and drank the toast with\ngreat enthusiasm. Still nobody woke; so my uncle took a little drop\nmore--neat this time, to prevent the toddy from disagreeing with\nhim--and, laying violent hands on his hat, sallied forth into the\nstreet.\n\n'It was a wild, gusty night when my uncle closed the bailie's door, and\nsettling his hat firmly on his head to prevent the wind from taking\nit, thrust his hands into his pockets, and looking upward, took a short\nsurvey of the state of the weather. The clouds were drifting over the\nmoon at their giddiest speed; at one time wholly obscuring her; at\nanother, suffering her to burst forth in full splendour and shed her\nlight on all the objects around; anon, driving over her again, with\nincreased velocity, and shrouding everything in darkness. \"Really, this\nwon't do,\" said my uncle, addressing himself to the weather, as if he\nfelt himself personally offended. \"This is not at all the kind of\nthing for my voyage. It will not do at any price,\" said my uncle, very\nimpressively. Having repeated this, several times, he recovered his\nbalance with some difficulty--for he was rather giddy with looking up\ninto the sky so long--and walked merrily on.\n\n'The bailie's house was in the Canongate, and my uncle was going to the\nother end of Leith Walk, rather better than a mile's journey. On either\nside of him, there shot up against the dark sky, tall, gaunt, straggling\nhouses, with time-stained fronts, and windows that seemed to have shared\nthe lot of eyes in mortals, and to have grown dim and sunken with\nage. Six, seven, eight storey high, were the houses; storey piled upon\nstorey, as children build with cards--throwing their dark shadows over\nthe roughly paved road, and making the dark night darker. A few oil\nlamps were scattered at long distances, but they only served to mark\nthe dirty entrance to some narrow close, or to show where a common stair\ncommunicated, by steep and intricate windings, with the various flats\nabove. Glancing at all these things with the air of a man who had seen\nthem too often before, to think them worthy of much notice now, my\nuncle walked up the middle of the street, with a thumb in each waistcoat\npocket, indulging from time to time in various snatches of song, chanted\nforth with such good-will and spirit, that the quiet honest folk started\nfrom their first sleep and lay trembling in bed till the sound died\naway in the distance; when, satisfying themselves that it was only some\ndrunken ne'er-do-weel finding his way home, they covered themselves up\nwarm and fell asleep again.\n\n'I am particular in describing how my uncle walked up the middle of the\nstreet, with his thumbs in his waistcoat pockets, gentlemen, because, as\nhe often used to say (and with great reason too) there is nothing at\nall extraordinary in this story, unless you distinctly understand at\nthe beginning, that he was not by any means of a marvellous or romantic\nturn.\n\n'Gentlemen, my uncle walked on with his thumbs in his waistcoat pockets,\ntaking the middle of the street to himself, and singing, now a verse of\na love song, and then a verse of a drinking one, and when he was tired\nof both, whistling melodiously, until he reached the North Bridge,\nwhich, at this point, connects the old and new towns of Edinburgh. Here\nhe stopped for a minute, to look at the strange, irregular clusters of\nlights piled one above the other, and twinkling afar off so high, that\nthey looked like stars, gleaming from the castle walls on the one side\nand the Calton Hill on the other, as if they illuminated veritable\ncastles in the air; while the old picturesque town slept heavily on, in\ngloom and darkness below: its palace and chapel of Holyrood, guarded day\nand night, as a friend of my uncle's used to say, by old Arthur's Seat,\ntowering, surly and dark, like some gruff genius, over the ancient city\nhe has watched so long. I say, gentlemen, my uncle stopped here, for a\nminute, to look about him; and then, paying a compliment to the weather,\nwhich had a little cleared up, though the moon was sinking, walked on\nagain, as royally as before; keeping the middle of the road with great\ndignity, and looking as if he would very much like to meet with somebody\nwho would dispute possession of it with him. There was nobody at all\ndisposed to contest the point, as it happened; and so, on he went, with\nhis thumbs in his waistcoat pockets, like a lamb.\n\n'When my uncle reached the end of Leith Walk, he had to cross a pretty\nlarge piece of waste ground which separated him from a short street\nwhich he had to turn down to go direct to his lodging. Now, in this\npiece of waste ground, there was, at that time, an enclosure belonging\nto some wheelwright who contracted with the Post Office for the purchase\nof old, worn-out mail coaches; and my uncle, being very fond of coaches,\nold, young, or middle-aged, all at once took it into his head to step\nout of his road for no other purpose than to peep between the palings at\nthese mails--about a dozen of which he remembered to have seen, crowded\ntogether in a very forlorn and dismantled state, inside. My uncle was a\nvery enthusiastic, emphatic sort of person, gentlemen; so, finding that\nhe could not obtain a good peep between the palings he got over\nthem, and sitting himself quietly down on an old axle-tree, began to\ncontemplate the mail coaches with a deal of gravity.\n\n'There might be a dozen of them, or there might be more--my uncle was\nnever quite certain on this point, and being a man of very scrupulous\nveracity about numbers, didn't like to say--but there they stood, all\nhuddled together in the most desolate condition imaginable. The doors\nhad been torn from their hinges and removed; the linings had been\nstripped off, only a shred hanging here and there by a rusty nail; the\nlamps were gone, the poles had long since vanished, the ironwork was\nrusty, the paint was worn away; the wind whistled through the chinks in\nthe bare woodwork; and the rain, which had collected on the roofs, fell,\ndrop by drop, into the insides with a hollow and melancholy sound. They\nwere the decaying skeletons of departed mails, and in that lonely place,\nat that time of night, they looked chill and dismal.\n\n'My uncle rested his head upon his hands, and thought of the busy,\nbustling people who had rattled about, years before, in the old coaches,\nand were now as silent and changed; he thought of the numbers of people\nto whom one of these crazy, mouldering vehicles had borne, night after\nnight, for many years, and through all weathers, the anxiously expected\nintelligence, the eagerly looked-for remittance, the promised assurance\nof health and safety, the sudden announcement of sickness and death. The\nmerchant, the lover, the wife, the widow, the mother, the school-boy,\nthe very child who tottered to the door at the postman's knock--how had\nthey all looked forward to the arrival of the old coach. And where were\nthey all now? 'Gentlemen, my uncle used to SAY that he thought all\nthis at the time, but I rather suspect he learned it out of some book\nafterwards, for he distinctly stated that he fell into a kind of doze,\nas he sat on the old axle-tree looking at the decayed mail coaches, and\nthat he was suddenly awakened by some deep church bell striking two.\nNow, my uncle was never a fast thinker, and if he had thought all these\nthings, I am quite certain it would have taken him till full half-past\ntwo o'clock at the very least. I am, therefore, decidedly of opinion,\ngentlemen, that my uncle fell into a kind of doze, without having\nthought about anything at all.\n\n'Be this as it may, a church bell struck two. My uncle woke, rubbed his\neyes, and jumped up in astonishment.\n\n'In one instant, after the clock struck two, the whole of this deserted\nand quiet spot had become a scene of most extraordinary life and\nanimation. The mail coach doors were on their hinges, the lining was\nreplaced, the ironwork was as good as new, the paint was restored, the\nlamps were alight; cushions and greatcoats were on every coach-box,\nporters were thrusting parcels into every boot, guards were stowing away\nletter-bags, hostlers were dashing pails of water against the renovated\nwheels; numbers of men were pushing about, fixing poles into every\ncoach; passengers arrived, portmanteaus were handed up, horses were put\nto; in short, it was perfectly clear that every mail there, was to be\noff directly. Gentlemen, my uncle opened his eyes so wide at all this,\nthat, to the very last moment of his life, he used to wonder how it fell\nout that he had ever been able to shut 'em again.\n\n'\"Now then!\" said a voice, as my uncle felt a hand on his shoulder,\n\"you're booked for one inside. You'd better get in.\"\n\n'\"I booked!\" said my uncle, turning round.\n\n'\"Yes, certainly.\"\n\n'My uncle, gentlemen, could say nothing, he was so very much astonished.\nThe queerest thing of all was that although there was such a crowd of\npersons, and although fresh faces were pouring in, every moment, there\nwas no telling where they came from. They seemed to start up, in some\nstrange manner, from the ground, or the air, and disappear in the same\nway. When a porter had put his luggage in the coach, and received his\nfare, he turned round and was gone; and before my uncle had well begun\nto wonder what had become of him, half a dozen fresh ones started up,\nand staggered along under the weight of parcels, which seemed big enough\nto crush them. The passengers were all dressed so oddly too! Large,\nbroad-skirted laced coats, with great cuffs and no collars; and wigs,\ngentlemen--great formal wigs with a tie behind. My uncle could make\nnothing of it.\n\n'\"Now, are you going to get in?\" said the person who had addressed my\nuncle before. He was dressed as a mail guard, with a wig on his head and\nmost enormous cuffs to his coat, and had a lantern in one hand, and a\nhuge blunderbuss in the other, which he was going to stow away in his\nlittle arm-chest. \"ARE you going to get in, Jack Martin?\" said the\nguard, holding the lantern to my uncle's face.\n\n'\"Hollo!\" said my uncle, falling back a step or two. \"That's familiar!\"\n\n'\"It's so on the way-bill,\" said the guard.\n\n'\"Isn't there a 'Mister' before it?\" said my uncle. For he felt,\ngentlemen, that for a guard he didn't know, to call him Jack Martin,\nwas a liberty which the Post Office wouldn't have sanctioned if they had\nknown it.\n\n'\"No, there is not,\" rejoined the guard coolly.\n\n'\"Is the fare paid?\" inquired my uncle.\n\n'\"Of course it is,\" rejoined the guard.\n\n'\"It is, is it?\" said my uncle. \"Then here goes! Which coach?\"\n\n'\"This,\" said the guard, pointing to an old-fashioned Edinburgh and\nLondon mail, which had the steps down and the door open. \"Stop! Here are\nthe other passengers. Let them get in first.\"\n\n'As the guard spoke, there all at once appeared, right in front of my\nuncle, a young gentleman in a powdered wig, and a sky-blue coat trimmed\nwith silver, made very full and broad in the skirts, which were lined\nwith buckram. Tiggin and Welps were in the printed calico and waistcoat\npiece line, gentlemen, so my uncle knew all the materials at once.\nHe wore knee breeches, and a kind of leggings rolled up over his silk\nstockings, and shoes with buckles; he had ruffles at his wrists, a\nthree-cornered hat on his head, and a long taper sword by his side. The\nflaps of his waist-coat came half-way down his thighs, and the ends of\nhis cravat reached to his waist. He stalked gravely to the coach door,\npulled off his hat, and held it above his head at arm's length, cocking\nhis little finger in the air at the same time, as some affected people\ndo, when they take a cup of tea. Then he drew his feet together, and\nmade a low, grave bow, and then put out his left hand. My uncle was just\ngoing to step forward, and shake it heartily, when he perceived that\nthese attentions were directed, not towards him, but to a young lady who\njust then appeared at the foot of the steps, attired in an old-fashioned\ngreen velvet dress with a long waist and stomacher. She had no bonnet\non her head, gentlemen, which was muffled in a black silk hood, but she\nlooked round for an instant as she prepared to get into the coach, and\nsuch a beautiful face as she disclosed, my uncle had never seen--not\neven in a picture. She got into the coach, holding up her dress with one\nhand; and as my uncle always said with a round oath, when he told the\nstory, he wouldn't have believed it possible that legs and feet could\nhave been brought to such a state of perfection unless he had seen them\nwith his own eyes.\n\n'But, in this one glimpse of the beautiful face, my uncle saw that\nthe young lady cast an imploring look upon him, and that she appeared\nterrified and distressed. He noticed, too, that the young fellow in the\npowdered wig, notwithstanding his show of gallantry, which was all very\nfine and grand, clasped her tight by the wrist when she got in, and\nfollowed himself immediately afterwards. An uncommonly ill-looking\nfellow, in a close brown wig, and a plum-coloured suit, wearing a very\nlarge sword, and boots up to his hips, belonged to the party; and when\nhe sat himself down next to the young lady, who shrank into a corner\nat his approach, my uncle was confirmed in his original impression that\nsomething dark and mysterious was going forward, or, as he always said\nhimself, that \"there was a screw loose somewhere.\" It's quite surprising\nhow quickly he made up his mind to help the lady at any peril, if she\nneeded any help.\n\n'\"Death and lightning!\" exclaimed the young gentleman, laying his hand\nupon his sword as my uncle entered the coach.\n\n'\"Blood and thunder!\" roared the other gentleman. With this, he whipped\nhis sword out, and made a lunge at my uncle without further ceremony. My\nuncle had no weapon about him, but with great dexterity he snatched the\nill-looking gentleman's three-cornered hat from his head, and, receiving\nthe point of his sword right through the crown, squeezed the sides\ntogether, and held it tight.\n\n'\"Pink him behind!\" cried the ill-looking gentleman to his companion, as\nhe struggled to regain his sword.\n\n'\"He had better not,\" cried my uncle, displaying the heel of one of his\nshoes, in a threatening manner. \"I'll kick his brains out, if he has\nany--, or fracture his skull if he hasn't.\" Exerting all his strength,\nat this moment, my uncle wrenched the ill-looking man's sword from\nhis grasp, and flung it clean out of the coach window, upon which the\nyounger gentleman vociferated, \"Death and lightning!\" again, and laid\nhis hand upon the hilt of his sword, in a very fierce manner, but didn't\ndraw it. Perhaps, gentlemen, as my uncle used to say with a smile,\nperhaps he was afraid of alarming the lady.\n\n'\"Now, gentlemen,\" said my uncle, taking his seat deliberately, \"I don't\nwant to have any death, with or without lightning, in a lady's presence,\nand we have had quite blood and thundering enough for one journey; so,\nif you please, we'll sit in our places like quiet insides. Here, guard,\npick up that gentleman's carving-knife.\"\n\n'As quickly as my uncle said the words, the guard appeared at the coach\nwindow, with the gentleman's sword in his hand. He held up his lantern,\nand looked earnestly in my uncle's face, as he handed it in, when, by\nits light, my uncle saw, to his great surprise, that an immense crowd\nof mail-coach guards swarmed round the window, every one of whom had his\neyes earnestly fixed upon him too. He had never seen such a sea of white\nfaces, red bodies, and earnest eyes, in all his born days.\n\n'\"This is the strangest sort of thing I ever had anything to do with,\"\nthought my uncle; \"allow me to return you your hat, sir.\"\n\n'The ill-looking gentleman received his three-cornered hat in silence,\nlooked at the hole in the middle with an inquiring air, and finally\nstuck it on the top of his wig with a solemnity the effect of which was\na trifle impaired by his sneezing violently at the moment, and jerking\nit off again.\n\n'\"All right!\" cried the guard with the lantern, mounting into his little\nseat behind. Away they went. My uncle peeped out of the coach window\nas they emerged from the yard, and observed that the other mails, with\ncoachmen, guards, horses, and passengers, complete, were driving round\nand round in circles, at a slow trot of about five miles an hour. My\nuncle burned with indignation, gentlemen. As a commercial man, he felt\nthat the mail-bags were not to be trifled with, and he resolved to\nmemorialise the Post Office on the subject, the very instant he reached\nLondon.\n\n'At present, however, his thoughts were occupied with the young lady who\nsat in the farthest corner of the coach, with her face muffled closely\nin her hood; the gentleman with the sky-blue coat sitting opposite to\nher; the other man in the plum-coloured suit, by her side; and both\nwatching her intently. If she so much as rustled the folds of her hood,\nhe could hear the ill-looking man clap his hand upon his sword, and\ncould tell by the other's breathing (it was so dark he couldn't see his\nface) that he was looking as big as if he were going to devour her at a\nmouthful. This roused my uncle more and more, and he resolved, come what\nmight, to see the end of it. He had a great admiration for bright eyes,\nand sweet faces, and pretty legs and feet; in short, he was fond of the\nwhole sex. It runs in our family, gentleman--so am I.\n\n'Many were the devices which my uncle practised, to attract the lady's\nattention, or at all events, to engage the mysterious gentlemen in\nconversation. They were all in vain; the gentlemen wouldn't talk, and\nthe lady didn't dare. He thrust his head out of the coach window at\nintervals, and bawled out to know why they didn't go faster. But he\ncalled till he was hoarse; nobody paid the least attention to him. He\nleaned back in the coach, and thought of the beautiful face, and the\nfeet and legs. This answered better; it whiled away the time, and kept\nhim from wondering where he was going, and how it was that he found\nhimself in such an odd situation. Not that this would have worried him\nmuch, anyway--he was a mighty free and easy, roving, devil-may-care sort\nof person, was my uncle, gentlemen.\n\n'All of a sudden the coach stopped. \"Hollo!\" said my uncle, \"what's in\nthe wind now?\"\n\n'\"Alight here,\" said the guard, letting down the steps.\n\n'\"Here!\" cried my uncle.\n\n'\"Here,\" rejoined the guard.\n\n'\"I'll do nothing of the sort,\" said my uncle.\n\n'\"Very well, then stop where you are,\" said the guard.\n\n'\"I will,\" said my uncle.\n\n'\"Do,\" said the guard.\n\n'The passengers had regarded this colloquy with great attention, and,\nfinding that my uncle was determined not to alight, the younger man\nsqueezed past him, to hand the lady out. At this moment, the ill-looking\nman was inspecting the hole in the crown of his three-cornered hat.\nAs the young lady brushed past, she dropped one of her gloves into my\nuncle's hand, and softly whispered, with her lips so close to his\nface that he felt her warm breath on his nose, the single word \"Help!\"\nGentlemen, my uncle leaped out of the coach at once, with such violence\nthat it rocked on the springs again.\n\n'\"Oh! you've thought better of it, have you?\" said the guard, when he\nsaw my uncle standing on the ground.\n\n'My uncle looked at the guard for a few seconds, in some doubt whether\nit wouldn't be better to wrench his blunderbuss from him, fire it in the\nface of the man with the big sword, knock the rest of the company over\nthe head with the stock, snatch up the young lady, and go off in the\nsmoke. On second thoughts, however, he abandoned this plan, as being a\nshade too melodramatic in the execution, and followed the two mysterious\nmen, who, keeping the lady between them, were now entering an old house\nin front of which the coach had stopped. They turned into the passage,\nand my uncle followed.\n\n'Of all the ruinous and desolate places my uncle had ever beheld, this\nwas the most so. It looked as if it had once been a large house of\nentertainment; but the roof had fallen in, in many places, and the\nstairs were steep, rugged, and broken. There was a huge fireplace in the\nroom into which they walked, and the chimney was blackened with smoke;\nbut no warm blaze lighted it up now. The white feathery dust of burned\nwood was still strewed over the hearth, but the stove was cold, and all\nwas dark and gloomy.\n\n'\"Well,\" said my uncle, as he looked about him, \"a mail travelling at\nthe rate of six miles and a half an hour, and stopping for an indefinite\ntime at such a hole as this, is rather an irregular sort of proceeding,\nI fancy. This shall be made known. I'll write to the papers.\"\n\n'My uncle said this in a pretty loud voice, and in an open, unreserved\nsort of manner, with the view of engaging the two strangers in\nconversation if he could. But, neither of them took any more notice of\nhim than whispering to each other, and scowling at him as they did so.\nThe lady was at the farther end of the room, and once she ventured to\nwave her hand, as if beseeching my uncle's assistance.\n\n'At length the two strangers advanced a little, and the conversation\nbegan in earnest.\n\n'\"You don't know this is a private room, I suppose, fellow?\" said the\ngentleman in sky-blue.\n\n'\"No, I do not, fellow,\" rejoined my uncle. \"Only, if this is a private\nroom specially ordered for the occasion, I should think the public room\nmust be a VERY comfortable one;\" with this, my uncle sat himself down in\na high-backed chair, and took such an accurate measure of the gentleman,\nwith his eyes, that Tiggin and Welps could have supplied him with\nprinted calico for a suit, and not an inch too much or too little, from\nthat estimate alone.\n\n'\"Quit this room,\" said both men together, grasping their swords.\n\n'\"Eh?\" said my uncle, not at all appearing to comprehend their meaning.\n\n'\"Quit the room, or you are a dead man,\" said the ill-looking fellow\nwith the large sword, drawing it at the same time and flourishing it in\nthe air.\n\n'\"Down with him!\" cried the gentleman in sky-blue, drawing his sword\nalso, and falling back two or three yards. \"Down with him!\" The lady\ngave a loud scream.\n\n'Now, my uncle was always remarkable for great boldness, and great\npresence of mind. All the time that he had appeared so indifferent to\nwhat was going on, he had been looking slily about for some missile or\nweapon of defence, and at the very instant when the swords were drawn,\nhe espied, standing in the chimney-corner, an old basket-hilted rapier\nin a rusty scabbard. At one bound, my uncle caught it in his hand, drew\nit, flourished it gallantly above his head, called aloud to the lady to\nkeep out of the way, hurled the chair at the man in sky-blue, and\nthe scabbard at the man in plum-colour, and taking advantage of the\nconfusion, fell upon them both, pell-mell.\n\n'Gentlemen, there is an old story--none the worse for being\ntrue--regarding a fine young Irish gentleman, who being asked if he\ncould play the fiddle, replied he had no doubt he could, but he couldn't\nexactly say, for certain, because he had never tried. This is not\ninapplicable to my uncle and his fencing. He had never had a sword\nin his hand before, except once when he played Richard the Third at a\nprivate theatre, upon which occasion it was arranged with Richmond that\nhe was to be run through, from behind, without showing fight at all.\nBut here he was, cutting and slashing with two experienced swordsman,\nthrusting, and guarding, and poking, and slicing, and acquitting himself\nin the most manful and dexterous manner possible, although up to\nthat time he had never been aware that he had the least notion of the\nscience. It only shows how true the old saying is, that a man never\nknows what he can do till he tries, gentlemen.\n\n'The noise of the combat was terrific; each of the three combatants\nswearing like troopers, and their swords clashing with as much noise as\nif all the knives and steels in Newport market were rattling together,\nat the same time. When it was at its very height, the lady (to encourage\nmy uncle most probably) withdrew her hood entirely from her face, and\ndisclosed a countenance of such dazzling beauty, that he would have\nfought against fifty men, to win one smile from it and die. He had done\nwonders before, but now he began to powder away like a raving mad giant.\n\n'At this very moment, the gentleman in sky-blue turning round, and\nseeing the young lady with her face uncovered, vented an exclamation of\nrage and jealousy, and, turning his weapon against her beautiful bosom,\npointed a thrust at her heart, which caused my uncle to utter a cry\nof apprehension that made the building ring. The lady stepped lightly\naside, and snatching the young man's sword from his hand, before he had\nrecovered his balance, drove him to the wall, and running it through\nhim, and the panelling, up to the very hilt, pinned him there, hard and\nfast. It was a splendid example. My uncle, with a loud shout of triumph,\nand a strength that was irresistible, made his adversary retreat in the\nsame direction, and plunging the old rapier into the very centre of a\nlarge red flower in the pattern of his waistcoat, nailed him beside his\nfriend; there they both stood, gentlemen, jerking their arms and legs\nabout in agony, like the toy-shop figures that are moved by a piece of\npack-thread. My uncle always said, afterwards, that this was one of the\nsurest means he knew of, for disposing of an enemy; but it was liable to\none objection on the ground of expense, inasmuch as it involved the loss\nof a sword for every man disabled.\n\n'\"The mail, the mail!\" cried the lady, running up to my uncle and\nthrowing her beautiful arms round his neck; \"we may yet escape.\"\n\n'\"May!\" cried my uncle; \"why, my dear, there's nobody else to kill, is\nthere?\" My uncle was rather disappointed, gentlemen, for he thought\na little quiet bit of love-making would be agreeable after the\nslaughtering, if it were only to change the subject.\n\n'\"We have not an instant to lose here,\" said the young lady. \"He\n(pointing to the young gentleman in sky-blue) is the only son of the\npowerful Marquess of Filletoville.\" '\"Well then, my dear, I'm afraid\nhe'll never come to the title,\" said my uncle, looking coolly at the\nyoung gentleman as he stood fixed up against the wall, in the cockchafer\nfashion that I have described. \"You have cut off the entail, my love.\"\n\n'\"I have been torn from my home and my friends by these villains,\" said\nthe young lady, her features glowing with indignation. \"That wretch\nwould have married me by violence in another hour.\"\n\n'\"Confound his impudence!\" said my uncle, bestowing a very contemptuous\nlook on the dying heir of Filletoville.\n\n'\"As you may guess from what you have seen,\" said the young lady,\n\"the party were prepared to murder me if I appealed to any one for\nassistance. If their accomplices find us here, we are lost. Two minutes\nhence may be too late. The mail!\" With these words, overpowered by\nher feelings, and the exertion of sticking the young Marquess of\nFilletoville, she sank into my uncle's arms. My uncle caught her up, and\nbore her to the house door. There stood the mail, with four long-tailed,\nflowing-maned, black horses, ready harnessed; but no coachman, no guard,\nno hostler even, at the horses' heads.\n\n'Gentlemen, I hope I do no injustice to my uncle's memory, when I\nexpress my opinion, that although he was a bachelor, he had held some\nladies in his arms before this time; I believe, indeed, that he had\nrather a habit of kissing barmaids; and I know, that in one or two\ninstances, he had been seen by credible witnesses, to hug a landlady in\na very perceptible manner. I mention the circumstance, to show what a\nvery uncommon sort of person this beautiful young lady must have been,\nto have affected my uncle in the way she did; he used to say, that as\nher long dark hair trailed over his arm, and her beautiful dark eyes\nfixed themselves upon his face when she recovered, he felt so strange\nand nervous that his legs trembled beneath him. But who can look in\na sweet, soft pair of dark eyes, without feeling queer? I can't,\ngentlemen. I am afraid to look at some eyes I know, and that's the truth\nof it.\n\n'\"You will never leave me,\" murmured the young lady.\n\n'\"Never,\" said my uncle. And he meant it too.\n\n'\"My dear preserver!\" exclaimed the young lady. \"My dear, kind, brave\npreserver!\"\n\n'\"Don't,\" said my uncle, interrupting her.\n\n'\"'Why?\" inquired the young lady.\n\n'\"Because your mouth looks so beautiful when you speak,\" rejoined my\nuncle, \"that I'm afraid I shall be rude enough to kiss it.\"\n\n'The young lady put up her hand as if to caution my uncle not to do so,\nand said--No, she didn't say anything--she smiled. When you are looking\nat a pair of the most delicious lips in the world, and see them gently\nbreak into a roguish smile--if you are very near them, and nobody else\nby--you cannot better testify your admiration of their beautiful form\nand colour than by kissing them at once. My uncle did so, and I honour\nhim for it.\n\n'\"Hark!\" cried the young lady, starting. \"The noise of wheels, and\nhorses!\"\n\n'\"So it is,\" said my uncle, listening. He had a good ear for wheels,\nand the trampling of hoofs; but there appeared to be so many horses and\ncarriages rattling towards them, from a distance, that it was impossible\nto form a guess at their number. The sound was like that of fifty\nbrakes, with six blood cattle in each.\n\n'\"We are pursued!\" cried the young lady, clasping her hands. \"We are\npursued. I have no hope but in you!\"\n\n'There was such an expression of terror in her beautiful face, that my\nuncle made up his mind at once. He lifted her into the coach, told\nher not to be frightened, pressed his lips to hers once more, and then\nadvising her to draw up the window to keep the cold air out, mounted to\nthe box.\n\n'\"Stay, love,\" cried the young lady.\n\n'\"What's the matter?\" said my uncle, from the coach-box.\n\n'\"I want to speak to you,\" said the young lady; \"only a word. Only one\nword, dearest.\"\n\n'\"Must I get down?\" inquired my uncle. The lady made no answer, but she\nsmiled again. Such a smile, gentlemen! It beat the other one, all to\nnothing. My uncle descended from his perch in a twinkling.\n\n'\"What is it, my dear?\" said my uncle, looking in at the coach window.\nThe lady happened to bend forward at the same time, and my uncle thought\nshe looked more beautiful than she had done yet. He was very close to\nher just then, gentlemen, so he really ought to know.\n\n'\"What is it, my dear?\" said my uncle.\n\n'\"Will you never love any one but me--never marry any one beside?\" said\nthe young lady.\n\n'My uncle swore a great oath that he never would marry anybody else,\nand the young lady drew in her head, and pulled up the window. He jumped\nupon the box, squared his elbows, adjusted the ribands, seized the whip\nwhich lay on the roof, gave one flick to the off leader, and away\nwent the four long-tailed, flowing-maned black horses, at fifteen good\nEnglish miles an hour, with the old mail-coach behind them. Whew! How\nthey tore along!\n\n'The noise behind grew louder. The faster the old mail went, the faster\ncame the pursuers--men, horses, dogs, were leagued in the pursuit. The\nnoise was frightful, but, above all, rose the voice of the young lady,\nurging my uncle on, and shrieking, \"Faster! Faster!\"\n\n'They whirled past the dark trees, as feathers would be swept before\na hurricane. Houses, gates, churches, haystacks, objects of every kind\nthey shot by, with a velocity and noise like roaring waters suddenly let\nloose. But still the noise of pursuit grew louder, and still my uncle\ncould hear the young lady wildly screaming, \"Faster! Faster!\"\n\n'My uncle plied whip and rein, and the horses flew onward till they were\nwhite with foam; and yet the noise behind increased; and yet the young\nlady cried, \"Faster! Faster!\" My uncle gave a loud stamp on the boot in\nthe energy of the moment, and--found that it was gray morning, and he\nwas sitting in the wheelwright's yard, on the box of an old Edinburgh\nmail, shivering with the cold and wet and stamping his feet to warm\nthem! He got down, and looked eagerly inside for the beautiful young\nlady. Alas! There was neither door nor seat to the coach. It was a mere\nshell.\n\n'Of course, my uncle knew very well that there was some mystery in the\nmatter, and that everything had passed exactly as he used to relate\nit. He remained staunch to the great oath he had sworn to the beautiful\nyoung lady, refusing several eligible landladies on her account, and\ndying a bachelor at last. He always said what a curious thing it was\nthat he should have found out, by such a mere accident as his clambering\nover the palings, that the ghosts of mail-coaches and horses, guards,\ncoachmen, and passengers, were in the habit of making journeys regularly\nevery night. He used to add, that he believed he was the only\nliving person who had ever been taken as a passenger on one of these\nexcursions. And I think he was right, gentlemen--at least I never heard\nof any other.'\n\n\n'I wonder what these ghosts of mail-coaches carry in their bags,'\nsaid the landlord, who had listened to the whole story with profound\nattention.\n\n'The dead letters, of course,' said the bagman.\n\n'Oh, ah! To be sure,' rejoined the landlord. 'I never thought of that.'\n\n\n\nCHAPTER L. HOW Mr. PICKWICK SPED UPON HIS MISSION, AND HOW HE WAS\nREINFORCED IN THE OUTSET BY A MOST UNEXPECTED AUXILIARY\n\n\nThe horses were put to, punctually at a quarter before nine next\nmorning, and Mr. Pickwick and Sam Weller having each taken his seat, the\none inside and the other out, the postillion was duly directed to repair\nin the first instance to Mr. Bob Sawyer's house, for the purpose of\ntaking up Mr. Benjamin Allen.\n\nIt was with feelings of no small astonishment, when the carriage drew up\nbefore the door with the red lamp, and the very legible inscription of\n'Sawyer, late Nockemorf,' that Mr. Pickwick saw, on popping his head out\nof the coach window, the boy in the gray livery very busily employed\nin putting up the shutters--the which, being an unusual and an\nunbusinesslike proceeding at that hour of the morning, at once suggested\nto his mind two inferences: the one, that some good friend and patient\nof Mr. Bob Sawyer's was dead; the other, that Mr. Bob Sawyer himself was\nbankrupt.\n\n'What is the matter?' said Mr. Pickwick to the boy.\n\n'Nothing's the matter, Sir,' replied the boy, expanding his mouth to the\nwhole breadth of his countenance.\n\n'All right, all right!' cried Bob Sawyer, suddenly appearing at the\ndoor, with a small leathern knapsack, limp and dirty, in one hand, and a\nrough coat and shawl thrown over the other arm. 'I'm going, old fellow.'\n\n'You!' exclaimed Mr. Pickwick.\n\n'Yes,' replied Bob Sawyer, 'and a regular expedition we'll make of it.\nHere, Sam! Look out!' Thus briefly bespeaking Mr. Weller's attention,\nMr. Bob Sawyer jerked the leathern knapsack into the dickey, where it\nwas immediately stowed away, under the seat, by Sam, who regarded the\nproceeding with great admiration. This done, Mr. Bob Sawyer, with the\nassistance of the boy, forcibly worked himself into the rough coat,\nwhich was a few sizes too small for him, and then advancing to the coach\nwindow, thrust in his head, and laughed boisterously. 'What a start it\nis, isn't it?' cried Bob, wiping the tears out of his eyes, with one of\nthe cuffs of the rough coat.\n\n'My dear Sir,' said Mr. Pickwick, with some embarrassment, 'I had no\nidea of your accompanying us.'\n\n'No, that's just the very thing,' replied Bob, seizing Mr. Pickwick by\nthe lappel of his coat. 'That's the joke.'\n\n'Oh, that's the joke, is it?' said Mr. Pickwick.\n\n'Of course,' replied Bob. 'It's the whole point of the thing, you\nknow--that, and leaving the business to take care of itself, as it seems\nto have made up its mind not to take care of me.' With this explanation\nof the phenomenon of the shutters, Mr. Bob Sawyer pointed to the shop,\nand relapsed into an ecstasy of mirth.\n\n'Bless me, you are surely not mad enough to think of leaving your\npatients without anybody to attend them!' remonstrated Mr. Pickwick in a\nvery serious tone.\n\n'Why not?' asked Bob, in reply. 'I shall save by it, you know. None of\nthem ever pay. Besides,' said Bob, lowering his voice to a confidential\nwhisper, 'they will be all the better for it; for, being nearly out of\ndrugs, and not able to increase my account just now, I should have been\nobliged to give them calomel all round, and it would have been certain\nto have disagreed with some of them. So it's all for the best.'\n\nThere was a philosophy and a strength of reasoning about this reply,\nwhich Mr. Pickwick was not prepared for. He paused a few moments, and\nadded, less firmly than before--\n\n'But this chaise, my young friend, will only hold two; and I am pledged\nto Mr. Allen.'\n\n'Don't think of me for a minute,' replied Bob. 'I've arranged it all;\nSam and I will share the dickey between us. Look here. This little bill\nis to be wafered on the shop door: \"Sawyer, late Nockemorf. Inquire of\nMrs. Cripps over the way.\" Mrs. Cripps is my boy's mother. \"Mr. Sawyer's\nvery sorry,\" says Mrs. Cripps, \"couldn't help it--fetched away early\nthis morning to a consultation of the very first surgeons in\nthe country--couldn't do without him--would have him at any\nprice--tremendous operation.\" The fact is,' said Bob, in conclusion,\n'it'll do me more good than otherwise, I expect. If it gets into one\nof the local papers, it will be the making of me. Here's Ben; now then,\njump in!'\n\nWith these hurried words, Mr. Bob Sawyer pushed the postboy on one side,\njerked his friend into the vehicle, slammed the door, put up the steps,\nwafered the bill on the street door, locked it, put the key in his\npocket, jumped into the dickey, gave the word for starting, and did the\nwhole with such extraordinary precipitation, that before Mr. Pickwick\nhad well begun to consider whether Mr. Bob Sawyer ought to go or not,\nthey were rolling away, with Mr. Bob Sawyer thoroughly established as\npart and parcel of the equipage.\n\nSo long as their progress was confined to the streets of Bristol, the\nfacetious Bob kept his professional green spectacles on, and conducted\nhimself with becoming steadiness and gravity of demeanour; merely giving\nutterance to divers verbal witticisms for the exclusive behoof and\nentertainment of Mr. Samuel Weller. But when they emerged on the open\nroad, he threw off his green spectacles and his gravity together, and\nperformed a great variety of practical jokes, which were calculated to\nattract the attention of the passersby, and to render the carriage and\nthose it contained objects of more than ordinary curiosity; the least\nconspicuous among these feats being a most vociferous imitation of\na key-bugle, and the ostentatious display of a crimson silk\npocket-handkerchief attached to a walking-stick, which was occasionally\nwaved in the air with various gestures indicative of supremacy and\ndefiance.\n\n'I wonder,' said Mr. Pickwick, stopping in the midst of a most sedate\nconversation with Ben Allen, bearing reference to the numerous good\nqualities of Mr. Winkle and his sister--'I wonder what all the people we\npass, can see in us to make them stare so.'\n\n'It's a neat turn-out,' replied Ben Allen, with something of pride in\nhis tone. 'They're not used to see this sort of thing, every day, I dare\nsay.'\n\n'Possibly,' replied Mr. Pickwick. 'It may be so. Perhaps it is.'\n\nMr. Pickwick might very probably have reasoned himself into the belief\nthat it really was, had he not, just then happening to look out of\nthe coach window, observed that the looks of the passengers betokened\nanything but respectful astonishment, and that various telegraphic\ncommunications appeared to be passing between them and some persons\noutside the vehicle, whereupon it occurred to him that these\ndemonstrations might be, in some remote degree, referable to the\nhumorous deportment of Mr. Robert Sawyer.\n\n'I hope,' said Mr. Pickwick, 'that our volatile friend is committing no\nabsurdities in that dickey behind.'\n\n'Oh dear, no,' replied Ben Allen. 'Except when he's elevated, Bob's the\nquietest creature breathing.'\n\nHere a prolonged imitation of a key-bugle broke upon the ear, succeeded\nby cheers and screams, all of which evidently proceeded from the throat\nand lungs of the quietest creature breathing, or in plainer designation,\nof Mr. Bob Sawyer himself.\n\nMr. Pickwick and Mr. Ben Allen looked expressively at each other, and\nthe former gentleman taking off his hat, and leaning out of the coach\nwindow until nearly the whole of his waistcoat was outside it, was at\nlength enabled to catch a glimpse of his facetious friend.\n\nMr. Bob Sawyer was seated, not in the dickey, but on the roof of the\nchaise, with his legs as far asunder as they would conveniently go,\nwearing Mr. Samuel Weller's hat on one side of his head, and bearing, in\none hand, a most enormous sandwich, while, in the other, he supported\na goodly-sized case-bottle, to both of which he applied himself with\nintense relish, varying the monotony of the occupation by an occasional\nhowl, or the interchange of some lively badinage with any passing\nstranger. The crimson flag was carefully tied in an erect position\nto the rail of the dickey; and Mr. Samuel Weller, decorated with Bob\nSawyer's hat, was seated in the centre thereof, discussing a twin\nsandwich, with an animated countenance, the expression of which\nbetokened his entire and perfect approval of the whole arrangement.\n\nThis was enough to irritate a gentleman with Mr. Pickwick's sense of\npropriety, but it was not the whole extent of the aggravation, for a\nstage-coach full, inside and out, was meeting them at the moment,\nand the astonishment of the passengers was very palpably evinced. The\ncongratulations of an Irish family, too, who were keeping up with\nthe chaise, and begging all the time, were of rather a boisterous\ndescription, especially those of its male head, who appeared to consider\nthe display as part and parcel of some political or other procession of\ntriumph.\n\n'Mr. Sawyer!' cried Mr. Pickwick, in a state of great excitement, 'Mr.\nSawyer, Sir!'\n\n'Hollo!' responded that gentleman, looking over the side of the chaise\nwith all the coolness in life.\n\n'Are you mad, sir?' demanded Mr. Pickwick.\n\n'Not a bit of it,' replied Bob; 'only cheerful.'\n\n'Cheerful, sir!' ejaculated Mr. Pickwick. 'Take down that scandalous red\nhandkerchief, I beg. I insist, Sir. Sam, take it down.'\n\nBefore Sam could interpose, Mr. Bob Sawyer gracefully struck his\ncolours, and having put them in his pocket, nodded in a courteous manner\nto Mr. Pickwick, wiped the mouth of the case-bottle, and applied it to\nhis own, thereby informing him, without any unnecessary waste of words,\nthat he devoted that draught to wishing him all manner of happiness and\nprosperity. Having done this, Bob replaced the cork with great care, and\nlooking benignantly down on Mr. Pickwick, took a large bite out of the\nsandwich, and smiled.\n\n'Come,' said Mr. Pickwick, whose momentary anger was not quite proof\nagainst Bob's immovable self-possession, 'pray let us have no more of\nthis absurdity.'\n\n'No, no,' replied Bob, once more exchanging hats with Mr. Weller; 'I\ndidn't mean to do it, only I got so enlivened with the ride that I\ncouldn't help it.'\n\n'Think of the look of the thing,' expostulated Mr. Pickwick; 'have some\nregard to appearances.'\n\n'Oh, certainly,' said Bob, 'it's not the sort of thing at all. All over,\ngovernor.'\n\nSatisfied with this assurance, Mr. Pickwick once more drew his head\ninto the chaise and pulled up the glass; but he had scarcely resumed the\nconversation which Mr. Bob Sawyer had interrupted, when he was somewhat\nstartled by the apparition of a small dark body, of an oblong form,\non the outside of the window, which gave sundry taps against it, as if\nimpatient of admission.\n\n'What's this?'exclaimed Mr. Pickwick.\n\n'It looks like a case-bottle;' remarked Ben Allen, eyeing the object in\nquestion through his spectacles with some interest; 'I rather think it\nbelongs to Bob.'\n\nThe impression was perfectly accurate; for Mr. Bob Sawyer, having\nattached the case-bottle to the end of the walking-stick, was battering\nthe window with it, in token of his wish, that his friends inside would\npartake of its contents, in all good-fellowship and harmony.\n\n'What's to be done?' said Mr. Pickwick, looking at the bottle. 'This\nproceeding is more absurd than the other.'\n\n'I think it would be best to take it in,' replied Mr. Ben Allen; 'it\nwould serve him right to take it in and keep it, wouldn't it?'\n\n'It would,' said Mr. Pickwick; 'shall I?'\n\n'I think it the most proper course we could possibly adopt,' replied\nBen.\n\nThis advice quite coinciding with his own opinion, Mr. Pickwick gently\nlet down the window and disengaged the bottle from the stick; upon which\nthe latter was drawn up, and Mr. Bob Sawyer was heard to laugh heartily.\n\n'What a merry dog it is!' said Mr. Pickwick, looking round at his\ncompanion, with the bottle in his hand.\n\n'He is,' said Mr. Allen.\n\n'You cannot possibly be angry with him,' remarked Mr. Pickwick.\n\n'Quite out of the question,' observed Benjamin Allen.\n\nDuring this short interchange of sentiments, Mr. Pickwick had, in an\nabstracted mood, uncorked the bottle.\n\n'What is it?' inquired Ben Allen carelessly.\n\n'I don't know,' replied Mr. Pickwick, with equal carelessness. 'It\nsmells, I think, like milk-punch.' 'Oh, indeed?' said Ben.\n\n'I THINK so,' rejoined Mr. Pickwick, very properly guarding himself\nagainst the possibility of stating an untruth; 'mind, I could not\nundertake to say certainly, without tasting it.'\n\n'You had better do so,' said Ben; 'we may as well know what it is.'\n\n'Do you think so?' replied Mr. Pickwick. 'Well; if you are curious to\nknow, of course I have no objection.'\n\nEver willing to sacrifice his own feelings to the wishes of his friend,\nMr. Pickwick at once took a pretty long taste.\n\n'What is it?' inquired Ben Allen, interrupting him with some impatience.\n\n'Curious,' said Mr. Pickwick, smacking his lips, 'I hardly know, now.\nOh, yes!' said Mr. Pickwick, after a second taste. 'It IS punch.'\n\nMr. Ben Allen looked at Mr. Pickwick; Mr. Pickwick looked at Mr. Ben\nAllen; Mr. Ben Allen smiled; Mr. Pickwick did not.\n\n'It would serve him right,' said the last-named gentleman, with some\nseverity--'it would serve him right to drink it every drop.'\n\n'The very thing that occurred to me,' said Ben Allen.\n\n'Is it, indeed?' rejoined Mr. Pickwick. 'Then here's his health!' With\nthese words, that excellent person took a most energetic pull at the\nbottle, and handed it to Ben Allen, who was not slow to imitate his\nexample. The smiles became mutual, and the milk-punch was gradually and\ncheerfully disposed of.\n\n'After all,' said Mr. Pickwick, as he drained the last drop, 'his pranks\nare really very amusing; very entertaining indeed.'\n\n'You may say that,' rejoined Mr. Ben Allen. In proof of Bob Sawyer's\nbeing one of the funniest fellows alive, he proceeded to entertain Mr.\nPickwick with a long and circumstantial account how that gentleman once\ndrank himself into a fever and got his head shaved; the relation of\nwhich pleasant and agreeable history was only stopped by the stoppage of\nthe chaise at the Bell at Berkeley Heath, to change horses.\n\n'I say! We're going to dine here, aren't we?' said Bob, looking in at\nthe window.\n\n'Dine!' said Mr. Pickwick. 'Why, we have only come nineteen miles, and\nhave eighty-seven and a half to go.'\n\n'Just the reason why we should take something to enable us to bear up\nagainst the fatigue,' remonstrated Mr. Bob Sawyer.\n\n'Oh, it's quite impossible to dine at half-past eleven o'clock in the\nday,' replied Mr. Pickwick, looking at his watch.\n\n'So it is,' rejoined Bob, 'lunch is the very thing. Hollo, you sir!\nLunch for three, directly; and keep the horses back for a quarter of an\nhour. Tell them to put everything they have cold, on the table, and some\nbottled ale, and let us taste your very best Madeira.' Issuing these\norders with monstrous importance and bustle, Mr. Bob Sawyer at once\nhurried into the house to superintend the arrangements; in less than\nfive minutes he returned and declared them to be excellent.\n\nThe quality of the lunch fully justified the eulogium which Bob had\npronounced, and very great justice was done to it, not only by that\ngentleman, but Mr. Ben Allen and Mr. Pickwick also. Under the auspices\nof the three, the bottled ale and the Madeira were promptly disposed of;\nand when (the horses being once more put to) they resumed their seats,\nwith the case-bottle full of the best substitute for milk-punch that\ncould be procured on so short a notice, the key-bugle sounded, and the\nred flag waved, without the slightest opposition on Mr. Pickwick's part.\n\nAt the Hop Pole at Tewkesbury, they stopped to dine; upon which occasion\nthere was more bottled ale, with some more Madeira, and some port\nbesides; and here the case-bottle was replenished for the fourth time.\nUnder the influence of these combined stimulants, Mr. Pickwick and Mr.\nBen Allen fell fast asleep for thirty miles, while Bob and Mr. Weller\nsang duets in the dickey.\n\nIt was quite dark when Mr. Pickwick roused himself sufficiently to look\nout of the window. The straggling cottages by the road-side, the dingy\nhue of every object visible, the murky atmosphere, the paths of cinders\nand brick-dust, the deep-red glow of furnace fires in the distance,\nthe volumes of dense smoke issuing heavily forth from high toppling\nchimneys, blackening and obscuring everything around; the glare of\ndistant lights, the ponderous wagons which toiled along the road, laden\nwith clashing rods of iron, or piled with heavy goods--all betokened\ntheir rapid approach to the great working town of Birmingham.\n\nAs they rattled through the narrow thoroughfares leading to the heart\nof the turmoil, the sights and sounds of earnest occupation struck more\nforcibly on the senses. The streets were thronged with working people.\nThe hum of labour resounded from every house; lights gleamed from the\nlong casement windows in the attic storeys, and the whirl of wheels and\nnoise of machinery shook the trembling walls. The fires, whose lurid,\nsullen light had been visible for miles, blazed fiercely up, in the\ngreat works and factories of the town. The din of hammers, the rushing\nof steam, and the dead heavy clanking of engines, was the harsh music\nwhich arose from every quarter. The postboy was driving briskly through\nthe open streets, and past the handsome and well-lighted shops that\nintervene between the outskirts of the town and the Old Royal Hotel,\nbefore Mr. Pickwick had begun to consider the very difficult and\ndelicate nature of the commission which had carried him thither.\n\nThe delicate nature of this commission, and the difficulty of executing\nit in a satisfactory manner, were by no means lessened by the voluntary\ncompanionship of Mr. Bob Sawyer. Truth to tell, Mr. Pickwick felt that\nhis presence on the occasion, however considerate and gratifying, was\nby no means an honour he would willingly have sought; in fact, he would\ncheerfully have given a reasonable sum of money to have had Mr. Bob\nSawyer removed to any place at not less than fifty miles' distance,\nwithout delay.\n\nMr. Pickwick had never held any personal communication with Mr. Winkle,\nsenior, although he had once or twice corresponded with him by letter,\nand returned satisfactory answers to his inquiries concerning the moral\ncharacter and behaviour of his son; he felt nervously sensible that to\nwait upon him, for the first time, attended by Bob Sawyer and Ben Allen,\nboth slightly fuddled, was not the most ingenious and likely means that\ncould have been hit upon to prepossess him in his favour.\n\n'However,' said Mr. Pickwick, endeavouring to reassure himself, 'I must\ndo the best I can. I must see him to-night, for I faithfully promised to\ndo so. If they persist in accompanying me, I must make the interview as\nbrief as possible, and be content that, for their own sakes, they will\nnot expose themselves.'\n\nAs he comforted himself with these reflections, the chaise stopped at\nthe door of the Old Royal. Ben Allen having been partially awakened from\na stupendous sleep, and dragged out by the collar by Mr. Samuel Weller,\nMr. Pickwick was enabled to alight. They were shown to a comfortable\napartment, and Mr. Pickwick at once propounded a question to the waiter\nconcerning the whereabout of Mr. Winkle's residence.\n\n'Close by, Sir,' said the waiter, 'not above five hundred yards, Sir.\nMr. Winkle is a wharfinger, Sir, at the canal, sir. Private residence\nis not--oh dear, no, sir, not five hundred yards, sir.' Here the waiter\nblew a candle out, and made a feint of lighting it again, in order to\nafford Mr. Pickwick an opportunity of asking any further questions, if\nhe felt so disposed. 'Take anything now, Sir?' said the waiter, lighting\nthe candle in desperation at Mr. Pickwick's silence. 'Tea or coffee,\nSir? Dinner, sir?'\n\n'Nothing now.'\n\n'Very good, sir. Like to order supper, Sir?'\n\n'Not just now.'\n\n'Very good, Sir.' Here, he walked slowly to the door, and then stopping\nshort, turned round and said, with great suavity--\n\n'Shall I send the chambermaid, gentlemen?'\n\n'You may if you please,' replied Mr. Pickwick.\n\n'If YOU please, sir.'\n\n'And bring some soda-water,' said Bob Sawyer.\n\n'Soda-water, Sir! Yes, Sir.' With his mind apparently relieved from an\noverwhelming weight, by having at last got an order for something, the\nwaiter imperceptibly melted away. Waiters never walk or run. They have\na peculiar and mysterious power of skimming out of rooms, which other\nmortals possess not.\n\nSome slight symptoms of vitality having been awakened in Mr. Ben Allen\nby the soda-water, he suffered himself to be prevailed upon to wash his\nface and hands, and to submit to be brushed by Sam. Mr. Pickwick and Bob\nSawyer having also repaired the disorder which the journey had made in\ntheir apparel, the three started forth, arm in arm, to Mr. Winkle's;\nBob Sawyer impregnating the atmosphere with tobacco smoke as he walked\nalong.\n\nAbout a quarter of a mile off, in a quiet, substantial-looking street,\nstood an old red brick house with three steps before the door, and a\nbrass plate upon it, bearing, in fat Roman capitals, the words, 'Mr.\nWinkle.'The steps were very white, and the bricks were very red, and the\nhouse was very clean; and here stood Mr. Pickwick, Mr. Benjamin Allen,\nand Mr. Bob Sawyer, as the clock struck ten.\n\nA smart servant-girl answered the knock, and started on beholding the\nthree strangers.\n\n'Is Mr. Winkle at home, my dear?' inquired Mr. Pickwick.\n\n'He is just going to supper, Sir,' replied the girl.\n\n'Give him that card if you please,' rejoined Mr. Pickwick. 'Say I am\nsorry to trouble him at so late an hour; but I am anxious to see him\nto-night, and have only just arrived.' The girl looked timidly at Mr.\nBob Sawyer, who was expressing his admiration of her personal charms\nby a variety of wonderful grimaces; and casting an eye at the hats and\ngreatcoats which hung in the passage, called another girl to mind the\ndoor while she went upstairs. The sentinel was speedily relieved; for\nthe girl returned immediately, and begging pardon of the gentlemen\nfor leaving them in the street, ushered them into a floor-clothed back\nparlour, half office and half dressing room, in which the principal\nuseful and ornamental articles of furniture were a desk, a wash-hand\nstand and shaving-glass, a boot-rack and boot-jack, a high stool, four\nchairs, a table, and an old eight-day clock. Over the mantelpiece were\nthe sunken doors of an iron safe, while a couple of hanging shelves\nfor books, an almanac, and several files of dusty papers, decorated the\nwalls.\n\n'Very sorry to leave you standing at the door, Sir,' said the girl,\nlighting a lamp, and addressing Mr. Pickwick with a winning smile, 'but\nyou was quite strangers to me; and we have such a many trampers that\nonly come to see what they can lay their hands on, that really--'\n\n'There is not the least occasion for any apology, my dear,' said Mr.\nPickwick good-humouredly.\n\n'Not the slightest, my love,' said Bob Sawyer, playfully stretching\nforth his arms, and skipping from side to side, as if to prevent the\nyoung lady's leaving the room.\n\nThe young lady was not at all softened by these allurements, for she at\nonce expressed her opinion, that Mr. Bob Sawyer was an 'odous creetur;'\nand, on his becoming rather more pressing in his attentions, imprinted\nher fair fingers upon his face, and bounced out of the room with many\nexpressions of aversion and contempt.\n\nDeprived of the young lady's society, Mr. Bob Sawyer proceeded to divert\nhimself by peeping into the desk, looking into all the table drawers,\nfeigning to pick the lock of the iron safe, turning the almanac with its\nface to the wall, trying on the boots of Mr. Winkle, senior, over his\nown, and making several other humorous experiments upon the furniture,\nall of which afforded Mr. Pickwick unspeakable horror and agony, and\nyielded Mr. Bob Sawyer proportionate delight.\n\nAt length the door opened, and a little old gentleman in a\nsnuff-coloured suit, with a head and face the precise counterpart of\nthose belonging to Mr. Winkle, junior, excepting that he was rather\nbald, trotted into the room with Mr. Pickwick's card in one hand, and a\nsilver candlestick in the other.\n\n'Mr. Pickwick, sir, how do you do?' said Winkle the elder, putting down\nthe candlestick and proffering his hand. 'Hope I see you well, sir. Glad\nto see you. Be seated, Mr. Pickwick, I beg, Sir. This gentleman is--'\n\n'My friend, Mr. Sawyer,' interposed Mr. Pickwick, 'your son's friend.'\n\n'Oh,' said Mr. Winkle the elder, looking rather grimly at Bob. 'I hope\nyou are well, sir.'\n\n'Right as a trivet, sir,' replied Bob Sawyer.\n\n'This other gentleman,' cried Mr. Pickwick, 'is, as you will see\nwhen you have read the letter with which I am intrusted, a very near\nrelative, or I should rather say a very particular friend of your son's.\nHis name is Allen.'\n\n'THAT gentleman?' inquired Mr. Winkle, pointing with the card towards\nBen Allen, who had fallen asleep in an attitude which left nothing of\nhim visible but his spine and his coat collar.\n\nMr. Pickwick was on the point of replying to the question, and reciting\nMr. Benjamin Allen's name and honourable distinctions at full length,\nwhen the sprightly Mr. Bob Sawyer, with a view of rousing his friend to\na sense of his situation, inflicted a startling pinch upon the fleshly\npart of his arm, which caused him to jump up with a shriek. Suddenly\naware that he was in the presence of a stranger, Mr. Ben Allen advanced\nand, shaking Mr. Winkle most affectionately by both hands for about five\nminutes, murmured, in some half-intelligible fragments of sentences, the\ngreat delight he felt in seeing him, and a hospitable inquiry whether he\nfelt disposed to take anything after his walk, or would prefer waiting\n'till dinner-time;' which done, he sat down and gazed about him with a\npetrified stare, as if he had not the remotest idea where he was, which\nindeed he had not.\n\nAll this was most embarrassing to Mr. Pickwick, the more especially as\nMr. Winkle, senior, evinced palpable astonishment at the eccentric--not\nto say extraordinary--behaviour of his two companions. To bring the\nmatter to an issue at once, he drew a letter from his pocket, and\npresenting it to Mr. Winkle, senior, said--\n\n'This letter, Sir, is from your son. You will see, by its contents, that\non your favourable and fatherly consideration of it, depend his future\nhappiness and welfare. Will you oblige me by giving it the calmest and\ncoolest perusal, and by discussing the subject afterwards with me, in\nthe tone and spirit in which alone it ought to be discussed? You may\njudge of the importance of your decision to your son, and his intense\nanxiety upon the subject, by my waiting upon you, without any previous\nwarning, at so late an hour; and,' added Mr. Pickwick, glancing slightly\nat his two companions--'and under such unfavourable circumstances.'\n\nWith this prelude, Mr. Pickwick placed four closely-written sides of\nextra superfine wire-wove penitence in the hands of the astounded Mr.\nWinkle, senior. Then reseating himself in his chair, he watched his\nlooks and manner: anxiously, it is true, but with the open front of\na gentleman who feels he has taken no part which he need excuse or\npalliate. The old wharfinger turned the letter over, looked at the\nfront, back, and sides, made a microscopic examination of the fat little\nboy on the seal, raised his eyes to Mr. Pickwick's face, and then,\nseating himself on the high stool, and drawing the lamp closer to\nhim, broke the wax, unfolded the epistle, and lifting it to the light,\nprepared to read. Just at this moment, Mr. Bob Sawyer, whose wit had\nlain dormant for some minutes, placed his hands on his knees, and made\na face after the portraits of the late Mr. Grimaldi, as clown. It so\nhappened that Mr. Winkle, senior, instead of being deeply engaged in\nreading the letter, as Mr. Bob Sawyer thought, chanced to be looking\nover the top of it at no less a person than Mr. Bob Sawyer himself;\nrightly conjecturing that the face aforesaid was made in ridicule\nand derision of his own person, he fixed his eyes on Bob with such\nexpressive sternness, that the late Mr. Grimaldi's lineaments gradually\nresolved themselves into a very fine expression of humility and\nconfusion.\n\n'Did you speak, Sir?' inquired Mr. Winkle, senior, after an awful\nsilence.\n\n'No, sir,' replied Bob, With no remains of the clown about him, save and\nexcept the extreme redness of his cheeks.\n\n'You are sure you did not, sir?' said Mr. Winkle, senior.\n\n'Oh dear, yes, sir, quite,' replied Bob.\n\n'I thought you did, Sir,' replied the old gentleman, with indignant\nemphasis. 'Perhaps you LOOKED at me, sir?'\n\n'Oh, no! sir, not at all,' replied Bob, with extreme civility.\n\n'I am very glad to hear it, sir,' said Mr. Winkle, senior. Having\nfrowned upon the abashed Bob with great magnificence, the old gentleman\nagain brought the letter to the light, and began to read it seriously.\n\nMr. Pickwick eyed him intently as he turned from the bottom line of the\nfirst page to the top line of the second, and from the bottom of the\nsecond to the top of the third, and from the bottom of the third to\nthe top of the fourth; but not the slightest alteration of countenance\nafforded a clue to the feelings with which he received the announcement\nof his son's marriage, which Mr. Pickwick knew was in the very first\nhalf-dozen lines.\n\nHe read the letter to the last word, folded it again with all the\ncarefulness and precision of a man of business, and, just when Mr.\nPickwick expected some great outbreak of feeling, dipped a pen in the\nink-stand, and said, as quietly as if he were speaking on the most\nordinary counting-house topic--\n\n'What is Nathaniel's address, Mr. Pickwick?'\n\n'The George and Vulture, at present,' replied that gentleman.\n\n'George and Vulture. Where is that?'\n\n'George Yard, Lombard Street.'\n\n'In the city?'\n\n'Yes.'\n\nThe old gentleman methodically indorsed the address on the back of the\nletter; and then, placing it in the desk, which he locked, said, as he\ngot off the stool and put the bunch of keys in his pocket--\n\n'I suppose there is nothing else which need detain us, Mr. Pickwick?'\n\n'Nothing else, my dear Sir!' observed that warm-hearted person in\nindignant amazement. 'Nothing else! Have you no opinion to express on\nthis momentous event in our young friend's life? No assurance to convey\nto him, through me, of the continuance of your affection and protection?\nNothing to say which will cheer and sustain him, and the anxious girl\nwho looks to him for comfort and support? My dear Sir, consider.'\n\n'I will consider,' replied the old gentleman. 'I have nothing to say\njust now. I am a man of business, Mr. Pickwick. I never commit myself\nhastily in any affair, and from what I see of this, I by no means like\nthe appearance of it. A thousand pounds is not much, Mr. Pickwick.'\n\n'You're very right, Sir,' interposed Ben Allen, just awake enough\nto know that he had spent his thousand pounds without the smallest\ndifficulty. 'You're an intelligent man. Bob, he's a very knowing fellow\nthis.'\n\n'I am very happy to find that you do me the justice to make the\nadmission, sir,' said Mr. Winkle, senior, looking contemptuously at Ben\nAllen, who was shaking his head profoundly. 'The fact is, Mr. Pickwick,\nthat when I gave my son a roving license for a year or so, to see\nsomething of men and manners (which he has done under your auspices),\nso that he might not enter life a mere boarding-school milk-sop to be\ngulled by everybody, I never bargained for this. He knows that very\nwell, so if I withdraw my countenance from him on this account, he\nhas no call to be surprised. He shall hear from me, Mr. Pickwick.\nGood-night, sir.--Margaret, open the door.'\n\nAll this time, Bob Sawyer had been nudging Mr. Ben Allen to say\nsomething on the right side; Ben accordingly now burst, without the\nslightest preliminary notice, into a brief but impassioned piece of\neloquence.\n\n'Sir,' said Mr. Ben Allen, staring at the old gentleman, out of a pair\nof very dim and languid eyes, and working his right arm vehemently up\nand down, 'you--you ought to be ashamed of yourself.'\n\n'As the lady's brother, of course you are an excellent judge of the\nquestion,' retorted Mr. Winkle, senior. 'There; that's enough. Pray say\nno more, Mr. Pickwick. Good-night, gentlemen!'\n\nWith these words the old gentleman took up the candle-stick and opening\nthe room door, politely motioned towards the passage.\n\n'You will regret this, Sir,' said Mr. Pickwick, setting his teeth close\ntogether to keep down his choler; for he felt how important the effect\nmight prove to his young friend.\n\n'I am at present of a different opinion,' calmly replied Mr. Winkle,\nsenior. 'Once again, gentlemen, I wish you a good-night.'\n\nMr. Pickwick walked with angry strides into the street. Mr. Bob Sawyer,\ncompletely quelled by the decision of the old gentleman's manner, took\nthe same course. Mr. Ben Allen's hat rolled down the steps immediately\nafterwards, and Mr. Ben Allen's body followed it directly. The whole\nparty went silent and supperless to bed; and Mr. Pickwick thought, just\nbefore he fell asleep, that if he had known Mr. Winkle, senior, had been\nquite so much of a man of business, it was extremely probable he might\nnever have waited upon him, on such an errand.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER LI. IN WHICH Mr. PICKWICK ENCOUNTERS AN OLD ACQUAINTANCE--TO\nWHICH FORTUNATE CIRCUMSTANCE THE READER IS MAINLY INDEBTED FOR MATTER OF\nTHRILLING INTEREST HEREIN SET DOWN, CONCERNING TWO GREAT PUBLIC MEN OF\nMIGHT AND POWER\n\n\nThe morning which broke upon Mr. Pickwick's sight at eight o'clock,\nwas not at all calculated to elevate his spirits, or to lessen the\ndepression which the unlooked-for result of his embassy inspired. The\nsky was dark and gloomy, the air was damp and raw, the streets were wet\nand sloppy. The smoke hung sluggishly above the chimney-tops as if it\nlacked the courage to rise, and the rain came slowly and doggedly down,\nas if it had not even the spirit to pour. A game-cock in the stableyard,\ndeprived of every spark of his accustomed animation, balanced himself\ndismally on one leg in a corner; a donkey, moping with drooping head\nunder the narrow roof of an outhouse, appeared from his meditative\nand miserable countenance to be contemplating suicide. In the street,\numbrellas were the only things to be seen, and the clicking of pattens\nand splashing of rain-drops were the only sounds to be heard.\n\nThe breakfast was interrupted by very little conversation; even Mr.\nBob Sawyer felt the influence of the weather, and the previous day's\nexcitement. In his own expressive language he was 'floored.' So was Mr.\nBen Allen. So was Mr. Pickwick.\n\nIn protracted expectation of the weather clearing up, the last evening\npaper from London was read and re-read with an intensity of interest\nonly known in cases of extreme destitution; every inch of the carpet was\nwalked over with similar perseverance; the windows were looked out of,\noften enough to justify the imposition of an additional duty upon them;\nall kinds of topics of conversation were started, and failed; and at\nlength Mr. Pickwick, when noon had arrived, without a change for the\nbetter, rang the bell resolutely, and ordered out the chaise.\n\nAlthough the roads were miry, and the drizzling rain came down harder\nthan it had done yet, and although the mud and wet splashed in at the\nopen windows of the carriage to such an extent that the discomfort was\nalmost as great to the pair of insides as to the pair of outsides, still\nthere was something in the motion, and the sense of being up and doing,\nwhich was so infinitely superior to being pent in a dull room, looking\nat the dull rain dripping into a dull street, that they all agreed, on\nstarting, that the change was a great improvement, and wondered how they\ncould possibly have delayed making it as long as they had done.\n\nWhen they stopped to change at Coventry, the steam ascended from the\nhorses in such clouds as wholly to obscure the hostler, whose voice was\nhowever heard to declare from the mist, that he expected the first gold\nmedal from the Humane Society on their next distribution of rewards,\nfor taking the postboy's hat off; the water descending from the brim\nof which, the invisible gentleman declared, must have drowned him (the\npostboy), but for his great presence of mind in tearing it promptly from\nhis head, and drying the gasping man's countenance with a wisp of straw.\n\n'This is pleasant,' said Bob Sawyer, turning up his coat collar, and\npulling the shawl over his mouth to concentrate the fumes of a glass of\nbrandy just swallowed.\n\n'Wery,' replied Sam composedly.\n\n'You don't seem to mind it,' observed Bob.\n\n'Vy, I don't exactly see no good my mindin' on it 'ud do, sir,' replied\nSam.\n\n'That's an unanswerable reason, anyhow,' said Bob.\n\n'Yes, sir,' rejoined Mr. Weller. 'Wotever is, is right, as the young\nnobleman sweetly remarked wen they put him down in the pension list 'cos\nhis mother's uncle's vife's grandfather vunce lit the king's pipe vith a\nportable tinder-box.' 'Not a bad notion that, Sam,' said Mr. Bob Sawyer\napprovingly.\n\n'Just wot the young nobleman said ev'ry quarter-day arterwards for the\nrest of his life,' replied Mr. Weller.\n\n'Wos you ever called in,' inquired Sam, glancing at the driver, after a\nshort silence, and lowering his voice to a mysterious whisper--'wos\nyou ever called in, when you wos 'prentice to a sawbones, to wisit a\npostboy.'\n\n'I don't remember that I ever was,' replied Bob Sawyer.\n\n'You never see a postboy in that 'ere hospital as you WALKED (as they\nsays o' the ghosts), did you?' demanded Sam.\n\n'No,' replied Bob Sawyer. 'I don't think I ever did.'\n\n'Never know'd a churchyard were there wos a postboy's tombstone, or see\na dead postboy, did you?' inquired Sam, pursuing his catechism.\n\n'No,' rejoined Bob, 'I never did.'\n\n'No!' rejoined Sam triumphantly. 'Nor never vill; and there's another\nthing that no man never see, and that's a dead donkey. No man never see\na dead donkey 'cept the gen'l'm'n in the black silk smalls as know'd\nthe young 'ooman as kep' a goat; and that wos a French donkey, so wery\nlikely he warn't wun o' the reg'lar breed.'\n\n'Well, what has that got to do with the postboys?' asked Bob Sawyer.\n\n'This here,' replied Sam. 'Without goin' so far as to as-sert, as some\nwery sensible people do, that postboys and donkeys is both immortal,\nwot I say is this: that wenever they feels theirselves gettin' stiff and\npast their work, they just rides off together, wun postboy to a pair in\nthe usual way; wot becomes on 'em nobody knows, but it's wery probable\nas they starts avay to take their pleasure in some other vorld, for\nthere ain't a man alive as ever see either a donkey or a postboy\na-takin' his pleasure in this!'\n\nExpatiating upon this learned and remarkable theory, and citing many\ncurious statistical and other facts in its support, Sam Weller beguiled\nthe time until they reached Dunchurch, where a dry postboy and fresh\nhorses were procured; the next stage was Daventry, and the next\nTowcester; and at the end of each stage it rained harder than it had\ndone at the beginning.\n\n'I say,' remonstrated Bob Sawyer, looking in at the coach window, as\nthey pulled up before the door of the Saracen's Head, Towcester, 'this\nwon't do, you know.'\n\n'Bless me!' said Mr. Pickwick, just awakening from a nap, 'I'm afraid\nyou're wet.'\n\n'Oh, you are, are you?' returned Bob. 'Yes, I am, a little that way,\nUncomfortably damp, perhaps.'\n\nBob did look dampish, inasmuch as the rain was streaming from his neck,\nelbows, cuffs, skirts, and knees; and his whole apparel shone so with\nthe wet, that it might have been mistaken for a full suit of prepared\noilskin.\n\n'I AM rather wet,' said Bob, giving himself a shake and casting a little\nhydraulic shower around, like a Newfoundland dog just emerged from the\nwater.\n\n'I think it's quite impossible to go on to-night,' interposed Ben.\n\n'Out of the question, sir,' remarked Sam Weller, coming to assist in\nthe conference; 'it's a cruelty to animals, sir, to ask 'em to do it.\nThere's beds here, sir,' said Sam, addressing his master, 'everything\nclean and comfortable. Wery good little dinner, sir, they can get ready\nin half an hour--pair of fowls, sir, and a weal cutlet; French beans,\n'taturs, tart, and tidiness. You'd better stop vere you are, sir, if I\nmight recommend. Take adwice, sir, as the doctor said.'\n\nThe host of the Saracen's Head opportunely appeared at this moment, to\nconfirm Mr. Weller's statement relative to the accommodations of the\nestablishment, and to back his entreaties with a variety of dismal\nconjectures regarding the state of the roads, the doubt of fresh horses\nbeing to be had at the next stage, the dead certainty of its raining all\nnight, the equally mortal certainty of its clearing up in the morning,\nand other topics of inducement familiar to innkeepers.\n\n'Well,' said Mr. Pickwick; 'but I must send a letter to London by some\nconveyance, so that it may be delivered the very first thing in the\nmorning, or I must go forwards at all hazards.'\n\nThe landlord smiled his delight. Nothing could be easier than for the\ngentleman to inclose a letter in a sheet of brown paper, and send it on,\neither by the mail or the night coach from Birmingham. If the gentleman\nwere particularly anxious to have it left as soon as possible, he might\nwrite outside, 'To be delivered immediately,' which was sure to\nbe attended to; or 'Pay the bearer half-a-crown extra for instant\ndelivery,' which was surer still.\n\n'Very well,' said Mr. Pickwick, 'then we will stop here.'\n\n'Lights in the Sun, John; make up the fire; the gentlemen are wet!'\ncried the landlord. 'This way, gentlemen; don't trouble yourselves about\nthe postboy now, sir. I'll send him to you when you ring for him, sir.\nNow, John, the candles.'\n\nThe candles were brought, the fire was stirred up, and a fresh log of\nwood thrown on. In ten minutes' time, a waiter was laying the cloth\nfor dinner, the curtains were drawn, the fire was blazing brightly,\nand everything looked (as everything always does, in all decent English\ninns) as if the travellers had been expected, and their comforts\nprepared, for days beforehand.\n\nMr. Pickwick sat down at a side table, and hastily indited a note to Mr.\nWinkle, merely informing him that he was detained by stress of weather,\nbut would certainly be in London next day; until when he deferred any\naccount of his proceedings. This note was hastily made into a parcel,\nand despatched to the bar per Mr. Samuel Weller.\n\nSam left it with the landlady, and was returning to pull his master's\nboots off, after drying himself by the kitchen fire, when glancing\ncasually through a half-opened door, he was arrested by the sight of a\ngentleman with a sandy head who had a large bundle of newspapers lying\non the table before him, and was perusing the leading article of one\nwith a settled sneer which curled up his nose and all other features\ninto a majestic expression of haughty contempt.\n\n'Hollo!' said Sam, 'I ought to know that 'ere head and them features;\nthe eyeglass, too, and the broad-brimmed tile! Eatansvill to vit, or I'm\na Roman.'\n\nSam was taken with a troublesome cough, at once, for the purpose of\nattracting the gentleman's attention; the gentleman starting at the\nsound, raised his head and his eyeglass, and disclosed to view the\nprofound and thoughtful features of Mr. Pott, of the Eatanswill GAZETTE.\n\n'Beggin' your pardon, sir,' said Sam, advancing with a bow, 'my master's\nhere, Mr. Pott.'\n\n'Hush! hush!' cried Pott, drawing Sam into the room, and closing the\ndoor, with a countenance of mysterious dread and apprehension.\n\n'Wot's the matter, Sir?' inquired Sam, looking vacantly about him.\n\n'Not a whisper of my name,' replied Pott; 'this is a buff neighbourhood.\nIf the excited and irritable populace knew I was here, I should be torn\nto pieces.'\n\n'No! Vould you, sir?' inquired Sam.\n\n'I should be the victim of their fury,' replied Pott. 'Now young man,\nwhat of your master?'\n\n'He's a-stopping here to-night on his vay to town, with a couple of\nfriends,' replied Sam.\n\n'Is Mr. Winkle one of them?' inquired Pott, with a slight frown.\n\n'No, Sir. Mr. Vinkle stops at home now,' rejoined Sam. 'He's married.'\n\n'Married!' exclaimed Pott, with frightful vehemence. He stopped, smiled\ndarkly, and added, in a low, vindictive tone, 'It serves him right!'\nHaving given vent to this cruel ebullition of deadly malice and\ncold-blooded triumph over a fallen enemy, Mr. Pott inquired whether Mr.\nPickwick's friends were 'blue?' Receiving a most satisfactory answer\nin the affirmative from Sam, who knew as much about the matter as Pott\nhimself, he consented to accompany him to Mr. Pickwick's room, where\na hearty welcome awaited him, and an agreement to club their dinners\ntogether was at once made and ratified.\n\n'And how are matters going on in Eatanswill?' inquired Mr. Pickwick,\nwhen Pott had taken a seat near the fire, and the whole party had got\ntheir wet boots off, and dry slippers on. 'Is the INDEPENDENT still in\nbeing?'\n\n'The INDEPENDENT, sir,' replied Pott, 'is still dragging on a wretched\nand lingering career. Abhorred and despised by even the few who are\ncognisant of its miserable and disgraceful existence, stifled by the\nvery filth it so profusely scatters, rendered deaf and blind by the\nexhalations of its own slime, the obscene journal, happily unconscious\nof its degraded state, is rapidly sinking beneath that treacherous\nmud which, while it seems to give it a firm standing with the low and\ndebased classes of society, is nevertheless rising above its detested\nhead, and will speedily engulf it for ever.'\n\nHaving delivered this manifesto (which formed a portion of his last\nweek's leader) with vehement articulation, the editor paused to take\nbreath, and looked majestically at Bob Sawyer.\n\n'You are a young man, sir,' said Pott.\n\nMr. Bob Sawyer nodded.\n\n'So are you, sir,' said Pott, addressing Mr. Ben Allen.\n\nBen admitted the soft impeachment.\n\n'And are both deeply imbued with those blue principles, which, so long\nas I live, I have pledged myself to the people of these kingdoms to\nsupport and to maintain?' suggested Pott.\n\n'Why, I don't exactly know about that,' replied Bob Sawyer. 'I am--'\n\n'Not buff, Mr. Pickwick,' interrupted Pott, drawing back his chair,\n'your friend is not buff, sir?'\n\n'No, no,' rejoined Bob, 'I'm a kind of plaid at present; a compound of\nall sorts of colours.'\n\n'A waverer,' said Pott solemnly, 'a waverer. I should like to show you\na series of eight articles, Sir, that have appeared in the Eatanswill\nGAZETTE. I think I may venture to say that you would not be long in\nestablishing your opinions on a firm and solid blue basis, sir.' 'I\ndare say I should turn very blue, long before I got to the end of them,'\nresponded Bob.\n\nMr. Pott looked dubiously at Bob Sawyer for some seconds, and, turning\nto Mr. Pickwick, said--\n\n'You have seen the literary articles which have appeared at intervals in\nthe Eatanswill GAZETTE in the course of the last three months, and\nwhich have excited such general--I may say such universal--attention and\nadmiration?'\n\n'Why,' replied Mr. Pickwick, slightly embarrassed by the question, 'the\nfact is, I have been so much engaged in other ways, that I really have\nnot had an opportunity of perusing them.'\n\n'You should do so, Sir,' said Pott, with a severe countenance.\n\n'I will,' said Mr. Pickwick.\n\n'They appeared in the form of a copious review of a work on Chinese\nmetaphysics, Sir,' said Pott.\n\n'Oh,' observed Mr. Pickwick; 'from your pen, I hope?'\n\n'From the pen of my critic, Sir,' rejoined Pott, with dignity.\n\n'An abstruse subject, I should conceive,' said Mr. Pickwick.\n\n'Very, Sir,' responded Pott, looking intensely sage. 'He CRAMMED for it,\nto use a technical but expressive term; he read up for the subject, at\nmy desire, in the \"Encyclopaedia Britannica.\"'\n\n'Indeed!' said Mr. Pickwick; 'I was not aware that that valuable work\ncontained any information respecting Chinese metaphysics.'\n\n'He read, Sir,' rejoined Pott, laying his hand on Mr. Pickwick's knee,\nand looking round with a smile of intellectual superiority--'he read for\nmetaphysics under the letter M, and for China under the letter C, and\ncombined his information, Sir!'\n\nMr. Pott's features assumed so much additional grandeur at the\nrecollection of the power and research displayed in the learned\neffusions in question, that some minutes elapsed before Mr. Pickwick\nfelt emboldened to renew the conversation; at length, as the editor's\ncountenance gradually relaxed into its customary expression of moral\nsupremacy, he ventured to resume the discourse by asking--\n\n'Is it fair to inquire what great object has brought you so far from\nhome?'\n\n'That object which actuates and animates me in all my gigantic labours,\nSir,' replied Pott, with a calm smile: 'my country's good.' 'I supposed\nit was some public mission,' observed Mr. Pickwick.\n\n'Yes, Sir,' resumed Pott, 'it is.' Here, bending towards Mr. Pickwick,\nhe whispered in a deep, hollow voice, 'A Buff ball, Sir, will take place\nin Birmingham to-morrow evening.'\n\n'God bless me!' exclaimed Mr. Pickwick.\n\n'Yes, Sir, and supper,' added Pott.\n\n'You don't say so!' ejaculated Mr. Pickwick.\n\nPott nodded portentously.\n\nNow, although Mr. Pickwick feigned to stand aghast at this disclosure,\nhe was so little versed in local politics that he was unable to form\nan adequate comprehension of the importance of the dire conspiracy it\nreferred to; observing which, Mr. Pott, drawing forth the last number of\nthe Eatanswill GAZETTE, and referring to the same, delivered himself of\nthe following paragraph:--\n\n\n HOLE-AND-CORNER BUFFERY.\n\n\n'A reptile contemporary has recently sweltered forth his black venom\nin the vain and hopeless attempt of sullying the fair name of our\ndistinguished and excellent representative, the Honourable Mr.\nSlumkey--that Slumkey whom we, long before he gained his present noble\nand exalted position, predicted would one day be, as he now is, at once\nhis country's brightest honour, and her proudest boast: alike her bold\ndefender and her honest pride--our reptile contemporary, we say,\nhas made himself merry, at the expense of a superbly embossed plated\ncoal-scuttle, which has been presented to that glorious man by his\nenraptured constituents, and towards the purchase of which, the nameless\nwretch insinuates, the Honourable Mr. Slumkey himself contributed,\nthrough a confidential friend of his butler's, more than three-fourths\nof the whole sum subscribed. Why, does not the crawling creature see,\nthat even if this be the fact, the Honourable Mr. Slumkey only appears\nin a still more amiable and radiant light than before, if that be\npossible? Does not even his obtuseness perceive that this amiable and\ntouching desire to carry out the wishes of the constituent body, must\nfor ever endear him to the hearts and souls of such of his fellow\ntownsmen as are not worse than swine; or, in other words, who are not as\ndebased as our contemporary himself? But such is the wretched trickery\nof hole-and-corner Buffery! These are not its only artifices. Treason is\nabroad. We boldly state, now that we are goaded to the disclosure, and\nwe throw ourselves on the country and its constables for protection--we\nboldly state that secret preparations are at this moment in progress for\na Buff ball; which is to be held in a Buff town, in the very heart and\ncentre of a Buff population; which is to be conducted by a Buff master\nof the ceremonies; which is to be attended by four ultra Buff members of\nParliament, and the admission to which, is to be by Buff tickets! Does\nour fiendish contemporary wince? Let him writhe, in impotent malice, as\nwe pen the words, WE WILL BE THERE.'\n\n\n'There, Sir,' said Pott, folding up the paper quite exhausted, 'that is\nthe state of the case!'\n\nThe landlord and waiter entering at the moment with dinner, caused Mr.\nPott to lay his finger on his lips, in token that he considered his life\nin Mr. Pickwick's hands, and depended on his secrecy. Messrs. Bob\nSawyer and Benjamin Allen, who had irreverently fallen asleep during the\nreading of the quotation from the Eatanswill GAZETTE, and the discussion\nwhich followed it, were roused by the mere whispering of the talismanic\nword 'Dinner' in their ears; and to dinner they went with good digestion\nwaiting on appetite, and health on both, and a waiter on all three.\n\nIn the course of the dinner and the sitting which succeeded it, Mr. Pott\ndescending, for a few moments, to domestic topics, informed Mr. Pickwick\nthat the air of Eatanswill not agreeing with his lady, she was then\nengaged in making a tour of different fashionable watering-places with\na view to the recovery of her wonted health and spirits; this was\na delicate veiling of the fact that Mrs. Pott, acting upon her\noften-repeated threat of separation, had, in virtue of an arrangement\nnegotiated by her brother, the lieutenant, and concluded by Mr. Pott,\npermanently retired with the faithful bodyguard upon one moiety or half\npart of the annual income and profits arising from the editorship and\nsale of the Eatanswill GAZETTE.\n\nWhile the great Mr. Pott was dwelling upon this and other matters,\nenlivening the conversation from time to time with various extracts from\nhis own lucubrations, a stern stranger, calling from the window of a\nstage-coach, outward bound, which halted at the inn to deliver packages,\nrequested to know whether if he stopped short on his journey and\nremained there for the night, he could be furnished with the necessary\naccommodation of a bed and bedstead.\n\n'Certainly, sir,' replied the landlord.\n\n'I can, can I?' inquired the stranger, who seemed habitually suspicious\nin look and manner.\n\n'No doubt of it, Sir,' replied the landlord.\n\n'Good,' said the stranger. 'Coachman, I get down here. Guard, my\ncarpet-bag!'\n\nBidding the other passengers good-night, in a rather snappish manner,\nthe stranger alighted. He was a shortish gentleman, with very stiff\nblack hair cut in the porcupine or blacking-brush style, and standing\nstiff and straight all over his head; his aspect was pompous and\nthreatening; his manner was peremptory; his eyes were sharp and\nrestless; and his whole bearing bespoke a feeling of great confidence in\nhimself, and a consciousness of immeasurable superiority over all other\npeople.\n\nThis gentleman was shown into the room originally assigned to the\npatriotic Mr. Pott; and the waiter remarked, in dumb astonishment at the\nsingular coincidence, that he had no sooner lighted the candles than\nthe gentleman, diving into his hat, drew forth a newspaper, and began\nto read it with the very same expression of indignant scorn, which,\nupon the majestic features of Pott, had paralysed his energies an hour\nbefore. The man observed too, that, whereas Mr. Pott's scorn had\nbeen roused by a newspaper headed the Eatanswill INDEPENDENT, this\ngentleman's withering contempt was awakened by a newspaper entitled the\nEatanswill GAZETTE.\n\n'Send the landlord,' said the stranger.\n\n'Yes, sir,' rejoined the waiter.\n\nThe landlord was sent, and came.\n\n'Are you the landlord?' inquired the gentleman.\n\n'I am sir,' replied the landlord.\n\n'My name is Slurk,' said the gentleman.\n\nThe landlord slightly inclined his head.\n\n'Slurk, sir,' repeated the gentleman haughtily. 'Do you know me now,\nman?'\n\nThe landlord scratched his head, looked at the ceiling, and at the\nstranger, and smiled feebly.\n\n'Do you know me, man?' inquired the stranger angrily.\n\nThe landlord made a strong effort, and at length replied,\n\n'Well, Sir, I do not know you.'\n\n'Great Heaven!' said the stranger, dashing his clenched fist upon the\ntable. 'And this is popularity!'\n\nThe landlord took a step or two towards the door; the stranger fixing\nhis eyes upon him, resumed.\n\n'This,' said the stranger--'this is gratitude for years of labour and\nstudy in behalf of the masses. I alight wet and weary; no enthusiastic\ncrowds press forward to greet their champion; the church bells are\nsilent; the very name elicits no responsive feeling in their torpid\nbosoms. It is enough,' said the agitated Mr. Slurk, pacing to and fro,\n'to curdle the ink in one's pen, and induce one to abandon their cause\nfor ever.'\n\n'Did you say brandy-and-water, Sir?' said the landlord, venturing a\nhint.\n\n'Rum,' said Mr. Slurk, turning fiercely upon him. 'Have you got a fire\nanywhere?'\n\n'We can light one directly, Sir,' said the landlord.\n\n'Which will throw out no heat until it is bed-time,' interrupted Mr.\nSlurk. 'Is there anybody in the kitchen?'\n\nNot a soul. There was a beautiful fire. Everybody had gone, and the\nhouse door was closed for the night.\n\n'I will drink my rum-and-water,' said Mr. Slurk, 'by the kitchen fire.'\nSo, gathering up his hat and newspaper, he stalked solemnly behind the\nlandlord to that humble apartment, and throwing himself on a settle by\nthe fireside, resumed his countenance of scorn, and began to read and\ndrink in silent dignity.\n\nNow, some demon of discord, flying over the Saracen's Head at that\nmoment, on casting down his eyes in mere idle curiosity, happened to\nbehold Slurk established comfortably by the kitchen fire, and Pott\nslightly elevated with wine in another room; upon which the malicious\ndemon, darting down into the last-mentioned apartment with inconceivable\nrapidity, passed at once into the head of Mr. Bob Sawyer, and prompted\nhim for his (the demon's) own evil purpose to speak as follows:--\n\n'I say, we've let the fire out. It's uncommonly cold after the rain,\nisn't it?'\n\n'It really is,' replied Mr. Pickwick, shivering.\n\n'It wouldn't be a bad notion to have a cigar by the kitchen fire, would\nit?' said Bob Sawyer, still prompted by the demon aforesaid.\n\n'It would be particularly comfortable, I think,' replied Mr. Pickwick.\n'Mr. Pott, what do you say?'\n\nMr. Pott yielded a ready assent; and all four travellers, each with his\nglass in his hand, at once betook themselves to the kitchen, with Sam\nWeller heading the procession to show them the way.\n\nThe stranger was still reading; he looked up and started. Mr. Pott\nstarted.\n\n'What's the matter?' whispered Mr. Pickwick.\n\n'That reptile!' replied Pott.\n\n'What reptile?' said Mr. Pickwick, looking about him for fear he should\ntread on some overgrown black beetle, or dropsical spider.\n\n'That reptile,' whispered Pott, catching Mr. Pickwick by the arm, and\npointing towards the stranger. 'That reptile Slurk, of the INDEPENDENT!'\n\n'Perhaps we had better retire,' whispered Mr. Pickwick.\n\n'Never, Sir,' rejoined Pott, pot-valiant in a double sense--'never.'\nWith these words, Mr. Pott took up his position on an opposite settle,\nand selecting one from a little bundle of newspapers, began to read\nagainst his enemy.\n\nMr. Pott, of course read the INDEPENDENT, and Mr. Slurk, of course, read\nthe GAZETTE; and each gentleman audibly expressed his contempt at the\nother's compositions by bitter laughs and sarcastic sniffs; whence\nthey proceeded to more open expressions of opinion, such as 'absurd,'\n'wretched,' 'atrocity,' 'humbug,' 'knavery', 'dirt,' 'filth,' 'slime,'\n'ditch-water,' and other critical remarks of the like nature.\n\nBoth Mr. Bob Sawyer and Mr. Ben Allen had beheld these symptoms of\nrivalry and hatred, with a degree of delight which imparted great\nadditional relish to the cigars at which they were puffing most\nvigorously. The moment they began to flag, the mischievous Mr. Bob\nSawyer, addressing Slurk with great politeness, said--\n\n'Will you allow me to look at your paper, Sir, when you have quite done\nwith it?'\n\n'You will find very little to repay you for your trouble in this\ncontemptible THING, sir,' replied Slurk, bestowing a Satanic frown on\nPott.\n\n'You shall have this presently,' said Pott, looking up, pale with rage,\nand quivering in his speech, from the same cause. 'Ha! ha! you will be\namused with this FELLOW'S audacity.'\n\nTerrible emphasis was laid upon 'thing' and 'fellow'; and the faces of\nboth editors began to glow with defiance.\n\n'The ribaldry of this miserable man is despicably disgusting,' said\nPott, pretending to address Bob Sawyer, and scowling upon Slurk. Here,\nMr. Slurk laughed very heartily, and folding up the paper so as to get\nat a fresh column conveniently, said, that the blockhead really amused\nhim.\n\n'What an impudent blunderer this fellow is,' said Pott, turning from\npink to crimson.\n\n'Did you ever read any of this man's foolery, Sir?' inquired Slurk of\nBob Sawyer.\n\n'Never,' replied Bob; 'is it very bad?'\n\n'Oh, shocking! shocking!' rejoined Slurk.\n\n'Really! Dear me, this is too atrocious!' exclaimed Pott, at this\njuncture; still feigning to be absorbed in his reading.\n\n'If you can wade through a few sentences of malice, meanness, falsehood,\nperjury, treachery, and cant,' said Slurk, handing the paper to Bob,\n'you will, perhaps, be somewhat repaid by a laugh at the style of this\nungrammatical twaddler.'\n\n'What's that you said, Sir?' inquired Mr. Pott, looking up, trembling\nall over with passion.\n\n'What's that to you, sir?' replied Slurk.\n\n'Ungrammatical twaddler, was it, sir?' said Pott.\n\n'Yes, sir, it was,' replied Slurk; 'and BLUE BORE, Sir, if you like that\nbetter; ha! ha!'\n\nMr. Pott retorted not a word at this jocose insult, but deliberately\nfolded up his copy of the INDEPENDENT, flattened it carefully down,\ncrushed it beneath his boot, spat upon it with great ceremony, and flung\nit into the fire.\n\n'There, sir,' said Pott, retreating from the stove, 'and that's the way\nI would serve the viper who produces it, if I were not, fortunately for\nhim, restrained by the laws of my country.'\n\n'Serve him so, sir!' cried Slurk, starting up. 'Those laws shall never\nbe appealed to by him, sir, in such a case. Serve him so, sir!'\n\n'Hear! hear!' said Bob Sawyer.\n\n'Nothing can be fairer,' observed Mr. Ben Allen.\n\n'Serve him so, sir!' reiterated Slurk, in a loud voice.\n\nMr. Pott darted a look of contempt, which might have withered an anchor.\n\n'Serve him so, sir!' reiterated Slurk, in a louder voice than before.\n\n'I will not, sir,' rejoined Pott.\n\n'Oh, you won't, won't you, sir?' said Mr. Slurk, in a taunting manner;\n'you hear this, gentlemen! He won't; not that he's afraid--, oh, no! he\nWON'T. Ha! ha!'\n\n'I consider you, sir,' said Mr. Pott, moved by this sarcasm, 'I consider\nyou a viper. I look upon you, sir, as a man who has placed himself\nbeyond the pale of society, by his most audacious, disgraceful, and\nabominable public conduct. I view you, sir, personally and politically,\nin no other light than as a most unparalleled and unmitigated viper.'\n\nThe indignant Independent did not wait to hear the end of this personal\ndenunciation; for, catching up his carpet-bag, which was well stuffed\nwith movables, he swung it in the air as Pott turned away, and, letting\nit fall with a circular sweep on his head, just at that particular angle\nof the bag where a good thick hairbrush happened to be packed, caused a\nsharp crash to be heard throughout the kitchen, and brought him at once\nto the ground.\n\n'Gentlemen,' cried Mr. Pickwick, as Pott started up and seized\nthe fire-shovel--'gentlemen! Consider, for Heaven's\nsake--help--Sam--here--pray, gentlemen--interfere, somebody.'\n\nUttering these incoherent exclamations, Mr. Pickwick rushed between the\ninfuriated combatants just in time to receive the carpet-bag on one\nside of his body, and the fire-shovel on the other. Whether the\nrepresentatives of the public feeling of Eatanswill were blinded by\nanimosity, or (being both acute reasoners) saw the advantage of having a\nthird party between them to bear all the blows, certain it is that they\npaid not the slightest attention to Mr. Pickwick, but defying each\nother with great spirit, plied the carpet-bag and the fire-shovel most\nfearlessly. Mr. Pickwick would unquestionably have suffered severely for\nhis humane interference, if Mr. Weller, attracted by his master's\ncries, had not rushed in at the moment, and, snatching up a meal--sack,\neffectually stopped the conflict by drawing it over the head and\nshoulders of the mighty Pott, and clasping him tight round the\nshoulders.\n\n'Take away that 'ere bag from the t'other madman,' said Sam to Ben Allen\nand Bob Sawyer, who had done nothing but dodge round the group, each\nwith a tortoise-shell lancet in his hand, ready to bleed the first man\nstunned. 'Give it up, you wretched little creetur, or I'll smother you\nin it.'\n\nAwed by these threats, and quite out of breath, the INDEPENDENT suffered\nhimself to be disarmed; and Mr. Weller, removing the extinguisher from\nPott, set him free with a caution.\n\n'You take yourselves off to bed quietly,' said Sam, 'or I'll put you\nboth in it, and let you fight it out vith the mouth tied, as I vould\na dozen sich, if they played these games. And you have the goodness to\ncome this here way, sir, if you please.'\n\nThus addressing his master, Sam took him by the arm, and led him off,\nwhile the rival editors were severally removed to their beds by the\nlandlord, under the inspection of Mr. Bob Sawyer and Mr. Benjamin Allen;\nbreathing, as they went away, many sanguinary threats, and making vague\nappointments for mortal combat next day. When they came to think it\nover, however, it occurred to them that they could do it much better\nin print, so they recommenced deadly hostilities without delay; and all\nEatanswill rung with their boldness--on paper.\n\nThey had taken themselves off in separate coaches, early next morning,\nbefore the other travellers were stirring; and the weather having\nnow cleared up, the chaise companions once more turned their faces to\nLondon.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER LII. INVOLVING A SERIOUS CHANGE IN THE WELLER FAMILY, AND THE\nUNTIMELY DOWNFALL OF Mr. STIGGINS\n\n\nConsidering it a matter of delicacy to abstain from introducing either\nBob Sawyer or Ben Allen to the young couple, until they were fully\nprepared to expect them, and wishing to spare Arabella's feelings as\nmuch as possible, Mr. Pickwick proposed that he and Sam should alight in\nthe neighbourhood of the George and Vulture, and that the two young men\nshould for the present take up their quarters elsewhere. To this they\nvery readily agreed, and the proposition was accordingly acted upon;\nMr. Ben Allen and Mr. Bob Sawyer betaking themselves to a sequestered\npot-shop on the remotest confines of the Borough, behind the bar door of\nwhich their names had in other days very often appeared at the head of\nlong and complex calculations worked in white chalk.\n\n'Dear me, Mr. Weller,' said the pretty housemaid, meeting Sam at the\ndoor.\n\n'Dear ME I vish it vos, my dear,' replied Sam, dropping behind, to let\nhis master get out of hearing. 'Wot a sweet-lookin' creetur you are,\nMary!'\n\n'Lor', Mr. Weller, what nonsense you do talk!' said Mary. 'Oh! don't, Mr.\nWeller.'\n\n'Don't what, my dear?' said Sam.\n\n'Why, that,' replied the pretty housemaid. 'Lor, do get along with you.'\nThus admonishing him, the pretty housemaid pushed Sam against the wall,\ndeclaring that he had tumbled her cap, and put her hair quite out of\ncurl.\n\n'And prevented what I was going to say, besides,' added Mary. 'There's\na letter been waiting here for you four days; you hadn't gone away, half\nan hour, when it came; and more than that, it's got \"immediate,\" on the\noutside.'\n\n'Vere is it, my love?' inquired Sam.\n\n'I took care of it, for you, or I dare say it would have been lost\nlong before this,' replied Mary. 'There, take it; it's more than you\ndeserve.'\n\nWith these words, after many pretty little coquettish doubts and fears,\nand wishes that she might not have lost it, Mary produced the letter\nfrom behind the nicest little muslin tucker possible, and handed it to\nSam, who thereupon kissed it with much gallantry and devotion.\n\n'My goodness me!' said Mary, adjusting the tucker, and feigning\nunconsciousness, 'you seem to have grown very fond of it all at once.'\n\nTo this Mr. Weller only replied by a wink, the intense meaning of which\nno description could convey the faintest idea of; and, sitting himself\ndown beside Mary on a window-seat, opened the letter and glanced at the\ncontents.\n\n'Hollo!' exclaimed Sam, 'wot's all this?'\n\n'Nothing the matter, I hope?' said Mary, peeping over his shoulder.\n\n'Bless them eyes o' yourn!' said Sam, looking up.\n\n'Never mind my eyes; you had much better read your letter,' said the\npretty housemaid; and as she said so, she made the eyes twinkle with\nsuch slyness and beauty that they were perfectly irresistible.\n\nSam refreshed himself with a kiss, and read as follows:--\n\n\n 'MARKIS GRAN\n 'By DORKEN\n 'Wensdy.\n\n'My DEAR SAMMLE,\n\n'I am werry sorry to have the pleasure of being a Bear of ill news your\nMother in law cort cold consekens of imprudently settin too long on the\ndamp grass in the rain a hearing of a shepherd who warnt able to leave\noff till late at night owen to his having vound his-self up vith brandy\nand vater and not being able to stop his-self till he got a little sober\nwhich took a many hours to do the doctor says that if she'd svallo'd\nvarm brandy and vater artervards insted of afore she mightn't have been\nno vus her veels wos immedetly greased and everythink done to set her\nagoin as could be inwented your father had hopes as she vould have\nvorked round as usual but just as she wos a turnen the corner my boy she\ntook the wrong road and vent down hill vith a welocity you never see and\nnotvithstandin that the drag wos put on directly by the medikel man\nit wornt of no use at all for she paid the last pike at twenty minutes\nafore six o'clock yesterday evenin havin done the journey wery much\nunder the reglar time vich praps was partly owen to her haven taken in\nwery little luggage by the vay your father says that if you vill come\nand see me Sammy he vill take it as a wery great favor for I am wery\nlonely Samivel n. b. he VILL have it spelt that vay vich I say ant right\nand as there is sich a many things to settle he is sure your guvner wont\nobject of course he vill not Sammy for I knows him better so he sends\nhis dooty in which I join and am Samivel infernally yours\n\n 'TONY VELLER.'\n\n\n'Wot a incomprehensible letter,' said Sam; 'who's to know wot it means,\nvith all this he-ing and I-ing! It ain't my father's writin', 'cept this\nhere signater in print letters; that's his.'\n\n'Perhaps he got somebody to write it for him, and signed it himself\nafterwards,' said the pretty housemaid.\n\n'Stop a minit,' replied Sam, running over the letter again, and pausing\nhere and there, to reflect, as he did so. 'You've hit it. The gen'l'm'n\nas wrote it wos a-tellin' all about the misfortun' in a proper vay,\nand then my father comes a-lookin' over him, and complicates the whole\nconcern by puttin' his oar in. That's just the wery sort o' thing he'd\ndo. You're right, Mary, my dear.'\n\nHaving satisfied himself on this point, Sam read the letter all over,\nonce more, and, appearing to form a clear notion of its contents for the\nfirst time, ejaculated thoughtfully, as he folded it up--\n\n'And so the poor creetur's dead! I'm sorry for it. She warn't a\nbad-disposed 'ooman, if them shepherds had let her alone. I'm wery sorry\nfor it.'\n\nMr. Weller uttered these words in so serious a manner, that the pretty\nhousemaid cast down her eyes and looked very grave.\n\n'Hows'ever,' said Sam, putting the letter in his pocket with a gentle\nsigh, 'it wos to be--and wos, as the old lady said arter she'd married\nthe footman. Can't be helped now, can it, Mary?'\n\nMary shook her head, and sighed too.\n\n'I must apply to the hemperor for leave of absence,' said Sam.\n\nMary sighed again--the letter was so very affecting.\n\n'Good-bye!' said Sam.\n\n'Good-bye,' rejoined the pretty housemaid, turning her head away.\n\n'Well, shake hands, won't you?' said Sam.\n\nThe pretty housemaid put out a hand which, although it was a\nhousemaid's, was a very small one, and rose to go.\n\n'I shan't be wery long avay,' said Sam.\n\n'You're always away,' said Mary, giving her head the slightest possible\ntoss in the air. 'You no sooner come, Mr. Weller, than you go again.'\n\nMr. Weller drew the household beauty closer to him, and entered upon a\nwhispering conversation, which had not proceeded far, when she turned\nher face round and condescended to look at him again. When they parted,\nit was somehow or other indispensably necessary for her to go to her\nroom, and arrange the cap and curls before she could think of presenting\nherself to her mistress; which preparatory ceremony she went off to\nperform, bestowing many nods and smiles on Sam over the banisters as she\ntripped upstairs.\n\n'I shan't be avay more than a day, or two, Sir, at the furthest,' said\nSam, when he had communicated to Mr. Pickwick the intelligence of his\nfather's loss.\n\n'As long as may be necessary, Sam,' replied Mr. Pickwick, 'you have my\nfull permission to remain.'\n\nSam bowed.\n\n'You will tell your father, Sam, that if I can be of any assistance to\nhim in his present situation, I shall be most willing and ready to lend\nhim any aid in my power,' said Mr. Pickwick.\n\n'Thank'ee, sir,' rejoined Sam. 'I'll mention it, sir.'\n\nAnd with some expressions of mutual good-will and interest, master and\nman separated.\n\nIt was just seven o'clock when Samuel Weller, alighting from the box of\na stage-coach which passed through Dorking, stood within a few hundred\nyards of the Marquis of Granby. It was a cold, dull evening; the little\nstreet looked dreary and dismal; and the mahogany countenance of the\nnoble and gallant marquis seemed to wear a more sad and melancholy\nexpression than it was wont to do, as it swung to and fro, creaking\nmournfully in the wind. The blinds were pulled down, and the shutters\npartly closed; of the knot of loungers that usually collected about the\ndoor, not one was to be seen; the place was silent and desolate.\n\nSeeing nobody of whom he could ask any preliminary questions, Sam walked\nsoftly in, and glancing round, he quickly recognised his parent in the\ndistance.\n\nThe widower was seated at a small round table in the little room behind\nthe bar, smoking a pipe, with his eyes intently fixed upon the fire.\nThe funeral had evidently taken place that day, for attached to his hat,\nwhich he still retained on his head, was a hatband measuring about a\nyard and a half in length, which hung over the top rail of the chair\nand streamed negligently down. Mr. Weller was in a very abstracted and\ncontemplative mood. Notwithstanding that Sam called him by name several\ntimes, he still continued to smoke with the same fixed and quiet\ncountenance, and was only roused ultimately by his son's placing the\npalm of his hand on his shoulder.\n\n'Sammy,' said Mr. Weller, 'you're welcome.'\n\n'I've been a-callin' to you half a dozen times,' said Sam, hanging his\nhat on a peg, 'but you didn't hear me.'\n\n'No, Sammy,' replied Mr. Weller, again looking thoughtfully at the fire.\n'I was in a referee, Sammy.'\n\n'Wot about?' inquired Sam, drawing his chair up to the fire.\n\n'In a referee, Sammy,' replied the elder Mr. Weller, 'regarding HER,\nSamivel.' Here Mr. Weller jerked his head in the direction of Dorking\nchurchyard, in mute explanation that his words referred to the late Mrs.\nWeller.\n\n'I wos a-thinkin', Sammy,' said Mr. Weller, eyeing his son, with\ngreat earnestness, over his pipe, as if to assure him that however\nextraordinary and incredible the declaration might appear, it was\nnevertheless calmly and deliberately uttered. 'I wos a-thinkin', Sammy,\nthat upon the whole I wos wery sorry she wos gone.'\n\n'Vell, and so you ought to be,' replied Sam.\n\nMr. Weller nodded his acquiescence in the sentiment, and again fastening\nhis eyes on the fire, shrouded himself in a cloud, and mused deeply.\n\n'Those wos wery sensible observations as she made, Sammy,' said Mr.\nWeller, driving the smoke away with his hand, after a long silence.\n\n'Wot observations?' inquired Sam.\n\n'Them as she made, arter she was took ill,' replied the old gentleman.\n'Wot was they?'\n\n'Somethin' to this here effect. \"Veller,\" she says, \"I'm afeered\nI've not done by you quite wot I ought to have done; you're a wery\nkind-hearted man, and I might ha' made your home more comfortabler.\nI begin to see now,\" she says, \"ven it's too late, that if a married\n'ooman vishes to be religious, she should begin vith dischargin' her\ndooties at home, and makin' them as is about her cheerful and happy,\nand that vile she goes to church, or chapel, or wot not, at all proper\ntimes, she should be wery careful not to con-wert this sort o' thing\ninto a excuse for idleness or self-indulgence. I have done this,\" she\nsays, \"and I've vasted time and substance on them as has done it more\nthan me; but I hope ven I'm gone, Veller, that you'll think on me as I\nwos afore I know'd them people, and as I raly wos by natur.\"\n\n'\"Susan,\" says I--I wos took up wery short by this, Samivel; I von't\ndeny it, my boy--\"Susan,\" I says, \"you've been a wery good vife to me,\naltogether; don't say nothin' at all about it; keep a good heart, my\ndear; and you'll live to see me punch that 'ere Stiggins's head yet.\"\nShe smiled at this, Samivel,' said the old gentleman, stifling a sigh\nwith his pipe, 'but she died arter all!'\n\n'Vell,' said Sam, venturing to offer a little homely consolation, after\nthe lapse of three or four minutes, consumed by the old gentleman in\nslowly shaking his head from side to side, and solemnly smoking, 'vell,\ngov'nor, ve must all come to it, one day or another.'\n\n'So we must, Sammy,' said Mr. Weller the elder.\n\n'There's a Providence in it all,' said Sam.\n\n'O' course there is,' replied his father, with a nod of grave approval.\n'Wot 'ud become of the undertakers vithout it, Sammy?'\n\nLost in the immense field of conjecture opened by this reflection, the\nelder Mr. Weller laid his pipe on the table, and stirred the fire with a\nmeditative visage.\n\nWhile the old gentleman was thus engaged, a very buxom-looking cook,\ndressed in mourning, who had been bustling about, in the bar, glided\ninto the room, and bestowing many smirks of recognition upon Sam,\nsilently stationed herself at the back of his father's chair, and\nannounced her presence by a slight cough, the which, being disregarded,\nwas followed by a louder one.\n\n'Hollo!' said the elder Mr. Weller, dropping the poker as he looked\nround, and hastily drew his chair away. 'Wot's the matter now?'\n\n'Have a cup of tea, there's a good soul,' replied the buxom female\ncoaxingly. 'I von't,' replied Mr. Weller, in a somewhat boisterous\nmanner. 'I'll see you--' Mr. Weller hastily checked himself, and added\nin a low tone, 'furder fust.'\n\n'Oh, dear, dear! How adwersity does change people!' said the lady,\nlooking upwards.\n\n'It's the only thing 'twixt this and the doctor as shall change my\ncondition,' muttered Mr. Weller.\n\n'I really never saw a man so cross,' said the buxom female.\n\n'Never mind. It's all for my own good; vich is the reflection vith vich\nthe penitent school-boy comforted his feelin's ven they flogged him,'\nrejoined the old gentleman.\n\nThe buxom female shook her head with a compassionate and sympathising\nair; and, appealing to Sam, inquired whether his father really ought\nnot to make an effort to keep up, and not give way to that lowness of\nspirits.\n\n'You see, Mr. Samuel,' said the buxom female, 'as I was telling him\nyesterday, he will feel lonely, he can't expect but what he should, sir,\nbut he should keep up a good heart, because, dear me, I'm sure we all\npity his loss, and are ready to do anything for him; and there's no\nsituation in life so bad, Mr. Samuel, that it can't be mended. Which\nis what a very worthy person said to me when my husband died.' Here the\nspeaker, putting her hand before her mouth, coughed again, and looked\naffectionately at the elder Mr. Weller.\n\n'As I don't rekvire any o' your conversation just now, mum, vill you\nhave the goodness to re-tire?' inquired Mr. Weller, in a grave and\nsteady voice.\n\n'Well, Mr. Weller,' said the buxom female, 'I'm sure I only spoke to you\nout of kindness.'\n\n'Wery likely, mum,' replied Mr. Weller. 'Samivel, show the lady out, and\nshut the door after her.'\n\nThis hint was not lost upon the buxom female; for she at once left the\nroom, and slammed the door behind her, upon which Mr. Weller, senior,\nfalling back in his chair in a violent perspiration, said--\n\n'Sammy, if I wos to stop here alone vun week--only vun week, my\nboy--that 'ere 'ooman 'ud marry me by force and wiolence afore it was\nover.'\n\n'Wot! is she so wery fond on you?' inquired Sam.\n\n'Fond!' replied his father. 'I can't keep her avay from me. If I was\nlocked up in a fireproof chest vith a patent Brahmin, she'd find means\nto get at me, Sammy.'\n\n'Wot a thing it is to be so sought arter!' observed Sam, smiling.\n\n'I don't take no pride out on it, Sammy,' replied Mr. Weller, poking the\nfire vehemently, 'it's a horrid sitiwation. I'm actiwally drove out\no' house and home by it. The breath was scarcely out o' your poor\nmother-in-law's body, ven vun old 'ooman sends me a pot o' jam, and\nanother a pot o' jelly, and another brews a blessed large jug o'\ncamomile-tea, vich she brings in vith her own hands.' Mr. Weller\npaused with an aspect of intense disgust, and looking round, added in\na whisper, 'They wos all widders, Sammy, all on 'em, 'cept the\ncamomile-tea vun, as wos a single young lady o' fifty-three.'\n\nSam gave a comical look in reply, and the old gentleman having broken\nan obstinate lump of coal, with a countenance expressive of as much\nearnestness and malice as if it had been the head of one of the widows\nlast-mentioned, said:\n\n'In short, Sammy, I feel that I ain't safe anyveres but on the box.'\n\n'How are you safer there than anyveres else?' interrupted Sam.\n\n''Cos a coachman's a privileged indiwidual,' replied Mr. Weller, looking\nfixedly at his son. ''Cos a coachman may do vithout suspicion wot other\nmen may not; 'cos a coachman may be on the wery amicablest terms with\neighty mile o' females, and yet nobody think that he ever means to marry\nany vun among 'em. And wot other man can say the same, Sammy?'\n\n'Vell, there's somethin' in that,' said Sam.\n\n'If your gov'nor had been a coachman,' reasoned Mr. Weller, 'do you\ns'pose as that 'ere jury 'ud ever ha' conwicted him, s'posin' it\npossible as the matter could ha' gone to that extremity? They dustn't\nha' done it.'\n\n'Wy not?' said Sam, rather disparagingly.\n\n'Wy not!' rejoined Mr. Weller; ''cos it 'ud ha' gone agin their\nconsciences. A reg'lar coachman's a sort o' con-nectin' link betwixt\nsingleness and matrimony, and every practicable man knows it.'\n\n'Wot! You mean, they're gen'ral favorites, and nobody takes adwantage on\n'em, p'raps?' said Sam.\n\nHis father nodded.\n\n'How it ever come to that 'ere pass,' resumed the parent Weller, 'I\ncan't say. Wy it is that long-stage coachmen possess such insiniwations,\nand is alvays looked up to--a-dored I may say--by ev'ry young 'ooman in\nev'ry town he vurks through, I don't know. I only know that so it is.\nIt's a regulation of natur--a dispensary, as your poor mother-in-law\nused to say.'\n\n'A dispensation,' said Sam, correcting the old gentleman.\n\n'Wery good, Samivel, a dispensation if you like it better,' returned\nMr. Weller; 'I call it a dispensary, and it's always writ up so, at\nthe places vere they gives you physic for nothin' in your own bottles;\nthat's all.'\n\nWith these words, Mr. Weller refilled and relighted his pipe, and once\nmore summoning up a meditative expression of countenance, continued as\nfollows--\n\n'Therefore, my boy, as I do not see the adwisability o' stoppin here\nto be married vether I vant to or not, and as at the same time I do\nnot vish to separate myself from them interestin' members o' society\naltogether, I have come to the determination o' driving the Safety,\nand puttin' up vunce more at the Bell Savage, vich is my nat'ral born\nelement, Sammy.'\n\n'And wot's to become o' the bis'ness?' inquired Sam.\n\n'The bis'ness, Samivel,' replied the old gentleman, 'good-vill, stock,\nand fixters, vill be sold by private contract; and out o' the money, two\nhundred pound, agreeable to a rekvest o' your mother-in-law's to me,\na little afore she died, vill be invested in your name in--What do you\ncall them things agin?'\n\n'Wot things?' inquired Sam.\n\n'Them things as is always a-goin' up and down, in the city.'\n\n'Omnibuses?' suggested Sam.\n\n'Nonsense,' replied Mr. Weller. 'Them things as is alvays\na-fluctooatin', and gettin' theirselves inwolved somehow or another vith\nthe national debt, and the chequers bill; and all that.'\n\n'Oh! the funds,' said Sam.\n\n'Ah!' rejoined Mr. Weller, 'the funs; two hundred pounds o' the money is\nto be inwested for you, Samivel, in the funs; four and a half per cent.\nreduced counsels, Sammy.'\n\n'Wery kind o' the old lady to think o' me,' said Sam, 'and I'm wery much\nobliged to her.'\n\n'The rest will be inwested in my name,' continued the elder Mr. Weller;\n'and wen I'm took off the road, it'll come to you, so take care you\ndon't spend it all at vunst, my boy, and mind that no widder gets a\ninklin' o' your fortun', or you're done.'\n\nHaving delivered this warning, Mr. Weller resumed his pipe with a more\nserene countenance; the disclosure of these matters appearing to have\neased his mind considerably.\n\n'Somebody's a-tappin' at the door,' said Sam.\n\n'Let 'em tap,' replied his father, with dignity.\n\nSam acted upon the direction. There was another tap, and another, and\nthen a long row of taps; upon which Sam inquired why the tapper was not\nadmitted.\n\n'Hush,' whispered Mr. Weller, with apprehensive looks, 'don't take no\nnotice on 'em, Sammy, it's vun o' the widders, p'raps.'\n\nNo notice being taken of the taps, the unseen visitor, after a short\nlapse, ventured to open the door and peep in. It was no female head that\nwas thrust in at the partially-opened door, but the long black locks and\nred face of Mr. Stiggins. Mr. Weller's pipe fell from his hands.\n\nThe reverend gentleman gradually opened the door by almost imperceptible\ndegrees, until the aperture was just wide enough to admit of the passage\nof his lank body, when he glided into the room and closed it after him,\nwith great care and gentleness. Turning towards Sam, and raising his\nhands and eyes in token of the unspeakable sorrow with which he regarded\nthe calamity that had befallen the family, he carried the high-backed\nchair to his old corner by the fire, and, seating himself on the very\nedge, drew forth a brown pocket-handkerchief, and applied the same to\nhis optics.\n\nWhile this was going forward, the elder Mr. Weller sat back in his\nchair, with his eyes wide open, his hands planted on his knees, and his\nwhole countenance expressive of absorbing and overwhelming astonishment.\nSam sat opposite him in perfect silence, waiting, with eager curiosity,\nfor the termination of the scene.\n\nMr. Stiggins kept the brown pocket-handkerchief before his eyes for some\nminutes, moaning decently meanwhile, and then, mastering his feelings by\na strong effort, put it in his pocket and buttoned it up. After this, he\nstirred the fire; after that, he rubbed his hands and looked at Sam.\n\n'Oh, my young friend,' said Mr. Stiggins, breaking the silence, in a\nvery low voice, 'here's a sorrowful affliction!'\n\nSam nodded very slightly.\n\n'For the man of wrath, too!' added Mr. Stiggins; 'it makes a vessel's\nheart bleed!' Mr. Weller was overheard by his son to murmur something\nrelative to making a vessel's nose bleed; but Mr. Stiggins heard him\nnot. 'Do you know, young man,' whispered Mr. Stiggins, drawing his chair\ncloser to Sam, 'whether she has left Emanuel anything?'\n\n'Who's he?' inquired Sam.\n\n'The chapel,' replied Mr. Stiggins; 'our chapel; our fold, Mr. Samuel.'\n\n'She hasn't left the fold nothin', nor the shepherd nothin', nor the\nanimals nothin',' said Sam decisively; 'nor the dogs neither.'\n\nMr. Stiggins looked slily at Sam; glanced at the old gentleman, who was\nsitting with his eyes closed, as if asleep; and drawing his chair still\nnearer, said--\n\n'Nothing for ME, Mr. Samuel?'\n\nSam shook his head.\n\n'I think there's something,' said Stiggins, turning as pale as he could\nturn. 'Consider, Mr. Samuel; no little token?'\n\n'Not so much as the vorth o' that 'ere old umberella o' yourn,' replied\nSam.\n\n'Perhaps,' said Mr. Stiggins hesitatingly, after a few moments' deep\nthought, 'perhaps she recommended me to the care of the man of wrath,\nMr. Samuel?'\n\n'I think that's wery likely, from what he said,' rejoined Sam; 'he wos\na-speakin' about you, jist now.'\n\n'Was he, though?' exclaimed Stiggins, brightening up. 'Ah! He's changed,\nI dare say. We might live very comfortably together now, Mr. Samuel,\neh? I could take care of his property when you are away--good care, you\nsee.'\n\nHeaving a long-drawn sigh, Mr. Stiggins paused for a response.\n\nSam nodded, and Mr. Weller the elder gave vent to an extraordinary\nsound, which, being neither a groan, nor a grunt, nor a gasp, nor a\ngrowl, seemed to partake in some degree of the character of all four.\n\nMr. Stiggins, encouraged by this sound, which he understood to betoken\nremorse or repentance, looked about him, rubbed his hands, wept,\nsmiled, wept again, and then, walking softly across the room to a\nwell-remembered shelf in one corner, took down a tumbler, and with great\ndeliberation put four lumps of sugar in it. Having got thus far, he\nlooked about him again, and sighed grievously; with that, he walked\nsoftly into the bar, and presently returning with the tumbler half full\nof pine-apple rum, advanced to the kettle which was singing gaily on the\nhob, mixed his grog, stirred it, sipped it, sat down, and taking a long\nand hearty pull at the rum-and-water, stopped for breath.\n\nThe elder Mr. Weller, who still continued to make various strange and\nuncouth attempts to appear asleep, offered not a single word during\nthese proceedings; but when Stiggins stopped for breath, he darted upon\nhim, and snatching the tumbler from his hand, threw the remainder of the\nrum-and-water in his face, and the glass itself into the grate. Then,\nseizing the reverend gentleman firmly by the collar, he suddenly fell\nto kicking him most furiously, accompanying every application of his\ntop-boot to Mr. Stiggins's person, with sundry violent and incoherent\nanathemas upon his limbs, eyes, and body.\n\n'Sammy,' said Mr. Weller, 'put my hat on tight for me.'\n\nSam dutifully adjusted the hat with the long hatband more firmly on his\nfather's head, and the old gentleman, resuming his kicking with greater\nagility than before, tumbled with Mr. Stiggins through the bar, and\nthrough the passage, out at the front door, and so into the street--the\nkicking continuing the whole way, and increasing in vehemence, rather\nthan diminishing, every time the top-boot was lifted.\n\nIt was a beautiful and exhilarating sight to see the red-nosed man\nwrithing in Mr. Weller's grasp, and his whole frame quivering with\nanguish as kick followed kick in rapid succession; it was a still more\nexciting spectacle to behold Mr. Weller, after a powerful struggle,\nimmersing Mr. Stiggins's head in a horse-trough full of water, and\nholding it there, until he was half suffocated.\n\n'There!' said Mr. Weller, throwing all his energy into one most\ncomplicated kick, as he at length permitted Mr. Stiggins to withdraw\nhis head from the trough, 'send any vun o' them lazy shepherds here, and\nI'll pound him to a jelly first, and drownd him artervards! Sammy, help\nme in, and fill me a small glass of brandy. I'm out o' breath, my boy.'\n\n\n\nCHAPTER LIII. COMPRISING THE FINAL EXIT OF Mr. JINGLE AND JOB TROTTER,\nWITH A GREAT MORNING OF BUSINESS IN GRAY'S INN SQUARE--CONCLUDING WITH A\nDOUBLE KNOCK AT Mr. PERKER'S DOOR\n\n\nWhen Arabella, after some gentle preparation and many assurances that\nthere was not the least occasion for being low-spirited, was at length\nmade acquainted by Mr. Pickwick with the unsatisfactory result of his\nvisit to Birmingham, she burst into tears, and sobbing aloud, lamented\nin moving terms that she should have been the unhappy cause of any\nestrangement between a father and his son.\n\n'My dear girl,' said Mr. Pickwick kindly, 'it is no fault of yours. It\nwas impossible to foresee that the old gentleman would be so strongly\nprepossessed against his son's marriage, you know. I am sure,' added Mr.\nPickwick, glancing at her pretty face, 'he can have very little idea of\nthe pleasure he denies himself.'\n\n'Oh, my dear Mr. Pickwick,' said Arabella, 'what shall we do, if he\ncontinues to be angry with us?'\n\n'Why, wait patiently, my dear, until he thinks better of it,' replied\nMr. Pickwick cheerfully.\n\n'But, dear Mr. Pickwick, what is to become of Nathaniel if his father\nwithdraws his assistance?' urged Arabella.\n\n'In that case, my love,' rejoined Mr. Pickwick, 'I will venture to\nprophesy that he will find some other friend who will not be backward in\nhelping him to start in the world.'\n\nThe significance of this reply was not so well disguised by Mr. Pickwick\nbut that Arabella understood it. So, throwing her arms round his neck,\nand kissing him affectionately, she sobbed louder than before.\n\n'Come, come,' said Mr. Pickwick taking her hand, 'we will wait here a\nfew days longer, and see whether he writes or takes any other notice\nof your husband's communication. If not, I have thought of half a dozen\nplans, any one of which would make you happy at once. There, my dear,\nthere!'\n\nWith these words, Mr. Pickwick gently pressed Arabella's hand, and bade\nher dry her eyes, and not distress her husband. Upon which, Arabella,\nwho was one of the best little creatures alive, put her handkerchief in\nher reticule, and by the time Mr. Winkle joined them, exhibited in full\nlustre the same beaming smiles and sparkling eyes that had originally\ncaptivated him.\n\n'This is a distressing predicament for these young people,' thought Mr.\nPickwick, as he dressed himself next morning. 'I'll walk up to Perker's,\nand consult him about the matter.'\n\nAs Mr. Pickwick was further prompted to betake himself to Gray's Inn\nSquare by an anxious desire to come to a pecuniary settlement with the\nkind-hearted little attorney without further delay, he made a hurried\nbreakfast, and executed his intention so speedily, that ten o'clock had\nnot struck when he reached Gray's Inn.\n\nIt still wanted ten minutes to the hour when he had ascended the\nstaircase on which Perker's chambers were. The clerks had not arrived\nyet, and he beguiled the time by looking out of the staircase window.\nThe healthy light of a fine October morning made even the dingy old\nhouses brighten up a little; some of the dusty windows actually looking\nalmost cheerful as the sun's rays gleamed upon them. Clerk after clerk\nhastened into the square by one or other of the entrances, and looking\nup at the Hall clock, accelerated or decreased his rate of walking\naccording to the time at which his office hours nominally commenced; the\nhalf-past nine o'clock people suddenly becoming very brisk, and the ten\no'clock gentlemen falling into a pace of most aristocratic slowness. The\nclock struck ten, and clerks poured in faster than ever, each one in a\ngreater perspiration than his predecessor. The noise of unlocking and\nopening doors echoed and re-echoed on every side; heads appeared as if\nby magic in every window; the porters took up their stations for the\nday; the slipshod laundresses hurried off; the postman ran from house to\nhouse; and the whole legal hive was in a bustle.\n\n'You're early, Mr. Pickwick,' said a voice behind him.\n\n'Ah, Mr. Lowten,' replied that gentleman, looking round, and recognising\nhis old acquaintance.\n\n'Precious warm walking, isn't it?' said Lowten, drawing a Bramah key\nfrom his pocket, with a small plug therein, to keep the dust out.\n\n'You appear to feel it so,' rejoined Mr. Pickwick, smiling at the clerk,\nwho was literally red-hot.\n\n'I've come along, rather, I can tell you,' replied Lowten. 'It went the\nhalf hour as I came through the Polygon. I'm here before him, though, so\nI don't mind.'\n\nComforting himself with this reflection, Mr. Lowten extracted the plug\nfrom the door-key; having opened the door, replugged and repocketed his\nBramah, and picked up the letters which the postman had dropped through\nthe box, he ushered Mr. Pickwick into the office. Here, in the twinkling\nof an eye, he divested himself of his coat, put on a threadbare garment,\nwhich he took out of a desk, hung up his hat, pulled forth a few sheets\nof cartridge and blotting-paper in alternate layers, and, sticking a pen\nbehind his ear, rubbed his hands with an air of great satisfaction.\n\n'There, you see, Mr. Pickwick,' he said, 'now I'm complete. I've got my\noffice coat on, and my pad out, and let him come as soon as he likes.\nYou haven't got a pinch of snuff about you, have you?'\n\n'No, I have not,' replied Mr. Pickwick.\n\n'I'm sorry for it,' said Lowten. 'Never mind. I'll run out presently,\nand get a bottle of soda. Don't I look rather queer about the eyes, Mr.\nPickwick?'\n\nThe individual appealed to, surveyed Mr. Lowten's eyes from a distance,\nand expressed his opinion that no unusual queerness was perceptible in\nthose features.\n\n'I'm glad of it,' said Lowten. 'We were keeping it up pretty tolerably\nat the Stump last night, and I'm rather out of sorts this morning.\nPerker's been about that business of yours, by the bye.'\n\n'What business?' inquired Mr. Pickwick. 'Mrs. Bardell's costs?'\n\n'No, I don't mean that,' replied Mr. Lowten. 'About getting\nthat customer that we paid the ten shillings in the pound to the\nbill-discounter for, on your account--to get him out of the Fleet, you\nknow--about getting him to Demerara.'\n\n'Oh, Mr. Jingle,' said Mr. Pickwick hastily. 'Yes. Well?'\n\n'Well, it's all arranged,' said Lowten, mending his pen. 'The agent at\nLiverpool said he had been obliged to you many times when you were in\nbusiness, and he would be glad to take him on your recommendation.'\n\n'That's well,' said Mr. Pickwick. 'I am delighted to hear it.'\n\n'But I say,' resumed Lowten, scraping the back of the pen preparatory to\nmaking a fresh split, 'what a soft chap that other is!'\n\n'Which other?'\n\n'Why, that servant, or friend, or whatever he is; you know, Trotter.'\n\n'Ah!' said Mr. Pickwick, with a smile. 'I always thought him the\nreverse.'\n\n'Well, and so did I, from what little I saw of him,' replied Lowten, 'it\nonly shows how one may be deceived. What do you think of his going to\nDemerara, too?'\n\n'What! And giving up what was offered him here!' exclaimed Mr. Pickwick.\n\n'Treating Perker's offer of eighteen bob a week, and a rise if he\nbehaved himself, like dirt,' replied Lowten. 'He said he must go along\nwith the other one, and so they persuaded Perker to write again, and\nthey've got him something on the same estate; not near so good, Perker\nsays, as a convict would get in New South Wales, if he appeared at his\ntrial in a new suit of clothes.'\n\n'Foolish fellow,' said Mr. Pickwick, with glistening eyes. 'Foolish\nfellow.'\n\n'Oh, it's worse than foolish; it's downright sneaking, you know,'\nreplied Lowten, nibbing the pen with a contemptuous face. 'He says that\nhe's the only friend he ever had, and he's attached to him, and all\nthat. Friendship's a very good thing in its way--we are all very\nfriendly and comfortable at the Stump, for instance, over our grog,\nwhere every man pays for himself; but damn hurting yourself for anybody\nelse, you know! No man should have more than two attachments--the first,\nto number one, and the second to the ladies; that's what I say--ha! ha!'\nMr. Lowten concluded with a loud laugh, half in jocularity, and half\nin derision, which was prematurely cut short by the sound of Perker's\nfootsteps on the stairs, at the first approach of which, he vaulted on\nhis stool with an agility most remarkable, and wrote intensely.\n\nThe greeting between Mr. Pickwick and his professional adviser was\nwarm and cordial; the client was scarcely ensconced in the attorney's\narm-chair, however, when a knock was heard at the door, and a voice\ninquired whether Mr. Perker was within.\n\n'Hark!' said Perker, 'that's one of our vagabond friends--Jingle\nhimself, my dear Sir. Will you see him?'\n\n'What do you think?' inquired Mr. Pickwick, hesitating.\n\n'Yes, I think you had better. Here, you Sir, what's your name, walk in,\nwill you?'\n\nIn compliance with this unceremonious invitation, Jingle and Job\nwalked into the room, but, seeing Mr. Pickwick, stopped short in some\nconfusion. 'Well,' said Perker, 'don't you know that gentleman?'\n\n'Good reason to,' replied Mr. Jingle, stepping forward. 'Mr.\nPickwick--deepest obligations--life preserver--made a man of me--you\nshall never repent it, Sir.'\n\n'I am happy to hear you say so,' said Mr. Pickwick. 'You look much\nbetter.'\n\n'Thanks to you, sir--great change--Majesty's Fleet--unwholesome\nplace--very,' said Jingle, shaking his head. He was decently and cleanly\ndressed, and so was Job, who stood bolt upright behind him, staring at\nMr. Pickwick with a visage of iron.\n\n'When do they go to Liverpool?' inquired Mr. Pickwick, half aside to\nPerker.\n\n'This evening, Sir, at seven o'clock,' said Job, taking one step\nforward. 'By the heavy coach from the city, Sir.'\n\n'Are your places taken?'\n\n'They are, sir,' replied Job.\n\n'You have fully made up your mind to go?'\n\n'I have sir,' answered Job.\n\n'With regard to such an outfit as was indispensable for Jingle,' said\nPerker, addressing Mr. Pickwick aloud. 'I have taken upon myself to\nmake an arrangement for the deduction of a small sum from his quarterly\nsalary, which, being made only for one year, and regularly remitted,\nwill provide for that expense. I entirely disapprove of your doing\nanything for him, my dear sir, which is not dependent on his own\nexertions and good conduct.'\n\n'Certainly,' interposed Jingle, with great firmness. 'Clear head--man of\nthe world--quite right--perfectly.'\n\n'By compounding with his creditor, releasing his clothes from the\npawnbroker's, relieving him in prison, and paying for his passage,'\ncontinued Perker, without noticing Jingle's observation, 'you have\nalready lost upwards of fifty pounds.'\n\n'Not lost,' said Jingle hastily, 'Pay it all--stick to business--cash\nup--every farthing. Yellow fever, perhaps--can't help that--if not--'\nHere Mr. Jingle paused, and striking the crown of his hat with great\nviolence, passed his hand over his eyes, and sat down.\n\n'He means to say,' said Job, advancing a few paces, 'that if he is not\ncarried off by the fever, he will pay the money back again. If he lives,\nhe will, Mr. Pickwick. I will see it done. I know he will, Sir,' said\nJob, with energy. 'I could undertake to swear it.'\n\n'Well, well,' said Mr. Pickwick, who had been bestowing a score or two\nof frowns upon Perker, to stop his summary of benefits conferred, which\nthe little attorney obstinately disregarded, 'you must be careful not\nto play any more desperate cricket matches, Mr. Jingle, or to renew\nyour acquaintance with Sir Thomas Blazo, and I have little doubt of your\npreserving your health.'\n\nMr. Jingle smiled at this sally, but looked rather foolish\nnotwithstanding; so Mr. Pickwick changed the subject by saying--\n\n'You don't happen to know, do you, what has become of another friend of\nyours--a more humble one, whom I saw at Rochester?'\n\n'Dismal Jemmy?' inquired Jingle.\n\n'Yes.'\n\nJingle shook his head.\n\n'Clever rascal--queer fellow, hoaxing genius--Job's brother.'\n\n'Job's brother!' exclaimed Mr. Pickwick. 'Well, now I look at him\nclosely, there IS a likeness.'\n\n'We were always considered like each other, Sir,' said Job, with a\ncunning look just lurking in the corners of his eyes, 'only I was really\nof a serious nature, and he never was. He emigrated to America, Sir, in\nconsequence of being too much sought after here, to be comfortable; and\nhas never been heard of since.'\n\n'That accounts for my not having received the \"page from the romance\nof real life,\" which he promised me one morning when he appeared to\nbe contemplating suicide on Rochester Bridge, I suppose,' said Mr.\nPickwick, smiling. 'I need not inquire whether his dismal behaviour was\nnatural or assumed.'\n\n'He could assume anything, Sir,' said Job. 'You may consider yourself\nvery fortunate in having escaped him so easily. On intimate terms he\nwould have been even a more dangerous acquaintance than--' Job looked at\nJingle, hesitated, and finally added, 'than--than-myself even.'\n\n'A hopeful family yours, Mr. Trotter,' said Perker, sealing a letter\nwhich he had just finished writing.\n\n'Yes, Sir,' replied Job. 'Very much so.'\n\n'Well,' said the little man, laughing, 'I hope you are going to disgrace\nit. Deliver this letter to the agent when you reach Liverpool, and let\nme advise you, gentlemen, not to be too knowing in the West Indies. If\nyou throw away this chance, you will both richly deserve to be hanged,\nas I sincerely trust you will be. And now you had better leave Mr.\nPickwick and me alone, for we have other matters to talk over, and time\nis precious.' As Perker said this, he looked towards the door, with an\nevident desire to render the leave-taking as brief as possible.\n\nIt was brief enough on Mr. Jingle's part. He thanked the little attorney\nin a few hurried words for the kindness and promptitude with which he\nhad rendered his assistance, and, turning to his benefactor, stood for\na few seconds as if irresolute what to say or how to act. Job Trotter\nrelieved his perplexity; for, with a humble and grateful bow to Mr.\nPickwick, he took his friend gently by the arm, and led him away.\n\n'A worthy couple!' said Perker, as the door closed behind them.\n\n'I hope they may become so,' replied Mr. Pickwick. 'What do you think?\nIs there any chance of their permanent reformation?'\n\nPerker shrugged his shoulders doubtfully, but observing Mr. Pickwick's\nanxious and disappointed look, rejoined--\n\n'Of course there is a chance. I hope it may prove a good one. They\nare unquestionably penitent now; but then, you know, they have the\nrecollection of very recent suffering fresh upon them. What they may\nbecome, when that fades away, is a problem that neither you nor I can\nsolve. However, my dear Sir,' added Perker, laying his hand on Mr.\nPickwick's shoulder, 'your object is equally honourable, whatever the\nresult is. Whether that species of benevolence which is so very cautious\nand long-sighted that it is seldom exercised at all, lest its owner\nshould be imposed upon, and so wounded in his self-love, be real charity\nor a worldly counterfeit, I leave to wiser heads than mine to determine.\nBut if those two fellows were to commit a burglary to-morrow, my opinion\nof this action would be equally high.'\n\nWith these remarks, which were delivered in a much more animated and\nearnest manner than is usual in legal gentlemen, Perker drew his chair\nto his desk, and listened to Mr. Pickwick's recital of old Mr. Winkle's\nobstinacy.\n\n'Give him a week,' said Perker, nodding his head prophetically.\n\n'Do you think he will come round?' inquired Mr. Pickwick.\n\n'I think he will,' rejoined Perker. 'If not, we must try the young\nlady's persuasion; and that is what anybody but you would have done at\nfirst.'\n\nMr. Perker was taking a pinch of snuff with various grotesque\ncontractions of countenance, eulogistic of the persuasive powers\nappertaining unto young ladies, when the murmur of inquiry and answer\nwas heard in the outer office, and Lowten tapped at the door.\n\n'Come in!' cried the little man.\n\nThe clerk came in, and shut the door after him, with great mystery.\n\n'What's the matter?' inquired Perker.\n\n'You're wanted, Sir.'\n\n'Who wants me?'\n\nLowten looked at Mr. Pickwick, and coughed.\n\n'Who wants me? Can't you speak, Mr. Lowten?'\n\n'Why, sir,' replied Lowten, 'it's Dodson; and Fogg is with him.'\n\n'Bless my life!' said the little man, looking at his watch, 'I appointed\nthem to be here at half-past eleven, to settle that matter of yours,\nPickwick. I gave them an undertaking on which they sent down your\ndischarge; it's very awkward, my dear Sir; what will you do? Would you\nlike to step into the next room?'\n\nThe next room being the identical room in which Messrs. Dodson & Fogg\nwere, Mr. Pickwick replied that he would remain where he was: the more\nespecially as Messrs. Dodson & Fogg ought to be ashamed to look him\nin the face, instead of his being ashamed to see them. Which latter\ncircumstance he begged Mr. Perker to note, with a glowing countenance\nand many marks of indignation.\n\n'Very well, my dear Sir, very well,' replied Perker, 'I can only say\nthat if you expect either Dodson or Fogg to exhibit any symptom of shame\nor confusion at having to look you, or anybody else, in the face, you\nare the most sanguine man in your expectations that I ever met with.\nShow them in, Mr. Lowten.'\n\nMr. Lowten disappeared with a grin, and immediately returned ushering in\nthe firm, in due form of precedence--Dodson first, and Fogg afterwards.\n\n'You have seen Mr. Pickwick, I believe?' said Perker to Dodson,\ninclining his pen in the direction where that gentleman was seated.\n\n'How do you do, Mr. Pickwick?' said Dodson, in a loud voice.\n\n'Dear me,'cried Fogg, 'how do you do, Mr. Pickwick? I hope you are well,\nSir. I thought I knew the face,' said Fogg, drawing up a chair, and\nlooking round him with a smile.\n\nMr. Pickwick bent his head very slightly, in answer to these\nsalutations, and, seeing Fogg pull a bundle of papers from his coat\npocket, rose and walked to the window.\n\n'There's no occasion for Mr. Pickwick to move, Mr. Perker,' said Fogg,\nuntying the red tape which encircled the little bundle, and smiling\nagain more sweetly than before. 'Mr. Pickwick is pretty well acquainted\nwith these proceedings. There are no secrets between us, I think. He!\nhe! he!'\n\n'Not many, I think,' said Dodson. 'Ha! ha! ha!' Then both the partners\nlaughed together--pleasantly and cheerfully, as men who are going to\nreceive money often do.\n\n'We shall make Mr. Pickwick pay for peeping,' said Fogg, with\nconsiderable native humour, as he unfolded his papers. 'The amount of\nthe taxed costs is one hundred and thirty-three, six, four, Mr. Perker.'\n\nThere was a great comparing of papers, and turning over of leaves, by\nFogg and Perker, after this statement of profit and loss. Meanwhile,\nDodson said, in an affable manner, to Mr. Pickwick--\n\n'I don't think you are looking quite so stout as when I had the pleasure\nof seeing you last, Mr. Pickwick.'\n\n'Possibly not, Sir,' replied Mr. Pickwick, who had been flashing forth\nlooks of fierce indignation, without producing the smallest effect on\neither of the sharp practitioners; 'I believe I am not, Sir. I have\nbeen persecuted and annoyed by scoundrels of late, Sir.' Perker coughed\nviolently, and asked Mr. Pickwick whether he wouldn't like to look at\nthe morning paper. To which inquiry Mr. Pickwick returned a most decided\nnegative.\n\n'True,' said Dodson, 'I dare say you have been annoyed in the Fleet;\nthere are some odd gentry there. Whereabouts were your apartments, Mr.\nPickwick?'\n\n'My one room,' replied that much-injured gentleman, 'was on the\ncoffee-room flight.'\n\n'Oh, indeed!' said Dodson. 'I believe that is a very pleasant part of\nthe establishment.'\n\n'Very,'replied Mr. Pickwick drily.\n\nThere was a coolness about all this, which, to a gentleman of an\nexcitable temperament, had, under the circumstances, rather an\nexasperating tendency. Mr. Pickwick restrained his wrath by gigantic\nefforts; but when Perker wrote a cheque for the whole amount, and Fogg\ndeposited it in a small pocket-book, with a triumphant smile playing\nover his pimply features, which communicated itself likewise to the\nstern countenance of Dodson, he felt the blood in his cheeks tingling\nwith indignation.\n\n'Now, Mr. Dodson,' said Fogg, putting up the pocket-book and drawing on\nhis gloves, 'I am at your service.'\n\n'Very good,' said Dodson, rising; 'I am quite ready.'\n\n'I am very happy,' said Fogg, softened by the cheque, 'to have had the\npleasure of making Mr. Pickwick's acquaintance. I hope you don't think\nquite so ill of us, Mr. Pickwick, as when we first had the pleasure of\nseeing you.'\n\n'I hope not,' said Dodson, with the high tone of calumniated virtue.\n'Mr. Pickwick now knows us better, I trust; whatever your opinion of\ngentlemen of our profession may be, I beg to assure you, sir, that I\nbear no ill-will or vindictive feeling towards you for the sentiments\nyou thought proper to express in our office in Freeman's Court,\nCornhill, on the occasion to which my partner has referred.'\n\n'Oh, no, no; nor I,' said Fogg, in a most forgiving manner.\n\n'Our conduct, Sir,' said Dodson, 'will speak for itself, and justify\nitself, I hope, upon every occasion. We have been in the profession some\nyears, Mr. Pickwick, and have been honoured with the confidence of many\nexcellent clients. I wish you good-morning, Sir.'\n\n'Good-morning, Mr. Pickwick,' said Fogg. So saying, he put his umbrella\nunder his arm, drew off his right glove, and extended the hand of\nreconciliation to that most indignant gentleman; who, thereupon, thrust\nhis hands beneath his coat tails, and eyed the attorney with looks of\nscornful amazement.\n\n'Lowten!' cried Perker, at this moment. 'Open the door.'\n\n'Wait one instant,' said Mr. Pickwick. 'Perker, I WILL speak.'\n\n'My dear Sir, pray let the matter rest where it is,' said the little\nattorney, who had been in a state of nervous apprehension during the\nwhole interview; 'Mr. Pickwick, I beg--'\n\n'I will not be put down, Sir,' replied Mr. Pickwick hastily. 'Mr.\nDodson, you have addressed some remarks to me.'\n\nDodson turned round, bent his head meekly, and smiled.\n\n'Some remarks to me,' repeated Mr. Pickwick, almost breathless; 'and\nyour partner has tendered me his hand, and you have both assumed a tone\nof forgiveness and high-mindedness, which is an extent of impudence that\nI was not prepared for, even in you.'\n\n'What, sir!' exclaimed Dodson.\n\n'What, sir!' reiterated Fogg.\n\n'Do you know that I have been the victim of your plots and\nconspiracies?' continued Mr. Pickwick. 'Do you know that I am the man\nwhom you have been imprisoning and robbing? Do you know that you were\nthe attorneys for the plaintiff, in Bardell and Pickwick?'\n\n'Yes, sir, we do know it,' replied Dodson.\n\n'Of course we know it, Sir,' rejoined Fogg, slapping his pocket--perhaps\nby accident.\n\n'I see that you recollect it with satisfaction,' said Mr. Pickwick,\nattempting to call up a sneer for the first time in his life, and\nfailing most signally in so doing. 'Although I have long been anxious to\ntell you, in plain terms, what my opinion of you is, I should have let\neven this opportunity pass, in deference to my friend Perker's wishes,\nbut for the unwarrantable tone you have assumed, and your insolent\nfamiliarity. I say insolent familiarity, sir,' said Mr. Pickwick,\nturning upon Fogg with a fierceness of gesture which caused that person\nto retreat towards the door with great expedition.\n\n'Take care, Sir,' said Dodson, who, though he was the biggest man of the\nparty, had prudently entrenched himself behind Fogg, and was speaking\nover his head with a very pale face. 'Let him assault you, Mr. Fogg;\ndon't return it on any account.'\n\n'No, no, I won't return it,' said Fogg, falling back a little more as\nhe spoke; to the evident relief of his partner, who by these means was\ngradually getting into the outer office.\n\n'You are,' continued Mr. Pickwick, resuming the thread of his\ndiscourse--'you are a well-matched pair of mean, rascally, pettifogging\nrobbers.'\n\n'Well,' interposed Perker, 'is that all?'\n\n'It is all summed up in that,' rejoined Mr. Pickwick; 'they are mean,\nrascally, pettifogging robbers.'\n\n'There!' said Perker, in a most conciliatory tone. 'My dear sirs, he has\nsaid all he has to say. Now pray go. Lowten, is that door open?'\n\nMr. Lowten, with a distant giggle, replied in the affirmative.\n\n'There, there--good-morning--good-morning--now pray, my dear sirs--Mr.\nLowten, the door!' cried the little man, pushing Dodson & Fogg, nothing\nloath, out of the office; 'this way, my dear sirs--now pray don't\nprolong this--Dear me--Mr. Lowten--the door, sir--why don't you attend?'\n\n'If there's law in England, sir,' said Dodson, looking towards Mr.\nPickwick, as he put on his hat, 'you shall smart for this.'\n\n'You are a couple of mean--'\n\n'Remember, sir, you pay dearly for this,' said Fogg.\n\n'--Rascally, pettifogging robbers!' continued Mr. Pickwick, taking not\nthe least notice of the threats that were addressed to him.\n\n'Robbers!' cried Mr. Pickwick, running to the stair-head, as the two\nattorneys descended.\n\n'Robbers!' shouted Mr. Pickwick, breaking from Lowten and Perker, and\nthrusting his head out of the staircase window.\n\nWhen Mr. Pickwick drew in his head again, his countenance was smiling\nand placid; and, walking quietly back into the office, he declared\nthat he had now removed a great weight from his mind, and that he felt\nperfectly comfortable and happy.\n\nPerker said nothing at all until he had emptied his snuff-box, and sent\nLowten out to fill it, when he was seized with a fit of laughing, which\nlasted five minutes; at the expiration of which time he said that\nhe supposed he ought to be very angry, but he couldn't think of the\nbusiness seriously yet--when he could, he would be.\n\n'Well, now,' said Mr. Pickwick, 'let me have a settlement with you.' 'Of\nthe same kind as the last?' inquired Perker, with another laugh. 'Not\nexactly,' rejoined Mr. Pickwick, drawing out his pocket-book, and\nshaking the little man heartily by the hand, 'I only mean a pecuniary\nsettlement. You have done me many acts of kindness that I can\nnever repay, and have no wish to repay, for I prefer continuing the\nobligation.'\n\nWith this preface, the two friends dived into some very complicated\naccounts and vouchers, which, having been duly displayed and gone\nthrough by Perker, were at once discharged by Mr. Pickwick with many\nprofessions of esteem and friendship.\n\nThey had no sooner arrived at this point, than a most violent and\nstartling knocking was heard at the door; it was not an ordinary\ndouble-knock, but a constant and uninterrupted succession of the loudest\nsingle raps, as if the knocker were endowed with the perpetual motion,\nor the person outside had forgotten to leave off.\n\n'Dear me, what's that?' exclaimed Perker, starting.\n\n'I think it is a knock at the door,' said Mr. Pickwick, as if there\ncould be the smallest doubt of the fact.\n\nThe knocker made a more energetic reply than words could have yielded,\nfor it continued to hammer with surprising force and noise, without a\nmoment's cessation.\n\n'Dear me!' said Perker, ringing his bell, 'we shall alarm the inn. Mr.\nLowten, don't you hear a knock?'\n\n'I'll answer the door in one moment, Sir,' replied the clerk.\n\nThe knocker appeared to hear the response, and to assert that it was\nquite impossible he could wait so long. It made a stupendous uproar.\n\n'It's quite dreadful,' said Mr. Pickwick, stopping his ears.\n\n'Make haste, Mr. Lowten,' Perker called out; 'we shall have the panels\nbeaten in.'\n\nMr. Lowten, who was washing his hands in a dark closet, hurried to the\ndoor, and turning the handle, beheld the appearance which is described\nin the next chapter.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER LIV. CONTAINING SOME PARTICULARS RELATIVE TO THE DOUBLE KNOCK,\nAND OTHER MATTERS: AMONG WHICH CERTAIN INTERESTING DISCLOSURES RELATIVE\nTO Mr. SNODGRASS AND A YOUNG LADY ARE BY NO MEANS IRRELEVANT TO THIS\nHISTORY\n\nThe object that presented itself to the eyes of the astonished clerk,\nwas a boy--a wonderfully fat boy--habited as a serving lad, standing\nupright on the mat, with his eyes closed as if in sleep. He had never\nseen such a fat boy, in or out of a travelling caravan; and this,\ncoupled with the calmness and repose of his appearance, so very\ndifferent from what was reasonably to have been expected of the\ninflicter of such knocks, smote him with wonder.\n\n'What's the matter?' inquired the clerk.\n\nThe extraordinary boy replied not a word; but he nodded once, and\nseemed, to the clerk's imagination, to snore feebly.\n\n'Where do you come from?' inquired the clerk.\n\nThe boy made no sign. He breathed heavily, but in all other respects was\nmotionless.\n\nThe clerk repeated the question thrice, and receiving no answer,\nprepared to shut the door, when the boy suddenly opened his eyes, winked\nseveral times, sneezed once, and raised his hand as if to repeat the\nknocking. Finding the door open, he stared about him with astonishment,\nand at length fixed his eyes on Mr. Lowten's face.\n\n'What the devil do you knock in that way for?' inquired the clerk\nangrily.\n\n'Which way?' said the boy, in a slow and sleepy voice.\n\n'Why, like forty hackney-coachmen,' replied the clerk.\n\n'Because master said, I wasn't to leave off knocking till they opened\nthe door, for fear I should go to sleep,' said the boy.\n\n'Well,' said the clerk, 'what message have you brought?'\n\n'He's downstairs,' rejoined the boy.\n\n'Who?'\n\n'Master. He wants to know whether you're at home.'\n\nMr. Lowten bethought himself, at this juncture, of looking out of the\nwindow. Seeing an open carriage with a hearty old gentleman in it,\nlooking up very anxiously, he ventured to beckon him; on which, the old\ngentleman jumped out directly.\n\n'That's your master in the carriage, I suppose?' said Lowten.\n\nThe boy nodded.\n\nAll further inquiries were superseded by the appearance of old Wardle,\nwho, running upstairs and just recognising Lowten, passed at once into\nMr. Perker's room.\n\n'Pickwick!' said the old gentleman. 'Your hand, my boy! Why have I never\nheard until the day before yesterday of your suffering yourself to be\ncooped up in jail? And why did you let him do it, Perker?'\n\n'I couldn't help it, my dear Sir,' replied Perker, with a smile and a\npinch of snuff; 'you know how obstinate he is?'\n\n'Of course I do; of course I do,' replied the old gentleman. 'I am\nheartily glad to see him, notwithstanding. I will not lose sight of him\nagain, in a hurry.'\n\nWith these words, Wardle shook Mr. Pickwick's hand once more, and,\nhaving done the same by Perker, threw himself into an arm-chair, his\njolly red face shining again with smiles and health.\n\n'Well!' said Wardle. 'Here are pretty goings on--a pinch of your snuff,\nPerker, my boy--never were such times, eh?'\n\n'What do you mean?' inquired Mr. Pickwick.\n\n'Mean!' replied Wardle. 'Why, I think the girls are all running mad;\nthat's no news, you'll say? Perhaps it's not; but it's true, for all\nthat.'\n\n'You have not come up to London, of all places in the world, to tell us\nthat, my dear Sir, have you?' inquired Perker.\n\n'No, not altogether,' replied Wardle; 'though it was the main cause of\nmy coming. How's Arabella?'\n\n'Very well,' replied Mr. Pickwick, 'and will be delighted to see you, I\nam sure.'\n\n'Black-eyed little jilt!' replied Wardle. 'I had a great idea of\nmarrying her myself, one of these odd days. But I am glad of it too,\nvery glad.'\n\n'How did the intelligence reach you?' asked Mr. Pickwick.\n\n'Oh, it came to my girls, of course,'replied Wardle. 'Arabella wrote,\nthe day before yesterday, to say she had made a stolen match without her\nhusband's father's consent, and so you had gone down to get it when\nhis refusing it couldn't prevent the match, and all the rest of it. I\nthought it a very good time to say something serious to my girls; so\nI said what a dreadful thing it was that children should marry without\ntheir parents' consent, and so forth; but, bless your hearts, I couldn't\nmake the least impression upon them. They thought it such a much\nmore dreadful thing that there should have been a wedding without\nbridesmaids, that I might as well have preached to Joe himself.' Here\nthe old gentleman stopped to laugh; and having done so to his heart's\ncontent, presently resumed--\n\n'But this is not the best of it, it seems. This is only half the\nlove-making and plotting that have been going forward. We have been\nwalking on mines for the last six months, and they're sprung at last.'\n\n'What do you mean?' exclaimed Mr. Pickwick, turning pale; 'no other\nsecret marriage, I hope?'\n\n'No, no,' replied old Wardle; 'not so bad as that; no.'\n\n'What then?' inquired Mr. Pickwick; 'am I interested in it?'\n\n'Shall I answer that question, Perker?' said Wardle.\n\n'If you don't commit yourself by doing so, my dear Sir.'\n\n'Well then, you are,' said Wardle.\n\n'How?' asked Mr. Pickwick anxiously. 'In what way?'\n\n'Really,' replied Wardle, 'you're such a fiery sort of a young fellow\nthat I am almost afraid to tell you; but, however, if Perker will sit\nbetween us to prevent mischief, I'll venture.'\n\nHaving closed the room door, and fortified himself with another\napplication to Perker's snuff-box, the old gentleman proceeded with his\ngreat disclosure in these words--\n\n'The fact is, that my daughter Bella--Bella, who married young Trundle,\nyou know.'\n\n'Yes, yes, we know,' said Mr. Pickwick impatiently.\n\n'Don't alarm me at the very beginning. My daughter Bella--Emily having\ngone to bed with a headache after she had read Arabella's letter to\nme--sat herself down by my side the other evening, and began to talk\nover this marriage affair. \"Well, pa,\" she says, \"what do you think of\nit?\" \"Why, my dear,\" I said, \"I suppose it's all very well; I hope it's\nfor the best.\" I answered in this way because I was sitting before the\nfire at the time, drinking my grog rather thoughtfully, and I knew my\nthrowing in an undecided word now and then, would induce her to continue\ntalking. Both my girls are pictures of their dear mother, and as I grow\nold I like to sit with only them by me; for their voices and looks carry\nme back to the happiest period of my life, and make me, for the moment,\nas young as I used to be then, though not quite so light-hearted. \"It's\nquite a marriage of affection, pa,\" said Bella, after a short silence.\n\"Yes, my dear,\" said I, \"but such marriages do not always turn out the\nhappiest.\"'\n\n'I question that, mind!' interposed Mr. Pickwick warmly. 'Very good,'\nresponded Wardle, 'question anything you like when it's your turn to\nspeak, but don't interrupt me.'\n\n'I beg your pardon,' said Mr. Pickwick.\n\n'Granted,' replied Wardle. '\"I am sorry to hear you express your opinion\nagainst marriages of affection, pa,\" said Bella, colouring a little.\n\"I was wrong; I ought not to have said so, my dear, either,\" said I,\npatting her cheek as kindly as a rough old fellow like me could pat it,\n\"for your mother's was one, and so was yours.\" \"It's not that I meant,\npa,\" said Bella. \"The fact is, pa, I wanted to speak to you about\nEmily.\"'\n\nMr. Pickwick started.\n\n'What's the matter now?' inquired Wardle, stopping in his narrative.\n\n'Nothing,'replied Mr. Pickwick. 'Pray go on.'\n\n'I never could spin out a story,' said Wardle abruptly. 'It must come\nout, sooner or later, and it'll save us all a great deal of time if it\ncomes at once. The long and the short of it is, then, that Bella at last\nmustered up courage to tell me that Emily was very unhappy; that she\nand your young friend Snodgrass had been in constant correspondence and\ncommunication ever since last Christmas; that she had very dutifully\nmade up her mind to run away with him, in laudable imitation of her\nold friend and school-fellow; but that having some compunctions of\nconscience on the subject, inasmuch as I had always been rather kindly\ndisposed to both of them, they had thought it better in the first\ninstance to pay me the compliment of asking whether I would have any\nobjection to their being married in the usual matter-of-fact manner.\nThere now, Mr. Pickwick, if you can make it convenient to reduce your\neyes to their usual size again, and to let me hear what you think we\nought to do, I shall feel rather obliged to you!'\n\nThe testy manner in which the hearty old gentleman uttered this last\nsentence was not wholly unwarranted; for Mr. Pickwick's face had settled\ndown into an expression of blank amazement and perplexity, quite curious\nto behold.\n\n'Snodgrass!--since last Christmas!' were the first broken words that\nissued from the lips of the confounded gentleman.\n\n'Since last Christmas,' replied Wardle; 'that's plain enough, and very\nbad spectacles we must have worn, not to have discovered it before.'\n\n'I don't understand it,' said Mr. Pickwick, ruminating; 'I cannot really\nunderstand it.'\n\n'It's easy enough to understand it,' replied the choleric old gentleman.\n'If you had been a younger man, you would have been in the secret long\nago; and besides,' added Wardle, after a moment's hesitation, 'the truth\nis, that, knowing nothing of this matter, I have rather pressed Emily\nfor four or five months past, to receive favourably (if she could; I\nwould never attempt to force a girl's inclinations) the addresses of\na young gentleman down in our neighbourhood. I have no doubt that,\ngirl-like, to enhance her own value and increase the ardour of Mr.\nSnodgrass, she has represented this matter in very glowing colours,\nand that they have both arrived at the conclusion that they are a\nterribly-persecuted pair of unfortunates, and have no resource but\nclandestine matrimony, or charcoal. Now the question is, what's to be\ndone?'\n\n'What have YOU done?' inquired Mr. Pickwick.\n\n'I!'\n\n'I mean what did you do when your married daughter told you this?'\n\n'Oh, I made a fool of myself of course,' rejoined Wardle.\n\n'Just so,' interposed Perker, who had accompanied this dialogue with\nsundry twitchings of his watch-chain, vindictive rubbings of his nose,\nand other symptoms of impatience. 'That's very natural; but how?'\n\n'I went into a great passion and frightened my mother into a fit,' said\nWardle.\n\n'That was judicious,' remarked Perker; 'and what else?'\n\n'I fretted and fumed all next day, and raised a great disturbance,'\nrejoined the old gentleman. 'At last I got tired of rendering myself\nunpleasant and making everybody miserable; so I hired a carriage at\nMuggleton, and, putting my own horses in it, came up to town, under\npretence of bringing Emily to see Arabella.'\n\n'Miss Wardle is with you, then?' said Mr. Pickwick.\n\n'To be sure she is,' replied Wardle. 'She is at Osborne's Hotel in the\nAdelphi at this moment, unless your enterprising friend has run away\nwith her since I came out this morning.'\n\n'You are reconciled then?' said Perker.\n\n'Not a bit of it,' answered Wardle; 'she has been crying and moping ever\nsince, except last night, between tea and supper, when she made a great\nparade of writing a letter that I pretended to take no notice of.'\n\n'You want my advice in this matter, I suppose?' said Perker, looking\nfrom the musing face of Mr. Pickwick to the eager countenance of Wardle,\nand taking several consecutive pinches of his favourite stimulant.\n\n'I suppose so,' said Wardle, looking at Mr. Pickwick.\n\n'Certainly,' replied that gentleman.\n\n'Well then,' said Perker, rising and pushing his chair back, 'my advice\nis, that you both walk away together, or ride away, or get away by some\nmeans or other, for I'm tired of you, and just talk this matter over\nbetween you. If you have not settled it by the next time I see you, I'll\ntell you what to do.'\n\n'This is satisfactory,' said Wardle, hardly knowing whether to smile or\nbe offended.\n\n'Pooh, pooh, my dear Sir,' returned Perker. 'I know you both a great\ndeal better than you know yourselves. You have settled it already, to\nall intents and purposes.'\n\nThus expressing himself, the little gentleman poked his snuff-box first\ninto the chest of Mr. Pickwick, and then into the waistcoat of Mr.\nWardle, upon which they all three laughed, especially the two last-named\ngentlemen, who at once shook hands again, without any obvious or\nparticular reason.\n\n'You dine with me to-day,' said Wardle to Perker, as he showed them out.\n\n'Can't promise, my dear Sir, can't promise,' replied Perker. 'I'll look\nin, in the evening, at all events.'\n\n'I shall expect you at five,' said Wardle. 'Now, Joe!' And Joe having\nbeen at length awakened, the two friends departed in Mr. Wardle's\ncarriage, which in common humanity had a dickey behind for the fat boy,\nwho, if there had been a footboard instead, would have rolled off and\nkilled himself in his very first nap.\n\nDriving to the George and Vulture, they found that Arabella and her maid\nhad sent for a hackney-coach immediately on the receipt of a short note\nfrom Emily announcing her arrival in town, and had proceeded straight to\nthe Adelphi. As Wardle had business to transact in the city, they sent\nthe carriage and the fat boy to his hotel, with the information that he\nand Mr. Pickwick would return together to dinner at five o'clock.\n\nCharged with this message, the fat boy returned, slumbering as peaceably\nin his dickey, over the stones, as if it had been a down bed on watch\nsprings. By some extraordinary miracle he awoke of his own accord,\nwhen the coach stopped, and giving himself a good shake to stir up his\nfaculties, went upstairs to execute his commission.\n\nNow, whether the shake had jumbled the fat boy's faculties together,\ninstead of arranging them in proper order, or had roused such a quantity\nof new ideas within him as to render him oblivious of ordinary forms\nand ceremonies, or (which is also possible) had proved unsuccessful\nin preventing his falling asleep as he ascended the stairs, it is an\nundoubted fact that he walked into the sitting-room without previously\nknocking at the door; and so beheld a gentleman with his arms clasping\nhis young mistress's waist, sitting very lovingly by her side on a sofa,\nwhile Arabella and her pretty handmaid feigned to be absorbed in looking\nout of a window at the other end of the room. At the sight of this\nphenomenon, the fat boy uttered an interjection, the ladies a scream,\nand the gentleman an oath, almost simultaneously.\n\n'Wretched creature, what do you want here?' said the gentleman, who it\nis needless to say was Mr. Snodgrass.\n\nTo this the fat boy, considerably terrified, briefly responded,\n'Missis.'\n\n'What do you want me for,' inquired Emily, turning her head aside, 'you\nstupid creature?'\n\n'Master and Mr. Pickwick is a-going to dine here at five,' replied the\nfat boy.\n\n'Leave the room!' said Mr. Snodgrass, glaring upon the bewildered youth.\n\n'No, no, no,' added Emily hastily. 'Bella, dear, advise me.'\n\nUpon this, Emily and Mr. Snodgrass, and Arabella and Mary, crowded into\na corner, and conversed earnestly in whispers for some minutes, during\nwhich the fat boy dozed.\n\n'Joe,' said Arabella, at length, looking round with a most bewitching\nsmile, 'how do you do, Joe?'\n\n'Joe,' said Emily, 'you're a very good boy; I won't forget you, Joe.'\n\n'Joe,' said Mr. Snodgrass, advancing to the astonished youth, and\nseizing his hand, 'I didn't know you before. There's five shillings for\nyou, Joe!\"\n\n'I'll owe you five, Joe,' said Arabella, 'for old acquaintance sake,\nyou know;' and another most captivating smile was bestowed upon the\ncorpulent intruder.\n\nThe fat boy's perception being slow, he looked rather puzzled at first\nto account for this sudden prepossession in his favour, and stared about\nhim in a very alarming manner. At length his broad face began to show\nsymptoms of a grin of proportionately broad dimensions; and then,\nthrusting half-a-crown into each of his pockets, and a hand and wrist\nafter it, he burst into a horse laugh: being for the first and only time\nin his existence.\n\n'He understands us, I see,' said Arabella. 'He had better have something\nto eat, immediately,' remarked Emily.\n\nThe fat boy almost laughed again when he heard this suggestion. Mary,\nafter a little more whispering, tripped forth from the group and said--\n\n'I am going to dine with you to-day, sir, if you have no objection.'\n\n'This way,' said the fat boy eagerly. 'There is such a jolly meat-pie!'\n\nWith these words, the fat boy led the way downstairs; his pretty\ncompanion captivating all the waiters and angering all the chambermaids\nas she followed him to the eating-room.\n\nThere was the meat-pie of which the youth had spoken so feelingly, and\nthere were, moreover, a steak, and a dish of potatoes, and a pot of\nporter.\n\n'Sit down,' said the fat boy. 'Oh, my eye, how prime! I am SO hungry.'\n\nHaving apostrophised his eye, in a species of rapture, five or six\ntimes, the youth took the head of the little table, and Mary seated\nherself at the bottom.\n\n'Will you have some of this?' said the fat boy, plunging into the pie up\nto the very ferules of the knife and fork.\n\n'A little, if you please,' replied Mary.\n\nThe fat boy assisted Mary to a little, and himself to a great deal, and\nwas just going to begin eating when he suddenly laid down his knife and\nfork, leaned forward in his chair, and letting his hands, with the knife\nand fork in them, fall on his knees, said, very slowly--\n\n'I say! How nice you look!'\n\nThis was said in an admiring manner, and was, so far, gratifying; but\nstill there was enough of the cannibal in the young gentleman's eyes to\nrender the compliment a double one.\n\n'Dear me, Joseph,' said Mary, affecting to blush, 'what do you mean?'\n\nThe fat boy, gradually recovering his former position, replied with a\nheavy sigh, and, remaining thoughtful for a few moments, drank a long\ndraught of the porter. Having achieved this feat, he sighed again, and\napplied himself assiduously to the pie.\n\n'What a nice young lady Miss Emily is!' said Mary, after a long silence.\n\nThe fat boy had by this time finished the pie. He fixed his eyes on\nMary, and replied--'I knows a nicerer.'\n\n'Indeed!' said Mary.\n\n'Yes, indeed!' replied the fat boy, with unwonted vivacity.\n\n'What's her name?' inquired Mary.\n\n'What's yours?'\n\n'Mary.'\n\n'So's hers,' said the fat boy. 'You're her.' The boy grinned to add\npoint to the compliment, and put his eyes into something between a\nsquint and a cast, which there is reason to believe he intended for an\nogle.\n\n'You mustn't talk to me in that way,' said Mary; 'you don't mean it.'\n\n'Don't I, though?' replied the fat boy. 'I say?'\n\n'Well?'\n\n'Are you going to come here regular?'\n\n'No,' rejoined Mary, shaking her head, 'I'm going away again to-night.\nWhy?'\n\n'Oh,' said the fat boy, in a tone of strong feeling; 'how we should have\nenjoyed ourselves at meals, if you had been!'\n\n'I might come here sometimes, perhaps, to see you,' said Mary, plaiting\nthe table-cloth in assumed coyness, 'if you would do me a favour.'\n\nThe fat boy looked from the pie-dish to the steak, as if he thought a\nfavour must be in a manner connected with something to eat; and then\ntook out one of the half-crowns and glanced at it nervously.\n\n'Don't you understand me?' said Mary, looking slily in his fat face.\n\nAgain he looked at the half-crown, and said faintly, 'No.'\n\n'The ladies want you not to say anything to the old gentleman about the\nyoung gentleman having been upstairs; and I want you too.'\n\n'Is that all?' said the fat boy, evidently very much relieved, as he\npocketed the half-crown again. 'Of course I ain't a-going to.'\n\n'You see,' said Mary, 'Mr. Snodgrass is very fond of Miss Emily, and\nMiss Emily's very fond of him, and if you were to tell about it, the old\ngentleman would carry you all away miles into the country, where you'd\nsee nobody.'\n\n'No, no, I won't tell,' said the fat boy stoutly.\n\n'That's a dear,' said Mary. 'Now it's time I went upstairs, and got my\nlady ready for dinner.'\n\n'Don't go yet,' urged the fat boy.\n\n'I must,' replied Mary. 'Good-bye, for the present.'\n\nThe fat boy, with elephantine playfulness, stretched out his arms to\nravish a kiss; but as it required no great agility to elude him, his\nfair enslaver had vanished before he closed them again; upon which\nthe apathetic youth ate a pound or so of steak with a sentimental\ncountenance, and fell fast asleep.\n\nThere was so much to say upstairs, and there were so many plans\nto concert for elopement and matrimony in the event of old Wardle\ncontinuing to be cruel, that it wanted only half an hour of dinner when\nMr. Snodgrass took his final adieu. The ladies ran to Emily's bedroom to\ndress, and the lover, taking up his hat, walked out of the room. He\nhad scarcely got outside the door, when he heard Wardle's voice talking\nloudly, and looking over the banisters beheld him, followed by some\nother gentlemen, coming straight upstairs. Knowing nothing of the house,\nMr. Snodgrass in his confusion stepped hastily back into the room he had\njust quitted, and passing thence into an inner apartment (Mr. Wardle's\nbedchamber), closed the door softly, just as the persons he had caught\na glimpse of entered the sitting-room. These were Mr. Wardle, Mr.\nPickwick, Mr. Nathaniel Winkle, and Mr. Benjamin Allen, whom he had no\ndifficulty in recognising by their voices.\n\n'Very lucky I had the presence of mind to avoid them,' thought Mr.\nSnodgrass with a smile, and walking on tiptoe to another door near the\nbedside; 'this opens into the same passage, and I can walk quietly and\ncomfortably away.'\n\nThere was only one obstacle to his walking quietly and comfortably away,\nwhich was that the door was locked and the key gone.\n\n'Let us have some of your best wine to-day, waiter,' said old Wardle,\nrubbing his hands.\n\n'You shall have some of the very best, sir,' replied the waiter.\n\n'Let the ladies know we have come in.'\n\n'Yes, Sir.'\n\nDevoutly and ardently did Mr. Snodgrass wish that the ladies could\nknow he had come in. He ventured once to whisper, 'Waiter!' through the\nkeyhole, but the probability of the wrong waiter coming to his relief,\nflashed upon his mind, together with a sense of the strong resemblance\nbetween his own situation and that in which another gentleman had been\nrecently found in a neighbouring hotel (an account of whose misfortunes\nhad appeared under the head of 'Police' in that morning's paper), he sat\nhimself on a portmanteau, and trembled violently.\n\n'We won't wait a minute for Perker,' said Wardle, looking at his watch;\n'he is always exact. He will be here, in time, if he means to come; and\nif he does not, it's of no use waiting. Ha! Arabella!'\n\n'My sister!' exclaimed Mr. Benjamin Allen, folding her in a most\nromantic embrace.\n\n'Oh, Ben, dear, how you do smell of tobacco,' said Arabella, rather\novercome by this mark of affection.\n\n'Do I?' said Mr. Benjamin Allen. 'Do I, Bella? Well, perhaps I do.'\n\nPerhaps he did, having just left a pleasant little smoking-party of\ntwelve medical students, in a small back parlour with a large fire.\n\n'But I am delighted to see you,' said Mr. Ben Allen. 'Bless you, Bella!'\n\n'There,' said Arabella, bending forward to kiss her brother; 'don't take\nhold of me again, Ben, dear, because you tumble me so.'\n\nAt this point of the reconciliation, Mr. Ben Allen allowed his feelings\nand the cigars and porter to overcome him, and looked round upon the\nbeholders with damp spectacles.\n\n'Is nothing to be said to me?' cried Wardle, with open arms.\n\n'A great deal,' whispered Arabella, as she received the old gentleman's\nhearty caress and congratulation. 'You are a hard-hearted, unfeeling,\ncruel monster.'\n\n'You are a little rebel,' replied Wardle, in the same tone, 'and I am\nafraid I shall be obliged to forbid you the house. People like you, who\nget married in spite of everybody, ought not to be let loose on society.\nBut come!' added the old gentleman aloud, 'here's the dinner; you shall\nsit by me. Joe; why, damn the boy, he's awake!'\n\nTo the great distress of his master, the fat boy was indeed in a state\nof remarkable vigilance, his eyes being wide open, and looking as if\nthey intended to remain so. There was an alacrity in his manner, too,\nwhich was equally unaccountable; every time his eyes met those of Emily\nor Arabella, he smirked and grinned; once, Wardle could have sworn, he\nsaw him wink.\n\nThis alteration in the fat boy's demeanour originated in his increased\nsense of his own importance, and the dignity he acquired from having\nbeen taken into the confidence of the young ladies; and the smirks, and\ngrins, and winks were so many condescending assurances that they might\ndepend upon his fidelity. As these tokens were rather calculated to\nawaken suspicion than allay it, and were somewhat embarrassing besides,\nthey were occasionally answered by a frown or shake of the head from\nArabella, which the fat boy, considering as hints to be on his guard,\nexpressed his perfect understanding of, by smirking, grinning, and\nwinking, with redoubled assiduity.\n\n'Joe,' said Mr. Wardle, after an unsuccessful search in all his pockets,\n'is my snuff-box on the sofa?'\n\n'No, sir,' replied the fat boy.\n\n'Oh, I recollect; I left it on my dressing-table this morning,' said\nWardle. 'Run into the next room and fetch it.'\n\nThe fat boy went into the next room; and, having been absent about a\nminute, returned with the snuff-box, and the palest face that ever a fat\nboy wore.\n\n'What's the matter with the boy?' exclaimed Wardle.\n\n'Nothen's the matter with me,' replied Joe nervously.\n\n'Have you been seeing any spirits?' inquired the old gentleman.\n\n'Or taking any?' added Ben Allen.\n\n'I think you're right,' whispered Wardle across the table. 'He is\nintoxicated, I'm sure.'\n\nBen Allen replied that he thought he was; and, as that gentleman had\nseen a vast deal of the disease in question, Wardle was confirmed in an\nimpression which had been hovering about his mind for half an hour, and\nat once arrived at the conclusion that the fat boy was drunk.\n\n'Just keep your eye upon him for a few minutes,' murmured Wardle. 'We\nshall soon find out whether he is or not.'\n\nThe unfortunate youth had only interchanged a dozen words with Mr.\nSnodgrass, that gentleman having implored him to make a private\nappeal to some friend to release him, and then pushed him out with the\nsnuff-box, lest his prolonged absence should lead to a discovery. He\nruminated a little with a most disturbed expression of face, and left\nthe room in search of Mary.\n\nBut Mary had gone home after dressing her mistress, and the fat boy came\nback again more disturbed than before.\n\nWardle and Mr. Ben Allen exchanged glances. 'Joe!' said Wardle.\n\n'Yes, sir.'\n\n'What did you go away for?'\n\nThe fat boy looked hopelessly in the face of everybody at table, and\nstammered out that he didn't know.\n\n'Oh,' said Wardle, 'you don't know, eh? Take this cheese to Mr.\nPickwick.'\n\nNow, Mr. Pickwick being in the very best health and spirits, had been\nmaking himself perfectly delightful all dinner-time, and was at this\nmoment engaged in an energetic conversation with Emily and Mr. Winkle;\nbowing his head, courteously, in the emphasis of his discourse, gently\nwaving his left hand to lend force to his observations, and all glowing\nwith placid smiles. He took a piece of cheese from the plate, and was on\nthe point of turning round to renew the conversation, when the fat boy,\nstooping so as to bring his head on a level with that of Mr. Pickwick,\npointed with his thumb over his shoulder, and made the most horrible and\nhideous face that was ever seen out of a Christmas pantomime.\n\n'Dear me!' said Mr. Pickwick, starting, 'what a very--Eh?' He stopped,\nfor the fat boy had drawn himself up, and was, or pretended to be, fast\nasleep.\n\n'What's the matter?' inquired Wardle.\n\n'This is such an extremely singular lad!' replied Mr. Pickwick, looking\nuneasily at the boy. 'It seems an odd thing to say, but upon my word I\nam afraid that, at times, he is a little deranged.'\n\n'Oh! Mr. Pickwick, pray don't say so,' cried Emily and Arabella, both at\nonce.\n\n'I am not certain, of course,' said Mr. Pickwick, amidst profound\nsilence and looks of general dismay; 'but his manner to me this moment\nreally was very alarming. Oh!' ejaculated Mr. Pickwick, suddenly jumping\nup with a short scream. 'I beg your pardon, ladies, but at that moment\nhe ran some sharp instrument into my leg. Really, he is not safe.'\n\n'He's drunk,' roared old Wardle passionately. 'Ring the bell! Call the\nwaiters! He's drunk.'\n\n'I ain't,' said the fat boy, falling on his knees as his master seized\nhim by the collar. 'I ain't drunk.'\n\n'Then you're mad; that's worse. Call the waiters,' said the old\ngentleman.\n\n'I ain't mad; I'm sensible,' rejoined the fat boy, beginning to cry.\n\n'Then, what the devil did you run sharp instruments into Mr. Pickwick's\nlegs for?' inquired Wardle angrily.\n\n'He wouldn't look at me,' replied the boy. 'I wanted to speak to him.'\n\n'What did you want to say?' asked half a dozen voices at once.\n\nThe fat boy gasped, looked at the bedroom door, gasped again, and wiped\ntwo tears away with the knuckle of each of his forefingers.\n\n'What did you want to say?' demanded Wardle, shaking him.\n\n'Stop!' said Mr. Pickwick; 'allow me. What did you wish to communicate\nto me, my poor boy?'\n\n'I want to whisper to you,' replied the fat boy.\n\n'You want to bite his ear off, I suppose,' said Wardle. 'Don't come near\nhim; he's vicious; ring the bell, and let him be taken downstairs.'\n\nJust as Mr. Winkle caught the bell-rope in his hand, it was arrested\nby a general expression of astonishment; the captive lover, his face\nburning with confusion, suddenly walked in from the bedroom, and made a\ncomprehensive bow to the company.\n\n'Hollo!' cried Wardle, releasing the fat boy's collar, and staggering\nback. 'What's this?'\n\n'I have been concealed in the next room, sir, since you returned,'\nexplained Mr. Snodgrass.\n\n'Emily, my girl,' said Wardle reproachfully, 'I detest meanness and\ndeceit; this is unjustifiable and indelicate in the highest degree. I\ndon't deserve this at your hands, Emily, indeed!'\n\n'Dear papa,' said Emily, 'Arabella knows--everybody here knows--Joe\nknows--that I was no party to this concealment. Augustus, for Heaven's\nsake, explain it!'\n\nMr. Snodgrass, who had only waited for a hearing, at once recounted how\nhe had been placed in his then distressing predicament; how the fear of\ngiving rise to domestic dissensions had alone prompted him to avoid Mr.\nWardle on his entrance; how he merely meant to depart by another door,\nbut, finding it locked, had been compelled to stay against his will.\nIt was a painful situation to be placed in; but he now regretted it\nthe less, inasmuch as it afforded him an opportunity of acknowledging,\nbefore their mutual friends, that he loved Mr. Wardle's daughter deeply\nand sincerely; that he was proud to avow that the feeling was mutual;\nand that if thousands of miles were placed between them, or oceans\nrolled their waters, he could never for an instant forget those happy\ndays, when first--et cetera, et cetera.\n\nHaving delivered himself to this effect, Mr. Snodgrass bowed again,\nlooked into the crown of his hat, and stepped towards the door.\n\n'Stop!' shouted Wardle. 'Why, in the name of all that's--'\n\n'Inflammable,' mildly suggested Mr. Pickwick, who thought something\nworse was coming.\n\n'Well--that's inflammable,' said Wardle, adopting the substitute;\n'couldn't you say all this to me in the first instance?'\n\n'Or confide in me?' added Mr. Pickwick.\n\n'Dear, dear,' said Arabella, taking up the defence, 'what is the use of\nasking all that now, especially when you know you had set your covetous\nold heart on a richer son-in-law, and are so wild and fierce besides,\nthat everybody is afraid of you, except me? Shake hands with him, and\norder him some dinner, for goodness gracious' sake, for he looks half\nstarved; and pray have your wine up at once, for you'll not be tolerable\nuntil you have taken two bottles at least.'\n\nThe worthy old gentleman pulled Arabella's ear, kissed her without the\nsmallest scruple, kissed his daughter also with great affection, and\nshook Mr. Snodgrass warmly by the hand.\n\n'She is right on one point at all events,' said the old gentleman\ncheerfully. 'Ring for the wine!'\n\nThe wine came, and Perker came upstairs at the same moment. Mr.\nSnodgrass had dinner at a side table, and, when he had despatched it,\ndrew his chair next Emily, without the smallest opposition on the old\ngentleman's part.\n\nThe evening was excellent. Little Mr. Perker came out wonderfully, told\nvarious comic stories, and sang a serious song which was almost as funny\nas the anecdotes. Arabella was very charming, Mr. Wardle very jovial,\nMr. Pickwick very harmonious, Mr. Ben Allen very uproarious, the lovers\nvery silent, Mr. Winkle very talkative, and all of them very happy.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER LV. Mr. SOLOMON PELL, ASSISTED BY A SELECT COMMITTEE OF\nCOACHMEN, ARRANGES THE AFFAIRS OF THE ELDER Mr. WELLER\n\n\n'Samivel,' said Mr. Weller, accosting his son on the morning after the\nfuneral, 'I've found it, Sammy. I thought it wos there.'\n\n'Thought wot wos there?' inquired Sam.\n\n'Your mother-in-law's vill, Sammy,' replied Mr. Weller. 'In wirtue o'\nvich, them arrangements is to be made as I told you on, last night,\nrespectin' the funs.'\n\n'Wot, didn't she tell you were it wos?' inquired Sam.\n\n'Not a bit on it, Sammy,' replied Mr. Weller. 'We wos a adjestin' our\nlittle differences, and I wos a-cheerin' her spirits and bearin' her up,\nso that I forgot to ask anythin' about it. I don't know as I should ha'\ndone it, indeed, if I had remembered it,' added Mr. Weller, 'for it's\na rum sort o' thing, Sammy, to go a-hankerin' arter anybody's property,\nven you're assistin' 'em in illness. It's like helping an outside\npassenger up, ven he's been pitched off a coach, and puttin' your hand\nin his pocket, vile you ask him, vith a sigh, how he finds his-self,\nSammy.'\n\nWith this figurative illustration of his meaning, Mr. Weller unclasped\nhis pocket-book, and drew forth a dirty sheet of letter-paper, on\nwhich were inscribed various characters crowded together in remarkable\nconfusion.\n\n'This here is the dockyment, Sammy,' said Mr. Weller. 'I found it in the\nlittle black tea-pot, on the top shelf o' the bar closet. She used to\nkeep bank-notes there, 'fore she vos married, Samivel. I've seen her\ntake the lid off, to pay a bill, many and many a time. Poor creetur, she\nmight ha' filled all the tea-pots in the house vith vills, and not have\ninconwenienced herself neither, for she took wery little of anythin' in\nthat vay lately, 'cept on the temperance nights, ven they just laid a\nfoundation o' tea to put the spirits atop on!'\n\n'What does it say?' inquired Sam.\n\n'Jist vot I told you, my boy,' rejoined his parent. 'Two hundred pound\nvurth o' reduced counsels to my son-in-law, Samivel, and all the rest o'\nmy property, of ev'ry kind and description votsoever, to my husband, Mr.\nTony Veller, who I appint as my sole eggzekiter.'\n\n'That's all, is it?' said Sam.\n\n'That's all,' replied Mr. Weller. 'And I s'pose as it's all right and\nsatisfactory to you and me as is the only parties interested, ve may as\nvell put this bit o' paper into the fire.'\n\n'Wot are you a-doin' on, you lunatic?' said Sam, snatching the paper\naway, as his parent, in all innocence, stirred the fire preparatory to\nsuiting the action to the word. 'You're a nice eggzekiter, you are.'\n\n'Vy not?' inquired Mr. Weller, looking sternly round, with the poker in\nhis hand.\n\n'Vy not?' exclaimed Sam. ''Cos it must be proved, and probated, and\nswore to, and all manner o' formalities.'\n\n'You don't mean that?' said Mr. Weller, laying down the poker.\n\nSam buttoned the will carefully in a side pocket; intimating by a look,\nmeanwhile, that he did mean it, and very seriously too.\n\n'Then I'll tell you wot it is,' said Mr. Weller, after a short\nmeditation, 'this is a case for that 'ere confidential pal o' the\nChancellorship's. Pell must look into this, Sammy. He's the man for\na difficult question at law. Ve'll have this here brought afore the\nSolvent Court, directly, Samivel.'\n\n'I never did see such a addle-headed old creetur!' exclaimed Sam\nirritably; 'Old Baileys, and Solvent Courts, and alleybis, and ev'ry\nspecies o' gammon alvays a-runnin' through his brain. You'd better get\nyour out o' door clothes on, and come to town about this bisness, than\nstand a-preachin' there about wot you don't understand nothin' on.'\n\n'Wery good, Sammy,' replied Mr. Weller, 'I'm quite agreeable to anythin'\nas vill hexpedite business, Sammy. But mind this here, my boy, nobody\nbut Pell--nobody but Pell as a legal adwiser.'\n\n'I don't want anybody else,' replied Sam. 'Now, are you a-comin'?'\n\n'Vait a minit, Sammy,' replied Mr. Weller, who, having tied his shawl\nwith the aid of a small glass that hung in the window, was now, by dint\nof the most wonderful exertions, struggling into his upper garments.\n'Vait a minit' Sammy; ven you grow as old as your father, you von't get\ninto your veskit quite as easy as you do now, my boy.'\n\n'If I couldn't get into it easier than that, I'm blessed if I'd vear vun\nat all,' rejoined his son.\n\n'You think so now,' said Mr. Weller, with the gravity of age, 'but\nyou'll find that as you get vider, you'll get viser. Vidth and visdom,\nSammy, alvays grows together.'\n\nAs Mr. Weller delivered this infallible maxim--the result of many years'\npersonal experience and observation--he contrived, by a dexterous twist\nof his body, to get the bottom button of his coat to perform its office.\nHaving paused a few seconds to recover breath, he brushed his hat with\nhis elbow, and declared himself ready.\n\n'As four heads is better than two, Sammy,' said Mr. Weller, as they\ndrove along the London Road in the chaise-cart, 'and as all this here\nproperty is a wery great temptation to a legal gen'l'm'n, ve'll take a\ncouple o' friends o' mine vith us, as'll be wery soon down upon him if\nhe comes anythin' irreg'lar; two o' them as saw you to the Fleet\nthat day. They're the wery best judges,' added Mr. Weller, in a\nhalf-whisper--'the wery best judges of a horse, you ever know'd.'\n\n'And of a lawyer too?' inquired Sam.\n\n'The man as can form a ackerate judgment of a animal, can form a\nackerate judgment of anythin',' replied his father, so dogmatically,\nthat Sam did not attempt to controvert the position.\n\nIn pursuance of this notable resolution, the services of the\nmottled-faced gentleman and of two other very fat coachmen--selected\nby Mr. Weller, probably, with a view to their width and consequent\nwisdom--were put into requisition; and this assistance having been\nsecured, the party proceeded to the public-house in Portugal Street,\nwhence a messenger was despatched to the Insolvent Court over the way,\nrequiring Mr. Solomon Pell's immediate attendance.\n\nThe messenger fortunately found Mr. Solomon Pell in court, regaling\nhimself, business being rather slack, with a cold collation of an\nAbernethy biscuit and a saveloy. The message was no sooner whispered\nin his ear than he thrust them in his pocket among various professional\ndocuments, and hurried over the way with such alacrity that he reached\nthe parlour before the messenger had even emancipated himself from the\ncourt.\n\n'Gentlemen,' said Mr. Pell, touching his hat, 'my service to you all. I\ndon't say it to flatter you, gentlemen, but there are not five other men\nin the world, that I'd have come out of that court for, to-day.'\n\n'So busy, eh?' said Sam.\n\n'Busy!' replied Pell; 'I'm completely sewn up, as my friend the late\nLord Chancellor many a time used to say to me, gentlemen, when he came\nout from hearing appeals in the House of Lords. Poor fellow; he was\nvery susceptible to fatigue; he used to feel those appeals uncommonly.\nI actually thought more than once that he'd have sunk under 'em; I did,\nindeed.'\n\nHere Mr. Pell shook his head and paused; on which, the elder Mr. Weller,\nnudging his neighbour, as begging him to mark the attorney's high\nconnections, asked whether the duties in question produced any permanent\nill effects on the constitution of his noble friend.\n\n'I don't think he ever quite recovered them,' replied Pell; 'in fact I'm\nsure he never did. \"Pell,\" he used to say to me many a time, \"how the\nblazes you can stand the head-work you do, is a mystery to me.\"--\"Well,\"\nI used to answer, \"I hardly know how I do it, upon my life.\"--\"Pell,\"\nhe'd add, sighing, and looking at me with a little envy--friendly envy,\nyou know, gentlemen, mere friendly envy; I never minded it--\"Pell,\nyou're a wonder; a wonder.\" Ah! you'd have liked him very much if you\nhad known him, gentlemen. Bring me three-penn'orth of rum, my dear.'\n\nAddressing this latter remark to the waitress, in a tone of subdued\ngrief, Mr. Pell sighed, looked at his shoes and the ceiling; and, the\nrum having by that time arrived, drank it up.\n\n'However,' said Pell, drawing a chair to the table, 'a professional\nman has no right to think of his private friendships when his legal\nassistance is wanted. By the bye, gentlemen, since I saw you here\nbefore, we have had to weep over a very melancholy occurrence.'\n\nMr. Pell drew out a pocket-handkerchief, when he came to the word weep,\nbut he made no further use of it than to wipe away a slight tinge of rum\nwhich hung upon his upper lip.\n\n'I saw it in the ADVERTISER, Mr. Weller,' continued Pell. 'Bless my\nsoul, not more than fifty-two! Dear me--only think.'\n\nThese indications of a musing spirit were addressed to the mottled-faced\nman, whose eyes Mr. Pell had accidentally caught; on which, the\nmottled-faced man, whose apprehension of matters in general was of a\nfoggy nature, moved uneasily in his seat, and opined that, indeed, so\nfar as that went, there was no saying how things was brought about;\nwhich observation, involving one of those subtle propositions which it\nis difficult to encounter in argument, was controverted by nobody.\n\n'I have heard it remarked that she was a very fine woman, Mr. Weller,'\nsaid Pell, in a sympathising manner.\n\n'Yes, sir, she wos,' replied the elder Mr. Weller, not much relishing\nthis mode of discussing the subject, and yet thinking that the attorney,\nfrom his long intimacy with the late Lord Chancellor, must know best on\nall matters of polite breeding. 'She wos a wery fine 'ooman, sir, ven I\nfirst know'd her. She wos a widder, sir, at that time.'\n\n'Now, it's curious,' said Pell, looking round with a sorrowful smile;\n'Mrs. Pell was a widow.'\n\n'That's very extraordinary,' said the mottled-faced man.\n\n'Well, it is a curious coincidence,' said Pell.\n\n'Not at all,' gruffly remarked the elder Mr. Weller. 'More widders is\nmarried than single wimin.'\n\n'Very good, very good,' said Pell, 'you're quite right, Mr. Weller. Mrs.\nPell was a very elegant and accomplished woman; her manners were the\ntheme of universal admiration in our neighbourhood. I was proud to see\nthat woman dance; there was something so firm and dignified, and yet\nnatural, in her motion. Her cutting, gentlemen, was simplicity itself.\nAh! well, well! Excuse my asking the question, Mr. Samuel,' continued\nthe attorney in a lower voice, 'was your mother-in-law tall?'\n\n'Not wery,' replied Sam.\n\n'Mrs. Pell was a tall figure,' said Pell, 'a splendid woman, with a\nnoble shape, and a nose, gentlemen, formed to command and be majestic.\nShe was very much attached to me--very much--highly connected, too. Her\nmother's brother, gentlemen, failed for eight hundred pounds, as a law\nstationer.'\n\n'Vell,' said Mr. Weller, who had grown rather restless during this\ndiscussion, 'vith regard to bis'ness.'\n\nThe word was music to Pell's ears. He had been revolving in his mind\nwhether any business was to be transacted, or whether he had been merely\ninvited to partake of a glass of brandy-and-water, or a bowl of punch,\nor any similar professional compliment, and now the doubt was set at\nrest without his appearing at all eager for its solution. His eyes\nglistened as he laid his hat on the table, and said--\n\n'What is the business upon which--um? Either of these gentlemen wish to\ngo through the court? We require an arrest; a friendly arrest will do,\nyou know; we are all friends here, I suppose?'\n\n'Give me the dockyment, Sammy,' said Mr. Weller, taking the will from\nhis son, who appeared to enjoy the interview amazingly. 'Wot we rekvire,\nsir, is a probe o' this here.'\n\n'Probate, my dear Sir, probate,' said Pell.\n\n'Well, sir,' replied Mr. Weller sharply, 'probe and probe it, is wery\nmuch the same; if you don't understand wot I mean, sir, I des-say I can\nfind them as does.'\n\n'No offence, I hope, Mr. Weller,' said Pell meekly. 'You are the\nexecutor, I see,' he added, casting his eyes over the paper.\n\n'I am, sir,' replied Mr. Weller.\n\n'These other gentlemen, I presume, are legatees, are they?' inquired\nPell, with a congratulatory smile.\n\n'Sammy is a leg-at-ease,' replied Mr. Weller; 'these other gen'l'm'n is\nfriends o' mine, just come to see fair; a kind of umpires.'\n\n'Oh!' said Pell, 'very good. I have no objections, I'm sure. I shall\nwant a matter of five pound of you before I begin, ha! ha! ha!'\n\nIt being decided by the committee that the five pound might be advanced,\nMr. Weller produced that sum; after which, a long consultation\nabout nothing particular took place, in the course whereof Mr. Pell\ndemonstrated to the perfect satisfaction of the gentlemen who saw fair,\nthat unless the management of the business had been intrusted to him, it\nmust all have gone wrong, for reasons not clearly made out, but no doubt\nsufficient. This important point being despatched, Mr. Pell refreshed\nhimself with three chops, and liquids both malt and spirituous, at the\nexpense of the estate; and then they all went away to Doctors' Commons.\n\nThe next day there was another visit to Doctors' Commons, and a great\nto-do with an attesting hostler, who, being inebriated, declined\nswearing anything but profane oaths, to the great scandal of a proctor\nand surrogate. Next week, there were more visits to Doctors' Commons,\nand there was a visit to the Legacy Duty Office besides, and there were\ntreaties entered into, for the disposal of the lease and business, and\nratifications of the same, and inventories to be made out, and lunches\nto be taken, and dinners to be eaten, and so many profitable things to\nbe done, and such a mass of papers accumulated that Mr. Solomon Pell,\nand the boy, and the blue bag to boot, all got so stout that scarcely\nanybody would have known them for the same man, boy, and bag, that had\nloitered about Portugal Street, a few days before.\n\nAt length all these weighty matters being arranged, a day was fixed for\nselling out and transferring the stock, and of waiting with that view\nupon Wilkins Flasher, Esquire, stock-broker, of somewhere near the bank,\nwho had been recommended by Mr. Solomon Pell for the purpose.\n\nIt was a kind of festive occasion, and the parties were attired\naccordingly. Mr. Weller's tops were newly cleaned, and his dress was\narranged with peculiar care; the mottled-faced gentleman wore at his\nbutton-hole a full-sized dahlia with several leaves; and the coats\nof his two friends were adorned with nosegays of laurel and other\nevergreens. All three were habited in strict holiday costume; that is\nto say, they were wrapped up to the chins, and wore as many clothes as\npossible, which is, and has been, a stage-coachman's idea of full dress\never since stage-coaches were invented.\n\nMr. Pell was waiting at the usual place of meeting at the appointed\ntime; even he wore a pair of gloves and a clean shirt, much frayed at\nthe collar and wristbands by frequent washings.\n\n'A quarter to two,' said Pell, looking at the parlour clock. 'If we are\nwith Mr. Flasher at a quarter past, we shall just hit the best time.'\n\n'What should you say to a drop o' beer, gen'l'm'n?' suggested the\nmottled-faced man. 'And a little bit o' cold beef,' said the second\ncoachman.\n\n'Or a oyster,' added the third, who was a hoarse gentleman, supported by\nvery round legs.\n\n'Hear, hear!' said Pell; 'to congratulate Mr. Weller, on his coming into\npossession of his property, eh? Ha! ha!'\n\n'I'm quite agreeable, gen'l'm'n,' answered Mr. Weller. 'Sammy, pull the\nbell.'\n\nSammy complied; and the porter, cold beef, and oysters being promptly\nproduced, the lunch was done ample justice to. Where everybody took so\nactive a part, it is almost invidious to make a distinction; but if one\nindividual evinced greater powers than another, it was the coachman with\nthe hoarse voice, who took an imperial pint of vinegar with his oysters,\nwithout betraying the least emotion.\n\n'Mr. Pell, Sir,' said the elder Mr. Weller, stirring a glass of\nbrandy-and-water, of which one was placed before every gentleman when\nthe oyster shells were removed--'Mr. Pell, Sir, it wos my intention to\nhave proposed the funs on this occasion, but Samivel has vispered to\nme--'\n\nHere Mr. Samuel Weller, who had silently eaten his oysters with tranquil\nsmiles, cried, 'Hear!' in a very loud voice. --'Has vispered to me,'\nresumed his father, 'that it vould be better to dewote the liquor to\nvishin' you success and prosperity, and thankin' you for the manner in\nwhich you've brought this here business through. Here's your health,\nsir.'\n\n'Hold hard there,' interposed the mottled-faced gentleman, with sudden\nenergy; 'your eyes on me, gen'l'm'n!'\n\nSaying this, the mottled-faced gentleman rose, as did the other\ngentlemen. The mottled-faced gentleman reviewed the company, and slowly\nlifted his hand, upon which every man (including him of the mottled\ncountenance) drew a long breath, and lifted his tumbler to his lips. In\none instant, the mottled-faced gentleman depressed his hand again,\nand every glass was set down empty. It is impossible to describe the\nthrilling effect produced by this striking ceremony. At once dignified,\nsolemn, and impressive, it combined every element of grandeur.\n\n'Well, gentlemen,' said Mr. Pell, 'all I can say is, that such marks of\nconfidence must be very gratifying to a professional man. I don't wish\nto say anything that might appear egotistical, gentlemen, but I'm very\nglad, for your own sakes, that you came to me; that's all. If you had\ngone to any low member of the profession, it's my firm conviction, and\nI assure you of it as a fact, that you would have found yourselves in\nQueer Street before this. I could have wished my noble friend had been\nalive to have seen my management of this case. I don't say it out of\npride, but I think--However, gentlemen, I won't trouble you with that.\nI'm generally to be found here, gentlemen, but if I'm not here, or\nover the way, that's my address. You'll find my terms very cheap and\nreasonable, and no man attends more to his clients than I do, and I hope\nI know a little of my profession besides. If you have any opportunity of\nrecommending me to any of your friends, gentlemen, I shall be very much\nobliged to you, and so will they too, when they come to know me. Your\nhealths, gentlemen.'\n\nWith this expression of his feelings, Mr. Solomon Pell laid three small\nwritten cards before Mr. Weller's friends, and, looking at the clock\nagain, feared it was time to be walking. Upon this hint Mr. Weller\nsettled the bill, and, issuing forth, the executor, legatee, attorney,\nand umpires, directed their steps towards the city.\n\nThe office of Wilkins Flasher, Esquire, of the Stock Exchange, was in a\nfirst floor up a court behind the Bank of England; the house of Wilkins\nFlasher, Esquire, was at Brixton, Surrey; the horse and stanhope of\nWilkins Flasher, Esquire, were at an adjacent livery stable; the groom\nof Wilkins Flasher, Esquire, was on his way to the West End to deliver\nsome game; the clerk of Wilkins Flasher, Esquire, had gone to his\ndinner; and so Wilkins Flasher, Esquire, himself, cried, 'Come in,' when\nMr. Pell and his companions knocked at the counting-house door.\n\n'Good-morning, Sir,' said Pell, bowing obsequiously. 'We want to make a\nlittle transfer, if you please.'\n\n'Oh, just come in, will you?' said Mr. Flasher. 'Sit down a minute; I'll\nattend to you directly.'\n\n'Thank you, Sir,' said Pell, 'there's no hurry. Take a chair, Mr.\nWeller.'\n\nMr. Weller took a chair, and Sam took a box, and the umpires took what\nthey could get, and looked at the almanac and one or two papers which\nwere wafered against the wall, with as much open-eyed reverence as if\nthey had been the finest efforts of the old masters.\n\n'Well, I'll bet you half a dozen of claret on it; come!' said Wilkins\nFlasher, Esquire, resuming the conversation to which Mr. Pell's entrance\nhad caused a momentary interruption.\n\nThis was addressed to a very smart young gentleman who wore his hat on\nhis right whisker, and was lounging over the desk, killing flies with a\nruler. Wilkins Flasher, Esquire, was balancing himself on two legs of\nan office stool, spearing a wafer-box with a penknife, which he dropped\nevery now and then with great dexterity into the very centre of a\nsmall red wafer that was stuck outside. Both gentlemen had very open\nwaistcoats and very rolling collars, and very small boots, and very\nbig rings, and very little watches, and very large guard-chains, and\nsymmetrical inexpressibles, and scented pocket-handkerchiefs.\n\n'I never bet half a dozen!' said the other gentleman. 'I'll take a\ndozen.'\n\n'Done, Simmery, done!' said Wilkins Flasher, Esquire.\n\n'P. P., mind,' observed the other.\n\n'Of course,' replied Wilkins Flasher, Esquire. Wilkins Flasher, Esquire,\nentered it in a little book, with a gold pencil-case, and the other\ngentleman entered it also, in another little book with another gold\npencil-case.\n\n'I see there's a notice up this morning about Boffer,' observed Mr.\nSimmery. 'Poor devil, he's expelled the house!'\n\n'I'll bet you ten guineas to five, he cuts his throat,' said Wilkins\nFlasher, Esquire.\n\n'Done,' replied Mr. Simmery.\n\n'Stop! I bar,' said Wilkins Flasher, Esquire, thoughtfully. 'Perhaps he\nmay hang himself.'\n\n'Very good,' rejoined Mr. Simmery, pulling out the gold pencil-case\nagain. 'I've no objection to take you that way. Say, makes away with\nhimself.'\n\n'Kills himself, in fact,' said Wilkins Flasher, Esquire.\n\n'Just so,' replied Mr. Simmery, putting it down. '\"Flasher--ten guineas\nto five, Boffer kills himself.\" Within what time shall we say?'\n\n'A fortnight?' suggested Wilkins Flasher, Esquire.\n\n'Con-found it, no,' rejoined Mr. Simmery, stopping for an instant to\nsmash a fly with the ruler. 'Say a week.'\n\n'Split the difference,' said Wilkins Flasher, Esquire. 'Make it ten\ndays.'\n\n'Well; ten days,'rejoined Mr. Simmery.\n\nSo it was entered down on the little books that Boffer was to kill\nhimself within ten days, or Wilkins Flasher, Esquire, was to hand over\nto Frank Simmery, Esquire, the sum of ten guineas; and that if Boffer\ndid kill himself within that time, Frank Simmery, Esquire, would pay to\nWilkins Flasher, Esquire, five guineas, instead.\n\n'I'm very sorry he has failed,' said Wilkins Flasher, Esquire. 'Capital\ndinners he gave.'\n\n'Fine port he had too,' remarked Mr. Simmery. 'We are going to send our\nbutler to the sale to-morrow, to pick up some of that sixty-four.'\n\n'The devil you are!' said Wilkins Flasher, Esquire. 'My man's going too.\nFive guineas my man outbids your man.'\n\n'Done.'\n\nAnother entry was made in the little books, with the gold pencil-cases;\nand Mr. Simmery, having by this time killed all the flies and taken\nall the bets, strolled away to the Stock Exchange to see what was going\nforward.\n\nWilkins Flasher, Esquire, now condescended to receive Mr. Solomon Pell's\ninstructions, and having filled up some printed forms, requested the\nparty to follow him to the bank, which they did: Mr. Weller and his\nthree friends staring at all they beheld in unbounded astonishment, and\nSam encountering everything with a coolness which nothing could disturb.\n\nCrossing a courtyard which was all noise and bustle, and passing a\ncouple of porters who seemed dressed to match the red fire engine which\nwas wheeled away into a corner, they passed into an office where their\nbusiness was to be transacted, and where Pell and Mr. Flasher left\nthem standing for a few moments, while they went upstairs into the Will\nOffice.\n\n'Wot place is this here?' whispered the mottled-faced gentleman to the\nelder Mr. Weller.\n\n'Counsel's Office,' replied the executor in a whisper.\n\n'Wot are them gen'l'men a-settin' behind the counters?' asked the hoarse\ncoachman.\n\n'Reduced counsels, I s'pose,' replied Mr. Weller. 'Ain't they the\nreduced counsels, Samivel?'\n\n'Wy, you don't suppose the reduced counsels is alive, do you?' inquired\nSam, with some disdain.\n\n'How should I know?' retorted Mr. Weller; 'I thought they looked wery\nlike it. Wot are they, then?'\n\n'Clerks,' replied Sam.\n\n'Wot are they all a-eatin' ham sangwidges for?' inquired his father.\n\n''Cos it's in their dooty, I suppose,' replied Sam, 'it's a part o' the\nsystem; they're alvays a-doin' it here, all day long!' Mr. Weller and\nhis friends had scarcely had a moment to reflect upon this singular\nregulation as connected with the monetary system of the country, when\nthey were rejoined by Pell and Wilkins Flasher, Esquire, who led them\nto a part of the counter above which was a round blackboard with a large\n'W.' on it.\n\n'Wot's that for, Sir?' inquired Mr. Weller, directing Pell's attention\nto the target in question.\n\n'The first letter of the name of the deceased,' replied Pell.\n\n'I say,' said Mr. Weller, turning round to the umpires, there's\nsomethin' wrong here. We's our letter--this won't do.'\n\nThe referees at once gave it as their decided opinion that the business\ncould not be legally proceeded with, under the letter W., and in all\nprobability it would have stood over for one day at least, had it not\nbeen for the prompt, though, at first sight, undutiful behaviour of Sam,\nwho, seizing his father by the skirt of the coat, dragged him to the\ncounter, and pinned him there, until he had affixed his signature to a\ncouple of instruments; which, from Mr. Weller's habit of printing, was\na work of so much labour and time, that the officiating clerk peeled and\nate three Ribstone pippins while it was performing.\n\nAs the elder Mr. Weller insisted on selling out his portion forthwith,\nthey proceeded from the bank to the gate of the Stock Exchange, to which\nWilkins Flasher, Esquire, after a short absence, returned with a cheque\non Smith, Payne, & Smith, for five hundred and thirty pounds; that\nbeing the money to which Mr. Weller, at the market price of the day, was\nentitled, in consideration of the balance of the second Mrs. Weller's\nfunded savings. Sam's two hundred pounds stood transferred to his name,\nand Wilkins Flasher, Esquire, having been paid his commission, dropped\nthe money carelessly into his coat pocket, and lounged back to his\noffice.\n\nMr. Weller was at first obstinately determined on cashing the cheque in\nnothing but sovereigns; but it being represented by the umpires that by\nso doing he must incur the expense of a small sack to carry them home\nin, he consented to receive the amount in five-pound notes.\n\n'My son,' said Mr. Weller, as they came out of the banking-house--'my\nson and me has a wery partickler engagement this arternoon, and I should\nlike to have this here bis'ness settled out of hand, so let's jest go\nstraight avay someveres, vere ve can hordit the accounts.'\n\nA quiet room was soon found, and the accounts were produced and audited.\nMr. Pell's bill was taxed by Sam, and some charges were disallowed by\nthe umpires; but, notwithstanding Mr. Pell's declaration, accompanied\nwith many solemn asseverations that they were really too hard upon him,\nit was by very many degrees the best professional job he had ever\nhad, and one on which he boarded, lodged, and washed, for six months\nafterwards.\n\nThe umpires having partaken of a dram, shook hands and departed, as\nthey had to drive out of town that night. Mr. Solomon Pell, finding that\nnothing more was going forward, either in the eating or drinking way,\ntook a friendly leave, and Sam and his father were left alone.\n\n'There!' said Mr. Weller, thrusting his pocket-book in his side pocket.\n'Vith the bills for the lease, and that, there's eleven hundred and\neighty pound here. Now, Samivel, my boy, turn the horses' heads to the\nGeorge and Wulter!'\n\n\n\nCHAPTER LVI. AN IMPORTANT CONFERENCE TAKES PLACE BETWEEN Mr. PICKWICK\nAND SAMUEL WELLER, AT WHICH HIS PARENT ASSISTS--AN OLD GENTLEMAN IN A\nSNUFF-COLOURED SUIT ARRIVES UNEXPECTEDLY\n\n\nMr. Pickwick was sitting alone, musing over many things, and thinking\namong other considerations how he could best provide for the young\ncouple whose present unsettled condition was matter of constant regret\nand anxiety to him, when Mary stepped lightly into the room, and,\nadvancing to the table, said, rather hastily--\n\n'Oh, if you please, Sir, Samuel is downstairs, and he says may his\nfather see you?'\n\n'Surely,' replied Mr. Pickwick.\n\n'Thank you, Sir,' said Mary, tripping towards the door again.\n\n'Sam has not been here long, has he?' inquired Mr. Pickwick.\n\n'Oh, no, Sir,' replied Mary eagerly. 'He has only just come home. He is\nnot going to ask you for any more leave, Sir, he says.'\n\nMary might have been conscious that she had communicated this last\nintelligence with more warmth than seemed actually necessary, or she\nmight have observed the good-humoured smile with which Mr. Pickwick\nregarded her, when she had finished speaking. She certainly held down\nher head, and examined the corner of a very smart little apron, with\nmore closeness than there appeared any absolute occasion for.\n\n'Tell them they can come up at once, by all means,' said Mr. Pickwick.\n\nMary, apparently much relieved, hurried away with her message.\n\nMr. Pickwick took two or three turns up and down the room; and, rubbing\nhis chin with his left hand as he did so, appeared lost in thought.\n\n'Well, well,' said Mr. Pickwick, at length in a kind but somewhat\nmelancholy tone, 'it is the best way in which I could reward him for his\nattachment and fidelity; let it be so, in Heaven's name. It is the fate\nof a lonely old man, that those about him should form new and different\nattachments and leave him. I have no right to expect that it should\nbe otherwise with me. No, no,' added Mr. Pickwick more cheerfully,\n'it would be selfish and ungrateful. I ought to be happy to have an\nopportunity of providing for him so well. I am. Of course I am.'\n\nMr. Pickwick had been so absorbed in these reflections, that a knock at\nthe door was three or four times repeated before he heard it. Hastily\nseating himself, and calling up his accustomed pleasant looks, he gave\nthe required permission, and Sam Weller entered, followed by his father.\n\n'Glad to see you back again, Sam,' said Mr. Pickwick. 'How do you do,\nMr. Weller?'\n\n'Wery hearty, thank'ee, sir,' replied the widower; 'hope I see you well,\nsir.'\n\n'Quite, I thank you,' replied Mr. Pickwick.\n\n'I wanted to have a little bit o' conwersation with you, sir,' said Mr.\nWeller, 'if you could spare me five minits or so, sir.'\n\n'Certainly,' replied Mr. Pickwick. 'Sam, give your father a chair.'\n\n'Thank'ee, Samivel, I've got a cheer here,' said Mr. Weller, bringing\none forward as he spoke; 'uncommon fine day it's been, sir,' added the\nold gentleman, laying his hat on the floor as he sat himself down.\n\n'Remarkably so, indeed,' replied Mr. Pickwick. 'Very seasonable.'\n\n'Seasonablest veather I ever see, sir,' rejoined Mr. Weller. Here, the\nold gentleman was seized with a violent fit of coughing, which, being\nterminated, he nodded his head and winked and made several supplicatory\nand threatening gestures to his son, all of which Sam Weller steadily\nabstained from seeing.\n\nMr. Pickwick, perceiving that there was some embarrassment on the old\ngentleman's part, affected to be engaged in cutting the leaves of a book\nthat lay beside him, and waited patiently until Mr. Weller should arrive\nat the object of his visit.\n\n'I never see sich a aggrawatin' boy as you are, Samivel,' said Mr.\nWeller, looking indignantly at his son; 'never in all my born days.'\n\n'What is he doing, Mr. Weller?' inquired Mr. Pickwick.\n\n'He von't begin, sir,' rejoined Mr. Weller; 'he knows I ain't ekal to\nex-pressin' myself ven there's anythin' partickler to be done, and yet\nhe'll stand and see me a-settin' here taking up your walable time, and\nmakin' a reg'lar spectacle o' myself, rayther than help me out vith a\nsyllable. It ain't filial conduct, Samivel,' said Mr. Weller, wiping his\nforehead; 'wery far from it.'\n\n'You said you'd speak,' replied Sam; 'how should I know you wos done up\nat the wery beginnin'?'\n\n'You might ha' seen I warn't able to start,' rejoined his father; 'I'm\non the wrong side of the road, and backin' into the palin's, and all\nmanner of unpleasantness, and yet you von't put out a hand to help me.\nI'm ashamed on you, Samivel.'\n\n'The fact is, Sir,' said Sam, with a slight bow, 'the gov'nor's been\na-drawin' his money.'\n\n'Wery good, Samivel, wery good,' said Mr. Weller, nodding his head with\na satisfied air, 'I didn't mean to speak harsh to you, Sammy. Wery good.\nThat's the vay to begin. Come to the pint at once. Wery good indeed,\nSamivel.'\n\nMr. Weller nodded his head an extraordinary number of times, in the\nexcess of his gratification, and waited in a listening attitude for Sam\nto resume his statement.\n\n'You may sit down, Sam,' said Mr. Pickwick, apprehending that the\ninterview was likely to prove rather longer than he had expected.\n\nSam bowed again and sat down; his father looking round, he continued--\n\n'The gov'nor, sir, has drawn out five hundred and thirty pound.'\n\n'Reduced counsels,' interposed Mr. Weller, senior, in an undertone.\n\n'It don't much matter vether it's reduced counsels, or wot not,' said\nSam; 'five hundred and thirty pounds is the sum, ain't it?'\n\n'All right, Samivel,' replied Mr. Weller.\n\n'To vich sum, he has added for the house and bisness--'\n\n'Lease, good-vill, stock, and fixters,' interposed Mr. Weller.\n\n'As much as makes it,' continued Sam, 'altogether, eleven hundred and\neighty pound.'\n\n'Indeed!' said Mr. Pickwick. 'I am delighted to hear it. I congratulate\nyou, Mr. Weller, on having done so well.'\n\n'Vait a minit, Sir,' said Mr. Weller, raising his hand in a deprecatory\nmanner. 'Get on, Samivel.'\n\n'This here money,' said Sam, with a little hesitation, 'he's anxious to\nput someveres, vere he knows it'll be safe, and I'm wery anxious too,\nfor if he keeps it, he'll go a-lendin' it to somebody, or inwestin'\nproperty in horses, or droppin' his pocket-book down an airy, or makin'\na Egyptian mummy of his-self in some vay or another.'\n\n'Wery good, Samivel,' observed Mr. Weller, in as complacent a manner\nas if Sam had been passing the highest eulogiums on his prudence and\nforesight. 'Wery good.'\n\n'For vich reasons,' continued Sam, plucking nervously at the brim of his\nhat--'for vich reasons, he's drawn it out to-day, and come here vith me\nto say, leastvays to offer, or in other vords--'\n\n'To say this here,' said the elder Mr. Weller impatiently, 'that it\nain't o' no use to me. I'm a-goin' to vork a coach reg'lar, and ha'n't\ngot noveres to keep it in, unless I vos to pay the guard for takin'\ncare on it, or to put it in vun o' the coach pockets, vich 'ud be a\ntemptation to the insides. If you'll take care on it for me, sir, I\nshall be wery much obliged to you. P'raps,' said Mr. Weller, walking up\nto Mr. Pickwick and whispering in his ear--'p'raps it'll go a little\nvay towards the expenses o' that 'ere conwiction. All I say is, just\nyou keep it till I ask you for it again.' With these words, Mr. Weller\nplaced the pocket-book in Mr. Pickwick's hands, caught up his hat, and\nran out of the room with a celerity scarcely to be expected from so\ncorpulent a subject.\n\n'Stop him, Sam!' exclaimed Mr. Pickwick earnestly. 'Overtake him; bring\nhim back instantly! Mr. Weller--here--come back!'\n\nSam saw that his master's injunctions were not to be disobeyed; and,\ncatching his father by the arm as he was descending the stairs, dragged\nhim back by main force.\n\n'My good friend,' said Mr. Pickwick, taking the old man by the hand,\n'your honest confidence overpowers me.'\n\n'I don't see no occasion for nothin' o' the kind, Sir,' replied Mr.\nWeller obstinately.\n\n'I assure you, my good friend, I have more money than I can ever\nneed; far more than a man at my age can ever live to spend,' said Mr.\nPickwick.\n\n'No man knows how much he can spend, till he tries,' observed Mr.\nWeller.\n\n'Perhaps not,' replied Mr. Pickwick; 'but as I have no intention of\ntrying any such experiments, I am not likely to come to want. I must beg\nyou to take this back, Mr. Weller.' 'Wery well,' said Mr. Weller, with\na discontented look. 'Mark my vords, Sammy, I'll do somethin' desperate\nvith this here property; somethin' desperate!'\n\n'You'd better not,' replied Sam.\n\nMr. Weller reflected for a short time, and then, buttoning up his coat\nwith great determination, said--\n\n'I'll keep a pike.'\n\n'Wot!' exclaimed Sam.\n\n'A pike!' rejoined Mr. Weller, through his set teeth; 'I'll keep a pike.\nSay good-bye to your father, Samivel. I dewote the remainder of my days\nto a pike.'\n\nThis threat was such an awful one, and Mr. Weller, besides appearing\nfully resolved to carry it into execution, seemed so deeply mortified by\nMr. Pickwick's refusal, that that gentleman, after a short reflection,\nsaid--\n\n'Well, well, Mr. Weller, I will keep your money. I can do more good with\nit, perhaps, than you can.'\n\n'Just the wery thing, to be sure,' said Mr. Weller, brightening up; 'o'\ncourse you can, sir.'\n\n'Say no more about it,' said Mr. Pickwick, locking the pocket-book in\nhis desk; 'I am heartily obliged to you, my good friend. Now sit down\nagain. I want to ask your advice.'\n\nThe internal laughter occasioned by the triumphant success of his visit,\nwhich had convulsed not only Mr. Weller's face, but his arms, legs, and\nbody also, during the locking up of the pocket-book, suddenly gave place\nto the most dignified gravity as he heard these words.\n\n'Wait outside a few minutes, Sam, will you?' said Mr. Pickwick.\n\nSam immediately withdrew.\n\nMr. Weller looked uncommonly wise and very much amazed, when Mr.\nPickwick opened the discourse by saying--\n\n'You are not an advocate for matrimony, I think, Mr. Weller?'\n\nMr. Weller shook his head. He was wholly unable to speak; vague thoughts\nof some wicked widow having been successful in her designs on Mr.\nPickwick, choked his utterance.\n\n'Did you happen to see a young girl downstairs when you came in just now\nwith your son?' inquired Mr. Pickwick.\n\n'Yes. I see a young gal,' replied Mr. Weller shortly.\n\n'What did you think of her, now? Candidly, Mr. Weller, what did you\nthink of her?'\n\n'I thought she wos wery plump, and vell made,' said Mr. Weller, with a\ncritical air.\n\n'So she is,' said Mr. Pickwick, 'so she is. What did you think of her\nmanners, from what you saw of her?'\n\n'Wery pleasant,' rejoined Mr. Weller. 'Wery pleasant and comformable.'\n\nThe precise meaning which Mr. Weller attached to this last-mentioned\nadjective, did not appear; but, as it was evident from the tone in which\nhe used it that it was a favourable expression, Mr. Pickwick was as well\nsatisfied as if he had been thoroughly enlightened on the subject.\n\n'I take a great interest in her, Mr. Weller,' said Mr. Pickwick.\n\nMr. Weller coughed.\n\n'I mean an interest in her doing well,' resumed Mr. Pickwick; 'a desire\nthat she may be comfortable and prosperous. You understand?'\n\n'Wery clearly,' replied Mr. Weller, who understood nothing yet.\n\n'That young person,' said Mr. Pickwick, 'is attached to your son.'\n\n'To Samivel Veller!' exclaimed the parent.\n\n'Yes,' said Mr. Pickwick.\n\n'It's nat'ral,' said Mr. Weller, after some consideration, 'nat'ral, but\nrayther alarmin'. Sammy must be careful.'\n\n'How do you mean?' inquired Mr. Pickwick.\n\n'Wery careful that he don't say nothin' to her,' responded Mr. Weller.\n'Wery careful that he ain't led avay, in a innocent moment, to say\nanythin' as may lead to a conwiction for breach. You're never safe vith\n'em, Mr. Pickwick, ven they vunce has designs on you; there's no knowin'\nvere to have 'em; and vile you're a-considering of it, they have you. I\nwos married fust, that vay myself, Sir, and Sammy wos the consekens o'\nthe manoover.'\n\n'You give me no great encouragement to conclude what I have to say,'\nobserved Mr. Pickwick, 'but I had better do so at once. This young\nperson is not only attached to your son, Mr. Weller, but your son is\nattached to her.'\n\n'Vell,' said Mr. Weller, 'this here's a pretty sort o' thing to come to\na father's ears, this is!'\n\n'I have observed them on several occasions,' said Mr. Pickwick, making\nno comment on Mr. Weller's last remark; 'and entertain no doubt at all\nabout it. Supposing I were desirous of establishing them comfortably as\nman and wife in some little business or situation, where they might hope\nto obtain a decent living, what should you think of it, Mr. Weller?'\n\nAt first, Mr. Weller received with wry faces a proposition involving the\nmarriage of anybody in whom he took an interest; but, as Mr. Pickwick\nargued the point with him, and laid great stress on the fact that Mary\nwas not a widow, he gradually became more tractable. Mr. Pickwick\nhad great influence over him, and he had been much struck with Mary's\nappearance; having, in fact, bestowed several very unfatherly winks upon\nher, already. At length he said that it was not for him to oppose Mr.\nPickwick's inclination, and that he would be very happy to yield to\nhis advice; upon which, Mr. Pickwick joyfully took him at his word, and\ncalled Sam back into the room.\n\n'Sam,' said Mr. Pickwick, clearing his throat, 'your father and I have\nbeen having some conversation about you.'\n\n'About you, Samivel,' said Mr. Weller, in a patronising and impressive\nvoice.\n\n'I am not so blind, Sam, as not to have seen, a long time since, that\nyou entertain something more than a friendly feeling towards Mrs.\nWinkle's maid,' said Mr. Pickwick.\n\n'You hear this, Samivel?' said Mr. Weller, in the same judicial form of\nspeech as before.\n\n'I hope, Sir,' said Sam, addressing his master, 'I hope there's no\nharm in a young man takin' notice of a young 'ooman as is undeniably\ngood-looking and well-conducted.'\n\n'Certainly not,' said Mr. Pickwick.\n\n'Not by no means,' acquiesced Mr. Weller, affably but magisterially.\n\n'So far from thinking there is anything wrong in conduct so natural,'\nresumed Mr. Pickwick, 'it is my wish to assist and promote your wishes\nin this respect. With this view, I have had a little conversation with\nyour father; and finding that he is of my opinion--'\n\n'The lady not bein' a widder,' interposed Mr. Weller in explanation.\n\n'The lady not being a widow,' said Mr. Pickwick, smiling. 'I wish to\nfree you from the restraint which your present position imposes upon\nyou, and to mark my sense of your fidelity and many excellent qualities,\nby enabling you to marry this girl at once, and to earn an independent\nlivelihood for yourself and family. I shall be proud, Sam,' said Mr.\nPickwick, whose voice had faltered a little hitherto, but now resumed\nits customary tone, 'proud and happy to make your future prospects in\nlife my grateful and peculiar care.'\n\nThere was a profound silence for a short time, and then Sam said, in a\nlow, husky sort of voice, but firmly withal--\n\n'I'm very much obliged to you for your goodness, Sir, as is only like\nyourself; but it can't be done.'\n\n'Can't be done!' ejaculated Mr. Pickwick in astonishment.\n\n'Samivel!' said Mr. Weller, with dignity.\n\n'I say it can't be done,' repeated Sam in a louder key. 'Wot's to become\nof you, Sir?'\n\n'My good fellow,' replied Mr. Pickwick, 'the recent changes among my\nfriends will alter my mode of life in future, entirely; besides, I am\ngrowing older, and want repose and quiet. My rambles, Sam, are over.'\n\n'How do I know that 'ere, sir?' argued Sam. 'You think so now! S'pose\nyou wos to change your mind, vich is not unlikely, for you've the spirit\no' five-and-twenty in you still, what 'ud become on you vithout me? It\ncan't be done, Sir, it can't be done.'\n\n'Wery good, Samivel, there's a good deal in that,' said Mr. Weller\nencouragingly.\n\n'I speak after long deliberation, Sam, and with the certainty that I\nshall keep my word,' said Mr. Pickwick, shaking his head. 'New scenes\nhave closed upon me; my rambles are at an end.'\n\n'Wery good,' rejoined Sam. 'Then, that's the wery best reason wy you\nshould alvays have somebody by you as understands you, to keep you up\nand make you comfortable. If you vant a more polished sort o' feller,\nvell and good, have him; but vages or no vages, notice or no notice,\nboard or no board, lodgin' or no lodgin', Sam Veller, as you took\nfrom the old inn in the Borough, sticks by you, come what may; and let\nev'rythin' and ev'rybody do their wery fiercest, nothin' shall ever\nperwent it!'\n\nAt the close of this declaration, which Sam made with great emotion, the\nelder Mr. Weller rose from his chair, and, forgetting all considerations\nof time, place, or propriety, waved his hat above his head, and gave\nthree vehement cheers.\n\n'My good fellow,' said Mr. Pickwick, when Mr. Weller had sat down again,\nrather abashed at his own enthusiasm, 'you are bound to consider the\nyoung woman also.'\n\n'I do consider the young 'ooman, Sir,' said Sam. 'I have considered the\nyoung 'ooman. I've spoke to her. I've told her how I'm sitivated; she's\nready to vait till I'm ready, and I believe she vill. If she don't,\nshe's not the young 'ooman I take her for, and I give her up vith\nreadiness. You've know'd me afore, Sir. My mind's made up, and nothin'\ncan ever alter it.'\n\nWho could combat this resolution? Not Mr. Pickwick. He derived, at\nthat moment, more pride and luxury of feeling from the disinterested\nattachment of his humble friends, than ten thousand protestations from\nthe greatest men living could have awakened in his heart.\n\nWhile this conversation was passing in Mr. Pickwick's room, a little\nold gentleman in a suit of snuff-coloured clothes, followed by a porter\ncarrying a small portmanteau, presented himself below; and, after\nsecuring a bed for the night, inquired of the waiter whether one\nMrs. Winkle was staying there, to which question the waiter of course\nresponded in the affirmative.\n\n'Is she alone?' inquired the old gentleman.\n\n'I believe she is, Sir,' replied the waiter; 'I can call her own maid,\nSir, if you--'\n\n'No, I don't want her,' said the old gentleman quickly. 'Show me to her\nroom without announcing me.'\n\n'Eh, Sir?' said the waiter.\n\n'Are you deaf?' inquired the little old gentleman.\n\n'No, sir.'\n\n'Then listen, if you please. Can you hear me now?'\n\n'Yes, Sir.'\n\n'That's well. Show me to Mrs. Winkle's room, without announcing me.'\n\nAs the little old gentleman uttered this command, he slipped five\nshillings into the waiter's hand, and looked steadily at him.\n\n'Really, sir,' said the waiter, 'I don't know, sir, whether--'\n\n'Ah! you'll do it, I see,' said the little old gentleman. 'You had\nbetter do it at once. It will save time.'\n\nThere was something so very cool and collected in the gentleman's\nmanner, that the waiter put the five shillings in his pocket, and led\nhim upstairs without another word.\n\n'This is the room, is it?' said the gentleman. 'You may go.' The waiter\ncomplied, wondering much who the gentleman could be, and what he wanted;\nthe little old gentleman, waiting till he was out of sight, tapped at\nthe door.\n\n'Come in,' said Arabella.\n\n'Um, a pretty voice, at any rate,' murmured the little old gentleman;\n'but that's nothing.' As he said this, he opened the door and walked\nin. Arabella, who was sitting at work, rose on beholding a stranger--a\nlittle confused--but by no means ungracefully so.\n\n'Pray don't rise, ma'am,' said the unknown, walking in, and closing the\ndoor after him. 'Mrs. Winkle, I believe?'\n\nArabella inclined her head.\n\n'Mrs. Nathaniel Winkle, who married the son of the old man at\nBirmingham?' said the stranger, eyeing Arabella with visible curiosity.\n\nAgain Arabella inclined her head, and looked uneasily round, as if\nuncertain whether to call for assistance.\n\n'I surprise you, I see, ma'am,' said the old gentleman.\n\n'Rather, I confess,' replied Arabella, wondering more and more.\n\n'I'll take a chair, if you'll allow me, ma'am,' said the stranger.\n\nHe took one; and drawing a spectacle-case from his pocket, leisurely\npulled out a pair of spectacles, which he adjusted on his nose.\n\n'You don't know me, ma'am?' he said, looking so intently at Arabella\nthat she began to feel alarmed.\n\n'No, sir,' she replied timidly.\n\n'No,' said the gentleman, nursing his left leg; 'I don't know how you\nshould. You know my name, though, ma'am.'\n\n'Do I?' said Arabella, trembling, though she scarcely knew why. 'May I\nask what it is?'\n\n'Presently, ma'am, presently,' said the stranger, not having yet removed\nhis eyes from her countenance. 'You have been recently married, ma'am?'\n\n'I have,' replied Arabella, in a scarcely audible tone, laying aside her\nwork, and becoming greatly agitated as a thought, that had occurred to\nher before, struck more forcibly upon her mind.\n\n'Without having represented to your husband the propriety of first\nconsulting his father, on whom he is dependent, I think?' said the\nstranger.\n\nArabella applied her handkerchief to her eyes.\n\n'Without an endeavour, even, to ascertain, by some indirect appeal, what\nwere the old man's sentiments on a point in which he would naturally\nfeel much interested?' said the stranger.\n\n'I cannot deny it, Sir,' said Arabella.\n\n'And without having sufficient property of your own to afford your\nhusband any permanent assistance in exchange for the worldly advantages\nwhich you knew he would have gained if he had married agreeably to his\nfather's wishes?' said the old gentleman. 'This is what boys and girls\ncall disinterested affection, till they have boys and girls of their\nown, and then they see it in a rougher and very different light!'\n\nArabella's tears flowed fast, as she pleaded in extenuation that she was\nyoung and inexperienced; that her attachment had alone induced her to\ntake the step to which she had resorted; and that she had been deprived\nof the counsel and guidance of her parents almost from infancy.\n\n'It was wrong,' said the old gentleman in a milder tone, 'very wrong. It\nwas romantic, unbusinesslike, foolish.'\n\n'It was my fault; all my fault, Sir,' replied poor Arabella, weeping.\n\n'Nonsense,' said the old gentleman; 'it was not your fault that he\nfell in love with you, I suppose? Yes it was, though,' said the old\ngentleman, looking rather slily at Arabella. 'It was your fault. He\ncouldn't help it.'\n\nThis little compliment, or the little gentleman's odd way of paying\nit, or his altered manner--so much kinder than it was, at first--or all\nthree together, forced a smile from Arabella in the midst of her tears.\n\n'Where's your husband?' inquired the old gentleman, abruptly; stopping a\nsmile which was just coming over his own face.\n\n'I expect him every instant, sir,' said Arabella. 'I persuaded him to\ntake a walk this morning. He is very low and wretched at not having\nheard from his father.'\n\n'Low, is he?' said the old gentlemen. 'Serve him right!'\n\n'He feels it on my account, I am afraid,' said Arabella; 'and indeed,\nSir, I feel it deeply on his. I have been the sole means of bringing him\nto his present condition.'\n\n'Don't mind it on his account, my dear,' said the old gentleman. 'It\nserves him right. I am glad of it--actually glad of it, as far as he is\nconcerned.'\n\nThe words were scarcely out of the old gentleman's lips, when footsteps\nwere heard ascending the stairs, which he and Arabella seemed both to\nrecognise at the same moment. The little gentleman turned pale; and,\nmaking a strong effort to appear composed, stood up, as Mr. Winkle\nentered the room.\n\n'Father!' cried Mr. Winkle, recoiling in amazement.\n\n'Yes, sir,' replied the little old gentleman. 'Well, Sir, what have you\ngot to say to me?'\n\nMr. Winkle remained silent.\n\n'You are ashamed of yourself, I hope, Sir?' said the old gentleman.\n\nStill Mr. Winkle said nothing.\n\n'Are you ashamed of yourself, Sir, or are you not?' inquired the old\ngentleman.\n\n'No, Sir,' replied Mr. Winkle, drawing Arabella's arm through his. 'I am\nnot ashamed of myself, or of my wife either.'\n\n'Upon my word!' cried the old gentleman ironically.\n\n'I am very sorry to have done anything which has lessened your affection\nfor me, Sir,' said Mr. Winkle; 'but I will say, at the same time, that I\nhave no reason to be ashamed of having this lady for my wife, nor you of\nhaving her for a daughter.'\n\n'Give me your hand, Nat,' said the old gentleman, in an altered voice.\n'Kiss me, my love. You are a very charming little daughter-in-law after\nall!'\n\nIn a few minutes' time Mr. Winkle went in search of Mr. Pickwick, and\nreturning with that gentleman, presented him to his father, whereupon\nthey shook hands for five minutes incessantly.\n\n'Mr. Pickwick, I thank you most heartily for all your kindness to my\nson,' said old Mr. Winkle, in a bluff, straightforward way. 'I am\na hasty fellow, and when I saw you last, I was vexed and taken by\nsurprise. I have judged for myself now, and am more than satisfied.\nShall I make any more apologies, Mr. Pickwick?'\n\n'Not one,' replied that gentleman. 'You have done the only thing wanting\nto complete my happiness.'\n\nHereupon there was another shaking of hands for five minutes longer,\naccompanied by a great number of complimentary speeches, which, besides\nbeing complimentary, had the additional and very novel recommendation of\nbeing sincere.\n\nSam had dutifully seen his father to the Belle Sauvage, when, on\nreturning, he encountered the fat boy in the court, who had been charged\nwith the delivery of a note from Emily Wardle.\n\n'I say,' said Joe, who was unusually loquacious, 'what a pretty girl\nMary is, isn't she? I am SO fond of her, I am!'\n\nMr. Weller made no verbal remark in reply; but eyeing the fat boy for\na moment, quite transfixed at his presumption, led him by the collar\nto the corner, and dismissed him with a harmless but ceremonious kick.\nAfter which, he walked home, whistling.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER LVII. IN WHICH THE PICKWICK CLUB IS FINALLY DISSOLVED, AND\nEVERYTHING CONCLUDED TO THE SATISFACTION OF EVERYBODY\n\n\nFor a whole week after the happy arrival of Mr. Winkle from Birmingham,\nMr. Pickwick and Sam Weller were from home all day long, only returning\njust in time for dinner, and then wearing an air of mystery and\nimportance quite foreign to their natures. It was evident that very\ngrave and eventful proceedings were on foot; but various surmises were\nafloat, respecting their precise character. Some (among whom was\nMr. Tupman) were disposed to think that Mr. Pickwick contemplated\na matrimonial alliance; but this idea the ladies most strenuously\nrepudiated. Others rather inclined to the belief that he had projected\nsome distant tour, and was at present occupied in effecting the\npreliminary arrangements; but this again was stoutly denied by Sam\nhimself, who had unequivocally stated, when cross-examined by Mary, that\nno new journeys were to be undertaken. At length, when the brains of\nthe whole party had been racked for six long days, by unavailing\nspeculation, it was unanimously resolved that Mr. Pickwick should be\ncalled upon to explain his conduct, and to state distinctly why he had\nthus absented himself from the society of his admiring friends.\n\nWith this view, Mr. Wardle invited the full circle to dinner at the\nAdelphi; and the decanters having been thrice sent round, opened the\nbusiness.\n\n'We are all anxious to know,' said the old gentleman, 'what we have done\nto offend you, and to induce you to desert us and devote yourself to\nthese solitary walks.'\n\n'Are you?' said Mr. Pickwick. 'It is singular enough that I had intended\nto volunteer a full explanation this very day; so, if you will give me\nanother glass of wine, I will satisfy your curiosity.'\n\nThe decanters passed from hand to hand with unwonted briskness, and\nMr. Pickwick, looking round on the faces of his friends with a cheerful\nsmile, proceeded--'All the changes that have taken place among us,'\nsaid Mr. Pickwick, 'I mean the marriage that HAS taken place, and the\nmarriage that WILL take place, with the changes they involve, rendered\nit necessary for me to think, soberly and at once, upon my future plans.\nI determined on retiring to some quiet, pretty neighbourhood in the\nvicinity of London; I saw a house which exactly suited my fancy; I have\ntaken it and furnished it. It is fully prepared for my reception, and I\nintend entering upon it at once, trusting that I may yet live to spend\nmany quiet years in peaceful retirement, cheered through life by the\nsociety of my friends, and followed in death by their affectionate\nremembrance.'\n\nHere Mr. Pickwick paused, and a low murmur ran round the table.\n\n'The house I have taken,' said Mr. Pickwick, 'is at Dulwich. It has a\nlarge garden, and is situated in one of the most pleasant spots near\nLondon. It has been fitted up with every attention to substantial\ncomfort; perhaps to a little elegance besides; but of that you shall\njudge for yourselves. Sam accompanies me there. I have engaged, on\nPerker's representation, a housekeeper--a very old one--and such other\nservants as she thinks I shall require. I propose to consecrate this\nlittle retreat, by having a ceremony in which I take a great interest,\nperformed there. I wish, if my friend Wardle entertains no objection,\nthat his daughter should be married from my new house, on the day I take\npossession of it. The happiness of young people,' said Mr. Pickwick, a\nlittle moved, 'has ever been the chief pleasure of my life. It will warm\nmy heart to witness the happiness of those friends who are dearest to\nme, beneath my own roof.'\n\nMr. Pickwick paused again: Emily and Arabella sobbed audibly.\n\n'I have communicated, both personally and by letter, with the club,'\nresumed Mr. Pickwick, 'acquainting them with my intention. During our\nlong absence, it has suffered much from internal dissentions; and the\nwithdrawal of my name, coupled with this and other circumstances, has\noccasioned its dissolution. The Pickwick Club exists no longer.\n\n'I shall never regret,' said Mr. Pickwick in a low voice, 'I shall\nnever regret having devoted the greater part of two years to mixing\nwith different varieties and shades of human character, frivolous as\nmy pursuit of novelty may have appeared to many. Nearly the whole of my\nprevious life having been devoted to business and the pursuit of wealth,\nnumerous scenes of which I had no previous conception have dawned upon\nme--I hope to the enlargement of my mind, and the improvement of my\nunderstanding. If I have done but little good, I trust I have done less\nharm, and that none of my adventures will be other than a source of\namusing and pleasant recollection to me in the decline of life. God\nbless you all!'\n\nWith these words, Mr. Pickwick filled and drained a bumper with a\ntrembling hand; and his eyes moistened as his friends rose with one\naccord, and pledged him from their hearts.\n\nThere were few preparatory arrangements to be made for the marriage of\nMr. Snodgrass. As he had neither father nor mother, and had been in his\nminority a ward of Mr. Pickwick's, that gentleman was perfectly well\nacquainted with his possessions and prospects. His account of both was\nquite satisfactory to Wardle--as almost any other account would have\nbeen, for the good old gentleman was overflowing with hilarity and\nkindness--and a handsome portion having been bestowed upon Emily, the\nmarriage was fixed to take place on the fourth day from that time--the\nsuddenness of which preparations reduced three dressmakers and a tailor\nto the extreme verge of insanity.\n\nGetting post-horses to the carriage, old Wardle started off, next day,\nto bring his mother back to town. Communicating his intelligence to the\nold lady with characteristic impetuosity, she instantly fainted away;\nbut being promptly revived, ordered the brocaded silk gown to be packed\nup forthwith, and proceeded to relate some circumstances of a\nsimilar nature attending the marriage of the eldest daughter of Lady\nTollimglower, deceased, which occupied three hours in the recital, and\nwere not half finished at last.\n\nMrs. Trundle had to be informed of all the mighty preparations that were\nmaking in London; and, being in a delicate state of health, was informed\nthereof through Mr. Trundle, lest the news should be too much for her;\nbut it was not too much for her, inasmuch as she at once wrote off\nto Muggleton, to order a new cap and a black satin gown, and moreover\navowed her determination of being present at the ceremony. Hereupon, Mr.\nTrundle called in the doctor, and the doctor said Mrs. Trundle ought to\nknow best how she felt herself, to which Mrs. Trundle replied that she\nfelt herself quite equal to it, and that she had made up her mind to go;\nupon which the doctor, who was a wise and discreet doctor, and knew what\nwas good for himself, as well as for other people, said that perhaps if\nMrs. Trundle stopped at home, she might hurt herself more by fretting,\nthan by going, so perhaps she had better go. And she did go; the doctor\nwith great attention sending in half a dozen of medicine, to be drunk\nupon the road.\n\nIn addition to these points of distraction, Wardle was intrusted\nwith two small letters to two small young ladies who were to act as\nbridesmaids; upon the receipt of which, the two young ladies were driven\nto despair by having no 'things' ready for so important an occasion, and\nno time to make them in--a circumstance which appeared to afford the\ntwo worthy papas of the two small young ladies rather a feeling of\nsatisfaction than otherwise. However, old frocks were trimmed, and new\nbonnets made, and the young ladies looked as well as could possibly have\nbeen expected of them. And as they cried at the subsequent ceremony\nin the proper places, and trembled at the right times, they acquitted\nthemselves to the admiration of all beholders. How the two poor\nrelations ever reached London--whether they walked, or got behind\ncoaches, or procured lifts in wagons, or carried each other by turns--is\nuncertain; but there they were, before Wardle; and the very first people\nthat knocked at the door of Mr. Pickwick's house, on the bridal morning,\nwere the two poor relations, all smiles and shirt collar.\n\nThey were welcomed heartily though, for riches or poverty had no\ninfluence on Mr. Pickwick; the new servants were all alacrity and\nreadiness; Sam was in a most unrivalled state of high spirits and\nexcitement; Mary was glowing with beauty and smart ribands.\n\nThe bridegroom, who had been staying at the house for two or three days\nprevious, sallied forth gallantly to Dulwich Church to meet the bride,\nattended by Mr. Pickwick, Ben Allen, Bob Sawyer, and Mr. Tupman; with\nSam Weller outside, having at his button-hole a white favour, the gift\nof his lady-love, and clad in a new and gorgeous suit of livery invented\nfor the occasion. They were met by the Wardles, and the Winkles, and the\nbride and bridesmaids, and the Trundles; and the ceremony having been\nperformed, the coaches rattled back to Mr. Pickwick's to breakfast,\nwhere little Mr. Perker already awaited them.\n\nHere, all the light clouds of the more solemn part of the proceedings\npassed away; every face shone forth joyously; and nothing was to\nbe heard but congratulations and commendations. Everything was\nso beautiful! The lawn in front, the garden behind, the miniature\nconservatory, the dining-room, the drawing-room, the bedrooms,\nthe smoking-room, and, above all, the study, with its pictures and\neasy-chairs, and odd cabinets, and queer tables, and books out of\nnumber, with a large cheerful window opening upon a pleasant lawn and\ncommanding a pretty landscape, dotted here and there with little houses\nalmost hidden by the trees; and then the curtains, and the carpets, and\nthe chairs, and the sofas! Everything was so beautiful, so compact, so\nneat, and in such exquisite taste, said everybody, that there really was\nno deciding what to admire most.\n\nAnd in the midst of all this, stood Mr. Pickwick, his countenance\nlighted up with smiles, which the heart of no man, woman, or child,\ncould resist: himself the happiest of the group: shaking hands, over\nand over again, with the same people, and when his own hands were not\nso employed, rubbing them with pleasure: turning round in a different\ndirection at every fresh expression of gratification or curiosity, and\ninspiring everybody with his looks of gladness and delight.\n\nBreakfast is announced. Mr. Pickwick leads the old lady (who has been\nvery eloquent on the subject of Lady Tollimglower) to the top of a long\ntable; Wardle takes the bottom; the friends arrange themselves on either\nside; Sam takes his station behind his master's chair; the laughter and\ntalking cease; Mr. Pickwick, having said grace, pauses for an instant\nand looks round him. As he does so, the tears roll down his cheeks, in\nthe fullness of his joy.\n\nLet us leave our old friend in one of those moments of unmixed\nhappiness, of which, if we seek them, there are ever some, to cheer our\ntransitory existence here. There are dark shadows on the earth, but its\nlights are stronger in the contrast. Some men, like bats or owls, have\nbetter eyes for the darkness than for the light. We, who have no such\noptical powers, are better pleased to take our last parting look at the\nvisionary companions of many solitary hours, when the brief sunshine of\nthe world is blazing full upon them.\n\n\nIt is the fate of most men who mingle with the world, and attain even\nthe prime of life, to make many real friends, and lose them in the\ncourse of nature. It is the fate of all authors or chroniclers to create\nimaginary friends, and lose them in the course of art. Nor is this the\nfull extent of their misfortunes; for they are required to furnish an\naccount of them besides.\n\nIn compliance with this custom--unquestionably a bad one--we subjoin\na few biographical words, in relation to the party at Mr. Pickwick's\nassembled.\n\nMr. and Mrs. Winkle, being fully received into favour by the old\ngentleman, were shortly afterwards installed in a newly-built house, not\nhalf a mile from Mr. Pickwick's. Mr. Winkle, being engaged in the city\nas agent or town correspondent of his father, exchanged his old costume\nfor the ordinary dress of Englishmen, and presented all the external\nappearance of a civilised Christian ever afterwards.\n\nMr. and Mrs. Snodgrass settled at Dingley Dell, where they purchased and\ncultivated a small farm, more for occupation than profit. Mr. Snodgrass,\nbeing occasionally abstracted and melancholy, is to this day reputed a\ngreat poet among his friends and acquaintance, although we do not find\nthat he has ever written anything to encourage the belief. There are\nmany celebrated characters, literary, philosophical, and otherwise, who\nhold a high reputation on a similar tenure.\n\nMr. Tupman, when his friends married, and Mr. Pickwick settled,\ntook lodgings at Richmond, where he has ever since resided. He walks\nconstantly on the terrace during the summer months, with a youthful\nand jaunty air, which has rendered him the admiration of the numerous\nelderly ladies of single condition, who reside in the vicinity. He has\nnever proposed again.\n\nMr. Bob Sawyer, having previously passed through the GAZETTE, passed\nover to Bengal, accompanied by Mr. Benjamin Allen; both gentlemen having\nreceived surgical appointments from the East India Company. They each\nhad the yellow fever fourteen times, and then resolved to try a little\nabstinence; since which period, they have been doing well. Mrs. Bardell\nlet lodgings to many conversable single gentlemen, with great profit,\nbut never brought any more actions for breach of promise of marriage.\nHer attorneys, Messrs. Dodson & Fogg, continue in business, from\nwhich they realise a large income, and in which they are universally\nconsidered among the sharpest of the sharp.\n\nSam Weller kept his word, and remained unmarried, for two years. The old\nhousekeeper dying at the end of that time, Mr. Pickwick promoted Mary\nto the situation, on condition of her marrying Mr. Weller at once, which\nshe did without a murmur. From the circumstance of two sturdy little\nboys having been repeatedly seen at the gate of the back garden, there\nis reason to suppose that Sam has some family.\n\nThe elder Mr. Weller drove a coach for twelve months, but being\nafflicted with the gout, was compelled to retire. The contents of the\npocket-book had been so well invested for him, however, by Mr. Pickwick,\nthat he had a handsome independence to retire on, upon which he still\nlives at an excellent public-house near Shooter's Hill, where he is\nquite reverenced as an oracle, boasting very much of his intimacy with\nMr. Pickwick, and retaining a most unconquerable aversion to widows.\n\nMr. Pickwick himself continued to reside in his new house, employing his\nleisure hours in arranging the memoranda which he afterwards presented\nto the secretary of the once famous club, or in hearing Sam Weller read\naloud, with such remarks as suggested themselves to his mind, which\nnever failed to afford Mr. Pickwick great amusement. He was much\ntroubled at first, by the numerous applications made to him by Mr.\nSnodgrass, Mr. Winkle, and Mr. Trundle, to act as godfather to their\noffspring; but he has become used to it now, and officiates as a matter\nof course. He never had occasion to regret his bounty to Mr. Jingle;\nfor both that person and Job Trotter became, in time, worthy members of\nsociety, although they have always steadily objected to return to the\nscenes of their old haunts and temptations. Mr. Pickwick is somewhat\ninfirm now; but he retains all his former juvenility of spirit, and\nmay still be frequently seen, contemplating the pictures in the Dulwich\nGallery, or enjoying a walk about the pleasant neighbourhood on a fine\nday. He is known by all the poor people about, who never fail to take\ntheir hats off, as he passes, with great respect. The children idolise\nhim, and so indeed does the whole neighbourhood. Every year he repairs\nto a large family merry-making at Mr. Wardle's; on this, as on all other\noccasions, he is invariably attended by the faithful Sam, between whom\nand his master there exists a steady and reciprocal attachment which\nnothing but death will terminate."